Chapter 5: Celebratory Lunch and a Promise
The elevator climbed, a smooth ascent that made the new gold ring shift against sensitive flesh. Megumi bit his lip, focusing on the digital numbers flashing upward. The ache was a low, constant hum now, a background signal to every thought.
“Stop fidgeting,” Sukuna said, not unkindly. He adjusted the cuff of his jacket, his eyes on the doors. “It’s a nice place. Try to act like you belong here.”
The doors opened directly into the restaurant. The air changed—cool, scented with lemon verbena and seared meat. The ceiling was all glass, showing a smear of twilight sky, and one entire wall was open to a sprawling terrace where the city’s lights were beginning to wink on. A low beat of jazz wound through the murmur of conversations, the clink of crystal.
They were at a corner table on the terrace, sheltered by a sculptured privacy screen. Toji and Satoru were already there. Toji was leaning back, one arm draped over the empty chair beside him, scanning the room with a hunter’s idle focus. Satoru was talking to a waiter, his white hair a brilliant shock under the terrace heaters, his smile easy and disarming.
“There’s our girl,” Toji said, his voice a gravelly drawl that cut through the ambient noise. He didn’t get up.
Satoru turned, and his smile deepened, became something more specific, more intimate. He dismissed the waiter with a nod and stood, pulling out the chair between him and Toji. “Megumi. You look flushed. Everything okay?”
Megumi nodded, unable to form words. He slid into the offered chair, the movement triggering another precise throb. He felt his face heat.
“Champagne’s already flowing,” Satoru said, resuming his seat and topping off a flute. He pushed it toward Megumi. His fingers brushed Megumi’s, a fleeting contact. “For the celebration.”
Sukuna took the seat opposite, his back to the city, so he could watch them all. He accepted a glass from Toji. “To new beginnings,” Sukuna said, lifting his drink. His eyes were on Megumi. “To permanent marks.”
Megumi’s hand shook as he lifted the flute. The bubbles tasted sharp, expensive. It cut through the cottony fear in his mouth.
A waiter arrived with the first course: oysters on ice, their shells gleaming like gray pearls. Satoru selected one, deftly loosening it. “Open up,” he murmured, leaning close. His scent was clean, like frost. The cold shell touched Megumi’s lower lip. “You need your strength, sweetheart. Big night ahead.”
Embarrassed, Megumi opened his mouth. The oyster slipped in, brine and sea and cold flesh. He swallowed, the chill a shock.
“Good boy,” Satoru whispered, his thumb tracing the line of Megumi’s jaw before he pulled back.
Under the crisp white linen of the tablecloth, a hand landed on Megumi’s thigh. It was Toji’s; broad, warm, heavy. It didn’t move, just rested there, a possessive weight through the fine wool of his trousers.
Megumi froze, his fork hovering over a second oyster.
“Eat,” Sukuna commanded softly from across the table. He was smiling, sipping his champagne. “You’re too skinny.”
Toji’s hand began to move. A slow, deliberate slide up the inner seam of his trousers. Megumi’s breath hitched. He stared at his plate, at the glistening oysters, the perfect wedge of lemon.
“He’s jumpy,” Toji commented to no one in particular, his voice a low rumble. His fingers found the closure of Megumi’s pants, deftly worked the button. The zipper sounded deafening in Megumi’s ears.
“He’s sensitive,” Satoru corrected, playing with his own oyster shell. “It’s fresh. Isn’t it, Megumi? Still throbbing for us?”
Megumi nodded, a tiny, desperate movement. Toji’s hand slipped inside, past the waistband of his briefs. Calloused fingers brushed through soft hair, then lower, through the wetness that had gathered there without his consent. A thick finger rubbed slowly, deliberately, over the swollen flesh, bypassing the new metal entirely, applying pressure just below it.
Megumi gasped, jerking in his seat. His fork clattered against the plate.
“Shhh,” Satoru soothed, leaning in as if to share a secret. He speared an oyster, ate it himself. “Just enjoy the meal. No one can see.”
But they could. Anyone walking by could see the fixed, glazed look in his eyes, the high color in his cheeks. They could see the three older, relaxed men at his table, and they would assume something else entirely. Something normal.
Toji’s finger pushed inside him, just one knuckle, a brutal, claiming stretch. The pain was bright, merged seamlessly with the pulse from the piercing, a dual-pointed reminder. Megumi’s hips gave a tiny, involuntary buck.
“There it is,” Toji grunted, a smile in his voice. He worked his finger slowly, a shallow, torturous rhythm. “Pay attention to your food, kid. Sukuna’s buying you a fucking five-star dinner.”
Tears blurred the neon skyline. Megumi forced himself to pick up an oyster. The sea taste was now cloying, metallic. He chewed, swallowing around the knot in his throat. Toji added a second finger, stretching him wider. The stretch burned. It felt like being split open right there under the linen and the city lights.
Sukuna watched, his expression one of profound contentment. He cut into his steak, bloody and rare. “The wine pairings here are exceptional,” he said, as if commenting on the weather. “We’ll have to come back.”
Satoru reached over and brushed a stray hair from Megumi’s forehead. His touch was gentle. “You’re doing so well. Just breathe through it. It’s just us.”
But it wasn’t. It was the waiter returning to check on them. It was the couple at the next table laughing. It was the entire, indifferent city spinning around them while Toji’s fingers moved inside him, rough and unrelenting. The shame was a live wire, but his body, traitorously, was clenching down, heat coiling tight in his gut.
Toji curled his fingers, pressing up. A sound escaped Megumi’s lips, a choked-off whimper.
“I think he’s ready for the main course,” Toji said, removing his hand slowly. He brought his fingers to his own mouth, licked them clean with a flat, wet sound. “Tastes like champagne.”
Sukuna laughed. A real, warm laugh. “Finish your plate, Megumi. The night’s young.”
Megumi looked down. His hands were trembling in his lap. The wetness between his legs felt cool in the open air. The gold ring seemed to burn, a tiny brand.
He picked up his fork. He took another bite. He ate, because it was what they wanted, and the hollow inside him roared, filled not with food, but with the terrifying, exquisite certainty of being owned.