Chapter 1: Little Gumi's Mistake
The key turned in the lock with a heavy, final sound. Sukuna shoved the penthouse door open, the weight of it thudding against the marble wall. He stepped inside, the city’s neon glow dying at the threshold. The air here was still and expensive, smelling of polish and, faintly, the stale whiskey on his own breath. Beneath that, something else. Something sweet and cloying, like overripe fruit left in the sun.
He dropped his keys on the obsidian console. The click echoed.
“Fucking waste of time,” he muttered to the empty dark, his voice gravel from smoke and disuse. The woman’s name was already gone. Just a warm, complaining body in a hotel room that smelled of lemon cleaner and sweat. He’d left her cash on the dresser. It was easier.
He toed off his shoes, the silence pressing in. That’s when he heard it. A wet, choked sound from the living room. A sob. Then a whisper, shredded at the edges.
“K-Kuna… nii…”
Every muscle in his back tightened. He moved, not towards the sound but parallel to it, a predator circling. The archway to the living room was a black mouth. The lone lamp was on, its serpent-tail shade casting a sick, amber puddle of light over the central couch.
He saw.
Megumi was curled on the black leather, but not curled tight. She was splayed, one slender arm thrown back over the cushions, the other between her legs. Her skin was moon-pale in the gloom, gleaming with a fine sheen of sweat. Her hair, usually so sleek, was a dark riot across her shoulders and the couch. Her face was turned towards him, her features contorted.
Her green eyes, always so wide and clear, were glassy and unfocused. Pupils blown. Her lips were parted, slick with saliva, and trembling.
“Nii-chan… it… it hurts…”
Sukuna didn’t move. He absorbed it. The empty glass on the floor by the couch. The special tin of tea, his tea, knocked on its side on the coffee table. The bottle.
It was a thick, square glass bottle, half-full of some amber liqueur he never drank. Her small hand was wrapped around its neck, the base of it shoved obscenely between her thighs. She wasn’t thrusting it. She was holding it there, her hips making tiny, helpless circles, as if the cold glass was the only anchor in a storm of fever.
“Gumi.” His voice came out flat. Dead.
She flinched at the sound, her eyes swimming towards him. A fresh tear cut through the heat-flush on her cheek. “You’re home. I… I made tea. Your special one. I just wanted a sip. Just one.” Her words slurred, tumbling into each other. “It tasted weird. Now I’m… I’m all… burning. Inside. Everything is hot. Please.”
She pulled the bottle out with a slick, gut-wrenching sound and let it roll onto the rug, where it glugged a dark stain onto the cream fibers. Her legs fell open, utterly shameless in her desperation. She was dripping, her inner thighs slick. The sight punched the air from his lungs.
He finally stepped into the light. He saw the full picture now. The tremors wracking her slight frame. The frantic rise and fall of her chest. The raw, needy scent of her—that sweet, cloying smell—was overwhelming up close. It wasn’t perfume. It was her.
“You stupid, stupid girl,” he breathed, no real heat in it. He was hard, a sudden, painful pressure against his zipper. His mind detached, clinical. Aphrodisiac. Potent. Idiotic child drank a full cup, probably. He’d told her never to touch that blend. He used it for business, for loosening tongues tied by morality. It stripped walls down to primal need.
“Help me,” she sobbed, a fresh wave of anguish twisting her face. Her hand scrabbled at her own breast, pinching a nipple, but it was a frustrated, clumsy gesture. She didn’t know what to do with the sensation. “Make it stop. Or… or make it… more. I don’t know. Kuna-nii, please, I can’t… think.”
He knelt in front of the couch, the black marble cold through his pants. He didn’t touch her. He just looked, his crimson eyes tracing every tremor, every tear. She was beautiful like this. Ruined. His. A possessive claw sunk deep into his gut and twisted.
“Look at you,” he said, his voice low, almost conversational. “A fucking mess. Saliva all down your chin. Crying like a baby. Did you think my things were toys?”
“I’m sorry,” she whimpered, her body arching off the leather without her consent. “I’m so sorry. I’ll be good. Just… touch me. Please touch me.”
He reached out then, not for her core, but to brush the pad of his thumb over her wet lower lip. She jerked, then her mouth closed around it, sucking instinctively, her tongue hot and desperate. A low groan vibrated in his chest. He pulled his thumb away, trailing spit.
“You don’t even know what you’re asking for, do you, princess?”
“I do,” she gasped, her hands coming up to clutch at the front of his shirt. The smell of another woman’s perfume and sex on him didn’t register to her; her world had shrunk to the fire in her veins and the man in front of her. “I want you. I always… only you. Please.”
That did it. The last brittle thread of his restraint snapped.
He moved with a speed that made her cry out in surprise. One hand fisted in her hair, not gently, angling her face up to his. The other shoved her thighs wider, his fingers sliding through the slickness there with a rough, proprietary ease. She was soaked. Scalding hot.
“You burned yourself on my fire, little girl,” he growled, his face inches from hers. His breath smelled of whiskey and menace. “Now you get burned.”
He kissed her. It wasn’t a kiss. It was a claiming. Biting, consuming, all tongue and teeth and suffocating pressure. She moaned into it, a broken, grateful sound, her hands flying up to tangle in his pink hair, pulling it loose from its tie. He didn’t stop his exploration below, his fingers circling, pressing, invading. She was tight. Unpracticed. Every thrust of his fingers made her jerk and keen against his mouth.
He broke the kiss, leaning back to watch her face as he worked her. “This what you wanted? Hmm? To be my good little slut? To take your brother’s fingers because you couldn’t control your curiosity?”
She couldn’t form words. Her head thrashed on the cushion, yeses and nonsensical pleas spilling out. Her hips bucked, trying to match his rhythm, but she was clumsy, overstimulated, lost.
He withdrew his hand suddenly. She wailed in protest, the sound animalistic. He ignored it, unbuckling his belt with sharp, efficient motions. The leather slithered free. The zipper was loud.
He saw the flicker in her glazed eyes—a nanosecond of primal fear, of understanding—before it was swallowed again by the drug and the need. He leaned over her, caging her with his body, his size swallowing her whole.
“You made this mess, Megumi,” he whispered, the words a hot curse against her ear. “Now you’re going to drink every last drop of it.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He didn’t guide himself gently. He pushed. There was a sharp, choked scream from her, a sound of tearing and overwhelming fullness. Her nails dug into the leather of the couch, her back bowing.
For a moment, he stopped, buried to the hilt, shuddering with the effort of control. Her heat was madness. Her tightness was a vice. She was sobbing beneath him, but her legs, of their own volition, were hooking around his hips, pulling him deeper.
He laughed then, a dark, joyous sound. “That’s it. Take it.”
And he began to move.