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“Oh my sweet, sweet shaman…” Sukuna licks over the words, the vowels dripping off sharp teeth and sliding off the toes of heavy boots. He adores the resolute cracking of the soles on the pavement as he approaches Gojo’s limp body, how they crush things effortlessly beneath them without a passing thought.
A series of tiny blood tributaries rush between the grooves of the well-groomed brick walkway beneath the teen’s head, forming a trail of rubies that illuminate a grey map and lead right to the hidden blue treasures he’s seeking. Sukuna is careful not to disturb it as he squats down to admire his wreck in progress, face down and trembling on the concrete.
“Didn’t anybody ever teach you, little one” his fingers knot into pale hair, the roots matted with sweat and tips pink with spreading blood. Gojo gives a twitch in response, the only indicator that he’s not completely gone yet. It’s not like Sukuna would let him pass out before he’s had all his fun, anyways. There’s a unique sort of beauty in the suffering of the unrighteously arrogant-- how they lay helplessly in the puddles of their own regurgitated egos, and he’s gone through quite a bit of trouble to see this younger six eyed freak writhe. “That pride cometh before the fall?”
Sukuna twists and pulls on Gojo’s hair to angle his face towards himself with a low chuckle. The other hand grips his jaw, and he relishes in the squish of the baby fat padding those exquisite cheekbones.
What a shame no one else will be able to appreciate them for a while. Already, the flesh is puffed up and blue-black from the curse’s hours of abuse masked as battle. Upon further inspection of the soft face, Sukuna finds the source of the blood is Gojo’s nose-- the arc of it has been knocked crooked and both nostrils are dual faucets leaking into the brat’s mouth and down his chin. The sight and scent alone are enough to make Sukuna’s breath stutter in his chest, nearly enamored.
If he bothers to listen, he can hear Gojo’s wheezing breaths over his pulse, all out of sync and searching for a tempo to attach themselves to.
“It’s a valuable lesson to learn, you know.” Sukuna curves his big body forward, long forked tongue dangling down to taste the mess he’s making, dragging it from chin to busted, swollen lips and over thrawn nose and under glazed and teary eyes. He savors the spit and salt and copper with the same greed as he does Gojo’s punched whines.
“You should ask your sensei to teach you all about it when I send you to him.”
Gojo only prickles at the mention of Megumi, like he’s going to get up on those jelly legs and do something about the implication that his sensei has been harmed. It’s almost endearing: that he’s still willing to put up a fight when he’s so broken and the Ten Shadows Shaman is decidedly Sukuna’s already. It’s an obviously futile fight, yet Satoru keeps insisting on raising a fist to him. Whatever grip Fushiguro has on this boy is something out of a wet dream.
Sukuna humors it anyways, cradling Gojo’s head in both his hands and just hardly resisting the urge to pop the skull off his spinal column. Their eyes meet for a long moment in suspended time, Sukuna’s mouth stretching out into a terrible, pointy grin as he considers granting himself the treat.
“I can see you won’t kill me.” The teen gives a pathetic chuff of air at him, a shadow of a laugh on his reddened, dripping lips. “Coward.”
The challenge, hangs between them as they glare at one another with a renewed pulsating vigor, hot and wet and seething.
Then, something mouthwatering occurs to Sukuna.
“Oh, can you now, shaman?”
Something that would escape the sight of even that most vigilant infinity.
Sukuna gives Gojo one last good lick before slamming him back down, no regard given for how he bounces off the bricks like a rubber band ball. He thinks he hears Gojo whimper at the confiscation of touch.
***
Gojo can’t name the last time he got it this good.
He can’t conjure a thought beyond the resounding chorus of touchmefuckmehurtmePLEASEhurtmemore spitfiring through already charred neurons.
However, if he got fucked right now, he might pop and fizzle into ash between Sukuna’s fingers. What he is right now is fragile, the only luxury loads of sorcery cash cannot purchase for him. Breaching the haze of the aloofness his power typically provides, he realizes that this feeling might be worth giving his life for.
What brings him adjacent to coherency is a sudden heave-ho of his whole body, like he’s tiny and weightless and delicate and he hasn’t been delicate since his infinity manifested and Megumi last touched him when he could feel and hurt--
The drag of his bare belly across the cold ground where his shirt’s been pushed up only barely registers in the slurry of Gojo’s mind, the sensation mixing in with the deep timbre of off-key humming above him and the dripping of moonlight into his vision. Then there’s fingers in his hair again, manipulating and claws scraping against his burning scalp and then his aching cheeks. Fuck, they are sharp.
Satoru knows this is Sukuna’s grip, knows that’s his tune he hums when he’s up to something, knows that he should absolutely be getting up and fighting more but all his brain can ping back is a languid why bother? This is... nice. Being touched. Broken and fixed and broken again. And he’s pretty tired, he thinks. He can feel for once, even if it’s all white-hot pain and black-stinging of cursed healing lapping hungrily at every atom of his body. It’s something.
It’s good. And Gojo can’t be moved to stop what’s coming when it makes him so acutely aware of his own pulse, the ache in his bones with every motion that isn’t his, the acrid biting of blood crusting and cracking and running over his skin. It’s so overwhelming that it’s nauseating and it’s glorious.
“I think you like pain, Satoru,” Sukuna’s voice cuts through him like a blade, slicing through one ear and out the other. “I wonder what Megumi would think if he knew you let me do this.”
The thought of sensei’s face when inevitably limps back home all beat up again, flickers through Gojo’s mind in a flash of clarity. He fixates on imagining worry seeping through the cracks of that mask of contempt Megumi typically wears for him, and perhaps Gojo lets his heart swim a bit with the fantasy.
Before he can get too far away from Sukuna--from himself, really-- Satoru’s tasting ice cold concrete. Painfully, he forces himself to fully log into his sight, and without hesitation leans into the sensory overload waiting to blind him again.
He’s still laid out in the courtyard, eerily quiet for all the devastation taking place. Sukuna’s dragged him more than a few feet from where he’d fallen initially to where the brick meets a step-up. The step itself is lodged uncomfortably between his teeth, holding him wide open. Gojo’s shaky breaths are shallow in this position, between the weight on an undoubtedly bruised ribcage and the near-right angle of his head obstructing airflow. The teen falters when his own high blood, smattered on the toes of thick boots, comes into focus.
“Let’s see how much Fushiguro appreciates the peace and quiet when you’ve got your fat mouth wired shut for a while, hmm?” Sukuna presses the flat of the boot into Gojo’s broken nose. Red-hot fire radiates from the center of the shaman’s face through his whole body and he’s sent spiraling back into that sharp-sweet halfnothing on the edge of consciousness, eyelids growing heavy. “Perhaps he’ll thank me for it, after all.”
There’s not enough room to think about what he could possibly mean.
Sukuna steps out of Gojo’s line of sight and off the curb, so close to him still he nearly steps on a few of his fingers. For a moment, he can feel all of him being appraised, eaten whole with four eyes and he’s glad he does not have to look back. What little is left of Gojo’s mind can only bloom with shame, salty and thick with the lingering thought that he was not supposed to end up like this.
Sukuna’s breath caresses the back of his damp neck, then a few claws follow, and Gojo nearly sighs in relief-- he’d seen the possibility of the King of Curses taking him sexually more than a handful of times without his infinity. That was an inevitable.
The claws are replaced with the weight of the world, all pigeonholed into the ridged pattern in the sole of Sukuna’s boot. It pins Satoru by the tender spot where the head meets the neck, between a rock and a hard place. He’s practically biting the step he’s been hinged upon.
Sukuna presses and repositions, pushes and adjusts into the beginning of his spine, like he’s searching for something. All at once, Gojo’s thinking and thinking and thinking but there is nothing comprehensible there. This is too much information and yet, not enough.
Is this what it’s like to be stuck in his infinity?
Satoru can’t answer. The boot is removed for a moment too long to be comforting, and brought back down with a horrifying crunch.
There is a snap-- the fissure of his jaw, a pop-- the brick of the stair cutting into the silk of his cheeks and throat, and a fizzle-- one Gojo Satoru finally letting himself go. It’s all blood and salt and electricity and the silence that accompanies the absence of thought.
Everything is too heavy to move, he’s surely melted into the concrete, becoming one with the weeds fertilized with his own gore that will sprout from between the cracks in a few weeks.
A healing touch plunges into Gojo’s floating, yanking him back to the surface but no further than that, leaving him alive but bathing in the searing pain of a jawbone detached. It’s held to his head only by bleeding skin and a few remaining corded nerves. Errant teeth roll over each other and off his tongue, plink plinking into the puddling blood below. Gojo can’t taste anything but metal just hardly cooled from forging. He’ll have to physically hold his head together when he manages to peel himself from this spot, if he ever decides to.
“Give Fushiguro my regards, will you?” Is tossed into his abyss, the sound only barely regarded before it catches a current of pain and flows away.
He does feel rather alive here.