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jujutsukaisenweek · 3 years

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JJK Week Day 7 - Halloween [Or Kinktober Day 31 - B I T E]

Prompt by @jujutsukaisenweek

Geto Suguru forms his own pack and pacts. You, an unsuspecting guest, will fit in nicely with them and his plans...

Read the first part, or JJK Week Day 4 here

Loosely inspired by What We Do in the Shadows

WC: 2.8k

Genres: Smut, some DC, Supernatural, Crack treated seriously

Pairings: Geto x Gojo x Nanami x Reader

Blurb: It's a tangle of teeth and tongues, a routine and rhythm transcendent and ancient, of groans and grunts that got lost in the sputter of fires, rustling foliage, gales howling just outside the maw of grottoes.

You have your past, he has his. But this feels more primordial.

Instinct, animus, some beast beckoning, borne on two backs into the twilight of civilisation. What need of nylon or conversations, stretched out? Between the rasp of denim and gasps unzipped from your chest exists something older than puffs of cotton or the whisper of silk looms. His ink strands and sighs spill around you, curtained carnivores draped in carnal expressions; you aren't wearing much of anything else, at this point.

Neither did your ancestors, nor those who came before you.

Sweaters are scattered, tongues tracing paths of perspiration down the column of throats, trail of clothes haphazardly strewn on marble tiles leading to the living room. His hips are a plinth eagerly propping up the bust of you, hands digging harsh into your thighs as if to re-sculpt them around his waist, embers in his eyes and flickering kilns in his kiss, chasing the chill autumn air from your skin.

You'd almost prefer the raw soil of some forest floor, how many others had his gaze raked over, had he ploughed into with abandon? Will you yield, sunk into this sofa alongside the weight of so many ghosts? Or with your entwined exhalations, seed an exorcism?

You'd been careless. You'd lost count.

What had they done, before the rent of stockings could be reliably followed by the tear of silver foil? The midnight prevarications of men, abandoned to the purview of women the morning after.

To your surprise, he's the first to voice this modern dilemma.

"Can I?"

Those eyes. Those damned eyes. All hooded urgency, despite his languid strokes, desperation glimmering as iridescent as the evidence pearling between your thighs, proof that's getting just as hard to deny.

Hesitation heaves in your chest, and oh, he's tampering with the case, corrupting your judgment with the gentleness of a kiss planted against your furrowed brows, swiping a digit through a crease elsewhere along your body.

"You want to, too, Ms Red." He observes, licking his latest clue off his finger. You bury your face against a conveniently placed cushion; his nickname for you only grows more accurate with each scalding touch

But it's not this seductive act that dooms you.

You feel the couch dip as his knees push off the couch, no longer bracketing your hips.

"It's all right."

Mercy is the final nail in your coffin. Or the illusion thereof.

You grab his wrist, so startled that your weak grasp could actually stay those thick tendons that you don't catch the smirk that flits by. You nod, once. "You're sure?"

"Yes." Perhaps the whisper is inaudible and it's the tiny tug instead that has those canines gleaming again, closing in on you again as his mouth molds over yours. You card a hand through his hair, feeling the velvet flaps of those warm pointed ears, wondering why he hasn't removed the rest of his costume. Suddenly, they prick up against your palm, and his entire body stiffens before you hear a long, low whistle.

"You sure know how to select 'em, Suguru."

Your arms fly to shield your chest and the space between your legs, Suguru tutting at the futility of your attempt to recover any dignity. At least it's dark. You start to tilt your head in the direction of the voice, but Suguru grasps your chin in his hand, keeping your gaze locked on him. Without breaking it, he says stern and chillingly calm, "Satoru. Get out."

"Oi, oi. I'll remind you this is the communal space, I have as much right to be here as you. You're not being a very considerate flatmate if you're gonna hog it all up."

There's a click, followed by your gasp as the shadows scatter. Fortunately only a single small corner of the room is awash in weak oranges; but it's still one too many. You glimpse the tungsten glow of temper in Suguru's eyes before they snap to the side, obscured by the hard contrasts his edges cast. But you feel another gaze slide over your body when Suguru's leaves it, vacant and vulnerable.

Another whistle, softer this time. "You really do have impeccable taste, Suguru, a man after my own heart."

"You're right, I may just drive a stake through it."

There's a chuckle followed by a rustle of movement as somebody stands.

"And then who will you split the utility bills with?"

Suguru rolls his eyes. "We'll manage."

'We?' you wonder. Was there a third party in this house somewhere? You pull a throw pillow over your bare skin, shivering.

"Stay where you are." The command is tensed, and ignored.

"A moment ago, you wanted me to vacate these premises."

You hear footsteps and Suguru rises off the sofa, hackles raised.

"Stop ogling her."

"But she's so ogle-able."

A scarlet riptide washes over your body, cresting in your cheeks, roaring in your ears. Over this din you barely heed the sound of a smack, a petulant whine and the rip of fabric.

"Ow! Hey, that was expensive to rent!"

"Why were you wearing such a redundant costume?"

Satin flutters over your shoulders and you gratefully wrap it around your waist. There isn't enough material to cover your chest, you'll have to prioritise your lower half.

"Tis' the spirit of the spooky season, Suguru. Some of us are making an effort, isn't that right Miss?"

"Well, I think his ears are kinda cute," you mumble. Suguru smiles and you feel him slip a heated palm over yours as he pulls you up.

"Hm, quite the pair aren't cha? The Big Bad Wolf falling for Little Red Riding Hood?"

You stand, shuffling behind Suguru but peeking over his shoulder. You ought to identify who it was you have to avoid for the next few months. Dressed in what you guess is some approximation of Victorian garb, a lanky man with a lackadaisical smirk and shock of white hair greets you, snowy strands standing out even against his pale skin. They frame a pair of cerulean irises, sparkling like a glacial fjord when they meet your gaze. He flashes you a beam that would put nine out of ten dentists out of a job. The tenth could probably make a lifelong career from the gleaming set of fangs that reveal themselves.

"Nice to make your acquaintance, Miss...?"

"Uh..."

"Don't entertain him," Suguru sighs, wrapping an arm around your waist. You feel Satoru's gaze drag like icicles down your spine, even as Suguru guides you away. I fully intend to entertain myself, he muses, watching the receding silhouette of his cape pulled around your curves.

"Where were we?"

It's a rhetorical question, you can tell by the idle shapes Suguru grazes along your ribs, patterns occasionally dipping beneath the band of your makeshift skirt.

You giggle, looping your arms around him. "Making out, I guess."

He hums, sliding the silky material up your calf, "We were a little further along than that, weren't we?"

Hesitation heaves in your chest but you nod, ignoring your hammering heartbeat.

"Can I...can we get something to drink first?"

"Sure."

The kitchen is bathed in moonlight, silvery and silent save for a steady clacking that doesn't stop even when you approach. Someone is hunched over a laptop, a narrow segment of their face illuminated by the screen they're completely absorbed in.

"Our resident zombie, Nanami." is Suguru's simple introduction as he reaches into the fridge. Its momentary glow reveals a gaunt and haggard expression, sallow skin stretched thin over high cheekbones and shadowed sockets, gaze seeming even more hollow behind green-tinted glasses.

"You look like you could use one too."

There's an unintelligible grunt from the creature in question at his offer. Suguru slides over another bottle of beer.

"I didn't know you spoke zombie," you whispered to him.

"Took it as an elective in my second year. They have a very limited vocabulary however-"

"None of these brains would be worth eating."

The blonde man mutters his interjection, suddenly shoving away his laptop. He tilts the bottle back and you watch, fascinated, as two-thirds of its contents glug down his gullet in under a minute.

"What're ya working on so late anyway?"

You take a peek at his laptop, scanning the documents.

"Introduction to After Life Portrayals in Popular Culture & Media. Oh, I took this module last semester. So you're the TA I have to blame for the grueling lesson plans."

An exhausted gaze flickers up to you, the droops down. But it doesn't linger. You abruptly remember you're half-dressed, but Nanami's look seems nonchalant. Oddly, the lack of reaction makes you feel more self-conscious and unnerved.

"Who are you?"

"She's my date."

"I was asking her."

There's a glimmer of steel this time to those irises, the colour of rust. You tell him your name.

"Hmm...familiar..." Nanami removes his spectacles and shuts his eyes, pushing his chair and fringe back, caught in an arc of a moonbeam, his face framed by a golden halo temporarily. You can't help but notice the surprisingly accentuated bicep as his forearms bend, strong lines running parallel to the edge of his jaw. You take a gulp of your beer. It does little to slake your thirst.

"By any chance, did you turn in a critique on capitalism and its decay as a central social system as demonstrated by the metaphor and imagery of the undead?"

You raise a brow at Nanami's lengthy statement before answering in the affirmative.

"Thank you, it was one of the few papers worth my time last term."

"You only gave it a B+."

Nanami cracks open his eyes, something glinting in it.

"I only said the essay was interesting, not entirely sound."

You scoff, taking another swig of your beverage. Unbeknownst to you, a pair of gazes are drawn to the arch of your neck as your head tilts back, and the slight undulation of your throat as you swallow. Nanami's eyes drift from your lips as you lick them to catch stray drops, to the condensation dewy against your clavicle.

"There were elements to your argument that could have been more...fleshed out."

"Which do you mean-"

Suddenly you feel a hand on the small of your back, and Suguru's voice rumbling, "I appreciate academic analyses as much as the next guy, but let's not bother him. You have a ton of scripts left to grade, don't you, Nanami?"

He levels a measured gaze at Suguru, slowly sipping the final dredges of his beer. "Quarter of a dozen. Won't take me all night."

"Nanami-san." He turns to you as he hears you utter his name for the first time. There's a hint of shyness, the kind that promises shamelessness, if he plays his cards right.

"Yes?"

"About that constructive criticism, I still want to get it from you. May I come by your office sometime?"

There's a glance exchanged between the both of you that causes Suguru to narrow his, but he'll let it slide for now. He won't jeopardise the rest of his evening. The next few hours are all that matter anyway.

Nanami inclines his head, "Of course. I'm sure our discussion will be riveting and...rigorous."

You watch those eyes drop right back to the glare of the screen, but you don't think they look so lifeless anymore.

Suguru's towed you to the most secluded corner of the house, where he should have brought you right from the start, without risking so many distractions. Screw being a courteous host.

Impatient at last, he divests you of the makeshift skirt, shoving a knee between your thighs as he presses your back into the mattress. Picking up the shift in the atmosphere, you mewl feeble throated apologies.

"I don't particularly care for competition," he grunts, nipping along your neck, relishing your frenetic pulse, the frantic grind of your hips as you match his energy. "But unnecessary interruptions irritate me."

"Especially if you have to live under the same roof as them, hm?" Your sympathy is a trail of sloppy kisses along his jaw, while your hands busy themselves with his jeans.

"They're not so brazen usually, I guess you've piqued all our interests. But I brought you back here."

"I haven't forgotten that," you grin, "You've been so gracious, and I'm grateful."

"As long as we're on the same page about tonight," he hums, finger hooking beneath the strap of your bra, and you hiss when it snaps against your skin, smarting for a moment before Suguru soothes the sting with his mouth. So he's the type to be a little petty, after all. You suppose you can't blame him.

A small shudder runs through Suguru as you slide a palm across his increasingly taut seams, another snaking to his scalp, fingers pinching those furry flaps.

"You gonna keep these on?"

"You into it?"

"I could be," you groan as Suguru flicks his thumbs over your nubs, pinching and rolling them into stiffened peaks. The heft of your mounds fit comfortably in his palms, breasts spilling over the cups of your bra as he squeezes them, laving his tongue over lace and flesh.

"You gonna keep these on?"

"You into it?" you echo teasingly.

A prickle of teeth supplies your answer and you giggle breathlessly, lightly pushing his shoulder so you can sit up to undo the clasps. But in the periphery of your vision you catch movement by the doorway, slightly ajar.

"Want me to lock it?" So he'd already noticed.

You can't tell if Suguru is leading or chasing the inexplicable thrill skittering down your spine with the blunt scrape of his nails, but it has the same net result of distracting you from your reply, as it melts into a moan, the first of many as he shifts lower.

Distantly you're aware of the crack widening as your legs spread around Suguru's head, and his whispered reassurances against your slick only make you shake.

"He won't come in, if you don't want him to."

But then there's a creak, and another presence. Perhaps he was taking too long to convince you on his own.

"Getting impatient are we, Nanami?"

"I don't have to follow Gojo's outdated rules. Besides, I just wanted a better view. This one's too alluring."

Suguru feels you flutter around his tongue at the insinuation that there's a process for all this, set in place from long. You're just another in a long line of...whatever the hell this is, and yet-

"This one's too alluring."

Well, at least you were in experienced hands.

You feel Nanami's weight settle behind you, dragging you into his lap, propping your boneless body up as a kiss is dropped upon your shoulder.

"You don't mind, do you sweetheart? If I get a front row seat?"

Your eyes glaze over as Suguru decides now is an opportune moment to apply more of your gloss to his lips, a mere whimper breaking from your lungs.

"You two are evil," you hear the vampire voyeur's aggrieved groan as Nanami inevitably indulges in his self-directed audience participation

"Wh-why can't he join us...?"

"Satoru's...conditions are special. He needs a specific invitation."

"He isn't special. It's just explicit consent but fussier." Nanami huffs, rubbing lazy circles against your clit, wringing a stream of sobbed yes's from you.

You hear a frustrated hiss from just a few feet away and your gaze flits to the only passive spectator left, meeting his malevolent, ravenous stare. The torture is mutual, perhaps he's the only one who truly understands your desperation right now. The only one who will deign to deliver you from it. It's just a game to the other two.

"Satoru, please..."

It's a blur of motion, inhumanly fast, the way he bounds across the threshold and latches his mouth to your nape, incisors stinging against your jugular. You feel a rush of wet heat as the furnace of Suguru's dark chuckle gusts against your sodden core. "She's gone and done it now...He's the worst of us, you know."

"We're doing this in my room next time," Satoru mutters angrily between slurps. He pulls back for a moment to glower at you, lips dripping, "Really thought you were gonna leave me high and dry out there for a moment, darling. That's too cruel."

"Y-you're monsters," you gasp amidst the waves of pleasure and pain rolling through your veins, vision swimming.

"Only if you ask us to be," Nanami's growl is eclipsed by your shriek as your world bursts into white, not for the last time that night.

And so, crescent-marked, the bloodsucker, lycanthrope and zombie welcomed a banshee to haunt their shared dwelling.

~~~

I honestly dk what I've done lmao

#jjkweek2021 #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk x reader #fanfic

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jujutsukaisenweek · 3 years

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[fic] Juju Sanpo Hallowe'en Edition: Entanglements

Series: Jujutsu Kaisen Rating: T Category: Gen, Dark Comedy Characters: Fushiguro Megumi, Itadori Yuuji, Kugisaki Nobara, Zenin Maki, Ryoumen Sukuna, Mahito, Jougo, Hanami. There’s some light Itafushiita and (one-sided) Sukufushi ship-teasing for comedic purposes. But if you want to read more into it, I’m not going to stop you either lol. Warnings: Mild gore, mentions of cannibalism and weed/implied food-tampering (but without any actual cannibalism, weed, or food-tampering involved), food as a metaphor for love (??), breaking the fourth wall, Jujusanpo-brand of crack. Summary: The one where Sukuna is extremely bored out of his mind and decides to host the Great Jurei Cook-Off. A/N: For Day#7 Halloween of @jujutsukaisenweek. Don’t think too hard/take this one too seriously; I certainly didn’t lol. Timeline is a little wonky, but I would place it a few days before Halloween 2018 happy Shibuya incident-crying-day :) Papaguro is very briefly mentioned, as are some of Sukuna’s profile information as stated in the official fan book. No major manga plot spoilers, though. Many thanks again to Digi-bro for the quick beta and excellent suggestions ♥ Fic can also be read on AO3. _______ Fushiguro Megumi does not think of himself as an idealist, nor does he believe he is wholly pessimistic. Cynical, yes, but why wouldn’t he be? Why would he remain starry-eyed after being strung through years of abandonment as a child with only a cherished step-sister by his side, only for him to be bartered up as collateral—he, the progeny of Fushiguro Touji the outcast, and blessed with the prized Ten Shadows inherited technique of the Zenin clan—as his rite of passage and initiation into jujutsu society, as Gojou Satoru’s favoured new ward? Yes, Fushiguro Megumi is well aware he’s mostly a cynic and arguably petulant at times, but he’s not a complete pessimist. Not anymore at least. Not when Gojou-sensei had done something akin to mentoring, dishing out constructive and sound advice—encouragement even—that had actually made sense. So, there’s a little nagging voice at the back of his head now that insists whatever mess he and his friends found themselves in now, whatever this… this absurdity Yuuji had gotten them all thrown into—well, there’s a chance this is just another effect of the curse’s domain, or its technique of casting illusions and hallucinations. And if so, there’s still a chance, however slight, that they could force it to release its cursed technique, a chance where he could either try to overpower the curse’s domain with his own or even break through the threshold of its barriers to create an opening for his friends to escape. Now if only the curse in question wasn’t evil incarnate and the King of Curses himself, Ryoumen Sukuna.

Megumi winces, feeling the twinge of a headache in the space between his furrowed brows. He doesn’t quite recall how they had ended up in this predicament—all he can remember is Yuuji sprinting ahead of him as they’d chased a cursed spirit through the dense foliage, then a low, guttural snarl and a flash of movement from his right, before being enveloped by a sudden darkness. When his vision had finally cleared, he’d found himself seated here at a long dining table with Yuuji, Nobara and Maki on either side of him, in the middle of a vast nothingness stretched out all around them. A nothingness, save for the ivory columns of bone and cartilage towering hundreds of metres into the endless void above, and the viscous crimson-black liquid sloshing up to their ankles; an emptiness, except for the eerie flickering of light coming from the top of the large mound of animal bones rising up before them like a deathly throne. Megumi can’t tell if Sukuna had drawn them all into his innate domain with jujutsu, or if this strange illusion is just one of his many hidden techniques. But before he can ponder any further, Sukuna’s deep laughter cleaves through the nothingness as he leans forward upon his ghastly throne, scarlet eyes gleaming with malevolence. “Finally. I was starting to wonder if I had to resort to more persuasive measures,” Sukuna drawls, brushing a finger against his chin as he regards the four humans seated below. “Now that I have everyone’s undivided attention, it’s time to begin the competition.” “What are you playing at, Sukuna?” Yuuji says, bristling in anger beside Megumi. “Why drag everyone else into your innate domain with me?!” But Sukuna only heaves a sigh, as though Yuuji had just asked why the sky is blue. “I should’ve expected such buffoonery from a brat. But since I’m feeling a little generous, let me explain just this once: you’re all here to participate in a food-judging competition, wherein you jujutsu sorcerers will sample each of these dishes so painstakingly prepared by your very own adversaries, the unregistered special-grades.” At those words, Megumi pulls his gaze from Sukuna’s throne, glancing ahead at the second long table across from theirs. He had seen the table and felt the presence of the aforementioned special-grades when he’d surveyed their surroundings earlier, but it’s only now that he notices the spotlessly pink aprons the curses are wearing, complete with black name tags pinned to their fronts. He watches warily as two of the curses approach their table—the forest spirit he and Maki had fought during the Goodwill Event, and the humanoid curse with the stitched face that Megumi remembered Yuuji had described once in soft, seething resentment. As the curses set their dishes before Maki and Nobara, Megumi catches sight of the names Hanami and Mahito emblazoned on their tags. A hunched third curse is walking up to him now with a silver platter in hand, volcanic ash and molten lava spewing fiercely from the cratered dome of its granite-like head. It’s the first time Megumi’s seen this particular curse, but its features easily matched the juvenile crayon scribbles in Gojou-sensei’s report. “Once our upstanding Jougo has set down his special for the night, we shall begin in earnest,” Sukuna says, his lofty voice drifting from his skeletal throne. “I still don’t see where we’re going with this,” Jougo grumbles, casting an irritable look over his shoulder at Sukuna. “Why should curses like us even concern ourselves with ridiculous notions such as dining or cooking—Gahh!!” There’s a flash, lightning-quick, and Jougo lets out a squawk of surprise when molten lava and cursed energy spurts from a thin laceration slashed across his forehead, oozing into his single eye. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, fool.” The ominous, blood-curdling drop in Sukuna’s tone is his only warning. “I didn’t ask for your opinion, and I never said any of you wretched beings had a choice in this matter.” Jougo doesn’t need a second reminder. Blinking lava out of his eye, he hastily places the platter on the

table before Megumi, and shuffles back to stand in line with his fellow curses. “Now then, where were we?” Sukuna claps his hands together, canines flashing as he beams wide once again. “Oh, right! On to the taste-test and evaluation session. Come on, wenches, don’t be shy. Let’s hear your thoughts on the dishes.” The silence that follows is awkward for several moments, the tension growing steadily with each passing second, until Maki finally caves and makes the first move. She swivels her head mechanically towards Nobara, who is still scrutinizing her sizzling platter in utter revulsion. “Nobara,” Maki hisses, nudging the first-year in the ribs with an elbow. “Nobara. Stop staring at the thing and say something already!” “W-Wha—?” Nobara finally snaps her head up, pretty face scrunching in horror. “Why do I have to be the first?!” “Because you’re the more convincing one between the two of us.” “Huh?! Since when?!” “Well, I’m not exactly great with ladylike comments, am I?” Maki sighs. “Heck, if you let me start, we’ll probably all be dead in two seconds flat.” There’s a pause; Yuuji and Megumi exchange a particularly thoughtful look before nodding together in silent agreement, and Nobara groans. “Just so you know, I absolutely hate it when you two do that,” she grumbles as she looks back at her platter again. “Do… Do we have to actually taste it?” she asks, stalling the inevitable. Sukuna smirks ever-so-slightly, but doesn’t deign to reply; instead, he gestures vaguely with an idle hand, giving no clear indication. “What the fuck does that even mean, Itadori?!” Nobara whispers angrily, stepping on Yuuji’s toes. “Ow! How would I know?” Yuuji yelps a reply. “I’m not the one who started this!” “He’s provoking us,” Megumi says softly over their bickering. He doesn’t miss how only three cursed platters had been set before them, how Yuuji is the only one without a dish to judge—either Sukuna doesn’t consider Yuuji necessary as part of the taste-evaluation, or this entire competition is just another unnecessary but manipulative set-up to mock and torment Yuuji’s entire state of being. Whatever his reasons, Sukuna is clearly deriving great pleasure from inflicting mental distress upon both human and curse participants in equal measure. Megumi frowns harder at the thought, glancing back at both Nobara and Maki. “Just humour him for now.” When they only stared at him blankly, he sighs, and continues: “Just play along and comment about the dishes like you would for any normal kind of food. Enough to survive through this for now… till I figure something out.” “Well, I’m not putting this sizzling, acidic goop anywhere near my lips,” Nobara snaps back, “so you’d better figure it out fast! For the sake of preserving my beautiful face!” And for the sake of preserving my own crumbling sanity, Megumi thinks, but knows better than to voice that aloud. Nobara straightens up in her seat as she clears her throat, gesturing at the dish before her. “While this looks revolt—ahem, unappetizing on the surface… But it’s what’s underneath that counts! The burnt bits—I mean, the sizzling! S-such symbolic imagery in whipping up a simple dish. I suppose I can relate to the uh, the creative energy behind it. Yeah…” she finishes off lamely, not daring to look up to check Sukuna’s expression, and quickly tosses the ball into Maki’s court. “W-what about yours, Maki?” Maki flinches at the abrupt pass, a vein already twitching at the side of her temple. “Ah… About that...” She blanches at the fluorescent purple and soupy mess of her dish, before soldiering on. “Eh, I guess there was an attempt? And it, um, still looks better than what I could come up with under pressure… probably. So, erm, major plus points for that.” Megumi had already been cringing inwardly the moment Nobara began her spiel, and even more so at Maki-san’s half-hearted attempts. So, it comes as no surprise to him when Sukuna exhales deeply, his expression unimpressed and twisted in disdain. “How boring,” the King of Curses declares flippantly, resting his tattooed

cheek against his knuckles. “Tedious, run-of-the-mill observations lacking all insight of what should be an exquisite dining experience.” “Why is he being gourmet all of a sudden?” Nobara mutters under her breath, only to fall silent again when Maki nudges her in the ribs. “Where is the fire, the fucking passion in your evaluations?” Sukuna says, sounding almost disappointed. “I’d thought humans and jujutsu sorcerers were better at this than cursed spirits at the very least, considering how the majority of you do not simply eat for sustenance alone.” Nobara clicks her tongue in annoyance. “It kinda ticks me off how we’re the ones getting evaluated here. I thought we were supposed to be doing the judging, not the other way around.” “It’s Sukuna; he never does anything as expected,” Megumi intones flatly. “As I’ve said, he likes toying with his food.” Maki arches an eyebrow at him. “And you know this for a fact because…?” “Wait, what ‘food’? What do you mean ‘his food’? Are you saying Sukuna eats humans?!” Megumi gives Nobara a withering look, mild irritation already deepening the crinkles of stress around the corner of his eyes. “Could you please stop raising your voice? It’s going to agitate the curses more and prolong my headache.” “Hm. I suppose it isn’t all that surprising,” Maki comments, seemingly unperturbed. “Sukuna would probably devour every human alive if he hadn’t been sealed away.” “No, they would need to be properly cooked first,” Megumi replies without missing a beat. “You’d think a curse wouldn’t be this particular about food but, as we’ve just witnessed ourselves here, he surprisingly is.” “And you know all this because…??” “What dastardly dalliances have you been up to, Fushiguro?” Nobara jabs an accusatory finger at Megumi’s chest. “Are you the traitor here? Gonna sell your friends out for a seat on that stupid iron-and-bone throne, huh?!” “Itadori has been telling me these things; that’s how I know, all right?” Megumi counters waspishly. Yuuji, who had been quietly glaring at Sukuna all the while, offers his friends a sheepish grin at that, rubbing his nape with a hand. “Yeaaah, about that. See, sometimes Sukuna’s malignant thoughts bleed into my subconscious when I’m asleep. Like nightmare fuel, you know? That or he just outright dumps all this shitty info on me without warning—and in graphic detail too, mind you—throughout the day. Call it his brand of comedy or something. Lucky for me, Fushiguro stuck around during those nights when it got really bad.” He pauses, turning to flash Megumi with a bright smile. “Thanks, Fushiguro! I don’t think I could’ve gone back to sleep if you hadn’t been right beside me then too.” Megumi blinks in surprise, disarmed by the earnestness in Yuuji’s characteristic heart-fluttering smile, and his expression softens. “It was nothing, really.” “Aaargh, I knew it!” Nobara slams a hand against the table abruptly. “You two are fucking, aren’t you?” Yuuji makes a face, a rosy tint rising to his cheeks. “Kugisaki, do you have to make everything sound so vulgar?” “You’re calling me vulgar?? You, the dude with the stash of ero-mags tucked under his pillow?!” “H-H-how did you—? What is this, a call-out session?!” There’s a derisive snort and Mahito’s chuckle cuts through their bickering, pulling their attention back to the matter at hand. Yuuji scowls up at the curse, fingers curled into tight fists. “Really?” Mahito’s stitched face looks almost affronted at how he and the other curses had been ignored for nearly an entire page. “Gossiping about your teenage sex lives, and right in front of my salad? How rude.” Cue Yuuji and Maki grabbing Nobara by both arms, restraining her as she jumps up with her cursed hammer in hand, ready for a brawl. “Don’t you dare mock my best friends’ sex lives! They can fuck all they want and only I am allowed to criticize that!” Fushiguro Megumi, ever the suffering deuteragonist, stares past the growing clamour and chaotic forces entangled in his life with impassive, dead eyes. Maybe this isn’t even Sukuna’s innate domain or a

cursed illusion, he sighs, resigned to his fate. Maybe this is really just hell. He was in the midst of contemplating the inequalities of life when he notices the purplish swirl of residuals wafting from the platter before him. Oh, right, he blinks tiredly, I need to figure out a way to get everyone safely out of this. (There’s a little nagging part of him though, that also wonders if this isn’t just the side effect of a trippy hallucination, courtesy of Gojou-sensei, probably—he suddenly recalls that batch of funky-tasting cookies Gojou had been handing out right before he’d sent them on the mission this morning.) Megumi looks up at the skeletal throne again, only to see Sukuna’s bright gaze is transfixed on his every move and expression, scarlet eyes glittering with a sadistic hunger that makes Megumi’s gut twist in revulsion. “Such inane raucousness,” Sukuna comments in a voice edged with poison; at the sudden overwhelming surge of his cursed energy, both humans and curses alike fall silent once more. “But I’ll allow it this once as a brief respite—it’d be too boring to kill you all at the same time.” Sukuna doesn’t lift his gaze from Megumi, lips pulled back to reveal a glint of wicked teeth as he sneers. “Well, go on then,” he coaxes with dark amusement, waving a hand at the platter before Megumi. “Tell our esteemed rotisseur, Jougo, what you think of his latest attempt, Fushiguro Megumi, or I might be tempted to start flaying some skin.” “Don’t you dare, Suku—” Yuuji jumps to his feet in anger, only to yelp in surprise when Nobara’s dish beside him is cleaved into pieces with jujutsu. “Quit your incessant yapping and sit down, insolent brat,” Sukuna warns with a languid flick of his fingers, and the table behind the curses explodes, shattering into tiny pieces of debris. “Or would you prefer I carve up the girls next and serve them on a platter?” Yuuji shuts his mouth with a click of teeth, hands still fidgeting at his side. It’s only when he feels Megumi nudging his shoulder lightly in reassurance that he slowly lowers himself back down to his seat again. Megumi is well-aware of Sukuna’s proclivity to condescend and manipulate, goading his prey into battle with the illusion of even odds, before wiping the floor with them, metaphorically and literally. He knows it, and is prepared to lose even in this battle of wits. But still, he’s willing to take those odds, if it means the slightest chance to ensure everyone’s safety, if it means a way of dragging the smirking demon further down into hell alongside him. (Megumi knows he isn’t a complete pessimist; after all, he is, at times—most times—spurred on by pettiness and spite.) So, he takes the bait—the challenge—anyway, and meets Sukuna’s dangerous grin with a frosty, humourless glare of his own, before gazing back down at the dish before him. He grimaces at the bloodied hunk of flesh strewn messily upon the ivory platter. It looks to be a human body part—A forearm? A leg...? It’s honestly too hacked and chopped up at both ends for him to tell and he’s not sure he wants to stare at it any longer than absolutely necessary—with blood pooling, congealing around it like a corrupted halo, tiny strips of ripped tissue and muscle floating in the sickly gravy in an abominable attempt and imitation of fine dining plating (Seriously?). “This is probably an unfair assessment since you’re cursed spirits,” he begins slowly, trying to articulate the right words, even as he forces bile back down his throat. He can feel the searing burn of Sukuna’s eyes lingering over him, relishing even the tiniest flicker of unease over his countenance at the macabre dish before him. The heat of that smouldering gaze sends an uneasy chill down his spine but Megumi refuses to be so easily cowed by such uncouth and gory tactics, King of Curses be damned. A curl of spite blossoms within his chest as he keeps his expression impassive, his gaze sharp and defiant. “But if this is your impression and idea of gourmet plating, then I’d have to say you’ve failed tremendously,” he says

point-blank to Jougo’s sullen glare and Mahito’s curious smile. “Just because some humans are perfectly fine with sashimi, carpaccio, and steak tartare, it doesn’t mean we would all jump at eating every piece of raw meat served on a fancy platter. Even if I were marginally cannibalistic enough to try it, the presentation itself is unsavoury, and lacks any sort of panache. We’re not dogs.” Maki and Nobara are gaping at his commentary in shocked silence as Jougo, incensed at the critique, grumbles over to Hanami; there’s a beat before the girls begin yelling at the same time. “What the actual hell, Megumi?!” “That is so gross! Fushiguro, are you even hearing yourself?!” Beside him, Yuuji is surprisingly calm, however, with a contemplative look upon his face as he turns towards Megumi. “Huh, that’s almost like the kind of thing you’d expect Dr Lecter to say.” “And whose fault is it that I ended up sitting through the entire Hannibal trilogy back-to-back over a weekend?” Megumi frowns. “But you’re the one who pops in a new disc every time we finish a movie...” Yuuji says, a glimmer of playful teasing in his hazel eyes. “Ah! Fushiguro-san, could it be that after all that bingeing... You’ve developed some sort of horny, cannibalism kink?! OW!” Megumi’s face and ears are burning when he punches Yuuji’s shoulder. “I just wanted to see Special Agents Starling and Graham be rewarded their dues, as they should! And I’m not the one who’s gulping down Sukuna’s fingers whole like buttered popcorn!” Somewhere from above his ghastly throne, Sukuna is laughing uproariously at the commotion, his jaw wide and unhinged, canines flashing. He leans forward, his four demon eyes blazing with approval at Megumi as he holds up a bone-white plaque with the number 100 emblazoned over it in bold, blood-red text. “Now that’s what I call a passionate and riveting critique with insight. Clearly, you’re a child after my own gourmet heart, Fushiguro Megumi.” “I am not,” Megumi bristles tersely, hackles raised. But Sukuna only grins wider, blowing obnoxious kisses his way, while Maki and Nobara both exchange confused looks of disgust, and Yuuji awkwardly rubs his back in pity. Megumi sighs and rubs at his throbbing temples, feeling his migraine growing worse. This absurdity is starting to feel like a fever dream. Or an actual acid trip—yes, he’s decided, it had to be those stupid home-baked cookies they’d snacked on this morning, and he is going to punch Gojou-sensei so hard later when he finally wakes up from this cann☆b☆s-induced nightmare. He feels something brushing softly past his shoulder then, and glances down to see Yuuji reaching over to press a banded hand against his chest. “Itadori…?” Megumi flushes slightly when Yuuji’s fingers curl tightly into the fabric of his uniform top. He turns, mouth open to ask about the sudden intimacy of the touch when he realizes too late that it isn’t Yuuji’s hand at his chest, and it isn’t Yuuji who’s sitting beside him any longer. Sukuna’s menacing leer grows ever wider as he pushes his contorted, tattooed face close to Megumi’s; there’s an ominous pressure in the air, a blood-red veil descending over the surroundings, slowly enveloping, consuming the other curses, Yuuji, Nobara and Maki from sight— No! Megumi yells, or he tries to as he reaches out for his friends. Only to cough in shock and pain when Sukuna’s fingers pierce through his chest, sharp nails drawing blood and viciously ripping the inky velvet shadows and azure cursed energy deep from Megumi’s entire core. “Now then,” Sukuna hisses, clawing deeper into flesh, and Megumi chokes at the wrenching pain. “Show me what you can do, Fushiguro Megumi.” * Megumi jolts awake to the sound of gunshots, high-pitched screams, and a zombie-esque snarl. It takes several pounding heartbeats for him to finally recognize the flashing lights coming from the television set, to register the warmth of sleeping bodies huddled around him on the common room couch. Yuuji is nuzzled against the hollow of his neck, spiky pink hair tickling his chin and

drool trickling onto his exposed collarbone. On his other side, Nobara is curled up with Maki, hugging a half-empty bowl of caramel corn close to her like a cushion. She twitches abruptly in her sleep, kicking out at Megumi’s knees with her socked feet, much to his discomfort. It’s almost disconcerting, how he finds immense relief in this particular moment, squashed as he is between the couch and the entangled limbs of his sleeping friends, stray pieces of caramel corn in his wild, tousled hair and stuck to his shirt. But he’s alive—they’re alive—and they aren’t trapped within the liminal expanse of Ryoumen Sukuna’s innate domain, forced into a sadistic, life-threatening game of chicken. Megumi blinks in the dark, exhaling softly to calm the fluttering within his chest. “Fushiguro—?” Yuuji yawns, stretching lazily before he looks up at Megumi in slight concern. “Hey, are you okay? Your heart’s racing like mad and you, uh, look kinda dead inside…?” “My soul’s been dying inside since I first laid eyes on you in the field,” Megumi deadpans, and Yuuji can’t help but laugh. “Fushiguro-kyun,” he chides coyly. “That’s not the love confession you think it is—Ow,ow,ow! Okay, okay, I’m sorry!” Megumi finally stops his tickle-assault, jabbing Yuuji one last time in the ribs for good measure, even if he can’t quite hide the ghost of a smile flickering past his lips. He huffs, reaching forward to wrap his arms around Yuuji in a tight embrace, before flopping down to rest his head on Yuuji’s lap. “It was just a nightmare,” he says at length, and Yuuji only hums, rubbing circles gently down Megumi’s back with a knuckle. There’s a short, blood-curdling scream; both of them flinch when the zombie on screen tears through the dying extra’s torso, crunching through cartilage and bone, blood and gore misting over its vacant expression. Megumi glowers frostily at the television, before he turns and meets Yuuji’s amused gaze. “No more horror weekend nights,” they blurt out together. And Yuuji laughs again, bright and clear, the sound of spring breezing in Megumi’s heart and ears. Fushiguro Megumi knows he isn't a complete pessimist… Not anymore at least. Not when there are some things, some people—Tsumiki and Itadori… Even Kugisaki and all the other seniors—to hold onto, however small and fleeting that comfort may be. But he’s alive—they’re alive—and that’s what matters for now. —End— _______ End Notes - I don’t actually think Gojou would feed cannabis cookies to his students as a joke or for laughs. While he may be a highly obnoxious/annoying individual and his teaching methods are unconventional, I do think he’s still responsible where it counts and does his best to mentor his students/keep them safe from very real dangers.

- That said, Megumi probably also knows Gojou isn’t that irresponsible to be dolling out weed like candy, but it’s easier for his subconscious to blame Gojou for the mundane inconveniences in his life, because well, Megumi can be a brat/petty like that lol.

- The first-years canonically don’t refer to each other with honorifics. They’re fairly casual in speech with each other since they’re classmates and pretty close friends. So Yuuji was teasing/being cheeky when he referred to Megumi as “Fushiguro-san” (as a call-back to Megumi’s delinquent-Yankee days in middle-school), and again when he called Megumi “Fushiguro-kyun”. The “-kyun” is just a cutesy way of saying “-kun”, usually used by fans to refer to a cute male character.

- Comments and critique are always welcomed for my fics. I'd like to hear what you think, if you've enjoyed this! Thanks for reading :)

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