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On some nights, Sukuna just repeats his name over and over, cradling Megumi in his arms.
“Fushiguro Megumi.”
Each utterance accompanies a kiss — to his temple, his neck, his palm.
“Fushiguro Megumi.”
It’s almost worshipful, and Megumi has never liked his name less than when purred with such searing adoration — least of all coming from Ryomen Sukuna.
Still, Megumi will let Sukuna hold him all night, as he has for several others.
Some nights, Sukuna merely recites poetry while tracing the veins in his skin. On others it’s just sweet, unsettling nothings whispered to his ears. (“Ah, how fascinating you are. So beautiful and warm to the touch.”) Once, all he did was stare into Megumi’s eyes, never blinking once. On all nights he holds Megumi in his lap — never bruising but grip firm enough to be uncomfortable, suffocating.
In the morning, Sukuna will be gone. Instead, Megumi will wake up to Itadori’s soft brown eyes — filled to the brim with bafflement and disgust, threatening to overflow.
It hurts every time, but Megumi endures it.
He has to. For Itadori’s sake.
-
It was a gamble, but they had already lost so much that perhaps it left Megumi feeling unhinged. Unhinged enough to make a wager.
A wager that Sukuna values him in some way.
There was no other explanation for his miraculous recovery when everyone else was left riddled in scars, for the unprecedented defeat of Mahoraga, for the annihilation of an entire district. The puzzle wasn’t complete but the pieces were there.
Megumi went to Sukuna to make a pact. ‘If you need me, you can use me, but it cannot be to hurt another and, most importantly, you must protect Itadori no matter what.’ He would do anything to prevent Yuuji’s execution, slated for the very day that Gojo is recovered. (After all, no one else is strong enough to do the job.)
Itadori had refused to let Megumi meet with Sukuna, but a devilish mouth formed on his cheek. “You have one minute to make your request, Fushiguro Megumi,” the mouth said, foul grin stretching and baring fangs.
‘Enchain.’
-
He expected to be used as a tool, for Sukuna to use him for his technique to some malicious end, but what he did not expect was for Sukuna to use him for skinship of all things.
Tonight, Sukuna is stroking his body. He’s fully clothed and the touch is more sensual than sexual but Megumi can feel the hard outline of Sukuna’s erection pressing against his back.
“Touch me more, please,” Megumi quietly begs, just as Sukuna likes. “Don’t stop.”
“As you wish,” the specter chuckles, and Megumi wonders if Sukuna has ever treated anything else with such reverence before. Megumi will never understand it, he will never understand Sukuna’s fascination with him of all people, why Sukuna went to such lengths to save him in Shibuya — at the escalation of his own execution, even — but he doesn’t need to understand it. All he has to do is use it.
And after countless nights, Megumi is certain: even without a vow, Sukuna will do whatever he asks. He may be sitting in Sukuna’s lap, but Sukuna is sitting in the palm of his hand.
“Sukuna,” he pleads, and the King of Curses shivers. Sukuna loves it most of all when he says his name, Megumi has learned. Names seem to hold some importance for him as he doesn’t use them lightly.
“Fushiguro Megumi,” Sukuna answers, drawing his hands up his chest and collarbone, neck, then back down to his hips. Megumi can feel his cuts and bruises from his earlier mission healing, dissolving into skin like they were never there. Next he feels an icy caress as hands slide under the hem of his shirt. “Fushiguro Megumi.”
The touches never escalate beyond this. Once, when Megumi dared ask why, Sukuna simply said, “I would never defile you with the body of this filthy brat.” Perhaps this is also why Sukuna never kisses him on the lips. Megumi doesn’t question it again, just silently appreciates his good fortune. He will beg Sukuna, say everything the curse wishes to hear, with that bit of relief in the back of his mind.
“Hah, how glad I am to have killed all of that trash in Shibuya — to think it would lead you to my arms like this,” Sukuna says, arms wrapping around Megumi’s slender form and crushing him to his body. In stark contrast to Itadori’s tender warmth, Sukuna is bone cold. “You’re mine. You belong to me,” he says, not as if stating a fact, but in disbelief — as if repeating the words for his own reassurance. “No one else.” Sukuna does not state Itadori’s name, but then again, he never does.
Megumi should feel disgusted but all he feels is pity. “Yes, I’m yours.”