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Sukuna is dressed in white today.
Feather-thin silk is wrapped around his hips, meant to draw attention rather than spare it. Silver jewels glint from his ears, silver wire stitched through scars, sealing his extra mouth. His face has been painted to hide the bruising beneath; silver powder dusted over his eyelids. Hairpins rest in freshly washed, combed hair.
It had been months.
It was about time, anyway.
It’s a grand occasion. He’s being handed off to the next Gojo heir. Gojo—Sugawara, it doesn’t matter. It was a Sugawara who first attempted to subjugate him, and it will be the Sugawara line that perishes alongside millions once Sukuna frees himself from this wretched vow.
Today, though, he lets himself be bathed and scrubbed clean. Lets himself be decorated and pieced back together as though he hadn’t been taken apart the night before.
As though he hasn’t been for centuries.
When he’s led in by a leash, the high table has already settled into conversation—old, pruned men draped in gold, chests puffed with pride at the display of the King of Curses kneeling at their feet.
“Holy bearer of the Six Eyes and Limitless, here he is—the prize of the night, the prized hunting hound of the Gojo clan—The King of Curses, Ryomen Sukuna—”
He doesn’t look up. He’d been ordered not to generations ago, until striking him had been deemed more efficient.
“Please accept your inheritance, young heir.”
Sukuna stares at a wooden sandal and pointedly does not think about it pressing his bloodied cheek against the floor last night.
The heir’s voice is strained. Restrained anticipation, Sukuna supposes.
“I can’t believe it. You’ve really housebroken him.”
A chorus of laughter follows.
“He’s remarkably capable. Godly endurance—he can go months without water, food, sleep. We recently had our scientists study him. The recorded time was seven months and eight days. Until just a week ago—one of the new interns fed him water. Disturbed all those months of research—”
Sukuna licks his cracked lips and tastes paint.
“Oh, really?”
There’s mirth in the reply. “They were immediately caught, of course. You can imagine where they are now.”
Sukuna stares at the silver thread sewn through skin to hold his broken fingers together and does not think of white-haired bodies hanging in the cell beside his—bloating, puddling with time.
Or how the Sugawara never change.
(Or how Uraume never does either.)
“So he hasn’t eaten in months?”
The smell of expensive sake and perfume stings his sinuses. He swallows against the saliva gathering in his mouth, the reminder that he hasn’t.
A fresh round of laughter crawls beneath his skin.
“Well, he hasn’t really gone hungry lately.”
A foot nudges his knees apart. Sukuna ignores the sting of pain spearing through his hips.
“Have you, pet?”
Eyes settle on him. The vow forces him to look up and meet a power-drunk stare.
“I have been well fed, Master.”
“He’s well trained. You should have him use his mouth,” someone slurs drunkenly.
Sukuna knows that voice. Remembers it ordering him to open up like a good whor—
“In fact, pet,” another voice drawls as a hand tangles in his hair, forcing his head back toward half-lidded eyes, “why don’t you give him a demonstration right now?”
The vow has him moving before thought catches up to him.
On all fours like a hound, crawling toward the newest heir. There are soft click clicks as he does, the movement jostling silver bracelets binding his extra arms.
The floor is smooth beneath his palms, though dust and gravel dragged in by shoes bite into his skin and knees as he moves. Some wrinkled thing behind him hums appreciatively. Drunken murmurs of what a waste.
Sukuna watches the red prints his hands leave behind until he’s kneeling between the heir’s legs, turning automatically to press his lips against a thigh the way he’s been trained to.
A hand cups his face before he can.
“Woah, woah. I’m not into showing off—with all due respect, Elder Tei—”
The hand is warm against his freezing cheek, pressing gently until Sukuna’s head rests against a thigh.
“—I prefer to keep my indulgences private.”
It’s only because of the angle that Sukuna finally sees the new heir properly.
Young.
Of course.
The dual wielder of both the Six Eyes and Limitless. They must have been itching to crown him clan head the moment he could toddle.
Young men are eager to prove themselves, and what could possibly be more powerful than having the King of Curses kneeling obediently at their feet like a hound waiting for scraps?
Sukuna doesn’t realize he’s drifted into thought until there’s a sting against his scalp, a slight tug, and then a weight disappears.
He glances up just enough to see the heir removing the last hairpin from his hair.
The young heir must like his possessions undecorated.
But the hand returns.
This time it simply rests atop his head, idly combing through his hair with careful fingers.
And some wretched thing inside Sukuna leans into it.
“Residual ownership, you say—”
Words drift in and out of his awareness. Drivel either way.
His eyelids grow heavier as fingers brush hair from his face, combing lazily through tangled strands.
“Of course, I—we’d appreciate it if you shared, Gojo-san.”
He senses movement: a hand reaching toward him, stopping just short of contact.
Oh.
“I’m feeling a little selfish tonight, Dei-san. I think I’d like him all to myself.”
He’s been blanketed in the infamous Infinity.
Possessive.
Conversation stills. Murmured discussion follows.
“Of course, Gojo-san.”
And just like that, the binding vow transfers wholly to Satoru Gojo.
Sukuna feels the chains inside his soul shift—warm, eager, waiting to pull at a new master’s whim.
Conversation resumes. Drunken laughter and hushed debate blending together.
Then the young heir cups Sukuna’s face.
“Hey.”
It’s the first time anyone has addressed him directly all evening.
Sukuna lifts his gaze from beneath powdered lashes.
Blue eyes study every inch of him. A century ago, Sukuna would have ripped them from their sockets and eaten them raw. A century ago, he hadn’t been shackled by words binding him to men drunk on power.
The warmth surrounding him vanishes for a brief instant.
His senses catch it immediately.
Only afterward does he realize the pain is gone.
The ache in his core. The throbbing in his legs. The dent in his skull.
Reverse Cursed Technique.
Of course. No one wants a broken toy.
“Sukuna. Look at me.”
He hadn’t realized he’d closed his eyes. The relief had been overwhelming.
How mortifying.
The warmth returns. Infinity settles around him once more.
A thumb brushes beneath his eye, wiping away a tear.
Annoying.
“They haven’t been very good hosts, have they?”
The words are conversational, almost casual, as though commiserating, as though Sukuna were another guest seated beside him at dinner rather than kneeling at his feet.
Still, the heir’s voice cracks slightly at the end.
Sukuna has no interest in indulging these pointless games. Vow be damned.
“I do not care for idle conversation. Command me or don’t.”
His jaw still aches from the last time he’d been forced to tear it apart—teeth, tongue, flesh and all—to teach him proper etiquette.
The heir’s expression twists.
Then smooths.
Then breaks into a grin.
Something violently uncoils inside Sukuna’s chest.
The leash goes slack.
Sukuna inhales sharply enough that it burns.
The vow is gone.
The heir grins at him while lazily pulling a plate of mochi closer before gesturing toward the gathered elders.
And Sukuna stares. At the baby fat still clinging to bones that have yet to reach adulthood.
And Sukuna understands.
One heartbeat.
Then the room turns red.
He moves before the Reverse Cursed Technique fully settles into bone and muscle. Hands sinking into throats and spines and ribs. Tendons snap wetly between his fingers.
A glance toward the heir shows him brushing blood from a piece of mochi before popping it into his mouth.
Viscera splashes across the floor as Sukuna tears through body after body, taking payment in flesh for every word murmured over wet pillows. Ripping out the tongues that spoke them. The hands that took.
By the time the screaming stops, his silk has turned crimson, blood already drying stiff against the fabric.
Sukuna pants.
For the first time in centuries, he feels alive.
He stumbles back toward the table.
The heir is already dragging over a plate of sweet meats.
“This looks delicious. It’d be a shame for it to go to waste.”
He’s untouched. Still pristine in white robes, pale skin unmarred behind Infinity.
Except for the blood staining his fingertips, which he wrinkles his nose at in distaste. But makes no move to wipe it off.
The heir pushes the plate toward him, speaking around a mouthful of food.
“Try it. Pretty sure it’s otoro. It’s divine.”
Sukuna finally looks at him properly.
At the ease in the heir’s shoulders.
And realizes the millions will have to wait.
He picks up the chopsticks and lifts a piece carefully. His hand wavers slightly before he takes a bite.
It is delicious.
(He does not think about blue eyes crinkling at him like they are old friends rather than inevitable enemies. Or smiles tossed carelessly at him like shared private jokes.)