Chapter 1: The Wrong Hands
The hinges groaned, a low and familiar whine he’d meant to fix last weekend. Toji shouldered the door open, his large frame filling the narrow entrance to Megumi’s dorm room. The lavender scent hit him first, that cheap plug-in shit she loved, underneath it the smell of old books and the faint, damp sweetness of a body that had been sleeping and sweating in the same small space for too long. “Kid, you forgot your—” The words died in his throat.His daughter was on the bed.Not asleep.Very much awake.
Megumi’s head snapped toward the sound, her eyes, usually so serious and withdrawn, wide with a horror so absolute it froze the air in Toji’s lungs. One of her long legs was hooked over the side of the mattress, the other bent, knee falling open. The thin cotton of her sleep shorts was shoved down, a dark triangle against the pale skin of her thighs. Her free hand was trapped between her legs, fingers curled, glistening.
She made a sound, a choked-off gasp, and scrambled back against the wall, yanking the rumpled sheet over her hips. The motion was frantic, useless.He’d already seen everything. The frantic rise and fall of her chest under her too-tight t-shirt, the way the fabric strained over her breasts—big, like her mother’s, a fact he acknowledged with a detached, clinical shame. The blush that burned from her collarbones up her neck, flooding her cheeks.“Dad,” she breathed, the word a shattered whisper.
Toji’s brain short-circuited. The world tunneled to the details: the pile of those ridiculous romance novels on the nightstand, the damp patch darkening the sheet beneath her, the raw, desperate energy vibrating in the cramped room.He’d seen violence in every form. This was a different kind of nakedness, and it terrified him.
He stood there, a statue holding a forgotten lunch bag.His own daughter’s lunch bag.Jesus Christ.
“I… the door was unlocked,” he managed, his voice a gravelly rumble. It was a stupid thing to say.An apology.An accusation.Nothing.
“Get out.” Her voice was tighter now, frayed at the edges with humiliation.He should have. He should have turned, closed the door, walked away, and let them both pretend this never happened.But his feet were rooted. He saw the tremor in her hands where they clutched the sheet. He saw the sheen of frustrated tears in her eyes, not of sadness, but of a need so deep it had driven her to this sunless box in the middle of the day.He was a killer.He understood need. The ugly, demanding kind.“Megumi.” Her name felt too intimate in his mouth.
“Don’t.” She shook her head, looking anywhere but at him. “Just don’t, please.”
He took a step forward.The floorboard creaked under his weight. “You were… you couldn’t…”
“Stop talking!” she hissed, finally looking at him, her gaze sharp with a venom he’d never seen directed at him before.It was pure shame, weaponized.
He set the lunch bag down on her cluttered desk, slow, deliberate. He didn’t know what he was doing.His heart was a dull, heavy hammer against his ribs. This was his child.His little girl. And she was wound so tight she was coming apart on a shitty dorm bed, trying to fuck her own fingers and failing.
“Let me help.” The words were out before he could cage them.
She stared at him as if he’d sprouted another head.A bitter, broken laugh escaped her.“Help? What, you’re an expert now?”
“I know frustration,” he said, his voice low. He moved closer, until his knees bumped the edge of the mattress. He could smell her properly now, that secret, musky scent underneath the lavender.It was arousal.It filled the room.It filled his head. “I know when someone’s fighting against their own body.You’re all tense. You’ll never get there like that.”
Her breath hitched.She just stared, her knuckles white on the sheet.
Slowly, as if approaching a spooked animal, he sat on the very edge of the bed. The springs groaned under his weight. He reached out, not for her, but to gently pry her death-grip from the sheet.Her fingers were ice-cold. He enveloped her small, cold hand in his large, calloused one.His thumb stroked over her knuckles.
“Dad,” she whispered again, but this time it wasn’t a command. It was a question.A plea.“Shhh.” He kept his eyes on their joined hands. “Just let it go.The embarrassment.The thinking. It’s just a thing that needs fixing.”
With his other hand, he reached for the sheet she was holding.He tugged it, once, firmly. She released it.It pooled around her waist. She was exposed again, her legs tense, pressed together.The dark thatch of curls was damp, slick. He could see her inner lips, swollen, peeking out.His mouth went dry.A furnace ignited low in his gut. This was wrong.This was so profoundly wrong. And yet, the need in the room was a third presence, demanding satisfaction.“Spread your legs, Megumi.”
A shudder ran through her. For a second, he thought she’d kick him, bolt. Then, with a slow, aching reluctance, she let her knees fall apart.The air touched her, and she flinched. He saw her clit, a small, hard pearl, peeking from its hood. Her opening was flushed a deep, needy pink, glistening with her own wetness.
“See?” he murmured, his voice rough.“You’re soaked.Your body’s ready. You’re just in your own way.”
He released her hand and, without breaking eye contact, brought his own fingers down. He didn’t touch her core, not yet. He ran his fingertips lightly up the inside of her thigh, feeling the goosebumps rise in their wake. She jerked, a gasp catching in her throat.“Relax,” he commanded softly. It was the voice he used when she was scared of a thunderstorm as a child.Authoritative.Safe.
He traced a circle on her inner thigh, then another, drifting closer.Her hips gave a tiny, involuntary twitch. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. When the tip of his middle finger finally grazed her outer lips, she let out a sharp, ragged moan.“There?” he asked, applying the faintest pressure.
“Y-yes,” she choked out, her eyes screwed shut.
“Say ‘yes, Dad’.”
Her eyes flew open.A fresh wave of blush.But her hips tilted, offering. “Yes… Dad.”
He rewarded her by sliding that single finger along her slit, gathering her slickness. She was so wet it dripped. He slicked his finger up and down, coating her, not entering, just massaging her swollen flesh. Her back arched slightly, pushing her tits against her shirt.
“Good girl,” he said, and the words sent a new kind of shock through both of them.He circled her entrance, feeling the tight, clutching pulse of it. “You’re so tight, baby.So fucking tight. No wonder you couldn’t get your fingers in.”
He pressed against the hole.It yielded only slightly, a tight, resistant ring.
“Breathe out,” he instructed.He watched her chest deflate. As she exhaled, he pushed the blunt tip of his finger inside, just past the first knuckle.
She cried out, a raw, ragged sound.Her inner muscles clenched around him, a vicious, hot squeeze.
“Fuck,” he breathed, mesmerized.She was impossibly tight, a slick, hot vise. He could feel every tremor, every frantic pulse of her body. He worked his finger gently, just that shallow in-and-out, letting her get used to the stretch.“That’s it.Take it. Just my finger, baby.See? You can take it.”
He added a second finger alongside the first, pressing. She whimpered, a high, desperate sound, and her body resisted for a moment before opening with a soft, wet pop. She was full now, stretched around his two thick fingers.She threw her head back against the wall, her mouth open, panting.
“Daddy…” The word slipped out, a broken sob.It undid him. The last thread of restraint snapped.“That’s right,” he growled, his own breath coming hard. He began to pump his fingers in a slow, deep rhythm, curling them slightly on each inward stroke. “Daddy’s got you.Daddy’s fixing it.Let go.Come on my fingers. Do it.”
He leaned over her, his other hand coming up to squeeze her breast through her shirt, his thumb finding her nipple, pinching it hard. She screamed, a short, sharp sound, and her body locked up. Her cunt clamped down on his fingers with a brutal, rhythmic intensity, wave after wave of it, so tight he could barely move.Wetness flooded his hand, hot and copious.
He kept fucking her through it, drawing out every last spasm until she went boneless against the wall, her eyes closed, tears leaking from the corners.Her chest heaved.
Slowly, carefully, he withdrew his fingers.They shone in the dim light. The room stank of sex and salt and shame.He stood up, his knees cracking. He looked at her, collapsed and spent, a debauched painting in the thin afternoon light. The ache in his own jeans was a painful, guilty throb.Without a word, he turned and walked to the door. He picked up the lunch bag from the desk.
“I’ll fix the door this weekend,” he said, his back to her.His voice was a stranger’s.
He stepped into the hall, pulling the broken door shut behind him, leaving her in the quiet, scented dark. The echo of her word—Daddy—bounced around his skull, a mantra, a condemnation. He leaned his forehead against the cool wall of the corridor, listening to the empty silence, feeling the sticky proof on his hand.It was a problem now.A big, fucking, undeniable problem. And he had no idea what to do next.