PhD: Pretty Hot Daddy (And Other Reasons I’m Getting Expelled) | Professor Ryomen Sukuna x Reader
Fandom: Jujutsu Kaisen
Pairing: Ryomen Sukuna x Reader
Genre: University AU, Smut, Fluff & Humor
Rating: Explicit 🔞
Word Count: 28k+
Content warnings: Professor/Student Relationship, Secret Relationship, Dom/sub, Competence Kink, Power Dynamics, Office Sex, Under-Desk Blow Jobs, Praise Kink, Degradation Kink, Spanking, Marking/Biting/Claiming, Orgasm Denial, Mutual Pining, Fluff, Smut, Crack Treated Seriously, Mutual Pining, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Slow Burn
Summary: There are two ways to fail a Master's degree. The first is poor Chicago-style citations. The second is accidentally sharing a Google Doc with the terrifying Chair of the History Department where you explicitly detail your plans to jump his bones.
By all administrative laws, Dr. Ryomen Sukuna should expel you before breakfast. It’s a literal Law & Order: SVU episode waiting to happen. But the professor doesn't forward the chat logs to the Ethics Committee. Instead, he summons you to his office for strict, in-person "Disciplinary Oversight."
You thought you were just surviving a graduate program. But as the academic warfare turns into agonizing foreplay, you realize you're actually just trying to survive his $15,000 mahogany desk. The prize is your degree. The battlefield is his Persian rug.
Author’s note: Hey! I’m cross-posting my fic from AO3 to Tumblr. I’m usually a very passive user and haven’t posted in ages (let alone fanfic), so please bear with me while I figure out how to work the dashboard again! 😭 hope you guys enjoy the brainrot! 💖
AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/80176331
To be fair, Dr. Sukuna Ryomen didn't actually belong in a prestigious university. He belonged in a dark, fourteenth-century throne room, probably presiding over the execution of a rival kingdom while drinking wine out of a skull.
But instead, here he was: thirty-five years old, the youngest Chair of the History Department in the history of the Ivy League, and the undisputed king of Academic Ruin. He was brilliant. He was devastating. And he was a massive, arrogant prick.
He was the kind of professor who didn't just give you a C-minus; he gave you a C-minus and a three-page typed critique on why your "intellectual laziness" was a blight on the department. He had a zero-tolerance policy for "frivolous distractions," which was campus code for: if you try to flirt with him, he will BCC the Dean and the Ethics Committee before you can even finish unbuttoning your cardigan.
And yet, for seven years, you had been hopelessly, pathologically, and—according to Nobara—"ragingly" horny for him.
In your point of view, you were "ragingly" fascinated by his mind. Mostly. The fact that you’d been daydreaming about his shoulder-to-waist ratio since your freshman year seminar was entirely beside the point.
Which was why the current situation was a waking nightmare.
It was an unassuming afternoon. The four of you—you, Nobara, Megumi, and Yuji—were storming across the crisp autumn quad, running purely on iced Americanos and impending academic doom.
"I'm going to kill her," Nobara announced, aggressively shifting her tote bag on her shoulder. "I am actually going to murder Maki. The Capstone is due on Thursday, and she hasn't touched the fucking Repatriation of Antiquities section once."
"Maybe she's busy with track practice?" Yuji offered, jogging slightly to keep up.
"I don't care if she's currently qualifying for the Olympics. We are going to fail, and Ryomen is going to use my skull as a paperweight."
You were halfway to the parking lot, with Megumi currently giving a monotone lecture on why everyone needed to stop messing with his Chicago-style citations, when you saw her. Maki was walking out of the campus gym, a duffel bag slung over her shoulder, looking entirely unbothered by the fact that your collective academic careers were on the line.
"Hey!" Nobara marched right up to her, pointing an accusing, manicured finger at Maki’s chest. "Nice of you to finally show your face! Are you going to contribute to this Capstone, or are we just supposed to forge your name and pray the Executioner doesn't notice?"
Maki stopped, blinking in genuine confusion. She adjusted her gym bag. "What the hell are you talking about? I've been waiting for the freaking Google Doc link for days. You never added me."
Nobara scoffed, crossing her arms. "Bullshit. I added you like three days ago. I swear on Meg's balls I added five people to that document."
"Leave my balls out of this," Megumi muttered, staring blankly into the middle distance.
"I don't care what you swore on," Maki deadpanned, pulling out her phone and opening her university email. "Look. Nothing. What email did you even type in?"
Nobara rolled her eyes, pulling her laptop out of her tote and balancing it on Yuji's back to open it. "I typed the first letter of your university handle and clicked the first autofill! 'R', for... wait."
Nobara froze. The quad suddenly felt very, very quiet.
Maki raised an eyebrow. "My handle starts with an M, Nobara. M.Zenin. Are you stupid? Who the hell did you add?"
You felt the blood drain from your face. You leaned over Yuji’s shoulder, staring at the 'Shared with' list on the Google Doc.
[Shared with: Ryomen_Sukuna (Owner)]
"Oh my god," you whispered, your soul effectively leaving your body and ascending into the stratosphere. "Nobara. You added the Chair."
Megumi finally looked at the screen. His eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated horror. "I'm transferring. I'm legally changing my name and transferring to a community college."
"It's fine!" Nobara insisted, though her voice had pitched into a borderline hysterical squeak. "It’s fine! Look, I added him seventy-two hours ago, and he hasn't looked at it! He’s a thirty-five-year-old man! He has a life! He probably hasn't even seen the e-mail! We just finish the draft tonight, remove his access at 6:00 AM, and he’ll never even know he was there. It’s a flawless plan!"
"Flawless?" Yuji squeaked, almost dropping Nobara's laptop. "We have a literal loaded gun sitting in our project! And," he pointed an accusing finger at you, "you've been leaving comments in there all week about his forearms!"
"I thought it was a private space!" you defended, your voice cracking. "I thought we were safe!"
"We're safe as long as we finish the paper and no one says anything stupid tonight," Nobara commanded, slamming the laptop shut again. "Everyone go home. Drink an energy drink. We finish the edits at night, we delete his access, and we survive."
Later that evening, you emerged from the safety of your bedroom, driven to the kitchen by a desperate need to scavenge for something sugary to fuel your impending all-nighter. You were still vibrating with a mix of academic terror and the lingering, unhelpful memory of Sukuna’s tailored cuffs.
But the living room was currently a war zone.
Yuji was sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by a mountain of printed documents, highlighters, and—ominously—a half-eaten bag of stale pretzels. He looked uncharacteristically grave, the blue light from his own laptop casting long, dramatic shadows across the room.
"I found it," Yuji said, holding up a stapled packet of papers like it was a holy relic.
"Found what? A new protein powder sale?" you asked, pausing halfway to the fridge.
"The University HR portal. Section 4, Clause B." Yuji finally looked up, his voice dropping into a register that was far too serious for a weekday night. It was the voice people used in documentaries right before the narrator says 'and then everything went wrong.'
"Quote: 'Romantic entanglement with a direct supervisor or department head results in immediate termination of candidacy and possible legal action.' You're not just 'damned' if you try something, you’re 'Law & Order: Special Victims Unit' damned. They’ll have the theme song playing while they escort you out of the building."
"I’m not going to try anything, Yuji! I’m a professional!" you hissed, kicking a stray sneaker out of your way as you collapsed onto the sofa. "Also, why do all of you suddenly have an issue with the fact that I sometimes try to bat my eyelashes at our department head? It’s nothing! It's basic academic networking!"
Yuji stared at you like you had just suggested microwaving aluminum foil. "Batting your eyelashes? At Sukuna Ryomen? The man reported a TA to the Ethics Committee last semester because she 'accidentally' dropped her pen near his shoe and took too long to pick it up? He doesn't do 'networking.' He does executions."
He paused, rubbing the bridge of his nose before leveling you with a devastating look. "Also, we're a little concerned because last weekend you drunkenly announced to the entire bar that if you didn't suck his dick before you graduate, your life is over."
You choked on your own spit, your face burning so hot you were surprised the smoke detector didn't go off. "I—I did not say that!”
"You did," Yuji confirmed grimly. "I can't remember the exact phrasing because I was pretty wasted too, but it was definitely along those lines. Megumi had to physically carry you out of there before you stood on a table and started listing the historical precedents for sleeping with your professor."
"I was over-served! And it is a purely intellectual, high-level appreciation of his pedagogical style!" you pressed on, aggressively fluffing a throw pillow to avoid his gaze. "I am studying his… his presence. His command of the room. It’s a case study!"
"You're a professional who spent twenty minutes staring at a high-res photo of his hands this afternoon," Yuji pointed out, weaponizing a neon-yellow highlighter in your direction. "I saw your screen reflection in the window. You were zooming in on his veins."
"I was looking at his watch! It’s a vintage Patek Philippe, probably a 1950s model, which is a fascinating commentary on post-war industrial wealth—"
"If you jump his bones," Yuji interrupted, completely ignoring your desperate pivot to horology, "you’re not just losing your degree. You’re losing your soul. You're losing your future career too. And most importantly," he gestured widely at your cramped, messy living room, "you're losing our security deposit. Because if you get expelled, I can’t afford this place on a TA’s salary, and I am not moving back in with my grandpa because you couldn't keep your 'intellectual networking' in your pants."
"My pants are fine!" you cried, hugging the pillow to your chest like a shield. "Everything is fine. He doesn't even know I exist outside of my grade point average. He’s a statue. A beautiful, mean, brilliant statue who views basic human empathy as a syllabus violation. I am perfectly safe."
Yuji stared at you for a long beat, his expression somewhere between pity and genuine concern for your sanity. "I’m putting Clause B on the fridge. Right next to the chore chart. Consider it a daily motivation."
By 3:14 AM, the ‘daily celibacy motivation’ on the fridge felt like a distant, irrelevant memory, buried under the delirium of an impending Capstone deadline.
Because Sukuna hadn't opened the document in two days, Nobara’s "flawless plan" had lulled you all into a sleep-deprived, false sense of security. You were logged in from your desk, the blue light of the screen washing over your exhausted face, while Yuji snored softly in the bedroom across the hall.
The shared Google Doc for HIS-502: Imperial Ethics and Feudal Autocracies was less of an academic paper and more of a neon-lit graveyard. And now that Maki was finally in, the chat feature on the sidebar was going completely off the rails.
[Comment Thread]:
[Maki_Z]: finally in. why is page 3 neon green and why does the bibliography look like a crime scene?
[Megumi_F]: bc nobara refuses to learn chicago style. fixing it now. just do your section so we can sleep.
[Maki_Z]: fine. where is the himbo btw? isn't he supposed to be writing the conclusion?
[You]: passed out in the next room. he stress-read the HR handbook until his eyes bled because he thinks im going to commit a Title IX violation.
[You]: which is fair tbh. because guys im sorry but i cannot focus. can we talk about sukuna today? the charcoal vest? the rolled up sleeves??? i am unwell.
[You]: i was helping him in the freshman seminar and when he picked up that red grading pen my soul left my body. he has the forearms of a 14th century blacksmith tbh. and the tattoos peeking out from his cuffs??? i would write a 10k word peer-reviewed dissertation on his ink alone.
[Nobara_K]: yes girl u get itttt. honestly he could tell me my thesis is garbage, spit on my shoes and id just say thank u sir
[Maki_Z]: im logging on at 3am to do actual work and i have to read this?
[Maki_Z]: ...but ur not wrong. man is objectively built. toxic, but built.
[Megumi_F]: NoBARA CAN YOU FUCKING NOT IM RIGHT NEXT TO U
[Megumi_F]: cite your shit properly instead of hyping her up to thirst over a guy that will most likely fail us??
[Megumi_F]: i hate all of you. im reporting this doc to the campus chaplain.
[You]: let me vent meg, my life is a tragedy. im literally in damned if i do damned if i dont situation.
[Megumi_F]: girl u been in love with that psycho since freshman. PACK IT UP
[You]: if i keep being his perfect star student i graduate, do phd under him I’ll never be able to get the d yk..
[You]: but if i actually tell him that his PhD = pretty hot daddy, id be SVU-damned by morning. federal prison vibes
You hit ‘Comment’ with a delirious, high-pitched giggle, leaning back in your chair and stretching your arms over your head. You were about to type a follow-up about how he probably sleeps in silk sheets like a cartoon villain, when a new icon appeared at the top of the browser.
It wasn’t an “Anonymous Alligator” or “Anonymous Chinchilla”.
It was a crisp, high-resolution faculty headshot of Dr. Sukuna Ryomen.
Before your sleep-deprived brain could fully process what you were looking at, the chat pinged.
[Megumi_F]: uh. guys. is someone else in here?
[Nobara_K]: maki did u share the link with someone else
[Maki_Z]: no. look at the icon.
[Maki_Z]: Has left the document.
Maki, ever the survivalist, bailed first.
A pink cursor appeared at the bottom of page one. It didn’t edit. It moved with the agonizing, predatory slowness of a man who had been sitting in the dark, watching the comments refresh in real-time for the last forty minutes.
It glided up the page, stopping directly below Nobara's comment about his shoes.
The ‘Typing’ bubble appeared next to his name.
[Ryomen_Sukuna]: Miss Kugisaki, I do not spit on shoes.
[Ryomen_Sukuna]: Mr. Fushiguro, your Chicago citations are still atrocious. Fix it.
[Megumi_F]: Has left the document.
Megumi, valuing his GPA and his life, immediately opted out of existence.
[Nobara_K]: girl good luck. if u go to federal prison can i pls have your coach bag?
[Nobara_K]: Has left the document.
You were alone. Just you and the pink cursor.
It glided higher, past the "Museum Ethics" section, stopping directly over your comments about his vest, his tattoos, and the "pretty hot daddy" acronym. You stopped breathing. Your soul effectively vacated your physical body.
You didn't know if the stroke you were about to have was induced by the three Red Bulls you'd downed in the past five hours, or the fact that your terrifying professor had just witnessed your unhinged thirst-posting in real-time.
Then, the ‘Typing’ bubble appeared one last time.
[Ryomen_Sukuna]: As for my "star student." If you applied a fraction of the analytical rigor to your primary sources that you do to dissecting my attire, your methodology wouldn't be such a profound disappointment.
[Ryomen_Sukuna]: I will print these chat logs. You will be in my office at 8:00 AM sharp. Prepare a highly compelling argument as to why I shouldn't forward this transcript to the Ethics Committee and the Dean by 8:05.
[Ryomen_Sukuna]: Your degree is currently hanging by a thread. I suggest you use the next four hours to draft a pristine apology.
You stared at the empty screen, your face reflecting in the blue light, looking exactly like someone who was about to be the opening montage of a true-crime episode.
You lunged out of your chair, practically tearing the charging cable from the wall as you sprinted for the living room, screaming at the top of your lungs.
"YUJI!" you shrieked, skidding across the hardwood and clutching your head in absolute, unadulterated terror. "YUJI, WAKE UP! START PACKING! WE ARE LEAVING TO CANADA!"
There was a loud, violent thump from the bedroom across the hall, followed by the frantic scrambling of a man who had clearly just fallen out of bed. Yuji burst into the living room, his hair sticking up in every direction, wielding a desk lamp by the cord like a makeshift medieval flail.
"Who died?!" he yelled, his eyes wild as he scanned the kitchen. "Is there a fire? Did the landlord find the cat?"
"Worse," you wheezed, sliding down the side of the sofa to curl into a fetal position on the living room carpet. "I just assassinated my entire academic career and the murder weapon is sitting in the fuckass Google Doc."
Yuji slowly lowered the desk lamp, the adrenaline of a potential home invasion colliding violently with his sleep deprivation. He just blinked down at you, thoroughly lost.
"Huh? What? Do I need to smash your laptop? I'll smash it right now, just give the word."
"You can't bludgeon the cloud, Yuji!" you sobbed into the rug. "Sukuna! The psycho was logged in! He read all my unhinged thirst comments! Every. Single. One. I fucking called him Daddy!"
You gasped for air, the panic fully overriding your respiratory system. "He wants to see me in his office at 8:00 AM sharp, so I'm assuming he is currently sharpening a medieval letter opener to skin me alive, tan my hide, and beat me to death with the stack of 'Introduction to Feudalism' essays I haven't graded yet!"
The remaining sleep finally vanished from his face, replaced by the thousand-yard stare of a man who had just seen his security deposit evaporate into the ether. He looked at you, then at the lamp, then at the wall as if searching for a portal to another dimension.
"I told you," Yuji squeaked, his voice cracking three times in one sentence. "I told you to stop the thirst! I warned you about the SVU consequences! And now the whole group is complicit! Maki is already a flight risk, and if I get expelled, I can say goodbye to my PhD with Professor Kento! Nanami will never look at me again if I’m a disgraced felon! He’ll just give me that look... that disappointed, professional look!"
Yuji grabbed his car keys off the coffee table with a frantic, trembling hand.
"We need to go. Right now. We’re changing our names. We’re moving to the Yukon. I’ll be a lumberjack, you’ll be a nameless nun in the Canadian wilderness. Get your passport. We have four hours before the state execution begins!"
You stared at the keys dangling from his shaking fingers.
"Yuji," you whispered, the cold, harsh reality of your bank account temporarily overriding your survival instincts. "My passport expired sophomore year. And your Corolla needs a new transmission. We wouldn't even make it to the state line."
Yuji stared at the keys, then slowly let them drop back onto the coffee table with a depressive clink. The manic energy drained out of him, leaving only the exhausted shell of a grad student who couldn't afford a felony charge.
"Okay," he breathed, aggressively rubbing his temples. "Okay. Let me just... let me see the exact wording. Maybe you're overreacting. Maybe he just gave you a stern warning."
He lunged for your laptop on the floor, flipping the screen open. His eyes darted across the glowing chat log. You watched his soul leave his body in real-time as he read the words 'gross violation' and 'Ethics Committee.'
"Okay, so it’s even worse, I see," Yuji whispered. "This is literally academic execution. He’s going to read you your rights and then delete your student ID from the mainframe."
His finger dragged across the trackpad, scrolling up the chat just a fraction to see exactly what prompted the death sentence. He froze.
"You put 'get the d' in writing?! They're going to put us on a sex offender registry!"
He moved to slam the lid shut, completely defeated, but then his fingers went rigid. He leaned an inch closer to the screen, his eyes widening in pure, unadulterated horror.
"Wait. Why… why is his icon still at the top of the page?"
You scrambled over on your knees to look. Sure enough, the crisp, high-resolution faculty headshot of your professor was still sitting firmly in the ‘Active Users’ bar. He hadn't left. The pink cursor wasn't moving anymore; it was just resting at the very bottom of the blank space below your ‘Daddy’ comment, blinking rhythmically like a heartbeat in the dark.
It was 3:45 AM.
"He's just sitting there," Yuji said, his voice dropping to a horrified whisper. "He's waiting to see if you type anything back. He's a digital slasher villain."
Yuji slammed the laptop shut like it was a live grenade and shoved it across the carpet.
"Uhh," he breathed, aggressively rubbing his temples. "Okay. Plan B. Damage control. You are going to write the plea bargain so sterile, so stripped of human emotion and biological urges, that he forgets you even possess a libido."
You spent the remaining four hours of the night in a state of hyperventilating purgatory. While Yuji paced the apartment, reciting sections of the University HR manual aloud like he was performing an exorcism, you sat back at your desk to draft the mandatory apology letter.
It read less like an academic apology and more like a desperate defense at the Hague.
Draft 1: Dear Dr. Ryomen, I suffered an exhaustion induced stroke at 3:00 AM and hallucinated your forearms. Backspace.
Draft 6: Dr. Ryomen, my account was compromised by a Russian bot farm specializing in erotic medieval history. Backspace.
Draft 14: Dr. Ryomen, please accept my deepest, most profound apologies for the unauthorized and highly unprofessional anatomical dissection of your work attire. It was a severe lapse in pedagogical focus and will never happen again.
You printed Draft 14 on heavy-stock resume paper, your hands shaking so badly you almost jammed the HP printer. Then, you frantically ironed a modest, high-collared blouse, trying to look as much like an asexual, hyper-focused academic as humanly possible.
By the time the sun came up, you looked like a Victorian ghost who had died of a nervous disposition. You looked like you’d never even heard the word ‘forearm,’ let alone ‘Daddy.’
“You ready?” Yuji asked, standing at the door with a piece of toast he was too stressed to eat. He looked at you with the somber pity usually reserved for a man walking toward a guillotine.
“No,” you whispered, clutching your folder to your chest like a shield. “I’m going to go get skinned alive now.”
“I’ll have your favorite ramen ready for the wake,” Yuji promised, giving you a thumbs-up that felt like a funeral rite. “Godspeed.”
The History Department hallway was silent, smelling of floor wax, old paper, and the expensive, sharp sandalwood cologne that lingered in the air whenever Dr. Ryomen walked through it. You stood outside Office 301, clutching Draft 14 of your apology letter to your chest like a Kevlar vest sensing impending doom.
Knock. Knock.
"Enter."
It was a deep, textured sound—the kind of voice that should be declaring war on a small European nation, not grading midterm papers.
You opened the door. Your professor was sitting behind his massively pretentious mahogany desk. He was wearing a black dress shirt today, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the exact, devastatingly defined forearms that had ruined your life a few hours ago.
But what made your soul officially vacate your body was the object resting in the exact center of his pristine desk.
It was a printed piece of paper. He had actually printed the Google Doc chat. He had seriously used university ink and the department budget to immortalize your thirst.
"Close the door. Sit."
You moved on stiff legs, sinking into one of the leather visitor chairs. Your hands were shaking so badly you had to lock one under your thigh, using your free hand to desperately slide the cream-colored, heavy-stock resume paper across the desk.
"The formal apology," you squeaked, your voice sounding like a Victorian ghost catching a draft. "For the Hague... I mean, the Dean."
Sukuna didn't even look at your beautiful resume paper. He placed one hand flat over it, effectively silencing your four hours of panic-typing, and picked up the printed chat log instead.
"Tell me," Sukuna began, his voice a low, vibrating hum that made the fine hairs on your arms stand up. "In your professional, 'star student' opinion... what is the historical precedent for a Teaching Assistant referring to her Department Chair as a 'Pretty Hot Daddy' on a collaborative document you explicitly granted me access to?"
Your throat closed. You were going to throw up your own organs. "I— Dr. Ryomen, I am so sorry. It was a typo—a profound, sleep-deprived typographical anomaly—"
"A typographical anomaly, huh," Sukuna repeated, his voice dangerously flat. He looked down at the paper. "You hit the 'D' key, the 'A' key, the 'D' key twice, and the 'Y' key by accident? While attempting to spell what, exactly?"
You opened your mouth, but only a pathetic wheeze came out.
"You also expressed a desire to write a 10,000-word peer-reviewed dissertation on my tattoos," he noted, his face a mask of absolute, terrifying blankness as he tapped a long finger against the paper. "Would that be in Chicago or MLA format?"
"I am a disgrace to higher education and I will self-exile immediately," you blurted out, staring at his stapler because making eye contact felt like looking directly into a solar eclipse. "I’ll pack up my desk. I'll join a silent order of nuns. I will legally take a vow of absolute celibacy so HR knows my libido is permanently dead. You can just burn my transcripts. Please just don't call the federal authorities."
Sukuna stopped tapping. He just stared at you. For a fraction of a second, the pristine, terrifyingly blank mask slipped. His dark brows twitched, and he looked genuinely, profoundly baffled by your sheer level of unhinged desperation.
Without a word, he lifted his hand off your apology letter. He picked up the cream-colored, heavy-stock resume paper and held it up.
The silence stretched for an agonizing thirty seconds as his crimson eyes scanned your panicked plea bargain. You watched his eyes track across the page, waiting for the ground to swallow you.
"'...deepest, most profound apologies for the unauthorized and highly unprofessional anatomical dissection of your work attire,'" Sukuna read aloud, his deep voice dragging over your sterile, robotic words. It sounded ten times more ridiculous coming out of his mouth.
He lowered the paper, staring at you like you were a fascinating, mildly defective species of insect.
"Did you print an apology for calling me 'Daddy' on thirty-two-pound ivory cardstock?" he asked, his voice deadpan.
"It felt appropriate for the gravity of my crimes," you whispered to the stapler.
Sukuna exhaled a short breath through his nose—a sound that was suspiciously close to a suppressed scoff. He set the cardstock down next to the chat logs, his face smoothing back into that mask of surgical, tenured blankness.
"I should expel you right here," he stated, his voice dropping an octave, heavy with absolute, crushing authority. "Under Section 4, Clause B of the faculty handbook, your digital conduct constitutes a severe boundary violation. I could e-mail the Dean right now, strip you of your Master’s degree candidacy, and have security escort you out of the building to begin your... vow of celibacy."
You blinked, your brain violently buffering. The Red Bull and lack of oxygen finally made your mouth move before your logic could intervene.
"...So, you're not banishing me to the shadow realm?"
Sukuna stopped again. He went unnervingly still. He stared at you for a long, heavy beat—a beat that suggested he was currently recalculating your value to the university versus the cost of a long-term psychiatric hold. You could practically see the 404 Error flashing behind his eyes as he realized this unhinged Yu-Gi-Oh! reference was the supposed bright future of his department.
"I am officially placing you on Disciplinary Oversight," he finally said, his voice now carrying the distinct, hollow exhaustion of a man mourning the death of higher education."You will retain your desk in the TA lounge. But your grading, your thesis drafts, and your syllabus planning will no longer be submitted digitally."
He picked up his fountain pen, tapping it once against the mahogany wood.
Thwack.
"You will present your work to me, in person, in this office. Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. 5:00 PM sharp. We will review your progress line by line until I am satisfied that your 'analytical focus' has returned to Middle Ages, and off my forearms."
You stared at him. Tuesday and Thursday. 5:00 PM. Alone in his office. Twice a week.
It wasn't a quick execution. It was a slow, agonizing torture. He was a ticking time bomb of repressed professionalism, and he had just mandated that you sit in the blast radius twice a week.
"Do we have an understanding, brat?" he asked, his eyes flashing with a dark, predatory gleam that suggested he knew exactly what this punishment would do to your sanity.
"Yes, Dr. Ryomen," you squeaked.
"Good. Now get out of my office. You have essays to grade."
When you stumbled back into the TA lounge after your "Death Sentence" meeting, you drifted through the corridor like a Victorian orphan who had just seen a ghost. You were still clutching your now rejected, thirty-two-pound ivory cardstock apology letter to your chest like a dead bird.
Yuji was sitting at your shared desk, vibrating with enough anxiety to power a small city. He was halfway through a family-sized bag of stale pretzels, his eyes darting to the door like he expected a SWAT team to breach the ceiling. Nobara was filing her nails with a look of extreme boredom, while Megumi was buried under a pile of maps, aggressively trying to pretend he didn't know any of you.
"Are you expelled?" Yuji hissed, jumping up and accidentally scattering pretzels like confetti over the linoleum. "Did he call the Dean? Is there a restraining order? Do I need to get the go-bag from under the sink?!"
"I'm not expelled," you whispered, collapsing into your rolling chair and staring blankly at the ceiling tiles. "I'm on Disciplinary Oversight. I have mandatory, one-on-one, in-person meetings in his office. Twice a week. Alone. Until I graduate."
Nobara slowly lowered her sunglasses, her gaze sharpening with the predatory thrill of someone watching a reality TV show derail in real-time. "You mean you have to sit in a room with the human equivalent of a 'Caution: High Voltage' sign more than you already do?"
"I’m so fucked, Nobara," you moaned, spinning slowly in your chair, the wheels squeaking in the sudden silence of the lounge. "Before, I could hide behind a stack of midterms or a laptop. Now? Slack can be damned. He said my grading will be done in person. Line. By. Line."
"So," Nobara smirked, leaning back. "Instead of a quick meeting about the syllabus, you’re basically doing hours of supervised, high-tension breathing vacuum twice a week. While he looks at you with those 'I’m going to ruin your life' eyes?"
"I’m going to die," you whispered to the ceiling. "He had the chat printed out. He read 'Pretty Hot Daddy' out loud in a voice that sounded both like sin and a federal felony. He must think I’m a freaking stalker."
"You know," Megumi interjected without looking up from his 14th-century land-survey maps, his voice as dry as a desert. "Technically, he could have just reported you for a Title IX boundary violation and had your student ID deactivated before breakfast."
You stopped spinning, eyeing him warily. "Your point?"
"My point," Megumi sighed, "is that instead, he's mandating eight hours of forced proximity a month. It’s a highly inefficient way to execute someone. Statistically speaking, he’s either a sadist, or he just wants to see how long it takes for you to actually pass out in his lap."
You and Nobara both froze, heads snapping toward him.
"Megumi," you whispered, horrified. "Not you too."
"I'm just looking at the data," Megumi deadpanned, tapping his pen against his map. "If I were him, I would have fired you the second you suggested getting 'the d' in a shared doc. The fact that you’re still here means he’s either a saint, or he’s playing a very long, very sick game."
"Babe," Nobara said, pointing a red-tipped finger at him. "Read the room. We are in a crisis. We don't need 'data' right now, we need a getaway car."
"The 'data' says she’s going to be married to him by the spring semester or she’s going to be in a psych ward," Megumi replied, entirely unfazed, returning his attention to his maps. "Either way, I’m taking her desk when she leaves. It has better light."
"Megumi!" you and Nobara yelled in unison.
Yuji didn't say a word. He looked at you, and then at the pristine apology letter crushed in your fist.
He just stood up, uncapped a neon-red dry-erase marker, and walked over to the small whiteboard by the door. With the grim, silent determination of a man watching his security deposit evaporate in real-time, he wrote:
DAYS SINCE WE ALMOST COMMITTED A FELONY: 0
Thursdays from 2:00 PM to 4:00 PM were officially classified as a violation of the Geneva Convention.
Let’s be completely transparent: you had not been a normal, functioning academic since you were eighteen years old. Seven years ago, you had wandered into Sukuna’s 100-level medieval survey course, taken one look at his jawline, and your brain had permanently rewired itself. He had been 28 then. He was 35 now. He had only gotten broader, meaner, and exponentially hotter. It was a chronic, feral illness, and you were patient zero.
HIS-502: Imperial Ethics and Feudal Autocracies was held in an oak-paneled room that felt like a high-stakes dungeon. There were exactly fifteen students in the seminar, broken down into three project groups. You were sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with your defensive phalanx: Yuji, Nobara, Maki, and Megumi. You were wearing a turtleneck so high it was practically touching your chin, aggressively trying to channel the energy of a sterile amoeba.
Before the professor even entered the room, Megumi reached into his backpack, pulled out a literal plastic water spray bottle, and placed it squarely on the table, pointing the nozzle directly at you.
"If you stare at his chest for more than five consecutive seconds," Megumi whispered across the table, his expression completely deadpan, "I am spritzing you like a bad housecat."
"You wouldn't dare," you hissed back, actively eyeing the bottle with fear.
"I will hold her down while he does it," Maki muttered from beside him, crossing her arms. "I am not failing this seminar because our TA has had an untreated, feral crush on the Executioner since freshman year."
The heavy oak door swung open, and the temperature in the room immediately dropped.
Sukuna stalked in. He was wearing that damn charcoal waistcoat, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. The chronic illness that was your libido immediately flared up.
Megumi’s hand twitched toward the spray bottle. Under the table, your phone vibrated violently.
[The SVU Survivors Group Chat]
[Yuji]: HE IS WEARING THE VEST. DO NOT BARK.
[Nobara]: if you pop a metaphorical boner i will personally euthanize u
Sukuna paced the perimeter of the room, capping his red fountain pen with a sharp snap that echoed in the silence. All fifteen grad students instantly stopped breathing.
"I have reviewed the preliminary drafts for your collaborative projects," Sukuna’s deep voice vibrated off the oak panels.
Yuji slowly began sliding lower in his chair, actively trying to meld with the floorboards.
"There are three groups in this seminar," Sukuna continued, his dark eyes casually sweeping the room before locking with terrifying, sniper-level precision directly onto your corner of the table.
"Two of those groups managed to analyze the primary texts with basic, functional literacy. One group, however, abandoned their methodology entirely, choosing instead to use a university-monitored server to document a complete, humiliating loss of focus."
Under the table, Yuji let out a microscopic squeak that sounded like a deflating balloon. Maki slowly lowered her face into her hands.
"I was unaware," Sukuna drawled, taking a slow, predatory step toward your chairs. The corner of his mouth twitched in a micro-expression of absolute sadistic amusement. "That a Master's-level capstone required such an... impassioned, late-night fixation on superficial, physical details, rather than the actual body of work."
Across the room, a second-year student flinched, furiously scribbling in his notebook. To the rest of the class, the Executioner was simply dismantling a group for writing a fluffy, irrelevant paper.
But to you, Yuji, Nobara, Megumi and Maki, the words hit like a flashbang. Yuji started silently mouthing the Hail Mary. Megumi’s thumb popped the safety off the nozzle of his plastic spray bottle.
I am going to throw up on this ugly ass table, you thought frantically, your vision tunneling until all you could see was your own highlighter. I am going to vomit, pass out, and wake up in a maximum-security cell.
"But this provides an excellent segue into today's text," Sukuna transitioned smoothly, his voice dropping into a dark, textured register as he closed the distance. The rhythmic click of his dress shoes stopped directly behind your chair.
"Historically, when a subordinate loses focus—when they allow themselves to be distracted by the mere physical presence of authority rather than respecting its function—how does the sovereign respond?"
You stopped breathing. Your internal organs initiated a factory reset.
"Immediate execution—or in our modern equivalent, immediate expulsion—is lazy," Sukuna murmured to the room. The vibration of his chest was practically pressing into the back of your chair. "It is a waste of a potentially useful asset. Instead, the sovereign relies on absolute, psychological submission. They mandate... strict, personalized oversight."
He lowered his head just a fraction, planting one hand flat on the table right next to your notebook. He weaponized his own anatomy, deliberately flexing his forearm against the wood until the veins popped against his skin like a topographical map of your impending doom.
THWACK.
Nobara violently kicked you in the shin under the table to keep you from whimpering at the sight of it. The physical trauma short-circuited your brain. You bit your tongue to keep from yelping, letting out a strangled squeak that sounded exactly like a stepped-on dog toy.
The rest of the seminar room remained completely silent, furiously taking notes on 14th-century penal codes, completely blind to the fact that their professor was currently chemically dismantling his own TA.
"Isn't that right, my Teaching Assistant?" Sukuna asked, his tone dripping with a terrifying, silky politeness.
"Dr. Ryomen?" you choked out, your voice reaching a pitch only audible to incredibly stressed bats.
"Tell the other brats," he whispered, the dark amusement practically humming against your spine. "What happens to a vassal who forgets their place? Who... oversteps?"
You stared blindly at your notes, your face burning a radioactive shade of crimson. Your brain was split evenly between absolute terror and a devastating, ruinous arousal. "They are... reprimanded. Put under... direct, heavy supervision?"
Sukuna let out a low, rough hum of approval right next to your ear. It vibrated straight down your spine and hit your pelvis like a freight train.
"Exactly," he purred, pushing off the table and resuming his pacing as if he hadn't just fried your central nervous system. "Discipline is paramount."
And then, horrifyingly, he just... continued the seminar.
For the remaining one hundred and twenty minutes of the class, he didn't look at you once. He effortlessly pivoted into a dry, incredibly dense lecture on 14th-century agrarian land disputes, leaving you to vibrate in your seat like a struck tuning fork.
You spent an hour and a half staring blankly at your highlighter, completely paralyzed, while Yuji and Nobara sat beside you in traumatized, rigor-mortis silence.
At precisely 3:50 PM, Sukuna capped his red fountain pen with a sharp snap.
"Read chapters four through seven by next week," his deep voice commanded, cutting through the stale air.
"Furthermore," Sukuna continued, his voice cold and clinical, "every group in this room will rewrite their project papers from scratch before submitting the next draft. While I highlighted one specific lapse in... methodology... the collective research in this room is currently trash. Truly tragic. If your final drafts resemble these preliminary efforts, you will fail. All of you."
A collective, panicked shiver ran through the fifteen students. Across the room, someone dropped their pen. To them, Sukuna was just having a particularly bloodthirsty Thursday.
"Class dismissed. I will see my TA in my office within an hour."
He swept out of the room without a backward glance, the heavy door clicking shut behind him with the finality of a prison cell.
For three seconds, nobody moved. As the rest of the room erupted into the frantic, sobbing rustle of packing bags, your group remained frozen in a state of collective, post-traumatic shock.
Maki was the first to break. She slowly turned her head toward you, her eyes wide and unblinking behind her glasses.
"What the actual fuck was that?" she demanded, her voice an aggressive, terrified hiss. "I have been in this department for two years and I have never seen him stand that close to another living organism! Did you suck his dick during that 8:00 AM meeting yesterday and just didn't tell us? Because the amount of sexual tension in this corner was a fucking health hazard that my student insurance definitely does not cover!"
"I didn't!" you choked out, your hands physically shaking as you tried to cap your pen. "I am a victim of academic circumstance!"
"I'm calling my mom," Yuji hyperventilated quietly, throwing his notebooks into his backpack without even looking. "You are actively writing the cold open for a new episode of Law & Order: SVU, and I refuse to be interviewed by Ice-T."
"Law and order?" You smirked, the residual adrenaline and feral thirst making you completely, suicidally reckless. "More like Raw and Older."
"Bestie, for the love of God," Yuji answered, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was staving off a massive aneurysm. "If I didn't know you, I'd literally think you were begging not only to be expelled, but to be put on a federal registry."
"If you don't climb him like a jungle gym by the end of winter," Nobara hissed, shoving her laptop into her designer tote, "I am personally locking you both in the archives and swallowing the key."
"I'm going back to Gojo's division," Maki groaned, dragging a hand down her face as she stood up. "I don't care about the credits. I can't do this anymore. I value my life."
Megumi didn't say a single word. He just calmly reached for his plastic spray bottle, looked you dead in the eye, gave you one sharp, warning spritz of tap water right in the face, and walked out the door.
You stood outside Office 301 at exactly 4:59 PM, clutching a physical, printed copy of your thesis to your chest like a shield. You had spent the last hour in the bathroom splashing cold water on your face and whispering "I am a professional" to your reflection until the words lost all meaning.
When you pushed the door open, the scent of sandalwood and cold espresso hit you like a physical wall. Dr. Ryomen Sukuna was seated behind his massive desk, looking devastatingly composed in his charcoal vest.
"Sit," he commanded, his voice a low, vibrating hum. "Hand me the physical draft of Chapter Four."
You obeyed with the jerky, uncoordinated movements of a malfunctioning robot. You slid the paper across the table, your fingers brushing the wood where his hand had been seconds before.
"Since you’ve proven that your digital conduct requires... rehabilitation," Sukuna began, picking up his pen, "we are going to ensure your focus is sharpened. I am currently finalizing a chapter for the Oxford Press on the submission of vassalage. You are going to read my manuscript aloud to me while I review your 'work.'"
Your heart skipped a beat. "Aloud? Like... a bedtime story?"
Sukuna’s eyes snapped up, a dark, predatory glint behind his glasses. "Like a Teaching Assistant who is one mistake away from being a Sociology major. Begin on page three. Do not stumble. I am listening for the cadence of the argument."
For the next twenty minutes, you lived in a fever dream. You had to read his incredibly dense, high-level prose while he sat three feet away, leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed, looking like a bored deity.
The catch? Everything he wrote sounded like a targeted attack on your libido.
"...The vassal must recognize that their autonomy is a gift from the sovereign," you read, your voice trembling so badly the paper shook in your hands. "Total surrender is not merely a political act, but a... physical necessity for the preservation of order. The sovereign's will must be... deep-seated and... unyielding."
You stopped, your face burning a catastrophic shade of red. "Professor, this is... very descriptive."
"It is a legal analysis of 14th-century fealty," he replied without opening his eyes, his voice silky and perfectly flat. "If you find it provocative, that is a deficiency in your own mind, not my scholarship. Continue."
You swallowed so loudly it echoed in the quiet room, your throat feeling like it was full of sand. You finished the page, feeling like you’d just performed a one-woman show of 50 Shades of Feudalism.
Then, Sukuna opened his eyes. He picked up your thesis draft. The atmosphere in the room immediately shifted from "bored deity" to "surgical executioner."
"Now," he murmured, his voice dropping into that aged-whiskey register that made your toes curl in your shoes. "Let’s look at your contribution to the field. Specifically, page seven. Your analysis of the Siege of Caffa."
He leaned forward, steepling his long, ring-clad fingers. "Read the highlighted paragraph for me. The one regarding the battering rams."
Your brain initiated a total system shutdown. You knew exactly what was on that page. You had written it at 4:15 AM on a feral, untreated caffeine bender.
"I... I think the point is clear in the text," you squeaked, actively trying to melt into the leather upholstery.
"Read it," he commanded, the absolute authority in his voice slamming into you like a physical weight.
You looked down at the paper. "'The success of the siege,'" you whispered, staring at the massive, aggressive red circles he’d drawn over your prose, "'relied entirely on the prolonged, aggressive battering of the rear defenses. The sovereign knew that with enough relentless, rhythmic force, the structural integrity would ultimately yield to total submission, allowing his men to... penetrate the deepest, most heavily guarded quarters.'"
Your voice cracked so violently on the word penetrate that it sounded like a cry for medical assistance.
The silence that followed was so thick you could have carved it with a letter opener. You were staring blindly at the $15,000 mahogany desk, waiting for the ground to open up and swallow you whole.
Sukuna let out a short, rough breath—a dark, sadistic chuckle that vibrated right through the room and into your knees.
"Tell me, brat," he purred, leaning closer until the sharp scent of his cologne was the only thing you could breathe. "Are we discussing 14th-century biological warfare, or are you projecting your profound lack of impulse control onto the Golden Horde?"
"It’s a metaphor!.... For kinetic energy! And... architecture!"
"It is an HR violation in Chicago-style format," Sukuna corrected as he picked up his red pen and tapped it against the desk.
Thwack.
"You will stay here for the remainder of the hour," he stated, the dark amusement dancing openly in his eyes. "And you will rewrite that entire section by hand. I want it sterile. I want it clinical. And if I see the word 'penetrate' or 'rhythmic' one more time, I am sending this to the Ethics Committee as a literary crime."
He leaned back, picking up a stack of undergraduate essays to grade. But as you reached for your own pen, he murmured, entirely too quietly:
"And do try to keep your mind off the structural integrity of my office, Teaching Assistant. I can hear you breathing from here."
You immediately stopped breathing.
Your lungs burned as you stared down at the blank yellow legal pad. You uncapped your ballpoint pen and pressed the tip to the paper to write the word The, but your hand was shaking with such violent tremors that the ink just stuttered into a jagged, pathetic zigzag.
You had to reach over with your left hand and physically pin your right wrist to the desk just to keep it still.
Across from you, Sukuna effortlessly flipped a page, his red fountain pen gliding over an essay in smooth, predatory strokes. Above you, the vintage wall clock ticked.
You had forty-seven minutes left.
When you finally vibrated out of Office 301 at 6:00 PM, you didn't go home. you crawled back to the TA lounge, where your friends were waiting like a worried family in a hospital waiting room.
You collapsed face-down onto the communal rug—the one that smelled vaguely of spilled Monster Energy and broken dreams.
"She’s alive," Yuji whispered, poking your shoulder with the toe of his sneaker. "Is she whole? Did he take a kidney as collateral?"
"He made me read his manuscript," you muffled into the carpet. "About vassalage. And then he made me read my own 'battering ram' paragraph. Out loud. Twice. I had to physically pin my own wrist to the desk to keep from vibrating into another dimension."
"God, he’s good," Nobara said, sounding genuinely impressed as she sipped an iced latte. "He’s not just punishing you; he’s Pavlov-ing you. He’s conditioning you to associate your own horniness with a Grade-A panic attack."
"It’s working," you moaned. "I saw a picture of a trebuchet in a textbook earlier and I had to go do breathing exercises in the stairwell."
Megumi walked over to the whiteboard. With the weary sigh of a man who had accepted his fate, he erased the '0' and wrote a very shaky '1'.
"Let's see if we can make it to two days without a Title IX scare," he muttered.
The transition from the chair to the rug hadn't been an act of academic mercy; it was a desperate, feverish bargain born out of pure, unadulterated psychological warfare.
By Week 2, you had survived exactly a whopping three Oversight Meetings where Sukuna forced you to read your own sleep-deprived, 4:00 AM thesis drafts out loud. The breaking point came when he pulled out Chapter Five, tapped his red pen against a paragraph detailing the "forceful yielding of the lower territories," and commanded you to recite it with "proper inflection."
You had physically slid out of the visitor’s chair, collapsing onto his $10,000 Persian rug, literally landing on your knees.
"Professor, I am begging you," you had pleaded, clutching the edge of his desk like a drowning Victorian widow. "I will rewrite the entire historiography. I will translate the Magna Carta backward. I will clean the grout in the faculty bathrooms with my own toothbrush. But if you make me read my delirium-induced, sleep-deprived research notes out loud to you one more time, I will self-expel. I will voluntarily walk into the campus lake with my pockets full of rocks."
Sukuna had frozen. He had looked down at you—his defiant, brilliant Teaching Assistant, currently kneeling at his feet and threatening academic suicide just to avoid hearing the word 'penetrate' in his voice ever again.
A dark, terrifyingly satisfied smirk had curved his lips.
"You would rather self-expel than stand by your own... robust analysis?" he had purred, his voice dropping into a register that made your skin itch. "Very well. If you cannot handle the intellectual rigor of this desk, you lose the privilege of the chair. I have four boxes of uncatalogued 14th-century tax ledgers that I intended for some disobedient freshman to index. But if you insist on the labor of a subordinate..."
He leaned forward, his eyes pinning you to the rug.
"You will index them by hand. On the floor. Where I can ensure you aren't... wandering."
And so, the floor era began. Every Tuesday and Thursday, you spent almost three hours sitting cross-legged at the corner of his desk, acting as a Victorian chimney sweep with a raging degradation kink.
Because you were on the floor, your eye level was perpetually aligned with the wheels of his chair—and more importantly, the sheer, devastating architecture of his thighs.
But while you were down there, actively fighting the gravitational urge to rest your cheek against his knee and let campus security euthanize you, Dr. Ryomen was quietly losing his goddamn mind.
He sat behind his dual monitors, his crimson eyes tracking the frantic, shallow rise and fall of your ribs. To the rest of the Ivy League, he was the untouchable academic executioner. But inside this office, he was a man realizing he had made a colossal tactical error.
He watched you bite the cap of your pen, your pupils completely blown, your hands trembling as you mapped the muscle density of his calves using nothing but peripheral vision and pure hysteria.
He recognized that look. It was the exact same feral, razor-sharp focus you’d weaponized at twenty years old, when you had stared him dead in the eye from the front row and flawlessly corrected his Latin translation of a Papal Bull. He hadn't wanted to break your defiance back then; he had wanted to let it ruin his fucking life.
It was the entire reason he had committed mild academic treason, pulling every administrative string in the entire university just to ensure you were assigned as his direct Master's candidate.
And now he had it. He had you trapped in his office, completely at his mercy. You had literally dropped to your knees for him. Which made his dick so hard that the sudden, violent surge of feral lust he felt the second he saw your pleading eyes was probably illegal in four different time zones.
But the victory was absolute, agonizing torture, built on a suffocating mutual delusion. He watched your shoulders flinch every time his leather chair creaked, and his stomach dropped. In his mind, he was an insufferable, terrifying prick—a thirty-five-year-old academic gargoyle whose obsession with you was a federally punishable offense.
He had buried his feral, desperate yearning behind a wall of ruthless grading and cold remarks just so you wouldn't look at him with disgust. He had absolutely no idea that in your head, he was an untouchable sex-god, and that your flinch wasn't fear—it was a violent, catastrophic surge of horniness.
That was why the unholy Capstone document incident had nearly sent him to the emergency room.
Seeing the words 'Daddy' and 'get the d' typed out in real-time on that shared screen hadn't just given him legal grounds to expel you. It was a life-altering, psychological flashbang of proof. It was the agonizing, knee-buckling realization that you weren't just tolerating his tyrannical mentorship for a piece of paper. You were sick for him. You were just as unhinged, just as rabid, and just as hopelessly crazy over him as he was over you.
You might have fallen first, but sitting here, watching you tremble at his feet while you tried to calculate a 14th-century tax levy, he knew with terrifying certainty that he had fallen with the violence of a natural disaster. He didn't just want to fuck you. He wanted to rewrite his entire existence around you.
Because it wasn't just the feral defiance that had ruined him; it was the soft moments you didn't even realize you were giving away. It was the sophomore seminar five weeks ago, when he had delivered a brutally dry, pretentious metaphor comparing the agrarian collapse of the Holy Roman Empire to a poorly constructed syllogism.
The undergraduates had stared at him in terrified, uncomprehending silence. But from the back of the lecture hall, where you were leaning against the doorframe grading papers, you had let out a sudden, bright laugh. You had caught his eye across a sea of confused nineteen-year-olds and flashed him a rare, unshielded smile.
It had hit him so violently in the chest that the youngest Ivy League Chair in history had literally forgotten the next sentence of his syllabus.
It was the late afternoons in this very office, when you would get so fired up debating the socioeconomic impact of the bubonic plague that you temporarily forgot to be terrified of him. Your eyes would light up, that beautiful, brilliant mind running at full speed, and he would realize with a sickening jolt of yearning that he didn't just want to dominate you.
He wanted to protect you. He craved that rare smile like a starving man. He wanted to be the only person on earth allowed to make you laugh like that.
And I legally cannot touch her, Sukuna thought, his fountain pen snapping cleanly in half under the sudden, violent grip of his fist.
Ink bled over a freshman’s essay. He stared blindly at the ruined paper, the realization hitting him like a freight train.
Why had he mandated Oversight? Why had he played the long game? If he had just taken that screenshot of your feral comments to the Dean and expelled you for writing "get the d" about your own advisor and professor, you would be unenrolled. A civilian.
With your transcript, he could have personally written you a glowing recommendation, secured you a full-ride scholarship to Columbia by the fall semester... and then he could have locked this heavy oak door, dragged you onto this desk, and absolutely dismantled you until you forgot your own name.
Instead, he had tethered you to him academically. He had basically engineered his own horny jail.
"Tell me," Sukuna’s voice suddenly rumbled, the sound vibrating through the floorboards and dropping straight into your pelvis. "What is your assessment of the 1340 tax levy?"
"I... I think it’s a nuanced response to localized famine," you squeaked, your vision swimming.
He stalked around the desk to "check your progress," stopping directly behind you.
"Nuance is the refuge of the ill-prepared," he murmured, leaning over you so deeply his shadow swallowed you whole. The friction of his rolled-up sleeve felt like a branding iron against your shoulder.
"You’re staring at the blank margin," he purred, his breath hot against the shell of your ear, his own restraint hanging by a microscopic, fraying thread. "Is there something fascinating about the empty space, brat, or has your brain finally melted?"
"Melted," you whispered, completely untethered from reality.
Sukuna closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle feathered in his cheek. He stepped back before he did something that would get them both put on a federal registry.
"We are done for the day," he commanded, his voice dark and rough like crushed gravel. "Get out."
You didn't walk back to the TA lounge. You drifted down the hallway like a ghost who had just perished from consumption and agonizing lust.
When you pushed open the door to the lounge, you completely bypassed Yuji, who was mid-sentence, and Nobara, who was painting her nails. You walked straight to the whiteboard, picked up the neon-red dry-erase marker, and methodically erased the shaky '14' that Megumi had so painstakingly built up over the last two weeks.
With a trembling hand, you drew a massive, devastating 0.
Megumi looked from his laptop to the zero, then to your blown pupils and rug-burned knees. He asked no questions. He refused to be an accomplice to the spiritual homicide that had just occurred in Office 301.
He just calmly packed his laptop and his maps into his leather satchel, and slung it over his shoulder.
"Babe, let's go home," Megumi said, his voice as flat and cold as a grave marker. "We do not associate with academic delinquents."
"Wait, but I haven't finished my—" Nobara started, but Megumi was already grabbing her by the back of her jacket and steering her toward the door.
"The ship is sinking, Nobara. I’m not going down for her crimes."
The door clicked shut behind them. Needless to say, Megumi didn't speak to you for four consecutive days.
By the time your next Disciplinary Oversight meeting rolled around in the afternoon, you were no longer a human being. You were a hollowed-out husk of caffeine molecules, historical trauma, and whatever the opposite of serotonin is.
You had spent the entire weekend in the library, desperately trying to distract yourself from the memory of Sukuna’s forearms by translating tax ledgers until 5:00 AM. You hadn't eaten a solid meal in forty-eight hours. Your brain was functioning on a "safe mode" that only allowed for two thoughts:
Don't get expelled.
I need a calorie.
It was 4:52 PM. Your Oversight Meeting started in eight minutes. Your stomach let out a growl so deep and primal it sounded like a tectonic plate shifting. You realized with startling clarity that if you didn't eat something right now, you were going to pass out on Sukuna's Persian rug.
You sprinted to the campus "Quick-Stop." The lines for the microwaves were a death sentence. You looked at the clock. 4:56 PM.
And then, you saw it.
Sitting under the amber, celestial glow of the deli heat lamps was a Rotisserie Chicken. It was golden. It was sweating inside its little plastic UFO container. It was seasoned with a "Lemon-Pepper" rub that smelled like absolute, greasy salvation.
You didn't think. You just slammed your debit card on the counter, grabbed the piping-hot plastic dome, and sprinted for the Humanities building.
You arrived at the heavy oak door of Office 301 at 5:00:00 PM precisely. You were panting. A bead of sweat was rolling down your temple. You were clutching a steaming, greasy container of supermarket poultry to your chest like it was your firstborn child.
You pushed the door open.
Dr. Ryomen Sukuna was seated at his desk, his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, looking like a terrifying, lethal academic deity. He was expecting his traumatized, hyper-focused Teaching Assistant.
"You are on time," he rumbled without looking up. "Sit on the floor. Hand me the index of the—"
He stopped.
His nose flared.
Slowly, with the terrifying, deliberate grace of an apex predator sensing a severe disruption in its ecosystem, he looked up. His gaze dragged from your sleep-deprived face, down your very asexual looking sweater, and finally landed on the steaming, plastic-domed rotisserie chicken you were holding against your stomach.
The silence that followed was the most agonizing ten seconds of your entire academic career.
The violent, savory explosion of garlic and roasted animal fat instantly, aggressively murdered the expensive scent of his office. A single drop of chicken grease escaped the plastic container and landed, with a pathetic plip, onto his pristine wooden floorboards.
Sukuna’s eyes slowly snapped back to yours. For the first time in seven years, the Executioner looked genuinely, fundamentally derailed.
"Is that," he began, his voice dropping into a register so low it was practically sub-atomic, "a grocery store bird?"
"I'm hungry," you whispered, your voice cracking under the sheer, unhinged weight of the moment. "And you're... you're a lot to deal with on an empty stomach."
Sukuna stared at you. You looked like a feral raccoon woman who had just dragged roadkill into National Archives.
He looked from the grease spot on his floor, to your wide eyes, to the steaming plastic dome pressed against your chest.
For a second, you thought he was going to call campus security or that he was going to expel you on the spot for this bio-terrorism.
Instead, terrifying mask of the Ivy League Chair officially disintegrated. He aggressively pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes as a heavy, deeply human sigh punched out of his chest.
"Go sit and…eat it," he snapped, his voice shedding the silky Sovereign act and landing squarely in the territory of a man who is losing his goddamn mind. "And don't get everything greasy, Jesus Christ."
You blinked, utterly paralyzed by the sudden profanity. "I... I can eat it?"
"If you pass out on my floor, I have to fill out an incident report, and I despise more administrative paperwork than I already have," he muttered, waving a hand blindly toward the small side-table by the window. "Do not touch anything with poultry hands."
You practically scrambled to the small table, setting the plastic container down. You popped the lid. The smell of roasted chicken hit the air like a bomb.
Sukuna glared at you, pen already poised to bleed over an essay. "I assume you have utensils?"
You froze. You looked down at the steaming, whole chicken. Then you looked up at him.
"Dr. Ryomen," you whispered, the mortification burning so hot you were surprised your sweater didn't catch fire. "I didn't... grab a fork."
The red fountain pen halted on the page. Sukuna slowly raised his head. He stared at you. You stared back.
"You're telling me," he said, his voice flat and dangerously quiet, "that you intend to tear into a whole, seasoned carcass with your bare hands. In my office."
"I can use napkins as... mittens?" you offered, your voice a pathetic squeak.
Sukuna stared at you for a long, agonizing beat. The visual of you sitting in his office, tearing into a rotisserie chicken bare-handed, was colliding violently with his realization from days ago that he was madly in love with you.
He didn't say a word. He just opened his bottom desk drawer, pulled out a stack of linen napkins, walked across the room, and dropped them onto the table next to your bird.
"Eat," he commanded gruffly, turning his back on you to stalk back to his desk. "And if I hear you chewing, I'm adding a Friday session to your Oversight."
You sat frozen for a second, surrounded by pristine academia, before pure, animalistic starvation took over. You grabbed one of his incredibly expensive linen napkins, wrapped it awkwardly around your hand like a biohazard glove, and ripped a chunk of white meat cleanly off the bone.
It was magnificent. It was the best thing you had ever tasted in your entire life. You chewed as silently as humanly possible, swallowing the greasy, lemon-pepper salvation.
Across the room, Sukuna was aggressively trying to read a freshman essay, his red pen hovering rigidly over the paper. The silence in the office was deafening, save for the wet, horrifying sound of you tearing a wing off the carcass.
You paused. A sudden, delirious wave of manners washed over your sleep-deprived brain. You were eating a whole bird in his office. It felt incredibly rude not to share.
You swallowed, looking over at his broad, tense shoulders.
"Uhm..." you rasped, holding up a moderately intact, glistening chicken leg. "Do you... want some too, Professor?"
His hand stopped mid-stroke.
Sukuna slowly raised his head. He looked at the mangled grocery store bird. He looked at the monogrammed linen napkin you had fashioned into a greasy paw. He looked at the shiny, lemon-pepper-coated chicken leg you were currently offering him across the room like an olive branch.
He stared at you. A single, distinct muscle in his jaw jumped. And then, with absolute, terrifying clarity, his left eye actually physically twitched.
The silence stretched so long you thought you might actually die of cardiac arrest.
"I am going to close my eyes," Sukuna finally whispered, his voice sounding like a man who was actively standing on the edge of a psychological cliff. "And when I open them, that leg will no longer be suspended in the air of my office. Do we have an understanding?"
"Yes, sir," you squeaked, immediately shoving the chicken leg into your mouth.
And so you ate the entire bird.
Driven by forty-eight hours of starvation and the sheer, adrenaline-fueled terror of eating bare-handed under the unblinking gaze of the youngest university Chair, you completely dissociated. You stripped that grocery store carcass down to the bone in under twelve minutes.
And then, biology betrayed you.
The moment the massive influx of greasy, sodium-rich calories hit your sleep-deprived bloodstream, your body simply gave up. The adrenaline flatlined. You wiped your mouth with the back of your wrist, stumbled away from the side table, and collapsed into the visitor’s chair across from his desk.
Your spine lost all structural integrity. Your head lolled back against the expensive leather. Within thirty seconds, your breathing slowed, leveled out, and a soft, highly undignified snore vibrated out of your mouth.
Sukuna looked up. You were unconscious in his chair, your legs sprawled awkwardly, a second, slightly louder snore escaping you. Your fingers were still coated in a glistening layer of lemon-pepper poultry grease.
Sukuna closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath that sounded like it was physically painful. He was a thirty-five-year-old man. He had a PhD from Oxford. He was currently reviewing a dissertation on the socioeconomic collapse of the Byzantine Empire. And he was madly, hopelessly, pathologically in love with a woman who had just slipped into a poultry-induced coma in the middle of his office and was currently snoring like a chainsaw.
I am going to have a stroke, he thought, dropping his pen.
He stood up, his knees popping slightly, and walked around the desk. He opened his bottom drawer, bypassing the pristine academic files, and pulled out a sterile pack of antibacterial wet wipes.
He walked over to your slumped form. He looked down at you—your lips slightly parted, your chest rising and falling in deep, exhausted rhythm. Slowly, the terrifying, untouchable Executioner of the History department leaned over the armrest of the chair.
With a gentleness that completely contradicted the violent scowl on his face, he took your limp, greasy wrist in his hand.
The contrast was staggering. His thumb brushed against your pulse point as he methodically, meticulously began wiping the roasted chicken grease off each of your individual fingers. He scrubbed the lemon-pepper seasoning off your knuckles, his jaw tight, his dark eyes fixated on your hands.
He was legally prohibited from touching you, and yet here he was, performing the most bizarrely intimate act of sanitation in modern academic history.
When your hands were finally clean and smelling vaguely of medical alcohol, he carefully placed your arms back in your lap.
You snorted, shifting slightly in the leather, completely oblivious.
Sukuna stared at you for a long, heavy minute. His crimson eyes softened, a look of profound, helpless exhaustion washing over his sharp features. He didn't wake you. He didn't kick you out. He just turned around, walked back to his monitors, sat down, and spent the next two hours grading undergraduate essays to the rhythmic, soothing sound of your feral snoring.
By the next Tuesday, you had physically recovered from the calorie rollercoaster of the last week, but your academic life was still hanging by a thread. You were currently sitting in the sunlit, aggressively modern lecture hall of HIS-420: Post-Modern Cultural Paradigms.
It was taught by Dr. Satoru Gojo, the eccentric, infuriating head of the Modern History division. While Sukuna reigned over the Ancient and Medieval faction like a bloodthirsty 14th-century warlord, Gojo led the Modern division like a chaotic TED Talk host who had consumed four iced lattes and refused to adhere to a syllabus. He taught things like Cold War propaganda, 1980s pop-culture panic, and the historical impact of the internet.
"Alright, that’s all the trauma I can inflict on you for today!" Gojo clapped his hands together, his bright blue eyes crinkling behind his wire-rimmed glasses. "Read the Foucault chapter for Tuesday! Or don't! But if you don't, I’ll know, and I will psychoanalyze you in front of your peers! Class dismissed!"
The room erupted into the usual shuffle of packing backpacks. You slung your tote bag over your shoulder, desperate to get back to the TA lounge so you could try to salvage your sanity before your 5:00 PM Oversight meeting.
"Ah, not so fast," Gojo’s voice rang out over the chatter. "Could my favorite medieval interloper stay behind for a second?" You froze. You slowly turned around, pointing a finger at your own chest. "Me?"
"Yes, you," Gojo hummed, hopping up to sit casually on the edge of the podium desk, his long legs dangling. He held up a thick stack of stapled paper. "Come here."
You approached the desk with the weary caution of a soldier walking through a minefield. The paper in his hand was the midterm essay you had submitted on Monday—a 15-page comparative analysis mapping the cultural hysteria of the Salem Witch Trials to the 1980s Satanic Panic. You had written it during the peak of your "Google Doc/Daddy" breakdown, fueled by Red Bull and the absolute certainty that your life was over.
"Dr. Gojo," you started, immediately bracing for impact. "If the formatting is weird, it's because I was undergoing a severe psychological crisis when I exported the PDF—"
"It's brilliant," Gojo interrupted, dropping the essay onto the desk. You stopped breathing.
"What?"
"It’s brilliant," Gojo repeated, leaning forward, resting his chin in his hand. The chaotic, playful energy completely drained from his face, replaced by a sharp, piercing intelligence.
"It’s raw. It’s a little unhinged, and your use of adjectives borders on feral, but the methodology is iron-clad. The way you mapped the 17th-century theological panic to modern media consumption? Masterful."
"I... thank you?" you whispered, completely derailed. You were so used to Sukuna bleeding all over your papers with a red pen that getting actual, unadulterated praise felt like a trap.
Gojo tilted his head, studying you intently. "Why are you letting Ryomen waste your potential?" The question hit you like a physical blow.
"Waste my— Dr. Ryomen is the Department Chair! He's the most prestigious academic in the—"
"Ryomen is a dinosaur," Gojo corrected smoothly, waving a dismissive hand. "He's brilliant, sure. But he's a tyrant. He operates on fear, submission, and rigid, Middle Ages traditionalism. You don't belong in his dark little torture chamber, kiddo. You’re too creative. You’re too dynamic for dirt, plagues, and dead kings."
Gojo slid off the desk, standing up to his full, towering height. He crossed his arms, looking down at you with an absolute, terrifying sincerity.
"I know you're submitting your PhD program applications next month," Gojo said softly. "I want you to write your doctorate under me. Transfer to the Modern History division. I have the grant funding. I have one more spot open. I'll give you a full ride, a TA desk in an office with actual sunlight, and I promise I will never make you sit on a Persian rug to index land ledgers."
Your brain flatlined.
Dr. Satoru Gojo was actively headhunting you. A way out of the SVU-purgatory. A way to escape the agonizing, suffocating tension of Office 301.
"I..." you stammered, your mind racing a million miles an hour. "Dr. Gojo, I... I’ve been on Dr. Ryomen’s track since I was a freshman. He's my direct advisor. And he's the Department Chair." You swallowed hard, a cold sweat breaking out on the back of your neck.
"He has to personally sign off on any internal advisor transfers. He has to approve it."
Gojo’s lips curved into a slow, wicked, incredibly dangerous grin. "Oh, I know," he purred, his eyes practically gleaming with the chaotic thrill of starting a departmental civil war. "And I cannot wait to slide that transfer paperwork across his pretentious mahogany desk."
"Dr. Gojo, wait, look—this is a massive step," you blurted out, gripping the strap of your tote bag like a lifeline. "I need to actually think this through. I was originally planning on expanding my current Master's thesis into my full dissertation. And quite frankly," you hissed, your voice dropping into a panicked whisper, quickly turning around to make sure Sukuna doesn’t miraculously manifest in the lecture hall doorway.
"If I even attempt to switch to your division, Dr. Ryomen wouldn't just reject the paperwork. He would physically stab both of us to death with the 16-th century sword he has in his office and bury our bodies in the uncatalogued archives."
Gojo let out a bright, booming laugh. "He can certainly try," he hummed, adjusting his glasses. "I think I could take him. I've got a new personal trainer."
"I need to think about it first, Professor," you insisted firmly, backing toward the door.
Gojo didn't push. He just smiled, tapping your midterm essay. "Take a few days to think it over, kiddo. But don't wait too long. Stockholm Syndrome is a terrible foundation for a PhD."
You practically sprinted out of the lecture hall. But as you drifted down the hallway toward the TA lounge, the weight of Gojo's offer settled heavily in your chest. It was a golden ticket.
But as you passed by the heavy, closed oak door of Office 301, catching the faint, lingering scent of sandalwood in the corridor, your brain had just connected two incredibly dangerous dots.
If you accepted Gojo's offer... if you transferred to the Modern History division... Sukuna Ryomen would no longer be your direct supervisor. He wouldn't be on your dissertation committee. He wouldn't be grading your thesis.
Which meant Section 4, Clause B of the University HR handbook would be rendered completely, legally null and void.
Gojo Satoru hadn't just offered you a stress-free PhD. He had accidentally handed you a legally binding, HR-approved, SVU-exempt free pass to finally jump the Executioner's bones.
I mean, obviously, that required Sukuna actually wanting you to jump his bones—which he absolutely didn't. But strictly from an administrative, legal standpoint? You could drop the metaphorical Capstone and get the literal D without going to prison.
A giggle that was approximately 10% academic relief and 90% ‘impending felony’ bubbled up from your throat—a sound so genuinely maniacal that a group of passing juniors stopped in their tracks to stare at you with the kind of confused disgust usually reserved for people who cite Wikipedia in a senior thesis.
A girl could dream, right?
The next day you were hunched over your desk in the TA lounge, aggressively highlighting a 15th-century trade embargo while Yuji stress-ate a sleeve of saltines next to you.
Suddenly, the lounge door swung open. Dr. Satoru Gojo strolled in wearing a perfectly tailored navy suit, carrying a sleek leather portfolio and a small, expensive-looking pink pastry box.
Maki immediately stood up. "Oh, finally. Dr. Gojo, did you bring the approval forms for my independent study?"
Gojo breezed right past her outstretched hand. "Not today, Miss Zenin! You’re already in the bag," he chirped, entirely unbothered by her glare. "I'm on a much higher-stakes hunting trip."
He walked straight to your desk and smoothly hopped up, sitting sideways on the edge. He unlatched his leather portfolio and slid a single, crisp piece of paper across your notes. It was the official, watermarked Inter-Divisional Transfer Request.
Then, he placed the pink bakery box right on top of it, followed by a large iced vanilla latte.
"Here," Gojo purred, his blue eyes crinkling with absolute, chaotic delight. "I heard from a certain grumpy little bird that you have a particular affinity for bare-handed deli meat. But a French cruffin and premium coffee seemed like much more... respectable option for bribery."
The entire TA lounge went dead silent. Yuji choked on his saltine.
Your soul effectively vacated your physical body, ascended to the ceiling tiles, and looked down at your frozen, horrified face.
He knows about the chicken, your brain screamed, completely short-circuiting. How does he know about the chicken?!
The only person in the room during the Rotisserie Incident was Dr. Ryomen Sukuna. The terrifying, pristine, emotionally unavailable Chair of the Department. Which meant that at some point, Sukuna had been so profoundly derailed by your feral grocery store lunch that he had actively complained about it to his greatest academic rival.
"You..." you whispered, your face burning a catastrophic shade of red as you stared at the pastry box. "He told you?"
"Oh, he didn't tell me," Gojo laughed, a rich, booming sound that echoed off the cinderblock walls. "He heavily implied it while threatening to have my divisional budget slashed. “It was very descriptive. I think you really traumatized him, kiddo."
"Have you thought about my offer? Sign that line right there, and I'll walk it down to Office 301 myself."
"Wait," Yuji wheezed, bugging out. "Is that a transfer request? Are we getting a divorce?!"
"If she signs it, she's legally untouchable," Megumi stated from the corner, his voice flat. "HR Clause B would be void."
Gojo blinked, looking between you, Megumi, and a hyperventilating Yuji. "Clause B? What does the romantic fraternization clause have to do with—"
Gojo went stone-still. His brilliant mind processed the information in real-time. He scanned your vibrating, radioactive face, mentally cross-referenced it with years of Sukuna’s "insufferable brat" complaints—which he now realized was just a seven-year-long edging session—and put the pieces together.
A look of profound, unadulterated shock crossed his face, followed by the most devious, shit-eating grin in human history.
"Oh my god," Gojo whispered, absolutely delighted. "You want to jump his bones."
"I DO NOT!" you shrieked, slamming your hands over your face as you actively tried to slide under your desk and permanently meld with the ugly flooring.
"This is the greatest day of my life," Gojo announced to the ceiling, throwing his head back and laughing. He hopped off your desk, completely energized by this catastrophic new information.
"AND PROFESSOR, YOU CAN'T SAY 'YOU WANNA JUMP HIS BONES,' IT'S SO INAPPROPRIATE! I WANNA DIE! MEGUMI, PLEASE ASSIST ME WITH MY SUICIDE!"
Megumi just slowly turned a page in whatever encyclopedia he was reading.
"I already told you, I'm not going to federal prison for your academic crimes," Megumi deadpanned, his voice entirely devoid of sympathy. "And I'm not assisting in your dramatic exit. Cease to exist on your own time, I have a paper deadline on Friday."
"See? Mr. Fushiguro is focused," Gojo laughed, entirely unbothered by your shrieking or your HR-violating breakdown. He took a sip of his own iced latte, the ice rattling cheerfully in the quiet room.
"And please, 'inappropriate' is my middle name. I’m the fun professor! I encourage my grad students to live their truths, especially when their truth involves giving Sukuna a stress-induced aneurysm."
Yuji, who had finally managed to swallow his saltine, was now holding his head in his hands, rocking back and forth in his rolling chair. "This is it. This is how the cohort dies. Dr. Gojo is going to weaponize our TA's libido to start an inter-departmental turf war."
"Exactly, Mr. Itadori! Ten points to Gryffindor!" Gojo cheered, tapping the watermarked transfer paperwork on your desk.
"Look, kiddo. You don't have to jump his bones. You don't even have to look at his terrifyingly muscular forearms. But if you sign this paper, you are legally free to do whatever you want without the Ethics Committee breathing down your neck. And more importantly, I get a brilliant new PhD candidate, and Ryomen loses his favorite little floor-sitting indexer."
Gojo leaned down, invading your personal space as you huddled miserably under the edge of your desk. His blue eyes were practically glowing with mischief behind his glasses.
"I'll leave the cruffin. Think it over. But I'm telling you... the look on his face when I hand him this signed paper? It'll be the highlight of my whole academic career."
With a final, devastatingly cheerful wave, Gojo spun around and sauntered out of the TA lounge, his pristine leather shoes clicking down the hallway. He left behind a pink bakery box, a life-altering transfer form, and a room full of utterly shattered graduate students.
The heavy door clicked shut. Silence descended on the lounge.
You stayed under the desk, your forehead pressed against the cold linoleum.
"Yuji," you whispered into the void. "Pass me the cruffin."
If Tuesday and Thursday afternoons belonged to the Executioner, the rest of your week was officially hijacked by the Menace.
You weren't entirely sure how Dr. Gojo had gotten your personal cell phone number, but considering Maki had mysteriously gotten her independent study approved the very next morning, you were 99% sure she had committed high-level HR treason and sold your personal info to the Modern History division.
It started on Friday night. You were lying face-down on your bed, trying to recover from indexing forty pages of 14th-century tax law on a Persian rug, when your phone buzzed.
[Unknown Number]: [TikTok Link: A cat staring at a wall with the caption "Me trying to deconstruct Foucault’s Panopticon while my depression watches me 🤪✌️"]
[Unknown Number]: Honestly kiddo, this gave me major Office 301 vibes. Pls save yourself. Transfer paperwork is still on my desk! 🍩☕️
[You]: Who is this???
[Gojo Satoru 🕶️]: Your favorite prof! (The fun one). Coffee tomorrow? My treat!
It didn't stop. For the next few days, Gojo launched a relentless, highly targeted psychological campaign of bribery and millennial academic cringe.
While you were desperately trying to juggle Sukuna’s suffocating, high-tension Oversight meetings, Gojo was spamming your phone at all hours. He sent you memes that only a thirty-something academic millennial would find funny—which made them completely, devastatingly unfunny.
[Gojo Satoru 🕶️]: [Image: A Minion dressed as a medieval peasant saying "I hate Mondays but I hate the feudal system more!"]
[Gojo Satoru 🕶️]: It’s giving Sukuna’s syllabus LOL. Let's get matcha at 2!
He figured if he took you out a few times and relentlessly badgered you with expensive pastries, you would eventually wheeze out of your own existence from sheer anxiety and just sign the paper.
Which is exactly how you found yourself sitting in a highly pretentious, off-campus organic cafe on a Tuesday afternoon after his class, actively hyperventilating over an $8 lavender latte.
"I can't just... switch," you wheezed, your forehead pressed against the marble table. "I’m in my final semester. If I switch advisors now, I’ll have to start my thesis from scratch."
"Not necessarily," Gojo hummed, sliding a freshly printed syllabus toward you. "We don't change the topic, we just change the lens. Instead of '14th-Century Tax Policy' under Sukuna’s Ancient division, we call it 'The Socio-Cultural Impact of Economic Collapse' under my division."
"Choose me," Gojo hummed, tapping the silver pen against the marble bistro table. "You stay a History major, you graduate on time, and I become your primary supervisor. Which means Ryomen Sukuna is no longer the man who signs your paychecks or your diploma. He’s just... a guy who works down the hall. A guy who is no longer your direct boss."
He leaned in, his blue eyes flashing behind his glasses with a terrifying, genius clarity. He wasn’t just poaching a student; he was orchestrating a miracle. He was basically wingmaning a high-level bureaucratic heist on your behalf; he was stealing you for the Modern Division specifically to curate a legally-compliant, HR-sanctioned highway straight to your shared boss’s bedsheets.
You reached for the silver pen, your fingers hovering over the signature line. The temptation was catastrophic. It was a golden ticket to a future where you didn't have to choose between your PhD and your primal, untreated urges.
Buzz. Buzz.
Your phone screamed on the table.
[Ryomen Sukuna]: You are currently four minutes late for your Oversight preparation. If you aren't in my office in sixty seconds, I am archiving your candidacy in the 'Incomplete' bin. Permanently.
"Oh, he's definitely tracking your phone," Gojo laughed, looking delighted. "Choose wisely, little star. My division has significantly fewer federal prison vibes."
You didn't sign it. You couldn't—not with your heart trying to exit your chest. You grabbed your tote bag, bolted out of the cafe, and sprinted across the quad like your life depended on it.
You burst into Office 301 exactly fifteen minutes late, the door slamming against the stopper with a violent thwack. You were panting, your hair sticking to your forehead, smelling like a mix of expensive lavender syrup and pure, unadulterated fear.
Sukuna didn't even look up from his monitors. He just sat there, the blue light reflecting off his glasses, his red fountain pen poised over a stack of midterms.
"Fifteen minutes," he rumbled, his voice low and vibrating with a calm, surgical coldness. "You are fifteen minutes late and panting like a beaten race horse. Weren’t you supposed to sit in your TA office and work on your thesis just like I instructed you?"
"Uhh, I w-was with Professor Gojo," you stammered, clutching your tote bag to your chest as if it contained the nuclear codes. "W-we were uhm... discussing m-my essay...?"
Sukuna leaned back in his leather chair, tapping the pen against his chin, his dark eyes scanning your disheveled state with a flick of his brow.
"Gojo?" Sukuna repeated, a sharp, dismissive sneer curling his lip. "You waste your time with that clown? Whatever. If you want to rot your brain on his 'Post-Modern' fluff, that’s your prerogative. Sit on the rug. Your breathing is distracting me."
He went back to his work, completely unbothered. In his mind, Gojo was just a nuisance and you were just a flighty grad student. He had no idea that tucked inside your bag was a document that would legally sever his tether to you forever.
The Friday faculty mixer was an exercise in high-society academic torture. You stood by the cheese platter, intensely interested in a block of mediocre brie, actively avoiding eye contact with any supervisors and trying to act like you hadn't committed high-level academic treason last Saturday night.
It had seemed like a revolutionary act of self-actualization at 1:47 AM. The air in your apartment had been thick with the scent of three-dollar gas station Moscato while Nobara stood on your coffee table, screaming the bridge of One Direction’s Night Changes into a TV remote.
"If you sign it, the Special Victims Unit theme song stops playing!" she had slurred, weaponizing Harry Styles to peer-pressure you into a departmental divorce. "You can jump the Executioner’s bones without a tribunal! SIGN THE PAPERS, YOU COWARD!"
Driven by a catastrophic mix of sugar-induced bravado, feral libido, and cheap wine, you had grabbed a purple glitter gel pen and scrawled your name on the official Inter-Divisional Transfer Request, even adding a tiny, regrettable heart over the 'i'.
You hadn't even remembered Nobara aggressively shoving the sparkly defection form into the History department’s outgoing mail slot until you woke up Sunday morning with a headache that felt like a castle siege.
By Monday morning, Gojo had practically kicked down the door to your TA lounge. He had been so elated by the purple glitter signature that he had almost handed you his black Amex card and kissed your scuffed sneakers.
But you had grabbed him by the lapels of his expensive suit, actively begging him to keep the paperwork low-key. You had made him swear on his tenure that he wouldn't utter a word to Dr. Ryomen until the fall semester officially ended in two weeks, when you would be safely across state lines, visiting your parents for the holidays.
Gojo had sworn. He had promised.
Which was why, as you stood by the buffet table five days later, you had spent the entire week praying the administrative transfer was quietly processing in the shadows.
Across the room, Dr. Ryomen was leaning against the mantle, looking devastatingly sharp in his suit and chatting with the Dean. He looked like the undisputed king of the department—untouchable, rigid, and completely unaware that his "brat" had technically just divorced him with stationary meant for a middle school diary.
You took a desperate bite of brie, praying to whatever deity monitored higher education that you could just survive the next fourteen days.
And then, your newly appointed academic savior entered your field of view.
Satoru Gojo had been across the room, charming a group of star-struck undergrads by the appetizer tables. He looked like a chaotic, high-fashion glacier in a silver-toned suit. Over a towering display of shrimp cocktail, he caught your eye. He paused, looking from your pale, terrified face to where Sukuna was standing across the room.
A terrible, devious light sparked in his blue eyes. He raised his champagne glass in a cheerful, completely unhinged toast right at you.
You froze. You frantically shook your head, your eyes wide as you mouthed a desperate, silent, "No."
Gojo just flashed a brilliant, predatory grin. The promise he made on Monday completely evaporated the second he realized he had a captive audience. Ignoring your absolute terror, he turned on his heel and sauntered straight toward the fireplace, champagne glass in hand, making a beeline for Sukuna and the Dean.
"Sukuna! My favorite medieval relic!" Gojo’s voice boomed, cutting through the string quartet like a chainsaw.
Sukuna didn't even turn his head. "Leave, Satoru. I am in the middle of a discussion."
"Oh, forget the discussion!" Gojo laughed, taking a slow sip of his champagne. He tilted his head toward you with a wink that made your heart drop into your shoes. "I’m just here to thank you for being such a gracious loser. Honestly, I thought you'd put up more of a fight for your star student."
Sukuna’s conversation with the Dean died instantly.
The aristocratic boredom on his face hardened into something sharp and deeply lethal. He slowly turned his head, the heavy muscles in his jaw ticking as his eyes narrowed into deadly slits. He stared at Gojo like the man was a particularly irritating plague rat.
"What are you talking about? She is finalizing her thesis under my direct supervision. She isn't going anywhere."
Gojo gasped, pressing a hand to his chest in a display of utterly theatrical, mock horror.
"Wait, hasn't my new candidate told you?" Gojo asked, his voice dropping into a fake-innocent register. He checked his watch with a flourish, completely ignoring the way the Dean of Humanities was suddenly looking very nervous.
"We're finalizing her transfer to my division over coffee as we speak. I found the paperwork in the bin Monday morning—the signature was a little... festive... but it's official. I’m taking over as her primary advisor."
The string quartet in the corner might as well have started playing the Jaws theme. The air in the Great Hall didn't just chill; it crystallized.
Sukuna went dead still. The terrifying poker face he had maintained all evening shattered into a million jagged pieces. He didn't blink. He just slowly turned his head away from Gojo and looked across the room.
His eyes locked onto you by the cheese platter like a predator establishing a target lock.
He shot you a glance so comprehensively, apocalyptically murderous that you practically combusted into a pile of fine ash right there on the marble floor. He wasn't just looking at a student who had transferred; he was looking at his property who had dared to sign a defection treaty with his worst enemy.
The survival instincts ingrained in your DNA since the dawn of humanity violently kicked in.
You didn't think. You just blindly shoved your half-empty glass of lukewarm sparkling cider directly into Yuji’s chest.
Yuji fumbled, catching the glass with a startled yelp. "Wait, what are you doing? Where are you—"
"Tell Nobara she can have my Coach bag," you muttered, your voice a hollow, breathless wheeze. "And tell my mom I died doing what I loved: avoiding accountability."
"What?!" Yuji panicked, his eyes darting from your terrified face to the towering, homicidal Department Chair across the room. "Wait, don't leave me alone with him! He's going to flay me!"
You didn't care. It was every TA for themselves.
You pivoted on your heel, abandoned your dignity, your half-eaten brie, and your entire academic career, and absolutely booked it out of the Great Hall. You hit the heavy double doors at a dead sprint, your heels clicking frantically against the linoleum floor of the corridor as you fled the scene of your own administrative treason.
Back in the Great Hall, Sukuna didn't even excuse himself to the Dean. He simply set his wine glass down on a passing waiter’s tray with a clink that sounded like a gunshot, bypassed Gojo completely, and started walking toward the exit.
The Executioner was officially on the hunt.
Behind you, the string quartet faded into a muffled hum, instantly replaced by a sound straight out of a survival-horror game: the heavy, rhythmic thwack, thwack, thwack of Sukuna’s dress shoes on the linoleum.
He wasn't running. He didn't need to. He was power-walking with the steady, inevitable cadence of an academic terminator who knew exactly where a terrified, treasonous grad student would try to hide.
You practically threw yourself against the door of the TA lounge, tumbling into the pitch-black room. The only light came from the amber glow of the streetlamps filtering through the blinds. You scrambled toward your desk, your hands frantically digging through your tote bag for your car keys, your pepper spray, or maybe a cyanide pill.
Click.
You froze. The sound of the lounge door shutting and locking echoed in the dark like a gunshot.
"Did you really think," a voice rumbled, so low and textured it vibrated directly into your bone marrow, "that you could just walk away?"
You slowly turned around.
Dr. Ryomen Sukuna stepped out of the shadows. He reached up, methodically pulled his wire-rimmed glasses off his face, and tossed them onto Yuji’s desk with a sharp clatter. The severe and untouchable mask of the Ivy League Chair was gone. The man walking toward you now was pure, unadulterated Executioner.
You backed up instinctively, your shoulders hitting the cold, hard surface of the whiteboard. You were completely trapped. Right behind your head, Megumi’s abandoned "DAYS SINCE A FELONY: 0" counter mocked you in neon-red dry-erase marker.
Sukuna didn't stop until his chest was practically brushing yours. He planted his hands flat against the whiteboard on either side of your head, boxing you in completely. The sharp, intoxicating scent of sandalwood and expensive red wine swallowed you whole.
"Did you really think you could escape me?" Sukuna hissed, leaning down until his lips were inches from your ear, his voice dripping with dark, possessive venom. "That you could just... run to him? To Satoru Gojo? Tell me, brat. Do you really want to study his inferior, post-modern fluff? Do you genuinely believe his syllabus is worthy of your intellect?"
You were scared shitless. You were actively staring at your own demise. He was going to strip you of your candidacy, burn your transcripts, and bury you in the campus gardens.
But simultaneously, as you looked up at his flushed neck, the pulsing vein in his jaw, and the sheer, territorial fury radiating off his massive frame, your deeply untreated degradation kink violently kicked down the door of your psyche.
God, your brain short-circuited, completely betraying your survival instincts. He is so hot when he's yelling at me.
"It... it wasn't about the fluff!" you stammered, your chest heaving, high on adrenaline and deeply inappropriate arousal. "Professor, listen, Dr. Gojo's methodology... it makes sense for my future dissertation! It’s an interdisciplinary pivot! I wanted to lean more into the socio-cultural impact rather than just conducting rigid research on the financial state of the Middle Ages! Your division's framework wouldn't let me do it! Incorporating a more anthropological POV broadens the academic impact of the text!"
Sukuna’s jaw tightened, his eyes flashing with a dark, lethal fire. "An anthropological point of view. You signed away your fealty for a broader academic impact?"
"It’s logistical!" you rambled, your brain frantically trying to defend your academic honor while your mouth went completely rogue.
"If he’s my primary advisor, he gets the grant funding, and more importantly, you don't grade my papers anymore! You’re not on my dissertation committee. You don't sign my paychecks. Which means you are legally just a guy who works down the hall!"
You were speaking a mile a minute, the panic completely severing your filter.
"And if you're just a guy down the hall, then Section 4, Clause B of the HR manual doesn't apply to us anymore! Which means the Ethics Committee has no legal jurisdiction over my personal life, and I wouldn't go to federal prison if I finally gave into my primal urges and let you absolutely dismantle me against this wall—wait. Wait. No. I mean—"
You clamped both hands over your mouth, your eyes widening in sheer, world-ending horror. You hadn't just said the quiet part out loud. You had practically screamed it through a megaphone into the abyss.
Sukuna froze.
The terrifying, suffocating rage radiating off of him hit a brick wall. The error message in his brain practically projected itself onto the whiteboard behind you. He stared at you, his eyes slightly wide, processing the absolute, unhinged word-vomit you had just unleashed.
He didn't transfer you because you wanted Gojo's inferior syllabus. You didn't sign the paper to escape him. You signed the paper... so you could have him. You had committed high-level academic treason just to manufacture a legal loophole into his bed.
The silence in the dark TA lounge was deafening. You could hear the wall clock ticking. You could hear your own frantic, terrified heartbeat in your throat.
Sukuna’s chest rose in a slow, deep inhale. When he exhaled, the anger was completely, unequivocally gone.
What replaced it was so much worse.
His eyes darkened to a shade of crimson so deep it looked black. The rigid, professional tension in his shoulders melted into something loose, predatory, and devastatingly fluid. The Executioner hadn't just realized his prey was trapped; he had realized his prey had actively built the cage, locked the door, and handed him the key.
"A loophole," Sukuna whispered. A dark, feral, utterly corrupted smirk slowly spread across his face, exposing a flash of teeth in the dim light. He leaned his body weight forward, pressing his thighs flush against yours, pinning you to the whiteboard.
"You signed the transfer," he rasped, his voice rough as crushed velvet, his gaze dropping to your lips, "to circumvent the Dean... so you could ‘get the d’?"
A strangled, humiliating squeak clawed its way out of your throat. Your face burned so hot it could have melted the dry-erase board. "I—you remember that—?"
"I remember every single unhinged word you’ve ever breathed, brat," he murmured, his hands sliding from the whiteboard to grip your waist, his large fingers completely spanning your hips. "I have spent years watching you, grading you, and holding myself back from doing exactly this."
He didn't give you a chance to respond.
Sukuna crushed his mouth to yours. It wasn't a tentative first kiss; it was an absolute, territorial claiming. The impact knocked the back of your head gently against the whiteboard, your shirt actively smudging Megumi’s "DAYS SINCE A FELONY: 0" counter into an ironic red smear.
You gasped into his mouth, and he took immediate advantage, his tongue sweeping past your lips with the same ruthless, devastating authority he applied to his academia. You tasted expensive champagne, dark red wine, and pure, feral desperation. Your hands moved on their own, flying up to grip the lapels of his suit jacket, anchoring yourself to him as the room spun.
He moaned—a deep, desperate sound. One of his hands tangled in your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, while the other hand slid from your waist to grip your thigh, hitching your leg up around his hip. The friction of his muscular thigh pressing exactly where you needed it most made you whimper.
He was kissing you like a starving man.
You were practically climbing him, your untreated daddy issues and years of repressed thirst exploding all at once. You snaked your hands around his neck, desperately trying to get closer, wanting him to completely dismantle you right there on the linoleum next to Yuji's abandoned, lukewarm protein shake.
But suddenly, with a ragged, heavy breath, Sukuna wrenched his mouth away.
He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his chest heaving against yours, his heart hammering a violent rhythm against your ribs. He was gripping your thigh so tightly his fingers were digging into your skin through the fabric, as if he were trying to anchor you to the very floor.
"Professor," you whined, entirely feral, chasing his lips.
"Stop," Sukuna commanded, though his voice was completely wrecked, a hoarse, ragged growl that lacked any of its usual surgical control.
He slowly pulled his head back, resting his forehead against yours. His hair was a mess, and his dark eyes were practically burning holes through you. He looked like a god of war who had just tasted blood for the first time in a century.
"Dr. Ryomen," you gasped, your chest rising and falling rapidly. "Clause B... the loophole... we're legally—"
"We are legally nothing yet," Sukuna interrupted, his thumb pressing firmly against your swollen lower lip to silence you. "The registrar's office closes at 5:00 PM on Fridays. Which means Gojo's little defection form will not be officially stamped and filed until Monday morning at 8:00 AM."
Your hazed brain buffered. "Wait. What?"
"Until Monday morning," Sukuna rasped, his eyes dropping to your mouth, "you are still a Teaching Assistant and in my division. You are still my direct subordinate. And I am still the Chair."
"I don't care," you breathed, completely reckless. "I don't care about the Dean."
"But I do," Sukuna murmured, his grip on your waist tightening possessively. "Because I value rules. And I absolutely refuse to take my future wife on a filthy linoleum floor in a room that smells like cheap crackers, hiding like a fugitive."
Your soul essentially stopped functioning. Future wife?!
Sukuna stepped back, letting your leg slide down his hip. The loss of his body heat was physically agonizing. He reached over, picked up his glasses from Yuji's desk, and slid them back onto his face. The Executioner mask slipped back into place, though the dark, ravenous heat in his eyes remained entirely fixed on you.
"...You will go home," Sukuna commanded, smoothing his lapels with terrifying, aristocratic grace. "You will spend the weekend with your cohort. And on Monday morning, at exactly 8:05 AM, when the stamp on your transfer is dry and you are officially Gojo’s student..."
He took a slow step forward, his shadow swallowing you whole against the whiteboard. He leaned in, his voice dropping into that dark, rhythmic purr that had haunted your dreams for seven years.
"...You will come to my office. You will lock the door. And I will finally show you exactly how sturdy my desk is. Do we have an understanding?"
Your knees completely gave out. You had to brace your hands against the whiteboard just to stay standing.
"Yes, sir," you whimpered.
By the time you stumbled out of the Humanities building, looking like you'd been dragged backward through a localized hurricane, Yuji was actively pacing a trench into the asphalt of the parking lot. Nobara was leaning against his Corolla, checking her lip gloss in the reflection of her phone screen.
When you emerged from the shadows, Yuji stopped dead.
"You're alive!" he yelled, sprinting over to frantically inspect you. "Did he try to kill you? Why is your neck that color?! Do we need to call a priest or a defense attorney?"
"Neither," you whispered, staring completely blankly at the moon. "I need to go buy birth control. And maybe some industrial-strength concealer."
Nobara stepped closer. Her eyes narrowed as she spotted the smudged, neon-red dry-erase marker transferred onto your shoulder. She slowly smirked, lowering her phone as a look of pure sisterly pride crossed her face.
"So..." Nobara drawled. "I'm guessing the 'thematic shift' went well?"
"He called me his future wife, Nobara," you wheezed.
The silence that followed was so absolute and awkward, it was broken only by the pathetic, metallic clatter of Yuji dropping his car keys straight onto the ground.
"I literally mentioned them getting married by spring semester weeks ago," Megumi’s voice drifted from the other side of the car, entirely unfazed. "The data never lies. I’m claiming her desk at 8:01 AM on Monday."
The ink on the transfer was barely dry. It was a freezing Monday morning in December. The Registrar had stamped the form at 8:00 AM sharp, and by 8:04 AM, you were standing outside Office 301.
You hadn't taken two paces into the office before he was on you.
His crimson eyes burned with the feral, hyper-fixated intensity of a man who had just spotted a Wikipedia citation in a doctoral thesis. His fingers went straight for the buttons of his own dress shirt.
Sukuna had been meticulously planning this since his alarm went off at 5:00 AM. His morning schedule no longer existed. At exactly 7:26 AM, Dr. Ryomen had committed an act of sheer administrative terrorism. He had canceled two undergraduate lectures via a cryptic mass email, postponed a faculty board meeting, and sent the Dean of Humanities directly to voicemail so he could spend the entire morning on you.
This wasn't a crime of passion. This was a premeditated, peer-reviewed demolition project, and your structural integrity was the only item on his goddamn syllabus for the day.
He didn't speak until he was close enough for you to smell the dark espresso on his breath. “Since the paperwork is filed," he rumbled, his voice sanding the edges off the silence. "Which means I am no longer your supervisor."
He paused, a predatory grin spreading across his face. "I am just a man who is about to make you regret every single unhinged thing you ever thought about me."
Before you could even formulate a witty, "you'll have to be more specific," he had you. His hands clamped onto your waist, and you were airborne for a terrifying half-second before your entire world became the hard, unyielding surface of his mahogany desk.
Stacks of your meticulously cited bibliography on 14th-century tax policy scattered across the floor like tragic confetti at a funeral for your professional dignity.
"Professor—" you gasped, your back hitting the surface. You were vibrating with a mix of genuine terror and the kind of arousal that would probably require a priest and an HR representative to exorcise.
"There is no 'Professor' here today," he corrected, as he took off the shirt completely, exposing the intricate ink that spiraled across his chest down his arms—the very ink you’d once offered to write ten thousand words on.
He leaned over you, pinning your wrists to the wood, his eyes burning with a look that was half-furious and half-starved. You were trapped. Caged. About to be graded on a very aggressive curve.
"Just a man who has spent the past few years wretchedly, pathetically obsessed with a student who didn't have the decency to be anything less than brilliant. You were the only mind in this department that didn't bore me, brat. I couldn't ignore you even when it was ruining me. Now, I’m finally going to collect on years of interest."
You were completely, utterly floored. This man—who had spent your entire academic career bleeding red ink all over your bibliographies and verbally dismantling your academic self-esteem—had just called you brilliant. The sheer whiplash of him being devastatingly smooth, rather than dragging your coursework straight to the gutters, effectively flatlined your central nervous system.
You opened your mouth, desperately trying to formulate a defense, an apology, or perhaps just a feral whimper. Instead, your gaze darted nervously to the floor, landing on the ruined, scattered pieces of your Capstone project that he had just violently swept off the desk.
Sukuna followed your line of sight. The brief, raw vulnerability of his confession instantly vanished, replaced by the arrogant, sadistic gleam of the Department Chair who loved nothing more than finding a fatal flaw in your methodology. He leaned his weight forward, pressing his hips flush against the edge of the desk, caging you completely.
"Is this the 'interdisciplinary pivot' you were so passionate about?" he purred, his voice dripping with condescension. "Lying on your back without a coherent thesis?"
The audacity. The sheer, unmitigated academic gall. Your survival instincts, which were currently screaming at you to play dead, were momentarily hijacked by your PhD-candidate-level indignation.
"This isn't a thesis defense, Professor," you shot back, your voice surprisingly steady. "This is preliminary fieldwork. You, of all people, should know that you can't present a thesis without first gathering the raw data."
A flicker of something—not anger, but a dark, terrifying amusement—flashed in his eyes. He leaned closer.
"A bold claim. But fieldwork requires observation, detachment. From my perspective, you look less like a researcher and more like a... specimen about to be dissected."
"You're making a classic historiographical error," you countered, your brain firing on all cylinders even as your body went into meltdown. "You're projecting your own interpretation onto the primary sources without sufficient textual evidence."
He actually chuckled. "Is that so? Then allow me to gather my evidence."
He crushed his mouth to yours. It wasn't a kiss; it was a hostile takeover, a brutal, irrefutable rebuttal that effectively vaporized every coherent thought in your head. Your brain officially melted into useless, horny mush. When he pulled back, you were gasping, your carefully constructed argument in ruins.
"See?" he whispered triumphantly. "All reaction, no substance. Your entire academic career has been one long, elaborate mating ritual." He wasn't wrong though. Checkmate.
You mentally typed 'concede' into the chat and prepared for the next round of this deeply unhinged game of sexual chess.
His hand moved to your plaid skirt, hiking it to your waist with a rough, impatient motion. His fingers hooked into the fragile lace of your panties, a low growl vibrating in his chest. "I should tear these from your body," he hissed, "but the thought of you walking out of my office and into his office panty-less... No." He shot you a look of pure, possessive fury. "To hell with that. Not with this little slutty skirt you so conveniently wore today."
Instead of ripping them, he simply yanked it to the side, exposing you completely. He knelt on the Persian rug. The very same rug you had spent weeks kneeling on for him. The sheer, devastating irony was so thick you could have published it in a literary journal.
Then without any warning his mouth was on you, and all academic thought dissolved into static. He dedicated himself to the task with the same terrifying, meticulous focus he applied to grading a flawed thesis, his tongue a ruthless red pen against your most sensitive flesh.
The first touch was a system shock so violent you almost bit through your lip. You had spent seven years starving, and he had just served you a seven-course meal with no intention of letting you breathe between courses.
It was too much, too fast.
Your hips jerked off the desk in a frantic, uncoordinated reflex, your hands clawing at the edge of the wood until your knuckles turned white. Before you could even find your rhythm, a mortifyingly quick, sharp orgasm ripped through you, a sudden and violent short-circuit of seven years of repressed pining.
It wasn’t the cinematic fireworks you’d spent a near-decade daydreaming about; it was a pathetic, embarrassing sparkler—a flash-in-the-pan release that left you panting and derailed before the lecture had even truly begun.
You came with a strangled gasp that sounded more like a cry for help than a climax, your face burning with a shame so hot you were surprised the office's expensive wallpaper didn't start to peel.
He pulled back, a look of profound, almost confused disappointment on his face. He actually had the audacity to look bored. He looked like a man who had opened a highly-anticipated historical text only to find the first three chapters were missing.
"Huh," he said, his voice flat. "That was it? I barely had time to properly taste the evidence." His eyes met yours, cold and assessing. "Inadequate. A preliminary finding at best. We require more conclusive data. Let's try some revisions."
This time, his approach was different. It was slower, more methodical, and infinitely more sadistic.
He started with the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, tracing lazy, agonizing circles with his tongue, occasionally sinking his teeth in just enough to leave a stinging mark—a series of non-verbal footnotes branded into your flesh. He was mapping your skin with a cartographer's precision, making you achingly aware of every inch of yourself that had been starving for him.
"To think I spent years believing your defiance was purely intellectual," he murmured against your flesh. "For years, I thought your insolence was just academic pride. I thought you were just an insufferable, stubborn brat trying to outsmart me in seminars."
He dragged his lips along the curve of your thigh, stopping mere centimeters from your slick, aching center. His other hand stayed pinned to your hip to ensure you remained perfectly anchored to the mahogany.
"But then I read your filthy little digital confession, and it all finally made sense. I had no idea that every time you argued with me over the syllabus, you were actually just vibrating out of your skin."
He bit down lightly on the tender, ticklish junction where your thigh met your hip, a sharp nip that made your back arch and your breath hitch in a pathetic sob. He continued his agonizing assault, planting hot, open-mouthed kisses everywhere except where you were screaming for him to be.
"Every time you glared at me... every aggressive footnote... it wasn't a debate, was it, brat? It was a plea. You were just begging for my attention."
His fingers—the same long fingers that had circled F-minuses on your essays—slid inside you.
"Let's see if we can find the core argument," he hummed, pressing deep with a ruthless, searching pressure.
His mouth returned to you then. He took his time, learning the shape of you, the exact rhythm that made you tremble. His thumb began a slow, merciless circle on your clit, pinned between the weight of his hand and the friction of his tongue.
"Better," he praised, the word a hot breath against your most sensitive parts. "See what happens when you learn to take proper direction? When you stop fighting and just... submit your findings?"
You were sobbing now, a pathetic, unraveling mess across his antique desk, your fingers tangling in his hair as you tried to pull him closer and push him away all at once.
You were being lectured into a climax, your academic dignity being dismantled piece by piece, and it was devastatingly the hottest experience of your entire life.
"Look at you," he growled, his voice thick with pleasure as he watched your defenses crumble. "My brilliant star student, reduced to this. Pathetic. And so perfect."
He drove his fingers deeper, his thumb picking up a ruthless, steady pace against your clit that felt less like a touch and more like a targeted, rhythmic demolition of your remaining structural integrity, forcing a sound out of you that lacked any remaining decorum.
The second orgasm wasn't a sparkler; it was a goddamn supernova. It was a long, drawn-out, screaming catastrophe that went on for an eternity.
It was a climax so total, that it felt like your entire identity was being unwritten in real-time and then rewritten in his image.
"Satisfactory," he rumbled as he rose.
Your vision swam, stars dancing at the edges of your focus. When the world finally stopped spinning, it landed on him.
He was standing over you, his dress pants unzipped and his hand wrapped around his thick, hard length, stroking himself with a slow, agonizing deliberation.
The tattoos on his upper thighs peaked through the opened fabric. The look in his eyes wasn't just lust; it was a terrifying, all-consuming possessiveness that somehow looked like the most devoted love you had ever seen.
Fuck, he is so hot, was the only coherent thought that managed to claw its way through the post-orgasmic fog. And then your scholastic brain processed the sheer, unholy scale of what he was holding.
That is not going to fit. Absolutely not. That wasn't just a part of his anatomy; that was a biological weapon. It was a medieval siege ram—specifically the 14th-century heavy-duty model you’d cited in Chapter Four of your thesis draft, the very one he had roasted you for only a few weeks ago.
He saw the shift in your eyes from dazed adoration to pure, white-knuckled terror, and a dark, wicked smirk crossed his face.
"Done with your preliminary review of the source material?" he rasped. "Good. Now for the practical examination."
He moved forward, and you instinctively tried to tense up, your heels digging into the wood to scramble away, but you were boneless—pinned to his desk by the sheer, gravitational force of his presence.
"Ah, ah," he chided, catching your chin. "No retreating from the data now, brat. You wanted fieldwork? Analyze." He positioned himself at your entrance.
"I want you to feel every single, over-researched inch," he growled, his thumb brushing over your swollen lower lip one last time. "No footnotes, baby."
He entered you with a slow, inexorable push that stole the breath from your lungs. It was a tight but perfect fit—a total occupation of your internal architecture. He bottomed-out, claiming every space you’d been saving for him. Sukuna then leaned down and sank his teeth into your shoulder
Not a bite. A brand.
You realized, with a jolt of tactical panic, that the off-the-shoulder sweater you were wearing was a failure in strategic planning—a logistical nightmare he was now gleefully exploiting. By morning, your neck would be a peer-reviewed map of his ownership, and you were currently too busy gasping to care.
"Mine," he muttered against your skin. He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, his gaze dark and unyielding. "Consider this my final rebuttal to your little defection."
He moved with the slow rhythm of a hostile takeover, each thrust a non-negotiable footnote in his absolute claim of you. It was a relentless citation of ownership, ensuring your body was now his primary source material.
His eyes never left yours, pinning you to the mahogany as effectively as his weight. With every deliberate, bone-deep thrust, he murmured praises that were a heady, ruinous mix of academic approval and raw filth.
"Perfect," he groaned, the sound torn from his throat as he watched your face contort with a pleasure that looked dangerously like agony. "Such a perfect fit for me. My good, brilliant girl."
His hips picked up the pace, the controlled experiment of his movements finally devolving into something more frantic, more desperate. The scholar was disappearing, replaced by a man who was reaching the end of a seven-year fast.
"Look at you... taking me so well, just like I imagined you would."
His praise reached a fever pitch, while your whimpering hit a decibel so pathetic it would get you laughed out of a medieval torture chamber.
Your entire nervous system wasn't just mush; it had bluescreened, displaying a fatal error message that just read 'FUCK!' in blinking, 8-bit letters.
Just as you thought the desk might formally file for worker's compensation, he stopped speaking. With a sudden, forceful motion, he grabbed your jaw with one hand and shoved two fingers into your mouth, effectively silencing your incoherent rambling.
The taste of him, expensive soap, and the faint, metallic tang of pure, undistilled academic arrogance flooded your senses.
"Suck," he commanded, his voice holding the same authority he used when assigning a 5,000-word paper due on unassuming Thursday.
And as you obeyed, because what fucking choice did you have when he looked at you like that, he began to move again. That relentless velocity was a stark contrast to the way he held your head—anchored and completely still—observing your reactions like a specimen under a microscope, even as his own breath hitched.
Part of your brain—the last surviving part still loyal to academic procedure—was screaming about the logistical nightmare of it all. This was an affront to sensible ergonomics; you were definitely going to have a jaw ache by morning, and your lower back was essentially a casualty of war. He was fucking you with the same unholy reverence he used to debunk post-structuralist theory, and you weren't sure which was more terrifyingly sexy.
This was the culmination of every stolen glance, every heated debate. The seven years of unspoken tension exploded in the frantic, almost violent rhythm of his hips. He wasn't just taking you; he was worshipping the ruin he was making of you.
"I'm going to ruin you," he rasped, his own control shattering. "I'm going to fill you so completely... leave myself so deep inside you that you'll never forget who your true advisor is. Gojo can have your credits, brat. But I own the rest."
The feeling was building in you again, a third wave threatening to crest. Your body arched, trembling on the knife's edge of release.
He felt your soft walls flutter around him. A predatory satisfaction flashed in his eyes as he felt you break. He leaned down, his voice a low, commanding whisper directly into your ear.
"No. Not yet. This one's for me."
He pulled back just enough to deny you the friction you were dying for. A frustrated, pathetic sound clawed its way out of your throat. It was the academic equivalent of getting a twenty-page paper returned with a single, devastating 'See Me' scrawled in red ink in the top corner.
Your hips bucked against him—a useless, greedy motion trying to chase the pleasure he’d just stolen from you. You whined. You actually whined your professor’s name, a broken, needy sound that was utterly devoid of dignity. His grip on your hips tightened as he savored your pathetic desperation.
He shifted the angle, done seeking a consensus and driving straight for a definitive conclusion. With a few final, staggering thrusts that rattled the very shelves, he hit the deadline—coming with a roar that definitely violated several sections of the faculty handbook regarding professional conduct.
He collapsed on you for a moment, his chest heaving. In the heavy silence, you felt the hot, humiliating evidence of his climax leak from you.
Then, he pulled out.
The possessive tenderness vanished as he suddenly yanked you up by your hair and flipped you onto your stomach with a brutal efficiency that left no room for argument.
Your cheek was pressed against the cold mahogany, your breath hitching as you felt the sudden, chilling exposure of your backside.
"Now," he snarled, "for the lesson you truly deserve."
SMACK.
The sound was explosively loud, echoing off the oak panels of the silent office. Okay, so he wasn’t just the Chair of the History Department; he was also the Chair of Ass Destruction, your brain helpfully supplied through the ringing in your ears.
"You ungrateful little brat," he hissed, the words a lash of pure venom.
SMACK.
The tears that sprang to your eyes were not from pain, but from the sheer, soul-crushing shame of it. "Did you really think I wouldn't notice? All that time spent under my tutelage... just to run off and covet his approval?"
SMACK.
He grabbed your hips, his grip bruisingly firm, and re-entered you from behind with a single, brutal thrust that nearly sent you sliding off the desk.
"Look at you. So desperate to be seen as a serious scholar. But what are you? You're just a filthy little slut who needs to be put in her place."
The word slut hit you like another physical blow. But instead of recoiling, a sick, traitorous part of your psyche thrilled at the debasement. Your hips, of their own accord, began to push back against him—a pathetic, desperate rhythm that was begging for the very discipline he was delivering. You were fluttering against him like a moth drawn to an all-consuming, medieval flame.
"Yes, that's it," he sneered, feeling your embarrassing surrender. "Beg for it. Beg for the discipline you've been craving. All that academic posturing, and this is what you really are. A needy brat pinned to a desk, utterly devoid of original thought." He drove into you harder, a personal attack on your intellectual integrity.
"I am going to fuck every last bit of that useless Foucault right out of your head and replace it with a theoretical framework that has actual scholarly merit. I'm going to remind you what real, rigorous discipline feels like. The kind that survives peer-review, brat, not just a pass-fail grading curve."
And in the glorious, chaotic mess of the past weeks, the irony hit you like a thunderbolt: you hadn't even read the Foucault chapters Gojo assigned. You’d skimmed the SparkNotes!
The thought that you had committed administrative treason and were currently being academically dismantled for a philosophy you didn't even fully understand was hysterically brilliant. You’d signed a transfer form for this, using a purple glitter gel pen, and as he railed into you, you realized it was the best decision you’d ever made.
Your face was buried in the scent of expensive wood polish and your own salt-stung tears. He was sacking you like a rival kingdom, tearing through your defenses like you were a poorly cited essay with no supporting evidence.
As your breath came in ragged, sobbing gasps, he reached over your shoulder, his hand closing firmly around your throat. The world narrowed to the scent of his skin, the pressure of his grip, and the undeniable, catastrophic reality of his undivided attention. It wasn't about cutting off your air; it was about silencing a flawed counter-argument. It was the physical embodiment of a motion to table your bullshit indefinitely.
"You wanted a different discourse?" he growled, his fingers tightening as you made a helpless, choked sound. "This is it. The only one that matters. My cock inside your needy, ungrateful pussy. Do you understand?"
Your fight-or-flight response, faced with this overwhelming sensory input, had a catastrophic system error. It bypassed both options and chose a third, previously undocumented response: more. More humiliation. More pain. More of him.
He felt the shift—the final yielding in the way your body went pliant beneath him and your internal walls clasped tight around him. He rammed into you harder, his own control finally evaporating.
At the peak of his punishing rhythm, just as you felt your body begin to tremble on the verge of a frantic, pressure-cooked climax, he bit you. It was a feral, angry mark at the curve of your neck. The ultimate sign of his conquest.
The combination of the bite, the choke, the burning sting on your ass, and the sheer, brutal friction sent you terrifyingly over the edge. It wasn't an orgasm; it was an ego death.
Your body seized, screaming without sound, your vision exploding into a whiteout of pure, over-stimulated static. It was a complete mental shattering. You were no longer a scholar, no longer a student; you were only his. Through the haze, you felt yourself milking him as he drove into you one last time, a possessive, ragged moan tearing from his throat as he came inside you again—a final claiming of the territory.
He collapsed on you, staying inside you, pinning you to the desk with his dead weight. The lesson wasn't just spoken; it was written all over your body in a language of bruises, bites, and burning skin.
He pulled back eventually, his voice ragged but his authority absolute. He leaned down, his breath hot against your ear as he wrapped his arms around your waist.
"From now on," he rasped, "the only ‘Post-anything' you'll be studying is post-orgasm. The only 'paradigm' is my will. Is that clear?"
You had successfully submitted yourself for review and received a grade of 'F'... for 'Fucked, Ferally, and within an Inch of your Life.' You’d been given a 'Revise and Resubmit.' And God, you couldn't wait for the next draft.
When Dr. Ryomen Sukuna finally unlocked the door of Office 301 and let you out, it was probably out of a rare, unprecedented flicker of human mercy. Or, more accurately, sheer panic that he was going to put his favorite student in an early grave if he took you on that mahogany desk one more time.
You stumbled out into the corridor, blinking against the harsh fluorescent lights like a Victorian ghost who had just discovered electricity. Your vision was still grainy at the edges, and your legs felt like they were made of poorly set gelatin.
You were supposed to report to the Modern History wing for your new mentorship approximately two and a half hours ago. In the world of high-level academia, two and a half hours was the difference between a successful seminar and a departmental scandal. In your current state you were leaning heavily toward the latter.
Instead of a dignified entrance, you pushed open the frosted glass doors of the Modern TA lounge looking less like a serious scholar and more like the "After" photo in a very filthy, highly concerning dark romance novel.
You weren't just limping; your entire center of gravity had been permanently relocated to the gutters. You smelled aggressively like expensive sandalwood, dark espresso, and a completely unhinged lack of HR compliance.
Nobara and Maki were sitting at the main table. They didn't gasp. They didn't ask if you were okay. They took one single look at your bird’s-nest hair, your bow-legged waddle, and the massive, violent hickey peeking out of your off-the-shoulder sweater.
Maki slowly lowered her coffee cup.
"Jesus fucking Christ," she said, deadpan, immediately reaching into her pocket and pulling out her phone. "I'm calling Megumi over. He will have a stroke."
"Put him on FaceTime," Nobara demanded, not even looking up from where she was blatantly checking out the structural damage to your legs. She leaned back in her chair, a look of profound, spiritual enlightenment washing over her face. "Girl... damn."
You slumped into a plastic chair, letting out a pathetic, soul-weary groan as your bruised thighs hit the seat. "Please. I just need a minute to remember how the alphabet works."
"Take your time, Einstein," Nobara cackled, pointing her acrylic nail directly at the bite mark on your neck. "Honestly? I get it now. I completely understand why you were so feral for him. You look like you literally cannot even walk. Was it the desk? Tell me it was the desk."
"The desk," you wheezed, staring blankly at the ceiling. "The rug. The filing cabinet. His chair, the window sill, uh, and the desk again? Dunno."
Maki paused mid-text, her thumb hovering over her screen. A rare, genuinely impressed smirk crossed her face. "A full architectural tour. During business hours? Respect. I didn't think the medieval relic had the stamina."
Nobara practically howled, slapping the table so hard her iced coffee rattled. "The window sill?! Girl, the quad is right outside that window! You didn't just get an A, you put on an exhibition!"
Before Maki could hit 'send' on a text that would undoubtedly put Megumi in an early grave, the door to Gojo's inner office swung open.
Satoru Gojo stepped out, holding a pink pastry box. He took one look at your completely dismantled, bow-legged state, the literal teeth marks on your neck, and the sheer aura of pure delinquency radiating off you.
He just set the pastry box on the table, looked you dead in the eye, and started doing a slow, sarcastic golf clap.
"Tenure," Gojo grinned, practically vibrating with chaotic joy. "That's what tenure gets you, kiddo. Two canceled classes, a traumatized Dean, and a TA who needs a wheelchair. God, I love academia. Eat a donut. You will help me in my class in twenty minutes."
You stared at him, a powdered donut halfway to your mouth, the horrifying reality of your new job description crashing down on you.
"Helping you?" you echoed, your voice hollow. "Dr. Gojo, I can't feel my kneecaps. If you make me hand out syllabi right now, I am going to physically collapse on a freshman."
"Nonsense! You're flush with endorphins and the triumph of the human spirit," Gojo chirped, already turning to walk down the hall. "Wear a scarf! The post-modernists are going to love the dark academia vampire aesthetic! It’s very avant-garde!"
Nobara patted your shoulder sympathetically as you slowly, agonizingly tried to stand back up. "Look on the bright side. At least you aren't grading tax ledgers anymore. You're just... the tax."
You survived the final two weeks of December on iced coffee, ibuprofen, and sheer denial. And by the time the spring thaw finally hit the Gothic spires of the Humanities building, you had successfully weaponized your academic trauma into a highly functional, adrenaline-fueled double life.
You weren't just a TA anymore. You were a Joint Asset. A human demilitarized zone. The sole survivor of the most terrifying, unspoken custody battle in university history.
When the Dean had finally processed your transfer paperwork, Dr. Ryomen Sukuna had taken one look at the final release signature line, looked at the literal teeth marks he’d left on your collarbone, and flatly refused to sign it, citing a little-known 14th-century property law regarding "salvage rights." He wasn't letting his favorite plaything fully go.
Gojo, meanwhile, had threatened to invoke union rules, take the entire History department on strike, and leak the Dean's browser history if he didn't get his new star PhD candidate.
It was a logistical nightmare. It was a scheduling disaster. But as you stood between them in the hallway—Sukuna watching you with the hungry eyes of a conqueror and Gojo grinning like he’d just stolen the crown jewels—you realized you hadn't just survived. You had become the most valuable currency on campus.
You were the bridge between the Feudal and the Modern. You were the only person in the world who could translate Sukuna’s snarls and Gojo’s sparkles. And God, you needed a nap.
The resulting closed-door meeting between the two professors had reportedly aged the Dean a full decade and caused a spike in the university's legal fees. In the end, they reached a historic, highly unhinged compromise: an "Inter-Departmental Joint TAship." They had literally split your working hours down the middle like divorced parents fighting over a golden retriever who knew too much about tax ledgers.
Your mornings belonged exclusively to Dr. Satoru Gojo. The Modern History suite was a sensory assault of neon-accented whiteboards, a $4,000 espresso machine Gojo had definitely embezzled from the alumni fund, and a chaotic Spotify playlist titled "Gaslighting the Proletariat" that Gojo claimed was essential for post-structuralist thought.
Afternoons were spent mostly in Sukuna's office, squinting at 12th-century scrolls until Sukuna inevitably railed you into the mahogany. By 9:00 PM, your knees would officially resign, leaving him to sling your limp, useless frame over his shoulder like a sack of looted artifacts just to get you home.
Under Satoru's mentorship, you were actually thriving. Gojo didn't bleed red ink all over your bibliographies; he sat backward on his designer chair, wearing his expensive sunglasses indoors, and actively helped you restructure your thesis.
"Look at this methodology," Gojo cheered on a crisp Wednesday morning, tapping his pen against your newly printed outline. "It’s beautiful. It’s biting. There isn't a single 14th-century plague rat in sight! The Dean officially fast-tracked your PhD application yesterday, kiddo. You’re a star."
"Thank you, Dr. Gojo," you beamed, taking a sip of the iced vanilla latte he had bought you.
"Don't thank me, thank the Treaty of Versailles we drafted to keep you alive," Gojo laughed, lowering his sunglasses with a knowing, deeply chaotic smirk. "I get the star brain power, and the Chair gets... whatever horrific logistical violations he commits against his office furniture when you’re in there."
The wall clock in the lounge struck 12:55 PM. The transformation was instantaneous.
You downed the rest of your latte, swapped your bright pink lip gloss for a military-grade, 24-hour smudge-proof matte lipstick, and practically felt your fight-or-flight response boot up like a failing Windows 98 hard drive.
You crossed the threshold between the wings, and the atmosphere violently shifted. The bright, caffeinated energy of the Modern era died, replaced by a sudden drop in temperature and the oppressive scent of old paper, floor wax, and expensive, predatory sandalwood.
You pushed open the heavy oak door of Office 301.
"You're exactly two minutes and fourteen seconds late, brat," Sukuna rumbled, his voice a low, textured gravel that instantly melted the "post-modernist scholar" right out of your brain. "That is a docking of your participation grade."
"Dr. Gojo was reviewing my PhD application timeline," you defended, clutching your folder to your chest like a Kevlar vest as you walked deeper into the lion's den.
Sukuna finally looked up. His crimson eyes swept over your cardigan, zeroing in on the collar that was deliberately buttoned high to hide the fading, possessive bruise he’d branded onto your skin the night before. A slow, arrogant, completely feral smirk spread across his face.
"Is that so?" he purred, setting his fountain pen down with a deliberate, echoing click. "Did Satoru fill your head with enough contemporary drivel for the day?"
"I am a very well-rounded academic now, Professor. My methodology is bulletproof."
"We'll see about that," Sukuna murmured, leaning back in his massive leather chair and gesturing lazily to the heavy oak door behind you. "Lock it. The Dean thinks I'm reviewing the medieval budget until three, and you have an oral defense to present under my desk."
The delinquency wasn't just seamless; it was a peer-reviewed, tenure-violating masterpiece of professional negligence. You were living a double life that would have made a Cold War spy sweat, balancing Gojo’s neon-lit post-modernism with Sukuna’s increasingly unhinged, intensely physical definition of "office hours."
There were Monday afternoons where you found yourself stationed in the cramped, dark velvet space under his newly reinforced mahogany desk. You were currently functioning as an ergonomic, highly classified oral defense mechanism, providing "executive relief" while the youngest Chair in the Ivy League led a conference call with the Board of Regents.
Above you, the world was strictly professional. Sukuna’s voice remained terrifyingly steady, a low, authoritative rumble that vibrated through the wood of the desk and straight into your bones.
"I completely understand that the STEM division requested the surplus grant, Richard," Sukuna said into the speakerphone, his tone smooth, venomous, and completely unfazed. "However, if you attempt to reallocate my medieval tapestry budget to the robotics lab, I will personally assemble a working trebuchet on the quad and launch the Dean of Sciences into the local reservoir. Are we clear?"
Beneath the desk, however, the situation was a feral, catastrophic meltdown. You were trying to scroll through a JSTOR article on the Socio-Economic Impact of 12th-Century Chastity Belts on your phone, desperately trying to distract yourself, while your mouth was wrapped around the most terrifyingly thick, demanding "raw data" on campus.
Sukuna wasn't just letting you work; he was a fanatic at the altar. His hand was tangled in your hair, petting you with the frantic, possessive devotion of a cult leader. Every time you swallowed, taking him deeper, he had to aggressively smash the mute button on the conference phone just so he could let out a ragged, utterly ruined moan.
"God, you're a prodigy," he would whisper-hiss into the dark space under the desk, completely ignoring the Provost squawking on the muted line. He stroked your cheek, his thumb trembling with violent restraint. "Take every inch of my administrative authority, you beautiful, filthy little brat. Swallow the syllabus."
It was the ultimate competence kink. The man was securing five years of departmental funding through sheer terror while simultaneously guiding you through a masterclass in deep-throat mechanics. You felt like you deserved a Nobel Prize, or at least a very substantial dental plan.
But the true test of academic fortitude happened after hours, when the roles were violently reversed.
It was 7:30 PM on a Thursday. You were perched in his ergonomic, Chair-of-the-Department seat. Spread out before you on the desk was a stack of sophomore midterms. You had his red fountain pen in your hand, your brow furrowed in deep concentration.
It is, as it turns out, physically impossible to maintain a consistent grading rubric when the Department Chair is literally on his knees, treating your thighs like the newly discovered Dead Sea Scrolls.
He’d wrestled you out of your jeans with a primal urgency, leaving them in a tangled heap god-knows-where in the office with his discarded waistcoat. He wasn't just eating you out; he was feasting. He had your thighs pinned wide open over the armrests, his face buried so deep between your legs it was a miracle he hadn't suffocated.
"Sukuna, please," you whimpered, your hand trembling as you hovered the red pen over a truly abysmal paragraph comparing the Knights Templar to a modern fraternity. "I have to finish grading these... the deadline is tomorrow..."
Sukuna pulled back just a fraction. His mouth was wet and gleaming with your slickness, his eyes entirely blown out with feral, obsessive worship.
"You are multitasking, princess," Sukuna murmured against your inner thigh, his breath hot and devastating against your dripping flesh. "And doing a remarkably poor job of it. Your focus is entirely inadequate. Look at you... dripping all over my chair. I could write a twenty-volume dissertation on this alone."
He didn't give you time to formulate a counter-argument. He dove back in, his tongue lashing out to find the exact, devastating epicenter of your nervous system. He latched his lips onto your clit and sucked with the vacuum-seal intensity of a man trying to extract your very soul.
Your spine arched violently off the leather chair. Your eyes rolled back into your skull. Your hand violently spasmed.
You didn't just slash the paper. The red fountain pen tore completely through the essay, carving a jagged, bleeding, feral 'F' so hard that it actually gouged the wood of the desk underneath.
You came with a strangled, pathetic, screaming sob, your fingers digging into his broad shoulders as the leather chair squeaked in protest. You were a shuddering, weeping mess of academic ruin, and Sukuna drank down every single drop of your orgasm like it was the Holy Grail of higher education.
It took a full thirty seconds for your brain to reboot. You sat there, panting, staring in horror at the ruined midterm on the desk. You had literally stabbed a student's essay to death.
"Professor—fuck," you wheezed, dropping the pen as if it were radioactive. "I just failed a sophomore. I ruined his paper!"
Sukuna finally rose from his knees, swiping a thumb across his wet chin. He looked like a dark, satiated god of war who had just conquered a very wet, very vocal kingdom. He stepped into your space, boxing you into the chair, and leaned down to press a filthy, slick kiss against your parted lips—tasting exactly like your own climax.
"Good," Sukuna rumbled, his voice thick with smug, obsessive victory. He reached up, tapping the mutilated paper with one long, calloused finger. "His terminology was derivative, and he cited Wikipedia, brat. I was going to have him publicly flogged in the quad anyway. You just saved me the paperwork."
He gripped your hips, pulling you flush against the edge of the leather seat. He tilted your chin up, his thumb swiping across your bruised, swollen lips. This had become his favorite, deeply unhinged running interrogation of the semester.
It had started over Winter Break, in the predatory silence of his apartment. He had been holding his iPad, scrolling through the evidence—your legendary 3:00 AM Google Doc—with the terrifying focus of a man translating a dead language.
"I consider myself a leading expert in obscure dialects and archaic translations," he had murmured, his crimson eyes gleaming with a mirth that was genuinely life-threatening. "But I confess, your modern linguistics completely elude me."
He flipped the iPad around, tapping a very specific, frantic bullet point.
"Explain this footnote to me, darling. '[You]: but if i actually tell him that his PhD = pretty hot daddy, id be SVU-damned by morning. federal prison vibes.'"
The memory of it still made your blood turn to ice. You had tried to physically manifest into a different dimension, but he had caught your waist, effortlessly pulling you flush against his chest.
"Federal prison vibes?" he had purred, his teeth grazing your ear. "Tell me... in what historiographical framework am I a 'Pretty Hot Daddy'? Please, define your terminology for the Department Chair."
Faced with the soul-crushing embarrassment of having to explain the concept of a "Daddy" to Sukuna, that was 100% only messing with you, your academic brain had gone into emergency survival mode. You blurted out the most pretentious, word-salad acronym possible to save your dignity: "Pedagogical... Hierarchy... Destroyer?!"
He hadn't believed you for a second, but he loved the game. A tradition was instantly born. Now, whenever he had you completely compromised, completely wrecked, and begging for him, he demanded a new acronym. It was his favorite form of academic torture. And a favorite way to remind you that he owned every filthy thought in your head.
"And speaking of academic progress," he purred, his crimson eyes gleaming with a terrifying mixture of predatory lust and scholarly expectation. "Give me a status report. Tell me, Candidate. What does your PhD stand for tonight?"
You were shaking, your brain entirely reduced to post-orgasmic mush. You looked at the murdered essay, then up at the terrifying, gorgeous Chair of the Department who was currently wearing your juices like an expensive lip balm.
"P-Profoundly Heavy... Devastation?" you gasped out, your voice a pathetic, breathy squeak.
Sukuna let out a dark, booming laugh that made your heart flutter.
"Excellent thesis," he praised, his gaze dropping back down to your over-sensitive, dripping cunt. "A very convincing argument for a custodial sentence. Now. Pick up the pen, brat. There are twenty-nine essays left, and we are going to rigorously test that hypothesis."
The rest of the spring semester was a caffeine-fueled fever dream of post-structuralist breakthroughs and near-miss HR catastrophes. You had officially mastered the art of the Academic Double Life, though your resting heart rate was permanently stuck at "Middle Ages peasant who just saw an automobile."
Sukuna had fully weaponized the "PhD Gag." It became his favorite method of torturing you during business hours. He would corner you in the most high-risk, densely populated areas of the Humanities building, get you completely, breathlessly flustered, and demand his acronym.
But for every feral attempt he made to ruin your academic standing, the universe—or your friends—violently intervened.
There was the incident in the Rare Books Annex in March. He had you backed against a 16th-century French tapestry, his hand sliding dangerously high up your thigh under your skirt.
"Status report, Candidate. PhD?" he had murmured against your neck, his teeth scraping your pulse point.
You had just managed to whimper, "P-Potentially Hazardous... Distraction?" when a massive CRASH echoed through the archives.
"I'M NOT LOOKING! I DROPPED THE BEOWULF MANUSCRIPT BUT I'M NOT LOOKING!" Yuji had shrieked from three aisles over, sounding like a man facing a firing squad. Sukuna had closed his eyes, radiating an aura of murder so intense the room temperature actually dropped.
Then, there was the absolute pinnacle of this psychological warfare at the Spring Faculty Gala in April.
It was a highly coordinated tactical espionage mission. Yuji was stationed by the ice sculpture, stress-eating shrimp like his life depended on it. Meanwhile, Megumi and Nobara flanked the Dean of Humanities, trapping him in a soul-crushing debate about endowment interest rates just long enough for Sukuna to drag you into the dark shadows of the coat room.
The second the door clicked shut, you were surrounded by the scent of expensive tweed, cedar, and predatory sandalwood. Sukuna had you pinned against the wall instantly, his heavy thighs parting your legs beneath your dress.
His hand slid up your thigh, his fingers hooking ruthlessly into the lace of your panties. "Before we proceed with this impromptu seminar..." he rasped, his thumb pressing down right where you needed it most, making you arch violently against the coats. "Give me your status report. What does your PhD stand for tonight, brat?"
Your brain completely short-circuited. The string quartet was playing Mozart outside, Yuji was probably dying of a crustacean overdose, and you were about to get railed into next week in a closet full of mothballs.
"P-Public... Hookup... Discovery?" you whimpered.
Sukuna let out a low, dark chuckle that vibrated against your chest. "Points for contextual accuracy. Let’s see if you can keep quiet enough to avoid the citation—"
BAM. BAM. BAM.
The heavy oak door of the coat closet rattled as someone knocked on it with the chaotic, rhythmic beat of a pop song.
"Oh, Sukuna!" Satoru's sing-song, deeply obnoxious voice drifted through the wood. "I know you're in there trying to devour my star student! The Dean is about to give the opening toast, and if you two don't emerge in thirty seconds, I am going to tell him you're in there restructuring her syllabus!"
Sukuna froze. He let out a ragged, furious sigh, stepping back and zipping his trousers with a sharp, violent motion. When he finally pushed the coat room door open, he stepped out looking so violently, homicidally blue-balled that a group of passing freshmen literally sprinted in the opposite direction.
But despite the constant threat of administrative exposure and Sukuna’s relentless hovering, you were actually doing the best work of your life.
Your friends were the ultimate support system. Nobara routinely bullied you into taking naps and checking your eyeliner. Megumi built a predictive model to ensure you never crossed paths with the Dean while smelling like Sukuna. And Gojo... Gojo was a menace to the establishment, but he was a terrifyingly brilliant advisor who mercilessly slashed the weak points of your arguments and defended your drafts to the review board like a proud father holding a baseball bat.
And you weren't the only one grinding. By the time mid-May rolled around, the entire friend group had entered the trenches of their final defenses.
Nobara went first, absolutely decimating her panel with a thesis on the socio-economic impact of medieval textiles. Megumi followed, presenting a statistical model on historical trade routes that literally made a visiting professor cry. Even Yuji successfully defended his paper on the logistical warfare of the Crusades through sheer, unstoppable golden-retriever willpower.
Then, it was your turn.
You stood at the podium in the main lecture hall, wearing a razor-sharp suit and a silk scarf tied perfectly around your neck to hide a fresh, very territorial "rebuttal" Sukuna had left on your collarbone that morning. You were vibrating with pure, unadulterated academic power.
The panel sat before you. Gojo was front and center, his sunglasses pushed up into his white hair, grinning like he’d already won the lottery.
And in the very back row was the Chair of the Department.
Sukuna sat with his arms crossed over his chest, his posture relaxed but his crimson eyes locked onto you with the intensity of a sniper. He watched you dismantle the panel’s questions one by one. You defended your methodology. You cited your primary sources without looking at your notes. You absolutely obliterated a visiting professor who tried to poke a hole in your historiography.
For the first time all year, Sukuna wasn't looking at you like a predator looking at a meal. He was looking at you with pure, unadulterated, terrifying respect.
When the floor opened for final questions, the room fell silent. Sukuna raised his hand.
The entire gang, sitting in the second row, collectively held their breath. Yuji looked like he was going to throw up. Megumi started updating his last will and testament.
Sukuna stood up. His voice, deep and resonant, carried perfectly across the lecture hall. He didn't ask a trap question. Instead, he asked the exact, highly complex, brilliantly structured question you needed to deliver the final, devastating conclusion of your paper. He helped you to excel.
It was an academic alley-oop.
You met his gaze across the room, a spark of absolute triumph lighting up your chest, and you knocked the answer straight out of the park.
"Satisfactory," Sukuna nodded, a slow, arrogant, desperately proud smirk spreading across his face. "No further questions for the... Master of Arts."
You had done it. You had survived the syllabus, the professor, and the double-agent warfare. You had successfully submitted yourself for review and passed with flying colors.
The grad panic was officially over. You weren't a victim of the department anymore; you were its most dangerous asset. And while it would take a few more years to officially put those three letters after your name, you already knew exactly what they stood for.
Permanently. his. Designee.
And you wouldn't have it any other way.
Graduation Day arrived with a blistering, unapologetic heatwave, the overwhelming scent of expensive champagne, and the suffocating, polyester weight of academic regalia.
The Law&Order induced panic had finally reached its official expiration date. The thesis was defended. The HR manual was no longer a looming guillotine over your neck. You were officially transitioning from "compromised graduate student" to "fully licensed academic menace," and the sheer, unadulterated relief was intoxicating.
Yuji was pacing back and forth, fanning himself with his graduation program and weeping softly because he had just realized that entering the PhD program meant drinking the same awful coffee from the terrible Nespresso machine in their TA Lounge.
Megumi, meanwhile, was reviewing a crumpled piece of loose-leaf paper. "The over/under on Sukuna psychologically destroying a valedictorian before noon is currently locked," he said, adjusting his cap with deadpan precision. "And I've got ten bucks on Gojo taking a selfie on stage."
"I ain't taking any of your betting advice, Fushiguro," Maki snorted from the next row over, adjusting her own velvet hood. "Last time I listened to you, I lost twenty bucks on the faculty softball game."
"Gojo striking out was a statistical anomaly," Megumi muttered defensively. "Stay sharp."
"You guys," you breathed out, looking at the four of them. You had survived medieval warfare, desk structural failures, and coat-closet espionage together. "We actually made it. Nobody is going to federal prison."
"Speak for yourself," Nobara smirked, pinning your cap to your hair with enough force to draw blood. "If the Dean asks me one more question about my thesis today, I’m committing a felony. Now shoulders back, bestie. Let’s go get this paper."
The march into the Great Hall was a surreal, out-of-body experience. Pomp and Circumstance played from the brass band in the balcony, echoing off the Gothic stone walls. You scanned the massive crowd.
Up in section 4B, sitting safely behind a barricade of floral arrangements, were your parents. They were waving frantically, snapping photos on an iPad, completely and blissfully unaware of the absolute, HR-violating warfare you had just survived. They thought you were just a very dedicated student who spent a lot of time in "office hours." If they knew the things the Department Chair had done to you on his Persian rug, the university would be facing a biblical lawsuit.
Then, you looked at the stage.
The faculty sat in a terrifying, velvet-draped tribunal. Satoru Gojo looked like a chaotic rockstar in his regalia, casually throwing up a peace sign when he caught your eye.
And right in the center, sitting in the heavy, ornate wooden throne reserved for the Department Chair, was Ryomen Sukuna.
He wore his academic robes like a dark, ancient king who was entirely bored by the concept of human time. He looked lethal. He looked immaculate. And the second you walked down the center aisle, his crimson eyes locked onto you, entirely ignoring the four hundred other students in the room. A slow, deeply arrogant smirk curled the corner of his mouth.
It took an eternity of boring speeches, but finally, the graduate candidates were called. The SVU gang erupted into feral, unhinged screaming when your name echoed through the speakers. Yuji actually barked.
You walked across the stage. Because you were officially entering the Modern History doctoral program in the fall, Satoru Gojo had successfully fought the Dean for the honor of formally "hooding" you for your Master's degree.
You stopped in front of him. Gojo draped the heavy velvet hood over your shoulders, his eyes gleaming with absolute, chaotic triumph behind his lenses. He leaned down, pretending to adjust the fabric so he could whisper in your ear.
"I win the brain, kiddo," Gojo grinned, practically radiating smug victory as he patted your shoulder. "The greatest heist of the century. But... I suppose I’ll let the Executioner keep your weekends. Deal?"
"Deal," you choked out, laughing.
But before you could step away, Gojo completely abandoned all academic decorum. He whipped his phone out from the folds of his velvet robes, threw a long arm around your freshly hooded shoulders, and hoisted the camera high into the air.
"Say 'interdisciplinary dominance'!" Gojo cheered, flashing a bright peace sign to the horrified crowd.
The camera flashed, practically blinding the Provost. Down in the audience, you could vividly see Megumi holding his hand out to a deeply betrayed-looking Yuji, demanding his ten-dollar payout.
Laughing, you finally turned to face the rest of the faculty line.
This was it. The final boss of your academic career.
You had to move down the line to the Department Chair. You stood before Ryomen Sukuna in front of the Dean, the Provost, the entire graduating class, and your oblivious parents in 4B.
You had to bite the inside of your cheek to prevent yourself from grinning like a maniac and making everyone present suspicious. The sheer, self-aware absurdity of the moment was almost too much. This man had ripped your lace panties in half during a faculty mixer. He had forced you to recite academic acronyms while completely ruining your nervous system. And now, he was handing you a diploma cover.
He stood up to meet you. He reached out, his large, calloused hand completely engulfing yours.
It was the most white-knuckled, sexually charged professional handshake in the history of the Ivy League.
For three seconds, the entire world stopped. He squeezed your hand—just a fraction too hard. You felt the familiar, heavy bite of his rings pressing into your palm, a phantom echo of every time he had pinned your wrists to his desk. The heat radiating off him was immense. His crimson eyes burned into yours, entirely stripping away the velvet robe, the cap, the audience, and the ceremony until it was just the two of you in the dark.
"Congratulations, Graduate," Sukuna rumbled, his voice dropping an octave into a low, possessive rasp that bypassed your ears and sent a violent shiver straight down your spine. "I look forward to your... advanced research."
In the evening, the graduation after-party took place at the sticky-floored local dive bar the grad students had rented out. It was a chaotic divestment of academic dignity, smelling faintly of cheap beer, bleach, and pure, unadulterated relief.
Initially, the presence of faculty had been strictly prohibited. But Satoru Gojo had hijacked the invite list, loudly proclaiming that he was "still culturally relevant" before slapping a heavy Black Amex down on the sticky bar and opening a tab for the entire graduating class to "fund the delinquency."
Consequently, the back half of the bar was anchored by one massive, cluttered booth where the gang and their highly out-of-place supervisors were squeezed together. Sukuna was currently squished into a peeling vinyl booth holding a lukewarm Corona, looking like a man actively questioning his life choices while Gojo leaned across the table, aggressively trying to peer-pressure him into taking a blue Jello shot.
"I am going to throw you into the sun, Satoru," Sukuna muttered, rubbing his temples. He was clearly only tolerating the neon lights and the questionable floor-stickiness because he was functioning as your very large, very tired, and very over-it plus-one.
"Stop being a hater, Ryomen. We’re thirty-five—basically in our prime!" Gojo cheered, throwing the Jello shot back himself.
"Incoming!" Nobara yelled, slamming a tray of six tequila shots onto the table.
To the absolute shock of everyone present, it wasn't Yuji who grabbed the first glass. It was Megumi.
To the absolute shock of everyone present, it wasn't Yuji who grabbed the first glass. It was Megumi. The usually stoic historian was absolutely, beautifully wasted. The sheer adrenaline of graduating without a federal indictment had apparently rewired his brain—that, and the fact that he had just collected a massive payout from half the cohort because he had accurately bet on you and Sukuna hooking up exactly seven months ago.
He grabbed the shot glass, knocked it back like it was tap water, and then immediately grabbed the collar of Nobara’s top, dragging his girlfriend into a deeply inappropriate, incredibly sloppy make-out session right there in the booth.
"Meg, you're spilling the agave—mmpf," Nobara started to complain, before completely giving up, wrapping her arms around his neck, and kissing him back with equal, feral enthusiasm.
"The house always wins!" Megumi shouted, briefly breaking the kiss just to yell at the rest of the table, his face flushed with triumph. "I set the odds back in October! I told you all! We survived the HR department without a single federal indictment! We are officially MAs, bitches!"
He immediately went back to swallowing Nobara's face. Sukuna took a slow, deeply exasperated sip of his beer, watching his now former students completely lose their minds.
You clinked your glass against Yuji's fry basket. "To interdisciplinary dominance," you cheered, knocking the tequila back.
By midnight, the reality of having a fully developed prefrontal cortex finally hit the faculty.
Gojo, having successfully funded the alcohol poisoning of the entire History department, staggered over to you. His expensive sunglasses were gone, his white hair was a mess, and he looked incredibly ready for an ergonomic mattress.
"Kiddo," he groaned, leaning heavily against the edge of the booth. "My lumbar spine is disintegrating, and there is a 22-year-old doing a handstand on the keg. They frighten me."
He dropped his Black Amex into your palm. "You have a Master's degree now. Act like an adult. Close the tab. Tip thirty percent. Herd the toddlers. And for the love of God, please put me in an Uber before I text the Dean something that’ll get me indicted."
You handled the logistics with clinical precision. You ordered the Ubers, physically separated Nobara and Megumi long enough to shove them into a cab with a weeping Yuji, and successfully secured the perimeter by forcing Satoru Gojo into the backseat of a black SUV.
When the street was finally quiet, you stood on the sidewalk, letting out a massive sigh of relief as you kicked off your heels and let them dangle from your fingers. Sukuna walked up beside you, silently offering his hand. You handed over the shoes along with Gojo's credit card, leaning your head against his solid bicep.
"Remind me to never approve departmental funding for Satoru again," Sukuna sighed, though there was a fond, exhausted humor in his voice.
"Take me home, Professor," you laughed, walking barefoot beside him toward the waiting Uber like a completely normal—albeit highly over-educated—couple.
Back at his place, there was no dramatic wall-pinning or feral passion. It was simply late, and you were both exhausted, domestic, and finally off the clock.
The digital clock on the nightstand glowed in the dark: 3:14 AM.
It was the exact time you had written that catastrophic, life-altering Google Doc all those months ago.
You were tangled in bed, wearing one of his oversized t-shirts, your head resting on his chest. The terrifying ‘Executioner of the Humanities’ was half-asleep, his hand resting lazily on your hip. You looked at the clock, then up at his jawline, a sleepy, shit-eating smirk spreading across your face.
"You know," you whispered into the quiet. "You've been weaponizing that PhD acronym against me the whole semester. Every single time you backed me into a corner, you made me invent a new, panicked definition."
Sukuna opened one eye, humming a low, tired vibration. "It was a highly effective pedagogical tool. Your panicked definitions were... entertaining."
"Well, I have my Master's now," you murmured, shifting to look him dead in the eye. "The syllabus is complete. I'm officially dropping the academic warfare and submitting my final defense."
You held his gaze, completely deadpan, and finally said the SVU-damned words out loud.
"Pretty. Hot. Daddy. I am officially putting it on the record." You traced his jawline casually. "And honestly? Based on my extensive empirical research, your structural integrity and your unparalleled oral defense... you completely exceeded the departmental requirements."
Sukuna’s brain actually stalled. You had just looked the most terrifying Department Chair in the Ivy League in the eye and given him a peer-reviewed performance assessment based on late night delirious thirst post.
It completely broke him.
He let out a sharp snort that dissolved into a genuine, wheezing, chest-shaking laugh. He rolled onto his back, throwing an arm over his eyes as his shoulders shook. It was the laugh of a man who realized he had risked his tenure and survived a Title IX nightmare for a woman who used internet slang as a tactical weapon.
"You gave me a performance review," Sukuna wheezed, dragging his hand down his face, his eyes crinkling with absolute, delighted disbelief. "You cited the very thing that almost got you expelled... in my bed."
"It's called empirical data, Professor," you grinned.
"God, you are an absolute menace," Sukuna laughed, pulling you flush against his side and burying his face in your hair. "It took a graduate degree and months of psychological warfare for you to finally just say it. Go to sleep, love. I'm having that Google Doc framed and hung in my office tomorrow."
Sukuna shows up at your place so drunk that it’s like he genuinely doesn’t remember you broke up two months ago. He keeps calling you “his girlfriend” and can’t understand why he can’t fuck his girlfriend.
CW/TW: unwanted touching :: DV :: asshole!Sukuna ✦ wc : 4k
Part 2: here
You’re lying on your side, staring holes into the ceiling, and you can feel the night’s silence pressing against your eardrums like a thick, sticky hum. The insomnia of the past few days wraps around your thoughts, and the exhaustion from university classes and night shifts at the café sits heavy on your shoulders.
Cool air drifts in through the cracked-open window, smelling like distant rain and asphalt, and against the deep navy sky, a few rare stars flicker. You’re pissed. At yourself. At this never-ending loop of thoughts. At the way your body refuses to let you fall asleep...
When a sharp, slicing doorbell suddenly cuts through the silence.
You flinch.
Your heart stops for a second, then starts hammering again in an uneven, anxious rhythm. You reach for your phone on the nightstand, and your chest tightens with a dull, familiar ache when your eyes catch the time: past two in the morning.
Then your gaze slides to the phone wallpaper, dark and blank.
It used to be a photo of you and Sukuna. You were laughing, and he was squinting slightly, looking somewhere past the camera with that eternal, almost arrogant calm on his face.
But you broke up.
Two months ago...
The knocking comes again, harsh and insistent, and then someone kicks the door hard. A dull, terrifying thud that makes the walls shudder. If Sukuna were here… if you were still together… you wouldn’t be this scared. But he’s not. And you’re alone.
Anger, sharp and instant, cuts right through the exhaustion.
You get up. Bare feet slap against the cold floor. You walk to the door, press your temple against it, listening.
Another kick. And then you hear a man’s voice. Low, rough, drunk and messy, but so familiar it makes your skin crawl.
“Hey… open up… shit… did you fall asleep?”
And your name, yelled like he hates it and wants it at the same time. Something inside you goes ice-cold. Your first instinct is to scream through the door and tell Sukuna to go to hell.
Another kick. Then a muffled laugh.
“Open the fucking door…”
He’s drunk?
Your second thought is the neighbors. The old lady upstairs. Her calling the cops. You exhale hard, fingers tightening around the handle, and you yank the door open, ready to slam it shut again immediately.
Sukuna is standing there, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. He can barely stay upright, and his nearly two-meter height doesn’t look intimidating right now. It looks unstable. His peach-colored hair, usually spiked up in sharp strands, is a mess, sticking out everywhere, clumped and dirty like he’s dragged his hands through it a hundred times. He’s wearing a tight black t-shirt stretched over his chest, broad shoulders and torso, stained with dark, unclear spots. Dirt. Spilled beer. Maybe blood… if he smashed someone’s face in again.
You always hated his aggression.
Sukuna stares down at his scuffed boots for a couple seconds, then slowly, with effort, lifts his head when he realizes the door is open. His gaze is blurred, drowned in alcohol, drifting for a long moment before it finally focuses on you. And on his slightly parted lips, a wide, drunk, painfully familiar triumphant grin spreads.
Found you.
It scares you so badly your knees tremble.
Why is he here? To talk?
Sukuna never knew how to do that.
“Well, finally,” he rasps, and his breath, heavy and sweet-bitter with booze, makes you recoil.
You grimace, trying to shut the door, but he already collapses forward with all the weight of his heavy body and you, like an idiot, catch him. You’ve never seen him like this. This drunk. Alcohol rarely hit him like this. Sukuna always kept control, even when his eyes went glassy.
Now he’s disheveled, heavy, and stupid.
He stumbles into the hallway, and you instinctively brace your shoulder so he doesn’t crash onto the floor. You regret it immediately when your joints pop. His weight is muscular, solid, unexpectedly warm. And Sukuna instantly presses you against the wall, making you gasp from the force.
Something inside you turns cold from the sudden closeness, from the smell of sweat mixed with alcohol and that expensive cologne you once picked out and gave him for your anniversary. Something twists painfully inside your chest. And somewhere deep down, traitorous and quiet, something warm and familiar stirs…
“M… so tired,” he mumbles, burying his face into your neck. A hot, damp breath burns your skin. His lips drag along your jawline. “Came to my girl…”
You press your palms against his chest, trying to push him away, and your voice comes out strained.
“Sukuna, you… what are you doing here?”
You try to wriggle out from under him. Sukuna pulls back just slightly, staring down at you with a frown, because you always used to call him just “Kuna.” You cautiously lift your gaze to his face…
You don’t know what to expect from him. Not now. His height always overwhelmed you, but in a good way. You used to feel protected. Hidden. Safe.
Now it’s just a threatening physical difference. But Sukuna’s expression is pure, genuine confusion.
“I came home. Dumbass. To you.” He says it like it’s obvious, like there’s no argument to be had. His hand drops heavy on the back of your head, his thumb brushing along your jaw. That familiar possessive gesture.
You freeze. Did he… forget? Did his drunk haze erase the last two months? You’d be lying if you said you didn’t wish you could forget too. You swallow the lump in your throat. Anger and something aching, pathetic, like the butterflies that used to flutter in your stomach when he looked at you…
Sukuna was always like this.
“Leave,” you say, firmer than you feel. “Right now.”
But Sukuna doesn’t seem to hear you. Or maybe he decides you’re just mad because he came home late. His gaze slides lower, catching on your shorts, and that lazy, pleased look spreads across his face.
“Dressed up for me, huh?” he rasps, voice thick with drunken purring.
“Asshole,” flashes through your mind.
But your hands move on their own. You shove him toward the hallway, toward your bedroom. Toward his bedroom. Toward your bedroom. One thought only: get your dead drunk ex onto the bed, call Toji, make him come pick up this wasted idiot.
And Sukuna follows obediently, clumsy, leaning on you with his arm thrown over your shoulder. His fingers dig into your muscles, and just the thought of him grabbing your chest like he used to makes your stomach twist.
The room smells like you. Books and dust. His scent faded from here two weeks after the breakup. And maybe that’s why Sukuna’s lips twitch in confusion as he looks around, trying to figure out what’s wrong, what’s changed. He doesn’t remember he hasn’t been here in two months.
You guide him to the edge of the bed, and he drops down heavily onto the mattress, making the springs squeal. He flops onto his side, and your eyes slide along the line of his back beneath his damp shirt, the familiar shape of his shoulders you used to kiss.
You hate yourself for it.
You climb onto the bed with one knee and reach for your phone lying in the middle of the blanket. But Sukuna moves faster. Long fingers, veins standing out, black tattoo markings wrapping his wrists. He snatches your phone first, his grip crushing the black case like it might crack. Sukuna manages to pull you in by the shoulders with his other arm, and you feel his body tense instantly, like he’s about to fight…
“What…” he mutters, jabbing at the screen. His brows knit. “Why… where am I?.. No… where are we?..”
You try to grab the phone back, but he shoves you forward with drunk, misjudged strength. Not cruel, more impatient and annoyed, but it’s too much for you. You lose your balance and fall onto the bed. The mattress catches you with a dull thump. Air punches out of your lungs.
You gasp, pushing your hair off your forehead, lying there, and in your chest something familiar sparks, bright and furious. A mix of rage and old attraction you thought you’d buried. You remind yourself fast who Sukuna Ryomen is and why you’re not together anymore.
He was always stronger. Always able to pin you down, ignore your protests. And before, in that haze of passion, you liked it. You liked feeling conquered when he pushed you into the pillows, covering you completely, driving his cock into your pussy, thrusting and growling into your ear until the world narrowed down to his breath and your own voice breaking into moans. Now that memory sends chills across your skin, from shame and something else.
Sukuna was always stronger.
The memory makes your skin prickle. You shake your head, forcing yourself back into reality, and search for him with your eyes. Sukuna stands frozen at the foot of the bed, your phone still in his hand. The screen lights his face from below, carving harsh, dangerous shadows under his cheekbones, in the corners of his mouth, along his neck.
“You… why’d you change the wallpaper?” His voice is low, annoyed, almost whiny. He keeps tapping the screen with his thumb, trying to unlock it. “What the hell… You changed the password? Our password… the day we…”
He cuts off, unable to remember the date. And you’re lying there, not knowing what to say. How do you explain that it’s over?
Sukuna was always such a bastard.
“Why?”
Sukuna lifts his gaze to you, confused. In his blurred pupils, disbelief flickers. He’s waiting for an explanation. And you’re lying there in shock, not knowing what to tell him.
Sukuna was always a bastard.
Mean, sharp, jealous to the point of obsession, and rough in a way he called “honesty.” He could pick a fight with your friend just because the guy hugged you when you met. “You’re my girlfriend,” he’d growl later, pulling you into him so hard it left bruises, and you, stupid, used to think that was love. He never told you he loved you. And at the same time, he let other girls hang off him in clubs, not encouraging it, but not pushing them away either.
Because he didn’t care.
He always said: they did it themselves.
They were the ones leaving hickeys and lipstick on his neck.
They were the ones crawling into his pants...
His indifference always hurt more than active flirting. And that, that blind, egocentric irresponsibility, is why you broke up. And you thought you’d almost erased that bitter aftertaste from your memory, that itch at the roof of your mouth. The intoxicating shadow of his superiority.
Before you can gather yourself and scream the truth at him, Sukuna suddenly, irritated, throws your phone into the corner. The sound of plastic smacking against the wall cracks through the silence, dry and painful.
You tense up in fear, staring at it.
Is he mad? Like, actually mad?
You look back and freeze, watching Sukuna yank his black t-shirt over his head with force, fabric tearing with an angry rustle. His movements are clumsy, drunk. In the dim light, the ink-black patterns of his tattoos stand out on his skin: rings around his shoulders, stripes low on his stomach, the intricate design on his ribs you once could’ve traced with your lips with your eyes closed.
Your chest tightens so hard you can’t breathe. Treacherous heat pools low in your stomach. Your body still hasn’t forgotten him.
But the sound of his jeans zipper sliding down snaps you back into reality.
“Stop! Sukuna, don’t!” it tears out of you, almost like a plea.
You jerk backward, trying to crawl toward the headboard, but the sheet tangles around your legs. Sukuna laughs, low and hoarse.
“C’mere, my girl.”
The sound is deep and vibrating, sending chills down your spine. His voice used to drive you insane. Now it just scares you.
A swarm of butterflies in your stomach, hateful and unwanted.
Sukuna climbs onto the bed on one knee, deciding not to pull his jeans off yet, moves closer, and grabs your ankle. Easily, like it takes no effort at all, he drags you back toward him, back to the center of the bed, to his legs. You slide across the blanket, letting out a helpless squeak.
He always did this.
Always.
“Let go!” you panic, shoving his chest with your palm. Your fingers press into the familiar hardness of his shoulder. “What the fuck?! Get off me! Don’t touch me! Get out, I’m serious!”
Sukuna frowns harder, annoyed. His brows are pulled together, jaw tense, the muscle in his cheek twitching. He doesn’t let go of your leg. His thumb starts rubbing the bone of your ankle. An unconscious, familiar soothing gesture he used to do when you were stressed before exams.
“What the fuck is your problem? What happened?!” he snaps.
“What the hell are you doing here?!” you almost scream. Tears sting your eyes.
“…I came to my girlfriend,” Sukuna says, baffled, and keeps mumbling incoherently. “Missed fucking. Missed you, huh? Why you… why are you yelling at me? What’s wrong?.. Don’t get it…”
Sukuna leans closer, and his shadow covers you completely, and you can barely breathe.
“I’M NOT your girlfriend!” you scream. “We broke up! Two months ago! What, did you get hit in the head and forget?! We’re not together anymore!”
Sukuna stares at you, and it’s like your words only reach him minutes later. He blinks slowly, processing. And he ignores the point, latching onto something else, something he thinks must be the reason for your “hysterics.”
“I… didn’t fuck anyone today,” he mumbles. His tone sounds hurt. Defensive. He shifts higher, his knee pressing into the mattress between your legs, and you inhale sharply, fingers clenching the sheets. “Didn’t cheat on you, baby. Didn’t even look at them. Why you jealous, idiot…”
“I’m not jealous! You don’t get it, dumbass! You’re drunk and stupid! Get off me!”
“No one…”
Sukuna ignores your protests, dropping his gaze to his hands braced on the mattress on either side of your waist. He looks like he’s talking to himself, trying to piece his thoughts together. His voice grows quieter, more lost, and suddenly there’s insecurity in it, something you’ve never heard from him before.
“Haven’t fucked anyone for… for two months… since my… girlfriend… left me?”
The last part sounds like an unsure question, like he’s not even certain he understood it right. Your breath catches. He said he… hasn’t fucked anyone for two months? For Sukuna, the eternal “womanizer” he used to call himself, two months of complete abstinence is basically eternity. And you don’t believe it.
The first couple weeks after the breakup, you had nightmares about him fucking other girls. And this quiet, drunk confession that slips out against his will knocks the ground out from under you.
Why would he?..
Sukuna frowns harder, bares his teeth slightly, and now his gaze, still blurry but sharper, locks onto you. There’s real, almost childish confusion in it, and a kind of vulnerability he’d never show sober. His body hovering over you suddenly feels less threatening and more… scared?
“We’re not… together anymore?” he mutters.
His hand finally lets go of your ankle, but now Sukuna touches your thigh carefully, like he doesn’t fully believe it yet and doesn’t know if you’re about to shove him away.
And you nod slowly, hoping it finally sinks in where he is and who he’s with.
“No, Sukuna. We’re not together. And that’s why we can’t have sex. Do you understand?”
But Sukuna unexpectedly moves even closer instead of backing off. His face is inches from yours. You see tiny golden flecks in his irises, red veins in the whites of his eyes, and your own reflection in his pupils.
His breath mixes with yours.
“Why?” he sounds offended. Almost hurt. His brows lift, lips pressing together slightly. “Why can’t we fuck? If I want you. If you’re… here. You’re my girlfriend.”
“Mine,” said with drunken but unshakable certainty. That’s his selfishness. His inability to let go. His hand on your thigh squeezes a little tighter. And you’re lying beneath him, just as lost and unsure of what happens next, because this drunk, confused bastard, your ex, is looking at you like you just took the most precious thing away from him.
And he doesn’t understand why.
His question, “why can’t we fuck?” is absurd.
If he wants it, then you can.
You always belonged to him.
You always loved his cock.
So why not now?
His breath, still reeking of whiskey and mixed beer, hits your face. You watch his dilated pupils narrow on your features, trying to read the answer in your clenched lips. His thumb starts moving slowly along your leg, tracing a line from your knee upward, toward your inner thigh. His touch is rough from his healed knuckles, but endlessly familiar.
Sukuna shifts closer with his whole body.
“Why?” he repeats. “You’re mine.”
“I’m not ‘yours,’” you whisper, losing your edge.
He’s too close, and he still refuses to accept that you’re not together, like he’s just putting that reality off for later. Like he always did.
“Sukuna, you’re drunk.”
“I wanna sleep…” he mutters. “Don’t wanna be alone.”
Sukuna leans even lower, his forehead almost touching yours. His eyes are hazy, but sparks dance in them. He takes an uncertain breath, presses into your neck, and you shiver with goosebumps.
“I wanna sleep on my pillow…”
Your heart is pounding.
He’s talking about your pillow. You still sleep on your side of the bed, and his side stays empty, but you never changed the pillows. It’s stupid, something you never let yourself think about…
“That’s not your pillow,” you try to sound harsh, but the words come out quiet.
“It’s so comfy,” he ignores you.
He always does.
His hand leaves your thigh and rises to your face. You freeze, expecting something rough, but his fingers barely brush your temple, sweeping a strand of hair away.
Surprisingly gentle.
“You’re so pretty, like…”
He furrows his brow, trying to find the words, and he looks so unlike his usual arrogant, rough self that a sharp wave of pity hits you again. He doesn’t find the right words. And it pisses him off. His brows knit, and that familiar aggression flashes in his eyes, then fades again into the alcohol haze.
“Can’t fuck,” he mumbles, repeating your words. “But… can I hug you?”
You open your mouth to say no, but you don’t get the chance. Sukuna doesn’t wait for an answer, or maybe he’s just too tired to wait, because he slowly collapses onto you with a low groan, dumping his full weight on you. His head drops heavy against your chest and higher, his nose pressing into the curve of your neck. Peach hair tickles your chin.
His arms wrap tight around your waist.
Sukuna presses into you. Big, hot… shaking?
“Kuna…” you try to protest, but he only hums, burying his face into your shirt.
“Quiet. Just… lay here. Like before. I… I feel so fucking bad without you,” his whisper is muffled.
His heart is beating somewhere under your chest, fast and uneven. You feel how tense the muscles in his back are beneath your hands, hands you don’t even realize you placed on his shoulders. You stroke him slowly, over the familiar curve of his shoulder blades, down his spine. And he lets out a quiet sound, half-growl, half-satisfied purr.
The smell of his cologne and shampoo, alcohol and tobacco, the sound of his voice, the warmth of his body… it all forms a dangerous, deceptive picture of “like before.” You close your eyes, bright spots blooming behind your eyelids. Sukuna starts babbling, mumbling incoherently into you, pressed against you, his hips against yours, clinging to you from every side as he rubs his head against your chest.
“…those dumb bitches keep crawling all over me… like flies… sick of it… told them to fuck off… I have…” he suddenly goes quiet. His fingers spasm around the fabric of your shirt at your waist, under your ribs, tugging. “But you’re not here. I called, but you… phone… won’t pick up. You changed your number, yeah? And your phone password…”
He shifts again, restless.
“Why’d you leave? I… I didn’t do anything. I didn’t have sex with anyone after you. I swear. I need… only you, baby…”
You open your eyes and stare at the ceiling. His words, those drunk, broken confessions… Sukuna doesn’t understand the point. To him, “didn’t do anything” means he didn’t flirt, didn’t kiss, didn’t sleep with anyone else. But his indifference, his disregard for your feelings, his blindness, don’t count to him. That’s not “something.” That just doesn’t exist in his world.
“You didn’t look. You didn’t see me,” you sound exhausted.
Sukuna lifts his head slightly, looking up at you. His eyes seem wide now with confusion. Reflections shimmer in them. And you.
“I saw you. You’re the prettiest… the prettiest. Everyone knows…”
It’s not it. Not even close. But in his drunk, sincere admiration, there’s a drop of the warmth you always starved for.
“Just sleep.”
“Why did you leave me, baby?” he asks vulnerably, tearing you apart.
You don’t answer. You just keep stroking his back slowly, over the familiar tattoos, feeling the tension under your fingers gradually start to melt away.
His breathing deepens, evens out. Your eyelids grow heavy. You bury your fingers into his peach hair, and tears gather in your eyes. You stare into the dark, feeling his body slowly go slack as he drifts into sleep.
Sukuna is here.
Drunk, lost, not remembering, not accepting that you broke up. He’s sleeping on top of you and for some reason, you can’t push him off. Not now. Not when he’s… like this. Drunk, needy like you used to be, clinging to you like you’re something he still, in his drunken head, thinks belongs to him.
You close your eyes and realize your insomnia is finally starting to fade…
Part 2: here
Do not repost, copy, plagiarize, translate, or feed my work into AI in any form!) English is not my first language, so yes, my writing might not be perfect.(
This is my first JJK work here, so please....
Royals have multiple layers of servants but there is no set of servants most important that their protection. Royalty are never without some kind of protection and palaces are usually guarded to the teeth. So how do we write royal security. This is for @jamie-ties-writing
Recruitment
Royal guards aren't just any person plucked from the street and put into a uniform. They are usually recruited from within the royal army, from within particular regiments across the army (a mixture of calvary, naval, artillery, infantry). The Royal Guard is usually made of of multiple regiments, not just a single one. These regiments would share and rotate duties. The British Royal family are currently guarded by the Coldstream Regiment, Welsh Guards, Grenadier Guards among others. Royal guards will be selected for their skill, sometimes their birth (they may be chosen if they rank higher socially) and of course, loyalty to the Crown. Royal guards were intended to be a show of force, strength, Majesty so they were usually impressive specimens meant to instill some power to their monarch.
Duties
A royal guard's first order of business is the protection of the family. They may have sentry duty around the palace, guarding doors or patrolling palace grounds or corridors. A Royal Guard may be assigned to one member only but most likely they will rotate through the family as needed. Of course, a royal can request a guard to always be assigned to them if they want. They may escort their charge of the day to their engagements. If assigned a certain royal to protect, they would tail them throughout the day. A royal guard may even perform ceremonial duties such as the changing of the guard or riding in coronations or state funerals. A royal guard is expected to remain vigilant but never speak of what they see, they are meant to keep an ear out for threats but never repeat whatever is said, they are expected at all times to uphold a professional countenance and respect protocol. They will be expected to give their lives if needed, and be loyal to the last.
Rank
Royal guards are a military division and rank is a part of their lives. Their supreme commander would he the monarch first but there would be an appointed commander. Depending on how you want to write Royal Guards, each regiment would have it's own captain and leaders. Of course, not all regiments may adhere to the same ranks but this would be a basic outline for you to follow.
Colonel: Colonels actually have no duties, they are more an honourary figurehead. Many members of the royal family would have a regiment to be colonel of. This usually requires nothing more than a ceremonial role, the wearing of the uniform while inspecting the troops for example.
Captain: The Commander of the regiment. They would undertake managerial duties, issuing commands from the monarch, assigning duties, approving the induction of new guards into the Household Division. The Captain would decide who would guard which member of the royal family.
Lieutenant: The Second in command. They will assume command if the Captain is not available. They would take on a large portion of duties and aid the Captain.
Sergeant: The sergeant would be next in command.
Guardsman: The lowest rank. They will have the least experience but usually the most duties. They would be the ones patrolling and standing sentry.
Uniform
Of course, no royal guard is complete without their uniform. Royal guards would have to stand out, especially in ceremonial duties. This uniform would be distinctive, not only because it is a great honour for anybody to be named to the guard but also as mentioned above, to add a layer of might to those they protect.
Notable Royal Guard Units
Dahomey Mino (the inspiration of Black Panther's Dora Milaje)
Did You Know: While visiting the city-state of Camlorn, the future Emperor Pelagius II learned that the kingdom was suffering from attacks from a "great demon werewolf"? Prince Pelagius swore to kill the werewolf, and with the help of Princess Quintilla of Camlorn, successfully hunted it down. Quintilla trapped the werewolf's soul, and Pelagius used its soul gem to make a ring which he used to marry her.
howd it break? idk maybe it was svens fault and for once he did feel bad so he fixed it,,, one of svens primary skills is blacksmithing so. thats where the idea came from.
also sven stealing faendals bow and returning it thereby accidentally invoking the rite of theft. faendal flat out asks him what he wants all mad and sven (who has no knowledge of bosmeri customs) makes a ‘joke’ like “oh a kiss lmaoo” sarcastically to piss him off except faendal does infact smooch him but ohhh noo now its weird because they both liked it ohhhh nooooo
stormborns
snowghoul
andulkaphoto
germansingergirl
janainaart
yousharknotpass
turnnoffyourmind
