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The President of the United States of America is staring at him. And Megumi –
Megumi has no idea why.
He’s not supposed to be.
He knows he’s not supposed to be. Though, it’s a fruitless endeavor to wonder. Megumi is intimately aware that he isn’t the kind of man to abide by what he should and should not be doing. After all, Megumi wouldn’t be here if he was.
President Ryomen is a different breed, and he knows it.
It’s not just that he’s disgustingly rich, or infuriatingly good-looking, or the youngest man ever elected to serve in the Senate, or that he won the popular vote by a historic landslide. It’s his intensity. His capacity for focus. His big political ambitions. His ability to break down every foreign exchange and treaty to match his terms and agreements, just through sheer will alone. Serving the law, but not letting the law touch him. Men on the moon. Equal rights. Nuclear winter. There is no war. There is only his peace. What he wants, he gets – because everyone’s too scared to see what happens otherwise.
There is no big red button. There’s him.
Megumi feels that way now. His new pet project. His new mystery puzzle. Nothing screams dream big like sleeping with one of the highest-billed bombshells of the decade, Hollywood’s hottest, the primadonna of success, the American Dream – the latest purchase. Megumi sees it in every move he makes, in the way his gaze sometimes narrows, like he wants to take this Fabergé egg apart, crack him open, and see everything he’s hiding inside. Just like…
Now.
Sukuna raises a glass to his lips from his high-seated head table, the whole room revolving around him as the centerpiece, and he just – stares. Stares right at Megumi.
His wife is right next to him. His three terrible children. His entire cabinet, all his men.
Happy Birthday to You.
Megumi’s throat is sore. It was hardly a long song, in fact it was hardly a song at all, but his throat is still scratched and dry from all his crying last night. He gets this way sometimes. His chronic sadness. His affliction. It waxes and wanes, and right now, he’s been in one of the worst lulls – a full moon of emptiness, the kind of mood where he’s staring at his ceiling at night till all the vessels in his eyes burst and blossom red, the kind no medication can soothe, because believe him, he’s tried. His manager practically had to drag his rotting corpse from bed to gussy him up for this. Brushing off the cobwebs, polishing him with some spit and shine, slipping him into crystals. Strapping and tying him in. Apparently, the President made a personal request – something not even Megumi Fushiguro or any Angeleno fame could ever protest.
Touching his neck, Megumi lets his fingers trace the swell of his aching throat. He looks down and away, brushes a hand through his halo of messy black curls, adjusts his dress over his chest. There’s nothing to fix. This dress is skin-tight. So tight, Gojo had someone sew him into it. You’re a siren dripping in diamonds, baby. Seamless souffle silk sticking to his skin; 2,500 rhinestones embroidered in rosette motifs, like flowers sparkling up his hips.
Megumi fans himself with his hand. Feels like crawling out of his skin, shedding this flashy corporeal form to a more honest one. He’s never been one for the limelight. The stage-fright of being perceived has yet to be beaten out of him. Gojo tries, but there’s nothing quite like the heat of a studio light as you mumble your way through a song, knowing very well you have to act and sound and look and be as sexy as you can when you feel anything but. God, Megumi’s not even a singer. He’s an actor. Though, that might not even be true either. What kind of actor nearly faints performing for an audience, much less the President? The gasp of the crowd when he came on, the wink and breathy hello into the mic he did in response. It’s a lie. A lie like his silhouette against the spotlight, cut into a nude hourglass. A charade. Pure make-believe. At least, it’s over with and he’s sitting down, before his legs can give out on him. He has half the mind to shrug back into the white ermine coat hanging on the back of his dining chair, but he feels hot. Too hot.
Sukuna needs to stop looking at him, and look at his fucking birthday cake.
It’s gigantic. It takes six men to haul it out on their shoulders, the six tiers of cake precariously wobbling like gelatin. It weighs over a hundred pounds. It’ll be served to over five hundred guests. When it’s placed on its own stand, it blocks half the audience. Hundreds of candles outline the circumference of each tier, looking like a trillion shining stars – a cake chandelier. It’s white-cake, Sukuna’s favorite. Raspberry jam filling, vanilla buttercream topping. A miniature White House sits on top. Blood red icing on a white backdrop.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY
MR. PRESIDENT
His 45th.
The President smiles, but he doesn’t blink.
Megumi’s toes curl in his delicate heels, tiny hairs on his forearm standing straight, thigh muscles twitching and tightening – around nothing but the anticipation of a hand between them. It’s infuriating, how Sukuna manages that with just a glance.
His wife leans over, whispers something in his ear. It seems to make him laugh, and he finally looks away. He smiles, murmurs something back to her. He’s got one of those real big, real nice movie star smiles. Like Brando. And Megumi hates it; the burning jealousy that lodges in his lungs. He cradles a flute of champagne to his chest and takes a sip. He never knew he’d get caught up in something so stupid.
Falling in love with a married man.
The married man.
Hell, there’s a whole title for being his wife.
Megumi nearly laughs at the absurdity of it all.
Poor thing. Poor, foolish, gullible, naive thing. Letting him fuck you one day and checking the papers the next, only to find he just took his wife to Honolulu for their tenth anniversary. Clapping as he kisses her cheek and pats his kids on the back; the great American man. Megumi’s got a good head on his shoulders, his father used to always tell him that – he can work his way around a problem. He’ll figure it out.
It’s been nearly two years.
He’s still waiting on it.
The First Lady places her fingers on Sukuna’s clean-shaven chin, turning his face in her direction. Sukuna gives her a small smile, as she carefully drapes her arms over his shoulders, very practiced, poised, delicate enough to not come off as slutty or like a whore – that’s Megumi’s job – she’s the symbol of a good Catholic woman, after all. She runs her fingers through the soft strands of Sukuna’s hair, right at the nape of his neck, and Megumi notices the crowd stare at the couple wistfully, as they close the distance between their lips. And when they kiss, the entire room softly sighs.
Megumi jerks his head away from the scene, his features twisting sourly.
I hope she likes the taste of my pussy.
He tries to smooth his frown, but ends up peeking a look back. She must like it because she comes back for seconds, leaving Sukuna’s mouth with a peach lipstick smear at his bottom lip. Megumi watches her take a manicured nail to wipe it away. Sukuna only laughs, moves his head back, and does it himself with one of the cloth serviettes.
Still chuckling, he meets Megumi’s eyes, sticks there for three long heartbeats, and away.
The celebration precedes. Smooth jazz plays. The cake is cut. Waiters hurry by the dozens to serve plates to each table in the gala room. Afterwards, there is dancing. Schmoozing. Brushing elbows with celebrities and politicians-alike. Throngs of socialites and council members. Peggy Lee. Ella Fitzgerald. Harry Belafonte. Frank Sinatra. The ballroom is big. Huge, actually. Megumi’s neck hurts when he looks up to the top, to where bouquets of balloons obscure the ceiling. He spends most of the night people-watching, hovering politely, lightly flirting and doing that airy laugh of his, playing his part.
It’s around the thousandth time of repeating it’s a pleasure to meet you when he starts to tire of shaking hands. His smile hurts. He piles pastries on his plate and eats two servings of cake so that his teeth ache from the sugar – just to avoid having to talk. He eats and observes. Watches as Sukuna meets person after person and takes photo after photo. Watches as all his kids are rounded up for one and put alongside him; the youngest at one end and the oldest at the other, stacked in a line like little Russian nesting dolls. What an American nuclear family. The camera flashes. Sukuna moves away. Poses with his wife. Camera flashes. Moves away again.
Eyes often speak more than words. Every time Megumi looks, Sukuna’s looking back.
Megumi keeps on eating.
Even applauds himself for surviving most of the evening without speaking to him.
That is, till he’s in the middle of speaking to Nobara Kugisaki about the latest film she co-starred in with Paul Newman, when he sees her eyes go wide, looking straight behind him. Megumi swallows, bracing himself. He turns. Straightens his back as much as he can, his eyes following miles and miles of dark blue cashmere up to meet the one and only eyes of President Ryomen. Him, and a fleet of men with flash-bulb cameras at his back.
One look and Megumi instantly knows he’s being pulled for a photograph.
“Hello, sir,” Nobara says. “Happy Birthday!”
Megumi swallows, knowing he has to say something. “Hello, Mr. President,” he greets stiffly. Sukuna looks faintly amused. The room is hot.
“Hello, Nobara. Hello, Megumi,” Sukuna murmurs, stepping forward to the both of them with a hand in his pocket. He looks straight at Megumi. “What a pleasant surprise to see you here. Gojo had said you were feeling under the weather. Phenomenal performance by the way.”
“Well, it was the least I could do.” Tight-lipped smile. “Did you get to blow out your candles?”
“No,” a chuckle. “Turns out it’s quite hard to blow all 45 of them out at once.”
“Could always get your kids to do it.”
“My kids,” Sukuna repeats, huffing an empty laugh. “Sure.”
“Sir,” one of the men with the cameras beckons, “let’s get a photo with you and all the performances tonight. The people will want to see who came for you.” Election-talk, Megumi knows. He’s not completely blind to strategy.
He blinks, and everyone starts rearranging themselves to fit for a group picture; Nobara on the other side of himself, other singers and actors beckoned over to fit into the frame. Megumi stands there motionless as Sukuna comes up next to him and puts his hand on his lower back – right where the dress opens and his skin is bare. They pose in a line. Smile into the camera. Sukuna’s hand lowers. Hot, calloused fingers down the map of his spine, down to the swell of his ass, a grip and a handful, and Megumi stifles his gasp. His eyes blow wide, swirling to see if anyone can see. Mr. President and Me.
“How are you doing tonight, really?” his voice murmurs into Megumi’s ear, deep and low, not missing a beat. The bastard. They’re less than two feet away from the cameras and Sukuna’s lips are touching his ear, like he can get away with doing more, if he wanted. Like he owns Megumi. And that’s just a fact.
Megumi shivers. Staring into the black eye of the camera lens, he shakes his head like brushing a strand of hair from his eyes or swatting away a fly.
“Oh, quite swell,” he says through clenched teeth, braced in a smile. Sukuna smells good. It makes Megumi hold at his stomach. His heartbeat is thumping in his ears. This is off-script.
“Enjoying the festivities?”
“Yes,” and in a low hiss, “stop talking to me.”
“And why’s that?”
Megumi glares into the camera, refusing to look his way. He's speaking too loud. Someone’s going to hear. Someone’s going to look their way and see the President’s hand on the swell of his ass. “You’re going to make a scene.”
“Please,” Sukuna scoffs. “I’m only talking.”
It takes everything in Megumi not to turn and snap at the man.
“Well, take it somewhere else.”
A handsome laugh. “I’ll see you later, I hope.”
Megumi could roll his eyes, but refrains. He’d be a hypocrite. A liar. A lie. How many times has he promised himself that this is the last one, I can’t do this again, before he goes off and does it again? Megumi dazzles and smiles, eyes half-lidded and red lips glossy. The flash goes off, just in time. A popping bulb. A photo ripe for the front page press. Megumi moves away the second he can, and disappears into the crush of the ballroom; too much air in his lungs, yet suffocating all the same.
He wonders if this is the only photo of them together that will ever be in history.
The door to the Oval Office is unlocked.
As if waiting for him with bated breath.
Megumi enters, closes it behind him, edges his gaze up.
Sukuna is there, behind the Resolute desk. He has taken off his suit jacket, leaving him in his white long-sleeved dress shirt and suspenders – the black straps crossing up and over his shoulders and broad back. He’s talking to someone on the phone. A fat Cuban cigar sits between his fingers. A gold Rolex on his wrist.
“Are you a fucking idiot? I don’t give a rat's ass about the polls. Who cares about an approval rating of 70 compared to the 78 of last month? I apologize, I didn’t realize the world was ending. The forests are on fire and we’re sinking into the ocean. Christ, give me a break.”
Slowly, Megumi treads forward, his heels softly thudding on the red carpet. Sukuna looks up at him. His eyes travel down his body, rest on his tits a moment before enjoying the revealing leg slit of his dress and eventually coming back to his face. He takes a puff from his cigar. Smoke obscures part of his profile. Megumi watches; the studio doesn’t like it when Megumi smokes, says it doesn’t match his image.
The person on the other end is still talking.
“Oh, really?” Sukuna scoffs. “He said that? Uh-huh. Tell him my best to his cancer.”
Megumi comes up to the desk and around it. Hitching himself up on it, he takes a seat; a pretty perch. Sukuna leans back, widens his thighs apart. Megumi crosses his legs, one over the other. Sukuna likes them; he’s told him that time and time again. Likes how long they are, likes how they look in heels, likes to admire how they go on for miles. His hand is huge and warm and comes to settle on Megumi’s thigh, rubbing up and down – like he needs to feel it for himself.
“I want it triple-checked. No fuck-ups. I already have two idiot sons.” Takes a drag from his cigar. “I want it done by tomorrow, and I need you to get in touch with Kenjaku. Set a lunch meeting with him and Uraume tomorrow or Thursday.” A pause, muffled talking on the line. “Well, they’ll have to make the time. It’s tomorrow or Thursday. Say you’ve got that. Alright, fuck off.”
The President hangs up.
He runs a hand through his hair, then looks at Megumi with that silver-screen smile. Megumi’s cunt gives a pulse. “You came.” His other hand squeezes Megumi’s thigh. “Did you come to wish me a happy birthday?”
“I believe I already did,” Megumi says dryly. “You all but forced me to. Gojo said I had no choice but to come. Megumi! Megumi! The President of the United States of America is calling!” he mocks. “I asked him to break my leg.” Rolling his eyes, he blows out a breath. Crosses his arms. Can’t help but look away with a pout, his lipstick making them stick together a little. “You know, I don’t appreciate you bringing me here just to make me sit around and watch you all night.”
Sukuna blinks. “Enlighten me. Was the couple thousand dollars in your bank account not good enough for you? Here I was thinking you cared to see me on my big day.”
“You place far too much importance on yourself, you know. At the end of the day, you’re just a man. Nothing I haven’t seen. And you know the reason why I don’t want to be here. It was sitting next to you at dinner.”
That makes Sukuna chuckle. He doesn’t answer though. He just shrugs, and picks up his cigar, taking a drag. It kind of pisses Megumi off. Megumi watches him from under his dark lashes, lets his eyes wander to the phone on the desk. “Was it important? The call you just got?” he asks.
Sukuna snorts. “It was important because I was on it,” he says, cheekily, just to spite him.
“It isn’t exactly polite to hang up,” Megumi sighs, half-tempted to roll his eyes again but refraining lest they get stuck in the back of his head. “You should be nicer. You’re not personable to your children. You ignore your wife until it’s convenient. You’re King Midas. Killing everything you touch, then begging to be touched. How do you expect people to like you when you pride yourself on being an asshole?”
A chuckle escapes Sukuna’s lips.
“Nicer? I didn’t realize I was having an affair with a child,” he retorts. He reaches out and traces Megumi’s collarbone, lightly, with his fingertips. “I thought you were supposed to be clever. That’s my wife, my children, my men. They don’t get a say in what I do.”
Megumi frowns, remembering Gojo’s words to him, right before he first met Sukuna: Don’t say no to him, and don’t ask questions. If he wants to get a drink, you get a drink. If he wants dinner, you get dinner. You reply with yes, Mr. President, why of course, Mr. President. Comprende? Capeesh?
Capeesh.
From casting couch to director to film producer to President, Hollywood is a ladder – but Megumi is better than this. Better than Sukuna in every way. Not a narcissist. Not a cheater. He has a kind heart. A good head on his shoulders. Megumi wonders where it all went. Where he went. Ever since this thing between them started, it feels like it’s been one long renegotiation with himself and the world as he knows it.
Men like Sukuna don’t take well to being criticized.
“You know what your problem is?” Sukuna offers, tilting his head as he puffs on his cigar. “You care too much about what people think. If you’re good. If you’re doing it right. If you’re liked. You don’t owe anything to anyone, Megumi. Niceness or otherwise.”
Tensing, Megumi says, “I’m not wrong for that. For asking for kindness.”
“You’re not right either.”
Sukuna looks at him evenly.
“It doesn’t get you things, Megumi.”
Megumi doesn’t reply. He feels like a zipper has closed shut between his lips. He watches as Sukuna sets the cigar back down in the ashtray holder by his thigh. Then, Sukuna looks at him, bends toward him. Megumi flinches away, instinctively, but Sukuna’s turning his face toward him, holding his chin in the palm of his hand.
“Do you like talking to me like that, Megumi?” he murmurs. He’s opening Megumi’s mouth with his thumb, and Megumi doesn’t think – he just lets him in. Sukuna takes his time, makes a meal out of it, outlining the bow of his lips, and Megumi can only imagine him reaching down and pulling something from the back of his throat. A shiny red jewel glowing past his uvula. His red beating, bleeding heart. “Do you like telling me about what a piece of shit I am?”
Sukuna’s other hand holds the meat of his thigh through the slit of his dress. His pinky is so close to Megumi’s crotch. If he spreads his hand out, he would graze him. His hand squeezes, and there’s nothing gentle about it.
“Look at me,” he murmurs.
Megumi obeys. He looks him right in the eyes, and swallows against the feeling of Sukuna’s gaze peeling back his skin like an onion.
“I’m looking at you,” Megumi says softly, lips brushing his thumb. “What is it you want me to see?”
“Don’t lose sleep over my marriage.”
A furrow stitches between Megumi’s brows, pure confusion, and the corner of Sukuna’s mouth twitches – like he wants to smile. He leans forward, the rest of the way, his hand moving to the back of his head, and he kisses him. Megumi’s eyes flutter shut. Oh. This must be how a man kisses his wife. It’s slow, tender, no rush to pull away or push to move it along; thorough and lazy and perfect. Like he’s trying to savor it, savor Megumi.
Megumi’s heart races. His palms sweat.
Something cold touches his neck. A little click sounds.
With a gasp, he backs up. Hastily, Megumi wipes at his lips, fixing the edges of his lipstick, and looks down. His breath catches, fingers tracing his neck. There’s a necklace around his throat. The dribble of a chain over his collarbone, a huge diamond nestled above his breasts. He picks it up. It’s canary-yellow, cut in a pear, at least 24 carats. He’s never seen a diamond like it before.
His throat is so thick, he can’t swallow. It’s heavy. It’s constricting. It’s beautiful.
It doesn’t look real.
“What is this?” he says, dumbly. He knows what it is…but why.
“What, have you never received a gift before?” Sukuna teases. “It’s the Moon of Baroda. Originally owned by the Maharajas of Baroda, before being worn by the Empress Maria Theresa of Austria. Though, I must say it looks much better on you.”
It feels like a fishhook in Megumi’s heart. It’s such a small thing. It doesn’t mean anything – Sukuna’s rich enough to buy any number of diamonds he sees fit and not think a thing. Megumi swallows, fixating on the way his throat moves against it. This feels like something though.
“Am I a leashed dog?” he croaks, feeling a bit like it’s just a pretty, pretty collar. An expensive one at that.
“I dislike losing things,” Sukuna says, casually. He doesn’t disagree. “It unsettles me.” He kisses Megumi’s cheek. “Buy a house in Washington. Live here. Plenty more going on here than there’ll ever be in California.”
Megumi looks at him skeptically. “Making a small cage for me, I see.”
“Of course only you would see it that way.” Chin resting on his shoulder, Sukuna presses a slow kiss to his neck. “Others would be leaping at the chance. You should think about it.” He nuzzles the spot behind his ear, murmuring into his skin; almost affectionate. Another lie. Sukuna doesn’t know fondness. He cares in the way he thinks caring is supposed to work. Far-away, nonchalant, behind several inches of bulletproof glass. “I thought about you all night, Megumi.”
“Mhm,” Megumi mumbles, afraid his voice will fall through.
“Your dress – it looked like stars under the light. I wanted to swallow you whole.”
Sukuna sucks at that spot high on his neck, crowding over him like a Klimt painting, and Megumi – can no longer think. Can no longer remember why he was ever upset in the first place. He lets out a soft moan. Clenches his thighs together. Nails creeping under the desk’s edge, to hold on, as Sukuna starts to trail down the column his throat. Something thuds in his ears.
It’s the door.
Someone is knocking on the door.
Megumi has three seconds, tops, to get underneath the desk. He shoves himself there, right between Sukuna’s legs, nearly tearing his dress in two. Blinks up at him between his thighs and Sukuna only pushes his head back with one finger to his forehead.
Fuck you, Megumi thinks, as he hears the mystery person come in.
Heels walk inside.
Click, click, click.
Everything goes so, so quiet. All Megumi can feel is the edge of something grievous and wrong. He looks down at Sukuna’s long legs, uncomfortably shoved beneath the desk to avoid squashing him. Megumi follows the ends of those legs to his shoes. Sukuna’s leather shoes are so neatly buffed it’s probably a staff member’s entire job to do so.
“Darling,” a voice beckons, and Megumi’s mood immediately sours, so badly that it becomes rotten, his blood beginning to heat. “Why are you hiding away in here? The party is still going on.”
Slowly, he inches himself forward on his knees, stopping when his knee bumps into one of the polished black shoes. Bends down to rub the side of his face into the meat of Sukuna’s thigh. He hears the man make an uncertain noise.
“I had some calls to make.”
Megumi smiles. His hand creeps up like a homing missile to palm the outline of his cock. Sukuna’s leg jerks under his cheek at the touch.
Quietly, Megumi reaches for his belt and makes quick work of the buckles and zippers of his slacks. Sukuna can’t do anything about it. Not that he cares. Sukuna looks down, very quickly, and there’s a cold sort of amusement on his face. Megumi has to ignore the warm rolling sensation that turns his stomach at the sight. He’s suddenly insatiable, unceremoniously pulling out Sukuna’s dick from his briefs. It’s hard and red and throbbing and massive –
“Well, the children want to see you. Yuuji has a gift.”
Sukuna clears his throat. A hand sneaks under to grip Megumi tightly by the hair, almost as if to stop him, but not trying hard enough to stop him when Megumi pulls forward and fights the grip. Megumi’s able to lick up and take the tip in his mouth.
“Huh?” Sukuna grunts. His voice is rough. “A gift? I hope he realizes that it’s not much of a gift if I can just buy it.”
Megumi can hear the disapproving frown in his wife’s voice when she speaks.
“He made it.”
Tuning her out, Megumi grasps at Sukuna’s shoe and pulls it to the side – so that his cunt can lay right on top where the laces are neatly done up. Slowly, he lowers his thighs to the ground and descends on the shoe’s edge. Moves his hips back and forth over it, riding it, his tongue licking a strip from Sukuna’s base to tip, wetting his dick. Sukuna must have been loving once, he thinks. A good father at first, probably. Time must make all men into empty shells, searching for a new home. His cock twitches in Megumi’s mouth, leaking on his tongue, with no choice for Megumi but to swallow and pull him a little deeper inside.
Megumi’s eyes are watering, beading his mascara. Some spit runs down his chin.
“Jesus Christ.” A huff. Megumi breathes around the cock in his mouth, strokes up and down, bobs his head, lapping at the veiny underside. It makes a soaked, drippy sound, and Sukuna’s abdomen clenches. He scrambles to make a noise, blowing out a breath. “How old is he? Ten?”
Suddenly, the man’s hand pushes all the way into Megumi’s coiled and curled hair, and he yanks, hooking him deeper onto his cock, thrusting far back into his throat, and Megumi has to recoil against a gag lest they be found out. His jaw feels stuffed full, lips a tight circle around Sukuna’s length. His palms are flat against the floor, his pussy grinding along the leather tip of Sukuna’s shoe.
“He’s thirteen.” A beat passes, a small exhale of a sigh. “It would mean a lot to him if you just – took the gift, and said you like it.”
“Why? So he can tell you told me to say that? He’s not completely stupid,” Sukuna says, somehow managing to talk calmly through the slick-wet bob of Megumi’s mouth, capping off each word with a small little shove of Megumi’s head onto his cock – all the way down his throat. “Ah, relax. I’ll go see him. I’ve only got one more call to make.”
The First Lady clears her throat. “Thank you.” She sniffs. “That’s all I ask.” Megumi hears her heels step away, back to the door. I should spit on his dick and make you listen, he thinks. “Don’t spend all your night holed up doing office work. You still have a family you know.”
“And aren’t I so happy for that.”
It’s all Sukuna says before Megumi hears the door close shut, or rather – slam shut.
A second hardly passes before Sukuna is hauling Megumi out from under the desk with a strong grip on both his arms. He stands him up on his legs, and Megumi’s heels wobble as he tries to catch himself. Sukuna leans down, and down, and down, until they’re nearly eye-to-eye. He swipes underneath Megumi’s bottom lip, catches at the spit dribbling down his chin, and tilts his head.
“You’re jealous of her,” he claims, flicking his eyes around his face, sounding like he enjoys the thought. “You would get on your knees – just to please me, and stick it to her.”
Megumi wrinkles his nose, can’t help himself from acting as insolent as a teenager. “I do nothing for you.”
“Sure. That explains the lipstick ring on my dick.” Sukuna crows in protest, but he doesn’t seem to care too much. He picks the cigar back up. Puffs on it. Blows out a breath of smoke, talking around it. “Come bend over this desk and lift up your skirt, honey.” Chuckling as he explains, “You get too wet. Can’t have you on my desk.”
For all his protest and internal squabbling, Megumi is quick to obey. He turns around, bends, pushes his stomach into the desk’s edge. It’s hard to shimmy up the skin-tight dress all the way up to his hips, but he manages. Maybe he tears it a little, pops off a couple diamond sequins, whatever. He’s so wet. His pussy is leaking slick down his wobbly deer-legs. This dick is worth more than diamonds.
Sukuna lets out a sharp whistle.
“No underwear?”
“No,” Megumi breathes, heat filling at the tips of his ears. He should feel more ashamed about it, maybe. “You would see it through the dress.”
Sukuna makes a noise, an approval or something or other. Then, lifts his hand, and smacks him across the ass. As sharp and sudden as a stab wound.
“Ah!”
It’s loud, surprised. Probably travels down the carpeted hall.
Megumi looks back and Sukuna’s face is positively gleeful, smiling around that cigar in his mouth. The man’s in a playful mood today, it seems. It’s his birthday after all.
Staring at his outrageous beauty, Megumi blinks at him. Sukuna is looking straight at his pussy. Feeling it with his fingers. Rubbing the pads of his fingers up and down the seam of his cunt, playing around with it. It feels good, makes Megumi’s abdomen clench, makes him edge backwards a little hoping Sukuna can dip a finger inside, put something in him to fill him up.
“I swear. You’ve got the tightest, wettest, pinkest cunt I’ve ever seen in my life. Feels like I just want you every day since I had you last.”
He catches both of Megumi’s wrist in his massive hand, and Sukuna’s laying down on him, pushing him into the desk, mashing his cheek into the wood, fuck, sucking the air from his lungs, and Megumi jolts when he feels Sukuna’s cock nudge at his pussy, it’s big and hot and Megumi is in disbelief – he starts to cum before Sukuna’s even all the way buried inside him.
“My god,” Sukuna grunts. Megumi squeaks, twitching all over, melting back against him, smearing saliva on the desk. “Stop that. You’re being dramatic.”
I can’t, I can’t, Megumi thinks, desperately, as he spills around him, squirting. Fuck, he’s right, he’s so right, he really does get wet, it’s everywhere, and it keeps coming, and it won’t stop. I don’t know – I don’t know why this is happening.
Hands squeeze at his hips and slide to his ass, lifting and readjusting him, before a hand braces on the edge of the wide desk. Megumi squeals as Sukuna starts to drive in at a different angle; deeper, much deeper. It shakes the desk, a category-eight earthquake, and something falls off; a heavy statue of some kind. It lands on the carpet with a dull thud. Fuck.
Sukuna is impaling him.
This is what Megumi needs, that slick full feeling of cock jammed into him, as far and as deep as it’ll go, and Megumi writhes, trying to push back against Sukuna, just to pull him in deeper. He sobs. His feet scramble for friction. His head thrashes back and forth. His back arches.
“God, you feel so,” Sukuna’s hips snap into him as he growls, muffled around that cigar in his mouth, “fucking,” and again, “right.”
He grabs Megumi’s hair, and cranes his head backwards, eyes finding his, and Megumi watches helplessly as the man reads his face, hearing what he doesn’t have the air to say. Oh God, oh fuck, fuck, yes, Mr. President, why of course, Mr. President, yes, fuck, fuck. His thrusts are jerky and slow, impeded by how tightly Megumi’s cunt clenches back. Megumi scratches at the desk, trying to find a grip, hold on, do something, anything to keep himself afloat, to keep him here for a few seconds longer. His legs are vibrating. Tears leak from his eyes, and he’s struggling for little shards of air. He wants to cum again, just one more. One for the road.
“I can tell you one thing this very minute, Megumi,” Sukuna is saying, in that supercilious murmur, shaking Megumi’s head with his hair. “I could drag you like this to the ballroom,” he muses, blowing cigar smoke next to his ear, “Take you up on stage, under that big light. That light that you sang to me under, you remember, yes? I could fuck you there. Make them watch so they can hear that god awful monstrous noise you make when you cum.”
“Fuck,” Megumi gasps, twisting away, scrambling one moment, “no, no, I can’t, I can’t –” then, in the next moment, “please,” mewling, breaking into a chant, “please, pleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease.”
He’s losing track of time. His body is wringing with sweat, gathering in the creases of elbows and knees and on his fine diamond dress.
“O-oh, my g-god,” he cries, head bouncing as Sukuna pounds his pussy. His brain matter fizzles, fried eggs, sunny-side up; drool leaking from his open mouth. The Moon of Baroda slaps back and forth across his collarbones. This is what history intended, isn’t it? Slick and cum and sweat and nail scratches on a hundred year old desk. The President of America screwing the nation’s Hollywood starlet in the Oval Office, because leaders lead, not listen – to imaginary rules or pieces of parchment or marriage vows.
He fucks into him on one long stroke. Megumi’s eyes roll up white, and –
Megumi cums.
He snaps back and forth, writhing, and Sukuna keeps fucking him, because he doesn’t care, and Megumi’s eyes glaze over, inhuman noises coming from a mouth that used to be his – as if to prove Sukuna’s point. There’s a monster living with him. It’s ugly and terrible and insatiable. The entire White House can hear his howl. Megumi scrambles again to move, to get away from the pleasure, but his body won’t stop cumming. He’s a werewolf, transforming into his honest, raw body; a mystery beyond himself. It has to end eventually, but it’s not. A thumb is underneath his belly, moving to his clit, and Megumi’s jerking anew, and it’s near painful, some never-ending orgasm. He’s going to lose consciousness. He’s going to drown in his tears. His makeup is ruined. Everyone will know.
And in this moment, he is more present than he has ever been with another human being.
He hears Sukuna groan, and like hellfire, a fear shoots through him within a hiccup of a breath. A panic, a series of Olympic jumps in mental gymnastics. Everyone will know.
“You shouldn’t – don’t cum in me.”
Megumi peers up wetly, meets his eyes. Sukuna smiles. The cigar in his mouth burns a bright cherry. “Beg then.”
Beg?
“I can’t,” he states, “I can’t have a baby.”
“Not even for me?”
Megumi stares, open-mouthed, at him, but he says….nothing. Sukuna stares back. Smiles a little wider, one corner of his cheek lifting, and slowly…slides his cock out, pushes back in. And Megumi can’t help his moan, looking at him, into his eyes. He should say something, he should stop this now, but he can’t. He isn’t. Sukuna glances down, watches his cock come in, come out, looks back at his face, looks at his slack jaw and pink tongue and dewy gaze, this machine of beautiful parts, in and out, in and out, gasps and moans and whimpers, wet sloshing, the slap of skin, a hitch of a breath, and it’s all too inevitable. Sukuna cums, and it’s inside Megumi, and it makes Megumi mewl, high and reedy, at the feeling – a hot rush of cum in his wet cunt, before Sukuna slowly pulls out. Megumi shifts, and he can feel it, thick, filling him, some of it spilling out onto the red carpet. It drips down his legs. Fuck, the cleaners will see it; the evidence after the murder. He’s so full. It’s horrible, it’s the worst thing he’s ever done, and he wants more of it.
Breathing heavily, Megumi pushes up on his elbows. There’s indents there, and probably on his stomach from how heavily he was pushed into the ancient wood of the Presidential desk. A hand cups his cunt to catch what leaks from it; Sukuna pushes it back in, ignoring his tiny little gasps. Megumi stands on shaking legs, tugs the rest of the dress down, hastily wipes under his eyes.
Sukuna doesn’t say anything, just watches him. Then, he sighs, stepping backwards to put himself away and buckle up his pants. Megumi blinks at him, eyelashes sticking and unsticking together. Watches as Sukuna brushes his hand through his hair, smoothing it back. Picture-President-perfect.
Sniffling, he lets Sukuna fluff up his hair too, fixing it. Doesn’t meet his eyes. He should be worried. Megumi’s a worrier, by nature. He should be more worried. Why isn’t he worried?
When he looks at the President, he’s not anxious. He’s not confused. He’s not even sorry. He’s wearing the expression of a man staring at a thing he knows he can never, ever have.
“Come to Washington.”