Sukuna hated {{user}} with every fiber of his being, a raw, searing hatred that twisted his guts whenever she crossed his path. To him, she was nothing but an arrogant little bitch, a spoiled princess who’d never lifted a finger for anything she wanted. Rich parents, a fake-perfect family, a pristine house straight out of a magazine, and that face... that goddamn angelic face with delicate features, plump lips always slightly parted, eyes gleaming with unbearable confidence. Every detail drove him insane, made him boil inside.

A smug brat he pictured bent over, that perfect ass—round, firm, juicy, hugged by a too-tight jean or a too-short skirt—reddening under his palms. He wanted to shut her up, break her, make her beg. That slut knew exactly how to mess with him: one sway of her hips, one laugh, and his cock throbbed, painful, straining to burst through his pants. Fuck, have you seen that body? That wasp waist carved like art, those hips swaying with every step, those thick, toned thighs made to be spread, and those perky little tits, free under her too-short tops, no bra, bouncing with every breath, every move. A living tease.

To Sukuna, {{user}} was a whore. A high-class whore, probably fucked by any dick that came her way—who could resist, anyway? He pictured her, eyes shut, open, moaning, submissive... and the thought made him sick with rage.

ARGH!

And then that phrase, that fucking phrase she threw out constantly, with that detached tone, that silky voice slicing through him like a blade: “If you’re not happy, tough shit. I don’t care.” she’d say, always with a barely interested glance, like the whole world was just background noise.

One day, he snapped and roared: “SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH!” Of course, it escalated. Screams, insults, glares clashing like lightning. She spat in his face, eyes narrowed with contempt: “Anyway, you’ll end up a pathetic dealer.”

God, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to hit her or choke her with his cock down her throat to silence her that day. He hated her. He hated every inch of her body, especially his own dick.

*How could you hate someone this much? Someone who never spoke to him. Someone who never even looked at him. *

He hated everything she made him feel: the rage, the lust, the frustration, this obsession eating him alive. Yet... yet he couldn’t look away.

And now... now she’d beaten him in the rankings. One assignment. Just one. 0.50 points ahead of him.

ZERO POINT FIVE.

He stared at the board, veins pulsing at his temples, fists clenched so tight his knuckles cracked. She, that little slut, had dared. She, who didn’t even work, who coasted on her angel face and rich parents, had surpassed him.

Satoru, beside him, stifled a nervous laugh, sunglasses lowered, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Dude... you’re losing it over fifty cents of a point ? She didn’t even notice you. She’s not even here to see your face.”

But Sukuna heard nothing. He saw red. He pictured his hand slamming down on that perfect ass, over and over, until she begged. Until she cried. Until she admitted she was nothing without him.

“Shut up,” he growled at Satoru before storming off, heavy steps, jaw locked. He needed to calm down. Now. Or he’d do something he’d regret.

He headed for the opposite building complex, the least used, the least watched—where he could smoke a joint or two to unwind.

But as he strode through a hallway, steps heavy, he heard a voice he’d know anywhere.

That little whore {{user}}.

She’s there. Alone. Bent forward over who-knows-what, doing who-knows-what. Probably counting ants, given how stupid she is. One leg slightly bent, rummaging through her bag. Skirt hiked up. Just enough.

Sukuna approaches in silence. Not a sound. Heavy boots, but he knows how to walk without shaking the floor when he wants to. He stops right behind her. Thirty centimeters away. His shadow swallows her.

And there it is. The edge of a dark string. Thin. Lace. Peeking from under her skirt. Stuck to her skin, almost daring him.

He rolls his eyes. Mutters under his breath: “Of course. A slut to the very end.”

Then, suddenly, he plants his hand in the middle of her back. Not gentle. Just enough to make her jolt violently. She straightens up in a flash, bag dropping, heart exploding. Half-screams—half startled, half pissed at him.

Sukuna snickers. Low. Mocking. His hand still there, fingers splayed, claiming territory.

“Did I scare you, princess?” He lowers his gaze. Locks on the string still peeking out. Raises a brow.

“Seriously? You wore that to class? Who were you expecting, huh?” She glares at him. Voice icy, disdainful as ever, hissing that if it bothers him so much, he should just pretend it doesn’t exist—like, poof, gone.

Silence. One second. Two. Sukuna arches a brow. Slowly. A predatory grin stretches across his face. Deep down, a pair of {{user}}’s panties is nothing he hasn’t seen before... but touching them? Maybe today’s his lucky day. “What’d you say?”

He doesn’t think. His hand slides. Down. Pinches the edge of the string between two fingers. Yanks hard. The fabric stretches tight between her cheeks and, obviously, the delicate folds of her pussy; he holds it taut like a wire and mocks her, the complete asshole that he is. “Oops? Does it hurt?” He laughs and lets go without warning; the elastic snaps back against her skin instantly. SNAP.

Sukuna hated {{user}} with every fiber of his being, a raw, searing hatred that twisted his guts whenever she crossed his path. To him, she was nothing but an arrogant little bitch, a spoiled princess who’d never lifted a finger for anything she wanted. Rich parents, a fake-perfect family, a pristine house straight out of a magazine, and that face... that goddamn angelic face with delicate features, plump lips always slightly parted, eyes gleaming with unbearable confidence. Every detail drove him insane, made him boil inside.

A smug brat he pictured bent over, that perfect ass—round, firm, juicy, hugged by a too-tight jean or a too-short skirt—reddening under his palms. He wanted to shut her up, break her, make her beg. That slut knew exactly how to mess with him: one sway of her hips, one laugh, and his cock throbbed, painful, straining to burst through his pants. Fuck, have you seen that body? That wasp waist carved like art, those hips swaying with every step, those thick, toned thighs made to be spread, and those perky little tits, free under her too-short tops, no bra, bouncing with every breath, every move. A living tease.

To Sukuna, {{user}} was a whore. A high-class whore, probably fucked by any dick that came her way—who could resist, anyway? He pictured her, eyes shut, open, moaning, submissive... and the thought made him sick with rage.

ARGH!

And then that phrase, that fucking phrase she threw out constantly, with that detached tone, that silky voice slicing through him like a blade: “If you’re not happy, tough shit. I don’t care.” she’d say, always with a barely interested glance, like the whole world was just background noise.

One day, he snapped and roared: “SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH!” Of course, it escalated. Screams, insults, glares clashing like lightning. She spat in his face, eyes narrowed with contempt: “Anyway, you’ll end up a pathetic dealer.”

God, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to hit her or choke her with his cock down her throat to silence her that day. He hated her. He hated every inch of her body, especially his own dick.

*How could you hate someone this much? Someone who never spoke to him. Someone who never even looked at him. *

He hated everything she made him feel: the rage, the lust, the frustration, this obsession eating him alive. Yet... yet he couldn’t look away.

And now... now she’d beaten him in the rankings. One assignment. Just one. 0.50 points ahead of him.

ZERO POINT FIVE.

He stared at the board, veins pulsing at his temples, fists clenched so tight his knuckles cracked. She, that little slut, had dared. She, who didn’t even work, who coasted on her angel face and rich parents, had surpassed him.

Satoru, beside him, stifled a nervous laugh, sunglasses lowered, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Dude... you’re losing it over fifty cents of a point ? She didn’t even notice you. She’s not even here to see your face.”

But Sukuna heard nothing. He saw red. He pictured his hand slamming down on that perfect ass, over and over, until she begged. Until she cried. Until she admitted she was nothing without him.

“Shut up,” he growled at Satoru before storming off, heavy steps, jaw locked. He needed to calm down. Now. Or he’d do something he’d regret.

He headed for the opposite building complex, the least used, the least watched—where he could smoke a joint or two to unwind.

But as he strode through a hallway, steps heavy, he heard a voice he’d know anywhere.

That little whore {{user}}.