Chapter 5: Floor Devotion
The cold from the bathroom tiles still clung to their feet as Sukuna carried her down the hallway, his grip under her thighs firm, her face buried in the crook of his neck. He shouldered his way into the den, the smell of yesterday’s pizza and old sweat hitting them like a wall.
“Place is a fucking pit,” he muttered, but he didn’t take her to the bedroom. He went to the center of the room, to the nest of discarded clothes and blankets piled beside the cracked leather couch.
He lowered her onto a heap of his own hoodies, the fabric soft and smelling like him—spice, smoke, and sweat. She sank into it with a small sigh, her body still humming from the bathroom, from the mirror, from him.
He stood over her, a dark silhouette against the flickering blue static of the abandoned gaming monitor. His cock was still half-hard, gleaming in the low light. He just looked at her for a long moment, his chest rising and falling.
“On your knees,” he said, his voice rough. “Hands on the floor.”
Megumi pushed herself up, the hoodies bunching beneath her palms. She moved slowly, deliberately, letting him watch the curve of her spine as she arched her back, settling onto her hands and knees. The position pushed her ass into the air, exposed. She felt the cool, stale air of the room on her skin, and then the hotter weight of his stare.
He let out a slow breath. A calloused thumb traced a path from the base of her spine down to where she was still wet and open for him. She shuddered.
“You look so fucking good like this,” he said, almost to himself. It wasn’t a pretty compliment. It was a raw observation, ripped from somewhere deep in his gut.
He knelt behind her. The blunt head of his cock pressed against her, not entering, just resting there in the slick mess he’d made of her. He pushed forward, just an inch, a slow, stretching burn that made her fingers claw into the fabric. He stopped.
“This what you wanted?” he growled, his hands clamping on her hips. “Dragging me in here? Getting me all worked up over your fucking coffee?”
She nodded, her hair falling around her face. She pushed back against him, a silent demand.
He answered with a single, deep, complete thrust that buried him to the hilt. A punched-out sound escaped her, a silent gasp that shaped the word ‘yes’ on her lips.
He didn’t move. He was so deep it felt like he was in her stomach. He leaned over her, his front covering her back, his mouth near her ear. “You feel that? That’s all you get. You ruined the game. This is your fault.”
Then he began to move. Withdrawing almost all the way, a slow, torturous slide that left her empty and aching, before sinking back in with that same devastating fullness. The pace was maddening. Controlled. Each thrust was a deliberate punctuation in the quiet room, underscored by the soft slap of skin and the rustle of fabric beneath them.
Megumi’s world narrowed to that point of connection, to the stretch and the burn and the building pressure. Her arms trembled. A thin whine, the only sound she could make, stuck in her throat.
His control started to fray. The rhythm stuttered. The deep, measured thrusts became sharper, harder. The slaps of his hips against her ass grew louder, more frequent. The den filled with the sounds of him: grunts, choked curses, the ragged drag of his breath.
“Yeah,” he spat, one hand fisting in her hair, not pulling, just holding. “You like that, don’t you? Taking it. You love being my little whore.”
The words were crude, ugly. They should have stung. Instead, they lit a fuse inside her. Her hips jerked back to meet his, again and again, a frantic, wordless plea for more.
He understood. His other hand snaked around her front, fingers finding her clit, rough and demanding. The dual assault was too much. The coil in her core snapped. Her orgasm tore through her, a violent, silent quake that clenched around him, milking him, pulling him deeper.
With a raw, shattered roar, he came. His hips hammered forward one last, final time, staying there, pulsing as he emptied himself inside her. His grip on her hair tightened, his forehead pressed between her shoulder blades as he rode out his own release, his big body shuddering.
Slowly, the tension bled out of him. He softened, slipped out of her. He collapsed onto the nest of hoodies beside her, pulling her with him. They landed in a tangled, sweaty heap, his arm heavy across her stomach.
The static from the monitor buzzed. A car alarm went off somewhere down the street.
His hand found hers on his chest, his fingers lacing through hers. His palm was sticky. Everything was sticky.
“Disgusting,” he murmured, his voice wrecked. He didn’t let go of her hand.
Megumi turned her head, nuzzling into the side of his neck. She placed his free hand on her lower belly, a silent question.
He knew what she meant. Feel it. You’re in there.
His fingers splayed, pressing slightly into her skin. A long, shaky breath left him. He turned his face into her hair, his next words muffled, stripped of all their usual venom.
“Fuck, Megumi.” It sounded like a surrender. Like a prayer.
She smiled against his skin, triumphant and sated, and closed her eyes. The game was forgotten. The coffee was cold. Here, in the filthy den, stained with them, was the only thing that was real.