Chapter 7: The Bathing Ritual
The morning light through the stained glass painted long, watery streaks of blue and gold across the furs. Megumi woke alone.
A bolt of panic seized her before the scent on the pelts—pine, crushed herbs, him—calmed her. She sat up, the fur pooling at her waist. The great den was empty, the fire banked to glowing embers. Her ears swiveled, listening. Distant sounds of the pack—grinding stone, laughter, the crackle of a larger fire—drifted from somewhere outside.
The hide curtain rustled. She flinched, pulling the fur up to her chin.
Sukuna shouldered his way in, ducking beneath the lintel. He carried a wooden tray laden with food and a folded bundle of cloth. His eyes found her immediately, the sharp red softening a fraction. “Thought you’d sleep ’til moonrise,” he said, his voice a rough morning rasp.
“You were gone.”
“Had things to run.” He set the tray beside her. Steaming broth, more berries, a hunk of dark bread. “Eat.”
He watched her until she took a hesitant sip of the broth, rich with meat and roots. Only then did he unfold the cloth bundle. It was a simple tunic, soft and gray, and a length of cord for a belt. “Put this on.”
Megumi stared at the garment. It was the first offer of clothing since… since everything. “For me?”
“No, for the fire. Yes, for you.” He shook it out. “Unless you’d rather parade around naked. I don’t mind. But the others get stupid when they see too much, and I’ll have to break more jaws than I feel like today.”
There was a crude practicality to his care that was starting to feel familiar. She took the tunic. It was huge, falling past her thighs when she pulled it on, the neckline sliding off one shoulder. She belted it as best she could. It smelled of soap and smoke, not of any individual. Neutral territory.
Sukuna’s gaze traveled over her. “Better. Still looks like you’re drowning in it.” A pause. “Cute.”
He finished his own meal quickly, then stood. “Come on. Something for the soreness.”
He didn’t wait for agreement, simply scooped her up from the furs, one arm under her knees, the other behind her back. She let out a yelp, her hands flying to his shoulders. “I can walk!”
“Slowly. Whining. This is faster.” He carried her out of the den, through a labyrinth of interconnected caves and covered pathways. She caught glimpses of other hybrids—a few nodded respectfully to Sukuna, their eyes sliding over her with careful, subdued curiosity before flicking away. No one leered. No one dared. The memory of last night’s snarling warning was clearly fresh.
They left the main cavern complex, entering the dense, green-smelling forest. Sunlight dappled through the canopy. He walked for a long time, his stride effortless even with her weight, until the sound of rushing water grew loud, and the air turned warm and thick with moisture.
The hidden spring was a secret breathed by the earth itself. A curtain of weeping willow branches, heavy with moss, concealed the entrance. He pushed through, and the world opened into a steaming cavern.
The air was a damp blanket, scented of minerals and deep, clean stone. The walls gleamed wet, studded with patches of moss that emitted a soft, blue-green glow. In the center was a large, irregular pool, its water a clear, pale aqua, steaming gently where it met the cooler air. The distant, melodic howls of the pack filtered in, blending with the trickle and plink of water on rock.
Sukuna walked right to the rocky edge and stepped in, descending a natural stairway into the pool, still holding her. The heat was immediate, penetrating. It seeped into her muscles, loosening the deep, clinging ache in her thighs and back. A sigh escaped her before she could stop it.
He sank until he was sitting on a submerged ledge, the water lapping at his chest, and settled her in the warm circle of his legs. “See?”
It was… heavenly. Her bunny ears, which had been perked with anxiety, relaxed, the tips floating on the water’s surface. She sank a little deeper, the oversized tunic billowing around her.
For a while, they just sat in the silent, steaming peace. Then his hands moved to the knot of her belt. He undid it, his fingers brushing her stomach. He pushed the heavy, soaked tunic up and over her head, tossing it onto the dry rock behind them.
She tensed, but the act was so casual, so routine for him, that her shyness felt out of place. The water was opaque with minerals and steam. He drew her back against his chest, his big hands smoothing over her shoulders, her arms.
“The marks are fading,” he murmured, his lips near her ear. He meant the faint bruises from the rock, from his grip. His thumb rubbed a spot on her hip. “Good.”
One hand slid down her belly, into the water. She stiffened. His touch was purposefully gentle, clinical almost, as he cupped her, his fingers finding her sore folds through the hot liquid. “Still swollen,” he stated. He began to wash her, not with any erotic intent, but with the same thoroughness he’d used with the cloth. The warm water made it easier, soothing the tender flesh. Her blush felt hotter than the spring.
“I can… do that,” she whispered, mortified.
“I know.” He didn’t stop. His other arm was a band across her collarbones, holding her firmly but not tightly against him. It was an embrace that allowed no retreat. She was pinned by his care.
When he was satisfied, his hand stilled, resting possessively over her mound. He was hard against her lower back. The evidence was unmistakable, pressing into the cleft of her bottom. The hot water swirled around them. Her breath hitched.
His voice was a low vibration against her spine. “The heat helps. Makes it easier.”
He turned her then, slowly, water sloshing. She found herself straddling his thighs, facing him. The surface of the spring lapped at her breasts. His eyes were dark, the crimson deep and hungry in the moss-lit gloom. He lifted her by the waist as if she weighed nothing, and then lowered her onto him.
The stretch was there, the fullness undeniable, but the steaming water and her own relaxed muscles turned what could have been a burn into a slow, melting ache. She gasped, her fingers digging into the hard muscles of his shoulders. He sank her all the way down until she was seated fully, taking him to the hilt.
“There,” he breathed out, his own jaw tight. “See? Easy.”
He didn’t move immediately. He just held her there, impaled, letting her adjust, his hands roaming her back under the water. Then he began to move her, a slow, deep rise and fall, using the buoyancy of the water to guide her. His thrusts were languid, possessive, each one a deliberate reclaiming of the territory he’d already won.
The steam coiled around their faces. Her ears were flat back, wet hair clinging to her cheeks and his chest. The only sounds were the water, their ragged breaths, and the distant, ghostly howls that seemed to underscore the rhythm he set. It wasn’t frantic. It was profound. Each stroke carved a deeper space for him inside her, not just physically. Her tears, when they came, were silent, lost in the condensation on her cheeks and the mineral mist.
He watched her cry, his expression unreadable. One hand came up, calloused fingers brushing the tears away. He said nothing. He just angled his next thrust, and the pressure changed, blossoming into something tight and bright.
She came with a broken, echoing cry, the sound bouncing off the wet stone. Her body clamped around him, milking him, and with a guttural groan that was more wolf than man, he followed, pumping his release deep into the heart of her, his grip on her hips iron-tight.
The world blurred into heat and pulse and steam.
He held her there, locked together, for a long time, his forehead resting against hers, their breaths mingling. Gradually, the tension bled from his frame. He nuzzled her cheek, then her throat, breathing her in.
Eventually, he lifted her off, the loss of him making her feel empty and shocked. He pulled her back against his chest, her back to his front, and simply floated there, supporting them both. His hand settled over her belly again, a heavy, warm weight.
The howls outside had stopped. The only sound was the spring itself, and the steady, strong beat of his heart against her back.
“Sukuna?” Her voice was small, used up.
“Hmm.”
“Thank you. For the spring.”
His arm tightened. He didn’t say ‘you’re welcome.’ That wasn’t his way. Instead, he nipped the very tip of her drooping bunny ear, not hard, just enough to make her jerk. “Don’t thank me. Just remember who brings you here. Who touches you. Who puts pups in you.”
It was a command. A branding.
She nodded, her wet hair sliding against his skin. She did remember. Every bruise, every scar on his hands, every growl, every unexpected gentleness. It was all getting mixed up inside her, the fear and the safety tangled together until she couldn’t separate them anymore.
She let her head fall back against his shoulder, her nose twitching at the mingled scents of wolf, mineral water, and their own spent passion. Outside, the pack’s world went on. In here, in the steam, there was only this. Him. And the simmering, terrifying thought that this, for now, was enough.