Chapter 1: Blood and Entitlement
The air in Sukuna’s apartment was stale, thick with the smell of old food and man. Megumi stood in the doorway of the living room, her small frame outlined by the harsh hallway light. She wore a thin, white cotton nightie, a dark, rusty bloom stark against the fabric between her legs. Her bare feet were quiet on the scratched wood floor.
Sukuna didn’t look away from the TV. The glow from the highlight reel played across his sharp features. He took a slow sip from his beer, the muscles in his forearm shifting.
“It hurts,” Megumi said, her voice a thin whine. She hovered at the edge of the stained rug.
“Take a pill.” His tone was flat, uninterested. He adjusted his position on the sun-bleached leather couch, the material creaking under his weight.
“That’s not the kind of hurt.” She shuffled forward, arms wrapped around herself. The chaotic mess of the room—the bottles, the crumpled wrappers, a lone sneaker by the table—seemed to orbit him, a testament to his sheer, lazy presence. “It’s an ache. Deep. It makes me feel… empty and full at the same time. And restless.”
Now he glanced at her. A slow, condescending smirk pulled at his mouth. His eyes traveled from her face, down the line of her neck, over the slight swell of her breasts under the nightie, to the stain. “So it’s that time. Shouldn’t you be curled up with your wallet? Let him fetch you heating pads and chocolate.”
“Don’t call him that.” She pouted, but took another step. The mention of her boyfriend, of his mundane, purchased care, made her skin crawl. It was the opposite of what she needed.
“Why not? It’s what he is. A pussy with a credit card.” Sukuna set the beer down with a soft clink. He spread his arms along the back of the couch, making space. It wasn’t an invitation. It was a display. “You look pathetic, Megumi.”
That was all the permission she needed. She crossed the final distance and climbed onto the couch, her movements clumsy with need. She didn’t settle beside him. Instead, she swung a leg over his thick thigh, straddling it, her knees sinking into the cushion on either side of him. The worn leather was still warm from his body.
She was so small that even like this, she had to look up at him. The rough denim of his jeans scraped against her inner thighs. She pressed herself down, a slow, deliberate grind against the hard muscle. A sharp gasp escaped her as the pressure sent a jolt through the dull, throbbing ache in her core.
“Kuna-nii…” she whispered, the childish honorific slipping out, laced with a shameful want.
His smirk deepened. He watched her face, the flicker of pain and relief in her eyes. One of his large hands came to rest on the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair, not guiding, just possessing. “You’re making a mess, baby.”
“I don’t care.” She rocked against him again, more insistently now. The cotton of her nightie was damp, the stain spreading as she moved. She could feel the heat of her own blood, a slick counterpoint to the rough fabric of his jeans. She whined, high in her throat. “It doesn’t help enough. Just… just let me…”
“Let you what?” he prompted, his voice a low rumble. His other hand drifted down, palming the curve of her ass through the nightie, squeezing hard. “Use my leg like a toy? You’re desperate.”
She was. Humiliation burned her cheeks, but it only fueled the restless, empty feeling. She needed it gone. Only he could shatter it. “Please. You know it’s the only thing that makes it stop hurting. He… he wouldn’t even know what to do. He’d be grossed out.”
Sukuna laughed, a short, dark sound. “Of course he would. Less of a man asshole.” His grip on her ass tightened, holding her still for a moment, forcing her to feel the sheer size of him holding her in place. “This is what you really want, isn’t it? Not his money. This. To be a dirty little princess staining my clothes because your body misses me.”
Tears pricked her eyes—frustration, acknowledgement, sheer want. She nodded, unable to speak. She began moving again, a frantic, shallow rhythm, chasing the friction. The metallic scent of blood mixed with his cologne and the beer on his breath.
He watched her, detached and amused, like she was a fascinating, broken thing. His thumb stroked idle circles on her scalp. “Look at you. So bold, coming in here, grinding on me. But you still get shy and call me ‘nii.’ You’re twisted, Megumi.”
She buried her face against his chest, her movements becoming more erratic. The coarse weave of his shirt scratched her cheek. “You made me like this,” she muffled into him.
“I did,” he agreed, no remorse, only dark pride. His hand left her hair and grabbed her chin, forcing her to look up at him. His eyes were cold pools. “And I’m the only one who can handle what I made. He thinks he’s dating a girl. He has no idea what’s in his bed. A hungry, spoiled little animal who belongs to someone else.”
His words crashed over her, a wave of degradation and possession that tightened everything low in her belly. Her breath hitched. The ache was transforming, sharpening into a coil of tension.
“Sukuna…”
“Shut up and finish,” he commanded, his voice dropping. He pushed her head back down, not gently. “Get your blood all over me. Mark your spot. Then clean it up.”
The order, the sheer filth of it, broke the last restraint. She clung to his shirt, her body bowing as she rode his thigh with a desperate, final urgency. The world narrowed to the scrape of denim, the bite of his fingers on her skin, the smell of him, the dizzying pain-pleasure finally cresting into a raw, shuddering release that left her hollowed out and trembling.
For a long moment, the only sounds were the blare of the TV and her ragged breathing. The highlight reel showed a man running in slow motion, triumphant.
Slowly, Sukuna’s hand loosened on her ass. He gave her a light, dismissive pat. “Off. You’re heavy.”
She slumped, spent, her forehead resting against his shoulder. The ache was gone, replaced by a deep, fatigued throb. She didn’t move.
He didn’t make her. For a minute, he just let her lie there, a small, messy weight on him. Then he picked up his beer from the table with his free hand and took another long swallow.
“Your wallet’s probably texting you,” he said, the casual cruelty returning. “You should go. You got what you came for.”
She knew she should. But the emptiness was back, different now. Not the physical ache, but the yawning one that always followed. The one that knew he’d let her in just far enough to prove he could make her leave.
She lifted her head. His eyes were back on the game. She pushed herself up, wincing at the sticky feel between her legs, at the dark smears she’d left on his jeans. She stood on shaky legs.
“Clean yourself up in the bathroom,” he said, not looking at her. “Don’t drip on my floor on the way.”
Megumi nodded, a silent, submissive gesture he didn’t see. She padded toward the bathroom, the harsh fluorescent light stinging her eyes. Behind her, she heard the channel change, the volume rising once more to fill the space she’d vacated.