Chapter 5: The Abandoned Sacristy
The air in the sacristy was a tomb’s breath, thick with dust and the faint, sweet rot of mildew. Sukuna shouldered the warped door open and carried her inside, her feet brushing against piles of discarded parchment that scattered like dead leaves.
He didn’t lay her down gently. He dumped her onto a mound of moth-eaten priestly robes piled in a corner. The velvet was brittle, the gold embroidery tarnished black. It crunched under her weight, releasing a cloud of dust that smelled of neglect and frankincense. She sneezed, the sound absurdly human in the gloom.
“Bless you,” Gojo said from across the small room. He was already rummaging through an old iron-banded chest, its lid thrown back. The flickering candle on a nearby shelf made his white hair look like a halo of frost. “Ah. Jackpot.”
He straightened up, holding two objects. In one hand, a coil of coarse, hempen rope, frayed and stiff with age. In the other, a large crucifix, its silver tarnished to a dull grey, the figure of Christ twisted in rust-streaked agony.
Sukuna loomed over her. “On your back.”
Her body moved before her mind could protest. It was easier to obey. The memory of that third, soul-rending climax had rewired something fundamental. She lay back on the rough fabrics, the cold seeping through to her skin. She stared at the sagging beams of the ceiling, trying to find a prayer. All she found was static, and a low, waiting hum in her blood.
Sukuna’s hands—all four of them—were efficient. Two pinned her wrists to the robes above her head, his grip absolute. The other pair smoothed her hair from her face, almost tenderly, before holding her shoulders down. She was utterly exposed, stretched out like an offering on the altar of debris.
Gojo approached, humming. He sat on the edge of the pile, his weight dipping her toward him. The rope was rough against his fingers as he uncoiled it. “Gotta make sure you don’t wander off, little saint. This place is full of dangers.”
“She’s not going anywhere,” Sukuna grunted.
“Habit of a lifetime,” Gojo replied conversationally, looping the rope around her left wrist. He pulled it tight, the fibers biting instantly, chafing the tender skin. He secured it with a knot that was swift, complex, and unyielding. He did the same to her right, tying both to a heavy, carved leg of a fallen confessional booth that lay half-rotten nearby. “There. Comfy?”
Megumi tested the bonds. They gave no slack. A sharp, panicked breath hitched in her chest.
“Shhh,” Gojo soothed, but his eyes were on the crucifix in his other hand. He turned it over, studying the eroded metal. “Symbolism’s a bit on the nose, don’t you think, Sukuna?”
“It’ll do.”
Gojo’s free hand trailed down her side, over her hip, to her inner thigh. She flinched. His touch was warm, but the metal of the crucifix was not. He pressed the cold, tarnished base of it against her skin.
She jerked, a gasp tearing from her. The cold was a shock, a brand. He dragged it upward slowly, following the path his tongue had taken, the uneven texture scraping. It was violation distilled into a single, awful object—the emblem of her faith, used to trace the evidence of her sin.
“See how it fits?” Gojo murmured. His voice had lost its playful edge, gaining a low, instructional tone. “Time to learn a new prayer. One that means something.”
He positioned the base of the crucifix. Not the figure. The plain, tapered end where it would have slid into a stand.
Understanding dawned, cold and horrific. “No,” she whispered, the first word she’d managed in what felt like years.
“Yes,” Sukuna said, and bent his head.
He took her mouth not to kiss her, but to consume her protest. It was brutal, claiming, all teeth and possessive pressure. He swallowed the weak ‘no’ and any other that might have followed. Her world narrowed to the invasion of his taste—smoke and iron—and the relentless, slow pressure there.
The metal was unforgiving. Cold, unyielding, and too broad. Gojo worked it with a patient, terrifying precision, his other hand splayed on her lower belly as if to feel the internal shift. There was a painful, stretching burn, a resistance that felt like it would tear her apart. A choked scream was trapped in Sukuna’s mouth, becoming a muffled sob.
Then it was inside. The full, solid weight of it. A profound, sacrilegious fullness. Gojo held it there, watching her face, his head tilted. Her eyes were wide, streaming tears that caught the candlelight.
“Breathe,” he instructed softly. She realized she wasn’t. Her chest was locked. She sucked in a ragged, wet gasp around Sukuna’s kiss.
“Good girl.” Gojo began to move it. A slow, tortuous withdrawal, then a push back in. The friction was alien, metallic, devastating. It scraped a place that had only known the heat of flesh. Each movement was a blasphemous parody, a piston driving a new truth into her core: this was her purpose now. To be filled. By them, by their will, by the very icons of what she’d forsaken.
The pain didn’t fade. It transmuted. It blended with the humiliation and the strange, despicable authority of their total control. A slick, hot shame gathered, easing the crucifix’s path. Gojo felt it. His lips curved.
“She’s getting it,” he said to Sukuna, who finally broke the kiss, letting her drag in heaving lungfuls of dank air.
Sukuna looked down at her ruined mouth, her bound form, the metal glinting where it disappeared into her body. A low, approving rumble came from his chest. “Told you. The pure ones fall the hardest. They have further to go.”
He moved then, positioning himself between her splayed, bound legs. He was still fully aroused, a blunt, menacing reality that made the crucifix inside her feel like a precursor. Gojo didn’t remove it. He kept a hand on it, a steady, owning pressure, as Sukuna guided himself to her.
“This,” Sukuna growled, the head of his cock pressing against her where the metal met her flesh, “is the only sacrament left for you.”
He pushed.
The stretch was impossible. It was too much, an agonizing fullness that bordered on rupture. She screamed, a raw, tearing sound that echoed off the stone walls. The rope cut into her wrists as she strained against it. Sukuna didn’t stop. He sheathed himself completely in one relentless, burying thrust, forcing himself in alongside the cold, rigid shape of the crucifix.
The sensation obliterated her. It was pain so acute it became a kind of piercing clarity. She was packed, stuffed, utterly claimed. Her vision whited out at the edges.
Then he began to move.
Each thrust was a tectonic shock. The metal shifted inside her, a cruel counterpoint to the burning friction of his flesh. Gojo watched, his hand still resting on the crucifix, his blue eyes bright with fascination behind the blindfold. He timed a twist of the metal to Sukuna’s retreat, making her cry out again.
“There’s your prayer,” Gojo whispered, his voice the only soft thing in the room. “Can you feel it? Every part of you is spoken for.”
And she could. The pain was not fading, but her body, that treacherous, adaptable thing, was learning its new boundaries. A searing, unwanted pleasure began to spark deep beneath the agony, fed by the sheer totality of the violation. She was an object, a vessel being used simultaneously by two masters, and the horror of it was fused with a dark, glowing ember of acceptance.
Sukuna’s pace grew savage, his grunts filling the air. The rotten floorboards groaned in rhythm. He was chasing his end, and Megumi knew, with a sudden, chilling certainty, what it meant. The synopsis word echoed in her shattered mind. Breeding.
It wasn’t about progeny. It was about permanence. A mark. A claim that would seep into her very essence.
When his release came, it was a flood. Heat, profound and copious, filling the spaces the metal couldn’t, a searing contrast to its coldness. It felt like a brand being poured into her womb. He held himself deep, pulsing, until she felt overfull, until a trickle of the mixed proof escaped down her thigh.
He pulled out with a wet, final sound and stood, leaving her gaping, ruined, and tied.
Gojo finally slid the crucifix free. It emerged with a soft, sticky sound. He held it up, dripping. He looked at it, then at her glazed, tear-streaked eyes.
“See?” he said, almost kindly. “You hallow it now.”
He tossed the soiled object onto the chest. It clattered in the silence.
Megumi went limp, her bonds the only thing holding her up. The sensations were a storm inside her—searing ache, degrading warmth, the deep, throbbing imprint of them both. She felt occupied in a way that went beyond the physical. A silence settled in her mind, vast and empty of everything but the echo of their possession.
Sukuna, wiping himself with a scrap of velvet, glanced at Gojo. “Your turn. She’s warm and ready.”
Gojo smiled, stretching his fingers. “Oh, I think she’s been ready. But let’s let her rest a minute. Let it all settle in.” He leaned close to her ear, his breath a cool caress. “Just think, Megumi. This is only chapter five.”
He untied the rope from the confessional leg, but left the knots around her wrists. He gathered the loose end and wrapped it around his own hand, a lead. “Come on. Up. Let’s find you some water. Can’t have our vessel cracking.”
He pulled, not hard, but insistently. Mechanically, she tried to sit up. Her body felt heavy, foreign, stamped with their use. Sukuna watched, a satisfied predator, as she staggered to her feet, led by Gojo’s rope, the proof of their union dripping down her legs onto the rotting floor.
She took a step, then another. She did not look back at the soiled robes, or the crucifix lying in the dust. She kept her eyes on the darkened archway ahead, where Gojo was leading her. The momentum was theirs. She simply followed.