#verse:wasteland

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@regensia said:

"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.

#regensia #ic:satoru #[asksanswered] #verse:wasteland #[NSFW] #tw:suggestive #tw:smut #//sorry this turned into a sinday-appropriate response

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@regensia said:

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.”

#regensia #ic:satoru #verse:wasteland #[asksanswered] #tw: eye horror #tw:injury #tw:gore #tw:eye gore

[infinitxes]

@regensia said:

‘ 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?”

#regensia #ic:satoru #verse:wasteland #[asksanswered]

[infinitxes]

@regensia said:

❛  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. 

“Cut to the chase.”

#regensia #ic:satoru #verse:wasteland #[asksanswered]

[infinitxes]

@regensia said:

"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. 

“You could do this yourself, couldn’t you?”

#regensia #ic:satoru #verse:wasteland #[asksanswered]

[infinitxes]

@regensia said:

"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.”

#regensia #ic:satoru #verse:wasteland #[asksanswered] #tw:cannibalism #//u are what u eat 😂

[infinitxes]

sequel to this!

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

#myart #verse:wasteland #regensia #gojo satoru #sukuna ryomen #sukuna #gojo #satoru gojo #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #五條語 #宿儺

[infinitxes]

@regensia said:

❛ What if you hurt because it feels good? ❜

“What’re you on about now?”

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. 

“I do rather enjoy this after all.”

#regensia #ic:satoru #verse:wasteland #[asksanswered] #tw:sukuna #tw:injury #tw:blood

[infinitxes]

@regensia said:

❛   throttle .   aggressively  wrap  your  hands  around  my  muse’s  throat . ( ope from Sukuna )

Satoru woke screaming.

Nightmares were becoming a reliable occurrence. Unlike the majority of nights where he was left to contend with them in solitude, it wasn’t long before the terrors of his imagination were replaced by a much more corporeal equivalent. Still groggy and sluggish with sleep despite the heartbeat rabbiting in his ears, he wasn’t offered much warning before palms were settling over the throb of his carotids, fingers curling to squeeze down impossibly tight. 

Satoru’s eyes widened in surprise, both his hands shooting up on instinct to claw at the tightening grip as it ratcheted shut like a vice and promised to bruise in its wake. 

The darkness concealed his assailant. Still, he didn’t need his sight to determine that it was Sukuna, already far too accustomed to his presence to think anything otherwise. Satoru gulped, struggling even as he was pressed down, clawing at the sheets as thumbs drove into the tender hollow just under his chin. There was no Infinity to separate them. After all, he'd learned quickly that to manifest any form of Limitless against Sukuna was to invite retribution.

He choked, jaw moving uselessly, teeth clacking together in dangerous proximity to his own tongue. Sukuna's grip was stoic and unyielding. Satoru seized in a fervour, possessed by a thoughtless and instinctual effort to preserve his own life. 

Abruptly, the pressure abated, enough so that he was allowed to suck in reedy breath, a short-lived surge of blood rushing upwards to pulse through his skull. A hand reached up to cup his cheek, trailing down to the curve of his jaw to guide his gaze upwards. He saw eager satisfaction flash in Sukuna's eyes, feral and predatory in such clear disparity to his own. 

Sukuna tossed him aside, and Satoru collapsed to the floor in a limp and undignified heap, gagging and heaving from the ordeal. The pain radiated along his neck, up his spine and through his skull and chest. He could feel his pulse as it hammered in frantic, meagre compensation, eyes red-rimmed and watering of their own volition. Sukuna toed his side as if to check for a reaction, idly rolling his heel into the side of his rib cage, just one of many parts he’d broken time and time again. Satoru lay there and shuddered, expectant. 

Only half-aware at best, he was dragged up roughly by a hand in his hair. He twitched, still reeling from the shock and blinking rapidly, his head lolling to the side as he fought for breath. His ear and cheek were caressed, and he only dimly registered those hands bringing him to rest against a wide chest, holding him still.

“Good.” Sukuna praised soothingly, a hand reaching up to trace the path of his jugular in idle consideration. “Shh. Shh, there we go.” Claws dragged lightly down his back in some twisted semblance of comfort.

“Finally all tired out now, are we?” His smile- cold and sharp, sent a chill down his spine. “Make that sort of racket again and I’ll relieve you of your larynx.” 

Satoru sucked in an exhausted, steadying breath, not perceiving the threat with its intended gravity. Then he began to laugh weakly, his throat aching. His body heaved with equal parts light-headed mirth, terror and residual fatigue. His chuckling quickly devolved back into soft gasping, and then the tears were flowing freely. He blinked rapidly, feeling the tears stream down his face, but finding himself far too shaken to do anything but let it happen. 

He’d never had it put so clearly, never quite realised how Sukuna had so easily come to dominate his mind, a constant and inescapable phantom in both conscious and unconscious states.

Inescapable. But... this was nice, wasn’t it? It was nice to be held and yet somehow also be absolved from pain, just for an instant. He knew pain, had been left to stew in it for days with no promise of relief; had endured broken legs and disembowelments and torture; had been hurt so much that it was now impossible to conceive any sort of life where it had been any different, where he’d ever been anything but alone and neglected- and this simply wasn’t it. 

His head hurt, as did his neck and chest. While the immediate terror of the nightmare was fading, the skin of his throat was beginning to purple in turn, blotched messily in tender shades of plum, beading with blood where Sukuna’s claws had dug in too deep. 

Satoru relaxed into the heat he could feel through Sukuna’s robes, shrinking into himself as the curse hummed. He missed the warmth of sunlight so terribly, but he would make do. After all, there was no use in pining after something so out of reach. It was far better to be content with what he could have, and accept instead these meagre platitudes of comfort. 

It was all he could hope for, and what a miracle it was that he had any hope left at all. 

#regensia #[asksanswered] #ic:satoru #verse:wasteland #//continue to enable me pls #drabble #tw:violence #tw:abuse #tw:manipulation

[infinitxes]

@regensia said:

❝   you’re mine.  and i protect what’s mine.  ❞ ( from Spiderkuna! )

There was a profound weight to the statement. Like a binding vow, the magnitude exerted in the very rumble of his voice served to differentiate it from any other simple declaration. 

Mine.

Spoken by any other and it might have been a benign expression of one’s devotion and endearment. But Satoru knew better, had come to terms with his situation enough that he knew Sukuna meant it far more literally. 

The protection which he spoke of did not primarily apply to Satoru’s mental or physical wellbeing. No, Sukuna’s efforts were entirely focused on cementing his claim and control over him, ensuring that it did not waver.

There was no true affection between them. No care which might have been mistaken for love and dedication. The collar around his neck spoke to that truth, as did the dynamic mural of bruises and scars which littered every inch of him. All this, alongside the far more permanent psychological shaping of him into someone he couldn’t quite recognise. It was a gradual, frightening process, one which even his Infinity could offer no protection against. It was exhausting to cycle between mustering obedience, only to find himself scrambling to justify each instance of submission afterwards in some meagre attempt at preserving his pride. Yet, he knew that life went on only because Sukuna decided that it would; that he was little more than something to be broken for his entertainment. 

Sukuna’s amusement was what kept him alive, and that was protection in some sense. It was an abstract interpretation of the word, and one which somehow left him feeling more vulnerable than not. He knew that his greatest threat lay not in the world beyond, but in the very curse who occupied the throne he was paraded before, who held him when he was allowed to sleep, whose lap he filled on the occasion where he willed it, and whose fingers found their soothing place in stroking his hair as easily as they did in wrapping around his throat. 

But why protest such a statement- something so comparatively benign? The lesson was an easy one to learn- to resist was to suffer, and they had all the time in the world to ensure that he internalised it. Hence, wasn’t it logical that Sukuna was only the one to ‘carry out’ when Satoru was the one to orchestrate his own torment? Who was to blame but himself? 

“Okay.” He whispered dully, grown so tired of fighting. 

“Okay.” 

No longer trapped in the Prison Realm, he found himself within similar walls- confined not only by those which physically defined the palace, but also those which had come to form an impenetrable mental cage, the bars of which he battered against over and over, day after day. He felt worn thin and tired, dispirited and in no mood to be audacious or snarky as he was wont to be in the day. He could keep up the facade and resist the erosion of all that he’d once was, but not indefinitely. Here, so often alone in the relative safety of his quarters, it was easy to let his crumbling barriers split at the seams, allow all that was soft and rotting and broken within him to come pooling out in a slow and painful exsanguination in the dark of the night. But Sukuna didn’t often seek him out like this, and now especially was it hard for him to differentiate the border between dream and reality.

Satoru shook quietly, his back curving as he shifted his knees to his bandaged chest, curling around himself and staring blankly- not at Sukuna, but into the dark. Though he’d left the food offered to him earlier completely untouched, Uraume had nonetheless attended to him in a rare moment of tenderness, their kindness just as equally false as their master. They’d towelled gently at bruised skin stretched painfully thin over awkward angles of splintered bone as he’d flinched and trembled miserably, patiently swabbing at the copious amounts of blood which caked him with warm water. Their resentment for him was palpable, but it had been warm and comforting in some capacity, enough to pull his mind away and to occupy it briefly with the memory of a world he’d known before, of hot springs, of leaving all this behind, of such a vast and impossible duality in this new life of his.

To draw a full breath was a struggle, and to move was an equal impossibility, but a handful of broken ribs and both legs snapped below the knees struck him as relatively tame. He would cope. Injury had become commonplace, and while he knew that there would be no medication, nor any attempt offered to alleviate the pain of it, Sukuna would always heal him eventually. Hence, what more could he do but try to sleep in the meanwhile? To rest as best as he could, involuntarily let his walls come down and save his dwindling strength for when it truly mattered (whenever that was). There was no escape from Sukuna’s protection, entwined as intimately as it was with his ownership, and that in turn, barely anything more than a volatile extension of his whims.

So release was not something he contemplated in the conventional manner. Satoru knew that there was no life outside of Sukuna’s domain, knew fully well that any escape would only refer to that in the most permanent sense. Sometimes- he thought, it didn’t sound quite so terrible, and then he couldn’t help but ponder when the other might tire of their little game of false protection, when he might finally bore of the novelty of possessing him; and whatever might come after.

Finally he spoke, shivering even then and avoiding eye contact. His voice was hoarse from pain and barely more than a whisper, reflective of the way he was ever so afraid of the answer.

“You’ll... You’ll let me go eventually, won’t you?”

#regensia #ic:satoru #verse:wasteland #[asksanswered] #tw:abuse #tw:injury #tw:gore #//he wants it to end but he doesn't know how or when and that's what's killing him slowly #//'maybe i can die with some shred of dignity remaining' #//he's still trying not to completely break down but i think deep down he knows its inevitable lol

[infinitxes]

@regensia said:

💕 spiderkuna 🤷

send 💕 to me and i’ll list 5 things my muse would do special for your muse if they were a couple!

warning for mentions of suggestive content and a toxic relationship below! these two bordering on healthy? nah.

1. Gracing him with his unrelenting presence. Thank you for purchasing this unit of Satoru Gojo, Sukuna’s new, very own personal lap warmer. With a closer relationship skewed more to being affectionate than the abusive, Sukuna should expect a whole lot of sleepy/lazy/weepy/bored-out-of-his-mind Satoru splayed out all over the place. Four arms or not, he can be a handful to deal with when he wants to be. Some things just don’t change.

2. Regular check-ins. Ruling as the King of Curses implies a gargantuan amount of responsibility and authority. Its a role that involves subjugating humanity, keeping challenger curses in check, maintaining and expanding his territory and ensuring any pesky sorcerers are dealt with quickly, painfully and mercilessly. With commitments like that, he’s bound to have some difficulty in keeping up with his own needs and self-care. Has he eaten today? What sort of books has he been reading? Satoru’s hair is so soft and Sukuna should probably take advantage of that fact and put his fingers in it-

3. Offering some measure of deference. Obedience does not, and will never come naturally to Satoru. With enough time and patience however, and he may come (relatively) closer to being more satisfactory in that regard. Put this on. Come over here. Sit. Stay. Fetch. Save me some time and teleport the two of us. Kill this poor soul here. Momentary hesitation aside, repeated experience has really drilled in the reality that Satoru’s refusal to do anything isn’t in anyone’s best interests.

4. Keeping him company. Let’s be honest. In this new, brave world, Sukuna’s all he’s got. The wasteland doesn’t leave anyone too many options for companionship, especially when you’ve got the sort of reputation Satoru touts. With all the showing off Sukuna so enjoys, it’s become something of a given that everyone who knows his name wants a piece of him, all for a variety of reasons. Sukuna makes sure to drown him in uncertainty and torment, only to drag him back out by the shackles of reliance and attachment. With all the hurting and neglect, it’s only inevitable that he seeks the barest portion of comfort in some way or another, false as such care may be. Sukuna’s mattress is far softer than his own, anyways. Besides, its benign and exceedingly nice to curl up in that four-armed embrace, and just let himself sleep. 

5. Agreeing to spar, and entertain. Who else is going to give Sukuna anything close to a challenge? Or maybe the king would really rather just have someone to take, and take, and take. To retaliate not with cursed techniques, but with useless pleading and a voice made hoarse from screaming. And who can blame him? Though he’s earned himself the privilege, he’s not the only one who’d like the strongest sorcerer crumbling in his grasp, who’d enjoy the show and relish him broken and subservient at his feet.

__

BONUS: Antagonising Uraume. Screw you. Who’s the favourite now? And it only took him a year or two (additional to a couple litres of blood, and trauma worth a lifetime) to get there. Hardly anything really, compared to centuries of mooching about. 

It doesn’t matter if they’re the one cooking. It doesn’t change the fact that Satoru’s still the one he’s putting in his mouth and enjoying 😉.

#regensia #ic:satoru #verse:wasteland #[asksanswered] #[analysis] #tw:toxicrelationship #tw:cannibalism #tw:suggestive

[infinitxes]

@regensia​ said:

C A N N I B A L I S M .

SEND A WORD AND I WILL WRITE A DRABBLE ABOUT OUR MUSES

“Look at me.“

The gentle lilt to his tone was almost enough to convince him to prise his eyelids open, squeezed tightly shut as they were. His re-admittance to the world was heralded by fingers pressed to the hollow of his throat, with just enough push to lapse his breathing, such that his eyes fluttered open with a gasp.

Curled loosely on the zabuton, Satoru cursed weakly under his breath.

Sukuna smiled down at him with teeth in perfect, jagged array. “There we are, that’s it. Don’t go dozing off just yet.”

Drowsy from the blood loss, he latched onto the drip-drip rhythm of each drop splattering into the receiving cup below, having long since permeated the clumsy layer of gauze. He turned his face, the fabric of the cushion tickling his nose, and glanced across the room, immediately beset by the image of Uraume’s back, long white robes obscuring the slender cut of their figure. Alongside the sensation he might have likened to a firebrand pressed unyieldingly to the flesh below his ribs, there was an incessant pulsing in his side that loosely matched the beat of his heart. 

Never one to bluff, there had been truth in Sukuna’s words- the woman’s death would have come far swifter had he elected to obey. Uraume had made quick, methodical work of breaking down the body, pieces clinically discarded or stored in well-practiced, mundane rhythm.

As for what came after, insubordination was rarely met with apathy. Sukuna’s reign had only ever lasted due to his ceaseless obligation to see his iron will reinforced. Sukuna had chosen his literal pound of flesh at leisure, fingers dimpling the skin of his back, his shoulder, his thigh as he’d squirmed and bit down on any plea that threatened to make itself known. He’d cut into his side with a butcher’s precision, deep strokes removing a slab of flesh and reaching further in to segment his liver, the paring blade nicking at the curve of his ribs as he’d thrashed against his restraints and screamed his throat raw through the cloth forced between his teeth.

He’d not suffered in her place. No, it was easy to understand the other’s meaning, the message that was so oft repeated despite his blatant inability to accept it- that to resist was futile; that there was no concept of justice or retribution in this court, balanced as it was on Sukuna’s capricious whims. To be willing to sacrifice meant nothing when he himself had nothing Sukuna deemed of value to lose. In the end, his old titles and accolades were empty, all of humankind were the same to one who resided so loftily above. 

Uraume had handled the resulting cuts with nonchalance, producing thin, clean slices with admirable skill and dexterity. Now the smell of searing meat was enough to make his mouth water. He resorted to rapid, shallow breaths, risking hyperventilation in lieu of the disgust that promised to follow as an array of dishes were set on the table above. Steamed rice and umeboshi, something like a stew in one; dark broth bobbing with mushrooms, vegetables and meat, a plate of sautéed chunks of liver, and another with cuts of flesh laid raw and bare, resting on a bed of shredded daikon and drizzled over with cold sauce. Though expertly prepared, the food might have otherwise been unremarkable.  

Satoru pushed down the revulsion that climbed upwards as the wafting scent hit him full force. The draining chalice was swept up in a single clawed hand and set on the table, brimming with a crimson reservoir of his blood. Tattooed hands hoisted him up into a sitting position, letting him slump bonelessly against the tabletop in a simulacrum of companionship, privy to the sound of chopsticks clicking, of dishes shifting as the king ate. 

“Not bad.” Sukuna commended appreciatively. “Sweeter than usual, more tender than most, though a little lean for my tastes. Infuriating as you are pet, here you fail to disappoint.” 

Satoru groaned softly, his eyes half-lidded, ashen cheek pressed against the table as fingers threaded consolingly through his hair. His chin was tilted up, chopsticks pressing a sliver of meat to his teeth. Sukuna grinned mockingly, teeth bloodied.

“Go on then! You were so willing to offer yourself up before, don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind! It’s not like anyone else was hurt this time- though, you might offend Uraume if you refuse their cooking.”

He didn’t have sufficient clarity about him to point out that he’d earlier watched a woman butchered alive for his transgression. Satoru stared dumbly at the morsel of his own flesh, feeling a spiking resurgence of the pain in his side. He wanted to throw up.

When it became clear that he wasn’t going to comply, Sukuna pried his jaw open, fingers slipping between his incisors, thumbing over his molars. His world was swimming and where he might have once manifested his Infinity, Satoru couldn’t find it in himself to fight.

Hot, savoury, with a saccharine cadence. He chewed mutely. Though the meat was braised and soft enough to melt on his tongue, he fought the urge to swallow, his throat closing off at the mere prospect. It could have been worse, he reminded himself as he forced it down. It could have been far worse. Sukuna watched him expectantly, his hold on his jaw inert. Satoru didn’t know what he desired from him- whether that be a display of disgust, enthusiasm, or one of indifferent acceptance. Obedience, his mind supplied, and he retched, pain lancing through his torso and abdomen, blood splattering the floor.

“It hurts.” He breathed, voice almost incredulous, shaking from the strain of being weak in a way he had never so allowed. “It hurts.”

To his surprise, the king smiled. And then he was being gently lowered again, the wood grain cool under his skin. “I know.” He soothed in a purr, gentled in a caricature of comfort. “I know.”

The urge to spit and snap at him had all but dissipated. Satoru closed his eyes, and let himself be guided back onto the cushions laid out along the floor.

He barely registered Sukuna finally brushing his side with his fingers, closing the wound, the flesh knitting back together under the sole accord of his reconstructing touch. Somewhere above, the impatient clink of porcelain signalled the resumption of the meal. Blood-stained fingers ran through his hair, and satisfied amusement rang in the other’s tone. 

“Let’s do this again sometime.”

#regensia #verse:wasteland #drabble #tw:blood #tw:gore #tw:cannibalism #tw:manipulation #tw:sukuna #[asksanswered] #dead dove do not eat

[infinitxes]

@regensia said:

“You’re slurring.” ( Suk to Sat! )

“Heh. W-Who’s fault’s that?”

He supposed that being drunk had it’s virtues. 

The skin all along his torso and abdomen had purpled in the aftermath. Asymmetrical lesions in the vague shape of barely-human dentition marked his throat. The wound had been allowed to heal enough that he’d survived the ordeal, waking up in a coagulated halo of his own blood. In the days that followed, the skin had puckered and become turgid and inflamed, flesh turning rancid and stubbornly refusing to heal. He burned to the touch.

The spreading infection left him fevered and unwilling to do very much at all. He’d spent much of his time alone and wrapped around himself, pouring with cold sweat and nauseous, balled up tightly on the futon afforded to him. With sepsis setting in, he’d drifted in and out of consciousness, losing all sense of chronology. Much to his chagrin, sleep continued to evade him, the pain that hindered his very breathing staving off any fruitless attempt at rest. As was to be expected, he’d been sought out eventually, dragged from the relative comfort of the room and made to attend the very curse who’d taken such joy in inflicting his suffering.

It would have been a mercy to have forgotten the last time he’d been invited to dine in Sukuna’s company. The foreign press of the other’s lips to his own had been a loveless affair, a violation that he still could not shake from his subconscious. He knew well the origin of the meat that had been served that day, that very fare which had been forced down his throat. 

If Sukuna had taken offence at his remark, he did not show it. The bottle of sake (one amongst many others left in the wake of whatever celebration he’d been hosting) sat between them. Though Satoru had tried to limit the amount which passed his lips, it was difficult to defy the king when he was sat in such close proximity. Satoru hunched, his lithe form drowning in the folds of his kimono. A couple hundred years in the Prison Realm had regrettably, done nothing for his alcohol tolerance. 

“Drink.” He motioned, and Satoru scowled in response. Parched and longing for water, he brought the cup to his lips and shakily sipped a minimal amount. The other’s four-eyes gaze tracked his movement. There was a threat in his mere act of observation, and Satoru found that he wasn’t entirely comfortable with the idea of willingly surrendering any fraction of the remainder of his mental clarity in the other’s presence. But his transgression had not gone unnoticed.

“Are you spurning my offering? You have some nerve, Satoru Gojo.” Despite his words, Sukuna sounded cheerful. Perhaps the subtle inebriation had something to do with his good mood. The curse rose and circled the table, movements languid and easy, his eyes shimmering with malice. His grasp closed around the back of his neck, hoisting him backwards and spilling him into his lap as he sat, cross-legged behind him. A hand fluidly cupped the back of his head, another bringing the cup to his lips and tipping it forwards, forcing him to swallow.

“Drink.” He repeated, tone firm, hardened to form an undeniable order.

The alcohol soaked his tongue, filled his throat and ran messy tracks down his chin. Satoru choked, spluttering around the burning in his throat and nose and feeling like he was drowning. Sukuna peered at him, somewhat curious but no less predatory. “Is there a reason you’re being stubborn, or would you rather I proceed without?” He clicked his tongue in discontent. Satoru pushed at him, freeing himself long enough to gasp for breath, his front soaked through. Fatigue was becoming commonplace in this state, and he slumped weakly against Sukuna’s chest, trying to stop the world from spinning about him like a top. The other’s voice came in deep reverberations, a thrum that set all his head ajar.

“Entertaining as it has been to see you like this, I’d rather you be presentable for my purposes.”

“You and your purposes can f-fuck right off.” He retaliated hoarsely, albeit slowly. Satoru tilted his head back, the motion straining the edges of the injury painfully. “P-Presentable? Fix this then.“

Sukuna smiled cheerlessly. A finger hooked beneath the collar, pulling it tight just below the wound in silent warning. “No. Though I might consider it after you’ve learned to clip that charming tongue of yours.”

Satoru shut his eyes, letting the air escape him in a single, defeated rush. He felt sick. He was sick. Sick in more ways than one.

“Eat shit and die.“

The curse sighed, sounding almost disappointed. Satoru squirmed ineffectually as he was yanked, maneuvered into his desired position. Facing upwards, Sukuna’s knee pressed into his back to form an uncomfortable arch. Fingers closed around his jaw like a vise, cocking it upwards, and though his vision was obscured in his awkward new position, he heard a metallic scraping as a knife was plucked from the table. There was no warning before the blade was slicing into the edge of one of the wounds, a crude and sweeping debridement. Satoru stiffened as if electrocuted, teeth clenching. He twisted and pressed his face into the folds of the other’s kimono, muffling his cries and clutching white-knuckled at fabric that he spotted with blood, sweat and tears alike.

Sukuna continued at a leisurely pace, cutting and prodding at flesh both devitalised and angry despite his gasping, wordless pleas. “Poor thing.” He chided knowingly, caressing his cheek and hair to pull his face out of concealment, before he promptly poured the remainder of the cup over his handiwork, delighting in the way Satoru writhed helplessly beneath him.

Eventually did he produce a roll of gauze, loosely wrapping the afflicted area whilst Satoru struggled to breathe through his laboured panting. The freshly inflicted wounds wept, painting blossoming petals along the bandaging. “You will accompany me the rest of the night.“ He declared, in a tone that clearly indicated that he would not be defied. A hand crept downwards, cupping his ribs and squeezing decisively until Satoru jerked and shuddered, doubling over in pain. “I expect you to behave.”

Indeed then did the meaning of presentable reveal itself, made all the worse by Satoru’s ignorance of what was held in store. Disobedience was practically his nature, but even that gave way to more crucial notions of survival when need be. He scrabbled, shaking from half a week’s worth of exhaustion. 

“P-Please, let me sleep. Just for a little while, I, just-”

Sukuna pressed his head down to silence him, filling another cup. “Shh. In time.”

The cup was lifted again, clicking against his teeth before he could even think to formulate a response. “Swallow.” 

Satoru gave in. 

He obliged him like a bad habit, mutely letting the alcohol slip past his teeth and burn down his throat. Sukuna’s fingers carded through his hair degradingly in what might have been encouragement, a quiet celebration of such a rare moment of subservient compliance. Every sip pulled him a little further under, dredging him in the impromptu sedation (what was nearly a kindness). Warm, pliable and boneless, he let himself be drawn further into Sukuna’s arms, succumbing to the haze. 

His body gone limp, his pain had subsided enough that the unconsciousness he’d been so yearning for finally began to take hold. 

Somehow, he thought that he would be glad for the partial escape.

#regensia #ic:satoru #verse:wasteland #[asksanswered] #tw:injury #tw:gore #tw:badmedicalpractice #tw:sukuna #tw:blood #tw:manipulation #tw: alcohol #drabble

[infinitxes]

@regensia said:

❰❰ PIN ❱❱ ( spiderkuna to Satoru! )

❰❰ PIN ❱❱ sender pins receiver during a fight/training

The impact jarred the breath from his lungs. Satoru arched in a panic, hollowing as something heavy settled into the small of his back. The other’s kneecap was an immovable weight. A hand fastened roughly around his wrists, pulling upwards and stretching his spine painfully as he was splayed out.

He gulped for air, kicking out wildly. Fingers tangled ruthlessly in his snowy hair before slamming his head down with enough force to fracture his jaw. He lay there, stunned by the pain, ears ringing, an irregular heartbeat pounding through his skull.

Sukuna tutted from above.

The day-old injury was a puncture wound at the base of his ribcage. It sent pain lancing through his torso from where it was crushed against the floor. What had initially been a deceptively simple injury (easy enough to hide) had proven far worse when the curse’s poison had begun to take effect. Satoru struggled, though he was weakened by the technique and deteriorating rapidly. Even now he was reluctant to show any signs of weakness, unwilling to offer any indication that his once impenetrable shell could be bypassed. How convenient that Sukuna had been able to smell his blood.

The pressure lifted and he was nudged, a wordless urging to turn onto his back. Satoru caught himself there, thrusting his shoulder forward and stubbornly remaining on his side. He curled into himself on reflex, knees rising to his chest, every muscle tensed.

Sukuna grimaced down at him with dissapproval, gaze searing, brow twitching with the beginnings of anger.

“Let me see.”

“Fuck you.” He spat, glaring back with vitriol to match. “Don’t touch me.”

Sukuna bared his teeth, eyes flashing dangerously. Satoru sucked in a startled breath as clawed fingers sank into the top of his thigh. “Relax.” He snapped. “Or I’ll break your hip.”

Satoru clenched his teeth and made no move to obey, his arms beginning to ache from the strain of being held open. Sukuna rolled his eyes and thankfully did not make true on his promise. Rather, he promptly closed another set of fingers around his throat. 

How surreal was it that being throttled to an inch of his life had become a familiar sensation? The lack of air had him loosening involuntarily, body abandoning his efforts to resist in favour of preserving vital function. With the delirium and the shock combined, it became no feat to press him down, the folds of clothing overlying his chest brushed aside to reveal the white fabric of his undergarments beneath, soaked through with blood. 

“Wo-ow.” He gasped, breathlessly. “Take me out to dinner first.”

Sukuna threw his head back and laughed, a merciless sound completely lacking in authenticity. His mirth didn’t last, and he was sneering down at him again before he could manage another quip. The cloth was torn away to reveal the ugly wound beneath, the sickly-sweet scent of fresh blood mixing with something far more foul, the edges darkened and the flesh around it angry and swollen. “Pathetic.” He rumbled, brushing the wound first, before gouging in with two fingers. Satoru’s eyes widened, vision going white with pain. He threw his head back in meaningless escape as Sukuna continued to push, carving deep past putrid flesh and digging into the space between his ribs, claws raking at bone. He sounded almost bored, digits hooking upwards as Satoru writhed and thrashed, eyes misting.

“Satoru Gojo.” He drawled. “The strongest felled by a simple curse? Were you hoping to escape my notice and lie there until your blood turned to tar?”

Clammy with sweat and shaking, Satoru grinned back despite himself, something manic dancing in his irises. “And what if I was?” 

Sukuna’s mouth pressed into a thin line, his annoyance palpable; his eyes glittered with faint, cruel amusement. Rather than heal him or inflict any further harm, he watched, withdrawing his fingers and lifting the soiled hand to his chin in quiet thought. 

Satoru went lax beneath him in resignation, feverish and smiling easily, showing teeth smeared with blood. The toxin had been potent, and all the world was beginning to slow. He watched Sukuna through blurring vision, his eyes unfocused, pupils swallowed by reservoirs of black. 

It was getting harder to breathe. His breaths came shallow and rushed despite his efforts to slow them. His throat bobbed as he swallowed around a tongue that felt thick enough to choke him.

“That’s it.” Sukuna crooned, all false sympathy as he held him there, his grip unyielding. His smile might almost have been described as sweet, but his expression was enough to set off distant alarms in his fuzzy head. “Don’t fight it. Shh. Sleep.” Fingers ran through his hair in faux comfort, and Satoru tilted his head out of habit. Breathing in a stuttered rhythm and head swimming, he pressed his cheek into the flat of the other’s palm as it stroked down the side of his face. Darkness crept in at the edges of his vision, and Satoru let out a low, pained groan, unable to breathe and feeling as though his very blood was boiling. His heartbeat was erratic and his limbs twitched and shook beyond his control. 

It hurt. The pain was excruciating and visceral, and Satoru knew he was dying. 

It hurt.

The world came to him in fragments. Sukuna’s razor smile was sharp enough to cut, his teeth like broken glass. The press of claws into his wrists, the warmth of the other’s skin in stark contrast to the cold that inched through him like fractals of jagged ice, needlepoints of pain erupting all throughout his flesh. 

Then all of a sudden, there was warmth pouring back into him, the other’s reverse cursed technique taking effect. His vision was clearing, the pain subsiding. His lungs screamed for air and he choked on it in his desperation, gagging, hacking noisily. Sukuna released his hands, and Satoru registered him standing. A mere moment later and he kicked him viciously in the side, snarling. 

“Foolish. How dare you think that I would let anyone besides myself bring about your end?” He ground his foot into the side of his neck, enough to dizzy him, then trailed down to position his heel at the base of his throat. He shifted as if pinpointing a spot, then stamped down, fracturing his clavicles with an audible crunch. Satoru curled into himself. Heedless of his cries, Sukuna delivered yet another succession of kicks to his ribs, leaving him wheezing. 

“You will not die without my permission. Find yourself on the brink again and you will beg me to kill you, do you understand?” Sukuna reached down and dragged him up by his throat, meeting his gaze with eyes ablaze with rage. 

“You’re mine. Your life, your death, and every conceivable piece of you, every scrap- flesh, blood and bone to do with as I please. I do not take kindly to being stolen from, best not forget that.” 

His mouth twisted with ugly derision, eyes narrowing in contemplation. A second hand moved to caress the tender skin where the wound had closed, claws laying a beaded trail of blood in their wake as if to gut him then and there. “Or perhaps you’d rather I hand you over to Uraume. They might find some better use for you on a plate.”

Mouth filling with a telltale salty tang, Satoru spat wordlessly in his face, euphoric as he watched his own blood run rivulets down tattooed skin. 

Fear and thrill were indistinguishable, Satoru thought, run through with adrenaline and possessed by a twisted sense of glee. His back made a rough reunion with the ground, the remainder of him restrained in an instant. He grimaced and retched as Sukuna unhesitatingly tore into his delicate throat, jagged teeth meeting in the soft flesh, occluding his airway and silencing the traitorous scream that threatened to break loose.

Foolish indeed to think that Sukuna might let him die. Satoru jerked and gasped. He knew that there was naught to do but wait yet again to be made anew.

#regensia #ic:satoru #verse:wasteland #[asksanswered] #//screw the prompt I’m taking liberties #tw:gore #tw:violence #tw:blood #tw:injury #tw:cannibalism #//?? that last one #//oh well just in case #//I HOPE I DID UR AWFUL MAN JUSTICE AME #drabble

[infinitxes]

@regensia said:

Eyes like campari were busy, trained ahead upon the book he was reading. A luxury not afforded to all in the palace, not even for the man who possessed Six Eyes. Sukuna had quite the stack nearby, seeming to either be intending to ignore responsibilities thoroughly or was researching something. Regardless, one hand rose to pour himself another cup of sake, and another then snapped to get Gojo's attention before pointing – there was a small wooden box atop the tea table.

"Take it." In such a tone, it was clear it was more an order than a provision of a gift, but within the box was a necklace, the length suggesting it was a choker. Its hue matched the blue garments as well as eyes like the sky, like some thought had actually been put into it. Finally did the king's gaze wrench upwards to the other, expectant. "Put it on."

In all his years, Satoru would never have expected that the King of curses be so appeased by books. Sukuna had never struck him as scholarly, though perhaps, his own thoughts on the matter were so skewed by impressions left by one Itadori Yuuji, who'd been the furthest thing but.

Unfortunately, such a privilege as reading was not extended to him. Rather, he staved off the slow creep of boredom in other ways, sat on the floor and counting the tiles along each adjacent wall, grateful for the rare lapse of privacy they'd been afforded.

The box was received, a fairly innocuous thing to be asked, all things considered. Satoru wedged a finger between the tight seal and pried it open, peering in and fully expecting to be greeted by some sort of torture device.

He simply stared, before his gaze flicked upwards, mouth drawn into a line of equal parts disbelief and disgust.

"You're... joking."

#[asksanswered] #regensia #ic:satoru #verse:wasteland

[infinitxes]

@regensia said:

“you are remarkably well-behaved tonight, what have you been up to?” ( suk to sat! )

“Oh, the usual.”

His smile was saccharine. He lounged against the smooth, heated stones which bordered the water’s edge, letting the warm steam soak through his clothing as he stirred a finger through the spring. “Uraume is remarkable when it comes to making mochi, did you know?”

Their departure had been a sudden one. Sukuna had prematurely dismissed their company that day, quite literally grabbed him, and then they’d been off. Satoru hadn’t been afforded any further warning, only able to hold on for dear life as the other covered the ground in great bounds and leaps. The next thing he knew, they’d come to a stop amongst the steaming pools and craters of a hot spring, the planes of water calm and overhung by the branches of cherry blossom trees which swayed gently in the wind.

Satoru couldn’t recall the last time he’d been allowed outside the barriers enclosing Sukuna’s abode. It was nice to see that there were still pockets of beauty which remained amidst the devastation. It was equally reassuring to find the other in a seemingly good mood.

Here they were alone, removed from the eyes of servants and other curses alike. His six-eyes told him that much, and Satoru felt himself slowly begin to relax, letting the quiet and the warmth seep into and gradually exsanguinate the tension from his muscles.

#regensia #ic:satoru #[asksanswered] #verse:wasteland