Chapter 2: Morning After
The morning light was a liar. It streamed through the grimy window in sharp, cheerful angles, cutting across the floor to illuminate swirling dust motes and the stark red handprint on Megumi’s thigh. She stood at the stove, the sizzle of eggs the only sound besides the low, wet throb between her legs. It was a familiar ache, a physical echo that mapped the night’s events onto her body. Her jaw felt loose, tender.
Sukuna leaned against the kitchen doorway, already in his work boots and a tight black t-shirt that strained across his chest. He watched her, sipping from a mug of black coffee. “Burning them, Megs. Pay attention.”
She jumped, flipping the eggs quickly. “Sorry, Kuna-nii.”
He strode over, the floorboards creaking under his weight. He didn’t touch the food. He touched her. A large hand slid around her waist, over the thin cotton of her sleep shirt, his thumb digging into the soft part just above her hip bone. He pressed his front against her back, and she could feel him, already hard again. He smelled of cheap soap and something intrinsically, aggressively male.
“You swallow it all?” His voice was a low rumble in her ear, casual, as if asking about the weather.
Megumi’s knuckles whitened on the spatula. She stared at the bubbling egg whites. “Yes.”
“Good girl.” The praise was a weapon. It warmed her stomach even as the memory of being used made her knees weak. He ground against her once, a slow, possessive roll of his hips, then released her as suddenly as he’d grabbed her. “Plate it. I’m gonna be late.”
She did, hands trembling only slightly. Two eggs, over easy, just how he liked them, with toast already buttered. She set the plate on the chipped Formica table.
He ate quickly, voraciously, not looking at her. “Gotta fix that piece-of-shit car at the shop today. Mitsuba’s ancient Civic. Thing’s a hemorrhage on wheels.” He spoke through a mouthful of food. “You?”
“Laundry,” she said, her voice small. “And… I thought I’d clean the bathroom.”
He snorted, a sharp, ugly sound. “Yeah. You do that.” He finished eating, shoved the plate away, and stood. At the door, he paused, one hand on the frame. He looked back at her, still in her nightshirt, hovering by the table. The morning light caught the dark blue of her hair, turning it almost purple. A strange, tight expression crossed his face—not a smile, but something fiercer, more hungry.
“Don’t answer the door for anyone,” he said, the command flat.
“I won’t.”
“And Megs?” He smirked, that cruel, familiar curve of his lips. “Think about me while you’re cleaning.”
Then he was gone. The slam of the door shook the small apartment. Silence rushed in, louder than his voice had been. Megumi stood still for a long moment, listening to the echo of his boots on the stairwell outside fading away.
The apartment felt cavernous without him. She moved through the rooms on autopilot, gathering sheets. Their bed was a wreck, the sheets twisted and stained. She blushed, a hot wave climbing her neck, as she stripped them. The scent there was overwhelming—him, them, the night. She pressed her face into the fabric for a second, breathing it in, before bundling it all into the hamper.
In the bathroom, the fluorescent light buzzed overhead. She scrubbed the sink, the tub, avoiding her own eyes in the mirror. Her reflection showed a young woman with shadows under trusting eyes, a mouth that looked a bit swollen. She touched her lower lip. You took my cum like a good girl. Her blush deepened, a confusing cocktail of shame and a secret, thrilling pride. He’d chosen her. He always chose her.
The afternoon stretched, long and empty. She finished her chores and sat on the couch, curling her legs beneath her. The silence was a physical pressure. She turned on the TV, let daytime chatter fill the space, but it was just noise. Her thoughts were a needle stuck in a groove: the weight of him, the scratch of his stubble, the growled praise in the dark.
When her phone buzzed, she snatched it up. It was just a notification from a shopping app. Her heart, which had leaped, sank. She put the phone down, annoyed at her own desperation.
As dusk painted the sky in shades of violet and orange, the familiar growl of his motorcycle echoed up from the street. Her body reacted before her mind, a jolt of pure anticipation straight down her spine. She was at the window, peeking through the blinds, watching him kick the stand down and peel off his helmet. He ran a hand through his pink hair, looking up at the building. She ducked back, heart hammering.
Keys jangled. The door opened.
He filled the doorway, backlit by the hallway light, smelling of motor oil and cold air. He tossed his keys on the side table with a clatter. His eyes found her immediately, pinned her to the spot by the window.
“You think about me?” he asked, no greeting.
She nodded, unable to speak.
He grunted, toeing off his boots. “Made dinner?”
“Not yet. I—”
“Forget it.” He crossed the room in three strides. He didn’t kiss her. He never kissed her on the mouth. He grabbed the hem of her shirt—one of his old band shirts, swimming on her—and pulled it up over her head in one rough motion. The cool air hit her skin, raising goosebumps. His gaze was clinical, hot. His thumb brushed over the faint bruise on her ribs from the night before, a souvenir she hadn’t even noticed.
“Still there,” he murmured, almost to himself. Then his hands were everywhere, claiming, re-mapping. He walked her backward until her knees hit the edge of the couch. “Down.”
She fell onto the cushions. He didn’t join her. He stood over her, unbuckling his belt, the leather sliding through the loops with a hiss. The look on his face wasn’t love. It was ownership, stark and uncomplicated.
“You’re mine, yeah?” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes, nii-chan.”
“Say it.”
“I’m yours.” The words were a whispered confession into the charged air between them.
He nodded, a sharp, satisfied dip of his chin. The buzz of the TV in the background, the last of the daylight dying at the window, the sheer, mundane normality of the room—it all shattered under the weight of his attention. The world narrowed to this: the waiting, the ache, the profound, terrifying certainty that this was all she was for.
He reached for her, and Megumi closed her eyes, a small, quiet smile touching her lips as she let the current take her under once more.