Warden • They/Any • 29 • Queer & Slavic Artist • Obsessed with sukugo & sukugego in any variation ✌️ • JJK • Sometimes suggestive • Doodle Request on Strawpage
Hi, Im Warden and welcome to my jjk brainrot sideblog
♡ • Artist | 30
♡ • Mostly Sukugo and Okkoita 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
Here's an artist pre-view from Warden! @frenzied--flame
Pre-orders below:
💬 1 🔁 15 ❤️ 22 · 👹 PRE-ORDERS FOR HIKYO EKI ARE NOW OPEN! 👹
It's the moment you've been waiting for! Pre-orders for the Hikyo Eki are now
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
Our Carrd:
Hikyō eki 秘境駅 is a for-charity project featuring NSFW and dead dove scenes between different JJK pairings.
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
🎀 ; 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 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.
