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There is breath collapsing in his lungs, clattering, collapsing within itself. It reminds him, briefly ー like the flashing of one’s life before their very eyes at the cusp of death ー of days of youth when he ran too hard, too quickly, his grandfather shaking his head all the while. He doesn't remember what he was running from, if there had been a destination in mind or nothing at all.
Now though, the moment is all too clear. Breath collapses and chokes him from the inside out from the tragedy of the sight before him.
Fushiguro. He can't say the name, even as his mouth forms the syllables. His tongue is too heavy in the confines of his mouth, and the taste is rotten, as if he was the one force-fed one of those rotting, mummified fingers. But no, he feels the phantom pain of his missing finger, the pain there but not there, subtle against the racing of his heart, slithering in his rib cage like Sukuna had just moments prior.
Because in the end, Sukuna is a parasite, burrowing under his skin and flesh and licking at his bones. Does Fushiguro feel that, now? Is he even conscious of his body and flesh being taken over? Yuji wishes, at the very least, in the last bit of kindness this cursed world can offer, that Fushiguro is unseeing, unhearing, and ignorant of it all.
Especially, since ー
“Don't look at me like that,” Fushiguro ー Sukuna ー drawls. His voice is a low rumble, smug. But Yuji hears the tendrils of something horrid and ancient in every syllable, each echo different in the physical world. He hates this, hates Sukuna, and although they don't share a body anymore, Sukuna grins like he’s heard it anyway.
Shut up, he wants to spit, but Sukuna rolls his shoulders, wiggling his fingers in his new body with an excitement that is unbecoming.
“You know,” Sukuna begins with a flash of a horrible grin, all teeth, sharpened like those of a predator, and then ー suddenly, his demeanor shifts, quieting in the span of a second, “you really are a fool.” And he is quiet as he says it, almost a murmur in the winds, and the worst thing is, Yuji will remember looking back, that he sounds almost fond.
“Stop,” Yuji says, voice cracking, and humiliation floods him. In front of Sukuna, he is always so weak.
He doesn’t know what he’s begging for, not anymore, but unease coats his skin like a veil.
Silence settles between them, and it must spur Sukuna on, because he inches closer, indulging in the misery.
“There's good and bad in both,” Sukuna says, patiently, slowly, as if he was some sort of benevolent teacher to an unruly student. “Living in your flesh, feeling every droplet of blood and every crack of bone,” he whispers against his ear, too close, leaving Yuji shuddering. He hates Sukuna, hates anything and everything in this wretched moment, but most of all he hates himself. Hates that his stupid body unconsciously leans towards a face that is too familiar, whether it be Fushiguro’s eyes and lips or Sukuna’s markings.
“Good and bad,” Sukuna says, still too close, skin against skin, “but oh, this is different.”
And as if he were suddenly in the gaping maw of a beast, Yuji gasps, heart lurching, when Sukuna devours his lips in a wretched form of a kiss.
There's nothing beautiful about it like the movies he’s seen and watched so fervently, nothing romantic or yearning. No, instead, Sukuna grabs a fistful of hair and pulls him forward, shoving his tongue in and stealing the breath from his lungs. Stop, stop, stop, he wants to say, but Sukuna slides his tongue across his teeth and the ridges of his throat as if he could choke him this way, as if he could strangle him and watch Yuji die right in front of him.
Yuji tries to push him away, digging his nails in a way that should hurt, but Sukuna grins into his mouth anyway, and Yuji hates, hates, hates that it is Fushiguro who bleeds. Fushiguro’s blood is the one that clings to his fingernails, warm and pulsating with life. Yuji shoves and flails, to no avail ー and what is the point in being born with superhuman strength, if he can't do anything with it? Yuji thinks of Shibuya, thinks of corpses stacked on top of corpses, bodies disfigured and left to burn without a name or face to mourn.
He should have died long ago, after all. Only now, does he remember that cursed moment he agreed on a binding vow, and what a fool he had been. Did he think his own life was so important, so precious, that he should have made a binding vow with the King of Curses? Yuji shuts his eyes with a shudder. He should have followed his grandfather when he had the chance. What would he say now, looking down from the afterlife? Yuji can imagine it, that same old scowl on his face, shaking his head.
“Yuji,” he hears, suddenly then. His name is a snarl in the silence between them, and why ー why can't Sukuna let him hide away in his mind like a coward for at least a moment? But there is no time to think, not anymore, not after that single moment because Sukuna is displeased, shoving his face down into the dirt, open-mouthed. It's awful, the taste of dirt and the creeping sensation of crawling that overrides his tongue. Spiders and centipedes rolling around his throat, swallowed whole like Sukuna’s cursed fingers.
“Yuji,” Sukuna says again, right in his ear, keeping him grounded with his own body — Fushiguro’s, Fushiguro’s, Fushiguro’s — on top. They are plastered together like this, pinned down and Yuji can't do anything.
He's not naive, he knows what Sukuna wants.
“I'd rather you kill me,” Yuji says, miserable, mouth and tongue heavy with dirt.
“Hm,” Sukuna hums, a clawed finger tracing the lines of his throat, gently, watching the way it shifts as he swallows. “Are you sure?”
Slowly, tortuously, Sukuna drags his hand down.
There’s no need to answer, they both already know. If Yuji had felt humiliated before, it is excruciating now. Sukuna’s hand cups the bulge of his pants, and Yuji curses his body, curses his life. Even more, when his own body betrays him with a gasping moan, ripped out of his throat. Sukuna’s hand is experienced in a way Fushiguro could never be, and Yuji can’t fathom it — a thousand years, the mountain of corpses and the sea of blood, bodies bare and eaten raw.
“Why deny yourself?” Sukuna asks, “why deny me? I know your desires, your want. You want to die a beautiful death, surrounded by others. You’re lonely, after all. What better way to die in that case, than to die in a combined ecstasy? After all, Yuji, you and I are one.”
And Yuji — Yuji wants to cry, to scream. Sukuna is not kind, nor is he gentle. He is a being of pure want, a King.
He wonders if Fushiguro is watching. The thought burns his skin with shame, and Sukuna laughs like he hears it all.
Why, Yuji wants to ask, but he knows it'd be foolish to. He doesn't think it's some twisted form of love or affection or anything at all. No, Sukuna did it for no other reason than he wanted to, that he could.
“Brat,” Sukuna coos, voice thick and satisfied, tracing Yuji’s lips, coated with dirt and grime and blood, with a finger. A finger just like the one Sukuna ripped off of Yuji himself. Hideous. “Don't be like that,” Sukuna says with a tilt of his head, examining, “I dare say you look quite pretty, like this.”
Yuji doesn’t want to be pretty. He doesn’t want this mockery of fondness, of a King’s favor. But Sukuna is unrelenting, ruthless, still buried deep and branding him with his release.
“Yuji,” Sukuna calls for him, and Yuji knows it will not be the last.