Chapter 2: Aftermath and a New Game
The humid quiet of the den was broken only by the rasp of their breathing and the faint, tinny theme song from the television’s credit roll. Sukuna’s heart still thumped a heavy rhythm against Megumi’s ear where it rested on his chest. His spend was a warm, sticky trickle between her thighs, mingling with her own.
He shifted, and she made a faint sound of protest, her fingers clutching at his shirt.
“Quit whining,” he muttered, but there was no heat in it. His hand swept down the knobby line of her spine, a gesture so at odds with his voice it made her shiver.
In one sudden, fluid motion, he sat up, taking her with him. She clung to his neck, legs still wrapped around his waist, still impaled. He stood, her slight weight nothing to him, and took two steps away from the couch before lowering them both to the floor.
The carpet was rough against her knees. He laid her down on a nest of his own discarded hoodies and a crumpled blanket that smelled overwhelmingly of him—spice, sweat, and cheap detergent. The fabric was soft against her bare back. He pulled out of her slowly, and the sudden emptiness made her hips twitch upwards in a silent plea.
He saw it. His crimson eyes darkened.
“Insatiable,” he breathed, almost to himself.
His hands closed on her hips, turning her over with a ease that spoke of casual strength. The hoodies rustled under her. She pushed herself up onto her knees, presenting herself to him, and looked back over her shoulder. Her hair was a dark curtain, half-obscuring her face, but her eyes were bright and clear. Waiting.
He knelt behind her, one hand smoothing over the curve of her ass, then slipping between her legs to feel the slick mess he’d left there. He dragged his fingers through it, a crude, wet sound in the quiet room.
“Soaked,” he grunted. “Look what you do. Every damn time.”
He guided himself back to her entrance, the broad head of his cock nudging against her. He didn’t push in. He just held it there, a tormenting pressure.
Her breath hitched. She signed against the fabric beneath her, her fingers clumsy with need.
Sukuna.
Seeing his name in her hands, especially like this, unspooled something low in his gut. With a sharp exhale, he drove forward, burying himself to the hilt in one deep, claiming stroke.
A silent cry shook her frame. Her back arched, her head dropping between her shoulders.
He didn’t give her time to adjust. He set a punishing rhythm from the start, his grip on her hips hard enough to bruise, each thrust rocking her whole body forward. The pile of hoodies muffled the sound of their impact, but the wet slap of skin on skin was loud, obscene, mingling with his ragged breaths.
“You wanted this,” he growled, leaning over her, his chest plastered to her sweat-slicked back. His mouth was at her ear. “Climbing on me like a fucking cat in heat. This what you were after? Huh?”
She couldn’t answer. Pleasure, sharp and electric, was coursing through her, coiling tighter with every brutal inward drive. She reached a hand back, tangling her fingers in his pink hair, pulling him closer.
He chuckled, a dark, breathless sound. “Yeah. That’s it.”
He pistoned into her, the angle deep, relentless. The world narrowed to the feel of him splitting her open, the smell of sex and cheap fabric, the green glow of the monitor painting their moving shadows on the wall. It was too much. It was everything.
Her hand left his hair, flying out to sign again, a single, desperate word against the crumpled blanket.
Harder.
He saw it. A snarl ripped from his throat. He pulled her hips up higher, fucked her deeper, his pace becoming almost frenzied. The force of it stole the air from her lungs. One of his hands slid around her front, dipping between her legs to find her clit, his calloused thumb circling it with a ruthless, perfect pressure.
That was all it took. Her body clamped around him, a series of violent, rolling contractions that milked his length. She shook apart without a sound, her mouth open in a silent scream, her vision whiting out at the edges.
Feeling her come tore the last of his control to shreds. With a final, broken groan, he slammed into her one last time and spilled, his hot release flooding her as his hips jerked through the aftershocks.
He collapsed over her, his weight pressing her into the softness of the hoodies. They were both drenched in sweat, breathing in ragged, syncopated gasps. He was still inside her, pulsing weakly.
Minutes passed. The theme song had ended, leaving the room in the ambivalent hum of electronics on standby.
Slowly, carefully, he pulled out and rolled onto his back beside her. The carpet was scratchy against his skin. He stared at the water-stained ceiling, one arm flung over his eyes.
Megumi turned onto her side, facing him. Her body felt liquid, used, perfect. She traced the lines of the tattoos that snaked over his ribs, her touch whisper-soft.
He caught her wrist, not pushing it away, just holding it. His eyes were still hidden.
“You’re gonna be the death of me, Gumi,” he said, his voice hoarse and so quiet it was almost swallowed by the room’s hum.
She smiled, a small, satisfied curve of her lips he couldn’t see. She shifted closer, draping herself over his side, her head on his shoulder. Her breath warmed his skin.
He let go of her wrist, and his arm came down to wrap around her, pulling her in tight against him. His hand splayed across the dip of her waist.
“Don’t get used to this,” he muttered into her hair. “Floor’s fucking disgusting.”
She signed a single word against his chest, where his heart beat a slow, steady rhythm.
Liar.
He didn’t reply. He just held her closer, in the dim, messy ruin of their den, and let the silence say everything for him.