ctrlsatoru

[ctrlsatoru]

Flicker ━ 02

content: childhood friends to strangers to something worse, origin story disguised as fluff, emotionally repressed prodigies, canon divergence, gojo being like i Must befriend this weird little girl who left me to drown. warnings: mild gore. pairing: Gojo Satoru x Original Female Character (Kaneko Sera) word count: 5k a/n: a bit of backstory before we return to the present timeline.

It’s spring of 1998. Satoru unlocks blue. Sera loses a tooth. She asks him to die, but he curses her with friendship instead. They don’t know it yet, but they’re already off the track.

previous chapter / masterlist

Spring 1998 

Kaneko Sera was not a fighter. She excelled at many other things, like understanding how things worked. The world was a puzzle made of patterns waiting to be discovered.

If she was nowhere to be seen, her parents argued less.

If she corrected her mentors, even if they were wrong, her breaks got taken away.

If hawks flew low in the morning, it meant rain before sunset.

If she stared and poked at a broken thing long enough, she could usually figure out how to fix it or make it better.

Even this — the warm courtyard under her bare feet, the elders and advisors watching from the veranda, the white-haired boy facing her, her chest rising and falling erratically — fit a pattern.

They did this once every month. She always lost. Her grandfather got on a helicopter back to Tokyo. Her mother fussed over her bruises. Her mentors gave her chores as punishment. And Gojo Satoru ran his mouth through it all.

“You tired?”

It was a new development, they never needed to exchange words before. Earlier he asked if she’d seen that one bird with the lollipop stick leg. One time he said she was good at dodging, he asked about her teeth, how she did that thing with her eyebrows.

She never replied. He was arrogant, and loud, and strong, and stupid, and she could never catch up, no matter how hard she tried. But if she opened her mouth like she was about to reply, he stalled, and it gave her a second to catch her breath and her father’s eyes on the sidelines.

He’d said something the night before, hands firm on her shoulders.

Get better, Sera. You must. You won’t make it otherwise.

Better, not stronger. Certainly not stronger than the Gojo boy. But faster, smarter, sharper. She could do that. She could figure out the pattern of his infinity as it went up and down. It was never permanent; he wasn’t there yet.

Somehow, he still had a lot to improve on. The idea suffocated her.

Up…

When he moved, she was already there, spinning, ducking—

Down.

Her heel slammed into his ribs.

Against all odds, contact was made. The collision of atoms and energy pushed him a few meters away. He landed on his butt, pining her with blue eyes that nearly busted out of their sockets.

The first and last time she saw that look on his face, she turned around and walked away into the woods with her fingers crossed, hoping that he’d turn into an ice cube and drown.

The world stopped. Even the birds stopped singing. Her limbs itched as she summoned as much energy as she could. He stood up with his mouth all twisted. She understood him a lot better when he kept it shut. It’s on. You’re bones.

She wasn’t winning after that, but she was determined to last longer than usual. Months of trials had sharpened her defenses. She knew how to dodge his attacks even when they got wider and more charged, how to hold her breath and channel the hits through as much as she could without her eyes watering.

He didn’t like being forced to chase her.

“Stop running!”

For a split second, the world stopped again. Space folded. The world ripped sideways.

She didn’t even see the gesture. Just felt her body being pulled like it was no longer hers, and realized that everything she knew about gravity was a lie. He dragged her across the ring and—

The stone wall slammed into her side. Then, mud.

Cold, thick against her face, soaking her and seeping into her mouth. She couldn’t move or understand what had happened until she opened her eyes, staring at the sky with tilted vision.

It was blue. Bright before the storm.

“Already? At eight?”

“Impressive.”

After all, the pattern held true.

The mud sucked on her sleeve when she sat up. Her ears were sizzling, her ribs pulsed, and she pressed the molar against the roof of her mouth to stop herself from swallowing it. Her eyes boiled at the reminder that it didn’t matter if she could grow within her limits. For him, such a thing would never exist.

Later in the afternoon, the clan elders gathered in the meeting room. She sat on her knees, hands folded on her lap, her left bangs caked up with mud. Face to face, their families looked like pieces on a chessboard. White against black.

“The manifestation of blue at his age is way ahead of our projections,” one of the advisors said. “What we saw was a deliberate manipulation of the technique.”

“At eight, that energy control alone…”

“We can expect a full stabilization of the limitless in two years.”

Sounds of agreement. Murmurs of awe. A pen scraped against a scroll. Incense burned patiently, it was a day for the history books.

“What about the girl?”

Her heart jumped, but she didn’t move or let the floor leave her sight. She could feel the beam of his eyes on her, focused and concentrated like sunlight through a magnifying glass.

“Tactical skills can’t make up for her inefficient use of energy. She panics under pressure.”

“And still no sign of the Odd Eye.”

“It’s a shame. Such a remarkable energy output and no direction. It’s like filling a vase with holes, pointless.”

“If this is the extent of her potential, then perhaps she would serve best as a star plasma vessel.”

Crying, speaking, or doing anything to be perceived, those were all off-limits. All she had to do was sit still while they evaluated and poked at her. They never offered anything to fix her or make her better anyway, so why should she listen?

A voice that was rarely heard, but she recognized instantly, cut through the conversation.

“Sera is not a weapon.”

Her mother.

“Her strength lies elsewhere,” she continued, sharp and soft. “Far beyond anything you’ll measure in a courtyard.”

Her father exhaled slowly through his nose, and she willed her lip not to shake. It was a blessing that her grandfather never stuck around.

One of the Gojo elders smirked.

“Ah. Above combat, is she? A little priestess, maybe?”

A few chuckled behind their sleeves.

“You may not see it yet, but you will all face it one day.”

Her mother wasn’t one to make threats. Except for that one time when she told her father she’d take Sera and leave. This time felt different. She meant it. Sera could tell by the way the room got suffocating.

Even Gojo’s father, usually stone faced and cold, was looking at her mother in a strange way. His mouth had parted just slightly, like he’d forgotten to breathe through his mouth. His eyes caught the light differently.

One of the advisors spoke first, not without loudly clearing their throat.

“Then she need not attend a discussion of combat aptitude.”

“Best she return to her training,” another added, brushing his beard. “After all, the Odd Eye can only be… cultivated in isolation.”

Her father’s mouth thinned. Her mother’s eyes dropped to the floor. One of her mentors nodded at her.

“You may leave, Sera.”

The door slid shut behind her. Inside the room, the conversation carried on.

“The mouth of a mother shapes the fate of a daughter. You may want to remind your wife this is a council, not a kitchen.”

The Kaneko Cemetery sat at the top of a long flight of stone steps at the edge of the compound, quiet and shadowed under an old maple tree overtaken by a stubborn wisteria. The branches spread wide and low, full of racemes that filtered the rain down into a soft, wisteria-scented mist. Refreshing and healing.

She was kneeling on the gravel, scrubbing at the lichen and dirt clinging to one of the many gravestones. Her dirty dogi jacket was folded beside her, discarded after she used it to wipe away the dirt from her hair and neck. Her mother would give her an earful once she saw her.

Footsteps approached.

Out of the many punishments her mentors gave her, this was by far her favorite. No one knew how much time it took her to finish, or bothered to come up and check. She could do as she pleased until sundown.

Alone.

Next to her, at eye level, she could see the dirt and streaks of grass staining the bottom of his pants. Evidence that she’d managed to land a hit. He kicked a stray rock, making her flinch. It tumbled past the edge, into the void.

She looked up to find that he was dry from head to toe. Not a single droplet of rain touched him. He, as usual, was already looking down at her.

“What? I’m just trying to help.”

Her fist clenched around the brush until her bones hurt and the wood handle splintered. She stood up, nails digging into her palm.

“Die.”

His mouth went slack. No stupid question or observation came out.

“If you’re trying to help, you should die,” she said, and put her whole heart into it.

He’d called her a liar that night at the lake, but she’d never lie in the presence of her dead relatives. She had enough on her plate disappointing the living ones.

“My life would be easier that way.”

She hoped for the thrill of seeing him furious and helpless again. Wanted him to pout and stomp his feet on the ground until the earth split open and sucked him in.

But the only reaction that came was a grin that crawled slowly up his face.

“You’re weird,” he said cheerfully. “Wanna know what you missed from the meeting?”

She was back to scrubbing the gravestone before he could finish talking. It belonged to her great-great-uncle, a brilliant aeroengineer whose drawings took her breath away. He’d been proficient sorcerer but no one ever made him fight.

“It was boring after you left. But then someone got attacked by a raven. Real nasty one. Went straight for my uncle’s head.”

His uncle, the leader of the Gojo clan, and the one who said the kitchen line after she left.

“You wouldn’t know anything about that, right?”

Her scrubbing paused for a brief second. “I didn’t touch him.”

She could hear his grin. “I never said that.”

He sat down on the gravel, resting his back against the edge of the stone. She could see him unwrapping a piece of strawberry puchao and throwing it into his mouth.

“He was so scared he farted.”

A very stubborn smile fought its way onto her face. She turned away from him, painfully sucking her lips inside her mouth.

“For real, everyone tried to pretend they didn’t notice, but we totally did,” he said, voice getting louder. “You should’ve seen the look on his face.”

She couldn’t keep the snort back. The old man looked like someone tried to draw Gojo’s father from memory with their non-dominant hand.

“He’s uglier when he’s scared,” she muttered under her breath.

“They all are,” Gojo agreed through a mouthful of candy.

Feeling her knees burn, she turned around and sat down at a good distance from him. The rain had stopped, but the clouds hadn’t cleared just yet.

“They’re all scared.”

He kicked her leg when she didn’t reply. He wasn’t looking at her anymore, a cluster of delphiniums crowded around he base of a lamppost had his attention.

“Of the Odd Eye. It’s why they like seeing me beat you up.”

It was the first time he said anything worth listening to, and the first time she wanted to ask why he didn’t snitch on her that night at the lake.

Her mother had said that he spent several nights in bed with a terrible fever, surrounded by every single nurse and doctor his clan could summon. If either of their families knew what happened, she was sure she’d still be captive in her room.

She chewed on her tongue before daring to ask, “Are you?”

“No. I’ve decided we’re gonna be friends.”

Thunder rumbled in the distance. She suddenly felt impossibly cold in her damp undershirt.

“What?”

“Yup. We’re friends now. But I’m still gonna beat you up every month.”

She wasn’t looking for a friend. She had Miyu, her mom, and the birds. He would never fit in that list.

The words came out of her mouth at impossible speed. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I can’t just let you win. No one’s gonna believe that.”

“Not that. You can’t just say we’re friends.”

He grinned like he was expecting her to say just that, mouth smacking loudly. “Why not?”

The world was doomed. The Strongest was nothing like the brave heroes and cruel warriors in her books. He was an airhead. Japan would be seized by curses by the time the century turned.

“Do you even have any friends?”

He paused at her question before his eyes lit up again. “Kaneko Sera.”

“No,” she snapped firmly, barely noticing that she sounded just like her mother. “It doesn’t work like that.”

He just stared at her. She scoffed, lip curling in distaste.

“You’re dumb.”

“You’re weird,” he repeated easily. “It’s really hard to ignore you. I used to think you were boring, but you shapeshift into birds and attack old people.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I’m not a shapeshifter.”

“But you attacked my uncle.”

Was there a point in denying it? The chances that he’d talk about it were low, considering what he’d kept quiet about so far.

“I liked it,” he nodded. “He was being a jerk.”

Lightning struck somewhere beyond the mountains, rearranging the sky. The rain resumed. He pulled a bright red Tamagotchi from his jacket and that was that.

She eyed him distrustfully as he swung his feet from side to side. He was still using infinity as a makeshift umbrella. If she reached a hand into his space, it’d hum against her fingertips and stop her.

How could they think of evaluating them together? Their languages, the way they sat and moved, nothing matched. Gojo Satoru was an alien next to her, one who always said exactly what he was thinking, with glow in the dark eyes that were somehow grotesquely big for his gigantic head full of chalky hair. She doubted he had blood running through his veins, it was probably just poisonous blue slime.

There was no record of collaboration between the Six Eyes and the Odd Eye, or their clans at that. The only time they crossed timelines, they served their duties in complete separation. And when they did cross paths, the Six Eyes executed the Odd Eye.

Nothing was left behind of her predecessor. No written word to guide her, no bones or flesh to bury. The last Odd Eye went from living creature to just matter obeying physics. Erased in an instant. She’d been much younger when she read the ancient texts, flipping between pages and a dictionary heavier than her to decipher the brutality.

She didn’t sleep for days after that. She didn’t sleep the night before she was taken to the Gojo state for their ceremony of introduction, and threw up on the drive. Her grandfather gave her a sip from his flask to wash out her mouth. She could still remember the taste of bile and alcohol.

The one who haunted her those sleepless nights chewed with his mouth open, picked his nose with his knuckle, and manipulated the curvature of space and time to avoid getting wet like a snobby cat. He was also endlessly bored and annoyingly loud about it, so she trusted that he couldn’t possibly hold on to his decision to befriend her for longer than 12 hours.

Until then, she’d get the most out of it.

“What’s that?”

He gave her a sideways look, distracted. “It’s a Tamagotchi. You’ve never seen one?”

She’d seen them on TV during an outing with her mother, but knew asking for one would be pointless. Her father said she didn’t need any more distractions.

He paused at her open palm before carefully placing it there.

The sound was a little wonky, and the plastic felt kind of sticky. The tiny metallic links of the strap resisted at the joints.

“It’s been weird since I dropped it on my cereal, you have to press extra hard.”

He moved as if to try to demonstrate, but she stopped him by closing her fingers around it and pulling it out of his reach.

“I’ll keep this.”

He tilted his head to the side and opened his mouth, but she beat him to it.

“We’re friends now, right?”

She stood up, dusted her knees and picked up her jacket. He followed suit, eyeing his Tamagotchi as she tucked it inside her sock. If anyone at the house caught her with it, they’d confiscate it without a doubt.

“Well— yeah? But—”

“Friends give each other gifts. Don’t you know that?”

She made her way down the stairs and through the familiar maze of roots and rocks. He followed a few paces behind, less confident with his steps, arms flailing once or twice when the wet earth sucked at the soles of his shoes. The wind carried nothing but the smell of wet soil and his questions about when he’d get a gift in return.

The cicadas and even the frogs were quiet, it was almost like the forest had paused to watch them go.

It was one of those August days when the world felt like a rice cooker.

She was sprawled across the floor, arms and legs stretched like a starfish or the Vitruvian man. Her hair fanned out around her to keep it from sticking to her neck. Her bedroom door opened like a guillotine, but she didn’t lift her head. Just kept staring at the ceiling fan, trying to convince it to go faster.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

A soft creak caught her attention, and she found him carefully placing a broomstick between the sliding panel and the frame of the wall, testing that it was wedged and tight enough so the door couldn’t be opened from the outside. It wasn’t much, but it’d keep patrolling servants at bay, or at least give him time to jump through the window.

“I come bearing gifts,” he announced dramatically, grinning as usual, crouching down and dropping something like a chicken laying a giant egg.

It was a watermelon, plump and pale green with a nice yellow spot on the side.

“You stole that from my mother’s garden.”

“I liberated it.”

On the other wing of the house, their parents were having a meal together. It turned out that without the elders from either side, advisors stepping on their heels, and with alcohol involved, their parents tolerated each other. As a result, it was harder and harder to spend time apart from him. The pond, the gardens, even the kitchen, he found her everywhere, every time. One time she locked the door of the library and he opened it with a chopstick.

She sat up as he kneeled, holding out one hand and sticking his tongue out in concentration. Space buzzed faintly under his palm.

“You’re gonna make a mess again.” She put her hands over the watermelon. It was warm to the touch. She felt a bit less eager to eat it.

“I’ll be careful.”

“You said that last time,” she said dryly. “And most of the pomegranate ended on the wall.”

He frowned. “Pomegranates are tougher and—”

“Blue doesn’t work to cut fruit,” she said, standing up and walking across the room. “Reversal red would be a lot cleaner.”

“You know about reversal red?”

“Everyone knows about it.”

“That’s not true.”

“It doesn’t matter. You haven’t figured out how to use it yet,” she said matter of factly, kneeling and grazing her fingers along the edge of the tatami panel until she found the slightest give.

With a careful tug, she lifted the mat and revealed the unfinished wood slats beneath. He crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes.

“At least I don’t have a super secret special clan technique that I haven’t figured out yet.”

“I’m not in a rush,” she replied, smiling at the thrill of saying it out loud. Her hands moved with practice, sliding into the small gap at the center and prying loose one narrow wooden plank. It creaked faintly, and soon a few more followed.

He crawled over, peering at the hidden nook, no deeper than a drawer. “Woah.”

“Guard the door,” she instructed, pulling out all sorts of artifacts. A crystal smoking pipe, a jar full of coins, bills and rings. A spool of red thread, a 1/144 Gundam with a missing arm, and finally, a slim dagger in a stitched leather sheath.

“Where did you get this?”

“The crows bring them.”

She wiped the blade on her shorts and nodded to the open window. As if summoned, a crow came to stand on the windowsill.

“They bring you weapons?” he asked too loudly for her liking. She pressed a finger to her mouth. He did the same, blinking eagerly at her.

“It’s just trash most of the time. But they mean well.”

He flopped down next to her as she clumsily cut down the watermelon, struggling to keep it still on the floor. It finally cracked with a wet sound, bright red.

He grabbed a piece and took a big bite. “Do you remote control them?”

She chewed slowly. The sweetness made her forget about how much better it would be cold. 

“They lend me their eyes.”

“Can you do it with other animals? Like… cats? dogs? fish?”

“Fish are tricky.”

“Can they even feel cursed energy?” he asked right after, barely giving her time to react. “What’s it called? It’s not the Odd Eye, is it? You use the red string.”

A shadow walked past, making her freeze and him look over his shoulder. It passed without knocking.

He waited a few seconds before starting again.

“What about people? People are animals too.”

Without a word, she put aside the rind and began returning the objects to the hidden compartment, dagger included. She placed the wood panels and pushed the tatami back in place.

“It’s forbidden,” she finally said, grabbing another slice.

“Who says?”

“My mother.”

It almost seemed like he had finally let it go, but then he wiped the juice dripping down his chin and said with the kind of smile that made his clan members pause and freak out.

“Nothing’s forbidden if you really want it.”

She filled her chest with air and shot a seed at him from her pursed lips. It hit him square on the cheek.

Later that afternoon, the heat had decreased into something tolerable. A breeze came in through the open shoji, he was trying to copy her posture as she guided a crow onto his forearm.

“Threaded gaze,” she said.

He moved his arm a bit too fast, and the crow batted its wings, hitting him square across the face.

He spat out a tiny fluffy feather from his mouth. “What?”

“I can align my consciousness with them.” 

She’d been thinking for a good hour about how to put it into words. The only person she’d talked about it with was her mom, no explanation was ever necessary.

He understood right away.

“Through cursed energy? But animals—”

“—don’t have cursed energy,” she nodded. He didn’t complain about her not letting him finish talking, too entertained by the way the crowd rubbed its head against her finger.

“What they have is pure energy. It’s another form of spiritual energy. It’s compatible. For me.”

Nothing could compare to flying, but this was a close second.

Running like the wind, low to the earth, paws barely touching the ground. The chase made her nose twitch in excitement. 

Everything was vivid. The world smelled like bark and the sweat of the summer. Every leaf, branch, even the river whispered in her ears. Clear and raw. The world quieted and came alive when she was outside of herself.

Somewhere not too far, Gojo was hiding, laughing at her and the noises she made. Somewhere further away, her body was sitting on a blanket, a red string tied around her wrists.

To the west, across the river, his energy pulsed like a beating drum, teasing her. The water felt like ice on her paws as she crossed the river through a shallow stone path. No one in the world had this much fun playing hide and seek. They were the only ones. 

No matter how much he hid or left fake traces of residuals to confuse her, his presence stood out clearly.

So did his voice.

“Sera!”

He never called her by her name when she was synced.

The thread snapped. Half a mile away, Sera gasped and jolted back into herself. She stood up and ran.

She found him crouched next to an old fallen tree, staring down at a shallow burrow.

Three sets of small black eyes stared up at them. They were curled together, three tiny baby foxes with bright red fur and twitching ears.

“They’re so cute,” he whispered in awe.

Something fluffy brushed past her ankles, it was the same fox she had synced with, now standing protectively between them. Her eyes flicked up at her, glassy and unsettled, ears flattened. Her tail curled as she opened her mouth and let out a high-pitched sound.

He turned to her, recognizing the residuals of her cursed energy.

“Did you know she was a mom?”

She shook her head. She should’ve guessed something was up. The fox had been restless, pushing to return to this part of the woods despite the game. Too busy playing, she didn’t think much of it. Guilt climbed her throat. She must’ve been so worried.

With no explanation, he grabbed her hand.

The clammy feeling of his palm against hers made her flinch and immediately try to pull away, but he tightened his grip and pulled her, making her stumble against his side.

The look on his face startled her. Serious. Looking in the distance, eyes sharp like blue flames.

A hiss rippled through the air.

Before she could even find what he was focused on, something shiny and metallic fell to the ground.

She hadn’t noticed his infinity blooming and covering them. It wasn’t until a second shot fired, and the bullet suspended in the infinity between them, that she realized someone was looking at them.

He moved without hesitation, dragging her with him. They warped directly in front of the man crouched in the shrubs. He was dressed like a gardener. Dusty cap, tools on his belt, dirt under his nails, forehead damp with sweat and fear. He was aiming the gun at them with shaky hands.

Satoru didn’t flinch.

Blue blasted out of his palm like never before, illuminating everything around. The man flew back, spine slamming against a thick tree trunk like a magnet snapping to a fridge door.

A branch pierced clean through him.

He twitched a few times. Sputtering and gurgling blood through his teeth.

And then he just hung limp, head dropping sideways.

Sera stared and quickly came to the conclusion that she must’ve been dreaming.

Her dreams were always vivid. That explained the smell of copper and the tight grip Satoru had on her hand. The gun, forgotten on the grass was most definitely cursed.

Yes. It had to be a dream. The day was a little weird from the start. Earlier that morning, she’d seen something strange through a shoji screen: her mother standing close to Satoru’s father. Her sleeve caught in his fist. His mouth moving, but no sounds coming out.

And now this.

She had to be dreaming, because Satoru was still gripping her hand, and he wasn’t laughing or bragging about the most impressive display of blue he’d ever unleashed. When she tried to kneel to grab the gun, he pulled her back and stopped her.

The dream version of Satoru looked at her with a face she’d never seen before. When he opened his mouth, he sounded nothing like the boy she knew.

“Are you ok?”

“It’s fine,” she reassured him. “It’s just a dream. We can do anything we want.”

His eyebrows furrowed. They were an even more intense white here. That’s when she saw his ear dripping red. It was a graze, lleaving a thin line of red that went down his jaw and got caught on his collar.

“Satoru, why are you—”

“ Serafina! ”

She barely had time to recognize her father’s voice before he was in front of her, grabbing her by the arms as he took in the scene with crazy eyes. The dead man perched on the tree. The children standing side by side. The red strings half tied around her wrists

“What were you thinking?” he snapped, some spit landed on her face. “You’re far beyond the perimeter. You could’ve—”

It was a dream, and Satoru was bleeding red, so she could afford to speak back. “I wasn’t—”

“I’ve warned you,” he cut in, and she couldn’t be as brave as she wanted. “About playing with borrowed eyes. Every minute you spend indulging in childish games is a minute taken from what matters.”

Even here her father didn’t care about anything other than the odd eye. His eyes flicked over her face, over her left eye, and then to their joined hands. His expression shifted at the end, displeased.

He yanked her away, and her arm bent unnaturally.

“Release him.”

The command was aimed at her. Her fingers opened reluctantly, but Satoru’s sunk even harder between her knuckles. Her shoulder was starting to strain. The uncomfortable feeling was oddly real.

Narrowing his eyes at Satoru, her father grabbed her wrist and pulled. Satoru let go after a breath too long, and blood finally returned to her numb fingers. His hand fell limp to his side.

“You’re both coming back with me. Now .”

A group of guards ran to them and circled them while her father told them to fetch the body. They surrounded Satoru, shielding him on the way back.

Sera looked for him through the gaps, he met her gaze as he tucked something into his sleeve, giving a smile meant for no one else to see. And it didn’t matter if she did, but she smiled back.

She waited to wake up, all the way home, until the sun disappeared, but the dream never ended.

A few days later, when Satoru came in through her window and handed her the gun for her to hide under her floors, Sera understood it hadn’t been a dream after all.

[ctrlsatoru]

first year gojo 🤏

[ctrlsatoru]

i love your writing!! so happy i came across ur blog. i was wondering, do you have any toji x reader fic recs? :3

thank you sm! i'm glad you enjoy it <3 i haven't been reading as much toji content as i'd like to because i like to miss (if that makes sense?) him when i write diablo, but these are a few of my favorites:

they were just friends. (they were not just friends.)

old man just won't let up

it will come back

ANY mma!toji one shot by spideyyeet

I'll make a rec tag very soon :)

[ctrlsatoru]

Flicker ━ 01

content: childhood friends to strangers to ?, angst, unresolved past, fall from grace, resentment, slow burn, fluff, they're emotionally unavailable but they're hot so it'll be fun, ofc used to be kind of a big deal (still is the world just hasn't caught up to it), gojo being kind of corrupt and a slut for nostalgia (missing geto) warnings: 18+, mild gore, future suggestive themes and mentions of childhood trauma. pairing: Gojo Satoru x Original Female Character (Kaneko Sera) word count: 5k a/n: had to start with a nonbinary baddie giving Gojo an ominous message. I'm Really, REALLY excited for this one and you know it's serious when there's a notion dashboard involved. I intent do be more active around here so don't be shy, let me know what you think!

summary: A disturbance in the underground jujutsu scene pulls Gojo into an investigation. What he finds is nothing he could’ve expected. A name he hasn’t heard in years reappears without a warning, once a prodigy that stood by his side, now walking a darker path.

After a long winter, spring comes with a storm.

Or, as Shoko put it: “You’ll find her when you’re not looking.”

previous chapter

Winter 2010

The bell above the door jingles, barely noticeable under the rattling hum of rows and rows of prehistoric front load machines.

The lone customer, a woman with her nose buried in a magazine, does a double take when she sees him walk in. Disarmingly tall, hair as white as the snow slowly clearing on the streets, black bomber jacket with a thick shearling trim clinging to his wide shoulders, designer sunglasses. An angel. Lost in a seedy laundromat in a side of town god hasn’t set his eyes on in decades.

The white haired angel approaches the front desk, where the person of ambiguous gender appearance shuffles a stack of cards, dubstep blasting off their headphones. Their purpose is unknown. They never handle any payment or offer any assistance. All they ever do when approached is tap the tag on their chest with a printed Hello! I am over a poorly scribbled busy.

The angel takes a deep breath, savoring the smell of stale fabric softener before speaking up.

“Hit me.”

Busy shuffles the cards and fans them face down. The angel deliberately taps one, two, and three times. Death, the wheel of fortune and the six of cups are mirrored on the glassy surface of his sunglasses.

“Well?”

Busy’s insights are rare and often do little to make sense of the cards. Sometimes they offer a shrug, sometimes a little chuckle. The angel always asks anyway. To his amusement, Busy takes back the cards before subtly pressing a button under the desk, deep in thought.

“The past isn’t finished with you.”

The angel turns on his heels with a lopsided smile, making his way to the back, hands deep in his pockets, hunching over himself. His face, delicate and pretty, reveals that he’s younger than the woman accounted for.

“Tell it to move on. I know I have.”

A door at the back, one she’d never seen before, bolts open. Right before the angel disappears through it, Busy starts shuffling the cards again, leaning over the desk to say,

“It’s not asking for permission.”

It’s unclear if the angel heard Busy, as the door closes behind him with a heavy, decisive thud.

He makes his way down the endless stairs two steps at a time. To the left, at the end of the narrow, moldy corridor, a couple of men guarding the last door wait for him to approach.

“No room tonight. Come early next time,” says the one on his left, looking straight ahead. His buddy gives him a look that suggests he’s lost his mind.

The door opens at once, revealing a tiny woman with big, wide set eyes and an impeccable slick back ponytail. There’s a mark on her neck, a deliberately shaped scar. One he doesn’t remember seeing before.

“Gojo-san, what a pleasant surprise.”

“I get that all the time.”

“I’m sure you do,” she replies with a tight lipped smile, moving to the side to let him come through with professional ease.

At last, The Cloister. 

So loud you can feel it in your teeth, packed to the brim with curse users from all corners of the city. Flickering, foggy blue lights that can make a photosensitive soul combust. The crowd parts at his arrival like the sea before Moses, different looks of hostility and fascination dropping on him like arrows from all directions.

“The professor didn’t mention he was expecting you,” the woman says, pretending to escort him to the bar, clutching a tablet to her chest like it holds the entire world.

“He’s not,” he replies simply, waving off the bartender.

“He’s a bit busy tonight. I’d hate to keep you waiting unnecessarily, Gojo-san.”

“No worries, I have time.”

Her face drops. Gojo recently discovered that no one ever likes hearing those words from him. Everyone assumes he’s being sarcastic. One of the many pains of being Gojo Satoru. There’s not much he can do about it.

“I’m here for the entertainment, too,” he adds, more to ease her nerves than anything. No need to stress out an underpaid assistant on her last day of her job for no reason. Despite the allegations, he’s not a cruel man.

There’s some comfort in knowing that, even in a fast paced city like Tokyo, some places never change at their very core. Take away the expensive sound and lighting systems, the wall sized screens, the tacky baroque bar and stone columns, and this is still a nest for bottom of the barrel individuals. 

The very same place three bottom of the barrel kids snuck into after a quick mission. Tokyo Jujutsu High’s greatest.

Years later, it has festered into the social hub for curse users and the always rotating, eager crowd of cursebangers. A place the desperate and the vicious can brag about surviving. Gojo takes it all in from his spot, not a single patron dares approach him, even if a few eye him hungrily.

Past the crowd, at the very middle of the atrium, stands a caged, circular pit of concrete. A booming voice on the speaker reminds the crowd that the bets are about to close soon, urging people to choose between the two fighters. Now or never.

It was a lifetime ago, mid july. Geto Suguru and Gojo Satoru were announced through a rusty megaphone. Shoko Ieri stood near the entrance, smoking like it was the last night on earth, ready to bolt if they got caught rigging the match for some quick cash. The sum ended up being enough for them to chase the night, hoping from taxi to taxi, splurging on greasy food and games and useless things that made Geto forget he was chosen as the reasonable, believable option to lose the fight. Shoko was pumped. Gojo doesn’t think he’s even seen her that wasted again.

Three kids snugly pressed in the back of a taxi. Legs sticking to the leather seat. Knees pulled in. Dark eyes, smiling. Darker hair whipping wildly with the wind coming through the window. A hair tie hidden in his pocket.

The holographic vision gets swept away as a throuple stumbles past his line of sight, laughing at each other.

Gojo sighs so deeply his chest might split open and black hole the entire place, resting his elbows on the bar behind him.

Change is a fast, inevitable bitch. It’s one thing when it’s winter arriving in September, or when it sentences you to a lifetime’s worth of coppery taste in your mouth. But when it comes at the hand of greed and stupidity… that’s just a mood killer. And when Gojo Satoru gets in a sour mood, unfortunately for everyone else, the world curdles.

But first, there are a few things you have to understand about the curse user scene and its underground headquarters.

Number one: This is a delicate, fickle ecosystem. Any disturbance has a ripple effect that, depending on the circumstances, can potentially climb up to the higher ups, and then to Yaga’s desk, and inevitably be spammed into his inbox and ears while he’s trying to enjoy his lunch. Like, for example, a sudden surge of notably violent acts and unusual behavior around the city.

Gojo decided to spend 48 hours looking into it, fully expecting nothing remarkable, only to catch whispers about the latest, hottest vice in town. Long story short, he’s now stuck here on a perfectly nice Friday night chasing a lead that he’s still not convinced isn’t just gossip.

Number two: When it comes to The Cloister, nothing happens without a man allowing it. You’ll find him sitting on the upper floor, on a table away from the rest of the vermin. Fifty something, sleepy eyes, half-frame glasses only a degenerate would wear, always impeccably dressed. They call him The Professor.

Gojo heard somewhere that he got fired from a long list of universities across the country, but he isn’t the type to judge people based on their past. The professor has been running a tight ship for years, serving his purpose well, under the self-made illusion that he’s necessary.

In reality, he’s been allowed to stick around and grow his little clandestine empire as long as he stays reasonable. A silent agreement, a logical one, a waste of Gojo’s generosity. Yaga’s complaints and Gojo’s recent discoveries indicate that the professor’s not only been backing out, he’s getting sloppy.

As a result, Gojo’s in a predicament. He’ll be happy to take the professor for a quick touching grass trip and see the look on his face when he realizes just how disposable he is and has been, but this place is another story. 

The Cloister is important in the same way that sewage systems are for the urban infrastructure. The scum needs a place to trickle down into. People crave community, identity, a sense of purpose, and while this environment offers none of that, it does provide entertainment. An escape for the outcast.

A distraction for them, fewer work hours for Gojo Satoru. As it is with many other things, neither Yaga nor the higher ups would get it, so why should he try to explain?

By now, the professor’s been warned of his presence and he’s decided not to let it ruin his night of celebrating a new business venture with his friends, showering his little date in undivided attention. Leopard print coat, curly hair up in a careless bun, choker tight on her long neck. Gojo doesn’t need to see her face to know she’s controversially young and fresh off the latest batch of cursebangers. Ten a yen, life expectancy of 22, her family’s disgrace.

On the more pathetic end is the professor bringing a hand to the girl’s jaw, only to be swatted away like it’s a mosquito. No hesitation or mercy. His glasses fog up as he leans back with a smug smirk. Textbook midlife crisis: discovering viagra and hard launching a humiliation kink. It’s easy to see why he’d recruit someone like leopard print for that, cursebangers are known to be the freakiest demographic.

He figures he can let the man have a good night to remember, the same way people buy burgers for their dogs and let them have chocolate before putting them down.

Gojo sets his attention on the fighters emerging from opposite ends, looking like randomized characters. The crowd showers them in words of encouragement, threats, and insults. The first one is a muscular walking display of poorly executed tattoos, who is clearly favored by the crowd. His opponent is lankier and a few decades younger, sporting an orange mohawk that defies gravity.

Number three: once the pit doors are closed, everything goes.

Right away, Gojo sees that Mohawk’s different. He’s sweating buckets before they’ve even started, fidgety as hell, mouth pulling at the sides like he’s trying to map out his own face. On top of that, the energy coursing through him stutters and trips more than it flows, like a scratched CD.

Gojo has only heard a few things about the effects, and he’s starting to think that this could be it.

The gong drops like a guillotine and sends The Cloister into a frenzy. Busy must be silently gaslighting some concerned customers at ground level.

The crowd’s favorite attacks first with mid but controlled bursts of energy. There’s nothing impressive about his technique, but the way he moves and controls it gives away years of experience. Mohawk folds his body around each blow, so flexible he looks boneless, wearing a sick, wide smile that touches his ears.

Muscles, clearly expecting a traditional back and forth, gets tired of the lack of response quite quickly. The bloodthirsty crowd seems to have the same reaction. Hoping to spur him on and stop him from clowning around the pit, he starts gesturing at him with his hands, throwing provoking words that come out in sprays of spit.

And when it seems like he’s too out of it to react, Mohawk locks in.

Like a glitch, he crosses the distance, arms covered in pure, thick, molten energy. Left, right, up, down. His attacks land one after the other, not giving Muscles a second to catch his breath. It doesn’t look like it should be possible, but he’s throwing him around the cage, body cracking against the metal bars like a well-loved rag.

The people are feral at the sight, and the collective realization slowly settles: Mohawk might have a shot after all.

Gojo fights back a yawn. Leave it to these troglodytes to isolate, for the first time in history, a substance that can override cursed energy, and then use it like this. He knew Yaga was getting his panties in a twist over nothing.

Above, the professor is on the edge of his seat, eyeing his date in exhilaration, thirsty for her reaction.

The final bell rings out.

Muscles has hit the floor, the thump rumbles under Gojo’s boots. The ref steps in, waving his arm in the air.

But Mohawk’s miles above, stuck in an endless loop of his own, perched on top of Muscles’ limp gladiator body, raining down bare fisted attacks. There’s no intention to win, only to destroy.

Punching through shredded skin and bone, the first row gets their nice, warm spray of blood. Gojo sees the exact moment Mohawk’s fists shatter, but then he just keeps going with the other.

His bones are glowing. The ref’s orders go ignored, Mohawk’s more torch than a living creature at this point. Security surges forward, but they’re called off before they can enter the cage, much to their confusion.

To everyone’s surprise and growing horror, Mohawk lifts his fist one last time—

And stops.

Just like that. No discernible reason.

He stands up on wobbly legs, dripping sweat and drool, with thousand yard stare. The ref takes one, two steps back, not calling the winner. A couple of idiots with no capacity to read the room yell out their complaints about it.

The mood has shifted.

People are starting to back off from the pit, slowly and then all at once, clutching their heads, grimacing. Mohawk’s at the center of it. It’s coming out of him, toxic and volatile. The ref starts yelling, fists hitting the doors, begging to be let out.

Still unresponsive, Mohawk’s eyes start twitching as his knees hit the concrete, stumbling on Muscle’s limp body as his own locks up, arching and convulsing like a fish out of the water.

Gojo lifts his chin, wondering if—

Mohawk’s eyes roll back and burst. Thick blood that looks like tar under the blue lights leaks out of every possible orifice. Mouth, ears, and nostrils. His body collapses from the inside out like a stretched out grocery bag, unable to contain the massive rush of energy.

The bartender, who took a break to see the fight, whistles slowly. “Damn. That’s a new one.”

“No,” Gojo mutters, tongue tracing the insides of his cheek. Already estimating the stakes and the mountains of paperwork this will translate to. Shoko’s gonna have to put in work. Yaga’s cardiologist is about to make bank. “That’s a problem.”

Silence settles across The Cloister for the first time. The ref is still begging to be released. No one moves.

Not even the professor, who has ditched his glasses and is now standing by the edge of the balcony, fists clenched around the rail, a strand of hair sticking to his sweaty forehead.

Behind him, Leopard print is sitting pretty, shaking. It takes Gojo a moment to figure out that she’s laughing, shoulders shaking, curls bouncing with the motion. Her head drops to the side, she brings the back of her hand to her mouth.

The professor turns around, slowly, staring at her with the sheer horror of a man who flew too close to the sun.

The Strongest is ridiculously… young.

And pretty. The man is not sure why that thought sneaks up on him. Maybe it’s the side effect of standing in front of Gojo Satoru himself, on a rooftop, on such a ruthlessly cold night. But he is pretty. Or would be, if he were a girl and not a freakishly tall guy.

Gojo Satoru suddenly aims his attention at him, and the man is petrified by the idea that he could also be able to read minds.

“And this goes in your… eye?”

The man nods, bringing a shaky cigarette to his mouth. He spent all of his bravado hours ago, when he denied The Strongest access to The Cloister. A few minutes ago, Gojo Satoru laughed and asked him if he’s ever considered acting instead of a shitty private security job.

Once again, and for a good few minutes this time, Gojo’s captivated by the small crystal spray vial and the golden liquid inside. Anyone else might assume it’s nothing more than some half empty perfume sample, and not the substance that made a seasoned fighter cave in on himself like a can of soda in outer space.

He presses the top with his thumb. A fine mist comes out of the nozzle. The man steps away, startled. Gojo Satoru hums.

“How peculiar. What did you call it?”

“Callisto,” the man repeats, tongue numb. “You know, like one of Jupiter’s moons… and Zeus’ mother.”

Gojo rolls his eyes. “He had to name it after a moon and a mythological motherly figure. A nerd and a freak.”

“But this isn’t it,” the man rushes to add, “the real deal is completely transparent. This one’s a knock off. The professor’s version.”

Not following, and with a displeased tilt of his head, Gojo Satoru lets his arm drop against his side. The man steps back again, terrified that he might drop the tiny vial and spill it. He wants nothing to do with it after the situation tonight.

“Go on.”

“He’s been working on his version for months. Ever since it hit the streets.”

“So, this has been out there for months now? Since last year?”

“Yes— I mean, not this. The original Callisto.”

“Uh-huh. The OG. I got the idea. Callisto’s old news, then. And I’m guessing it doesn’t do what it did to Mohawk tonight.”

“No, no, it doesn’t.”

And he would have. The original source seemed… almost as off putting as Gojo Satoru himself, but the man didn’t think that was the intention behind it. Customers suffering a gruesome death make for bad marketing.

“Who owns the trademark, then?”

Fuck.

The man takes a deep, long drag until the embers reach his fingers. He didn’t agree to talk to Gojo Satoru just because of the obvious persuasive aura or those neon blues aimed at your throat. His main motivation was pure hatred towards a shitty employer, but anger blinds, and he failed to consider that he might have questions he can but isn’t prepared to answer.

To be fair, it’s only his first week breaking into the field of snitching.

“That’s not part of the deal,” he says, “it doesn’t involve him.”

“We have no deal. Don’t be silly.” Gojo giggles. “We’re friends, you and me. And we’re just having a chat. You can tell me anything, doesn’t matter if it involves The Professor or your grandmother. But no trauma dumping yet, we need to grab dinner first to unlock that level of trust.”

The man licks his cracked lips, looking away, folding under his flimsy windbreaker. Gojo Satoru flashes his pearly white teeth. Maybe he can read minds after all. But then, shouldn’t he know by now?

“Well, look at you, playing 3D chess,” he croons softly, pleased with what he finds. “I gotta respect that.”

The man keeps his lips sealed tight. It’s not fear nor allegiance to the person in question. It just doesn’t feel right to get them involved, even if they are directly.

“Have you tried it?” Gojo asks suddenly, bringing the vial back up to his face, making the liquid slosh around.

The man shakes his head. Hope that he has dropped the subject blooms in his chest.

“Would you want to? There’s a first time for everything.”

Only to be stomped on by Gojo Satoru’s designer boots. Blue eyes peer at him over those pitch black sunglasses. Now it is fear.

“It’s the girl.”

“Now, you can be more specific than that. For a friend.”

“The girl the professor brought tonight. The one in the furry coat. She’s the source. That’s all I know.”

The sound of Shoko Ieiri’s snapping off her disposable latex gloves is deafening. It echoes across the lab, a sign of her feelings on having to cover a Friday night shift and then still be working on a beautiful, almost spring Saturday morning. She drops on her chair and shoves a spoonful of granola in her mouth.

Letting his intrusive thoughts win, Gojo leans over her desk and steals a sliced cherry. Shoko stares at him, chewing is taking up her energy reserves, so trying to stop him isn’t an option.

The instant, bitter and not at all sweet taste of betrayal hits his tastebuds, and he immediately spits it out, washing it down with a gulp of his moka latte, licking the whipped cream off his upper lip.

Cherries shouldn’t be allowed to exist without syrup involved.

Shoko looks like she’s about to crack a smile, but then she sees that he intends to drop it on her desk.

“There’s a trash can there. Don’t be nasty.”

About two meters away, on the icy surface of a stainless steel table, lays the disfigured body of Mr. Mohawk. And the orange hair still stands tall, it’s kind of crazy.

He launches the spit covered cherry, landing it clean in the trashcan, and picks up the toxicology report, shaking it in his hand like it’s the morning paper.

Codeine, temazepam, morphine, ephedrine…

“That’s quite the pre-workout.”

“He should’ve been drooling in a corner, not throwing punches like a pitbull on a sugar rush.”

“Unknown substance, not matched to database. This is our liquid gold, correct? That’s what made him do… that.”

“It’s a match,” she says, leaning back on her swiveling chair. “And it’s not like the rest of the cocktail could have such an effect.”

“Right. True,” Gojo agrees, “or we’d have a lot of deflated child actors out there. So, what d’you think?”

“Whatever the mystery substance is, it overrides not just cursed energy, but basic neurology.”

“You’re saying it hijacks the brain?”

“Or hotwires it.”

Gojo chuckles before taking another sip. Mohawk behaved like a meat puppet with no breaks.

“Mind giving me a summary of the rest?”

“It’s organic.”

Gojo blinks at her behind his glasses, white eyebrows climbing up his forehead.

“You want any more details, you can read the report.”

“Organic? As in homegrown, farmer’s market, hippie shit organic?”

“It means it’s derived from a living organism, most likely a plant. We found traces of chlorophyll, cellulose and specific natural isomers.”

Again, Gojo blinks, this time bringing a finger to his lips.

“Seems like we have Jujutsu grade shrooms now.”

“Is that the valuable piece of insight Gojo Satoru has to offer?”

“C’mon, it’s funny. Think about it.”

“I doubt it’s fungi. A friend is looking into it, we’ll get the results in a few hours.”

“Shroom doctor?”

“Chemist.”

“And does your chemist friend know the value of keeping quiet?”

Shoko lets out a rare, hearty laugh. The kind that’s only the result of alcohol or enough sleep deprivation to make a regular adult human collapse.

“A man popped like a pustule in the middle of the Cloister, and you’re worried about keeping this under wraps?”

Gojo groans, stretching loudly, in no better state himself. He spent all night trying to find information on the professor’s date.

“I just—” he yawns, gesturing vaguely at Mohawk. “I wanna catch the source before word spreads out and Yaga freaks out.”

Shoko chuckles, throwing away the half empty container. Since when does Gojo care about Yaga freaking out?

“He seemed pretty relaxed about it.”

Yeah. Thinking about it makes Gojo squint. He was suspiciously cool and collected when he dropped by to see Mohawk and the vial for himself. He didn’t even demand a report. Gojo doesn’t like it.

“Gakuganji’s visiting, you know.”

Gojo doesn’t think Yaga likes the old bag of bones enough to be so zen because of his presence.

“What’s he want?”

“They’re meeting with a potential donor.”

Gojo hums, uninterested.

“Any leads on the source?”

“Maybe.”

Shoko waits for him to elaborate for about three seconds and then stands up, fishing out the keys from her pocket, ready to clock out.

“There’s a girl,” Gojo says. The LED panel above them flickers. “My source says she’s either the one who created it or close to whoever did.”

He doesn’t disclose the fact that they’re dealing with a hardcore bootleg version of the substance, or that he brushed the girl off thinking she was a cursebanger. No need to add to Shoko and Utahime’s false narrative about him hating women.

There’s a nice, freezing breeze outside that makes the inside of the lab seem stuffy in comparison. Shoko holds the rim of half empty cup of coffee between her front teeth to lock the door behind her. Gojo takes it from her, peering down at his reflection on the pitch black americano, fixing his hair.

“Cloister regular?”

“That’s the thing. She’s a normie.”

No trails or sightings. No residue left behind. Shoko takes the cup back, half curious, half skeptical. A normie cooking up something that overrides cursed energy sounds like a joke.

“And I just can’t seem to track her,” He mentions offhandedly, but Shoko can tell by the way he looks away that he’s irked. “It’s like she’s a ghost or something.”

“You? Unable to find a girl? Shocking news.”

He glares, pout deepening, coming to lean against the railing.

“Since when do ghosts give you trouble?”

“This one’s extra slippery.”

“I’m sure you’ll find her when you’re not looking.”

He could always go to the professor, but he’s letting him step back into his comfort zone for a few days.

They pair stands side by side, motionless and sipping on opposite spectrums of coffee, looking out over the campus grounds. The grass is slowly but surely morphing from brittle brown to something greener. The air is trying to lose its bite, carrying the smell of damp soil and the cafeteria. A group of first years laughs in the distance.

Gojo gets a whiff of dead cells from one of the trails.

“Who’s the cutie hanging out with the old heads?”

Across the courtyard, Gakuganji and Yaga are coming down from an early morning hike, talking to a girl who looks wildly out of place. Civilian clothes, caramel hair, laughing at something Yaga says that, surely, can’t excuse such an endearing reaction.

Last time Gojo checked, Take Your Granddaughter to Work day isn’t until April, and no one told him anything about a new transfer.

“That’s the donor,” Shoko says, fishing out a cigarette.

Gakuganji signals with his hand, leading her away. When she turns, the cluster of earrings on her ear catches the light. Gojo squints behind his glasses. It’s faint, but it’s enough for recognition to sink in.

Normie girl. Miss Not-a-Cursebanger. And now the donor. He turns to Shoko, blown away by her wisdom. Could it be the result of hanging out with corpses?

And then she opens her mouth, letting a dense puff of smoke trail up.

“She’s from the Kaneko clan.”

Gojo doesn’t respond, and Shoko thinks he’s bored and just walked away, but then she turns to the side, and he’s still standing there.

“Kaneko Sera, that’s her name,” she adds, happy to remember the name. A couple of first years run past them. A girl and a boy, startling Gojo and making him spill some of his coffee on his hand.

The kids apologize over and over again before bolting.

He’s hyperfocused. A scar on her knee peeks over the edge of her boots. Pitch black roots. A loose thread on her blood red knitted scarf. Ice water flooding his lungs. If he pulls on it, will it unravel at once?

“You look constipated.”

Gojo snaps out of yet another unwanted, hyperrealistic hologram vision, bringing a coffee covered hand to his mouth and licking it clean.

“Do you know her? Don’t tell me you’re feeling threatened.”

“Why would I?” he replies, flatly.

“There aren’t many young clan leaders left.”

Gojo snorts, dismissive. “The Kaneko clan’s toast. They’re either dead or scattered.”

“Not this Kaneko.”

“She’s not even a sorcerer,” he replies way too eagerly, too tense, briefly side eyeing Shoko, waiting to be corrected.

But she just points out, “So you do know her.”

He’d known a girl with divorced teeth and more remorse for birds than for people, who wouldn’t reach past his elbow or see eye to eye with Gakuganji.

That was two lifetimes ago. That girl said she didn’t want to be his friend anymore, and so he did what any emotionally volatile 14-year-old boy with limitless would: carve a two-meter trench through her mother’s hydrangea garden, enroll in Jujutsu high, and proceed to never think about her again.

“Knew. Past tense. Nothing to be threatened about.”

“Still, she’s a descendant of Tengen. She’s better looking than you are and more likable. She’s never tried to flashbang a meeting. Or made people want to retire early. Considering that she’s turning in the Kaneko vault, the higher ups will probably welcome her. Yaga already does.”

“And still, nothing to be threatened about.”

Shoko watches her friend carefully, trying to connect what she saw just seconds ago with what she knows about him.

“Funny. You looked like you got stabbed in the ribs when you heard her name.”

“Please. If a washed-out heiress trading heirlooms for relevance threw me off, I’d be a terrible clan head.”

“You are a terrible clan head.”

Across the courtyard, her eyes lift. Inky black meeting bright blue. No alarms or surprises, just a brief nod to whatever Gakuganji’s yapping about, or perhaps just as a sign of mutual recognition, acknowledging that she’s up to date with what kind of man Gojo is.

A bender of rules, too high up for protocols to reach. The type to deal with nuisances off the record, with his bare hands, and a smile on his face.

“Exactly. That’s why I’m the perfect man for the job.”

[ctrlsatoru]

DIABLO chapter three - Toji Fushiguro

content: techbro!toji, reader is gojo's little sister, age gap (toji's in his late 30s, reader in mid 20s) kind of ooc toji (he's a good father in this one) warnings: 18+ only. suggestive themes. explicit language, fluff, toji continues to be toji, pushes oc into kind of an anxiety attack. toji discovers a new kink at his big age. daddy issues. cheating. unresolved sexual tension (it only gets worse). pairing: toji fushiguro x afab gojo!reader word count: 12.9k summary: The aftermath of a chaotic evening. An unlikely late night conversation with the architect of your undoing. Neither of you walks away clean and the game has only just begun. previous chater - next chapter

It’s you and a sizzling order of grilled Yakimochi in a world alone. Across from you is he, the lone spectator.

He’s never seen anyone eat the way you do. Thoroughly, carefully, eyebrows crumpling and creasing with the kind of zestiness that any person in the field of animation would want to record and keep for future reference.

You rip the last bit with sharp front teeth, lick the corner of your mouth, and fail to do something about the sticky glaze making your cupid’s bow glow. You’re inspecting the skewer like you’re a creature from outer space and it’s your first night on earth.

He feels the urgency to unbutton the first few buttons on his shirt, but he already did that some time ago.

The blast of air from the fan above you strikes him like a bullet. Sharp and sudden, pulling him out of the dizzy tunnel vision.

Greasy walls, foggy windows, waiters coming and going, the pungent smell of draft beer. The muffled pit-pat of the rain outside the window.

He clears his throat and leans back, making the old plastic chair let out a brittle groan under his weight.

The sound makes you acknowledge his presence. Sticky mouth, flushed cheeks and pure, unadulterated contempt.

It’s almost like you’re not the reason he’s stranded in an izakaya in bumfuck Shinjuku, surrounded by hordes of grown men cozying up to their supervisors.

He makes a show out of checking his watch. You appreciate being rushed as much as you enjoy your beer at room temperature.

“Have you got somewhere to be?”

If being a first-hand witness to your father nearly get a semi-early ticket to hell doesn’t ease up the attitude, god knows what will.

He has a few explicit, well fleshed out ideas. Not a single one is feasible with all these people around you.

The TV hanging from the ceiling breaks the news about the shooter’s arrest. You push a plate in his direction, making more noise than necessary.

He stares down at it, unimpressed and uninterested.

“You can’t just sit there and stare at me while I eat.”

He sure can. Not without it awakening some strange primal impulses in him.

“It’s uncomfortable.”

“Didn’t stop you so far.”

The switch flips mid eye roll as the waitress walks past your table and you lean over, doe eyed and pliant, asking for another round and no— actually, make it two.

Someone might think it’s not the girl's job to serve you, and she’s the one who’ll take you home in —more likely than not— some degree of inebriation.

You’re causing quite the stir, beautifully dressed and chugging beer like a regular at the saloon. Toji’s sure you’d have a mean spit if you had in your vicinity. The congregation of salarymen queuing for crumbs of your attention would faint.

The waitress returns with two crisp, sweaty glasses, blushing at the sight of both of you. Toji pulls the glass away before you can get your hands on it, and the dreamy lingering smile you’re aiming at the girl crumples and creases.

“I’ll eat. You’ll stop drinking.”

Not out of surprises for the night yet, you only cross your arms and lean back. You watch him chew like you think he’d cheat otherwise.

You lift an eyebrow when he puts down his chopsticks and brushes off imaginary crumbs from his hands. Two orphan gyozas look up at him. “Worried about your macros, big guy?”

“You think I’m big?”

He gets a text from his driver, you take the chance and snatch your beer back.

“Fuckin’ brat. Throw up in the car and I’m kicking you out.”

“I'm not a lightweight, worry about yourself.” You reply without missing a beat, contradicted by rosy cheeks and glassy eyes. “And Nanami would fuck you up for not keeping your promise.”

“Don’t remember making any.”

The fan turns back in your direction, and you close your eyes and tilt your face at it, content. Toji doesn’t look at the layer of sweat covering your skin for nearly as long as he could; the subject sparks his interest.

“Still would. He really cares about me.”

“Does he?” You nod, petty down to the lift of your eyebrows. He hates to admit it, but he wouldn’t blame the guy, just like he doesn’t blame the waitress for blushing at the sight of your cleavage resting on the table, or the table of middle aged male schoolgirls back there.

“You got a crush on the monotone motherfucker?”

No reply. You take a good gulp before asking for the bill. There’s the usual confrontation about who’s paying, you agree to let him after a heartbeat of deliberation, not without telling the waitress to put your fanclub on your tab.

They push and pull at the youngest man who obviously noticed you first. Puppy eyes, droopy eyelids, and sweaty hands. He doesn’t even notice Toji following you on your way out, eyes only on you. God bless the poor fucking kid. Bar set astronomically high, absolutely no sense of self preservation. A terrible combination.

You’d eat him up and pull his skeleton like an old school cartoon cat.

The charming disposition is nowhere to be found on the drive to your place. You’re quiet, texting your brother’s boyfriend with a permanent pout on your lips. It makes Toji wonder if the cheap beer caught up to you, and if you get sleepy when you drink.

The car behind you follows you off the highway, the driver gives him a look in the rearview. Same plates he texted Toji earlier.

So far, you’ve successfully pretended that your ankle’s not killing you with every step you take. You’re staring at the sign on your building’s elevator when your face, shoulders, and overall act drop.

“Which floor?”

“4th,” you reply, defeat personified.

“Alright, then,” he sighs, because of course he’ll make it sound like it’s a shore “get up here.”

You look at him like he lost his mind and take a theatrical step back.

“You’ve been walking like you got a train run on you, what makes you think you can make it up there?”

The doorman fixes his throat. He perked up at the sight of Toji opening the door for you, breaking his neck trying to follow you on your way inside.

You look like you’re gonna make him pay for that later.

He has no interest in playing babysitter. “Suit yourself.”

“Fine.” You say right as he turns on his heels, not looking at him. “I’ll allow it.”

Toji rolls his eyes but leans down anyway, getting you off the floor for the second time tonight. Exhaustion is getting to you; you only tense up for the first flight and let your weight settle on him.

The travel size panther doesn’t shy away from eye contact or back away when Toji squats down to get a closer look. Fearless little thing, likely got it from his mother.

Kaiju, according to the tag with your phone number engraved on it, isn’t too against getting his chin scratched.

He struts over to the fancy automatic feeder, offering Toji a once in a lifetime chance to get on his good graces. All he has to do is tap the screen and get him one or two extra portions of kibble.

Amber eyes make a convincing argument, but judging by the size on him, he doubts you starve him.

Amused, Toji goes for the back of his ear, only to be swiftly stopped by merciless, sharp teeth closing down on his thumb. He hisses, surprised not to see any blood at the crime scene.

Kaiju blinks slowly at him as if to promise him he could've done a lot worse than that.

Definitely got that from you.

The sound of doors opening from the narrow hallway makes him rise to full height. Not without throwing the furry prick a warning glare.

Hair down, barefoot, black dress replaced by comfortable clothes. You walk past him like a stuttering breeze, right into your spotless little kitchen.

Kaiju has a change of heart and demands his attention by wrapping his tail around his legs.

“I’m surprised you’re still here,” you say off-handedly, so convincing as you’re looking through your cabinets that for a second he doubts it was you who let him carry you past the entrance door and said you’d be back soon before disappearing into the hallway, leaving a trail of hairpins behind you.

He scoffs at your asshole of a cat. You believe this shit?

“Right.”

No problem. You don’t have to say it twice. You’ll never have to be burdened by the need to dismiss him. One, two, three strides, and he’s reaching the door before you can turn around.

And as he expected—perhaps even hoped, though it would take some meticulous, gulag type of torture for him to admit it—you say the golden word before he can turn the handle.

“Wait,”

He levels you with that darkened glare that makes board members get in line during meetings and journalists scatter away.

You’re holding two glasses like it’s some sort of peace offering. He’s disappointed, you should know that’s not going to cut it.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

The fuck do you take him for? Do you think he has the time to solve riddles? Is he scooby doo?

You’re lucky he’s distracted by the way your hair brushes against the curve of your collarbone, drawing his gaze and tugging at him. Your shoulders peek through the shiny, dark waves.

There’s a faint dip of muscle as your arms move, nothing dramatic, but the suggestion of strength beneath the plump skin.

He is not above wondering if you’re wearing a bra under that flimsy top. Now, when it comes to peace offerings, that’s absolutely an upgraded start.

At some point during his rumination, a bottle of bourbon has materialized in your hands. The kind he enjoys from time to time after a rough day. He’s starting to think you weren’t lying when you said you could handle your liquor.

“If you think I’m gonna fall for that again, you’re sorely mistaken.”

He can't sound nearly as threatening as he intends to when you’re making a point by taking a sip out of both glasses. It’s a miracle meant to curse him that, after all the greasy food you indulged in earlier, there’s still some lipstick left on both rims.

But because he likes this carefully contained distress on you, his hand never leaves the handle.

You really want him to stay, don’t you? Could he make you ask for it?

“I thought you wanted an explanation.”

Probably, but he can save that for later. Rude as you were just moments ago, he wants to see you put your money where your mouth is and figure out what the glint in your eye is about.

There’s also that quiet, oblivious confidence in the way you move that tugs at him. Like you’ve never considered what it does to anyone watching. Especially him.

You melt down on your favorite end of the couch, letting the weight of the day sink into it. He doesn’t join you before taking in the view from your cramped balcony.

The driver pulls over the moment he gets his message, disappearing down the street without a trace. There’s another one parked just by the corner, away from the streetlights, windows too dark to see who’s inside.

The pause to survey your apartment is just for show. You don’t need to know that he already zoomed into the framed pictures on your bookcase, inspected the well loved Led Zeppelin III vinyl and picked up the Lou Reed on your fancy wireless turntable, skimmed the pages of a Jack Kerouac book full of handwritten notes, even found a Motoko Kusanagi figure forgotten behind a model of the golden gate bridge.

You were gone long enough for him to picture you sitting sideways on the olive armchair, knees thrown over the armrest, with a sleepy black cat kneading on your belly.

“So this is where you live.”

No male shoes cluttering the entrance. Nothing that would indicate that you share this space with someone else.

The kitchen’s too small for two anyway. It would only work in a romcom movie. Maybe he’s a little biased, but he just can’t picture you and the man child from hours ago standing close to each other, cooking dinner with Lou Reed playing in the background.

“For now, yeah.”

He sits on the opposite end of the couch with a healthy, unnerving distance between you, exaggerating the manspreading just to make your brow twitch.

It’s surprisingly comfortable. The leather feels nice and cool under him.

“Why make it so cozy if you’re not planning on staying?” It’s spelled in every detail, you’ve put time and care into filling up the space.

“That same logic is what makes gas stations so shitty.”

Always a reply for everything. Never let him catch a break. “It’s smaller than I expected, but it suits you.”

He means that. It’s a home, way warmer and cozier than what he would’ve guessed from someone so visually inclined. You’re a plant freak too, there’s only room in your jungle of a balcony for a small chair that you couldn’t pay Toji to try.

You warn Kaiju not to even try when he lurks a little too close to one of the pots by the corner. He backs away with his nose in the air and disappears down the hallway.

“It’s not small.” You turn to him as he leans over and grabs his drink from the coffee table, eyes accusing as they run over his back. “You just don’t fit anywhere.”

“Think so?” he says before he can think of it, savoring the first sip. “I think I’d fit alright.”

Your eyes widen before a frown takes over your lips, but your chest goes up and down with a deep breath you have no control over, and you’re suddenly sitting a little, just a little bit straighter.

He smirks, deeply satisfied with being able to do that to you even when he’s not trying.

“What’s that?” he asks, chin aimed at some heavy looking artifact hidden under the console.

“Pottery wheel.”

He snorts. “Of course it is.”

Your claws come out automatically. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I know you’ve had a shitty day and this isn’t how you planned it to end, but you’re gonna have to be nice if you want me to keep you company.”

That gets your attention. Toji’s half convinced you’re about to tell him to fuck off for taking your invitation as some sort of display of vulnerability and assuming he has any leverage here.

“You think you can do that?”

You cross your leg under you, careful when you ask, like it’s against his best interest.

“Do you want me to be nice?” His eyes narrow briefly, telepathically telling you to watch it. The corners of your lip quirk up, nothing kind about the gesture. “I can be nice.”

It sounds like you’ll weaponize the request against him. He can only hope you do.

“Now, if I open your freezer, will I find anything useful for that ankle?”

The question visibly throws you off. You blink once or twice and theorize about an ancient bag of peas that could be somewhere in there, doubting his chances at finding it. Toji waves off the last part as he stands up, pulling his sleeves higher over his arms.

You’re looking at him like he grew a second head when he leans over to grab your leg, not commenting on the obscene variety of chocolate covered berries he had to go through.

There’s a distinct clench of muscles under the thick gray fabric of your pants that are just a bit too long for your legs. He has to pull it up to reveal some skin, silently wondering if they belong to the man in your framed pictures.

Still confused, you go along and even twist on your seat, letting him place your leg on his lap.

“Hurts?”

He glances at you. You shake your head like the little liar that you are.

A quiet hiss escapes through clenched teeth, and your eyes shut tight the second the ice cold plastic touches your skin. You fight the instinct to run away, nails digging on the leather.

It doesn’t look as bad as it could be. No swelling is a good sign, but it’s only been a couple of hours. You’re quiet through all these observations as the unpleasantness of the sharp cold morphs into relief, staring at the bag of peas with a look on your face that he can’t put a name on right now.

He’s discovered quite a few of those tonight. You fix your face a bit too fast when you catch yourself, so he knows they’re rare and commits them to memory.

“How’d that happen?”

He tilts his chin at the pale scar at the junction of your left arm.

“Trying to get through a barbed fence.” You lift your arm so that he can see all of it, how it gets bumpier and thicker as it goes deep into your armpit. You didn’t give him the chance to notice it at Haibara’s party, and your dress did a great job at hiding it tonight.

It happened somewhere in Thailand, you befriend a baby cow way too fast, and the mother didn’t hesitate to set some boundaries.

Slipping between barbed wires had seemed easy enough, you didn’t count on your armpit getting stuck.

The incident nearly ruined a family holiday, got your brother the scolding of the year, and made the doctors urge your father to get you tested for what they called an atypical pain response. All the scans and tests came out perfectly normal.

He grimaces. Low pain threshold or not, you’d have to be a piece of shit to not hate the idea of a little girl getting hurt like that.

He changes the peas to the other side of your ankle. You fill your lungs up with a sharp breath but muster the will to try anyway,

“Your turn.”

He licks his scar briefly, wondering if you’re aware of him noticing your reaction every time.

He’s quite surprised, but nonetheless convinced that you’re not drunk just yet, perhaps just a bit less guarded. The walls are coming up and down like a pendulum, so he has to time himself, move with your rhythm.

“Not a charming story,” he carries on before you try to argue, “What about the murder weapon?”

It’s next to the fish tank, a single wooden pencil safe inside a gold frame. The small engraved message made him suspect that the stain on the tip is blood.

“Not a charming story,” you throw back, “and kind of a long one.”

“You in a rush?” you sip your drink and lift an eyebrow, he rolls his eyes. “I’ll tell you mine later.”

That’s enough motivation for you, though you take a moment to figure out how to start, chewing on your thumb until it turns red.

“I didn’t have a lot of friends in school.”

He nods firmly. “I believe that.”

You ignore that “I moved here when I was eight. My pronunciation wasn’t... great, and I was kind of alien to what kids were into, so I wasn’t exactly popular. There was one boy in particular who didn’t like me because Satoru dated his sister,”

Toji has no idea where this is going, but that last part gets a good chuckle out of him.

“So he made it his mission to let everyone know about my family lore.”

That’s one way of putting it. He knew, like anyone old enough to remember the nineties, that your mother had a hard time after the affair hit the public. The kind of hard time that gets you blacklisted and makes you move out of the country.

“It didn’t help that I was the only one at home with, you know, not stunning white hair and white walker eyes. He kept going for a while, and I held it in because you can’t be the new kid and go around snitching on your classmates.”

He huffs sarcastically, “Gotta stick to middle school street code.”

“But then, after a few weeks, he pushed me a little too close to the edge, so—”

“You did the sensible thing and stabbed him with a pencil.” Toji finishes for you as you finish your drink. The ice cubes clatter when you dangerously lean over to set it on the coffee table. He’s half prepared for you to slip, hands twitching to grab you. “Where?”

You smack your lips. “Leg.”

“Smart girl. You get in trouble for that?”

“No crying,” your brother said for the nth time, in a way that only made you want to cry even more. “Did anyone hit or touch you anywhere? You’re not gonna get in trouble, but you have to tell me the truth.”

Suguru gave you an encouraging nod behind your brother, but you could see that Satoru was pissed for real. You’d never seen him angry like he was when he spoke to the principal, not even when he locked the door on your father’s studio to argue with him.

Your father’s office had been impossible to reach, so they called him instead. He was quiet on the drive home while you fiddled with your fingers, wondering how your life would be when they sent you back with your mother.

A part of you missed your life at the farm and the way you didn’t need to get in a car to go places and do things, but the idea of not seeing your brother every day dug a deeper hole in your chest.

It was so unfair. You were just beginning to get used to never being bored. Even if things got scary between Satoru and your father, not a day went by that you didn’t laugh.

“He said my mother worked at a soapland. He said it’s my fault you don’t have a mom, and that you hate me for it, and that I’m not your sister.”

“Did he hit you?”

You shook your head, another wave of tears pooling in your eyes. Satoru sighed and sat next to you on the stairs, wiping your eyes with his fingers, over and over again.

“Stop that. You look super ugly when you cry, remember?”

“Is it my fault you don’t have a mom? Is that why you and dad throw things at each other?”

Satoru scratched his head and set his hands on your shoulders, shaking you a bit before talking.

“Here’s the thing, people say stuff all the time. Sometimes they’ll say things are kind of true, but—”

“Dude!?” Suguru hissed, making an X with his arms, shaking his head.

“So is it really,” you stutter, lips shaking, “am I not your—”

“No! I mean yes. Of course you are, bug, c’mon.”

He paused, fixing his approach.

“Listen, this is one of those things that make sense once you’re older. Your mom and dad… they felt love for each other, and so they made you… out of that love. You’re their, uh, love receipt?”

He made a weird face and hissed at Suguru to let him finish. He was onto something here.

“And yes, dad was married to my mom, but that was his thing, ok? It’s not on you. Never. You don’t have to worry about my mom either, she has a boyfriend and he’s younger and way more handsome than dad. She’s doing her own thing. And dad loves you a lot, definitely loves you more than he loves me.”

You started crying again.

“Quit it, bug. Think about it, if he only had me? He’d be in a bad mood all the time. I piss him off, you make him laugh. We’re like yin and yang, see?”

He grabbed a strand of your hair and held it up to his head.

“Point is, it doesn’t matter if kids at school say things about us because we’re a team. And you’re a Gojo, you can’t let that type of shit get to you. You know, people say I get good grades all the time because I’m handsome and too charming, but I brush it off. We’re better than that.”

He nods at himself. You blink, trying to make sense out of it.

“I promise it’s all gonna make sense later. Just don’t give people the power to use these things against you, alright? That’s a losing game, you have to set yourself up to win. Always.”

No matter how cool he was, giving you a life lesson like this, tears kept flowing down your face. You couldn’t even rip your fists from them, and he was starting to freak out. He needed to get a laugh out of you and put an end to this.

“I don’t want to get a call again and hear that you stabbed some stuck up kid in the leg, you better get the job done right and aim for the eye, alright? Make it worth the drive. Cyclops one hater and the rest will think twice before running their mouths.”

That didn’t get him the laugh he wanted either. Suguru’s face was becoming super familiar with his palm. Satoru looked at him with panicked eyes.

“You gotta help me out, man. I’m totally tanking here.”

Suguru’s eyes widened. He grabbed his wrist.

“Did you wash your hands?” he asked, looking at the reddish tint. “You were eating hot cheetos, idiot.”

“Shit. My bad, bug.”

“Stop touching her face!”

Toji blinks at you.

“What the fuck does a kid know about a soapland?”

You shrug. That was before kids had unlimited access to the internet, so it was probably the result of hearing adults talk.

“Back in my day—”

You snort violently. He rolls his eyes at you and removes the peas.

“Yeah, yeah, all I’m saying is… that little boy would’ve been dealt with. What’d your old man say?”

“Nothing.” You reply, suddenly standing up, thirst not yet quenched. “He took me camping for the first time that weekend.”

You leave him in search of something to snack on. It’s almost like that was just a trivial part of the story. Toji’s no damn shrink, but even he recognizes how that would fundamentally configure a kid’s elastic brain when it comes to affection and how to get it.

It’s strange. The strangest thing. You can’t make sense of how the night ended like this.

It’s 2 am, you’ve got a nice buzz going on, and Toji Fushiguro just gave you spoilers about the plans for the upcoming release of his magnum opus.

The details stay safe inside your walls, out of the reach of crowds of die hard fans that would kill for a small piece of information.

You’ve been thinking about giving the game a try. Perhaps you should exploit this civilized interlude between you and ask him if your old macbook would be able to handle it.

Probably not. He’ll laugh at you and find some lascivious but creative remark to make you shiver. As honest as the late night conversation air between you feels, he might begin to suspect that you’ve been seeing his face on the very same ceiling above you.

The thought of it makes you uneasy. You rip a piece of baby tangerine and shove the questions down your throat.

Determined not to let you dwell too much on your thoughts, he leans over and snatches one from the bowl in your lap.

Nothing on tv, not even the late night nineties reruns, could be as entertaining as him trying to peel it with his big ass hands. It looks like a grape in his grip, ready to burst at the lightest pressure.

“So you’ve always been daddy’s little girl, huh?”

You bite a bit too hard, and the sudden rush of juice spills down your chin before you can try to stop it.

He rolls his eyes like you haven’t heard filthier things from him.

“Get your mind out of the gutter.”

“Oh, is that too much for Mr. fuck-a-wife? My bad.”

“Answer the question, Gojo.”

There’s a never ending curiosity about your family’s dynamics and no disposition to give details about his in return. You’re positive you can get him to crack. You’ve made it your mission to know where, when and how he got the lip scar.

“Even if I was, I got on his bad side real quick.”

He finally gets the peel off and just throws the entire butchered thing into his mouth. His question comes out muffled and tangy.

“Doing what exactly?”

“Getting my period, probably.”

That almost gets him to choke, you can’t help but laugh at him for being so scandalized.

“Something’s wrong with you.”

“Pot, kettle.” he pouts, not disagreeing. “What did you do to get banished?”

To your delight, he bites. “Who said I was banished?”

“Oh?”

He side eyes you, and you wonder how he feels. If he finds this as strange and easy as you do.

“My parents were shitty. Mom got knocked up too young. Ruined her life. He resented everyone for… well, everything. The elders made everything as difficult as possible. I got out the moment I got my ID and never looked back.”

Sounds like the Zenin experience. Whispers about their dirty laundry have made their rounds for years, quietly traded across manicured golf courses and under the clink of wine glasses at dinner parties. From incestuous traditions, to their offspring hunting housemaids for sport.

It takes a fucked up environment to create something like Naoya.

That first day on the set, learning that he was a Zenin in disguise made your skin crawl, making the initial attraction turn sour.

You took his arrogance, icy detachment and blunt words as a sign that he had failed to escape the bloodline even if he erased it from his name.

Now, you don’t know what to do with the realization that you were wrong.

Sure, the man is still a complete and total prick, always walking in like rules don’t apply to him, arrogance worn like a badge, begging your fist to connect to his pretty face.

But not in the cold, soulless Zenin way. There’s nuance to his assholery.

His brand of infuriating is his own creation. So aggravating it just… works, somehow loops right back around and, as much as you hate to admit, makes him magnetic.

Right now, talking to you, all playful and genuine, you feel the disconnect. There’s an openness about him. Some coarse, warped kindness that isn’t obvious at first encounter.

“Glad you did?”

“Best decision I ever made,” he replies easily, looking to his side and grabbing an album from your side table.

He examines the very personal and mushy paragraph the members wrote for you on the back before you can protest.

Just a few hours ago, you’d cursed him for stepping into your territory uninvited. And now here he is, looking softer around the edges under the low lights of your living room.

Your leg over his lap that neither of you have moved. Dress shirt half undone, hair slightly damp from the rain that caught you on the walk from the car to the building entrance. Sticking to his forehead with some worn, unexpected charm.

Casually transparent.

“You work with these kids? I’m pretty sure I took Tsumiki and Megumi to their concert last week.”

Making you laugh against your own will.

“Tokyo Dome?” he nods, you bite your lip to stop yourself from laughing, trying to picture him surrounded by lightsticks and people chanting their lungs out. “Yeah, that’s them.”

Tending to your bruised ankle like there’s no other reasonable thing to do.

And it’s worse than any other version you’ve seen of him.

This one could slip past your defenses without trying. Is it performative?

Is he waiting for you to let your guard down to strike? Is he not the type to enjoy the hunt while his prey is dealing with family drama on two different fronts?

“Felt like a cult meeting. I didn’t know they got down like that,” he says, suddenly sounding older than usual. “The production was hypnotic, I should’ve known you were involved.”

Your train of thought stops at the suggestion that he should be able to recognize your work at a glance, and the sudden reminder—

“I can’t believe you’re a concert dad.”

He glares through thick eyelashes. All the patience for you but none for your bullshit.

“Yes you can. Let’s not act like I didn’t trigger those daddy issues of yours from the beginning.”

He has some nerve to say that to your face while simultaneously flipping through the booklet.

But you said you’d be nice, and you’ve decided he’ll stay until the sun rises or until exhaustion knocks you out, so you try something new. Playing coy.

“You know, I had a rough night. Shouldn’t you go easy on me?”

He pauses, recognizes his own words, and considers choices unknown to you while brushing his thumb over his mouth, catching any dry tangerine juice.

You remember the way his lips felt under the Q tip back at the set. You know firsthand just how much more sensitive scar tissue is.

Has it been a month already? It feels like only a few days ago he cornered you with that brutish proposal, but so much has changed since then. More than a month or three encounters should lead to. Why is your perception of time suddenly so warped?

“Now that I think about it, that seems to be the case every time you’re around.”

“Yeah?” You didn’t understand how he knew back at Haibara’s, didn’t think you’d two cross paths again to ask what gave it away.

“Yeah. I’m seeing a pattern here.”

“And yet you invite me in, pour me a drink, and share your precious tangerines. Sounds contradictory.”

“Maybe I’d just rather deal with you.”

True as it may be, you notice right away just how terrible that sounds, and you look intently for his reaction. For any indication that he’s offended by your lack of filter.

His green eyes dance over your face and then, when they find whatever it is they were searching for, lock on yours. Knowing and prompting.

Let it all out. You sure look like you need it.

As if to remind you that there’s a quiet world outside, your phone buzzes loudly. It’s a text from Nanami. Your father’s finally getting some rest after talking to the police.

Suguru stopped replying hours ago after telling you to get some sleep and not worry too much about things.

Nothing but silence from Satoru.

There are a hundred open tabs in your head about your father’s speech and whatever he and your brother were about to get physical about. You saw the signs, but how things got this messed up is beyond you. Could you have done anything to stop it from spreading?

“You’re not gonna figure it out tonight, so don’t even try.”

His voice, measured and firm, brings you back, and you’re once again face to face with a man that you would’ve never expected to get any clarity from.

“What did you two talk about?”

“Nothing that would indicate that he was planning to pull that stunt on your brother.” He replies, and you know he’s not lying even if he’s dodging the question.

You laugh bitterly, rubbing your temples. All the alcohol in you has evaporated out of your system in a matter of seconds.

“They’ve always been too alike. Always clashed. But I would’ve never, ever imagined he’d do that to him. Not even when they didn’t talk.”

You’re not sure why you’re telling him this, but he’s listening intently.

“Holding that over him his entire life and then just…”

You stop yourself, shaking your head. He’s either out of his head, or there’s a plane headed to the Pentagon. You can't decide which is worse.

“Wanna know what I think?”

“Always.”

“I think he’s jealous of you two and how close you are. I think he feels cornered.”

What did he and your father discuss for this to be his conclusion?

“You’re a fucking menace, your brother’s as enjoyable as getting kicked in the nuts. You’re both smart as shit. I don’t want to know what it was like to have you two growing up in the same household,” he reasons. “There’s also the bit where parents resent their kids for enjoying what they gave them.”

“That’s fucked up.”

“It happens. Doesn’t help that he has his boyfriend, and I’m not talking about hating gay people. Anyone can see that those two are it for each other. That’s rare to find. You can have all the power in the world and still be fucking jealous of that.”

There was a time when your father encouraged Satoru to hang out with Suguru. Level headed, hard working, smart, polite and respectful Suguru. He trusted some of that could rub off on him, that he could help Satoru go down that good, decent and successful path he was meant for.

He didn’t expect them to take the concepts of rubbing off and going down in a whole different way, especially not fresh off seventeen, hiding in the cellar.

That discovery not only killed his hopes for white haired grandkids, it also radicalized him further, increased his donations to conservative parties, and sped up his heart problems by a decade.

As hard as that can be sometimes, you love your brother. You’re grateful that the stars aligned so that someone like him and Suguru could share the same timeline, but you’d be a filthy liar if you said it didn’t put a bitter, green taste in your mouth from time to time.

Wasn’t it enough that he never has to worry about getting his roots retouched? He had to go and befriend his soulmate in his teenage years?

Perhaps tonight was just god’s way of balancing that out.

And perhaps Toji’s right, and you’re just as messed up as your father. Worse, even.

“Could you? Do that?” Toji tilts his head at you, hasn’t let you out of his sight once. Your voice is quieter than you expect. “Resent your kids for—”

“Fuck no.” he cuts in, sharp and firm, the muscles of his jaw tense. “You do everything to make sure they don’t go through the shit you went through. Their lives have to be better, if you’re not gonna try, you might as well not have them at all.”

Something in you cracks.

That certainty, that unwavering conviction. Not sugarcoated to sound noble, just real and unmovable. You think, quite unhelpfully, that it’s not too unlike the way you’ve witnessed Satoru and Suguru carve into each other. Looking from the outside for over a decade.

There was a time when you thought you and Hiroki could do it for each other. Perhaps scratch the surface. Eventually, you found yourself hoping he wasn’t it. Relieved that he isn’t. Convinced that you’re built for something different. That the harder you fall for things, the less you want to keep them.

You rise from your seat and cross the room under the pretense of needing something else instead of him. Anything to not give away the fact that he just cracked something open.

The faucet hums quietly, deliberately filling the cup with water. Hiroki’s favorite. You got it for him, back when you were friends.

You lean against the counter and take a few sips.

In the back of your mind, and somewhere in your notes app, there’s a note with better bad decisions to make than Toji Fushiguro. But then you return and find him staring at you like he knows that was all an act. Like you’re a caged animal and he’s waiting for you to unleash the worst of you on him.

And there’s plenty of it, but you can’t get into all that right now. The moment is too right to let it go to waste. You can’t let the daylight steal it from you.

He looks up at you through those full, thick lashes of his.

You should’ve shaved them off while he slept next to you.

“Who taught you how to drink like that, hm?” he asks quietly, half impressed, half scolding. No need to raise his voice when you’re so close it feels like you might touch.

“Uni.”

He does something then, twists his wrist slightly until your lipstick stain fits the spot he takes a sip from.

And with that tiny, little motion, you’ve had enough of the chase.

He notices the shift, tilting his head to the side like a puppy who just heard a foreign sound.

“What is it?”

There’s nothing in front of your eyes but him. His eyes that somehow turn sparkly under the warm lights. Not red. Not yellow.

Go.

“I like the way you look at me.”

Admitting brings immediate relief, it makes just enough room in your chest to breathe a bit deeper.

“How do I look at you?”

You step forward until your shins touch the couch, right between his knees that he naturally spreads for you, your own coming up to rest on his thigh. Heat radiates off his skin.

He follows your movements, eyes trailing up slowly, like the steady ticking of the clock has halted. Lifts his hand and pulls on the drawstring of your sweatpants, no rush to it.

“How do I look at you?” he repeats, voice steady, urging you to answer.

The little bow comes undone, but your hips keep the waistband secure in place. Only a peek of your hipbones is revealed.

To your utter confusion, he starts tying them again, tighter this time, pulling you just enough to get your waist a few centimeters closer to his face.

He exhales through his nose, focused on the task. “Thought I wasn’t the type of problem you liked dealing with.”

How could you forget? He never gives anything without a barbed wire wrapped around it. Good thing you know your way around them.

There’s a second knot, and you let your palm meet the shadowy side of his face. Warm to the touch, much like the feeling in your tummy and the ghost of his hands on your feet. Skin both rough and soft.

You trace a path down his jaw, up his cheekbone, under his ear and then behind it.

He’s pliant under you, heavy lidded, throat bobbing. Asking for exactly nothing but more.

“I changed my mind.”

Nails scratch his scalp, and his breath stutters. His pulse races under your hand, you can smell and nearly taste his charred oak breath, see yourself in his eyes, hear the air as it makes its way in and out of his lungs.

A fist closes around a nice chunk of hair, rewarding you with a silent hiss and the parting of his lips.

A hand comes up to wrap around your wrist. Massaging it like he’s trying to make sure you’re flesh and bones.

His shoulders are tense under the thin fabric of his button up. If only the rain from earlier was a little harder, enough to soak him, you know it’d cling to him just right. Strong, massive, everywhere. Where do you even start? Why didn’t you start sooner?

“I thought you always wanted to fuck a married woman.”

His eyes slam open with a pitch black spark behind them. He lets out a wolfish, cruel, mocking smile that in any other scenario would've fired you up.

“You’re not married to anyone.”

And suddenly, with less mirth behind it.

“And I changed my mind.”

He stops you from pulling your hand away, grip tight around your wrist like a vice. A reminder that your bones could crack easily if he wanted. Your mouth waters.

It’s still him, the same reckless man who dared you to run and claimed to get bored easily, but also insists on preaching about patience.

You wait for any sign that your advances are unwelcome, and see nothing but pure tension simmering under the surface. He’s like a bottle of soda shaken to its limit, ready to pop and spill at the slightest nudge.

Patience is a virtue. You want to spit the words in his mouth and make him swallow.

Why is he suddenly trying to display some restraint?

“You choose now of all times to be a gentleman? The night I go through a traumatizing event and need a distraction?”

He has the gall to chuckle, flashing his front teeth at you, going as far as to turn his head and press his open mouth against your wrist, inhaling deeply.

His breath is warm, leaving a trail of goosebumps that fades up into your neck.

“Who said you need a distraction?”

You rip your wrist back and take a step back.

For a second, it looks like he’s about to stop you, but he stops himself and drops his arm, falling back against the couch with a thud.

Your mouth twitches.

“You think you know what I need?”

“I have a pretty good idea.”

“Wanna share with the class?”

“There’s a big difference between wanting and needing something. You see, most people get those two confused. Entire markets have been built on that single fault.”

Cut the cameras.

Rewind.

If you knew how to talk to god, you’d beg for the patience not to smash his glass against your head and chew the shards. Because listening to him describe the human condition like he’s an outsider and then twist it into a metaphor for capitalism feels way worse.

He was so fuckable just half a minute ago. If only he didn’t have to constantly make you want to choose violence.

And he’s not done yet.

“When it comes to you and what you need, it’s clearly nothing that you’re getting.”

You step away and plop down on your seat.

The rejection will be digested later, right now, you need to stay sharp and ready for the clash you feel building up.

“And of course, you also know what I’m getting.”

He doesn’t look so amused anymore. “I’ve seen enough to have a good idea.”

“Wow.” You deadpan, cold as ever. “You’ve really figured me out. I feel exposed. Whatever should I do now?”

“I told you before, didn’t I? You’re safe with me.”

You snort, dismissive. “Nothing about you says safe.”

“Is that why you want it? Feeling self destructive?” he taunts.

You shouldn’t have done that. Shouldn’t have left your glass behind. Should’ve been a shitty friend to Utahime. The worst part is, you think as you look at him again, that you still would. He still looks disturbingly good sitting there, hair ruined by you, legs spread open like he’s missing you between them.

Stupid fucking old man. What’s the point of being so inviting? Does he think he’ll get you like this again?

“Control it.” he instructs, slow and carefully, like you’re a cat or a horse. “Don’t go around wearing your heart on your sleeve like that. There’s lots of weird fucks out there who’d kill to get the upper hand over a pretty thing like you.”

“Weird fucks like you.”

“Nothing like me,” he corrects quickly, no room for rebuttal. “I’m not saying don’t do it around me. Please do, I like seeing your mind work. Especially when you realize something’s out of your control, it’s priceless.”

You don’t flinch, but a muscle near your eye twitches in betrayal.

“Mm. Just like that.” He murmurs, satisfied.

“Fuck you.”

“But am I wrong?”

“Is it only fun when you think I’m intimidated by you?”

He gives you the most patronizing once over ever. “You have never been intimidated by me. Actually, why do you think that is?”

You drop your head against the back of the couch. “Gut feeling.” The sight, your brother said. One of the many things you’ll have to reconsider after tonight.

“Right.”

“Never failed me before.”

He’s suspiciously quiet for a minute.

And then, you feel it, the very light touch of his calloused thumb, rubbing right between your eyebrows, soothing the frown. He doesn’t stop until he’s satisfied, and you’re turning your head to look at him. Very much coiled, still.

“But you ignore it for him.”

Out of nowhere.

Your heart, your lungs, and your stomach plummet.

“Is it love?” he asks, turning the spark into a fire. Fake curiosity aimed like a knife at your throat. “Because if that’s what you think it is, I’ll drop it. Frankly, I’m not trying to hear anything about it.”

He has you cornered, finger hitting your shoulder as your heels dance on the edge.

Nothing good can come out of that, you’re not the type to fall without dragging someone down with you. But there’s only so much a day can do to you.

Next thing you know, you’re standing up and facing a white wall.

It’s calling your name.

“Easy.” he nods down at your ankle, like that’s of any fucking importance right now.

“Careful with the ankle.”

He’s blocking your way. You remember you can just turn around. But it can’t be that easy, it never is with him. Your arm is in his grip within the second.

“Don’t touch me.”

The second time he calls your name, you whip around to face him.

“Let me go.” Or I’ll put another mark on your face.

“You’re shivering.”

“It’s fucking cold in here.”

Ah.

That’s right. You keep it that way. You like it that way. It’s why you have blankets everywhere. You’re home. This is your territory, so why should you leave and not him?

He’s done this before. This is his thing. Pushing you to the limit and then reeling you back in, the masochistic fuck.

But it seems like right now, he’s not that pleased with the results.

“You switch from nurse to dickhead real quick, Fushiguro.”

He’s hesitating, slowly peeling his fingers off your arm. The flow of blood returns to normal.

The next time you open your mouth, dry as it is, you speak with your chest. The ground is steady under you. The room is no longer tilted. You’ve evened out. This will be the first and the last time he sees that.

“Is that what you’re into? Married women and pissing them off?”

There’s no way you could decipher what’s running through his mind right now, or why he’s stalling. You don’t want to know.

“You said you’d rather deal with me."

You clench your fists once again for good measure. Not anymore.

"So sit down, and I’ll tell you how I split my mouth in two.”

You wake up at exactly 10 am to the sound of birds chirping happily. Phone dead, head pounding, throat raw, and a perfect recollection of last night’s events in 4K.

You rip the sheets off your legs and start the process of filling your bathroom in a thick, white fog. Brushing your teeth comes next. One, two, three times until the stale oak and vanilla flavor disappears down the drain and the foamy toothpaste comes out mixed with blood.

Getting under the scalding stream of water, you try to remember how you ended up in your bed with a bottle of water and your rings neatly placed on your nightstand, but all you can come up with is a distant, worn out lightweight feeling.

“Toji?”

A deep hum, vibrating against you.

“Have you ever been in love?”

“Why the sudden interest?”

“What’s it like?”

A groan leaves your throat as your forehead meets the tiled wall.

Your father and your brother are to blame. You’re gonna make last night feel like fucking disneyland when you get back at them. You blame Kaiju too, for not immediately rejecting him like he does with most people, and making you feel like having him over was not that bad of an idea.

“It’s really easy. You just know.”

“How?”

You work your hands into your hair to keep them occupied. Scrub and scrub until the back of your arms and your knees turn red.

“Everything leads back to them. There’s no other viable way.”

A door opening. The darkness feels right.

“Like a bridge?”

He laughs, you wish your eyes weren’t so heavy, wish you could see it. “I guess it is kind of like a bridge, yes.”

You negotiate with yourself and decide that you’ll let yourself go through the mortification for about half an hour, or however long it takes for the shower to wake you up completely.

He’s gone. What are the chances of you two being in the same room again? The show must go on, and that’s a relief in itself. You have plenty of complications as it is.

“Would you do it again?”

Your phone resuscitates with a never ending string of notifications that you refuse to deal with until you’re less dehydrated. You put some clothes on, cover your dark under eyes, curl your lashes, and, right when you’re contemplating committing to waterproof mascara after all the work it took to remove the makeup from the day before, you hear the distinct sound of knuckles against your front door.

Three sharp, clear, confident knocks.

Spread lazily across your bed, Kaiju lifts his head, ears twisting curiously. You don’t hear that noise too often, not this early.

Satoru has not knocked on a door once in his entire life. Shoko and Utahime have a key. Hiroki’s half the world away. You check his location to make sure.

You rip the towel off your head and figure it’s another package you forgot about.

Unfortunately for you, it’s the one you’re trying to erase from memory.

Broad shoulders, white cotton shirt, aftershave, and coffee. The source of your mortification —that you left in the shower and already moved on from— stands on the other side, eyeing you up and down like he has every right to, and you just have to endure.

“Looks like someone’s escaped the matrix.”

You’re dressed head to toe in black, perhaps unconsciously mourning your ego after last night.

Ignoring his quip, you lift your chin and gather all the bravado you have.

“What’s in the bag?”

“Nothing of any nutritional value.” 

He refuses to be normal about food. Can’t he just fucking say bread? And can’t sleep deprivation look a bit shittier on him?

Your hand reaches out for the bag, but he’s both faster and miles taller than you. Lifting it out of your reach is child’s play to him.

“You always this prickly in the morning, Trinity?”

“You always this shitty at breakfast delivery?”

“No,” he says, “I figured after the way you were drinking last night, you’d need some fuel before terrorizing the city.”

You let out a sigh you didn’t know you were holding and step out of the way.

“I guess chivalry’s not dead.”

“No,” he walks in, unbothered. You stare at his back and the kind of visible lines under the strained fabric. Tattoos, scars. “Just looks different on me. Get used to it.”

The show must go on. But not without nourishment.

He sets everything on the counter while you put the dishes from last night in the sink and throw away the soggy bag of peas.

When that’s said and done, you inspect the bag, not without giving him a pointed glare.

“I better not find any keto bullshit here.”

His grin does nothing to pacify you.

If you two were completely different people in different situations, you’d kiss the lights out of him. Instead, you put the pain au chocolat aside, act normal, and try the coffee first.

Decent coffee. Great coffee. But is that oat milk you taste? He eyes you innocently when you look up at him in silent offense.

“How’s the ankle?”

You can be civil when layered dough is involved.

“It’s fine. A little sore, nothing I can’t handle.”

He makes a tiny sound at the third teaspoon of sugar you drop on the cup, meeting your eyes with a frightened furrow of his brows.

“I have a long day ahead, alright?”

“I’m not judging,” he lies, unable to stop himself from adding, “But at that point you might as well just do coke.”

Your nose crinkles. “Too trashy.”

The first bite is heavenly, flaky and soft in all the right ways, butter melting into your tongue and mixing with rich, dark, gooey chocolate. Your head drops forward as you splay your hands on the counter. Life is not that bad.

But then you open one eye, and he’s still in front of you.

You blink mid chew. “Stop that.”

The man pouts at you. “I’m not doing anything.”

“Stop watching me eat, freak.”

He chuckles, leaning over and swiping your cheek before you can move away. Then, he brings a chocolate stained thumb to his lips and sucks it clean.

“I brought you breakfast, don’t I at least get that?”

You stare at him, brain short circuiting. What's his issue? What is your issue?

A flash of sleek black fur lands between you on the counter, meowing curiously. You gave up trying to stop him from walking all over your kitchen a while ago.

Kaiju stretches, curiously inspecting the food before bumping his head against Toji’s chest. You know you’ll have to offer him wet food to stop him from fraternizing with the enemy.

“Has anyone told you your cat’s kind of an asshole?” Toji asks, rubbing Kaiju’s head.

“Only to people who deserve it. He's an excellent people reader.”

He’s suspiciously quiet after that. Just like he was suspiciously sweet last night.

Agreeing to a quick stop because you were hungry. Carrying you up the stairs. Noticing you didn’t want to be alone and sticking around. And then, like he just couldn’t wait, he deliberately pulled out the one box you’ve been trying not to touch for the last few months.

Your stomach twists a little. Is it guilt, or just shame? You’ve been acting a bit childish. You hate to think about how visible your bruised ego must have been.

All the conclusions you came to while you were waiting for your conditioner to sit seem questionable.

You’re leaning over, spooning the rest of the contents from the can into Kaiju’s bowl, when you see his reflection on the steel surface of your trash can. Watching you.

Not like he’s interested in how you feed your cat. Or annoyed by your lack of manners.

No, his gaze is low, deliberate. Dragging up the back of your legs, over the curve of your hips. Lingering and shameless. You’re half glad he’s back to being the dog of a man you’ve known him to be. What you’re not ok with is the heat of his eyes across your skin.

And you know that if you turn around, he’ll do nothing but smile. And what about it?

“What about you? Busy today?” You couldn’t care less about his schedule, but you want to know if he’s that much of a harlot to go to his office dressed like a swole James Dean.

He shakes his head, like nothing happened. “Gotta pick up the kids from their school trip.”

“Ah.” you say, suddenly remembering that last sleep infused conversation. How amused he sounded when you thought about bridges. You feel dumb.

You remember the things he told you before that as well, before exhaustion took you down. Things that could hint at his own room of untouched boxes. Things that made your blood boil, even if he wasn’t your favorite person in the world.

It makes you face that, despite his upbringing, he’s a good father. With how thoughtful and careful he can be, he probably was a good husband as well. Only a handful of men take their wives’ last names.

There’s no way around it. He loved the mother of his kids. He answered your question with too much feeling and confidence. It makes no sense for you to resent the idea of it so much, but you’d rather turn your stomach inside out than linger on the subject.

Is it love? Because if that’s what you think it is, I’ll drop it.

The lines etched into his back cross your thoughts, uninvited but helpful.

“Have you ever killed anyone?”

He takes another sip and assesses you curiously. You’re not sure how you should take his lack of surprise.

“Why? Someone giving you trouble?” The corner of his lips lifts. “Other than me, of course.”

You take a long gulp of coffee, wondering why he’s acting charming, all cute and domestic for. And just what kind of exorcising you’ll have to endure to stop finding him so damn attractive.

“God,” you sigh. “You are so fucking annoying.”

You might as well have slapped him across his stupid, handsome face with the way he flinches and leans back, hand to his chest.

“Don’t show up with coffee and pretend you’re noble,” you snap, “you want something.”

And at this point, you have no idea what it could be. He never wasted an opportunity to offer himself up to you, slipping into your imagination and haunting you in your dreams. He dares you to cross the line and pushes you away when you inch close, leaving without a trace, only to show up hours later. Flirting like he didn’t put you on the spot the night before.

“I do.” he replies, unbothered, digging out his ringing phone. You swear you’ll throw it to the street if he starts playing his stupid little game or answers the call, but he only mutes it and puts it back in his pocket. 

“Not sure you’re ready for that conversation, though.”

“Didn’t realize that was a concern for you.”

His regret is ill-fitting. He wasn’t built for remorse, and you have no use for his apologies. Last night is done. It’s sunny outside. You’re sure the pavement is dry by now. It’s time to wrap things up.

You collect your phone, your wallet, take a last sip of coffee, and decide that you’ll brush your teeth in the office. He gets the message and waits outside your door, watching you close it with his arms crossed.

You two haven’t finished yet. The man doesn’t know how to drop things.

“What the fuck is that?”

“A helmet.”

“Yeah, I know what a helmet is,” he snaps “Why on earth would you need one?”

“Traffic laws,” you say, hoping he feels dumb after that answer. “I don’t particularly enjoy the taste of bugs first thing in the morning.”

You hear him, feel him walking behind you. Looming over your back.

“I can drive you.”

You scoff humorlessly. “No.”

He gets in the elevator with you. Protesting feels pointless at this point. Five floors and you’ll be out. Your hands are itching for the handlebars, and the wind punching against your chest.

“Would it kill you to work with me just once? Do you have to be so difficult all the time?”

“This isn’t a group project, Fushiguro.”

“A car’s been following you since last night.”

You stop. Looking up from your phone, thumb blocking it when you see his eyes brush over the chat screen.

“What?”

“It’s been following you since we left the party. They were parked across the street all night, and gone when I left. I saw the same car in the parking lot when I returned.”

You reel back, staring up at the mirrored ceiling before recognition lands.

“That’s my father’s security.”

He stares back at you like you spoke a foreign language.

"You think Nanami would've just let me walk off with a random guy?"

It never gets old, the look on his face when he's caught off guard. You know exactly what he's thinking, that the stories you traded last night aren't suited for random guys.

“So, which was it? Were you trying to play bodyguard or just hoping I’d throw myself at you again, sober?”

His face drops. You've seen that slow, heartless ghost of a smile before. All bets are off.

“I see,” he nods, crossing his arms, condescending and cold. “You’re throwing a fit because you think I turned you down last night, and you didn’t get enough time to lick your wounds.”

You’re going full stoic today, attention back to your phone. “No, I just think you’re a coward and you’re wasting my time.”

"Why don’t you try looking at me when you say that?”

As much as you want to, you're unable to keep the apathetic mask when you face him.

Eyes predatory, shoulders tensed. There’s a current in the air making the tiny hairs behind your neck stand tall. The consequences of running your big mouth. It happens at once, like boiling milk spilling over the second you look away.

His hand slams a button on the elevator panel, bringing it to an abrupt stop. A single stride and he has you cornered, unceremoniously ripping the helmet and your phone from your grasp as your back hits the mirrored wall with a soft thud.

He moves with a speed you doubt is humanly possible, rough fingers threading into your hair, eclipsing the dull white lights.

He’s everywhere, you couldn’t run even if you wanted to.

No warnings, no hesitation. It’s game over the instant his mouth crashes into yours.

Your imagination stood no chance. You had no way of knowing it would be like this.

Those alarms and red blinking lights that called out at you every time he got close disappear. Your insides melt into liquid fire, making every muscle tense and mold into him.

His mouth moves thoroughly against yours, coaxing your lips open. You're kissing him back with just as much enthusiasm before your mind can catch up. The kiss tastes like coffee, peach flavored lip balm, and all the things you’ve tried not to want and failed time and time again.

A hand comes down to grab your jaw in a mean grip, angling you up and to the side, just the way he wants to, without any pretense of tenderness. Your hands find his chest, and it rumbles under your touch before you grip the fabric, a small attempt at grounding yourself.

He bends over, arms wrapping under your thighs, and hoists you up in a quick, effortless move.

“I told you—”

Legs tight around his waist, arms over his shoulders, you're meeting him halfway for another kiss before he can complete the sentence.

“—to choose your words carefully."

He's muttering between kisses, giving you just a second to gather some air and make sense of what he's saying.

"But you don't listen to me.”

You rip away from the kiss, forcefully and unceremoniously. Anyone else would've at least winced at the dig of your palms into his shoulders. He only blinks at you with drowsy eyes and swollen lips.

“Why would I?”

This is new, being eye to eye. You can see straight into the pitch black darkness, the way your words bring out something hostile and dangerous in them, something you can't find a name for.

"All you do is talk," you mutter with unadulterated vitriol, eyes following his throat bobbing as he swallows. "I know you're used to people listening to you for a living, but that's useless to me."

He breathes out of his nose like a mythological creature, and you're perfectly aware that you're not in the safest position right now.

You let out a fake little gasp. "That's a scary look. Are you upset?"

The tip of his tongue traces his teeth in admonition, but your certainty won't waver. It's not the rejection that's been lodged in your mind and your chest since you woke up, but what came after.

“Is it always going to be like this with you?” he asks, voice strained.

“Like what?” you dare him.

“A fight.”

Hunger, that’s the name you’ve been looking for. He looks like a starving man.

"What? Did you crawl back expecting me to be nice?"

There's something ruthless and raw about the way he kisses you at the end of that question. The back of your head meets the wall, hand wrapped around your neck with a grip that makes you want to purr.

He dives down, trailing kisses and bites down your neck, breath hitting your skin with ragged gasps. You can’t help it, don’t even notice the giggle that leaves your mouth.

He stops at once, and that makes you hesitate.

Panic settles for a second.

He lifts his face to look at you. Close, so close you’re breathing his air and feel his heartbeat against you.

“Are you having fun?” he asks, voice deep and low, pressing his forehead into yours, lips brushing yours with each word. "You like getting on my nerves?"

You hum and nod, and he eagerly nods back at you, bruised lips parting slightly, ghosting against yours.

“You’re too smug for your own good. It pisses me off."

"It does, huh?"

"Someone has to make you struggle a bit. For character development.”

He makes a choked up sound, something that could be a hoarse laugh.

There’s no point in pretending that you haven't been thinking about the feeling of never knowing what his next move will be since that day your eyes met his and the set full of people became white noise. Dark green, tantalizing, promising everything but innocent intentions. Biding his time in the corner. Whispering in your ear. Do it, ruin it, take down the house of cards, don’t hold back.

“Is that why you were all over me last night? Hm? Character development?” he follows your line of sight, doesn’t let you run from the subject and shield your pride. “Uh-huh. Hey. No. Let’s get into it. Do you know the things I wanted— could've done to you—”

You kiss him this time, making sure to bite down on his scarred bottom lip hard.

He groans into your mouth, slow and heavy, pushing himself into you. He's no longer using his arms to keep you up, only pressing you against the wall with his body. Making you feel all of him.

You’re getting too used to it too fast. It will without doubt wreck what little stability your life has, but you don’t care for those racing thoughts, not when he’s talking to you like this.

“For looking at me with—”

It has to be the first time you hear him falter with his words.

“—with those siren eyes?”

You shake your head, lost in a trance.

“For putting your hands on me like that?”

You want to hear and know exactly what he's talking about, but you’d also like to get back to kissing him.

His hand is slipping under your shirt, creeping into your lower back and splaying open, massaging the tight muscles there. It's not fair. You want to touch him too, but with him pressed so tightly against you, there's not much you can do.

“You wanna act up because you think I wanted to stop you?” His voice is gritty now. Hoarse. Self control hanging by a thread.

“If you didn't, then why?” You don't recognize your voice. Needy and spoiled. Almost desperate.

“Strategic decision,” he replies, pupils blown wide following his hands as he pulls back just enough to watch how they wrap around your waist, thumbs caressing your sides. You shiver, loudly and visibly, and he looks, wildly satisfied by that reaction. “You're right about one thing. I should stop talking so much."

You push against his hold, but he refuses to give, pins you with a glare, thumbs pressing against your ribs hard. Your back arches on pure instinct, and he licks his lip at the sight.

"I meant it when I said I changed my mind.”

That catches you off guard. It feels like he’s warning you so that you can’t complain or act blindsided later. A threat.

“And should I be scared because you had this sudden change of heart?”

He studies your face meticulously, reminding you of a madman handling a bomb.

“No, not scared,”

He pauses, and a deadly shadow crosses his face. Definitely a threat. What have you walked into?

“Not you anyway.”

Then he leans forward before you can react, pressing a searing kiss under your jaw.

A quick whisper in your ear. “Just aware.”

He releases you carefully, doing everything not to let your feet hit the ground at once, but also finding any excuse to feel you up for a while longer, even making a show out of pulling your shirt down.

He only stops when he notices you staring at him. Never one to back down, just like you.

You want him, even more than you wanted him back at Haibara's. Something that you didn’t think was possible. This time, you’re sure you’ll have him.

Eventually, somehow. It's a matter of time.

Not right now. No matter how much you miss his touch and the powerful, hard feeling of his body against you. Maybe some of that nonsense about patience is finally rubbing off on you.

You step closer and press into him, anchoring your finger in the waistband of his pants, resting your chin up on his chest. You feel him, the hard, massive ridge pressing against your stomach. The pressure is light, but it's enough to make him inhale sharply.

You think briefly of what he said, something about fitting alright. It's your time to smile in triumph. He can throw all the threats he wants at you. You play the game quietly, and you win every time. Just like your brother taught you.

"Consider me aware."

And right when he tries to push you again, you pull away and grab your helmet, hitting the button to let the doors open.

Much to your surprise, you’re already in the parking lot.

You see his hands reaching for you in the reflection, and slip from his grasp for a second time. It brings you great satisfaction to beat him at something twice in a row. He mutters something under his breath, but he follows you nonetheless, hands shoved inside his pockets.

“You've got to be fucking kidding me.” he groans, eyeing it with resentment. Sleek. All black. High top speed. Some might say too heavy for the city, but you handle her alright. 

You laugh, pulling your leather gloves from your pockets, doing everything you can to pretend you’re not seriously thinking about pushing him back into the elevator and inside your apartment.

“What?”

“This is yours?” he asks, stepping closer. You swing your leg over it, and you usually love the feeling of settling on the seat, but this time it makes you think about his waist between your thighs.

You pat your butt for a second time and remember. “Phone.”

He wordlessly pulls it out of his back pocket, putting it on your open palm, eyes stuck on your bike.

“You ride this thing?”

“Jealous, officer?”

He scoffs, but the way he's eyeing it tells another story.

“Are you aware of the statistics of motorcycle fatalities?”

Your snort echoes around the empty parking lot. Your father's men are probably gawking at you two from a shadowy corner.

“Don't smother me, old man.”

He gears up a nasty and mean comeback, but you rev the engine before he can get it out. The way he flinches is a trophy in your books. He runs his palm over his mouth and closes his eyes tightly, making amends with himself.

“What’s your schedule looking like?” he asks suddenly, like it pains him to ask.

"Why? Want me to take you for a ride?"

He rolls his eyes.

“If you get a call from us, would you pick up?”

“Us?”

“The company,” he explains, gaze fixed on your thighs, on your hand gripping the handle. Two fingers come up to brush over his lips, you know what's running through his mind, and hope it'll haunt him in the days to come. “And me.”

“Wouldn’t you need my number for that?”

“I’ll find it.”

Toji drops his head over the wheel.

Visions of you taking off, speeding up the ramp, away from his eager hands, flash through his closed lids. The crease of your hips and thighs as you sat comfortably on that death machine. Your hot little mouth, pliant when he kissed you, running restlessly every time he let you pull back.

Did you crawl back expecting me to be nice?

He wouldn’t have you any other way. Even if it’s driving him insane, and letting you walk away after he had you where he’s been wanting took a biblical amount of restraint.

His phone starts ringing again. This time, the screen says Haibara. He picks up without a second thought.

“I think I found what you were looking for.”

He stops.

“Think we can meet? I don’t think this should be discussed over the phone.”

He looks at the time.

“Half an hour sounds good to you?”

“Sure. I’m in the studio if you want to drop by.”

“Yeah. I’ll see you there. Thanks, man.”

“Don’t thank me yet. We need to talk first.”

[ctrlsatoru]

Flicker ━ 00

Gojo Satoru x Original Female Character

childhood friends to strangers to ?, fluff, angst, unresolved tension, growing up, flashbacks, childhood trauma, yearning yearning yearning, pre jjk0, destiny not fate etc etc.

“Do you think I’m weak?” She asked so lightly he doubted her mouth moved at all.

He didn’t think it was possible, her eyes turning a darker shade of black and showing an emotion other than composure. This was animosity right there. It pulled from both ends, ancient and inherited. The kind that, according to those books and scrolls she lived to read, was bound to repeat itself.

“I think you’re a liar.”

next chapter

Winter 2000

It was inevitable, the day would be over any second now. The girl wandered deeper inside the forest, under the canopy and into the maze of pine trees. The boy followed behind, a thick layer of snow crunching under his boots.

The sun dipped low, there was no light left to filter through the trees and stop the air from turning crispier. Their long shadows that once stretched over the snow faded. A wolf howled in the distance, a warning for all the daytime creatures to get home, and she stopped for no one.

Until a clearing appeared. The boy stood by the tree line, his hair as white as the snow all around. Inquisitive blue eyes swept over the frozen lake and landed on the red splotch in the middle. It was a red you could only get from fresh blood.

He scoffed.

Was this her idea of hiding? Even in the dark of night, the kimono she wore stood out like the Hinomaru itself. Following her all the way here through the woods was a piece of cake. Not that he needed any help. He could’ve tracked her with his eyes closed. All six of them.

What he hadn’t noticed was her bringing a lantern. A faint glow, slowly and then all at once, lit up her outline as she stood there. A light beam reflected on the ice at her feet.

It went out as soon as he took another step. Almost like she felt him get closer.

Her name was Kaneko Sera, and they said she could see the future.

Gojo Satoru wasn't convinced.

He’d known her since he understood what it meant to be him, but she never gave him the impression that she understood what it meant to be her. He doubted she was close to figuring it out or curious at all.

A few winters ago he couldn’t have cared less. Things changed around this time last year, when their families formed an alliance and it became less easy to let her blend with the rest of them. 

His mentors were no help, always talking his ears off about what a brilliant student she was, devouring books like apples since the age of four, reciting dates and events and speaking on philosophies and useless things that common sorcerers liked to pretend were important.

And maybe it made sense, the Kaneko family tree was made up of generations of Jujutsu nerds and lab freaks. But she was not supposed to be like them, just like Gojo Satoru wasn't meant to be like those who shared his blood. What was the point of filling your head with the past when you could see the future? Was the approval of a bunch of old heads who took the sensei route because they were too weak to fight that satisfying?

He didn’t get it. Never would. The closest thing he had to an adversary was a pushover. She felt like an eyelash trapped under his lid. Small, but so, so, so irritating. Impossible to ignore. A red stain in his sight.

The search party called her name in the distance. Even in this weird display of rebellion and away from the elders’ scrutinizing eyes she was too composed. As if it was impossible for her to be anything other than what they claimed. Nice and proper, like an expensive doll locked in a glass case, untouchable.

Or at least that was the case. That definitely changed with their weekly evaluations. Jujutsu theory, problem solving and linguistics were a breeze, then the hand to hand trials began.

“They’re starting to notice, you know.”

A raven flew high above, frowning those beady amber eyes down at them. They were common in her family’s property. Creepy, nosy sky rats. Her mother spent her free time feeding and talking to them. His father said she was a lunatic.

There was no lantern in her hands, just a red string loosely tied around her fingers. An overcomplicated version of cat’s cradle. 

There was a nasty, visibly painful scratch on the side of her face, right where she landed after a particularly sharp kick. Dry blood and a bruise that was definitely eager to form. She looked more real than she ever had before, he thought a thanks was in order. Maybe he’d manage to beat a spine into her, if she didn’t break first.

The idea made his lip curl in amusement. His words came out with a white fog. “I heard them talking.”

They talked a lot, the elders and their families. Most of it was useless. They said they were living in strange and exciting times. They talked about the world shifting and reaching a tipping point, about how the last time the Six Eyes and the Odd Eye shared timelines, centuries passed within a couple of decades. Until the first ended the latter and everything slowed back down to its normal pace. 

It was all nonsense to him. He couldn’t care less about the past or what those people did. They were dead for a reason. What mattered was here, right now.

“They said it’s shameful that Tengen’s blood is this pathetic.”

Darkness settled fully and a heavy fog rose above the ice.

“Your father said something about plucking out your freaky little eye and feeding it to the birds if you don’t start improving”

She didn’t like that, he caught the way she breathed in a little deeper. Her reply was flat and steady, voice unfamiliar. He wasn’t expecting the sound.

“If you want to fight, you can wait until next week.”

“So I can wipe the floor with you again? It’s getting boring.” He sighed, looking away with a loud sniff. He could barely feel his nose. “Let’s do it now. No one’s looking. I’m not gonna go easy, but you can take it as practice.”

Her father’s hunting dogs barked in the distance.

“Unless,” he said, she tilted her head slightly. “you really are that weak.”

The air stilled and her eyes dropped.

“In that case I can just kill you right here and save your family the embarrassment. Isn’t that how the story goes anyway?”

The wind picked up without warning, clearing the fog and stealing the red string from her frostbite fingers. Out of instinct, he caught it in the air just as she grabbed the opposite end.

The raven watching from afar swayed with its tree.

Sera fixed her grip. Satoru pulled and took her arm along with him. She wrapped the string around her wrist and pulled back firmly, heavy side bangs swaying with the movement.

“Do you think I’m weak?” She asked so lightly he doubted her mouth moved at all.

He didn’t think it was possible, her eyes turning a darker shade of black and showing an emotion other than composure. This was animosity right there. It pulled from both ends, ancient and inherited. The kind that, according to those books and scrolls she lived to read, was bound to repeat itself.

The distraction made his usual sharp senses glitch. Something warm dripped on his skin. The string was coated in cursed energy, something unlike anything he had felt or seen before. Foreign but not unpleasant for a winter night. 

The energy picked up, leaking and sinking into his skin. It wrapped around his knuckles, his wrist, thrumming along with his own racing pulse and lighting up his veins. The golden glow warmed their faces. He stopped his eyes from dropping and narrowed them instead.

“I think you’re a liar.”

They said Kaneko Sera could see the future, but Gojo Satoru knew that wasn’t true. Not yet, anyway.

He also knew she wasn’t unaffected by her mentors’ sounds of disappointment, and how her compliance only made them more cruel and controlling. He knew she bit her tongue until it bled when her grandfather stood up and left in the middle of the trial. But most importantly, despite everything, she was holding back.

He wrapped his fist around the cursed string, making their knuckles clash, and yanked her with a step back. Her mentors could wait for their turn, it wasn’t like they could handle it anyway. He was going to be the first to take a look at the Odd Eye in the modern age, up and close.

The ice cracked like a gunshot. He had no time to react. The world split open and everything turned dark.

A brutal freezing sensation engulfed him. A hundred blades stabbing him through layers of clothes, skin, muscle, bones. Over and over.

He rose above the surface with a loud gasp. The cold shock took over his entire system, buffering his thoughts and his ability to figure out what just happened.

Limbs flailing, he gasped for air over and over again, shaking his head and blinking ice crystals from his white lashes.

She stared down at him.

His hand slammed on the edge of the ice, breaking a big piece. She took a step back, careful not to get close to the hole or let a single drop of water on her. 

His head throbbed as the thought hit him. She did this. Somehow. She lured him here. His head spun. Did she know?

She smiled.

And between that and his numbing limbs, his movements stopped and down he went. The water, merciless and hungry for prodigy boys, dragged him deeper. He had no chance.

By the time he pushed above the surface his lungs were on fire and his legs were starting to feel like stone.

The search party was closing in. The raven came down to stand on her shoulder and her smile grew bigger. Eyes and all. It was the creepiest, most horrible thing he had ever seen. Like she swallowed the sun.

His limbs were moving from pure adrenaline. He blinked hard, to stop the sting and make sure he wasn’t dreaming. 

It was real. She was laughing quietly. The raven dug its claws in her shaking shoulder. Light leaked through her tooth gap. He felt like throwing up.

Exhaustion would take over soon and there was no chance she was going to throw him a landline or call for help. But hypothermia didn’t matter, this was new. He wasn’t afraid. It only takes a minute to erase centuries.

The pendulum stuttered. 

It was bound to be less boring than the past.

[ctrlsatoru]

DIABLO chapter two - TOJI FUSHIGURO

content: techbro!toji, reader is gojo's little sister, age gap (toji's in his late 30s, reader in mid 20s) kind of ooc toji, suggestive themes, no smut yet. protective!toji and also asshole!toji. warnings: 18+ only. suggestive themes. explicit language, toji being toji. minors do not interact. pairing: toji fushiguro x afab gojo!reader word count: 8k tags: @liitlesushi a/n: ok so this might be longer than I anticipated and also semi slow burn. it'll be worth it, trust. summary: It's Gojo's anniversary party, you're doomed by your Satoru's whims, haunted by your father's scheming, and now a devilish third player appears: Toji Fushiguro. And he's here to collect. previous chapter - next chapter

Toji opens his eyes, manually focusing on the ceiling above him. The strange pattern spun in slow circles, and then it settled.

This bed is not his own. The pillow feels too flat under his head, which is throbbing painfully. He feels like a dozen horses ran over him. A voice, distinctly female, unnecessarily loud, makes him wince and curse under his breath.

“... If I agree, and I haven’t, you’re not picking my outfit. Know that.”

This is unlike him. He can’t remember a thing. The one good thing about not recognizing the bed is that he’s not gonna have to deal with a strange woman in his place–

“Because your conception of what’s socially acceptable to wear to a formal function is not tethered to earthly reality, Satoru.”

Oh.

It’s you.

You’re on the phone, standing by floor-to-ceiling windows. The sunlight casts off your ring like white laser when you turn, blinding him.

“Mornin’” he croaks, pushing himself to sit against rough the rattan bed frame. The room moves from side to side, like you’re both stuck in a boat, and not in one of Haibara's many guest rooms. It’s all coming back to him, the party, watching you and your boyfriend’s fight, the deck.

“Oh. Hey, buddy.” you say idly, looking over your shoulder as you sit on the other side of the bed, your ring-covered finger tying some slutty sandals around your ankles like some kind of shibari countess. The strap of your top falls as you lean over. Toji’s buffering.

His ears must be fucking deceiving him. 

Buddy?

The fuck?

He can’t for the life of him remember anything after the deck. You’re zooming through the room, texting furiously. On top of that, you look fresh and plump like lettuce out of the fridge, don’t you? But he had to blink several times to break through the layer of crust around his eyelashes, and his body is telling him you two fucked like animals for the past 12 hours.

Or he spent the weekend in the trenches. 

He feels wildly unprepared for this morning after, and it’s a just fucking relief that you’re keeping your distance until you start tap tap taping your little heels to the door.

“The hell do you think you’re goin’?”

You stop, surveying him over your shoulder like he’s coming close to being some sort of inconvenience. 

And then the corner of your lips lifts, the mole on your cheek jumping with the motion.

“It was fun.” Your phone starts ringing again. The sound drills a hole into Toji’s temples. “Too bad it never happened.”

With that, you’re gone. 

You abandon Toji with a bunch of unconscious people scattered around the house and Haibara, who’s still young enough to not know what a real hangover is. The kid will just not shut up about some hardcore surveillance system he had installed around the house recently after he noticed someone was stealing from his Kaws collection.

Toji listens to the whole story, sipping on the cold pressed green juice Haibara made himself, simply refusing to use the crystal straw, and makes a promise to himself. You’ll pay for whatever it is you did to him.

Even if he doesn’t remember what that was. Yet. It doesn’t matter. You’ll pay anyway. Nicely. 

“Say, kid.” he asks Haibara, licking the green foam off his lips and putting down the empty glass on the counter. The juice tasted just like it looks, which is cow puke, but his mind is somewhere else. Machinating. Scheming. 

“This system of yours, does it cover the whole house?”

Here’s the thing.

There are many things Toji isn’t. 

For starters, he’s not easily bothered by most things, a trait that people usually mistake for a personal attack, like it has anything to do with them and isn’t just the hand that he was dealt. People assume others, in this case him, think about them more than he can be bothered to. 

He’s not a control junkie either, not anymore. He left those days behind.

Control isn’t something he needs to worry about anymore. He has plenty of it. If something gets out of line, it gets back on it automatically. That’s just the way life is. Sure, he had his vices back then; lactose, gambling, adrenaline, women. 

But the thing is, you learn a few things with age, right? Shiny things lose their sparkle. The excitement wears off. Nothing is safe from becoming predictable, not even the rush of hearing bone crack under his fists or the juiciest, tightest pussy presented to him on a tray.

And this sheds a light on the fact that he’s way past the age of being pussy whipped.

“You cannot be serious.”

So why the fuck is Shiu Kong looking at him like that? 

And who does he think he is standing next to him, all up on his screen, and mind you, only alive thanks to the fact that Toji has lost some edge from his gory days?

He shuts down the tab like a kid who got caught watching porn on the family PC.

“You listen to me. Don’t you ever fucking do that—”

“The Gojo kid?” 

Toji’s eyebrows dig into his face because you’re certainly not a kid. No. Kids don’t look like that. Kids most certainly don't go around passing people horse tranquilizer or whatever the fuck it is you fed him with that glossy mouth of yours.

And that’s what you did. That’s as far as he can remember. 

“Is that what’s been–”

“I’m gonna stop you before you say some dumb shit and piss me off any further.”

Shiu’s been pestering him for days now about the upcoming iteration and the threat of several deadlines. Toji has been brushing it off. No nagging back or shutting down his complaints. 

Somehow, his silence only pushes the stick further up Shiu’s ass. Like he’s his sexually neglected wife after forty years of marriage.

Truth is, he hasn’t given the dynamic with his CFO/best friend much thought lately. Why would he when there’s an infuriating, mouthy woman with siren eyes that somehow look down at him even when he’s about two heads taller than– 

You.

“—stalking the poor girl on the desktop version of Instagram.”

Toji returns to the conversation. “I don’t stalk people. I’m a grown-ass man.”

And you’re not a girl either. You’re something else. He hasn’t figured what yet.

“Mm. So am I.” Shiu says, still standing there with his hands in his pockets, head tilting down at some forgotten paperwork on his desk. “And even I know looking at someone’s profile on a desktop computer is a concerning level of unemployment, which you’re not at. Yet.”

Toji’s not that thick-headed. He knows he’s been distracted, but he can’t just brush that night at Haibara's away.

You pop up in his head unannounced and make yourself comfortable, rent fucking free. Like a little squatter. In the middle of meetings, when he's driving back home, at the gym, when he’s at the club with a gorgeous woman on his lap. 

It’s becoming so frustrating that he’s started to despise you for real, and not just the made-up version of yourself he created when he met you and decided you were an ill-mannered bunny that he wanted to toy with for a bit.

In this scenario, of course, he was a wolf.

No one ever talks about how sometimes the bunny knocks the wolf out and bolts the morning after.

Days pass and his mind is blank of memories, no glimpses, no time-stopping sex flashbacks, just a bunch of strange vivid dreams about you that would make any mid-century french cult film director weep and the Soviet Union recoil. They distract him to the point of him nearly knocking the front teeth off his trainer’s face, or spilling orange juice all over his clothes this morning.

Toji’s positive you didn’t fuck. Sure, you had a bit of bed hair, but your face lacked the I-was-fucked-by-the-Toji-Fushiguro glaze he's used to seeing in women and takes pride in. You looked perfectly fine, collected enough to be giving your dimwit brother hell on the phone and fuck with him before disappearing.

It was fun.

He was also wearing underwear, and you walked just fine. No wobbly legs or tilted hips. No bruises on your neck or scratches on his back– 

Too bad it never happened.

You had shared a bed, that much he knew. He caught a whiff of your perfume after you left. He had cursed you then, feeling like a pathetic fucking dog sniffing up some pillows, but now the confusion and annoyance faded to a curiosity that extends past the time in his head he gives to the best lays he’s had. 

So today he put up an incognito tab and looked you up hoping to find something annoying, corny or pathetic about you to make you unappealing, and somehow he landed on your personal IG profile. 

You posted a set of pictures three days ago of meaningless corners at some random location. The fourth picture is a snap of what looks like your desk. There’s a polaroid of you and your fiancé next to a stack of notebooks.

You’re standing in front of him, leaning your head to the side with his chin resting nice and cozy on your shoulder, his nose pressed against your neck. Toji's lip curled in distaste.

He found your twitter account as well, because why not? And found nothing of particular interest. You stick to promoting your work and that's the end of it. Other people in your circle, on the other hand…

Toji went through a twitter phase not too long ago. He found endless amusement in pissing people off with less than 140 characters and replying to those who enjoyed his work. He uninstalled the app the second he found people selling mugs with screencaps of his tweets. 

Safe to say the decision made Shiu’s and the PR team quite happy. 

He’s out of the loop with the overall discourse, but it’s clear that you have farmed your own dedicated micro following online and your boyfriend is some kind of A24 flowerboy on the rise. 

Toji heard of him before meeting you. His newfound success is the byproduct of his dreamy looks, a melancholic breakout role and the occasional activism, something that's been often questioned due to his relationship with you, and the consequential ties to your family.

Both of you, as a couple, act like viagra for a very specific, insufferable and presumptuous crowd. They’re hyper-focused on the fact that you haven’t posted him on your stories for weeks, that Hiroki allegedly deleted some posts with you on Instagram, and that he's been caught dreamily staring at his cute little female co-star during press conferences.

Why people choose to waste their time with their noses up stranger's ass is something Toji does not understand, life being as short as it is.

“Please tell me that’s not her twitter account,” Shiu says. Toji inhales sharply. “This is more pathetic than I thought. No wonder you haven’t gotten anything done in days.”

He kills the rest of the tabs, spitting over his shoulder “I can’t very well do my fucking job if you’re breathing over my fucking shoulder, can I? You know how I fucking feel about people standing behind me when I’m trying to get shit done.”

“Twitchy.” Shiu notes and takes his sweet time walking around his desk, plopping down on the chair.

“Yep, take a seat, why don’t you.” Toji grumbles.

Shiu drums his fingers against his knee, a sign that he’s craving a cigarette, surveying him.

“So I’m gonna take a leap of faith here and assume this is some kind of executive-level scheming, and you’re just exploiting a vulnerability.”

Toji’s face twists like he sucked on a lemon at the mere thought of it. 

“You know damn well the day I do business with that old cunt will be the day your ex-wife comes clean about what she did at that yoga retreat in Bali and asks for forgiveness.”

“Figures. So?”

“You’d probably take her back. Fucking cuck.”

“She really got under your skin.” Shiu notes, unbothered by the unprovoked attack. 

Toji sniffs, comes down from the spike of anger, and finds a more comfortable position on his chair.

“She owes me.”

Shiu leans his head back, mildly amused. 

“You adding usury to your ledger now?”

“Not money.”

“Alright then, I don’t want to know.”

Lies. But Shiu knows better than to push too much. Toji’s the type to hoard details not because he’s afraid of compromise, just to be an asshole. 

It’s refreshing to see him almost… desperate. If you were anything like your brother, Shiu thought, you might be just the perfect little karma agent for his best friend.

“Fine. You get that business sorted. You’re no use to me if you’re distracted.”

“You worry about sorting your own business and I’ll worry about mine, Kong.”

Shiu stands up, fighting back a smile until he opens the door, stopping at the sight of Toji’s assistant about to knock.

“What is it?” Toji asks, scratching his eyebrow, already exhausted.

Keiko looks down at the tablet in her hands, hesitant.

“The team at Gojo has reached out, sir. It seems Gojo Shinobu would like to invite you to dinner next week.”

The look on Shiu’s face as he slowly turns to face him is priceless. Toji rests his elbows on his desk, a sinister smile pulling at his scar.

“Well, isn’t that interesting?”

“Interesting indeed.” Shiu agrees. Keiko eyes them skeptically, because her boss smiling like that cannot mean anything good for society, or her sleep schedule.

“I better get to work then, eh?”

“Anytime would be nice, yes.” Shiu says, turning to Keiko. “I guess I’ll finally find out about Bali.”

So you might be thinking, look at him backtracking like that. 

Don’t get him wrong, it’s nothing like that.

Toji’s sitting across from Gojo Shinobu, the man, the myth, the bigot himself, with absolutely no intention of making business with him.

He’s just sniffing the territory.

In person and up close, Shinobu's a disturbing aged mix of you and your brother: the hair and the uncanny valley eyes went to him, but the eyebrows, the slope of his nose, it’s you. Even the handshake, firm and tight like a war general, reminds Toji of you.

Gojo Shinobu’s old as the fucking bible. His eyes are graying, eyelids sagging but it's clear that grandpa's still sharp.

For the record, Toji doesn’t like the old fart. He represents many things that he despises about older generations, and his business model is one of the many reasons for the country living in the past, but he’s not about to get political. 

Not liking Gojo Shinobu doesn't mean he has no respect for him, so he’s honest and immediately shuts down the proposal of Gojo being involved in future Diablo releases.

Dignified, not happy, but never one to accept a no, Shinobu just smiles, brushes his beard like a Ghibli villain, and switches the subject.

Alcohol involved and pretending to put business talk aside, the conversation flows easily. Your father has a surprisingly entertaining dry sense of humor. Toji supposes you stop giving a shit when you have one foot in the grave, he also imagines the borderline cruel wit had something to do with your mother getting knocked up with you at the peak of her career as an actress and sex symbol.

“I hear you have a kid.”

“Two, actually.” Toji corrects, remembering that he’s supposed to pick up Tsumiki in an hour. Ballet class. She’s getting rather serious about it. “A girl and a boy.”

“Ah, good balance.” Shinobu nods with a knowing smile. “They listen to you? How old are they?”

“15 and 16. And they do.”

They don’t, at least not all the time, but they do when it matters. They’re teenagers, not soldiers. Megumi and Tsumiki are good kids, certainly better than he was at their ages, they don’t need him ordering them around, watching their every step.

“Dangerous, dangerous age.” your father hums. “You make sure they do that, save yourself the bitterness in the future.”

Damn. Alright. Toji lifts his eyebrows and leans back, listening. That’s all it takes.

“You’d be surprised. You get a little too light handed, and a perfect sapling can get ruined just like that.” he snaps his fingers. “It’s harder to straighten them up as they grow up.”

Toji takes a long, deep sip, fighting back a chuckle. He has no concerns when it comes to who or how people choose to fuck, but the blatant homophobia is always amusing.

“And then they gang up on you.” Shinobu scoffs. Toji can imagine you and your brother scheduling a year worth of publicly terrorizing Shinobu. “No woman? You raising them on your own?”

“I am.”

“Good man. It’s hard, honest work. Make sure you look for a good one to settle with, not all of them are in touch with their motherly instinct.”

His assistant comes in, tells him someone has arrived, and Shinobu makes a noise with his nose or mouth that reminds Toji of an exasperated horse.

“Take the advice from me. You see—”

He leans over the table, brushes his beard. 

“If, and I am not wishing this upon you, your daughter comes of age and after years of picking up and dropping all sorts of interests with no interest in commitment—"

He pauses, chuckling humorlessly.

"—comes to the conclusion that she wants to waste her life playing with cameras and hanging out with gender-bending creatives,”

The word is said with so much despise Toji feels like there should be a new phobia for it.

“You have to sit down and choose what’s more important; letting her waste her potential away, or being in her good graces. More often than not it can’t be both, that’s just how it is.”

Perhaps Toji hasn’t given you enough credit. You could’ve ended up a lot worse than you are. After the things he said to you at the dock, knocking him out was nothing. You could’ve chopped him up, kept his dismembered body inside an industrial fridge, and he’d see where you're coming from.

“But when she tells you she wants to let some vulture into your family and make him blood, you take matters into your own hands.” he nods firmly, like it’s Toji he’s mad at, and finally looks over his shoulder, nostrils flared.

Asaya Hiroki approaches the table. Jetlagged eyes, tail between his legs.

“Fushiguro, this is Asaya Hiroji, my daughter’s boyfriend.”

Hiroki looks like he has half a mind to correct him on either the name or relationship status but he’s too fond of keeping his head attached to his body.

Hiroki’s pretty. Toji can’t compete in that department. He looks like he puts sugar and milk in his tea and smashes the china on the floor when he’s told he can’t have more, like a psychotic puppy. 

In other words, you make sense together. 

You like to look at pretty things so your boyfriend’s cute. No harm in acknowledging that, though he remembers Tsumiki mentioning that when noses dip down like that it means there’s some kind of prosthetic. 

And if you pay attention, really read between the lines of his 90’s heartthrob face, something’s off about him.

But what does he care? A nose job is no crime. Hiroki has other flaws to offer. For example, he has a rather shitty way of hiding the fact that he’s doing something he’s not supposed to. 

Perhaps, even, going behind someone’s back.

And the guy calls himself an actor.

Satisfied with the results of what he thought would be a waste of an afternoon, he excuses himself. He’ll be just in time to get to Tsumiki’s class before it’s done and have the other kids’ moms and nannies ogle at him. Tsumiki hates it when he does that.

“Don’t be a stranger, Fushiguro. I’d like to keep this channel between us open. I hope to see you at the anniversary party.”

“Pardon?” Toji stops, surprised.

“The company’s anniversary party this Friday,” Shinobu says, like it’s obvious. “I’d like you to meet my son, and well, you’re already acquainted with my daughter.”

Hiroki’s round bobba eyes follow him all the way to the grand crystal doors. Toji has the distinct feeling that he was just part of Shinobu taking matters into his own hands. 

He’s both disturbed and impressed. He never mentioned meeting you, and he’s pretty damn sure that this detail didn’t slip from your lips either.

 

Every year the company throws an anniversary party, and you and your brother and every high-level employee have to attend and listen to your father’s rendition of why diesel was better and how you’re all wimps for being born after the extinction of smallpox. 

The one year that you didn’t attend, because you were stuck in Norway with a canceled flight, your father spent exactly 11 months reminding you of it like you had any say in the weather conditions of the North Sea.

Tonight might be his last speech as chairman, since he’s about to step down from his position after growing health concerns. The company has gone all out; live music, huge venue, ice sculptures, people are dancing. They've put so much effort your father's probably more annoyed than anything.

Suguru approaches you at the empty family table and sits down next to you with a knowing smile, like he's thinking the same thing as you while you're watching people waltz. He’s looking as handsome as ever, you just miss the bangs framing his face.

“So, when do you think he’s going to publicly execute the medical staff that diagnosed him with Alzheimer’s?”

“Probably after he declares war on Gretha Thunberg.”

You’re wary. He might have everyone convinced, but it’s not like him to step down quietly. Your instincts are telling you to expect shenanigans tonight, and they’ve never once failed you.

“Seems too good to be true, don’t you think?” you say, eyeing the crowd. “I don’t know how Satoru’s so cool about it.”

Suguru sighs, craning his neck. “I wouldn’t say he is.”

And that’s when your brother slams his palm on the table. He leans over you and Suguru, eyeing the room like it’s the school cafeteria and he’s the king of prom.

And he kind of is. Today your father will officially name him his successor, so the sour look in his face makes you and Suguru share a look.

“Do you see Hideo Kojima on steroids hanging out with Nanamin? I guess next year we’ll have the Yakuza on the jazz band.”

You laugh, only half weirded out. Suguru looks up at your brother, confused.

“Who?”

“Toji Fushiguro.” Satoru drawls, icily amused, and your neck turns so fast Suguru worries it’ll break. “And his underling.”

Remember your intuition? Sirens start ringing in your head, and the edges of your vision start staining in with a deep burgundy color.

What on earth is he—

“Dad invited him.” Satoru says, still not sitting down, still scanning the room with deadly eyes. You feel the urge to look around and pinpoint his exact location, but you wait for him to point with his chin. “They’ve been seeing each other. Mimosas and manicures, I heard.”

You find him across the room, several tables between you, just over the elevated candles in the middle of your table, talking with Nanami and some man you don’t recognize. 

You fight the weak but sensible urge to look away when he suddenly turns to your table and lifts his glass in your direction, like he felt the shit talking from a distance.

The room is vast, but you recognize the feeling of his eyes looking straight at you. Your brother is too occupied cursing under his breath while he mockingly lifts his glass to notice you gulping.

“You think dad’s hitting that?”

You try not to gag. “You’re sick.”

“Cause someone will owe me a loooot of money if that’s the case."

Your father's alleged bisexuality has been the subject of years of discourse between you. You don't think he has it in him, Satoru disagrees.

“Look at him, standing there like he’s threatening to swipe all the fertile wives in the room. Freak.”

You snort. A bit of your goes down the wrong pipe, Suguru pats your back.

“You better hold on to yours then.”

“Nah, he’s locked in. Ain’t cha, babes?”

You roll your eyes, feeling Suguru shake his head with a lovesick smirk. Your brother replies with a wink, lazily dropping his weight on the chair next to you, like you need to be in the middle of all that.

You lean back, stretching your neck and stranding up. “Ok, you can back up a little. It’s embarrassing enough to be matching with you.”

Satoru stretches his arm over your now empty seat. They’ve been purposefully keeping a distance, him and Suguru, people assume it’s for appearances' sake, but you know them better than that. They’re playing some game tonight, and you’d rather pluck out your lashes one by one than learn the details.

“And I distinctly remember asking you to stop feeding into those fucked up theories online about me terrorizing you as a child, but you had to take those creepy family portraits with the heads cut off. We don’t always get what we want, sis.”

And don’t you know that. Tonight was stressing enough without 6’ something with a lip scar, ever so subtly following with his eyes as you make your way around the party. Not too obvious for an outsider to notice, but just enough to make the exposed hairs at the back of your neck stand up.

You’re a little too energized. Like too many shots of espresso and Ritalin after an allnighter. You need somewhere to pour your energy into, a punching bag would be nice.

It makes no sense to start feeling threatened by Toji Fushiguro tonight, when he’s in your territory, but you do. 

But you weren’t raised under the same roof as Gojo Shinobu and Gojo Satoru to be so easily intimidated, so you mingle, let people stop you for quick, boring catch ups and questions about being excited about your brother and what-have-you-been-up -tos, even those whose faces or names you can’t recall.

You smile, entertain and even ask people about their whereabouts, until you’re out of social battery for the rest of the season.

“Took you long enough.” you say, making a point of not looking at him.

His voice comes closer than you expected or feel sane about. Smooth and dark, in through your left ear.

“Patience is a virtue, haven’t you heard?”

His presence is more unnerving than you geared up for, and just like the first time, a shiver cuts through you. Something urges you to move and take a step sideways, out of the magnetic pull around him. 

You finally take him in. Tailored in black, slightly tousled black hair that you know for a fact is unfairly soft, exuding confidence. Infuriating and magnetic as ever.

“Are you my new stepdaddy?”

A slap to his face would’ve stunned him less. Hell, he might’ve enjoyed it. You don’t give him a chance. His pants have no business getting tighter from that fucking question. Toji buffers again.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

He hums, hands in his pockets.

“Depends.”

You tilt your head.

“You into that kind of thing?”

You scoff, dismissive as always, but suspiciously purse your lips to one side before taking a sip of your drink. Perhaps gatekeeping a chuckle.

Head held high, nose up in the air. Toji takes your profile in. The light bouncing off the high points of your face, the deliberate, doll-like curl of your lashes, the soft slope of your neck and the dips and curves of your shoulders. Your dress painted a nice image in his head of your body from afar, so he refrains from going past your collarbones like the honorable man that he is.

“What? No backtalk? I’m disappointed.”

“I didn’t expect to see you any time soon.”

“Like I said, patience is a virtue.”

You roll your eyes and laugh dismissively. “You don’t believe that.”

“Bold assumption.” he counters. “I wanted to see how long you’d last entertaining guests, but your right eye started twitching and I suppose took some pity on you.”

“Aren’t you an empath.”

“Even to those who don’t deserve it.”

Your chin quivers, but you keep the smile to yourself with a quick sigh. Toji could look down at the way your chest rises and drops, but he’s not in a rush here. 

“Why are you here?”

“Is that any way to speak to a guest? I’m sure Shinobu raised you better than that.”

Name dropping your father gets the exact reaction he was hoping for.

“Why are you here?” you repeat, enunciating slowly, but the words you want to say are don't fuck with me right now.

But you’re too precious for him to deny himself the pleasure. Not when you get riled up so deliciously.

“Your father was kind enough to invite me. It would’ve been rude to turn him down.”

“You’re not here to entertain him. He’s stepping down soon and you can’t stand him.”

“Doesn’t mean that I don’t respect him. Why else would I waste a perfectly nice friday night surrounded by a bunch of suck ups? Are you suggesting I have some ulterior motive?”

Your squint at him, like you don’t believe he has the guts to say it.

“Did you perhaps assume I’m here for… you?”

Toji wonders if your silence has anything to do with the white haired manchild looking your way for the second time.

“We do have something to settle. You owe me something, if I remember correctly.” 

“I think you’re mistaking me for someone else.”

“Nice try. An explanation, does that ring any bells?” 

Your head snaps up to him, the wisps of hair hanging from the sides of your face flow with the movement. The tip of your nose and your cupid’s bow catch the light, if he couldn’t see your face this close he’d mistake that for sweat. 

He’s reminded of how you looked at the deck in contrast to the sight of you right now. A sheer layer of sweat was covering your skin, your plump thighs spilling on the wood surface, he'd kept his hands in his phone and held on to his own sanity.

“What is there to explain? Nothing happened.”

Toji tilts his head. “Lying is a bad, bad thing,” 

“We didn’t do anything, Fushiguro.” you insist, lowering your voice. Toji looks over your head, bored with your attempts at gaslighting. “If you—”

“Do you want to dance?” 

The nonchalant act drops, you unconsciously lean back and open your mouth like there’s not enough air in the room. Toji smiles at your hesitation, cold and challenging.

“It’s in your best interest.”

“How?”

“Because the old cunt that kept kissing your hand earlier is coming our way and I’m about to leave you alone with him” he lies and you don’t dare look over your shoulder to check, not wanting to risk making eye contact with the slimmy fucker.

It’s a bad idea. Being near Toji is a bad idea, dancing with him is the equivalent of putting on a vest bomb. Your father is somewhere in the room and your brother might act aloof but not a single interaction of his interest is going unnoticed. 

Putting your hand in his is a bad, bad idea. The worst. But you suspect figuring out Toji Fushiguro’s intentions will take some compromise on your part, so you don’t hesitate when you grab his hand.

With his arm around you, he's reminded of a particularly striking dream he had about you days ago. The first thing he did when he woke up from it was open his app notes and write two words, perverse angel.

Now he knows it was actually deja vu; you close your eyes for a bit, the breathing image of reminiscing. This isn’t your first time in his arms.

The melody gets rather slow. You hold yourself with all the poise of a reluctant little heiress, defiant but serene as you look at him, arm resting over his.

While he’s growing quite fond of the sight of your neck exposed, he’d rather find the main pin and let your hair down. Let you get comfortable, not taut like you are in his hold.

“You look like a tall pint of guinness.”

Toji could do this all night. Just watch your expression drop, annoyance pinch at your temples.

One ankle betrays you, but he’s not about to let that happen. The arm around your waist keeps you steady, moving along with him. His grip is firm, but not overpowering.

“You’re an asshole.” 

He’s right. You know it and you hate that he described it so right. You’re dressed in a black form fitting dress that goes down to your ankles, with and off-shoulder white band that wraps around your shoulders.

Toji laughs with that shark grin of his, his scar stretching. 

“There’s nothing wrong with it.” He adds helpfully, hand coming up to straighten the fabric around your left shoulder. The air turns colder with the absence of his arm, but it returns to the spot in no time. “Wouldn’t have been my first choice, granted, but it’s a lovely dress. Perfect for a night at the pub, watching the game with the boys.”

“I think I’ll pass on the unsolicited fashion advice, thanks.”

“Come on. You can never go wrong with a red dress.” he counters, eyes dropping briefly. You wrinkle your nose, he acts like you just shit talked his religion “What?”

“Not my style.” you shrug.

“Now that’s just tragic.”

“If it makes you feel better, I’ll make sure to wear one to your funeral.”

The couples closest to you turn with different looks of controlled distaste. Toji laughs heartily, head thrown back and everything. 

“I’ll hold you to that. I might just return just to see it with my own eyes.”

“Not sure doors open both ways in hell, but hey, more power to you.” 

“So you wanna hear my theory?”

You sigh. “Nothing happened, Fushiguro. I mean it.”

What a terrible liar you are.

“I think you had a little alcohol in you and just couldn’t help yourself because you have a thing for problems.”

You nod sarcastically. “And of course, you’re the problem in question.”

“Well, yes.” he blinks. “And also, you don’t have half the self control you believe you have. So you freaked out and put me to sleep to stop yourself from doing something you thought you might regret.”

This is how it was. You had forgotten the rush, despite replaying time and time again your past conversations. Interacting with Toji Fushiguro is like playing five finger fillet, thrilling and grueling and high risk, but it’s a whole other thing with people around you. You can’t let up, all your senses need to be on guard.

“Aren’t you too old to be throwing a fit because I gave you more than you could handle?”

Toji’s eyes dig into yours, a hint of amusement and something else.

“Here’s a piece of advice: choose your words very, very carefully. They might come back to haunt you. ”

“It never happened. And it won’t.” You repeat with a cool tone. The pulse on your wrist drums against his own. 

“I have to say, you’re a better actress than he is.” he mentions. “But denial does not suit you. We’re gonna have to do something about that or things will get very awkward real soon.”

“Actually I think we should focus on your rejection issues first.”

“I’m not a problem for you to solve, sweetheart.” he chuckles darkly, eyes knowing, never leaving yours.

Years of practicing the art of bullshitting in your household could not help you deny the fact that you're maddeningly, disturbingly attracted to him.

“What you see is what you get. And you could, if you stopped acting like I'm some line you're not allowed to cross.”

He makes you turn effortlessly, that’s when you see him. Hiroki. The words die on your lips, your stomach drops, all resolve wavers. He releases you and your arms hang limp on your sides.

He smirks sideways at you, eyes twinkling. You could push him off the roof of the building.

“Fix your face. I won’t behave if he tries picking a fight.” 

You’ve always liked Nanami Kento. He’s one of your father’s closest, youngest and less... spineless advisors, the pathological victim of your brother's pestering, and always impeccably polite to you, sweet even.

But right now, when he’s introducing Toji Fushiguro and his friend whose name you didn't catch to Suguru and Hiroki, you’d love to hit him in the head with a hammer.

At least your brother is nowhere to be seen.

"Pleasure to meet you." Suguru says.

Hiroki has his arm around your waist. He's not looking at you. You know what the dimpling of his cheeks mean. 

“We’ve met before actually, haven’t we?” Toji turns to him, brow burying into his face like he’s not too sure, shaking his finger in the air. “Correct me if I’m wrong. I don’t remember too well.”

Your heart is stuck in your neck, threatening to crawl out of your mouth. Suguru gives you an odd look.

“We have.” You don’t see the look on Hiroki’s face when he replies, but his tone is controlled.

“Yeah, I thought so.” 

Shiu Kong says something, and Suguru responds another thing. It's all noise to you. 

You grab a drink from a passing tray and the corner of Toji’s mouth tilts, his attention on Suguru’s conversation. You feel irrationally mad, like slapping him, but then he’d probably fix his jaw and look at you like you should've gone rougher and—

There’s something seriously wrong with you. Officially.

You grab Hiroki’s hand and pull him with you.

He’s confused, but follows you nonetheless. “Can you just wait for a–”

“We should ditch the party.” You tell him, but he doesn’t agree like he usually would and grabs your arm, stopping you at once, brown eyes searching yours.

“You’re not even gonna ask why I’m here?”

“My dad invited you?” you reply, confused by the offended look on his face.

“No. Why would he? You know how I feel about this kind of thing.”

Now you’re confused. You smell his breath and notice his flushed cheeks. “But you’re here.”

“Wow. Try to contain the excitement, why don’t you.” he scoffs. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to fly across continents and interrupt whatever the hell that wa—”

He’s starting to raise his voice, drawing attention, usually composed demeanor nowhere to be seen. You catch a whiff of alcohol on his breath.

“You’ve been drinking.”

His face drops. The volatile look in his eyes is not something you can deal with tonight.

You’re forever grateful for the woman announcing your father’s speech. Hiroki’s expression clears up, but he gives you a look that says you’ll resume the conversation later, soon, tonight. 

Then he pulls you to his side and leads you closer to the podium.

Your father looks into the crowd with piercing blue eyes. You, like you have for the past few months, get a terrible feeling. Like if you were to take a picture right now, it would later be displayed as the moment before hell broke loose.

“... And as many of you know, the time has come for me to step back and allow a new generation to lead us forward."

The crowd hangs on his every word. You scan the room for the 10th time, looking for a head full of white hair.

Hiroki notices your unease and looks down at you, rubbing your arm. “Hey, what is it?”

“I don’t see Satoru.”

Your father continues, voice unwavering. 

"It is with great confidence and optimism that I announce my successor, a person who embodies our values and vision." 

You finally find Satoru at the back, he’s with Suguru and Nanami. Waving his arms around him, hair a mess, pissed.

"Please join me in welcoming our future CEO, Noritoshi Kamo."

The room bursts into applause, but before his words can fully register in your mind, a sudden, sharp crack echoes through. For a split second collective confusion takes over, and then it turns to full blown panic.

You watch your father duck under the podium. Your legs move on their own.

Gunshots

People are running, crawling and diving for cover all around. Tables are overturned, glass shatters. It's all white noise.

"Get down!" someone shouts. 

Something slams into you.

Toji grabs you before you can try getting back up. Exit located, going straight for it.

“My dad," you protest with wide eyes, hastily trying to look over your shoulder. He has half a mind to throw you over his shoulder.

“He’s fine.” he assures, hand covering your head, pushing it down.

Security sprung into action in no time at the first gunshot, formed a barrier around your father and hurried him down the stage. Toji saw it with his own eyes right before he caught you running like a tweaking baby reindeer, right before some dipshit shoved you to the ground.

You keep protesting, resisting, trying to go in the opposite direction, so he has no choice but to lift you up and throw you over his shoulder.

A colorful string of panicked and enraged expletives follow. You’re livid, fists slamming into his back without mercy. Toji pays no mind, pushing through the crowd, making his way to the emergency exit.

He doesn't put you down until you're both alone in the emptiness of some sterile corridor. And you're still rambling, running your mouth at him. 

“Shut up for a second, will you?"

That does it. You're flabbergasted, opening your mouth again in full Karen fashion.

Toji doesn’t care for it. “Are you hurt?”

“No.” you reply furiously, fist tight on your sides. You catch your breath, step down from your heels and start to speed walk down the corridor. “I have to find my father. And Satoru.”

“They’re safe.” Toji catches up to you in two or three long steps. “Gojo’s security doesn’t fuck around. I mean, they did fuck up letting a guy bring a gun inside the premises, but they were quick with it.”

Your nostrils flare. Toji hears voices at the corner and pushes you behind him. He sees a couple of guys in black in the reflection of a fire extinguisher cabinet. Dressed in black, wired ears, walking like they know they might lose their jobs tonight.

“Hey, I got the heiress here. She’s looking for her old man.”

They look at you in recognition like you're their golden ticket out of unemployment and scort you up the fire exit stairs, all the way to a conference room where your father and his people are gathered. The altercation can be heard from outside. 

“I've done this my whole life, do not question me.”

The room is packed. Your father, his disciples, your brother and his boyfriend, a very uncomfortable looking group of cops. An older lady approaches you, asking you if you're ok, but your eyes and attention at stuck on your father and your brother dueling for the whole room to see.

Your brother stops his pacing and turns to face Shinobu. 

“No, that's not it. I see it, I see you. You’re too prideful to let me clean up after your fuck ups.”

Getting caught in a family brawl was not in Toji’s plans tonight, but he stays put, watching you approach them with confusion all over your face. They don’t notice you. 

Gojo Shinobu levels his son with warning eyes, finger pointed at him. “Watch your words, Satoru. You don’t know what you’re talking about. My decision is final.”

He turns around, beckons the woman who approached you to him, but your brother is not done.

“You know I can do it." he says, your father stops and turns to him with death in his eyes and his lips pressed into a thin line. "You know I can. You just can’t stand the thought of me succeeding where you fucking failed.” 

The look on your face says it all, you don’t know what your brother is talking about, and that you’re in no headspace to ask either. Satoru's not just pushing the limits, he just sped past them.

The words hit your father square in the chest. 

Things are about to get ugly.

“You’re a spoiled, entitled brat who thinks he deserves everything handed to him on a silver platter. Look at what you’ve made of your life, acting like everything is a fucking game. You think I’ll let someone like you lead what I spent my life building?”

You turn to him, mouth falling open. “Jesus christ, dad.”

“Over my dead fucking body.”

Your brother’s face contorts in rage. He —predictably and unpredictably at the same time— lunges forward, fist aimed at your father’s face.

The room springs into action. Your father's guard dogs, the cops, Nanami Kento, you beat them all to it, but it’s ultimately Toji who gets to him.

In another situation, Toji would've found a comfortable seat for himself, perhaps a drink, and watch the havoc unfold. Let the son champion the decade long cause of union workers, environmental hippies, human rights, consumer advocacy activists alike, and punch the lights out of his father's smug face.

Then he'd spare no details for Shiu over a nice dinner.

But he grabs Gojo Satoru's arm instead, stopping him mid swing.

Blue, crazy and uncanny eyes land on him.

As a general rule, he avoids getting involved in other people's affairs, especially when it comes to love spats or family drama. However, when he says, 

“Trust me, you’ll thank me later.” 

He means it.

Your father chuckles dismissively.

Your brother watches as he walks away, chest heaving up and down. 

“Toru?”

Surely those two tiny syllables did not come from you. If denial did not suit you, this uncertainty is just disturbing. It’s not right.

“What was that?” The question comes from the depths of your throat, voice nothing like Toji has heard before. 

“Not now.” your brother snaps, turning around and walking out. Geto Suguru following behind him.

Toji’s phone starts ringing, he tries to shake off the unsettling image of you before walking out of the room to answer.

It's Shiu. He's waiting outside, watching the police drag the gunman into a car, and wondering where he is. Toji sighs, comes to terms with the fact that he's on a streak of sorts tonight, because once again, against his own code, he tells him Shiu to leave without him, not answering any questions about his whereabouts. 

People have dispersed with your father gone from the scene. Toji walks back inside, pocketing his phone, and finds you by a corner of the room. Your boyfriend has found you again, fuck knows where the came from.

He's pulling his phone out, ready to call Shiu and tell him he's on his way down, but you're shaking your head, running your hand through your hair like you forgot it's pulled back.

Hiroki gets in front of you when you try to walk away. You put your hands between you, like the last thing you need is someone coming close. You must've just said something nasty, hit a tender spot, because he freezes where he stands.

Toji drops his arm.

Once again you try to walk around him, but this time Hiroki gets a hold of your arms.

“Why?” he asks. You’re looking at him like he grew a second head. “We talked about it all the—”

Toji's wandered close enough to catch your reply.

“What do you mean why? Have you lost your mind? I can’t leave Satoru alone right now, Hiroki.”

“In case you didn’t notice he just fucking left you here.”

You flinch. Recoil. Push against his hold.

“Let go. I’m sorry, but I can’t deal with you tonight.”

“You can’t? Right. You can’t. Tell me something, do you have any idea what kind of shit I’ve had to put up with—”

You snarl at him, baring your teeth, bare feet stomping on the carpeted floor. Hiroki doesn’t even sway with your attempts, or flinch at the near animalistic way you look at him.

“I fucking don’t. And I don’t want to know. I didn’t ask you to be here tonight.” you reply, tone vicious, jaw locked. “You don’t get to hold it against me.”

The next thing Hiroki says pours out of his mouth like it’s a known fact, or an acceptable thing to say to the woman you’re going to marry. 

“They don’t give a shit about you. Never have. Never will. You know that.”

By now, you two have caught Kento Nanami's attention. He wraps up whatever he's discussing with a couple of men and approaches the scene.

Hiroki does not let up, it's easy to see that he will not. He fixes his grip like you'll turn to liquid and spill between his fingers if he gets distracted.

You wince.

Toji walks over with four or five committed strides until he's between you two. The abrupt interruption and breach of personal space startles Hiroki, gives you the chance to step back.

“I think that’s enough.”

“Oh, this is just great.”

Hiroki chortles, looking away like he’s collecting his thoughts. Biting his lips in contemplation. Nodding to himself once or twice. Toji regards him coldly, lets him gather his thoughts, or the guts to attempt something idiotic like, who knows, get himself pummeled to the ground.

“You know, I keep seeing you everywhere lately, why is that?”

Toji shrugs, uninterested and unintimidated. Hiroki won't get his face cut even if he deserves it, and it's not that Toji's against the idea of being a vessel for some sort of long time coming retribution. In fact, he'd be doing it just for his own satisfaction.

But the night should end now. He’s gonna have a hard time forgetting how you looked earlier when your moron of a brother stormed past you and left you standing there, in the middle of a room full of people that did not care about you, heels hanging from your hand, shoulders sagging.

Doesn’t mean he’s not gonna give the boy something to pop a vein about.

“Why don’t you take a guess?”

Something snaps behind Hiroki's eyes. Toji's front row this time, and he confirms everything he suspected about him. 

And he makes his mind up.

Hiroki looks at you, lids heavy, ears red. “Are you fucking him?”

How predictable. Toji looks at you over his shoulder, and somehow, you understand. It's barely noticeable, but you shake your head.

“You have to leave.” you sound a lot more like yourself this time. Only tired. Thoroughly exhausted. Like your feet are about to give out under you. Toji's not blind to the way you’ve been putting all your weight on one side.

Hiroki pauses, realization lands on him that you’re talking to him, and not Toji.

“Get on a plane, fly back to Spain, and stay there for as long as you have to.”

“This is fucking unbelievable.” 

“I disagree. Have a safe flight.”

Face distorted, Hiroki stomps out, brushing past unfazed Nanami Kento, who looks at him like he’s a speck of dust. He approaches you and asks you if you're ok.

You ask about your dad, he tells you he’s currently talking to the police and insists on getting you a car and someone to accompany you. Says you should rest.

“I can take her home.” Toji says. You peer at him like that's the last thing you were expecting to hear, and frankly, Toji's just as surprised by himself.

And then, against all odds, you nod.

Nanami watches Toji carefully, studying him intently. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Keep me posted?”

His features soften just a bit, he touches your shoulder, promises he will.

He doesn’t keep his eyes off Toji until you two make it to the door. Toji might find the guy agreeable, stick up his ass and all.

[ctrlsatoru]

Who is that? A ghost.

JUJUTSU KAISEN / 呪術廻戦 Fluctuations, Part 2, "揺蕩-弐-"

[ctrlsatoru]

love line

s. on a very drunk night, satoru exposes your crush on the famous mma fighter, and friend of yours, toji zenin

w.c. 12.3k

w. fem! reader, mma!toji! x reader , fluff!, smut!

a/n: this might not be proofread well but I hope yall enjoy. im very in love with this man!

"I can't believe I lost that stock today!"

you're out having drinks with your friends at a fancy bar in shibuya when satoru gets shitfaced drunk. the matter is nothing new. he's the lightweight of the group and doesn't care about getting home most of the time because he knows either you or suguru will take charge and take him home.

you're taking frequent sips of your whiskey as you watch one of the country's most successful business owners mope over a small, so very minuscule, fraction of his wealth fly by. suguru is sitting next to you at the booth and exchanges a look of 'idiot' in reference to the white haired man's sad life story. sukuna is in front of you and no look needs to be exchanged because he simply acts on his thoughts and gives satoru a smack on the back of his head.

and toji's at the center of the booth, smooshed between shoko and satoru. he's looking at satoru in mild amusement, a small smirk on his face at the fool's stupidity as he too drinks from a glass of whiskey. he's wearing a low scooped black long sleeve that probably costs a thousand dollars and rightfully so, it makes him look so handsome. the price nothing compared to the pay he makes as a world champion mma fighter. 

you've known him for the better part of a year, a bit more actually. satoru met him near the end of your college career on a business whim with his father and has since made him a member of your friend group. you're not as close as you wish you could be, the immense nerves you have in fear of him even getting an inkling that you're attracted to him have always stopped you from initiating a more than necessary amount of text conversations or random phone calls. satoru could do that, you couldn't. god, you've even seen suguru have more dms with the raven haired fighter than you. even in the group chat all of you share, you can't bring yourself to connect with him aside from teaming up to tease satoru or sukuna. 

the last thing you ever conversed with him on your phone was a conversation you, surprisingly, started. he had told you about this one taco place and said you would love it based on your shared interest of food. when you told him you'd try it, he had told you, 'better send me a picture when you're there.' and you did. he had sent a laughing emoji when he asked if you liked the food and you said, 'I'd step on lime juice covered shards of glass to eat this again.'

that was the last thing you'd see in your messages between each other. 

he was close to four years older than all of you, except for sukuna, they were only a year apart. he had this endearing scar across his lip that curved so achingly whenever he smiled or grinned. he was built gorgeously, his back a sight to behold whenever you got to see him fight. and his eyes, fuck, the bright mix between grey and green always had you throwing a fit in your bed and wishing you could have him. 

nevertheless, you go back to paying attention to satoru. 

"you profit from so many other stocks satoru. that one stock is just a random occurrence."

"but the ladies won't want to go out with a guy who loses even one stock!" he looks up from where he's sprawled across the table, pouting at you.

"the fact that you're a millionaire at the age of 23 already gets enough ladies." you roll your eyes, unable to help the twitch of your lips at the sight of a little bit of drool seeping from the corner of his mouth

"it's not enough." he mutters

this time, you and sukuna share a deadpan face and you flick satoru's forehead, leaning only slightly across the table.

"yeah you're right. satoru gojo is such a loser for losing a stock, none of the girls are gonna want him now."

out of the corner of your eye, you see toji huff a little laugh at your antics, it makes your heart skip a beat a little that he finds you, even if its mostly satoru, funny.

"don't mock me!" satoru's cheeks are red as he scowls at you the best he can.

"she's not mocking." sukuna snorts, taking a swig of his beer.

"yea she is!" satoru points at you, "I never mock you about toji!"

everybody in the group stills except for satoru, who looks like he's still revved up about the subject.

much like cassie's reaction in euphoria when rue asked her how long she had been fucking nate, all you could do was nervously laugh.

"what–what are you talking about?"

you can feel your entire body starting to shake in fear. it was like you were in elementary again and some mean friend of yours was going to expose your crush on the popular boy of your grade. the fear was something you never thought you'd experience again.

"don't act stupidddd." satoru drags on, as if toji fucking zenin wasn't right next to him, "you're always talking about how bad you want toji and that ' I wish I could talk to him' bullcrap!" he says the last part in imitation of you with a high pitched voice.

suguru is staring at satoru in terror. sukuna is looking at you, in peril for you. shoko looks like she mentally checked out so she couldn't feel your embarrassment.

...and toji is staring at you, his eyes wide and mouth slightly agape, like he doesn't know what to say.

your phone is in your pocket. check. your purse is on your lap. check. satoru can pay for your tab when he comes to his senses. check.

all you can do is abruptly get up and start to dash away, ignoring the yell for you from suguru. you don't look back, pure peril and adrenaline taking over your body as you make it out of the bar as quickly as possible, thanking whatever god that you chose to wear the easiest pair of heels to walk today.

the metro, the metro, the metro.

you look around for a quick second, only taking a second to remember what way the metro was before you rush in its direction. you feel a buzz coming from your pocket when you do, and you can only figure its one of your friends, trying to get you to come back.

you ignore it and rush down the escalator to the metro, making a glance behind you and noting that nobody was behind you. thank god. however, it doesn't stop your pace and your heels click and clack you all the way to a seat on the train to your part of town. 

fuck.

your entire body feels like its on fire and melting. 

toji knows you like him.

fuck.

suguru 5 missed calls

shoko girl where did you go?

sukuna 1 missed call dude, since when do you run track

you have to stop yourself from bashing your head on the pole in front of you. shakily, you press on suguru's contact to call him. you would tell him you were going to home so he wouldn't need to worry. what's the worst that could happen by now anyway. 

"y/n? hello?"

"I'm on the train home." you breathe

"that fast?" he doesn't exclaim, he's not the type to show his surprise so blatantly like his counterpart but you can hear his concern at the fact.

"yeah." you murmur, stomach churning now that the adrenaline's worn off.

suguru sighs, "satoru is scared you're going to kill him now."

and you can hear his wails in the background. 'no she's going to come after me!' 'I need to up my security!' 'is that her on the phone?! y/n pleasseee forgive me!'

your nose scrunches in annoyance and you blurt, "I'm not going to kill you stupid idiot!"

"she says she's not going to kill you." suguru says to satoru and you can hear what you presuppose is suguru pushing the drunk fiend off of him before he continues talking to you, "about toji–"

you feel your stomach drop at the mention of the name, he's still there with them, fully aware of your feelings for him

"ah! don't wanna hear it!"

the beginning of a call to your name from suguru went ignored as you immediately pulled your phone back and pressed the little red button.

the sky had literally fallen for you and now you had to deal with the aftermath—which you weren’t doing right this second, due to what you just did to your friends, but you’d do it eventually. being an adult made sure you had to face it sometime soon. its just that toji zenin learning from satoru gojo that you had a massive crush on him had not ever been something you expected. hell you never expected him to find out in any sort of way, ever. god, he was never supposed to know.

well, your fun was over, you had to move on now. if you wanted your friend group to stay normal and go back to the way it was, the looming existence of your feelings for the world renowned fighter had to die. you could tough it through that, you could come back and say ‘i thought it over and don’t have feelings for you anymore toji so don’t worry about acting weird with me. we’re casual friends like we’ve always been.’

a particular rattle of the train had you planting your feet on the floor purposefully and waiting for it to fully stop before you got up. you were five minutes from your apartment now, the walk you started now would pass by in a flash and you’d get to wallow in your misery soon.

ordering takeout sounded nice and so did watching your favorite show, especially after a warm shower, it had been quite chilly tonight. 

you had no room to really think about your predisposition in regards to toji zenin the next day, having to attend work then go to a work party afterwards at some high end restaurant/bar located at the top floor of a skyscraper overlooking tokyo. at work, you had to host various meetings and delegate new responsibilities you planned out the day before to your peers. it was all very hectic since it was all a completely new project. you had barely looked at your phone and even if you did, there wouldn’t be much to fret over, your friends had busy lives too. and right after, you had to head straight home and get ready for the party later that evening. 

you were sporting a tight black dress with light red flowers embellished across it later that night while you drank champagne and conversed with your coworkers. it had been a decent night so far and you had photos taken of you along with your peers, they’d probably be posted on the company website or social media. 

there had been some interesting work tea to listen in on too, your rival company was involved in it too and you were smushed against your coworkers in a red leather lined booth with dim lighting to listen in on all of it. it was more than worthy of your time by the end of it, you deemed. you would have to tell shoko and sukuna about it whenever you got the chance next time. yes, sukuna liked tea, he was an ass who loved hearing about ass things happening. 

the craving for a new glass of champagne sent you to the bar the moment the story ended, so you sat up on one of the chairs lining it while you waited for the bartender to get to you. you could see your ceo already getting shit-faced from where you were and it was funny, she always did that and always managed to get embarrassed the next time everyone saw her in the office. 

“are you part of that office party?”

a large and handsome figure suddenly appeared before you, blocking the view of your boss. he was wearing a rather expensive looking black suit with a silky blue dress shirt under, all of which couldn’t hide the obvious hard and sturdy muscles under them due to the complimentary tailoring. when you took in his face, you had to hold back the urge to widen your eyes. he was excessively good looking, with sharp and devilish features sketched across his face, intertwining hand in hand with his semi-long brown wavy hair pushed back and away from his face, save for a singular pretty strand falling near his brow and down his cheek. and that scar near his eye, it seemed so familiar…

you had to blink yourself back into reality when you realized you were taking a bit too long to answer his question. 

“yes,” you finally responded, trying your best to remain neutral and politely smile at him

he leaned against the open spot of the bar table between your seat and the empty one behind him, one hand in his pocket as he smiled down at you, “you’re very beautiful.”

your spit got caught in your throat at the blatant admission, this time unable to hide the way your head reeled back a little and started sporting a rising heat on your cheeks in slight shock, “oh–i–thank you.”

his smile grew wider at your flustered state and he reached a hand out for you to shake, “aizen sosuke.”

so at to remain polite, you shook his hand and repeated your name back to him in return for his, but in reality your head was falling in on itself

him.

fuck.

that’s aizen sosuke, the other world renowned mma fighter that you were very aware of due to his competitive nature and rivalry with toji. as far as you were aware, toji absolutely hated him, and you were sure aizen did too. anytime the rivalry came up into the conversation you saw toji’s eyes darken and his posture straighten in seething hate for the man. if satoru felt like getting on his nerves, as he did with everyone, he always knew to mention the tall brunette to get a visceral reaction out of him. it was bad. wait–

they have a fight tomorrow.

oh god, this was all types of fucked up. you've been pining after toji this whole year and he just found out yesterday and now you're talking to his rival who's very obviously flirting with you.

...but he was aizen sosuke, aside from that, and he just called you beautiful.

“is there any particular celebration happening?” he tilted his head to the side a little in curiosity 

“no, not this time,” you breathed, trying to shake the nerves off, “my boss just likes to treat us frequently and…well herself.”

“is that the only occasion where you get treated as of late?”

suave

and you can’t help the small knowing smile starting to creep up your lips, “as of late, yes, although she mostly does it in drinks.”

“dinner isn’t often?” he leans a little closer, his lips quirking up a little

“no,” you shake your head, aware of the way your eyes are smiling back at him too.

“allow me to treat you then,” he says confidently, watching as the bartender slides you your champagne

“In exchange for…?” you quirk a brow up at him as you take a sip

“what are you willing to give?” he bites back with a canine smile, still looming over you and infringing himself a little into your space even.

“nothing.” you snark back smoothly, pressing a finger into the middle expanse of his chest. he’s really sturdy, you note before continuing, “dinner with me should be a prize enough.”

he laughs at your response handsomely, reeling away from your space in accordance with the finger of yours pushing him away, “i’ll pay for everything. hell, send me the receipt for your outfit if you feel like it. i’m sure some sort of gratitude will overcome you.”

“ravenous,” you tut your glass in his direction, “i’ll politely decline then mr sosuke.”

“you haven’t even allowed yourself to grace over the thought of spending a night in my sheets,” he’s leaned down to speak so sensually next to your ear, “if your line of work is a stress, i can make you forget all about it.”

“i’ve allowed myself to grace it,” you speak back lowly, matching his game, “and i can only see you adding onto my stress by the end of it.”

“you’re oddly confident about that,” he smiles deviously, turning his head so that you’re face to face with him, “i aim to please, if any.”

“to please?” you question in haughty disbelief, squinting your eyes playfully at him

“to please,” he’s still smiling, eyes fleeting to your lips for a second, “i could relay the details if you’d like.”

“that’s unecessary,” you laugh at his boldness, turning your head away from his, “but it’s not something i’m interested in. im only looking for stability right now.”

“how unfortunate for the both of us tonight then,” he retreats back into his space before reaching into his pocket and taking out his phone, then splaying it out in his hand for you to take, “at least leave me your number. i can be capable of stability for the right woman.”

you feel your phone buzzing erratically that night, when you’ve washed away the night’s events and lay comfortably in your bed with a glass of water cradled to you. upon first looking at your messages, you were greeted by a paparazzi picture of you, courtesy screenshot from gojo, and aizen speaking at the bar. it was one of you smiling and looking up and him while he was leaning down, face inches away from yours as he returned your toothy grin.

satoru img_736 ?????? is that aizen sosuke?! dude are you fucking him rn

sukuna  take one of his trophy belts when you come back home

shoko lol he looks hot in blue

suguru  satoru, aren’t you supposed to be on your flight back from dubai right now?

satoru first class has excellent cell service ha and y/n hasn’t answered aizen def has his hands busy rn

shoko it’s only been five minutes since you sent that picture plus she’s at her work party, i think. she probably just met him there

satoru who cares bud looks like he’s ready to pounce 

sukuna heard he likes bdsm shit

satoru send pics of his paddle lol y/n

suguru both of you are despicable

shoko let us know if he has good stamina

suguru the three of you

all those messages had been sent ten minutes ago and you gaped at your friends’ mischief

y/n  I AM NOT WARMING AIZEN SOSUKE’S BED RN!

satoru liar, he’s in your mouth rn isn’t he

y/n  literally shut up toru i’m in my bed. no aizen near

sukuna  sure you are you looked real horned up smiling at him in the pics

y/n LMAO  he was a little funny ok, i couldn’t help laughing

shoko oh he was funny hm

suguru  actually worried a little at that statement wdym he was a little funny

y/n im going to crucify all of you he tried getting me to warm his bed and was very smooth abt it, but i said no gave him my number though :p since he asked for it

satoru was that before or after he told you you have great boobs img_737 could not have been more obvious about it

the stupid texts from your friend had you laughing out loud and setting down your glass of water on your bedside table before you pressed on the microphone button and sent a loud, giggly voice message for emphasis of your previous point.

“I didn’t fuck aizen! and he didn’t need to tell me i have great boobs, i saw him staring at them the entire time.”

sukuna you are not living this down if we see hickeys on you tomorrow

satoru what he said ^^

and there came the realization, 

toji and aizen’s fight was tomorrow

and all of you always showed up to toji’s fights ever since you befriended him

hell, fuck, you hadn’t even remembered he was in this group chat too. fuck fuck fuck. was this good? was this bad? he hadn’t said anything and he never really took too long to answer sometimes. no, this was the night before a fight, he’s probably already knocked out right now considering the late hour. but still, what of when he woke up to the messages tomorrow? would this help ease the knowledge of your being into him? oh she’s already flirting with some guy she’s not into me as much as a i thought so i dont feel as awkward around her anymore. but what if he thought you were doing this purposefully to get a reaction out of him and that you were so obsessed with him, you did it for that sole reason. you didn’t even want to come to the fight anymore. could you get out of it somehow? no, stupid satoru knows you’re free tomorrow and that would add more drama to your ‘up and dash’ incident from the bar yesterday night. 

you turned around and flailed on your bed, screaming into your pillow in the process.

regrettably, you show up to toji’s fight the following afternoon, trying your best to suppress the notion that aside from having to be near toji later, that aizen was going to see you too, and that whole ordeal would be something different entirely for you to deal with.

you dressed pretty well, you always did, but you added a little more effort than the usual when picking your outfit for the day. it was ufc fight night worthy and showed a generous amount of skin, the pictures you would upload later that night to instagram would be amazing. 

sukuna snickered when he saw you, pulling you in for a quick friendly hug as he said, “wanted zenin to see that you really didn’t fuck sosuke?”

you gaped at him and held back a smile as you smacked him with your purse, “i will hurt you ‘kuna.”

“try me, idiot,” he bites back with a snarky smile before sinking into one of the cage-side seats toji always managed to get for you guys. you had already said hi to the rest of your friends before getting to him and all felt normal until that dumbass made his dumb comment about your crush on toji. satoru, had of course, without a doubt, inspected you for hickeys and love bites immediately upon your arrival and had given you a suspicious look, as if to say, ‘you got away with it this time.’ he was always ridiculous like that, trying to cling onto random drama, even if he gaslit himself, all for his own fun. 

“i really did not expect to meet him last night at the bar,” you sighed after you sat down, taking in the bustling crowds of people gathering in the arena with him

“fuckin hilarous,” he all but barks evilly in amusement at your predicament before taking a swig of his beer, “paparazzi is gonna have a field day thinking you’re aizen’s girl now that you’re here.”

“WAIT!” 

you immediately sit upright at the realization and turn your body towards sukuna, jaw hung open and eyes wide in panic.

“holy shit. what the fuck.” you start having an existensial crisis and sukuna, the great friend he is starts snickering at your dilemma, finding humor in your panicked expression

“go sit near his side of the arena,” he jeers, “there’s some open seats.”

you run your hands down your face, stressed, “i thought the worst i had to deal with would be aizen seeing me here.”

“still is,” sukuna is still smirking at you evilly, “everything is shit about your day today.”

and then the lights dim and sporadic blue lights start sparkling across the arena

“get ready to say hi to your boyfriends,” sukuna teases with a canine grin before leaning over to see who would do their walkout first.

and it’s toji first.

he’s so beautiful and rugged, wearing skin tight black shorts that highlight every muscle underneath them and his eyes are glowing so pretty against the fluroscents, even if he has a murderous look on them right now. his staff are behind him as he walks through the arena, and looking at them almost distracts you from the way toji holds you in a cutthroat stare the moment he spots you, and only you.

you can hear satoru’s sly voice saying from near you, “nice.”

too scared to look away from toji, you can only speak to your friends without turning to address them, “why is toji giving me a death stare?”

“cause you fucked aizen,” satoru’s teasing lilt jeers

“yeah,” shoko agrees

“i did not fuck aizen,” you bite through gritted teeth as toji walks into the fighting cage, eyes still on you.

“tell that to him,” sukuna snickers

“don’t think about it too much,” suguru tries to comfort

then the lights starts blaring furiously again and aizen’s presence is announced throughout the entire arena. and you were really right about that suit being unable to hide those muscles, because without any clothing over them…they were enormous and mouth-watering.

all of you watch as he, accompanied by his staff too, walks to the cage, handsome smirk planted on his face. 

“would you look at that,” satoru starts, “he doesn’t have your scratch marks all over his back.”

“ha ha,” you sarcastically mutter back when aizen enters the cage and he situates himself in his side, taking in his surroundings, like those sitting in the cage side seats.

like you.

you know he’s spotted you because of the way his eyebrows raise in surprise and the wolfish smile that starts forming on his face the moment you make eye contact. and you know toji’s noticed too because of the way he turns to you too and keeps looking between you and the fighter in front of him.

satoru whistles while sukuna howls, both leaning down to elbow you from either side much to your annoyance

“scratch the paparazzi thinking youre here for aizen being the worst thing capable of happening today,” satoru sighs haughtily, “if toji loses, you’re in for it.”

you spin your head to him, panicked, “what?! is he gonna stop being my friend?!”

satoru shrugs, nonchalant, “don’t know, just keep watching sweetheart.”

so you did and it was unnerving.

when the fight started and toji and aizen started squaring up against each other, you could see aizen start speaking to him. his mouth was moving a little and a smile crept up on it when he jeered his chin in your direction, all of which you saw toji answer back with what looked like single word short answers and a sneer on his face.

“wonder what they’re talking about,” suguru questioned softly

“i have a small idea,” satoru said under his breath before toji threw the first punch and the chaos ensued.

the fight consisted of a lot of hisses and ows coming from everyone, including you, in the arena. toji and aizen were really putting in the work to beat the crap out of each other. ten minutes had passed and toji was already bleeding from his mouth and aizen had blood falling down his nose. both of their bodies were beat too, red splotches blossoming all over them as a reaction to the various kicks and punches both of them sent to each other. 

however it looked like it was reaching its cusp when aizen got toji in a headlock and muttered something while looking at you. 

which must have given toji enough energy to quickly peel himself off and knock his face in a couple of times. and when aizen stood up straight after it to counter, he was bleeding profusely from his mouth and smiled so devilshly at you before wandering into toji’s space again. 

“hot,” shoko commented while gnawing on a toothpick

and that continued, the smiles at you from him, with his questionably hot bleeding mouth while he sported a beating from toji or gave it to him. but it started dying down when toji actually started knocking him in so close to his own victory. and there wasn’t much aizen could do until toji pinned him down and forced him into submission,

all while aizen stared at you and even had the gall to wink while his loss was announced

satoru whistled again, “the balls on this guy. surprised you aren’t soaked right now.”

people were starting to filter out when the winner and loser were officially announced and were beginning to get escorted back to their locker rooms.

“come on,” sukuna muttered as he drank the last of his beer and got up with the rest of you to go to toji’s room.

when all of you are rushed into toji’s locker room, you somehow wound up standing next to him, where he’s seated on a bench and wiping the blood off his face with a hand towel.

“congrats,” you mumble, along with the others

“what’d he say to you during the fight,” leered satoru, both of his hands in his pockets and his shades over his eyes again now that he doesn’t have to watch the fight.

“none of your business,” muttered toji after wiping his face again, “where’s my fucking water?”

“here sir, here,” one of his goonies said while weaving through the people in the room and nervously handing him a water bottle

“thanks,” he huffs with a small glare before opening the bottle and starting to chug from it

“who do you fight after this,” sukuna asks

toji shrugs and looks towards his manager, who then starts to explain the next sequence of events after this win. and it lasts for thirty minutes before everyone falls quiet and toji gets up abruptly

“alright, get out. ‘m gonna change,” he all but demands for everyone to leave ominously

and you listen to his words, letting the half closest to the door start to filter out before you make to move your feet and suddenly toji’s holding onto your arm.

“where do you think you’re going?” he huffs when the last person leaves the room and the door clicks shut

you feel like a deer caught in headlights and feel yourself start to grow nervous, “outside…to let you change?”

“you gonna fuck him?”

and you gaslight yourself into pretending you don’t know what he’s talking about, “who?”

he deadpans at you with bored and almost annoyed green eyes and you have to look away from him when you murmur, “no…i don’t know. listen, me having a thing for you isn’t that serious and if i entertain aizen it isn’t so you can finally notice me or something, i just–”

“when the fuck did i say i never noticed you before?”

your eyes widen and you didn’t know what to say

“what? you think it’s so easy for me to try and talk to your dumbass too?” he pulls you closer by the arm he’s already holding, scowl etched across his face

“what,” is the only thing you can get out in your nerves

toji glares at you, “when silver spoon said you wish you could talk to me, did it ever cross your smartass that i don’t know how to talk to you either?”

“no,” you let out meekly, struggling to make eye contact with him and feeling your heart rate go up by a million beats per minute

“so,” toji tugs on your arm again, “are you gonna fuck him?”

you look away to a locker near when you mumble, “do you not want me to?”

“no, i fucking don’t.”

“then i won’t.”

“great,” he lets go of you and now centers himself to stand in front of you, quirking a brow up when he asks, “you gonna let me take you out on a date?”

you have to fight the urge to fiddle with your hands as you look back up at him, “when?”

“tonight.”

“shouldn’t you rest after a fight!?” your eyes almost bulge out of their sockets, pupils darting to the blood staining his lips

“not if i don’t feel like it,” he shrugs, before gaining a threatening aura, “or do you wanna bite the bullet and get lunch right now? you won’t have time to get a pretty dress on.”

panicked at his suggestion, you mindlessly put your hands against his chest and plead, “no! tonight is fine, tonight is fine!”

“thought so,” he huffs back at you, corners of his mouth quirking up a little 

and put on a pretty dress you did, a red sultry one that teetered between innocence and sex. it had toji staring you down as you took the unfathombly large bouquet of flowers he brought for you from his arms and set it on your kitchen island.

“where are we going?” you turned to look at him while he drove you to whatever destination he had in mind for tonight, playing with the metal clasp of your handbag

toji had been leaned against the driver side door of his car, with one hand holding onto his chin while the other steered, he seemed oddly pensive.

“allen’s,” he gruffly swallowed before straightening up and putting both of his hands on the steering wheel. you weren’t surprised by the mention of the michelin star restaurant, he could afford it and had the status for it anyways

so you couldn’t help but speak, “are you nervous?”

his entire body tensed visibly and his eyes slightly widened, glancing at you for a half second before looking back at the road and relaxing, “what do you think smartass?”

a smile crept its way onto your face, “well i am too.”

“you gonna run away again?” he side eyed you with a slight gleam of mischief

your face flushed and your mouth gaped, turning to look at the road too now instead of at him, crossing your arms as you huffed, “what else was i supposed to do? not like you had anything to say either, had your mouth open like a fish when i got exposed…”

“least i didn’t run,” he huffed back

“well you didnt try to contact me after,” you sasssed, sensing his growing irritation

“you’re a real pain in my ass,” he glared at you, “you know that right?”

“and you’re not acting like the guy who just won a fight earlier today.”

toji had just parked outside the restaurant and splayed his hands across the steering wheel, trying to control his breathing from what you could tell. 

“i didn’t know what to say, okay negative nancy?” he finally turned to you, green eyes striking under the night sky and neon lights from the restaurant name shining through, “and then when i was going to call your pretty ass the next day, i saw the pictures of fuck face raw dogging you at the bar.”

“he didn’t fuck me,” you whined in complaint as you splayed yourself across the center console of his car and batted your scorned eyes at him, “how many times do i have to tell you guys?”

“well you were real close to,” he smirked at you before something serious fell across his features and his eyes darted to your handbag, “matter a fact, block his number right now.”

your head perked up at the demand and you blinked at him, “i dont have his number.”

toji squinted his eyes at you, “you said you gave him your number in the group chat.”

“yeah but he hasn’t called me or anything, so i never got his.”

the ravenette rolled his eyes, taking his keys out of the ignition and pointing at you with them, “when he does, you better fucking block him.”

“i will,” you nod obediently, watching as he starts to get out of the car

you move to take off your seat belt and he leans back into the vehicle with a warning look, “i’ll unbuckle it, don’t move.”

and he does, closing the door of his side before walking over to you and opening the door to kneel in and take off your seat belt, then giving you a helping hand to get out.

“thank you,” you murmur appreciatively as you watch your step before landing a quick kiss to his cheek. and if it affected him, you wouldn’t know, he said nothing and held onto your arm softly while he guided the both of you to the restaurant entrance.

“you look hot by the way,” he breathed out before opening the door and entering with you, giving you no chance to respond when the hostess immediately greeted the both of you and began to lead you to a table.

it was intimate, the table. it was small and dainty, relatively little space would be between you and the gruff fighter. and both of your seats were at the same corner of the table, making the distance shorter than it would have been sitting across from each other. 

toji instinctively pulled out your chair for you and muttered out a sound of acknowledgement when you thanked him as he sat down. 

“you gonna drink?” he quirked a brow at you, gesturing towards the menu of alcohol planted right in front of the both of you

“a little red wine sounds nice,” you try to say politely, “you?”

“nah,” he responds while raising a hand for a waiter to come by, “i need to drive you home. you like sweet or bitter wine?”

“sweet.”

and so he orders a wine for you to drink right off the bat, saying a thank you as the waiter walks away to get the bottle.

“does your mouth hurt?”

toji hums mindlessly, as if his head had been somewhere else before he perks up again and says, “come again sweetheart?”

the pet name had you a little fluststered in speaking again, feeling your body grow hot as you gestured to his mouth meekly, “your mouth, it was bleeding after the fight, does it still hurt?”

the corners of his mouth start to rise as he encroaches into your space, eyes lusty, “nothing a little kiss won’t make better.” 

your breath hitches and you feel like pushing him away to hide how easily he’s affected you, “you’re shameless.”

toji is inches away from your face now, and he tilts his head in fake hurt, “i took those punches from the lowlife trying to steal my girl away, doesn’t that mean i deserve a reward?”

you try to keep your face serious as you deadpan, willing your need to laugh away as best you can, “your girl?”

“my girl,” toji grins sleazily 

you’re about to bite back when the waiter comes back with the bottle of wine toji ordered for you and the menus for tonight’s dinner. toji takes the bottle from the waiter and insists on serving you your glass himself while you begin to look at the menu. choosing a meal was difficult with all the delicious options available, every description making your mouth water, you wanted everything. when you complained to toji about not knowing what to get because of all the options, he brushed you off while still reading his menu.

“get whatever you want, we can come again and again until you try everything.”

well that’s one way to make you horny

so you settled for these sauteed calamari rings with a savory sounding sauce while toji got a steak under the pretense that ‘i need to stock up on protein after fights.’

while the both of you eat, good conversation comes up and the previous tense awkwardness of the both of you goes away.

“i haven’t dated anyone since my sophomore year of college,” you say while taking a sip of wine to wash down a bite of calamari

toji quirks up a brow in disbelief at your statement while he takes a sip of his water, a scowl almost, as if he’s offended for you, “what about that emo lookin kid—“

you tilt your head in confusion, not being able to pinpoint who he’s talking about, “emo?”

toji rolls his eyes, snapping his fingers at himself, “that kid, can’t even remember his name, with the blue hair, you know–“

“grimmjow?!” you gape, eyebrows knit

“yea that fucker,” toji nods before he takes a bite of his steak

“I never even got to have a thing with grimmjow,” you deadpan, swiveling the glass of wine in your hand, “we kissed like once and then he told me he wasn’t ready for anything the next day.”

“silver spoon made it seem like you guys fucked.”

you sigh in agonizing pain that your white haired freak best friend loves to say you fuck frequently, “satoru says that because he feels my dry spell more than me. horny ass. he wishes i could get laid.”

“what,” toji snickers, “haven’t fucked in a year or something?”

this was going to be a pain

“three years,” you clarify, staring at him with bored eyes because you know you’re going to get a reaction because of this, “with my ex was the last time. and i lost it to him.”

toji eyebrows immediately raise and he looks at you like you’re insane, “you’re lying.”

“don’t you think id rather say i just got laid two weeks ago or something?” you quizically ask him

“well yeah,” he scoffs, “but i'd rather you not at that point.”

you knowingly squint your eyes at him, jabbing a fork of calamari, “why’s that?”

and you laugh when toji drops his napkin back onto his lap very done with you and blankly stares you down.

“how long have you liked me anyway,” you continue, hoping and praying on the small chance that toji pined for you as much you did for him so that you didn’t feel as pathetic

he stays quiet for a bit, as if he didn’t hear you, and you feel embarrassed that you’re about to repeat himself until he looks up from his meal and says, “ever since business boy posted a picture of you before i got the chance to meet all of you.”

hoping and praying did you well

you had to physically stop yourself from giggling like a schoolgirl by holding your hands in fists under the table, “and..why did you never make a move?”

“i thought you had a crush on sukuna for a good four months,” he shrugged and if you were seeing right, there was a pink hue dusting the tips of his ears, “after i figured out you didn’t, i pussied out because i didn’t wanna make you uncomfortable.”

then his eyes fixated on you, “what about you huh?”

you felt yourself growing small in your seat, beginning to play with the ends of your dress, “well, when we met and you told lent me your jacket because my cardigan was thin…”

“both of us have been idiots this entire year huh,” toji joked, laughing at himself and you

“yeah,” you meekly agreed, taking a woeful gulp of wine until you came to a realization, “wait, is that why sukuna thought you didn’t like him for the first few months of knowing him?!”

“i have no idea what you’re talking about,” the fighter grunted, looking to the side as he drank another gulp of water

by the time your date with toji ended you were as happy as could be, having felt fulfilled that yes you were on a date with your long time crush, but that you were also very compatible and had amazing chemistry. you kissed briefly, outside the restaurant when your heel got caught on a pebble and he held you upright so as to stop you from falling. you pulled him in for it to thank him and he held onto your waist so fucking well, the fact that his hand was almost the same size as your back was dizzying. 

he had asked for another date the following afternoon for brunch with him and you couldn’t deny, wanting to spend more time with him. you were telling satoru this on the phone before he said…

“so when are you guys getting it on?”

if you could, you’d throw something at him through the phone right now.

“you are such a pervert!”

“i am not,” satoru defends, “okay maybe a little, ha. but in all honesty when are you two going to rip off the bandaid? it’s not like you’re strangers and you have to do that awkward period of oh im respecting your space crap. oh my god, does he know you’ve never gotten head?”

your cheeks flush hot, “no.”

“this is hilarious,” satoru jeers, “try to last longer than two seconds when he eats it.”

you sprawl across your bed and almost scream, “stop, because im going to be really embarrassed if that happens!”

“i think it’d be a miracle if it didn’t happen,” you can hear the millionaire open another candy wrapper before stuffing the sweet into his mouth, “so when are you sealing the deal?”

“when even is the appropriate time?” you gaze at your ceiling, feeling hot all over your body and embarrassed that you’re talking to your friend about having sex with one of your other friends

“personally, i think he would’ve done it by tonight already.”

“you think?”

“he looks at your boobs when you aren’t looking.”

“what?! why didnt you tell me this before?” you sit upright in your bed

“him wanting to fuck you is obvious, i just didn’t know if he liked you, so i kept it to myself.”

“unfair,” you huff, falling back into your comforter, staring at the ceiling in silence until you felt your phone beginning to vibrate

pending call - toji

“toru, ill catch up with you some other time, toji’s calling me,” you usher out and immediately accept the incoming call before the snow haired devil can say something cheesy.

“hi,” you breathe out

“hey,” toji’s gruff voice responds through the small speaker, “how are you feelin?”

“about the food or you?” you tease

“both.”

“wish i could’ve eaten some of that peach cobbler the couple next to us ordered,” you fluff up a pillow behind you, wondering if you should go forward with a thought before you think fuck it, and say, “wish i could’ve kissed you more.”

“i can get you both angel.”

“what are you doing?”

“just put some patches on my back, ‘s sore,” theres a moment of silence before he quips, “was thinking about you.”

“me too,” you sigh, hoping he can’t hear how dreamy you unintentionally sounded

“what about me?” you can hear the smirk in his voice

and you indulge him a little, just to fuck with him, “how big your hands are.”

“you like ‘em?”

“mhm, they looked nice with the bruises on them too.”

“ ‘s that why you kept holding onto them?”

“maybe,” you watch as you kick your feet up in the air, finding something to exert your energy 

“yours are soft,” he breathes, “i like it.”

“you know what else is soft?”

“what?” you can hear his energy shift

“my hair, i use really good conditioner and product.”

“fuckin tease.”

you turned around in your bed to hold your head in one of your hands, “what ever do you mean by that toji?”

“you always pull shit like this and you know it. you made me think i forgot your birthday last week.”

you laugh at his offense, noting that you did get a good scare out of him last week when you pretended he said your birthday wrong, “okay that was a one time thing though.”

“and then you told me the chinese restaurant i sent you to had shitty lomein.”

he had recommened the restaurant to you last month based on the premise that the lomein was good as hell and that you’d like it. you didn’t think he’d fall for it, but you told him it was crap just to fuck with him and he couldn’t function for a minute. 

“okay okay maybe i do pull shit like that every once in a while,” you digress

“every once in a while…” the scowl on toji’s face is quite loud when he responds

“every once in a while,” you punctuate with a sing songy voice

after your brunch date with toji the following day, he took you vase shopping because when he showed up at your place to pick you up he had another very large bouquet of flowers in his hands for you. and unfortunately, you couldn’t even fit all the flowers from the night before into the three vases you had. 

he took you to a high end home furniture store that you were pretty sure millionaires only shopped in, your theory being proven when a rug you passed by was the exact same one satoru kept in his apartment and shamelessly replaced when shoko got red wine on it. 

“woah,” you say when you get to the vase section, “this is way different than the ones at ikea.”

“see anything you like?” toji moves to stand next to you while you take in the vast number of beautiful vases in front of you

and at first you think you have nothing to say, unable to pick from all the beauties in splayed out for you, until your eyes spot a pretty almost seashell shaped vase, with defining ridges, colored gold, it was beautiful and you wouldn’t mind a number of those decorating your apartment. 

“i like this one,” you murmur as you walk up to it, noticing the slight iridescent shimmers on it

you can see toji raise his hand and make some sort of mannerism towards someone, you assume a worker, out of the corner of your eye after you say that. 

which led to the predicament of accompanying toji into your apartment numerous times as he carried the multiple boxes carrying the same vase into your apartment. you weren’t allowed to, he had demanded. he even eyed you threatningly when you made to pick up your own box to take with him. 

by the time he had brought in the last box you were very antsy, trying to find something to do in return for him like offer a water or food, or what fucking ever, just anything in exchange for his buying you multiple luxury vases and carrying them into your apartment. 

“i did that shit because i like you and i think you deserve it,” toji huffed, eyeing you pointedly while he accepted the glass of water you had offered him, “don’t get all weird.”

“okay…” you nervously looked to the side as you traced invisible lines across your kitchen island, “at least sit for a while before we have to unpack them and put the flowers in them. please?”

the tall and buff fighter let your small and nimble hands drag him to your couch by the arm and then guide him to sit on it, with you following after.

“I was watching grey’s anatomy before you came over,” you start, looking at him earnestly, “do you wanna watch some with me?”

toji set the glass of water on your coffee table then splayed his arm behind you on the couch and nodded, “go for it.”

“okay,” you smiled lightly then, much to his obvious surprise, crawled over him and reached for the remote next to him, tucked into the corner of the couch just a little, then went back to your original spot next to him.

your eyes were focused on opening netflix when he spoke, “is that the uh–the show with the doctors and crap?”

you pressed play when you set the remote off to the side and leaned more into his space, “yeah! it’s a little cheesy, but it’s fun to watch, at least before a certain season. after that it just goes downhill.”

“alright,” the ravenette said, leaning closer to your space too

“glow in the dark,” toji exhales a light laugh at the mention of glow in the dark condoms

“ever tried those?” you look up at him from where you’re tucked underneath his arm, hand splayed across his chest and abdomen area

“never knew they were a thing,” he smirks, “you?”

“i don’t even know what head’s like,” you roll your eyes, “as if i would’ve gotten to the exploration stage of fucking.”

you can see toji visibly stiffen at your comment

“what?”

“there’s no way in hell that fucker didn’t eat you out,” he’s sat up straighter now, eyes pining you under his gaze

“well there is a way in hell,” you move your hands as if to gesture ‘it is what it is’, “he didn’t like the taste.”

“what, he got a wonder dick or something?” he looked annoyed, “that do the job?”

“i did not ever orgasm, so no,” you laugh, finding it funny how pissed he’s getting on your part, “why are you so pissy for me zenin?”

he gives you one glance before looking forward at the tv to avoid your gaze, sighing a little, “it’s stupid, is all.”

“me not getting head?” you’re still staring at him even though he’s watching george and alex bicker on the tv

“yeah,” he nods

and satoru’s words play through your mind again, ‘personally, i think he would’ve done it by tonight already.’

but you shake the thought away before you start something stupid and reassume your cuddling position next to toji, watching as it gets revealed that the neurosurgeon lover has a wife already. the previous piece of information making toji uncharacteristically scrunch his nose and look as if he wants to spit at the screen. 

“what,” he looks at you, eyes waiting in earnest for the next episode, “that the end? start the next one.”

“are you sure,” you giggle at his sudden interest in the soap opera.

toji sinks into his spot on the couch, bringing you closer to him with a hand on the skin just above your knee, “yeah, play it.”

while you take the remote to start the new season, you laugh, then place it down before leaning up and placing a chaste kiss on the fighter’s lips, “you’re cute.”

he gives you a bored look, obvious in expressing that cute is not something he wants to be described as, but you can also feel the grip he has on you twitch for a second. 

“what?” you smile, “can i not call you cute?”

“can’t you find something better?” he says, trying not to roll his eyes

“not when you’re acting cute,” you sit up a little and grab his face to place a kiss on his forehead, then his nose, which scrunches up cutely at the action. you can see toji try to chase your lips just the slightest when he sees your mouth fall away from his nose and wander so close to his mouth. you use the observation to tease him, making it look as if the next destination was his lips until you go further down and land a peck on his chin. 

toji’s had enough of it, it seems, when he swoops a hand under your jaw and near your neck and guides you to his own mouth. he's soft about it, simply trying to taste your lips and memorize the feeling of your lips on his, until–you dont know who–one of you takes a sensual turn and makes it much more intense than need be. although unable to find the culprit of before, you can say that toji’s first in sliding his tongue into your mouth moments after. he does it slowly, flicking the muscle to tease at your own before retreating, as if waiting for yours to give the same response and you do, shyly dipping yours in to lick across his tongue. almost like he lured you in, he intertwines his muscle with yours upon the interaction and you can’t help the small high pitched moan that escapes you. 

on some sort of instinct, toji uses the hand on your knee to hook it under his grasp and guide you to his lap, planting you thigh to thigh on top of him. your hands, having forgotten what to do in these situations, awkwardly place themselves on his chest, shakily feeling the hardness of his chest underneath them. he grabs onto one of them, caressing the skin of it, while his other hand finds comfort in your waist. 

a second moan makes it way out of your throat and toji’s hips buckle up subconsciously, which makes you gasp into his searing kisses. the action has you noting that he’s hard underneath you and the exact size of him is a curiosity to you, the thought making you reach a hand down to hold him. 

he’s big, an ‘it’s going to hurt’ kind of big. 

“don’t…” he grunts out, letting go of the hand holding onto his chest and reaching down to take off the one holding his length, “touch unless you’re ready.”

“i’m ready,” you shift your hips atop of him and being forced to look at him when he pulls away from the kiss, lips pink and splotched and his pupils blown out.

“I can wait,” he says, trying to control his breathing, the expanse of his chest rising and falling so controlled even though the look in his eyes says otherwise, “don’t worry about me, if that’s it.”

“well I can’t,” you tug at one of the buttons of his shirt for emphasis, then guide one of his hands underneath your skin and near your inner thighs, “feel me.”

slowly and hesitantly, toji moves his hand onto your panties and runs a finger across the excessively damp wet spot of them.

“fuckin tease,” he groans at the touch, sliding his finger across again and again, earning mewl after mewl from you

“do you want me?” you shyly pant as you hold onto his free arm, fighting the need to put your head in his shoulders

“yeah, i fucking want you,” toji growls as he pushes you onto his chest by a hand on your back

he maintains eye contact with you when his hand pushes your panties out of the way and immediately slips a finger into your heat. the pressure of his gaze turns feral when your eyebrows knit and a loud moan leaves your lips.

for some reason, trying to excuse the loud reactions he’s about to get from you, you heave, worried, “i—i haven’t done this in a long time and–oh mmmm–i won’t be able to help myself.”

“think i care?” he huffs, concentrating on you when he slips a second finger inside and curls them both curiously to find your spot, which he does, smirking a little when your hold on him grows tighter and your hips wiggle at the pleasure, “scream all you want princess.”

he starts jutting in his fingers quickly in and out of you after the words leave his mouth, and the stretch is so good, so unlike your small hands that haven’t been able to do crap for years, that you start squealing and hug toji in by the back of his neck and shoulders.

“there you go, there you go baby,” he coos, smiling a little at the cute sounds you’re making and relishing in the squelch of your pussy while his fingers abuse it. 

“wait–wait–” you heave, beginning to push him away, even though the advance is useless due to his iron grip and try to explain an embarrassing admission so as to warn him, “i feel like im gonna–”

he gives you no chance to finish your sentence when he punches in a third finger and makes you nearly scream.

“what?” he breathes, lusty eyes boring into your own, “you gonna cum?”

“no–”you shake your head, trying your best to still relay your message even though you can feel your orgasm taking its final steps near, “well yeah–but–but–”

your stomach starts dropping and toji picks up his pace so brashly that you release almost instantaneously all over him. your legs twitch uncontrollably and you bury your face into his neck while squealing through the feeling.

“shit.” he utters, still fingering you through it, “fuck, fuck.”

“i squirt,” you almost cry, embarrassed and shaken up by your orgasm, unable to look at him, “i’m sorry, i tried to tell–”

“shut up,” toji spanks your pussy and doesn’t care when you yelp as he throws you with your back on the couch and starts to tug your panties off, “you’re gonna do it again.”

submitting to him, you shimmy out of your dress nervously while he hastily undoes the buttons of his dress shirt. the burly fighter drags you, so your legs dangle off the couch before he kneels down and places his hands underneath your thighs to spread you out for him

“look at me when i eat you,” toji pinches your clit to get your full attention on his face, “don’t close your eyes or look at the ceiling, none of that shit. got that?”

you nod your head impishly, hesitantly putting a hand on your stomach, itching to hold onto his face or his hair. 

his eyes drift to your sex and you can see a hint of irritation paint itself across his features when he mutters under his breath, “didn’t like the taste my ass.”

within milliseconds, toji saves no mercy and starts to eat you out like a man starved. his mouth is hot and wet, and you don’t know where the mess is coming from, his lips or yours. the man spits onto your pussy and so sloppily makes out with your sticky heat, interchanging between that and sucking so harsly against your clit. 

your legs are twitching so wildly and the only thing keeping you from scrambling away is toji’s hands that are now wrapped around your thighs to keep you pressed against him. 

you’re basically screaming now, in utter bliss from the heavenly feeling, unable to speak. 

his eyes keep looking up to bore into yours all while he aggressively kisses your pussy. it has your breath picking up rapidly and goosebumps rising all across your skin. his tongue laps across your lips so foreign yet so deliciously that you can’t help the increasing reach of your orgasm.

“I'm close!” you squeal after a particular suck of your clit, thinking that he needs to heed to the warning because you’re so sure you’re about to squirt on his face

all toji does in response is growl and let go of one of your thighs to start fingering you with two digits rapidly.

he stares you down while you struggle to keep the eye contact, your whole body beginning to twitch uncontrollably and your vision starting to see white until the invisible cord snaps and you feel an immense relief wash over you–and him.

the juices seeping from you seem to spur him on and he doesn’t move in any sort of way to avoid them, instead choosing to lap at them and drink it in all while making growls and groans of satisfaction. 

he’s still going at it when you come to, and you start shuffling away–well try to–from him, yelping, “it’s sensitive toji!”

he seemingly listens to you after a few seconds, running his tongue flat against your folds before he lifts his face from you. the entire lower half of his face is covered in your juices and his spit and he looks outright animalistic as he looks back at you. 

he gets up and stalks towards you until he’s on top of your body and dives down to kiss you aggressively, making you taste yourself in the process. it’s so erotic, it has your pussy fluttering all over again. 

“fuck,” he groans deeply into your mouth, “you don’t have any condoms right doll?”

you shake your head a little, but you wrap your arms around his shoulders and offer something else, “i’m on the pill…so i don’t really mind…”

you can feel his breath hitch and you’re quick to add, “but! if you’re not comfortable without one–”

“you fine with me blowing a load in you?” he mutters and seizes the chance to nip at your bottom lip

“i wanna feel it,” you admit, glad he’s still kissing you so he doesn’t see the flustered look on your face.

“dirty fucking angel,” he says heavily against your mouth before he gets up to undo his belt buckle and push both his pants and briefs in one motion.

he doesn’t even really spring up free like you expected him to. his dick is so hung that well, it hangs. the size looks bigger than what you predicted already when you touched it earlier. your ex, the only person you’ve had sex with, was the stark opposite of this, easy to fiddle with and well below average. the difference of having toji’s thick length right in front of you now had you clenching around nothing. 

“you like it?” toji smirks at you while he goes up to you again and moves you so that you’re completely laying across the couch before he climbs up on top of you between your legs.

“mhm,” you nod, looking down and hoping his tip can at least graze your folds while it bobs down near your inner thigh and that’s when you get an idea.

“can we–” you almost hesitate, “can we do a mating press?”

“was planning on it,” he says gruffly when he leans forward and pins your legs next to your head. 

you giggle at the words and he smiles down at you, a moment of innocence before the both of you look down and he’s using one hand to guide his tip into you.

the pop of his tip inside of you is overwhelming. you feel like you’re going to push him out in a single clench with how girthy he is. and you think the previous two, very wet, orgasms are what lets him slide into you, even though it stings. 

“shit’s fucking tight,” toji groans, both hands back to your legs while he and you watch him pull out nearly all the way and sink back in.

“ ‘s so big,” you huff, feeling like he’s outright in your stomach, “feel so full.”

“bet you do,” he sounds so serious when he says it, still entranced when he starts to pound in and out of you at an average pace that, although it’s not fast, still has you starting to feel tears brim near your waterline

the man above you starts groaning in sync with your moans and whines, shuddering a little everytime you clench and suck him in

“beautiful,” toji groans under his breath and you can feel his pace start to pick up a bit, “getting fucked on a huge cock, little princess slut. tiny fucking hole’s begging for help.”

the mean words mixed with his praise has you feeling epically embarrassed yet turned on all at the same time and all you can do is moan in response 

“you like getting called a slut?” he presses himself against you, almost chest to chest, smirking evilly while he raggedly breathes, “or princess? or you like me talking about splitting your pussy open?”

“all…of it,” you gasp through two punctual thrusts of his, he’s hit your cervix multiple times but the pleasure is so overwhelming, you’re starting to enjoy it

toji snickers a little, opening your legs a bit further to expose more of your torso, your tits being part of it and his intention, you realize when he goes down to pop one of your nipples into his mouth. he swirls the bud around his mouth and bites at it with his teeth while he starts to jackhammer into you, making sure each thrust is deep.

his balls start making a pap–pap sound everytime he thrusts back in, accompanying the wet squelch of toji dragging himself inside of you repeatedly.

it’s rough and hard, but more intimate than anything considering the few words being exchanged. the both of you are more concentrated on each other’s presence and reactions because after toji comes back up from your tits, he finds your lips and starts to makeout with you languidly. 

the grip on your thighs grows bruising when you mix tongue into the kissing, coaxing him to do the same too. 

“feel so fucking good,” he hisses when you clench around him uncontrollably, a sign of your incoming orgasm, “pussy’s close isn’t it”

you nod instead of speaking, concentrating on the delicious drag of his veins against your walls and the prodding of his tip at your g-spot

toji leans close to your ear, voice hard and lusty as he starts to mutter sweet and dirty nothings, “such a pretty girl, taking this cock so good.”

he then bites your ear softly, “you gonna milk my cock like a good girl? squeeze my load all out?”

shivering, you nod again and make a whimper in response 

“squirt all over me angel, i know you want to,” toji starts plummeting a bit harder into your sweet spot, finding it again, the action has you looking down at where you’re both connected unable to fathom how large he is and just how he’s making it all fit inside, “look at me.”

one of his hands is gently under your chin now, guiding you to look at him since your eyes had strayed from his own. he’s breathing heavy now and his irises are almost completely gone considering the blown out size of his pupils. 

“cum with me sweetheart,” the hand from your chin snakes its way down to your clit so as to start rubbing harsh circles for you, and you just know you’re about to make a bigger mess than before, “wrap that pretty pussy around me. milk the shit out of this dick. cum’s all yours baby.”

“ ‘s too much,” you whine, breathing ragged, “i don’t think–oh my god!”

you feel the pleasure wash over your entire body and come out all over toji’s lower abdomen accompannied by the profuse hard flutters of your pussy on his cock. you release a combination between a whine and a cry, feeling completely wrecked by the sensation.

toji follows you the moment your release gets all over him, his hips stiling and jerking into you roughly, this time giving hard kisses to your cervix instead of the fleeting small pecks from earlier. his cum feels immense, its warmth you can feel pooling inside you as toji sputters it into you.

“shit! fuck!” he groans, watching himself push it all into you before looking back up and taking you into a passionate kiss

“atta girl,” he utters after swiping his tongue across your teeth, one of his hands coming up to tentatively hold one of your breasts, “that feel good?”

tired, you weakly nod and sigh a weak, “mhm”

he lets go of the one hand holding your thigh up and moves both of your legs so that they wrap around his waist. he hasn’t pulled out yet.

“gonna buy you a new couch,” his lips twitch a little as he looks at the surrounding area near the both of you, “shit’s soaked.”

“toji!” you whine, embarrased, and pull him into you so you can hide your face.

toji doesn’t let you, instead pulling away so he can get a good look at you and grin, “you got spare sheets?”

“yeah?” you furrow your eyebrows, “but what does that have to do with the couch?”

“it doesnt. I’m fucking you on your bed later,” he shifts both of your bodies so that you can sit on top of him now just as he shifts the conversation back to what it was, “we’ll go shopping for the couch tomorrow. make it celebratory gift.”

“for the first time we fucked?”

“nah,” he lands a teasing kiss on your nose, “for your first time.”

you roll your eyes at him, “just because its been three years–”

“don’t care, doesn’t count if you never came with shrimp dick.”

a fit of giggles escapes you as you press yourself up against him for physical support, “yeah okay, it’s my first time gift.” 

then your eyes stray to his very wet clothes on the floor next to yours, “sorry i got your clothes dirty though. I don’t think i have anything for you to wear either.”

toji puts both of his thumbs at the corner of your mouth to make your pout disappear, he snickers at himself for it, “i’ll call my assistant to drop off some clothes here.” 

“how long will that take?”

“long as our shower,” toji huffs as he lifts the both of you up and starts walking to your restroom.

“and how long will that take?” you laugh, wiggling your eyebrows at him and clinging onto his shoulders.

“three more orgasms,” he comments, opening the door and leading the both of you to a very steamy shower. 

“you haven’t even made the call yet!”

“shut up.”

[ctrlsatoru]

DIABLO chapter one- TOJI FUSHIGURO

content: techbro !toji, reader is gojo's little sister, age gap (toji's in his late 30s, reader in mid 20s) kind of ooc toji, suggestive themes, no smut yet. warnings: 18+ only. suggestive themes. explicit language, references to sexual assault. toji having no sense of decorum. reader is engaged so, cheating? but not really and not yet. minors do not interact. pairing: toji fushiguro x afab gojo!reader word count: 8k a/n: i was listening to diablo by lexie liu and the rest was herstory. started as porn without plot but things escalated. will proofread this later. summary: Toji Fushiguro looks like a problem, and you know better than to let curiosity get the best of you, until boredom strikes. next chapter

There was a time when you speed-walked through this very same building with the drive that only a determined intern could contain. Six days a week, from busy mornings to late nights, you embraced every task they tossed your way, seamlessly transitioning between the demands of different editors.

In the midst of it, one newly appointed creative director saw your efforts and took you under her wing. What began as a professional mentorship soon evolved into an enduring friendship that extended well beyond your time at the magazine.

Utahime Iori, a guiding presence in your life, became one of your favorite people in the world—a friend with whom you shared an unspoken understanding, effortlessly reading each other's thoughts with a single exchange of glances across the room.

Fast-forward five years, and the abrupt, intrusive ring of your phone tucked under the pillow shook you awake. It was Iori on the line, her voice laden with urgency and distress. She was stuck in Kyoto, needing you to do her a solid one. Her father’s condition had worsened overnight, and she wouldn’t be able to make it back to Tokyo for a critical photoshoot.

And so, here you stand, back at the bustling headquarters of the technology and culture magazine where you started your career. Despite your throbbing headache and the relentless fatigue that clings to your tired eyelids, you refuse to let your friend down.

Today's mission: capturing profile photos for an enigmatic tech mogul, a figure so elusive that no magazine has ever managed to secure an interview or collaboration. Probably some Zuckerberg from shein with an amped-up eccentric, incel overlord edge.

Iori had shared the name and a brief overview of the assignment during her desperate call, but the details had slipped through your grasp in the haze of your concern for her.

If you remember correctly, the project is related to something corny along the lines of Diablo. 

“Ok,” you breathe after the third scalding gulp of coffee that someone thrust in your hand the second you arrived.

Utahime's assistant, a young girl with striking blue hair and asymmetrical bangs named Miwa, looks up from her phone at you with bright eyes, relieved that you’re finally showing signs of life. 

“Uh, who the fuck is this guy again?” 

You’re momentarily distracted by how cold this place is. A shiver cuts a straight line up your spine. July in Tokyo is no justification for keeping the set at industrial fridge temperature, you think. For some reason, Miwa’s opening and closing her mouth like a fish out of the water. You know Utahime can make any seasoned truck driver sound graceful when she’s under enough pressure, so it can’t be your choice of words.

You fail to notice your surroundings coming to a stop, or the shadow towering over you.

“Fushiguro. Toji Fushiguro.”

Oh.

That's one way to sober you up.

You’re definitely awake after hearing the deep yet smooth rumble behind you. Everyone within earshot gets ready for what’ll happen next as that oh shit realization settles on your shoulders.

But you’re no longer the eager intern who hid in the bathroom to cry after a rookie mistake. Nothing in your face gives away your heart threatening to crawl out of your ribcage. You turn around bravely and face a soft, dark blue surface. 

No choice left but to look up… and up again, until he’s framed inside the thin silver structure of your glasses.

Your first impression of him is simple: no one this tall should stand at this close of a distance. There should be two, or three meters between you to make up for the lack of an acceptable height.

Toji Fushiguro -the name does stick this time- tilts his head to the side and gives you what might be the most shameless once-over. His eyes feel like a dark green horizontal light scanning you from head to toe. It ends with a quizzical expression on his face. The irk is triggered within the second.

“Who are you?”

That same question pops into your mind.

The hair team must've taken their sweet time arranging his inky black hair in just the perfectly unbothered way, and there’s a healthy glow coming off the sharp edges of his face that can only be the result of seamless natural makeup, enhancing his ruggedly handsome looks. 

You’re thinking that by too big, Iori meant that he’s massive. Literally. Wide shoulders block the tungsten spotlight behind him, casting a shadow on you and drawing a luminous halo around his silhouette. 

Nothing’s angelic about him. You can tell just by looking. It’s a family gift. You may not have your brother’s electric baby blues, but you have thesight, as he calls it, and the alarms in your head are off.

Miwa shifts her gaze between you like she’s about to shit herself when Choso, the head photographer and a good friend of yours, cuts through the tense atmosphere with admirable ease. He rests a warning hand on your shoulder and takes it upon himself to introduce you. 

"She'll be our director today, stepping in for Utahime."

Toji Fushiguro turns to Choso, his eyes never leaving you, observing. 

“Why? What happened to Utahime?”

"She had an unexpected family emergency and asked her to fill in. She's worked with us before, and she's excellent at what she does. We're in capable hands today."

What a star, Choso. A beacon of diplomacy. The arms industry would collapse if he got into politics, you’re sure. 

Still under his scrutiny, your expression remained composed. You knew his steely smile would fade soon, and—

“Well, that’s all that matters, isn’t it?” he concludes breezily, extending his hand toward you.

You reciprocate, not looking down to see how his palm engulfs yours. You just know it will. He on the other hand lifts both eyebrows at your firm handshake, lips twitching in amusement.

“I look forward to working with you, Gojo.”

Two hours in, it occurs to you that it might be the case that everyone on set is under some kind of horny spell.

Him nearly walking through the backdrop five minutes in and laughing it off with a cocky comment and a devilish grin sets the entire set on edge from the get-go.

Apparently there’s something about an overwhelmingly tall, ripped, attractive grown man pouting like an iPad kid when his tiny but scary female assistant comes in between breaks to confiscate his phone. There’s a brutish charm about him that makes people act like Victorian gentlemen glimpsing an ankle for the first time.

The wardrobe assistants are in a heated discussion about how many hands it would take to wholly grasp his bulging biceps.

You, however, remain skeptic. Though if you took any part in the conversation, you’d point out how fucking thick his neck is. Does he lift weights with that thing? What does he need all that for?

When the makeup artist approaches him for touch-ups, he widens the distance between his feet until his face reaches a comfortable height for her to work away. The behind-the-scenes team gobbles it up like ravenous piranhas. You expect to see this doing numbers on the magazine’s YouTube channel. 

Done with feeling out of the loop and not satisfied with what you catch from the set gossip, you take a bathroom break and allow curiosity to get the best of you. You lock the stall door, sit on the lid, and google him.

His name auto-completes after just three letters. You stare at the Toj on the search bar before going down the rabbit hole.

Self-made, controversial, messy family background. He's the mastermind behind the acclaimed early 2010's video game, Diablo. He's faced years of criticism in several countries for glorifying violence, gang activity, with the healthy dose of satanic accusations.

Nonetheless, Diablo hit it off big and then came along the videogames and software company under the same name. The empire has been steadily encroaching on giants like Tencent with Fushiguro as the elusive face of the company, for better and for worse.

For all his vehement disdain for public attention, he has the general public, a horde of fangirls and red pilled men following his every move. He's idolized in male communities and simultaneously the main character in throves of ridiculous Buzzfeed articles filled with GIFs of him looking scary and hot at the same time, of him looking like the bodyguard of everyone’s dreams, of him taking no shit from the press. Of him looking like a character out of his videogames.

You get the idea.

But something else in the personal life section draws your attention.

He’s a Zenin. And not a distant one. He’s Naobito Zenin’s very own nephew. 

According to a twitter thread he severed ties with his fucked up dynasty of a family when he was younger and paved his own way under his late wife’s last name. The reasons for the fallout are unknown to the public, but theories are abundant in the replies. You bookmark that for later.

With all this newfound context, you’re almost disappointed that he showed no offense to your frankly rude introduction. After all, you’re a Gojo, the impulse to antagonize a Zenin runs through your veins. And if it’s not pure instinct, Satoru personally taught you how to deal with them. One of your favorite childhood memories is your brother reducing Naoya Zenin to tears.

The handshake felt layered, like a declaration of war tucked behind a steely smile. There’s a glint in his eyes when you return to the set and he catches you looking, it contradicts the unbothered, enigmatic persona people are simping for religiously online. 

It’s there and it’s gone, but you’re fast enough to catch it. It tells you that he’s playing nice as a temporary measure. You have the disturbing feeling that he knows what you were up to during your bathroom break.

Realistically, if you have to guess, he’s planning to make his team bring up your misstep up to the magazine higher-ups.

You're torn between concern for Utahime and a deep-seated desire to see him try.

The day unfolds smoothly with minimal intervention on your part. You stay behind the monitor and let the crew do their job. Your role mainly involves offering insights when requested and flagging promising shots with Choso.

Seeing him go through different stages of boredom and despite his not-so-wide variety of facial expressions, you find that the camera doesn’t hate him. It's a unanimous consensus that, in another life, he could have pursued a career in modeling, or perhaps even acting. When someone inquires about your opinion on the matter, you become the focal point of a few discreet side-eyed glances. Your response is a non-committal hum. 

Your attention is currently fixated on the last sequence of preview shots displayed on the screen, there’s a very specific detail that you just can’t let pass.

“Can we take a quick break? I wanna try something.”

Choso, taken aback by your sudden initiative, responds, “Yeah, of course, take your time.”

Toji’s face drops from the draw of his eyebrows as you approach him.

“Hi,” he says with that off-putting lift of the corners of his mouth that is supposed to be a smile. He’s probably thinking that your stalling is only prolonging what he wants to be over with.

“Hi,” you catch his inquisitive glance at the objects in your hand. “Is it okay with you if I wipe off the scar?”

His eyes snap down at yours as he thinks it over, squinting for a bit. You’re certain he’s about to tell you to fuck off when he nods briskly, opening his palms as if beckoning you closer.

“Go ahead.”

It's a polite, seemingly harmless green light, yet it feels like you're a bird about to peck at grains of rice beneath a box suspended by a stick.

“Can you—”

He reads your hesitation and does the same thing you’ve seen several times today. He opens the distance between his feet, clasping his hands behind his back. You, for some reason, wait until he looks up at the ceiling like people on the makeup chair usually do out of instict, but he stares at you instead.

Saturating the Q tip with micellar water, you start working away the thin but high coverage layer of foundation, careful not to overdo the edges. A few swipes in and the natural rosy hue of scarred tissue appears, a few shades darker than the color of his lips. It’s a slender, vertical ridge that cuts across his lips, about an inch long. A feature too distinct to waste.

You pull back and he takes the brief chance to run his tongue across the scar, pulling a face at the taste.

Unfazed, you wipe away any excess micellar water and—well, his saliva, you assume—with the dry side of the cotton swab. Once you’re done with that you pat away with a disposable puff dipped in translucent power, just to get rid of any unnecessary shine.

“All good? You satisfied?”

“Yes.”

“Cause you don’t look satisfied.”

You’re happy with the outcome of your tweaking, yes. The overall shooting? Well, you’re not in love with it, but you don’t have to be. This whole thing has Utahime’s and the magazine’s aesthetic written all over it, harsh contrasts, blunt shadow. You know not everything has to make a statement, but it's rather simple, completely relying on the man's character.

“I’m going with the brief,” You answer, taking a step back to get an overall look and consider any further touch-ups, stopping him when he starts to go up again. “No. Stay right there.”

“What if it was yours?” he asks, complying pointedly.

“Like I said, I’m going with the brief I was given.”

“But if you were the original director?”

You wouldn't even be assigned to the task. You left the magazine shortly after you finished your internship and never looked back, even though you liked it here and were being given a much nicer offer than you were expecting. That same week you found out that your brother had been wining and dining members of the home editorial, showing interest in negotiating for the magazine.

It was a no-brainer for you to part ways and find another way. These days you're independent, working with brands and entertainment agencies that allow for more creative freedom.

“I wouldn’t be so heavy on making the tech oligarch look human.” 

You reply more out of impulse than calculation, the same way you touch a cat’s tail knowing there will be consequences.

“You suggesting I don’t look human?” He flashes a cold grin, kind of like a warning. 

The novelty has worn off. Most of the crew are busy doing their own thing, discussing lunch and stretching to alleviate the fatigue of a long day. A few lingering glances remain trained on you— Miwa, Choso, his strict assistant.

He doesn’t wait for your answer.

“So, what do I look like?”

Like a shark, you think. Don’t ever grin at me again, creep.

“You’re full of questions, aren't you?”You tug lightly at the neckline of his shirt, just a pinch of the fabric, barely touching him at all. "Maybe that should be included in the profile."

He hums. “I'm a curious man. I get bored easily.”

You conclude the interaction and walk away, acknowledging Choso with a nod, all the while ignoring the way his amused eyes linger on you.

Like you’re just postponing the inevitable. Whatever that might be.

He finds you later that day, after you’ve wrapped up.

He enters the room with the unspoken confidence of someone who believes he owns not just the studio, but the entire building. Like he's just acquired the magazine and now feels entitled to disrupt your peace with a shitty opening sentence.

“Your work.” 

You look up from your phone and find him in the mirror in front of you. The hair and makeup team packed their stuff a while ago, all the stations are clean and deserted, and only the lights remain on.

 “It’s… interesting. The butterflies, are they alive?”

You look up from your phone and find him in the mirror in front of you. The hair and makeup team packed their stuff a while ago, all the stations are clean and empty, and only the lights remain on.

“Sorry?” You’re unable to hide your annoyance at the unexpected interruption.

“I googled you. Your work. It’s eye-catching, quite… I guess eccentric’s a good way to describe it. Very edgy.”

You’ve heard your fair share of similar comments in the past, but he pouts and frowns with the last two words and irritation pulls at you. You let your hands drop to your lap.

He leans nonchalantly against the door frame, arms crossed, undeterred by your silence and your less-than-friendly attitude.

“I was wondering, are the butterflies real or is it CGI?”

You can’t for the life of you decide if he’s being serious, or decipher his intentions. “Neither. They’re props.”

“They look very realistic.”

“They do,” you agree. “That’s the intention.”

“And the flowers?”

“Those are real. For the most part.”

“I see. So how would you have me?”

“Excuse me?” 

He visibly fights back a smile, and you wonder if this one would’ve reached his eyes, but seeing how you’re going back and forth like you can’t let the other get the last word, you doubt it. You also doubt that he’s capable of such a human thing. Smiling warmly. Honestly.

“You said not so heavy on the looking human earlier, so what concept would you go for if we worked together?”

Because he won't leave you alone to discuss dinner plans with Satoru and Suguru, you stand up from your seat and turn around to rest against the floating station. Facing him like this feels a lot safer than speaking to him through the mirror.

He’s dressed in his own clothes, a basic light gray t-shirt several tighter than the soft material the stylist put on him and a pair of dark jeans. His phone is, as usual, attached to his hand, constantly lighting up with notifications.

“I don’t know. It usually takes me a week to get a feel of the concept.”

“I saw the tank pictures,” he replies a bit too quickly as if he didn't care for your answer. You’re certain that you don’t like this man. You don’t like how bluntly he talks about your work, or that you immediately know what he’s talking about.

Knowing how things went on that particular set and from the way he looked absolutely done in the most basic environment without having to do much work, that would be a disaster.

“I wouldn’t put you in a tank,” You snort dismissively, and he tilts his head curiously.

“So?”

A string of visual prompts runs through your mind. Submerging half of his face in black tinted water, his head resting on a white surface, red spilling from his eyes. Perhaps you'd drown him in smoke or apply mechanical prosthetics to his face and neck. You’d make his skin flush like rubies as if it were burning to the touch. In every single one of them, his scar is left untouched.

“Nothing you’d be comfortable with.” 

“You see, I think we could meet in the middle.” he reasons, very eloquently, a master of negotiation. You imagine that this is the same voice he uses with his board members to bend them his way. “Can’t say I’d be down for the body-pilling thing or the body suits, but I’m sure we could come up with something that leaves us both satisfied.”

“Are you trying to hire me right now?” You’re genuinely confused. And hungry. And tired. And nursing a lingering hungover.

“No,” he chuckles, like the notion is absurd “but you looked bored today, and I think I could live up to your vision, is that the word?”

“Right, uh huh.” you nod, very condescendingly, remembering that you’re no longer filling up for anyone or hold any professional responsibility. This is just some man wasting your time. “So what is this? You got a praise kink or something?” 

He’s unbothered by that. “Not that I know of. Can I be honest?” 

You lift your shoulder in a half-hearted gesture. It's not as though he cares about seeking permission anyway. 

He lets his eyes drop to the floor and looks back up at you with a bashful little grin. 

“I’ve just always wanted to fuck a married woman.”

You’re not as surprised as you are relieved that he’s cut to the chase. He’s not the first man to detest you and want you at the same time. Men often blur the lines between disdain and sex. It’s only fun when they don’t get too comfortable, wanting to only deliver but folding when it’s their turn to take. 

The situation settles on you. The room seems smaller now, and the distant sounds of people outside have all but faded away. He's blocking your only exit, put you in this tight spot intentionally.

There’s a possibility that he’s some exception to the norm, that he can take as much as you suspect he can give, but you’re not going to find out.

“Too honest?” He's devoid of any shame or attempts to sound apologetic. Instead, he's assessing you closely, monitoring you for any reaction.

You know men like him. He has to be used to people eagerly dropping to their knees with just a tilt of his chin. Most of the people you worked with today would do so without hesitation. But Toji Fushiguro, with his insincere smile and unflinching demeanor, harbors far more selfish and hostile motives than bending you over the same chair you were sitting in and making you watch in the spotless mirrors.

“Should’ve kept my intentions to myself?”

A corner of your lips lifts, and he zeroes in on it.

“Didn’t scare ya, did I? You’re a big girl, you're not gonna run.”

He’s daring you now. Fully predatory, like he’ll do something at the slightest indication. Shark waiting for a speck of red in the water. You picture him stalking his way into this secluded space that only the crew knows about after finishing recording videos for the magazine’s social media accounts, his shadow looming across the narrow corridor. 

Fear and power. That’s his deal. He either wants to witness a furious flush down your neck, your throat bob in trepidation and your hand look for your phone...

“And do what?” You cross your arms, refusing to back down. “MeToo you? Expose Japan’s favorite self-made billionaire hellboy? Reddit would riot.”

Or he wants you to bite back.

“I mean, considering the way you were eyefucking me I think I could probably pull the reverse MeToo card on you.” 

Your chin drops, your eyebrows go up, and your head leans back at the accusation. Were you? Eyefucking him?

Maybe. A little bit.

But so was the whole room. Probably every room he walks in. 

You're a visual person.

And nothing’s stopping you from bullshitting. “Someone’s optimistic.”

“Is that it?” he smiles, tantalizing. “Does Gojo's little heiress always generously take on the role of a make up artist? Or was she just feeling charitable today?”

You're not going to indulge him with an answer. It's not uncommon for you to take on various roles and responsibilities during your projects. 

And if he thinks he'll get to you by casually dropping the four letter word out of nowhere, he's not as sharp as you were hoping him to be.

“Right. You go ahead. Tell Instagram that I sexually assaulted you with a cotton swab.”

“It’d be just another Monday for Gojo’s PR mercenaries, right?”

“Everyone likes to look at pretty things. Don’t get cocky, old man.” His eyebrows get high into his forehead like he’s never been called old to his own face. “You asked me what you look like earlier.”

The scrunch of his nose indicates that he wants to say something before the subject changes, but  indulges you anyway.

“I did.”

“You look like a problem,” you let your words hang in the air for a moment. “And not the kind I have fun dealing with, no offense.”

Finally, he grins again, tongue coming out to just graze the edge of his canines. Something inside your belly stirs as you follow the movement.

“And I’m not married yet. So you might want to take your intentions somewhere else.”

He nods thoughtfully, sees the way you twist the ring around and display the stone as if to make a point. Then he buries his hands in the pockets of his jeans and lifts his shoulders, taking in a deep breath. The motion reveals a thin line of hard skin under his shirt and just the edge of his underwear. 

Water under the bridge.

“Well, no harm in putting it on the table, right?”

Your phone buzzes. Your drive home is waiting for you outside. You move like he’s not standing by the doorway and blocking your only way out. 

“Have a pleasant day, Fushiguro.”

He moves away right before you can crash into him, eyes like green bullets aimed at the back of your head.

It’s Friday when you see him again at your friend’s birthday party.

He’s lurking his way through the party, nursing a drink with his eyes attached to the screen on his hand until the birthday boy himself hunts him down. Haibara, producer and pitchfork sweetheart whose debut album cover art you worked on earlier in the year.

It’s a funny sight, it would be almost endearing if it wasn't  him. The sunshine main character dragging the hunched, brooding giant along with him. Toji looks like he’s trying his best to keep up, half-amused, half-annoyed, nodding as Haibara rambles away. You wonder how the two even fit together, Haibara being so charming and him a walking threat.

Then you remember Haibara mentioning that he's been working on the soundtrack for a video game.

Your friends’ conversation mingles with the music and flows around you. Someone’s getting married to his ex-husband’s father. Yuki’s about to open her third concept store somewhere in Europe. You can’t be bothered to focus too much on catching up, but you do meet Shoko’s eyes across the room when Mei Mei says something particularly questionable.

You see a hint of longing in her eyes, a shared sense of missing Iori, just as you do. On a brighter note, her father's health is finally starting to improve.

A hand wraps around yours, and another settles on your shoulder. The cold press of a ring on your skin brings you back to the present.

Hiroki leans over your shoulder. “Car’s here.”

His hand feels hot and clammy on yours as he leads you out of your friend's sight, turning back occasionally to make sure he hasn't lost you in the crowd. He won't stop until you're both outside, standing by the side of the street.

“Call me when you land?”

Of course, he will. Nothing has changed. He’s starting a new project in some small town in the middle of nowhere in Europe in 24 hours. You won’t ask him to stay. Six months will pass, and nothing will change, you’ve both done this before. 

But you stall. He always calls a car with this in mind. You kiss by the sidewalk, he squeezes you in his arms until your bones fight back. You’ve done this before. It’ll happen again, considering how his acting career is taking off overseas. You’ll do it time and time again until—

“You taste like pennies,” he tells you. Your finger traces the barely there curve of his thick, straight eyebrows. He pulls back, bringing his fingers up to your face. You push his hand away before it reaches its destination.

Hiroki nods to himself, looking away. Something inside you twists, so you fill the silence.

“Make sure to take an aspirin.” 

He nods, always sweet and obedient when you’re nagging. You tuck a strand of hair away from his eyes so that people don't fall too hard for him on the airport. His hair has grown longer in recent months, part of his preparation for a role.

Back inside, Yuki makes room for you by moving her legs off the couch. She asks if everything is okay, and you pull her legs onto your lap, rolling your eyes. She knows you too well.

“Don’t gaslight me. Something was off.”

“Do I look like something’s off?”

“No, but you’re a fucking oyster. Hiroki’s not that good with his face for an actor. He kept looking at you like he was afraid you’d disappear.”

Choso chimes in, draping his arm around her shoulders. "They're getting married. I don't want to jump to conclusions, but I think he might like her, and he might enjoy looking at her."

Looking out of the window, your gaze naturally drifts toward a figure seated by Haibara’s covered dock. Earlier, it was adorned with twinkling lights, but now, even in the dark, you can discern a solitary silhouette in the middle of the glittery ocean.

Mei Mei taps her cigarette, fixing her eyes on you from the other side of the couch. 

“Does it have something to do with Toji Fushiguro asking about you, by any chance?”

Your stomach drops. Your group of friends reacts quickly.

“Who?” 

“What does Toji Fushiguro want with you?” Yuki asks, face snapping at you. “Is he trying to get to Gojo through you?”

“We worked on a shooting with him a few days ago.” Choso calmly explains before she can come up with any conspiracies. “She was covering for Utahime. Made quite the impression on him, I think.”

“Oh, Satoru’s gonna fucking hate that.” Shoko laughs, unexpectedly loud in her inebriated state. “Please, please fuck him. He’ll be so pissed if you fuck him. It’ll be hilarious.”

“No respect or regard for the fiancé.” Choso shakes his head, and it looks like he’s laughing from the way his shoulders move up and down. “Poor bastard.”

“Yeah, well.” Shoko shrugs, not bothering to hide her dislike for your fiancé. 

You shake your head and roll your eyes. “He’s just pissy because I was not... very professional. I think the asshole wants to get me blacklisted.”

Choso makes a noise of disagreement. Yuki frowns in concern. “Shit. What did you do?”

“She showed up hungover, asked who the fuck he was when he was standing behind her. Miwa was traumatized.”

“Poor Miwa. She's an angel.”

“Whatever you did, he’s asking around…” Mei Mei adds with a spineless little smile. You don’t like how she makes you feel like she knows exactly what went down that day.

You wonder how well she knows him, and how much he told her. 

“...and let’s just say that he’s not the curious type, so make your assumptions, everyone.”

You tap Yuki’s thigh without thinking twice and push yourself off the couch. A string of accusations about scaring you off follow, and Mei Mei teases you about not meaning to do that.

“Fuck off, I just need some fresh air.”

“But you’re gonna consider it, right? For me? Come on, it’ll cheer Iori up.”

“I’m not gonna fuck some random man just because you think it’d be funny, Shoko.”

And you’re pretty sure Iori would be the first to tell you to stay away from him. Shoko sags against the back of the couch like a puppy you stepped on.

You step out of the house, past the pool, the limestone steps, and stop only to take off your sandals. The sand is cold and yielding, no traces of the warmth of the slow Atami day left, soft grains clinging to the soles of your bare feet.

Haibara’s dock stretches out into the ocean, endless until you reach the far end and leave behind the sound of laughter and music. It’s him, like you suspected, sitting on the edge, his legs hanging over the sea. 

With one elbow resting on his thigh and a phone in hand, his other palm supports his face. You sweep a strand of hair over your shoulder and inhale the salty breeze, opting to linger a while before revealing your presence.

“I think I got it.”

He looks up at you, momentarily caught off guard, allowing you to take a triumphant sip from your glass, ignoring the stinging inside your cheek. He's still engrossed in the medieval game he was playing during the shooting, his commitment minimal, his thumb hovering over the screen.

You leave some distance between you as you take a seat, glass resting between you. It’s a high drop from here, the water looks as if it could freeze you instantly.

“Hand-held CCTV cameras aimed at your face. Like guns. Point blank.” you finally elaborate, once you’ve found a comfortable position, demonstrating with your hand.

“Sounds fuckin’ uncomfortable.” he remarks, eyeing your demonstrative fingers. You wonder if he’s drunk and how much alcohol it would take to get him there. 

You drop your hand, and he follows the movement. “I warned you.”

“So I don’t get flowers? No butterflies?”

“Nah.” 

He lifts his gaze from where it had settled on your thighs, and you absentmindedly tap your ring finger against the bare skin out of habit.

“I thought I was pretty.”

You snort in response. Tonight, the moon shines particularly bright, illuminating the dock lounge. It's a serene spot to catch a break from the lively party.

“I changed my mind.”

He sucks on his teeth. “You can’t take a man’s virginity for being called pretty and then take it back. It's cruel.”

“If it helps, you’re still objectively nice to look at.” You say behind your glass. No point in lying, he’s hot. And self-aware. And you’re not blind or ashamed to admit it. You work with hot people all the time.

"Objectively nice to look at.” he repeats, like he’s getting a feel of it, or memorizing it for future use. “What about your fiance, then? ‘s he pretty? Enough for flowers and butterflies and shit?”

“I met him working for an editorial. He did get flowers.” 

“Ah, I see. So, does he do that often?”

You let another sip wash down your throat, this time tilting your head to the side to avoid the sting.

He returns to his game, and you trace the profile of his nose while the screen highlights the hollows beneath his eyes and the fine lines around his mouth. If you were a bit more intoxicated, you might be tempted to snatch his phone and toss it into the water, anything to halt the conversation about Hiroki. It would force him to look at you instead.

“Leave you alone at parties.” he adds. 

You've momentarily forgotten the initial question. “He’s my fiance, not my babysitter. I can take care of myself.”

“Never suggested otherwise, did I?” he sniffs, and a part of you, the sensible one, contemplates returning to your friends and disregarding whatever pulled you out here. Leave him be to enjoy his game and stay away from the one brewing between the two of you.

“What about your entourage? Are they comfortable leaving you out of their sight?”

“I can fend for myself too.” he says, eyes set on his phone.

"Can I play for a bit?” you ask, extending your hand. He hesitates, briefly glancing at you as if to confirm you're not taking the piss, down at his phone, and back at you.

His phone is big enough to feel like a console, and there's a very on-brand crack on the left corner that he warns can cut you. It gets him a side eye that he reacts to with a careless shrug. 

You haven’t played any games in years or downloaded any since the younger members of your family grew out of the age where they came as useful, but you recognize this one from ads you’ve seen on Instagram.

It doesn’t take any experience to figure out that you’re supposed to manage some kind of orthogonal kingdom. There’s a castle and a medieval-style village surrounded by a tall wall, with full crops around. You tap around, collect coins here and there, zoom in and zoom out under his close watch. Every time you tap a building without a full green bar, a few options show up, you bite your lip to hold back a smile and hit the red X on the right corner of what looks like a church.

“Hey—”

He’s snatching his phone out of your hands before you can pretend to be sorry.

“Fuck you’d do that for?”

You don’t know why, but his annoyance hits you as the most entertaining thing you’ve seen or heard tonight. A grown-ass man next to you sulking because you deleted his little 2D church on his phone. Shoko might think you fucking him would be hilarious, but this, to you, is real comedy. 

“What? You religious or something?” You doubt he is, given his controversies and the way he enjoys taunting the satanic-panic crowd. He also happens to look like god left the room the moment he was born.

Toji shakes his head, not as an answer but to reiterate that you’ve pissed him off. A laugh full of mirth bubbles out of you. He’s tapping aggressively, filling up the blank spot with a smaller version of the building, and sucks on his teeth again, disappointed at how pathetic it looks around all his leveled-up properties.

“So, what's your deal?” You inquire.

“What?” he gruffly asks, offering you an irritated glance. He’s kind of cute like this, frustration looks like a foreign emotion for a man like him.

“Any conduct disorders?”

He does a double-take again.

“Is that offensive to you?” you ask, struggling to contain your amusement at how confused he looks. "Sorry, I know your generation isn't that comfortable discussing these things."

“See, I might be socially stunted, yeah,” he gruffs after staying quiet for a bit, finally putting his phone inside his back pocket. “But you rich kids—”

“Oh, us rich kids?” you gasp softly, not expecting that turn, you bite your lower lip to stop yourself from laughing out loud as he’s not done with his sudden rant.

You’re tickled.

He shakes a thick finger in your direction.

“You’re fucking uncomfortable to be around, you know? It makes you think that maybe bullying exists for a reason. They don’t rough the bunch of you nearly enough at those expensive private schools, do they?”

"I hate to break it to you, but you are a rich kid inside a grown man’s body.” He rolls his green eyes at you until all you see is white, thick eyelashes fluttering. 

“Ah, I get it. You’re self-made and I’m nepo trash. Spoiled little bitch who’s never been taught a lesson, is that it?”

Animosity radiates out of him. He flattens his palms on the wood surface behind him and clenches his jaw, shaking his head like he’s not even going to try to reason with you.

"Don't pretend you're above the rest of us because you took someone else's last name. Blood is thicker than a piece of paper.” 

“Nah, you’ve got it wrong there, sweetheart. I don’t put people in such one-dimensional boxes.”

He scratches the side of his nose before elaborating.

“Spoiled little bitch, yeah. But you’re a hard worker. And stubborn, too. You’ve been paving your own way, working real hard to traumatize daddy back. You run on pure spite.”

You scoff, throwing back what’s left of your drink.

“And get this,” eyes now glazed with a cruel glint, he leans in closer like he's about to share a secret, and peers down at your chest when you lean closer “He’s the crowned king of our country’s conservative media, he’s also old as fuck, so that can only mean that he’s a raging homophobe on top of, you know, violently misogynistic. You and your brother must have that therapist of yours living the fucking life.” 

He stops and cocks his head, like realization just landed on him. 

“And you’re weaponizing the fuck out of him. Christmas at the Gojos's a nightmare for your poor little boyfriend, but you have your fun, don’t you?”

Just a few minutes ago, you’d been savoring the signs of irritation in his body language, mind running wild with all the ways you could make him tick, but now you want to punch him in the throat. Just bury your fist right there in that v-shaped Adam's apple of his.

“You’re cold-hearted for that, sweets. You know you are.” he accuses half-heartedly, the wicked glint in his eyes hinting that he's trying to strike a chord. “Tell me, does he prepare his speeches beforehand or does he just sit there next to you, quiet and pretty and eats his dessert?”

“Don’t talk about my family.” You lick the inside of your cheek, but you know the strung tone of your voice will only egg him on.

“Why not? You’re on the news every day. Everyone talks about you.”

Usually, when it comes to your family, you’ve got thick fucking skin. You’re aware of the stain and privilege of your last name. The advantages you’ve had and people claim you don’t deserve. The fact that you’re the living consequence of your father cheating on Satoru’s mother.

Most of the things they say about your father and his monster of a corporation you can agree with, but you keep your head high and your thoughts to yourself and stick to sharing looks with Suguru when it gets particularly nasty between your brother and your father during family gatherings. 

“He’s been causing quite the stir, hasn’t he? Your brother. If Alzheimer’s doesn’t do it, he might be the one to finally spare us and send your old man to hell.”

But you don’t fuck around when it comes to Satoru. 

You’re propping yourself up on your wrist and lifting your leg when his hand comes to your bare knee, stopping you from attempting to stand up and walk away. His grip is surprisingly gentle, though the tips of his fingers touching the back of your knees do send the message. It’s like he can’t let you forget how much smaller you are in comparison to him.

“Whoa, easy. I’m just playing with you.”

You blink down at him, face set, hoping to deliver the message that you might push him into the water if he fucks around any further.

“You obviously know I have plenty of family baggage for you to hit me back with, have at it.” he adds, almost kindly.

You remember Naoya Zenin with tears running down his face. If you had to bet on it, you’d say that making Toji Fushiguro cry would single-handedly give you bragging rights over Satoru for the rest of your lives.

He hums when you sit again. “Go on, get as creative as you want.”

“I doubt you even have a family.” you bite “God knows what Zenin lab near Fukushima you escaped from."

He smacks his lips, half buying into it. “Weak but creative, I’ll give a tick for that. So, what I’m getting here is that you get along with him, then.”

You give him an uninterested side eye.

“Couldn’t pretend to give a shit when I mentioned your boy toy, but you looked like a loaded gun the second I brought up your brother.”

Behind the amused curl of his lip, he sounds suspiciously genuine. You don’t feel like elaborating.

“I've met him a few times,” he mentions offhandedly. “Flashy cottonhead prick, doesn’t like me very much.” 

“Can’t imagine why, enchanting as you are.”

“Probably gonna like me a lot less after this.” he reasons, more to himself. 

"What? Worried I might tell him about your less-than-friendly attitude?"

"Why woud I?" he chuckles, a terrible look of innocence crossing his features. "I've behaved so far, haven't I? Given the circumstances." 

"Don't think I want to know your idea of misbehaving, then." you say, and try hard not to shiver at the way he looks down at you as he utters the last words. Like you're the circumstances in question. 

"Debatable, that. But I'll let it slide." He chuckles, satisfied with your reaction. “So, two peas in a pod? You and him?”

“I haven't seen him in a while.” you say offhandedly, thinking back about how your dinner plans fell through after a sudden change in his schedule. A common occurrence. It seems to get worse as you get older. “He’s been busy these days, performing some... corporate sacrificial ritual.”

“And the little heiress is too cool to involve herself in such bland, boring affairs.”

You’ve had a bad feeling since your father announced he’ll be stepping down from his position. With the controversies involving the company, the board and investors spiraling and Satoru suspiciously playing your father’s game, you see havoc brewing in the future; your father closing his fist around his leashes, children crying, kittens separated from their mothers and blood spilled on the floor.

And you want none of it. 

“I’m an outsider. You don’t need me to explain how it goes, do you?”

He nods at you like he’d tip his drink at you if he had one, looking deep in thought for a while there.

You prop yourself up on your wrist and bring a leg up to rest your feet on the rough wood, inadvertently knocking over your empty glass. You both watch as it tumbles, rolling in a circular path until it meets the edge and drops out of sight, vanishing beneath in the inky water, as if it never existed.

“Water looks nice.” he points out off-handedly..

You hum uncommittedly.

“Wanna take a dip?”

His eyes are already on you when you look up at him. There’s not nearly enough alcohol in you to ignore the distance between you, or the lecherous dip under the friendly, harmless veneer. You wonder what triggered it.

You gaze down at your attire, a deconstructed, stretchy fabric ensemble unsuitable for water activities.

"No, but you can go ahead. I'll stay here and pretend not to see you when you drown."

He dips his head slightly, his frown implying you're a buzzkill. "Come on. You've never gone skinny-dipping?"

“That’s a very lame attempt to get me naked.”

He points at the party with a tilt of his head 

“No one’s gonna see you. I will, but I’ll behave, 'cause you’ve had a rough night” The vague fucker carries on again before you can ask what he means by that. “Didn’t really think you’d be this shy.”

“And I don’t think Haibara knows he’s friends with an old man that likes to creep on girls a decade younger.” you retort.

His silence makes you believe he's finally relented.

But he hooks a finger beneath a thin strap of your top that slipped down your shoulder at some point, deftly guiding it back into place. His nail barely grazes your skin, causing a shiver to course through you. He grins wolfishly, his eyes locked onto yours, darkness flickering from beneath his lowered lashes, tantalizing.

“Like you’re some innocent little lamb who doesn’t know better? I don’t buy it.” he mocks you, voice dangerously dropping. “Your cover’s blown, sweets. I see you. You’re a lot darker than you look.”

“You think so?”

“Mhm. You’re a little fucked up, ain’t ya? Got some real violent impulses tucked in there.”

That’s rich, coming from him. 

"So perhaps you should tread lightly around me."

“I don’t mind.” he says succinctly like you didn’t just witness the black completely eclipsing the green of his otherwise beautiful eyes. “Tell you what, you’re more than welcome not to hold back around me. Consider me your safe space. Let it all out, you sure look like you need it.”

“How kind of you.” you croon, he blinks, slow and warm for you, lashes coming to rest on the sinking blue-tinted skin of his under eyes. 

“You wanna go back and do drugs, Toji?”

The sea roars, a particularly violent wave crashing under you. He looks over his shoulder like he’s thinking of it.

“With your friends?” His tone is derogatory at the last word, unaffected, but you have a theory that if you were to put your hand on his chest, the rhythm of his heart would tell a different tale.

Cute. He’s cute. You want to chew him up.

He hit the spot about you not being the lamb, but another thing entirely. The thought makes you want to laugh in his face, but instead, you smile and pop a dimple, swinging your feet and imagining yourself dropping a handful of rice in front of him.

“No. Just you and me.”

[ctrlsatoru]

late nights and possibilities

gojo satoru x reader summary: a late night run in with the man you thought you hated changes your perception of him entirely w/c: 1.4k tags/warnings: smidge of angst to fluff, smoochin, mentions of trouble sleeping, it's implied that you're a teacher too, gn!reader, platonic!nanami, no use of y/n a/n: no manga spoilers, but all the angst floating around threatened to crush my barely beating heart, so i have crawled out of my hole to write this. masterlist check out my latest work for gojo here

"i can't stand him, ken," you groan at your friend for what is probably the thousandth time.

he's situated in the arm chair in your apartment, while you're sprawled across the couch.

"mhm," he hums along, his eyes never leaving the book in his lap.

"i'm serious. the next smart ass comment he makes, i'm going to grab him by the neck and-" you make a violent gesture in the space in front of you, huffing frustratedly.

nanami snorts, equally amused and bewildered. they were obvious to him, the repressed feelings shared between you and gojo satoru. in fact, everyone at jujutsu tech was privy to it, save for the pair of you.

it's only when you continue complaining that he finally closes his book, leaning forward to regard you with raised eyebrows.

"are you alright? you only gripe like this if something is really bothering you."

your mouth falls open. "i'm not griping. it's a simple matter of truthful observation."

"yeah, yeah. whatever you say. you're still avoiding the question."

you sigh. "i'm fine. haven't slept well the past few nights is all."

he settles back into the chair, and if you knew him any less, you would have missed the concern that flickers across his features. "any reason why?"

you wave your hand dismissively. "not really, just kinda happens sometimes. it'll pass soon enough." a stifled yawn marks your apparent disinterest in the matter.

he accepts your answer, though not without mumbling something about your habit of drinking caffeine in the evening, then returns to his book.

as you lay in bed that night, you roll your eyes while thinking back on the conversation. you hadn't one bit of caffeine since the morning, yet you're still condemned to consciousness as the hours grow late.

no matter how tightly you pull the blankets around yourself, you can't get warm enough. and no matter how frequently you adjust your pillows, you can't get comfortable enough.

with a defeated sigh, you eventually throw the covers back, crawling out of bed with the hope that a warm cup of tea and the fireplace in the staff lounge might be able to lull you to sleep.

your feet drag with each step you take and you find yourself thankful it's not too far from your room. rubbing at your eyes, you slide the door open and though you sense another presence, your bleary vision keeps you from seeing them clearly.

once he calls out your name, however, you consider sliding the door shut and resigning yourself to yet another sleepless night. "what are you doing awake? it's two in the morning."

you don't process the uncharacteristic softness of his tone, your response tumbling out of your mouth without much thought. "thanks, big ben. i hadn't noticed."

by now your vision had returned to normal and you see him standing a few meters away, eyeing your obvious hesitation as you stand in the doorway.

you're caught off guard by his worn out appearance, as it's seldom he's anything less than irritatingly chipper.

"sorry," you begin. "i should go back to my room."

"you can stay, if you want." he scratches the back of his neck, his eyes flickering toward the kettle whirring off to the side, apparently sharing in your desire for some tea. "there's enough water for two cups."

"okay," you agree after a moment, though it comes out so quietly you're unsure if he could even hear it.

padding over to the couch in front of the fireplace, you're pleased to find that it's already lit, the soft light from the flames flickering across the walls in a soothing way.

it's not long before he joins you, sitting just a foot or two away and passing you the tea he'd prepared. you can't help but notice how small his cup looks in his hands.

"thanks," you murmur.

it's silent after that, the only sound in the room coming from the crackling of the wood. you briefly entertain a vague notion about how odd it is for the man to be so subdued.

gojo keeps glancing at you from the corner of his eye, observing how the flames dance in your own. you fail to notice.

"i haven't poisoned it, you know," he eventually says.

you jump a little, having spaced out, and look to him before your gaze shifts to your tea. the reassurance makes you narrow your eyes in (mostly) feigned suspicion.

"oh for gods sake." he pulls it from your grasp, taking a sip of it before shoving it back into your hands.

you're not sure what possesses you, but you let out a small giggle at the action. he follows suit, a breathy chuckle passing his lips.

maybe it's the lateness of the hour, or perhaps a touch of sleepy glibness, but easy conversation falls between the two of you after that. he asks you about your latest mission with yuuji, then tells you about a new mochi shop he recently discovered, suggesting that you tag along next time he goes.

the fire isn't nearly as lively now and your tea is long gone, so you reach for a blanket, unfolding it before situating yourself beneath it.

"are you just going to leave me out here all alone in the cold? c'mon now, that's just cruel."

a furious warmth creeps across your cheeks, a small smile tugging at your lips. god, you really are sleep deprived.

"careful," you warn, spreading the blanket over his lap as well. "some people might interpret that as flirting."

"hm, only some? i'll have to work on being less subtle, then." his arm moves to the back of the couch, resting behind your head.

you turn to face him despite the fact that your face now feels even hotter than the dying fire, and for once, you can't seem to think up a witty comeback for the shameless sorcerer.

he thinks the look on your face is just too cute.

then, without any deliberation— as if he had meant to do it all along— he leans forward and kisses you. it's fleeting. so quick, in fact, that if it weren't for the shit eating grin on his face, you'd be questioning whether it happened at all.

ohhhh. you must have fallen asleep at some point and while you're happy to finally get some rest, you could have done without this very strange dream.

"it's not often i see you speechless, sweetheart."

however, when his hand brushes your hair behind your ear, then rests comfortably against your cheek, the goosebumps that spread down your limbs feel very real, indeed. it's the sound of your name falling from his lips that finally grounds you in reality.

the grin is gone from his face, replaced now by a soft, lazy smile. "can i kiss you again?"

you glance down at his lips before nodding almost imperceptibly. "yes."

his mouth finds yours once more and this time, you're struck by how gently his lips press against your own. you hardly notice his hand moving to the back of your neck, the other toward your hip hoping to pull you closer. you're too caught up in how sweet he tastes.

it's a miserable sort of ecstasy, really. the way he feels against you isn't like anything you've ever experienced and it forces you to come to terms with feelings you've spent the last few years trying to deny.

when he pulls away, his expression is one of warm contentment. "can't tell you how long i've been wanting to do that."

"me too," you admit, feeling less shy.

and just like that, you're both back to your easy conversation. you don't know who finds sleep first, or what time it finally happens, but it's a deep and dreamless slumber you fall into...

nanami (who spends a considerable amount of time in the staff lounge for someone who insists he isn't a teacher, but that's beside the point) stumbles upon the two of you the next morning. your head is resting against gojo's chest, your hand on his stomach. his arm is wrapped around you securely and you're both still sleeping soundly beneath the blanket.

the blonde turns around, shutting the door behind him quietly, before venturing off to collect a well earned fifty yen from utahime.

[ctrlsatoru]

my reaction to my writing being perceived

[ctrlsatoru]

masterlist

fluff (✿) - angst (☾) - smut (✦)

m i n o r s d o n o t i n t e r a c t

━ FLICKER (series)

Gojo Satoru x Original Female Character (Kaneko Sera)

childhood friends to strangers to ?, angst, unresolved past, fall from grace, resentment, slow burn, yearning, fluff.

00 / 01

━ DIABLO (series)

Toji Fushiguro x Gojo!Reader

techbro!toji, reader is gojo's little sister, age gap (toji's in his late 30s, reader in mid 20s), enemies to lovers.

01 / 02 / 03