"You're not ready, are you...?"
The grand reveal of the strongest sorcerer's return to the public eye was anything but. What lingered in this far-off edge of the territory were curses – and those who unleashed them in their desperately pathetic plan to usurp the village for themselves, the headcount not including the villagers themselves. Be they bandits or enemies of the king hardly mattered.
"Come on, Satoru. You can do it." Melodic lilt of amusement remained in Sukuna's tone as he approached the other from behind, close as a finger tapped the other's elbow. Another hand went to Gojo's shoulder as he leaned in and down, voice dropping low.
"Show them your power."
Satoru didn’t respond, finding himself belittled by his very presence. His voice and touch were offered in chiding dulcet, both equally unfamiliar in their gentle affirmations and reassurances. Deceit at its finest. The malicious undertone of dark amusement remained, a form of warning that continued to re-iterate that his defiance would not be tolerated.
To kill in Sukuna’s stead. Satoru remembered the last time he’d deigned to disobey the very same order. The curse was ever careful in making sure that he never forgot his past transgressions and their intended consequences.
The light of the setting sun was searing to his unaccustomed eyes, the arid breeze foreign against his skin. How long had it been since he’d last set foot outside? In the months (years?) since his re-entry into the living world, his cursed energy had returned in waning increments. Yet, it was becoming increasingly clear that it would likely never quite match up to what he’d boasted prior to being sealed.
There were factors outside of time and patience involved, factors outside of his control. Some- like willpower and desire, which he found himself completely drained of.
Perhaps that was Sukuna’s intention.
Eyes downcast, it was evident that he didn’t take the same pleasure in needless killing as the other so often did. Yet, there were no overt signs of refusal, no outbursts or protests. Satoru was simply quiet, his expression weary and otherwise unreadable.
“You...”
So why all this effort? He wasn’t so naive to think that Sukuna had ever offered him anything bordering on trust.
"Charcoal-grilled. I would have Uraume serve your organs as yakitori, but the heart remain raw. Your legs would become tartare, and your arms served with udon. The flesh of your face would be roasted with aromatics until it falls apart, no doubt, and the brain caramelized with vegetables. The rest of you would likely be slow-cooked since you're rather sinewy. The eyes would be left as-is, of course."
“Nice to see that you wouldn’t be skimping on extravagance. You’ve really had some time to think on it, huh?”
“The least you could do to oblige me is to put in something sweet.”
more wasteland content lol, i can’t help myself apparently.
spoiler alert- gojo is slowly, steadily, but surely losing it.
@/regensia feeds me so I feed her back :D
The majority of their earlier interactions had been entirely subsumed by the overriding concept of pain. Simply put, wrenching scream after scream from him had, and was still a pursuit which continued to bring Sukuna undeniable joy. Recently, that focus had shifted somewhat. Satoru thought to entertain the possibility that he had done something to warrant a change, though it was far more likely that Sukuna had simply grown tired of their repertoire.
“Hurting me feels good? Sure, maybe for you. But that’s really no surprise, is it?”
But maybe there was some degree of truth in that accusation after all (something he was happy to vehemently deny). Pain was an escape. It was impossible to consider his helplessness with every nerve fibre aflame. It became easy to forget his circumstances when he was drowning in it, and it made it ever so hard to perceive the bigger picture when he was curled into himself, wilfully trying to block out the world in hopes of entrenching himself in numbness.
“If I recall correctly, I’ve never been the one breaking my legs or shattering my ribs.” Satoru responded dryly. The decision to be obstinate (unwise as it was), maintained even as he sank into the warmth of Sukuna’s embrace and leaned into his chest. “Besides, you’re fixing me up every single time you’re done. Hardly my decision to keep this going when you’re the sentimental one.”
To his surprise, a hand settled itself atop his head to thread idle fingers through his hair.
“Curious that you still try to rationalise it.” The casual inflection of Sukuna’s words bore all the false impressions of fondness, his hand still occupied in its thoughtless caress. “Make no mistake, I do keep my promises. Entertaining as you are in the present moment, I will kill you eventually.”
“That’s getting old now.” Satoru murmured, unfazed. “Keep saying that and I’ll eventually stop believing you.”
Sukuna smoothed his fingers down the side of his face, pausing at the corner of an eye half-lidded with drowsiness. His touch trailed down to follow the path of his jugular, slipping gently beneath the band of the collar to press claws into bare skin. Satoru sucked in a stuttered breath and squirmed as he closed a gentle grip around his throat, pushing him down.
He offered no resistance even as his shoulders sank into the pillows, his spine tingling for want of proper support. Sukuna bracketed him with ease, one thoughtfully placed knee sufficient in deterring any further attempt to wriggle away. Satoru froze under the feeling of one of his hands moving down towards his sternum, those fingers lightly traversing edges of bone (intact for once), an accompanying four-eyed gaze roaming to complete his inspection. Regardless of whether his intention had been to startle, flatter or humiliate, the shiver that ran down Satoru’s spine felt just as much like terror as it did exhilaration.
“All this chatter about Six-Eyes, it’s really a wonder that nobody ever thought to mention how pretty you were.”
Sukuna leaned down over him, squeezing his trachea. His sudden proximity gave Satoru no choice but to thoroughly register his taunting sharp-toothed array, bared in an all too familiar grin just inches from his face. There was satisfaction there in place of his far more ubiquitous displeasure. Somehow, it proved to be more unnerving. “And not just that, hm? Most break once and lose their spark. But you’re persistent even after so many years.”
Satoru swallowed thickly, a traitorous flicker of shameful anticipation rearing its head.
“How very convenient you are.” Sukuna purred his approval into the heat of his pulse, holding him steady in a bruising grip. His lips brushed the crook of his neck, dangerously soft and near. “Are you still fighting because you’re looking to preserve your own life by keeping me entertained? Or because you harbour within you some foolish belief that you might still win?”
Satoru shuddered, lurching involuntarily. He tilted his head back in a bid for more air, finding himself shaking preemptively, muscle memory and learned apprehension already driving a fear response. “I don’t- s-stop.” He whispered, a twisted and desperate form of prayer offered in lieu of defiance since forgotten. “Please don’t-“
Sukuna hovered over the junction between his neck and shoulder, razor-edged teeth grazing the delicate skin in meagre warning before he bit down with an audible crunch, lips sealing greedily around the edges of a suddenly gaping wound. There was a pause before he ground his jaw shut; sharp, searing pain blossomed eagerly forth. Satoru muffled his yelp, blanching and going rigid, eyes widening, gasping for breath.
Sukuna pulled away, leaving behind ragged edges and a wound that continued to spurt profusely. He lifted his hand from the darkened imprint left across Satoru’s throat to thumb affectionately across his cheek, streaking his pale skin with blood. Thereafter he seemed content to stroke his hair in paltry comfort, holding his head to one side as Satoru moaned weakly, reeling from the initial shock.
“Deference suits you nicely, sweet thing.”
Satoru met his gaze jerkily. He was growing woozy, finding it preferable to sink into the too-soft bed rather than struggle. Blood trickled profusely from the injury, generous rivulets pooling in the gentle curvature of his clavicles and collecting in the hollow at the base of his throat. The curse chuckled lowly, lifting his trembling form to press their lips together in a hungry gesture that really felt less like a kiss and more like he was being devoured.
“You’re right.” Sukuna finally agreed, looking entirely too pleased upon drawing away.
"getting sleepy, aren’t we?" ( from spiderkuna xoxo )
His eyelashes swept downwards, head and neck limp into the cup of the other’s massive palm. As if entirely innocuous to the proximity of danger, the flaccid length of his spine was draped over the curve of Sukuna’s bicep, the small of his back settled into the crook of his elbow.
Bruises were already beginning to show, splotches, grazes and cuts blooming and bleeding gleefully over an unmarred canvas of skin; pale from being deprived of sun. In such a way had he been marked in the wake of Sukuna’s presence, through handprints, claw-tracks and the marks of crushing teeth. The flat of his stomach was slick with an indeterminable mixture of bodily fluids, his hair mussed and tangled, his skin gleaming with a thin sheen of sweat. Yet, there were no indications of terror, nor was there even a flinch elicited as claw-tipped fingers traced the line of a gash, smearing the welling droplets of blood outwards in a messy disarray of red, painting a feathered bloodstain which sprawled across the smooth expanse of his thigh.
Still he remained devoid of resistance, unable to muster any form of struggle. Hardly surprising, what with how spent and tired their activities over the past few hours had left him.
“Getting sleepy, aren’t we?”
Satoru’s gaze ventured upwards with a leisurely quality, either unbothered or fatigued to the point of uncaring. He roused abruptly from his stupor, hips jerking in a stuttered rhythm as he felt fingers creeping between his legs, exploratory in a way that could only have been feigned. He swallowed, sucking in a startled breath and arching his back, rocking, the clenching of his jaw cutting off the weak moan that threatened to spill forth. But for all the indemnity which his initial reaction might have afforded him, he collapsed soon after, panting, shaking from overexertion with every muscle aflame.
He keened, feeling fingers encircle his shaft, dragging out each stroke with agonising restraint. Another hand found his already aching throat, cupping his chin briefly before shifting downwards to pinch shut his trachea. Satoru jerked on instinct, bucking unwittingly into the hand poised around his cock as Sukuna leered at him.
“If you’re going to kill me-“ His eyelids fluttered as the hand squeezed again, his voice a gasp. “-now’d be a good time.”
“Mm.” The sound of agreement was noncommittal as he pumped again, delighting in the way he squirmed and gasped, his mouth a gaping chasm, one hand pinning his hips as they flexed.
“Now, where would the fun in that be?”
He released him suddenly, leaving him thrusting upwards into empty air, holding him still by the throat. “Awake now?” He was rolled onto the mattress as Sukuna pulled himself back over him, already positioning himself between legs he tugged easily apart.
“Fuck, I- Sukun- !”
His voice wavered and broke in defeat; he twitched haplessly as Sukuna pushed into him in one smooth thrust. He bottomed out and rolled his hips just as Satoru sank his teeth into his lower lip and bit back on another emerging cry in yet another exercise in futility.
“I do hope you’re not thinking of shirking your duties.”
He admonished him with a grin that was all bared teeth, pressing in further as Satoru scrabbled at the sheets in his surprise. Sukuna pinned him down and rocked into him; Satoru only groaned weakly, knowing intimately that all which constituted his world once again lay out of his control.
❛ i’m trying something different . ❜ ( also Sukuna )
"I don't know. You're sounding just as insufferable as ever to me."
It seemed that he’d always be wary of contact regardless of how much time was devoted to the presumptive task of acclimating him to it. Satoru flinched as a broad hand caressed and traced the length of his spine.
“What the hell do you want?”
He jerked away and batted at his stroking hand, hissing out in displeasure targeted solely at the uncertainty of his situation. Not being able to read Sukuna was an entirely different beast, and novelty in itself lent itself to his apprehension.
That said, it wasn’t that he ever truly could predict his intent outside of his own baseless guessing, but being allowed to convince himself of his own false certainty was still comforting to some degree.
Impatience coloured his tone even as his lips blanched beneath his teeth.
8 & 16 smooch smooch!! i'm not even gonna say who u know who.
A FUCKED UP KISSING MEME
8. a kiss on an injury my muse gave to yours.
16. a kiss to gain control.
“Satoru. Satoru.”
It had been a long time since he’d heard his own name. In this instance, the syllables were sung with mocking reverence, rhythmic and chiding. The entirety of him was curled, tensed in a fetal position, a wave of cold and involuntary fear sliding midway to blanket any part of him that might have laid claim to being rational.
He tilted his face away wordlessly. He’d gradually lost the sight out of one of his eyes in the duration superseding their last altercation. The iris was milky, clouded and swirling with pus and blood from where it had been gouged deeply; the area stinging and hot even with his eyelids swollen and practically glued shut. That side of his face was left slick and sticky with tears and blood, and his head throbbed in solemn solidarity. Sleep. He just wanted- needed to sleep some more. Unconsciousness (so cruelly denied) had proven time and time again to be the only avenue by which he could escape the pain.
He shuddered at the feeling of Sukuna’s fingers spanning his cheek, squeezing at the flesh and cupping the side of his skull to turn his face up from where he’d managed to conceal it in the junction of his shoulder. His yearning for sunlight had considerably diminished, the dark proving more comfortable to his abused sight. Still he shivered, missing its warmth.
Sukuna’s thumb ran over the shut surface of the ruined globe, pausing momentarily to push lightly at the pinched eyelid. He guessed at his intent and uttered a feeble plea.
“Please-”
The ensuing pain was intense. Satoru uttered a sound midway between a choked sob and a guttural scream. He trembled violently, what remained of his vision going white with the searing agony as Sukuna nudged at the inflamed skin with all the care of a clumsy child pulling at the wings of a captured butterfly. A sudden flood of warmth trickled down his face as the sealed lids finally receded with the insistent manipulation, yet he found that he could still see nothing at all.
“What was that?” Sukuna peered into the blind pupil, sounding remarkably self-satisfied as he reached to prod at it. Satoru writhed, for though he was unable to see the point digging crudely into the wound, he was more than privy to the agony of it.
“Please-” he managed- sobbed, unable to discern the origin or matter of the thick, hot liquid running tear-like in fervent tracks down his cheek. He couldn’t see and that alone was more than enough to incite his panic.
“It- ha- fuck, it hurts!”
The decision to perpetuate his torment ceased abruptly. The world spun and the stabbing pain took its time to fade. He made a futile effort to pull away, only for Sukuna to prop him up with a palm curled around the back of his neck in a movement both jolting and unwelcome. Though he balanced on the verge of unconsciousness, he was still lucid enough to recognise the rim of something held against his lips. The scent that reached him then was not the sweet and fiery cadence of alcohol, but something bitter and medicinal instead. The steam of it wafted over his nose and mouth as he recoiled, hissing and backing into Sukuna’s tightening grip.
“W-What?”
“For the pain.” Sukuna stated plainly, then laughed at his look of dumbfounded astonishment. He showed his teeth, baring a grin to the effect of brandishing a knife. “Don’t look so surprised! I can be generous so long as you’re agreeable in return.”
A hand ran through his hair and tipped his head back, pouring his offering between the gap he forced between his teeth before he could spit a curse. “Get off me.” Satoru choked, reeling, spluttering weakly at the foul taste and coughing.
“So very stubborn.” A claw dug into the skin beneath his eye until he froze. “It really was a shame to ruin one of your few redeeming qualities.”
Sukuna ran the pad of his thumb across the set of lashes still clean of blood and Satoru immediately flinched away as if he’d been burned, only to be met with words sharp with scorn and rankling with bemused disgust. His claws dug into the side of his face, blood beading beneath the points. “No need to be so dramatic. You have six don’t you? Surely you can spare two.”
“Get off.” He spat again, but found himself too weak to put up any sort of meaningful resistance. His voice was faint. “Don’t fucking touch me.”
He released him then, letting him thump painfully back into the thin mattress and leaning down over him to push the folds of his kimono apart. His sternum too had gone crooked beneath the weight of his heel, and the ensuing purple and green discolouration was stark and brutishly ugly against his pale skin.
His lips grazed along the trail of bruising as if admiring a work of art. Satoru was motionless, blanched with pain and far too exhausted to do so much as squirm. The rise and fall of his chest was weak and reluctant, but his breath caught involuntarily as Sukuna drifted upwards, kissing the corner of his aching eye. He was fully aware of his implication. It might have been a gentle gesture, but the intent behind it held the crushing gravity of a solar body descending.
“So tell me. What was the purpose of your little outburst? Six eyes or none, Satoru. Surely, you know better than to be belligerent by now.”
Sukuna was right. They’d spent enough time together now for him to have become acutely familiar with what was expected of him. But knowing hadn’t deterred him from refusing a command to kill. There was no longer any mercy nor sanctity still preserved within him, and he knew his reluctance to obey was an act which could only be self-soothing in nature. In the end, what had finally managed to apprehend him was the sound of his own name falling from another’s lips in desperation, those syllables spoken like a prayer, a last-ditch attempt to call upon a title now only known as a legend, long-dead and reclaimed in Sukuna’s name.
Needless to say, Sukuna had not been pleased.
He gathered him in the wide berth of his arms, his impressive stature easily dwarfing his frame, made slight by harsh treatment and lack of appetite.
“Were you surprised?” He offered now, stroking the band of the collar suggestively. “Humans are tenacious. They held onto the meager hope of your return even through the slaughter.”
“I-“ He swallowed, prepared to fire vitriol- only to be interrupted as his lip was caught between Sukuna’s teeth. His head lolled beneath the ravenous, controlling intensity of the second kiss, and his good eye registered Sukuna’s prompting sneer as he pulled away. Surely, ceding control wouldn’t be so bad. Sukuna’s presence mandated that he compromise on his boundaries, be subjected to an endless cycle of being pushed back and forced to cross his own lines repeatedly. This was nothing new. But there was comfort in the twisted intimacy, and Satoru felt his resentment wane in the face of his exhaustion.
“I didn’t think they’d- It’s just… it caught me off guard, okay?” This weak justification, stuttered out in half a whine. He formed the words with noncompliant lips, careful and unwilling to risk further reprimand. “It’s been a long time.” He finished lamely, dazedly wishing that he might have somehow produced something more insightful.
Certainly, he hadn’t thought that anyone might know his name; it had never occurred to him that his identity might be so pertinent as to transcend centuries. It was a bitter irony to say the least.
“Surprised then.” Sukuna supplied, dismissive though he didn’t sound entirely unkind. “How pitiful- how amusing that they still look to you in their desperation.”
To live burdened with the dependence of so many others was nothing new. He’d been bereft of the bone-crushing exhaustion once associated with his past life since his unsealing, but that was seeping back into him with this revelation.
“I’m just… I’m sick of it. I can’t- I’m so tired.” Satoru whispered finally, gone soft, pliant and hollow with hapless resignation. Really, what more could he say? He was tired of this cycle of faux affection and torture; tired of being relied upon; tired of being Satoru Gojo. He’d once carried the weight of the world on his shoulders only to stumble and have it crack and shatter at his feet. So was it any wonder that he didn’t want to be awake? In the end, all he wanted was to be rid of the pain, the shame and the humiliation for just a little while longer; and was that really so much to ask?
But Sukuna was already patting his cheek consolingly, and though he conveyed a patronizing air, he was seemingly satisfied with his lack of rebuttal. “Mm. I’m sure you’ll be more amenable to persuasion the next time, won’t you? Don’t take my mercy for granted, you won’t get a second chance.” His tone darkened for emphasis. “Pull that kind of stint again and I won’t hesitate to take both your eyes.”
Satoru fell silent and said nothing more, unwilling to acknowledge the world around him and withdrawing from it in favor of seeking some form of numbness within. His gaze was dull and listless, his head heavy and his mind sluggish with the pungent acerbity of the drug still lingering on his tongue. The pain was still poignant, but gone was the looming threat of violence, apprehension dispersed in favour of drowsiness.
“Hush, pet. Sleep.” Sukuna murmured knowingly, surely aware from experience that there was very little that could be done once he’d shut himself down in such a manner. “And we’ll see about fixing this mess of yours and making some proper use of you when you wake up.”
‘ it’s not as bad as you’re making it. ’ [ Suk to Sat! ]
“Curses don’t get sick. Go away.”
Illness was a misery that never lost its novelty. The last two sleepless nights had been characterised by fever chills, dreams of vivid delirium and cold sweats. The desire to do anything but sleep or throw up was nonexistent. With the cold bouts that wracked his body, Satoru could only be grateful that he’d been afforded a thicker blanket.
“’m not hungry.” He muttered, his mouth dry; grousing through a mental fog that felt as impenetrable as his Infinity had once been.
“You wouldn’t’ve happened to save any Tylenol from all those years ago now would you?”
