Chapter 1: do you wanna be the animal to take me apart
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.
Chapter 2: the one thing about royalty is that we love to feast
Summary:
“Was she cute?”
“Cute?” All irritation vanishes from Itadori’s face, but he doesn’t seem flustered, just surprised by the question. “I guess? Not really my type.”
“Oh?” Satoru crows. And when Itadori looks justifiably wary, Satoru leans in again; he’s not above playing dirty. “What is your type then?”
“A tall woman with a big butt!”
It’s Satoru’s turn to be taken aback. Itadori practically chirped that answer, and even now, he’s got a bright grin and matching eyes, all pointed straight at Satoru. The effect is…shockingly strong.
“Good taste,” Satoru says, blinking some more. He tries to shake it off, subtly. “And men?”
“Eh?”
“Your taste in men.”
Itadori just gapes at him.
Notes:
Last chapter set up the sukuita side, so here we have the goyuu seeds being sown 🌱
The ships won’t stay separate though. The two plotlines will converge—or collide violently, more like. And the PoVs follow a parallel structure: Yuuji–Satoru–Sukuna–Sukuna–Satoru–Yuuji for Chapters 1 to 6 and then a Megumi PoV epilogue (that’s what the summary is from).
Also, I wasn’t expecting such a vocal and charming reaction to this fic, so that was a delightful surprise—thank you!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
A stray whisper—the desperately hushed kind that undermines the attempted secrecy—from beyond the window is what makes Satoru look up from his phone. He first sees the two boys standing a few feet from the window, and then he follows their gaze to the source of their excitement.
There’s a man at the gates.
In itself not an odd sight. This is a school. All sorts of people drop by and stick around—teachers, students, parents. Random passers-by too, given the road in front.
But Satoru can certainly understand why the two boys are staring at the man like their parents never taught them manners. A pink-haired, tattooed hunk in clothes that show more muscles than they hide would be the kind of guy to catch the eye and the imagination of a bunch of repressed hormonal teens.
Satoru would know. His hair’s not pink, of course, but white suits him far better. Brings out his eyes. And he’s not tattooed anywhere, let alone on his face, but well, he doesn’t need that to catch the eye.
He approves of Pink Hunk’s whole aesthetic on principle; he’s always liked the kind of people who look like they’d give the bulk of his family members an aneurysm on the spot. Personally, he’s got some critique, starting with the supervillain scribbles on his face and ending with those shapeless sacks he’s wearing for pants, but he’ll keep that to himself. Satoru was raised by nannies with impeccable manners that never rubbed off on him, but he had twenty-eight whole years to discover when and how to insert his foot into his mouth for maximum effect.
There’s another flash of pink—a student, also pink-haired, passing Satoru’s window at impressive speed.
He labels the kid Pink Twunk before remembering that he’s not supposed to think such things about his students—or is he only not supposed to say them? Suguru has all these rules for proper conduct, and honestly, Satoru keeps forgetting them. Suguru’s worse than the old nannies, and unfortunately, Satoru can’t fire his best friend.
Pink Twunk it is. Thought misdemeanors aren’t real anyway.
Plus, Pink Twunk is making a beeline for Pink Hunk, and Satoru would bet both of his eyes that they’re related somehow. You just don’t get two people with hair that exact shade of sunset pink without some genetic link involved.
Curiosity has Satoru jogging the few feet to the door, though he eases into a leisurely walk when he steps out of the building and into the grounds, making his way to the gates. It’s fun to see some of the gathered students’ attention shift from Pink Hunk—and now his mini-me too—to Satoru. Nanami and Suguru may bemoan their students’ very obvious, very thirsty crushes as one of the worst parts of teaching high school, but to Satoru, it’s just free entertainment.
They’re all so vaguely pathetic about it. It’s cute.
Past the gates, the man throws a phone at the boy, who catches it with what looks like a reflex action—impressive, again. He wonders if the kid is in some sports club. He should be, with that speed and reaction time. The body’s good too, even in the perpetually ill-fitting lines of a school uniform. Broad shoulders, thick biceps—his gakuran seems to be struggling to contain him, really. He should probably go up a size, but Satoru doubts anyone’s complaining.
Pink Hunk—the father, probably, or maybe a brother—still dwarfs the kid.
They’re talking when Satoru reaches the gates, and they’re close enough that he can hear snatches of their conversation. Not enough to make sense of any of it. Then the man takes a blatantly threatening step toward the kid, scowling up a storm, and Satoru tenses, ready to intervene if needed—
“I look like your butler, brat?”
There’s a brief pause. Satoru can’t see the kid’s expression, but he doesn’t much like the way Pink Hunk’s scowl has turned into a smirk. It’s not a kinder expression, and not just because this guy’s got a face that’d make children cry.
“No,” the kid says. “You really don’t.”
His tone is a curious thing—predictably mocking but also oddly breathless.
Satoru perks up a little.
Pink Hunk’s smile widens, somehow getting even nastier. Satoru’s seen such expressions before, and he knows a thing or two about the kind of men who wear them.
He’s about to step in, a thousand thoughts on how to diffuse the situation without getting the kid into more trouble flying through his head, when the man looks up, dark eyes landing right on Satoru.
All amusement flees his face, his mouth.
“What are you maggots staring at?” he challenges, the glare affixed on Satoru making it clear exactly who he’s addressing.
But the kids behind Satoru are the ones who react, a ragged explosion of startled murmurs and loud yelps.
Satoru can’t help it; he laughs. He knew this guy’s face could make kids cry.
Mr. Childeater doesn’t seem amused.
Satoru waves at him.
The kid moves then, stepping even closer to the man until he’s right up in his space, and just like that, Satoru’s not amused anymore, especially when the man’s attention returns to the kid, sharpening in ways that send brand-new alarm bells ringing in Satoru’s mind.
The kid clearly doesn’t share his reservations—or maybe he’s one of those people who’ve lost all self-preservation—because he puts his hands on the man’s stomach and shoves, with a no-nonsense demand to leave.
And the man listens.
Not easily or prettily. The first few steps are more of a scuffle, with the kid pushing the man back, and they’re talking too, though Satoru can’t make anything out anymore, even when trying to read the man’s lips. Then the kid’s hands are knocked away, but the man just turns around, marching off fast enough that the kid has to scamper to keep up—for a few seconds, before he settles into a pace that leaves him a few careful feet behind his possible father.
Smart kid.
Or not.
Satoru hasn’t seen enough to tell.
And he won’t see shit standing here like an attractive gargoyle, but he stays all the same, watching the pink-haired duo until they vanish past a curve in the road.
-
The very next day, the same kid comes ten minutes late to Satoru’s first class of the day.
What a coincidence.
Then he registers the way the kid has frozen mid-word, staring dumbly at Satoru with wide eyes and parted lips. There’s an unmistakable blush creeping along his cheeks, only a shade lighter than his hair.
Aw, Satoru croons internally, remembering again that he’s not supposed to say these things out loud. He’s got a crush.
How cute.
-
The boy’s name, Satoru finds out, is Itadori Yuuji.
And he wouldn’t know subtlety if it sucked him off sloppy style.
Satoru’s well aware that he’s got no room to judge anyone when it comes to subtlety, but even he was never so bad that he’d spend minutes at a time staring at his teacher’s tits. Or ass. Sometimes, he can’t even tell whether Itadori’s blinking.
The kid does try; Satoru will give him that.
More than once, Satoru has to swallow a smile at Itadori’s concentrated attempt to keep his eyes on Satoru’s face. Oddly enough, eye contact seems to help. Satoru’s used to people shying away from his eyes—something about them being too bright and too sharp and a lot of things in between—but it’s when he snags Itadori’s wide, dark eyes that the kid manages to keep his eyes where they should be, though Satoru still doubts he’s hearing a single word of the lecture.
It’s just as well that it’s a preliminary lesson—a gentle primer that Suguru suggested. Satoru suspects it’s as much for his sake as his students’. This career transition has been anything but stressful, but the closest Satoru got to teaching anyone in the past was explaining his research to his harried assistants, mostly so they’d know what to do without getting in his way, and judging by the way more than one of them broke down less than a month into the role, he’s not very good at the hallowed art of imparting knowledge in small, digestible chunks.
High school students probably won’t be smarter; Suguru more or less told Satoru to dumb himself down.
Rude, but he can try.
And if Itadori pays the lecture even half the amount of attention he’s giving Satoru’s backside, he’d ace his exams.
In all fairness, Itadori’s not the only one studying Satoru instead of the subject. Most of the students are looking at him like obedient little ducklings, but there are quite a few with a different light in their eyes. All of them look away when Satoru meets their eyes—except Itadori.
Maybe that’s why Satoru feels extra indulgent of Itadori’s ogling, structuring his circuit of the class to give Itadori the best view of his favored cut of meat. Granted, all of Satoru is a feast for the eyes, but Itadori’s preference for his ass is clear. When he does pry his eyes away, they usually get stuck on Satoru’s chest, and Satoru can’t quite tell whether it’s his shoulders or pecs that Itadori is so into, but he makes the educated guess that it’s both.
At least the kid has good taste.
Satoru indulges himself too, of course; he’s never been a saint. And every time, Itadori rewards him with unflinching eye contact, dripping heat.
-
A pink gleam in his periphery stops Satoru short in the middle of the hallway. He turns his head, and sure enough, there he is—Itadori Yuuji.
Classes are over, though the school is still busy. Even here on the third floor, Satoru can hear noises from the grounds below, and he just came back from the basketball court, where the students were warming up while Suguru watched with a critical eye. But this is just an empty classroom—empty save for Itadori, that is.
Once is happenstance; twice is coincidence. But this isn’t enemy action, so he should find out what it is, shouldn’t he?
Or you could mind your own business, suggests a corner of his mind that sounds suspiciously like Suguru.
Satoru dismisses that voice with the ease of long practice, knocking on the open door.
Itadori’s head snaps up.
Ah, there is it again—that sweet little blush.
“Gojou-sensei!” Itadori greets, standing up straight, practically bouncing on his feet. Something falls from his lap to the floor. “Oh, shit—wait, I shouldn’t swear here—um, can you ignore that?”
“Ignore what?” Satoru asks, oddly charmed by all the fumbling. “You’ll have to repeat all that, Itadori. There was this mysterious ringing in my ears, you see.”
Itadori blinks at him. Then he grins wide, the expression brightening his entire face.
There’s still a severity to it, but Satoru blames that on the scars—a starburst of fibrous tissue near the corner of his mouth and a longer line bisecting his eyebrow. Itadori’s hair covers the latter most of the time, but watching him throughout that one class was enough to tell Satoru that the hiding was unintentional. The unfettered grin now aimed at him reinforces the impression that Itadori’s not all that self-conscious about the marks on his face.
“You should pick that up,” Satoru tells him, stepping into the classroom proper.
“Oh, right.”
Itadori bends down, picking up and dusting off what looks like a manga. He’s barely straightened up when Satoru plucks it from his fingers. Itadori yelps, but it doesn’t sound panicked, just surprised.
A glance at the cover explains the reaction—it’s just some fantasy thing, with armored heroes swinging swords at fantastical beasts. A quick flip through the pages shows just more of the same, in artful lines of black and white and grey.
“Tame,” Satoru declares. “With the way you were holed up in here, I was expecting something spicier.”
“Sensei!” Itadori exclaims. He’s gaping at Satoru like he can’t believe he’s real—a very natural reaction, of course.
“Don’t be so offended.” Satoru gently bops Itadori on the head with the manga before holding it out to him. “I was your age once. I know the kind of things boys like you get up to.”
The pink on Itadori’s face deepens to match his hair.
“It’s school,” Itadori protests anyway.
“And?”
Itadori opens his mouth, but all that comes out is a strangled noise. He snatches the manga from Satoru’s hand, looking away with that blush still firmly in place. Satoru stands there watching him, expectant.
Itadori doesn’t disappoint him, those greedy eyes creeping slowly to the swell of Satoru’s chest. This close, he must be able to appreciate it much better. Satoru’s shirt, tailored to fit his frame and enhance every asset, surely helps.
Bespoke clothes are always a good investment. A bit of overkill in this profession, but the way Itadori looks like he wants to unbutton the shirt with his teeth is an unexpected perk.
Life truly is full of surprises.
Satoru drags a chair over to Itadori’s table, sitting down facing the boy.
Itadori, still standing, peers down at him like he can’t quite compute the new angle.
“Sit down,” Satoru says, nodding at the chair Itadori vacated. “Or do you have somewhere else to be?”
“N-no,” Itadori stammers, reaching behind himself to grope for the chair. He pulls it into place without looking away from Satoru—his face, even. Satoru smiles, slow and curling, and Itadori drops down bonelessly.
Satoru props his elbow on the table, resting his chin on his palm. He keeps the smile.
Itadori seems to have ceased breathing.
Satoru waits for him to relearn it.
“Um,” Itadori manages after several long seconds. “Hi?”
“Hi,” Satoru returns gamely. “So, why is a boy like you reading all alone in a classroom at this hour? I’m sure you have better things to do.”
Itadori blinks, his eyes very wide and very dark. This close, Satoru can see that the irises are a warm brown—the kind that’d gleam gold when they catch the sun. But right now, Itadori’s pupils are blown wide, their black eating up the brown.
“I…don’t?”
“You don’t sound very sure.”
“I don’t,” Itadori says more firmly. “I’m waiting for my friends. They’ve got club stuff today, and I don’t, so…”
Itadori shrugs, the nonchalance of the gesture belied by the nervous tension coiled in his muscles.
Satoru tilts his head, drumming his fingers against the side of his face. This position seems very effective in keeping Itadori’s eyes on his face, even if he looks a bit like a wounded gazelle. It’s different from the unbridled hunger that hunted Satoru’s body across the classroom just this morning. Even the way Itadori met his eyes then was different—not exactly bold, but like looking away never even occurred to him. That still seems the case, but Itadori seems more aware of the helplessness of it all.
An animal in a trap, not yet sure if it should fight or fawn.
That has its own appeal.
It’s the boredom, Satoru determines as he leans back on the chair, linking his arms behind his head in a motion that naturally pushes his chest out. He doesn’t even need the little Suguru in his head to know that he shouldn’t be doing this, but Satoru’s been so damned bored for so damn long.
Itadori isn’t new or special for wanting to fuck him, but there’s something sweet about the flavor of his hunger.
And Satoru’s always been weak to sweet things.
He smiles, unseen by the boy whose eyes have dropped helplessly to his chest.
“What about you?”
Itadori’s eyes dart guiltily back up to Satoru’s face. “Me…?”
“Clubs,” Satoru clarifies, pretending not to notice the boy’s straying gaze. “Aren’t you in any? Seems a waste.”
“Oh. Right. No. I mean yes.”
Satoru silently raises his eyebrow.
“Yes,” Itadori says more firmly. “Track and field. We don’t meet today though.”
“That’s a good choice with a body like that.” Satoru makes a show of scanning the half of Itadori that’s visible, pleased to return to a pair of wide eyes and pink cheeks. “You’re quite fast, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” Itadori answers, apparently automatic because he shakes himself out of it the next moment to ask, “Wait, how’d you know that?”
Satoru considers that for a moment, flickering between honesty and ambiguity. There’s a certain cryptic mystique to the latter—even if Shouko insists on calling it obnoxious bullshit—but there’s the rest of the conversation to consider.
And frankly, he doesn’t need any mystique to capture and keep Itadori’s attention.
“I saw you yesterday,” Satoru tells him. “You were tearing up the ground trying to get to your…father?”
Itadori makes a face—horror and disgust in spades.
“Or not,” Satoru amends, chuckling. “Brother then?”
Itadori shakes his head violently, even crossing his arms like he’s warding off Satoru’s assumptions. “Uncle.”
“Ah.” His mind didn’t go there. Maybe it should have, but somehow, he was sure the relation would be a little closer. Well, it doesn’t really matter. “Seems like an interesting character.”
“…Interesting,” Itadori repeats slowly.
“Not every day you see a man with pink hair and a tattooed face,” Satoru says. “You’re not planning to follow suit, are you? You’ve got the hair down.”
“It’s natural!” Itadori says, blatantly defensive. Adorable. “Besides, I get it from my father, not Sukuna.”
Sukuna, huh? It rolls off Itadori’s tongue a lot more smoothly than uncle did.
“I think I’m supposed to tell you to be more respectful toward your uncle.” He’s barely finished speaking when Itadori’s face twists into an expression similar to the one earlier, the disgust dominating this time. Satoru snorts. “Yeah, I can see what you feel about that. Luckily for you, I’m an…unconventional teacher.”
“You are?” Itadori asks dubiously.
“I am.” Satoru crosses his arms under his chest. Itadori’s eyes drop again; he was doing so well too, looking Satoru in the eye like an exceptionally good boy. “I’m curious though—why was he here? You two made quite the fuss.”
“Sh—” Itadori swallows the rest of what was clearly going to be another curse. He blinks, eyes back on Satoru’s face. “I was afraid of that. Sorry, sensei.”
“Why apologize? I’m not bothered. Just curious, like I said. You’re a little too old to be picked up from school, hm?”
“Obviously,” Itadori says quickly, straightening up out of some mixture of pride and offense, probably. “He wasn’t—ugh, it’s complicated.”
Satoru glances at his watch, tilting the face so Itadori can also see it. “We’ve got time. Unless you’re planning to ditch your friends…?”
“I—no, I—”
“Come to think of it, why do it here?” Satoru plucks the manga that’s been resting on the table, balancing it on a finger while enjoying how Itadori struggles to watch Satoru’s hand, chest, and face all at the same time. “School’s a boring place to wait. You can meet up at some café, can’t you?”
“I…guess?” Itadori shrugs. “It’s fine. I mean, I don’t mind. It’s more fun to go with people.”
“Shy?” Satoru asks, setting the manga down. “Or are you afraid people will think you’re some delinquent?”
Itadori looks both bewildered and entrained. He has a very expressive face. The eyes, especially.
“Nothing like that, sensei,” he says, and Satoru leans in a little at his tone—the same amused patience Satoru’s heard from people who can tolerate him best, except they generally take months, if not years, to get to that level of resigned acceptance. Itadori leans in too, matching Satoru consciously or unconsciously. “You ask a lot of questions.”
“I’m a curious guy,” Satoru drawls. It’s not even a lie. “And you’re interesting.”
Itadori blushes again. “Oh. Um, thanks?”
Satoru smiles. This time, Itadori’s eyes drop to his mouth, and Satoru can’t help smiling a little wider.
Itadori swallows.
“Back to the question then.” Satoru links his hands and props his chin on them. Itadori’s gaze doesn’t leave his mouth. “Why’d your uncle come here to pick you up?”
Itadori’s well within his rights to tell Satoru to fuck off—diplomatically, maybe, since they’re teacher and student, but the sentiment would be the same. Even Satoru’s closest friends aren’t shy about firmly and often physically steering his nose out of their business.
But Itadori answers: “My parents left town pretty suddenly, and I’d forgotten my phone at home. They couldn’t tell me to go to Sukuna’s place instead. So he came here.”
Satoru hums. “I’d say you’re old enough to stay home alone. Don’t tell me you’re the sort to cause trouble the moment you’re left unsupervised.”
“No?” Itadori looks genuinely confused. “I mean, I don’t think so. I don’t mind staying alone either, but my dad worries, so…”
“So you’re being a considerate son,” Satoru finishes in his own words. “What a good boy.”
Itadori’s breath catches audibly. His eyes are darker now, giving an animal edge to his face. It’s an interesting expression, and it makes him look a bit more like his uncle.
Satoru gives him a moment.
Then— “He seems like an interesting man to live with, your uncle.”
Itadori blinks. A frown takes over his face, even though his eyes stay tellingly dark. “You could say that. Gojou-sensei, you aren’t…?”
Satoru waits, but Itadori doesn’t complete the question, just stares at Satoru like he’s trying to telepathically pour the rest of the words into his head. Unfortunately, Satoru isn’t fluent in awkward teenager.
“Go on,” Satoru prods.
Itadori grimaces, and it shows in his voice when he asks, “You’re not, like, into Sukuna, are you?”
Satoru’s dumbfounded for a moment. Then he’s stifling laughter, not all that successfully. Itadori’s expression shifts from disgusted discomfort to just plain embarrassment, but even through that, he stares at Satoru—his mouth and his eyes.
“Sorry,” Satoru says, not meaning it one whit. He’s loving this. “Reasonable assumption on your part, really. But don’t worry, your uncle’s safe from me.”
Itadori seems to relax a little. “It’s more the other way around.”
“Oh?” Satoru asks, intrigued. “Is he trouble?”
Itadori squints at him. “Sensei, you sound way too excited about that.”
“I did say I’m curious! I can promise not to hit on him, if that’ll put you at ease.” Satoru holds out his hand invitingly. “Gentleman’s agreement.”
Itadori stares at the hand for a full second.
Then he slowly, warily takes it.
It’s not a small hand; Itadori’s not a small boy. Satoru is bigger though, and his hand envelops Itadori’s. The skin is shockingly rough, with hard calluses that rub against Satoru’s palm.
He squeezes gently.
Itadori’s blush hasn’t faded fully since Satoru called him a good boy, but now it flares, splattering gracelessly across his face. It goes shockingly well with his hair.
Lines are being crossed. Satoru feels it keenly, the change in the air.
He drags his hand out of Itadori’s, slower and more delicate than he needs to. His fingers trail from Itadori’s racing pulse to trembling fingertips, and after Satoru’s leaned back again, folding his hands demurely on his lap, Itadori’s hand hovers in the air over the table for a good few seconds before dropping limply to the surface.
Satoru winks at him. “Now spill.”
Itadori blinks slowly. Satoru can practically see his brain rebooting.
“What was the question again?” Itadori asks, a little breathless.
“If your uncle’s trouble. Isn’t that why you were warning me away from him?”
Even if Itadori confirms nothing, Satoru would bet a delicate organ or two that Sukuna is indeed trouble. It’s not just that the guy looked the part; it’s also the way he acted with Itadori himself.
But he’s also sure that’s not Itadori’s reason for warning Satoru away, whether or not he’s aware of it.
The way the boy is looking at Satoru even now, sheer want burning in his eyes, broadcasts the real reason loud and clear.
“He’s definitely trouble,” is what Itadori says. “And…it did happen before. Don’t really want to deal with that again.”
“What, your teacher hit on your uncle?
“Yep.”
Satoru whistles. “Keep going.”
“You weren’t kidding about being curious,” Itadori says, though he just seems amused. “It’s not much of a story. It was my homeroom teacher in middle school. She thought they were dating. He thought they were…something else.”
“Fucking?” Satoru provides helpfully.
“Yes. That.” Itadori narrows his eyes. “Sensei, you’re not setting a very good example right now.”
Oh, he’s got bite.
Satoru dips his head, peering at Itadori from under his lashes. His reward is immediate—Itadori’s lips parting to tremble around a slow, shuddering exhale.
“Do you want me to?” Satoru asks softly.
“No,” Itadori rasps. “No, that’s—that’s fine. You’re fine.”
“I certainly am.” Satoru puts Itadori half out of his misery by straightening up. “Continue your story.”
“My—oh, right. That’s it, I guess. She found Sukuna in bed with some guy, the whole thing exploded—happens all the time. It’s just that this was halfway into my final year, and I was dragged into the whole thing too. She hated me, and it’s not like I could avoid her.” Itadori shakes his head, the exasperation not hiding the real irritation there. “I was so happy to graduate.”
“I bet,” Satoru says. “Was she cute?”
“Cute?” All irritation vanishes from Itadori’s face, but he doesn’t seem flustered, just surprised by the question. “I guess? Not really my type.”
“Oh?” Satoru crows. And when Itadori looks justifiably wary, Satoru leans in again; he’s not above playing dirty. “What is your type then?”
“A tall woman with a big butt!”
It’s Satoru’s turn to be taken aback. Itadori practically chirped that answer, and even now, he’s got a bright grin and matching eyes, all pointed straight at Satoru. The effect is…shockingly strong.
“Good taste,” Satoru says, blinking some more. He tries to shake it off, subtly. “And men?”
“Eh?”
“Your taste in men.”
Itadori just gapes at him.
Satoru expects the classic denial—no, sir, I’m not into men, not me. Itadori sure as hell isn’t straight, but not everyone accepts that easily, and Itadori’s young to boot. Satoru has witnessed a fair share of his peers engaging in Olympic-level mental gymnastics to explain away their true tastes.
Then Itadori says, “Tall men with…big shoulders?”
It takes every ounce of self-restraint Satoru’s ever possessed to not burst out laughing.
It wouldn’t have been mean, truly, but even he’s got the sense to tell that such a reaction would be insensitive as hell. And Satoru doesn’t want to be that, not right now, with Itadori staring at him with wary eyes that are still not free of the effect Satoru’s had on him.
“Big shoulders, huh?” Satoru repeats evenly, resisting the urge to flex his own. “And a big ass?”
“Um.”
“Or other big…things?”
Itadori ducks his head, rubbing his nape. The angle does nothing to hide how he’s staring at Satoru’s chest. When his gaze shifts, it’s to drag along Satoru’s shoulders. They even linger on his neck for a moment before dropping back down to his chest.
Hungry thing, isn’t he?
Satoru remembers how Itadori looked at him in class—where he looked.
As if on cue, Itadori says, “Yeah. Big ass. Big everything.”
Something warm and syrupy drips from Satoru’s chest to his stomach. A familiar feeling, just unexpected in its intensity—and its target.
Satoru really did set out to just entertain himself a bit.
But maybe this boy is a little too entertaining.
“Good taste,” he murmurs, meaning it.
Itadori raises his head, his throat working enticingly. For a moment, he just stares at Satoru, blown pupils swallowing the light.
Then he jolts as if struck and points a finger at Satoru, almost poking him in the face.
“Sensei!”
“Itadori-kun!” Satoru returns in the same tone. “What are you doing?”
“This is inappropriate!” Itadori frowns, his arm drooping an inch. “Right? I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t be asking me things like this.”
“I shouldn’t,” Satoru admits freely. “Gonna tell on me?”
Itadori deflates, the pointing arm tucked away. “Oh, no, I don’t—sorry, got carried away.”
“Cute,” Satoru says before he can think better of it, and before Itadori can do more than squirm in place with flustered pleasure, he adds, “You could say I’ve developed bad habits from having a ward your age—though Megumi’s pretty tight-lipped about everything. He hasn’t even told me about those new friends he spent all summer with.”
“You have—” Itadori stops suddenly, frowning. “Wait, a guy called Megumi? Are you—”
“Itadori,” a familiar voice says from the doorway. “Gojou-sensei? Why are you here?”
“Fushiguro!” Itadori greets before Satoru can say anything. “We were, uh…”
“Megumi,” Satoru cuts in smoothly before Itadori can say anything he shouldn’t. “You know you can call me Satoru when it’s just us.”
Megumi’s expression gains another layer of certified teenage disdain. He looks pointedly at Itadori. “We’re not alone.”
Satoru makes a snap decision. “Yuuji doesn’t count. Isn’t that right?”
Itadori—Yuuji now—squeaks very quietly.
Megumi scowls. “What’s going on here?”
“I was waiting for you,” Yuuji says, “and Gojou-sensei dropped by. I didn’t know this was your guardian, Fushiguro!”
“Yes, because I didn’t tell you,” Megumi says in his typical Megumi way.
“See?” Satoru pouts at Yuuji. “He never tells me anything.”
“Ah,” Yuuji says delicately, his eyes darting between Satoru and Megumi. To his credit, he’s a lot less obvious about his thirst like this. Maybe it’s the audience? That didn’t seem to matter in the classroom, but then, Megumi’s sharp eyes are much more potent than the scattered attention of twenty-something self-absorbed teenagers. “It’s…nice to know this about you, sensei. Thanks for taking care of Fushiguro.”
Megumi makes a disgruntled noise.
“At least someone appreciates me,” Satoru says, grinning at Yuuji.
“He shouldn’t,” Megumi mutters, low but not so low that Satoru can’t hear. “You coming or not, Itadori? Kugisaki’s waiting downstairs.”
“Yeah, I’m—” Yuuji pauses halfway to his feet, hovering there awkwardly staring at Satoru. “I gotta go, Gojou-sensei. Excuse me?”
“You’re excused,” Satoru says imperiously, ruining the effect with a wink. “Don’t get Megumi-chan into trouble, you hear?”
“Yessir!”
“Let’s go,” Megumi growls from the doorway, already turning away—but not before Satoru sees the tips of his ears turn red.
Yuuji snatches up his manga and scrambles to the door, whipping around midway to wave at Satoru again, grinning toothily. It pulls a laugh out of Satoru, and even as he waves back, he’s a little shocked by how fond it sounds.
Huh, he thinks, prodding that feeling. It’s not just the uncle who’s trouble.
-
“So,” Satoru says later that night, catching Megumi in a moment of vulnerability, “about that kid, Yuuji—”
“No,” Megumi says flatly, closing the fridge and marching right out of the kitchen.
Satoru snorts and goes to put the milk away.
Notes:
Who let this man teach again?
Chapter 3: till we're stripped down to our skeletons again
Summary:
If someone held Sukuna at gunpoint and forced him to confess the one thing he has in common with his brother’s spawn, it wouldn’t be the hair or the blood or the killing rage—it’d be this, the hunger.
Notes:
If anyone missed Unrepentant Pervert Yuuji from Chapter 1, fear not—I have more for you!
Also, this was my first time writing the kind of incest where one party has known and watched the other for the latter’s whole life, and man, it’s fun, especially from the PoV of the older party. There’s so much potential for a very specific flavor of creepiness—as this chapter will show.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The door cracks open, letting in no light.
At least the brat was smart enough to keep the hallway dark, not that he’s any subtler for it. The fucker’s just standing there, peering through the crack like the high-grade creep he is. Got it from his mum, for sure. Jin’s the kind of soft-hearted pussy Sukuna should’ve eaten in the womb—sure would’ve saved them both a world of trouble. Kaori wasn’t much better, but Kenjaku’s a nasty piece of work, and that’s what his brother chose to breed with.
The resulting piece of pink fluff is the bane of Sukuna’s existence—because of course it is.
“The fuck are you doing?” he asks when the kid doesn’t show any indication of coming in or leaving. “You’re letting the AC out, idiot.”
There’s some nonsense grumble from the door, and then it opens further, followed by the culprit stepping into the room. Sukuna’s eyes have adjusted to the dark, away from the bright light of his phone screen, and he can see the sheets the brat’s clutching to his chest like he’s a good decade younger than he is. He’d bet his dick that he’d find wide eyes and a pouty mouth to match.
He’s not fooled. There’s nothing innocent about Kenjaku’s spawn.
“The door,” he snaps.
The brat huffs and closes it behind himself.
“It’s nice in here,” he says pointedly. “All cool and dry.”
“Sure is,” Sukuna drawls. “That’s not an invitation.”
“Not my fault my room’s hot as hell. You could put a unit in there too.”
“I look like I’m made of money, brat?”
Even in the dark, Sukuna can feel the kid scan his body. Probably popping a boner from it too. Perverted piece of shit.
“You look something, alright,” the brat mutters, stepping toward the bed; that single stride covers more ground than it would have just last year. “I’m sleeping here tonight.”
“Like hell you are!”
“Oh, come on, your bed’s big enough for four people.”
“Who said you’re people? Some stray mutt at best, and that’s how I’m treating you.”
“Asshole,” the brat throws out without an ounce of self-preservation, creeping even closer like the creep he is. “Move or I’ll climb over you.”
The audacity of this bitch.
“Touch me or the bed, and I’m gonna throw you out of the goddamn window.”
“It’s too small for that,” comes the infuriatingly calm answer. The sheets are tossed onto the other half of the bed, with enough force that they hit the wall and slide down to the mattress. The brat looms over Sukuna, a denser mass of shadows in the lightless room. “C’mon, I haven’t slept right since yesterday. Can’t focus for shit at school. You know how Mum gets when I fall behind.”
“Do you think,” Sukuna says very slowly, “I give a fuck?”
The kid’s silent for a second. “Good point. I’m still sleeping with you.”
Yeah, he’d like that, wouldn’t he?
Sukuna kicks out, not even surprised when his foot is caught before it can slam into flesh. The brat didn’t take long to learn how to put his improved reach and power to good use. He’d wonder what Kenjaku’s feeding the kid, but he knows full well that they’re not at the house often enough to handle the care and feeding of their own son.
Doesn’t stop them from being a nosy little bitch.
He tugs his leg back. The brat doesn’t let go.
Instead, his hand clamps tighter, pressing into the bone there. It’s not painful. Just pressure, tight and relentless. A little more and it might bruise.
“Let go,” Sukuna says warningly.
But this kid’s never had an ounce of sense.
The grip does loosen, only for the thumb to slide along the arch of his foot—too firm to tickle, too soft to hurt. It strays to the middle, digging into the tender flesh right over the heel.
Sukuna wrenches his leg away—and the brat topples forward, right onto him.
“For fuck’s sake,” he hisses, staring down at the mass now attached to his chest. The brat’s face is smushed into his pecs, and the rest of him is awkwardly splayed, half on his body and half on the mattress.
There’s no way in hell that was a natural fall. He’s kicked this kid full force and watched him barely skid back, just lunging for him with bared teeth like the rabid animal he is.
Sukuna should be too old and too good to be caught in those teeth, and he is, usually, but the kid’s stubborn to a fault and shockingly canny when he needs to be. The few times his teeth found purchase, they left a mark.
His stomach throbs along the shape of a well-healed scar.
He fists a hand in the brat’s hair and hauls him up, and there’s resistance, predictably, but Sukuna draws the line at letting his chest be used as this nasty little pervert’s pillow.
The brat sucks in a harsh breath, like he wasn’t even breathing down there.
Desperate fucking—
More pressure, this time square on both of his pecs.
Sukuna looks down, snorting when he finds two hands braced on his chest, all five fingers digging into the muscle there.
“You’re pathetic,” he sneers, pulling roughly on his fistful of hair. “I should do us all a favor and put you out of your misery.”
The hands squeeze tighter. Sukuna’s not stupid enough to write it off as instinctive resistance. He might have been tempted even a day back, but this greedy little fucker ruined that too, didn’t he?
He’s panting like a bitch even now, mouth open wide. Even his eyes are darker than the dark, gleaming with an unholy light. They’re fixed on Sukuna’s face, furious with heat.
The wrong kind of heat.
Sukuna tightens his grip and throws him to the side.
The kid hits the mattress with a force that shakes the whole bed but rolls smoothly onto all fours.
He turns his head, those gleaming eyes returning faithfully to Sukuna.
“Filthy little animal,” Sukuna murmurs. “Stay on your side and go the fuck to sleep. If you fuss, I’m kicking you out.”
-
He fusses.
It starts with, “There’s a new teacher at school. Physics. Turns out he’s Fushiguro’s guardian. His dad’s in prison. You know about that, right?”
Sukuna grunts, tapping out an adequately aggressive response to yet another obnoxious cunt without a functional sense of work hours.
“He’s…nice. Fushiguro doesn’t agree, but he’s kinda touchy about the whole situation. I still don’t know exactly what happened there, with his dad and everything, but I’m sure Fushiguro will tell us someday. Anyway, he did say Gojou-sensei took him in even though he didn’t have to, so that’s pretty—”
“Gojou?” Sukuna turns to the brat, who stops yapping and just stares with his big fucking eyes. In the light spilling from the phone, they seem even creepier. “Your new teacher’s a Gojou?
“Yeah? Why, do you know him?”
“Hell no. I want nothing to do with those fuckers.”
The kid shuffles closer, squinting. “Why?”
“None of your business.”
“Hey,” comes the whiny protest. “C’mon, you can’t just leave it there.”
“Can and will,” Sukuna says with no small amount of satisfaction. “Brats like you shouldn’t stick your nose into shit like this. Might get a few parts cut off.”
There’s a moment of blissful silence.
Then— “This is why people think you’re yakuza.”
“People,” Sukuna drawls. “Sure.”
“I’m serious! That’s what the kids at school were saying. And it’s not like it’s the first time.” The brat huffs, like he’s somehow offended. “Even Gojou-sensei asked me about you.”
There it is, that name again.
“Your Gojou-sensei has no business sniffing around anybody else,” Sukuna tells him, turning his screen off to cast them both into blessed darkness. “Stay away from that guy if you know what’s good for you.”
“You’re never beating the yakuza allegations if you keep saying shit like this.”
“Who says I’m trying to?” Sukuna asks mildly. “Fucking sleep already. One more peep, and I’ll cut off your tongue.”
-
Movement wakes him, eons before the touch.
A hand settles on his hip, searing even through the cloth. It’s limp, flopping there in a decent mimicry of a sleep-heavy limb. Sukuna knows better.
Wasn’t always like this. The kid was a kid once. More of a kid. Small, helpless, useless. A piece of shit from the start though. The first time Jin handed him to Sukuna, practically forcing his little bundle of snotty joy into his hands, the little fucker had thrown up on his face.
Jin laughed, the bastard. He didn’t mean to, that much was clear from the stifled snorts and painfully red face. Kenjaku had no such compunctions, chortling like the same brat hadn’t damn near killed them on his way out of their cunt.
Kaori had the sense to take the baby away before Sukuna could toss him out a window. The most sensible of the lot, and of course she’s the one who went and died. Sukuna’s been seeing a lot more of the kid since then. Even more since Wasuke followed suit.
Shit luck to be born into a family like this. He used to think that the brat didn’t fit in, with his big baby eyes and bleeding heart. Worse than his father. Turns out he’s weirder too, but Sukuna blames Kenjaku for that.
Blood will always out.
That’s no excuse for this—the hand sliding down to his stomach, the body pressing against his back.
The kid’s warm.
He’s not, usually. That body runs cold. Sukuna noticed it for the first time when the kid was tiny, barely the length of his forearm. A frail mass of fabric and fluff nestled against his chest, leeching off his body heat. Not that it took much to warm that tiny thing.
’Course, then the brat woke up and promptly latched on to a nipple because he was even dumber back then, and when Sukuna pried him off while yelling for Kenjaku, he’d been treated to a deranged shriek that damn near ruptured his ear drums.
Nothing much has changed over the years. The brat went from screaming at him to biting him to scowling at him to punching him to trying to fucking kill him. Wildcat, through and through. The only part of him Sukuna’s ever bothered to nurture.
It’s different when he’s asleep. The baby soaking in his warmth. The toddler sprawled on his chest. The boy curled up on his lap.
Small and weak and utterly unbothered about it.
How the fuck do you live like that, trust like that?
At least this is better. It’s not trust breathing into his nape and groping his stomach. It’s just human filth.
They’re testing touches, slow enough and idle enough that the brat probably thinks they’d pass as sleepy ministrations.
Idiot.
Nobody would miss the intent behind this. It’s scorching.
If someone held Sukuna at gunpoint and forced him to confess the one thing he has in common with his brother’s spawn, it wouldn’t be the hair or the blood or the killing rage—it’d be this, the hunger.
He can tell the exact moment the brat decides he’s actually asleep. His palm presses flat against Sukuna’s stomach, skin to skin. That’s on him for sleeping shirtless despite his impromptu bedmate, but like hell is he changing his habits just because this little creep wants to molest him in his sleep. Not like clothes would stop him anyway.
Sukuna continues to feign sleep, his breathing steady and just a little uneven—a rhythm he memorized and learned to mimic for situations a lot more dire than the badly planned porno playing out right now.
The kid’s patient. Or just a fucking virgin. Sukuna can’t imagine why else he’d spent entire minutes just touching his stomach, that warm palm rubbing lazy circles over his abs. Sometimes, it presses down, denting the soft layer of fat on his belly to dig into the muscle underneath. It’s a struggle not to flex then. A few muscles jump, entirely involuntary, but the brat just breathes heavier and wetter, squirming closer to Sukuna.
There’s another hand between their bodies—an entire arm, the line of it doing nothing to hide what it’s touching. It’s not moving, yet, and Sukuna still hasn’t figured out whether it’s there just for the pressure or if the stupid shit actually thinks that not digging his boner into Sukuna’s back means something.
Some line to not cross. Some precious moral to cling to.
Sukuna wouldn’t put it past him, but the brazen bullshit the other day told a different story. It sure wasn’t guilt or even shame that darkened the brat’s eyes when Sukuna tore him off his back and pinned him by the throat.
The hand starts creeping up. The direction is predictable too.
Sukuna slits his eyes open, careful not to let his breathing falter. In the time it takes for his vision to adjust to the darkness, the brat’s made good progress—impatient, finally. Not that it counts for much. It’s planted on a tit, the fingers spread as wide as they can to touch as much skin as possible. As Sukuna watches, it moves—a little twitching motion that isn’t quite a squeeze, isn’t quite anything else. It wants to be.
It wants a lot of things.
The breaths falling on his nape start coming faster and faster, but the brat’s not making a sound. Better than the first time he tried this. Sukuna doesn’t know how the idiot thought anyone would’ve slept through all that panting and grunting. It’s not that he wasn’t suspicious afterward, watching Sukuna with skittish eyes the entire morning, but Sukuna just went about his business, pretending ignorance, and the stupid fucker bought it.
The alternative would’ve been offensive in its own way. Men and monsters have tried to break Sukuna with a hell of a lot worse than some cock-fueled groping. Would be insult to injury if he walked around red-faced and weak-kneed because a kid felt him up.
He’s not even any good at it. Eager, sure. But there’s too much caution. Selfish in all the wrong ways.
Boring—a cardinal sin.
The hand on his chest flexes, the rough palm rubbing over his nipple. The arm between their bodies is getting more and more frantic. The kid’s close, obviously. It’s a miracle it took this long.
Sukuna would understand if he were just taking the edge off—a little appetizer before the main course. But this is, what, the fifth or seventh time? It always ends the same. The brat will jerk off and lie there panting like a bitch, and then he’ll withdraw his limp, shaky hand with a fraction of the caution he should use, just to lie there some more, staring at Sukuna with eyes that turn into physical weight, into heat, on his skin.
Sooner or later, he’ll climb out of bed and pad over to the bathroom, and he’ll come right back, climbing in again and keeping to his side of the mattress—the far end, tucked against the wall under the window—as if he’s making up for his sins.
And he’ll spend the morning not looking Sukuna in the eye, but it’s still not shame that will trail fire along every patch of flesh the brat does watch.
There’s a shudder behind him, a wet breath breaking open against his nape.
Nothing wetter below, but there are slick, squelching sounds for a second, before those die too. The brat keeps his face pressed to Sukuna’s nape, his breathing deep and long and brutally controlled.
It’s pathetic. The cocky perversions of a fool who doesn’t know what he’s doing or what he wants. He wouldn’t even know what to do if Sukuna gave him what he’s gagging for.
The kid should either man up and take what he wants or wait to be eaten like good prey.
Lips touch his nape, a thousand times more deliberate than the wet breaths that’ve been staining it.
A chaste, close-lipped kiss.
For a second, Sukuna considers it—turning around and showing the kid the consequences of his half-assed bullshit. If nothing else, the horror in those too-big eyes would be satisfying. Rage will follow, the way it always does, and that, at least, will never disappoint him again.
That’s the one thing Sukuna’s taught this boy.
There are more lessons aching in his teeth, pooling in his gut.
He swallows them down, the way he always does.
Fuck knows why.
Jin, maybe. Kenjaku, mostly.
Wasuke—
Doesn’t matter.
The brat’s not going anywhere; he’s been Sukuna’s from the womb.
Notes:
For a clearer overview of the state of the Itadori family, here’s what I cooked up in preparation for writing this fic: Kaori and Kenjaku are identical twins. Kaori and Jin marry, and when she can’t conceive, Kenjaku volunteers as a surrogate. Yuuji is born—and is essentially raised by all three of them for a little while. Kaori dies in an accident later on, and a few months later, Jin and Kenjaku marry. This creates issues with Wasuke, who believes Kenjaku took advantage of the situation and Jin’s grief. Kenjaku’s personality and possible criminal ties don’t help.
The next chapter is also Sukuna’s PoV and around 9.5k—we’ll also see things come to a head between uncle and nephew 😈
Chapter 4: this is what you get when you still play with matches
Summary:
“You must be Sukuna.” It’s the man who speaks, with a grin that’s too wide and too toothy. “Yuuji’s told me a lot about you.”
“Likewise,” Sukuna says. “Didn’t know teaching brats is the new Gojou family business.”
It’s satisfying to see the grin fade. The expression that takes its place isn’t any less sharp, any less bright.
“I’m not much into the family business,” Gojou says mildly. “But I’m surprised Yuuji-kun’s uncle would know anything about that. What a small world, huh?”
Sukuna bares his teeth. “Miniscule.”
Notes:
A quick little announcement first: My Tumblr account voxofthevoid was nuked on August 21. Why? Who knows. They didn’t send me a notice of termination, nor have they responded to my attempts to reach out and ascertain what the hell happened and whether it can be reversed. That’s 11 years of blogging history erased, including all the extra shit I had for JJK, from meta to fic teasers/snippets. Anyway, I’ve made another account. It’s pretty barren at present, but I intend to use it the same way I used the old one, so those of you who liked what I got up to there can now find me as voxofthevoid-furious: https://voxofthevoid-furious.tumblr.com/
…I am not a subtle man.
Now, onto the fic: Let’s earn some of those more fun tags, shall we?
Speaking of which, I’ve added three new tags. They’d technically have been covered by the existing ones, but as I was editing this chapter, I figured some more specificity could be useful.
Click here to see the newly added tags:
Consent issues: Extending and escalating from the flavor of sukuita in the previous chapters, with some revelations mixed in.
Disturbing themes/imagery: Sukuna thinks some fucked-up shit; it’s similar to the stuff in the last chapter but worse.
Dick biting: …This one’s pretty self-evident.Before we begin, care to guess which of the two—Yuuji or Sukuna—the “you” in the chapter title applies to?
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Sukuna’s never attended a parent–teacher meeting in his life. As a kid, he simply left Wasuke to deal with his teachers’ futile attempts to straighten him out. As an adult, he is not, doesn’t want to be, and never will be a parent.
Yet, here he fucking is.
Four people stop him to demand who he is and what the hell he’s doing here. Three are faculty, but one’s a kid—the kind who’s shoved a stick up their overly tight asshole because they’re class president or some shit. Sukuna says nothing to any of them, but he shows the teachers the text he got, a demand disguised as a request to meet Itadori Yuuji’s teacher, with the floor and room specified, and shockingly, they don’t look pleased or reassured to learn that he’s got a reason to be here, but at least the fuckers have the sense not to challenge him on it.
One even looks him right in the eye as she sniffs and turns around on her heels, stalking away with every inch of her body radiating disapproval. The other two don’t make it past the ink on his chin.
With the kid, he just stares until the reedy piece of shit starts trembling in place. Sukuna takes one step forward, and the idiot books it. Might even have pissed himself.
Would sure be convenient if the brat was so easy to handle.
Boring too, more than he already is.
Right now, Sukuna’s finding it hard to appreciate anything about Jin’s spawn. A fucking teacher’s meeting, seriously. Sukuna called the brat the second he got the text, but it just rang and rang until the call terminated.
He almost called Jin and told him to haul his ass here. It’s been two damn weeks; he and his deranged wife have had enough fun.
Instead, here he is, against his better judgment.
The whole thing reeks. The text came to Sukuna’s phone, except the school shouldn’t have his number on record. He’s not the kid’s guardian in any sense, and the only way anyone would get his number is if the brat gave it to them. Sukuna can’t imagine what fucking possessed him. He can’t be a better option than a call to Jin or Kenjaku. Sukuna knows how they raise the boy—it’s anything but strict. If he gets in trouble, Kenjaku would be more interested in the whys and hows than anything like straightforward punishment, especially if the brat’s keeping his grades decent. Jin just frets, right until he forgets to.
Either of them would be better than calling Sukuna into the goddamn school.
He finds the clearly labelled room he’s been called to. The door is closed.
The urge to kick it open is considered and then dismissed.
He shoves it open instead, stepping inside without ceremony.
A pair of disturbingly blue eyes greet him.
The man they belong to dominates the room, everything about him bright and loud, from his coloring to his clothes. He’s perched on the edge of a large desk, facing the door. And beside him, seated on a visitor’s chair, is Sukuna’s unfortunate charge, only the back of his head and the edges of his shoulders visible from this angle.
One of those shoulders has a large hand resting on it. Sukuna follows the length of that arm back to the damned blue eyes.
He’s seen this man before.
It’s the fucker from the day he had to come collect the brat. He remembers the creepy stare and the laughter. The insolent wave.
He remembers hating him on sight, and the current view only reinforces that impression.
“Brat,” Sukuna says flatly, “why am I here?”
“You must be Sukuna.” It’s the man who speaks, with a grin that’s too wide and too toothy. “Yuuji’s told me a lot about you.”
Sukuna arches an eyebrow.
The brat groans. “Gojou-sensei…”
Gojou.
The name stirs a memory or ten, only half of them associated with the brat’s nighttime ramblings.
“Likewise,” Sukuna says. “Didn’t know teaching brats is the new Gojou family business.”
It’s satisfying to see the grin fade. The expression that takes its place isn’t any less sharp, any less bright.
“I’m not much into the family business,” Gojou says mildly. “But I’m surprised Yuuji-kun’s uncle would know anything about that. What a small world, huh?”
Sukuna bares his teeth. “Miniscule.”
“What are you guys talking about?” The brat leans over the side of the chair, staring at Sukuna.
Gojou’s hand shifts to his other shoulder, squeezing. “Don’t worry about it.”
Sukuna stares at that hand for a long moment. It only clamps down tighter.
The brat doesn’t even seem to notice it.
No, that’s not it. Sukuna knows firsthand how aware this boy is of his own body. He knows the hand’s there. He just doesn’t care.
“What’s happening here?” he asks flatly.
The brat grimaces. “I, uh, got into a fight.”
“That’s overstating things,” Gojou chimes in; that deranged grin is back. “It’s more like you and Megumi decimated them.”
“Sensei,” the brat whines, pouting up at Gojou. “That makes it sound worse.”
“Does it? I found it pretty impressive. Seven against two tends to be one-sided, but not in favor of the two. You flipped the script.”
“Well, that’s…” The brat squirms in place, raising a hand to rub at the back of his neck. His knuckles are busted.
Sukuna’s own knuckles ache with how tightly he’s fisted his hands.
“And why am I here?” he bites out. “So this trash got into a fight. He won. Big fucking news.”
Gojou cocks his head, smile firmly fixed in place. “That’s not very guardian-like of you.”
Sukuna scoffs. “I’m not anyone’s guardian.”
The brat just sighs. “I told you, sensei.”
“So you did.” Gojou pats the brat; his eyes are on Sukuna. “But I’m afraid an in-person meeting couldn’t be avoided. The principal will let me sweep most of this under the rug because of the…circumstances, and I doubt those boys will go crying to their parents about their cute little juniors beating them up—a very predictable type of teenager, that lot. But even I can’t get away with not meeting your guardian—sorry, your uncle. That’s fine, isn’t it, Itadori-san?”
The address leaves a bad taste in his mouth, the way it always has.
“What circumstances?” he asks instead of answering that inane question.
“I’ll let Yuuji-kun furnish you with the details,” Gojou says, flashing the brat a simpering smile that makes Sukuna take two strides closer to the two, close enough to smell the not-unfamiliar stench of blood and sweat mixed in with expensive cologne—the brat’s scent mingling with his teacher’s. “But the other kids started the fight—they’re third-years, one of the bad crowds. You know how it is. They’ve got a reputation, even among the faculty. It’s not the first time someone’s fought back, I’m told, but numbers count for a lot in scuffles like this. Not in this case though. I wasn’t exaggerating when I said I’m impressed.”
Sukuna snorts, unimpressed. “Where’s the other kid?”
“Who, Megumi? He’s at the nurse’s office. Nothing major, don’t worry.”
“I’m not.”
“I am,” the brat pipes up, throwing Sukuna a reprimanding look—impudent piece of shit. “One of them threw a rock at Fushiguro, nailed him in the head. He said he’s fine, but…” He looks at Gojou again, and even from this angle, Sukuna can see him blink his big fucking cow eyes at the bastard. “I’m sorry, Gojou-sensei. It’s my fault. I should’ve paid more attention. They were all down, and I thought—”
“Idiot,” Sukuna cuts in, sneering at the image now clear in his head. “That’s what you get for being complacent.”
The brat’s jaw clenches so hard that Sukuna half expects to hear bone creaking. “I know.”
“That’s harsh,” Gojou says. His tone is mild again—the kind Sukuna’s learned to never trust. “And that’s my ward you’re talking about, you know.”
Fushiguro is also a familiar name. It’s spilled from the brat’s mouth often enough, especially whenever Sukuna had the misfortune of minding him last summer. He’s never met the boy or the girl—Kuchisake or some shit—and he tunes out most of the stupid chatter anyway, but he remembers something about a dad in prison. Come to think of it, the kid also babbled something about his teacher and Fushiguro.
None of this is making Sukuna wish he’d paid more attention.
“Should’ve trained him better then,” he tells Gojou.
“Sukuna!”
The bastard just laughs. “How militant. I’ll handle Megumi, don’t you worry.”
“Gojou-sensei,” the brat starts, his voice practically dripping concern, “he’s not gonna get into trouble, right? I swear he was just defending me.”
Gojou smiles down at the little shit, and for once, it doesn’t seem so different from the way he’s been grinning at Sukuna. “And did you need defending?”
“I…” The brat’s hand flexes on the arm of the chair. “No, but—”
Gojou shushes him—with a finger to the lips.
Something opens its mouth in the pit of Sukuna’s belly and howls.
“Megumi’s choices are his own,” Gojou says, still touching the brat’s mouth with easy, infuriating intimacy. “Knowing him, he’s proud of this one. For better or for worse, so am I. I’ll need to talk to him, but you should worry more about yourself, Yuuji.”
The finger retreats, slow and lingering, and Sukuna hears it, the way the brat gasps like a well-fucked whore.
“We’re leaving,” he states. “Now.”
The boy stands immediately, except he hesitates, looking between Sukuna and his slut of a teacher.
“Oh?” Gojou says, still perched insouciantly on the desk. He’s keeping his hands to himself, but Sukuna will remember what they touched. “But I didn’t say we’re done.”
“I say we’re done.”
“Sukuna, you can’t just—”
“It’s fine, Yuuji.” Gojou straightens up, planting his feet on the floor. He’s no less tall with his ass detached from the desk, and he’s still too close to the brat, their sides almost touching. “I’ve said and seen everything I need to.”
For a too-long moment, the brat just stares at the bastard.
“Let’s go,” Sukuna says very calmly.
“Right.” It’s almost a sigh, all caught in the throat. The little fucker pushes the chair back and finally steps away from the big fucker, whose eyes flit from Sukuna to the kid as if magnetized.
The brat turns around and strides over before Sukuna can do something that’ll wreck the office—and the people in it.
He looks Sukuna in the eye, brazen to a fault.
Sukuna turns on his heels, covering the scant distance to the door in a couple of strides.
“Just so we’re clear,” Gojou calls out before he can cross the threshold, “this is a warning too. If this happens again, I can’t do damage control. So listen up, Yuuji—don’t fight on school grounds.”
“I won’t, sensei.” The brat’s voice is uncharacteristically somber. “Thanks for everything. And I’m sorry about Fushiguro.”
“Don’t worry,” comes the sickeningly soft response. “Megumi’s tougher than he looks.”
Sukuna’s out of the room and halfway down the hall before either of these cunts can say anything else.
The brat catches up with him before he’s at the stairs.
-
The way home is silent.
Sukuna’s seething. The brat is…brooding.
It’s fucking weird.
He wishes ten times along the way that he’d taken his car instead of the train. The sound and stench of people packed together grate a hundred times more than usual, and the way the brat moves mechanically with the crowd, letting bodies jostle him as if he can’t break all these people with a well-aimed finger, just makes him more pissed.
They’re maybe halfway there when he grabs the kid by the collar of his shitty uniform and hauls him close, their bodies colliding with a dull thud that’s barely audible past the clamor of the doors opening.
“Fuckin’ stay there,” Sukuna snaps. “I’m sick of you shifting around like some dead doll.”
Big brown eyes blink up at him. There’s no bruising on the brat’s face. The only visible injuries are the busted knuckles, more bruising than blood. Maybe there’s more under the clothes, from limbs ramming into flesh through these useless layers of fabric.
Sukuna’s got half a mind to stick his hands under them and see which parts would make the kid squeal like a pig.
“Okay.”
It takes Sukuna a moment to realize that it’s the brat who spoke.
It’s soft, bland.
Tired.
The fuck is he so—
The brat tips forward, resting his head on Sukuna’s shoulder. Arms wrap around his waist, tightening viciously when the train chooses that moment to lurch into motion.
“Oi,” Sukuna hisses. “Let go.”
The brat moves—to slide a little lower, till his face is pressed to the top of Sukuna’s chest instead of his shoulder.
It’s not for comfort; it can’t be for comfort.
Hell, the way this asshole’s squeezing him, Sukuna wouldn’t be surprised if it’s for fucking murder.
“You’re pathetic,” he says anyway, and this time, there’s no response, only the minute movements of those hunched shoulders giving away that the boy’s alive at all.
-
At the apartment, he heads straight for the gym.
The brat follows like a faithful dog, but when Sukuna turns around once inside, he finds a head that’s held high and eyes that are calm and bold. Brave and stupid, as always.
“Done moping?” he asks.
“I wasn’t—” A sigh, all put-upon like this little fucker is the one suffering here. “Yeah, I’m done. Man, you’re such an asshole sometimes.”
“Sometimes? I must be getting soft on you if you think I’m just some garden-variety asshole once in a blue moon. Let’s fix that.”
“Huh?” The brat takes a wary step back. “That’s not what I—”
“Strip.”
He freezes. “What?”
“I said,” Sukuna enunciates slowly, “strip.”
“But—why?”
“I want to see your damage. If some two-bit sons of a whore fucked you up any, there will be hell to pay, brat.”
“They didn’t,” the kid snaps, eyes all fire. “I told you, they only got Fushiguro, and even that was—”
“I do not care,” Sukuna cuts in, “about Fushiguro Megumi.”
“I do.” It’s a snarl, the mouth matching the eyes. “He’s my friend, and he got caught up in that shit because of me.”
“Did I ask?” Sukuna’s on the brat before he can speak again, grabbing his collar and throwing him to the center of the room. He doesn’t stumble, turning around midway and controlling his momentum so he doesn’t go sprawling on the mat. “Now take off your fucking clothes before I rip them off you. And don’t let your twisted little head fool you, boy—you won’t enjoy it.”
Furious red streaks the kid’s cheeks—anger or arousal, even Sukuna can’t tell.
Both, knowing this freak.
“How much?”
Sukuna raises an eyebrow.
The brat raises bold hands to his collar, undoing the top two buttons of his jacket with quick, flicking motions. “How much do you want to see? The top? All of it?”
Despite everything, including all the nights this same boy lied his way into Sukuna’s bed just to molest him in his pretend-sleep, Sukuna finds himself surprised.
“I’ve found dirt-cheap whores with more shame than you,” he says, marveling.
The brat just holds his head higher. “Says more about you than them.”
“You little—”
The rest of the jacket is unbuttoned with startling speed. The brat shrugs it off unceremoniously. By the time it hits the floor, he’s already halfway done with the thin white shirt underneath.
It’s almost like he’s eager to get naked. What a shock.
The shirt joins the jacket on the floor.
Topless, the brat raises his head, meeting Sukuna’s eyes with a challenge splattered all over his face.
Never had the sense god gave a worm, this one.
Sukuna steps closer—and closer and closer.
The brat doesn’t waver, eyes to toes.
Sukuna drops his gaze to the sweat-slick column of a neck and then further down, sneering at the hard curves of muscle. The kid had thinned out a little after that growth spurt last year, like fat and muscle just couldn’t keep up with the changing body they clung to, but that didn’t last long. He filled out all over again, bulging out from biceps to thighs. The uniform shows it better than his casual clothes, straining against shoulders and arms and legs like the seams will rip and buttons will pop any moment.
It’s a powerful body—Sukuna’s body, in every way that counts. This boy would never have become what he is today if not for Sukuna.
The brat wasn’t lying, at least. There’s not a mark on him, not even a bruise.
Sukuna’s thorough with the check, circling around him once, twice, then again and again, and the little shit relaxes into parade rest, playing at nonchalance, as if Sukuna can’t see his breath quickening and skin dewing.
He comes to a stop directly behind the boy, close enough that he can feel the warmth of his body—a half-phantom haze in the air.
“I should make you take off the rest too,” Sukuna murmurs, watching those shoulders tense up in response. “But you’d enjoy it too much, wouldn’t you?”
The brat’s clasped hands grow tight around each other, those bruised knuckles spotting blood.
But his voice is steady when he says, “Don’t pin this on me. You’re the pervert here.”
Oh, the fucking audacity.
“I’ll tell you a secret, brat,” Sukuna tells him, grinning at how every inch of the kid grows stiff. “You truly are your mother’s child.”
The deflation is almost as amusing as that taut-wire tension.
“That’s not the insult you think it is. I like Mum fine.”
“I wonder about that.”
“The hell does that mean?”
“Turn around.”
The brat practically whips around, taking a step closer till he’s glaring up at Sukuna from less than a foot away.
Sukuna meets his eyes, and the brat doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink.
Some fools never learn.
“Are you going to ask?”
Sukuna blinks. “Ask what? Whether you were dropped on your head as a baby? I already know.”
“Funny,” comes the flat response. “The fight—why I did it, why they started it.”
“Am I supposed to care?”
“Yes.”
Sukuna snorts in spite of himself. “Alright, let’s hear it. Might as well know what I’m wasting my time for.”
“I was talking to Fushiguro.”
“That all it takes to stir you kids up these days? Things must be goddamn boring there.”
The brat growls. “Just listen.”
“Get to the point then.”
“I was talking to Fushiguro,” he repeats pointedly, the sheer intensity of his tone and even his gaze not matching his words—not yet. “I was telling him something. Something I realized recently. Those guys overheard—and didn’t like what they heard. I wasn’t planning on a fight, but the shit they said…” The kid shrugs, not breaking eye contact. “I don’t regret it.”
“Good for you,” Sukuna drawls. “This is still the most boring fucking—”
“I like men,” the brat cuts in. “I was telling Fushiguro about my type. That’s what pissed off those assholes.”
Sukuna’s mind blanks for a moment, before whirling back to life with a vengeance.
Something I realized recently, the brat said. But there’s no way in hell even this idiot would’ve been so oblivious. Yeah, he fucking likes men. He’s been eye-fucking Sukuna since puberty, and the last year or so, he’s also been trying his perverted best to turn that into reality.
“I must’ve kicked you in the head one too many times,” he says, clicking his tongue and sneering when the brat’s expression twists up. “Congratulations, you fucking idiot. You finally figured out what everyone and their mother—yours included—knew since before you knew what to do with your dick.”
“Oh, shut up—”
“So, what, were you talking about opening up one of those kids? Singing loving odes to his shit-crusted backside? Word of advice, brat—if you’re perving on people where they can hear, be ready to commit, one way or the other.” Sukuna glances down at one of those bloodied knuckles. “And this way tends to get you arrested.”
The brat’s gaping at him.
“What kind of a creep do you think I am?” he asks with all the self-awareness of a piece of rock. “Of course I wasn’t doing that! I didn’t even know them! And you know damn well why they picked a fight.”
He does. Sukuna’s broken his fair share of bastards who couldn’t keep their mouths shut about who and how he fucked. And the world’s changed but not that much.
He’s not worried for the kid. He never will be. Either he’ll survive or he won’t, and if he gives the world more reasons to hate him, he better be ready to chew up every resulting misery till it shows its belly.
“Enlighten me then,” Sukuna drawls, “on your type.”
The brat freezes—only for a moment, but it’s telling enough. The air between them thickens.
Blood in the water.
“You shy now?” Sukuna asks softly. “Come on, brat, spill. It better be worth all this bullshit.”
The brat’s jaw sets. “Big, tall men with a good ass.”
Sukuna blinks, somehow caught off guard by the sheer, shameless bluntness.
“Helps if they’re older,” the brat continues, a corner of his mouth curling meanly—an expression Sukuna recognizes from the goddamn mirror. “But I’m not sure about that yet. Girls are easier. I like how they’re soft and warm everywhere. Guys… I guess they can be soft and cute too. Like Fushiguro. He’s pretty. And I guess it’d be easier if he’s the sort I want. And I wouldn’t mind, I think, but he doesn’t make my brain light up so bad. Don’t look at me like that—I didn’t tell him this part. He’s my friend.”
Whatever the expression on Sukuna’s face, it’s not judging what the brat thinks he’s judging.
“Your friend,” Sukuna echoes, his voice sounding as hollow as his veins feel, “but not your type—unlike that teacher of yours, the Gojou brat.”
There’s a minute flinch, mostly there in the mouth. “Gojou-sensei is way too old for you to call him a brat.”
“And that’s just how you like ‘em, isn’t it?” Sukuna watches his hand move, curling around a throat that moves under it with a harsh swallow. The brat’s eyes are wider, wilder. “That man will eat you alive, you stupid fucking child.”
A calloused hand curls around Sukuna’s wrist, the pressure of it blisteringly familiar.
“As if you won’t,” the kid says quietly.
Sukuna tightens his grip. “Speak up, brat. Show some balls for once in your pathetic life.”
The boy snarls, surging like a storm.
Sukuna thinks it’s a punch at first, the force and fury of it like nothing else, and then teeth cut into his lip, drawing blood, and he realizes it’s meant to be a kiss. The brat’s throat is pulled taut, the bulge there digging into Sukuna’s palm as it works around air and spit and swallowed sense. The mouth is a mess, more teeth than lips. He’s kissing Sukuna like he wants to bite off his jaw.
Sukuna hasn’t frozen for anything in well over a decade, but now, he does, if only for a moment.
He makes the boy pay for it.
His fist connects with a greedy jaw, and the boy staggers backward, almost falling to a knee before steadying himself, upright but with his head bent, a hand cupped over his mouth. Dark eyes stare out at Sukuna, and it’s not pain there, it’s not even rage, just some other dark filth that threatens to worm its way under Sukuna’s skin.
He shakes it off with a full-body clench, wiping his mouth on the back of his palm.
“You disgust me,” he says, meeting the brat’s eyes head-on.
When the brat’s shoulders start shaking, Sukuna thinks the worst for a moment—then he hears the laughter, muffled but unmistakable. There’s an edge to it, something serrated.
The brat lowers his arm and raises his head, the laughter ceasing as if silenced with the press of a button. There’s blood on his mouth—Sukuna’s blood smeared over it like lipstick. The scar to one corner seems to gleam with it, and its brother higher up casts every one of the boy’s expressions in a sharper, harsher light.
Not even Kenjaku’s vindictive bullshit in the aftermath of that incident made Sukuna regret his handiwork.
“I should pluck your insolent eyes out,” he murmurs.
The brat grins, baring red-tinted teeth. “It’s not like you didn’t know. You were awake, right? All those times, you were awake.”
Sukuna stills.
The brat takes a bold step forward. “Hey, Sukuna—remember when I was a kid and I’d come to your room when I had nightmares? Still don’t know what the fuck I was thinking. You were worse than the nightmares. Half the time, you were the nightmare. There’s one I still remember. Had it all the time, especially when I stayed with you. This fucked-up thing where you were a demon possessing me, rotting my soul from the inside out. It hurt. It hurt and I woke up hating you, and every time, I’d crawl into your bed anyway. It wasn’t even comfort. Don’t know what it was. It’s like that was the only way my mind could make sense of you—the hero and the villain of some fantastic story.”
“The fuck are you blathering on about?” Sukuna asks, biting out every syllable. There’s a wet feeling in his spine, piercingly unpleasant.
“You woke up,” the brat says, a strange kind of satisfaction in his voice. “I’d crack the door open, and you’d open your eyes, staring right at me. You really think I thought you were sleeping through me touching you? How stupid do you think I am?”
“Stupid enough to touch me in the first place,” Sukuna states flatly, but his mind’s spinning, nothing flat or calm about it.
“You liked it,” the brat says, not an accusation so much as a declaration.
Sukuna takes a single, heavy step toward him; the boy doesn’t even have the grace to flinch. “Keep telling yourself that, you filthy piece of shit.”
“I wondered a lot,” is the unbothered response, “what it’d take to get you to react, to stop pretending. Didn’t really try that hard to find out though. I should have, huh? Maybe you’d have grown a fucking spine if I’d tried to stick my dick in there.”
This time, Sukuna’s fist meets empty air.
Then the brat’s on him, every bit a wildcat—strong limbs and snarling teeth.
“I see those useless turds didn’t wear you out,” Sukuna says, ducking away from a vicious kick. He slams his elbow into the open knee—gets more air, the faintest brush of fabric. “But you—you just don’t learn.”
The brat bares his bloodied teeth and lunges for Sukuna.
He’ll rip out his tongue and choke himself with it before he admits it out loud, but the brat’s a good fight. A hundred times better than the shitheads Sukuna contends with these days, and a couple of years ago, he’d have said that’s more of an insult to his so-called colleagues than any kind of praise for the brat, but the speed and strength and sheer fucking power of the body throwing itself at him are leagues above what they were back then.
The kid learns well and fast. It’s the only reason he’s survived Sukuna.
Probably the only reason he’s survived his bitch of a mother too, whether or not he knows it. Jin and Kenjaku will never tell, but Sukuna knows all about the trio of siblings Kenjaku left behind when they married their twin sister’s husband well before her ashes were cold. He’s seen the scars those boys bear, not all of them physical.
The scars on this boy? They belong to Sukuna.
This boy belongs to Sukuna.
And he’s good and getting better, the singular scar on Sukuna a throbbing testament, but Sukuna is a self-made monster. The kid’s not there yet.
With his bleeding little heart, he may never be.
It ends with the brat curled up on the mat, clutching his stomach and wheezing into his knees. There’s fire in him still—the little growls mixed in with the pants, the bloody fist dug into the mat, the slow uncurling of his spine. He’s trying hard to get back on his feet, despite the blood and the shakes.
Sukuna gives him a helping hand.
The brat yelps as he’s hauled up to his knees, scrabbling at the air and then Sukuna’s legs. His face is a fucking mess, blood and bruises smeared across the mouth and jaw. The blood was all Sukuna’s at first—his lip is still throbbing from that atrocious kiss—but the fresh wet sheen there is all native. As he watches, a big red drop beads on the fat cut on the lower lip, sliding slickly down the chin.
The brat licks his mouth, panting through clenched teeth.
Sukuna reaches out to press his thumb to that lip, just beside the cut. He presses down, and the brat hisses like a wet cat. He looks wet enough too, his hair dripping sweat and every inch of his bare skin gleaming with it. It makes the pinks and reds stand out.
Blood wets the side of Sukuna’s thumb.
He shoves it into the boy’s mouth.
For a moment, it’s soft and wet, a tongue flexing under the pad of his thumb.
Then the brat bites down—teeth on bone, hard enough to hurt. Just hurt. Skin doesn’t break; bone sure as fuck doesn’t shatter.
Sukuna knows what it takes to bite a finger clean off, and this kid ain’t got it.
He hooks that thumb into the brat’s lower jaw, his nail slicing into the tongue. There’s a pained noise, a single brown eye widening as if in shock. It shifts into something else when Sukuna pries the boy’s mouth open and yanks him forward, right into his waiting crotch.
Filthy heat claws up his cock, already a heavy bulge between his legs. And the brat’s breath is hot even through two layers of fabric. His whole face is hot.
He makes a noise, clawing at Sukuna’s hips. A struggle, real if pitiful. Sukuna lets him have his way, easing his grip enough that the kid can shove himself back, panting around Sukuna’s fingers and staring up at him with eyes too wide to show true anger.
His cheeks are redder with something worse than exertion.
“Little slut,” Sukuna murmurs, and the brat jolts as if electrocuted. The offense on his face is almost comical. “Don’t even pretend. I’m giving you exactly what you wanted. Be grateful.”
Sukuna steps forward, grinding his groin against that shock-splattered face.
The pleasure is there, secondary to the sound and sensation of the brat putting up a pathetic protest. His hands claw and smack at Sukuna’s hips, his thighs, not even tearing the fabric. His mouth’s open around Sukuna’s fingers, his breaths wet and hot on his hand and his crotch. A tilt of the head, and Sukuna can see the dark fabric stretched taut between the boy’s spread legs, too loose to show shit.
Not that it matters.
Sukuna lets him go long enough to shove his pants down and free his cock, and he’s not exactly proud of how it juts out fully hard, making no secret of how the last few minutes got his blood pumping. The brat makes a noise, and Sukuna finds him staring at his cock with his jaw all slack like he’s begging for something to ram into his filthy mouth.
“Pathetic,” Sukuna sneers. “You’re drooling, brat.”
“H-huh?” The idiot actually wipes his mouth; his hand comes away smeared in fresh blood. “I’m not—wait, Sukuna, what’re you—”
“Don’t be coy,” Sukuna tells him, crooning the words. “This is what you’ve been gagging for. And what do ya know, I’m in a giving mood.”
He steps close, reaching out for another fistful of damp pink hair. His cock brushes the brat’s jaw, skimming the bruise there.
The boy gasps, all breathy and delicate like a fucking virgin.
And he is, isn’t he? He’s definitely never touched a man—Sukuna clearly doesn’t count in whatever la-la land this dumb fucker lives in. But even if he’s invented some twisted justification for wanting to fuck his uncle, it can’t have survived another man’s body. And what woman would put their hands on this filth?
Something stirs in the back of his mind, a whisper of memory that Sukuna thoroughly squashes.
His own experiences aren’t comparable, and the way the brat flinches when Sukuna rubs the head of his cock over his split, bleeding lip is answer enough.
“Open up,” Sukuna says, “or I’ll break your jaw and take you that way. All the same to me.”
The eyes that glare up at him are all pupil.
Sukuna shoves his cock into that needy mouth.
“Keep your teeth to yourself,” he warns. “Even a graze, and I’ll rip your dick clean off.”
The brat says something—it’s just vibrations on Sukuna’s cock, lashing up its length to make him shiver. He shoves deeper, till the head bumps into the back of the kid’s throat. There’s a predictable fuss, hands flying to Sukuna’s hips to claw at them again, and this time, those needlessly sharp nails meet skin, scoring red-hot lines from his hips to his thighs.
The pain melts into his spine. Sukuna groans, fucking his cock deep.
The brat opens up like a wet dream, his throat a scorching constriction around those few inches of cock. ’Course, there’s nothing dreamlike about his bulging eyes or splotchy cheeks, but luckily, Sukuna likes the pain and the strain painted there.
“Never sucked cock, huh? What a fucking virgin,” he mocks, stroking the brat’s hair back from his forehead for a better view of those wide, betrayed eyes. “Weren’t you just saying you like ’em big? The hell do you think that means, boy?”
He laughs when nails dig into his thighs, drawing blood, and his hips buck, barely pulling out of the brat’s throat before ramming back in, and there’s more pain then, lightning lines carving desperation into his skin while that wet mouth and tight throat burn on his cock. Pain blends with pleasure blends with pain, a potent toxin that coils inside Sukuna’s gut, filling him with filth.
This boy’s all filth, always was; blood will always out.
The hands on his hips change their grip—tighter but less sharp, clinging more than clawing. Sukuna opens nearly shut eyes to peer down at the brat, finding his eyes rolled back in his head. His throat’s convulsing around Sukuna’s cock, fast and frantic and futile.
Sukuna pulls out before he kills the kid.
The brat coughs up a storm, dripping blood and spit and snot.
“Disgusting,” Sukuna declares, idly fisting the base of his cock. It’s throbbing, unhappy about the cold air. He gives it a hard squeeze, grunting at the bite of pain-pressure.
“Bas…tard.”
The brat’s glaring up at him. One of his trembling hands leaves Sukuna’s hip to wipe at the mess on his face. Most of it goes, but the blood stays. No, it seeps, a thin but steady trickle from the cut on his lip. It’s bigger now, split further from the stretch.
Sukuna catches a drop on the head of his cock and feeds it to the brat.
He makes a token attempt to refuse, but a yank on his hair makes him gasp, mouth popping open, and Sukuna pushes into it as easy as anything, and the brat just whines like some wet, pathetic thing and takes him deep, that glare withering when his eyes slip shut almost all the way, till they’re just twin slivers of gleaming dark.
His hand returns to Sukuna’s hip, nails-first.
Thrill-soaked pain thrums there, matching the hot throb of his cock.
Like this, the brat’s mouth is almost tolerable. Unskilled, sure, but a wet hole’s a wet hole. It’s a good look too. Those red-stained cheeks, wet with more than just sweat. The bleeding, drooling mouth.
This is where this boy belongs.
Sukuna’s not fool enough to hope he’ll accept it so easily, but he knows a thing or two about carving a lesson into someone’s skin, their bones.
He bottoms out with a long exhale. Vibrations lash at his cock, like the brat’s trying to say something. Or maybe he’s just moaning like a whore. His face is all scrunched up, his nose buried in the thick thatch of hair at the base of Sukuna’s cock. Pity the kid can’t smell a thing like this. Maybe Sukuna should pull him off his cock and give him something else to choke on, for just long enough that Sukuna’s scent will cling to the insides of his nose and throat well after he’s robbed of breath and sense.
He tightens his grip on his fistful of hair, considering it, but the wet heat shuddering around the whole length of his dick makes a convincing case to stay right where he is.
The brat’s hands clench and slide along Sukuna’s hips, not really trying to push him away or free himself. Just desperate clawing motions that heat Sukuna’s blood as sweetly as the mouth caught on his cock. Thin lines of pain spread along his skin, but joke’s on the brat—Sukuna’s into that shit.
He takes his cock out before the kid suffocates to death and plunges back in before he can start hacking grossly, a rough buck of the hips pushing past the meager resistance at the back of the throat and into the tight heat beyond.
The brat makes him bleed from hips to ass.
Sukuna’s cock pulses wet when fingers sink into the thick muscle of his ass, clutching greedy handfuls.
“Presumptuous little shit,” he says, his voice coming out lower and rougher than expected. “Or are you just that fucking desperate?”
The brat can’t reply with a mouth stuffed with cock, but those intrepid eyes still make a spirited attempt at pulverizing Sukuna where he stands.
Just as well. It’d be boring if he were so easy to break. It’d be amusing—a bit of cock breaking this brat when years of fists and worse didn’t. But Sukuna’s all about long-term planning these days.
Speaking of boring—making the brat choke on his dick is starting to lose its appeal. And there’s a growing urgency in his veins, seeping into both muscles and bones, that demands a lot more than a hot little sheath.
He pulls out and out, till only the head of his cock is inside the brat’s gasping mouth.
“Lick it,” Sukuna says.
The little shit spits his cock out. “F-fuck you.”
“Fine,” Sukuna sighs, faking disappointment. “That’ll teach me to be nice to the likes of you.”
“Nice?” the brat repeats incredulously; his voice is a raspy wreck. “Nice?! You’re—mmph!”
Sukuna pushes his cock in roughly, feeling no small amount of satisfaction as the brat chokes on it like the last couple of minutes taught him nothing. Not so quick a learner this time, is he?
Nails scrape his flesh, a burning pressure that’s so sudden and startling that Sukuna fails to recognize it till it’s inside him, opening him up with clumsy cruelty.
It takes him a good moment to figure out just how many fingers are inside him—two, buried more than a few centimeters deep with not even sweat to ease the way.
His asshole fucking burns.
“You piece of shit,” Sukuna snarls, furious and almost impressed. “I’m going to—”
Teeth.
Sharp, threatening pressure at the base of his cock.
Every single muscle in his body freezes.
The boy’s looking right at him, the wet sheen of his eyes doing nothing to dampen the mean fire there.
“Brat,” Sukuna grits out, “you’re going to pay for that.”
A wet, bloodied lip peels back to expose a row of pearly teeth, pressed delicately to the swollen flesh of Sukuna’s cock. If the expression is meant to be a grin, Sukuna can’t see it with his own damned dick in the way, but the brat’s still made his point.
He’s got sharp teeth—oddly so, like the universe fashioned him to be a menace to Sukuna specifically. The little fucker spent his teething years gnawing on any part of Sukuna he could get his filthy mouth on, and later, when he was old enough to kick around without killing, it was teeth he learned to use first, before fists or feet.
This, says some long-neglected part of Sukuna’s brain, is why you don’t stick your dick in crazy.
“You gonna bite it off before you choke to death?” Sukuna asks out loud, looking the brat right in his ax-crazy eyes. “You better, you putrid pissrag, because I’ll fucking kill you the second you let go.”
The brat slowly, pointedly drags his mouth—his teeth—along Sukuna’s cock. His gut twists and vision blurs, the sight and the sensation merging into a fever pulse that makes the back of his mind scream, and then the brat stops, Sukuna’s dick well out of his throat but still held carefully between his teeth.
The delicacy of it all helps nothing. Sukuna’s keenly aware of how tenuous it is. A choice, easily unmade.
And he knows damn well what will win when teeth meet flesh. The brat wouldn’t even need to bite it off to make Sukuna regret ever having a cock.
“You fucking maniac,” he breathes. “Your mother should’ve strangled you in the womb.”
The brat’s eyelids flutter, and warm air buffets Sukuna’s cock. Laughter, brief but real, glinting there in the little fucker’s eyes.
What a hell of a stalemate.
The boy breaks it.
His fingers move inside Sukuna, searing fresh swathes of flesh. He bites back a hiss of discomfort, strangling the urge to shift away from the touch; it’ll just send him dick-first into more fucking teeth.
The brat’s got his eyes closed now, and his brows are furrowed like he’s concentrating. The increasingly bold touches inside Sukuna make it very clear what he’s focusing on, but the nails scraping his walls and the softer touches that follow make the concentration its own warning. The teeth haven’t budged—still that same, delicate pressure.
Sukuna grows a pair and grabs the brat’s jaw with both hands, trying to tug his dick out.
Those eyes flash open and the teeth clamp down.
Sukuna howls, rising onto his tiptoes on pure, frantic instinct.
The brat yanks him down by the fucking asshole, driving his fingers in knuckle-deep. A tight, trembling gasp tears free of Sukuna’s throat—the kind of weakass bitch noise he would rather die than admit to. Below, the brat’s eyes are wide with unwarranted wonder.
“I’ll kill you.” It comes out as pathetic as that noise, and Sukuna growls, at himself as much as at the boy. “I swear to god, brat, I’ll fucking kill you.”
The brat makes a soft little noise and takes Sukuna’s cock deeper, as if the dirty heat of his throat will ease the sharp circle of pain skewering its middle.
He hates that it works.
He hates that his cock is still whorishly hard despite the teeth kissing the base of it, the teeth that just proved it can do a lot more than kiss.
Forget Kenjaku—Sukuna should’ve strangled this cunt right in the womb. Reached his hands through their swollen belly and torn out the filthy life mewling in there.
The brat swallows, searingly deliberate. Sukuna’s cock throbs inside his throat, and there’s an answering pulse in his gut, his chest, his own fucking throat, and then the restless fingers inside him find the spot that lights up his nerves, even with the scrape of nails being anything but pleasurable. Sukuna brutally swallows every noise that wants to crawl out of his mouth, but his body’s another story, clenching up tight around those insolent fingers.
And this kid might not have a clue what he’s doing, but it wouldn’t take more than a passing knowledge of anatomy for him to figure out what he’s found. The unholy gleam in those cursed eyes says as much.
“Don’t you fucking dare—” Sukuna cuts off with a gasp as those fingers stab his prostate with the precision of a surgical scalpel and the delicacy of a battering ram—a combination he’d approve of in any other scenario.
The fucker does it again.
And again and again and—
The barrage of sensation distracts Sukuna enough that he doesn’t even register the absence of teeth until it’s back, now at the exposed head of his cock. He pries open eyes he doesn’t remember closing to snarl down at the brat, who’s not even looking at him, his lashes swept low while he apparently figures out how to best fucking eat Sukuna’s dick.
The hand squirming inside him doesn’t let up; it’s not just the shitty prostate massage, it’s also the dry burn of the whole thing. The kid’s no dainty waif. His fingers are long and thick, littered with calluses Sukuna beat into him, and they make his muscles throb like a fresh bruise, forced open too wide and too fast with fucking nothing to ease the way.
A wet touch drags his attention back to the head of his cock—the brat’s licking it, his tongue laving over the fleshy head and flicking along the dripping slit.
His eyes flicker up to meet Sukuna’s, and even without a word, a noise, he can tell what the little shit’s thinking: You asked for this.
Sukuna glares at the farce, right until the sharp heat of a nail digging into his prostate makes his vision black out.
When it clears, it’s in time for him to see the brat’s free hand clamp under the head of his cock, tight and mean.
The brat’s still looking at him, evil things swimming in his eye.
“Don’t,” Sukuna warns, not knowing what he’s warning for.
He learns.
Teeth scrape the glans, a canine snagging on the slit.
Sukuna’s knees buckle.
He catches himself with both hands on the brat’s shoulders, and there’s an opportunity, then, to rip the fucker off him and maybe kick him to death, but he’s gasping and half blind, caught on claws and teeth and a filthy festering, and that’s all the brat needs to secure his hostages again, his teeth returning to their delicate clutch around the head and his fingers digging into that spot like they’ll drill through, and Sukuna’s hit with another wave of weakness, his hands almost slipping on the brat’s sweat-slick shoulders.
Fresh fury surges through him, spilling out as a low growl.
But anger doesn’t dampen the hot pulse of his cock or the greedy clench of his muscles, all of it a slave to this boy’s touch.
There’s a low hum, felt on his whole cock despite only the head being inside the brat’s mouth. He takes Sukuna deeper, the teeth faithfully dragging along the flesh, the pressure just shy of pain, and then it is pain, the brat fixing his mouth to the exact spot he bit the last time.
Sukuna’s gut swoops. He curses the air blue, and the brat hums again, the vibrations stronger and harsher.
“Piece of shit,” Sukuna says, except it comes out breathy and pathetic, insult to injury.
The brat’s unbothered, pulling back again to harass the head while his too-dry fingers carve Sukuna open with every clumsy thrust, and it’s fucking eerie how they nail the prostate at just the right angle to make his whole hole clamp up. The pressure’s anything but right, too much and too sharp, but even that runs electric along neglected nerves, skewering him deep.
And it’s learned to be clever again, that damn mouth. The brat can’t suck for shit with his teeth playing at a bear trap, but his tongue’s wet and bold, swirling around the head and dipping into the slit, lapping up the constant stream of precome from the tip just to lather it in spit and heat, and the fucker’s enjoying it, with his eyes heavy-lidded and dark and his face a warm, wanton red—
“Knew you’d be a slut,” Sukuna grits out, and this time, the brat does react, opening his eyes all the way to glare at Sukuna again. “What, don’t like being called that? Too bad. You should be fucking honored. It’s the only thing your filthy mouth’s good—”
He chokes on the rest, trying but failing to strangle a noise in time. It spills out, high and wretched, and the teeth press a little harder, denting the ridge in clear warning. There’s satisfaction in the liquid eyes staring up at him—the dark, heady kind that Sukuna recognizes all the way down to his soul.
He wants to rip it out of this boy’s face. He wants—
The tongue digs into his slit while the teeth stay—a harsh flicking motion that bolts up his spine. The fingers twist inside him, leaving his prostate to hook into unbruised bits of flesh. His walls throb and tighten, and even Sukuna can’t understand whether they want the fingers to stay or get the fuck out.
It’s the most fucked-up pleasure he’s felt in years, maybe ever, and that’s saying something, but the real horror is the way his body trembles.
He’ll kill this kid once he stops, of course he will.
But right now, Sukuna may kill him for stopping.
The brat sinks back into it, and Sukuna keeps his mouth shut, not trusting himself to speak without his voice giving away something obscene, without other sounds spilling out, and the brat doesn’t seem to notice or care, continuing his perversions with an expression that’d be blissful if it weren’t slathered in menace.
And Sukuna—
Sukuna still trembles, dripping wet and clenching up.
This won’t make him come. Can’t. Half his cock’s cooling in the air, and the rest is at the mercy of more teeth than tongue. But the fucking thing keeps throbbing and twitching, and every time the brat moves his tongue or his fingers just right, molten sensation sinks into the base of his cock, a threat and a promise.
Sukuna hears himself panting—wet, heaving things, as telling as the quiver in his muscles.
How long will the brat keep this up, how long will Sukuna have to—
Pain blinds him, a red-hot lance of hurt straight up his spine. His hole howls hot, forced brutally open around what feels like a fucking club but can’t be more than an extra finger, and it’s there, he can feel it, all bunched up with the others inside his convulsing walls, and he can’t fucking stop it, every moment another shuddering clench, the pain just burning hotter and brighter—
Sukuna shouts, hauled bodily into something that sheaths him in blistering heat from head to root.
Did he—
It’s an abrupt explosion—pleasure like shrapnel, tearing up flesh and sense.
And Sukuna doesn’t cry out or collapse, his body locking down out of an instinct only half out of place, but there’s still a wet mouth sucking him down and three thick fingers prying him open, and his bones burn and melt, reformed in filth with every pulse of pleasure.
It’s weakness. And the boy at his feet learned early on to use that to his advantage.
Sukuna comes down from the nastiest orgasm of his life in time to be thrown to the floor, and he hits the mat rolling, snapping back to most of the right senses, but a heavy weight slams into him before he can get his arms or his feet under him, flattening him to the mat with a snarl that sounds more animal than human.
“Brat,” Sukuna snarls right back, trying to free his arms from the claw-like hands pinning them. “You suicidal fuck—"
His hand’s freed, his hair’s caught.
The boy slams Sukuna’s head into the matted floor—once, twice.
His vision blurs, burns black.
He’s kept there, that violent hand still fisted in his hair.
Sukuna blinks the swimming white stripes out of his vision, his vision blurring again as it tries to focus. He can’t see much of the brat. He can feel him, everywhere.
The pressure pinning him from skull to thigh. The heat dripping wetly into the small of his back.
He laughs when he realizes it’s the brat’s cock, smearing its filth on Sukuna’s skin even through the fabric there.
That’s the concussion, probably.
The brat is silent, eerily so. He makes up for it with a lack of stillness—the hand grinding Sukuna’s head into the mat, the hips grinding his cock into Sukuna’s back.
Filth, all filth.
He’s almost proud. Only almost. No concussion can excuse that.
Sukuna was right though, wasn’t he? This kid’s his. Right from the womb, all his.
Maybe if Jin mixed his genes with something less crazy, it’d have been different. Who cares. He didn’t, and here he is, the bane of Sukuna’s existence, fashioned from his own blood. The only thing worthy.
The pressure on his skull vanishes. There’s the sound of cloth ripping.
Heavy heat slots against his spine.
The brat moves, rutting against him like a dog.
Sukuna can’t get a good idea of his cock like this, but it feels big. Thick and heavy, branding him with heat and worse. It slides easily along the sweat there, but Sukuna’s aware of something thicker and warmer staining his skin.
His spine grows liquid with it, melting into his flesh.
It’s not long before the brat’s panting—harsh and ragged and wet, like he really is some mutt. But it’s different from the noises he made in Sukuna’s bed, even on that first night. Those were helpless, desperate. These aren’t any more controlled. Worse, but different. An edge to them that scrapes. Bestial, like human reason has fled and left animal intensity in its place.
Sukuna doesn’t register the urge to move until he already has, his legs spreading wider—an invitation that makes him freeze.
The boy on him freezes too.
Then he groans, the noise half buried in Sukuna’s nape. The same sharp teeth that held his cock hostage clamp down on the flesh there, and before Sukuna’s good sense returns from its little vacation, the brat’s slotting his cock between his cheeks, graceless thrusts smearing heat and precome along his crack and over his hole, not finding the mark—more and more a dog, his want all animal.
Worse things to be a dog for—Sukuna would know.
It burns when it finds the mark, the already abused rim stinging at the pressure and screaming at the breach. Those fingers were thick; this is thicker, even the head making the edges of Sukuna’s vision go dark, the whole room blurring into smears of shadow and color.
The brat comes before he bottoms out, tearing Sukuna open to pour raw heat into the hurt.
A long, drawn-out moan trembles against his nape, quivering through the boy’s greedy teeth. Sukuna’s not sure whether the warmth there is blood or sweat. His entire body is a thing of heat, like the blood inside his veins is too close to the surface.
The brat softens inside him, inch by excruciating inch, until he slips out.
Some of the mess trickles out in his wake, but most of it stays.
Sukuna blinks and finds the room in steady technicolor; the darkness behind his lids is a hell of a lot more soothing.
The brat lets go of his neck, and there’s a brief wet touch—a tongue, lapping up the mess. Probably blood then.
What a goddamn animal.
He’s not holding Sukuna down anymore. Not trying, at least. His sheer weight would crush most people.
Sukuna is not most people.
The brat tenses, as if sensing the intent.
He says, “You got it wrong, earlier.”
Sukuna blinks, waiting. He doesn’t breathe, but the kid’s shuddering breath, the great swell of the chest pressed to his back—they feel like his own.
“I’ve known I like men since I realized I want to fuck you,” he says bluntly. His breaths are hot on the shell of Sukuna’s ear. “I’m not that stupid, whatever you think. But no one made me want the way you did…until Gojou-sensei. What I was telling Fushiguro, what I realized—it’s that I have a type. You’re just that type. Sorry, oji-san. You’re not special. And I’m sure as hell not a virgin. People just usually know better than to ram their whole cock down my throat.” A laugh, breathless with that same feral edge. “I should have bitten it off.”
Sukuna flings him off.
He’s on his feet the next second, yanking his pants up. A fresh flood of adrenaline eats through the burning at his backside—a pain that stretches all the way up to the base of his spine—and through whatever lapse of sense found Sukuna lying there under this trash, just taking it.
The brat’s right where he fell, spread-eagled like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
The eyes that meet Sukuna’s are calm like the eye of a storm.
Sukuna doesn’t know half the things brimming in them, but there’s satisfaction and acceptance in equal measure—threaded too deep to be just post-orgasmic idiocy.
He could kill this boy now. He could break him.
Sukuna turns on his heels and stalks out of the room, the apartment, the fucking building.
Notes:
This fic was my first—and only, so far—time writing Sukuna’s PoV, and one thing that immediately became clear was that it just did not feel right to use Yuuji’s name when writing in Sukuna’s third-person limited perspective. And thus, you have fucking epithet hell. It was easy enough to write and then wrangle in the last chapter since it was so short, but editing this bloody beast was a task and a half.
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