Chapter 24

The Ocean's Rising

Gojo Satoru

He cursed this apartment of his—a God-forsaken place that he, a God, had given up in a rebellious phase to stop being seen as anything else but divine. This place, that cost more money than anything else he owned, to be exchanged for a dilapidated shack in the middle of a nowhere. Exchanged for what he naïvely believed was liberation.

He had vowed to never cross this threshold again; never put it up for rent.

The moment the front door closed with a hollow click, Megumi had shut himself in his old room, and Satoru had walked past Utahime's lecturing, doing the same. Briefly, he had searched for a slither of Sukuna in the angry energy Itadori possessed and came up empty.

The white walls clung to him like a vice, their blandness mocking his insignificance. High ceilings loomed above, begging for him to make a break for it. Once, he had relished in the emptiness around him. Once, he had believed this to be everything he deserved.

A cockroach skittering underneath the kitchen sink, in the dark corners that refused to release him from their grasp, scavenging for crumbs to get by. His shell, hardened and cracked by an unforgiving life—of war and bloodshed—only able to survive in this place of frigid emptiness. Lost in a world that had already forgotten who he was. Forever in search of something to consume.

And nevertheless, every night, he emerged from his ornate prison and scavenged through the shadows for leftovers to sustain himself on. The universe had given him nothing, had mocked him with false promises of a future he'd never achieve, trapped in a cruel world of delicate ribbons and shining gems. Always hungry for meat and fruit, for other dead things to suck dry.

Though envy simmered in the eyes of those who looked upon him, seeing only his power and not the shadows he had been born into, he had never felt more disgusting than he did under their scrutiny. His father's sneer; mother's absence. The hungry gaze of the crowd when he stood in bright sunlight, the scales on his back catching light, and the eyes of the horde doing the same.

It had taken him twenty-eight years to comprehend his plight—see the prison for what it was.

Coming down full circle, back here, it was dead clear that the prison was himself, him alone, and no matter how many things he purchased, changed, or fucked, it always remained with him.

He slumped down against the door of the master bedroom and tried to desperately block out the clamour of the apartment.

Where was his fault in scurrying back to the darkness, under the kitchen cabinets that smelled of rotten apple cores and lies and sour milk? How was he at fault for feeling like he was finally back home?

Home was where no one stared, no one tried to stomp him dead, spray gas that left him delusional.

The arguing voices became muffled, his ears rung as yet another maidservant got the back of his father's hand. Clenched fists pressing into his temples, he drew a deep, shaky breath. The darkness that welled in him, around him, was a palm to old wounds; knitted them back together and created a tougher skin that couldn't be torn so easily.

The streets were cold, and it was raining. But he was still breathing; although raggedly.

For years he had survived, had done nothing but kept breathing; had built an insurmountable fortress and bound himself together with the bars and locks; had eaten stale bread and shoe leather. The world had spat on him, and he stayed put, never once questioning whether there was something other than pain out there. He suffered on behalf of others, jabbed needles in his knees, and got pinned under glass like a spectacle.

A rat would have been treated better.

He lifted his head from his hands, the back of his skull scant millimetres from the door. The night and its wind pushed against him like an old friend. Tokyo shone in a hollow light, never sleeping. This room—a place where he had been a father, had relearned how to live—opened up like curtains on a stage.

Every breath he took shattered the air, filling it with microscopic flecks of dust, of memories and electric particles. Voices inside the apartment faded away like footprints in wet sand. He stood alone in the midst of a churning sea, battered by crashing waves carrying corpses past him.

Even if he wanted to, he couldn't die.

It should have been him instead.

The connection to the world was faltering. He felt no more responsibility or love, only bleak silence. The black waters crashed into his splintered hull and swallowed the crushing burden he carried for all humanity. He was in the centre of the universe and everything around him was reformed in blue fire and destruction. The water in his lungs was familiar, like famine. Like family.

The rats were fleeing the vessel, as if they already knew what was sinking the ship they were on.

The catastrophic events of the past few months seemed utterly insignificant; a mere drop in the torrent that was Gojo Satoru's life. No matter how he tried, no matter how hard he pushed against fate, his story stayed stagnant and unmoving.

Satoru had watched as people engulfed in flames, their skin melting off like wax and evaporating into the night. Utahime had descended from the ruins of Satoru's making, bringing with her news of Suguru's heinous acts. He had destroyed their home, made sure there was no way for him to look back on those moments and make amends.

Even when Megumi suffered, and Sukuna's nails dug deep into Satoru's skin representing the self-loathing he had carried with himself for too long—it did not matter. For before any of that had transpired, Satoru had already sunken a thousand ships, had decided to sink as many more.

And curse him for never learning to move on, but—

The decision was made the first time he had seen Suguru let down his hair; the morning sunlight bathing in the dew on his skin. It had been the first time Satoru's heart skipped a beat and Infinity flickered in anticipation to touch. The first time he had killed and yearned for more.

And it wasn't that he loved Suguru more.

It was that Suguru saw him for the vermin he was, could never fathom him becoming something else; still followed his story even if it never changed, should every chapter recite the same tragedy. When the climax of the tale did not conclude with the hero killing the dragon and liberating the princess but discovering her bloody corpse in the kitchen and taking a hungry bite.

Satoru loathed the prospect of his life being an empty theatrical play for the entertainment of others. The idea of them wanting him to be their champion only stoked his hatred. An angel of death, that's what he was—soaring in just before the villain would claim victory. The masses rejoicing, adorning him with yet another set of chains that were always five links too short, always chafed his wrists.

Fuck the princess; who cared if the dragon was saved? Or kill the dragon, then stuff the princess down his throat—it all amounted to nothing anyway.

The façade of hope was crumbling in the wake of a cruel truth; red rivers flowing, painting the shore with a grim reminder of life's fragility. This time the kitchen lights remained off. This time there wasn't a soul in the house. All sacrificed, all fed to the rapacious sea, to the dragon, drowned in sour milk.

The hellhounds at his feet bayed with fervour in anticipation of a revolution, their master ready to lead them with blazing blue eyes: the devil's eyes; all six of them.

'Megumi doesn't deserve that—'

Satoru's eyes shot wide-open, jaw clenched and body rigid. A chill ran down his spine, skin breaking in goosebumps. His eyes darted from the perfectly made bed to the fireplace to the ceiling-high windows. They darted from Tokyo to the mountains, to forests and riverbeds and the ocean. Looking for the source of the sound, until—

He felt a presence, heavy and determined brush against his dirty soul and he knew it had come to claim what belonged to it. A shrill voice cut through the oppressive silence. Rusted blades scraping against metal.

'Megumi doesn't deserve… to die for a man already half dead.'

The words hung in the air like an axe waiting to fall, until Satoru had enough courage to fill the space with a broken whisper.

"You speak?"

'I've grown,' the voice cooed back, darkly sweet like spilled rum and shattered dreams.'You've fed me well.'

And Satoru understood immediately; what it was that spoke to him, what it craved. The sudden lightness in his heart, the memories of pain almost an afterthought now. He remembered every tragedy and simultaneously forgot them all.

"What happens now?"

'The options are infinite, honoured one.'

"It's too late for exorcism, I suppose," Satoru said quietly. He knew that once a curse reached sentience, it was almost impossible to rid of without taking the life of its host.

The curse remained silent. Its words were still raw, only growing into being, but he could feel it inside their shared thoughts. It felt like a child, soft and curious as it looked at the world through all of their eyes; it also felt like an intruder, a vengeful wraith that sought out the most agonising memories of his past and ripped them from his consciousness to be replaced with a hollow emptiness.

The ship had sunk, and his mother lost to the ocean floor. Satoru had been the only one to survive. For days he had endured hunger on a desolate beach. His mouth filled with an abundance of salt from the crashing waves. He had sought refuge in the debris that littered the shore, opting for shadows over being preyed upon by whatever clicked and gurgled when the sun, too, surrendered to the sea.

For days he had watched as bodies were flung onto the rocky shoreline by lashing waves. He beheld both strangers and those he knew, his first experience of death; and suicidal thoughts as he helplessly gazed at the bloated white skin of the dead, almost succumbing to his craving.

Until one last corpse floated up to the shore. He knew it was her instantly, with her impossibly white hair, some patches of it missing after so long in the deep. Her remains were weakened and ripped apart by other hungry creatures like him, and he scooped her up in his arms and felt her torn skin squelching against his clothes. His mother's dead gaze was fixed upon him, one blue eye missing from her face.

If his mother was looking, he couldn't—

He was barely alive when the hands of rescue yanked him from under the sunken wood of the wreck, his grip firmly glued to pieces of her—both her eyes now gone. Satoru was dragged back home, and nobody could no longer prevent his father from showcasing him in a standing cage for the world to see. Satoru's blue eyes astonishingly brighter than ever before.

But it wasn't just blue that filled his irises—it was tears, a cascade of salty rivers and oceans of sorrowful fucking tears. He had cried so hard he still believed the blue came from the water that filled his lungs and the sky before the storm hit; from the blue of hers.

'They say it's beautiful,' the curse hummed. 'The blue.'

"It's death. There's nothing beautiful about death. There's only—" Satoru stopped.

Agony. Misery. Torment.

But somehow it didn't feel like it, not anymore.

The curse chuckled as it followed Satoru's train of thoughts like little breadcrumbs, munching softly on what was left for him. Its teeth itched in its gums. Every painful memory Satoru tried digging for, was delicately extracted by the curse's sharp nails deep in the soft tissue of his brain and presented to him with… all emotions extracted from them.

He had been trying to forget the atrocities that occurred on the island, sure that if he remembered, nothing would prevent him from turning his anger against himself. But now, the recollection didn't even faze him. The world was without its usual vibrancy; Satoru's emotions had vanished, and with them all sense of ambiguity—everything became black and white. It simply was or wasn't.

There was one path before him, with nowhere else to turn. An inescapable futility.

If Suguru still breathed, they would be bound together forever in a ceaseless search amongst the stars for one another. If Suguru lived, Satoru would burn everything to cinders—himself included.

This wasn't about love anymore; it had stopped being about love a long time ago.

'He is waiting for you.'

And Satoru knew he was. Every cell in his body was pulled towards him, every though crashing into the wall of him, all his eyes frantically searching for him.

His being ached to be reunited with him, but Satoru forced himself to remain in place, his gaze fixed on Megumi's sleeping frame. He had to make sure he could survive what was to come unscathed; if it was the last act of humanity from Satoru, he wanted to ensure that when their paths inevitably diverged, Megumi found himself standing alone and strong.

The wood was creaking, and Satoru fell forward coughing. He felt the weight of his mother's single blue eye on him, a reminder of what he had done, before he dug it from her skull too. Phantom water dripped from his lips before it was replaced with the sweet taste of strawberry shortcake. With one last laborious breath, the memory vanished into oblivion and left a trail of shattered glass behind.

A delirious part of him clung on to the reminiscence of that trauma which had broken him first; a feeble hope that if he delayed the inescapable just a little, someone would come along to save him from the brink of destruction.

The curse snarled through clenched teeth, its mouth full of breadcrumbs and blood, sharp baby teeth pushing through soft gums. Its eyes burned with determination as it continued to chew, savouring the moment like lovers' sweetest kiss.

He lay in bed, tormenting himself with the futility of sleep. The hours slipped away—sand through his fingers—until a pink-tinged sky announced the coming of daybreak. With heavy feet he dragged himself to the window, stars going out as if daring him to leave this world between ending and beginning.

Time was running out and there was nothing simple about any of it.

The coffee was so bitter it tasted like acid, yet he didn't add sugar to mask the taste. He stepped out onto the balcony and a frigid chill cut straight through his skin. The wooden chair creaked under his weight, seeming to remind him of how much time has passed since he last visited this place; had hired a company to manage this property while he stayed away.

This place, his last refuge, where the memories of happiness were still fresh amidst the pain. His gaze fixated on the balcony rail where he had promised to jump off after Suguru had died. But little Megumi had always come through the door and comforted him with a hug, babbling about how silly it was to think any mean monster could take away his beloved Satoru-san.

But little did he know, there was no curse or beast hiding under his bed; the most sinister thing that had ever walked into their home was Gojo Satoru himself—a corrupted core disguised by an invincible body.

The coffee was still like ash on his tongue, but he found solace in its bitter taste.

The whisky bottle cork hit the marble floor with a resounding clank and skidded to a stop in front of a pair of grey socks. Satoru's finger was still up in a snapping motion when he found green eyes turned on him with shock and disapproval. He brought the bottle to his lips and drowned a considerable amount.

"What are you doing?" Megumi asked—accused.

"Good morning to you too," he said in response before settling down by the kitchen counter. The liquor seemed more inviting than Megumi's icy stare, which remained fixated on him as he took another sip. The burning sensation raced down his throat until his freak power kicked in and healed the damage.

"It's barely seven in the morning," Megumi said incredulously.

"It's five o'clock somewhere." Satoru's smirk was insolent.

"Has something happened? What's going on?"

Satoru arched one eyebrow; his gaze meeting Megumi's narrowed green. When Megumi didn't look away, Satoru sighed and brought the bottle to his lips again. The alcohol went down rough, and his raspy voice followed.

"I've been thinking about taking up smoking." The depth of disbelief carved into Megumi's forehead made him uneasy. The poor boy would have wrinkles before he even came close to adulthood. "You know that frowning won't do you any good. I have some excellent lotion—cost me a small fortune but the nice lady gave me a kiss on the cheek, so I figured it was worth it."

"Are you drunk?" Megumi—again—accused.

"Why, do you want some? Let me get you a glass," Satoru quickly offered. He reached up to the cabinet above the sink and grabbed a rocks glass. His eyes darted to where the floor met the base of the cabinets. The soft-closing mechanism absorbed the force he shut the door with.

"I didn't know you could get drunk."

Satoru put the glass down sharply and threw an over-expensive ball of ice into it before filling it almost to the brim. Megumi was a big boy, could handle some liquor, perhaps it would even bring out the papa gene and have him emerge from his room with a machete the next morning. That would be a sight Satoru wanted to see.

"Well, I mean, theoretically, if I drink all of this…" Satoru gestured towards the bottle. "And then some more, I probably could. But, for the benefit of whatever research paper you are writing on me, no, I'm not drunk yet. It's a work in progress. And can you stop with the accusations? This is my home."

Megumi's sweet little face fell a little.

There were footsteps in the hallway, and he shouted a greeting at Utahime before she even made it into his field of vision. Of course, he had seen her exit her room, make it down the stairs, fix her hair in the hallway mirror and pout her lips prettily. Maybe the correct course of action was getting them drunk. He knew for a fact that Utahime was much more pleasant with a little red wine in her system.

"Gojo, why are you drinking?" Utahime asked with suspicion and a whole lot of underlying irritation.

"If you're referring to this glass, it's for Megumi." Satoru smiled and slid the glass over to the other side. It would have slid right off, dropped to the floor and made a mess, but he stopped its course the last second with Infinity. He was a gentleman after all, but not enough to waste a chance of getting a little jerk out of Megumi who tried to catch it before it fell. Satoru's smile was all teeth.

"And you approve of this sort of behaviour?"

"Encourage it, even."

"We need to talk," Utahime uttered through gritted teeth.

"Sure, talk."

"Not in front of our students."

"There's only one here, but I guess you're making generalisations."

Satoru was about to lift the bottle to his lips again when Utahime marched up to him and yanked his arm away. Her face was bright red, all the way down to her neck. Ungracefully, he was pulled away to the corridor. He waved goodbye to Megumi, who was left standing awkwardly while still holding onto the glass he had tried to catch.

"Can we do this mama and papa talk later, honey?" Satoru whined while she closed the library door, trapping them inside. He leaned against a reading table, arms crossed over his chest, the whisky hanging limply in his grip. Legs purposely elongated. "Not today, I have a headache. Rain check?"

"Stop it!" she angry-whispered as she stopped in front of Satoru, basically ripping the bottle from his hand. He let her.

"There's more alcohol in the house if you're worried about us running out," Satoru whispered back with a playful edge. He leaned down a little, coming closer to her small face. "I know how you enjoy a few glasses in the evenings. Helps to take the edge off, doesn't it? Suguru told me all about that one time you two got drunk in the dorms. He gave you a foot massage, and it was the best thing you'd ever had."

The redness in her face deepened, the humiliation setting in. She blinked a few times. Rapidly, to chase the memories away. "You're being a jerk."

"Yeah well, someone's gotta be."

"Where is all of this coming from?" she asked (read: accused) and took a step back to put some distance between them. "This isn't the time for you to act on impulse and your sense of pride. People are in danger; lives are at stake. We need you—"

"Find someone else."

"What did you say?"

"I'm done being needed," Satoru announced, stepping forward and trapping her in place. "I quit. Find another saviour."

She didn't even try to retreat, just stared at him with wide searching eyes. "But—"

"Before you panic, I'll let you know that I will deal with Suguru myself. You'd be doomed if it wasn't for me, wouldn't you?" His laugh filled the air, wild and echoing. "Quite a sadist," he recalled; one could debate which of them was worse.

"I don't understand. What happened to you? Did Sukuna do something?"

Satoru snorted. "Why does he get all the credit? You know, he can be quite affectionate if treated right. Like a dog—although I prefer cats."

She could only stare at him with disbelief turning into fear, then a hint of panic.

"You're not joking."

He shrugged nonchalantly. "Right. So, will you drink this, or can I have it back? I'm getting older by the second and I have teacher duties to attend to."

Certainly, with the only purpose of causing Satoru more misery, she did not, indeed, hand the bottle over. Instead, she stepped closer to him, her small chin almost touching his chest as she stared up into his face. "What teacher duties?"

"Ah, that one is a mystery. You'll find out soon enough." He breathed in the sweet smell of coconut—his shampoo. "Keep the bottle; looks like you need it more than me. If you want another massage, let me know. Suguru's good, but I'll blow your mind."

Satoru turned to leave, but Utahime called out his name.

"How do you even sleep at night?"

He stopped in his tracks, turned around and pinned her in spot with his eyes ablaze.

"Usually on my stomach, sometimes while hugging a pillow."

With that, he left the library and the door closed noiselessly behind him. The sharp smell of salt water lingered in his nose, filling him with an uneasy sense of freedom. He was whole, but inside his mind, all the boards were loose.

When Satoru stepped back into the kitchen, Megumi wasn't there anymore. His empty glass was left sitting on the countertop. Satoru scanned the rest of the house until his eyes rested upon water droplets running down pale shoulders. Megumi's fingers—slightly crooked from all the cursed fights—were gently kneading his scalp through black hair.

In a slow, languid manner, Satoru grabbed another bottle from the fridge and leaned against the kitchen island to admire the scene. Megumi looked thinner than before; could make out his bones through his skin as he stood under the steady stream of hot water.

Washing away the confusion, the hurt, Satoru thought.

He stepped back from the counter, teleporting to his own bedroom rather than running into Utahime. His gaze still lingered on Megumi's wet body as he peeled off his clothes and swallowed some of his drink. Then in one quiet moment, he shifted over to Megumi's bathroom. The sound of rushing water muffled his steps as he approached him.

Satoru wrapped an arm around his torso, and although Megumi stopped frozen in place, he didn't push him away.

"You look nice like this," Satoru remarked. "We should take more showers together."

"Satoru now is not the time," Megumi sighed. "The people at the school—"

"Killing the mood, sweetheart?" He snickered at his own joke, his chuckle low and deep in his chest.

"Don't call me that," Megumi muttered, but Satoru felt the shiver that ran through his body.

"Ah, but you are sweet," Satoru murmured back, pressing a kiss to the curve of his neck. "Sweet and delectable, like a ripe peach."

"You're drunk," Megumi replied drily, only this time it was laced with a twinge amusement instead of hostility.

"Only a little," Satoru said, his hands trailing down Megumi's sides as he nuzzled at his neck. "Just enough to make us both forget about what lies ahead for a little while."

Megumi's breath caught as Satoru's hand moved lower, caressing his hips before trailing a path between his legs. Satoru growled softly in response to Megumi hardening under his touch.

"Are you feeling nervous?" Satoru asked as he slowly traced down the curve of his back with his fingertips. His touch was gentle, fanning over the bitten and bruised body with delicate purpose. "Are you afraid that I'll hurt you again?"

Despite the defiance burning in his gaze, Megumi still grabbed hold of Satoru's wrist and urged him to keep going. The shower reminded Satoru of rain, of Sukuna; droplets of water tumbled from Satoru's hair and down Megumi's shoulder. Megumi's dainty heart raced like Satoru knew it would, like that of any lover who had felt his hands upon them.

And Satoru knew the territory, the power he held over them; it was no longer about love, now it was all about what he wanted. And what he wanted was control, to shape bodies and souls into whatever he desired; to turn their words around so that they loathed themselves for yearning him so desperately.

"You were not yourself," Megumi uttered with a trembling voice. "I'll be here for you, just as I promised. When we get rid of Suguru and bring Sukuna back, everything will return to normal. Just like it used to be."

His cursed self gave a cold laugh. Standing behind him, Satoru guided a finger into Megumi as his other hand came gently around the pale throat. Megumi's body drew in a bow against Satoru's chest, his little speech stifled.

"That's it," Satoru whispered, adding another, bending them. The water was running colder, the sensations running higher. Satoru's hold was firm, but not rough. He didn't draw blood from the already damaged body. "Show me how much pleasure you can take, and I'll give you as much in return."

Megumi moaned softly as Satoru worked him open, his scrawny hand barely reaching the sink to hold on with white knuckles. His body was pulled taut, legs already shaking from the tension Satoru was holding him in.

After all, this was for his own good.

"Keep going," Satoru encouraged, grazing his lips across Megumi's ear when he proved too overwhelmed to respond. "It's okay, we have all the time in the world."

Satoru continued to thrust his fingers into Megumi, paying close attention to how wet the running water made him, how loose. Megumi whimpered as Satoru stretched him farther than he was accustomed to. Satoru leaned forward, careful not to put too much of his weight on him and kissed the corner of his mouth.

"Just a little more," he told him tightly before pressing in one final time. Every motion practised a thousand times before, another ship succumbing to the rising ocean. Satoru's own breathing grew heavier. "You ever get so overstimulated that you can feel the blood pumping in your gums?"

Megumi cursed and groaned his name as his body finally let go of its tensity, allowing him to collapse against the sink.

Satoru felt it too—the rush that surged in his veins, not just physical pleasure either, one to overwhelm all prior thought processes or any sense of self-loathing; but something deeper: solace for what felt like years' worth of anguish finally coming to an end at lingering tips and cascading over his skin like a waterfall unto cool rocks after the summer heat.

That was what it must have felt like, Satoru thought, if he could still feel any of it.

Megumi's cries of pleasure lacked any self-control, yet his eyes remained vacant and unreadable. As the pleasure ebbed and reality came back into focus, he looked upon Satoru with something far more complex than simple admiration or disbelief.

Gently, Satoru removed his hand and stepped out of the shower. He bent down to kiss Megumi softly, silently apologising for pushing him too hard. Megumi smiled up at him warily before standing on his own two feet.

"Wash up, then meet me in the garage in fifteen minutes."

"Oh… okay." Megumi's eyes were searching, but he didn't press further.

'You want to fuck him 'til he bleeds,' the curse taunted. 'One last kiss before you cast him away?'

Instead, Satoru gave Megumi a soft smile and turned away, leaving the bathroom before he changed his mind, gave in to the itch in his palms. He saw that Utahime had recovered from her distress and discussed something with Itadori at the dinner table. He could have listened in, but really didn't give a shit.

He changed his clothes and took the elevator to the underground garage. The cars he owned were all there, lined up neatly in their designated spots. He hadn't driven them much in the past since he could warp anywhere, but now, the idea of speed and reckless driving intrigued him again.

Inside the massive concrete room, everything was polished and shiny, giving a demonstration of subjugating wealth. It was unwelcoming, devoid of the warmth or life.

When Megumi eventually joined him through the glass doors of the elevator, he eyed the empty walls and the cars with sadness. Satoru didn't question it; he knew the look too well anyways. He was just glad that Megumi's anaemic face had regained some colour.

"Expand your domain." Satoru casually uttered, and Megumi shot him a disbelieving look.

"Why?"

"How does training with me sound?"

"Don't we have more pressing matters at hand? Iori-sensei is already mad at you, what else did you do to provoke her? She's planning something with Itadori and didn't even let me in the room."

Satoru chuckled at Megumi's sharp observation. "This is a pressing matter, Megumi-chan," he replied, amusement lacing his voice. Megumi scowled. "We need a body for Sukuna to go against Suguru's army."

"You mean—" Megumi started, the realisation slowly dawning on him.

"Yup, we'll practice creating one. Only two days left—let's get going."

Satoru waved for him to start impatiently. But Megumi stayed still; he spoke softly—almost too quiet to be heard. "What if it goes wrong? Everything I do turns out wrong."

Satoru stifled a scoff of annoyance.

"Don't overthink this," his wry words cut through the air like a scalpel. His large hand came to Megumi's neck, and he tilted his chin up. "Look in my eyes. There's nothing to fear here. I'm here with you."

'In about five seconds, he's gonna make the Holocaust look like a goddamn picnic,' the curse snickered in amusement and Satoru barely held back an eyeroll.

Megumi managed a faint shudder, trying hard to shake off the terror and anxiety that had him in its clutches.

'I gotta give it to you, though; how easily you've got him hooked onto your every word now! Little bastard almost worships you.'

Megumi found his voice again. "I don't even know what 'control' means anymore." But he still shut his eyes and Satoru took a step back, giving him some space.

'I hope you have this place insured,' the curse continued, and Satoru sighed at how he had already learned the modern vocabulary. 'Although, I guess, nothing in your world of concrete is covered against cursed explosions.'

'You speak too much,' Satoru shot back but kept his focus on Megumi as he breathed in and out and relaxed his shoulders. There was dried blood underneath his fingernails, hadn't come off with the long shower they had.

He expanded his domain and the room fell into a perfect domain of shadows. If Satoru was mildly surprised, he didn't let it show.

Megumi looked at him differently than he had at the cottage—like Satoru was dangerously unpredictable here—and waited for further instructions.

"Create something, anything," Satoru said, nonchalantly leaning his weight onto one side.

Megumi scoffed and his gaze darted around the room, appearing to grow increasingly unhinged. Seemingly determined though, he squared his shoulders and forced out a smile.

From the depths of the darkness that blotted the concrete flooring emerged a figure, its silhouette looming against the shadows just as tall as Satoru, held his weight the same way he did. And, of course, Satoru realised it was him. He stepped forward to inspect it more closely.

"I am undoubtedly in better shape, but I guess it'll suffice," he said coolly, a smirk playing on his lips as he took a step backward. "Why me though?"

When Megumi smiled, it was enough to send shivers down anyone's spine, like Sukuna himself had arrived in the room.

"In all honesty, this is a much-improved version of you," Megumi stated, counting on fingers as he continued. "Firstly, it doesn't speak—already one hundred percent better than the real you. Secondly, since it can't speak, there's no chance it'll break promises or lie."

Satoru remained stoic despite the mounting tension in the air, his eyes piercing, except for the slight tremble in his hands as they clenched tightly in his pockets.

"But most of all, I just want something to rip apart. This seems to fit perfectly."

"Oh yeah?" Satoru mused with a grin as a burst of pain rocked through Megumi's body, dropping him to the ground panting for breath. Megumi let out a pained gasp as Satoru reached out with an open palm directed at the shadow replica and his energy began to pool into it.

'Impressive,' it drawled, silencing Satoru's lingering sympathy.

"What are you doing?" Megumi forced out between gritted teeth.

"Oh, sorry," Satoru said with faux remorse. "Forgot to tell you but this process is extremely taxing on the Ten Shadows user. Crazy right?" He chuckled playfully and then added menacingly, "We'll see about the tearing though."

"So… you wanted to fucking torture me?" Megumi croaked. "Again? Hadn't you had enough?"

Satoru scoffed in response. "Relax now, don't be dramatic. Only one more second and we're done."

Megumi looked like he was about to black out.

"Okay, I think we're there," Satoru announced gleefully. "Yup, that's it—should be good now."

He stopped the energy flow and Megumi blinked away tears. The shadow silhouette was glowing a little, like there was silver woven into it. Megumi groaned as he pushed himself up again, stumbling to get another look at the shadow.

"That it?" Megumi asked in disbelief once he had regained control of his body and breathing.

"Not even close. But the more uncomfortable part for you is over. Sukuna, of course, will have a grand time when his soul is squeezed into this," Satoru replied casually, a smirk playing on his lips as his eyes glinted with delight. He gestured to the shadow figure and then the silver lining that seemed to pulse like veins along its surface. "This time you get a warning—that sound good?"

"Warning for what?"

"I'm going to touch your soul," Satoru said casually as he knelt beside the shadow figure and plunged his hand inside it. Motes of silver light shimmered through his fingers and Megumi involuntarily gasped in pleasure. Stiffly, he tried to keep his eyes on Satoru, even as all control left him and he crumpled back onto the floor, clenching his teeth tightly. Satoru grinned maniacally. "And you will like it, a little too much perhaps."

A pair of teal-green eyes, so familiar to Satoru, glared at him bitterly and yet he couldn't stop himself from guffawing with pleasure. His lust swelled with each moan that emanated from Megumi's lips as he convulsed in a mix of pain and ecstasy. He could sense the heat radiating from his body.

"You okay?" Satoru asked mockingly, feeling a thrill surge through him with every bit of anguish displayed before him. "We can stop for now. I wouldn't want this to get too rough for you."

"No," Megumi replied, breathing heavily through his nose. "Continue. Do whatever you have to do."

Satoru let out a wicked laugh as he relished in the moment of power he was afforded.

"It's going to take a while, but it gets better over time," he continued conversationally as he caressed Megumi's soul with sadistic glee, even though his own breathing was ragged and tight. "Once your body gets used to this; to me. The first time is… intense."

Satoru moved slowly, watching through half-lidded eyes as euphoria and power surged through Megumi with each stroke, eliciting guttural sounds from him, completely exposed. One of Megumi's hands was pressed between his thighs, the other trying to uselessly claw at the concrete floor.

"Ah, so you do like it," Satoru drawled, gently tugging at the strands of his soul.

That's when the begging began: please, Satoru, though he had no idea what he wanted. Unceasing cries and desperate pleas echoing around them. A wild chorus of his name ringing through the air; pleas for Satoru to kiss him, fill him, fuck him; offerings of everything up to his very soul if only Satoru would just touch him.

"Please," Megumi begged, desperation seeping into every word.

Satoru's breathing was effortless, and his gaze shifted over the figure before him, eyes wild with hunger and fervour. His blood rushed with a feral intensity as Megumi's pleas carried on around him. The bloody curse screamed at him, goading him to take what he wanted from the trembling figure on the asphalt floor in front of him.

As if burnt with fire, Satoru wrenched his arm from the darkness and after a moment, all noises—except for Megumi's breathing—ceased. Megumi didn't dare meet his gaze as he curled on the floor.

The shadows started to fall away, and Satoru turned his eyes from Megumi to the vessel. A brilliant white light blazed through it, as it pulsed like a living organism—before it too was taken apart.

The final creation would take but an hour, but Satoru needed to get Megumi over the threshold so he would be able to handle the full force of Infinity. To not burn his soul to a crisp; the best outcome leaving them both beyond repair—but alive. Sukuna would know what to do once the body was ready.

"Come on, get up," he spoke flatly, gesturing for Megumi to take his hand.

"Just leave me alone."

Satoru noticed that his pants were wet with come, dried tears streaked down his face, body sweaty like he had just finished running a marathon. The fluorescent lights seemed to only mock him further, as they brought his need to light.

"This wallowing won't do anyone any good," he said briskly. "Let me help you up stand, and I'll teleport you back to your bedroom; find something dry for you to wear. We don't have much time left—we'll have to run through this again after you get some rest. A few hours, max." Satoru chuckled, "Aren't you thrilled, Megumi-chan?"

A/N: Thank you for reading! I hope you're as excited as I am to take a ride with Satoru's sadistic streak.

You can find me on Twitter: Eg0_d3ath