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Chapter Text

There are two types of people in the world: those who take themselves too seriously, and those who convince themselves they don’t. Megumi Fushiguro had spent a large portion of his life pretending to be the second type, while being cursed with the soul of the first. It wasn’t his fault. He was raised by the most dangerous man on the east side of Tokyo, a man who wore white like blood wouldn’t dare stain him, who grinned like the devil and walked like a god. But Satoru Gojo didn’t want Megumi to become like him, which, in hindsight, was ironic as hell, considering who his heir actually turned out to be.

Spoiler alert. It wasn’t him.

Which was fine. Honestly, it was. Because the thing with Megumi was, he had no interest in dying at the age of thirty-five surrounded by cigars, guns, and men who reeked of cologne so strong it might’ve doubled as chemical warfare. No, Megumi wanted peace, books with dog-eared pages, and coffee he could sip at a snail’s pace. A quiet kind of existence. Preferably in his boyfriend’s lap and his phone turned off.

And that boyfriend? The new heir to the Gojo syndicate? That was Sukuna Ryomen — tattooed, sharp-tongued, devastatingly violent, and the exact kind of man Megumi should have hated. Emphasis on should.

“Come on,” Nobara had said that morning, popping a piece of gum in her mouth and smirking like the devil’s apprentice. “Just one prank. For the content.”

“The content,” Megumi echoed, staring at her like she’d grown a second head. “What kind of content?”

“The kind that gets reposted on stan Twitter and maybe ends up in one of those ‘boyfriends being idiots’ TikTok compilations.”

Yuuji snorted from the corner of the room, where he was pretending not to be invested and failing miserably. “You owe us, man. You and Sukuna are always so serious.”

“That’s because Sukuna is one wrong look away from stabbing someone in the thigh.”

“Exactly,” Nobara grinned, practically vibrating. “So imagine his face when you try to pull this.”

It wasn’t that Megumi didn’t enjoy chaos. He just didn’t like being the cause of it. But he agreed, because Nobara was relentless and Yuuji had already promised to record it from the hallway. Besides, the plan was simple enough. Dress up. Go to dinner. At the last second, back out, make up some excuse, and watch Sukuna unravel in that slow, deliberate, utterly terrifying way of his. Simple.

And it was simple. Until it wasn’t.

He was already dressed to kill — slim black slacks, one of those button-down shirts Sukuna liked to unbutton with his teeth, and a cologne Gojo had given him that probably cost more than Megumi’s rent would’ve if he’d ever been allowed to live like a normal human being. The plan was already set when Sukuna walked in, gold rings catching the light like they had a vendetta against subtlety.

“Ready?” he asked, voice thick and lazy, like he’d just woken from a nap and was already bored of the world.

Megumi nodded. Then paused. Blinked once. “No, actually.” He shifted his weight, shoved his hands into his pockets like he wasn’t suddenly regretting every decision that had led to this moment. “I can’t go.”

A beat passed. Then another.

Sukuna’s head tilted slightly to the side, eyes narrowing just enough to shift the entire air of the room. “You can’t go?” The words were soft. Dangerous. Like a lullaby sung by a man with a knife under his pillow.

“I… I can’t pay for dinner tonight,” Megumi said, tone perfectly flat, like he wasn’t praying to every god he didn’t believe in for Sukuna to laugh.

He didn’t laugh.

Instead, Sukuna turned toward the two guards stationed near the door. Both armed, both stone-faced. And, with zero patience and less emotion, he muttered a simple “Get the fuck out.”

They obeyed so fast Megumi barely had time to blink.

Then he was alone with him.

“You wanna try that again?” Sukuna asked, stepping forward with the kind of presence that made the floorboards creak like they were nervous too. “You can’t pay for dinner?”

Heat crawled up the back of Megumi’s neck, a flush he couldn’t hide. “I just thought… for once, I’d take you out. Like. Properly. My treat.”

A scoff, sharp and mean, tore out of Sukuna’s throat. “Your treat?” He took another step forward, close enough now that Megumi could smell the spice of his aftershave and the threat under his grin. “Right. Because you’re suddenly a broke student with a tragic past. Not the pampered son of the man who used to fly you to Thailand for breakfast and back.”

“That was once—”

“Twice.”

“—And I didn’t ask for that,” Megumi snapped.

“Sure you didn’t.” Sukuna chuckled, low and bitter, like he was dragging the sound up from the bottom of a whiskey glass. “You really think I’d let you touch a bill? You don’t even know what a receipt looks like.”

“I do!”

“Describe one.”

“It’s—” Megumi hesitated. “Thin. And crumpled. And white—”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Sukuna laughed, mean and fond and too much. Then he reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a stack of cash that looked like it could pay for a small country’s military budget, and for a moment, it seemed like he was about to shove it into Megumi’s hand. But no. His pocket. He literally tucked it into his front pocket like it was candy and Megumi was five.

“There. Now you can pay. Happy?”

Megumi stared at the bulge of cash in his pocket like it had personally insulted his ancestors. “You’re missing the point.”

“The point is you’re cute when you throw tantrums you won’t admit to.”

“I’m not—” He was. Shit. He definitely was. Arms crossing, mouth twisting, eyes narrowed like a cat stuck in a bath. He might’ve even stamped his foot. Once.

Sukuna saw it. Of course he did. His grin split wider, black tattoos pulling tight across his cheeks. “You’re gonna hit me, aren’t you?”

Megumi’s hand twitched.

“Go on, then.” Sukuna’s voice dipped, just a little. Enough to pull the world in tighter, heat pressing between them like a second skin. “See how far you get.”

It was a bluff. It was probably a bluff.

But Megumi was already raising a hand, aiming for the broad wall of Sukuna’s chest, fingers curled into a soft, useless fist—

And then he wasn’t touching air.

Sukuna caught his wrist mid-swing, yanked him forward in one smooth, brutal motion, and sealed their mouths together like it was a punishment. Like it was a promise.

It wasn’t sweet. Nothing about Sukuna ever was. His mouth was rough, demanding, tongue sliding between Megumi’s lips like it owned the space. Teeth grazed skin. Breath hitched. There was no pretense. Just heat and friction and the sharp, impossible intimacy of knowing someone well enough to ruin them. And Megumi melted into it despite himself, eyes half-lidded, body tense and aching. He could feel Sukuna’s cock pressing against his own, hard and insistent through layers of clothes that suddenly felt like barriers. Too much. Too far.

So he bit him.

Hard.

Sukuna pulled back with a hiss, blood blooming across his bottom lip like the world’s most intimate signature.

And then he laughed. A deep, guttural thing that vibrated between them, feral and unbothered. Like pain didn’t register. Like Megumi’s teeth were just kitten claws on iron skin. “Fuck,” Sukuna grinned, tongue swiping across the crimson smear like it was frosting. “That all you got?”

“I’ll hit you again.”

“Not if I fuck you first.”

That shut Megumi up.

Sukuna leaned in, breath hot against the shell of Megumi’s ear, one hand still wrapped around his wrist like a shackle. “Let’s go. Before I bend you over the couch and make sure you really pay for dinner.”

Megumi’s knees almost gave out.

Nobara and Yuuji were definitely still out there, mouths shut to not risk laughing like the hyenas Megumi knew they were.

But he didn’t care. Not when Sukuna was looking at him like that. Not when his mouth still tasted like blood and want and something sharp enough to leave scars.

“Fine,” he muttered, defeated.

“Good boy,” Sukuna purred, smug and dangerous and entirely too pleased with himself.

And Megumi? He was already planning his next tantrum. Because if this was the punishment, he could live with being a little difficult.

Chapter Text

Contrary to what pop culture might suggest, being tied to a chair in an abandoned warehouse was not, in fact, that interesting.

The ropes were itchy. The chairs were uncomfortable. The lighting was too dim to be dramatic and too bright to be moody. The floor smelled like piss and maybe regret. There were no threatening shadows or dangling lightbulbs swinging with the weight of menace. Just rusted scaffolding, flaking concrete, and the sound of some idiot with a southern Tokyo accent trying to play bad cop without the brain cells to back it up.

“This is fucking boring,” Nobara said for the third time, leaning back in her chair despite the rope around her chest. “I’m gonna get bruises. On my tits. I swear to God if this gives me a weird line, I’m sending the dry-cleaning bill to whoever runs this operation.”

Yuuji, across from her, grunted and squinted at one of the masked kidnappers. “What even is the point of this? Are we being ransomed? Or tortured? Or like, used as leverage? Because this is the worst leverage attempt I’ve ever seen.”

The man in front of them—a tall guy with too many teeth and not enough sense—growled like someone had once told him that intimidation started with posture. “Shut up. You kids don’t know who you’re messing with.”

A pause hung in the air like a sock left in a damp room.

Megumi, who had been mostly quiet so far, blinked slowly and tilted his head just enough to be annoyed. “You kidnapped us on purpose?”

“Yeah,” the man snapped. “To send a message.”

“To who?” Yuuji asked. “The authorities? Our parents? Because Megumi doesn’t have a real dad, Nobara’s mom is off-grid in Kyoto, and I was raised by a man who cries at cat food commercials.”

“Hey,” Nobara cut in, “don’t lump me in with your abandonment issues.”

“Right, sorry,” Yuuji muttered. “My trauma is mine.”

The kidnapper’s patience was visibly bleeding out of his ears. “Shut up!”

“Seriously though,” Nobara said, twisting her wrists in the ropes with casual finesse. “You got anything better than duct tape and dramatics? This is giving YouTube prank channel.”

Behind her, another man groaned. “They’re not scared.”

“No shit,” the leader hissed. “I don’t get it—”

“You really don’t,” Nobara sighed and rolled her eyes. “Dude, where’s that daddy of yours?” She turned to Megumi, deadpan and done with the bit.

Yuuji snorted immediately, the sound half-choked and gleeful. “Which one?”

A beat.

And then Nobara groaned like she had just remembered exactly who Megumi was dating and how disgusting it was to have two daddies in this economy. “Ugh. Right.”

“You walked into that,” Yuuji added helpfully, clearly enjoying himself far too much for someone tied to a chair.

The worst part was that Megumi didn’t even flinch. He just gave a long-suffering sigh, rolling his head back against the chair with the air of someone who’d accepted long ago that dignity was a currency he no longer traded in. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “I did hit the emergency button. He’s getting live GPS updates.”

“Like a glorified pet tracker,” Nobara mused. “That’s kinda hot.”

“Sick,” Yuuji said.

“Any second now,” Megumi finished, stretching his legs out as far as the rope would allow. “So if you’ve got a dramatic speech planned, I’d speed it up.”

The man in front of them blinked, processed the tone, and turned to one of his lackeys. “What does he mean, GPS?”

Then someone’s head exploded. There was no warning. No sound of the shot until after the skull burst open like a melon left in the sun too long. The spray of blood hit the floor with a wet smack, red splatter arcing into the air like a Pollock painting no one wanted.

It didn’t stop there. Another shot rang out, this one shattering the glass window above the scaffolding. Someone screamed. The smell of gunpowder hit next, sharp and filthy.

Nobara didn’t even flinch. “Oh good,” she said, twisting her neck to look over her shoulder. “Daddy’s home.”

Little shit Yuuji laughed through his nose, even as another man dropped like a ragdoll, gun clattering to the floor. Megumi just closed his eyes and exhaled.

There was something oddly calming about organized violence. When it wasn’t directed at you, it was more like white noise—background chaos that let you focus on the important things. Like not getting blood on your shoes. Or making sure your boyfriend didn’t traumatize the survivors into therapy bills they couldn’t afford.

Except there weren’t going to be survivors.

One by one, the men dropped. Screams gave way to gurgles. Gurgles to silence. The gunshots stopped only when there was no one left to shoot.

And then the footsteps came. Heavy. Confident. The kind of steps that belonged to a man who had never needed to rush, because everyone worth fearing waited for him.

The smell of blood hit first. Then leather, cologne, and violence. Sukuna stepped into the warehouse like he’d walked out of a Vogue spread shot in Hell. Two-toned hair, rings slick with blood, and a smirk like he hadn’t even broken a sweat.

Behind him, Gojo’s top enforcers filed in. Guns still warm, expressions unreadable. “Hey, sweetheart,” Sukuna said casually, like he hadn’t just murdered half a dozen men. “You good?”

Megumi let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His body relaxed all at once, limbs slumping as if the ropes were now too soft to matter. “You’re late.”

Sukuna chuckled, moving in. “Traffic.”

The ropes didn’t last long. Someone—one of the faceless men in black—cut through them with brutal efficiency. Megumi’s arms were free before the adrenaline fully left his veins.

He stood on shaky legs.

Then he walked forward.

There was no dramatics. No music. Just the way Megumi stepped into Sukuna’s arms like they were a room he lived in. Fingers curled into the expensive fabric of his suit. Chin pressed into his shoulder. The weight of everything finally allowed to settle.

“I got blood on me,” he muttered, voice muffled. “It’s sticky.”

“Disgusting,” Sukuna agreed immediately, arms wrapping tight around his waist. “We’ll burn the clothes.”

Megumi sighed into the embrace like it was oxygen. “You could’ve warned me.”

“You’d have flinched.”

“Didn’t flinch.”

“Didn’t want to risk it.”

Nobara, behind them, scoffed loudly. “Where’s my hug?”

Sukuna didn’t look at her. “You’re alive. That’s your hug.”

Yuuji burst out laughing, the kind of wheeze that suggested he might actually die if left unchecked. “I’m your nephew. Shouldn’t I get one?”

Sukuna turned to face him, deadpan. “No.”

The noise Yuuji made could only be described as tragically betrayed. “You hugged Megumi!”

“He’s prettier,” Sukuna said without hesitation. “And he calls me Daddy.”

The collective groan from Nobara and Yuuji echoed through the warehouse like a curse.

Megumi buried his face deeper into Sukuna’s neck, trying to pretend that his cheeks weren’t heating up. “You’re the worst.”

“Wrong. I just killed ten people for you.”

“Okay, one redeeming quality.” A kiss landed on the top of his head, lingering and firm. The type of kiss that wasn’t for show, wasn’t for others—just one that said you’re mine and I’ll kill again if I have to.

He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t need to. Sukuna didn’t ask for that kind of shit, and if he did, Megumi would’ve punched him.

Instead, he held on.

The silence stretched. Not awkward. Just… full. Thick with relief, with blood in the air, with the way the world tilted slightly back into place.

Gojo’s second-in-command cleared his throat eventually. “The clean-up crew’s en route.”

Sukuna nodded but didn’t let go. “Wipe everything. Burn the bodies.”

Megumi wrinkled his nose. “Everything?”

“Yeah, baby. These assholes pissed me off.”

Nobara leaned against a broken table, finally unbound, arms crossed and unimpressed. “Can we go now? I’m starving.”

Yuuji, rubbing his wrists, chimed in. “I want dumplings.”

“You almost died and your first thought is dumplings?” Megumi asked, pulling back enough to look over his shoulder.

“I didn’t die, thanks to murder-Daddy over here,” Yuuji grinned. “I think I earned some carbs.”

“Same,” Nobara said. “And alcohol.”

Sukuna sighed, finally loosening his grip. “You kids are such ungrateful little shits.”

Megumi’s hand found his, threading their fingers together. “And you love it.”

“Unfortunately.”

The four of them left the warehouse just as the smell of gasoline started to creep in. Cleanup was already underway. Bodies were being moved. Blood was being scrubbed with the kind of speed only a team trained in unspeakable crimes could achieve.

Sukuna held Megumi close, one hand low on his back, the other holding his phone, already barking orders to someone on the other end. “Three kids,” he said, voice low and sharp. “One trauma cleaning, full wardrobe replacement, and book a reservation at Megumi’s favorite place. Yes, the one. And Nobara wants liquor.”

“Wine,” she shouted over his shoulder.

Sukuna nodded. “Something expensive. And get Yuuji his fucking dumplings.”

Megumi squeezed Sukuna’s hand.

No one said thank you. No one said I’m glad you’re okay. No one cried or made speeches or talked about how scary it had been. But the moment Megumi let himself lean just a little heavier into Sukuna’s side, and the moment Sukuna pulled him just that much closer—

That was enough.

Chapter Text

If the universe had a soundtrack, it paused the second Gojo Satoru opened the door and saw him standing there.

Not figuratively. Not metaphorically. Not with poetic, sunlit windowpanes and birds in flight. No, it was much more insidious than that. Something in the atmosphere dropped dead. The warmth fled the room. Gravity tilted slightly off-center. Megumi felt it first—like something underneath the skin of the world had decided to hold its breath.

“So,” Gojo said, slow and pleasant, like they were talking about a new brand of imported coffee and not Megumi’s choice in men. “That’s the boyfriend?”

“You said you wanted to meet him,” Megumi replied, resisting the very real and very juvenile urge to grab Sukuna by the wrist and yank him away like a toddler about to knock over expensive vases out of mere spite.

“I did.” Gojo’s smile stayed put, but his eyes sharpened with the elegance of a freshly drawn blade. “Didn’t know you had such interesting taste.” From behind the sunglasses that never left his face indoors, outdoors, or possibly even while sleeping, something watched. Something old. Something dangerous.

The silence that followed was like dry air over a wound.

Megumi cleared his throat. “Should I—”

“Leave the room?” Gojo said, still smiling. “Yeah. That’d be best, kiddo.”

He didn’t want to. God, he really didn’t. But he also wasn’t stupid. And if there was one thing Gojo never did, it was make requests without already knowing how it would play out. So Megumi gave Sukuna a glance that said don’t be an asshole, got one in return that said I’ll behave, and stepped out.

The door clicked shut behind him with all the subtlety of a guillotine.

Inside the room, there was quiet. For a second. Maybe two. Then Sukuna laughed. “You’re going to hit me, aren’t you?”

“No,” Gojo said, sounding almost offended. “I’m going to punch you.” He didn’t wait. There was no warning. No windup. Just a sharp, precise fist slammed into Sukuna’s gut with all the delicacy of a wrecking ball dipped in silk. It knocked the breath from his lungs and pushed his spine into the wall with enough force to send a ripple through the drywall.

And Sukuna, because of course he would, grinned through it. “You done?” he asked, mouth bleeding slightly where his teeth caught his cheek.

“No,” Gojo said again, cheerfully, brushing nonexistent dust from his knuckles. “But I’ve got company, so I’ll save the rest for another day.”

A small porcelain tea set had already been laid out on the table. Gojo, ever the graceful sadist, poured two cups with hands that had snapped necks and plucked loose threads off of school uniforms in the same breath.

Sukuna took his cup. His knuckles were still white from the impact. “So. Are we going to have that conversation about how much you hate me, or is that just a side quest?”

“This isn’t hate,” Gojo said, sitting down. “This is obligation. I don’t hate you. You’re not interesting enough to hate yet.”

“Rude.”

“Accurate.”

Neither man sipped their tea. They just sat there. Like wolves pretending to be men. Like violence had dressed up in tailored suits and pretended it knew how to make small talk.

“Let’s cut the shit,” Gojo said, tilting his head. “Megumi’s been depressed since he was thirteen. He started taking meds when he was sixteen. I’ve picked him up off the bathroom floor more than once. You hurt him, and I’ll have your tongue mailed to your mother.”

Sukuna didn’t flinch. Not only because he did not have a mother to care about, but because he would rather kill himself than hurt Megumi.

He didn’t so much as blink. He just tilted his tea toward his mouth and said, “I know.”

Gojo’s eyes flicked up. “You know?”

“I saw him before you even noticed me,” Sukuna replied. “Back when I was just another asshole on campus. Saw him dragging himself across the quad like life had already chewed through his spine. Eyes like tombstones. Could barely carry his books. Barely looked like he remembered his name.”

“That’s romantic,” Gojo said dryly, part of him wishing he had a knife to plunge right between Sukuna’s ridiculously red eyes.

“Not the word I’d use,” Sukuna said. “But it was something. Watching someone move like their body wasn’t a place they wanted to live anymore. That caught my eye.”

“Most people look away from pain like that.”

“I don’t,” Sukuna said. “I wanted to find whatever was buried inside him. Pull it out. See if it still had a pulse.”

The silence that followed wasn’t hostile. Not exactly. But it had teeth.

Gojo finally leaned back in his seat, fingers steepled under his chin. “And then what?”

“I kept watching,” Sukuna said. “Each week, I got closer. Not because I was stalking him, thank you very much, or trying to be creepy, but because he started looking at me. Started recognizing me. First as the guy who was always around. Then as the guy who offered him a lollipop. Then the guy who walked him to his next class.”

“And then?”

“And then,” Sukuna said, voice softening just a little, “he smiled.”

Gojo blinked.

“Not at me,” Sukuna clarified, before the next punch could come his way. “At his friends. That first fucking smile. It was stupid. He was laughing at something dumb Nobara said, probably. But it was real. It was there. And I wanted to see it again.”

“He’s not easy to love,” Gojo insisted with all the love a father could manage.

“I don’t want easy,” Sukuna replied.

That silenced the room again.

Gojo took a sip from his cup. The tea had cooled just enough to taste the bitterness. “You think you’re strong enough?” he asked, quietly now. “Not for the fights. Not for the enemies. For him. You think you can hold someone who doesn’t always want to be held? Who sometimes goes quiet for days and forgets he’s allowed to be alive?”

“I know I can,” Sukuna said. “Because he doesn’t scare me.”

Gojo’s gaze sharpened.

“Not like that,” Sukuna clarified. “I mean… when he shuts down, when he disappears behind his eyes, when he spirals—I don’t look away. I sit with him. I’ve done it. I’ll keep doing it.”

“That’s not going to get easier.”

“I’m not asking for easy,” Sukuna repeated. “I’m asking for a chance.”

The silence this time wasn’t sharp. It was tired. Like Gojo had been holding something heavy for too long, and finally someone else had offered to carry it.

He sighed. A real one. No sarcasm, no smugness. Then he said, “If you stay with him… you’ll have to be the heir.”

Sukuna didn’t react right away. Didn’t lean forward or suck in a breath or look surprised. He just blinked slowly, like he was parsing through every corner of that sentence.

“I don’t want Megumi in this life,” Gojo muttered. “Never did. I raised him because I had to. I loved him because I wanted to. But he was never supposed to inherit blood on his hands.”

“And you think I’m a better option?”

“You’re already covered in it,” Gojo smirked. “Might as well make it official.”

A long silence. Not heavy. Not light. Just… inevitable.

Sukuna finally gave a soft chuckle. “You know, for a man who punched me five minutes ago, you’ve got a decent sense of judgment.”

Gojo grinned. “And you’ve got a decent set of ribs, apparently.”

They both stood. The handshake didn’t come immediately. There was no ceremony, no contract, no blood oath. Just two monsters standing in the ruins of expectations, staring each other down with something between respect and reluctant mutual tolerance.

Gojo reached out, and Sukuna took the offered hand. The grip was firm. The kind that said: we’ll kill for the same boy, and maybe that makes us family.

And outside the door, Megumi was still sitting on the hallway floor, back against the wall, headphones in but not playing anything. Just pretending he wasn’t listening. Just pretending he wasn’t terrified at the thought of Gojo slashing Sukuna open and setting him on fire.

When the door opened, he stood up a little too fast, his whole world spinning.

Sukuna stepped out first.

Gojo followed.

There was no blood on the carpet, so that was a win.

“You okay?” Megumi asked.

“I live,” Sukuna replied, shrugging. “Your dad hits like a priest with brass knuckles.”

Gojo clapped him on the back so hard his spine might’ve cracked. “He’s fine. Got my approval.”

“You what,” Megumi said.

“You heard me.”

“Did you threaten him?”

“Of course.”

“Did he threaten back?”

“Of course,” Sukuna said with a grin.

“And that works for you two?”

Gojo smirked. “It’s called male bonding.”

Megumi stared at them both like he was seriously considering homicide.

Sukuna just draped an arm over his shoulder and leaned down to whisper, “Told you I’d win him over.”

“You got punched.” Megumi whispered in return.

“Still counts.”

Later that night, Megumi would find the bruises on Sukuna’s abdomen and press gentle fingers into them with something halfway between apology and pride. “You really said you wanted to see my smile again?” he’d ask, almost embarrassed.

Sukuna would kiss the question off his mouth and answer with, “Every goddamn day.”

And Gojo, sipping sake on the balcony alone, would watch the city and mutter to himself, “If you break him, I’ll break you,” even though he already knew—deep in the same place he kept all his quiet regrets—that he wouldn’t have to. Sukuna was insane enough to give his last breath away if it meant Megumi could smile at him one more time. 

Chapter Text

Maiko had cleaned blood off enough floors to know the job wasn’t about scrubbing. The real work was in the silences you swallowed, the horrors you ignored, the sounds you cooked through while the pot bubbled and your heart stayed still in fear of being the next stain on someone’s expensive rug. That was the gig. Not the mop, not the dishes, but the ability to see a man gutted at breakfast and still serve the eggs without a flinch. She’d worked for enough rich bastards to know the score—yakuza, politicians, CEOs, all the same. They paid for loyalty, not labor, and loyalty meant pretending the world wasn’t a slaughterhouse.

She’d seen it all. Men with guns tucked into silk suits like afterthoughts. Women in dresses worth her yearly rent stepping over corpses like they were spilled sake. One boss had smashed a rival’s face with a whiskey bottle while his wife ate sushi three feet away, not even pausing her chopsticks or her conversation with her maid. Maiko had mopped the blood, tossed the glass, and gone back to folding laundry. That was the job behind the title.

But nothing—fuck, nothing—had prepared her for Sukuna Ryomen, the Gojo syndicate’s tattooed heir, crouched in front of a kitten like he was negotiating a hostage crisis. The lines inked across his back flexed as he leaned forward, holding a porcelain dish of tuna, glaring at a grey fluffball with a kinked tail and a smirk that said it knew exactly how much it was pissing him off.

“You’re eating this goddamn tuna,” Sukuna hissed, voice low and dangerous, the same tone he’d used to threaten men who’d ended up in ditches. “You think I won’t drag your ass back to the breeder? You think you can starve and make him cry?”

The kitten blinked, slow and smug, then turned its back, tail flicking like a middle finger. Maiko swore it was laughing.

Sukuna growled, a junkyard dog forced to babysit a hamster. “Try me, you little shit.”

The cat ignored him, padding toward Megumi, who sat cross-legged on the floor in one of Sukuna’s oversized shirts, staring into the void like the universe had kicked him in the teeth and he was still deciding whether to punch back. His dark hair was a mess, eyes hollow, the kind of quiet that screamed louder than words.

“Don’t starve,” Megumi murmured, voice soft but frayed, like he was talking to himself as much as the cat. “Please.”

And just like that, the kitten turned, sniffed the tuna, and started eating.

Maiko didn’t blink. Just stirred the rice porridge, eyes fixed on the window like it held the secrets to world peace. She’d been here long enough to know the rhythm. Megumi came in waves—some days sharp and cruel, wit like a blade, the kind of rich kid who’d roast you and make you thank him for it. Other days, he was a ghost, curled up with his knees to his chest, face blank, waiting for the weight in his skull to let him breathe. Those were the days Sukuna didn’t leave.

It had shocked her at first. Sukuna, all muscle and ink, a man who’d once stabbed a guy through the throat with a pen for interrupting his coffee, dragging blankets to the living room to sit beside Megumi while he stared at nothing. He didn’t talk much on those days, just stayed close, a silent wall of heat and violence, never touching unless Megumi reached first. When the kid’s insomnia hit critical—three days, maybe four, eyes bruised with exhaustion—Sukuna would scoop him up like a fallen prince and carry him to bed. He didn’t sleep, just held him, arms wrapped around a trembling body too tired to exist.

It wasn’t love, not the clean kind you see in movies. It was something rawer, sharper, like a blade you pressed against your skin just to feel alive. Megumi was the syndicate’s prince, adopted into blood and power, his childhood a collage of bodyguards and betrayals. Sukuna was his executioner, his shield, a man who’d kill a city for him and call it foreplay. They were fragile in a way that could cut you if you got too close.

Maiko saw it in the details. Bloodstained shirts tossed next to Megumi’s folded meds, Sukuna’s handwriting on the pill bottles, reminding him to take them. Books Megumi loved, dog-eared and stacked by the couch, bought without a word. Sukuna’s violence was legend—men carved open, families erased—but with Megumi, he was gentle, handling him like glass that might shatter under a wrong touch. Most wouldn’t believe it. Maiko wouldn’t have, if she weren’t the one bleaching the stains and pretending not to notice.

Then there were the tantrums. Last week, Megumi had hurled a pillow across the room, weak and dramatic, groaning, “Why do you breathe like that?”

Sukuna, mouth full of strawberries, had froze. “Like what?”

“Like you’re taking up all the air.”

“You picking a fight, sweetheart?”

“Maybe.”

Sukuna had stood, barefoot and half-asleep, crossed the room, and tackled Megumi onto the bed. What followed was a tickle war so brutal it left three buttons popped, Megumi’s ankle twisted, and the kid hiding under the sheets, yelling “UNCLE” while Sukuna demanded a kiss for mercy. Maiko had watched from the hallway, sipping tea, like it was just another day. Because it was.

Her job wasn’t to understand. It was to clean the chaos, to keep the house running while Sukuna and Megumi burned through their days like they were running out of them. But Sukuna made it hard to stay detached. He’d refill Megumi’s prescriptions without being asked, slip Nobara new mascara with a note that read, Don’t be louder than you already are. He’d toss Yuuji a black card, muttering, “Get something that doesn’t make you look like a broke intern.” All while acting like it meant nothing, like he was above caring. Which just made him worse.

The mornings, though. God, the mornings were a trial. It started the same every time—soft footsteps, the shuffle of someone too tired to care and too spoiled to fend for themselves. Megumi would climb onto the marble counter, bare legs swinging, wearing nothing but Sukuna’s shirt, too big, slipping off one shoulder to reveal a collarbone marked with faint bruises. Hair a bird’s nest, kitten in his lap, yawning like mornings were a personal insult.

“Maiko,” he’d mumble, voice warm but cracked, “I’m hungry.”

Not a demand, just a quiet need, said with the certainty of someone who knew the world bent for him. She never scolded, just nodded, smiling. “Of course, young master.”

Then the air would shift. Heavy footsteps, a low grunt, the unmistakable presence of Sukuna entering, shirtless, tattoos curling across his chest like sleeping beasts. He moved like a predator who knew exactly how long it took to ruin a man and had no reason to hurry. “Morning,” he’d rumble, heading straight for Megumi. He’d slot himself between Megumi’s milky pale thighs, hands on his hips, mouth brushing his neck, slow and deliberate. “I’m hungry too,” he’d murmur, voice rough with sleep and something darker.

“I asked first,” Megumi would say, half-pouting, voice teasing but edged with heat.

“You gonna make me beg in front of the help?”

“She doesn’t care.”

And she didn’t. Not because she wasn’t watching—she was—but because caring wasn’t in the contract. Even when Sukuna’s fingers slid under the shirt, tracing the curve of Megumi’s thigh, inching higher until they grazed the heat between his legs. Even when he pressed closer, hips grinding slow and filthy, cock already hard and straining against his sweats, nudging Megumi’s groin with a promise. The kitten would meow, outraged, leaping to the floor with a hiss that screamed judgment.

Maiko kept stirring. The stew needed her attention. If Megumi’s breath hitched, if he arched into Sukuna’s touch, hissing something desperate into his mouth, that was none of her business. The moan that followed, low, needy, and unmistakable, was her business to ignore. “Daddy, please—” Megumi’s voice was a broken gasp, fingers digging into Sukuna’s back, leaving bloody half-moons that marked him as owned.

She didn’t look up. Didn’t flinch when Sukuna bit Megumi’s neck until it bled, whispering filth too low for her to hear, though she caught the edge of it. “Gonna fuck you till you can’t walk, baby.” Didn’t acknowledge the way Megumi’s body shuddered, legs spreading wider, inviting more.

When it was over, when Sukuna pulled back with a smirk, leaving Megumi flushed, panting, clutching his own shirt like it could save him, Maiko turned with a bowl of porridge and set it on the counter. “Breakfast, young master,” she said, voice steady.

“Thank you,” Megumi mumbled, eyes glazed, voice raw from moaning.

“Another for you, sir?” she asked Sukuna, like he hadn’t just been seconds from fucking Megumi raw in front of her stove.

He grinned, all teeth and wickedness. “If you don’t mind.”

She didn’t. The zeros in her account made sure of that. She minded the kitten knocking over the soy sauce later, but that was manageable. The real weight was in the silences, the things she couldn’t unsee—Megumi clinging to Sukuna like he’d shatter without him, Sukuna humming nonsense tunes into Megumi’s hair until he slept after days of insomnia. The way Sukuna looked at him, like he’d slaughter gods to see him smile.

This wasn’t a house of love. It was a house of survival, of blood and loyalty and fragile things held together by violence. Megumi was a disaster, broken and sharp, but Sukuna handled him with a care that belied his body count. Maiko cooked, cleaned, fed the cat, sang to it when Megumi couldn’t speak. She made sure the floors stayed spotless, the bleach hiding the truth.

Because kids like Megumi? They were chaos. And Maiko? She was paid too well to care.

Chapter Text

The kitchen was a battlefield, all gleaming marble and sharp edges, but the only war being fought was between Megumi’s body and the relentless rhythm of Sukuna’s cock. Skin slapped skin, a lewd, primal beat echoing off the tiles, drowned out only by the wet, filthy slide of Sukuna buried deep in Megumi’s tight, desperate hole. It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t discreet. It was the kind of raw, unapologetic fucking that left no room for pretending you didn’t hear it, didn’t feel it, didn’t want it.

Megumi was bent over the island, shirtless, sweat-slicked, arms braced like they were the only thing keeping him from shattering. His dark hair clung to his temples, damp and messy, his thighs trembling as Sukuna fucked him into oblivion. He was a wreck—cheeks flushed, lips parted, drooling onto the cool marble like it could anchor him while his body burned. His cock hung heavy between his legs, flushed red and leaking, untouched, dripping precum in sticky streaks that pooled beneath him. Every thrust rocked him forward, a high, broken moan spilling out, raw and needy, like he was begging for mercy and more at the same time.

“You’re such a fucking slut when you’re like this,” Sukuna growled, voice low and rough against Megumi’s ear, one hand gripping his hip hard enough to leave purple blooms of bruises, the other tangled in his hair, yanking his head back to expose the pale column of his throat. “Begged for my cock last night, didn’t you? But you didn’t have enough? Needed a few more loads?”

“F-fuck, Daddy—” Megumi’s voice cracked, a desperate whimper as Sukuna slammed in deep, balls slapping against his ass with a wet, obscene sound. His hole clenched around Sukuna’s thick length, slick with lube and spit, stretched wide and greedy, taking every brutal inch like it was made for him. His body shook, thighs quivering, muscles taut as he fought to stay upright, to take it, to please.

Sukuna’s grin was feral, all teeth and hunger, as he leaned closer, chest pressed to Megumi’s back, heat radiating between them. “That’s it, baby. Let Daddy hear those pretty little sounds,” he rasped, fucking harder, deeper, each thrust a punishing claim. “Moan for me. Let the whole fucking city know how much you love being split open on my dick.”

Megumi’s sob was barely human, a high, wet sound that broke in his throat, legs buckling as pleasure and pain blurred into something holy. His nails scratched at the marble, leaving faint marks, his body arching instinctively, offering himself up like a sacrifice to Sukuna’s relentless pace. The world outside didn’t exist—just the slick heat of Sukuna inside him, the burn of his grip, the way every thrust hit that spot that made Megumi’s vision white out.

This wasn’t just sex. It was survival, a ritual carved in sweat and cum, a reminder that in a world of blood and blades, they could still have this. Megumi had grown up in the syndicate’s shadow, a prince raised on violence, his body a map of scars from fights and betrayals. Sukuna was his shield, his executioner, his everything—violent, possessive, and so fucking devoted it hurt. Every thrust was a promise: I’ll kill for you, die for you, fuck you until you forget the world wants you dead.

“Jesus Christ, again?” Nobara’s voice sliced through the haze, sharp and bored, like she’d walked in on someone folding laundry. She stood in the doorway, arms crossed, luxury bag dangling from one hand. Yuuji trailed behind, hoodie half-on, clutching a plastic bag of boba cups and left over fried chicken, his eyes widening for a split second before he shrugged.

“Warned you they were in the kitchen,” he muttered, kicking the door shut.

Neither stopped walking. Nobara stepped around the island, eyeing Megumi’s wrecked state with the casual interest of someone checking the weather. “Do you have to fuck him where we eat?” she asked, tossing her bag onto a stool and pulling one out to sit, like this was just another Tuesday.

“Mmh—!” Megumi’s whimper was helpless, back arching as Sukuna drove in again, cock dragging against his walls with a slick, filthy sound that made his toes curl. His cock twitched, leaking more precum, a pathetic dribble that stained the marble.

“Look at him,” Nobara said, smirking. “Trying not to pass out. Cute.”

Sukuna didn’t flinch, didn’t slow, just slammed back in, making Megumi choke on a moan, nails scrabbling at the counter. “Told you we had company,” he murmured against Megumi’s neck, teeth grazing the skin before biting down, hard enough to mark. “You still wanted to be a cock-hungry pup, so here we are. Say thank you, baby.”

“T-thank you, Daddy—” Megumi’s voice was a broken gasp, face burning with shame and arousal, his body trembling under the weight of Sukuna’s relentless pace.

Yuuji flopped into a chair, unwrapping his straw and jamming it into his drink. “He’s gonna need Gatorade after this. Maybe an IV.”

“Protein, too,” Sukuna snorted, hips snapping forward, cock buried so deep Megumi’s breath hitched. “Don’t worry. I’ll stuff him full.”

Nobara rolled her eyes, leaning across the counter to offer Megumi her hand, like she was tossing him a lifeline in the middle of a storm. “C’mon, princess. Don’t collapse. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

Megumi’s hand shook as he reached for hers, fingers damp and clumsy, barely able to grip. He was babbling now—soft “uhs” and “ahh—fuck” slipping out between gasps. His eyes were glassy, lips swollen, drool pooling beneath his cheek. He was gone, lost in the heat and stretch, in Sukuna’s voice calling him pretty and mine.

Sukuna was merciless, cock throbbing inside Megumi’s tight heat, every thrust a claim, a brand. “Fuck, you’re perfect like this,” he growled, voice dripping with filth. “Just a drooling little fuckdoll, taking Daddy’s cock so good. So fucking pretty when you’re wrecked, when you cream all over yourself without a hand on you.”

“I—gonna—ahh—!” Megumi’s body seized, muscles locking as he came untouched, a pathetic, keening whine spilling from his lips. His cock pulsed, painting the marble with thick, white spurts, his hole clenching around Sukuna so tight it drew a grunt from the man behind him.

Nobara raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Gross,” she said, watching the cum drip. “Now I can’t put my coffee there.”

“Use the other end,” Yuuji said, sipping his boba. “The stabby end. Less cum, more bloodstains.”

Sukuna wasn’t done. One more thrust—deep, grinding, filling Megumi to the brim. He held him there, fingers digging into his hips, cock pulsing as he came with a low, guttural growl. Hot cum flooded Megumi’s insides, leaking around Sukuna’s cock, dripping down his thighs in sticky, obscene trails. The air smelled of sex and sweat, thick and heavy, like the aftermath of a fight.

He didn’t pull out. Just leaned over Megumi, one arm sliding around his waist to hold him up, the other cradling his forehead, keeping it from smacking the marble as his body went limp. Sukuna’s lips brushed his ear, whispering something soft, private, a contrast to the brutality of moments before. “You’re mine, baby. Always.” Megumi twitched, whimpered, nodded, too fucked out to speak.

“You broke him,” Nobara said, voice flat. “Again.”

“He’s fine,” Sukuna replied, pressing a kiss to Megumi’s sweaty temple. “Just fucked full and floating.”

Yuuji grabbed napkins, tossing them onto the counter. “Let’s clean him up so we can drink. I’m not missing my brown sugar boba because you two can’t keep it in your pants.”

“Here, princess,” Nobara mocked, dabbing at the cum pooling between Megumi’s thighs with a napkin. “Let’s get you less sticky so you can walk like a person.”

“Fuck… off,” Megumi croaked, cheek still squished against the counter, voice hoarse and raw.

“Language,” Sukuna teased, finally pulling out with a wet, filthy sound that made Nobara gag theatrically. “You’re still dripping, baby. Want me to plug you up?”

Yuuji opened the fridge, rummaging for sauce. “Sweatpants or that oversized hoodie with the pissed-off cat?”

“Hoodie,” Nobara decided as Yuuji placed the bottles of sauce down next to the bag of chicken before heading for the door. “He needs comfort after being railed like a porn star.”

Megumi lay there, letting his friends wipe him down and dress him like a broken doll, too spent to protest. The kitten wandered in, a tiny ball of fur with too much attitude, hopping onto the counter. It sniffed the cum stain, meowed in disgust, and bolted.

“That’s your daddy,” Sukuna said to the cat, grinning as he zipped up Megumi’s hoodie. “Get used to it.”

“I hate you all,” Megumi mumbled, face half-buried in the fabric, eyes heavy.

“You’re welcome,” Nobara shot back, tossing the soiled napkins into the trash.

“Next time, fuck him after we get here,” Yuuji said, grabbing his keys. “Or before. Or not on the island we eat on.”

“No promises,” Sukuna said, scooping Megumi up bridal-style, his body limp and pliant. “This island’s the perfect height for bending him over.”

Megumi groaned, head lolling against Sukuna’s shoulder while making a pathetic attempt at reaching for the boba bag only for Sukuna to gently slap his hand away and grab it for him. “If they fucked up my order again,” he muttered, voice slurred, “I’m burning the shop down.”

Sukuna kissed his temple, voice soft but laced with that dangerous edge. “Daddy’ll buy you the whole street, baby.”

Chapter Text

Killing a man didn’t take much. A wrong look, a late payment, a hand too close to the wrong pocket—Yuta Okkotsu had ended lives for less. It wasn’t personal. It was just the job. In the yakuza’s world, blood was currency, and hesitation was a debt you paid with your own. Megumi, though? That kid was a walking death sentence, not because he was dangerous, but because he made Yuta want to strangle him with his bare hands and then apologize for it down on his knees.

Bodyguard work for the Gojo syndicate was supposed to be straightforward. Stand in the shadows, gun under your jacket, eyes dead enough to scare off anyone dumb enough to try something. Keep the boss’ kid alive, unstabbed, unkidnapped. Maybe look menacing at parties while sipping water disguised as vodka. Yuta had done worse. He’d taken bullets, broken bones, watched men beg for their lives before he silenced them. He figured guarding Gojo’s heir would be a paycheck with a side of boredom.

Then Sukuna Ryomen, the syndicate’s new heir and a walking argument for why some people shouldn’t be allowed to smile, cornered him. Sukuna was violence in human form, the kind of man who’d kill you for breathing too loud and laugh about it. His commission wasn’t a request; it was a threat wrapped in a smirk.

“Make sure the kid eats,” Sukuna said, voice low, like he was already imagining the bodies he’d stack if Yuta fucked up. “Or I’ll gut someone. Maybe you. Most probably you.” Yuta nodded, because what else do you do when a man like that’s staring you down? But Sukuna wasn’t done. “Kid’s a spoiled fucking brat. Sleeps till noon, doesn’t know how to work a washing machine, thinks red lights are suggestions. He’ll kill you with a single sentence and then bitch he’s bored while you’re choking on your own blood. Good luck.”

Yuta pictured a child—a snotty, iPad-obsessed demon spawn of Gojo’s bloodline, probably throwing tantrums over the wrong brand of cereal. He could handle that. He’d handled worse.

He walked into the penthouse and stopped dead. No kid. Just a young man sprawled across a designer couch in nothing but sweatpants, scrolling his phone like the world was background noise. Black hair stuck out in messy tufts, and he didn’t look up, didn’t move, just said, cool and flat, “Kuna said you’d be here at 8. You’re three minutes late.”

Not “hello.” Not “who the fuck are you?” Just three minutes late, like Yuta had personally insulted his ancestors. He hadn’t even taken his shoes off.

That same day, a set of car keys flew at his head with the precision of someone who’d definitely pegged a baseball at a bully’s skull as a kid. Yuta caught them, barely. “You can drive?” Megumi asked, already halfway out the door.

“Technically, yes,” Yuta said, cautious. “But I don’t have a license.”

Megumi shrugged, like laws were for other people. “But you can drive.”

“That’s not how—”

“I wanna go shopping.”

And that was how Yuta, trained to kill with a knife or his bare hands, became a chauffeur, stylist, and cat-sitter in one week. The yakuza life was blood and bullets, but this? This was a different kind of hell.

At the mall, Megumi didn’t shop for himself. He eyed Yuta’s tailored black suit—expensive enough to buy a small army—like it was a personal offense. “What the fuck is that?” he said, gesturing like Yuta was wearing a garbage bag.

“My uniform?” Yuta said, confused. “Your dad wants us to wear these.”

“You’re not wearing that around me. You look like a banker who snitches for fun.” Megumi shoved a pile of clothes at him—jeans, hoodies, stuff Yuta hadn’t worn since he was a teenager. “Try this. If it’s ugly, I’ll burn it off you.”

In the dressing room, wrestling with jeans tight enough to cut off circulation, Yuta stared at his reflection and accepted his fate. This was his life now. No more clean hits, no more quiet stakeouts. Just a brat who threw keys and made threats like he was born to it.

Megumi’s world was chaos. If he went out, Yuta trailed him, gun heavy under his jacket, scanning for threats in crowds that parted like water around the syndicate’s prince. If Megumi stayed in, Yuta was dragged into ramen nights with Nobara and Yuuji, handed chopsticks and told to sit. “If you don’t eat, I’m telling Sukuna you skipped lunch,” Megumi said one night, slurping noodles, eyes narrow. “He’ll probably shoot you for insubordination.”

“You wouldn’t,” Yuta said, half-hoping.

“Try me.”

Yuta ate. Every time. Because Sukuna believed in happy calories for Megumi, therefore everyone else had to take part in it.

The kitten was worse. A tiny ball of fur with no name and too much attitude, called “little shit” by Sukuna, “baby” by Megumi, and “Satan in fur” by Nobara. When Megumi and Sukuna decided their weekly ritual of fucking each other senseless took priority, Yuta was left chasing the thing with a bowl of salmon pate. It hissed, clawed, and once pissed on his shoe. He didn’t tell Megumi. Didn’t need to. The kid would probably laugh and encourage the cat to do it again.

The sex was its own nightmare. Yuta had heard worse—screams in basements, pleas before a trigger pull—but nothing prepared him for Megumi and Sukuna. Wet, sloppy sounds, Megumi’s breathy gasps of “Harder, Daddy,” and “Don’t stop, please—fuck—please,” leaking through walls like they wanted the world to hear. The first time, Yuta tried to leave, face burning. The second, he pulled up the divider in the car, cranked the music, and pretended he didn’t hear the sharp slap of skin or Megumi screaming Sukuna’s name like it was a curse and a prayer. By the third, he was numb. Divider up, volume maxed, paycheck fatter. Survival.

Sukuna’s generosity was its own kind of trap. He bought Yuta and Toge, Yuta’s non-verbal boyfriend, an apartment—keys tossed across a table like it was nothing. “You’re dealing with my brat,” Sukuna said, like that explained it. “Least I can do is make sure you’ve got a place to crash. One that’s not so close to the slums.”

Yuta didn’t trust it. Nothing in this world came free. He’d seen what happened to people who owed the syndicate. Knees broken, families sold, bodies dumped in rivers. But Sukuna didn’t ask for anything, just kept killing and coming home to Megumi like it was normal.

Megumi met Toge and didn’t blink. Just showed up at the apartment one day, looked him up and down, and tilted his head. “He doesn’t talk?” he asked crudely, stepping inside without an invite.

Yuta tensed, ready to defend even if it got him killed. “He’s non-verbal. It’s a medical—”

“I know what the fuck it is,” Megumi cut in, already moving. “Come on. We’re going to a clinic.”

No warning, no time for jackets, just Megumi dragging them to a place that didn’t have a name, just glass doors and air that smelled like money. Specialists, speech therapy, meds—a nerve condition diagnosed in ten minutes flat, all paid for before Yuta could process it. Megumi didn’t make it a big deal, didn’t act like they owed him. Just watched Toge with a quiet focus, like he saw something familiar in the silence, something that didn’t need words.

Now, every Sunday, they sat on Megumi’s floor, tea between them, signing slow and deliberate. Toge’s hands moved like they were weaving something fragile, and Megumi matched him, patient in a way he never was with anyone else and signed back even as he spoke his words out loud. Yuta watched, chest tight, not sure what to call the feeling. Gratitude, maybe. Or something uglier, like hope.

Megumi wasn’t soft. He was sharp, cold, mean in the way kids raised on violence are. Brought into a world of blood and power after Gojo had killed Megumi’s excuse of a sperm donor father, Megumi’d learned to cut before he could hold a glass without smashing it a second later. Yuta had seen his type—syndicate brats who’d sell their own siblings for a better seat at the table. But Megumi didn’t play those games. He didn’t need to. He was Gojo’s heir, untouchable, but he didn’t want the throne. Wanted Sukuna to take it, wanted to sit back with his books and his friends and his loud, messy life. Yuta respected that, even when Megumi drove him insane.

Because honestly, the complaints never stopped. “You forgot my iced coffee,” Megumi snapped one morning, flicking Sukuna’s credit card at Yuta like a shuriken.

“I brought two options—” Yuta started, but Megumi cut him off.

“I didn’t want options. I wanted iced coffee.”

Another day, curled up with the kitten, he mumbled, “I’m dying. Call Sukuna.”

Yuta sighed. “You have a cold.”

“Call. Him.”

Yuta called, because what else do you do when the prince of the underworld gives an unreasonable order?

But there were other things. A meal left in the fridge when Yuta stayed late, labeled with his name in Megumi’s sharp scrawl. Clean towels in the bathroom with Yuta’s initials on them, always a fresh stack. His favorite instant miso soup in the cupboard, the kind he’d never mentioned to anyone. Yuta didn’t ask how Megumi knew. Didn’t want to know. It was enough that he did.

It was that quick acceptance into the family and honest bluntness that made him feel like he would die for the kid. He would try not to, for Toge’s sake. He did not wish for Toge to have to bury him but if it happened, he was dead sure that Megumi would take his grieving lover in and treat him preciously.

One night, parked outside Megumi’s place after a long day, Toge leaned against his shoulder and signed, Tired?

Yuta laughed, dry and worn. “Fucking exhausted.”

Worth it?

He paused, thinking of the way this loud, broken family made room for the two of them, even when they didn’t ask.

“Yeah,” he said, voice soft. “Somehow.”

Toge smiled, small and real.

Chapter Text

The underground didn’t give a fuck about you. That was its charm. Didn’t care if you were born in a penthouse or a pile of garbage, if your first word was “mama” or a scream. You could be nobody, nothing, and it’d still let you in, as long as you could bleed and swing. Panda had learned that early, back when he was a kid with no name, no food, and a stomach that growled louder than he ever dared to. He’d slapped “Panda” on himself because it sounded soft, ironic for someone built like a brick wall, and nobody questioned it. Nobody cared enough to.

Killing a man didn’t need a reason down here. The first guy Panda dropped had snatched half a sandwich from him—stale bread, some pink sludge that could’ve been ham or could’ve been regret. Didn’t matter. He’d earned it in the ring, blood for bread, and when he left that thief choking on his own teeth, word spread. Nobody touched Panda’s shit again. The underground didn’t demand a moral compass. Hesitate, and your jaw was on the floor. Cry, and they laughed you out. Bleed too easy, and you were meat. Panda didn’t hesitate. He wasn’t fast, but he was heavy. His punches weren’t pretty, but they broke bones clean. That was enough.

His apartment was a shoebox that smelled like piss and despair. The bathroom had black mold creeping up the walls, thick enough to have a personality, maybe a name if he’d bothered to give it one. The rat that lived in the corner wasn’t scared of him anymore. They coexisted, him and the rat, both too stubborn to die. Rent was cheap because the landlord was either in jail or a ditch, and Panda didn’t ask. He was one good headshot away from a coma anyway. What was the point of caring about mold when your brain was already half-scrambled from fists?

The underground didn’t love you. It tolerated you, which was more than most people ever did. Up top, in the shiny parts of Tokyo, folks looked at him like he was a stain. Down here, he was a god, as long as he kept winning. That was the deal. You fought, you ate. You lost, you starved. Or worse. He’d seen guys disappear after bad nights—dragged off to settle debts with their organs or their lives. Kids, too. The slums weren’t picky. A rich guy with a taste for something young could stroll in, flash cash, and walk out with a kid nobody’d miss. “Adoption,” they called it, but everyone knew better. Basements with soundproof walls, wives who didn’t ask questions, screams that never made it to the street. Panda had learned to look away, regret like a knife in his gut. Caring got you killed. Or worse, it made you feel.

Gojo Satoru was a myth until he wasn’t. Everyone knew his name, even if they’d never seen his face. Yakuza royalty, the kind of man who could burn a city down and call it a Tuesday. He liked to slink into the underground sometimes, lounging in the shadows like he owned the air itself. Rumor was, he did. Owned the cages, the bets, the blood. Sometimes he watched, silent, eyes hidden behind sunglasses that cost more than a year’s winnings. Sometimes he pointed, and that guy was gone; either fed to the sharks as a disposable pawn or kept as a pet if they were unhinged enough to be useful. Panda had never caught his eye. Didn’t want to. He’d seen what happened to Gojo’s “recruits.” Half ended up dead, the other half wished they were.

Life was simple. Fight, eat, sleep, repeat. Until the kid.

The alley reeked of piss and rot, same as always. Panda was limping home, blood crusted on his knuckles, half-eaten dumplings swinging in a plastic bag. His ribs throbbed, a fresh bruise blooming where some asshole had landed a lucky hit. He didn’t notice the kid at first. Just another shadow in a place full of them. But then he looked, really looked, and saw him. Black hair sticking out like he’d just rolled out of bed, designer clothes so clean they glowed in the dim streetlight. No dirt, no sweat, no fear. Just standing there, like he’d wandered into hell and hadn’t decided if it was worth leaving.

Anyone else would’ve kept walking. Most would’ve grabbed him. A kid like that was a payday—sell the clothes, the shoes, the kidneys. The slums didn’t do charity. Panda had seen kids snatched before. But this kid was off. Not scared. Not crying. Just… there, like he was waiting for a bus.

“Kid,” Panda said, voice rough but soft as he could make it, scratching the back of his head. “I think you’re in the wrong place.”

The boy looked up, eyes scanning him like a machine, cold and sharp. No fear, just a flicker of interest, like Panda was a stray dog that might bite. “I got lost,” he said, cheeks pink like he’d been napping until life had rudely interrupted.

Panda didn’t blame him. The slums were a maze of filth and dead ends. He’d gotten lost himself, drunk or sober, and he lived here. A rich kid wandering into this shithole wasn’t impossible. What was impossible was the way he stood, unbothered, like the vultures in the shadows weren’t already circling. One guy licked his lips, another shifted, knife glinting in his hand. Panda’s fists clenched on instinct.

“Where were you supposed to be?” he asked, keeping his voice low, eyes flicking to the predators closing in.

“We watched boxing,” the kid said, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Panda snorted. “Boxing” was a polite word for bloodsport, cages where men like him broke each other for cash and cheers. A kid like this didn’t belong within a mile of it. “Lucky you,” he muttered, touching a cut on his cheek, still raw. “I’m a boxer.”

“I know,” the kid said, calm as anything. Panda blinked. Smart-ass or just sharp? Either way, this was trouble. “Bring me back,” the kid added, like he was ordering a coffee.

“You know stranger danger’s a thing, right?” Panda questioned, sarcastically.

The kid tilted his head. “You don’t feel dangerous.”

Which was a lie. Panda was 150 kilos of muscle and scar tissue, built to break necks and bench men twice his size. But he wasn’t about to argue with a kid in Versace. He sighed, jerking his head down the alley. “Let’s go.”

The walk back was tense. The slums didn’t sleep, and eyes followed them from every corner—hungry, calculating. Panda kept the kid close, one hand on the dumplings, the other ready to swing. He tried talking, figuring a lost kid might be scared, but the boy just answered in short, bored clips, like he was humoring him. By the time they reached the venue, Panda’s nerves were frayed.

It wasn’t a venue, not really. A warehouse with a patchy roof, rusted doors, and walls stained with graffiti and blood. Inside, cigarette smoke hung thick, choking the air, and the chairs were more duct tape than fabric. The cage in the center wasn’t a ring—it was a trap, built to hold men until one stopped moving.

He expected chaos—bets, shouts, the usual. But the place was empty, echoing like a tomb. Except for Gojo Satoru, sitting barefoot in the cage, grinning like a god playing human. A chill crawled up Panda’s spine. He stopped dead.

The kid didn’t.

Footsteps behind him made Panda turn. Another man, a wall of muscle in black, Gojo’s guard for sure. His fist tightened, ready for a setup. Was the kid bait? Was this some sick game?

Then Gojo looked up, eyes bright, smile wide. “Megumi! You’re back!” Megumi—because of course that was his name—walked past Panda, gave him a lazy bow, and sauntered to Gojo, who slid out of the cage and scooped him up like he was air. “I told you to stay put,” Gojo said, voice light but edged.

“It was boring,” Megumi muttered, face buried in Gojo’s neck, pouting like a prince.

A beat. Then Megumi pointed at Panda. “I want him.”

The silence was heavy, insane. Panda blinked, looking from Megumi to Gojo. Was he being bought? Sold? His stomach churned.

“What for?” Gojo asked, amused, like Panda’s life was a joke.

“He can hang out with me,” Megumi said, simple as that.

“He’s not a pet,” Gojo said, but his tone suggested he wasn’t so sure.

Megumi paused, then said, “Friend.”

And that was that.

Life changed fast. No contract, no handshake, just a new rhythm. The suits Panda never owned but was supposed to were swapped for sweats because Megumi said he looked like a narc otherwise. His days became a blur of school runs, ice cream stops, and watching Megumi and Nobara—a loud, violent girl who’d rather punch than talk—tear through life like they owned it. He fed wolf dogs, black and white-furred beasts with eyes like glaciers, who’d rip his throat out if Megumi wasn’t there to calm them. They let the kid pet them like puppies, because of course they did. Panda hauled bags of dried meat, muttering about portion sizes while the dogs glared, daring him to fuck up.

He drove Megumi to a school for yakuza brats, waited with snacks to last the day, then picked up Nobara from her own school, where she’d probably just decked someone. Homework, movies, cuddles on the couch; Megumi and Nobara passed out in a pile of limbs and dog fur, and Panda was left to clean up, feed the beasts, and raid Gojo’s fridge. The food was better than anything he’d ever earned in the ring. He ate, slept, repeated.

It wasn’t soft. He wouldn’t call it that. The underground had carved softness out of him years ago. But there was something in the way Megumi looked at him—not like a bodyguard, not like muscle, but like someone who mattered. Like an uncle, though nobody said it out loud.

The day Megumi got kidnapped, the world went red.

Panda took a bullet to the ribs before he even realized the kid was gone. He’d been distracted, laughing at Nobara’s latest fight story, when the van screeched up. Megumi was yanked inside before Panda could move. The shot burned, blood soaking his shirt, but he didn’t stop. He tracked them across Tokyo after getting Nobara inside a cab, limping, bleeding, heart hammering so loud it drowned out the pain.

Found Megumi in a basement that stank of death, tied to a chair, face bruised but eyes defiant. Panda broke four ribs dragging him out, snapping necks like twigs. The last shot came as he threw himself over Megumi, shielding him. Everything went black.

He woke three days later in a hospital that smelled like bleach and bad decisions. First thing he saw was Gojo, sunglasses off, leaning over the bed.

“You almost died,” Gojo said, voice flat. “That was inconvenient.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Panda croaked, throat raw.

“Megumi cried,” Gojo added. “Twice.”

That hurt worse than the bullet.

Gojo sat, looking tired, older than his age. “You saved him.”

“He’s a good kid.”

“He thinks you’re family.” Panda didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. “I paid off your debt,” Gojo said, casual as anything. “The underground doesn’t own you anymore.”

“What, I live for you now?”

“No,” Gojo smirked. “You live for Megumi.”

Panda couldn’t wait to get back to work.

Chapter Text

The temple was too quiet, the kind of quiet that made Geto’s thoughts scream. Thailand had given him space—heat, sweat, people who didn’t ask why his hands shook when he lit incense or why he didn’t shave his head like the other monks. There were men here who’d killed. Men who’d loved. And then there was him, caught in the middle, hair too long, guilt heavier than the broom he swept the steps with.

He moved like he could sweep away the past. Like the sweat soaking his robes could wash out the memories.

It didn’t.

He still tasted Gojo’s cherry lollipop, the way they’d pass it back and forth on walks home from class, lips brushing sugar and secrets. He remembered Gojo’s long limbs tangled with his in bed, legs knotted like they could keep each other from drifting apart in sleep. Gojo stealing his fries, his hoodies, his heart. Gojo’s hips under his hands, arching, moaning Suguru like it was a prayer he’d die for.

He remembered laughter over a bag of chips in a hotwired car, Gojo in sunglasses at midnight, giggling when he tripped over his own shoes. Gojo sprawled across his lap after kissing for hours, half-hard, flushed, whispering, Don’t fall in love with me, Suguru. I’ll ruin you.

Too late.

High school was easy. They could be reckless, touch without questions, love like it wouldn’t end. Then the world hit—blood, knives, expectations that crushed seventeen-year-old shoulders. Geto remembered the night Gojo stumbled into his apartment, blood dripping, not from a fight, but from his own father. Because he’d said no. Because he wanted out. Because he dared to dream of a life that wasn’t built on body bags.

That was the night Geto left. Packed a bag and ran, thinking distance could save them both. Thinking love was the problem, not the answer.

The kid didn’t belong here. Too young, too sharp, designer clothes too clean for temple dirt. He prayed like it was a checklist, not faith. Bodyguards shadowed him, silent, eyes cold. Geto approached like he always did—gentle words, polite bow, an offer for water in the sticky heat. The kid looked at him like he was a bug to squash but bowed back, murmuring in Japanese, dismissing the guards. Geto caught pieces—can’t believe, flew me here, breakfast—the kind of rich-kid nonsense that screamed privilege.

The air hung heavy, awkward.

Then footsteps. Loud. Cocky. Familiar in a way that twisted Geto’s gut with false hope.

Pink hair, faded and messy. Ink crawling up arms like rage trapped under skin. Broad shoulders, a grin that could start a fight or end one.

“Let’s go before Gojo freaks out,” the man said, eyes on the kid.

Geto’s breath stopped. “Gojo?”

The man glanced over. “Yeah?”

“As in… Gojo Satoru?”

A nod, casual. “Still talks too much. Still acts like he’s sixteen.”

The words landed like a fist to Geto’s chest. His voice came out flat, fragile. “I—”

“You know him?”

“Knew,” Geto corrected, too fast. “A long time ago.”

The man tilted his head, studying him. “Suguru?”

Geto froze. “How—?”

“He talks about you. Not a lot. Mostly when he’s drunk.”

Something cracked inside Geto, sharp and raw. “He’s not the type to drink,” he said, trying to laugh, but it died in his throat.

“Not the type to cry either,” the man said. “But you fucked him up.”

Names came later. Ryomen Sukuna. Megumi Fushiguro. Sukuna was danger in human form, all sharp edges and coiled violence, but softened by the way his hand hovered near Megumi’s back, ready to catch him. Megumi barely spoke, sitting cross-legged on a stone bench, slowly slumping against Sukuna’s shoulder like he’d lost a fight with sleep. Sukuna shifted, guiding Megumi’s head to his chest without a word.

It was soft. Domestic. A punch to Geto’s heart.

“How old is he?” Geto asked, sitting across from them, legs folded, voice quieter than he meant.

“Nineteen,” Sukuna said.

“Looks younger.”

“Acts older.”

“Seen toddlers with better tempers.”

Sukuna smirked. “He’s a brat.”

“But you love him.”

Sukuna didn’t flinch. “I’d die for him.”

The words hit like a blade. Geto’s throat tightened, memories flooding back—Gojo’s laugh, his touch, the way he’d curl into Geto’s side after sex, after fights, after nightmares. I’d die for you, Suguru. But I can’t live without you.

“I thought I was saving him,” Geto whispered, barely audible. “Thought if I stayed, I’d drag him down. He was burning—trying to hold up an empire, keep us alive. I didn’t want to be why he broke.”

“You weren’t,” Sukuna said, voice low, certain.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.” Sukuna’s eyes met his, heavy with something that tasted like regret. “I’ve seen distraction. Megumi’s not that. He’s the reason I keep going. When I’m in a fight, I don’t think about surviving. I think about getting back to him.”

Geto swallowed hard, tears prickling. “You handle him well.”

Sukuna snorted. “I don’t handle him. He lets me stay. That’s it.”

“Gojo let me leave.”

“Maybe he thought you needed to.”

“I did,” Geto said, voice breaking. “But I regret it every day.”

The confession hung there, raw and bleeding. Sukuna didn’t flinch, just reached into his pocket and pulled out a torn receipt. Scribbled a number. Held it out.

Gojo’s number.

“Do what you want with it,” Sukuna said.

Geto’s hand shook as he took it, the paper small but heavy, like it carried every mistake he’d made. “You ever worry?” he asked, voice barely a whisper. “That one day you’ll lose him?”

“Every second,” Sukuna said, looking down at Megumi, who’d curled tighter against him, face buried in his neck. “It scares the shit out of me. But I’d rather have him now than regret never trying.”

Tears fell then, hot and unstoppable. Geto turned away, but Sukuna didn’t mock him. Didn’t offer pity. Just let the silence hold the pain.

Megumi stirred, rubbing his eyes, blinking up at Sukuna. “Done talking?”

“Yeah, baby,” Sukuna murmured, kissing his hair.

“Tell Gojo I want udon when we land,” Megumi mumbled, wrapping his arms around Sukuna’s middle like a tired kid.

“Spoiled little shit,” Sukuna said, soft, fond.

“Your fault.”

Geto watched, chest aching. Gojo used to cling like that. Like a kitten fearing abandonment. That same stretch, that same softness.

“I think I’ll call him,” Geto whispered.

Sukuna nodded. “I think he’s been waiting.”

Later, alone on the temple steps, incense burned to ash, Geto held the paper between his palms. The heat had faded, but his tears hadn’t. He didn’t know what he’d say. Didn’t know if Gojo would answer, or if he’d hate him, or if he’d cry too.

But this time, he wouldn’t run.

This time, he’d try to stay.

Chapter Text

The temple was dark, the kind of dark that made Geto feel like he was drowning. He sat on the steps, clutching Sukuna’s crumpled receipt paper, Gojo’s number smudged from his sweaty fingers. Three days since Sukuna gave it to him. Three days of staring at his phone, too scared to call. What do you say to the guy you broke? The guy you loved so hard it ruined you both?

His thumb hit the call button before he could stop it.

One ring. Two. Three.

“Suguru?”

Gojo’s voice was slurred, thick with something Geto didn’t recognize. Drunk. Gojo didn’t drink. Never had. Said it dulled his edges, made him weak. Hearing him like this, loose, and messy, felt wrong, like the world had tilted.

“Satoru,” Geto started, voice shaky, but Gojo cut him off.

“Oh, fuck, not again,” Gojo mumbled, laughing, wet and bitter. “You’re not real. Just my head screwing with me. Always you, Suguru. Always your voice.”

Geto’s chest tightened. “Satoru, it’s me. I’m—”

“Miss you,” Gojo interrupted, words tripping over each other like a drunk toddler. “You know how much I miss you? Every fucking day. Wake up, think you’re next to me. Reach for you. Nothing. Just air. Just… gone.”

Geto’s throat burned. He could hear Gojo’s breath hitching, the clink of a bottle, the rustle of snacks. “Satoru, listen—”

“You’re not here,” Gojo rambled, voice cracking. “You’re never here. Left me. Left me to rot in this shit. Blood and bodies and my dad’s fucking empire. You were supposed to stay. Supposed to save me.”

Tears stung Geto’s eyes. He pressed the phone harder against his ear, like it could pull him closer. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

Gojo laughed, sharp and broken. “Sorry? You’re not even real. Just my stupid brain. Stupid heart. Still loves you. Always will. Fucked up, huh?”

Geto couldn’t breathe. Gojo’s words were knives, each one slicing deeper. He wanted to scream, to reach through the phone and shake him, to make him hear. But Gojo kept going, voice softer now, slurring into something fragile.

“Hey, Suguru,” he said, like he was whispering a secret. “Are you still alive, my love?”

The question stopped Geto’s heart. It wasn’t just drunk babble. It was raw, desperate, like Gojo was begging for proof that Geto hadn’t vanished into the void. That he was still out there, somewhere, loving him back.

Geto was on his feet before he realized it, phone still pressed to his ear. “I’m alive,” he choked out. “I’m coming, Satoru. I’m coming to you.”

Gojo didn’t answer. Just a soft, “Oh,” and then silence, like he’d already forgotten.

Geto booked the first flight to Japan.

The Gojo family house loomed like a ghost. Geto had never gone inside—too much money, too much blood—but he’d dropped Gojo off on his bike countless times, watching him disappear behind the gates with a cocky wave. Back then, guards stood like statues, eyes cold. Now, the gate was unlocked, swinging open with a creak when Geto pushed it. No guards. No lights. Just silence and the weight of his own guilt.

He stepped onto the grounds, heart pounding. Was this his fault too? Gojo, drunk and careless, leaving the gate open like he was inviting death in? Had Geto broken him so badly he didn’t care anymore?

The front door wasn’t locked either. Geto walked in, boots loud against the polished floor. The house was empty, unloved, with bare walls, no warmth, like no one had lived here in years. And there, on a sagging couch in the living room, was Gojo.

Slumped, surrounded by empty bottles and scattered snacks, he looked smaller than Geto remembered. His white hair was a mess, falling over his face, and his shirt was wrinkled, stained with whiskey. The air stank of alcohol and regret.

Geto’s knees hit the floor before he could think. He knelt beside the couch, hand shaking as he reached out, brushing Gojo’s hair back. Soft, like always. His fingertips traced down, grazing those long, white eyelashes that used to flutter when they kissed. Always so pretty.

Gojo’s eyes opened, lazy and red, like he’d been crying for days. The blue was still mesmerizing, catching the harsh light from a single lamp. He blinked, slow, unfocused, breath heavy with liquor.

“My love,” Gojo murmured, voice soft, like he was greeting a dream.

His heart shattered. The smell of alcohol was so strong it burned his nose, no wonder Gojo thought he was a hallucination. “Satoru,” he whispered, cupping his face, thumbs brushing over tear-streaked cheeks. “It’s me. I’m here.”

But Gojo’s lips parted, a shaky smile forming. “You’re not real,” he slurred, reaching out, fingers clumsy as they grazed Geto’s jaw. “But you’re so pretty. Always were. My Suguru.”

“I’m real,” Geto said, voice breaking. He grabbed Gojo’s hand, pressing it to his chest, letting him feel his heartbeat. “I’m here. I came back.”

Gojo’s smile faded, eyes searching his face like he was waiting for the illusion to break. “You left me,” he whispered, tears spilling over. “You left, and I… I couldn’t…”

“I know,” Geto choked out, pulling Gojo’s hand to his lips, kissing his knuckles. “I fucked up. I thought I was saving you, but I broke you. I broke us. I’m so sorry, Satoru.”

Gojo’s breath hitched, a sob tearing free. He leaned forward, clumsy, collapsing against Geto’s chest, face buried in his neck. “Missed you,” he mumbled, voice muffled, wet with tears. “Missed you so much. Thought you were dead. Thought I’d never…”

“I’m alive,” Geto said, wrapping his arms around him, holding tight like he could piece Gojo back together. “I’m here now. I’m not leaving again.”

Gojo clung to him, fingers digging into his back, shaking so hard it hurt to feel. “Don’t lie,” he whispered. “Don’t… don’t disappear again. Please, Suguru. I can’t…”

“I won’t,” Geto promised, tears falling into Gojo’s hair. “I’m gonna fix this. Fix us. I swear.”

The house was quiet except for Gojo’s soft sobs, the kind that came from too many years of holding it in. Geto held him, rocking gently, his own tears soaking Gojo’s shoulder. The bottles, the empty house, the unlocked gate—it was all a scream for help, and Geto had almost been too late.

But he was here now.

And this time, he’d stay.

Chapter Text

The sheets were silk—real, imported, midnight-black silk that shimmered like liquid obsidian under the dim light. Not some fancy cotton pretending to be luxurious, but the kind of silk so cold and slick it made your skin feel like it cost a fortune just to graze it. These weren’t sheets for sleeping. They were for sprawling, for bleeding if you were rich enough to laugh at the stain, for fucking until the world blurred into nothing but sweat and need.

Megumi was splayed across them, bare and breathtaking, his pale skin flushed from his ears to the tops of his thighs. His ankles were spread wide, delicate bones trembling under the weight of his own desperation. One hand clutched the pillow beneath his cheek, knuckles white, while the other reached back, fingers scrabbling weakly at Sukuna’s hip. Like a kitten trying to claw a lion into submission.

“Please,” he gasped, voice high and shattered, raw with want. “Please, Daddy, I need it—need you to fucking move.”

A low, mocking hum vibrated from Sukuna’s chest, dripping with condescension and something dangerously sweet.

“Greedy little thing,” he purred, leaning down until his broad chest grazed Megumi’s sweat-slick back, his cock buried so deep it felt like it was splitting him in half, yet maddeningly still. “Can’t last five seconds without whining for it, can you?”

His voice was a blade wrapped in velvet, sharp enough to cut, soft enough to make Megumi’s insides twist with need.

Megumi whimpered, fingers clawing at the silk, leaving creases in the perfect black. “Not whining,” he muttered, even as his body screamed otherwise—hips twitching, hole clenching, begging for more.

“You are,” Sukuna chuckled, low and dark, his breath hot against Megumi’s neck. “Crying like a needy little puppy, all desperate for Daddy to rail you into the mattress. Want me to fuck you stupid? Pound that spoiled little hole until you can’t walk?”

“Yes—yes, Daddy, please—” Megumi’s voice cracked, a sob caught in his throat.

But Sukuna didn’t budge. He stayed pressed against him, hips tilted just enough to tease, the stretch and heat of his cock a torment that made Megumi’s vision blur. He was stuffed full, so full it ached, every nerve singing with the pressure, but denied the brutal rhythm that usually left him a sobbing, boneless mess.

“Bet you love this,” Sukuna murmured, lips brushing the nape of Megumi’s neck, leaving a trail of fire. “Love being stretched open, Daddy’s cock splitting you wide, but not moving an inch. Turns your pretty little brain to mush, doesn’t it?”

“I—I can’t—” Megumi’s voice trembled, his thighs shaking so hard the silk beneath them rippled.

“You can,” Sukuna purred, nipping at his earlobe, teeth grazing just shy of pain. “You’re Daddy’s perfect little boy, aren’t you?”

Megumi’s body shuddered, that perfect little boy sinking into his bones, coiling around his heart, making him feel small and cherished in a way that made his chest ache. “Mhm,” he whispered, barely audible. “I’m good, Daddy—I’m so good—”

“Fuck, yeah, you are.”

Finally, Sukuna eased back an inch, dragging his cock out just enough to make Megumi gasp, his thighs quivering from the torturous promise of motion. Then he sank back in; slow, so fucking deep it felt like he was carving a home inside Megumi’s body. The obscene, wet sound of it filled the air, mingling with Megumi’s high, broken cry, a sound so desperate it could’ve made angels weep.

“Such a tight little cunt,” Sukuna growled, dragging his cock out again, slower, letting Megumi feel every thick inch scraping against his walls. “So fucking snug, like you were molded just for this. Made to take Daddy’s cock, weren’t you?”

“Uh—ahh—yes—” Megumi’s voice was a mess, slurred with pleasure.

“You love it when I talk dirty, don’t you?” Sukuna’s lips curled against his skin. “Love hearing Daddy call you my pretty little fuckhole, my perfect cockslut?”

Megumi moaned into the pillow, biting down so hard his teeth left marks in the silk.

“I asked you a fucking question.”

“Yes, Daddy!” Megumi’s voice cracked, loud and frantic.

“There’s my good boy.”

The pace stayed torturous—slow, deliberate, each thrust dragging out the pleasure until it felt like Megumi’s nerves were fraying. Sukuna wasn’t fucking him hard; he was ruining him, stretching the ecstasy to the point of agony, fucking his soul raw without ever picking up speed.

“Feel how fucking soaked you are?” Sukuna whispered, voice low and filthy against Megumi’s ear. “Dripping all over my cock like a sloppy little toy. Barely needed lube, did you? Just spread those pretty legs and let me slide right in.”

A helpless, keening whine tore from Megumi’s throat, his body clenching instinctively around Sukuna’s cock.

“That’s it,” Sukuna growled, unrelenting. “You don’t need me to go fast. You need this—need Daddy to remind you who owns this hole, who decides when you get to fucking come.”

His hand slid down Megumi’s side, calloused fingers leaving trails of goosebumps, before gripping his thigh and yanking it up, forcing Megumi to arch deeper, take him impossibly deeper. The new angle made Megumi’s breath stutter, his hole fluttering around Sukuna’s cock. “You love being fucked open like this,” Sukuna murmured, licking a hot stripe up the shell of his ear. “Stuffed like a dumb little baby, all warm and wet and split wide for Daddy.”

“I wanna come,” Megumi whimpered, half-delirious, his voice barely a whisper. “Please—please—”

“I know, baby,” Sukuna cooed, voice dripping with mock pity. “But Daddy’s not done playing with you.”

Another thrust, deep and languid, made Megumi scream—not from pain, but from pleasure so sharp it clawed through his gut, blurring his vision to white. His cock throbbed, untouched, leaking in thick, sticky streaks that soaked the silk beneath him. The sheets were ruined, slick with sweat, lube, and precum, clinging to their skin like a second lover. Megumi’s thighs trembled, his glassy eyes half-lidded, lost in the haze.

“You’re fucking gorgeous like this,” Sukuna murmured, pressing soft, reverent kisses down Megumi’s spine, a stark contrast to the filth spilling from his mouth. “All mine. Just a perfect doll made to choke on Daddy’s dick.” His hand curled around Megumi’s leaking cock, not stroking, just holding it tight enough to make him squirm, a cruel tease. “No touching,” he whispered, voice dark. “Not until I fucking say so.”

“Please—” Megumi’s voice broke, raw and desperate. The slow, deep thrusts didn’t stop, each one measured, soft in a way that felt like a weapon, unraveling him stroke by stroke. “Just relax, baby,” Sukuna whispered, lips brushing his ear. “Let Daddy fuck you how you need.”

He sobbed into the pillow, legs shaking, too weak to push back as Sukuna pinned him with one massive hand splayed across his hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh like a claim.

“I need it,” Megumi whimpered, voice fracturing. “Please, Daddy—faster, harder—I can’t take it—”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Sukuna said with a low, mocking laugh. “You think you’re in charge here? Forgot who this pretty little ass belongs to?”

“N-no—”

“Then why the fuck are you telling me how to wreck you?” His hand tightened around Megumi’s cock, just enough to make his breath hitch, still no stroking, just pressure that made his body jerk. “Keep acting like a bratty slut, and I’ll treat you like one.”

“I’ll be good—I swear—” Megumi’s voice was a plea, soft and broken.

“You are good,” Sukuna said, his tone mockingly tender. “That’s why I’m fucking you nice and slow. You deserve to feel every inch of Daddy’s cock.”

Another deep thrust, slow enough to make Megumi’s body clench, his hole gripping Sukuna like it never wanted to let go. “You’re trembling,” Sukuna said, voice laced with amusement. “Can’t even handle Daddy fucking you soft like this.”

“D-don’t stop—” Megumi’s voice was barely audible, a desperate prayer.

“Never,” Sukuna soothed, stroking a hand down Megumi’s flank, fingers tracing the curve of his hip. “Not until you’re fucked dumb, dripping with Daddy’s cum, too full to move.”

Megumi choked on a sob, hips jerking instinctively, chasing more. His cock was painfully hard, flushed red, leaking in messy spurts. Sukuna shifted, dragging Megumi up until he was folded into his lap, back arched against Sukuna’s broad chest, knees splayed wide across his thighs. The new angle made Megumi cry out, his body jolting as Sukuna’s cock hit deeper, brushing that spot that made stars explode behind his eyes.

“No hiding now,” Sukuna murmured, biting Megumi’s neck hard enough to be a warning. “Gonna watch you fucking shatter for Daddy.”

His hand returned to Megumi’s cock, still not stroking, just gripping it as Megumi writhed, trying to fuck into his fist and grind down on Sukuna’s cock at the same time. Sukuna’s other hand squeezed his hip, pinning him still, forcing him to take it at his pace.

“Beg for it.”

“Please, Daddy—please let me come—I’ll be so good, I’ll do anything, it’s too much, I need you—” Megumi’s voice was a broken litany, spilling out like a prayer.

“So fucking sweet when you’re desperate,” Sukuna whispered, voice rough with want. “My polite little prince, begging like a whore.”

Finally, his hand moved—slow, deliberate strokes that matched the rhythm of his hips. It was too much. Megumi’s head snapped back, mouth open in a silent scream, eyes rolling back as his body seized in Sukuna’s lap. Cum spilled in thick, hot ropes, splattering his chest, Sukuna’s hand, the ruined sheets below, his body shaking through the aftershocks.

“There you go,” Sukuna growled, fucking into him faster now, chasing his own release. “That’s my perfect fucking boy.”

His groans turned feral as he slammed deep, burying himself with a final, brutal thrust, coming so hard it felt like it burned. Thick, hot pulses filled Megumi’s hole, spilling out around Sukuna’s cock, dripping down his thighs in sticky rivulets. Sukuna held him through it, arms locked around his trembling frame, cock still pulsing inside.

Megumi collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut, breath ragged, chest slick with cum and sweat, eyes dazed and unfocused.

“Such a fucking mess,” Sukuna murmured, brushing sweaty hair from Megumi’s forehead with surprising gentleness. “But you took every drop, didn’t you?”

Megumi nodded weakly, too fucked-out to speak.

“Should clean you up,” Sukuna mused, voice low and possessive. “Make you sit in my lap while I finger your sloppy little hole clean. Or maybe I should keep you plugged up all night so you don’t waste a single bit of Daddy’s cum.”

Megumi moaned softly, twitching at the overstimulation, his body too sensitive to handle the thought.

“Shh, not yet.” Sukuna kissed his shoulder, soft and reverent. “You’re mine tonight. All fucking night. Gonna take care of my baby.”

The room fell silent except for their ragged breathing—sticky, warm, safe.

And if Megumi clung tighter, whispering, “Love you, Daddy,” in a voice so small it barely existed, Sukuna didn’t answer right away.

Just pulled him closer, chest to back, and let the silence say it all.