Chapter 4: The Morning After
She awoke to a deep, pervasive ache.
It was a full-body throb, centered in the very core of her, a raw and heated reminder that every part of her had been used. Megumi shifted slightly, a whimper catching in her throat. She was still cradled in Sukuna’s lap, his arms—all four of them—a heavy, living blanket around her. His breath, slow and steady, rustled her hair. The scent of him—musky, metallic, oddly familiar now—filled her nostrils.
Dawn’s grey light filtered into the alcove, painting the shattered temple in shades of ash and old blood. It was quiet. The silence was a tangible thing, pressing in after the cacophony of screams and wet, tearing sounds from the night before.
She tried to sit up, but a sharp twinge between her legs made her gasp. She was sore in places she didn’t know could be sore. A sticky, cooling wetness coated the inside of her thighs. Remembering its source sent a hot flush of shame across her skin. But beneath the shame, a treacherous, physical memory flickered: the shocking fullness, the brutal friction that had ignited something in her very marrow against her will.
Her hands, trembling, went to the ruined remains of her kimono, which Sukuna had simply pushed aside. She looked down at her own body, pale in the dim light.
There, on the flat plane of her lower abdomen, just above the junction of her thighs, was a mark.
It wasn’t blood. It was black as spilled ink, a intricate, circular design etched into her skin. It looked ancient, a series of interconnected lines and sharp symbols that seemed to shift subtly when she stared at them. She traced a finger over it. The skin wasn’t raised, but it was warm. More than warm. It pulsed with a low, gentle heat that echoed the dull throb inside her. The touch sent a pleasant, resonant shiver through her pelvis, a direct line to her tender, used core.
She pressed her palm flat against it. A soft sigh escaped her lips. The ache… softened. The sensation traveled inward, a soothing, possessive warmth that made her clench around the emptiness inside her. It felt… good. It felt like a brand, and the thought should have horrified her. Instead, a confusing, liquid warmth pooled in her belly.
Fucking Sukuna wasn’t so bad…?
The thought was a blasphemy, a mental scream. He was a demon. A cannibal. He had defiled her in every way possible. He had made her scream in pain and then… then he had made her convulse in a pleasure so intense it felt like dying. Her body seemed to hold that truth closer than the other.
A low rumble vibrated through his chest and into her back. “You’re touching my mark.”
She snatched her hand away as if burned. He was awake. His arms tightened infinitesimally, not to hurt, but to secure. One of his upper hands came up and captured her wrist, guiding her fingers back to the tattoo. “Don’t stop. It likes your touch. I like your touch.”
His voice was a sleepy growl, devoid of last night’s violent edge. He nuzzled the crown of her head. “Does it hurt?”
She was stunned into honesty. “…No. It… feels… warm.”
“Good.” He released her wrist, and her fingers remained on the dark design, almost of their own volition. His lower hand slid from her hip, dipping between her legs. She stiffened. His fingers, impossibly large, found her swollen folds, slick with their combined spend. He circled her clit, once, twice, with a terrifying familiarity. “And here? Does this hurt?”
Megumi bit her lip, a tremor wracking her frame. It was sore, yes, a stretched, bruised feeling. But under his coarse, deliberate touch, that soreness began to transmute. A spark, tiny and damning, flickered to life. She couldn’t speak. She shook her head, a minute movement.
“Tell me,” he commanded, his voice dropping. His finger pushed a little harder, parting her, sliding through the wetness.
“N-no,” she whispered. “It’s… it’s just… sensitive.”
“Sensitive good? Or sensitive bad?”
His finger delved deeper, not entering her, just pressing against her opening, slicking itself. The sensation was electric, shocking in its directness. A small, choked sound escaped her. “I… I don’t know.”
He chuckled. “You will.” He removed his hand, bringing his glistening fingertips to the mouth on his stomach. It tasted, its tongue a slick pink flash. A groan of pleasure rolled out of him. “Fuck. You’re still sweet. Still mine.”
He shifted beneath her, and she felt him, both of him, hardening against the curve of her backside. The sheer, monstrous size of him should have sent her into a panic. It did. But it was a panic laced with a dizzying, unwanted thrill. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird, but lower, a deep, empty ache began to plead.
“Look at you,” he murmured, his upper hands moving to her shoulders, turning her in his lap so she was straddling one of his massive thighs, facing him. His two sets of eyes glowed like banked coals in the gloom, taking her in—her tousled hair, her wide eyes, the black mark stark on her pale skin, the mess between her legs. “Little sacrifice. All marked up and dripping me. You want more.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a dark, knowing statement.
“I don’t,” she breathed, but the protest was weak, hollow. Her body betrayed her. Her hips gave a tiny, involuntary rock against the hard muscle of his thigh. The pressure was exquisite, sending a jolt straight to the tattoo, which pulsed warmly in response.
Sukuna’s grin was all sharp teeth. “Liar.” His lower hands gripped her ass, lifting her effortlessly as he adjusted himself beneath her. The broad, flared head of one cock nudged against her sodden entrance. “This one. The pretty one. The one you came on last night. You remember how it felt when you came? When your tight little cunt choked on me?”
She was panting now, her small hands braced on his chest. The memory was a physical assault—the splitting stretch, the brutal rhythm, the shocking, convulsive pleasure. She gave another helpless rock, and the tip of him slipped inside, just an inch. A gasp tore from her throat. It was so much. It was already so much.
“Say it,” he growled, his hips lifting, sinking her down another impossible inch. The stretch was breathtaking, a delicious, burning fullness. “Say you want your demon’s cock.”
Tears welled in her eyes—not from pain, but from the sheer, overwhelming magnitude of it, the shameful, greedy need coiling in her gut. She was broken open, and now her body only knew how to crave the thing that broke her. “I… I want…” The words were a ghost of sound.
“Louder.”
“I want it,” she sobbed, the admission ripping itself from her. “I want your cock.”
He slammed her down the rest of the way.
The cry she let out was pure, undiluted sensation. He filled her to the cervix in one devastating stroke, stretching her walls, pressing against places that made her vision blur. He was so deep, so thick, she could feel him in her throat. She was impaled, speared on him, her small body holding a column of demonic flesh.
“That’s my girl,” he snarled, his hands on her hips guiding her to move. He set a ruthless pace, lifting and dropping her on his length. Each descent was a wet, smacking plunge that forced the air from her lungs. “Taking it all. Every inch. Made for this. Made for me.”
She could only hold on, her nails digging into the dense muscle of his shoulders. The world narrowed to the brutal, pistoning friction, the slap of skin, the guttural sounds tearing from his throat. The tattoo on her womb blazed with heat, syncing with every thrust, amplifying the sensations into a feedback loop of pleasure-pain. She was a thing of need, of raw, hungry nerve endings.
His other cock, rigid and neglected, slid against her stomach, leaving a slick trail. One of his hands left her hip and wrapped around it, stroking in time with his thrusts into her cunt. The sight of it, the sheer obscenity of his dual arousal, shattered something else in her.
“Look at you,” he repeated, breathless now, his pace becoming frantic, jarring. “My perfect, greedy little sacrifice. Your cunt’s milking me already. You gonna come again? Gonna cream all over my cock while I fill this sweet hole?”
His crude words, instead of shaming her, lit a fuse. The coil snapped. Her orgasm ripped through her with no warning, a silent, seizing storm that clamped her around him like a vice. Her back arched, her mouth open in a soundless scream, as her inner muscles fluttered and spasmed around the invading girth.
Feeling her climax, Sukuna roared. His thrusts lost all rhythm, becoming short, savage jerks as he emptied himself into her, a hot, pulsing flood that seemed endless. At the same moment, the hand on his other cock tightened, and with a grunt, he spent himself across her stomach and the black mark on her womb, stripes of white painting her pale skin.
The force of his release inside her triggered a second, smaller tremor in her own body. She collapsed forward against him, boneless, her face buried in the crook of his neck. He was still inside her, throbbing, as his seed leaked from their joined bodies.
For long minutes, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing. Then, his voice, a contented rumble against her ear.
“See?” he said, one hand coming up to cradle the back of her head, his touch almost gentle. “You’re a natural. My little size queen.” He shifted, finally slipping out of her, and used a corner of her torn kimono to wipe the spend from her stomach, careful around the mark. “This is yours now. This place. I. You don’t need to think about anything else.”
Exhaustion, deeper than any she had ever known, pulled at her. Wrapped in the arms of the demon, marked by him, filled by him, a horrifying understanding settled in her bones.
The thought wasn’t a question anymore. It was a quiet, settling fact.
Fucking Sukuna wasn’t bad at all.