Chapter 4: Bathroom Mirror
The bathroom door clicked shut, sealing them in a world of cracking grout and damp heat. Sukuna didn’t set her down so much as let her slide down his body until her feet touched the cold tile. He loomed, a wall of muscle and intent, blocking the draft from under the door.
“Cold,” his hands signed, sharp and quick against her hip.
She shrugged, a tiny, defiant movement, but her nipples were hard peaks against his chest. Her eyes stayed on his, wide and unblinking.
He grunted, pushing her gently until the backs of her knees hit the closed toilet lid. “Sit.”
She obeyed, the white plastic creaking under her. The position made her feel exposed, perched, her thighs falling open in silent offering. He didn’t move for a long moment, just looked down at her, his crimson gaze tracking from her face to the junction of her legs. The fluorescent light buzzed like a trapped wasp overhead, painting his sharp features in harsh relief.
Then he sank to his knees. The sight was almost liturgical. The powerful lines of his back bowed, his pink head level with her stomach. He gripped the underside of her thighs, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh, and pulled her to the very edge of the lid.
His breath hit her first, warm and startling. Then his tongue.
A low, guttural sound tore from him the second he tasted her. It was a groan of recognition, of claiming. He didn’t start soft. He licked a broad, rough stripe from her entrance to her clit, a deliberate, devastating stroke that made her spine arch and her hands fly to his hair.
Her fingers twisted in the spiked pink strands, not guiding, but anchoring. Pulling. Demanding.
He chuckled, the vibration against her sending another shock through her system. “Greedy,” he mumbled into her skin, his voice muffled. “Always so fucking greedy for it.”
He answered her pull by burying his face deeper, his tongue spearing inside her before circling back to flick and suck at her clit with a relentless, focused rhythm. The noises were obscenely wet, loud in the small, tiled room. Megumi’s head fell back, her mouth a silent ‘O’ as ragged, soundless breaths punched out of her. Her hips rocked, meeting the brutal rhythm of his tongue, her heels digging into the small of his back.
He was ruthlessly efficient, learning every tremble, every flutter, and exploiting them. When her thighs began to shake around his head, he pulled back, leaving her gasping and empty.
“Not yet,” he growled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He stood, his own need blatant, straining against his boxers. He looked from her wrecked expression to the vanity sink. “Up.”
He didn’t ask. He hooked his hands under her arms and lifted, setting her bare on the cold porcelain edge. Her back met the fogged mirror with a dull thud. The chill of the sink seared her skin, a contrast to the fire he’d stoked between her legs.
He shoved his boxers down, freeing himself, and stepped between her spread knees. The broad head of his cock pressed against her, not entering, just a hot, relentless pressure. He braced one hand on the mirror above her shoulder, the other gripping her hip hard enough to leave marks.
“Look at you,” he rasped, his breath fogging the glass beside her head. “Perched up here like a damn present. My present.”
She nodded, frantic, her hands signing against his sweat-slick chest. Now. Now. Now.
He drove into her with a single, deep thrust that shoved her up the mirror. The air left her in a voiceless rush. He filled her completely, a stretching, burning fullness that melted into pure, electric sensation.
“Fuck,” he hissed, his forehead dropping to her shoulder. “Always so damn tight. Like you’re made for me.”
He began to move, a slow, withdrawing slide followed by a deep, piston-hard thrust that shook the sink in its fittings. The mirror rattled behind her. With each drive forward, her back squeaked against the fogged glass, clearing twin streaks through the condensation where her shoulders pressed.
Her legs locked around his waist, her heels urging him deeper, faster. One of her hands clutched at his bicep, the other pressed flat against the cool mirror for balance. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her expression a mask of overwhelmed pleasure.
“Open your eyes,” he demanded, his rhythm never faltering. “Look at what you do.”
She obeyed, her green eyes glazed, finding his burning red ones in the misty reflection beside them. Their reflected forms were blurred shadows, connected, moving as one frantic entity. The sight seemed to incense him. His thrusts became harder, less rhythmic, more desperate. The sink groaned in protest.
“You…” he grunted, snapping his hips, “…with your… fucking… coffee demands…”
She laughed then, a silent, shaking exhale that was pure delight. Her free hand came up, fingers tracing the furious line of his jaw before her thumb brushed his lower lip.
He caught it between his teeth, biting down just enough to make her eyes widen, before releasing it. His pace was becoming ragged, chasing his own end. She could feel the tense, coiled spring of him about to snap.
Her own climax was building, a white-hot coil at her core, pulled tighter with every jarring impact. She tapped his shoulder rapidly. When he looked, her hands signed, clumsy with pleasure, against the space between them.
Don’t. Stop.
It was all he needed. A raw, broken sound ripped from his throat. He slammed into her one final, deep time, burying himself to the hilt as his release pulsed hot inside her. The shock of it, the feel of him pulsing, triggered her own. Her body clenched around him in wave after silent, shaking wave, her mouth open in a soundless cry, her eyes locked on his wild, possessed reflection in the streaked glass.
For a long minute, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and the drip of a leaky tap. The steam from their bodies had completely fogged the mirror, erasing the world outside of them.
He softened inside her, but didn’t pull out. He leaned forward, his weight heavy and comforting, his face buried in the messy knot of her hair at the nape of her neck. His hands, which had been instruments of possession, came up to frame her ribs, his touch almost gentle.
“Messy,” he muttered into her skin, his voice hoarse. “We made a mess.”
She nodded, nuzzling against his jaw. Her hands, weak and trembling, signed against his back.
Your mess.
He barked a short, tired laugh. “Damn right it is.” He finally shifted, lifting her off the cold sink and holding her against him as he stepped away. He reached over, swiping a hand through the condensation on the mirror. It cleared a smeared arc, revealing their fragmented reflection: his spent form, her limp in his arms, marks already blooming on her skin.
He caught her looking. “See? Mine. Every fucking mark.”
She smiled, a small, sated, victorious thing, and tucked her head under his chin. In the clear streak of glass, their eyes met again—exhausted, claimed, and utterly complicit. The coffee was forgotten, cold in the kitchen. This was the only heat that mattered.