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They’re doing it again.
Sukuna’s lip curls, upper lip peeling back from teeth that ache with the urge to bite something, to tear. A visceral gag catches in his throat, loud enough to rattle the dusty air of their cramped living room, thick with the smell of old takeout containers and the cheap air freshener Megumi keeps buying despite the fact that it does nothing to mask the mold blooming in the corners. The ceiling fan clicks overhead in a broken rhythm, stirring the humid air without cooling it, just moving the staleness around.
There, sprawled across the sunken, spring-busted couch that’s more duct tape than original fabric, is his younger twin, Megumi.
Identical in everything with only the tattoos scattered Sukuna’s body being the most telling differences. His brother is currently wrapped around that pink-haired parasite like he’s the only thing keeping the idiot from floating away. Itadori Yuuji.
The brat.
The nickname sits heavy on Sukuna’s tongue, a bitter thing he’s earned through months of tolerating that blinding smile and those stupid, earnest eyes that seem to look at everything in the world with the same uncomplicated affection.
“Why are you even here?” Megumi groans, his voice muffled against the brat’s shoulder, vibrating through the thin cotton of Yuuji’s shirt.
He rolls his eyes, white showing like a spooked horse, sclera catching the dying afternoon light filtering through the dirty window and Sukuna’s fingers twitch at his sides, nails digging crescents into his palms. One more time. If he does it one more time, Sukuna’s dumping the entire bottle of bleach into his shampoo. The image flashes bright and satisfying behind his eyelids: Megumi’s hair turned straw-yellow and brittle, maybe falling out in patches, chemical burns on that perfect scalp. Maybe then the brat would finally take the hint and bolt. Probably not, though.
The brat seems to like Megumi.
“It’s my house, isn’t it?” Sukuna shoots back.
He hasn’t spoken since this morning, since he slammed out of the apartment to avoid exactly this scene, and his throat feels coated in dust.
“Not yours,” Megumi mumbles, burrowing deeper into that obnoxious embrace, his nose pressing against the junction of Yuuji’s neck and shoulder like he’s trying to inhale him.
The brat’s arm tightens around him, returning the affectionate just as sweetly.
“Nor yours,” Sukuna shoots back, stepping closer.
The floorboards creak under his weight, protesting the intrusion, the wood swollen and warped from summer humidity. He peers down at Yuuji, who looks up at him with those ridiculous doe eyes, all warmth and no survival instinct, lashes casting shadows on his cheeks in the dim light.
He looks…
Sukuna’s fingers itch.
“Don’t you have a house to go to? Is your mom too busy spreading her legs?”
“Sukuna!” Megumi hisses.
His brother actually untangling himself enough to glare, cheeks flushing with that familiar rage that Sukuna knows so well. Megumi’s lips curling harshly with nothing but pure hatred. That’s better than the lovesick stupidity.
Yuuji just squeezes Megumi’s arm and his twin melts. Actually melts, spine going loose, shoulders dropping from that perpetual defensive hunch he carries everywhere else—at school, on the street, in every room of this apartment except this one, this exact spot on this ruined couch. Like a pathetic puppy. Putty against the brat’s clumsy hands that Sukuna has watched fix Megumi’s hair, fix his collar, fix things that were never broken to begin with.
“Hi Sukuna,” the brat chirps.
Yuuji is completely unfazed by the venom dripping from the ceiling, from the walls, from Sukuna’s very pores. His smile doesn’t waver, doesn’t crack.
“How was your day?”
Sukuna rolls his eyes so hard he can practically feel his optic nerves strain, the muscles in his face contorting with the effort of keeping his expression neutral, keeping the snarl contained. He lifts one heavy boot and kicks the arm of the couch while watching them jolt and scramble to keep their balance, watching Yuuji’s arm instinctively tighten around Megumi’s shoulders to steady him.
It’s barely satisfying.
He wants to kick harder or maybe he wants to flip the entire couch and send them sprawling. He reaches over their tangled bodies, invading their space deliberately, aggressively, and snatches the remote from where it sits on the opposite arm. Right beside Yuuji’s ass. They’re thick. Large. Probably soft. The observation flickers through his mind uninvited, unwanted, and he sneers harder to burn it out, to sear it away with the force of his own contempt.
“If you guys are planning to make out,” he mutters, clicking the TV on to some obnoxious reality show he doesn’t care about, volume already climbing, “go to your room. Some of us don’t want to watch softcore porn while eating dinner.” His voice sounds hollow in his own ears, bouncing off the water-stained walls.
Megumi mutters something that sounds like “nobody’s eating,” but Yuuji is already bouncing, that kinetic energy of his vibrating through the furniture, through the floor, through the air itself. He can’t sit still.
“Oh! That reminds me,” Yuuji says.
He’s twisting to face Megumi with that blinding enthusiasm that makes Sukuna’s teeth ache, his jaw clench until his molars grind. He’s too bright. Too much. Filling up spaces that should be empty, should be quiet.
“Nobara texted me earlier. She’s throwing that house party tonight—her parents are out of town. She said to bring snacks but not the cheap stuff. And she specifically said” he lowers his voice in a terrible imitation of the girl, eyebrows waggling, “‘Tell that twin of yours he’s coming whether he likes it or not, and if he wears that stupid hoodie again, I’m burning it.’”
Megumi snorts, a rare smile tugging at his mouth, the corner of his lip lifting.
“She’s talking about you, Yuuji. You’re the one with the ugly hoodie.”
“Am not! She means Sukuna!”
Sukuna keeps his eyes glued to the screen, jaw working, muscle jumping in his cheek, pretending the flickering lights hold any interest. The brat’s voice grates, too loud, too happy, filling up the small room like helium, like smoke, choking out all the oxygen until Sukuna feels lightheaded with it, with the pressure of their ease against his own rigid spine.
“Hey, Sukuna?” Yuuji tries, leaning forward over Megumi’s lap, intruding into Sukuna’s peripheral vision whether he wants it or not. Sukuna can see him there, all expectant and hopeful, pupils blown wide in the dim light, waiting like a dog expecting scraps. “You gonna come? Nobara said—”
“Don’t,” Megumi interrupts, soft but firm, his hand finds Yuuji’s knee, squeezing once. “Just ignore him. He’ll either show up to ruin everyone’s night or he’ll stay here and sulk. Either way, it’s not worth asking.”
Sukuna’s grip tightens on the remote, plastic creaking under his thumb, threatening to crack. He doesn’t deign to respond and simply stares at the television as colors flash across his vision, meaningless noise drowning out the quiet, the laughter, the life happening three feet away from him. Behind him, muffled against the fabric of the couch, he hears it. The stifled sound. The shift of fabric, denim against denim, skin against skin. Then—giggling. Soft, breathless, intimate in a way that makes Sukuna’s chest constrict until his ribs ache. Yuuji’s stupid hyena laugh, barely contained, vibrating through the room like a physical touch, and Megumi’s quieter, huffed amusement, warm and private and meant only for the space between their bodies, the air they share.
Sukuna’s eye twitches.
The remote creaks again in his fist.
He cranks the volume up until the speakers buzz with static, drowning them out, drowning everything out, but he can still feel it. The vibration of their happiness against his spine like a second heartbeat. The way the room feels smaller, hotter, crowded with something he can’t touch and doesn’t want to name, something that tastes like copper and ash in the back of his throat.
He doesn’t move, sitting there, and waits for the night to swallow them all.
The bass thrums through the floorboards, vibrating up through Sukuna’s boots and settling somewhere behind his eyes, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. Nobara’s house is exactly as expected—loud, overcrowded, and reeking of cheap beer, sweat, and whatever garbage her neighbors are smoking on the back porch. The air is thick, humid with body heat and exhaled breath, condensation beading on the windows in the living room. Red plastic cups litter every surface like fungal growth, multiplying in corners and on windowsills, and someone’s already vomited in the potted fern by the entrance, the acrid smell cutting through the haze of weed and perfume.
Sukuna leans against the kitchen counter, the laminate sticky under his elbows, nursing a whiskey that tastes like gasoline and watching the room through half-lidded eyes.
The ice in his glass has long since melted, diluting the amber liquid to a pale, unappetizing brown, but he drinks it anyway. He’s managed to carve out a bubble of empty space around himself—maybe three feet in every direction—nobody’s brave enough to breach it, not with the way he’s scowling at anyone who looks his way for too long.
The walls are pulsing with each thump of the music, black ink seeming to shift and swim in the alternating blue and purple beams cutting through the dark.
Nobara slides up beside him, her presence announced by the sharp click of her heels against the tile and the cloud of her perfume—something expensive and aggressive. Her lipstick is already feathering at the edges from whatever she’s been drinking, smeared slightly across her cheek where she’s probably wiped her face. She’s wearing that smirk, the one that says she’s done something terrible and is waiting to be congratulated for it, eyes glittering with mischief and alcohol.
“You’re tolerable tonight,” Sukuna grunts, not looking at her, tracking instead the movement of some idiot trying to dance on the coffee table.
“And you’re almost pleasant. Almost.” She clinks her cup against his glass, the sound sharp enough to cut through the music’s drone. “Seen your brother?”
Sukuna’s gaze drifts across the living room, past the gyrating bodies and the cloud of vape smoke that hangs like a curtain, and finds them. Megumi and Yuuji. They’re tangled together on the sagging couch in the corner, limbs loose and faces flushed an alarming shade of crimson that even the dim lighting can’t hide. Yuuji’s head lolls against Megumi’s shoulder, giggling at something that probably isn’t funny, while Megumi stares at his own hand like he’s never seen fingers before, turning it slowly in front of his face with an expression of profound wonder.
They’re wrecked for a lack of better word.
Megumi’s hair is mussed, falling into his eyes, and there’s a dark stain on his shirt that might be punch or might be something else. Yuuji’s arm is draped possessively around Megumi’s neck, fingers locking together, lips locking against his brother in a slow lazy kiss. Wrapping a possessive hand around Yuuji’s waist.
Sukuna’s jaw tightens, a muscle jumping in his cheek. “What the fuck did you put in the punch?”
Nobara whistles, low and tuneless, examining her nails—painted a violent red, chipped at the tips. “Nothing. Well, it’s nothing bad. Just a little something to make the night more interesting.” She sips her drink, eyes cutting to the twins with a calculating look. “They’re having fun. Loosened up a bit.”
“Idiot,” Sukuna mutters, but there’s no heat in it.
He downs the rest of his whiskey, the burn welcome and familiar, and pushes off the counter. The room tilts slightly, pleasantly, the alcohol finally hitting his bloodstream, and he weaves through the crowd toward the back of the house where it’s quieter. He needs air. Or another drink. Or to not watch his brother drool on that pink-haired nuisance for five fucking minutes, his hands roaming territories that should be forbidden.
Time blurs and Sukuna finds himself in a hallway, darker here, the noise muffled behind closed doors, the bass reduced to a subsonic thrum in his teeth.
He’s had two more drinks—maybe three—in between and his blood feels thick and warm in his veins, his skin hypersensitive, aware of every brush of fabric. The bathroom door is closed, light bleeding from beneath the crack in a thin, aggressive line, and he can hear something moving and breathing.
A soft, wet sound that might be crying or might be something else.
He should walk away and find another bathroom, or the bushes outside, or literally anywhere else.
But fuck that shit, he needs to use the bathroom right now.
The handle turns under his palm, metal cool and smooth. The door swings inward on hinges that squeak, and the light inside is harsh, fluorescent, unforgiving—bleaching everything white and exposing every flaw.
There, slumped against the sink with his legs spread and his head tipped back against the mirror, is Yuuji.
Alone.
The brat’s tank top is riding up, exposing a strip of soft stomach that rises and falls with each breath, and his shorts are doing absolutely criminal things to his thighs, hiking up high on thick and soft muscle. His face is slack, mouth open, eyes glassy and unfocused, staring at the ceiling with pupils blown wide. He looks up as Sukuna enters, movements sluggish, delayed, and something in his expression shifts—softens, melts into recognition that isn’t real.
A smile spreads across his face, dopey and devastating, lighting him up from within.
“Megumi~” Yuuji sings, the word stretching out like taffy, sweet and clinging.
He pushes off the sink, swaying dangerously, and before Sukuna can react—or decide if he wants to react—Yuuji’s arms loop around his neck. He smells like fruit punch and cheap vodka and something uniquely, maddeningly Yuuji, something that makes Sukuna’s mouth water against his will. The brat must be truly gone, completely adrift in whatever chemical soup Nobara concocted, because he’s nuzzling into Sukuna’s throat, pressing open-mouthed kisses to skin that’s never been touched so gently, so reverently.
Sukuna’s tattoos are right there, black and violent and unmistakable, crawling up his neck and face.
Yuuji is either too far gone to notice or too far gone to care, mouthing at the ink like it’s something precious.
“Jeez,” Yuuji whines against his collarbone, breath hot and damp, seeping through Sukuna’s shirt. “What took you so long? I was worried that I was going to have to get myself off.”
Sukuna’s never claimed to be a good man.
The thought crystallizes, sharp and cold, even as heat pools low in his gut, heavy and insistent. He’s not going to lie to himself—the brat is attractive. Always has been, with that ridiculous body and that mouth that never stops moving and those eyes that look at everyone like they hung the moon. The fact that he’s offering himself up like this, pliant and desperate, is more than Sukuna’s self-control can handle, especially with the alcohol singing in his veins.
The door clicks shut behind him, he double checks that it is locked.
They're sealed in the small, steamy space together, cutting off the party’s noise until it’s just the two of them and the harsh buzz of the light fixture.
Sukuna’s hands find Yuuji’s hips, rough and proprietary, fingers digging into the soft flesh above his waistband, and he shoves. The brat stumbles back, hitting the tiled wall with a gasp that sounds punched out of him, head knocking against the plaster. The bathroom is cramped, claustrophobic, all porcelain and peeling wallpaper and the smell of lavender air freshener failing to mask the musk of sex and sweat that already lingers. He crowds Yuuji against the wall, feeling the heat radiating off his skin, fever-hot from the drugs or the alcohol or both, and kisses him. Hard. Teeth clicking, tongue forcing entry past slack lips, tasting like sugar and sin and something darker. Yuuji whines into his mouth, high and needy, and kisses back with an urgency that makes Sukuna’s cock twitch in his jeans, straining against the denim.
The brat’s fingers bury themselves in Sukuna’s black hair, pulling, scratching at his scalp, desperate for something he thinks he’s allowed to have.
“Please, please,” Yuuji begs between messy, open-mouthed kisses, voice cracking. “I want you so bad, baby.”
The nickname is not meant for him. Sukuna knows that and should stop, or laugh, or correct the mistake with cruelty, with violence. Instead, it sends a dark thrill down Sukuna’s spine, electric and dangerous. He’s not baby, he’s not Megumi and he can finally ruin whatever little fantasy these two had. Break them and hopefully, if he's lucky, he can break their relationship.
Sukuna lowers himself.
He mouths at Yuuji’s tank top, white and thin and already translucent with sweat, sucking the fabric until it clings to the brat’s nipple, wet and obscene. Yuuji arches, crying out, spine bowing off the wall, and Sukuna pulls back to admire his work—the dark peak visible through the wet cotton, peaked and desperate, surrounded by the flush spreading across his chest.
“Greedy slut,” Sukuna groans, the words vibrating against Yuuji’s ribs, watching them expand with each ragged breath.
He tugs the tank top to the side, exposing both nipples to the harsh bathroom light. Pink. Pebbled. Perfect. He scratches at one with his thumbnail, watching Yuuji’s face crumple with sensation, before leaning in to suck the other nipple into his mouth. Sukuna’s not gentle and has never been a gentle lover. He fucks hard and rough. He likes it mean and messy. So he bites, worrying the flesh between his teeth until Yuuji is bucking against him, hips jerking, and Sukuna can feel the hard line of Yuuji’s slutty erection pressing insistently against his stomach through too many layers of fabric, hot and heavy.
Yuuji’s fingers tighten in his hair, trying to guide him, trying to get his mouth on the neglected nipple, and Sukuna laughs—low, mean—against his skin, blowing cool air over the wet flesh and making Yuuji whine.
He works Yuuji ruthlessly, switching between bites and sucks and cruel twists of his fingers, until the brat is sobbing, head thrown back against the tile, hips rutting against nothing, seeking friction. Sukuna keeps one hand steady on Yuuji’s waist, holding him in place, and reaches down with the other to palm himself through his jeans. The pressure isn’t enough, never enough, but the sight of Yuuji falling apart is, the way he’s completely at Sukuna’s mercy.
It doesn’t take long.
Yuuji’s body goes rigid, spine bowing, and he comes with a choked cry, untouched, spilling messily in his shorts like a teenager, hips stuttering forward. The drugs likely playing a role in how easy it is for the pink-haired boy to cum untouched. Sukuna doesn’t stop sucking, doesn’t stop biting, milking the aftershocks until Yuuji is whimpering, oversensitive, trying to squirm away from the overstimulation.
Sukuna stands, crowding back into Yuuji’s space, and kisses him.
The brat tastes like copper and desperation, lips swollen and bitten, and he whimpers into Sukuna’s mouth.
“Good boy,” Sukuna murmurs against his lips, and something dark and pleased unfurls in his chest at the way Yuuji’s whole body softens at the praise, tension bleeding out of his shoulders. “Such a good boy for me.”
He maneuvers them, spinning Yuuji around and pushing him down until he’s sitting on the closed toilet lid. The position puts him at the perfect height, and Sukuna’s already freeing himself from his jeans, cock heavy and aching in his hand, flushed dark and leaking. He’s leaking, smearing precum against his palm, and the sight of Yuuji—flushed, fucked-out, pupils blown wide, pink hair sticking to his forehead—makes him harder. Sukuna grips Yuuji’s chin, forcing his mouth open with his thumb and forefinger before he’s shoving his thumb inside.
The brat’s tongue is soft, hot, and wet.
Like clockwork, Yuuji suckles automatically, eyes fluttering shut, cheeks hollowing. Drool slips from the corner of his mouth, trailing down his chin, collecting in the hollow of his throat, shiny and obscene.
He looks ruined. Perfect.
Sukuna pulls his thumb free with a wet pop and presses the tip of his cock against Yuuji’s lips, smearing precum across the swollen flesh, painting them shiny and slick. His thumb finds its way back into Yuuji’s mouth, pressing down on his tongue, and he leans in close enough to feel Yuuji’s shaky exhale against his shaft, warm and damp.
“Listen carefully, brat,” Sukuna growls, voice dropping to something dangerous, something that vibrates with threat. “I’m going to hurt you if you try to bite me. Keep your teeth to yourself, got it?”
Yuuji blinks up at him, hazy and slow, lashes wet with tears, and then—kitten licks. Tiny, tentative flicks of his tongue against Sukuna’s slit, and the tease of it, the innocence of it, makes Sukuna’s vision spark red at the edges. He slaps Yuuji. Not hard enough to bruise but sharp, cracking across his cheek. The sound echoes in the small bathroom, immediate and shocking, bouncing off the tiles.
Yuuji whines, high and broken, and the red bloom on his face is the most beautiful thing Sukuna’s seen all night, a handprint rising on his skin.
“So mean,” Yuuji whimpers, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes, spilling over.
“I hate being ignored,” Sukuna says, gripping Yuuji’s jaw hard enough to leave fingerprints, to bruise. “I told you to keep your teeth to yourself, got it?”
Yuuji nods, frantic, desperate, and Sukuna watches the string of saliva stretch between his thumb and Yuuji’s lips as he pulls back, glistening in the fluorescent light. The brat peppers kisses down Sukuna’s stomach, open-mouthed and reverent, following the black lines of his tattoos with his tongue like he’s mapping them, like he’s worshipping them. Whatever Nobara put in that alcohol must be strong as fuck, because Yuuji still hasn’t noticed. Hasn’t looked up and seen the face of the man using him, the extra scars, the markings and tattoos. Hasn’t realized those aren’t Megumi’s hands, rough and calloused, too rough, too cruel.
Sukuna guides Yuuji back to his cock, watching with predatory focus as the brat slowly, slowly sinks down onto him.
The heat is incredible, wet and tight, and Sukuna’s hips jerk forward involuntarily, chasing more, seeking deeper. He cups the back of Yuuji’s head, fingers tangling in pink hair, and tilts his head back until Yuuji’s looking up at him through tear-thick lashes, mouth stretched wide and taunt around his girth. With his free hand, Sukuna pulls out his cigarettes. The lighter flares, acrid smoke filling the small space, and he takes a long drag as Yuuji pulls off, gasping, mouth puffy and wrecked, spit connecting his lips to Sukuna’s cock.
“I thought you quit smoking, Gumi?” Yuuji mumbles, confused, reaching out with a clumsy hand, fingers trembling.
Sukuna raises a brow, exhaling smoke through his nose. So his brother played at being virtuous, did he? Pretended to be better than him, cleaner, and then did exactly the same vile things in the dark.
The hypocrisy tastes sweet, like victory.
He chuckles, dark and low, and tugs Yuuji back onto his cock by the hair, forcing him down until his nose presses against Sukuna’s pelvis, inhaling at Sukuna’s dark pubic hair.
“I didn’t tell you to stop, brat. Keep going.”
Yuuji huffs, weak and petulant, but obeys.
He returns to sucking, messier now, louder, gagging slightly as Sukuna holds him there. The wet sounds of it—slick and obscene—mix with the thumping bass from the party outside, drowning everything else out, creating a cocoon of filth. Sukuna tilts Yuuji’s head, adjusting the angle, and feeds the rest of his cock into that sweet and tight willing mouth.
Yuuji whimpers around him, throat convulsing, and the tightness of it makes Sukuna groan, hips rocking forward in shallow thrusts.
He can’t stop himself.
The cigarette burns between his fingers, forgotten, ash growing long, as both hands bury themselves in Yuuji’s hair. He holds him still and fucks his face in earnest, watching the way Yuuji’s throat bulges with each thrust, the way his lips stretch obscenely around the girth of him, the way his face goes red—so fucking red—from lack of air, from the strain.
Tears stream down Yuuji’s cheeks, cutting through the flush, and he’s beautiful like this.
Broken and used and still trying so hard to please the ghost he thinks is his boyfriend.
Sukuna pushes harder, faster, until Yuuji’s back is pressed against the cold porcelain tank, until his eyes roll back, whites showing, until he’s making these desperate, choked sounds that vibrate around Sukuna’s cock, that send sparks up his spine.
He thrusts deep, as deep as he can go, burying himself to the root in that tight, spasming throat, and cums.
His vision whites out, pleasure crashing through him in waves, blinding, and he feels Yuuji swallowing desperately around him, throat working, a mixture of cum and spit bubbling up around his nose and mouth as Sukuna slowly pulls back, dragging his sensitive cock over Yuuji’s tongue.
He wipes his cock against Yuuji’s wet cheek, smearing the mess there, marking him, claiming him.
“Fuck, baby,” Sukuna breathes, taking another drag of his forgotten cigarette, watching Yuuji gulp air like he’s drowning, chest heaving, ribs visible. “You did so good.”
Yuuji tries to settle, to catch his breath, but Sukuna’s not done. He grabs Yuuji’s chin, forcing his head up, and the brat gasps, eyes fluttering, tears tracking down his face.
“You’re being so mean today,” Yuuji whines, voice ruined, barely audible.
Sukuna rolls his eyes. Of course his brother is vanilla as fuck. Probably treats Yuuji like glass, like something precious, asking permission for every touch. Pathetic. He’s had a taste now, and he wants more.
“Open your mouth, brat.”
“No,” Yuuji shoots back, sudden and sharp, some last vestige of defiance surfacing through the haze, chin trembling.
Sukuna tightens his grip, fingers digging into the soft flesh of Yuuji’s jaw until he whines and obeys, mouth falling open.
“Tongue out.”
Yuuji extends his tongue, trembling, and Sukuna smiles—sharp and pleased, predatory. He’s swallowed everything, every drop, and now Sukuna leans in close, collecting spit in his mouth before spitting directly onto Yuuji’s waiting tongue, watching it land, thick and obscene. Yuuji tries to jerk away, gagging, but Sukuna’s faster. He clamps a hand over Yuuji’s mouth, leaning in until their noses brush, until he can feel Yuuji’s panicked breath against his palm.
“Swallow,” he growls, the command vibrating against Yuuji’s lips, his hand.
He watches Yuuji’s throat bob, the muscles working, and the brat cries harder, shoulders shaking, tears hot and fresh. The sight is intoxicating, power rushing through Sukuna’s veins like a drug.
“Want to stop, ‘Gumi,” Yuuji sobs, tears hot and fresh against Sukuna’s fingers. “I don’t like this.”
Sukuna ignores him and presses the burning cherry of his cigarette against Yuuji’s collarbone, killing the fire, and tosses the butt onto the floor. The brat flinches, gasping, but doesn’t pull away, too pliant, too far gone.
“Don’t be a bitch,” Sukuna says.
He’s already moving Yuuji around, bending him over the toilet tank until his chest is pressed against the porcelain and his ass is presented perfectly, round and thick. Those shorts are in the way, clinging to thick thighs and the swell of his ass, and Sukuna works them down to Yuuji’s knees with rough, impatient hands, exposing him completely.
He spreads Yuuji open with both hands, thumbs digging into the soft flesh of his ass, and groans at the sight. Yuuji’s hole is pink, and hairless. Tight. Untouched-looking, clenching in the cool air.
“Was my brother really that small?” he mutters, more to himself than Yuuji. “Hasn’t ruined this pretty little hole yet?”
He leans over to shove his fingers into Yuuji’s mouth again, three of them, hooking into that sweet wet hole. He can feel the wet heat of Yuuji’s tongue, the way he tries not to suck them clean.
“Suck, brat,” Sukuna growls, pushing his fingers even deeper. “Unless you want me to enter dry?”
The threat sends a violent shiver through Yuuji’s body. He sucks desperately, cheeks hollowing, trying to get Sukuna’s fingers wet enough, and Sukuna lets him work for a moment before impatience wins. He pulls them free, glistening and dripping, and uses his clean hand to spread Yuuji open wider, exposing him completely.
He smears the saliva around the puckered rim, watching it twitch, and then forces one finger inside.
Yuuji clenches immediately, groaning, and then—unconsciously, pathetically—pushes his ass back, seeking more, seeking the stretch. Sukuna adds a second finger, scissoring carelessly, not here to pleasure Yuuji but to take what he wants, to prepare him just enough that he doesn’t accidentally rip his brother’s boyfriend. A third finger follows quickly, stretching the brat open with rough, efficient thrusts before pulling out entirely, leaving him gaping slightly.
Yuuji whimpers at the emptiness, hips twitching like a wanton slut.
Sukuna spreads grabs Yuuji’s asscheeks open with both hands, forcing him to bend lower, to present better. He spits onto the exposed hole, watching the saliva slide down, catching on Yuuji’s balls before it drips down onto his useless pathetic cock—which is slowly starting to get hard again after cumming untouched earlier.
“Damn,” Sukuna mutters, stroking himself gently to a full erection before he’s guiding himself to that tight entrance, pressing the head against the slick rim. “You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?”
He bites his lower lip, shifting his hips, and slowly bullies the first inch inside. Yuuji’s hole is impossibly tight, resisting, clenching around him like a vice, and the brat is whimpering, crying, words tumbling out that Sukuna doesn’t bother to parse, just noise, just music. He tightens his grip on Yuuji’s hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, to leave marks that will last for days, and steadies himself.
Then he thrusts, sheathing himself completely in one brutal stroke, bottoming out with a grunt.
The wet, scorching heat of it nearly makes Sukuna come right then. His vision blacks out for a heartbeat, pleasure cresting like a wave, and he forces himself to look down. Yuuji is limp against the toilet, cheek pressed to the tank, eyes glazed and unfocused, mouth open on silent cries. Sukuna leans to the side, heart hammering, and sees Yuuji’s cock—limp again, spurting weakly, making a mess of the porcelain and floor.
He came just from being breached open.
Just from Sukuna’s cock splitting him open, filling him completely.
Nobara is going to kill them for ruining her bathroom, but the thought evaporates as Sukuna drags his hips back, feeling every ridge and flutter of Yuuji’s soft and wet walls, and then slams back in. The sound of skin on skin is loud, obscene, mixing with Yuuji’s sobs and the wet slap of his own hips against Yuuji’s ass.
“Look at you,” Sukuna pants.
He’s leaning over to growl in Yuuji’s ear, breath hot against his neck. He snaps his hips harder, driving deeper, watching Yuuji’s body jerk with each impact, watching him take it.
“Such a slut. I can’t believe you came just like that.” He thrusts again, angling for that spot that makes Yuuji scream, high and broken. “Guess Megumi is too small for you—ah, fuck, so tight.”
He forces Yuuji’s head to the side, crushing their mouths together in a kiss that’s all teeth and desperation, biting his lip until he tastes copper again.
“Come on, brat. Call out my name. Sukuna. Say it.”
Yuuji’s eyes flutter open, hazy and blown wide, that honey-gold color swimming with tears and pleasure and confusion. For a moment, something flickers—recognition?—but then he surprises Sukuna by surging up, kissing him first. Sukuna returns it twice as hard, biting Yuuji’s lower lip until he tastes copper, and wraps one hand around Yuuji’s limp cock. He coaxes it back to life with rough, insistent strokes, timing them with his thrusts, relentless.
“No, no, please,” Yuuji sobs, trying to push Sukuna’s hand away, weak and trembling. “Can’t cum anymore. Gonna pee. Too much.”
“You can,” Sukuna purrs against his ear, thrusting deeper, jerking faster, feeling Yuuji twitch and swell in his grip despite the protests. “Come on, sweet boy. Say my name. Sukuna. Say it.”
Yuuji sobs, body going loose and pliant, a puppet with its strings cut, giving up the fight. Sukuna feels Yuuji’s cock twitch against his hand, filling again, hardening in his grip despite the oversensitivity, the pain.
“Kuna,” Yuuji gasps, broken. “Kuna, please, no more, gonna—”
“Go ahead, baby,” Sukuna encourages, fucking him through it, relentless, merciless. “Squirt for me, sweet boy.”
Yuuji screams, or tries to— it comes out as a choked sob as he spills again, watery and weak, painting the toilet with his release, body convulsing. His entire body seizes, muscles clamping down viciously around Sukuna’s cock, and that’s it. Sukuna’s hips stutter, losing rhythm, and he buries himself as deep as possible, grinding against Yuuji’s ass as he cums. Pulse after pulse, filling the brat, painting him inside, claiming him completely. He groans, long and low, and slowly pulls out. His cock is softening, spent, and he immediately reaches down to spread Yuuji’s ass apart, watching with dark fascination as his cum seeps out of the swollen, abused hole, dripping down his thighs.
“Fuck,” Sukuna breathes, dipping his fingers in to push the mess back inside, to keep it there. “Really ruined you for Megumi.”
He leans down, pressing a kiss to Yuuji’s slack mouth. The brat is barely conscious, mumbling something that might be Sukuna’s name, or might be nothing at all, eyes rolling back.
“Let’s do this again,” Sukuna whispers against his lips.
A loud bang on the door makes him jolt. Sukuna tucks himself back into his jeans with practiced efficiency, zipping up, and cracks the door open just enough to see who’s there, body blocking the view.
Megumi, his twin, looking worried and drunk and heartbreakingly oblivious, hair mussed, eyes red-rimmed.
“You’ve seen Yuuji?” Megumi asks, swaying slightly, squinting against the bathroom light.
Sukuna rolls his eyes, leaning against the doorframe to block the view of the bathroom interior, of Yuuji slumped and marked behind him.
“You think I’d want to be around that slut?”
Megumi rolls his eyes in return—there’s the attitude, the familiar disdain—and turns away, stumbling slightly. “Forget I asked.”
Sukuna watches his twin stumble down the hallway, calling Yuuji’s name with increasing panic, voice echoing. He’s always been a lightweight. Always been weak and always been too slow to see what’s right in front of him.
Maybe, Sukuna thinks, lighting another cigarette and inhaling the smoke deep into his lungs, filling his chest with it, he’ll actually ask Nobara where she got that shit from.
It’s been a productive night. Very productive.
He closes the bathroom door again, locking it with a decisive click, and looks down at Yuuji—passed out and marked and his, if only for the next hour, cum drying on his thighs, bruises blooming on his hips.
“Wake up, brat,” Sukuna says, nudging Yuuji’s thigh with his boot, watching him stir. “We’re not done yet.”