Chapter 1: Mr. Satoru's Revenge
The front door slammed, shaking the wall beside Megumi’s bed. She didn’t stop. Her hips kept moving, a frantic, grinding rhythm against the plush white fur between her legs. Mr. Satoru’s black stripes were blurry through her tears. The dildo, permanently fixed and unforgiving, hit a spot that made her gasp, but the emptiness in her chest just widened.
Lavender from the spent diffuser couldn’t mask the scent of her sweat, her need, her loneliness.
Footsteps, heavy and fast, pounded down the hall. She heard a woman’s giggle from the living room, abruptly cut off. Of course. He’d brought someone home again.
Her door flew open, cracking against the stop. Sukuna filled the frame, his crimson hair disheveled, the sharp planes of his face cast in shadow and the jagged light from her broken lamp. His shirt was unbuttoned. He smelled like strangers and expensive whiskey.
His predatory eyes took in the scene: her naked, tear-streaked face, the plush tiger pinned beneath her, its synthetic cock glistening with her. Rage, instant and volcanic, twisted his features.
“What the fuck is this, Megumi?”
His voice was low, a threat woven into every syllable. She didn’t answer. She just rocked harder, a sob tearing from her throat, her fingers digging into Mr. Satoru’s seams. A challenge. A plea.
He crossed the room in two strides. The strange woman was forgotten, the club, the night—everything was burned away by the sight of his little sister like this. His. He grabbed Megumi’s hip, his grip bruising, and yanked her off the toy. She cried out, a sound of loss and protest, collapsing onto the mattress. Mr. Satoru lay between them, a silent, obscene witness.
“You’re leaving me alone,” she wept, the words choked and broken. “You go out, you fuck them, and I’m just here. With him. He’s all I have.”
Sukuna’s breath hitched. He looked from her devastated eyes to the plush, this stupid, sewn-up thing she gave a name and a voice. This thing she used to replace him. Possession, dark and absolute, coiled in his gut. She wanted to be filled? She wanted company?
“You think this toy is better than me?” He snatched Mr. Satoru up by the scruff. The dildo swayed, slick and accusing.
“He’s here!” she screamed, her vulnerability snapping into something sharp and furious. “You’re never here! Not for me! Not like this!”
That was it. The last thread of his control snapped. A dark, possessive love surged up, drowning all reason. If she wanted two, she’d get two. He’d be everything for her.
“Fine.” The word was a guttural promise. He pushed her shoulders down into the pillows, his weight following, caging her. “You want two men, baby? You got us.”
With one hand, he positioned the plush tiger beside her hip, its dildo aimed at her. With the other, he freed himself, already painfully hard. He hadn’t touched the woman in the living room. His body had been waiting for this, for home.
“Kuna-nii, wait—”
He didn’t wait. He pushed the toy into her first, his own hand driving it deep, watching her eyes fly open. A ragged cry left her lips. Before she could adjust, he was there, not replacing it, but joining it, pressing himself into that tight, incredible heat alongside the fake intrusion.
The sensation was blinding. For her, for him. A forbidden fullness that made her arch off the bed, a scream trapped in her throat. He saw the overwhelmed shock in her wide eyes, the pleasure-pain that wiped away the tears.
“Is this what you needed?” he growled, his mouth against her ear, his hips beginning a brutal, driving rhythm. The plush moved with him, a grotesque puppet in his fist. “Your brother and your fucking toy? You want to feel both of us?”
She couldn’t speak. Her world had narrowed to the stretch, the burn, the crushing weight of him and the relentless push of the silicone. Her fingers clawed at his back, her legs wrapping around his waist to take him deeper, to take it all. Every thrust was a punishment and a gift, a claim stamped into her very core.
“You don’t need anyone else,” he snarled, his pace turning frantic. “You don’t think about anyone else. You’re mine. This,” he shoved the plush deeper, “is mine. All of it.”
Her cries turned into a broken chant of his name. “Nii-chan… Kuna-nii… please…”
He was losing himself in the heat of her, in the dark victory of seeing her completely possessed. The plush tiger’s blank, stitched smile pressed against her thigh. He hated it. He loved it. It was part of her, so now it was part of this.
Her climax hit her like a seizure, a silent scream before the sound ripped free, her body clamping down on him in pulsing waves. He followed, a roar tearing from his chest as he spilled into her, his own movements driving the toy’s mimicry home one last, devastating time.
The room echoed with their ragged breaths. The musk of sex and salt was thick. He collapsed beside her, but his arm instantly locked around her waist, dragging her back against his chest. Mr. Satoru lay discarded on the floor, fallen from his grasp.
She was trembling, tiny aftershocks running through her. He nuzzled into her damp hair, his voice dropping to a rough, possessive whisper.
“No more crying, Gumi. I’m here.”
She didn’t answer. Her hand found his where it splayed across her stomach and held on, her fingers lacing tight with his. Outside, a car door slammed. The woman he’d brought home was leaving. The silence that settled was complete, broken only by the slow syncing of their breaths.
He kissed her shoulder, a slow, deliberate stamp. She was full of him. She was finally, completely, his messy, ruined princess. And for now, the loneliness was gone, burned out in the furious heat of his claim.