Chapter 2: Afternoon Feeding
Megumi floated.
The world was a soft, warm buffer of sensation. The brutal fullness was gone, replaced by a deep, throbbing ache that felt fundamental, like a new organ had been grafted into her center. She was aware of being moved, lifted, rearranged. Cool, damp cloth swiped between her thighs, over the tender swell of her belly. The cloth came away stained, but she didn’t understand the significance. It was just a color.
Then she was settled into a deeper warmth, cradled against something infinitely soft and yielding. A familiar scent enveloped her—milk, skin, and the faint, iron edge of blood that always clung to mommy.
“There we are,” Yorozu murmured. Her voice vibrated in her chest, right against Megumi’s ear. “My perfect baby. All worn out.”
Megumi nuzzled blindly, her lips seeking. An instinct older than memory. Her small hand came up, patting clumsily at the soft, heavy weight above her.
Yorozu chuckled, a low, rich sound. She shifted the thin robe aside entirely, freeing one full breast. Her nipple, a dark pink and already pebbled, brushed against Megumi’s mouth.
“Hungry already? Of course you are. You worked so hard.”
Megumi latched on with a quiet, desperate sound. The first pull was rich and sweet, a warmth that spread through her foggy head and sore body. She drank greedily, her eyes shut tight, her whole universe reduced to the rhythm of suck and swallow.
From the doorway, Sukuna watched. He had pulled on loose trousers but nothing else, his arms crossed over his chest. The rare softness that had touched his features during Megumi’s collapse was still there, settled into something like placid ownership. He observed the scene: his enormous wife, curved over their tiny, broken-in daughter, feeding her like a kitten.
“She’ll sleep for hours now,” Yorozu said, not looking up. Her fingers traced the shell of Megumi’s ear.
“Good.”
“She really could, you know,” Yorozu continued, her voice casual, conversational. She switched Megumi to the other breast with practiced ease. “Carry more. Her hips would widen. She’d be even more beautiful. Round with your children.”
Sukuna’s expression didn’t flicker. “She is a tool. A vessel. One is enough to prove its function.”
“She’s our daughter,” Yorozu corrected, but her tone was light, sing-song. She looked down at Megumi’s utterly vacant face, at the milk trickling from the corner of her slack mouth. “Our beautiful, useful daughter. Isn’t that right, sweet thing?”
Megumi mumbled around the nipple, a noise of pure contentment. The words meant nothing. Only the tone, the safety, the warm river filling her stomach mattered.
Yorozu hummed a tuneless lullaby, rocking slightly. The morning light had strengthened, bleaching the tatami to a pale gold. It illuminated the damp patches on the cushions, the faint, sticky streaks on Megumi’s inner thighs.
“She’ll need a bath later,” Yorozu mused. “A long, hot one. I’ll wash every bit of you, won’t I? Get you all clean for daddy again.”
Sukuna pushed off the doorframe. “There is business in the city. The contractor from Kyoto is impatient.”
“The one with the nervous eyes?” Yorozu asked, her attention still on Megumi’s nursing.
“He’s served his purpose. He’s become a liability. He’ll be dinner.”
“Oh, good,” Yorozu said, brightening. “He was fatty. It’ll make a rich broth. Maybe I’ll make tonkotsu for my girl here. She needs to keep her strength up.”
Megumi drifted, the conversation washing over her. Business. Dinner. Broth. They were just sounds. She sucked slower now, drowsy, her belly tight and warm with milk and seed.
Sukuna left without another word. The house settled into a deep, quiet peace, broken only by the sound of rain beginning outside, a soft patter on the garden stones.
Yorozu finally coaxed Megumi’s mouth free, her nipple slipping out with a soft pop. Megumi whimpered, her head lolling.
“All done, baby. All done for now.” Yorozu lay back against the stacked cushions, arranging Megumi on top of her like a human blanket. She pulled the edges of her robe over them both, a thin silk cover. Her hand stroked up and down Megumi’s spine, over the knobs of her vertebrae, down to the soft, abused curves of her backside.
“You are the best thing I ever made,” Yorozu whispered into her hair, her voice thick. “The very best.”
They dozed as the rain fell. Time became the sound of water and the syncopated rhythm of their breathing.
A sharp knock at the front gate shattered the tranquility.
Yorozu’s eyes snapped open. All the tender softness vanished from her face, replaced by a sharp, calculating stillness. The hand on Megumi’s back stopped its gentle motion.
The knock came again, more insistent.
Megumi stirred, fussing in her sleep at the sudden change in her pillow’s tension.
“Shhh,” Yorozu soothed, but the sound was now a command, not a caress. She shifted, sliding out from under Megumi, who whimpered at the loss of warmth. Yorozu laid her gently on the cushions, tucking the silk around her.
“Stay, precious. Don’t move.”
Yorozu stood, her tall frame unfolding. She retied her robe, but it did nothing to conceal the powerful lines of her body or the predatory grace in her movement. She padded silently across the tatami, her footsteps absorbed by the rain sounds.
From the floor, Megumi watched through half-lidded eyes. She saw mommy’s shape move past the blurred kakejiku scroll in the tokonoma, its weeping brushstrokes seeming to blur further in the grey light. The front door slid open with a quiet shhh.
A man’s voice, young and strained, leaked into the peaceful room. “—apologies for the intrusion, Yorozu-sama. He sent me. There’s been a… complication with the Kyoto funds. He needs to speak with Sukuna-sama immediately.”
“My husband is out,” Yorozu’s voice replied. It was sweet, hospitable. A hostess’s voice. “But you’re wet through. Come in. I’ve just put the kettle on.”
“Oh, I couldn’t impose—”
“Nonsense. You’ll catch cold. Come.”
Two sets of footsteps entered the genkan. The softer, barefoot pad of Yorozu. The hesitant, shoe-shuffling steps of the young man. Megumi watched a shadow fall across the hallway—tall, slender, unfamiliar.
“Please, sit,” Yorozu said. Her silhouette moved to the kitchen area. The familiar clink of pottery followed. “It’s just me and my daughter here. She’s sleeping.”
“Daughter?” The young man’s voice was closer now. He’d entered the main room. His eyes, wide and nervous as a deer’s, swept over the scattered cushions, the damp stains, and finally landed on Megumi’s curled, sleeping form under the silk. He blinked, a flush creeping up his neck. He saw the long dark hair fanned out, the curve of a bare shoulder.
“She’s shy,” Yorozu said, her back to him as she poured hot water. “A delicate thing.”
“She’s… beautiful,” the young man stammered, forcing his eyes away, back to the safety of Yorozu’s back.
“Thank you.” Yorozu turned. She held two chawan cups of steaming tea. She handed one to him, her smile gentle, inviting. “Drink. Warm up.”
He took the cup, bowing his thanks, and took a hurried sip. He didn’t notice Yorozu didn’t drink from hers. He didn’t notice her eyes, which were no longer gentle at all. They were fixed on the bob of his throat as he swallowed.
“The complication,” Yorozu prompted, sitting gracefully across from him, her knees neatly together.
“Right.” He set the cup down, leaning forward. “It’s the accountant. He’s gotten cold feet. He’s talking to the wrong people. Sukuna-sama said if anything felt unstable…”
“He said to remove the instability,” Yorozu finished, her smile still in place.
“Yes. But he’s gone to ground. We can’t find him.”
“I see.” Yorozu took a slow, thoughtful sip of her own tea now. Her gaze drifted past him, to the sleeping form of her daughter. “That is a problem.”
“We were hoping Sukuna-sama might have… insight.”
“My husband has many insights.” Yorozu’s eyes tracked back to the young man. They were dark, bottomless. “But he’s not here. It’s just me.”
The young man shifted, unease finally cutting through his professional anxiety. He glanced again at Megumi. The girl’s eyes were open now. She was watching him. Her expression was utterly blank, guileless. It was more unsettling than any glare.
“Perhaps I should come back,” he said, moving to stand.
“Oh, don’t go,” Yorozu said. Her hand shot out, faster than he could follow, and clamped onto his wrist. Her grip was like steel cable. “I have an idea about your accountant.”
He froze. True fear dawned in his eyes. “Yorozu-sama?”
“You see,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as she leaned in, “I have a very particular set of skills. And I so love being useful to my husband.” Her other hand came up, a single finger tracing the line of his jaw. “Tell me everything you know about where he might be. Every detail.”
Megumi watched, uncomprehending, as the man began to tremble. She watched as mommy’s sweet, attentive smile never wavered, even as her fingers dug into the man’s flesh hard enough to whiten the knuckles. The rain beat down, a steady drum on the roof, drowning out the beginning of his frantic, pleading whispers.