Chapter Text
Sukuna breathed slowly. He inhaled. Counted to four. Exhaled. Counted to seven. Inhaled. Repeated the cycle. In here, where the walls were bare and the sun could not count the hours for him, breathing kept him sane. Not that he was an easy man to break. No, he had made a career out of being difficult to bend, let alone breaking apart. So he breathed again, tapped his fingers against his thigh, and looked at the lone red light above the door.
His knuckles throbbed. This was a comfortable pain. The bones in his hands had cracked and healed so many times that he could push them against concrete and still bare it. Sharp jabs against bone, against teeth, were nothing. An incisor had sliced his third knuckle open. Blood pooled on the back of his hand, already flaky and dry. In a few hours, when the guards came to give him dinner he wouldn't eat, they would bring the first aid supplies and leave him to it. The nurse hardly wanted to see him after last time.
Sukuna smiled at the memory, at the feel of her cartilage between his teeth. She had leaned too close with that sneer on her face. Looking at him as if he were the scum in the room. The human ear is really only attached to the head by thin strands of skin. He had torn half of it off before the guards heard her screams. Blood ran so deliciously down her pale skin that Sukuna had the urge to lick it off, have it run over his own lips like a healing broth.
The guards had tased him instead. That was two stints ago. He was surprised that nurse was still around. He had caught glimpses of her, remembered the taste of her in his mouth. To her credit, she never shied away from his gaze. He had to give her dues for that. Not many met the eyes of Sukuna Ryoumen, the king of curses, and lived to tell the tale.
He laughed at his own moniker. It had followed him over the years. With every new mouth that cursed him, his existence, his death, it gained popularity. It was the same thing the man he had beaten yelled at him. He had been a new thing, looking to survive Kuchu Prison in the only way one knew how: fear. If someone could pin Sukuna, they could rule where he stood. But Sukuna did not make a habit of losing, just like he had never made a habit of breaking.
So he breathed as he sat in his usual solitary confinement. This stall may as well have had his name on it for all the times he'd been thrown in. Sometimes, the silence was something like relief. The sound of others, the press of their bodies, the stench of humanity... It disgusted Sukuna to the core. He hated the way he could smell the desperation coating the other man's skin, the sweat that stained his clothes, the salt that sat so openly on his vulnerable flesh. When Sukuna had punched his nose, feeling the sharp break of bone underneath, it was with no pride. Someone had challenged him. He didn't back down. Annihilation was the only thing to stop it from happening again.
When he punched him again, fingers smashing against his teeth, his jaw, sickening cracks sinking into the dirt of the yard, he felt nothing. This was boring. This fight was boring. The man didn't fight back. He crumpled under the first punch. Sukuna did not. When he finished him off, the man's pinky finger in his mouth before he spit it out onto the dirt, the man was nearly unrecognizable. Sukuna would be surprised if he survived the night. The guards waited, as they always did, to haul him off. He had to take punishment, but not even them, with their batons and tasers, were stupid enough to get between Sukuna and his newest toy. They had all learned the consequences of that.
But he didn't fight them as they dragged him off to solitary. He never did. When they were back in the building, he shrugged their hands off him and walked into his cell, as he always did. He closed the door on himself, stared at the little red light, and flexed his fingers. He breathed. Inhaled. Counted to four. Exhaled. Counted to seven. And repeated the cycle.
***
When not in solitary, Sukuna didn't share his cell with anyone. They knew better than that. This was his third stint in nearly as many years, and they only had him for six months. He was on month two of his sentence, his previous entries inked carefully over his skin. Sharp ridges that ringed around his arms, his stomach, creeping up his neck and onto his face. It would be time for another once he got out. Maybe this time he would succumb to a back piece as many of his members had done.
When they first hauled him in, they had roomed him with a slight little thing. He had done nothing to harm Sukuna. In fact, the boy, since he could hardly be older than twenty, had nearly shit himself when he saw his cell mate. Though, they were both in Kuchu, the boy must have done something terrible to end up in the same place as him. Whatever it was, it was clear he regretted it as soon as he saw one of the deadliest yakuza members enter the room. He stayed out of Sukuna's way. He deferred to him. He bowed at the right times, he did not speak, he did the chores Sukuna was supposed to do.
But the fact was, he was in Sukuna's space. Sukuna did not tolerate anyone in his space. So he felt no mercy when he killed the man. He made it quick, at the very least. He couldn't add it to his sentence, of course, so with the help of a fat fucking check, it was a shame the poor man died of a heart attack, as the guards reported. As had every inmate they tried to put with him over the years, until they stopped trying. Until they left him the fuck alone. That's all he wanted when the prosecutors hauled him into that courtroom, fate sealed when they slapped the handcuffs on his wrists. They would never catch him for what he was due, but every few years they would try. Fail miserably. But still try.
When they opened up the heavy confinement door and let him back to his cell, he looked at himself in the grungy mirror. His bed and change of clothing were folded neatly in the corner. His hair was slicked with the oil of not washing, and he felt the grime of ten days of inevitable sweat. Later that night, after he had showered and had eaten something that wasn't miso soup and rice, after he had walked back into his cell instead of doing cleaning duty, he would wipe the mirror down gingerly, taking the grime away from it too.
Sukuna didn't hate prison. It felt like a vacation of sorts. He wasn't on the street, not having to make decisions every minute of every day. He had been to the most exclusive resorts, the most underbellied of places, but there was a rigid sort of peace to Kuchu. He had his rank to protect him, and when that wasn't enough, he had his strength. By now, most people knew better than to challenge him. By now, he could move as he pleased, and no one would say anything about it. When he got out in the next few months he would have to go back to ruling with the iron fist he always did. Sukuna wasn't the same 20-something that killed through the ranks. He was edging his mid-thirties, and his body showed the scars that made up his resume.
The morning after his solitary ended, the sun shone through his lone window. He did miss that, at the very least. He liked his window. The bars casted harsh shadows on his floor, but he leaned against the rays, the warmth seeping into his skin. They were only allowed thirty minutes of yard time a day. Even Sukuna couldn't circumvent that. So he took it seriously. When the guards knocked on his cell to signal breakfast, he rose and carefully folded his sleeping mat. He didn't have to do the chores. He didn't much care for them. Though Sukuna hated mess. His cell was small even if he was alone in it. The clutter made his skin crawl. He rolled the mat dutifully and changed into the uniform. Blue pants and a blue shirt, starkly different than the black coats, tops, and slacks as the guards. The blue was garish against his skin, though the clothes weren't necessarily uncomfortable, so he tolerated it.
They lined up in two equal lines. Twenty-five on each side, ten guards in the middle. That was the thing about Kuchu Prison, it was actually the smallest in Japan. Tucked away near the edge of Kawasaki, hidden by a carefully preserved forest and gates armed to the teeth, Kuchu seemed innocuous. If not for the millions of dollars of security outside, it would look more like an academy than a prison. Except it wasn't an academy. It housed, infamously, the worst criminals the country had to offer. A capacity of a hundred, it had only been full one time in all the years Sukuna had been coming there. The first time he got sentenced, twenty-one and with copper still staining his tongue, it had been a whirlwind. He was the fresh meat. He taught everyone very quickly that he was not next up for slaughter. Others who had come after him had failed in that task, and though Kuchu was just a holding point, it became many's resting place.
The first time he got sentenced, another boss was too. He had killed dozens of people, used women as nothing more than toys, ripping them apart when he was finished. His death toll was higher than Sukuna's age, but it was clear who his competition was. It was clear who held the most power in the room, and it wasn't the man Sukuna so easily killed. The fight was boring. In here, there were no weapons, there were no bullets or knives or guns. It was survival of the fittest, of the most steady fist. Sukuna's were stronger. They were always stronger. And that was that.
In the line, Sukuna felt the presence behind him more than he saw it. It buzzed around him like an annoying fly. He resisted the urge to swat it away. There was no talking in line, no eye contact allowed, but whispers still seemed to creep in between bodies. Such whispers crawled into Sukuna's ears like ants. "There was a fight when you were out," it said, a lilting melody to the off-beat tune. He knew, if he were to look back, he would see mismatched eyes and a patchwork of scars, ugly and roughly knitted back together. Unspeakable damage given a canvas. Though whether Mahito had that done to him, or he did it to himself, Sukuna never knew. He just knew the man was young and eager to please. "Jogo finished it."
Sukuna didn't know why this was relevant to him. He did not care what Jogo did, who he killed, as long as he did not defy Sukuna's orders. He had shown what happened when he did. Jogo was a hotheaded little shit who thought himself important. Who thought himself stronger than Sukuna. He used to have two eyes. Sukuna found himself fond of the memory. Did you know that in some Eastern cultures, eyes are a delicacy? Jogo didn't either. And now he had one eye and a new taste on his tongue. He hadn't been insubordinate since.
Sukuna did nothing except nod in acknowledgement at what Mahito had said. He noticed, though, the excited shuffle towards the dining room. The meals were more or less the same every day. They weren't bad but they weren't good. They were balanced and enough to get them through the activities they were forced to do until the next meal time. But as they got closer to the doors, more and more men started to break the silence rule, causing the guards to reach for their batons, fingers twitching and trigger happy. He almost wished they would. Almost wished to feel the crush of a skull beneath his fingers.
Instead, he turned imperceptibly back to Mahito. He did not have to ask. Mahito rushed to explain, eagerness in his wide eyes. In many ways, he reminded Sukuna of a child. A deadly child. He was still tottering into his twenties, maybe just a year or two above it. But his body count was just as large, if not larger, than Sukuna's had been at that age. Sukuna didn't necessarily kill for pleasure. He killed out of necessity. He killed to keep boundaries. He killed to remind people of their place. He killed like a king.
Mahito killed to play. To explore. From what he had spilled of his own crimes, he had done things like make furniture out of human limbs and bones. He had twisted bodies and let them heal before ending their misery. He had skinned things, played around in the guts of other humans just to understand how they worked. He was young and naive, something vicious and still needy, looking for guidance. He could be powerful. He could be dangerous. Sukuna kept him on a tight leash, and so far, Mahito had not tried to yank. Though he could feel the need to push boundaries writhing beneath the younger's skin. It was in his nature to disobey. It was in Sukuna's nature to discipline. One day, maybe even a day they were both on the outside, they would clash. Sukuna was sure it would not be pretty.
For now, Mahito was content to act as his lap dog. "There's a new cook," Mahito says, glancing around at the guards. Mahito was quick and sly like a snake, but brute strength wasn't his forte. He could actually be hurt by the batons, couldn't stop them with his bare hands in the way Sukuna could. "He's...cute." He said the word with a twist of his mouth, almost spitting them out. "He's fresh." And this was much more up Mahito's alley. He could see the twitch in his fingers, almost like there was a compulsion to rip into that new thing's stomach and see his beating heart.
Sukuna nodded. He found he didn't need to speak most days. There was hardly anyone to speak with. No one here worthy of his careful words. Really, what he missed most on the inside wasn't Uraume, who always waited dutifully for his return, having shuffled and smuggled papers and objects to him while in prison. It wasn't the lavish sprawls of his home, decorated in deep reds and soothing black, welcoming him whenever he came back with its deep tub and expensive kitchen. It wasn't even fresh air. He could survive on what he got here. It was his books. He missed literature. He missed unfettered reading, of diving into words that had traveled from thousands of years into his hands.
Reading had always been something of a guilty pleasure. Sukuna wasn't just brawn. He was smart. He didn't drop out of school, he excelled in it. He had a college degree, something he kept close to the chest. Many of the people he had to deal with, many of the men who thought they could beat him with muscle alone, were stupid in ways Sukuna almost couldn't bare. They thought with their dicks, their wallets, and their fists. Just about anything other than their brains. Which, Sukuna supposes, is why their territories changed hands once every few years, and he had both held and expanded his own over the course of a decade.
Every now and then Uraume would find a particularly intriguing volume and send it his way. He had a small bookshelf in his cell. Forbidden objects of course. No one was brave enough to take them from him. He thumbed through them on days where he couldn't stand the feel of others. Where he isolated himself instead of forcing the guards to do it. At least that way, he could read. The same pages over and over, but still reading.
He almost wished he had snuck a volume into his uniform as the chatter grew louder the closer they got to the food line. They weren't supposed to speak, but even the guards seemed to be distracted by the buzz inside. When Sukuna finally, finally entered the cafeteria, he could see why.
The first thing he could think was...bright. Like the sun in his cell, the red bulb in solitary, the shine on his mirror. Even though he wore the same colors as the guards, the only difference being a chef's jacket buttoned up to his throat, he was undoubtedly shining. His smile, pointed towards someone in line as he carefully plated their tray, was something like blinding, something like the sun, and many of these men had been deprived of true warmth for years.
When he opened his eyes, they were the color of amber. The soft tufts of pink on top of his head only accentuated the color, and his cheery demeanor wasn't just on his face, it was everywhere. In every movement, in every word Sukuna vaguely heard. He already knew peoples' names. He greeted them in earnest, asking them about their day as if they did not have the same day every day. He listened to their responses, got men who had strangled out human lives with their bare hands to laugh and say thank you. He placed the tray carefully in their hands and waived them off before turning to the next person like they were paying customers and not the country's worst criminals.
Mahito shifted beside him, eyes narrowing at the young man. They had to be similar in age. The new cook still had a fresh face, but his cheeks had hollowed with age, his jaw sharp and brows pronounced. Mahito sneered at the way he laughed, a soft thing, at whatever some inmate said. Sukuna couldn't bother to remember his name. There were only a few he blessed with that level of work. "His skin is so pretty," Mahito said, idly looking over the boy's toned form. His voice was anything except appreciative. It was hungry.
Sukuna imagined sinking his teeth into that boy's throat. It seemed so supple still despite his age, so unmarked. He wondered what it would be like to rip out his tendons with his teeth alone, how his blood would taste. He eyed the comfortable movements around the other prisoners, even that of Toji, who was locked up for life and had been for almost five years. It was a shame. Sukuna had used his services before. He was cold, quick, and clean. The best hitman until he wasn't. Toji was older than himself. Sukuna knew he had lost his wife–that he had sent his kid away. Even he didn't know the brat's name, which was probably a good thing. A kid in this life was a death sentence. But they'd worked together enough to barter a mutual understanding. Out of everyone here, Sukuna was the most sure Toji would give him the best fight. He would win, of course, because he always won, but at least it would be fun.
Toji leaned into the kid's space, scar stretching as he smiled down at the new cook, who didn't react in the slightest to the predatory gaze in the killer's eyes. He just plated the food carefully and slid it over to Toji, who smirked, flexed in an annoyingly obvious way, and moved along. The cook waived goodbye and once again turned. Sukuna could practically smell the lust washing off all the bodies in here. When it came to fresh meat, for a chance of a new hole to fuck, gender no longer mattered. He could see it in the cruel glint of the men's eyes, of the way they roamed over the cook's form like sharks fighting over chum.
Sukuna stepped into the line. The man in front of him flinched, turning around but decidedly not looking up. Good. Sukuna didn't feel like going back to solitary so soon. He skittered forward, barely paying any attention to the new cook even as he tried to make conversation. He accepted the food and sat somewhere unnoticeable. Sukuna stepped forward.
"Oh, I don't think I've met you before. Are you new here?" The voice was...welcoming. Conversational. Didn't this brat know where he was? When Sukuna looked down, taller than the cook in front of him, the entire cafeteria went still. Sukuna Ryoumen's crimson gaze landed on the little thing in front of him.
"Brat. What's your name?" The words were not soft around the edges like the cook's. They were blunt and yet still jagged around the edges, reeking of authority even the warden struggled to exude.
The kid didn't even flinch. He looked up into Sukuna's eyes. He smiled, little fangs peeking out from the corners of his mouth. "Itadori Yuuji, at your service!" He bowed lightly before popping back up to start plating. "You?"
Mahito smiled next to him. Sukuna searched the brat's eyes for anything. Any spark of recognition. Any shimmer of fear. Any deference that was not only encouraged but required from the older man. But there was nothing. He had met Sukuna's gaze head on, and he had done so with a smile. Sukuna blinked. "Sukuna."
Yuuji smiled again. He pushed the tray towards Sukuna. He gave him a few napkins from the dispenser next to him, fingers clumsily folding them and placing them on the tray. "I hope you enjoy, Sukuna!" He bowed again. He turned to Mahito. He dismissed the King of Curses. A pin could drop and it would be the same sound as a bomb. The entire cafeteria looked at them. Either Yuuji was entirely oblivious, or he simply did not care. Sukuna's gaze narrowed. He tilted his head.
Mahito's jaw opened slightly, looking furtively between Yuuji and then Sukuna, before a malicious grin spread over his stitched and scarred face. He was clearly waiting for Sukuna to do something. To unleash what he knew to be a king's fury on someone who addressed him so boldly, who looked into his eyes without permission.
"You're new," Sukuna said. It was not a question.
Yuuji looked back over to him, nodding. There was something so bubbly about him it almost hurt to look at. "Yep! They said the old cook quit because of his health. I hope to bring you all delicious meals in his wake!"
Sukuna followed the line of Yuuji's carotid. The way it pulsed evenly. He ran a tongue over his teeth, chasing a copper that was no longer there. "Make good on that hope, brat," he said, picking up his tray. He felt the strength of Yuuji's beaming smile hit his back. It burned.
"Oh, Mahito," Yuuji said, turning back to the dog. "Sorry. Here's your plate."
"Thank you, Yuuji," Mahito purred. When Sukuna sat, he followed the grip of Mahito's hand over Yuuji's wrist. The way Mahito's thumb pressed so hard into Yuuji's skin, it turned white. "I'll make sure to eat it all." Yuuji's smile faltered, but didn't fall, and he could see the aborted jerk of taking his wrist back. They weren't supposed to touch. Sukuna half hoped the guards would see and whack Mahito around a few times. The little shit was getting on his nerves.
But Yuuji didn't alert anyone. He just smiled. Again. And gently pushed the tray over. Mahito took it harshly, spilling some broth over the sides of the bowl. The cafeteria had gone to hushed whispers, and still they crawled over Sukuna's skin. He doesn't know why he didn't snap the little thing's neck. Its heart just pumped so prettily, so steadily in its veins that Sukuna felt the need to keep watching it. He wanted to press his nails against Yuuji's jugular and watch it jump for air, wanted to feel it writhe beneath his flesh. For the first time since entering Kuchu Prison, Sukuna found himself intrigued.