Chapter 4: The Piercing Appointment
The car ride was silent. Sukuna drove a low, dark import that smelled of leather and his cologne. Megumi stared out the window at the blur of Tokyo, his fingers resting lightly on his own thigh. Every slight shift in position sent a dull, foreign ache through him, a low-grade reminder that something had been altered. Sukuna had called it an errand. A surprise.
They pulled into a private garage beneath a sleek building in Ginza. The elevator was mirrored, and Megumi avoided looking at himself.
“Nervous?” Sukuna asked, not looking at him either, scrolling through his phone.
“A little.”
“Don’t be. It’s a gift.”
The studio didn’t look like any clinic Megumi had ever seen. It looked like a high-end spa, or a private member’s lounge. Mahogany panels, deep slate floors, ambient lighting that pooled in warm amber circles. The air was cool, scrubbed clean with antiseptic, but underneath was the faint, astringent note of alcohol and something metallic.
A woman emerged from a back room. She was older, her hair in a severe silver bob, her attire a simple, elegant black tunic. She wore no jewelry except for a single, subtle diamond stud in her nose. Her eyes were kind, professional, and completely detached.
“Mr. Ryomen. Right on time.” Her voice was soft, efficient.
“Keiko. This is Megumi.”
Keiko’s gaze swept over Megumi, assessing him as one might assess a canvas or a piece of furniture. There was no judgment in it, which was somehow worse. “Welcome. We’re all prepared. Come through.”
The room they entered was smaller, dimmer. A leather chair, not unlike a dentist’s chair, reclined in the center. A rolling stainless steel tray sat beside it, holding neat rows of tools, gauze, small glass bottles. The light was focused, clinical.
“I’ll need him to change into a gown. Open in the front. You can assist.” Keiko gestured to a folded garment on a side table before turning to her tray, her back to them.
Sukuna’s hand found the small of Megumi’s back. “Go on, princess. Let’s get you ready for your present.”
The paper gown was cold. It whispered against his skin as he undressed, his hands clumsy. Sukuna took his clothes, folding them with a disturbing domestic care, and then guided him to the chair. The leather was cool through the thin paper.
“Feet here,” Keiko said, indicating the stirrups at the end of the chair. They were padded, upholstered in the same fine leather.
A cold knot tightened in Megumi’s stomach. He looked at Sukuna, who was watching him with a calm, expectant smile. You don’t say no. He lifted his legs, placing his heels in the supports. The position was horrifically exposed. The gown fell open.
Keiko adjusted the overhead lamp, the bright, white heat of it centering on him. She pulled on latex gloves with a crisp snap. “The consent forms are signed. We’ll be doing a vertical hood piercing today. The jewelry is a simple 14-karat gold segment ring, chosen by Mr. Ryomen. It’s a straightforward procedure. You’ll feel a sharp pinch, significant pressure, and then a deep, hot sensation. Bleeding is minimal. The aftercare is crucial.”
She spoke like she was reciting a recipe. Megumi’s heart was a frantic bird in his throat. His hands gripped the edges of the chair.
Sukuna moved to his side. He didn’t sit. He stood, a tall, immovable presence, and took one of Megumi’s hands in his. His grip was firm, warm. “Look at me,” he said, his voice low. “Just keep looking at me. It’ll be over before you know it.”
Keiko swabbed the area with something icy cold. Megumi flinched. Her touch was impersonal, precise.
“Deep breath in,” she instructed.
He sucked in a breath, his eyes locked on Sukuna’s. Sukuna’s thumb stroked his knuckles.
“And exhale.”
He let the breath go, and on the tail of it, the pain arrived.
It was not a pinch. It was a brilliant, white-hot violation. A thick, piercing intrusion that tore through nerve endings he didn’t know he had. His body arched off the chair, a silent scream trapped in his lungs. Sukuna’s hand tightened, holding him down.
Pressure. Immense, stretching pressure as the receiving tube was placed, as the needle was guided through. The pain crystallized, becoming a specific, located thing: a core of fire at the very center of his vulnerability. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, blurring Sukuna’s smiling face.
“There we go,” Keiko murmured. “The needle is through. Now for the jewelry.”
A different sensation—a cold, blunt push as the ring was fed through the fresh channel. A click as the segment was closed. The fire was now anchored, a live wire with a golden clasp.
Keiko applied pressure with gauze. “Very good. You did well.” She cleaned the area again, her movements quick. “All done. You can sit up slowly.”
Megumi was shaking. A fine, uncontrollable tremble that started in his core and radiated outwards. The new weight, the constant, faint tug of the metal, was impossible to ignore. It felt foreign. It felt installed.
Sukuna released his hand and leaned over him, blocking out the light. He looked down between Megumi’s legs, his expression one of profound satisfaction. “Perfect,” he breathed. “Look at that. A little gold ring on my pretty pet.”
He didn’t wait for Keiko to finish. He bent lower, and before Megumi could process it, he felt the warm, wet stroke of Sukuna’s tongue over the pierced flesh, licking away the faint bead of blood that had welled up.
Megumi cried out, a short, shattered sound. It wasn’t pain. It was a shock of intimacy so profound it short-circuited his thoughts. Shame, hot and nauseating, flooded him, but underneath it was a terrifying, thrumming current of belonging.
Sukuna straightened up, licking his lips. “A permanent reminder. Every time you walk, every time you cross your legs, you’ll feel that. You’ll feel me.”
Keiko had turned away, sanitizing her tools, giving them the illusion of privacy.
“Get dressed,” Sukuna said, his tone becoming light, casual again. “I’m hungry. We’ll get lunch. Something celebratory.” He patted Megumi’s cheek. “My good boy.”
In the elevator down, Megumi leaned against the mirrored wall. The dull, throbbing ache was constant. With every step, the tiny gold ring moved, a minuscule friction that screamed its presence. He watched the numbers descend.
“You’re quiet,” Sukuna said.
“It’s… a lot.”
Sukuna chuckled, sliding a hand around his waist, pulling him close. His voice was a warm whisper against Megumi’s ear, a secret for the mirrored walls. “Just the first, Megumi. Just the beginning.”
Out on the sun-drenched street, the normalcy of the crowd was a dissonant joke. Megumi walked, each step a tiny, secret pulse of pain and possession. He was marked. He was seen. He was theirs.
And the hollow inside him, for a moment, felt gloriously, terribly full.