Chapter Text
“Hey, look at that guy.”
“Who—”
“There, by the gates—looks like some delinquent.”
“No way, he’s too old.”
“Not old old. He’s hot.”
“Are you serious? He looks like some yakuza guy—look at those tattoos.”
“Tattoos don’t mean someone’s yakuza, you idiot. Though he does look kinda…”
“Scary.”
“Scary hot.”
Yuuji turns around, some cursed sixth sense flaring at the overheard conversation. The gaggle of students—first-years, he thinks—under the tree are still staring in the direction of the gates, trading glances and muttering not all that quietly.
They’re not the only ones. Classes just got over, and there are plenty of students left on the school grounds, some in club gear but most still in their uniforms, on the way out or waiting for friends or just lingering on the campus, and right now, a good chunk of them are staring in the same direction.
“Weird how someone can look that creepy with pink hair though,” one of the first-years says, her expression something Yuuji can’t even begin to interpret.
The sense of dread triples.
Yuuji doesn’t want to look. He really, really doesn’t. Ignorance can be so blissful.
“What’s the fuss?” says a very familiar voice, sharp with irritation. “Who’s that guy?”
“How would I know?” Fushiguro tells Kugisaki. “Hey, Itadori.”
“Hi,” Yuuji says numbly, still avoiding looking at the gates.
“What’s wrong with you?” Kugisaki asks, and even without looking at her, Yuuji can feel her eyes scanning him, more piercing than any X-ray. “Oi, you seen a ghost or something?”
“Worse,” Yuuji mutters. “I think.”
“Huh?”
Yuuji looks.
“Shit,” he says, more resigned than surprised. “What the hell is he doing here?”
“Who are you talking about?” Fushiguro asks. Then, before Yuuji can reply— “The guy at the gates? You know him?”
“…He’s my uncle.”
There’s a moment of silence.
Yuuji continues staring at Sukuna, who’s scowling down at his phone. No one just standing on the sidewalk minding their own business should attract so much attention, but Yuuji’s never known Sukuna to not draw eyes anywhere he goes.
It’s the tattoos—who the hell gets their face tattooed? The bastard looks like some anime villain.
Yuuji’s still got the scar from the first time he said that out loud. It took the fifth time till he could return the favor.
“I can see the resemblance,” Fushiguro ventures after a long moment.
“Don’t remind me.” Yuuji’s spent most of his life with people commenting on how his looks are such a mix of his uncle and his dad. When he was a kid, it sounded like a compliment. Then he grew up and started being able to tell just how many of those people had actually met Sukuna.
“It’s only the hair,” Kugisaki says critically. “That guy looks like a serial killer.”
“Let’s hope he isn’t,” comes Fushiguro’s dry response. “Because he’s looking at us.”
He sure is. Looking isn’t the right word though—glaring, more like. Sukuna looks ten seconds away from barging into the school and dragging Yuuji away by the hair. That’s not a dubious honor Yuuji’s had yet, but it’s the exact kind of thing his asshole uncle would do.
“So, why is he here?” Kugisaki asks.
“Hell if I know,” Yuuji says, allowing himself a moment of despair. Then he steels himself. “I should…probably go though. Sorry, guys. Can we go to that café tomorrow? Or you two can go without me—”
“Tomorrow’s fine,” Fushiguro cuts in.
“Yeah, you can treat us both to compensate,” Kugisaki adds.
“Hey—”
“You gonna introduce us?” she asks, casually ignoring Yuuji’s protest.
“Hell no! I don’t want you two anywhere near that guy.”
Kugisaki and Fushiguro exchange a look.
“Is he a serial killer?” Kugisaki asks, voice pitched low.
“No,” Yuuji says, taking a brave step forward. “Probably not.”
Fushiguro’s eyebrow arches sharply up. “Probably?”
“Wouldn’t put it past him,” Yuuji mutters, then shakes his head. “No, I’m kidding. He’s just an asshole. I’ll see you guys tomorrow. Bye!”
“Wait a minute—”
“Itadori—”
Yuuji practically sprints to the entrance, skidding to a stop a few feet away from his scowling uncle.
“Took you long enough,” Sukuna grumbles, shoving his phone into his pocket.
“Why the hell are you here?”
“Your parents are out of town,” Sukuna says. “Again. You’re staying with me.”
Yuuji sighs. “I still don’t get why you’re here to pick me up like I’m some kid.”
Something heads for Yuuji’s face at high velocity.
It smacks into his palm.
Yuuji blinks down at the bright red cover of his own phone.
“Take that shit with you next time, idiot.”
“Wh—” A tap on the screen shows he’s got twelve missed calls from his parents—mostly his dad. “Shit.”
“Mind your fucking language.”
Yuuji rolls his eyes. “Whatever. I’m not used to having this thing. You could’ve just waited for me at home.”
Sukuna takes a threatening step forward. “I look like your butler, brat?”
Yuuji makes a show of giving Sukuna a once-over. He’s dressed…exactly like he always dresses, in a loose tank top and a looser pair of sweatpants. Yuuji can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen Sukuna in anything else, and two of those were formal occasions: his parents’ wedding when he was five and his grandfather’s funeral last year.
“No,” he says, staring pointedly at the swell of Sukuna’s pecs over the low-cut neck of the tank. It’s practically cleavage. “You really don’t.”
Sukuna’s smile gains an unsettling amount of teeth.
Then his gaze snags on something over Yuuji’s shoulder, and the grin twists into a sneer. “What are you maggots staring at?”
There’s a smattering of yelps from behind him. Someone laughs.
Sukuna’s sneer becomes a snarl.
Yuuji snorts, amused despite himself, and closes the distance to Sukuna, till they’re face to face—or face to neck, really.
Why are you so big? Yuuji wonders, not for the first and definitely not for the last time. Until his growth spurt midway through the last year, he only reached Sukuna’s chest. But Yuuji kinda liked that over this. Not that there’s anything wrong with Sukuna’s neck. It’s thick, with tendons and muscles shifting and flexing every time he so much as twitches. It’s framed by the ink on his shoulders, a line of black squares vanishing into the tank.
The rest of him is no different, big and solid all over.
When Yuuji shoves him back, Sukuna’s stomach is like steel under his palms.
“Let’s just go,” Yuuji says, continuing to push Sukuna back while keeping pace.
He’s tempted to turn around and see whether Fushiguro and Kugisaki are in the crowd that’s undoubtedly watching the two of them, but he resists the urge. Handling Sukuna needs all of his focus anyway; there’s nothing harmless about the way he’s peering down at Yuuji, his expression a mixture of considering and irritated. No wonder Kugisaki said he looks like a serial killer.
As if on cue, Sukuna asks, “Worried I’ll scare your little friends?”
“Too late,” Yuuji deadpans. “They already think you’re some criminal.”
“Creeps, the lot of you.”
“You’re calling them that? Seriously?”
Sukuna scoffs and finally knocks Yuuji’s hands off his stomach, turning around on his heels and marching off. They’re headed to the station, probably. Yuuji’s home is within walking distance from his school, but Sukuna’s place is a ways away, in a busier part of the city. When Yuuji was younger, that was exciting enough that he didn’t complain about staying with his uncle, even though he was scared of him. It didn’t happen often anyway. His grandpa usually took him off his parents’ hands, and his brief stays with Sukuna remained a thrilling, dreadful novelty.
It was different the last few years. His grandpa getting sick didn’t put any kind of a damper on his parents’ wanderlust—well, his mum’s wanderlust and his dad’s indulgence. Probably for the best. They didn’t get along with his grandpa anyway. Sukuna didn’t either, but he also didn’t care that Yuuji spent every evening after school haunting the hospital until the nurses very gently kicked him out.
Now his grandpa’s gone and Yuuji’s parents are around a little more, but he’s still more familiar with the shadowed corners of Sukuna’s seventh-story apartment than the halls of his own house.
“You know,” he says, watching Sukuna’s boots—hell of a choice considering the rest of his clothes, but this guy’s never made sense anyway—eat up the ground, “I’m not a kid anymore. I can stay home alone.”
“Tell that to your bleeding heart of a father,” Sukuna says without turning around. “You think I want you stinking up my place?”
You’re here, Yuuji doesn’t say. See, he’s got sense.
Sometimes.
“You can just lie to him,” he says instead. “You do that all the time.”
Sukuna tilts his head, not quite looking at Yuuji but giving the impression of it anyway. “Yeah, for shit that’s worth the effort. You’re not.”
“Sure,” Yuuji drawls. “That’s why.”
“You wanna die, brat?”
“As if you could kill me, old man.”
Sukuna stops and spins around in an unfairly graceful motion that Yuuji sees coming out of pure experience with this man’s bullshit. He ducks under a half-hearted swipe and backs off, laughing despite how unwise it is. Sukuna glares daggers at him but doesn’t make more of an effort, maybe because they’re in public. He just curses under his breath and turns back around, stalking forward.
Yuuji follows, keeping a careful distance between them. Sukuna’s not above dirty tricks, and he’s never, ever complacent. Yuuji learned that the hard way.
The distance is good for other things too. Like this, he’s got a generous view of Sukuna’s…everything.
His shoulders are unfairly broad. There’s power in them. Yuuji’s felt that firsthand more times than he’d like, before he learned to like it. The rest of him is thick too, bulky with muscle all over instead of tapering delicately toward the hips like he’s seen in some of the more built guys at school. Even Yuuji’s own body is more like that instead of Sukuna’s, but he has a feeling that won’t be the case in a few years. He’s seen pictures of his dad and Sukuna when they were his age; he knows whose body he’s inherited.
Yuuji’s eyes drop, after a surreptitious look around to see whether any of the passers-by are paying him any attention. They’re not, though more than one pair of eyes stray to Sukuna.
The hem of the tank top falls past Sukuna’s ass, but one corner of it is tucked into the waistband—not on purpose, just a careless catch of fabric on fabric. Still, it bares most of his ass, and the sweatpants are loose along Sukuna’s legs but obscenely clingy at this part. There’s a lot to cling to.
Scary hot, that one guy said. Most of the others seemed to agree.
Yuuji can’t really blame them. He’s thought that and worse since he was twelve.
-
Ever since Yuuji learned just how much rent Sukuna pays for his apartment, he’s thought that it’s not worth the money. It’s not that it’s small. Sure, the layout feels cramped compared to Yuuji’s house, but a three-bedroom apartment is more than enough for a single guy living alone—or a guy sometimes reluctantly housing his nephew. Even Yuuji would choose this place over his house, with too many bedrooms scattered across two stories.
It’s not the space that bothers him; it’s the light—the lack of it.
There are windows, but half of them open to the grey-painted wall of the neighboring apartment complex. Below, the narrow alley between the two buildings seems to suck in the light, and the only times it looks even remotely pleasant is when it rains. The others aren’t as bad, but Sukuna keeps them closed all the time anyway, and Yuuji learned as a kid that he’s got no say in his uncle’s dubious décor choices.
The only pleasant places in the entire apartment are the tiny balconies attached to both their bedrooms—well, Sukuna’s bedroom and the guest room that doubles as Yuuji’s room when he’s here. Yuuji prefers the one in Sukuna’s room though. It’s a little brighter, even if the master of the room is anything but.
Today, Sukuna made a beeline for his room after letting Yuuji in, with just a gruff order for him to behave himself. It’s been hours since then, even the sun now down, and Sukuna hasn’t emerged.
Yuuji has no idea what he’s doing in there. Working, maybe—whatever that involves. He’s never been able to figure it out, only that it’s not just one thing. Back when he bothered to ask, no one—not even his dad—gave him a straight answer either.
These days, he’s pretty sure it’s not all that legal. Some of it must be. He’s visited Sukuna’s workplaces a couple of times over the years, once on accident and once with his dad, and the ramen stand and the garage probably weren’t fronts for some weird shit. But he’s caught snippets of conversations over the years too—things his parents and even his grandfather didn’t want him hearing.
Sukuna’s smart, apparently. Yuuji would be dubious—the guy’s a walking musclehead—but even his mum agrees, and he knows they wouldn’t say that if it weren’t true.
Yuuji’s as clueless about the whole thing at sixteen as he was at six. Yakuza, those first-years at the school guessed, and Yuuji’s sure they’re not the only ones. Sukuna sure looks the part—the face alone, though the ink sure doesn’t help.
Maybe he’ll get to the bottom of it someday. Hopefully before the police cart Sukuna off to prison or the bastard loses a finger to something bigger and toothier than him. Actually, the finger thing wouldn’t be so bad. It’d take a lot for Yuuji to feel sympathy for his uncle.
But it’s his uncle.
For now, all that matters is that he’s got company for the night. Even these dark rooms are better than empty ones.
And when Sukuna finally comes out of his cave and heads to the kitchen, Yuuji’s reminded very forcefully of the other perk of living with his uncle—the food.
Sukuna’s an amazing cook.
He also likes to threaten to feed Yuuji his own liver, but that’s a little better than when he was younger and the usual threat was that Sukuna would eat him. With how big Sukuna seemed to him back then, it felt pretty plausible.
He still uses that threat, but—
Well, he can try. Yuuji will bite back though.
“The fuck are you grinning about?”
Yuuji blinks, realizing he’s been staring straight at Sukuna while indulging in a fantasy or two. “Nothing?”
Sukuna frowns. “I swear you get creepier by the day.”
“You don’t get to say that after the shit you pulled today. Even my friends were freaked out.”
“Pussies.”
“Hey!”
Sukuna smirks. “Eat your food, brat, before I turn—”
“—me into dinner,” Yuuji completes, popping a piece of meat into his mouth. “Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard that before.”
Sukuna kicks him under the table.
Yuuji catches that foot as it withdraws, trapping it between his calves. His bone throbs where Sukuna made contact, and Yuuji tries to get some form of revenge, squeezing the ankle between his muscles.
Sukuna just snorts, his eyes dropping back to his plate as he resumes eating.
He’s so unfair sometimes.
Yuuji sighs and stops trying to crush Sukuna’s ankle, but he doesn’t let the foot go, keeping it there between his legs—half spite, half something else. It’s as big as the rest of his uncle, but it’s still just a foot—oddly delicate as far as body parts go. It’s not, really. Yuuji’s been pinned under it often enough, that cruel heel grinding into his thigh and stomach and chest and head.
He dreams of it now and then. Sometimes, they’re not dreams at all, and sometimes, it’s his foot on Sukuna’s belly, his throat, his face.
Sukuna tugs the foot away and stands up, taking his empty plate to the sink. Yuuji finishes the rest of his meal in silence.
Cleaning up is on Yuuji, both the dishes and the mess of the cooking itself. Sukuna’s as chaotic in the kitchen as he is in everything else, but even as Yuuji spends nearly an hour scrubbing the counters and drowning in dirty plates, he has no complaints. The alternative is cooking and eating himself. His mum keeps odd hours, and his dad tries to get them all together for at least one meal every day—every day they’re all home, which is rare enough—but he’s not very good at it. The last time Yuuji had regular dinners with his family was when his grandpa was alive and well enough to at least eat at the table with Yuuji.
Sharing meals with Sukuna can’t ever be compared to that, but it’s something.
Maybe he can have Fushiguro and Kugisaki over sometime. None of them have visited each other yet, even though they spent most of the summer together. Yuuji didn’t meet them till his first year of high school was almost over, and every day, he regrets not knowing them sooner.
They’re fun. Quiet Fushiguro and fiery Kugisaki, except there’s so much more to them both. Something about spending time with them makes all his old friendships seem so…lonely.
He slaps himself, wet palms snapping against his cheeks. “Quit it.”
“Oi, if you’re finally losing it, go do it outside,” Sukuna says from the couch, as helpful as ever. “I don’t want the mess.”
“Fuck you,” Yuuji mutters under his breath, scrubbing another plate.
Sukuna snorts like he’s heard it anyway. When Yuuji turns to look at him over his shoulder, he finds him splayed on the couch, tapping on his phone with a bored expression that doesn’t make his face look any kinder than his usual scowl does. The rest of him is a better view. He’s still wearing the same clothes, but the tank top has ridden up and the waistband has slid down, baring the cutting curve of a hipbone and a hint of sculpted abs. There’s no ink there, for now, but Yuuji wouldn’t be surprised if that also shows up one of these days—maybe around the thin pink scar there, highlighting it or even covering it up.
Yuuji will probably do something drastic then.
“You done?” Sukuna asks without looking up from his phone.
Yuuji jumps a little, whipping his head back to the sink. “Not yet.”
“Hurry it up.”
“Yeah, yeah…”
It takes a few more minutes, and there are noises from behind him—snippets of music and words from Sukuna’s phone, followed by the softer sounds of that big body moving about.
None of it prepares Yuuji for the sight that greets him when he turns around.
Sukuna’s doing push-ups on the floor beside the couch.
Yuuji opens his mouth and closes it without a sound. Any question he could ask only has one answer—Sukuna’s Sukuna.
And it’s not like this is the first or fifteenth time he’s put on a show in random parts of the apartment. There’s a pull-up bar installed on his bedroom doorway, and the third room is a mini gym. Yuuji helps himself to the equipment all the time, and sure, Sukuna bitches about it, but he doesn’t actually stop Yuuji—unless the spars and the damage that follow count.
This is kinda ridiculous even for Sukuna though. They just ate.
Sukuna’s silent, his movements smooth and machine-like. His muscles bulge, drawing Yuuji’s eyes to biceps the size of his head. The swirling patterns there are even more eye-catching like this, ink and skin rippling with every movement. Sweat’s starting to bead on Sukuna’s skin, his throat and the exposed parts of his back gleaming under the bright fluorescent light. There are dark patches on the tank top—give it a while and the whole thing will be drenched.
Yuuji leans back against the counter, letting it take more of his weight.
He even pries his eyes away, staring at the ceiling for a moment. It doesn’t help much. He can still see Sukuna move in his periphery. Worse, the sight of his thick, sweaty muscles is branded into the back of Yuuji’s eyelids, haunting him even when he screws his eyes shut.
A second later, he’s staring at the real thing again, his breath shuddering out of him. Sukuna doesn’t seem to have any intention of stopping. At least his breathing is a little louder now, not that the sound of those hot, huffed breaths is doing Yuuji any favors.
“Hey,” Yuuji calls, his voice coming out a little too low. Sukuna doesn’t really react, but Yuuji thinks he sees him pause for a fraction of a second, arms half bent under him. Yuuji bites the inside of his mouth, sucking in a bracing breath to say, “Remember when I used to sit on your back when you did this?”
Sukuna grunts.
That’s acknowledgment, probably. It was a while ago, when Yuuji was still in the single digits. He’s pretty sure his dad is the one who started it, putting Yuuji’s tiny self on the vast expanse of his uncle’s prone body. Sukuna cussed at first, Yuuji remembers that, but his dad just laughed and kept Yuuji there, holding him steady while Sukuna pushed his body up and down with growing violence.
Yuuji’s not sure when or why he decided he’d clamber on top of Sukuna himself, but he did it and kept doing it. Sukuna never stopped him, though he sure did try to buck Yuuji off with the sheer force of his movements. Yuuji doesn’t remember the decision to stop either, only that the last time he sat on his uncle like that, half wary and half gleeful, was years ago.
“Think we could do it again?” Yuuji hears himself ask, like his mouth and his mind are a little out of sync.
Sukuna actually stops, with his arms fully outstretched. He turns his head, pinning Yuuji with a narrow-eyed glare. “The fuck are you on?”
“I’m just asking!”
Sukuna’s eyes narrow further. “Like hell.”
He mutters something else, too low for Yuuji to catch, and resumes the push-ups, noticeably faster and more violent than before. For a moment, Yuuji just watches the growing stains on his tank top, the red of it turning darker and wetter along Sukuna’s sides and back. The black sweatpants don’t show it, but if Yuuji slid his hand into the space between Sukuna’s thighs, he’d find damp fabric.
“I get it,” Yuuji says. “I mean, I’m a lot heavier now, and you’re all old. You’d break something.”
Sukuna stills, everywhere.
For a moment, there’s no noise, not even breathing. Yuuji’s chest burns around a hundred different things.
“Get on.”
Yuuji viciously strangles a shudder, gripping the counters even harder.
“You sure, oji-san?” The title sits awkwardly on his tongue; there’s something viscerally wrong about calling Sukuna that. It’s mostly just habit, but it doesn’t help that Yuuji was a toddler the last time he bothered respecting this man. “I don’t want to hurt you. Dad would be sad. Mum would be…annoyed.”
And even though Yuuji’s sure that his climbing on Sukuna won’t actually break anything, picturing those reactions still makes him wince. They’re both bad in their own ways. His dad gets weirdly clingy when he’s sad, and that alone isn’t bad, but he also keeps trying to get them all together and smooth things over, and historically, that hasn’t worked out. His mum doesn’t care the same way, but they do get pretty irritated about having to stitch up family. You’d think they’d just let him go to the doctor instead, but the few times Yuuji suggested that, the look he got in return made his insides shrivel.
They’ll probably allow it if Yuuji gets injured badly enough to need fancy equipment, but so far, it’s just been bruises and a bunch of cuts.
A low, rumbling noise yanks Yuuji out of that trip down nightmare lane.
He blinks at Sukuna’s glaring face. “Did you just growl?”
“Get. On.” Sukuna bares his teeth, an animal smile. “Before I throw you out the fucking window.”
Yuuji holds up his hands. “Alright, alright, I was just asking—”
Sukuna growls again, and Yuuji scampers over. He practically skips along the first few feet, but he slows when he’s closer, the reality of the situation sinking in.
This is really happening.
“You, uh, wanna lie down first?” Yuuji asks, staring down at the clenched muscles of Sukuna’s back.
“No,” Sukuna grits out. His head is hung low, baring his sweat-slick nape. “Stop stalling and get it over with.”
Yuuji nods, not caring that Sukuna can’t see. He bends down, pressing a slightly shaky hand to Sukuna’s shoulder.
The logistics of it all hit him then. It’s not like he can just plop his ass down. The last time he did this, he could sit cross-legged on Sukuna’s back, easy, but Yuuji’s a hell of a lot bigger and many, many kilos heavier now.
There’s a hot, hollow feeling in his gut—some perverse thrill.
He straightens up and steps over Sukuna, till he’s standing with his legs on either side of his uncle’s waist. The broad back under him ripples, Sukuna shifting without really changing the angle or height of his body. Yuuji leans down again, bracing both hands on Sukuna’s shoulders.
The muscles under his palms are hot and damp from exertion. They flex, and Yuuji grips tighter in instinctive response, shuddering all over at the sheer power he’s feeling.
“Oi, brat,” Sukuna says, a nasty edge to his voice, “those ain’t tits. Stop groping and move.”
Yuuji swallows all the things he wants to say to that, moving as asked. And maybe he digs his knee into Sukuna’s back harder than needed, but the answering grunt would have made it worth it even if he’d felt any guilt.
He clamps his hands down even harder on Sukuna’s shoulders, letting them take his weight as he hauls his other leg up.
Sukuna collapses—only halfway, and it’s infuriatingly controlled too, but it’s something.
“You okay?” Yuuji asks, and it’s hard to keep his voice bland, empty of laughter and something a hell of a lot worse, but he manages it, just barely. “Should I get off?”
Sukuna mutters something, an indistinct rush of noise that Yuuji barely recognizes as words. Then— “Commit, you cowardly little shit. Sit properly, for fuck’s sake.”
“What the hell does that even—” Yuuji cuts himself off, shaking his head and adjusting his position.
It’s a lot less easy than it was in the fantasy. Sukuna’s big, yeah, but like this, he doesn’t seem as big as he usually does. Or maybe Yuuji’s just bigger than he thought. He settled into a good ninety kilos after that last growth spurt, and it’s not just the added height. Sukuna’s still broader and more muscled, but like this, there’s not as much space on his back as Yuuji thought, and every time he so much as breathes, he feels like he’s going to topple to the side.
It’s still weirdly, breathtakingly fun.
In the end, Yuuji arranges himself into the world’s most awkward seiza, right there on top of his panting, trembling uncle.
It’s a good look on Sukuna. A good feel.
“Alright,” Yuuji says, slowly sliding his hands from Sukuna’s shoulders to the twin blades jutting out under them, thick and hard even through the tank. “You can move now.”
He thinks Sukuna snarls.
But he does move. A slow, steady descent. A very long pause. A staggering rise.
His muscles flex and bulge under Yuuji, sweat slicking his palms and heat seeping into his flesh.
Fuck, Yuuji thinks, biting his lip till the skin splits.
The pain and the blood don’t calm him down any.
Sukuna does another push-up, slower but steadier than the last. Veins pulse on his neck and his arms, the skin there turning an alarming red. Yuuji wants to touch them, but his hands are frozen.
All of him is frozen.
Sukuna lowers himself again, his muscles swelling and shifting. Yuuji stares and stares and feels, his own body pulling tighter and tighter. The sounds Sukuna’s making are even worse—grunts and gasps, subtly different from how he sounds when they’re sparring and so, so dirty.
His forehead presses against the ground. His torso alone moves with a great, heaving breath.
Yuuji moves with it.
“Get off,” Sukuna says, as brusquely as he ordered Yuuji to get on. “You’ve had your fun.”
Sukuna has no idea how right he is—or how wrong.
“One more,” Yuuji rasps, digging his fingers into the thick muscles between Sukuna’s shoulder blades. “Come on, Sukuna. One more.”
“Fucking brat,” Sukuna spits out, but he moves, shoving himself up with vicious violence.
It almost knocks Yuuji down. He’s startled by the fury and dazed by the power, and his arms give out, a sudden collapse. But he stays in place somehow, his forearms flush with Sukuna’s back.
Yuuji can smell his sweat, his heat.
He says, “One more.”
Sukuna tries to buck him off.
When Yuuji was three and five and seven and nine, it worked. In the beginning, his dad would catch him. Later, Yuuji learned to catch himself—after he first learned how to fall.
But he’s sixteen now, and even his bones know what to do when his uncle becomes violent.
Yuuji moves with him, against him, meeting vicious strength with vicious strength, and it’s not enough more often than not, but like this, with his limbs digging into Sukuna’s warm, struggling body, he’s got the advantage.
He pins Sukuna to the floor, hands on his wrists and mouth at his nape.
Further down, his hips are pressed to Sukuna’s ass.
Yuuji’s been hard since he turned away from the sink and caught sight of his uncle making a spectacle of himself on the floor.
Sukuna must feel it. There’s no way he can’t.
Maybe that’s why he’s so still.
Yuuji pants hotly into Sukuna’s neck, his own mouth growing warm with his breath. There’s sweat kissing his lips, a tongue shy of a taste.
There’s no other noise. Sukuna isn’t breathing.
The silence swells, pregnant with hot, living things.
Yuuji buries his nose in Sukuna’s skin, breathing him in deep. His hips jolt, grinding his hard cock against Sukuna’s ass.
Silence shatters into sensation.
Yuuji finds himself on his back, white spots dancing in his vision. The back of his head throbs from the impact, and there are other points of dull, aching pain all along his body, but it’s the hand wrapped tightly around his throat that snags his attention. The heel is digging into the hollow of his throat, and the broad palm isn’t much kinder along his neck, the pressure just short of stopping his breathing.
There’s another harsh point of pressure further below—Sukuna’s knee digging into his gut.
Yuuji blinks, focusing on the angry eyes boring into him.
Up close, Sukuna’s eyes always seem more red than brown. It’s demonic; it suits him.
“Should’ve known you’d be a pervert just like your creepy bitch of a mother,” Sukuna says, his voice soft and dangerous.
Yuuji raises a hand and wraps it around Sukuna’s wrist, gripping tight. It doesn’t budge, but then, Yuuji’s not really trying to pull it away from his throat. He can’t. But he can feel Sukuna’s pulse, fluttering against his fingers.
“Don’t talk about Mum like that,” he tells Sukuna calmly. “You know Dad doesn’t like it.”
Sukuna’s mouth twists into a sneer, and he lowers his head, till every angry breath is bursting open on Yuuji’s face. The pressure on his throat doesn’t increase, but it’s there, the threat of it.
Yuuji curls his fingers, his nails poised against the inside of Sukuna’s wrist.
The air is still thick and heavy, sweltering with secrets.
He can see the cracks on his uncle’s lips, count the individual lines of his lashes, see where the deep red of his irises melts into the liquid dark of his pupils. This isn’t the closest they’ve ever been, but it’s different this time. The violence of it tastes hot.
When Yuuji licks his lips, Sukuna’s eyes drop.
Yuuji raises his other hand—
A shrill noise screams through the air.
Both of them freeze.
Yuuji chokes around the suddenly vicious grip on his throat, and it’s an accident, he can tell, but Sukuna doesn’t let go, not even when Yuuji claws at his wrist and his fingers, trying and failing to pry it away.
Sukuna stares down at him, the sneer replaced by a frighteningly blank expression.
Yuuji digs his nails into Sukuna’s racing pulse, his fingertips growing wet.
Sukuna snorts and yanks his hand away, and Yuuji’s not allowed to take a breath before the little air he’s got is forced out of his lungs by the knee in his gut. Sukuna grinds it in till Yuuji’s wheezing, his flailing arms knocked away with callous casualness.
Shit, shit, pull yourself together—
The ringing stops, the absence of sound louder than the sound itself.
Sukuna glances at Yuuji’s pocket, rolling his eyes. Then he stands, his knee digging into Yuuji one last time. Yuuji expects more—that foot coming down with enough force to bruise.
But all Sukuna does is kick Yuuji’s legs shut before stalking away, the door to his room slamming shut behind him.
Yuuji lies there gasping, his eyes wet with reflexive tears. He blinks them away, the ceiling coming into focus. He tries to steady his breathing, inhaling and exhaling with his whole chest. This isn’t the first time his uncle’s reduced him to this state.
No, it’s usually a lot worse. His throat won’t even bruise.
“Huh,” Yuuji says out loud, testing his voice before the next, inevitable call. “That…went pretty well.”
The phone rings again, his dad’s ringtone eating through the silence.
Yuuji picks it up, putting it on speaker before answering, “Hey, Dad.”
“Yuuji!” His dad sounds relieved. It’s a pretty familiar tone, especially on the phone. “Finally. You have your phone. Sukuna got you then?”
“Yeah,” Yuuji says, swallowing. His throat hurts; he can’t help smiling, but only the ceiling can see it. “He got me.”
“That’s a relief. Your mum and I were worried. We just landed in Beijing—still in the airport, really. I called you as soon as I could. Sorry about leaving on such short notice, but Kenjaku wanted to…”
There’s blood and skin under his nails—wet little pieces of his uncle.
Yuuji sucks his fingers into his mouth, dutifully listening to his dad lay out the details of their travel and the bare bones of their plans there. The metallic taste skewers his tongue, but it’s softer down his throat.
Headier.
Yuuji licks them clean and takes them out, sliding his hand down his body.
“Are you okay there?” his dad asks, his tone switching from smitten excitement to gentle concern. “Is Sukuna taking care of you?”
All these years, and nothing’s changed. Jin loves Yuuji’s mum very much; he’s never understood his own brother.
“I’m fine. He’s fine too,” Yuuji says, idly massaging his dick through his pants. “The usual—you know how he is.”
-
He doesn’t see Sukuna again that night, and when he wakes the next morning, he’s alone in the apartment.
Nothing new there.
He’ll be late; his alarm isn’t set for the extra distance between this place and the school. He still spends an extra few minutes in bed with his hand down his pants, thinking of last night— Sukuna’s back rippling under him with heat and strength, his weight bearing down on Yuuji’s throat and gut, his face close enough for teeth to tear flesh.
He hurries through the rest of his morning routine, skipping breakfast.
He still doesn’t make it on time. That’s not the kind of impression he wants to give barely a week into the new term, especially in a new class with a new teacher, and for a moment, he considers skipping—but that won’t help either.
He gathers himself in the hallway, straightening his uniform and combing his fingers through his bedhead. His phone screen says he’s still not all that presentable, but this is as good as it’ll get.
He steps into the classroom, an apology on his tongue—
The very tall, very broad, very big teacher turns around, his blue eyes bright enough to burn even from this distance.
Oh, Yuuji realizes. I have a type.