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ctrlsatoru · 2 years ago

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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.”

#toji fanfiction #toji x reader #toji smut #fushiguro toji x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk smut #jjk fanfiction #toji fushiguro

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crossxworlds · 10 days ago

Text

We are Liegeon

A CrossXworlds short story

Tryl

__________

Liegeon slammed their fist onto the control panel at the entrance of the Great Hall, the reverberations echoing in the silence. They kept their hand pressed against the panel until the door hissed closed, shutting out the rest of the holobase, the other Quorum team members, and the three worlds. Finally alone– At least, as alone as they could be with a few thousand other souls clamoring for attention from within.

But at least none of those souls were that insufferable monk, Temple.

“Holding back,” Liegeon growled, remembering Temple's accusations from moments ago. “Not pulling your weight.” They grimaced, unable to conjure a solid rebuttal.

Liegeon reached up to claw their hands through their hair, as a past-life habit. But their bald head, a trait passed down from Tek, the previous persona that had dominated their being, seemed to mock their current predicament.

Each transition from one dominant persona to another brought with it one physical trait or ability, and one mental trait or ability, tying one soul to the next. These were supposed to help ease the transition, but it offered Liegeon little solace.

"It's not our fault!" Liegeon exclaimed, as murmurs of the other souls within them rose in response. "We never asked for any of this."

Their own persona Amp, with the Surge-touched ability to amplify the powers and abilities of their allies, might have been a formidable asset to the peacekeeping activities of the Quorum in their golden age following the Pocket Surge, but with the team’s dwindling numbers and rising unpopularity, the ability now seemed like a liability. And their amplifying ability was weaker now in this changeling body than it had been in their previous life.

Liegeon's gaze swept the room, Tek's contributions evident in every corner. Surge-touched savant and technomancer, Tek had revolutionized the Quorum's capabilities, despite their shrinking ranks. Many of Tek's innovations had approached or even surpassed the levels of technological advancement of Tryl prior to the Pocket Surge.

But now, Tek's innovations felt like a burden. Liegeon knew Tek's soul still resided within their changeling body, occasionally brushing against their mind amongst the others. But grasping onto any specific persona or memory proved elusive.

"And everyone acts like it's our fault," Liegeon muttered, rising to their feet and shuffling over to the Great Hall’s main system display. Flicking it on with a hand gesture, they tapped impatiently into the file system, greeted by glaring red characters denoting missed project milestones.

Their innovating days were gone, replaced by a sense of inadequacy. Kabe may have been sympathetic, but Temple's distrust lingered, as if Liegeon's transition from Tek to Amp had been a deliberate act of sabotage.

"If we wanted to sabotage, we could have done it already," Liegeon muttered to the empty room, their voice a low growl, tinged with frustration. Souls from within jeered up at Amp from the Well, mocking that frustration. They tapped absently on a series of random project files on the display, their agitation evident.

A rebellious thought stirred. This project data was sensitive– leaked outside the Quorum's secure database, it could spell disaster.

Liegeon hadn't chosen to be part of the Quorum; they had been thrust into it when goddess Onyxx tasked Kabe, the Quorum’s leader, to be their guardian. "Guardian," Onyxx had called it, as if it were a favor bestowed upon Liegeon. In reality, it felt more like imprisonment, with Kabe as their warden and their body as the cell.

Kabe was an effective guard, but Liegeon doubted anyone in the Quorum could trace what they were still capable of, using the Nodenet. Perhaps Brimstone could, but not if Liegeon was careful. There was a protocol, a switch command in the command console, that could clean traces of data transfers and obscure their origins.

Amp may not possess Tek's genius, but they were still a force to be reckoned with, even if the Quorum failed to see their value.

Liegeon idly wondered which project data would anger Temple the most if leaked—perhaps the schematics for the Ruptor weapons, or the plans for the SHELL Generator.

Ah, the holobase project. Liegeon selected the file, remembering Temple’s extensive work with Tek to define the features that made it all work together to make their virtual base look, sound and feel like a real, physical one.

There were parties in Centrecity and beyond willing to pay—or extract—a hefty toll for any of these projects. Liegeon felt no loyalty toward the projects; they were Tek's creations, not Amp's. Bale Gallwraith, one of the Quorum’s chief detractors, was offering a tidy sum of digital bounty as a reward for actionable info on the Quorum.

Yet Liegeon harbored no real animosity toward the Quorum either, despite Temple's criticism. It was just another aspect of their lack of control, resulting from Onyxx's probation experiment upon the myriad souls within the Well their body contained. Onyxx had called it a second chance, an opportunity for redemption of the otherwise condemned souls kept there. But the waiting, the uncertainty, the constraints… Could eternal condemnation really be worse?

Liegeon's fingers hovered over the icon of a project archive, contemplating the ease with which they could leak it. Voices of souls from within the Well both urged him on toward betrayal and wailed in dismay at the thought.

But leaking wouldn't solve their problems; it would only create more. It was only a matter of time before their Amp persona was reclaimed by the Well of Souls, going back to a baseline level of consciousness while the next persona took dominance. And Amp would still have to face the consequences, as Onyxx ultimately delivered their soul to be weighed by Sumrt.

There were no easy escapes from their fate.

Liegeon's restless fingers hovered over the array of project archive icons, a sense of confinement weighing heavily upon themselves, the ever-present pressure of the thousands of souls against their consciousness. Among the icons, one in particular somehow caught their attention– a tuft of long plains grasses. With a single tap, the grasses swayed as if in a gentle breeze, evoking a sense of familiarity that stirred within Liegeon.

Liegeon strained to remember what project this icon could be for, but this was apparently another thing lost in their transition. Double-tapping the grass icon, the computer's response echoed through the hall.

"Loading the Great Plains environment."

Suddenly, the walls of the Great Hall receded, revealing a vast expanse of golden fields stretching to the horizon. The sterile conference room vanished, replaced by the serene beauty of the Great Plains. With a gesture, Liegeon dismissed the display, leaving only the endless fields and the open sky.

Tek had created this?

Staggering in awe, Liegeon took in the boundless expanse around him. A faint footpath in the grass led to a woven mat nestled amidst it, inviting Liegeon to settle down and embrace the tranquility.

As Amp sat, the breeze rustling the grasses, a sense of peace washed over. Closing his eyes, he breathed in the fresh air, savoring the quietude. He couldn’t even– He–

He couldn’t even hear the other souls here. For the moment, it was just Amp.

In this moment, amidst the vastness of the plains, he was truly alone at last.

Amp’s eyes opened in realization. Tek knew. They knew Amp’s struggle for peace, because they had shared that same struggle. Tek had understood that future souls would need this peace and clarity to pass their probationary test from Onyxx. They had prepared for it, not only for themselves, but also for future Liegeon personas.

And somehow, Tek had been able to nudge Amp towards finding it, even from the insanity within the depths of the Well.

“Thank you,” Amp whispered.

Another breeze passed over him, rustling grasses. Amp smiled, for the first time since he had transitioned to become Liegeon. They were no longer alone.

Liegeon stood up suddenly, with a new focus. They had to create a way for the holobase computer to automatically greet and introduce the next Liegeon persona to the Great Plains simulation, in case Amp were to transition suddenly. And maybe they could get Temple to provide some monk meditation training, to get the most out of this retreat.

Liegeon made their way back along the grassy path, their resolve growing. No persona would face a transition alone again.

”Computer,” Liegeon called out, “close the Great Plains environment and open a new project file.

“We have some work to do.”

__________

#crossxworlds #writing #fantasy #cyberpunk #scifi #post apocalyptic #mine #writers on tumblr #writeblr #liegeon #temple #MICE quotient #character #internal #short story

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