Chapter Text
The Ten Shadows technique is enough to defeat Yorozu—more than enough, honestly. Anything more than the dog is probably overkill, if she's anything like before. Sukuna ignores whatever she's on about, as always. He'd shut her up much faster if her death didn't have the added importance to maintaining his new vessel.
No, for this, it needs to be slower. He needs her torn apart by the demon dogs' fangs. Slower. More pain, more flair. Unfortunately, screaming will probably be useful for his desired effect, so ripping out her tongue isn't ideal. Either way, her centuries-long marriage and harassment campaign ends today. It might be enough to put Sukuna in a good mood, if she wasn't still talking.
Yorozu isn't weak (which is why it's almost a pity she's so insufferable) but she's not strong either, not like Sukuna is. The fight runs largely on instinct and muscle memory, an easy enough flow to settle into. Wear her down, weaken her, eviscerate her with the Ten Shadows.
It's the bath, the stretch of time immersed in death and darkness, he thinks, that triggered the almost-complacency he finds himself in. It's the quietness and obedience he's grown used to of this body ever since. That's why he doesn't notice until the last second.
The dog's fangs are latched onto Yorozu's arm, halfway through the armour she's constructed, and he's contemplating summoning Nue again. Close to distracted. The dog barks, sharp, then crashes to the ground in a puddle of shadow. The technique releases, cursed energy flickering out for just a moment before he wrenches control back. Sukuna’s vessel doesn't even fight for control of the body—the move is nothing short of spiteful. Fucking brat.
Yorozu isn't weak, and she isn't stupid, though she acts like she's both. She's not slow either. Notices what's happened in the same second Sukuna does. Strikes in the moment he takes to check he still has control of the technique. He does. Nue is crashing into her the instant her technique reaches him.
Annoying. Taking a hit from Yorozu isn't anything devastating, but she'll be ranting about how it's a sign of his true love for her until Nue claws her tongue out.
Or, it shouldn't be. There's no way in hell Sukuna miscalculated, but somehow, something is wrong, something that means whatever she's flung at him hits harder than it should. The weakness of this body? A new compound she's managed to create since incarnating? Or maybe just Fushiguro Megumi’s pure spite and pettiness letting him get knocked off his feet.
Yorozu lets out an excited squeal, ducking under Nue's wings to dart over to him. Whatever her new compound is, it's stronger than anything she's used before, strong enough that it doesn't shatter like the others do when Sukuna tries to pull himself free.
It's stuck to his hands, pinning him to the ground, which means… the fucking Ten Shadows technique is unusable.
She flings something at the bird shikigami before it can react, and the next moment it's speared through the head and sinking into the ground.
"Look at how weak that technique is! And you were going to use it against me!?" Yorozu whines.
Sukuna ignores her, because there's really no other way of dealing with her. He's still not going to kill her with his own technique. That doesn't mean he can't use it at all.
"Dismantle."
The material binding him is torn to shreds, naturally. But—
It should not be instantly reforming. It definitely shouldn’t be expanding, catching his wrists and ankles and pinning him to the ground.
And it absolutely should not also be resisting Cleave.
Yorozu grins. "Do you like it? I figured it out just for you, Sukuna!"
It spreads, grows like a plant. And whether she knows it or not, by the time it’s completely covered his hands, he probably couldn’t use Malevolent Shrine even if he wanted to. She’s fucking insane. Always has been, and apparently somehow managed to get worse. She’s practically vibrating with excitement as she rushes towards him, and Sukuna refuses to sink to the indignity of struggling to get away. As soon as he’s out of this, he’s crushing her to death with the goddamn elephant.
She bats her eyelashes at him, attempting some absurd form of coyness. “This is the perfect time to consummate our marriage, don’t you think?”
Sukuna would love to remind her that he promised her his corpse, not his living body, but she’s just insane enough to take that as an invitation to slit his throat and call it a wedding gift. It would take a lot more to kill him, but the humiliation of it all might as well be fatal.
He doesn’t give her the satisfaction of a reaction as she kneels over him, a hand landing on his chest, feeling through the fabric of the clothing he’s suddenly glad he’s still wearing. Nothing she hasn’t tried before, though back when Sukuna had four arms, his slashing technique, and actual muscle mass it was a lot easier to shove her off.
Sex is… fine. Pleasurable enough, probably even with Yorozu of all people, but the thought of being the one being used rather than taking control has him biting back a snarl. He doesn’t let anything show on his face, unwilling to give her the satisfaction of knowing just how much he’d love to slash her to pieces for her disrespect.
Yorozu takes her time touching him, because of course she does. She straddles his lap, not bothering to hide her delight as she gropes his chest. Not quite as impressive in this body, but it hardly seems to bother her.
“I knew from the beginning, we’re meant to be,” she sighs, leans down over him, breath on his face. “We’ll really become one, now. Forever.”
If she tries to kiss him, Sukuna will bite her lips off. The sentiment seems to be received without the need to voice it, because she’s soon leaning back, shifting in his lap.
Her hands slide lower, and then Sukuna starts to feel his vessel panic, even buried deep within his soul. Good, honestly, the fucking brat has it coming for getting them into this mess in the first place. Sukuna fully plans to punish the boy himself in his innate domain when Yorozu is dead.
It’s not until she gets past the tie on his belt that an important fact about his new vessel occurs to him. Before he can even figure out what to think, she’s pulling the fabric down. There’s a long beat of silence.
In all honesty, Sukuna had forgotten he no longer has a dick.
He’s aware of this body—his body, now—but the possibility of anything like this had been so negligible that it had never crossed his mind. Biology had been irrelevant when he’d chosen Fushiguro Megumi, a footnote and a vague notion that he could have fun with this later, but now it feels almost vulnerable to be the one in this body with Yorozu’s eyes fixed so intently on him.
“I can work with this,” she announces, all of a sudden insufferably cheerful again. Which is not exactly what Sukuna was hoping to hear.
The look she gives him as she starts slipping off her own clothes is presumably meant to be seductive. Ironically, this is possibly the most clothing he’s ever seen her in. The display would probably be arousing, if Sukuna had any interest in Yorozu, and Yorozu wasn’t an absolute lunatic set on marrying his dead body.
The body she’s taken, Fushiguro Tsumiki, is objectively attractive. Curves and smooth skin, and everything else people seem to like about women. Nothing he’s particularly interested in, generally. Bodies—in this sense, at least—aren’t typically what he’s attracted to. He’s had sex, of course, but it’s never about the act. It’s about the power, the dominance. Pain and humiliation. Sukuna takes what he wants, from whoever, whatever, he wants it from. And Yorozu dares to touch him, dares to think she has the right to touch him.
As soon as she’s fully undressed, she’s back on him, constructing a blade in her hand. For a moment, it seems like she’s about to try to kill him. For an even shorter moment, he wonders if that would be preferable. He shuts the thought down instantly, and barely has time to process it before she’s cutting the remnants of his clothes off. Dropping the knife to the ground, tracing her fingertips over the markings on his chest, his stomach. It’s repulsive, somehow. He doesn’t want to look at her. At anything. Picks a point in the sky above them and glares at it.
“I love these,” Yorozu murmurs. “I love you. I’ll show you how much I love you.”
Sukuna plans to show her how much pain a body can survive before its heart fails, then to bring her back with the Madoka deer and start again.
She leans forward until her hair is pooling around his head, her breath on his face, her breasts pressed against his chest. Then something else, pressing against his thigh.
For someone who prattles on about the purity of a strong cursed technique, she apparently has no issue perverting her own.
She giggles. “I never thought I’d end up using construction for this, but I have always wondered what it felt like for men. It should work just like the real thing.”
Her hand slides down his body, down between them. Stops on his thigh, fingers skating over the skin. Wandering. The other flesh—the cock, and damn it, she’s absolutely deranged—is hardening against him.
“I’ll be gentle,” she coos. “I thought our first time would be the other way around, but this will be just as good. I know just how to please you this way.”
He is not afraid of Yorozu— not afraid of anything. She couldn’t kill him if she tried, and this doesn’t even register as a threat. It’s just sex, and Sukuna isn’t a coward, he can take whatever she wants to do to him, there’s no reason to feel like he wants to crawl out of his own skin. It’s—it must be the vessel. Obviously. Pathetic. His body—their body, the body—is reacting, pulse picking up, breaths sharpening.
Her hand slips down, between his legs. There’s a moment of dissonance, that it’s not a cock there that she touches. That he has an alien body part, cunt, a hole. A vulnerability. He’s never been on this side of sex before—he’s fucked men and women, apathetic to gender or genitalia, but no one has even tried to penetrate him before. She doesn’t go straight for penetration, and he’s not sure if that's a relief or not.
The skin is smooth, shaved (because his vessel is a whore, apparently), and infuriatingly sensitive. Even as she only traces the outer lips, it takes effort to suppress a shudder, a shiver, at the contact. She spreads him open, trails fingertips over his slit, almost pushing inside, threatening—then withdraws.
“It’ll just take even longer if you don’t get wet for me,” she practically chides. Sukuna grits his teeth and refuses to let himself move, to look at her. He’s not sure what would be worse— actually getting aroused by this, or Yorozu shoving a cock into him without any lubrication.
He’d never bothered with bringing pleasure to past conquests; some of them enjoyed it, most didn’t, but that was irrelevant to him. Sukuna enjoys pain, but not his own pain. Still, nothing about this situation has him anywhere close to turned on.
Then she touches something above his entrance, something— and his entire body jolts, seizes. “Fuck,” he hisses before he can choke it back, and Yorozu giggles again, and her face is right there, breath against his cheek.
“I’ll make it good for you, too,” she promises. Doesn’t stop touching him there, rubbing in slow circles that almost have him shaking at the even sharper, newer sensitivity. Her lips press against his face, a kiss on his temple, horrifically intimate, gentle, and he doesn’t even think to bite or spit until she’s pulled away. His body— the body is responding, and he can’t decide if it's better or worse, just that it’s more. He’s getting wet anyway, can feel the way the skin slicks, the way the hole clenches like it wants this. What Sukuna wants is to tear Yorozu’s throat out with his teeth, but he can barely even breathe.
She seems to decide he’s ready enough. The maddening touching stops, but then she’s spreading him open again, and there’s— not her fingers, something bigger, warm, blunt, pressed against his entrance. His head snaps down before he can stop himself, and yes, seeing it is worse. It looks big, at least compared to this body. Too thick, especially there, dipping shallowly into his cunt.
He knows it won’t kill him. It will barely damage him. Sukuna knows firsthand just how big of a stretch a pussy can take without even tearing; even in his own body, he’s never actually killed anyone with his cocks. There’s no reason for feeling like he’s about to die if she puts that in him.
The constructed restraints move as she motions for them to, forcing his legs further apart, lifting his hips, positioning him for her. The material doesn’t even falter when he resists; even with a more fragile vessel, it shouldn’t be able to move him like he’s weak.
Though it does give him an idea. An entirely petty and spiteful one, admittedly. Sukuna loosens control of his vessel, latches onto the shadowy remnants of Fushiguro Megumi’s soul, and shoves.
He opens his eyes in his innate domain.
For a moment, just waits. Watches the liquid surface of the ground swirl and ripple. Runs his fingers over the smooth bone of the skulls beneath his hands. Fushiguro Megumi’s consciousness is tugging at the edges of his own, but it's easy to ignore. Not his problem. Yorozu probably won’t even want him, but if she does decide to fuck him anyway, Sukuna can just take control again when she’s done. The kid has it coming, really. If Yorozu doesn’t make him regret his entire existence, Sukuna will.
Something is still simmering under his skin. An itch of… agitation. Fury. An absolute need to destroy someone, or thing, or just tear skin from bone and destroy. Not in the usual way, not the excitement or anticipation of killing, but a feeling that sits in his chest, tight and sharp and numbingly hot. He doesn’t feel weak in the slightest, he feels like he could slaughter all of Japan, but there’s no enjoyment to it. It doesn’t feel like he wants to kill. It feels like he needs to, or something even fiercer will have him by the throat.
It’s ridiculous. Moronic. It’s the closest feeling he’s ever felt to… fear, maybe. An infection from a fragile vessel, poison. Still, nothing he can’t handle, just something he’ll have to ignore until it's over, until he’s killed Yorozu, until he’s dragged the kid back into his domain and made him wish Sukuna would kill him too.
With the additional control he has over this vessel compared to the last, he can feel the traces of Fushiguro Megumi’s emotions. It’s far easier to focus on that, revel a little in the horror and disgust and terror. He could probably check what Yorozu is actually doing, but he still feels vaguely sick at the mere thought of her. The audacity, the disrespect of even attempting to touch him.
It takes him a moment to realise, through the haze of hatred and fury, another sensation. Something that makes the water at the base of his throne ripple, something that contorts the bone around him. A split second to realise that through the fog of anger and emotion, he’s missed something else, and then the domain dissolves.
He has no idea how Fushiguro Megumi actually pulls it off. The fucking brat somehow manages to drag Sukuna back out, to escape back into the depths of an innate domain where Sukuna doesn’t have the time to hunt him down, because Yorozu is still there, still on top of him, still almost inside him. And now, clearly, incredibly pissed.
“That wasn’t funny!” Yorozu snaps.
If it had worked, Sukuna is inclined to think it would have been very funny. However, this? Not so much. He wants to spit out a retort, something, anything, that feels less pathetic than just waiting for an opportunity to get out of this and make her pay for this. The alien feeling remains, the pure hatred and almost-dread, whatever it is, and he can’t formulate anything to say before she continues anyway.
“I’ll forgive you this time,” she says, as if she has the right to do anything at this point other than beg him for a quicker death.
And then it's impossible to ignore how she’s touching him, pressing closer, harder. He’s about to try it again, to switch out again and see if he can antagonise Yorozu into making Fushiguro Megumi suffer even more, when suddenly he can’t even think past the need to kill her. It can’t be as fast as it feels, as rough as it feels—the weakness of this body, again—but in just a moment, she’s pushing inside.
It shouldn’t hurt. It doesn’t actually hurt, he’s half convinced, and the pathetic panic and adrenalin from his vessel are screwing up his perception—but it does. Not entirely unlike being stabbed, but simultaneously not as bad and infinitely worse. Even with the wetness of the body, the slow push, doesn’t stop the sting, doesn’t stop it dulling into an insistent ache. The cock she’s constructed isn’t by any means big, nowhere near the size of his own body’s; it’s probably more comparable to his previous vessel’s and it shouldn’t feel like it’s carving him open like this. His body reacts before he’s fully formed a thought, limbs fighting against the bonds, body arching away to escape, even as a snarl is rising up in his throat.
It’s almost as painful as the pain itself is humiliating.
There’s a sting in his eyes too, and in the second he realises the body is tearing up, he wants to claw open his own skin as much as Yorozu’s. He’s not crying, but he’s never felt like this in living memory, never felt like he might cry. Especially not from something this trivial, this shameful. He’s going to kill Fushiguro Megumi, he thinks, and then thinks that death is a mercy the brat doesn’t deserve, that he’s going to drag him into the domain and slowly tear him apart from the inside out.
“Relax,” comes Yorozu’s voice—infuriating, grating, sickening. She’s still on top of him, still inside him, still breathing the same air as him and he suddenly wishes he couldn’t feel her breath near his face, flowing into his lungs. “You’re making it harder.”
Then she giggles, throwing her head back. “I mean, literally, but you’re also tensing up way too much. It’ll feel so much better if you stop clenching up like that.”
The implication that it feels good in any way—or could feel good in any way—makes him want to spit and snarl at her. She moves again before he can get anything out, just a shift of her hips as she sits up that cuts off any response he could make. Her hands are on his chest, smaller in this vessel, softer and less muscular. It feels like her hands are searing into his skin, like she’ll leave handprints and scars all over the pale, fragile skin he’s wearing. And she just doesn’t fucking stop talking.
“You’re so tight like this,” she sighs. “I knew it was meant to feel good like this, but you’re just so perfect, even like this, I knew we were meant to be—”
He manages to tune out some of the rest of her babbling, tries to think of anything past the pain and discomfort and the feeling of being so completely filled that his skin might split open. He’s not sure how he would relax like this, even if he wanted to. It won’t last forever. It can’t last forever, as much as Yorozu might want it to, and all he has to do is wait until she’s distracted enough to give him an opportunity to break the bonds and kill her. With his hands free, she’s as good as dead, he’s more than willing to use Malevolent Shrine, anything that ends with her blood splattered across every surface in the area.
He’s not expecting it, when she starts moving. The first roll of her hips, the drag out then back in punches a sound out of him, a hiss of pain that he’s a second too late to suppress. She giggles again, and he can’t even think about how much he wants to tear out her tongue past the sensation, past the fact that she doesn’t stop moving. She leans over him again, lips so close to his ear he can feel the warmth of them before she speaks.
“I can feel how much you want me, like this.” Her hand slides down his chest, settles on his stomach, and when she presses down, the feeling, the awareness, that she’s buried deep inside him spikes. Her eyes are practically sparkling. “You’re so nervous, though. Is this your first time? Am I the first one to be inside you like this?”
The fact that she is doesn’t matter. None of it matters, nothing will matter when it’s over, when he wins. He’s not going to humiliate himself by dignifying her with a response. But she doesn’t exactly seem to need one, just carries on mumbling into his ear about love and devotion and him giving her the gift of his virginity and other bullshit. She has to know he’s had almost as many bed partners as kills, but it’s clear that the only thing Yorozu cares about is what fits into her fantasy world.
And she’s still fucking him, like some slave or whore, and it still hurts. And she doesn’t stop, and a thought flits through his head—about earlier, the feelings that bordered on pleasure—before he snaps out of it, but whatever it did has already taken root, and then there’s a new edge to the pain. Maybe from the way she shifts, the way the cock inside him nudges against somewhere else, somewhere that sends a shot of something hot and sharp through him. The second it stops being entirely painful, he realises he’d much rather have the pain back.
Somehow, she seems to notice. Her hand slips down to where they’re joined together, sliding over where he’s stretched open around her and there’s a bolt of fear, and he can barely deny it’s fear anymore, before her fingertips reach the spot from earlier. Again, his body doesn’t care about the rage—fury—hatred simmering through every drop of his blood, doesn’t hesitate to react. The pleasure is worse, certainly. And there’s nothing he can do to stop it when he can feel himself get somehow wetter, when even the feeling of her fucking his still aching hole stops feeling so unbearable.
The sensation, the pleasure, despite how sickening it is to even think of it as pleasure, refuses to stop building. Like a dam about to burst, no way to prevent it when it’s come this far, this close to the inevitable collapse. Like forcing a crowd to stand in a burning room, not giving them the chance to run until the walls start collapsing. This is nowhere near as fun or entertaining.
He can feel himself getting warm, breathless, and it’s so fucking pathetic that he’s allowed her to reduce him to this with just a body stolen from a worthless human girl. It feels like losing, feels like failure, feels like dying and the part of him that wants any way at all out of this situation won’t shut up.
His mouth tastes like blood when the pressure peaks, the dam breaks. She doesn’t stop even as his body freezes, trembles, flooded with sensation. Orgasm is decidedly different in this body, it hits like a tidal wave and doesn’t seem to stop, strikes again and again in flashes of heat and inescapable crashes of sensitivity and a terrible, traitorous thought slips through that it feels good. It doesn’t seem to end, feels like it just keeps coming as Yorozu doesn’t stop either, still fucking him, still touching him, even as his body just starts shaking with unbearable oversensitivity.
The he feels the moment she comes inside him, the pulses of seed that spill into him. He almost wants to gag, unable to escape the sensation of her having touched him, having marked him, left some of herself in him. He’s almost relieved it’s over, but relief is such a deplorable, weak feeling.
She kisses him, then, and he lets her. Doesn't move as her mouth slides against his own, her tongue flicks out, her teeth scrape his lip. Doesn’t think to bite her, to tear her face off with his teeth, until she’s pulled back and he can’t even muster the energy to strain upwards, can’t stomach moving any closer to her.
She’s still inside him. Softening now, but still there. Still forcing him open, reshaping the body only he should be allowed to reshape.
“I wonder if I can get you pregnant like this,” she murmurs.
Sukuna wants to throw up. To kill her. To retreat back into his domain and tear Fushiguro Megumi apart for getting him into this situation.
He will. Soon.