Chapter 1: The Stolen Panties
The floorboards in Sukuna’s apartment were cold and gritty under her knees. Megumi hadn’t knocked. She’d used the key he’d left under the mat years ago, the one he’d forgotten she knew about. The air was thick with the smell of old tobacco and something sharper, like metal left out in the rain. Streetlight bled around the edges of the heavy curtains, painting his silhouette in the sagging armchair.
He didn’t look surprised. He just took a slow drag from his cigarette, the ember flaring in the dark, illuminating the hard planes of his face for a second. “The hell are you doing here, kid?”
“I’m not a kid,” she whispered. The words dissolved in the vast, empty room. She was drowning in her own cotton nightgown, the fabric thin and worn. She could feel the draft from the window on her skin.
“You are.” His voice was a low rumble. “Legal don’t mean shit. Get up. Go home.”
She didn’t move. Her heart was a frantic bird against her ribs. She’d practiced this in her head a thousand times, but now the script was gone, leaving only the raw, aching need. “I can’t.”
He was silent for a long moment. The cigarette tip traced an orange arc through the dark as he brought it to his lips again. “Can’t what?”
“I can’t… feel nothing anymore. I just want to feel something good. Once.” Her voice cracked. She looked down at her own hands, small and pale against the dark wood. “Please.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“I do.” She forced her head up, meeting the shadow where his eyes were. “I know exactly. I don’t want… I don’t expect anything from you. Not really. Just… your hands. That’s all. Just touch me. However you want. However little you want. That’s enough for me.”
A dry, humorless sound escaped him. Not a laugh. More like the release of a long-held breath. “You’re messed up, you know that?”
“I know.” The admission was a relief. She inched forward on her knees, the floorboards biting into her skin. “You don’t have to lie to me. You don’t have to be nice. Just… make it stop for a minute.”
He stubbed the cigarette out on the arm of the chair, a final, decisive motion. For a long time, he just looked at her, a large, still monument in the gloom. She could feel his gaze like a physical weight, cataloging her trembling lips, the too-bright sheen in her eyes, the way her small frame seemed to curl in on itself even as she presented it to him.
“You’ll regret this,” he stated, his tone flat.
“I won’t.”
“You will. But fine.” He shifted forward, the old leather of the chair groaning in protest. One large hand came down, not to help her up, but to fist in the fabric of her nightgown at her shoulder. He pulled her up to her knees, closer to him, his face now just a foot from hers. His breath smelled of whiskey and smoke. “This is a transaction. You get your minute. Then you leave. You don’t come back sniveling for more. You don’t look at me tomorrow. You understand?”
She nodded, a quick, jerky motion. Her whole world had narrowed to the heat of his hand through the thin cotton.
His other hand went to the hem of her gown. There was no ceremony, no teasing slide. He just gathered the fabric in a rough bunch and hauled it up past her hips, past her waist, exposing her to the cool, stale air. She gasped, a sharp little intake, and instinctively tried to squeeze her thighs together.
He didn’t allow it. A heavy knee nudged her legs apart, the pressure unyielding. He looked down at her, his expression unreadable in the dark. “So damn eager,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. His thumb brushed over her, a clinical, testing stroke. She was already wet, shamefully so, her body betraying a longing her mind could barely articulate. A shaky whimper leaked from her throat.
“See?” he said, his voice still that dead calm. “Messed up.”
Then his fingers were there. Not one, but two, thick and blunt, pushing into her without preamble. She cried out, her hands flying to clutch at the sturdy muscle of his thighs for balance. He was stretching her, filling her in a way that was exactly what she’d fantasized about and somehow completely different—more real, more overwhelming, less about pleasure and more about sheer, shocking occupation.
He didn’t move at first. He just held them there, buried to the knuckles, letting her adjust to the invasive presence. His eyes were on her face, watching every flicker of pain and confusion and desperate want.
“This what you needed?” he asked, his voice a gravelly scrape.
She could only nod, tears spilling silently down her cheeks. She was shaking, her knuckles white where she gripped him.
Then he moved. It wasn’t gentle. It was efficient, a rough, piston-like rhythm that had her gasping, her forehead dropping against his knee. He knew what he was doing, his movements precise and devastatingly effective, targeting a deep, internal spot that made her vision blur. The sounds were obscenely loud in the quiet room—the slick, wet noise of his hand, her ragged breaths, the soft, helpless sounds she couldn’t swallow down.
It was over quickly. A coil tightened low in her belly, pulled taut by his relentless fingers, and snapped. She shattered with a choked-off sob, her body convulsing around his hand, waves of sensation crashing through her so violently it felt like pain. Like being unmade.
He stopped. He withdrew his fingers, slow and deliberate, and let her gown fall back down. She slumped against his leg, boneless and shuddering, tears wetting the fabric of his pants. The aftermath was a hollow, ringing silence.
She felt his hand, the same one, come to rest heavily on top of her head. It wasn’t a caress. It was possession, an anchor holding her in place. His thumb stroked once, roughly, through her hair.
For just a second, his breath seemed to hitch. The stillness in him changed, deepened. The predatory calm wavered, replaced by something hotter, more immediate. The fingers in her hair tightened almost imperceptibly.
He removed his hand.
“Minute’s up,” he said, his voice back to that carefully controlled rumble, but a fraction too low. A fraction too tight. “Get out.”
She stumbled to her feet, her legs barely supporting her. She couldn’t look at him. She fumbled for the door handle, the world still swimming.
As she slipped out into the brighter, colder hallway, she heard the distinct scratch of a match being struck inside the dark room. A new cigarette. A way to burn a different smell into the air.
He didn’t move from the chair. He stared at the closed door, then slowly brought his fingers to his mouth. He tasted the salt and her on his skin, and his scowl deepened into something dark and unfamiliar. The transaction was complete. So why did the room feel suddenly, acutely, empty?