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The Innate Domain was every bit as blood-soaked and terrifying as Yūji remembered it. This time, though, he wasn't here to bargain with Sukuna. He was here because the King of Curses had insisted he'd do a far better job at caretaking for Yūji's regression than Satoru Gojo ever could.
Yūji had come as demanded. His grey sweatpants were already soaking up dark bloodstains as he waded through the deep, viscous puddles toward the towering throne of bones. He clutched the kitsune plush tightly to his chest, the soft fabric a small, fragile shield against the overwhelming malice of the place. The air tasted like copper and rot. Ribcage-like structures loomed overhead, casting jagged shadows across the endless sea of blood.
His head felt fuzzy, filled with that familiar cotton-like static that told him he needed to be smaller: mentally younger. The crushing weight of the failed mission, all the lives he couldn’t save earlier that day, faded with each squelching step. In their place remained simpler emotions: fussiness and a needy ache he would never admit to out loud.
"Ah, my little Akuma," Sukuna drawled from his seat, voice dripping with mocking amusement. "You came. How pathetically delightful."
Yūji’s bare feet stopped on the bloody tiles right before the massive throne of bones. He held the black-and-red kitsune plush even tighter against his chest. Sukuna’s voice was both a welcomed comfort and a petrifying fear. He knew he was safe here… but Sukuna always had a way of making him feel even more useless and compliant when he was regressed.
“Come here. Let’s see what stuffed monstrosity you brought this time.”
Yūji hesitated, toes curling in the warmth of the shallow blood pool surrounding his feet. A small whine slipped out before he could stop it. “It’s not a monstrosity… it’s my kitsune.” His voice came out higher, softer, thick with that fussy little tone he hated hearing from himself.
Still, his feet moved. Expected obedience pulled him forward like invisible puppeteer strings. He couldn’t disobey Sukuna. Not when the King of Curses had made it very clear that disobedience would be a clear sign of disservitude.
Once close enough, one set of strong muscular arms lifted him effortlessly and settled him into the lap of the strongest cursed being. Yūji let out a startled squeak as four arms arranged him against Sukuna’s broad, tattooed chest.
The kitsune plush got squished between them, its soft ears poking out. Two lower arms locked around his waist and legs in a possessive hold, while the upper pair cradled his head and stroked slow, mockingly pacifying circles down his back.
“There you are, all comfy and protected,” Sukuna said, voice laced with fake concern he didn’t actually feel. He didn’t care what ailed Yūji. He simply wanted to hear the insecurities spoken aloud, like a sinner confessing sins to a priest. “Now tell your god what ails you, my little Akuma.”
Yūji squirmed in his lap, fussiness bubbling up immediately under Sukuna’s gaze. The needy ache in his chest twisted with the familiar sting of inferiority. “I couldn’t save them today. I’m never enough. Gojo says I’m strong but I’m just… just a useless vessel.”
“That’s right,” Sukuna murmured, lips brushing the top of Yūji’s head in a claiming kiss. “Small. Needy. Useless on your own. But perfectly mine when you’re like this. Gojo could never give you honesty like I do. He would lie and say you’re strong. I tell you the truth: you are weak, and that is why you need a god to hold you.”
Yūji huffed, still fussy. He wanted to be mad at Sukuna for agreeing with him, but some part of him deep down knew the King of Curses was simply being honest. It didn’t stop him from trying to push at Sukuna’s chest with one small hand in an attempt to loosen the possessive hold.
Sukuna only laughed lowly at his futile attempt, the sound rich and indulgent. One hand caught Yūji’s wrist gently but firmly, pinning it against his chest while the other three arms tightened their embrace. “None of that, little one. You came here because you need this. Fighting me only makes you look more pathetic.”
Yūji’s lower lip trembled, eyes stinging with fresh fussiness. “You’re mean… and I feel stupid and small and…”
Words failed him as he twisted again, but Sukuna’s four arms held him like iron wrapped in warm flesh, rocking him with deliberate slowness. The mocking circles on his back never faltered.
“That’s right,” Sukuna murmured, lips brushing Yūji’s hair in a kiss that felt more like a brand. “Small. Needy. Utterly useless without your god. Gojo would coddle you with pretty lies about strength. I give you truth: you are weak, and that weakness is mine to hold.”
The words should have hurt more, but in the cotton-soft headspace they only made Yūji sag heavier against Sukuna’s chest. The possessive cuddles were overwhelming in their unyieding yet strangely safe warmth. The kitsune plush stayed trapped between them like a shared, little secret.
For a long while, the only sounds were the distant drip of blood and Yūji’s occasional hiccuping sniffles. Sukuna’s lower arms kept him pinned securely, one large hand occasionally squeezing his thigh in silent reminder of who controlled every twitch of his body. The upper hands continued their lazy strokes. One tracing the knobs of Yūji’s spine, the other carding through pink hair with deceptive gentleness.
Yūji’s thumb eventually found its way to his mouth without conscious thought. He sucked slowly, the oral fixation a quiet anchor that helped the static in his head settle deeper. Sukuna noticed immediately, of course.
“Look at you,” the King of Curses chuckled, voice low and dripping with twisted praise. “Sucking your thumb like the helpless infant you really are. How endearing. My powerful vessel, reduced to this all because a few measly mortals died. Pathetic really… and yet you're so very obedient. You know no one else gets to see you like this, don’t you? Only your god.”
Yūji only nodded and whined around his thumb, cheeks warming with embarrassment, but he didn’t pull it out. The dependency in which Sukuna had slowly had enforced felt stronger tonight. The mission’s failure still echoed faintly, even through the regression and all the twisted comforts that Sukuna provided him with. He pressed his face harder into Sukuna’s tattooed chest, inhaling the metallic, cursed scent that somehow felt like home and allowed the scent to drift his mind into what Sukuna called oblivion.