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Forever in front of the same door, sitting and waiting. Politely. Appeasing. Two hip bones that stand under the weight of a school uniform that never gave Megumi any sense of prestige or belonging. Here he sat, wearing the appearance of a sorcerer. His life was planned perfectly before he could read or write. And silently, forever a quiet boy, Megumi followed his prewritten journey. An outsider would look at his slumped stature, forever a gloomy and silent thing, and go, “Take control! A boy at the ripe age before adulthood should experience those God-given pleasures in life!” Megumi laughed at the thought. Not even Kugisaki, the most passionate out of the three, would say something so incredulous. Not now. Not anymore. Megumi was not the strongest. He did not control the absence of experiencing his first love. Skipping class on the rooftop of his high school while complaining about his teachers with other guilty friends. Laughing at the rush of trying out new cuss words in the safety of said friends' trust. Lighting a cigarette the way he thought he was supposed to in his dad’s garage. Inhaling the burning bud before he hacked clouds of too-thick smoke, and his father coming home early from work to scold his teenage boy. Too innocent and naive to know better. No, all of those chances were gone. After all, his journey in life was prewritten. His father is dead. His friends sleep at night, thinking of how lucky they were to survive the carnage they were thrown into. Every day. God isn’t real, and if he was, then he was just as cursed as the rest of them.
So, Megumi sat. His folded hands twitched at every sound, every knock of tree branches against the lone house. Suffocated against the weight of knowing that he wasn’t even created to be the strongest, no, just a runner up in the case of Gojo Satoru becoming incapacitated. And he was. The strongest, held inside of a box no larger than Megumi’s palm. Reduced to an object that could be tossed in the trash. The strongest indulged in life’s God-given pleasures regardless of his planned future, and now he was just as ruined as the rest. It didn’t matter how much he smiled, how hard he worked, or how much he killed. Control was something impossible to obtain, and Megumi only wishes that his teacher would’ve accepted his fate sooner. He knew that the strongest now stood alone, enraptured in his own torture, eager to return to those God-given pleasures. But God wasn’t real. And the strongest was gone.
When Megumi was small, he looked up at the strongest who was hardly an adult, and he would scowl. The sorcerers around Megumi chalked it up to his poor upbringing enabling that foul temper. Tsumiki would often try to correct that temper when it came to Gojo, the first adult in their lives to buy them sweets neither would admit to never tasting before. He entered the new flat that he bought on a whim for two innocents that didn’t fully comprehend the price of 500,000 yen a month, but knew that their parents could never afford the pristine rooms filled with granite and vaulted ceilings, unless they sold another child. After only a few moments of sitting on their leather couch, Gojo’s lean figure turned to leave. He returned the same hour heaving with the weight of a television large enough to properly fit the room’s measurements. They would thank him, and Gojo would laugh it off. He treated money like the air that Megumi breathed through his tiny, sharp nostrils. Essential to life, yes. But always available. That white-haired man would come in the same school outfit that even at the time, Megumi knew it must have felt suffocating for the older. But he wore it every day, and Megumi held it against him with such resentment. He didn’t understand why at the time, but he hated Gojo Satoru. Gojo forced himself into a place in Megumi’s life, not one that a boy his age would understand how to decipher. As Megumi aged from boy to teen years, he never bothered to identify what Gojo was to him. Gojo never seemed to mind. It was ownership with pleasantries and treats. But still, Megumi would come when called as the Cursed Shadow user. A spoiled dog caged behind sleek and modern doors.
Tsumiki didn’t die. But all she did was breathe, so Megumi moved on in life. Against his will, of course, but he learned at an early age to never fight the inevitable in life. One day, he knew he would be the same as Tsumiki, wrapped in thin white sheets and a sole attendant to check her pulse every few hours. Megumi only hoped someone loved him enough to pull the plug when the time came.
Instead of watching over his only family, Megumi trained. He trained in the same fabric that scratched against his collarbone when he whipped his neck to the side, always attempting to keep his eyes on the strongest. The material twisted and turned against every inch of his body when he dodged, every movement he made he felt the branding of his uniform, hearing the incessant commands of his teacher to move, move, move Megumi, keep fighting, don’t fall asleep, keep your eyes on me, listen to my voice, Megumi. When Megumi was still in secondary school, he expressed his hatred for Gojo’s uniform. How stifling and gross it looked. He was throwing another temper tantrum, common and expected. What he didn’t expect was for the man to remember, presenting Megumi with his Jujutsu uniform on his first day of school with a customized high collar. The older said something along the lines of ‘It fits your bashful personality, Megumi.’ But when he looked into those frosted eyes that no human should ever bear, he understood the message. Remember your place.
The training didn’t matter. He is not, and never will be the strongest. He can’t change fate. So when Gojo had to finish off the curse that surely would’ve savored every taste of Megumi, he kept his eyes open and watched the limits of his capabilities play out. Megumi watched those slim fingers rip through inhumanly thick flesh until nothing remained but a mesh of corpse. It was obscene, but so natural. Gojo Satoru was built for this. And when he turned to smile down at Megumi, the younger swallowed harshly at the sight of a flawless god. Sweat dripped off every crevice of his taut body. Megumi’s skin was covered in goosebumps at the recent encounter with near-death. His breath came out in short pants. Hips twitching. He hardened on the floor. Gojo looked back with those eyes full of pride and conceit. Satisfied with knowing he takes what he wants. Limitless. Both were robbed of a childhood. Desperate for control and pleasure. Any pleasure their ruinous lives would allow. Gojo leaned down to trail those slim fingers up Megumi’s sleeve, and wordlessly, he laid back to enjoy it. A seventeen year old boy, expected to revitalize the foundation of jujutsu sorcerers. Trained and raised by the strongest. He was tired.
The day that Gojo Satoru was sealed was the day that Megumi decided to break away from his predetermined future. He wasn’t the strongest, and now the strongest was gone. No one was left to manage his future. He had been stolen from time and time again, his childhood, his family, his teacher, his happiness. And so he set out to steal back. Many of the Zen’in family didn’t wake up the next morning, and those who did lived a life knowing that, yes, the foundation of jujutsu sorcerers had been revitalized by Megumi. The Cursed Shadow user lived a selfless life, putting a target on his back for the wellbeing of children who would only hate him for slaughtering their parents. Families gone for the sake of power. It chipped away at a part of Megumi he didn’t know was fragile.
He chose to be selfish, for once. It felt nice to see Yuuji live his life in a separate body. Freedom was only a concept, never a tangible feature in life to their kind. But Yuuji had been given it regardless. And Megumi stood with both happiness and jealousy for his friend. Yuuji was a hero, a bright soul that hadn’t dimmed through the years. Yuuji gets his freedom, Yuuji gets to see the only thing that restrained his newfound freedom die. Yuuji gets everything. Jealousy, no, anger. Hate. Disgust for himself. For the life he never chose. Megumi murdered and stole and let himself be stolen from for years, for his lifetime. And Yuuji came into Megumi’s life in such an impromptu fashion, achieved everything he could’ve wanted. Megumi knew he would leave. Abandon him, and everything that they both experienced as their daily lives. Megumi knew he would leave, so he was selfish.
The sorcerers still alive between the capturing and collection of Sukuna, and the exorcism of Yuuji Itadori were few and far between. None of them struck Megumi as capable of executing the King of Curses. Megumi could.
Red eyes that seemed incapable of human emotion stared at the small figure in front of him. The seals that swallowed every inch of four arms and seven feet of a king glowed in the sole light above the two. He looked tired. To be fair, Megumi was tired, too. So, he released his shadows. Swallowed the man whole, and as he sunk beneath the black void, he smiled at Megumi, teeth and all. Not a word was exchanged, and Megumi left the hold that used to contain the strongest curse known to exist. The sorcerer didn’t know at the time that he was given permission by the king to cage him as he pleased. Megumi would never, could never be the strongest. Gojo was no longer here to bring his life any semblance of order or purpose. Yuuji had no reason to stay for his suffering. So, Megumi was selfish. He gave life again to the newest strongest. His to keep. Megumi knew he would never be free from this world, so he gave himself purpose in it. Gave himself a reason to keep living, even if he couldn’t see that when he freed Sukuna.
When he took that curse, not a man, to a home that could protect them, he let himself be taken. Megumi had stolen enough today, and he knew that he had to give some in return. Being taken against his will was something new to experience. Even his teacher, as cruel as his nature was, would allow Megumi to take turn in pleasure. He lay naked on the floor of a desolate home abandoned long ago, and tried to focus on the sound of wildly creaking floorboards. It burned, the ache that settled behind his hips, and the wide eyed look of a king in frenzy to take what was offered, it burned.
He entered a new life, a new era of his own. He still woke each day wondering when he would die, when a sorcerer would come for him and Sukuna would decide it more entertaining to watch carnage than save his own savior. He found that the curse was capable of human emotion, but never found him in a display of something good or moral. He would hunt and gather for Megumi, keeping him alive with his human needs. Sukuna never questioned why he was freed, what Megumi would gain, what he wanted from him. In turn, Megumi never pried on why he provided essentials for the other without request. Perhaps he didn’t care at first. Megumi thinks that maybe Sukuna isn’t capable of caring for such trivial ordeals. And then the first sorcerer came to their home. Someone new, perhaps. Megumi had never met the boy. He looked young, but didn’t appear afraid. He held that look which the shadow user knew well, and hated without limits. Like he was doing something for the better. Like he was a vigilante saving the world. Megumi split him through the center while Sukuna watched with interest, holding two fingers under his chin while he studied the way loose muscle and pulverized bones leaked through the gaping division of the boy’s body. Shadows growing deeper in the corners of the house. Megumi had an acute awareness that he may have just killed someone’s son. The way his eyes now gaped open in fear, he could see that he must have been no older than sixteen. He didn’t bother closing those eyelids before his shadows swallowed the boy into nothingness, forever staring in dread and regret.
He asked then, maybe out of new interest after watching Megumi’s capabilities in slaughter. He was quiet, always quiet of course. So Sukuna moved closer, leaving no room for escape. Megumi gave no clear answer, still apprehensive of upsetting the volatile curse. He would not appear weak in front of such an unpredictable creature. The younger was becoming used to the stretch and burn of being consumed, even if it wasn’t so much of a consistent occurrence anymore. The first month was hell. Even when Megumi bled, or cried out, Sukuna wouldn’t give pause. He indulged in those God-given pleasures, being selfish just for the sake of it. Megumi could not yet trust him.
While there was still no respect for personal space, Sukuna did not touch him after the night he killed that boy, no older than him. Megumi told him he didn’t know why he did it. When Sukuna rolled his eyes and pressed once again, the curse user told him that he just needed to. That it would change his life for the better. It gave him power. And Sukuna asked if he was out for power, for control. And Megumi turned to him and laughed as if he were sitting alongside Nobara and Yuuji after their teacher had done something unbelievably brainless, and he said no. He said he would never be the strongest, and he would be a fool to attempt it. Sukuna hummed, and seemed to lose interest in the boy after. Both returned to their usual antics, sharing a home and occasionally sharing loose conversation.
The next sorcerer came, and it took everything in Megumi not to grovel at Yuuta’s feet. Beg him to leave, to forgive him and move on in life. Instead, he held his ground. One hand on the doorframe, another at his side gripping his thigh. White-knuckled. The fabric scratched at him. It wasn’t without screaming, retching at the sight of Yuuta’s cold and twitching body did Megumi finish him off. Perhaps that would be the end of it. The school had lost two sorcerers at the hands of Megumi Fushiguro. They believed sending Yuuta would weaken Megumi’s resolve, he knew that. But he wouldn’t let himself go, wouldn’t die until he let himself be selfish in life. Let himself know what freedom tasted like. Sukuna had come home at the sound of Megumi’s wolf tearing into flesh, a sorcerer screaming in pain and suffering. He saw how Megumi, his savior, the strongest sorcerer in his eyes, sobbed into the concave chest of a familiar looking boy, black bangs absorbing the crisped edges of blood on the wooden floor. How he held a knife he must’ve stolen from their kitchen, and vomited on the floor next to the now fresh corpse. A freshly slit throat for mercy. He hadn’t said a word when Megumi looked at him with puffy eyes that stared with something new, something awakened. Wild. That source of something suffocating being chipped away in the back of his mind had deteriorated into nothing after he cut into the soft flesh of a friend’s neck. When he told Sukuna that he freed the curse to feel something, to have control and power over his life, Megumi didn’t let go of the limp hand.
It was a sight to behold. Megumi hadn’t screamed this loud, nor cried this hard even when Sukuna took him. He fed off the pure grief and anger like a curse starved for a millenia. He was, after all. A king studied the sight of a boy in front of him, robbed of everything a life was supposed to be, and felt something so ancient and unfamiliar that he gripped his chest in confusion. When he kneeled over Megumi and put his hand in those tufts of knotted black hair, he felt the damp blood settle under his fingernails. Megumi didn’t reject the touch. Instead, he pushed into the curse, feeling the warmth and blood pumping beneath those lifeless veins. It felt almost human. Sukuna stayed put as the boy eventually rested under him, draped like a limp blanket. Megumi was warm, and Sukuna dared not move to disturb his peace. The King of Curses was just that; a curse. Perhaps generations ago he would’ve understood why the stench of grief permeated the walls, but for now, he only understood how beautiful Megumi, his Megumi looked when at peace. Red eyes swept across the room, locking eyes with a lifeless stare. No one else’s Megumi.
The meat began to spoil. Sukuna would leave for hours at a time, only to return with bountiful game, fruits and fresh vegetables. Megumi still didn’t know where he went. After Yuuta, he did not take part in cooking whatever it was the curse brought him. Instead of pressing in concern, the curse would just eat the meats raw, satiating his own hunger. He would pretend that Sukuna’s stare didn’t burn the back of his neck as he lay unmoving in his futon.
Days turned into a week, and still Megumi refused to move. To eat. Sukuna became impatient with the blatant show of weakness. Still, the walls were stained with the same scent of grief, pity, loss. It made anger burn in the core of the King’s chest. He left that night. The house and the forest that surrounded Megumi was silent, and he slept with cracked lips that let shallow breaths escape. He was tired.
When Sukuna did return the following afternoon, blood dripped from his broad and naked chest, dipping into his sternum to flow onto the ground. He grabbed a limp Megumi from the bed and dragged him outside, ignoring the barks of protest. The boy tried to ignore how one of four hands managed to cover his shin and ankle. Sukuna’s skin was hardened, yet smooth. The light hit his sensitive eyes in waves of too bright. When he was plopped onto the ground, he opened still-burning eyes to the sight and smell of smoke. A fire. Sukuna had an iron pot that simmered with some form of stew. A few apples rested in cloth next to Megumi’s leg, and he looked up in confusion. “Eat.” Was all that was said. And when Megumi looked at the assortment of fresh food in front of him, the aching gape in the center of his chest closed a fraction.
When he moved to pick an apple, Sukuna made a tsk from above him, shoving a gourd of water towards his lips. Megumi drank, albeit with a look of mild indignation, until he swallowed that first drink. He felt the way it moved through his ribs, down to rest in his empty pit of a stomach. He drank like a man stranded in the desert, unknowing of when his next sip of water would be. The water dripped down his chin, falling in rivulets that had Sukuna thirst for a taste. He ran a pointed tongue up the column of Megumi’s neck, only to stop when he felt the wood of his mask bump into a shaking hand. His skin felt like soft porcelain, and he fought the urge to push against the bobbing Adam’s apple. A smile grew on his lips as he motioned for the boy to continue. “I’ll be good.” And Megumi didn’t respond.
A silence grew between them as Megumi ate, unknowing if it was comfortable or not. When Megumi bit into the apple, Sukuna studied the way his canines dipped into the skin of the fruit, tearing chunks out of the flesh in hunger. A groan escaped him, and he couldn’t help the way his mouth watered with want. It was torture, not taking what he felt was granted to him, and the sorcerer saw that in dilated pupils of a cursed being. Hesitantly, slowly, Megumi shrugged his jacket off, exposing two pale arms that looked so easy to break, to consume, to kiss, to- “You can if you want. It's… been awhile for you, I think.”
A quiet settled over them, leaving Megumi to focus on the heat burning his face as he faced the fire. Instead of the relaxing lull of sitting by such warmth, it fell under his skin with an itch he insisted not to scratch. Fingers twitched as he tried to remain still. Eventually, he sees Sukuna shuffle to grip his chin, a small hum leaving his throat. Megumi caught himself holding back a smile at the familiar motion, something Sukuna often did while deep in contemplation.
“Not a bad idea, little sorcerer,” Megumi shifted his gaze downward, intent on watching the way the logs heaved as an insufferable burn slowly ate away at their cores. He sighed quietly in understanding. He, too, would eventually be discarded as his purpose wilted. Thrown into the mass of graves where sorcerers of no usage indiscriminately joined. He was not the strongest. A hand fell onto his thigh, shaking him from his thoughts. His heart shook with fear, so much so that he almost confused it with excitement. Fingers so long and thick, they dangled over the expanse of Megumi’s thigh. “I think some meats taste best after simmering in the sun.” Sukuna lifted another hand to brush over the same trail he traced with his tongue, and god, Sukuna was the sun. Capable of creating shadows taller than a building with his godly stature, and his skin glowed despite his dark core. Still, a small slick texture settled on the groove of Megumi’s Adam's apple, and he rubbed the thumb over Megumi’s neck, spreading the cold wet across the boy. He leaned on his other two hands, pressing closing to the quickly heating body. “Wouldn’t you agree? Some meals are more finicky than others, they require a certain amount of… preparation.” Megumi sat rigid as Sukuna smiled so wide he could see those inhuman canines that had dug into the flesh of human, curse, and everything possibly in between.
“Yes,” his black hair fringed in all directions caught the wind as he looked to meet a gaze of a starved man, “I agree.”
Megumi awoke the next day feeling alive. He rose from his futon and drifted to the kitchen, grinding away at the coffee beans used for his mornings. Sukuna wasn’t exactly fond of the bitter taste, which somehow surprised Megumi. He often snuck sugar cubes into his steaming mug when he thought the sorcerer was busy, keeping that grimace and complaints of “such a gruesome flavor” away for the morning. It was something too close to a pout, making the slow but ever-growing warmth spread through Megumi’s chest. The curse had retreated to his own living quarters after a few last minutes of enjoying the fire with Megumi. He hadn’t manhandled the boy into being taken, he didn’t touch Megumi at all after their conversation. The sorcerer didn’t know what to make of it, and perhaps he should be worried - instead he caught himself humming a familiar tune under his breath as he went throughout his morning routine. It was better to distract himself from all thoughts of pleasure and lust. He wouldn’t fall for such needless and base desires, even if his fingers twitched and wrists were lowered when Sukuna stepped perhaps too close to the sorcerer.
“What kind of music is that?” A voice deep from an ancient age and multiple millennia of use sounded from the entrance, where Sukuna stood with his head leaned against the doorframe. His eyes seemed puffy; he must have just woken up. Cute, was the word Megumi would use to describe it. He discarded the thought as fast as humanly possible.
“Just something Gojo-sensei would sing.” Megumi murmured while pouring the ground beans into the filter. Some tacky pop song, most definitely. Never had the two talked about Gojo Satoru, at least never on amicable grounds. It was understandable, their first meeting mainly consisted of the King becoming the strongest’s throne. When Sukuna ducked his head to avoid hitting the ceiling with a ‘tsk’ on the end of his tongue, it was easy to see why.
“How long has he been gone, a year?” Megumi’s hands froze as Sukuna continued the conversation that he would not, could not have. The pink haired bully either didn’t seem to notice or care. “Well, whatever. No use in talking about it now. He’s as good as dead.” When Megumi turned with perhaps too much ire in his body, he saw Sukuna rolling his eyes. All four of them.
“I choose who I save. And still, I lost him.” Eyes no longer rolling, instead staring with a narrowed look of resent. Perhaps Megumi should stop talking. “I choose who I mourn, too. Even though he is not dead.” Megumi spat the last words with pure anger, it was too easy to work the boy up. Or, was it something else?
“Yeah? You mourned that Yuuta brat for a good week before chirping up to make me coffee again.” Sukuna’s smile was back, but it lacked that sense of familiarity which gave Megumi a sense of calm. “You let your teacher put it in? Or, maybe he didn’t want to, I don’t think you’re exactly to his taste-” The beans were laid to waste on the floor as Megumi struck Sukuna with enough force to knock them from the table. The slap echoed throughout the wooden walls of the too small home, and it split the skin of Megumi’s palm. The cut was just big enough to let a few drops of blood plip onto the ground as Sukuna slowly turned his head to face him.
Fear wasn’t enough to describe what flowed through Megumi’s body. The strike wasn’t nearly enough to lay any damage to the curse, of course not. But Sukuna was once a King, and still a King when it mattered. “Little sorcerer, I have tried to be gentle.” Another smack, but this one sent Megumi flying into the already worn cabinets, leaving them smashed and splintered to pieces. An eye for an eye. “I am not some bitch to be slapped. And I am not some man-child to suckle.” Sukuna was fast, that was something Megumi already knew, but he still flinched all the same when four red eyes stared down inches away from his face. He felt the broken wood push into his back, his head aching from the impact. “I am your fucking God, Megumi. You live because I allow it.” Sukuna raised an upper arm to snatch the basket of fruits and eggs he gathered sometime ago from the surrounding forest. “You eat because I allow it.” He smashes the basket into the floor, flattening everything inside into a soft pulp. Although Sukuna made an effort to not feed off the sorcerer’s cursed energy, the fear was so fucking palpable. Tempting. Sukuna looked into two jade eyes that watched his every movement, preparing for whatever comes next. “You’re unused, because I allow it.” The breath was almost steam as it ghosted against Megumi’s flushed cheek. The curse stands to leave the kitchen, and suddenly, Megumi is alone.
The rotten smell of jealousy was in the air, and both who dwelled inside pretended not to notice. It wasn’t hard to figure out Sukuna’s outburst this morning was a result of his possession of Megumi, and Megumi wasn’t daft enough to misunderstand. Even if he was, the blatant stench that suffocated him to the point of opening all the windows was undeniable. The younger grimaced at the stretch of opening the last window, his back still feeling more tender for wear. Still, the only open wound from their encounter was the one he gave himself. It was also undeniable that Sukuna hadn’t laid a hand on him, only once to return Megumi’s own blow. Intentional or not, Megumi was probably the first and only to survive becoming the subject of the King of Curses rage. He shook his head, loose hair swinging by the tips of his ears. Megumi put the tip of his thumbnail between teeth, gritting them. It was intentional. At this point, the sorcerer knew denying the underlying… feelings both he and the curse have would do more harm than good. With an exhausted sigh, he left his room to find the source of his headache.
The floorboards creaked no matter the weight put on them, so the younger was confused to not hear a single sound in response to his entrance. It was too quiet. “Sukuna?” Tentatively, Megumi called out with a voice of confusion. Sure, the curse came and went as he pleased, but the food was stocked. Oh. Perhaps Sukuna was the one who wasn’t stocked with food. It was a thought that the sorcerer chose to avoid. While he was no angel, Megumi couldn’t shake the fact that he would end up in a much higher, less hot ring of Hell than Sukuna. Yes, Megumi thought as he slid his gaze around the empty house, it’s better not to think.
Absence makes the heart grow fonder, or so they say. Yuuji would always say that to Megumi after his sudden resurrection. It didn’t necessarily work at the time, the boy was too enamored with feelings of rage. Betrayal. Gojo kept something from Megumi, which was nothing new. At times, Megumi had doubt to believe he wasn’t the only one Gojo was even fucking, with they way he’d come to school doused in some perfume that smelled of florals and sweets. Generic and plentiful. Hiding the death of one of his two friends, that was something which kept him from absorbing this whole idea of “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”
Now, Megumi stands corrected. A familiar blanket of anger shuffled around him after the first week of solitude. It was something new, but Sukuna was never one that Megumi would consider reliable. So after the first week of loneliness, or “quality time” as Megumi insisted, a pit of something cold and volatile began to open somewhere deep inside of him. He ignored it, instead busying himself with cleaning around the home, puttering about with menial tasks. Busywork. A few times, he signed his divine dogs into play, if only to make noise against the house. Claws against floorboards and soft huffs to wash out the pain of silence. His hands shook when not busy because he didn’t sleep well, and he didn’t sleep well because he’s never slept well in his life. Megumi told himself that.
It was during a storm that he broke. All cursed traces of the king had simmered out to nothing, and Megumi was truly alone. It wasn’t the loneliness, nor the way rain hit the roof like it was trying its damndest to seep into the sorcerer's bones. It was the cold. The hunger. The way Megumi had finally the gull to open Sukuna’s room, only to find a neat sheet of dust already collecting on the frame of his bed. Abandoned again. With no one else alive to pull him from destitute, Megumi clung onto the blanket that once decorated an absent bedroom, and shut lashes against the wet of his cheeks. The storm was loud that night.
Megumi took his time trekking through the mudded ground. Morning dew had formed into morning muck after the storm. Discarded branches were strewn about the forest floor, broken and wind-whipped. Dark knots of hair tangled into the leaves of a sprouting tree, and Megumi fussed with it until it snapped off. His hygiene was a mess. Skin dulled with sunken eyes, and the musky scent of dried sweat peeled around him as he trekked further into the foliage. It wasn’t that the sorcerer needed Sukuna to provide for him, no, he just simply preferred it that way. Loved it. Scrawny wrists parted a bushy fern to reveal a meadowy haven. It looked untouched, unless Megumi squinted to see the patches of matted grass where the curse used to skin and gut his game. Now, the haven returned to a peaceful patch of sun and wildlife, a rabbit carelessly strolling past Megumi’s sight. Sukuna hadn’t been here.
He never bothered to follow the curse on his walks. If Sukuna decided to create havoc, there was only so much Megumi could do to stop him. He noticed after the first few days of living together. His shadows would warp around the tall, tall figure. The ground would tremble with the amount of cursed energy Megumi poured into the masses of shadows.
Nails tore into the meat of his palm. He wouldn’t panic, not yet. That wouldn’t do any good. Megumi considered betraying his pride and yelling out for the curse, Sukuna would surely love that. He would return immediately, if only to hear Megumi say his name once more. With a stuttered inhale, Megumi cupped two shaky palms by his lips. “Sukuna?” His voice shook, but he could feel how far his voice traveled through the forest. Silence returned to him. He walked onward. The once well-traversed path tickled Megumi’s ankles with newly grown weeds.
He couldn’t find his way back home. In a way, it didn’t matter. Logically, Jujutsu Tech had the location, so it wasn’t feasible to keep for long, anyways. The insistence of staying near in case of Sukuna’s returnal was something Megumi had grown obedient to for too long. He found his new home in the dips of two valleys. His huddled form clasped different summonings, but he never put any energy into it. The grass was too long, and he’d often find himself blinking away the green tendrils to focus on his hands. Clasping his palms together, he met both bent index fingers. His thumbs stood rigid as the pads pressed tight together. Megumi took one shallow breath, then another.
He was alone now. There was no one to come for him. After Yuuta, he wasn’t deemed important enough to even kill. Perhaps it was more cruel to let Megumi rot away. Even Gojo was given the blessing of being sealed, not stuck with the suffocation of limitless freedoms that held no appeal. God-given pleasures. The boy snorted. He knew that Sukuna wouldn’t come, he figured out long ago that he was simply not strong enough to conjure such a godly being. And still, he pressed forward, allowing his energy to flow down to each of his finger tips, feeling the static of summoning. “Sukuna. Come.” And Megumi wasn’t able to finish his order before the King swallowed the sun, standing over the boy with a shadow tenfold his size.
Gingerly, Sukuna wrapped two hands around the boy’s cheeks, leaving no escape for Megumi. All four red, red eyes looked at him as though he were a priceless treasure sought after for generations. Not as the Ten Shadow User, but as Megumi. “What do you need, my God-given pleasure?”