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[thousand]

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that yakuza au 👀👀

[thousand]

[ Tokyo is a city that breathes.

As bland at it is bloody, it inhales people and expels machinery— trains and tangled electricity wires, rooted into the ground over the remains of Edo. At night, it simmers; this is what Sukuna likes; when the stark, bleached sky turns red and the tower's lights gleam over Roppongi, when Kabukicho becomes the floating world once again instead of a non-descript suburb of Shinjuku's downtown.

There are different kinds of Yakuza.

There are those who work as businessmen work; with their booming, ice-cold pachinko parlours, open 24 hours and carefully situated deep in the politician's pockets, attending strategy meetings with their staff as if they were an obscure and unimportant Olympic planning committee.

There are the old guard; the known names — the ones in sprawling estates with family characters carved onto their gates as naked as day; Gojou-gumi, Zenin-gumi — these are the sort who are called to attend political meetings, who bow to the emperor.

There are yakuza, and then there are yakuza.

Ryomen Sukuna is the latter.

Seven generations back, a blood relative had drawn his sword on bended knee and lobbed off the left hand of the emperor, and the bloodshed had begun there— and never ended.

There is no name for the clan, their name was struck off in disgrace. Instead, the name Sukuna has been held against the country's throat; the name of a minor deity, the name of a demon. They say he is the flesh of a god, the bloodline of a curse. No one is actually sure; everyone is superstitious enough to believe the rumours. Sukuna is not the sort to correct them, why would he when he himself feels the old line in his veins; when people bend to him with a glance. Who is he to say that a demon's blood doesn't spread through him?

It might as well.

He meets Gojou Satoru in Ginza, because the man loves a high class Kyabakura where the girls all wear kimono. Not like the flashy clubs in Sukuna's town Shinjuku, where their surgeries turn their eyes three times their original size, and they arrive in fur coats like reimagined Hollywood stars. But— taste is taste, he supposes.

There is a territory dispute to discuss and, as usual, Gojou owes him money. That's the old guard for you, he thinks, with a smirk at one of the girls; they blow everything on their estates and their hostesses and it's all a good show without any real bite. But, he appreciates theatricality, and Gojou certainly has a flair for it.

The boy is a nice touch.

He looks out of place in the club; brought in by Gojou with a flourish of his hand and a gleam of blue behind his sunglasses (what sort of yakuza acts like a celebrity host club's no.1? This one). Sukuna attends his meetings in a black kimono — the stripes of his tattoo run down his neck, across his face, around his forearms. He looks like a warlord at a council, like something from somewhere else, and from long, long ago.

The girls all know Gojou, and they know of Sukuna— this is a professional place, no need to make introductions or bow with the delivery of business cards. The mama-san waits their table herself.

Sukuna watches the boy.

Green eyes, he sees. Even in low light. Green as a gaijin's. He must be mixed or they are contacts; he wonders if Gojou had a doctor do it— he suspects a procedure would explain the blue of the clan head's own.

They talk shop and ignore the girls; Gojou's taste in alcohol is expensive, but Sukuna dislikes champagne so they drink the strong sake. Gojou's hand eventually finds the boy's knee and it is permitted; a faint tightening about the pretty mouth leads Sukuna to suspect that this has been a long-standing arrangement. He always heard that the head of the Gojou-gumi likes them young. He's not one to judge; after all, it's rumoured that Sukuna likes them dead and served at dinner.

"Megumi," Gojou slurs lightly, happily drunk. "Megumi, meet Sukuna-dono, Sukuna's our very gracious—" he winks, "—ally."

Gojou is never as drunk as he pretends to be, Sukuna knows.

He leans in close, smells sandalwood (like a temple monk, he wants to bark a laugh) and nods his head once in introduction; the dip of it like a snake's.

When he smiles, it's as good as bared teeth. ]

You have my name, boy. And now I have yours.