❝ play. ❞ the man uttered , bloody lip split ’pon the knuckles of a now very dead man. a dead man who's blood decorated Sukuna's knuckles , branding him victor ⸻ the god of his life and death in a moment of violent delight. unwinding his tie to lay over hulking , onyx piano body , he sat down right next to his captive and smiled. this beautiful little caged bird. Sukuna could remember the night he'd first entered these halls as a little ol’ grunt scrappy , hungry , young. the hunger risen in the face of this particular bird trapped in a cage gilded , watching the bird suffocate and struggle in the hands of a fist; opulence , breeding , there in the pale skin of this little beautiful man. how long has it been? how long has he fantasized this snowy bird playin’ a melody by his leave. ❝ play , and I'll release you safe and sound back into the world. ❞ he'd climbed , cheated , lied to get here “king , king upon high sitting on bodies , on bodies , piled o’ so tall that the sky grew dark”; he damn well would get his desires met.
HIS HEART IS ABLAZE, FLUTTERING, FOR ALL THE WRONG REASONS. Crimson, it splatters across the pristine keys as he looks to the side quickly, the smell is thick, metallic, oozing on his tongue as he finally swallows the pit in his throat. Private parties, he knew better than to take them on, rich people are a nuisance - always up to no good, he understands, a trust fund child with too much talent to burn. Concert halls that echoed in a roaring sea of applause, they love him, the entirety of the country does.
Angelic, seraphic, they believe his talent is bestowed by the Heavens, he is their God && so many wish to be swept away in the enchantment of his devil-may-care attitude. Never does he think of it for too long, the lingering of pleasantries wrapped up in listless prayers, Satoru knows his role, he is the entertainer that shall awaken the confines of the soul be it the damned or the beloved.
“Bastard” he seethes, gritting his teeth before spitting out the syllables with a venom && defiance, “I told you to stop, not kill the guy” irritation that is rampant as he steadied his breathing. Elongated fingers, adorned in gold && diamonds, a spoiled bird locked within his gilded cage, he reaches for the shiny black bottle of impossibly expensive liquor. The glass is cracked, half melted ice, he pours it to steady his nerves while the swill burns the remnants in his mouth, gagging, an impossibly crude sight. A wise quip wishes to depart from the bastion of his merlot stained lips, red, it looks otherworldly on a marble statue that comes to life with each stroke, every note, if one listened, they could hear him humming along.
How could this occur? Satoru wasn’t sure, it was quick, this terrifying large being that takes up the space between them, his slender frame that trembles in terror && excitement. One moment he hears the vulgar flirtatious remarks, the next, the man is dead && he is left too stunned to scream. Men of lesser station, they often did fall that way, he thinks it to himself while the dark rim of his glasses slide down the bridge of his nose. Stormy blue hues, concentrated && each note dances before him in a symphony where he remembers his start.
The prodigal son, a beacon of innocence with his boyish charm, he doesn’t like to remember, doesn’t like to look back, only forward. For a second, he stops && appears to be an entity from another era. White lashes fluttering as he turns, looking up, his throat impossibly dry. “Do you take me to be a songbird that shall once more be granted flight?” pattering violently, his pulse is screaming, the organ in his chest is ready to leap from the cavern onto the floor, he must swallow it. Then he smiles, fully fanged, teasing in his mischief.
"This piano is custom made - what a rude man, dirtying my beloved instrument”
