Chapter 2: A Punishment for the Interruption
The door clicked shut, sealing away the sound of Yuki’s choked sobs. The silence in the apartment was immediate, heavy, broken only by the low drone of the refrigerator and the frantic beat of Megumi’s heart.
She uncurled from the couch, her earlier triumph souring instantly. The space where Yuki had stood felt charged, contaminated. She watched Sukuna’s back, the muscles rigid under his skin, the new bite she’d given him gleaming wetly in the TV light.
“Kuna-nii.”
He didn’t turn. He was staring at the closed door, the cigarette between his fingers forgotten, ash trembling.
“You let her talk to me like that,” Megumi said, her voice dropping into a low, wounded whine. “She called me jealous. You just stood there.”
“I got rid of her, didn’t I?” His voice was gravel, distant.
“Not fast enough.” She kicked at a bottle on the floor, sending it clattering against the leg of the coffee table. The sound was violently loud. “She looked at me. She looked at all my marks on you and she still thought she had a right to be here. It makes me sick.”
Finally, he turned. His crimson eyes were dark, unreadable. “What do you want me to do, baby? I threw her out. It’s done.”
“It’s not done!” The shout ripped out of her, surprising them both. Tears of pure, hot frustration pricked her eyes. She hated them. She hated feeling anything but his complete attention. “You were out with her all night. You came home stinking like her. And then you just… you sit there and let her question me? I’m still empty because of you. I’m still so empty, Kuna-nii.”
She saw the shift in him. The distant annoyance melted away, replaced by something hotter, more focused. A predator’s patience snapping. He took a last, long drag from the cigarette and crushed it into the overflowing ashtray, the gesture final.
“Come here,” he said, his voice soft.
A thrill shot down her spine, cold and electric. She didn’t move. “No.”
“Megumi. Come. Here.”
She shook her head, crossing her arms over her bralette, lifting her chin in a defiance she didn’t fully feel. She needed his anger. It was the only thing that could fill the yawning, jealous hole inside her.
He moved then, fast. He was just a blur of motion, and then his hands were on her, one tangling in her hair, the other gripping her jaw, forcing her to look up at him. The smell of him—smoke, sweat, him—invaded her senses. “You’re throwing a fit because I did what you wanted? I sent her away. This is what you get for being a brat.”
“I’m not a brat,” she gasped, even as she pressed her body into his.
“You are.” His grip tightened. “My spoiled, fucking brat of a baby sister. You think you own me so completely, you can’t stand a few hours of sharing. Even when it means nothing.” He leaned down, his mouth against her ear. “You need to be taught patience.”
“I don’t want patience.” Her defiance crumbled into a whisper. “I want you. I want you to fix it. Right now.”
He shoved her backwards. She fell onto the stained couch, the old cushions exhaling a cloud of dust and memory. He was over her in an instant, his knees pinning her thighs, his weight crushing the air from her lungs. His hand slid down her stomach, fingers hooking into the lace of her panties. A sharp tug. The fragile material gave way with a sad, ripping sound.
“See?” he growled, his hand rough and seeking. “Empty. Just a jealous, fucking mess. All for me.”
His fingers were inside her without ceremony, a brutal, claiming stretch. She cried out, a sharp, broken sound that morphed into a moan as her back arched off the couch. It wasn’t gentleness she wanted. It was this—the obliteration of everything that wasn’t him.
“You made your point,” she panted, her nails digging into his forearm. “Kuna-nii, please.”
“Please what?” He worked his fingers, a cruel, knowing rhythm. “You’re the one who needs to learn. Say it.”
“I’m yours,” she whimpered, the words dissolving into another moan as his thumb found a different pressure. “Only yours, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, just—”
He withdrew his hand, shushing her with a brutal kiss. She could taste the cigarettes, the whiskey, the ghost of his indifference. He fumbled with his boxers, freed himself, and then he was pushing into her, a slow, inexorable invasion that made her vision blur at the edges. She was tight, unprepared, and he relished it, a low groan rumbling from his chest.
“This,” he hissed, his hips snapping forward, seating himself fully inside her. “This is what you are. This is all you are.”
He didn’t wait for her to adjust. He set a punishing pace, each drive of his hips jarring her body against the cracked leather. The couch springs screamed in time with her muffled cries. He wrapped one hand in her hair again, anchoring her, using it to control the angle of her mouth as he kissed her, bit her lips. His other hand found her throat.
His fingers pressed down, not enough to stop air, but enough to make the world narrow to the pounding of blood in her ears, to the desperate, gasping breaths she could manage, to the overwhelming, choking fullness of him. Her moans became strained, guttural things, punctuated by sharp, hiccupping whines.
“You see anyone else here?” he snarled, his face a mask of focused intensity. Sweat dripped from his chin onto her chest. “You smell anyone else on me now?”
“No,” she choked out, her saliva slicking her chin. “No, just you, Kuna-nii, just you—”
He leaned into the hand at her throat, increasing the pressure. Spots danced behind her eyelids. The sensation was terrifying, electrifying—a complete surrender. Her body clamped around him, a frantic, pulsing rhythm that ripped a raw scream from her constricted throat.
He cursed, his own control fraying. His thrusts lost their rhythm, becoming deeper, harder, a final, brutal attempt to fuse them together. “Mine,” he growled, the word a prayer and a verdict. “My blood. My bitch. My baby sister. Only one I’ll ever love. You take all of it. You take every fucking part of me.”
The climax tore through him, a violent shudder that wracked his entire frame. He held himself deep, pulsing inside her, his grip on her throat finally relaxing to a caress as she gasped for air, her own body twitching through endless, rolling aftershocks.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing, the sticky heat between them, the smell of sex and salt and spent violence.
He collapsed onto her, his weight a familiar comfort. She could feel his heart hammering against her own. She turned her head, nuzzling into the sweat-damp skin of his neck, her lips finding the bite mark over his heart. She licked it, a soft, cleansing stroke.
He stirred, his hand moving to her hair, stroking it with a tenderness that would have been unimaginable minutes before. “Okay?” he murmured, the fight gone from his voice.
“Mm.” She was still empty, but it was a different kind now. A satisfied emptiness, a well-fed void. “She’s really gone?”
“Yeah, baby. She’s gone.”
Megumi closed her eyes. Her fingers traced the scratches she’d left on his back. “Good.”
But as his breathing evened out toward sleep, her eyes opened again, staring at the water-stained ceiling. The jealousy was a low, sleeping ember now, banked but not extinguished. He was hers. He proved it, over and over. The proof was leaking out of her, onto his couch. The proof was etched into his skin.
It would have to be enough. For now.