Show & Tell
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
Keni
will byers stan first human second
taylor price
art blog(derogatory)
trying on a metaphor
pixel skylines
Cosmic Funnies
No title available
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
Not today Justin
i don't do bad sauce passes
h
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
DEAR READER
noise dept.
dirt enthusiast
祝日 / Permanent Vacation
Kiana Khansmith
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from India
seen from Canada
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from Malaysia
seen from Germany
@frenzied--flame
May Chaos Take The World
Hi, Im Warden and welcome to my jjk brainrot sideblog
♡ • Artist | 29 ♡ • Mostly Sukugo and Sukugego but other ships too ♡ • Switch and multishipper ♡ • Suggestive stuff might appear ♡ • Most Active on Twitter ♡ • I do Commissions -> Carrd ♡ • I take Doodle Requests through asks or Strawpage
Artist Spotlight!🎨
Introducing Warden, one of our fantastic artists for the Dead Dove side of the zine!
Hikyō eki 秘境駅 will be donating all its profits after production to the National Immigration Justice Center, an organization that defends the rights of immigrants, refugees, and asylum seekers in the United States. immigrantjustice.org
Learn more about the zine here: https://ellipsus.com/read/4cgGEHnTHFcJzAYdGWYm6z
Hello that is me 😳🥹🫶
"I promise, my love."
__
Comm for my friend for their fic 'Nocturnes' 🖤
This scene is from chapter 9 but I recommend to read the whole thing :]
hurt me~ ♡
students adorned them with flowers 🌸
domestic bliss
delicious cookie
Full art (18+)
My Gift for sukugosuku valentines day exchange for my moot on twt :]
Full art on Twt (🔞) (mind the tags)
Gentle, is it not?
sukuna redraws to get my hand arting again
2025 Art Summary
I cant believe its been a year full of drawing (mostly) sukugo lol
All Summary Arts bellow!
Thank you for enjoying my art!
🎀 ; the moment she decided she would be majoring history was when she laid her eyes on who the Professor was. 🌸 ; art: @/tenshi
Satomi decides she’s going to be a problem the moment she sees him.
It isn’t romantic in a soft way. It isn’t a gentle crush that grows over weeks. It hits hard, fast, and embarrassingly simple — the man is too handsome to be allowed to exist in a university building full of fluorescent lights and tired students.
He looks like he’s angry at the entire world and still willing to show up and do his job anyway. He looks strong in the ordinary, adult way — broad shoulders in a plain dress shirt, forearms exposed when he rolls his sleeves up, hands that don’t fidget.
He walks through the corridor like he knows exactly where he is and expects everyone else to keep up.
Satomi watches him pass a bulletin board with torn flyers and notices the small details, because she’s good at noticing. A clean watch. Shoes that aren’t flashy but are clearly expensive. A calm, practiced expression that says he has no interest in being liked by the people around him.
Just her type.
She’s there early on purpose, leaning against the wall outside the classroom with her phone in hand and a coffee she doesn’t need.
Her outfit is careful without being loud — a short skirt, tights, a crisp top.
Cute enough to make people look twice.
Normal enough to avoid drawing the wrong kind of attention.
She’s had years of learning how to be looked at the way she wants, and how to avoid being looked at the way she doesn’t.
Nobody here knows she’s trans. Nobody needs to. She’s not hiding because she’s ashamed — she’s hiding because she’s tired.
Tired of people thinking they know her from one fact.
Tired of the small questions that aren’t small at all.
Tired of being used as a topic for strangers to argue about.
This campus doesn’t get to have her whole story.
It gets Satomi Gojo — smart, pretty, blunt, and unbothered.
And in a few minutes, it’s going to get her problem.
The classroom door opens, and he steps in with a stack of papers under one arm and a book in his hand. He doesn’t look at anyone for long. He checks the room like he’s assessing exits, then heads for the front. He sets his book down, places the stack neatly, adjusts the microphone he doesn’t need, and writes his name on the board in clean letters.
PROF. RYOUMEN SUKUNA
A couple of students whisper, partly because the name is unusual, partly because he looks like he could bite someone if they talk too loudly.
Satomi slides into a seat where she can be seen without being in the center. Third row. Close enough to meet his eyes if she wants. Far enough that she can watch without feeling trapped.
He doesn’t introduce himself in a friendly way. He doesn’t do jokes to break the ice. He doesn’t ask them where they’re from or what their hobbies are.
He picks up a piece of chalk, taps it against the board once, and starts.
“This is a survey course,” he says, voice steady and dry. “If you’re here because you think history is just dates and wars, you’re going to have a bad time. If you’re here because you like arguing and you can read, you’ll do fine.”
A few people laugh nervously.
Satomi doesn’t laugh. She watches him talk.
His mouth is strict when he’s teaching.
His eyes move across the room without landing anywhere long enough to get stuck.
He’s controlled, almost severe.
She wants to see him lose that.
He goes over the syllabus like he expects them to actually read it. He explains how he grades. He says what he expects. He makes it clear that he doesn’t care if anyone thinks he’s harsh.
He’s not cruel, not for fun. He’s just not here to babysit.
Satomi takes notes. Real notes. She doesn’t need to, but she likes the way he looks when someone is paying attention.
He notices.
He glances at her notebook once, then back to the room.
No reaction.
She files it away.
When he opens the floor for questions, the room is quiet for a beat.
Then someone raises a hand and asks, “Is the textbook mandatory?”
Sukuna’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s a pause in his voice that makes the room tense.
“Yes,” he says. “If you can’t afford it, there are copies in the library. If you don’t want to buy it, you can borrow it. If you don’t want to read it, you should leave now.”
The room goes still, then a few awkward laughs.
Satomi smiles to herself.
He’s like that.
Direct. Unforgiving.
A little mean if you push him.
He’s not performing kindness.
He’s not trying to win them over.
That, somehow, makes him hotter.
For the first couple of weeks, she plays it quiet.
She shows up to every lecture. She wears outfits that make people look twice. Nothing extreme, nothing that screams for attention, but enough that she knows eyes track her when she walks into the room
She lets the boys in the back row assume she’s just another pretty girl who picked a class because it fit her schedule. She lets a few girls give her that look that says I already decided what you are.
Bimbo.
She doesn’t correct them.
Sukuna doesn’t give her much.
He doesn’t act like she’s special, doesn’t stare at her longer than he stares at anyone else, he teaches, he dismisses the class, he gathers his things and leaves like he’s trying to get out of the building before it infects him.
But Satomi watches, and Satomi is patient in the particular way she gets when she’s decided she wants something.
Then, around the third week, she starts answering.
It’s not dramatic.
She doesn’t throw her hand up to show off.
She waits until he asks a question the room can’t answer.
She waits until the silence stretches and he gets that flat look, the one that says he’s annoyed he has to be in this room with people who don’t care.
He’s talking about early modern Japan, laying groundwork, sketching context. He asks something about the relationship between policy and social control, something basic if you read the assigned chapter, something that should be easy.
Nobody answers.
A few people look down at their laptops like the answer might rise from the keyboard by magic.
Satomi lifts her hand.
Sukuna’s eyes land on her.
It’s brief, automatic, and then he looks away as if he’s already decided she’s going to waste his time.
“Yes,” he says. “You.”
She gives the answer cleanly.
Not long-winded. Not overconfident. Correct.
The room turns to look at her.
Sukuna blinks once.
The smallest crack in his expression.
He nods and moves on, as if it doesn’t matter, as if his attention hasn’t sharpened.
Satomi feels the shift anyway.
After class, she hears someone behind her whisper, “Probably got lucky.”
She keeps walking. She doesn’t correct that, either.
The next week, she answers again.
Then again.
Sukuna starts doing what good teachers do when they notice a student might be capable — he tests her without making it obvious. He asks for connections between points. He throws in a question that isn’t directly in the text. He references something he didn’t cover in lecture and watches for who flinches.
Satomi doesn’t flinch, she likes reading. She likes knowing things. She likes the feeling of being right. She likes the feeling of being underestimated and then watching the room change its mind.
More than that, she likes what it does to him.
Because for all his control, for all his careful neutrality, he reacts to intelligence.
Not with praise. Not with smiles. But with attention.
When she answers, he looks at her a fraction longer. When she makes a point, he pauses as if he’s recalibrating. When she’s wrong — rare, but it happens — he doesn’t mock her. He corrects her, concise, and then asks her to try again.
That’s what gets her.
Not the correction, but the expectation. The quiet assumption that she can do better.
She starts coming to class dressed with his attention in mind, but she stops doing it in the way she used to do for men.
She doesn’t dress for easy hunger.
She dresses for irritation.
A skirt that’s one inch shorter than it needs to be.
A blouse that’s neat until she leans forward and the collar shifts.
A tie worn loose.
Hair pinned up so her neck shows when she tilts her head.
Lip gloss that catches the light when she presses her lips together, thinking.
She makes sure she’s a distraction and a challenge.
The first time she interrupts him, she does it like she’s genuinely curious.
He’s explaining something about state consolidation, simplifying a point to keep the room with him. Satomi lifts her hand but doesn’t wait long enough. She speaks when he’s mid-sentence.
“Sensei. Isn’t that more accurate for the later period, though?” she says. “Because earlier on you still have—”
The whole class freezes.
You don’t interrupt Sukuna. Even students who don’t care have learned that.
His eyes snap to her. The room holds its breath.
Satomi meets his stare with a calm that isn’t fake. She isn’t disrespecting him for fun.
She’s pushing to see where the line is.
For a long second, he just looks at her.
Then he says, “Finish your point.”
So she does.
She lays out the argument in a way that makes it hard to dismiss. It’s not confrontational. It’s accurate.
It’s also clearly her showing off now, because she’s realized this is how she gets him to look at her like she’s real.
When she finishes, the room is very quiet.
Sukuna’s mouth tightens.
He nods once.
“Yes,” he says. “That’s a fair correction. The simplified version I gave you is the version you’ll see in lower-level courses and lazy summaries. If you want to do this properly, you pay attention to the shift over time.”
He glances at the room.
“And,” he adds, “you raise your hand and wait.”
A couple of students laugh, relieved.
Satomi gives him an innocent look.
“Yes, Sensei.”
His eyes narrow like he knows she’s enjoying it.
She is.
After that, the class starts reacting differently to her.
People stop assuming she’s dumb. They start asking her questions quietly before lecture. A few try to befriend her. A few resent her.
She doesn’t care much either way, she didn’t come here to build a social circle, she came here because she decided she wanted the angry professor to pay attention to her, and she’s getting closer.
Sukuna never compliments her.
Not directly.
But he starts calling on her more.
He starts watching her when he speaks, as if checking whether she agrees. He starts giving her questions that are harder, the kind that separate memorization from thinking.
Satomi answers them, and every time she does, she feels that small internal satisfaction — yes, you’re looking. You can’t help it.
Still, it isn’t the reaction she wants.
He doesn’t soften, doesn’t flirt back, doesn’t give her the crack in the armor she’s been trying to earn.
He stays controlled, and the only thing that changes is that his eyes rake over her sometimes when he thinks no one is looking.
He notices her legs when she crosses them. He notices her mouth when she wets her lips. He notices the way her skirt rides up when she leans forward to write.
He looks, but he doesn’t take.
Satomi isn’t used to that.
Most men are easy.
Most men get stupid fast.
She knows how to make them trip over themselves with a look, a laugh, a touch on the arm.
She knows how to make them want to prove something.
Sukuna doesn’t try to prove anything.
He just gets quiet, and a little sharper, and keeps teaching.
It makes her want him more.
By midterm season, she’s built a small routine for herself.
She stays after class sometimes, not quite lingering in a way that’s obvious, but long enough to ask one question, then another.
She goes to the library at times she knows he might be there.
She sits within his line of sight when he’s in the faculty section, reading.
She doesn’t do any of this like a desperate person — she does it like someone who belongs there.
Like she’s allowed.
That’s part of what makes it work.
Sukuna learns her habits, and he starts adjusting his without meaning to.
He stays later on some nights, grading in his office, because the library feels too open now.
He chooses corners with fewer people.
He tells himself it’s because he’s busy.
He tells himself it’s because he prefers silence.
It’s also because Satomi is relentless.
And because she’s smart enough to make his excuses thin.
On the night it finally happens, it isn’t planned.
At least, not on his side.
The day starts ordinary. A lecture, a few questions, a student complaining about deadlines. Sukuna moves through it with his usual stern efficiency, voice steady, hands clean of any tremor.
Satomi is in the front row today, legs crossed, skirt neat, hair tied back.
She answers questions like she’s making a point — she’s prepared, she’s engaged, she’s not here to be decorative.
And yet, she’s absolutely being decorative.
Sukuna refuses to reward her with a glance longer than necessary.
He keeps his focus on the content, on the board, on the class as a whole.
She keeps baiting him anyway.
When he dismisses the class, people pack up quickly. It’s night. They want to go home.
Satomi lingers, but so do a few others, asking quick questions, complaining about footnotes. Sukuna answers them, impatient but not unfair. Eventually the last one leaves.
Satomi stays.
He doesn’t look up right away.
He gathers his papers, erases part of the board.
He hears the soft sound of her bag strap shifting on her shoulder.
“Gojo,” he says without turning, “I’m not going to give you extra credit because you look cute when you pretend to understand historiography.”
She laughs.
“I’m not pretending.”
“You’re always pretending something.”
“Maybe,” she says. Her tone changes slightly. Less playful, more direct. “Are you going to the library tonight?”
He pauses, hand still on the eraser.
“Why,” he says, dry. “Do you plan to stalk me again?”
She doesn’t deny it.
“I have to study.”
“You have friends,” he says. “Study with them.”
“I don’t want to.”
He sets the eraser down and finally looks at her.
Satomi meets his eyes without flinching. She looks calm, but there’s a focused energy in her posture.
Like she’s already decided how this is going to go.
Sukuna’s patience is big, yes.
He’s dealt with worse than flirtation.
He’s dealt with violent students, entitled parents, administrators with political agendas.
He can handle a smart girl with a mouth.
But he’s also human, and she’s a specific kind of problem.
“You have an exam.” he says.
“I know.”
“You should go home.”
“I will,” she says. “After I study.”
He narrows his eyes.
“Fine. Study. Quietly. Away from me.”
Satomi smiles, as if he’s just said yes to an invitation.
“Okay.”
Two hours later, she finds him anyway.
The library at night is calmer, but it’s not empty. There are always students who live in this place during exams.
The air smells like paper, dust, and coffee.
The lights are softer than the classroom, but still bright enough to keep you awake.
Sukuna sits in a corner of the faculty section that’s technically not forbidden to students, but it’s far enough away that most don’t bother. He has a stack of books, a notebook, and a laptop open. His phone is face down, because he doesn’t like distractions.
He’s been here for thirty minutes, and he’s already annoyed.
Not by the work. The work is fine. Work is clean. Work behaves.
He’s annoyed because he knows, deep down, that Satomi is somewhere in the building, and part of his mind keeps listening for her footsteps.
When he hears them, it’s like his body recognizes her before his brain wants to.
She doesn’t come quietly. She never does. She walks like she expects the world to move around her, but she’s not rude enough to stomp.
It’s a controlled sound, a steady rhythm.
She appears beside his table with a small bag in her hand and a book tucked under her arm.
He doesn’t look up right away. He makes himself finish the sentence he’s reading.
“Are you ignoring me?” she asks softly.
He keeps his eyes on the page.
“I’m working.”
“So am I.” She slides into the chair opposite him without asking.
He finally looks up.
Satomi is wearing a cardigan now over her blouse, as if she’s trying to look innocent. Her hair is still tied back. Her makeup is minimal, but her lips have that soft shine again.
She sets the book down — one of the assigned texts — and then, with casual confidence, pulls the chair closer to his table until her knees are almost under it.
Sukuna’s eyes flick down before he can stop them.
Her skirt rides up slightly with the movement. Her knees are close together, as if she’s being polite.
He looks back at her face.
“You’re not allowed in this section.”
“I am if you let me.” she coaxes.
“You’re bold.” he says.
“I’m right,” she counters. “And you’re alone. Which is dangerous for you.”
He almost laughs. Almost.
“What do you want.” he asks.
She tilts her head.
“Help.”
“With what.”
“My exam,” she says, too smoothly.
He stares at her for a second.
“You don’t need help.”
“I want your help,” she corrects.
He leans back slightly, crossing one ankle over the other under the table.
“This is not office hours.”
“No,” she agrees. “This is the library.”
“It closes in an hour.” he reminds her.
“I can leave,” she says, “or I can stay.”
He notices the phrasing.
The subtle choice.
She’s offering him control while pretending she’s not.
He doesn’t like that he’s aware of it.
“Open your book.” he says, because it’s easier than arguing.
Satomi’s smile turns bright. She opens the book like an obedient student, flipping to a page, then looking up at him as if waiting for instruction.
Sukuna taps his pen once on his notebook.
“Tell me what you think the author is doing in that chapter.”
She starts answering, and for a few minutes, it almost works. She talks about structure, about argument, about how the author frames the period. She’s sharp. She’s engaged. She doesn’t ramble.
Sukuna listens.
He asks a question.
She answers.
He corrects one detail.
She adjusts without getting defensive.
It could be normal.
It doesn’t stay that way.
She shifts in her chair, leaning forward when she talks, elbows on the table. Her cardigan slips slightly off one shoulder. She doesn’t fix it right away. Sukuna sees the bare curve of her shoulder and makes himself look at the book instead.
She notices.
She keeps doing it.
At one point, she stops mid-sentence and says,
“You’re not looking at me.”
“Why would I be looking at you,” he replies, eyes still on the text.
She hums, like she’s thinking.
“Because you do sometimes.”
He looks up then, meeting her gaze.
“Focus.”
“I am focused.” She smiles. “On you.”
His mouth tightens.
“That’s not appropriate.”
“Neither is your watch,” she says, glancing at it. “Or your shoes. Or your apartment, which I still don’t understand.”
His eyes narrow.
“What about my apartment.”
“It’s too nice,” she says plainly. “For a professor.”
“That’s none of your business.”
She leans in slightly.
“It’s a little my business when you keep buying me things and then acting like you don’t want me to ask questions.”
“I don’t buy you things.” he frowns.
She arches a brow.
“Oh? The coat you replaced when mine got ruined? The headphones? The textbook you ‘forgot’ on my desk and told me to keep?”
He doesn’t answer.
She watches him, smug.
“You’re generous.”
“I’m practical.” he replies, a little annoyed.
“Sure.” Her smile turns softer. “I like it.”
He looks back down at the book and forces the conversation back to history. He asks her to explain the author’s choices again, to anchor her points, to bring evidence. She does it. She’s good at it. She’s also watching him the whole time, reading him like she reads a text.
She knows when his attention slips.
She knows when he’s irritated.
She knows when he’s trying not to look at her.
She uses all of it.
At some point, she stops pretending she’s here to study.
She closes the book gently and rests her chin on her hand.
“Can I ask you something else,” she says.
“No.” he replies, immediately.
She laughs quietly.
“You didn’t even hear it.”
“I can guess.” he says.
“Try.”
He doesn’t look up.
“You’re going to ask why I’m always angry.”
She blinks, caught off guard for the first time all night.
“Well,” she says, “now I’m going to.”
Sukuna finally looks at her.
“I’m not always angry.”
“You are,” she says, matter-of-fact. “It’s part of your face.”
“That’s unfortunate for me.” he says.
“It’s great for me,” she says, and her voice is warmer now, lower.
She’s not performing for classmates.
She’s not trying to win a room.
She’s just trying to get under his skin.
“I like it.”
Sukuna stays still for a second too long.
Satomi’s eyes flick down to his hands. He’s holding his pen too tightly.
She smiles like she’s proud of herself.
“You’re enjoying this.” he says.
“I am.” she admits.
“Why.”
“Because you’re hard to get,” she says, blunt. “And because you’re not stupid.”
He lets out a slow breath through his nose.
“That’s your criteria.”
She shrugs.
“It helps.”
Sukuna shifts his chair back slightly, creating distance.
“Gojo.”
“Satomi.” she corrects, lightly.
His eyes sharpen.
“In this building, it’s Gojo.”
Satomi tilts her head.
“Is that a rule.”
“Yes.”
She looks at him for a beat, then says,
“Then enforce it.”
His jaw flexes.
She’s not loud. She’s not being obviously inappropriate
She’s just… persistent.
She’s pushing the boundary in a way that’s hard to punish because she’s not technically breaking any rule, not on paper.
And Sukuna is tired.
He’s been tired for weeks.
Tired of pretending he doesn’t notice her.
Tired of the careful distance he keeps because he’s supposed to.
Tired of the fact that she’s twenty-one and fearless and smart enough to make him feel seen in ways he didn’t ask for.
He sets his pen down.
Satomi watches the movement like it means something. It does.
“You should go.” he says.
She doesn’t move.
“No.”
“You have an exam,” he says again.
“I’ll pass,” she says. “I always do.”
He stares at her.
“You’re arrogant.”
“I learned from you,” she lilts.
He almost smiles. Almost.
Instead, he says,
“This ends.”
Satomi leans forward slightly, lowering her voice.
“What ends?”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t want to say it out loud in a library.
She holds his gaze, and then, because she can’t help herself, she slides her foot forward under the table and lets it brush his shin.
It’s a small touch.
It could be accidental.
It isn’t.
Sukuna’s eyes drop for half a second, then lift back to her face.
“Stop.”
Satomi’s smile is sweet and irritating.
“Make me.”
His patience is not endless.
He stands.
The chair scrapes softly against the floor. Satomi’s eyes widen, not scared, but alert.
She glances around instinctively, as if checking who’s watching.
The corner they’re in is quiet, but not empty.
A couple of people sit farther away, heads down, earbuds in.
Nobody is paying attention to them. Nobody wants to.
Sukuna reaches down, closes his laptop with a firm motion, and slides his notebook into his bag. He doesn’t look rushed. He looks controlled, which is worse, because it makes it clear he’s choosing this.
Satomi stays seated, watching him.
“Where are you going,” she asks softly.
“Move,” he says.
She blinks.
“What?”
He leans down slightly, voice low enough that it doesn’t carry.
“Get up.”
Satomi’s breath catches. She stands, slow.
Sukuna doesn’t take her hand. He doesn’t touch her in a way that would look wrong to anyone passing by. He just steps closer and uses his body to guide her, a quiet pressure at her side as he angles them away from the open tables and toward the deeper stacks.
Satomi follows without protest. Her eyes are bright now. She looks pleased.
Her heart is racing anyway.
They pass rows of shelves, older books, thinner foot traffic.
The lighting gets dimmer.
The air smells more like dust and paper.
There are fewer people.
Less sound.
Satomi’s heart beats a little faster, and she knows he can hear it if he’s paying attention.
He leads her to a section that most students don’t bother with, tucked behind a row of reference material and a narrow alcove where the shelf spacing is tighter. It’s not a secret room. It’s just an inconvenient corner where nobody comes unless they have a reason.
Sukuna stops.
Satomi’s back is close to the end of a shelf. She looks up at him, expression open now, the teasing fading into something more direct.
“You’re not leaving.” she says.
“No.” he replies.
“You’re… what,” she asks, and her voice is quieter than it was at the table.
She’s trying not to sound too eager. She fails.
Sukuna’s eyes hold hers for a long second.
Then he reaches out and takes her wrist.
Not rough enough to hurt, not gentle enough to be polite.
Just firm. Controlled. Certain.
Satomi swallows.
“You don’t get to talk to me like that.” he says quietly.
“I just did.” she whispers.
His grip tightens slightly.
“And you don’t get to act like you’re in charge.”
Satomi’s lips part.
She looks like she’s going to make another smart remark.
Sukuna doesn’t give her time.
He steps in, closes the distance, and kisses her.
It’s the kind of kiss that feels like frustration finally given a direction.
His mouth is warm, insistent. His hand stays on her wrist, pinning it lightly against the shelf beside her head. The other hand finds her waist, fingers pressing into the curve through her clothes, anchoring her.
Satomi makes a sound against his mouth that she would never make in class.
She kisses back immediately, greedy, relieved, as if she’s been waiting for this exact moment since the first day.
And she was, oh how much she was.
Her free hand reaches for him, catching his shirt, pulling him closer like she wants him in her space completely. She presses herself against him without hesitation, and he feels how quickly her body reacts, how ready she is.
Sukuna breaks the kiss for a breath, not because he wants to stop, but because he needs to speak.
“This is a library.” he mutters, voice tight.
Satomi’s eyes flicker up, lashes heavy.
“I know.”
“People are here.”
“I know,” she repeats, and then she smiles, small and wicked. “Are you scared, Sensei?”
His jaw flexes.
He kisses her again, harder, as if answering without words.
Satomi’s shoulders relax into the shelf behind her. She’s smiling into the kiss now, pleased with herself, because she got what she wanted — not a look, not a dry comment, but him — close, real, losing control in a way that isn’t dramatic, just honest.
Sukuna’s hand on her waist shifts, sliding slightly, holding her more firmly. He keeps his touch where it can’t be seen if someone walks by. He keeps her close without making noise.
Satomi, of course, is less disciplined.
She arches into him, her knee pressing lightly between his legs, testing. Her fingers drag down his chest, slow, like she’s learning him.
She’s enjoying the fact that he’s forced to be quiet, forced to hold himself back while still wanting.
Sukuna pulls away again, breath rough now.
“You’re trying to get us caught,” he says.
Satomi blinks innocently.
“No, I’m not.”
Maybe she is.
He stares at her.
She smiles wider.
“Okay. A little.”
He exhales, and it almost sounds like a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. Just disbelief.
“You’re fucking insufferable.” he says.
Satomi’s voice turns soft, almost affectionate.
“You noticed.”
Sukuna leans in close, mouth near her ear.
“If someone comes down this aisle,” he murmurs, “you’re going to stand still and shut up.”
Satomi shivers at the tone more than the words.
“Yes,” she whispers.
He pauses.
“Yes what.”
She turns her head slightly, eyes meeting his.
“Yes, Sensei.”
He closes his eyes for half a second like he’s steadying himself.
Then he kisses her again, slower this time, still demanding, but more controlled.
Like he’s deciding what parts of himself he’s willing to show her.
Satomi presses her forehead briefly to his when he pulls away, breathing hard but quiet. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips swollen. She looks pleased in a way that’s almost unfair.
“You’re a nerd,” she whispers, smiling. “You like smart girls.”
Sukuna’s eyes narrow.
“Don’t talk.”
Satomi bites her lip, as if holding back another laugh.
Then she nods, obedient for a whole second.
Her hands slide down to his waist, fingertips catching the edge of his belt, not undoing anything, just touching enough to make the point.
Sukuna’s breath tightens.
His posture shifts, a subtle adjustment, as if trying to keep himself under control.
Satomi watches the tiny movement with satisfaction.
He notices her watching.
His gaze sharpens.
“You’re enjoying this too much.”
“I waited,” she whispers. “You didn’t make it easy.”
“I wasn’t supposed to,” he says.
Satomi’s smile fades a little, the first real seriousness cutting through her expression.
“Do you want me to stop,” she asks quietly.
It’s a genuine question, and it matters.
She doesn’t look like she’ll break if he says yes, but she looks like she’ll remember it.
Sukuna holds her gaze.
His grip on her wrist loosens, not releasing her, but easing into something less like restraint and more like intimacy.
“No.” he says.
Satomi’s breath trembles.
“Good.”
Sukuna glances down the aisle once, checking.
Empty. Quiet. The shelves block sightlines. The overhead lights buzz softly.
He looks back at her.
“You’re going to regret pushing me.” he murmurs.
Satomi’s eyes brighten again, that reckless confidence returning. “No, I’m not.”
He leans in, mouth at her jaw, then lower, not doing anything that will make noise, just pressing enough to make her swallow hard. His hand at her waist tightens again, keeping her steady.
Satomi grabs his shirt with both hands now, pulling him closer, her body moving against his with the kind of impatience she’s been trying to provoke for weeks.
She’s not subtle.
She’s just quiet.
Sukuna’s voice is rough when he speaks again.
“This is the last time you pull that ‘make me’ nonsense in my face and expect me to stay polite.”
Satomi’s lips brush his ear.
“You weren’t polite,” she whispers.
“Good.” he whispers back, hoarse.
Satomi’s laugh is silent, shoulders shaking once. She looks thrilled.
Sukuna steps in closer, crowding her into the shelf edge, using his body as a barrier. It’s protective and possessive at the same time. His mouth finds hers again, and the kiss turns messy in the quiet way it can when both people are trying not to make sound. Her fingers fumble at his collar. His hand moves up her side, still careful, still controlled, but warmer now, less hesitant.
Satomi’s head tips back slightly, and she bites her lip, eyes squeezing shut for a second, fighting the instinct to make noise.
Sukuna pulls back just enough to look at her.
His eyes are darker now, expression tight, focused, like he’s reached the end of his patience and decided to live there.
“You’re going to behave.” he says quietly.
Satomi swallows.
“Yes.”
“And you’re going to stop trying to prove you can get away with anything.”
She stares at him, then smiles slowly.
“No.”
Sukuna’s mouth twitches, almost a sneer.
“You’re unbelievable.”
Satomi’s hands slide down, clinging to him like she wants him close in every way she can manage in this space.
Her voice is soft now, not teasing.
“I wanted you to look at me,” she admits, honest for once. “Really look.”
Sukuna’s gaze holds hers.
“I have been.”
Satomi’s breath catches.
Her expression changes, the smugness dropping away.
She looks almost surprised.
“You didn’t act like it.” she whispers.
“I’m acting like it now.” he replies.
Satomi stares at him for a beat, then leans in and kisses him again, slower, more deliberate, as if she’s trying to memorize the fact that this is real.
Sukuna’s hand comes up to the back of her neck, fingers threading lightly into her hair.
He keeps the hold firm enough to guide, not force.
Satomi follows without resistance, letting him set the pace.
A sound echoes faintly somewhere far away in the stacks — someone shifting a chair, a book closing, footsteps in a different aisle.
Sukuna stills immediately.
Satomi freezes too, eyes wide, breath held.
They listen.
The footsteps pass, distant, not coming their way.
Satomi’s shoulders relax with a silent laugh. She looks up at him like this is the best thing that’s happened to her all semester.
Sukuna’s eyes narrow.
“You think this is funny.”
“It is a little,” she whispers.
He leans in close again, voice low and sharp.
“If you make a sound and someone hears you, you’re going to have a very bad time.”
Satomi’s eyes drop to his mouth, then lift again.
“Promise?”
Sukuna stares at her. For a second, he looks like he can’t decide whether to be furious or impressed.
Then he presses his lips to hers again, cutting off whatever else she might say, and pulls her tighter against him, keeping her quiet, keeping her close, letting his frustration turn into something more deliberate.
Satomi clings to him, breathing shallowly, eyes half-lidded.
She looks pleased, but she also looks softened now, like she got past his defenses and found something human underneath.
Sukuna doesn’t like being found.
He also doesn’t stop.
He doesn’t stop when she bites his lower lip slowly, softly.
He doesn’t stop when her hands find again his belt and slowly undo his buckle.
He doesn’t stop when she tugs her fingers on the band of his pants and lowers them just enough along with his boxers.
He doesn’t stop when she slides down to her knees, wrap her perfectly manicured hands around his hard cock’s base and shaft and pumps it before collecting the transluscent pre leaking from its tip with her soft, warm tongue.
He doesn’t stop when she’s sucking him down, palms splayed on his thighs for support, head bobbing as she hollows her cheeks, tongue flat sliding underneath the thick length, massaging, almost memorizing every bulging vein as it slides in and out of her soft, plump lips.
He should have stopped.
He should stop.
But he’s balls deep inside her wanting mouth in a matter of minutes, fucking her throat slowly at first and then more urgently when he feels like he’s about to cum.
His blood red eyes find her impossibly blue ones when he ruts inside her tight hot throat for a few more seconds and he sees the tears collecting on her pretty, long stark-white lashes as she swallows every drop of his thick, hot cum without wincing.
And she looks so pretty with his cock buried deep in her mouth.
Probably because she can’t annoy him with her words.
She sucks him off clean, kisses his tip and swirls her tongue around it before rising to her feet again.
He curses under his breath and cleans the saliva staining her chin with his hand, then pulls her by the jaw and kisses her again.
“You’re fucking vile.” he whispers against her suck-swollen lips.
“Mhm. You’re delicious.” she replies and licks his upper lip when it twitches up in an annoyed sneer.
When they finally separate, it’s not because either of them wants to
It’s because the library is a public building, and the night keeps moving.
Satomi’s hair is slightly mussed.
Her lips are swollen.
She fixes her cardigan, straightens her skirt, and looks up at him with that bright, satisfied expression that says she’ll do it again if she gets the chance.
Sukuna’s shirt collar is rumpled.
He adjusts it with a sharp motion, as if he can reorder the world by fixing fabric.
He stares down at her, expression hard, voice low.
“This doesn’t happen again.”
Satomi smiles like she’s already decided he’s lying.
“Okay,” she says, far too sweet.
Sukuna’s eyes narrow.
“Gojo.”
She tilts her head.
“Sensei.”
He glances down the aisle one more time, then steps back, giving her room.
“Go back to your table,” he says. “Study.”
Satomi’s smile softens, just a little.
“You first,” she says, and she steps past him, brushing close enough that he feels her warmth without her needing to touch.
She walks away like she owns the library, shoulders relaxed, head high, as if she didn’t just drag her professor into a corner and crack his control wide open.
Sukuna watches her go until she disappears around the shelf.
Then he exhales slowly, steadies his breathing, and fixes his glasses like they weren’t about to slide off his face minutes ago.
He stands there for a moment in the quiet aisle, listening to the distant murmur of the building, the soft page turns, the faint hum of lights.
He’s annoyed.
He’s also awake in a way he hasn’t been in a long time.
And somewhere under that, there’s the realization that he didn’t just get cornered by a bratty, clever student.
He chose to follow her into the corner.
He doesn’t know yet what that will cost him.
He only knows that Satomi Gojo got what she wanted — proof that intelligence gets his attention, and proof that if she pushes hard enough, he will stop pretending.
He picks up his bag, shoulders it, and walks back toward the open tables with his expression reset into something cold and controlled.
No one looks up.
No one knows.
Satomi is already seated at a table again, book open, pen in hand, pretending to study.
When she senses him pass, she doesn’t look up right away.
She waits a beat, then glances up with a small, private smile that is not meant for anyone else.
Sukuna doesn’t react. Not outwardly.
He just keeps walking.
But his jaw tightens, and his mind is no longer on policy shifts or exam prep.
It’s on the fact that she’s going to keep pushing.
And on the uncomfortable truth that he might not always stop her.
🫦 ; @ossifrageyes; @crescent-canine; @frenzied--flame
Kissing lucifers fingers because their writing is so good and Satomi is perfect and i need to be her and lord almighty please read our silly au 🙏🙏🙏🙏
My eyes are up here Professor~~!
Transfem Satoru from a very selfindulgent AU i have with friends ough i love her so much she is such a menace Also a closeup cuz i couldnt decide
𐚁﹒﹒﹒drabbles!
𐚁﹒Sugar baby treatment ♥ 𐚁﹒Riling Sukuna up after class! 𐚁﹒His office hours are hers to enjoy, or so she says.
🌸; art by: @death-warden my beloved
first of all *points* OMG MY ART OUGHHH!!!
second of all, you all should check out this blog that may or may not be about a certain lady (satoru) being obsessed with her bf (sukuna) 👀👀
prettiest girl he has ever seen 🩵🤍
Tear You Apart
cw: sukugo; trans masc satoru, vampire sukuna, true form sukuna, period blood, blood play, blood drinking, sukuna eats satoru out on his period, and inappropriate use of sukuna's stomach maw. art by @outdmilk
Satoru has bled through two pairs of sweats and a towel before he admits defeat.
He’s curled on Sukuna’s couch with a heat pack clamped to his belly and a hoodie rolled up to his chest, trying not to think about the way his body feels wrong, heavy, pulled downward.
Like gravity isn’t just dragging at his organs, it’s dragging at his fucking gender too.
He keeps checking the throw blanket for stains, wouldn't want to ruin Sukuna's stuff. He keeps pulling his knees closer, like he can hide from his own blood.
Sukuna lounges at the other end of the couch like he owns not just it, but everything on it.
He’s pretending to watch the movie.
He’s very bad at pretending.
“You’re doing that thing,” he says suddenly.
Satoru flinches.
“What thing?”
“That.” Sukuna’s fingers flick lazily at Satoru’s thigh. “The ‘if I make myself very small, maybe I’ll disappear’ thing.”
“I’m not.” He absolutely is. He pulls the blanket higher anyway. “I’m just… tired.”
Sukuna hums.
The sound is low, resonant, something that belongs in a chest much bigger than the one he’s wearing right now.
A cramp claws through Satoru’s abdomen, sharp enough to steal his breath. He hisses, curls around it, knuckles whitening in the fleece.
“Is it always that bad?” Sukuna asks, brows knitting together.
“Sometimes worse,” Satoru mutters into the blanket. “Sometimes better. Today’s the—”
He stops himself before he says worst. He refuses to give this stupid biology that much power out loud.
Sukuna shifts, the couch dipping as he moves closer.
The brush of a knee against his hip, the weight of an arm draping over the back of the couch, claws — currently blunt, thank God — ghosting near his shoulder.
“Why are you embarrassed?” Sukuna asks, and he says it like a genuine question, not mockery.
That’s somehow worse in Satoru's mind, just because he gets to be the one trying to explain it.
Satoru feels his face flare hot.
“Because it’s gross?”
“Blood is gross?” Sukuna sounds vaguely offended, red eyes narrowing slightly.
“That’s not—” Satoru digs his fingers into the bridge of his nose. “You know what I mean. It’s… this kind of blood. It’s different.”
Sukuna goes quiet.
The TV throws blue light across his profile, shadowing his mouth, catching at the sharp angle of his cheekbone.
He looks like a painting of a man who should not be left alone with you in a dark room.
“Who told you that?” he asks.
Satoru lets out a small, humorless laugh.
“Everyone? Media? School? Bathroom graffiti? Take your pick.”
He shrugs, the motion tight.
“You grow up with all that and it sort of buries itself in your brain, you know? ‘Dirty.’ ‘Unhygienic.’ ‘Hide it.’”
“And the dysphoria thing.” Sukuna says, matter-of-fact.
The word lands like a pebble in a pond, ripples spreading through Satoru’s chest.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That too.”
Sukuna leans in. Satoru can feel the coolness of him now, the way the air changes temperature around his skin.
“I don’t find you disgusting,” Sukuna mutters very close to his face. “None of you. Not this. Not anything.”
Satoru snorts, because if he doesn’t, he’ll probably cry and that would be painful and pathetic.
“You literally drink blood.”
“Exactly.” he says as if that proves his point.
There’s something strange about him now. Satoru turns his head a bit, squinting.
Sukuna’s pupils are blown wider than the dim room should warrant, swallowing almost all of the red. The tattoos at his wrists look darker, ink crawling a little closer to his fingers with every slow beat of Satoru’s heart.
Oh.
Right. Vampire.
Satoru’s stomach drops and swoops at the same time.
“You can… smell it, can’t you.”
“Smell it,” Sukuna agrees. “Hear your pulse fight it. Feel how the air tastes heavier.” He tilts his head, looks like he's salivating, but he's studying Satoru’s face. “You’re in pain. I like the blood. I don’t like the pain when I'm not the one causing it.”
Satoru stares at him.
“That’s… weirdly sweet.”
“Don’t say that.” Sukuna grumbles. His eyes flick down, to where Satoru’s bare thigh peeks from under the blanket. “May I?”
The question scrapes something raw and tender in Satoru’s chest. Consent, like it’s not even a question that he could say no.
His first instinct is to clamp his legs together and never open them again. His second is to imagine Sukuna between them and short-circuit entirely.
His third — quiet, shy, tired of hating himself — is maybe I want to know what it’s like to not feel disgusted.
Satoru swallows.
“You’re not going to… y'know, freak out? Or think I’m—”
“If you use the word ‘dirty’,” Sukuna warns, “I’ll bite you just to prove a point.”
Satoru chokes on a laugh. It breaks the last of the tension in his shoulders.
“Okay,” he says. His voice comes out smaller than he intends, but it’s steady. “Just… don’t look at me like I’m some kind of buffet, yeah?”
Sukuna’s mouth curves, slow and sharp.
“You’re exactly a buffet, brat.” he says, and then, softer, “but you’re mine. That’s different.”
He shifts down the couch, fingers skimming along Satoru’s shin, then his knee.
The blanket slips.
Satoru forces himself not to grab it back, not to bolt for the bathroom.
Sukuna is careful, deliberate, moving as if Satoru is something fragile in his hands and not someone who can snap a neck with cursed energy.
Satoru shuts his eyes when Sukuna’s shoulders settle between his knees.
He tries not to think about everything that’s happening.
Tries to focus on the sound of the TV, on his own breathing.
It works for about three seconds.
Then Sukuna exhales against the inside of his thigh and Satoru’s thoughts scatter like startled birds.
His brain runs in useless circles — this is insane, and you’re on your period, what are you doing, and he’s going to see everything and never touch you again.
Except Sukuna makes a low, wrecked sound, like hunger and reverence tangled up together, and any version of “he’s going to be disgusted” just… doesn’t match what Satoru is hearing.
“Fuck,” Sukuna mutters against his skin, voice already different — rougher, layered with something deeper that sits wrong in an ordinary human throat. “You have no idea how good you smell.”
Satoru’s hand flies down, tangling in pink hair without meaning to.
“You’re supposed to be reassuring me, not saying things like that,” he says, but it comes out breathless.
“I am reassuring you,” Sukuna drawls like he's intoxicated. “You’re not disgusting. You’re driving me insane.”
He peels Satoru's boxers down, slowly, careful — like he could lose control if he hurried that simple motion.
Satoru almost thanks him for not licking his bloodied underwear like someone would do after peeling the lid off a greek yogurt, but all he does is bite his lower lip down and hold his breath, heart pumping blood to his face and neck as Sukuna lowers himself back between his legs, big cold hands fixing the back of his knees over his broad shoulders.
He hums and slides his tongue between Satoru's folds in a slow, long motion, taking his time, tasting him — consequently coating it with blood and slick because there is no way in hell Satoru can manage not to get aroused near his man.
He groans in that way he does only when he's feeding or fucking Satoru, and the sorcerer doesn't know if he hides his face or close his eyes, but he does none of those things — he's too mesmerized to look away.
Sukuna sinks his face finally and he eats out like he's actually craving everything Satoru has to offer. And oh that feels so, so good in ways he would never imagine.
Satoru jerks his head back and moans, bucking his hips once against Sukuna's mouth and the vampire growls, squeezing tighter the grip on his hips.
He's focused. Too much. It's like watching a predator feasting after starving for a long, long time — interrupting him would be unimaginable unless you have a death wish.
And Satoru would never want him to stop either, being so sensitive, hot and bothered, he feels his eyes rolling back at each stroke of Sukuna's tongue. The vampire sucks diligently his clit, his folds, he laps at his entrance and tonguefucks Satoru without a warning, granting him a mewl and a yelp along with the sorcerer's fingers closing and tugging at his pink hair.
The world narrows to warmth and pressure and the distant awareness that Sukuna is losing his carefully maintained humanity one thread at a time.
The nails at Satoru’s hips sharpen, digging in just enough to sting.
Something in the cadence of his breathing shifts, doubles.
Satoru is so busy trying to keep it together that it takes him a moment to realize what’s changed.
The hand now on his thigh is not one hand anymore.
It’s subtle at first, the way the weight changes, the way a second thumb presses into the softness just above his knee.
Then there’s another grip at his hip, stronger, pinning him, and another bracing at the small of his back, pulling him closer. And another sliding carefully two big fingers at his entrance, slowly probing, cautious not to hurt him before sliding in.
That's— that's too many hands.
Satoru’s eyes snap open.
For a second, he doesn’t move.
Can’t.
He just sees the broad pink shoulders between his legs and then farther down — an extra elbow where there absolutely shouldn’t be one, the ripple of muscle under ink as a third forearm flexes. And a forth, on the other side.
His gaze climbs, tracing tattoos that are thicker now, darker, like someone took a pen and pressed harder. They crawl up Sukuna’s neck, across his jaw. The side of his face he can see bears more lines than before, curling toward a second pair of eyes that hadn’t been there an hour ago.
“Uh.” Satoru says intelligently.
Sukuna freezes.
It’s so complete Satoru can hear the quiet pop of the movie’s dialogue under the massive silence.
Four hands tense on him at once.
When Sukuna looks up, raising his torso and almost dragging Satoru with him, he finally gets the full effect.
Four eyes. Two glowing like fiery coals, two slitted thinner underneath them, all of them blown wide and wild.
One mouth open, lips and chin slick with red that doesn’t look like it came from a glass bottle, teeth too sharp to be human.
For a heartbeat, Satoru can see the hint of another mouth lower, just at the edge of the hoodie, something flexing in his abdomen like it wants to open.
This is not the man who jokes about late fees at the video store.
This is the thing from the stories, the old nightmare without a pulse.
Sukuna’s expression is carefully blank, which is how Satoru knows he is braced for the worst.
“Don’t scream,” Sukuna says. His voice is doubled now, a second tone trailing under the first like a shadow. “I’ll stop. I’ll—”
“Holy shit!” Satoru blurts.
Sukuna goes very, very still.
Satoru’s heart is beating hard enough to shake his ribs, but the panic he expected… isn’t there.
His body is buzzing, yeah, but not with fear.
His mind is trying very hard to catalog every new detail all at once.
Four hands on him.
Four eyes on him.
The sheer size of him, even half-shifted, barely fitting between his legs.
The way the couch looks suddenly too small for what he’s becoming.
Somewhere far away, Satoru hears his own thoughts, loud and clear.
Oh. Oh no. That’s—
He swallows, staring down at Sukuna’s ruined mouth, at the smear of red he should probably not be looking at this intently, at the way the extra hands flex like they don’t know what to do with themselves.
His brain supplies, helpfully — bend me, break me, on the couch, in the kitchen, in the hallway, in the bedroom, in the bath in the garden—
Heat floods him that has nothing to do with cramps and he feels slick and arousal pooling between his still open legs. And of course Sukuna can smell it.
Sukuna’s brows twitch.
“You’re not… afraid.” he says slowly, almost careful.
“I mean, I am,” Satoru says, because he’s not a complete liar. “Just not of… this. Of you.”
He drags one shaking hand up, fingers hovering for a second before committing.
He cups Sukuna’s cheek — one of them, anyway — thumb brushing over a line of ink that wasn’t there this afternoon, right under the second pair of eyes.
The skin is cooler than a human’s, but not unpleasantly so. The bone under his touch is solid, real. Sukuna’s eyes flutter, all four of them, like he doesn’t know where to look.
“This is your real face, right?” Satoru says. “You, uh, trust me with it.”
The hunger in Sukuna’s gaze flickers, tangled with something more vulnerable and raw.
“You’re bleeding, you're so fucking sweet, and taste so good—” he says, as if that explains everything. “I’m not… good at pretending when I’m like this.”
“Good,” Satoru says, surprising himself with how steady he sounds. “I don’t want you to pretend.”
He watches the words land. Watches the way Sukuna’s shoulders ease, just a fraction, the way two of his hands shift to hold Satoru more securely, not like he’s restraining him but like he’s anchoring him.
“You’re ridiculous,” Sukuna mutters. “You should be running.”
“Why would I run,” Satoru says, “from the guy who just made my brain switch from ‘I’m disgusting’ to ‘I want him everywhere’ in under five minutes?”
Sukuna stares up at him like Satoru has just flipped the axis of the earth.
Then — slowly, carefully, like he’s handling something more dangerous than any curse — he smiles.
It’s not human.
It’s too wide, too full of teeth, two of his eyes narrowing in predatory delight while the other two soften.
“Say that again.” he says.
“Nope,” Satoru answers immediately, flushing to his ears. “You heard me the first time. Don’t be greedy.”
“Oh but I am.” Sukuna rumbles, and all four hands tighten on him as if to prove it.
Satoru takes a breath. His body still hurts, but the pain feels different now, threaded through with something fierce and alive. Pleasure turning it all more bearable.
He lets his knees fall open a little more.
“Keep going.” he says, and there’s no apology in it this time. No shame. Just trust and lust, plain and reckless.
Sukuna’s eyes flare.
He lowers his head again, and the rest of the night blurs into sensation and the echo of thoughts that Satoru will absolutely not admit out loud as Sukuna relishes in his taste and takes him to the brink of insanity and back over three times.
When Sukuna is finally done, satisfied with himself, Satoru is a crying, sobbing, overfucked and grateful mess that forgot about his pain at some point during the second and third orgasm and the overstimulation. Sukuna's face is also a mess, but a different one.
He is kind enough to clean his face up and also clean Satoru up, before joining him again on the couch, and cuddling him with all four strong, big arms.
He's not warm and fuzzy, not when he hasn't fed with enough blood to keep him hot, but he's comfortable enough to have Satoru lodging his face under the sharp jawline and snoring within a few seconds of snuggling, nonetheless.
Satoru wouldn't trade that for any warm blanket nor soft mattress in the world.
He decides to ask again for it when the house is quiet and Sukuna is already half-monster.
It starts simple, Sukuna is sprawled in the armchair, shirt half-open, extra lines of ink just beginning to crawl over his skin like something alive. It’s that in-between state he sometimes slips into when he’s relaxed and a little hungry, when his control loosens at the edges — two arms, then three, then four, like his body keeps remembering what it actually is.
Satoru is on the couch, upside down, feet on the backrest, hair hanging toward the floor, phone hovering above his face.
He’s not reading anything.
He’s just thinking about teeth.
And mouths. Plural.
And the way his chest did that stupid tight-hot ache the first time Sukuna had fully shifted without meaning to and looked up at him like he was already bracing for disgust.
Satoru still remembers the exact moment his brain had gone — oh, you’re beautiful and throw me around like a ragdoll in the same breath.
He drops the phone onto his face, groans, and sits up.
Sukuna’s gaze flicks over lazily, one pair of eyes at first, then the second set opening like an afterthought.
“You’re noisy.” he says.
“You’re ugly,” Satoru fires back on instinct, then catches the way Sukuna’s mouth twists, defensive, and realizes what he’s actually picking at.
“Wait, no!” he corrects immediately, sliding off the couch. “You’re not. That was reflex. I’m an idiot.”
“News.” Sukuna says dryly, but his shoulders are tighter, posture less lazy.
The third arm he hadn’t even been using curls closer to his body, as if to hide.
Satoru stops in front of him, bare feet on cool floor, oversized T-shirt brushing mid-thigh and nothing under it because why would he wear anything under while Sukuna was literally right there?
His heart is hammering for reasons that have absolutely nothing to do with fear and everything to do with curiosity and love.
He sets his hands on Sukuna’s knees. Four eyes drop to him at once, and god, that still does something wild to his insides.
“I want to see you,” Satoru says.
“You are seeing me.”
He shakes his head.
“No. I mean… all of you. On purpose this time. Not because you got distracted with my blood and went full cryptid in the middle of things.”
Sukuna’s mouth flattens. One of his hands — normal, for now — clenches on the armrest hard enough that the leather creaks.
“You’re asking for my true form.” he says slowly, like he’s giving Satoru a chance to hear what he’s saying and back down.
“Yes.” Satoru’s fingers tighten on his knees. “That.”
“Why.”
Because you looked like you expected me to scream.
Because someone probably did, once.
Because there is no part of you I don’t want.
Satoru lifts one shoulder.
“Because I like you,” he says simply. “All of you. And I want you to know that. Not just the version you think won’t scare me.”
For a long moment, Sukuna just watches him.
Then he exhales, a long, slow hiss, like steam leaving something under pressure.
“You’re going to regret this.” he mutters.
Satoru’s mouth quirks.
“Promises, promises.”
He feels it earlier than he sees it before his eyes — the way the air changes, pressure dropping and thickening all at once. The room seems to tilt around Sukuna as his body unfolds.
Muscle swells under skin, shoulders broadening, spine lengthening as if someone is dragging him up by invisible hooks.
Ink surges, black and heavy, racing across his chest, down his arms, blooming over his throat. Fingers split, multiply — hands become four instead of two, four arms, each set of hands tipped in claws that look made for tearing.
And then the part Satoru still isn’t fully used to, even in glimpses, the skin of Sukuna’s abdomen rippling, parting, opening on a second mouth lined with teeth, lips curling in a grin that mirrors the one above.
Four eyes, two mouths, four arms.
Still Sukuna.
More Sukuna.
He is vast like this, wrong by human standards in every way that makes Satoru’s pulse leap.
Sukuna sits hunched in the chair only because the room is too small to contain him properly, he looks like he should be carved into a temple wall, worshipped or feared or both.
Every line of him says predator.
Every line of Satoru says please.
“Holy shit.” Satoru breathes.
Sukuna’s jaw tightens.
“If you—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” Satoru cuts in.
He steps closer, until his knees press the chair. He tilts his head back, meeting all four eyes at once.
“I’m not afraid of you.”
“Liar.” Sukuna says, but his voice has that echoing quality again, layered, the second tone curling under the first, and there’s a crack in his armor that wasn’t there a moment ago.
Satoru lifts his hands, slow, deliberate, so Sukuna can stop him if he wants.
He doesn’t.
Satoru touches the nearest forearm, fingers tracing the curve of muscle, following a band of ink until his hand is almost dwarfed by the span of Sukuna’s palm.
He feels the faint tremor there, barely perceptible, like this — the permission — is more unnerving than any fight.
“You’re so strong like this,” Satoru says. “You know that’s hot, right?”
Sukuna makes a strangled sound that might be a scoff.
“You’re hopeless.”
“Maybe,” Satoru says easily, and slides his hand down, over the swell of Sukuna’s chest, to the ridge where the second mouth sits.
It moves under his touch, teeth glinting, a slick tongue flicking out once in a reflexive taste of the air. Satoru’s breath catches.
His brain produces an instant, vivid image of what that would feel like lower—
He swallows hard, heat spreading under his skin.
“You’re not a monster to me,” he says, fingers resting lightly near the maw. “You’re you. This is just… more you. I like more you.”
Sukuna’s mouth twists into something almost disbelieving, almost fond. His stomach maw mirrors it, lips pulling back over razor edges. Two of his hands come up, huge and careful, framing Satoru’s ribs in a loose cage.
“You’re playing with fire.” he says quietly.
“Good thing I’m already burned,” Satoru says, and then he leans in, closing the distance to Sukuna’s mouth.
The kiss is messy from the start. Sukuna always kisses like he’s tasting, like he’s taking inventory — breath, tongue, the small needy sounds Satoru refuses to admit he makes.
Now it’s more intense, four hands pulling him in, setting him on Sukuna’s lap like it’s the only natural place for him to be.
Satoru goes willingly, knees bracketing Sukuna’s hips, his bare sex against his abs and the hem of his sweats, fingers digging into tattooed shoulders for balance.
The armchair protests, cushioned wood creaking under the added weight.
Sukuna breaks the kiss just long enough to rasp,
“Last chance to change your mind.”
“You’re the one who should be careful,” Satoru pants, forehead pressed to Sukuna’s, all four eyes inches from his own. “I’m going to be insufferable about this. ‘My boyfriend the terrifying ancient vampire deity who I happen to find ridiculously hot’—”
He yelps when one of Sukuna’s hands smacks his ass, the others tightening around his waist and back, pinning him very efficiently.
“Shut up,” Sukuna growls, but there’s no real heat in it, only fraying control.
Satoru laughs, high and breathless, and then Sukuna kisses him again, cutting it off.
He feels surrounded.
That’s the only word for it.
Four hands, two mouths, four eyes watching him like he’s the only thing in the room that matters.
Every place Sukuna touches him, he feels claimed, every place he isn’t touching yet throbs with anticipation.
Satoru pulls back just enough to speak, lips brushing Sukuna’s.
“Use all of you,” he whispers. “If you want. You don’t have to hold back for me.”
For a heartbeat, nothing moves.
Then something in Sukuna snaps.
It’s not violent — not in the way Satoru has seen him in battle — but it is absolute.
The last threads of restraint burn away. Hands reposition him easily, firmly, like he weighs nothing, one spans his lower back, one pins his hip, one cradles the back of his head, and the fourth slides down, slow and possessive, to hook behind his knee and drag him open.
“Satoru.” Sukuna nearly growls, and there is so much in his voice that Satoru’s chest aches with it — hunger and want and something fierce and terrified that sounds like mine.
Satoru cups his face, all thumbs and fingers and too much emotion.
“I’m here,” he says. “I’m not going anywhere. Show me how much you want me.”
Sukuna’s lower mouth parts in a sharp, eager grin. Warm breath ghosts against Satoru’s skin, the hand on his hip sliding up to bunch the big t-shirt over his belly, Sukuna slowly pulling his body up so the maw breathes and brushes lower, lower, as he yields to the press of those hands, letting himself be guided back, down, into the cradle of Sukuna’s body.
The first thing he clearly registers is the sensation of being held from every angle, pinned and safe and entirely exposed to someone who could devour him in more ways than one — and the way his own heart answers with wild, unreserved trust.
Then Sukuna’s hunger finds him, hot and overwhelming, and thought dissolves into sensation, his fingers clutching at broad shoulders, his mouth catching on Sukuna’s in gasping, desperate kisses between waves of pleasure.
Satoru undulates his hips while the big, hot and delicious appendage laps against his cunt, collecting and smearing his slick and its saliva as it rubs in delicious rhythm between his folds, pressing flat on the aching nub and ripping moans and curses from Satoru's mouth — those who are immediately swallowed by Sukunas lips crashing against his, in that messy, hot kiss.
The bigger muscle's tip probes at some point the slit in Satoru's sex and he shivers and arches his back and lets out the most obscene moan, startling himself and Sukuna both.
"Filthy little whore of a boy." Sukuna whispers.
"That's your boyfriend." Satoru purrs against his lips.
He breathes deeply once, twice, and slowly the tongue wiggles its way into his cunt. Sukuna holds both his thighs with ease, the strong grip of two big hands moving the sorcerer's body with enough skill to have him bouncing, fucking himself as the muscle split him open lusciously.
Satoru's moans and whimpering are enough to have Sukuna breathing heavily, a low growl, a brief snarl and the restraint pulled taut. Satoru knows very well those sounds — he knows very well his boyfriend, so he breaks the kiss and tilts his head to the side, offering his pulse without slowing down the movements of his hips.
Sukuna's four crimson orbs flare and the pupils blow even wider, darkness engulfing almost entirely the red rings, his breath hitching and Satoru's hands going from his shoulders to his hair do the merciful act of pulling him in, letting his vampire bury his face in the crook of his neck and shoulder.
He feels lips, tongue, sharp teeth rasping against soft skin. Sukuna gives him a moment to regret, he doesn't, — never did — and he sinks his teeth in. The pressure comes first, then the sting, the pain, flesh gives, blood flows, Sukuna feeds and increases the way his maw tongue fucks into Satoru.
He can barely register anything anymore, it's too much. The tongue, the movements, him managing to rub the flat of the muscle on his clit as the tip remains buried inside him, moving, thrusting, hips swaying, teeth and warmth in his neck, soothing tongue making the pain bloom into pleasure. The warmth coils inside his stomach and lower, the familiar sensation taking his body and mind, and soon enough he's writhing and spasming under the big beat's grip, being held down and forced down until he's calm, until he rides down his orgasm to the point of eyes fluttering shut and breath easing.
Sukuna stops feeding before Satoru can feel the cold sweat breaking and the need to vomit — he learned how to read his boyfriend and his limits.
A stroke of his tongue on the wound is enough to stop the blood flowing out.
Later — much later, when his legs are jelly and his voice is wrecked and he’s boneless against an inhumanly broad chest — Satoru drags his face up from the hollow of Sukuna’s throat, squints blearily at him, and manages.
“Still not a monster.”
Sukuna huffs, all four eyes heavy-lidded, arms banded around him like he’s a hoard the dragon has finally claimed. “You’re delirious,” he murmurs.
“Deliriously into you,” Satoru corrects, and drops a lazy kiss at the corner of his bloodied mouth.
Sukuna’s answering smile — both of them — is sharp and soft at once.
“Good,” he says, and holds him closer.
If you want to make a request, support my writing or prefer to read it on Ao3, the links are below:
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