In which Sukuna promises to find Megumi in each and every one of his lifetimes; a SukuFushi reincarnation AU.
It’s him.
Sukuna knows it. His entire being, half-formed and pathetically mediocre as it is, is certain of it.
The dark hair, the clear eyes, the thick lashes, and the air of suppressed power. Superimposed onto this reality is a reel of a millennium of the same features, the same beauty, the same strength.
Megumi, he thinks, with something like awe.
The insult of the weight of that other shaman on his lower back is almost easy to ignore in the face of Megumi’s existence.
Was he born into the Zen’in clan once again? Have his shikigami puppies been reincarnated with him? Does he still think that the world is as black and white as his shadows? Does he even use shadows, in this lifetime?
“And the whipped cream inside,” the annoyance that reeks of Sugawara-no-Michizane continues, as though anyone cares, “is simply exquisite.”
Sukuna scowls and pulls away from Megumi. He wants to know everything about this new, young Megumi.
Later, he promises to Megumi and himself. Later, they will reunite. When the entire world is beneath his feet, as he has promised to Megumi through all of his lives.
“My student’s watching, so I’m going to show off a bit,” says the annoyance and Sukuna bristles.
Hisoka’s opponent went down screaming, which, in his humble opinion, was rather overkill.
“Please,” he murmured, tugging the card back into his hand and flicking the blood off its surface, “I didn’t even hurt you too badly.”
His opponent, whose name Hisoka had magnanimously erased from his memory, continued to flail, hands pressed to the laceration on his throat, until his screeches faltered into gurgles, until he went silent.
His chest rose and set spasmodically, which meant that Hisoka didn’t kill him. Of course. Because Hisoka wasn’t even trying. It was rather disappointing, really. He thought this would have been more — fun.
He raised an arm nonchalantly, taking in the praise and the delighted shrieking, as he turned to leave the stage. He didn’t need to wait for the referee’s signal — the victor of this match was clear, after all.
But, just as he was to step through the exit, he paused. He glanced behind himself into the crowd. There was still a spotlight on him, and he smiled graciously. The yells became louder.
He paid them little attention, his gaze flickering over the masses and masses of the audience. The Heavens Arena could pack twenty thousand on a good day. On Hisoka’s days, well, there were much more than that.
He searched for long, dark hair and empty eyes, and found himself wanting.
He did, however, feel something like mirth reach out towards his aura, before it disappeared entirely.
Zetsu. He immediately used Gyo, hunting down a black hole in the sea of faint aura, but there was nothing.
🃏
“You kept me guessing,” Hisoka said upon entering his room. The receptionist had her face turned down on her desk when Hisoka had passed earlier. He had nudged her hair aside with the tip of his nail to see the faintest trickle of blood down the top of her nape.
There was a man on his couch. His long legs stretched out before him, languid, as though the place belonged to him.
“If I didn’t know better,” Hisoka continued, approaching the stranger and fitting a knuckle below his dainty chin, “I would have thought you a thief.”
“I’m not a thief.” This was said with some offense. The man’s nose wrinkled, a truly telling gesture that made Hisoka smile and rip the inconspicuous needle deep in the edge of his jaw out.
At once, his image blurred, the frame of his jaw strengthening and ending in a beautifully pointed chin. Hisoka traced a thumb over his lips, then beneath his eye. There was another needle there; Hisoka supposed it was what made his dark eyes look so blue.
“Come, now, Illumi,” he said, settling over Illumi’s lap. His other hand reached down and over his thighs, fingers slipping into the crease between them and his crotch, down to his knobby knees. Ah, he would recognise those legs anywhere. “I can hardly kiss you when you don’t look like yourself.”
Illumi laughed. No matter how genuine his laughter, it always sounded unnervingly practiced. Hisoka did not dislike it.
“You might want to look away,” he said, unnecessarily.
“Illu, dear,” Hisoka told him, “you know I can hardly take my eyes off you most days.”
“Liar,” Illumi said. Rolling his eyeballs back, he reached up and in the delicate skin of his bottom eyelids, pulling out two miniscule needles Hisoka accepted in the palm of his hand. Then he felt along his nose, removing another pair of needles, and his cheekbones, four more needles. He’d even changed his ears, apparently, taking out the piercings there.
When Illumi touched his forehead, Hisoka said, “Let me.”
Illumi had turned his hair red, today. It was such a conspicuous shade that Hisoka must have glanced right over it earlier in the arena, if he did at all; Illumi preferred dark hair or neutral shades of brown. Boring and unassuming. Occasionally, if the job demanded it, he chose brighter colours, but only to be unnerving. Although, Hisoka thought, plucking free the pins in Illumi’s temples and watching as the coiffed red hair shuddered and darkened and unfurled into Illumi’s lovely, remarkably black hair, Illumi was never really boring, nor was he ever unassuming.
Hisoka stuck the needles to the ceiling of his living room with Bungee Gum then ran his hands down over Illumi’s chest and sides. He was outfitted in a white cropped top, with no undershirt, and Hisoka took advantage of this fact. It was very rare that Illumi wore such nice things, ever practical, as more fabric equated more pins and needles he could carry on his body.
“Is it my birthday?” he simpered, dragging his fingers over the knobs of Illumi’s spine and the corded muscle of his abs. Illumi stared blankly. “Oh, you shouldn’t have!” Sufficiently amused, Hisoka asked, “You didn’t change anything else?”
Illumi blinked at him. “I thought you’d be able to tell right away.”
Ticked, Hisoka frowned. He didn’t even know Illumi was in the city, much less in the building — but he wasn’t about to admit that.
Illumi smiled pleasantly.
“What,” Hisoka said.
Illumi only continued to smile and slipped his eyes shut. He tipped his chin upwards and Hisoka got it.
With a sigh, he kissed him.
“You have to tell me why you’re here,” Hisoka said against his lips.
He felt the disgruntled twist of Illumi’s mouth. “You’re going to try and take my target again.”
“Perhaps.” He absolutely was going to make an attempt, yes.
“You just killed someone.”
“Not quite,” Hisoka said.
“He died,” Illumi informed him.
Oh. Hisoka hadn’t meant to kill him, really. He pressed Illumi into the cushions. “I’ll be good,” he tried.
Illumi laughed again. Hisoka was getting very good at making him do that. “No,” Illumi said, looping his arms around Hisoka’s neck, “you won’t.”
If Hisoka and Illumi were in the NGL during the Chimera Ant Arc.
Hisoka sent the decapitated head rolling with some disappointment.
“Oh,” said Illumi, dropping to the ground next to him. He had his phone out, tapping on the camera button with his forefinger. He had zoomed in on the head’s face, catching its wide eyes and bloody, bared canines in high definition. He moved the photo around to make sure he got the distinctive tear stripes in the shot. “That was the fastest one.”
Hisoka frowned. “Was it? Boring.”
“Hisoka,” Illumi said, already moving towards the next sector in his mental map of the NGL, “we get paid for each kill.”
Hisoka sniffed and followed after his brisk pace. His playing cards flew through the air, slicing cleanly through the necks of the obviously weaker creatures. There would be no fun in dragging out a fight with those. Illumi took photos of them with little care; Hisoka supposed they weren’t worth much, then.
“How much for the stronger ones?” he asked as Illumi finally paused at the bottom of a cliff. He stared up at the precipice; that wouldn’t be a difficult climb.
“The stronger ones?” Illumi blinked, turning to him. His eyes were a touch emptier than Hisoka regularly saw them. Hisoka both adored and despised this fact. “You mean the Squadron Leaders?”
There was a splatter of red stains on his cheekbone, close to his ear. Hisoka licked his thumb and reached forward to rub it off; he would much prefer to lick Illumi’s skin, taste the iron directly from his smoothness, but Illumi might actually rip his face off for it.
“Yes,” he answered, “them.”
Illumi’s nose wrinkled, disgruntled. He touched the spot Hisoka had cleaned, then tucked his hair behind his ear. It was, Hisoka thought, tracking the motion with hooded eyes, a very distracting gesture.
“Forty-five million each Squadron Leader,” he stated. “Eight hundred million for each of the Royal Guard.”
Hisoka whistled low. “And the King?”
Illumi blinked at him. “Not our target.”
Hisoka smiled. “Alright, but I’d like to take him.”
Illumi looked away. “You’d die trying.”
Simpering, Hisoka pressed close. Even after hours of finishing off those grotesque creatures, Illumi smelt sweetly of his hair conditioner. His hand ran down one lapel of Illumi’s suit jacket, registering the distinct lack of needles pinned there. “Illumi, dear, are you worried about me?”
“No,” came the simple, honest answer. Hisoka laughed.
Illumi pulled away and, tensing all the muscles in his hand, he stabbed into the rockface. “There should be a Royal Guard up there.”
Hisoka hummed. So this En belonged to the Royal Guard? He felt his mouth water.
“Can I fight it?” Hisoka asked, giddy. “Let me do it, Illumi.”
Illumi jabbed his other hand into the cliffside. Shaking his arms perfunctorily only once, he began to climb. Hisoka was marvelling his magnificent ass as it deserved when he finally said, “Only if you get to it first.”
Hisoka grinned, already stretching Bungee Gum between the splay of his fingers. He did so love a challenge.
