Work Text:
A few hours into a deep, long night, the balmy air of summer hanging thick over them, Megumi was laid atop his sleeping bag on the forest floor, staring at their small fire, its flickering embers. Itadori, next to him, snored softly, snuffling in his dreams. Megumi looked up at the sky above them, the silhouette of trees blending into it, and didn’t think of anything in particular.
“Hey, Fushiguro Megumi,” said—Megumi froze—Sukuna. “Tell me something: what are you doing here?”
Megumi turned toward Itadori, toward the eye open on his cheek. “W-what?” he asked.
“What are you doing here?” Sukuna asked again.
Megumi swallowed, wondering why Sukuna was speaking to him. But it was only his mouth, only one eye on Itadori’s cheek; he wasn’t in any danger. “What do you mean? We’re here on a mission.”
Sukuna hummed. “Yes, but here, at the school. The brat’s been here for a few months and even he can tell that you hate it.”
Megumi’s hackles raised defensively. “I don’t—I don’t hate it,” he insisted, and only acknowledged, “Sometimes it’s tiring. But that’s the way this life is.”
“This life,” Sukuna echoed. “The life of a sorcerer? I was a sorcerer once, you know, and it never tired me.”
“You were a… curse user,” Megumi said. “You weren’t a sorcerer of the school. You killed the ones who were, remember?”
Sukuna’s teeth glinted in the low light when he grinned. “Oh, I remember,” he said, with relish. “They attacked me on their headmaster’s orders and died for it. Seems the distinction between sorcerer and curse user is simply how much fun you have.”
With a huff, Megumi rolled his eyes, turning away. “Maybe if your idea of fun is how many people you murder.”
“Or,” said Sukuna, and there was something in his voice that made Megumi shiver. “Whether your power is used for someone else’s purposes, or your own.”
Megumi couldn’t help himself. His eyes flicked back to Sukuna. A steady gaze met his, a mouth curled with promise and proposal.
And that was how it began.
The next night, Megumi lay awake. Sukuna’s questions always left him feeling off-kilter; it wasn’t just yesterday’s but that day at the prison, too.
His thoughts swirled in the darkness. The previous night, Sukuna had left soon after providing his food for thought, telling Megumi to think on his question: why was he here?
It was obvious, Megumi told himself now. He was a sorcerer, still in training, and his creed was to kill curses and save people, even if unequally. Who could turn their back on those harmed by curses when they had the power to stop it, or at least help?
Megumi couldn’t tell if he wanted Sukuna to appear that night or not, to inform him of his answer, but as an hour passed with nothing but the fire burning to ash, Megumi found himself relieved. He relaxed, finally, enough to allow sleep to creep over him, and tried to put it out of his mind.
The third night, Sukuna did appear, calling Megumi’s full name in that low rumble of his. But instead of asking Megumi about their conversation, he inquired, “What was that food you ate a few hours ago?”
“Food?” Megumi’s eyebrows raised. Then: “Oh, my granola bar.” He found the wrapper, smoothed it out and held it up for Sukuna’s eye.
“Granola bar?” Sukuna repeated, and Megumi explained.
And he found himself telling Sukuna about the brand itself, the boxes they came in, the commercials on TV. He pulled his phone out and played one on low volume, and when it buffered, told Sukuna about the internet, about cell service and data, all of which was met with a blank stare.
Megumi sighed. “I’m boring you,” he said. “There’s no point to this.”
“No,” Sukuna mused. “I’ve found our conversation very… enlightening, Fushiguro Megumi.”
Each night of their week-long journey, Sukuna appeared to Megumi when Itadori fell asleep. He asked about Megumi, about his life, about the world in this era, about the others at the jujutsu school.
They grew… closer, which was an odd thought. But Megumi found himself looking forward to these surreptitious, nightly conversations with Sukuna. It was thrilling, the secret.
“Why do you call me that?” Megumi asked one of the nights.
Sukuna blinked. “Call you what?”
“Fushiguro Megumi,” Megumi echoed, making his voice stiff, the way people called names to announce them.
“It’s your name, isn’t it?” asked Sukuna. “I like the way it sounds.”
Megumi fought his blush and pointed out, “I don’t call you Ryoumen Sukuna, do I?”
After a moment, Sukuna’s lips curled up. “Then,” he said slowly, and the low rumble of his voice spread through the air. “Megumi.”
The war with his flushed cheeks was lost. Megumi’s breath caught at the sound of his name in that tone. It was intimate, more than he’d imagined, and then his mind caught on the fact that he had imagined.
It was written all over his face, clearly, because Sukuna’s smile widened. “Oh? What has you so red, Megumi?”
“Nothing,” Megumi sputtered, resisting the urge to shove Sukuna away; Itadori would definitely wake if Megumi slapped him in the dead of night. He pulled his blanket up to his face. “I’m not—.”
“So pretty,” Sukuna cooed, but under the teasing tone, Megumi heard a small edge of sincerity. He paused, looked up from trying to bury himself in his sheet. And when Sukuna caught Megumi looking, he smiled, “Yes, the prettiest. Do you like that, hm?”
Megumi’s face was on fire. “I’m not having this conversation,” he said, covering his face again. And it was to the echo of a low, smooth chuckle that he fell asleep that night, long after Sukuna had disappeared from Itadori’s cheek.
For two weeks—the trek to the mission point and the week back—Megumi and Sukuna talked. Never before had Megumi been so open to someone, and yet, it felt like they never spoke of anything of consequence. He’d never had so many conversations about… irrelevant things: the weather, nitpicking Lord of the Rings, the subject of the documentary Megumi watched last month. They even played “I spy” one night, when Megumi was having trouble falling asleep.
He tried to tell himself not to listen, that this was Sukuna. But it had been Sukuna whose words had helped him grow, who had pointed out the power of Megumi’s technique, and it was difficult to not hear the wisdom when he spoke. Their time together was innocuous, and yet Megumi couldn’t help the edge of fear.
Confused and troubled, one night Megumi tried to distance himself. He accused, wanting to gauge Sukuna’s reaction, “You’re trying to manipulate me, for—for something.”
“Manipulate you?” laughed Sukuna, unconcerned. “No, don’t insult me,” he said. “Like I would stoop to that level. And don’t insult yourself, either, Megumi—as if you could be manipulated. You’re too attentive for that. I am simply… curious.”
“Curious about me,” Megumi inferred, trying not to let the pleased bloom in him show.
Sukuna smiled. “Should I not be?”
“No—!” Megumi hastened to say, then blushed at his own eagerness. “It’s not that. It’s only—you don’t even ask me about my technique.”
“Your technique?”
Megumi fidgeted. “Everyone’s interested in me for the Ten Shadows,” he said, matter-of-fact, and then added slowly, as if sounding it out, “But you’re—. You just… talk to me.”
Looking almost confused, Sukuna blinked. “I enjoy our conversations,” he mused. “They’re the most agreeable part of my days here, stuck in this body.”
Shifting onto his side to face Sukuna more fully, Megumi took a deep breath, appraising him. It was impossible to tell what Sukuna was thinking, but he seemed so genuine. A being as powerful as him had no need to lie. Perhaps it was the cover of night, when Megumi felt most comfortable, but he asked quietly, “You mean it?”
Sukuna’s eye crinkled, and his lips turned up, but softly. “Megumi,” he said. “I won’t say you’re the most powerful sorcerer I’ve ever met. I won’t say you’re the most beautiful, though, well—,” Sukuna grinned, his tone a purr, and Megumi felt his blush creep down to his neck. “You are easy on the eyes.”
“Stop,” Megumi mumbled, averting his gaze.
“I won’t lie to you, Megumi,” Sukuna continued. “So believe me when I say that there’s no one who has interested me the way you do in all the thousand years I’ve lived.”
They went on more missions, technically two of them, he and Itadori, but to Megumi, three. A month passed, then another, and he and Sukuna grew closer still.
The affection Megumi felt for him was nothing new, but it bloomed afresh every night, every conversation. No one had ever looked at Megumi this way, at him instead of his technique. And they never seemed to run out of topics to talk about, Sukuna never out of questions or even his own stories of the Heian era, a world Megumi had only learned through old texts.
When Megumi told Sukuna about the jujutsu school, Sukuna replied with his own accounts, the things he’d known of them.
“In my time, the school wasn’t regarded so highly. There were plenty of sorcerers who didn’t bother with them, their attempt at a system.” Sukuna laughed, “The emperors claimed that the throne was ordained to them by heaven, and the jujutsu officials were often appointed by that court. Tengen preached his Buddhist ideologies, and the school followed it, but no one wanted to acquiesce so easily to something so… weak.”
“Everything goes through the school now,” said Megumi. “The students, of course, but it’s the headquarters for all sorcerers these days. It’s just… there are so few sorcerers, in comparison.”
“That’s a shame,” said Sukuna. “Considering that teacher of yours lets those weaklings run everything.”
Megumi stilled. “Gojo-sensei?”
“Yeah. When I incarnated and met you, then him, I thought for a moment I’d ended up in an era of power.” Sukuna continued with a sneer, “But he lets himself be ordered around. It’s pathetic.”
For once, Megumi had no clear answer for Sukuna, not even after thinking about it. Gojo was the most powerful, and he acted as if he’d only follow the directions he wanted to, but he deferred so often regardless. Itadori’s sentence had been only suspended, not repealed entirely, and Gojo had said that was the best he could do. But was it, when he could just—he could just kill them all, couldn’t he?
And with Megumi—a brick lodged itself somewhere in his chest, making it hard to breathe—with Megumi, Gojo hadn’t pushed the higher-ups at all. He’d… served Megumi up on a silver platter.
“You know,” Megumi confessed into the still air. He could see Sukuna’s eye, intent and focused on him. “When I was six, I was going to be sold to my father’s clan. Gojo-sensei intervened. But even though he had the money, even though he’s from one of the most powerful families—,” Megumi’s voice cracked. He swallowed thickly and forged on, to say it, at least once, for himself. “He brought me to the school. My sister and I—we received a living stipend in exchange for me becoming a sorcerer.”
“Megumi—,” Sukuna breathed, his voice tight.
Megumi felt a tear fall, then another. “So that’s why,” he said quietly. “That’s your answer, Sukuna. That’s why I’m here. Because now she’s—now she’s in a coma, and so that money is—,” he cut off. Silence rang.
“They stole you,” said Sukuna, furious.
And it was then, in that moment, as Megumi’s heart squeezed, as his eyes burned with more tears despite himself, that he felt the weight of prophecy at his back and knew it had come at last.
Prophecy, because Megumi had grown up making shadow puppets, holding his small hands up against a light, laughing at the shapes cast onto the wall. His father who taught him must have, too, as a child. Maki and Mai, as well—all of them, the Zen’ins, a tradition inherited generation over generation. For other children it was a game; for the clan, it was augury.
Only Megumi’s shapes had taken form of their own. Only he had been gifted two dogs, one white and one black. Ever since that time, something divine had followed Megumi, a fortune bestowed by his ancestors.
He was born in the era of a Six Eyes user; he was witness to Sukuna’s incarnation and felt marked still by those blazing eyes on him. His past had been the price to pay for this, now: purpose for his power.
“You have so much potential,” Sukuna told him in the days after. “You could be the strongest they’ve seen, too powerful for them to control. They’re scared of what your technique can do.”
“And what can it do?” Megumi asked in return, hushed as if asking for a secret.
Sukuna watched him carefully. “They kept this from you, too?” he asked. “When you control them and speak the names of your ten sacred treasures, you will gain the power to bring the dead back to life.”
Megumi swallowed. “‘When’?” he repeated. “No one has ever tamed the last shikigami.”
“If you do,” said Sukuna. “You could save your sister.”
The words swam in Megumi’s head, an endless echo. “But she’d have to be dead first,” he said, a bit pathetically, reeling from Sukuna’s revelations. “I’d have to—have to kill her.”
Then the response came: “Then resurrect me, and I will make sure she lives.”
Air stalled somewhere in Megumi’s throat, a hard block he couldn’t speak around. He stared at Sukuna and tried not to let it show, how his nerves rang with trepidation, with some survival instinct to flee.
Had this been the plan all along, to befriend and slowly convince Megumi to bring Sukuna back to life? Megumi didn’t even know if he could. Mahoraga was an impossibility.
But that anger had been genuine, when Megumi had told Sukuna about his past, about Gojo, about the school. Sukuna was offended on Megumi’s behalf, and finally, here was someone who seemed to care.
Sukuna stood up for Megumi in a way Megumi didn’t, couldn’t, unless he was willing to fan the flames of resentment, poke at the raw flesh of festering old wounds. He saw the heart of the matter, the truth of Megumi’s heart, and didn’t shy away from labeling it: wrong, irresponsible, cowardly that they drew Megumi into their world as a child and never told him the truth of his powers, taught him only to use it for their petty battles.
“Megumi,” said Sukuna, his voice firm and so dear, and he repeated, with an addition: “Resurrect me, and I’ll help you build the world you want.”
His ideal world—what would it look like?
Certainly not this: an unknown threat, barriers upon barriers that increased panic, the entire sorcery world called to Shibuya to mitigate the damage. Being here rankled Megumi, even beyond the danger, because none of the higher-ups got off their fucking asses about it. Had any of the major clans mobilized their forces? Maybe one, but the rest of their fighters would protect their precious homes and armories and archives, considered more valuable than the lives at stake.
They were cowards, all of them, complacent in their seats of power and too willing to let others, even students, do their dirty work. Sukuna was right.
Itadori and Megumi roamed the streets together, killing curses as needed, and the entire time, Megumi was preoccupied by thoughts of how a scheme so intricate had been hatched under the noses of the higher-ups, of how there was a spy, as Gojo thought, amongst the upper echelons, those pathetic, money-hungry, gutless pests.
His ideal world—it would be rid of them, to start.
They ended up encountering a curse user, a man with an Inverse technique who bragged about his powers, about the people he’d fought and killed. And oh, this was different from fighting a curse. This was exciting, exhilarating, Megumi found.
Justice was not limited to only saving people unevenly; there didn’t need to be some other force, some curse attacking that Megumi chose not to save someone from, if they didn’t deserve it. He could be the other force himself, actively punish them. And for this man, who had deliberately, maliciously harmed others, Megumi was.
When the curse user was down, unconscious, Itadori bent to tie him up. On his cheek, Megumi spotted Sukuna’s eye open, looking not at the action, but back at Megumi. What are you doing here?, his gaze seemed to ask.
“Wait,” Megumi found himself saying. Some steely resolve settled over him: prophecy, or possibility, or both. “That won’t hold him forever.”
“Huh—?” Itadori asked, but he paused obediently.
Megumi adjusted his grip on his sword as he approached the man. “It’ll be trouble if he escapes and shows up again.” The tip of his sword was sharp, honed with cursed energy, and it gleamed when Megumi slid it into the curse user’s chest, through his muscle, sternum, and heart.
He heard Itadori’s surprised noise of dissent over the wet squish of flesh, but he didn’t try to stop Megumi. The last spasm of the body twitched like a physical entity, hanging above their heads.
“Let’s go,” said Megumi, when the curse user was dead. He flicked his sword, sending blood splattering to the ground, and then slid it into his shadow void.
Itadori stared at Megumi worriedly, and though he didn’t appear again, Megumi could nearly feel Sukuna’s regard. It should have left him nervous, should have had him worried the same way Itadori was. But Megumi almost preened, knowing Sukuna’s attention was on him. Look at me, he wanted to say, and knew Sukuna already was.
Later, Itadori brought it up as they stalked down the streets of Shibuya. “That was… against regulations, wasn’t it, Fushiguro?”
Megumi sighed. “Yeah,” he confirmed. “You’re not supposed to execute non-curses without permission.”
Itadori fell silent after that, as if he’d simply wanted to confirm something to himself. He didn’t fight Megumi on it, but he did split off soon after, his disquiet obvious, taking Sukuna with him. Megumi stared after them, a brief “See you later” lingering on his lips, and went on his way. There were other battles to fight, and this one wouldn’t get them anywhere.
But it seemed none of their efforts would get them anywhere regardless. Megumi wasn’t able to make headway toward Gojo on his own, and he kept encountering pesky curses and curse users that slowed him down. He didn’t know where these people had come from, out of the sewers almost like rats, crawling around and meeting their ends and wasting his time.
Whatever threat had the city in lockdown was too well-coordinated for an easy solution. He figured Gojo had a good reason for not simply putting an end to this immediately.
The ground rumbled beneath Megumi’s feet. Next to him, Kon looked down, ears perking. The subway stations?
Megumi went, fighting his way through transfigured humans and curses again. And finally, he broke through. The battle was over by the time Megumi reached. Carnage lay everywhere: bodies with their heads sliced off, others with limbs missing, transfigured humans limp like worms. Any cursed spirits had been killed already, disintegrated into dust.
But at least half the bodies were civilians, staring above unseeingly, their minds melted. Gojo had used his domain, it seemed. Megumi was impressed, for the first time in the last few months of his affairs with Sukuna; Gojo had been… pragmatic, had committed such a cold act. He must have been backed into a corner, for Gojo who was usually so passive to do this.
A body—Getou?—lay in front of Gojo, and Gojo was crouched, gazing down at it with a thoughtful, sad expression. His blindfold was down, but as Megumi watched quietly, he seemed to gather himself and slid it back over his eyes. Itadori was here, too, already having made his way to the underground.
They both turned when Megumi approached. But neither had a chance to say anything before Megumi’s phone rang, and his world split apart.
Awake. Tsumiki was awake, but she was cursed, the nurse on the other end said. The jujutsu school’s protective detail had locked her in her room; they wanted her executed as a vessel, home to a cursed spirit.
Dread sank through Megumi, an icy trickle that turned his stomach. He stared down at the ground, not seeing a single thing, and tried not to think. It was okay; it would be okay. Gojo-sensei would save her. He’d killed all these humans to save the rest of Shibuya, and clearly would transgress regulations if he needed to. For Tsumiki, he would. Right?
Megumi reported the news to Gojo, desperation streaming through him. But then: “The higher-ups want everyone to return to the school,” Gojo sighed, sliding his phone into his pocket.
Megumi stared at him. The worry disappeared, replaced by pure, unfiltered rage. He fought to keep his face straight. Gojo was just going to… listen to them? “What about Tsumiki?” he asked, and he knew before Gojo answered what the reply would be.
“Don’t worry, Megumi,” Gojo assured, his tone light and airy. In that moment, Megumi hated him. “We’ll get her, definitely, once we regroup with everyone and hatch a nice fancy plan, hm?” This useless fucking man, always so frivolous. He had killed all these civilians, he had done something finally, using his domain even when it meant collateral damage, and now he wouldn’t take a single step without the higher-ups’ say-so.
His ideal world—none of this bullshit. No one who blindly followed the higher-ups, and well, it was worse that Gojo wasn’t blind about it and still listened.
Next to him, Itadori frowned, his eyes wide and sorry. “Your sister?” he asked. He was clearly remembering their day at Megumi’s middle school, the news that Tsumiki had been involved with the bridge curse.
“I don’t know if we can save her, now that the curse inside has awakened.” Megumi was talking more to Sukuna, but there was no way for Sukuna to respond. Was saving her still possible after she awakened?
With one hard clap on his back, Itadori looked at Megumi seriously. “We’ll find a way, Fushiguro,” he said, the same shit that Gojo said, even if with Itadori, it wasn’t a deliberate ineptness.
After a moment, Megumi nodded. Itadori turned back toward Gojo, and from the slit on his cheek, Sukuna’s eye opened.
He stared at Megumi, and Megumi looked back, watching for a sign, for something. Then: a slow, single blink, the way Sukuna had come to nod. Megumi understood; it was possible to save her, and Sukuna would do this for him.
His ideal world—Tsumiki, Sukuna, and those friends around him. People who deserved a good life not subject to the whims of corrupt political simpering.
“I’ll make my own way back,” Megumi announced. Gojo peered at him, but eventually nodded, the trusting fool.
As Megumi stalked off, his fury only increased. It made him boil with rage sometimes, how deliberately incompetent the higher-ups were, how power-hungry. Something could interrupt their status quo, and instead of doing something about the vulnerable people involved, they just buried their heads into their golden sand and told everyone to regroup, to plan, endlessly in circles after circles, until nothing actually happened.
And Gojo fucking went along with it, even though he knew, even though he had the power. It was pathetic. It was maddening.
They didn’t deserve to be in charge of people, let alone in situations like this, when lives were on the line constantly. They feared new techniques, wanted to control everything; the higher-ups didn’t care how many people died as long as they remained in power. They’d rule a barren world if it meant they could sit in their chairs like thrones and look down at the ashes.
Sometimes Megumi’s hands itched to just reach out and wring their necks, to watch their smug, conservative faces morph into fear. He wanted to bleed them dry of breath, until they could no longer use that air to give orders people somehow refused to disobey.
But not Megumi, not anymore. He wouldn’t be one of theirs; he refused. Prophecy had crafted him differently than the others. For light meant life, and darkness meant death, and this was a curse, too, to control the shadows that people feared, that made their hearts trip and hammer, their breaths come short.
Where else could his shikigami have risen from if not from that terror of night: a phantom wolf howling distantly in the night, the rustle in the tall grass, a silhouette flying overhead, the brush against an ankle, a monster under the bed?
Megumi was tired of pretending he wasn’t tired. If it could only end, if someone could do something—. But he could, couldn’t he? If he went through with what he’d been pondering since that conversation with Sukuna, potential hung around his neck.
His ideal world—his.
When Megumi called upon them, his shikigami were confused, but they wouldn’t refuse the command of his intention.
He found them a safe spot, tucked into an abandoned corner of Shibuya. He knew what he had to do, and he was ready now, to do it. To be the first fucking person in this passive sorcery world of death, it seemed, to fucking do anything.
The first were the rabbits. Megumi expanded his domain and summoned them within that barrier, the same way he exorcised them originally. Nue swept over them, electricity crackling with such fervor Megumi’s hair rose on his arms. So graceful his shikigami swooped and flew, orange feathers bright and gleaming.
He would miss watching it. The rest of the shikigami didn’t fight when it was their turns. They sat obediently as Megumi drew his sword from the depths of his shadow and approached. Megumi stroked a hand over Nue’s head, feeling the soft, downy feathers. He ruffled them.
“Thank you,” Megumi said, and then he stabbed the sword into Nue’s body and chased it with a pulse of cursed energy. Orange exploded outward, and Megumi staggered back, blinking. Chunks of flesh splattered to the ground, disintegrating as curses did instead of returning to shadow. After them, feathers floated down to the ground, disappearing the same way.
Megumi swallowed thickly, felt the power of Nue within him fall dormant, a shapeless, voiceless thing that would never take the same form again.
And then he turned to Gama, who waited. His sword slipped easily into his toad’s flesh, and it died like Orochi had, around a burst of cursed energy. Banshou was the same, bending its front legs to offer itself to Megumi, and Megumi wrapped an arm around its neck and pressed his cheek to its and thrust the sword in as he murmured goodbye.
He summoned Totality, his loyal dogs, and scratched under their chin. “At least I’ll still have you,” he whispered, the only concession he would make to the sorrow under his angry determination.
Kon nuzzled Megumi’s face, licking his cheek, and Megumi could hear from the imprint of its heart in his—he was forgiven, for there was nothing to forgive from those who had lived only for him and now would simply take a new shape.
The grief was deep but muted, distilling into Megumi’s single-minded goal. He released Kon, where it joined the fluid sensation he had of his destroyed shikigami. The others couldn’t speak to him, but they heard his call when Megumi transformed the shadows, merging them.
Orochi twisted around Gama, the rabbits consumed into their gaping maw. Banshou’s waters rushed through their veins, flowing over its feathers and scales. And those traits spread into the Divine Dog, melting and melding its body of shadows.
It was a monstrous thing, a chimera of morphed shadow and void and death. But Megumi reached for it and from the same well he had always pulled his shikigami, it was born from him, brimming already with power.
“Hello,” Megumi greeted. His hand found its face, the odd contours of its cheek and multiple eyes. Shadows flared from its body, its frame molten. He didn’t need to ask if it would fight for him, for these were his, the forms of his soul made real, the same way he wished to breathe shape into Sukuna.
The creature sniffed Megumi, snuffled at his petting. From Megumi’s thoughts it gleaned its purpose and so when Megumi summoned his seventh shikigami into an exorcism ritual, it was ready with claw and poison and a waterfall of sparks.
The seventh fell into his control, and it, too, Megumi beckoned forward and onto his sword. It coalesced into the void, then into the shadow chimera. Then the eighth, and the ninth.
By the time Megumi was ready to summon Mahoraga, all nine other shikigami were of one body, a looming tower of twilight. His sword would be of no help in this fight. He clasped his fists together, took a deep breath, steeling himself, and with his chimera watching him, chanted, “With this treasure, I summon—,” and Mahoraga rose from the depths.
It turned on him, teeth glinting in the bright light of the city, and raised its arm. A pure animal bolt of fear struck Megumi, and then his shikigami leapt at Mahoraga and wrenched it away.
The chimera had not only the powers of the nine shikigami, but their combined strength as well. Each attack that landed was both different from the last and powerful enough to cleave Mahoraga’s muscle from bone, its sword from arm, its leg from body.
And as Mahoraga adapted to it, the chimera would take another form: lightning, then rain, then the whip-speed of a snake, then the gusts of air beneath wings.
When the Tenth finally fell, Megumi was breathing hard, eyes wide, but he was untouched. Shadows consumed Mahoraga’s broken form, its wheel gleaming as it sank into the void once more, and at last, Megumi felt the shikigami within him.
Power—this was power. No one had ever claimed this shikigami for their own. What a heady, wondrous feeling. It rushed through him, a thousand beating hearts, the sounds of the city and the pulse of its underside around them.
The night bundled itself in Megumi’s chest, expanding through the branches of his body, and he became chasmic, became shadow, became void.
Debris lay scattered in the street, chunks taken from the buildings around Megumi. He picked his way out of the wreckage, to somewhere more private, more… intimate. He wanted to do this right, to have Sukuna emerge and look at Megumi not under the glaring neon lights of Tokyo but someplace that was just their own. Perhaps he had a romantic side after all, but if there was any time to indulge, it was now, when Megumi felt so alive.
Is this what Sukuna had meant, when he’d told Megumi he could be powerful? Is what what Sukuna felt like all the time? No wonder he grinned and laughed and crowed his triumph to the heavens, bounding with arrogance and never paying the price.
Megumi’s cheeks hurt, he was smiling so widely, flushed with possibility. He touched a hand to his lips. He hoped Sukuna would kiss him.
Finally Megumi found a small, cozy space, an abandoned restaurant, lit a soft yellow when he flicked the switch. Strings of light hung across the ceiling like stars, and no one would find him here, no one would interrupt.
The ten sacred treasures were his, and he knew the soul of the words, shaped for resurrection. Sukuna would come, and he would save Tsumiki, and—would he touch Megumi like he said he would? Would he speak to him in that voice, that lilting tone?
Megumi drew on the shadows, on all of his shikigami within him, all ten, and the incantation spilled from him alongside his hope, his eagerness, his desire.
And then he waited. It took some indeterminable amount of time. The rising sun had broken the skyline when a presence appeared at the edge of Megumi’s senses. He appeared from the horizon, a power birthed from that rip between earth and heavens, as the night gave way to day.
Sunlight spilled into the room, and Sukuna materialized from the shadows, casting his own against the adjacent wall. He was a silhouette of inferno, a god ablaze, and he looked at Megumi, and was his.
Four arms, four eyes, all arrested on Megumi like hooks in his skin, in his cursed energy. He felt Sukuna’s aura, bloody and unfettered and wild, meet his own, the same way.
“Megumi,” Sukuna said, and there was his voice, so delighted.
Megumi found himself grinning, a laugh bursting from him. It worked! It worked, and now here was Sukuna, rushing to him, and Megumi, meeting him halfway, being pulled into his arms.
Clambering up his body, Megumi clutched at Sukuna, around his broad shoulders as he took him in, memorized him. “You’re here!” Megumi exclaimed.
Two hands held Megumi up, and two cupped his face, gentle despite Sukuna’s size, and between one moment and the next, Megumi was being kissed. It was soft and then not at all. Sukuna plied him open, his mouth parted and panting for breath. He lay Megumi down on a nearby table and hovered over him, so close and yet infinitely further than Megumi craved.
Their sex was bright and incendiary, a joyful reunion of body and heart now, after mind. Sukuna pulled himself off, almost too eager to wait, and Megumi helped him, unable to look away from the wetness at the tip, at how… how erotic it was, watching Sukuna’s cock in his hand. When Sukuna came, Megumi licked at what landed on his palm, curious.
Sukuna groaned, then turned his sights on Megumi. The intensity rocketed up. “Look at you,” breathed Sukuna, his voice fervent as he stroked Megumi, feeling his hardness.
He thumbed along the head and underside, and Megumi’s breaths came loud to his own ears. Megumi blinked his eyes open, wet with tears, and bit his lip as Sukuna bent to suck him: reward and allegiance and celebration.
Megumi’s legs wrapped around Sukuna’s body—Sukuna’s! body!—and his hands tangled in his hair. The pleasure swelled, wave after wave spreading through Megumi.
“I’m gonna come,” he choked, fingers tightening, urging Sukuna deeper, more more more.
Sukuna hummed around Megumi’s cock, and the sensation crashed over him, sweeping Megumi into a dazed oblivion. When he blinked himself conscious again, Sukuna had pulled off and was wiping his lips, already curled in a rakish grin.
He was here. So relieved and so settled Megumi was now that it felt as if he’d never known the twist of anxiety before. Nothing would go wrong, he thought, now that Sukuna had come for him, from him.
And yet Megumi’s trials were far from over. It wasn’t long—though they’d thankfully dressed—before a presence appeared to them. The pressure made Megumi’s neck want to bow.
“You,” Gojo snarled. He looked between Megumi and Sukuna, took in Sukuna’s grin and his hold on Megumi, and pulled his blindfold down, revealing an expression so furious that Megumi nearly winced.
There was a beat, in which Sukuna stepped forward, arms wide and inviting and grin a threat, before a wild torpedo of cursed energy erupted from Gojo, striking Sukuna straight-on. Sukuna disappeared from Megumi’s side in a flash; the building behind them crashed and crumbled, and from the wreckage emerged Sukuna almost immediately.
He was unharmed, and his grin adopted a feral edge. He leapt at Gojo, and the city shuddered. Megumi watched in muted horror. They were a blur, dancers in a battle that made whole wars seem like sparring sessions, gods come to reality to make disaster their home. This was—.
Sukuna kicked off a building and launched himself at Gojo, and the skyscraper jolted from its foundation, toppling the opposite direction. Nothing, it seemed, the city included, could graze the sky except for these two.
Megumi’s shikigami protected him from the destruction, and his senses rang with it. Mortals weren’t meant to look upon gods. Were his ears bleeding? His eyes?
But Megumi was no mere mortal, not anymore. He, too, had been touched upon birth, and the caress of void had soothed him as a babe. He beheld the duel and saw not the heavens themselves clashing, but two beings known to his heart.
Perhaps that was why it hurt, watching them fight. Worry panged through him. Their domains clashed. A purple orb swept two of Sukuna’s arms into nonexistence, and he regrew them while cutting Gojo’s leg off, which then, too, was healed.
In the rubble of the city, Gojo gained the upper hand. A moon crashing to earth, a tsunami’s crest touching the sky, the cosmos folded into one man where Sukuna had only just been reborn—he was destruction itself, imminent.
The hammer of Megumi’s heart was so loud it drowned out everything, both the sound of the planet trembling and the deafening silence that followed, when Gojo stood over Sukuna, power manifested at his fingertips.
Megumi took a step forward, and his shikigami did, as well. And then another, and another, and Megumi was running, and his shikigami, the underworld risen, collided with Gojo. Thunder cracked between them.
Infinity did not exist for a creature whose form was its very nothingness. The Ten Shadows grabbed Gojo in one hand, and Megumi saw Gojo look at him, his blue eyes startled, before he was slammed to the ground.
Megumi looked down at him. “I need him,” he told Gojo, imploring.
Gojo spat blood to the side. “Megumi—how did you—? He’s too dangerous.”
“He’s promised to help me,” said Megumi. “Tsumiki—.”
Understanding, then confusion, dawned on Gojo’s pained expression. “I could help you, Megumi.”
“But you won’t.” Why had it come to this? Where had it all gone wrong? “Sukuna—Sukuna understands me,” Megumi pleaded, a last, pathetic appeal to the father Gojo had been to him.
“He’s using you,” spat Gojo.
“Maybe I’m using him!” Megumi bit back. He was viciously angry again, the same as before. He had slain his shikigami for this, because Gojo had refused to help him. “To get out of his hell hole, to live my own life.”
Gojo laughed, a dry, dead thing. “This life follows you,” he said, a curse. He gazed at Megumi, something akin to sympathy on his face, and sighed, like he’d sighed all those years ago, finding Megumi and drawing him into a life of sorcery to begin with. “Go ahead, then.”
The shikigami’s hand closed around Gojo. Bones crunched wetly. When the shadows receded, there was only a body, limp and broken and dead. But it wasn’t just any body; it was Gojo. It was Gojo and he was dead, and Megumi’s eyes were wide with horror, and he couldn’t get enough air, because Gojo was dead and it was because of Megumi—. Because he had—.
“What—what did I—?” Megumi’s lungs hurt.
A figure appeared in front of him, blocking Megumi’s view of the body—of Gojo’s—.
Two hands enveloped Megumi’s, stilling their shake. “Shh,” Sukuna soothed, and Megumi’s heard him as if through water. “Megumi, look at me.”
Megumi didn’t move, staring as if through him, straight at the carnage.
But Sukuna stroked over Megumi’s cheek, his skin hot and real, and tipped Megumi’s chin up to face him. “Look at me,” he said again. “Only me.”
Something wet dripped down onto Megumi’s cheek, but Sukuna’s thumb brushed it away. “Sukuna,” Megumi choked, through the violent twist in his chest. “I—I didn’t mean to—.”
“It’s alright,” came the assurance. “It’s fine, Megumi. You did what you needed to. He was trying to kill me, Megumi. He knew I could save Tsumiki, but he didn’t care about that. He didn’t care about you.”
“No—,” Megumi shook his head, reeling. He met Sukuna’s gaze through his blurry vision and exhaled, a shaky half-whimper. “I killed him,” Megumi whispered.
And Sukuna looked proud, fiercely so, like his body was aflame with it, and he clutched Megumi tight, so tight it hurt, like he wanted Megumi to share in that heat. “Yes,” he said. “My beautiful, powerful Megumi.”
Megumi slowly steadied himself, face buried in Sukuna’s torso. “They’re going to kill me,” he said, tone stabler now.
“They will try,” said Sukuna. “But who could touch you, Megumi? This—this is what the world owes you. You are claiming what is rightfully yours.”
After a pause, as Megumi absorbed that, his chest rose and fell with a deep, settling breath. He mused, tone resigned, “The higher-ups will probably be pleased.”
“Oh?” said Sukuna quietly.
“They hated him. If he wasn’t who he is—,” Megumi fell quiet, then corrected softly, “—was—.”
“It’s okay to be relieved,” said Sukuna.
Megumi shook his head. “I’m not. I’m angry. That it came to this, that he—,” he paused. “That they, all the fucking higher-ups, they never gave him a chance to breathe.”
Sukuna’s hand stroked down Megumi’s back. “So what’s next?” he asked.
With a small sigh, Megumi pushed away from Sukuna and approached Gojo-sensei’s body. His eyes were open, watching even in death, Megumi’s advance. Megumi knelt by his side and closed them.
“Save my sister,” said Megumi to Sukuna. He turned and looked at him over his shoulder. “Then I want to kill them all.”
By the time they’d found and rescued Tsumiki from the curse within her, Megumi was running on a few hours of sleep for more than a few days. But from the well of relief and happiness came dregs of energy, seeing her awake again, hearing her voice—.
He couldn’t possibly sleep, and yet Tsumiki had insisted, prodding him into the bathroom to brush his teeth at least, since he didn’t have the energy to shower, and then herding him to bed.
Sukuna was out on the balcony of the hotel room they’d broken into, keeping watch, and Megumi stared up at the ceiling, at the spackle spots obvious even in low lamp light.
“You should sleep, Megumi,” Tsumiki said softly, sitting on the edge of the bed. He hadn’t let her leave his side since, not that she’d wanted to.
“You should sleep,” he argued.
And: “No, you,” she insisted, then grinned, her eyes crinkling.
Megumi found himself smiling, even as sleep slowly overtook him. “No, you,” he murmured, just to say it.
Tsumiki brushed his hair off his forehead, a gentle, familiar touch. “Thanks for saving me,” she said softly.
Megumi sighed lowly, her hand soothing. “Thanks for coming with us.”
It wasn’t perfect; they’d lied already about what happened to Gojo, who Sukuna was, who Megumi was these days. Tsumiki could see curses now, but she didn’t understand the depths of this world. It made it easier to hide the truth from her, but Megumi knew, even as tired as he was, that there would be a day she’d find out. Maybe she would forgive him, he thought, hoped. She was a good person, after all.
Okkotsu came after them, bound to the higher-ups by a pact, seeking revenge for Gojo’s death. Megumi despaired for him, to be pulled into their games. He allowed them to control him, exactly like Gojo-sensei had. What could they possibly do to him, if he refused? But instead, Okkotsu was ordered here, and he obeyed, like a dog, and walked to his death.
No matter his boundless cursed energy, no matter Rika, somehow returned from her unraveled curse, Okkotsu was no match for Sukuna; it was over in short order. Megumi closed his eyes against a measure of guilt. What a shame, that someone as powerful and kind as Okkotsu would meet his end like this. But Megumi wouldn’t allow anyone to get in his way anymore, not even someone he’d once respected.
Megumi was grateful that at least Sukuna hadn’t cut Okkotsu’s body into pieces. He delivered it to the jujutsu school under the cover of night, sending a silent apology in the direction of the dorms. Preparations were occurring for Gojo’s funeral, and Megumi took it all in before slipping away, a plan forming vaguely in his mind.
The rites for Gojo, and now for Okkotsu—the higher-ups would have to attend. Not a single sorcerer tied to the school, especially those not on mission, could miss the wake of the heir to the Gojo clan and another of its bloodline.
It was the perfect opportunity, but it was, well, still a funeral.
“I feel bad,” said Megumi, the day of. He didn’t turn from his vantage, looking over the building and the people milling around.
“The dead won’t wake whether you dance or cry at their funeral,” Sukuna said, his hand moving back and forth over Megumi’s back, tracing his spine.
“Or assassinate people,” said Megumi, with an edge of humor.
“Or that,” chuckled Sukuna. “Gojo would probably be pleased. He hated them, didn’t he?”
“Yet he barely toed the line of their rules,” Megumi sighed. “He could have run this whole place, but he was scared of becoming someone he didn’t want to be.”
“What about you?” Sukuna asked. “Does it scare you, changing this way?”
Megumi leaned into Sukuna’s hand. “No,” he said slowly, savoring the words. “For the first time, Sukuna, I feel exactly right.”
He understood now, what having power was about. It wasn’t meant to be squandered, not like Okkotsu had, not like Gojo, playing by the rules.
Enough of the higher-ups’ schemes. They’d given themselves a win-win situation by sending Okkotsu: either Megumi acquiesced to their demands or killed a special-grade they wanted executed. But they would pay for it with their lives.
The field wasn’t theirs anymore. What rules? This was a whole new game, and it was Megumi’s.
He felt Sukuna’s hand tangle in his hair, and Megumi gasped as it tightened and tugged, tilting his head back. Sukuna’s mouth found his for a deep, consuming kiss. Something feral hung in the air around them, and Megumi felt it buzzing in his veins. In his lungs was strength, theirs.
Sukuna’s thumb found Megumi’s bottom lip when he pulled back. He dug his nail in a bit meanly, enough that a drop of blood welled, and smirked, gaze focused with intent.
“Go have your fun, Megumi. Give them what they deserve. And then,” he leaned in close and licked that bit of red, healing the cut. “Come back to me, and I will make you forget they ever existed.”
Anticipation sparked like cursed energy. Megumi’s breath wavered in a small gasp as Sukuna drew away, and he chased after Sukuna and kissed him once more. And then he went.
In the end, it was easy. It was easy, and that made it even worse. The students were outside, mingling quietly. Itadori had bags under his eyes; Nobara’s hair was messy around the strap of her eyepatch.
Only Maki noticed him where Megumi hid within his shadows. Leaned against the building, with her hair cropped short and arms uncovered and scarred, she looked angry but settled within it. He’d heard what she’d done to the Zen’in clan and felt a sense of kinship, closer than they’d ever shared just by blood.
Megumi used his shadows to wave at her, and after a begrudging moment, Maki nodded in acknowledgment. Maybe she’d join him, later. After.
It was nearly effortless to sneak in. Megumi encased himself in the shadows of the back wall of the room. The air was self-congratulatory amongst the higher-ups, their condolences fake and simpering. They were relieved and smug that their desires had been fulfilled.
Rage grew, boiling through Megumi’s blood. That satisfaction—Megumi hoped it was bitter, the last thing they would ever taste.
He pulled from the void, a place within himself, and an abyss opened beneath the ground. The chimera shikigami grew from the depths, a hellish monster ordained with blood and murder and revenge. It had come for them, that prophecy, to extinguish their souls and seize them from the very cycle of reincarnation, so they would never draw breath again.
Megumi swept the room into shadow and stole their lives, as they’d once done him. And then it was over.
Yaga, Ieiri, Utahime, and Ijichi remained standing. They watched him carefully, but none of them moved, knowing they’d been spared for a reason.
“So that’s it?” Yaga asked. He wiped blood from his face, only succeeding in smearing it. “You, Megumi: a curse user?”
With a scoff, Megumi shook his head. “Sorcerer, curse user—what’s the difference, if the institution and families labeling people is corrupt itself? You’re too experienced to not see what an opportunity this is, Yaga-sensei.”
With a heaving sigh, like Megumi was his biggest disappointment—which, well, fine—Yaga replied, “You don’t have to tell me that.”
Megumi nodded at all of them, at Shoko looking mildly interested at the bodies around her, at Utahime’s grimace, and Ijichi quaking in his suit. “I’m not going to stop,” he warned mildly. “Gojo-sensei always said other corrupt officials would only replace these if he killed them. But I’m not going to stop, if that happens.”
Yaga’s expression was resigned. “So don’t let it happen, is what you’re saying.”
“Or let it,” Megumi shrugged. “It suits me either way.”
It thrummed in him, an ecstatic sense-memory of opening the depths of his heart and having it devour his enemies whole. What power: sheer cliffs, and the pressure of an ocean at its bottom, and darkness of night folded into his hand.
This intensity, this triumph—it had drawn Megumi to Sukuna and Sukuna to him, a magnetic pull of opposites of equal strength. For shadows gained darkness the closer they were to light, and as Megumi returned to Sukuna, leapt into his arms and felt his hold around him, as he kissed him, love on his lips, this was the strongest he’d ever been.
Megumi would grasp it and never let go, this future unfurling, an ideal world—theirs.