Chapter 6: The Final Humiliation
Mizuki didn’t move. The words “convenient hole” were caught in a loop, a scratched record skipping in the cavity of her chest. Leaving would make it real. Acknowledging it would mean the past year of her life was a performance for an audience of two. So she sat, a statue on the stained couch, while the truth they’d given her chemically altered the air, making every breath burn.
Sukuna finally shrugged Megumi off, but it wasn’t a rejection. It was a repositioning. He walked to the couch and dropped onto it, spreading his arms along the back. He looked at Mizuki, his eyes flat. “You’re like a piece of furniture, you know that? Just sitting there.”
Megumi followed, a sly smile on her lips. Instead of sitting beside him, she turned and simply lowered herself into his lap, facing Mizuki, her back to his chest. She wriggled, getting comfortable. Sukuna’s arms came around her waist automatically, his hands splaying possessively over her stomach. He buried his nose in the damp hair at her neck, inhaling.
“See?” Megumi said to Mizuki, her voice a light, conversational murmur. “This is where I fit.”
Mizuki’s hands were fists in her lap, nails biting crescent moons into her palms. The pain was an anchor. This wasn’t happening. This was a test, a twisted game. Any second now, Sukuna would laugh that rough laugh and push Megumi off, call her a brat, and pull Mizuki into his arms instead.
He didn’t.
His eyes were closed, his face relaxed into an expression of deep contentment Mizuki had only ever seen in fragments, never directed at her. One of his hands slid lower, fingertips dipping just below the waistband of Megumi’s—his—shorts. Megumi’s breath hitched, a tiny, deliberate sound. She arched her back, pressing herself more firmly against him.
“Kuna-nii,” she whispered, a plea and a command.
“Hmm?”
“She’s still watching.”
Sukuna didn’t even open his eyes. “So let her watch. Maybe she’ll learn something.”
The permission was worse than a shout. It was a dismissal so complete it vacuumed all the oxygen from the room. Mizuki was a ghost. A learning aid.
Megumi’s hand came up behind her, tangling in Sukuna’s pink hair, pulling his face harder against her neck. Her other hand reached back, fumbling with the button of his jeans. The metallic snick was obscenely loud. Mizuki saw his breath stop, his whole body going taut. Then Megumi’s hand was moving, sliding down, and Sukuna’s head fell back against the couch with a soft thud, a low groan tearing from his throat.
It was a sound of raw, unfiltered pleasure. Mizuki had never heard it. Not like that. Sex with Sukuna had always been a functional, friction-based transaction, over quickly, in the dark. He was never unguarded. He was never taken.
Megumi shifted, rising up on her knees. The oversized shirt rode up. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath. With a slow, deliberate motion, she sank back down onto him, her eyes locked on Mizuki’s the entire time.
Mizuki flinched. A full-body shudder she couldn’t control.
“Yeah,” Megumi breathed, her composure cracking into something hungry and sharp. “See? This is how he likes it.”
Then they were moving. Sukuna’s hands gripped Megumi’s hips, fingers digging into her skin, guiding her rhythm. It wasn’t love-making. It was a claiming. A violent, desperate collision of two bodies that knew each other’s every contour, every trigger. The couch squeaked in protest. Sukuna’s curses were filthier, more creative than anything Mizuki had ever heard. He called Megumi names that should have been insults but came out like worship—greedy little bitch, perfect fucking slut—and Megumi ate them up, repeating “nii-chan, nii-chan” like a mantra.
Mizuki watched, paralyzed. She saw the sweat gleam on Sukuna’s forehead. She saw the concentrated, rapturous agony on his face, a face she realized she had never truly seen. This was the real Sukuna, stripped bare not by her, but by his sister. Megumi’s cries were theatrical, loud, pointed. She threw her head back, not breaking eye contact with Mizuki for longer than a second, ensuring every gasp, every moan was a bullet aimed directly between Mizuki’s eyes.
He never touched me like that. He never looked at me like I was water in a desert. He never… he never…
The thoughts were shards of glass in her mind.
It was over with a choked, animal sound from Sukuna, his body arching up off the couch, holding Megumi down against him for a long, shuddering moment. He collapsed back, breathing ragged. Megumi stayed where she was, draped over him, a satisfied smirk playing on her swollen lips. She was panting, too.
Silence descended, broken only by their harsh breaths and the relentless hum of the fluorescent light. The air was thick with the smell of sex, sweat, and Sukuna’s cigarettes.
Then, slowly, Megumi pushed herself up. She stood on slightly unsteady legs, the shirt falling back down to her thighs. She didn’t look at Sukuna, who lay with an arm thrown over his eyes. She took two steps toward Mizuki, then stopped.
With a deliberate slowness, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of the shorts and pushed them down, just enough. Then she bent her knees slightly, parting her legs.
The evidence was stark, glistening in the ugly yellow light, trailing down her inner thigh.
Megumi’s dark blue eyes were triumphant, cold, and endlessly amused. “See?” she said, her voice husky but clear. “He’s home now. All of him.”
She straightened, pulling the shorts back up, and walked back to the couch. She curled into Sukuna’s side, tucking her head under his chin. He didn’t embrace her, but his hand came up to absently stroke her hair. He still hadn’t looked at Mizuki.
Mizuki stood up. Her body felt like it belonged to someone else. She didn’t say a word. She walked to the door, her steps unnaturally quiet on the grimy floor. She collected her bag from the hook.
As her hand closed on the doorknob, Sukuna’s voice came, drowsy, saturated with spent pleasure.
“Lock it on your way out, would you? And don’t come back tomorrow. Megumi’s staying.”
Mizuki turned the knob. The click of the latch behind her was the quietest, most final sound she had ever heard. The hallway outside was empty and cool. She stood there for a full minute, listening to the silence of her own existence.
Then she walked. She didn’t know where.