Chapter Text
@rymsukuna
Eloquent tattoos, rich lifestyle, lavish-youngster fashion. His feed is a curated mix of taste, youth, money, and distance. The kind of page people follow just to feel something expensive for five seconds.
He has a solid following, something over 1M, which is funny because he doesn’t post that much. And when he does, nothing about it looks like he’s taking it for the gram.
It’s just him, his life. Unreachable, careless, and unfairly aesthetic.
There are the occasional videos his followers devour like they’re starved: veiny hands with expensive watch or jewelry scratching behind the ears of his huge white Maine Coon named Mahoraga (mostly 'Maha' when he baby-talks him in the background); fit checks shot in the mirror of his too-big, too-lavish mansion; blurry nights with his friends, all laughter and teeth and the kind of wild, glossy fun only rich boys can afford to look bored about.
He doesn’t look like he’s trying at all. Yet he collects fans like a magnet drags metal.
People like his page because it’s a peek into a life they’re not supposed to touch. Luxurious, but not the embarrassing kind. No brand partnerships, no wholesale flexing. Sukuna’s world feels real. Sharp, exciting, and ultimately unreachable. Like he’s leaving the door cracked open just to watch who dares look in.
And today, he’s posted something new.
At first, it’s routine: likes climbing fast, comments that read like people forgetting how to spell, reposts to thirst accounts. But within hours, then days, the algorithm shifts fast. The screenshot hits Twitter. TikTok. Discord. Fan circles that have nothing to do with him.
The post?
A shirtless gym mirror shot with dark lighting. Muscle definition like a threat. Blackwork tattoos crawling over him, crisp and expensive, each line looking like it was planned by someone with taste and too much disposable income.
Everyone’s seen this formula from him. Everyone loves it. But today, something’s different.
A new tattoo on his left rib, sitting right above the deep cut of his obliques.
A doodle of a tiger head, quirky in a way that is aesthetic. Two rounded ears that are a little uneven in a cute way, two sharp eyes that appear fierce yet open, a tiny upside-down triangle nose, a soft curved smile, three messy whisker lines on each cheek, and two tiny vertical forehead stripes.
Almost too innocent compared to the rest of his ink. And yet the contrast is stupidly good. The softness of the doodle against the hardness of his body, his tattoos, his entire aura.
To most people, it’s just another aesthetic minimalist tattoo. Quirky. Interesting. Probably some abstract designer emblem.
But anyone who actually knows what it is recognizes it instantly.
That exact boyish tiger.
Right there on his body, unchanged, unaltered, inked, permanent, is Itadori Yuuji’s doodle.
-
Sukuna lifts his shirt for the umpteenth time this week, catching the tattoo in the hallway mirror as he walks past. He’s pretty sure he’s admired the new addition every single time he’s seen a mirror lately.
He doesn’t regret having it done one bit. If anything, he feels a jolt of excitement every time his eyes land on the ink.
Sharp. Clean. Perfect on him.
He lets the shirt drop and keeps moving, bare feet silent on marble floors. The house is awake but quiet, staff footsteps somewhere downstairs. His parents are already gone, out doing whatever people with empires do at eight in the morning.
He’s got things to do today: classes to attend, a meeting his father expects him to sit in on, a gym session he definitely won’t skip.
He stretches an arm above his head as he walks, muscles loose from sleep. Maha weaves between his legs, meowing and demanding attention.
“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, scooping him up into his arms. The cat settles and purrs instantly, huge tail curling around Sukuna’s wrist like a lazy white ribbon.
Side by side they kinda resemble each other (in the best way a cat can resemble a human, that is) — huge build, sharp eyes that look like they're judging or looking down on you, an indifferent, smug aura you still can’t help but admire.
He pads to the kitchen.
There’s a plate of breakfast waiting on the counter, something the housekeeper prepared. He lets Maha settle on his lap, grabs his fork with one hand and his phone with the other.
His notifications are a disaster.
He ignores them as the first thing on his feed pops up:
“BREAKING: Itadori Yuuji Announces Spring Streetwear Capsule With EXILE BRAND. Full campaign teaser drops next week.”
Below it, a picture — Yuuji in a charcoal tech jacket with sharp paneling, layered over a fitted black top that outlines his waist like sin, straight loose pants that balance the proportion perfectly. Expressive, not messy.
His hair is windswept in that effortlessly feral way that makes him look both boyish and ravishing. The sun hits gold on his cheekbones, silver on the piercings at his ear, a halo of late-afternoon glow outlining the shape of him.
He stands with the kind of natural confidence streetwear kids copy but never get right, the candid film grain only making him look more painfully captivating.
Yuuji never looks like he’s trying. That’s why no one can imitate whatever the hell he’s doing. He looks both expensive and achingly real. Fierce but sweet in a way that feels like a punch. Like the kind of boy who could ruin someone without ever knowing he did.
Exactly the kind of aesthetic Sukuna can’t resist.
He swipes up and checks Yuuji’s story from last night. It’s a blurry behind-the-scenes clip, laughter in the background, a quick shot of the set. Nothing staged. Just warm. Just Yuuji.
He watches it once, then watches it once more. And only then he addresses his notifications.
An amused scoff escapes his lips.
His post from three days ago is everywhere. Not just in his circles, but in corners of the internet he’s never touched. Edits. Zoomed-in screenshots. Fan threads. Theory posts.
People screaming. People comparing. People making side-by-sides of the tattoo on his rib and Yuuji’s doodle.
He scrolls in silence, chewing absently.
His followers have shot up to almost 2M quickly.
He knows someone would notice the doodle, might even say he expected the reactions too.
A smirk tugs on his lips.
He sets his phone face down and finishes his breakfast.
-
@why2qay
OH MY GOD, YOU’RE AN ITADORI YUUJI FAN???
@domainconstipation
No because how did we miss this?! Sukuna has followed Yuuji since forever and he ALWAYS likes his posts?? 🧎♀️➡️
@youwhymo
I cant believe someone like rymsukuna would be a fan of someone
but it’s yuuji though
@innocenthentie
DAMN WHO IS THIS GUY HE’S HOT AS FCK 😫
@jujuholic
@ItadoriYuuji Rymsukuna is your fan!??! OMG
@cryingoveryuu
shitt he’s so fine. yuuji has fans like THIS???
fuck my life, i’ll never have a chance with yuuji 😭😭💔💔💔
@pohonpinis
OH MY GOD YUUJI’S DOODLE? DIEHARD FAN OR WHAT
AND WHY IT LOOKS SO GOOOD
@shibuyaparadies
Even the untouchable men are down bad for him I’m cryinggg 😂
@alivedoves.plseat
i didn’t even remember that doodle until now omg
@jujutsukasian
YOOO HOW RICH IS THIS DUDE??
TF IS THAT HOUSE??? THOSE TATTOOS?
@eatadori_
I can’t believe this is the first time I’m seeing him. He’s so yummy and rich wtf
@thenotrealitadoriyuu
Guys where can I see this yuuji doodle? 🥺
↳ @yuujiupdates: Yuuji Does Things ep 11 — time stamp 12:45 💞
@femalevolentshrine
be fucking for real a man like this is just a fan?????
@thank_yuu
ARE THEY LOVERS?? 😳
No seriously ARE THEY???? 😭😭
@fckersdontinteract111
Yeah I totally feel like they’re dating. If they’re not THEN WHY AREN'T THEY
-
Sukuna hits the pedal just because he feels like it.
The engine answers with a low, violent snarl that tears clean through the quiet night. City lights streak across the windshield, neon sliding over the ink on his arms like the world is trying to keep up with him.
He feels good. Loose. Buzzing under the ribs.
No classes tomorrow. No meetings he’s supposed to care about. Just a night to be young and stupidly rich.
He steps into the rooftop bar, and it looks exactly like the kind of place that deserves him — glass walls overlooking the skyline, gold lighting dripping from sculpted fixtures, marble tables, curated playlists, cocktails that cost more than someone’s weekly groceries.
Everyone here is polished, styled, intentional. But none of them pull it off the way he does.
And of course people notice. Eyes catch on him. Some stare too long, some offer slow smiles. All of them wondering if they’re his type. None of them are.
Tonight, he doesn’t even spare a single one a glance.
He walks straight to the back booth — dark leather, ice-cold bottles already sweating, bass vibrating faintly underfoot. His friends are sprawled out, laughing too loudly, looking like money and boredom had a baby.
They greet him with a fistbump, a clap on the shoulder, a glass shoved into his hand. Someone hooks their arm around his neck briefly before shoving him into the seat.
“Yo,” one of them says, grinning. “Internet sensation.”
Sukuna lets out a low, amused sound. He clinks his glass to theirs and downs half of it in one easy pull. Someone immediately reaches for the nine-hundred-dollar bottle and tops him off again.
Conversation flows, messy, careless, and expensive. Stories, trash talk, weekend plans, parties, people they kissed, people they forgot, people they’ll pretend never happened.
It’s loud and alive and exactly the kind of chaos he thrives in.
And eventually, the conversation circles back.
A friend smirks over the rim of his drink. “Your naked upper body is literally everywhere, man.”
Another snorts. “I still can’t believe you actually got that tattoo. You’re a fucking simp.”
Sukuna leans back, one arm thrown over the back of the booth, legs spreading comfortably like he owns the space. “Yes. And? It’s art.”
The first one laughs. “People online lost their shit. Imagine if Yuuji actually sees it.”
A slow, dangerous smile unfurls on Sukuna’s lips. “Think he’d be impressed?”
Someone scoffs. Someone shrugs. Someone takes another sip like this is all just mild entertainment.
One rolls his eyes. “Even if he sees, doesn’t mean he cares.”
Sukuna doesn’t flinch. “Why wouldn’t he?” His tone is liquid arrogance, smooth and sure. “I’m the best type of admirer he could have.”
One friend stares at him like he’s deranged. “You’re literally insane.”
Another snickers. “Cause he wants someone mature. Without, you know… temperament issues.”
Sukuna frowns, jaw flexing. He is technically five years younger than Yuuji. But he refuses to give that fact any power.
“I am mature.”
Then, with quiet certainty, “And I could treat him better than anyone else.”
The table reacts in that troubled amusement friends have when you reveal just how delusional you really are.
He continues anyway. It pours out of him without shame.
“If Yuuji were mine?” Sukuna murmurs, rolling the amber liquid in his glass. “I’d spoil him rotten. Fly him anywhere he wanted. Make everything in his life easy. Give him whatever he wants before he even asks.”
Another scoffs, tired. “Man, seriously? It’s only good in fantasy.”
Someone laughs. “Exactly. Just think of your exes. You treated them like ass.”
He shrugs. “I wasn’t serious with them.”
“Dude, the point is that you’re an asshole.”
“I wouldn’t be to him.”
Because Yuuji isn’t like the others. He’s warm in a way fame hasn’t managed to sour. Fierce and ravishing in a way that drives him insane. Someone like that deserves devotion, not carelessness.
A friend snorts. “You think you’re the only rich man chasing him? He’s probably not into kids with daddy’s money anyway.”
Sukuna's voice edges with disdain, “Those celebrities he works with? They can’t give him half the comfort I can.” He rolls his eyes, then adds, “I’ll be richer than my dad.”
And he means it.
Yuuji deserves someone who can keep up with him, understand him, shield him. Someone who’d take care of him without hesitation. Someone who’d let him be sweet and silly and bright without worrying about anyone taking advantage of it.
Someone like Sukuna.
He leans back, tongue pressing to the inside of his cheek, eyes half-lidded as he watches the light catch on his drink.
“Just one chance,” he murmurs. “He won’t want anyone else.”
He’ll make sure of it.
-
Itadori Yuuji is one of those rare celebrities who didn’t claw his way into the spotlight. He stumbled into it and never left.
He’s not mainstream-famous but culture-famous in ways that matter much more. The kind of name whispered in niche fashion circles like currency. A face that dominates moodboards. A quiet trendsetter. The literal it-boy of modern streetwear culture.
At twenty-four, he’s booked faster than his management can schedule him. Every brand wants him, every photographer prays for him, every fanbase fights over who loves him most.
He’s everywhere without oversaturating himself: billboards, capsule campaigns, editorials, and his shows.
His company rotates him through a few segments depending on season and mood. DropTalk, the sleek, clean, fashion-focused special where Yuuji talks about inspirations and preferences while accidentally redefining streetwear culture. The fan-favorite, Yuuji Does Things, his chaotic lifestyle show that the internet treats like someone dropped pure sunshine into their feed. And a handful of other occasional specials.
Different formats, same result. People watch for him.
Because Yuuji has that rare mix that shouldn’t coexist. Expensive aura, but warm personality. Boyish humor, but sharp confidence. He’s the contradiction everyone falls for.
Whether he’s stepping onto a set, laughing with staff, or walking down a street in a hoodie and cargos, he radiates a kind of casual magnetism that feels effortless. A presence that makes rooms brighter, and a face that sticks in your head. A vibe that can’t be copied, no matter how many try.
His shows have a cult-like following. Views that reach millions quickly, fans who analyze every microexpression, and people who joke that they feel like they “hang out with him once a month.”
And even after all these years, his fame hasn’t swallowed him. He still greets everyone on set, says thank you to every stylist who fusses over him, and acts a little surprised when people treat him like a star.
That’s what makes him special. Not distance, but warmth.
The kind of warmth that makes even the coldest, richest, most intimidating boys fall stupidly, devastatingly in love with him.
Today is no different.
Yuuji sits in a tall makeup chair as the stylist ruffles through his hair, caffeine already hitting his bloodstream. The studio buzzes around him, assistants running, racks of clothing rolling past, lighting techs shouting adjustments.
He’s still waking up, hoodie half-zipped, legs spread lazily as he scrolls through his phone with the kind of loose confidence that comes naturally to people who don’t realize they’re attractive. Or rather, people who don’t care that they are.
Someone brings him another drink. Someone else hands him the shoot schedule. Someone reaches over to adjust the chain hanging at his collarbone. Yuuji thanks each of them with that easy, sincere warmth he never seems to lose.
“Yuuji, you saw your name trending yesterday?"
He hums, noncommittal.
The person continues, “Something about… a tattoo?”
He looks up, blinking. “What tattoo?”
The makeup artist turns her phone and shows him the photo — the gym mirror shot, the well muscled body, the blackwork tattoos, the tiger inked perfectly into a rib.
Yuuji stares for a moment, recognition settling in slowly.
The tiger was something he drew in one of his episodes, explaining offhand that tigers were his favorite animal when he was a kid — he liked how they looked fierce, but still graceful and soft around the eyes.
His fans adored it because it felt like he was letting them in, a small, warm part of himself. They sometimes use it as an icon, mostly as an inside joke, but it was never anything official or curated. Just a mindless sketch that slipped out of him.
A surprised smile tugs at his mouth.
“Oh— that tiger doodle?” he says, amused. “That’s actually really cool.”
It doesn’t fluster him or inflate his ego. It just feels sweet, surprisingly warm, a little surreal in that “wow people really do wild things" kind of way.
He hands the phone back with a grin, already half-distracted by the stylist adjusting his jacket sleeve.
He doesn’t know who Sukuna is. Doesn't know that the internet is losing its mind. Doesn’t know that somewhere across the city, a rich, tattooed menace is crafting fantasies around him.
He just knows he has a shoot to finish and a vlog segment to record. Business as usual.
The set calls for him and Yuuji moves. The lights warm his skin. The camera lifts. And in seconds, with a quiet ease, Itadori Yuuji clicks into who he is.
The cool streetwear muse the world can’t stop watching. Effortless. Boyish. Magnetic.
Untouchable not because he tries to be, but because he’s too real, too warm, too beautiful and good at what he does.
Exactly the kind of boy someone like Ryoumen Sukuna would carve into his skin.
-
There’s a single box on the table beside the mirror. Proper. Heavy. Corners unbent. The kind of condition normal people never get with anything delivered to their door.
Sukuna picks out the item inside. White matte packaging, precise folds, that particular weight limited drops always have, and a name that Sukuna knows all too well.
Yuuji’s collab.
He pulls the jacket out by the collar.
The design hits immediately. A matte charcoal body with subtle contrast texture and color running down the sides. Hardwares that sits flush and elevates the whole look subtly.
The fabric in his fingers has an unmistakable weight. It’s technical but soft and structured, the kind of material that falls clean instead of collapsing. Matte hardware, good stitching, paneling that actually follows the body instead of fighting it.
Sukuna slides his thumb along a seam. High quality.
Yuuji’s releases are always like this — priced quite above the brand’s average, but made properly. Designs that you can tell are made by someone who actually understands clothing instead of just slapping their name on a template. Not that the price matters for him. He didn’t even check.
He slips it on. It settles over him instantly, straight clean line from collar to hem with sleeves sitting exactly where they should.
He looks at himself in the mirror, lips tugging faintly.
He’s seen the design before, of course — on Yuuji’s body. In the teaser video, the campaign shots, the behind-the-scenes clip where Yuuji had leaned forward laughing, the jacket shifting with him in that easy, natural way only he pulls off.
The piece had sharpened his features, added a touch of edge to his boyish profile, made him look refined in sophisticated ways.
And now, seeing the same jacket on him hits in a different way. Not better or worse, just… different. Good.
He only buys the releases he knows will suit him, and this one does. The feeling never disappoints when he gets one — a well-made piece, and that familiar rush of having something “Yuuji’s.”
He just wishes it were a little more expensive so fewer people could get their hands on it. Though, to most people, it already fucking is.
He’s already thinking about how he’ll style it later. He hadn’t been wearing anything underneath when he tried it on; the hoodie he had on earlier was too thick and ruined the lines. When he slips the jacket off, his eyes drag, unprompted, to the tiger tattoo on his bare rib again.
It’s been over a month since he got it. A month since the internet lost its mind over it.
Nothing much has happened. Sukuna never addressed anything though plenty of people still hope he will. He posts his usual things, lives his usual life. The only difference is the spike in engagement and the way his follower count keeps climbing like it has somewhere to be.
Sukuna puts the jacket on the table and slips his hoodie back on.
He eyes himself in the mirror.
A thought slides in.
Yuuji would look good in his clothes.
This hoodie would suit him, though he’d drown in it: sleeves past his hands, collar swallowing the line of his throat, the hem hitting mid-thigh on his smaller frame. The mental image makes Sukuna a little feral internally.
Yuuji in his clothes. In his house. Sitting on his couch. Barefoot. Laughing that beautiful laugh of his over something.
Laughing at Sukuna.
That one short-circuits something in Sukuna’s brain in a way he doesn’t admit.
Yuuji would look so soft it’d hurt. Expression open and warm, on his pretty, pretty face. Soft and sweet and safe and smiling just for him.
Fuck. Sukuna would treat him so damn well. Take care of him. Protect him. Spoil him. Yuuji would only need to focus on being happy, that’s it, and he’d deal with everything else.
He’d make Yuuji never want anyone else.
Because Sukuna isn’t some random fan, but someone Yuuji could actually be with. Someone who’d match him, steady him, hold the line when the world gets loud.
They’ll be untouchable if only they can be together.
If only.
-
Maha climbs onto his chest while he’s lying on the couch, enormous paws planted on his sternum like he owns the place, tail curled lazily around Sukuna’s forearm. The cat’s white fur catches the late-afternoon light beautifully, soft, glowing, and ridiculously photogenic.
Sukuna lifts his phone and snaps a single picture. No posing, no expression, just him, half-lidded eyes and messy hair; Maha covering half his torso, face pressed into Sukuna’s jaw like a spoiled deity.
The picture has weight: tattoos ghosting out from the wrist of his light grey sweater, Maha’s fur like fresh snow, gold light warm on their skin, and that refined, unreachable aura Sukuna carries without trying.
He looks at it once and posts it to his feed.
He pets Maha absently, eyes drifting shut.
He’s been tired lately, dragged into more of the family business, more meetings, more expectations. More people telling him how his future should look. More responsibilities disguised as opportunities.
For a moment, he just lies there, appreciating the first genuine quiet he’s had all week.
After a while, he sighs and checks his phone again. Notifications already start stacking.
He scrolls through a bit, thumb slow, expression unreadable. People like Maha, like the lighting and the softness, like him.
Whatever. That’s not what he’s thinking about.
He wonders, quietly, stupidly — would Yuuji see this one?
Does Yuuji know him at all, after what happened last month? Does he think Sukuna is cool too?
A small part of him imagines it: Yuuji on his phone between takes, eyes half-tired, scrolling through random posts. Then stopping at his.
Yuuji would probably coo over Maha first, and maybe — a delusional thought that Sukuna will never say out loud — Yuuji would see Sukuna with the cat on his chest and think he looks… warm.
Sukuna groans under his breath and scratches Maha’s head a little too aggressively just to shut his own brain up.
Or maybe not.
But if Yuuji ever does — truly sees him — Sukuna knows Yuuji would understand the person beneath the tattoos, the recklessness, the arrogance that people love projecting onto him. Yuuji would see the real parts. And appreciate them in that genuine, wholehearted way he’s known for.
The thought alone makes something in Sukuna’s chest unclench. Maha’s purring helps too, rumbling warmly against his ribs.
Maha would like Yuuji, he’s sure.
-
Sukuna is scowling.
Which would be dangerous if the TV in his room were a person instead of a machine, because it would have died from the heat of his glare alone. Which is sad because he was secretly excited just minutes ago.
Because a new episode of Yuuji’s show dropped, but another model is with him. Tall. White haired. Blue shining eyes that Sukuna thinks look weird as fuck.
Because one term to describe Gojo Satoru’s personality is ‘Pick me’ and right now he is very desperately trying to be picked by Sukuna’s sweetheart. Because why else would a 28-year-old man act that way?
Sukuna would shiver at the sight of this predator if he weren’t someone who’s above shivering.
He knows this creep very well; maybe, everyone knows him. Where Yuuji thrives in a niche fashion culture, Gojo Satoru is the opposite. For Sukuna to put it simply: he is the world’s most mainstream model ever. His face is everywhere and Sukuna feels the similar bile in his throat as when someone eat the same thing over and over again.
Why the fuck is he here? Shouldn’t he be too busy shooting another narcissistic ad to feed his crazy fans with.
Onscreen, Gojo throws an arm around Yuuji’s shoulder like he’s entitled to it. Yuuji laughs at something he says.
Sukuna’s jaw snaps. His eyes narrowed into something between murder and a migraine.
Gojo is talking too much, smiling too much, standing too close. And Yuuji…
Yuuji is being his usual self — warm, friendly, obliviously magnetic. Smiling with that pretty mouth, eyes bright, looking like he trusts the whole world.
Sukuna runs a hand through his hair, annoyed at everything.
This is the worst episode ever. How is anyone supposed to enjoy this when this clown is in the frame?
The camera cuts to a close-up of Gojo gazing at Yuuji with those blue LED eyeballs of his.
Sukuna makes a disgusted noise. “Get your fucking retinas away from him.”
Maha, curled at the foot of the bed, lifts his head at the sound of Sukuna’s voice.
Sukuna points at the screen like he’s explaining a war crime. “Look at him,” Sukuna mutters. “Acting like that. At his big age.”
Maha blinks slowly, unimpressed.
Sukuna’s lip curls.
This bastard.
This 28-year-old unloved child behavior.
Why must he be here?
And why is Yuuji smiling at him like that?!
Sukuna actually thinks of turning the TV off but goes against it. He has dignity. He’s a composed, intimidating, wealthy young man who does not get defensive over blue-eyed scarecrows.
But then then the worst part happens. Gojo extends a hand to ruffle Yuuji’s hair, saying something about how “Yuuji always looks good in everything.” And Yuuji fucking blushes.
Sukuna’s glare intensifies a hundredfold that the TV might as well start working as an oven now from how hot it is.
Maha meows, bumping his head into Sukuna’s thigh like a tiny fluffy therapist encouraging him to settle his delusions accordingly.
Sukuna exhales, long and frustrated.
“Whatever,” he mutters, crossing his arms.
It doesn't mean anything. Yuuji is nice with everyone. He’s probably just happy that someone senior to him is complimenting him.
Sukuna doesn't care. He’s fine with it.
He just thinks that he needs some drinks to get rid of that bile in his throat from seeing that human-ring-light fucker.
-
Sukuna goes out.
Of course he does.
The club is louder today, hotter, brighter — more bodies, more money, more everything. Exactly what he needs. Exactly what he can command.
His friends are already waiting when he arrives: loud, gold-lit, half-drunk, surrounded by more people than usual. Word travels fast when a rich heir is spiraling.
“Yo, Ryoumen!” someone shouts over the music. “Come make this place your bitch.”
He does. Effortlessly.
He buys a table. Then another. Then an entire shelf of the most expensive bottles in the club. Not because anyone asked, but because he wants everyone to see it. To see him.
Because tonight he needs to feel like he’s above things again.
When he leans back on the velvet booth, the staff rush like he owns the place. Girls drift to him quickly. They hover close, laugh at everything he says, touch his arms, his shoulders, his tattoos. The attention comes easy, and of course it does. He’s good-looking, rich, and looks like trouble someone would brag about surviving.
He lets them. Lets their eyes trail over him. Lets their hands settle on his thigh. Lets them giggle when he smirks.
Because he can have any of them. He can have everyone. And he wants the room to remember that.
Someone leans in, whispering something in his ear, fingers brushing the ink on his neck. He doesn’t react much, just tilts his head, low laugh curling out of him, the kind that makes people go feral.
His friend snorts, raising a drink. “Coping tonight?”
Sukuna takes a slow sip, mutters back, “Shut up.”
Later, much later, someone asks him if he’s heading home.
He isn’t. There’s a girl clinging to his wrist, glitter on her collarbone, perfume too sweet, eyes wide like she can’t believe her luck.
He lets her drag him into a waiting car. Lets her cling to his arm as they walk into a hotel. Lets her kiss him against the elevator wall. Lets her trail nails over his neck like she thinks she’s special. But it’s not special. It’s barely anything.
And when it’s over, Sukuna doesn’t stay. He pulls his clothes on and leaves her sleeping in the sheets.
He doesn’t care. He wants to go home.
The sun is rising when he drives, orange light catching on the empty passenger seat beside him. He rolls the window down, cold air hitting his face, and for the first time all night, the high cracks. His hands tighten on the wheel.
He feels hollow. Like someone scooped parts of him out and replaced them with static.
None of it worked. Not the money, the attention, the girl, or the night.
He’s so fucking tired of casual bodies and meaningless nights.
Deep down, all Sukuna desires is to have his own person. Someone worth slowing down for. Someone who’d make all of this feel small and stupid.
And stupidly, the only person he can think of — the only one who makes his chest tighten in that terrifying, exhilarating way — is someone who doesn't even know he exists.
Sukuna wants Yuuji. Hates that he wants him. Yet he wants him anyway.
Because Yuuji isn’t like the rest — not the girls who giggle at his money, not the boys who stare like they want bragging rights. Yuuji is bright. Steady. Real in a way people barely are anymore. He works hard, laughs easy, and carries himself like he doesn’t realize he’s magnetic.
Someone Sukuna wishes he had all along in his life.
Yuuji wouldn’t crumble under Sukuna’s intensity. He wouldn’t chase him for clout. He wouldn’t use him, or lie, or pretend to be impressed. He’d meet Sukuna head-on — warm, honest, unafraid.
Sukuna breathes out, jaw tight, mind drifting to places he shouldn’t.
If he had Yuuji, he’d be good.
He’d be so fucking good to him.
And he’d make Yuuji feel good, in every way Sukuna knows how.
Until all Yuuji can feel, think, want, and call for is Sukuna.
-
Sukuna scrolls through his phone with eyes half-open, face half-buried in his pillow. He woke up less than an hour ago but his body feels like lead. It’s one of those mornings where even existing feels like effort.
He should get up. Classes tomorrow. Assignments due tonight. Responsibilities clawing at his door. Yet he doesn’t move. He just keeps scrolling, half-awake, thumb dragging lazily across the screen.
Clips from Yuuji’s episode yesterday are everywhere again. Fan edits. Reposts. Screencaps. He watches a few, expecting that irritation to rise in his chest the way it did last night, and feels none.
Yuuji is laughing more in these clips — bright, boyish, shoulders shaking — and somehow it softens the whole thing. Even Gojo’s stupid face doesn’t bother him as much.
Whatever.
More videos pop up, older ones. Yuuji on set, Yuuji cooking, Yuuji messing with a camera, Yuuji talking to fans like he actually means every word.
He’s so effortless, so honest, and so warm in ways people yesterday weren’t.
Sukuna sinks deeper into the pillow, scrolling through pictures of Yuuji too — clean editorials, random selfies, candid shots someone else took.
Beautiful in all of them.
Then one photo: a soft, golden-lit shot. Yuuji standing by a window, hair mussed from wind or maybe just from existing, sunlight poured over his face like it chose him. His eyes half-lidded, caught mid-laugh, the kind of expression people don’t make unless they’re genuinely happy. The whole picture looks warm, quiet, and overly gentle.
The heaviness in Sukuna’s skull loosens a little.
God.
Imagine waking up to someone like that.
Sunlight catching in pink hair. Messy, soft strands bent against the pillow. Yuuji rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand, small and sleepy. Morning voice low and warm, mumbling something sweet.
Yuuji would be wearing nothing but one of Sukuna’s shirts. Reaching out for him. Snuggling into his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Pressing his face to Sukuna’s throat. Breathing against his skin. Smiling that tiny, sleepy smile that no camera ever captures.
It hits Sukuna so hard he has to close his eyes for a second.
Someone like that.
Someone that gentle.
That beautiful.
It would be enough to make a bad person good.
Even him.