Chapter 1: First Sip, First Touch
The bass from the main floor was a distant, phantom heartbeat through the VIP booth’s smoked glass. Up here, the world condensed into a velvet-draped cube, shadows pooling in the corners, the only light a dim, perpetually red glow that streaked across the polished mahogany table like fresh wounds. It smelled of expensive whiskey, cold sweat, and something faintly sweet—cherry blossom, maybe, from the dish of perfumed sticks near the entrance.
Megumi’s fingers trembled slightly around the stem of his cocktail glass. It was his first. Something pink and frothy with a tiny umbrella, slid to him by the white-haired man, Satoru, with a wink that felt like a shared secret.
“Try it, princess,” Satoru had said, his voice a smooth, playful murmur. “It’ll sweeten you up.”
He was sweet enough, he thought, or maybe too bitter. He felt out of place in his stiff, brand-new shirt, the collar too tight, the fabric meant for someone with broader shoulders. The sheer, staggering volume of the club below, a sea of gyrating bodies he’d watched from this fishbowl perch, had already overwhelmed him. This attention was worse. And better. It was a fever dream.
“Nervous?” a deeper voice rumbled to his left.
Sukuna. The name itself felt dangerous. The man was huge, broad-shouldered, taking up too much space on the plush sofa. Intricate, dark tattoos coiled up his neck and over his scalp. His hand, heavy and warm, settled on Megumi’s thigh, high up, and simply stayed. It was a claim. A kneading pressure began through the fine wool of Megumi’s trousers, startlingly intimate.
“A little,” Megumi admitted, his own voice sounding too high, too young. He took a quick, obedient sip. The drink was cloyingly sweet, burning a faint path down his throat. He didn’t like it, but he liked being given something. Being seen.
“Don’t be.” Sukuna’s thumb stroked a slow circle. “We’re just being friendly. You looked lonely down there by the bar all by yourself. Pretty thing like you shouldn’t be lonely.”
From the deeper shadows across the table, Toji watched. Megumi could feel the weight of that gaze, appraising, hungry. The man didn’t speak much. He just… observed. A scar cut through his lip, and his jaw was a rugged line of stubble. He lifted his own drink, eyes never leaving Megumi’s face, then his throat, then the place where Sukuna’s hand rested.
“He’s jumpy,” Toji stated, his voice a gravelly shorthand.
“He’s perfect,” Satoru corrected, smiling. He had not removed his sunglasses, not once, even in the gloom. He refilled Megumi’s glass from a shaker he’d produced seemingly from nowhere. “Just needs to relax. Right, Megumi? Let Uncle Satoru take care of you.”
The pet name, the presumptuous ‘uncle,’ sent a confusing thrill through Megumi’s belly. It was attention. It was warmth. The hand on his leg, the focused stares—they filled a hollow space in his chest he’d carried for years. He was the heir to a fortune that felt like a lead weight, a boy in a house too quiet, too large. Here, he was just a body in the red light. Desired.
He drank more, eager to please, to become the person they seemed to see. The alcohol hit his empty stomach and bloomed, a warm, fuzzy cloud in his head. His limbs began to feel loose, his thoughts pleasantly smeared.
“Good boy,” Sukuna purred, his hand sliding just an inch higher. The kneading became more deliberate. “See? Letting go. That’s what you needed.”
Megumi’s breath hitched. The touch was too much, and not enough. A heat was pooling low in his abdomen, a damp, aching tension he was ashamed of and desperate to explore. He shifted, and the movement pressed him subtly into Sukuna’s palm.
Toji saw it. A slow, predatory smile spread across his face. “Not so jumpy now.”
“I think our little heir is a quick study,” Satoru chimed in, leaning forward. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper near Megumi’s ear. “You like this, don’t you? All this focus on you. Bet no one ever pays you real attention. Just your money.”
It was a truth so sharp it cut through the sugary haze. Megumi nodded, a jerky, vulnerable motion. His eyes, that startling blue-green, glistened. “N-no. They don’t.”
“We do,” Sukuna said, his voice leaving no room for argument. His other hand came up to cup Megumi’s jaw, forcing his face to turn toward him. The grip wasn’t gentle. It was possessive. “We see you. That pretty mouth. Those eyes. All that eager, lonely need shaking inside your expensive little clothes.”
Megumi’s lips parted on a soft, involuntary sound. The world narrowed to the red light, the scent of men and whiskey, the hard press of fingers on his jaw and thigh. He was melting, dissolving under their combined will.
Satoru’s hand joined the symphony, lightly tracing the shell of Megumi’s ear. “Let’s get you more comfortable, sweetheart. That collar’s choking you.” Deft fingers, cold from his glass, began to pop the buttons of Megumi’s shirt.
Megumi should have stopped him. He knew he should. But the protest died in his throat, transformed into a shaky exhale. The exposure was terrifying. The air felt cool on his newly bared skin, pebbling his nipples, making them feel tight and sensitive. He looked down, ashamed of his slender build, the delicate lines of his torso.
“Look at that,” Toji grunted, shifting forward in his seat. His gaze was a physical weight on Megumi’s chest. “Pretty.”
“Shy,” Satoru corrected, teasingly. “But we can fix that.” He took Megumi’s hand, guiding it away from where it had fluttered up to cover himself, placing it back on the sofa. “Just sit still. Let us look. You’re doing so well.”
Sukuna’s hand finally moved from his thigh, sliding around to the small of Megumi’s back, pulling him closer so his side was flush against Sukuna’s solid frame. The man’s lips were near his temple. “You’re trembling. It’s cute. You want this, don’t you? To be full. To be felt.”
Megumi, drunk on approval and cheap syrup, nodded again. His head was swimming. “Y-yes.”
The admission hung in the thick air. A threshold crossed.
“Then be a good girl and show us,” Sukuna murmured, the shift in pronoun deliberate, a soft blade twisting in the haze. “Let Toji see what he’s been staring at.”
Toji was already moving. He didn’t ask. He simply rose, his muscular form blocking the faint light, and crouched in front of the sofa. His rough, calloused hands pushed Megumi’s knees apart, settling between them. The intimacy was devastating. Megumi gasped, a sharp, wet sound, and tried to close his legs, but Toji’s shoulders held them firm.
“None of that,” Toji said, his scarred lip curling. His eyes roved over the exposed skin, the expensive trousers now strained tight across Megumi’s hips. “Fucking soaked through already. Knew you would be.”
Humiliation and white-hot need warred in Megumi’s gut. He was laid bare, not just his body but his pathetic, craving hunger. He looked past Toji’s head, seeking an anchor, and found Satoru’s smiling, shades-obscured face. Satoru gave him an encouraging nod, as if this were a perfectly normal introduction.
Sukuna’s arm tightened around him, a mockery of comfort. “Go on, Megumi. Let him. It’s what you came for. It’s what you’re paying for.”
The reminder of the transaction—the bottle service, the booth fee he’d slapped his black card down for without a second thought—should have sobered him. Instead, it deepened the surrender. This was a service. He was purchasing their focus, their touches. It made it permissible.
Megumi’s head fell back against Sukuna’s shoulder, his eyes fluttering closed as Toji’s hands found the fastener of his trousers. The metal zip was the loudest sound in the world. Cool air hit his overheated skin, followed an instant later by the scorching, rough warmth of Toji’s palm cupping him firmly through the thin, damp silk of his underwear.
A broken whimper escaped Megumi’s throat. His hips jerked, seeking more pressure entirely on their own accord.
“There it is,” Sukuna chuckled, the sound vibrating through Megumi’s back. “No more pretense. Just a sweet, greedy little thing who wanted to be ruined.”
Toji’s fingers hooked into the silk and pulled it down. The red light seemed to cling to every newly revealed curve, every shadow. Megumi was panting now, small, desperate sounds, his hands fisting in the velvet upholstery. He was completely exposed, spread open before the three of them, his body responding with a humiliating, eager throb.
Satoru leaned in, his breath ghosting over Megumi’s cheek. “Perfect,” he whispered, his voice dripping with false admiration. “Absolutely perfect. Now, be a darling and ask for what you want.”
Megumi’s mind was a static-filled void. There were no words, only a yawning, physical need. He opened his eyes, his vision blurred with unshed tears and intoxication, meeting the impenetrable black lenses of Satoru’s glasses.
“P-please,” he stammered, the word a ragged sigh.
“Please, what?” Sukuna prompted, his voice a low, threatening rumble against Megumi’s ear. His grip was the only thing holding Megumi together.
Megumi’s gaze shifted down to Toji, who watched him with dark, impatient eyes, his hand hovering, a breath away from skin.
“Please,” Megumi repeated, the last of his resistance dissolving into the sweet, toxic air. “Touch me.”