Chapter 2: The Boyfriend's Call
The cold tile of the bathroom floor seeped into Megumi’s feet. She cleaned herself with a damp wad of toilet paper, the paper coming away rust-red. In the mirror, her reflection looked hollowed-out, her eyes too large in her pale face. The nightie was ruined. She took it off, balled it up, and shoved it deep into the trash can under the sink, beneath empty toothpaste boxes and used razors. Naked, she felt a sudden, sharp vulnerability. He hadn’t given her anything to wear.
She stood there for a minute, listening to the distant, muffled roar of the TV. Then she squared her shoulders and walked back into the living room, the air cool on her skin.
Sukuna’s eyes tracked her immediately, a slow, assessing drag from her ankles up. He hadn’t moved. “Better?”
“Cold,” she said, her voice small. She didn’t move to cover herself. Displaying herself was part of the old, silent language between them.
“So get dressed.” He gestured vaguely toward the hallway. “Your bag’s in the closet where you dumped it last time.”
She was about to respond when a tinny, cheerful ringtone sliced through the room. It came from her purse, which lay upended by the door, its contents spilling onto the floor. The screen glowed brightly in the dim room, illuminating the name: Kenji.
A different kind of cold settled in her stomach.
Sukuna’s head turned. He saw the name. The slow smirk that spread across his face was predatory. “Speak of the devil. And his little wallet is calling.”
“Don’t,” Megumi said, taking a step forward. “I’ll just send it to voicemail.”
“Why? That’s rude.” In one fluid motion, Sukuna pushed himself up from the couch. He was so tall, his shadow engulfing her as he crossed the room in two strides. He bent and plucked the buzzing phone from the clutter of lip balm and loose change.
“Sukuna, give it to me.” Her protest was weak, already defeated.
He ignored her, his thumb swiping across the screen. He put the phone to his ear, his eyes locked on Megumi’s naked form. “Yeah?”
She could hear the faint, tinny buzz of Kenji’s voice from where she stood, cheerful and oblivious. Hey babe, just checking in. You said you weren’t feeling well. I brought you that ginger tea you like.
Sukuna’s grin widened. “Nah, she’s not sick. She’s right here.” His voice was a lazy, conversational drawl. “Actually, she’s feeling a lot better now. I’m taking care of it.”
Pause. Kenji’s voice again, confused. Who is this? Where’s Megumi?
“This is the real man,” Sukuna said, the words dripping with condescending amusement. “The one who knows what she actually needs when she’s cramping and bitchy. You brought her tea? Cute.”
Megumi wrapped her arms around herself. She took a step back, her heel hitting the leg of the coffee table.
Sukuna advanced on her, the phone still at his ear. “No, don’t bother coming over. She’s busy. I’m about to fuck the ache right out of her. Seems to be the only thing that works.” He watched the color drain from Megumi’s face. “Yeah. I know it’s her time of the month. Makes her desperate. That a problem for you?”
Kenji’s voice escalated, becoming a sharp, indistinct staccato through the speaker.
“What’s that?” Sukuna feigned difficulty hearing. He closed the distance between them and, with his free hand, grabbed Megumi by the back of her neck. His grip wasn’t gentle. It was a claim. He pulled her against his chest, her back to his front, and pressed the phone between them, right against her mouth. “Here, say hi. Let him know you’re okay.”
She was trapped. The hard plane of his stomach pressed against her spine. The phone was cold on her lips. She could hear Kenji’s frantic voice, “Megumi? Megumi, talk to me! What the hell is going on?”
A small, pathetic sound escaped her—a whimper of shame, of arousal, of sheer confusion. It was involuntary.
“Hear that?” Sukuna said into the phone, his mouth close to her ear. His breath was warm and smelled of whiskey. “That’s her. She’s a little preoccupied. Trying to get my dick inside her bloody cunt. You ever do that for her? Or does the sight of it make your little dick soft?”
“Stop it,” Megumi whispered, a futile protest into the phone’s microphone.
“She says stop,” Sukuna relayed, his tone mock-thoughtful. “But she’s grinding her ass against me right now. Sending mixed signals, baby.” His hand slid from her neck down over her collarbone, cupping one small breast, his thumb brushing roughly over her nipple. She flinched, another gasp caught in her throat.
The voice on the phone was shouting now, a blur of anger and hurt.
“You’re boring me,” Sukuna said, his own voice dropping, losing its playful edge and turning flat and cold. “She’s mine when she’s like this. Always has been. You’re just the guy who pays for her shampoo. Now listen good, wallet. Listen to what a real woman sounds like.”
He tossed the phone onto the nearby couch, but he didn’t end the call. The screen still showed the ongoing timer. Kenji’s distant, disembodied voice was now just a faint insect-like buzz in the leather cushions.
Sukuna’s full attention was on Megumi. He spun her around to face him. His eyes were dark, devoid of their earlier amusement. This was pure possession. “You let him touch you?” he asked, his voice low.
“No, not… not really, I just…”
His hand came up, not to strike her, but to frame her jaw, forcing her to look at him. “You take his money. You live in his apartment. You let him think he has you.” His thumb pressed against her bottom lip. “You’re my spoiled, dirty little secret. And secrets need to be reminded of their place.”
He kissed her then, hard and punishing, his tongue claiming her mouth. It was nothing like Kenji’s timid, polite kisses. This was a brand. She made a muffled sound against his lips, her hands coming up to push weakly at his chest, but the gesture dissolved almost instantly, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, holding on.
He broke the kiss, leaving her breathless. “On the couch. Now.”
She obeyed, moving on trembling legs. The worn leather was cool against her skin. She glanced at the phone, a few feet away, its screen still glowing. A silent witness.
Sukuna didn’t hurry. He unbuckled his belt, the sound loud in the room, the leather sliding through the loops with a predatory hiss. He watched her watch him. “Eyes on me, princess. Not the phone. He doesn’t get to see. Only hear.”
He pushed his jeans down, just enough. He was already hard. The physical proof of his arousal, juxtaposed with his cold demeanor, sent a violent shiver through her. This was always the worst and best part—the terrifying absence of warm tenderness, replaced by a stark, undeniable want that was entirely about power.
He came over her, his weight sinking the couch cushions deeply, boxing her in. He didn’t kiss her again. He just took her hip in one large hand, yanking her into position, his other hand guiding himself. He pushed inside with a single, brutal thrust.
The pain was sharp, breathtaking. Her body was sore, sensitive from her cycle and her earlier frantic release against his leg. She cried out, a raw, unfiltered sound that was half-sob, half-scream.
From the couch cushions, Kenji’s buzzing voice rose in pitch.
“That’s it,” Sukuna grunted, beginning to move with a slow, deep, relentless rhythm. “Let him hear. Let him hear what it really takes to shut you up.” He leaned down, his mouth against her ear. “You think he’d ever make you sound like this? He’d be too worried about getting messy. Too worried about hurting his precious little girlfriend.”
Each word was a hammer blow to her conscience. Each deep, jarring thrust drove them home. She tried to stifle the sounds, biting her lip until she tasted copper. But her body betrayed her. The initial pain was subsiding, transmuting into something else—a devastating, full-body sensation that owed nothing to love and everything to a deep, shameful wiring only he could access. Whimpers and choked gasps escaped her in time with his movements.
“Please,” she heard herself beg, but she didn’t know what she was begging for. For him to stop? To never stop? For the phone to die?
“Please what, baby?” he mocked, his pace unwavering. His breathing was even, controlled. He was working her over, not losing himself. “Use your words. He’s listening. Tell your wallet what you need.”
She couldn’t. Shame was a hot veil over her face. She turned her head, pressing her cheek into the leather, trying to hide. His hand fisted in her hair, pulling her head back. “Nuh-uh. You don’t get to hide. You came here. You wanted this. Own it.”
His thrusts became harder, deeper, chasing his own climax now. The couch creaked in protest, a steady, rhythmic complaint. The flickering lamp cast jumping shadows on the wall of boxes. The world narrowed to the smell of sex and blood and old leather, the slam of his body against hers, the distant, angry murmur of a man’s voice from a speaker.
Megumi felt herself fragmenting. The part of her that lived in Kenji’s clean apartment, that used his credit card, that pretended to be normal, shriveled and hissed like a beetle on a hot stone. What remained was something primal and owned, rising to meet Sukuna’s violence with a desperate, clawing need of its own. A broken sound tore from her throat, long and low, as a second, more intense climax wrecked her, her body clamping down around him in violent waves.
He followed moments after, a low, satisfied groan vibrating through his chest and into hers. He stilled, buried deep inside her, his weight a crushing, complete anchor.
For a long minute, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing. The buzz from the phone had stopped. Kenji had hung up.
The silence was louder than any shout.
Slowly, Sukuna pulled out and stood. He dealt with his clothes, fastening his belt with a crisp, final click. He looked down at her, a sprawled, used mess on his couch. He picked up her phone from the cushions. The screen was cracked from the fall. He looked at it, then tossed it onto her stomach. “Sixty-four minutes. He heard the whole symphony.”
Megumi couldn’t move. She felt liquid and ruined. She stared at the cracked glass of her phone, a spiderweb obscuring her wallpaper—a picture of her and Kenji at a sunny café, both of them smiling stupidly.
“Get up,” Sukuna said, his voice returning to its default state of mild boredom. “You’re staining my couch.”
With a Herculean effort, she pushed herself up. Everything hurt. She felt raw, inside and out. She clutched the broken phone to her chest like a shield.
“He’ll dump you now,” Sukuna said casually, walking to the kitchen area. He pulled a new beer from the fridge. The crack and hiss of the cap filled the room. “No man listens to that and stays. Unless he’s into it, which would be even sadder.”
The reality of it began to crash down. Kenji would call. He would demand answers. He would be hurt, furious. He would take back his apartment, his credit card, his fragile, normal life that she parasitized. A cold panic, separate from the earlier thrill, began to uncoil in her gut. “What do I do?” The question was a whisper.
Sukuna took a long swallow of beer, leaning against the kitchen counter. He shrugged, a massive, indifferent roll of his shoulders. “Not my problem. You wanted my attention. You got it. Consequences are your department, baby.”
The pet name, now, felt like a slap. She was shivering. “You… you did that on purpose.”
“Of course I did.” He smiled, that dark, condescending smirk returning. “He needed to know. You needed to remember. Seems pretty clear to me.” He looked her over, naked, trembling, holding a broken phone. “Now get your shit and get out. I’ve got things to do.”
The dismissal was absolute. The god, having played with his mortal, was bored again.
Megumi stumbled to her feet. She found her bag in the closet, pulled on a pair of leggings and an oversized sweatshirt that smelled like Sukuna’s laundry detergent. She didn’t look at him as she shoved her feet into her shoes, gathered her broken phone and her purse.
At the door, she paused. Her hand on the knob. The familiar, desperate need to whine, to throw a tantrum, to make him fix the chaos he’d created, bubbled up. She turned.
He was already back on the couch, remote in hand, flipping channels. The whiskey bottle was now in his other hand. The flickering lamplight caught the sharp line of his profile. He didn’t glance her way.
The words died in her throat. He had given her everything he was willing to give, and it was a weapon designed to destroy the other parts of her life. That was the lesson. The only one he ever taught.
She opened the door and stepped out into the chilly hallway, pulling it shut behind her with a soft, final click. The silence of the concrete stairwell was immense. She stood there for a full minute, listening to the blood rush in her ears.
Then, her broken phone lit up in her hand. Screen shattered, but still functioning. Kenji’s name. Again and again. Incoming Call. Incoming Call. Incoming Call.
She stared at it, the cheerful ringtone now a sound of pure dread. She didn’t answer. She just started walking down the stairs, each step echoing in the empty shaft, the phone buzzing like a trapped hornet in her hand. The warmth of Sukuna’s apartment, the smell of him, the brutal anchor of his weight—it was already receding, leaving only the cold certainty of the fallout to come. And the deeper, more terrible certainty that even now, crawling through the wreckage, part of her was already thinking about when she could go back.