In the Heian Era, when sake is agitated, a chaotic romance begins. She was vengeance incarnate, and he was divine violence. She learned how to love, and he learned how to fear.
☆ genre: dark romance, worshipper/worshipped to lovers, slow burn, obsessive love, angst, hurt/comfort, drama, suggestive and possessive behavior, revenge.
☆ warnings: canon related-violence including ; suggested scenes, toxic relationship, blood and gore, mass murder, body horror, traumatic events.
☆ a/n: literally started writing this fic when I was a teen and I can finally say it's completed. I am now working on making illustrations, while I use manga panels for now.
In a town full of tricks, the dirtied haze hung in the air, the city was floodlit, and the crowd was enthusiastic. The smell of alcohol invaded the area. Food, women, swords, anything to please the demon king.
Every month took place a festival, in which offerings were made to please the devil. Ryomen Sukuna.
The man was more than intimidating, his aura reeked fear and death. As he walked past the town folks, his gaze travelled from one, to another individual. Every single one of them looked down out of fear of irritating the king.
Satisfied with the authority he imposed, he looked straight forward again, but people kept their head down, they waited until he was far enough to resume their activities.
Sukuna walked calmly, admiring the area, until something caught his attention in the corner of his eyes. Someone was staring at him. He knew it, he felt it. When his head turned to face whoever had enough courage and stupidity to provoke him, the figure was gone. He knew he hadn't imagined this.
He never lowered his guard. Or so he thought. He had pride though, his calm yet cold attitude was to be kept, he liked to be feared without having to move a finger, at least, that was his mood for the day. He remained silent and headed towards the gone silhouette.
Passing through people who moved aside as soon as they saw him, he reached the fighting area of the city. In an age that shunned such brutality, the king of curses alone had elevated violent combat to spectacle.
The brawlers feel Sukuna's presence and cease to fight out of respect. Gathered young men, whose eyes are empty, quit cheering and the whole district fell into a deadly silence.
Looking around him, his attention became focused on this aura he no longer sensed. Finally realizing what atmosphere he had brought, he laughed. Devilishly.
"My, my." Silence. "there is no need to stop your activities," He looked at the two confused fighters "you two, resume your fight, entertain me!" he exclaimed.
And the two complied. Slowly people cheer them again, and Sukuna went on his research.
But he was quickly interrupted by the end of the fight, as the cheers grew louder and louder, he felt it again. This aura. It's right here. He peeked at the wrestling ring, and finally caught his culprit. He was surprised though, this person looked nothing like someone who would win such a fight. He observed, and waited.
For a second he wondered if he was mistaken, but he was never. He felt the cursed aura emitting from this being. It's ridiculously weak. He grinned wildly.
"Interesting". But his smile dropped as soon as he realized... "a woman ?!"
He wondered whether he was infuriated or in awe. How could a woman dare to provoke him? Unbelievable.
"As you are now, it's as if you were dead," he muttered under his breath as he approached the doomed lady.
She turned to face him, as though she had not noticed his presence already, and bowed before a display of such greatness.
"My king," A vein appeared on his forehead. "Your presence is a legendary honor." But soon, anger turned into playfulness. The white-haired woman had heard of the tales of the Imaginary Demon.
Sukuna raised his hand and ordered everyone to leave the place, and they obeyed without hesitation.
"Ah... the festival definitely won't be stopped," she said, "but the emperor is impatient."
The undefeated sorcerer was intrigued by her confidence. Something about her stare felt less like defiance and more like acceptance, as if she'd been searching for him.
"What kind of secret do you keep to allow yourself to be so conceited in my presence?" Sukuna grinned.
"I wouldn't call it conceit. I would say your presence is such an honor that I find myself filled with pride." The lady looked up again and smiled. "Your desire is our great cause. I am here to make sure everyone approves."
He hummed in approval, but he knew that behind this display hid pure vice and stratagem. This woman feared for her life.
"Your name," he commanded.
"Please call me Asa, my king." Asa Shin was her full name.
"If you're hoping I'll let you leave without any struggle, you might as well dream."
It was just the two of them now. All they could hear was the dull sound of music drifting from afar.
"My king, there is no doubt that you could kill me in a matter of seconds if you wished to. I am merely a wandering soul, seeking redemption."
Red temptation made the back of his neck crawl. He wanted to kill her at once, but his instinct warned him not to.
"What redemption? You owe redemption to no one, not even yourself. Only me. And as far as I know, up until today, I have been given no reason to demand your expiation."
She smiled, almost as if she had known he would say this.
"My king, will you forgive me, for I have sinned?" She spoke as she closed her eyes. Veins slowly appeared on her skin, her muscles tightened, and when she opened them again, her eyes had turned a bright, inhuman red.
When sake is agitated, a chaotic romance begins. Sukuna had decided to spare the woman's life and take her under his wing ; she was weak now, but he recognized potential when he saw it. And if she ever failed to amuse him, her fate would be quickly solved.
He seemed to find thrill in her existence. He quickly found out that she used to be a human, who seeked power and pleasure. Upon her will she laid her hands on a cursed object, a very powerful one actually.
Sadly, happened what happens when humans let their greed take over their free will. Much to Sukuna's surprise he realized the woman and the cursed spirit hadn't quite completely merged with each other. He wasn't quite sure how to describe her, the easiest way to put it would be to say she was a cursed spirit with feelings. And buried powers.
Either way he didn't really care what she was. To him, all of this meant pure amusement and manipulation. He found it entertaining to watch this creature show emotion. She was a demon of destruction who felt guilt upon her massacres.
Sukuna could tell she had unexploited power. She could become a great servant. Only to fulfil his amusement though. The king of curses was strong enough, he didn't need anyone to have his back. The next monthly festival approached. And Sukuna had planned an event, a great tournament, to gather the strongest wrestlers and sorcerers in the entire country.
Obviously, he knew people wouldn't just come and fight each other without any reason, he promised something. He promised money and luxury to whoever could beat him. It was a chance that sorcerers couldn't bear to miss. But Sukuna had changed his plans.
The few days before the festival were spent training.
"You are too slow at reading my movements. Read them faster, brat." He approached.
"You know that's not possible, I am reading into your movements as fast as I can, you're just way stronger than me." she chuckled.
And despite his words, she managed to adapt her rhythm to his, moving in harmony with his body. Interesting, he thought. She's learning to read intent, not just movement.
"Are you being lenient with me, my King?" the woman teased.
Her little sassy behavior always tickled his nerves. But he liked it. He simply didn't want to admit it. No one had ever dared to act so insolent around him ; he felt adrenaline rush through his veins at the idea of beheading her.
Lost in his desires, he failed to dodge one of her punches. And it was far from being a weak punch. Blood leaked from his lips.
She gasped, surprised she actually reached him. He grinned, licking the corner of his mouth.
"That strike... did it please you?" he asked, with a voice full of excitement. She remained silent. She felt ashamed and lowered her head, but he quickly grabbed her face with one of his four arms and forced her to meet his eyes.
"Do not hang your head. I found it most pleasing." And as he lets go, he noticed the faint colors he'd left on her bruised skin. Her eyes turn red and she smirks. "Bring on the fight, my king."
When Sukuna decided practice was sufficient, he allowed Asa to regain her chamber. As he observes the woman walk away from him, he finds himself lost in his thoughts.
He wouldn't admit that his behavior was strange, he hated that part of him enjoyed this little game. He tried to convince himself all of this was ephemere and she was just a pawn in this chess of a life. She was just a pathetic human-like being to him. Nothing to be so excited about.
"Ah.. that was exhausting." Asa whined while she removed her sleeveless dress before entering the hot bath. The water instantly warmed up her entire body. A small mouth appeared on the palm of her hand.
"Seriously!! I will never get used to you being so resistant to pain!" a little voice complains. "Aki, not now." she replied. "But no one's around !" Aki, the human's spirit that Asa failed to take over, exclaimed.
"You feel everything like it's... like you're supposed to suffer, like someone taught you that." She pouted.
As a matter of fact, when Asa took possession of Aki's body, her evilness pushed her to not take over her entire spirit, a demon is a demon after all, she wanted the human to regret her decision, and she did.
But somehow with time, they both grew onto each other and Aki accepted her mistake and decided it would be wiser to let Asa use her own powers.
"Why don't you want him to see me anyways ?" Aki asked. "It's not that I don't want him to see you, I don't want you to disrespect him in any way possible." Asa gently rubbed the surface of her bruised skin.
The blue-ish spots had decorated her body to a greater extent than she had imagined. "Hmpf." one mouth pouted, while the other retorted "Yeah I admit he's scary, I wouldn't want to anger him...even you are no match-" before Aki could even finish her sentence, a thud came from the bathroom door opening.
"Who are you speaking to ?"
The small mouth instantly disappeared from Asa's palm. "Does it matter, my King?" she calmy assured. He knew she was lying. The air tasted like two presences and not one. But he let it pass, for now.
"Watch that mouth, brat." She lowered her gaze with a faint smirk. Her back was facing him, which offered a great view on her fresh bruises.
He grabbed a towel and handed it to her. "The festival draws near. You have grown well... yet before me, you remain a weakling." Sukuna mocked, she smiled, unbothered.
"That's fine, as long as I am strong enough to defeat whoever comes in your way, I'm satisfied, my king." she replied as she wrapped the towel around herself carefully.
"I'm quite surprised sorcerers have the courage to come, they must sincerely despise you to risk their lives, knowing their chance of winning is poor." The man chuckled.
"People who do what they want to do, as much as they like, are haughty bad men. Their pride will not suffer our escape."
Sukuna caught a glimmer of red light in Asa's eyes. Going mad out of evil bloodthirst felt like ecstasy. Sukuna knew part of her could be unleashed. Could it be possible that in this moment, she was allowed to lose control ?
She looked up at him ; he was at least two heads taller than her. "My king-"
"Cease calling me king."
She paused. "Of course. Did you need anything, Sukuna ?"
His four eyes widened. "Say it again." Futile lust.
"Did you-"
"My name, speak it once more." she gasped, that was surely unexpected of him, but what wasn't ?
"Sukuna." Alternating between love and hate. Sukuna loathed passion, and desired hatred.
He remained impassive. His gaze traveled from her shoulders to her knees, becoming aware of the aftermath of their training.
"Go, and take your rest." he ordered, quitting the room, and rendering the white-haired woman her peace.
The night before another day of festivities smelled of blood and impending madness. The town had grown restless after vibrating with rumors of the king's challenge. She could feel their fear pulsing through the ground like a curse, and yet, despite the tension, she slept.
But dreams came to betray her soon enough.
In the haze of slumber, she stood in a battlefield drenched in crimson while the sky cracked open with screams of the damned. Above in the sky rose a monster with a human appearance, at its feet crawled thousands of victims, men, women and children, all with sunken eyes and voiceless mouths.
She stood still and let them come to greet her.
But suddenly, she could feel his wretched presence, his four eyes gleaming over her silently, like a god giving his final judgement. A god among monsters. She woke up drenched in sweat, her body ached with memories that didn't belong to her.
Aki whispered inside her head ; "Those memories don't belong to you anymore." But even she couldn't hide the terror in her voice.
She rose before the sun. She wrapped a black cloth around her arms to hide the marks and the fingerprints which adorned her body from the days before, she tried to conceal his attention. She left her room without noticing the faint smile curving over her lips at the sight of the aftermath. There was a thin line between worship and destruction. And she was happily dancing on it.
Outside, the city was drilling with anticipation. Stalls were being prepared while drums echoed faintly, and tension crackled in the air like fire waiting for its match.
Finally, he summoned her. The inner chambers of his temple were quiet, save only for the sound of his breath, he let out a long and low inhale at the sight of her, clothed in her fine coal black kimono.
"I wish to see how far you'll go," he said as she stepped in. "Not only in battle, but in defiance."
He stood at the altar with four arms crossed and a gaze unfaltering. His presence never ever softened, it pressed against her chest reminding her of how fragile she was beyond his world.
She bowed deeply. "What would you have me do, Sukuna?"
He smirked. "Today, you do not train ; you will merely observe. The first guests have arrived."
She followed him through winding halls. When they reached the courtyard, she saw sorcerers, warriors and fools all lined up before the king, glaring at their entrance.
They were all clenching their talismans, weapons, and their fragile hope to heal this chaotic world. They hated him with a fervor that bordered on prayer, as if killing him would make gods of them.
None of them saw her yet. "Do they know I'm fighting too?" she asked, stepping closer to his side.
"No... they care not." He turned slightly. "But they will, in time."
One by one, the contestants presented themselves, but she recognized none, not that it mattered. What mattered was the way Sukuna watched them, like animals in a pit. All he saw were corpses in motion, ready to try and entertain him.
As the day burned into night, she remained with honor near his side. The violet smoke from the young men's pipes blurred their vision into a dissipating cloud, until it parted and revealed a young woman, no older than Aki when she first lost her soul.
She stood in a dangerous stillness as she looked at Sukuna with knowing. Asa hated it. Tonight, the swirling and soaring spirits were full of intense ardor.
"She's not here for the fight," she said and he looked down at her.
"No, she comes seeking vengeance." Sukuna informed her.
"Yours?"
"No, yours."
Her blood chilled when the words echoed in her ears. The girl stepped forward with her hand on a blade that looked far too heavy for her size. Her eyes bore into Asa's. Allowing to burn the flames of her passion.
"I know what you are," she said aloud, voice like broken glass. "And I'll make you pay for what you did to my sister."
Asa did not recall meeting this girl, and neither did Aki, however the pain in her voice made it very real. The crowd became full of whispers and murmurs. Is she a sorcerer...? She kills indiscriminately. Why is she standing next to Sukuna ? We are going rampant.
He chuckled. "Well then," he said, nudging Asa forward with a flick of his cursed energy, "redeem yourself, girl." The red eyed woman stepped into the ring.
The girl moved like lightning, Asa dodged once, twice, before the third strike caught her shoulder. A deep gash opened itself and offered a crimson view, she smiled as the blood ran down her arm.
"You're fast," she whispered, her eyes were glowing with red ink. Asa was faster. She let instinct take over, Aki screamed inside her head as her fists connected with the girl's ribs, then it was her jaw's turn to be treated equally. The girl muttered words along the lines of "Go to hell." But little did she know, they were already in it.
Forthwith, the scenery fell into silence with a commodity close to death, it reminded everyone watching that Asa was not a puppet held on a leash by Sukuna, at least that's what she tried to pretend of it.
As Asa stood over her before she let the applause echo through the entire arena. The King of curses was amused, and she hated how good that felt.
The crowd dispersed, but the silence lingered. Sukuna watched her bloodied form without uttering a word, observing the way her chest was rising and falling, still high off the thrill. Her pulse raced for reasons she could not explain. Was it the girl's blade, or his stare?
He hadn't taken his eyes off her once, yet he didn't praise her. "Follow," he said.
She adjusted the black fabric around her wrist and exhaled slowly before obeying. She scrutinized his quarters that were carved of onyx and opulence, the thick red curtains casted the walls in a dusky hue. Heat pulsed here, not only from the fire burning in the adjacent chimneys, but from him. It felt like standing at the edge of an erupting shrine, too sacred to touch... but too dangerous to leave.
"You defied my command," he began, stepping into the stillness like a god ascending. She tilted her chin and locked her eyes into his.
"You told me to observe, so I did, when my honor was summoned into question, I answered accordingly." She paused for a moment, letting the words sink into space, "Is that not what you'd expect of someone under your name?"
A glimmer of interest flickered across his left pair of eyes. He approached like a predator fully aware of the outcome.
"You speak as though you were a queen," he said.
She pierced through his gaze without flinching. "Then perhaps it's time I was treated as more than a pawn." That earned a low and impatient laugh.
"Careful," he warned, "pride is what cast you into this wretched form."
She stepped forward, closing the space he had left between them. "And yet, it is pride that keeps me from crawling at your feet, despite knowing you could end me with a whisper." Her words hung between them in the lustful air, thickened with defiance and devotion.
His tattooed hand reached her out of curiosity. His thick fingers brushed her collarbone as if he wanted to test whether she was real, as if his impunity could be permitted.
"I could end you from where you stand.," he murmured.
"But you won't," she replied calmly. "I entertain you, and kings don't get rid of good entertainment."
Silence engulfed the room before he broke it with a deep laughter, this time with a trace of true darkness. "You walk a fine line, woman."
"Lines are made to be danced upon." He stepped closer, his breath was grazing her cheek now.
"You forget who stands before you."
"No," she replied softly while lifting a hand. "I remember exactly who you are," She almost let her hand touch his chest but decided against it, "which is why I choose my words with pure care." She continued.
His gaze drifted down her body as he was calculating and consuming each inch before he lingered at the subtle glow rising in her irises. In the depth of them, there was a warm and unnatural diabolical red, pulsing with intensity.
"You have changed." She smiled faintly at his words.
"When emotions take over, my eyes betray me. Whether it is rage, hunger, temptation, or all at once" She looked down, almost shy to admit it. "But they glow brighter the closer I get to who I used to be.l
"Who you used to be was foolish." He said with his usual deadly ardor.
"Who I used to be," she said with quiet pride, "was feared long before I crossed your path."
He tilted his head, interested now. "And what, then, are you now?"
Her voice sounded like a velvet threat. "A woman strong enough to stand beside a God, and wise enough to bow when necessary." Now she looked as solemn as ever. "I don't want your throne, my king, I just want the right to exist in your storm without being extinguished."
A pair of hands found her waist like the moon finds the night, hinted with futile lust.
"You are no longer merely surviving the storm," he said lowly. "You are becoming it."
And then, abruptly, he pulled back, allowing the cold air to rush in as he turned toward the curtains. "Rest," he commanded. "Tomorrow, you fight again."
"As you wish,"she replied with a voice pleasingly sweet like an elixir made of honey, bowing in the upmost elegance and delicacy.
Morning should have felt like a reprieve after yesterday's chaos, yet the first thing Asa noticed was the tension running along her skin. There was a restless hum rising from beneath her core that had always slept until she allowed it to surface, today it did not wait for permission.
Aki had been whispering since dawn with her voice echoing unevenly. "Asa... you're not stabilizing, I've never felt it this strong."
"I feel fine, better than fine actually." She replied.
A disturbing heat curled under her ribs, coiling like an animal stretching awake after years of being chained, even her steps felt different as if the ground responded eagerly just to meet her feet.
She walked beside Sukuna toward the arena, pretending the buzzing in her blood was nothing. The nearer she got to the crowd, the louder her senses became. So loud she could feel every single heartbeat, every muttered threat and every breath pulled through teeth.
The air tasted rich with a metallic twist, her eyes flickered red every time her lashes brushed together, and Aki's panic only sharpened the sweetness of the moment.
"Asa... slow down." Aki's voice shook.
But the pull of Sukuna's presence drowned her out. His cursed energy brushed against her skin like a hand closing around her throat firmly. Her body reacted before she could think, leaning unconsciously into the gravity of it.
Sukuna didn't miss a thing, he enjoyed every moment of it. A lazy smirk cut across his face, satisfaction glinting in his eyes, as though he'd been waiting for this exact unraveling.
The arena roared when they arrived. Sorcerers were gathered, spectators were jeering and chanting, the atmosphere was thick with absolute hunger. The pressure only made her crave for more.
A burst of heat detonated inside her chest, so sudden she stumbled. The world swam from the impact of an ancient chant clawing awake inside her. A cold but angelic voice scraped like steel dragged across bone, whispered from deep behind her heartbeat.
"Finally... blood." she obsessively thought.
The bloodlust rose, and with it, a whisper that wasn't her own. A man's voice which sounteded cold and dismissive : "You'll never be good enough."
But the cursed spirit's hunger swallowed it ; "No. She will be everything."
Sukuna watched with the focus of a collector appraising a rare artifact. This was what he'd been cultivating. This moment where she stopped pretending to be anything but what she was.
Asa's breath caught when she realized that her veins were pouding in her body, ready to explode.
Aki cried out in terror. "That isn't me! Asa, that isn't me!"
But the new hollowed voice drowned her out, chanting through her skull in a rhythm that didn't belong to anything human.
Egotist magistrate, followers are yes-men, the shogun's desire is our great cause.
Red temptation makes the back of your neck crawl, going mad out of evil bloodthirst is like ecstasy.
Her vision blurred and her fingers twitched with rising violence she couldn't suppress. Sukuna called a fighter into the ring to begin the tournament, but Asa did not let him start.
Her body moved on its own, stepping forward as though dragged by invisible hands. The crowd murmured in confusion, but she barely heard them.
"Interesting," Sukuna purred malevolently.
Her opponent's face blurred the moment she lunged.
Her instinct, her speed, and her clarity were all honed to perfection, like a blade painted in magenta. She barely recognized her own movements.
Her fighting process did not have any strategy, but also no restraint, and barely any thought. Only a delicious, spiraling rush curled through her muscles as she closed in, and her opponent's fear hit her nose like perfume, intoxicating enough to make her shiver.
"Asa! Stop! You're going too far!" Aki's voice cracked against the rising roar in Asa's head.
But the cursed object whispered louder, urging her forward, praising every vicious impulse swelling inside her. Sukuna observed like someone forged a blade, admiring the intent behind each detail, hungry for the final shape.
Asa made her way toward her opponent miserably trying to crawl back. She was savouring his despair. The blow she prepared would have shattered bone, ended the match in a way beyond the rules, beyond reason.
Before she could release it, the world slammed white. Sukuna was suddenly in front of her, he did not even need to impede or intimidate her, his cursed energy was enough as it wrapped around her like a fist surrounding a fire.
He didn't intervene to save her opponent. He intervened because watching her unravel completely without his permission felt... wrong. Like someone else was stealing what belonged to him.
Her body spasmed, shaking under the weight of him as if answering a command she had always known.
He tilted her chin upward with an intent to claim. "Look at you," he murmured. Her breath shortened while the arena spun gentler.
"I told you," he said, eyes burning with delighted recognition. "You are becoming a storm."
Something snapped inside her, something she'd been holding back her entire life without realizing it. Her blood thundered and her skin felt too tight.
After a moment lost in his luscious eyes, she felt a burn so sharp it made her arch backward, nearly collapsing. Light flared beneath her collarbone, shaped like a rune she didn't understand but instinctively feared.
Aki's voice trembled. "Asa, please- fight it! Don't let it take you!" The cursed object whispered over her scream, gently and horrifyingly.
Give in.
The glow intensified, cracking through her skin like lightning caught in a cage too fragile to hold it. Asa lifted her gaze to Sukuna's face, her vision turned red around the edges. He looked anything but worried, he wasn't even surprised, in fact, his face wore the most pleased expression.
"Do not struggle against it." he mouthed from afar, but to her, it felt like his breath caressed her neck.
Her body convulsed, the rune blazing hotter as power tore through her bones. The arena recoiled, and the cursed object's laughter muffled Aki's high pitched cries.
Sukuna smiled, the knowing curl of his mouth and eyes suggested clearly he had been waiting lifetimes for this exact moment.
The moment Sukuna released his pressure, the world flooded back in all at once. All that could be heard now were screams.
Asa didn't remember moving again, only the feeling of release. The invisible leash snapped, her body surged forward with feral delight, every single thought drowned beneath her instinct. Blood sang in her ears, louder than the crowd and louder than Aki's cries.
Her opponent barely had time to scream, Asa struck with neither mercy or grace. Each blow landed with a bone-splintering force and her limbs moved faster than thought, faster than fear...
She tore through her opponent's defenses and mostly through the crowd's desperation. She laughed evilly through the arena and her voice wasn't alone. Two sounds echoed and made an unhinged, ecstatic layered noise.
The arena recoiled in both horror and awe as she pinned her opponent to the ground. She made herself ready to finish it all by raising her hand, just to feel the rush crest higher.
Suddenly, it all stopped. The bloodlust drained as quickly as it had come, leaving her breathless. She finally stared down at what she'd almost done. The body beneath her still breathed but he was covered with blood from head to toe. Eventually, silence swallowed the arena.
Asa staggered back, the red glow dimmed as reality crashed down around her. Her hands trembled and her chest burned while guilt clawed up her throat like bile.
She did not speak. What could she say anyway? Words seemed inadequate in the face of what she had just done. Aki whispered weakly, she was exhausted but she was still here.
"...You came back."
Asa lowered herself to her knees, her head bowed, and the weight of shame settled on her shoulders. She hadn't meant to go that far, she hadn't meant to enjoy it. The crowd murmured, unsure whether to cheer or flee.
And then laughter rose from the heart of the arena, piercing through the stunned silence with a sound so rich and unrestrained that it seemed to cut through the air, it was heavy with delight.
Asa lifted her head slowly, Sukuna stood exactly where he always did, unfazed by the chaos she had unleashed, his presence was unmoved by blood or fear, his four eyes shone with a gleaming amusement that was free of anger or disappointment.
Only approval.
His smile curved with indulgent sharpness, the kind worn by a god who had just witnessed a prayer answered in the most violent and satisfying way possible.
"Magnificent," he said at last, his voice was carrying itself effortlessly across the arena as though nothing about this moment had surprised him in the slightest. "You did not disappoint."
Her breath caught in her chest at once. The guilt that had begun to knot painfully inside her twisted under the weight of his gaze, loosening its grip as a warmer and far more dangerous feeling spread in its place.
If this pleased him, if this carnage and loss of control were enough to earn that look, then perhaps it meant she had done something right after all.
Her chest warmed with a reverent ache that made her pulse quicken, devotion bloomed where shame had threatened to take root.
She lowered her head once more, but this time there was no humiliation in the gesture.
biblical/afterlife!au in which heaven’s two most dangerous angels, gojo and sukuna would rather burn eden down to ashes than to share you!… tengen is tired of their shit and counts on you to supervise these two! welcome to heaven! don’t be naughty and try not to get devoured.
during the prime era of sorcery, when humans, curses and gods clashed without mercy ; ryomen sukuna finds himself drawn toward the one soul bold enough to meet his eyes... shin asa. perhaps the only one who dared to challenge him in ways no enemy ever has.
read on wattpad ;) pinterest mood board
a/n : I started this fanfic in 2021, I wrote a few chapters then I forgot about it until recently. I deeply care about this work and cherish the way I wrote it back then, I hope I’ll honor it with my new ideas and by incorporating more details about sukuna and jjk’s universe, as well as adapting my (more recent) writing style.
you have caught the eye of the quiet and enigmatic regular, toji fushiguro, who usually lurks alone, in the darkness of the club ; but it's only a matter of time before he captures yours in return.
☆ 6.5k words | illustrated with pictures
☆ female reader, no use of (y/n)
☆ warnings : alcohol, smoking, slight depiction of violence, adult content, angst whump fluff it's all in here my sexy ladies
read while listening to this.
Like every other night, the club is bathed in shades of purple and shadow. Red light filters through the velvet curtains, plunging everything into a perpetual twilight that makes it impossible to tell what time it is.
The bass notes of the song playing resonate through the floor, and penetrate the bones of everyone present. There is a smell of cologne, attempting to mask the less noble impulses, such as smoke, sweat, and money.
And yet, you adore this place. You have nothing against the night and the darkness ; you are here because of it. This place took you in when you had nothing, it taught you that your body could be art rather than just a means of survival, and that it could be a force.
It wasn't easy at first, it never is, but you have to work hard and pay the price. That's the rule. You've built something here, you've earned respect and you've made this stage your own.
Tonight, the audience is the same as usual : there are businessmen loosening their ties after a long day, groups of friends celebrating or drowning their sorrows, and a few couples looking to spice up their evening. And then there are the regulars.
Such as him, sitting in his usual spot in the corner. Far enough away from the stage to avoid the chaos, close enough to not miss a thing.
Toji Fushiguro ; you didn't know his name at first, because you all thought of him as “the quiet guy” or “the guy sitting at the corner table.” He always arrives on time, but rather late. He orders his dry whiskey and watches the show, but not like the others watch.
Not like the others watch.
The other customers become noisy as the night progresses, shouting out requests that are both comical and insulting. Sometimes they try to negotiate “private services” that are not on any menu, sometimes they grab dancers who come too close to their tables. The bouncers never get bored with wandering hands and arrogant attitudes.
But him? He sits there, perfectly still, watching like a predator at rest. He never causes any trouble. He never asks for anything other than his drink and the show. His tips are generous, especially to his favorites, but he expects nothing in return for his money. No lewd looks, no crude propositions. He just watches.
It should be disturbing, but for some reason that no one bothers to investigate, it isn't.
The song changes, and you recognize the opening notes immediately. "Or Nah" by Ty Dolla Sign. It’s dark and sensual, the kind of beat that demands moving a certain way.
You step onto the stage in your faux leather strapless mini dress, the material hugs every single curve, and your matching knee-high boots make your legs look endless. Underneath, you wear navy blue lingerie. It’s simple, but the glimpses will drive them crazy. You know this.
The opening beat drops, and you start slow.
Your body rolls in sync with the bass, you sway your hips in that languid way that makes time feel thick and heavy. Your hands trace your own curves, first to your sides, then your hips, and finally your thighs, like you're mapping a territory only you're allowed to touch.
Your hair falls over your face as you dip low, and you can feel every eye in the room on you, but you're not performing for them. You're performing for yourself.
Because you love it ; the way your body can tell a story without any words, the way rhythm lives in your bones, the control you have over the space, the attention and the moment. It intoxicates you with confidence.
The beat builds, and so do you.
You place sharper movements now, as you spin on the pile your legs extend in perfect lines that would make your old dance teacher weep with pride.
Your waist moves like water, hips rolling in circles that sync perfectly with the percussion. When the chorus hits, you twerk in time with the beat, and the dress rides up just enough to flash that navy blue string underneath.
The crowd reacts with whistles, shouts, and with rustles of bills being pulled from wallets.
You arch back, hands gripping the pole, and the lights catch the sheen of sweat on your skin, highlighting the column of your throat, the curve of your spine, and the flex of your thighs.
You're not even thinking about technique anymore; you're just in it, lost in the music and the power of it all.
In his corner booth, Toji's grip tightens on his glass. His jaw clenches, just enough that if you were paying attention you would notice.
He shifts in his seat, adjusting his position like the chair has suddenly become uncomfortable. But was it the chair or was it the space in his pants getting tighter? For someone who prides himself on being unbothered, this was a love declaration.
He's really, really enjoying the show.
When your set ends and you step off the stage, your manager catches your eye and tilts his head toward the corner booth. The gesture is subtle but clear to you, it means : Go thank him, he tipped big. You glance over and see the stack of bills on the table. It’s actually excessive, even by this place's standards.
Club policy is club policy! You tell yourself, Big spenders get personal attention. It’s business and you don’t mind it.
You slip into your professional persona as easily as breathing.
You approach with a sultry smile, swaying your hips with each step, everything about your body language designed to make the customer feel special. You reach his table and let your hand rest lightly on his shoulder, lean in just enough that he can smell your perfume.
"Thank you so much for your generosity tonight," you purr with a voice sweet like honey. "I hope you enjoyed-"
"Quit the act."
You freeze. His voice is low and rough around the edges, he seems completely disinterested in this… customer service performance.
He doesn't even look at you at first, he just takes a sip of his whiskey before his dark eyes meet up with yours.
"Be yourself," he continues. "I gave all that money because I truly enjoyed the show. Not because I need you to blow smoke up my ass."
For a second, your mask slips. You straighten up, your hand drops from his shoulder, and you just... stare at him.
There's no malice in his expression. He's not trying to insult you or put you in your place. He's just being honest.
Well this is literally my job to act like that, asshole, you think, but you don't say it.
Instead, you find yourself responding with actual truth rather than trained pleasantries.
"Most people prefer the smoke," you say, crossing your arms. "Easier that way."
The corner of his mouth twitches, it’s quite close to being a smile. "I'm not most people."
"Yeah, I'm getting that." He smirks, like he's just won something or found what he was looking for. There she is.
You should walk away. Thank him again, professionally, and move on to the next table or the next customer. That's how this usually works. But you don't do it immediately. You don’t want to.
"You come here a lot," you observe, it’s not a question.
"I do."
"Why?"
He considers this, swirling the whiskey in his glass. "Good drinks, better entertainment, no one bothers me."
"Until now," you point out.
"You're not bothering me."
The way he says it, it’s like he's stating an objective truth. It does something strange to your pulse. You're suddenly very aware of how close you're standing, that he looks at you with his head raised and you with yours lowered, one might think that you are looking down on him, but the one who is dominant here is clearly him.
And mostly you notice, there's something about him that feels dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with the violence you know he's capable of. Because you can see it ; in the scars on his knuckles, the way he moves, the coldness that sometimes flashes behind his eyes.
This is not a safe man. I really should walk away.
"Well," you say, taking a step back, "enjoy the rest of your night."
"You too."
You walk away confused, and annoyed at how he's just gotten under your skin, and infuriatingly intrigued.
Two weeks later, it quickly becomes a habit ; Toji keeps coming to the club, always the same table, always the same drink.
But now there's an acknowledgment between you that wasn't there before. He nods subtly when you catch his eye. Those brief moments of contact feel loaded with forbidden feelings.
Your sweet, attempted indifference, only seems to intrigue him more.
You've seen his type before : handsome men of a certain age who think money can buy anything, and who consider places like this as a catalogue. But he doesn't act like them. He doesn't try to buy you, doesn't make weird offers or suggestions. Instead, he asks about your choreography,like, he notices small details in your technique. He treats you like an artist, not just a body. Which really surprises you. You wonder if he’s good at lying or if he’s genuinely interested.
"That transition in the second verse," he says one night when you pass his table. "From the floor work to the pole, that's new."
You pause, genuinely surprised. "You noticed?"
"I notice a lot of things."
The conversations get a little longer, a little more charged, each time. You find yourself timing your breaks to coincide with his presence, walking past his booth more than necessary, looking for him before you even step on stage. You kind of feel crazy for doing that but, you don’t bother to care.
Because you can tell he starts timing his visits to when you perform. It's a little game between you, it’s a subtle but undeniable truth building itself. However… there's a complication.
Your ex has been showing up.
At first it was just outside the club, "I just want to talk," he'd say, you endured it because you knew it was all false sincerity and manipulation. But damn you shouldn’t have because he took it for an invitation and started waiting by your car. Then, somehow, he started showing up inside, paying cover just to harass you from the crowd.
Everyone notices among your team. But what can they do? He hasn't technically done anything they can call the cops for. He's not violent here, he just watches, and he’s being persistent. Which simply just makes your skin crawl.
Toji noticed it too. At first, he thought it was just a customer, but after overhearing snippets of conversation and seeing your body tense up in his presence, he understood.
You catch him watching these interactions, you almost see the way his jaw tightens, how his hand flexes like he's stopping himself from doing something. But he doesn't intervene nor say anything.
You tell yourself you imagined his interest. That this tension between you is one-sided, a fantasy you've built up because he's attractive and mysterious and treats you like a person on top of being generous.
Then, Saturday night happens.
"Ride Or Die" by Sevdaliza starts playing. The beat is different from your usual sets. It’s less overtly sexual and more sensual... It is intimate in a way that feels vulnerable. You particularly like this song because of the dark feminine energy it gives you.
You're wearing a leopard print set tonight : a small top that barely contains your cleavage and the tiniest shorts that sit low on your hips. When you move, everything moves. You don't just dance this one. You feel it. And you feel everyone staring. How could they not? This outfit with this song choice, it really paired well together.
Your hips sway slowly, body rolling with the melody rather than the beat. You mouth along with the lyrics, lost in the music and in the story it's telling. When the Spanish part comes ;
"Te tengo to' pa' mi” (I have you all to myself), you look directly at him ; 'toy segura que tú no te quiere' ir" (I’m sure you don’t wanna leave).
You swear you see something flash in Toji's eyes.
He's got a thing for foreign languages, you'll learn later. Especially Latin ones. But right now all you know is that he's leaning forward slightly, his attention completely locks on you, and the air between you feels electric even across the distance.
I have you all for me,
I'm sure you don't want to leave.
The words tasted like a confession you didn't mean to make.
Your shift ends around two in the morning.
A pleasant fatigue washes over you, your muscles ache comfortably, still riding the high of a successful evening. You put on your faux fur coat, grab your bag from the back room, say goodnight to the girls, and head out the back door as usual.
The alley is dimly lit, it smells like rain and garbage, and you're already digging for your keys when you hear him.
"Think you can just ignore me?" You recognize that voice ; your stinky ex.
He's standing near the dumpster, and the way he's swaying tells you he's either drunk or high or both. His eyes are wild, and there's something in his hand that you can't recognize yet, but your instinct is telling you it’s no good.
"I'm not doing this," you say firmly, trying to walk past him. "Go home."
He grabs your wrist, really hard, so hard that you know there'll be bruises.
"You don't tell me what to do, you fucking whore." The words come out slurred but venomous. "You think you're better than me? Shaking your ass for strangers but you won't even answer my calls?"
"Let go-"
He shoves you before you have time to finish your sentence. Your back hits the brick wall, knocking the air from your lungs, and suddenly he's in your face, screaming.
“You owe me everything! How dare you ignore me” You look at him with disgust. “You’re nothing without me!” He kicks the dumpster next to you both. And when you think that you’re next in line, he's suddenly not there anymore.
One second he's in your face, the next he's on the ground ten feet away, and Toji is standing where your ex just was.
“Son of a…”
Your ex scrambles to his feet, and that's when you see the knife. Your brain immediately makes the connection, but everything happens so fast that you barely have time to speak to warn Toji before he throws himself at him with the weapon, like a wild and rabid dog.
The blade catches Toji's face and makes just a scratch along his cheekbone, before Toji catches his wrist mid-swing.
Toji grabs the drunk guy’s wrist and twists it, until the knife clatters to the ground, then sweeps his legs out from under him. Your ex hits the pavement hard, and before he can get up, Toji has the knife, and he is standing over him with an expression so cold it makes your blood freeze.
For a moment you think he's going to kill him. Your ex probably thinks so too. You can tell by the way he's scrambling backward, screaming obscenities and threats that sound hollow with fear, before getting up and limping away into the darkness.
Toji lets him go.
He stands there for a moment with the knife still in his hand, his breathing is controlled despite what just happened. He drops the blade, and nudges it toward the wall with his foot, then he turns to you.
"You okay?" His voice is deep but comforting up close
You're shaking while adrenaline is crashing through your system, it’s all made your hands tremble and your knees weak. But you're not crying, you hear yourself when you say ;
"Why did you even do that?" Your voice comes out sharper than intended. "You don't even know me! What happens if he tries to get revenge? What then?"
Toji reaches into his jacket, pulls out a pack of cigarettes. He lights one, takes a drag, then offers it to you.
"Then I'll beat him up again."
He says it like it’s easy as pie, a matter of fact. Like he's commenting on the weather.
You take the cigarette, hands still shaking, and inhale. The nicotine helps… barely.
"You're not gonna ask for anything?" You watch the smoke curl between you. "No... payment?"
He shrugs, lights his own cigarette. "I hate men who beat up women."
Said like it's the most obvious thing in the world, like there's no question of whether he'd intervene, no possibility of him walking away. This is just who he is.
You assume it's simply his own code. It may be twisted, probably born of violence and shaped by a dark world. But it's very real.
"Come on," he says, nodding toward the back door. "You're bleeding."
You touch your temple and your fingers come away red. You hadn't even noticed. The adrenaline is still pumping in your veins, it’s making everything feel distant and surreal.
Toji walks you back inside, past the stragglers still cleaning up, and you guide him into the back office where you keep the first aid kit. The fluorescent lights are harsh after the dim club, making everything too sharp and real.
"Sit," he says, gesturing to the desk.
You do, hopping up onto the edge, and watch as he finds the first aid kit before he brings it over. His knuckles are split and bleeding sluggishly, there's a scratch on his face from the knife. But he doesn't seem to care about himself. Right now, he cares about you.
"This might sting," he warns before dabbing at your temple with antiseptic.
It does sting, but you barely feel it. You're too focused on how close he is, his hands are gentle despite the violence they just enacted. He works quietly, and you find yourself staring at his face. You analyze the hard line of his jaw, the scar on his lip, “I wonder what kissing it feels like”, you daydream. And lastly you watch the way his dark hair falls into his even darker eyes.
"Your turn," you say when he's finished with you.
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding, sit down."
His expression is hard to read, you can’t really tell if it’s surprise or amusement, but he complies. He leans back against the desk near you, your knees almost touch his hip.
You take his hand first, the one with the split knuckles. Your fingers look small against his, so delicate. Your french manicured nails are so pretty against his scarred, rough skin. You clean the wounds carefully, and you feel him watching you, entirely.
His gaze tracks the movement of your fingers, the generous length of your nails, the gentle way you touch him like he's precious and far from dangerous.
You can feel his attention like a physical weight, can sense the way his breathing has taken a slower and deeper pace.
When you finish with his hand, you move to his face. The scratch along his cheekbone isn't deep but it needs cleaning. You have to lean in close and brace one hand on his shoulder for support.
Suddenly the air between you is palpable and that has nothing to do with the strong smell of antiseptic.
"Why do you keep coming here?" The question slips out before you can stop it.
His eyes meet yours. You're close enough to see the flecks of color in them, so close you even feel his breath.
"Why do you think?" He’s not just answering you right now, he’s inviting you, with that damn look in his eyes.
And the tone he uses when pronouncing those words is like music to your ears. It sends shivers down your spine, through your gut, and finally between your legs. It’s hot and insistent, impossible for you to ignore.
You've been pushing it down for weeks, telling yourself it's just attraction, just curiosity, that it doesn't mean anything. But you’re lying to yourself. You don’t even answer his question, you’d rather not. You focus back on his scratch which you finish cleaning.
But you don't pull away and neither does he. Your hand is still on his face, so his hand somehow finds its way to your hip, and the tension is so thick you could cut it with the knife currently lying in the alley outside. His large hands apply a slight pressure on your little leopard print shorts, which he seems to particularly like.
"This is…" you start.
"A bad idea," he finishes. "I know."
But neither of you moves. Then time stretches out, taut like an elastic band about to break, and you feel your professional defenses crumbling. All your carefully maintained distance turning to dust because he's right there and he protected you and he sees you and god… you want him…
"I should go," you whisper.
"Yeah."
It’s hard for both of you to pull away.
Then, like you've both decided something without speaking, you step back. The distance feels like a crime and reality comes crashing back, this is your workplace and he’s a customer. There are rules that exist for a reason.
"Thank you," you said with a more confident voice than you actually are."For... everything."
"Don't mention it."
There's heavy eye contact, one last moment where you both acknowledge what almost happened and what's building between you whether you want it to or not.
On your way home, alone, you try to convince yourself that this is just physical, that it'll pass, and that you can maintain your professionalism. Deep inside you, you know you’re close to failing at all three.
The tension becomes unbearable for the next two weeks.
Your ex stays away as he is terrified of Toji, you assume. However, you start noticing other things such as suspicious cars in the parking lot or someone watching your vehicle too closely one night, though they leave when you approach. You even begin to think that some new customers feel wrong somehow, like they're watching for something specific.
You tell yourself you're being paranoid. That the incident with your ex has you jumping at shadows, but the feeling persists.
Toji still comes to the club, and now there's this thing between you that's impossible to ignore ; the lingering looks across the room ; your performances feel like they're for him specifically. He tips, you thank him, but the conversations are brief and loaded with everything you're not saying.
You find excuses to walk past his booth… he finds reasons to stay later. You're both circling around each other, afraid to touch the precious barrier but unable to leave it alone.
Also, you start noticing other things about him. Sometimes he comes to the club looking different, he’s quite tense and… wired. There's blood on his collar one night, it’s barely visible against the dark fabric, but you see it... Maybe because you mistook it for a hickey at first and you found a way to get a closer look.
"Rough night?" you ask, trying to keep it casual.
"Work," he says, like that explains everything. Maybe it does.
You realize he's not just a gambler or someone with money and time to kill. He's actually dangerous. The kind of dangerous that has nothing to do with bar fights and everything to do with the kind of work that leaves blood on your collar. You should be scared, but you’re not, and you can’t help it.
It's a Friday night, and "I Was Never There" by The Weeknd is playing as the closing song for the night. The dark synth and haunting vocals echo through the club like holy chants. You're wearing a black fitted dress that shows your entire back, the fabric barely stopping at the beginning of your ass, revealing that sexy dip at the base of your spine that makes men stupid.
Toji thinks that everything suits you, every outfit you pull reveals and highlights a different part of your body, each of them could make him go feral.
You’ve been serving drinks tonight and now it’s finally your time to dance to close out the night, you step on the stage.
The club lights have gone particularly dim for this last song, the dusky lights only make certain parts of your body appear, which makes you look like a goddess of darkness.
You move slowly to this one, sensually, as if you're dancing like no one else but him is there. Your hips sway and your hands trace patterns on the pole like you’re writing a sacred language. You arch and dip with the haunting synth, your body tells a story of longing and surrender that mirrors the ache in The Weeknd’s voice.
You lose yourself in its melancholy as it seeps into your bones, with your eyes closed, your head falls back and you let that stretch expose your face in the dim light. The way you move feels like you’re dancing through a heartbreak no one can recover from ; you make sorrow beautiful.
When you’re done, you step off stage as the lights get dimmer to signal the club will close soon, and you automatically look for his booth. He's there, but something's wrong.
Toji is leaning back in his seat, you notice that there's a tightness to his posture which speaks of pain. There are fresh cuts on his face, and more than one this time. The way he's holding his side tells you he's hurt worse than he's letting on.
You break your own distance rule without thinking. You walk straight to his booth, ignore club protocol at the same time, and lean down close enough that only he can hear you.
"What happened?"
"Work." Same answer as always.
"Bullshit. You're hurt."
His eyes meet yours, and there's something in them you haven't seen before ; he seems exhausted.
"It's nothing."
"You need to clean that up." You make a decision, probably a stupid one. "Come on."
"I'm fine."
"Come on." You insist.
You don't give him a choice as you're already walking toward the back, and after a moment, he follows.
The back office always feels smaller with both of you in it… and more intimate.
You grab the first aid kit again, it’s kind of become a habit now, you gesture for him to sit, he does it without argumenting.
You work in silence at first, carefully cleaning the cuts on his face, and trying not to think about how this is becoming routine. Damn, you think, as you realize that you’re starting to learn the geography of his scars, that your hands know the shape of his jaw now.
"You should stay away from me," he says quietly.
Your hands pause. You're holding his face, and he's looking up at you with an expression that's part warning, part plea. You can’t help but enjoy the moment ; He’s so good looking, especially when he looks at you that way.
"Probably," you whisper back.
But your hands don't leave his face. His hands come up to grip your hips to steady himself, or maybe he’s just taking advantage of the moment to touch you somewhere not too inappropriate but risky enough. Proximity is becoming a necessity, because you both know this tension has to break eventually.
"This is a bad idea," you say, but it sounds like a question.
"Yeah."
The kiss is inevitable. Desperately, his hands tighten on your hips, pulling you closer, he makes you taste the tobacco and the whiskey on his tongue ; it’s all tinged with the violence of his world and the sweet vanilla surrender of yours.
Your hands slide from his face into his hair, fingers threading through the dark strands before gripping tight like you've been starving for this.
Like you’re been waiting for permission to touch him the way you've wanted to for weeks. He groans into your mouth at the pull, the sound is rough and possessive, and it sends heat flooding through your body. You're pressed against him now. You can feel the solid muscle of his chest, the way his heart is racing just as fast as yours, and it's intoxicating.
You know you should stop this, but you don't.
When you finally break apart, you're both breathing hard, and reality is trying to reassert itself but failing miserably.
"I have a place nearby," he says against your mouth.
You know this is a terrible idea. You know all the reasons you should say no ; he's a customer, he's dangerous, and this violates every professional boundary you've set for yourself.
"I can't," you say, even though everything in you is screaming yes. "I can't just... this isn't..."
He pulls back to give you space. Then, he nods like he understands, even though you can see the disappointment in his eyes.
"Okay."
"I should go home." You say half-heartedly.
"I'll walk you to your car."
Outside, the night air is cool against your overheated skin, a sharp contrast to the heat still coursing through your body from that kiss. You're trying to process what just happened, but your thoughts are scattered and your lips still tingle with the taste of him.
You walk to your car in silence, hyper-aware of Toji beside you, the space between your bodies feeling both too much and not enough. Your mind is racing, but when you reach your car, you stop dead.
All four tires are flat. They are literally slashed, the rubber torn in clean and the angry cuts look personal.
"For real," you mutter, staring at the damage while your stomach drops.
Toji's expression goes dark. His eyes sweep the parking lot in a practiced assessment, looking for threats you wouldn't even know to see. His body shifts subtly, positioning himself between you and the rest of the lot.
You realize this wasn't random vandalism. Someone's watching you, someone wants you scared. Your ex? Or something worse?
You watch him move through the parking lot like a predator, checking behind cars, scanning rooftops. When he is done five minutes later, his jaw is tight.
"Whoever did it is gone, but we're not taking chances." He pulls out his phone. "I'll call someone to tow your car tomorrow. Tonight, you're not going anywhere alone."
"I can just call a rideshare…"
"To where? Your place, where whoever did this might be waiting?" His eyes meet yours, and there's genuine concern there beneath the hardness, he sighs before speaking again. "Let’s go grab a drink before I figure out where you're staying tonight."
His voice is casual, but you can hear the edge in it, the protective instinct he's trying to mask as practicality.
You should say no, go to a hotel on your own, put distance between you and whatever this is becoming. Because it's not just attraction anymore ; it's complicated by violence and danger and the fact that someone is actively trying to hurt you.
But standing here in a dark parking lot with slashed tires and the memory of his kiss still burning on your lips, you don't feel scared.
"Yeah," you hear yourself say, and maybe you're making the worst decision of your life, but you can't seem to care. "Yeah, okay."
The hotel bar is unexpectedly nice, it’s all dark wood and dim lighting, the kind of place that caters to business travelers and people having affairs. Toji leads you to a corner booth, then orders whiskey for himself and a rose martini for you without asking.
“If you don’t like this, just order anything else, anything you want.” He says, like it's normal. You take the drink and thank him.
"You're staying here?" you ask.
"This week, for work," he says, like that explains everything.
"You say that a lot… 'Work.'"
"Because it's true."
"What kind of work leaves you looking like you went three rounds with a meat grinder?"
The corner of his mouth twitches. "The kind that pays well."
You sip your drink, studying him. He's more relaxed here now that you’re both away from the club. Or maybe he's just tired. The cuts on his face look worse under the bar lights, and you feel that annoying urge to take care of him again.
"You ever gonna tell me what you actually do?" you press.
"You ever gonna tell me why you're so good at pretending you don't care about things you care about?" He teases.
Touché. "It's a survival skill," you admit. "In my line of work, you learn to separate performance from reality."
"And which one am I getting right now?"
You consider lying, but is it really if I’m just playing it safe? However, the way he's looking at you, like he actually wants to know, like your answer matters… makes you want to be honest.
"Reality," you say quietly. "I don't... I don't usually do this, talk to customers like this. Let them..." You gesture vaguely between you. "This."
"I'm not most customers."
"No," you agree. "You're really not."
The conversation flows easier after that. You talk about dancing, how you got into it, why you stayed, you explain the artistry that people don't see. He listens in a way most people don't, he asks questions that prove he's actually paying attention.
In return, he gives you pieces of himself. He grew up in the Zenin clan, and he says the name like it tastes bitter, where worth was measured by cursed energy and technique, and he had neither.
Cast aside and treated like trash, he decided to leave. He made a name for himself doing the kind of work that pays well when you’re good at killing and don’t ask questions.
“Sorcerer assassin”, he calls it with dark amusement, though you don’t fully understand what that means. He doesn't love what he does, but he doesn't hate it either. It's just what he is ; a weapon pointed at whoever pays enough.
"You don't have cursed energy," you say, testing the phrase he used, "but you kill... sorcerers?"
"Best at it, actually." There's pride there. "Turns out being nothing makes you invisible to the things that matter in their world, and I've gotten very good at using that."
"Doesn't that get lonely?" you ask. "Just... existing in violence?"
He shrugs. "You get used to it. Most people are temporary anyway."
"That's depressing."
"That's realistic."
“...” You don’t know if you should say it but, you do.
“If it’s all temporary then, might as well make it enjoyable I guess.”
Under the table, your knees are touching. They have been for the last ten minutes, and neither of you has moved away. The contact is subtle but electric. You're hyper-aware of the warmth of him through your bare legs and the fabric of his clothes, of the way he shifts slightly closer every few minutes like he's testing boundaries.
His hand is on the table near yours, close enough that if you moved your pinkie finger half an inch, you'd be touching. You watch his fingers, his scarred knuckles, his calloused palms, his hands that have done terrible things but held your face so gently.
The temptation to close that tiny distance is almost unbearable. You wonder if he's thinking the same thing, if he's measuring that same half-inch of space and deciding whether to cross it.
The tension is back, thick and heavy between you, turning the air syrupy and charged.
"It's late," you say, but you don't move to leave.
"Yeah."
"I should probably..."
"Probably." You walk toward the hotel lobby.
Then, as if the universe is conspiring against your better judgment, you hear rain outside.
You step outside to make sure you’re not dreaming. Unfortunately for you, it’s not the gentle type of rain that you see in movies, it’s actually the kind of downpour that sounds like the sky is falling which you can hear even through the hotel walls.
"Shit," you mutter, going back quickly to the entrance after the rain proved you it was quite real.
"That's not letting up anytime soon."
You take out your phone to check the weather. The forecast announces a flash flood warning and dangerous driving conditions. The universe really isn't known for its subtlety.
"I'll call a rideshare," you say, but even as you say it, you're wondering if anyone will even be driving in this.
"You'll catch a cold before you make it to the car." Toji's watching you, expression unreadable. "You'll sleep here. It's safer for you anyway."
It's a suggestion that seems quite logical. With those flat tires, threats from your ex and those suspicious people in the parking lot… staying in a hotel where no one will look for you is actually more than just a good idea.
That's what you tell yourself as you nod. "Okay." Or perhaps you just accept that the universe is simply trying to guide you through your destiny, that of a delightful night.
He pays the tab, and you follow him through the hotel lobby to the elevators. Your heart is pounding so hard you're sure he can hear it. This is happening. You're going to his room. You know what this means, what you're agreeing to, and you're doing it anyway.
The elevator ride is silent. Your thoughts drift to every cliché romantic elevator scene you've ever seen ; the kind where the elevator is out of order, as if by chance, and where the actors have nothing better to do but make out. It's ridiculous. You're being ridiculous.
His hand brushes yours which puts you out of your daydreaming. Reality is so much more potent. That simple contact sends electricity up your arm, and when you glance at him, he's already looking at you with an intensity that makes your knees weak.
What’s on his mind!? You think, as you walk down the hallway and stop at room 347.
He unlocks the door.
You step inside, and you're immediately aware of the intimacy of the space. There's only one bed, obviously, at least it’s king-sized, the sheets still perfectly made from housekeeping. His clothes are draped over a chair in the corner. The space smells like him ; clean and masculine, that subtle scent of his cologne is mixed with something uniquely him that you've been unconsciously remembering every time he gets close.
The door closes behind you with a soft click that seems to seal you both into this moment.
"Make yourself comfortable," Toji says, his voice is rougher than usual. He gestures toward the bathroom, then the dresser. "Take a shower if you want. I can lend you a shirt and a pair of joggers."
It's such a normal offer, it’s so domestic and thoughtful, that it almost makes you laugh. Like you're here for a sleepover, like the tension crackling between you isn't about to combust into something that will change everything.
"Thanks," you manage, but neither of you moves. You don't head toward the bathroom, and he doesn't go looking for those clothes he just offered.
You turn to face him, and all the tension of the last few weeks is suddenly right there between you, it’s no longer possible to ignore. Your hair is slightly mussed from the rain and the wind, a few damp strands cling to your neck. You're still in your clothes from the club, and you've never felt more aware of your body.
Your dress is indeed… tight-fitted, and you might've forgotten to pull it down when you got up from the chair at the bar, so now it's even shorter than it already was, riding high on your thighs in a way that his eyes definitely notice.
He's watching you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle, like he's giving you one last chance to change your mind, to walk away from whatever line you're about to cross.
"We don't have to do anything," he starts, forcing the words out like they physically pain him to say.
"I know," you interrupt.
You take a step closer, then another, closing the distance between you until you're near enough to feel the heat radiating from his body.
"I know we don't have to," you repeat, quieter now, looking up at him. "But I want to."
And before you both realize it, you're kissing him.
Everything else falls away. Your rules, your professionalism, every reason you've given yourself to keep distance between you. There's only this : his mouth on yours, his hands gripping your ass like he's afraid you'll disappear, the way your body fits against his.
When he walks you backward toward the bed, you don't resist.
When his hands find the zipper of your dress, you don't stop him.
Whatever happens next, whatever consequences come from crossing this line, you'll deal with tomorrow.
you have caught the eye of the quiet and enigmatic regular, toji fushiguro, who usually lurks alone, in the darkness of the club ; but it's only a matter of time before he captures yours in return.
☆ 6.5k words | illustrated with pictures
☆ female reader, no use of (y/n)
☆ warnings : alcohol, smoking, slight depiction of violence, adult content, angst whump fluff it's all in here my sexy ladies
read while listening to this.
Like every other night, the club is bathed in shades of purple and shadow. Red light filters through the velvet curtains, plunging everything into a perpetual twilight that makes it impossible to tell what time it is.
The bass notes of the song playing resonate through the floor, and penetrate the bones of everyone present. There is a smell of cologne, attempting to mask the less noble impulses, such as smoke, sweat, and money.
And yet, you adore this place. You have nothing against the night and the darkness ; you are here because of it. This place took you in when you had nothing, it taught you that your body could be art rather than just a means of survival, and that it could be a force.
It wasn't easy at first, it never is, but you have to work hard and pay the price. That's the rule. You've built something here, you've earned respect and you've made this stage your own.
Tonight, the audience is the same as usual : there are businessmen loosening their ties after a long day, groups of friends celebrating or drowning their sorrows, and a few couples looking to spice up their evening. And then there are the regulars.
Such as him, sitting in his usual spot in the corner. Far enough away from the stage to avoid the chaos, close enough to not miss a thing.
Toji Fushiguro ; you didn't know his name at first, because you all thought of him as “the quiet guy” or “the guy sitting at the corner table.” He always arrives on time, but rather late. He orders his dry whiskey and watches the show, but not like the others watch.
Not like the others watch.
The other customers become noisy as the night progresses, shouting out requests that are both comical and insulting. Sometimes they try to negotiate “private services” that are not on any menu, sometimes they grab dancers who come too close to their tables. The bouncers never get bored with wandering hands and arrogant attitudes.
But him? He sits there, perfectly still, watching like a predator at rest. He never causes any trouble. He never asks for anything other than his drink and the show. His tips are generous, especially to his favorites, but he expects nothing in return for his money. No lewd looks, no crude propositions. He just watches.
It should be disturbing, but for some reason that no one bothers to investigate, it isn't.
The song changes, and you recognize the opening notes immediately. "Or Nah" by Ty Dolla Sign. It’s dark and sensual, the kind of beat that demands moving a certain way.
You step onto the stage in your faux leather strapless mini dress, the material hugs every single curve, and your matching knee-high boots make your legs look endless. Underneath, you wear navy blue lingerie. It’s simple, but the glimpses will drive them crazy. You know this.
The opening beat drops, and you start slow.
Your body rolls in sync with the bass, you sway your hips in that languid way that makes time feel thick and heavy. Your hands trace your own curves, first to your sides, then your hips, and finally your thighs, like you're mapping a territory only you're allowed to touch.
Your hair falls over your face as you dip low, and you can feel every eye in the room on you, but you're not performing for them. You're performing for yourself.
Because you love it ; the way your body can tell a story without any words, the way rhythm lives in your bones, the control you have over the space, the attention and the moment. It intoxicates you with confidence.
The beat builds, and so do you.
You place sharper movements now, as you spin on the pile your legs extend in perfect lines that would make your old dance teacher weep with pride.
Your waist moves like water, hips rolling in circles that sync perfectly with the percussion. When the chorus hits, you twerk in time with the beat, and the dress rides up just enough to flash that navy blue string underneath.
The crowd reacts with whistles, shouts, and with rustles of bills being pulled from wallets.
You arch back, hands gripping the pole, and the lights catch the sheen of sweat on your skin, highlighting the column of your throat, the curve of your spine, and the flex of your thighs.
You're not even thinking about technique anymore; you're just in it, lost in the music and the power of it all.
In his corner booth, Toji's grip tightens on his glass. His jaw clenches, just enough that if you were paying attention you would notice.
He shifts in his seat, adjusting his position like the chair has suddenly become uncomfortable. But was it the chair or was it the space in his pants getting tighter? For someone who prides himself on being unbothered, this was a love declaration.
He's really, really enjoying the show.
When your set ends and you step off the stage, your manager catches your eye and tilts his head toward the corner booth. The gesture is subtle but clear to you, it means : Go thank him, he tipped big. You glance over and see the stack of bills on the table. It’s actually excessive, even by this place's standards.
Club policy is club policy! You tell yourself, Big spenders get personal attention. It’s business and you don’t mind it.
You slip into your professional persona as easily as breathing.
You approach with a sultry smile, swaying your hips with each step, everything about your body language designed to make the customer feel special. You reach his table and let your hand rest lightly on his shoulder, lean in just enough that he can smell your perfume.
"Thank you so much for your generosity tonight," you purr with a voice sweet like honey. "I hope you enjoyed-"
"Quit the act."
You freeze. His voice is low and rough around the edges, he seems completely disinterested in this… customer service performance.
He doesn't even look at you at first, he just takes a sip of his whiskey before his dark eyes meet up with yours.
"Be yourself," he continues. "I gave all that money because I truly enjoyed the show. Not because I need you to blow smoke up my ass."
For a second, your mask slips. You straighten up, your hand drops from his shoulder, and you just... stare at him.
There's no malice in his expression. He's not trying to insult you or put you in your place. He's just being honest.
Well this is literally my job to act like that, asshole, you think, but you don't say it.
Instead, you find yourself responding with actual truth rather than trained pleasantries.
"Most people prefer the smoke," you say, crossing your arms. "Easier that way."
The corner of his mouth twitches, it’s quite close to being a smile. "I'm not most people."
"Yeah, I'm getting that." He smirks, like he's just won something or found what he was looking for. There she is.
You should walk away. Thank him again, professionally, and move on to the next table or the next customer. That's how this usually works. But you don't do it immediately. You don’t want to.
"You come here a lot," you observe, it’s not a question.
"I do."
"Why?"
He considers this, swirling the whiskey in his glass. "Good drinks, better entertainment, no one bothers me."
"Until now," you point out.
"You're not bothering me."
The way he says it, it’s like he's stating an objective truth. It does something strange to your pulse. You're suddenly very aware of how close you're standing, that he looks at you with his head raised and you with yours lowered, one might think that you are looking down on him, but the one who is dominant here is clearly him.
And mostly you notice, there's something about him that feels dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with the violence you know he's capable of. Because you can see it ; in the scars on his knuckles, the way he moves, the coldness that sometimes flashes behind his eyes.
This is not a safe man. I really should walk away.
"Well," you say, taking a step back, "enjoy the rest of your night."
"You too."
You walk away confused, and annoyed at how he's just gotten under your skin, and infuriatingly intrigued.
Two weeks later, it quickly becomes a habit ; Toji keeps coming to the club, always the same table, always the same drink.
But now there's an acknowledgment between you that wasn't there before. He nods subtly when you catch his eye. Those brief moments of contact feel loaded with forbidden feelings.
Your sweet, attempted indifference, only seems to intrigue him more.
You've seen his type before : handsome men of a certain age who think money can buy anything, and who consider places like this as a catalogue. But he doesn't act like them. He doesn't try to buy you, doesn't make weird offers or suggestions. Instead, he asks about your choreography,like, he notices small details in your technique. He treats you like an artist, not just a body. Which really surprises you. You wonder if he’s good at lying or if he’s genuinely interested.
"That transition in the second verse," he says one night when you pass his table. "From the floor work to the pole, that's new."
You pause, genuinely surprised. "You noticed?"
"I notice a lot of things."
The conversations get a little longer, a little more charged, each time. You find yourself timing your breaks to coincide with his presence, walking past his booth more than necessary, looking for him before you even step on stage. You kind of feel crazy for doing that but, you don’t bother to care.
Because you can tell he starts timing his visits to when you perform. It's a little game between you, it’s a subtle but undeniable truth building itself. However… there's a complication.
Your ex has been showing up.
At first it was just outside the club, "I just want to talk," he'd say, you endured it because you knew it was all false sincerity and manipulation. But damn you shouldn’t have because he took it for an invitation and started waiting by your car. Then, somehow, he started showing up inside, paying cover just to harass you from the crowd.
Everyone notices among your team. But what can they do? He hasn't technically done anything they can call the cops for. He's not violent here, he just watches, and he’s being persistent. Which simply just makes your skin crawl.
Toji noticed it too. At first, he thought it was just a customer, but after overhearing snippets of conversation and seeing your body tense up in his presence, he understood.
You catch him watching these interactions, you almost see the way his jaw tightens, how his hand flexes like he's stopping himself from doing something. But he doesn't intervene nor say anything.
You tell yourself you imagined his interest. That this tension between you is one-sided, a fantasy you've built up because he's attractive and mysterious and treats you like a person on top of being generous.
Then, Saturday night happens.
"Ride Or Die" by Sevdaliza starts playing. The beat is different from your usual sets. It’s less overtly sexual and more sensual... It is intimate in a way that feels vulnerable. You particularly like this song because of the dark feminine energy it gives you.
You're wearing a leopard print set tonight : a small top that barely contains your cleavage and the tiniest shorts that sit low on your hips. When you move, everything moves. You don't just dance this one. You feel it. And you feel everyone staring. How could they not? This outfit with this song choice, it really paired well together.
Your hips sway slowly, body rolling with the melody rather than the beat. You mouth along with the lyrics, lost in the music and in the story it's telling. When the Spanish part comes ;
"Te tengo to' pa' mi” (I have you all to myself), you look directly at him ; 'toy segura que tú no te quiere' ir" (I’m sure you don’t wanna leave).
You swear you see something flash in Toji's eyes.
He's got a thing for foreign languages, you'll learn later. Especially Latin ones. But right now all you know is that he's leaning forward slightly, his attention completely locks on you, and the air between you feels electric even across the distance.
I have you all for me,
I'm sure you don't want to leave.
The words tasted like a confession you didn't mean to make.
Your shift ends around two in the morning.
A pleasant fatigue washes over you, your muscles ache comfortably, still riding the high of a successful evening. You put on your faux fur coat, grab your bag from the back room, say goodnight to the girls, and head out the back door as usual.
The alley is dimly lit, it smells like rain and garbage, and you're already digging for your keys when you hear him.
"Think you can just ignore me?" You recognize that voice ; your stinky ex.
He's standing near the dumpster, and the way he's swaying tells you he's either drunk or high or both. His eyes are wild, and there's something in his hand that you can't recognize yet, but your instinct is telling you it’s no good.
"I'm not doing this," you say firmly, trying to walk past him. "Go home."
He grabs your wrist, really hard, so hard that you know there'll be bruises.
"You don't tell me what to do, you fucking whore." The words come out slurred but venomous. "You think you're better than me? Shaking your ass for strangers but you won't even answer my calls?"
"Let go-"
He shoves you before you have time to finish your sentence. Your back hits the brick wall, knocking the air from your lungs, and suddenly he's in your face, screaming.
“You owe me everything! How dare you ignore me” You look at him with disgust. “You’re nothing without me!” He kicks the dumpster next to you both. And when you think that you’re next in line, he's suddenly not there anymore.
One second he's in your face, the next he's on the ground ten feet away, and Toji is standing where your ex just was.
“Son of a…”
Your ex scrambles to his feet, and that's when you see the knife. Your brain immediately makes the connection, but everything happens so fast that you barely have time to speak to warn Toji before he throws himself at him with the weapon, like a wild and rabid dog.
The blade catches Toji's face and makes just a scratch along his cheekbone, before Toji catches his wrist mid-swing.
Toji grabs the drunk guy’s wrist and twists it, until the knife clatters to the ground, then sweeps his legs out from under him. Your ex hits the pavement hard, and before he can get up, Toji has the knife, and he is standing over him with an expression so cold it makes your blood freeze.
For a moment you think he's going to kill him. Your ex probably thinks so too. You can tell by the way he's scrambling backward, screaming obscenities and threats that sound hollow with fear, before getting up and limping away into the darkness.
Toji lets him go.
He stands there for a moment with the knife still in his hand, his breathing is controlled despite what just happened. He drops the blade, and nudges it toward the wall with his foot, then he turns to you.
"You okay?" His voice is deep but comforting up close
You're shaking while adrenaline is crashing through your system, it’s all made your hands tremble and your knees weak. But you're not crying, you hear yourself when you say ;
"Why did you even do that?" Your voice comes out sharper than intended. "You don't even know me! What happens if he tries to get revenge? What then?"
Toji reaches into his jacket, pulls out a pack of cigarettes. He lights one, takes a drag, then offers it to you.
"Then I'll beat him up again."
He says it like it’s easy as pie, a matter of fact. Like he's commenting on the weather.
You take the cigarette, hands still shaking, and inhale. The nicotine helps… barely.
"You're not gonna ask for anything?" You watch the smoke curl between you. "No... payment?"
He shrugs, lights his own cigarette. "I hate men who beat up women."
Said like it's the most obvious thing in the world, like there's no question of whether he'd intervene, no possibility of him walking away. This is just who he is.
You assume it's simply his own code. It may be twisted, probably born of violence and shaped by a dark world. But it's very real.
"Come on," he says, nodding toward the back door. "You're bleeding."
You touch your temple and your fingers come away red. You hadn't even noticed. The adrenaline is still pumping in your veins, it’s making everything feel distant and surreal.
Toji walks you back inside, past the stragglers still cleaning up, and you guide him into the back office where you keep the first aid kit. The fluorescent lights are harsh after the dim club, making everything too sharp and real.
"Sit," he says, gesturing to the desk.
You do, hopping up onto the edge, and watch as he finds the first aid kit before he brings it over. His knuckles are split and bleeding sluggishly, there's a scratch on his face from the knife. But he doesn't seem to care about himself. Right now, he cares about you.
"This might sting," he warns before dabbing at your temple with antiseptic.
It does sting, but you barely feel it. You're too focused on how close he is, his hands are gentle despite the violence they just enacted. He works quietly, and you find yourself staring at his face. You analyze the hard line of his jaw, the scar on his lip, “I wonder what kissing it feels like”, you daydream. And lastly you watch the way his dark hair falls into his even darker eyes.
"Your turn," you say when he's finished with you.
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding, sit down."
His expression is hard to read, you can’t really tell if it’s surprise or amusement, but he complies. He leans back against the desk near you, your knees almost touch his hip.
You take his hand first, the one with the split knuckles. Your fingers look small against his, so delicate. Your french manicured nails are so pretty against his scarred, rough skin. You clean the wounds carefully, and you feel him watching you, entirely.
His gaze tracks the movement of your fingers, the generous length of your nails, the gentle way you touch him like he's precious and far from dangerous.
You can feel his attention like a physical weight, can sense the way his breathing has taken a slower and deeper pace.
When you finish with his hand, you move to his face. The scratch along his cheekbone isn't deep but it needs cleaning. You have to lean in close and brace one hand on his shoulder for support.
Suddenly the air between you is palpable and that has nothing to do with the strong smell of antiseptic.
"Why do you keep coming here?" The question slips out before you can stop it.
His eyes meet yours. You're close enough to see the flecks of color in them, so close you even feel his breath.
"Why do you think?" He’s not just answering you right now, he’s inviting you, with that damn look in his eyes.
And the tone he uses when pronouncing those words is like music to your ears. It sends shivers down your spine, through your gut, and finally between your legs. It’s hot and insistent, impossible for you to ignore.
You've been pushing it down for weeks, telling yourself it's just attraction, just curiosity, that it doesn't mean anything. But you’re lying to yourself. You don’t even answer his question, you’d rather not. You focus back on his scratch which you finish cleaning.
But you don't pull away and neither does he. Your hand is still on his face, so his hand somehow finds its way to your hip, and the tension is so thick you could cut it with the knife currently lying in the alley outside. His large hands apply a slight pressure on your little leopard print shorts, which he seems to particularly like.
"This is…" you start.
"A bad idea," he finishes. "I know."
But neither of you moves. Then time stretches out, taut like an elastic band about to break, and you feel your professional defenses crumbling. All your carefully maintained distance turning to dust because he's right there and he protected you and he sees you and god… you want him…
"I should go," you whisper.
"Yeah."
It’s hard for both of you to pull away.
Then, like you've both decided something without speaking, you step back. The distance feels like a crime and reality comes crashing back, this is your workplace and he’s a customer. There are rules that exist for a reason.
"Thank you," you said with a more confident voice than you actually are."For... everything."
"Don't mention it."
There's heavy eye contact, one last moment where you both acknowledge what almost happened and what's building between you whether you want it to or not.
On your way home, alone, you try to convince yourself that this is just physical, that it'll pass, and that you can maintain your professionalism. Deep inside you, you know you’re close to failing at all three.
The tension becomes unbearable for the next two weeks.
Your ex stays away as he is terrified of Toji, you assume. However, you start noticing other things such as suspicious cars in the parking lot or someone watching your vehicle too closely one night, though they leave when you approach. You even begin to think that some new customers feel wrong somehow, like they're watching for something specific.
You tell yourself you're being paranoid. That the incident with your ex has you jumping at shadows, but the feeling persists.
Toji still comes to the club, and now there's this thing between you that's impossible to ignore ; the lingering looks across the room ; your performances feel like they're for him specifically. He tips, you thank him, but the conversations are brief and loaded with everything you're not saying.
You find excuses to walk past his booth… he finds reasons to stay later. You're both circling around each other, afraid to touch the precious barrier but unable to leave it alone.
Also, you start noticing other things about him. Sometimes he comes to the club looking different, he’s quite tense and… wired. There's blood on his collar one night, it’s barely visible against the dark fabric, but you see it... Maybe because you mistook it for a hickey at first and you found a way to get a closer look.
"Rough night?" you ask, trying to keep it casual.
"Work," he says, like that explains everything. Maybe it does.
You realize he's not just a gambler or someone with money and time to kill. He's actually dangerous. The kind of dangerous that has nothing to do with bar fights and everything to do with the kind of work that leaves blood on your collar. You should be scared, but you’re not, and you can’t help it.
It's a Friday night, and "I Was Never There" by The Weeknd is playing as the closing song for the night. The dark synth and haunting vocals echo through the club like holy chants. You're wearing a black fitted dress that shows your entire back, the fabric barely stopping at the beginning of your ass, revealing that sexy dip at the base of your spine that makes men stupid.
Toji thinks that everything suits you, every outfit you pull reveals and highlights a different part of your body, each of them could make him go feral.
You’ve been serving drinks tonight and now it’s finally your time to dance to close out the night, you step on the stage.
The club lights have gone particularly dim for this last song, the dusky lights only make certain parts of your body appear, which makes you look like a goddess of darkness.
You move slowly to this one, sensually, as if you're dancing like no one else but him is there. Your hips sway and your hands trace patterns on the pole like you’re writing a sacred language. You arch and dip with the haunting synth, your body tells a story of longing and surrender that mirrors the ache in The Weeknd’s voice.
You lose yourself in its melancholy as it seeps into your bones, with your eyes closed, your head falls back and you let that stretch expose your face in the dim light. The way you move feels like you’re dancing through a heartbreak no one can recover from ; you make sorrow beautiful.
When you’re done, you step off stage as the lights get dimmer to signal the club will close soon, and you automatically look for his booth. He's there, but something's wrong.
Toji is leaning back in his seat, you notice that there's a tightness to his posture which speaks of pain. There are fresh cuts on his face, and more than one this time. The way he's holding his side tells you he's hurt worse than he's letting on.
You break your own distance rule without thinking. You walk straight to his booth, ignore club protocol at the same time, and lean down close enough that only he can hear you.
"What happened?"
"Work." Same answer as always.
"Bullshit. You're hurt."
His eyes meet yours, and there's something in them you haven't seen before ; he seems exhausted.
"It's nothing."
"You need to clean that up." You make a decision, probably a stupid one. "Come on."
"I'm fine."
"Come on." You insist.
You don't give him a choice as you're already walking toward the back, and after a moment, he follows.
The back office always feels smaller with both of you in it… and more intimate.
You grab the first aid kit again, it’s kind of become a habit now, you gesture for him to sit, he does it without argumenting.
You work in silence at first, carefully cleaning the cuts on his face, and trying not to think about how this is becoming routine. Damn, you think, as you realize that you’re starting to learn the geography of his scars, that your hands know the shape of his jaw now.
"You should stay away from me," he says quietly.
Your hands pause. You're holding his face, and he's looking up at you with an expression that's part warning, part plea. You can’t help but enjoy the moment ; He’s so good looking, especially when he looks at you that way.
"Probably," you whisper back.
But your hands don't leave his face. His hands come up to grip your hips to steady himself, or maybe he’s just taking advantage of the moment to touch you somewhere not too inappropriate but risky enough. Proximity is becoming a necessity, because you both know this tension has to break eventually.
"This is a bad idea," you say, but it sounds like a question.
"Yeah."
The kiss is inevitable. Desperately, his hands tighten on your hips, pulling you closer, he makes you taste the tobacco and the whiskey on his tongue ; it’s all tinged with the violence of his world and the sweet vanilla surrender of yours.
Your hands slide from his face into his hair, fingers threading through the dark strands before gripping tight like you've been starving for this.
Like you’re been waiting for permission to touch him the way you've wanted to for weeks. He groans into your mouth at the pull, the sound is rough and possessive, and it sends heat flooding through your body. You're pressed against him now. You can feel the solid muscle of his chest, the way his heart is racing just as fast as yours, and it's intoxicating.
You know you should stop this, but you don't.
When you finally break apart, you're both breathing hard, and reality is trying to reassert itself but failing miserably.
"I have a place nearby," he says against your mouth.
You know this is a terrible idea. You know all the reasons you should say no ; he's a customer, he's dangerous, and this violates every professional boundary you've set for yourself.
"I can't," you say, even though everything in you is screaming yes. "I can't just... this isn't..."
He pulls back to give you space. Then, he nods like he understands, even though you can see the disappointment in his eyes.
"Okay."
"I should go home." You say half-heartedly.
"I'll walk you to your car."
Outside, the night air is cool against your overheated skin, a sharp contrast to the heat still coursing through your body from that kiss. You're trying to process what just happened, but your thoughts are scattered and your lips still tingle with the taste of him.
You walk to your car in silence, hyper-aware of Toji beside you, the space between your bodies feeling both too much and not enough. Your mind is racing, but when you reach your car, you stop dead.
All four tires are flat. They are literally slashed, the rubber torn in clean and the angry cuts look personal.
"For real," you mutter, staring at the damage while your stomach drops.
Toji's expression goes dark. His eyes sweep the parking lot in a practiced assessment, looking for threats you wouldn't even know to see. His body shifts subtly, positioning himself between you and the rest of the lot.
You realize this wasn't random vandalism. Someone's watching you, someone wants you scared. Your ex? Or something worse?
You watch him move through the parking lot like a predator, checking behind cars, scanning rooftops. When he is done five minutes later, his jaw is tight.
"Whoever did it is gone, but we're not taking chances." He pulls out his phone. "I'll call someone to tow your car tomorrow. Tonight, you're not going anywhere alone."
"I can just call a rideshare…"
"To where? Your place, where whoever did this might be waiting?" His eyes meet yours, and there's genuine concern there beneath the hardness, he sighs before speaking again. "Let’s go grab a drink before I figure out where you're staying tonight."
His voice is casual, but you can hear the edge in it, the protective instinct he's trying to mask as practicality.
You should say no, go to a hotel on your own, put distance between you and whatever this is becoming. Because it's not just attraction anymore ; it's complicated by violence and danger and the fact that someone is actively trying to hurt you.
But standing here in a dark parking lot with slashed tires and the memory of his kiss still burning on your lips, you don't feel scared.
"Yeah," you hear yourself say, and maybe you're making the worst decision of your life, but you can't seem to care. "Yeah, okay."
The hotel bar is unexpectedly nice, it’s all dark wood and dim lighting, the kind of place that caters to business travelers and people having affairs. Toji leads you to a corner booth, then orders whiskey for himself and a rose martini for you without asking.
“If you don’t like this, just order anything else, anything you want.” He says, like it's normal. You take the drink and thank him.
"You're staying here?" you ask.
"This week, for work," he says, like that explains everything.
"You say that a lot… 'Work.'"
"Because it's true."
"What kind of work leaves you looking like you went three rounds with a meat grinder?"
The corner of his mouth twitches. "The kind that pays well."
You sip your drink, studying him. He's more relaxed here now that you’re both away from the club. Or maybe he's just tired. The cuts on his face look worse under the bar lights, and you feel that annoying urge to take care of him again.
"You ever gonna tell me what you actually do?" you press.
"You ever gonna tell me why you're so good at pretending you don't care about things you care about?" He teases.
Touché. "It's a survival skill," you admit. "In my line of work, you learn to separate performance from reality."
"And which one am I getting right now?"
You consider lying, but is it really if I’m just playing it safe? However, the way he's looking at you, like he actually wants to know, like your answer matters… makes you want to be honest.
"Reality," you say quietly. "I don't... I don't usually do this, talk to customers like this. Let them..." You gesture vaguely between you. "This."
"I'm not most customers."
"No," you agree. "You're really not."
The conversation flows easier after that. You talk about dancing, how you got into it, why you stayed, you explain the artistry that people don't see. He listens in a way most people don't, he asks questions that prove he's actually paying attention.
In return, he gives you pieces of himself. He grew up in the Zenin clan, and he says the name like it tastes bitter, where worth was measured by cursed energy and technique, and he had neither.
Cast aside and treated like trash, he decided to leave. He made a name for himself doing the kind of work that pays well when you’re good at killing and don’t ask questions.
“Sorcerer assassin”, he calls it with dark amusement, though you don’t fully understand what that means. He doesn't love what he does, but he doesn't hate it either. It's just what he is ; a weapon pointed at whoever pays enough.
"You don't have cursed energy," you say, testing the phrase he used, "but you kill... sorcerers?"
"Best at it, actually." There's pride there. "Turns out being nothing makes you invisible to the things that matter in their world, and I've gotten very good at using that."
"Doesn't that get lonely?" you ask. "Just... existing in violence?"
He shrugs. "You get used to it. Most people are temporary anyway."
"That's depressing."
"That's realistic."
“...” You don’t know if you should say it but, you do.
“If it’s all temporary then, might as well make it enjoyable I guess.”
Under the table, your knees are touching. They have been for the last ten minutes, and neither of you has moved away. The contact is subtle but electric. You're hyper-aware of the warmth of him through your bare legs and the fabric of his clothes, of the way he shifts slightly closer every few minutes like he's testing boundaries.
His hand is on the table near yours, close enough that if you moved your pinkie finger half an inch, you'd be touching. You watch his fingers, his scarred knuckles, his calloused palms, his hands that have done terrible things but held your face so gently.
The temptation to close that tiny distance is almost unbearable. You wonder if he's thinking the same thing, if he's measuring that same half-inch of space and deciding whether to cross it.
The tension is back, thick and heavy between you, turning the air syrupy and charged.
"It's late," you say, but you don't move to leave.
"Yeah."
"I should probably..."
"Probably." You walk toward the hotel lobby.
Then, as if the universe is conspiring against your better judgment, you hear rain outside.
You step outside to make sure you’re not dreaming. Unfortunately for you, it’s not the gentle type of rain that you see in movies, it’s actually the kind of downpour that sounds like the sky is falling which you can hear even through the hotel walls.
"Shit," you mutter, going back quickly to the entrance after the rain proved you it was quite real.
"That's not letting up anytime soon."
You take out your phone to check the weather. The forecast announces a flash flood warning and dangerous driving conditions. The universe really isn't known for its subtlety.
"I'll call a rideshare," you say, but even as you say it, you're wondering if anyone will even be driving in this.
"You'll catch a cold before you make it to the car." Toji's watching you, expression unreadable. "You'll sleep here. It's safer for you anyway."
It's a suggestion that seems quite logical. With those flat tires, threats from your ex and those suspicious people in the parking lot… staying in a hotel where no one will look for you is actually more than just a good idea.
That's what you tell yourself as you nod. "Okay." Or perhaps you just accept that the universe is simply trying to guide you through your destiny, that of a delightful night.
He pays the tab, and you follow him through the hotel lobby to the elevators. Your heart is pounding so hard you're sure he can hear it. This is happening. You're going to his room. You know what this means, what you're agreeing to, and you're doing it anyway.
The elevator ride is silent. Your thoughts drift to every cliché romantic elevator scene you've ever seen ; the kind where the elevator is out of order, as if by chance, and where the actors have nothing better to do but make out. It's ridiculous. You're being ridiculous.
His hand brushes yours which puts you out of your daydreaming. Reality is so much more potent. That simple contact sends electricity up your arm, and when you glance at him, he's already looking at you with an intensity that makes your knees weak.
What’s on his mind!? You think, as you walk down the hallway and stop at room 347.
He unlocks the door.
You step inside, and you're immediately aware of the intimacy of the space. There's only one bed, obviously, at least it’s king-sized, the sheets still perfectly made from housekeeping. His clothes are draped over a chair in the corner. The space smells like him ; clean and masculine, that subtle scent of his cologne is mixed with something uniquely him that you've been unconsciously remembering every time he gets close.
The door closes behind you with a soft click that seems to seal you both into this moment.
"Make yourself comfortable," Toji says, his voice is rougher than usual. He gestures toward the bathroom, then the dresser. "Take a shower if you want. I can lend you a shirt and a pair of joggers."
It's such a normal offer, it’s so domestic and thoughtful, that it almost makes you laugh. Like you're here for a sleepover, like the tension crackling between you isn't about to combust into something that will change everything.
"Thanks," you manage, but neither of you moves. You don't head toward the bathroom, and he doesn't go looking for those clothes he just offered.
You turn to face him, and all the tension of the last few weeks is suddenly right there between you, it’s no longer possible to ignore. Your hair is slightly mussed from the rain and the wind, a few damp strands cling to your neck. You're still in your clothes from the club, and you've never felt more aware of your body.
Your dress is indeed… tight-fitted, and you might've forgotten to pull it down when you got up from the chair at the bar, so now it's even shorter than it already was, riding high on your thighs in a way that his eyes definitely notice.
He's watching you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle, like he's giving you one last chance to change your mind, to walk away from whatever line you're about to cross.
"We don't have to do anything," he starts, forcing the words out like they physically pain him to say.
"I know," you interrupt.
You take a step closer, then another, closing the distance between you until you're near enough to feel the heat radiating from his body.
"I know we don't have to," you repeat, quieter now, looking up at him. "But I want to."
And before you both realize it, you're kissing him.
Everything else falls away. Your rules, your professionalism, every reason you've given yourself to keep distance between you. There's only this : his mouth on yours, his hands gripping your ass like he's afraid you'll disappear, the way your body fits against his.
When he walks you backward toward the bed, you don't resist.
When his hands find the zipper of your dress, you don't stop him.
Whatever happens next, whatever consequences come from crossing this line, you'll deal with tomorrow.
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