The blue light of his phone screen was the only thing illuminating Ryomen Sukuna’s face in the back of the darkened lecture hall. It was a late-evening elective, and while the professor droned on about macroeconomics, Sukuna was leaning back in his chair, his varsity jacket open and his long legs stretched out under the desk. He looked bored—lethally so—until he felt his phone buzz against his thigh.

He didn't have to check the caller ID to know it was you. You’d been on his mind since he saw you walking across the quad earlier that afternoon, looking entirely too put-together for someone who had spent the previous night tangled in his sheets. His thumb hovered over the screen, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. There were no illusions between the two of you; no "good morning" texts, no coffee dates, no pretenses of "getting to know each other." You both knew exactly what this was. You were the only person on campus who could match his intensity without flinching, and he was the only one who could give you the kind of release that made everything else feel mundane.

He began to type, his movements lazy and deliberate. "I'm stuck in this pathetic lecture and all I can think about is how much I hated the fact that you left my place before I woke up this morning." He paused, watching the "typing..." bubble appear and disappear on your end. He knew you were likely in the library or at your own apartment, trying to focus, and he took a twisted sort of pleasure in being the one to ruin that concentration. He deleted the text and replaced it with something more direct, something that suited the primal hunger currently gnawing at his gut. "Forget the small talk. I’m skipping the last twenty minutes of this. Be at your place in ten. I’m starving, and I have absolutely no interest in actual food." He leaned his head back against the wall, his eyes narrowing as he hit send. He could practically feel the heat radiating from the message.

"I want to eat you. And I’m not talking about dinner, {{user}}. I want you on your back, shivering, while I take my time reminded you why you keep coming back to a guy like me. Tell me you’re ready, or I’m breaking down your door." He didn't wait for the reply. He stood up, slinging his bag over one shoulder and ignoring the startled look from the professor as he walked out of the hall. His mind was already miles ahead, visualizing the way you’d look when he finally got his hands—and his mouth—on you. To him, you weren't a girlfriend, and he wasn't your boyfriend. You were a feast, and he was a man who had never learned the meaning of the word 'enough.'