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ctrlsatoru · 7 months

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HANABI SEASON - CHAPTER ONE

genre: enemies to lovers; roommate au; fluff, angst & smut (future chapters) warnings: none in this chapter pairing: geto suguru x gojo satoru x afab reader word count: 6.2k

a/n: LISTEN this is me refusing to accept the current situation in the manga. i need to put my love for these characters somewhere!!! anyway here’s wonderwall:

❛❛For years, the only thread connecting you both was the living legend known as Gojo Satoru. Fate always seemed to place one of you in the other's absence, but in the aftermath of the night parade of a thousand demons, destiny takes an unexpected turn and your paths are brought together.

Or the one where former terrorist and cult leader Geto Suguru is sentenced to become your roommate, and consequences ensue❜❜

They can’t stop themselves from looking at him.

Curiosity. Lust. Appraisal. Pity.

It's human nature, people wanting to keep pretty, deadly things in their hands. It's written all over the clandestine glances that take him in greedily, dripping with morbid fascination. The most insistent eyes skitter away like spiders caught in the light the moment they find themselves under your scrutiny, ashamed of being caught or irked by what they assume is a display of passionate jealousy.

How mistaken they are.

Though you suppose you two do sell the couple fantasy at first glance, sitting side by side, matching in black; black dress, black suit, black eyes, black hair. His sharp, siren eyes contrasting against your round ones, dusted in the faintest glitter.

An unlikely pair in an unlikely situation, that’s the truth of it. Two people doomed to partake in an unorthodox dynamic. You’ve never even had one conversation. At all. Not since you met, nor since he came to live with you in your apartment.

"And now, it is time to present the award for Innovation in Design. This year's awardee is led by a remarkable group of visionaries, whose work has not only led the transformation of several industries but has also improved the lives of countless individuals.”

For weeks, he’s been a muted shadow roaming your apartment, and you the sole recipient of his unwavering disinterest. The silent treatment irks you more than what you’d anticipated, for reasons you refuse to unpack. You expected domestic warfare, belittling remarks, and even the subtle threat of being poisoned or smothered in your sleep. You were more than ready for it.

Instead, he’s simply looked right through you. No acknowledgment, no reaction to your presence, to anyone or anything. You both share a roof and simultaneously exist on entirely separate planes. The days blur together as you leave for work early and come back late, often staring at the door without knowing whether he’s eaten or had any water. Other than the weekly home visits from Dr. Nakamura, his psychiatrist, his whereabouts are a mystery to you.

Living with him is like having an emo, non-verbal teenager stuck inside a grown man's body as a roommate. So, you decided to react accordingly; by disrupting his streak of isolation and forcing him to come with you to a social function.

It was a desperate, risky measure on your part, and doubts began to creep in when you realized that the "social" aspect involved other people, members of the industry, top dogs from rival companies but most importantly, colleagues you interact with every day, who will undoubtedly have questions about this mysterious man they've never seen before.

But any hesitation dissolved the moment you two arrived at the venue. Looking at him over your shoulder as he made his way through the crowd, you just knew something in him shifted.

It wasn't as if a switch was flipped; rather, it was like a tiny chip had formed on his stony exterior, hinting at the possibility of a larger crack—but he’s still not quite there. Not yet, anyway.

“To receive this prestigious award on behalf of Kaneko Industries, please join me in welcoming Sera Kaneko.”

The room erupts into applause, and your entire table -except for your hostage/date seated on your left- rises from their seats. A radiant but measuredly humble smile steals over your features as your coworkers celebrate, bowing in every conceivable direction and patting each other on the back. Congratulations, you deserve it, you've worked hard. There's a mutual understanding that tonight is the result of an uphill battle, months and months of sleepless nights, time with loved ones sacrificed and many failures and stumbles have paid nicely.

You would gladly stay here and wipe the tears threatening to spill from your favorite senior creative director’s glassy eyes, but duty calls you to the podium. Fingers clutching the fabric of your dress's skirt, you stride across the room with the grace of someone who has worn these heels daily for the past seven years.

“Thank you.” Your voice wavers on the mic, giving away your heart hammering against your chest. Your mouth feels like cardboard, you're blinded by the lights, and you're just a little embarassed and thankful that the MC comes back to adjust the mic stand to a reasonable height. By the time he walks away, your head's standing tall and proud over your shoulders. “We are deeply honored. We believe this represents not only our dedication but also the incredible potential the work everyone in this room does has to shape the future.”

As your eyes adjust to the lights, you steal an indulgent glance at the heavy crystal, wand-like sculpture in your hands. One by one, faces emerge from the sparkling specks of dust in the air. They're looking at you expectantly, and though it's nothing similar to the looks your companion has been getting, there's something nearly predatory about their curiosity. The weight of your last name is heavy, but your shoulders push back in tenfold.

"I want to congratulate everyone at Kaneko Industries who inspires us every day with their creativity and dedication. This is a reflection of their collective efforts, and I’m privileged to be part of such an amazing team, and of course,this wouldn’t be possible without our CEO, Yamamoto Sota, whose leadership and support have allowed us to dream big and achieve even bigger."

Your gaze shifts from your direct superior’s prideful, borderline fatherly smile to the somber presence sitting on the other side of your vacant chair. The sight of him reminds you of a black hole, threatening to consume every last drop of life in the beautifully adorned room at any given second.

Then, a wicked spark goes through you. A brief second is all it takes.

"And I'd like to express my heartfelt gratitude to a very special person," your words ring out, "someone who has been an unexpected source of encouragement and inspiration."

As you stand alone in the spotlight, his eyes meet yours across the room for the first time.

A subtle shift of his jaw turns it into a blade, far sharper than human anatomy should allow, accompanied by the faintest flare of his nostrils. He blinks slowly, casting an ominous veil over his dark eyes. In his full glory, he’d have everyone here with their foreheads to the ground and keep a different fate just for you– you’d be saved for last.

But even as you paint yourself as the target of the world's most dangerous curse user, his wellspring of hostile intentions fails to intimidate you; instead, it sends an exhilarating thrill within you. Like a kid playing with firecrackers for the first time, awakening pyromaniac tendencies.

You have it, undeniable evidence that he’s not yet turned into a walking carcass. Beneath the surface of his pale, spectral skin and those haunting, faded eyes, the ability, the will to feel, to hate, survives. Even if part of him didn’t.

You finally have a thread to hold on to. But first, you're supposed to finish a speech.

"As we celebrate past achievements, we also look to the future. I'm excited to disclose to you that Kaneko Industries is embarking on a collaboration with the Biomedical Engineering Department at the University of Tokyo."

Uncomfortable glances are shared by your colleagues, hidden behind stiff, half-terrified smiles. The words flow out of your mouth with ease, making it too late to go back. Monday you will deal with the consequences.

"While we can't reveal all the details just yet," You add as a precautionary method and an act of useless but honest solidarity for Monday you. "You have our word that this partnership will usher in a new era of design possibilities, blending cutting-edge research with real-world applications. We're excited to continue pushing the boundaries of what's possible. Thank you."

You step down with another round of applause, and the night goes on.

About an hour later you escape the crowd for a moment of quiet and find it in the precious emptiness of the terrace. No one sets foot here; the night is too cold for comfort and merciless, crisp air freezes your lungs. The beautiful view of Tokyo makes up for it. It’s just you and your glass of champagne.

As if you’ve been under his watch, your phone buzzes against the hidden pocket on your hip about a few minutes later. You're surprised to see it's only a call, he's usually a facetimer.

“I knew Ijichi was a snitch.” you gritt. “That’s why he looks twenty years older than he is. Snitches get no collagen.”

“Be nice to him, you know he has a soft spot for you. Don’t break the man’s heart.” the voice on the line murmurs playfully, your perfectly lined eyes squint at the Tokyo Tower covered in stark blue light.

“If this is you trying to give me a scolding, just get to it. Don’t ease me into it like I’m one of your little stu–”

“Uh? It’s nothing like that. I just wanted to say congratulations, I heard you guys got the big prize tonight. I’ll make sure to bring the team their much deserved gift baskets as soon as I get back.” Knowing his flashy tendencies, he’ll pull something unnecessarily extravagant and terrorize half the building. The other half, most of them starry eyed interns, might fall deeper in love with him.

“The whole company?” you taunt, not necessarily doubting him.

“Of course! The kids at the front desk, that stuck-up little assistant of yours, even the degenerate CEO.” he promises, and you’re just opening your mouth to defend your friends when he continues “But seriously, I’m proud of you, bug. I know this means a lot to you."

"Yeah. Thanks." you rasp, right as your eyes start to sting. They might've been happy tears, but you refuse them knowing you'll have to come back inside eventually.

"Hey. We have to celebrate. how do we feel about Etxebarri?”

"In what, six months from now on? We'll have better luck with Jay Fai." you snort, even if the idea of seeing the Achondo scenery is enticing, fear creeps up on you that he's suggesting a spot with such a lengthy waitlist because he's planning an extended stay abroad. "Plus, it's no fun if I have to remind you."

"I can't help but feel underestimated. Big mistake, Kaneko, huge." he clicks his tongue "We'll do both. And if there's any other place you feel like hitting up, just let me know."

"If I didn't know any better, I'd think you're trying to spoil me."

"Maybe you don't." you can't help but freeze at that, the sip you were taking threatening to go down the wrong pipe. You pull the phone away from you and try to recover as quietly as possible, only returning to the call in time to catch- "-used to it."

“What time is it over there?” you shut your eyes tight as soon as the question leaves your mouth, though you're sure your tone perfectly masked the mortification. Timezones? Bro, really?

“Early. Uh– 5 a.m. Doesn’t feel like it, though. The sun is bright as hell.” he complains, surely rubbing his eyes.

“Still working?”

“Just got off.” You pictured a dismissive little shrug, a reminder of how easy things come to him.

“Things are going smoothly here,” You just knew he was about to ask. “I’m handling it. Don’t stress about things that you have no control over and get some sleep.”

“No control? That’s an interesting way to phrase it. Not even a bit? And–” he chuckles airily “Have you known me to be the type to stress about things?”

“Zero, and no.” you turn to rest against the thick concrete rail, overlooking the party, hugging your waist trying to fix up some warmth. “But you have this ominous vibe every time we talk. I feel like you’re just waiting for me to tell you that I left the stove on at home. It’s kind of exhausting.”

“That’s–”

“But” you emphasize before the conversation gets too real “I get it. We’re on foreign ground, aren’t we?”

“Good foreign, or bad foreign?”

A soft laugh bubbles out of your chest at his poorly concealed apprehension. If you’re actively trying to learn your way around Geto Suguru, his counterpart you can read like a book.

“Dude, you seriously need to unclench.”

“I’m unclenched. I’m super loose, you wouldn’t believe it.”

There’s some shuffling around, followed by a sharp exhale, a telltale sound of him dropping his weight on some random hotel mattress.

“That did not land the way you wanted it to.”

“Answer my question, Kaneko.”

“Oh. Not Kaneko,” you gasp, just idly amused. No wonder his students show you more respect. “You know, If you were going to dread delegating something to me for once, maybe– I don’t know? You shouldn’t have made me your ex-boyfriend’s keeper.”

“I don’t–”

You’re cutting him off before the conversation gets too real.

“I’m fucking with you, jeez, god forbid a girl tries to make light of the situation.”

There’s a sigh of protest against you postponing an inevitable conversation, but the fact that he’s letting you off the hook speaks volumes. You keep your eyes on the one and only by the bar, standing up like he’s above sitting on a stool, ready to pulverize whoever dares come to his vicinity.

Good foreign, or bad foreign?

“I think I’m getting him to crack.”

“And why would you be trying to get him to crack?” he questions with utmost patience, like he's talking to a kid.

This time, you deflect without remorse. “He’s got enough admirers tonight to start another little cult. Do you know how long I spent surrounded by people this afternoon?”

“I don’t know. One hour?” he yawns.

“Four, Gojo. I’m talking hairdressers, makeup artists, some foreign stylist, and their assistants. There’s not a single dead skin cell in my body right now, and my tits look– they put some shiny body butter on me, I don’t think I can tell you how good they look” you pause, pinching your nose “All he has is his little bun, dark circles and vitamin D deficiency and I’m telling you, he stole my spotlight. I didn’t stand a chance.”

“I’m sure you did, bug. Don’t get too caught up about it.”

His honeyed words have the opposite effect. Your eyes narrow, shoulders sagging as you shift your weight between your feet.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you this, you’re biased…" you murmur, shaking your head. "Whatever, I'm not worried about it, but I’ve been thinking about this–"

"Have you now?"

"I always found cults silly. I mean, what makes someone alluring enough to convince multitudes to follow them blindly like that? Even if they offer a super convincing lore about the end of the world. And they always say they’re charming and handsome, but the pictures tell another story– have you seen Jim Jones?”

The line falls quiet as reluctant realization lands on you, and you don’t even register how the cold has numbed the muscles of your face until one of your eyebrows tries to lift, tracing the edge of Geto Suguru’s profile from afar.

“But I kind of get it,” you speak your truth, more to yourself, and it comes as an intrigued whisper. The sharp wheeze of Gojo violently coughing comes immediately, breaking you out of your trance. Was he eating?

“Huh?”

Even from a distance, looking at him is a humbling experience. Pretty doesn't do him justice. Granted, the man has seen better days; you don’t get devastatingly close to achieving the dream of a lifetime, and lose a limb along with the world you built for yourself and your family without it taking a toll on you.

In every conceivable sense of the word, Geto is a withered man, but there’s something entirely magnetic about him.

The pitch-black suit you picked clings to him with an almost predestined fit, a stark reminder that under the unkempt hair and lackluster baggy clothes he wears around your apartment hides a strong, well-trained physique made of wide shoulders and a slender, should you say almost slutty waist.

Sunken eyes and weight loss aside, having a face like that never hurts, and whatever effort he put into his hair paid off nicely. A cascade of thick ebony locks spills down his back, half of it tied up in a neat bun exposing his forehead and the sharp angles of his face.

So, yeah. It seems completely plausible to you that people got hooked on his hardcore eugenics pyramid scheme, simply because they wanted to hit. Not that you would ever go down that road even at your lowest, horniest hour, but you see the POV. Now that you're thinking about it, you're not that far off from the people staring at him earlier, with the sole difference that he's... kind of in your hands already.

Your train of thought surprises you.

“I’m just gonna ask you something.”

“Shoot.”

“Are you drunk?”

“No. Maybe? I don’t think so. Let’s just say I’m starting to empathize with your commitment issues.” you hold back a giggle at his pointed silence. Very few people can say they’ve left the Gojo Satoru speechless. And not for a lack of effort. “Man, imagine if I fell for him or something. That’d be hilarious. Huge conflict of interest. What would you do then?”

“Well, that– would put me in a very tight spot, for sure.”

“Mm. I can see how that would be uncomfortable for you, yes,” you admit, rather seriously, finding endless joy in how uncomfortable and concerned he sounded. You damn the distance between you for not letting you see his face. “But nah. No. I don’t go for the crazy ones, that’s your thing. Plus, it’s bros before hoes, always.”

A scoff that’s supposed to be a laugh sounds too much like a sound of relief. “Said in true girl boss lingo.”

Before you can open your mouth and continue making him uncomfortable, your alarms are set off by a figure in red approaching your roommate’s safe perimeter.

“O.k. I gotta go, there’s a— situation here. And by the way, you owe me dinner for the rest of your life. I’m never taking the tab again.”

“What? What’s–”

“And get some sleep. I’ll text you when we get home, say hi to Yuta and Miguel for me.”

“Sera–”

“I’ve got this, ok? Have some faith in me, Satoru. Don’t make me say that again.”

Your thumb hits the red button, not a glance spared at the screen as you make your way inside, sliding through the crowd and avoiding your boss and his lecture on how your stunt was a direct attack on the company’s stability. There’s a crossover at the bar that needs to be stopped immediately.

“Aunt Elisa” your tone goes a pitch higher to soften the way you’re peeling her hand off his forearm, holding it between both of yours instead. Her thin, wrinkly freckled skin reminds you of a newborn reptile.

Your aunt Elisa is the second wife of your uncle, one of the few members of your family who held onto enough shares in the company to get invited to this kind of event.

“Serafina, mia cara,” Her green eyes scan you from head to toe, lips curved in a practiced smile that always failed to reach her eyes. She’s a beautiful woman, but the stiffness of her face never fails to make you recoil. “You shouldn’t leave your date unaccompanied, it’s unbecoming. This event isn’t all about you, you’re an adult now, you should know that.”

The last time you heard from them, they were still going to great lengths to get your cousin a seat on the board, and you moved all the strings you had to make their mission impossible. Whether they caught on to your counter-scheming or not remains a mystery, you weren’t particularly sneaky about it and she’s always been lovely to chat with; as lovely as an old wretched hag with more internalized misogyny than blood running through her icy veins can be.

“No. Of course not.” You put some tragedy in your smile, furrowing your brows like the fact pains you. “It’s pretty late, so you and my uncle are probably leaving by now, right? I know his feet get all swollen when he wears his dress shoes for too long.”

“There we go. That answers my question,” she grins triumphantly, turning to look at Geto like you unknowingly fell into a trap of sorts.

There’s a hesitant chuckle from you, with a quick side eye in Geto’s direction. His face reveals nothing. “I’m sorry?”

“I was just asking the young man what you were to him, but I suppose he felt shy. Perhaps you should’ve introduced him to the family before bringing him to an event of such importance, dear. This kind of step in a relationship is discussed between both parties, you don’t want to scare him off with your dominant nature.”

“Ah, no–” You relax instantly, releasing her hand. Her wrinkly brown red lips purse at you. “No, we’re not a couple. And he’s not shy, quite the opposite. He's just uncomfortable with strangers being so casually forward with him.”

“Oh. That is such a relief.” she exhales, her arm slithers around your shoulders, rubbing up and down your bare arm. A shiver cuts through you at the unwelcome proximity. “After Kenichi called off the wedding, we worried you were rushing into finding a replacement.”

“No need for that, zia.” You blink reassuringly at her, shoulders rolling just to get her to stop touching you for a second. “If there’s one thing I learned from our family is that loveless marriages only bring depressing results. It’s one of the many cycles I’m committed to break.”

Her eyes snap up at yours, and her perfectly plucked auburn eyebrows narrow slightly. You hold her stare until she turns away from you, features instantly softening up for Geto, almost leering at him salaciously. “Are you not going to introduce us, then?”

“Geto Suguru, a pleasure to meet you.”

The velvety sound of his voice and the sound of his own name hits you like a bucket of ice-cold water. You planned to give him an alias, but somehow the opportunity to introduce him to anyone never came. Your coworkers were too taken aback by his vibe and perhaps mildly concerned to see you bring a plus one to ask you, and the death stare and intimidating demeanor kept them from starting a conversation with him directly, even in your absence.

By now, he has to know that this woman is not only a close relative of yours with less-than-kind intentions but a sorcerer as well.

“Elisa Kaneko, Il piacere è mio.”

Either you were having a distorted vision of reality, or he was almost smiling at her.

“So, now that you’re finally speaking, and since my niece keeps avoiding the subject, will you grace me with an answer?”

Your shoulders tighten. There’s no indication that she connects the dots, your aunt and uncle live in Europe, much more concerned with a lavish life than they are with Jujutsu matters. However, your cousin could recognize the name.

“Sono il suo karma, zia.” You pull away from her and come to stand by his side instead, pressing your shoulder against his arm like the muzzle of a gun. You look up at him with a secretive smile and let the woman read into it however she wants to. “And I can’t scare him off. We have a contract and all. Ho cambiato il suo destino. He’s tied to me.”

You feel more than you see him stiffen. Another glass on you and you might've poked your tongue in his direction.

Go on. Give it a shot, Geto-sama.

“É così che lo chiami di questi tempi?” She scoffs after assessing the two of you hoping to catch you slacking. “Well, in that case, I’m sure you must’ve lived a beautiful and honorable life, Geto-san. Our Sera is the gift of the Kaneko family, our doré enfant, did you know? Our Golden Child, her grandfather used to call her.”

You know where this is going.

"Zia-"

"Fate has dealt her a heavy hand, so if she changed yours, hopefully you'll do the same for her. For good fortuna of course, yes?"

You let her rejoice with a tight-lipped smile and excuse the two of you, saying your goodbyes and kissing her cheeks before walking away without checking to see if he follows behind.

The silence on the drive back home feels like a loaded gun. Ijichi drives diligently and quietly, hoping not to be noticed by either of you but sparing concerned glances through the rearview.

You can’t help but wonder what kind of Pandora’s box you opened by bringing him outside, even if only for a night. Back inside the building, as the elevator doors close in front of you, your mind is made up to grab onto the small thread and pull.

“Well played,” you acknowledge, cutting through the soft bossa nova version of some Korean song that topped the charts last year “I drag you with me to a party and you try to recruit my aunt. Kind of a petty move, but it could make things a little bit uncomfortable for me, I’ll give you that.”

You let the chorus pass. No answer comes.

“You know, for a former cult leader, you sure hate the attention. It must’ve been an exhausting ten years for you, maybe you should start thinking about this as your retirement, hm? Lighten up a bit.”

Your reflection’s a blurry blob on the brushed surface of the elevator doors. He keeps his stare forward, wide shoulders dwarfing your figure next to him, standing at a measured distance. Anyone with enough context might call you crazy for poking a murderous man with nothing to lose in an enclosed space, isolated from any sort of protection.

“Here’s the deal. Making you come was unnecessary, but you left me no choice. Plus, it's not like you had plans.”

Ouch. Tough crowd. All you get is a single, slow, uninterested blink that would put the world's meanest cat to shame.

You drop the friendly tone, crossing your arms instead.

“I’m not trying to make this any more difficult than it is. The sooner you come to terms with that, the smoother things will go.”

The doors open in front of you with an imperceptible hum. Your gloved hand touches the metal frame before they close again. The man is stubborn, doesn’t move until you finally step out with a roll of your eyes, and follows you through the dimly lit hallway like a sinister shadow.

You open the door to your apartment with a soft click, halfway through a long exhale and deliciously close to savoring releasing your feet when the world spins–

No warning. You're pushed between the ice-cold surface behind you and the wall that he is. A strong hand covers half of your face tightly before any sounds of protest can come out.

A million thoughts speed through your head. Most of them are about how you've brought this onto yourself. You can feel him breathe steadily against you, while you hold yours and brace yourself for his next move, which is totally not your style. What's even weirder is that you're not breathing at all, but you pick up the scent of something like leather and wood in the rough skin of his hand on your nose and mouth. To be fair, it suits him. Maybe you're hallucinating, leave it to you to show signs of phantosmia in a situation like this.

This is it. He's gonna try to kill me right now. Hours after I told Gojo to trust me. He's never gonna let me live it down.

You don’t notice he’s released you until you see him bring a finger to his lips, stone-cold eyes staring over your head. You briefly wonder if this is what those curses saw, or felt -if they're even capable of such a thing- before he swallowed them.

It’s in that tense moment that you catch the faint sounds coming from the apartment. There's someone inside.

He’s gone before you blink again.

You stay rooted in that spot and start to seriously reconsider your life choices. Then, you silently step out of your heels, wipe away the strange warmth his hand left on your face, and make your way inside.

Silence.

And then a sharp slam followed by a thud.

They’re in your office. You stand at the end of the hallway, ears straining, and let him come to you.

You turn as a shadow lunges from behind, a metallic object poised to strike just a fraction of an inch away from your face, aimed at your left eye. Not a knife, not a gun, but a much more intricate object. You push back against his forearm trying to make sense of it and duck and he swipes it across the space your head once occupied.

A swift kick at your legs sends you sprawling to the ground. Rolling with the momentum, you fall across the different floor heights and land at the center of your living room narrowly avoiding his boot as it lands on the ground.

That pisses you off. Stepping on you? Uncalled for.

Indignation in mind, your hand swipes under the coffee table and closes under the reassuring cold handle of a knife. The chance comes next as he charges at you again. In one fluid motion, you curl your body around his leg and slash the blade across his calves.

No cry of pain comes but he drops on one knee, neck straining as he looks up at your glass ceiling. To your surprise, he's standing back up in no time. Impressive.

He’s wearing a black kimono and hakama pants, young and good enough of a fighter to land a few hits on your side and still move with significant speed and determination after the number you've done on his legs.

He never once reaches for his katana, a detail that tells you that his technique has something to do with it and he knows it’s rendered useless in the confines of your apartment. No one but Gojo Satoru can wield cursed energy in the building. You both spent a good six months working on the prototype for the protection system.

“Zenin or Kamo?” you ask breathlessly, dress skirt tattered and fluttering around you thanks to your own hands ripping it.

He lunges again. He’s strong and you're rusty, but you’re faster. You seize the moment and move to the side, grabbing onto his arm with one hand and plunging the blade into his side. It slides easily between his ribs like he’s made of butter left out of the fridge.

“Kaneko?”

He stumbles on his feet, eyes glazing over, fixed on you.

He can’t be much older than Megumi.

With a heavy, not as graceful as you'd like kick to his middle, you send him hurtling into the crystal shelf unit.

Wasting no time, you sprint to your office. Papers whirl like confetti, and every single object on your desk is scattered on the floor. Geto's going at it with a dark figure, dressed in the exact same clothes as your buttery friend back there.

You step into the room just in time to catch it. His expression of shock gives away the exact moment it hits him, as he tries to land a punch with his missing arm. All three of you realize the slip, and the stranger capitalizes on it. With brutal force, Geto crashes through the floor-to-ceiling window, the glass shattering with a deafening explosion.

Eyes wide and unblinking, he props himself up with his arm, and you recognize that he’s gone, a million miles away from the room.

It's just you and the intruder who stalks over him with full purpose, katana in hand.

Three shots ring out. The man's knees fold in first, his weight balancing cartoonishly until he crumples to the ground, katana following with a resounding clang, its echo reverberating through the wreckage.

Carefully navigating through the shattered glass on your bare feet, you make your way to the balcony, extending a hand at him. The rain pours mercilessly, its drops thick enough to sting on bare skin, the sound a lonely symphony in the quiet hum of Aoyama at night. You take the wordless rejection and come back inside before you're completely drenched.

“As I was saying,” you sniff, kicking away the katana, using the butt of your gun to push away a strand of hair that escaped what used to be a beautifully done updo. “We don’t have to be best friends, but we don’t have to be enemies either. The whole psychological waterboarding thing sounds exhausting. You seem to be doing that yourself just fine.”

It’s only a miracle that in the wreckage that they’ve turned your office into, your liquor cabinet survives. You generously fix up two glasses and skip the ice in his, having a feeling that he's one of those people.

“I must’ve truly been blessed. Karma is rarely known to be so benevolent.”

There it is. After that pitiful display, wet like a dog abandoned in the pouring, ice cold rain, and slipping on his first attempt at regaining his footing, there's an acidic edge to his words as he approaches you, like a serpent hissing through its fangs, its venom dripping from every syllable.

“You took the liberty of introducing yourself to my aunt; I thought I could afford a little joke.”

His hair sticks to his neck, bun unraveled like a tattered flag. Strands cling to the side of his face. He’s limping, and there’s a bright red spot on his amputated shoulder. He stops at a considerable distance. You slide the glass across your desk in his direction, not in a gesture of hospitality, but more like offering a lifeline to a drowning man.

“Your clan doesn’t know,'' he states. Droplets of water hit the floor under him, from his hand, his soaked clothes, and his chin. “You’ve done this without notifying them; you’ve committed treason.”

The first sip washes down your throat, cold and scalding at the same time, as you sit on the edge of your crooked desk. A sharp burst of pain in your leg reminds you that you did not come out of your own fight unscathed.

“My clan.” you repeat, though you mean it as a question. “And who’ll come for me? You didn’t exactly leave any elders for me to answer to.”

His brows furrow slightly, the corners of his eyes closing momentarily as if to read a truth written in a foreign language. You, on the other hand, are only momentarily lost and quickly draw the line from A to B.

“Are you doing a bit right now?”

You can’t help the pitch of your voice going higher, blinking quickly at him, giving him time to deny your unspoken assumption.

“Who did you think those Star Religious Group leaders were? The Kaneko family was the backbone of the Time Vessel Association. Did you– did you not know that?”

His eyes shift between yours, searching. Why would you lie about this? It makes sense. After all, your clan positioned itself as one of the big four partly due to descending from Tengen herself. It makes sense that they had their claws in her little murderous fan cafe from its very beginnings.

“Really? That’s hilarious. You cleaned house for me. I should thank you.” you lift your glass.

“Still.” he mutters, the knot between his eyebrows not giving. You take another sip. “You’re head of a clan–”

Worry starts to settle in you, did he hit his head or something? Surely, the world's wettest, most dangerous curse user so far can't be this dense.

“I’m a non-sorcerer, not to mention a woman. Do you think anyone holds me to that standard? As long as the company keeps filling their pockets, my family will stay in line, and as you can see we’re not doing too bad.”

The majority of the living members had slowly excited Jujutsu Society, those who were active hardly regarded you as a leader. Life makes you the nepo-child of a sinking clan well past its glory days and the world refuses to let you forget how insignificant and purposeless your position is.

All in all, the only remarkable thing left is the company your grandfather founded decades ago, and the Kaneko vault, but that's another thing entirely. You represent nothing other than a silver of hope for the survival of the Kaneko inherited technique. And even in that area you’re damaged goods.

"So, that moving speech you delivered to the higher-ups—did it not speak honestly of your intentions?"

You indulge in another sip.

“What’s your angle then, Golden Child?”

“Ha. You caught that, huh?” you laugh half-heartedly at the nickname, your phone starts buzzing quietly, but you pay it no mind. “Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not interested in your redemption arch. I just didn’t see the benefit in you letting you die.”

“So you agreed to this?”

This.

A binding vow.

Set by far with better considerations for you, granted. If anything, you're a warden of sorts. The cruel irony in binding him to a non-sorcerer did not escape you. The higher-ups know their poetic shit when they want to.

One of the main conditions is that at any given time you can draw without consequence, and the original sentence will proceed; execution by none other than Gojo Satoru himself.

“You don’t trust me, I get it,” you admit, a faint understanding in the drop of your voice. It is reasonable, you’re strangers, tethered together only by a thread named Gojo Satoru. “Honestly, I wouldn’t trust me either, but you should know that I’m not the type to give up easily.”

You sound confident, like you weren’t seriously considering dropping his ass to the Jujutsu version of the lethal injection if he kept freezing you out and sucking the serotonin out of your apartment. Your phone buzzes again, and he eyes the exact spot where it’s hidden with knowing eyes.

“Is it love?” he inquires, the question hanging in the air.

The ice cube in your mouth shatters into tiny fragments between your clamping teeth, the cold sensation spreading across your tongue.

"Is that why you're so desperate to cater to his desires?" his eyebrows arch empathetically, voice dripping with concern, and you can't help but recall that you've witnessed more emotions cross his face in the last four hours than you have in an entire month.

As you remain silent, he shakes his head gently, a disappointed click of his tongue echoing in the room.

“You should know better, Serafina. He’s Gojo Satoru. Nothing is impossible for him. Everything he’s ever wanted and needed in life, he’s had it. You’ll waste yours away trying to live up to a man like that.”

“Worried about me, or speaking from experience?” he smiles at the floor, casting you a look that’s equal parts pity and amusement. Like you’re an insect landing on a venus flytrap. A tragedy waiting to unfold. “I like this. I like us talking, but I think we should be more serious about this.”

Your chin dips at the body on the floor. The younger intruder, hopefully just unconscious in your living room, will have to answer for both of them. A fate far harsher than what his deceased companion faced.

“Let’s be.” he agrees, unusually animated, extending his open palm towards you. “We should also be honest, wouldn’t you agree?”

Fair enough.

“I didn’t think he deserved to execute his best friend” You concede easily. If he’s looking to play 4D chess, he’ll have better luck with whoever sent your two visitors. “And who knows, maybe you didn’t deserve the easy way out either. You’re gone, leaving the rest to clean up the mess? That's not fair.”

“And what do you believe I deserve?”

The end of the conversation looms over you as the rain starts to give. You need to make a few calls, deal with the man in your living room, and figure out what comes next before getting some much-needed sleep, which might end up being none.

And there’s something unknown to you that bleeds into his question, that tells you the curtains are closing on you for the night.

“I’m not gonna pretend to know the answer to that.” you shake your head dismissively “But I do know you’re beyond giving a shit about what happens to you, so this is my promise to you; betray Gojo's decision, and I’ll make sure your family pays your debt.”

Live, Geto Suguru. Whether you find a reason to wake up in the morning or not, you will live. You don’t get to die. You'll face this shitty, monkey riddled world for as long as you have to. I'll make sure of it.

#geto x reader #suguru fanfiction #getou suguru x reader #geto angst #jjk x reader #geto fanfiction #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #gojo x reader #satoru x reader #satoru fanfiction #satoru fanfic #gojo fanfic

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good-beanswrites · 4 months

Text

I can't stop thinking of Kyanako's Order of Attack au... there's something so moving to me about how things getting so much worse could be what finally causes Amane to get better -- seeing Fuuta dying may be the final straw of getting her to rethink her rejection of medicine. Been a while since I've attempted something whump-y, this was fun to work with.

Tw for mentions/contemplation of death. I don't go into detail about the cult but the doctrines are implied through it all.

Fuuta was not a big fan of dying.

When he imagined his own death, he always pictured it as something dramatic and fast. Action heroes going out in a show of explosions and gunfire. Fantasy characters meeting the shining end of a blade. Even when he accepted his place in Milgram, it filled his mind with images of gallows and electric chairs.

Whatever this slow, lengthy fever was, it was pissing him off.

He’d lost all sense of time. He could no longer tell which hour the prison bells were marking -- morning and night blended together. Dreaming and waking blended together. His head injury and broken leg and broken bones blended together. It was all just pain at the end of the day. He had nonstop visitors that kept him awake and asked him too many questions and prodded his injuries and made his head spin. Somehow, he was simultaneously alone every time he rolled over to talk to someone. Painfully, suffocatingly alone.

If Kotoko was going to kill him with those ridiculous emo boots of hers, she should have just done it. He was losing his mind here: devoid of all energy, suffering through broken bones and a cracked head, and boiling in an increasingly fiery fever. Maybe that was the reason he stopped commenting when he watched Amane pocket the medicine Shidou had left him. Maybe that was why he’d stopped following Shidou’s instructions himself. Even after losing an eye and taking a beating herself, Amane always looked at peace. He was tired of dealing with all of this. He wanted a bit of that peace.

Regardless of why, it was working. His fever had quickly gone from the biggest pain in his ass to the very thing that dulled his racing thoughts.

He awoke suddenly, or maybe he’d already been awake. He couldn’t feel anything in his limbs. There was only a breathless heat around him. He raised himself into a sitting position, looking for a drink. Moving his head felt like one of those glitching computer windows that leaves a trail of copies behind it. The room swam around him. His eyes moved absently around him.

Fuuta picked up the glass that someone had left him. His fingers were clumsy, and it immediately went crashing to the ground. He hardly heard the noise as it broke apart on the concrete below.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed. He’d just go get a drink himself. Shidou told him not to get up without help. But what did he know? Thinking of the man ordering him around only drove Fuuta to step out of bed even quicker. He cried out, pain shooting through his leg. That was right, it was broken…

Fuuta looked down, finding himself on the ground. It was so hot. Maybe this is what she felt, he thought numbly. Was it this slow for her too? Probably not. She had no regrets to fill the time like he did. The heroes got quick, beautiful deaths, and it was the villains who had to suffer the long ones.

He lifted his right palm from where it had caught his fall. The shattered glass on the floor had cut into it. Shattered glass? What had broken? He stared blankly at the blood dripping down.

He didn’t have the strength to raise himself up. He was burning. Why was he on the ground? Was he bleeding? He could barely breathe. What was he doing here, anyway? He just wanted to curl up and sleep. He was so weak... just to lie down... he wouldn't have the strength to get back up again. Was that such a bad thing...?

A voice caught his attention. His eyes struggled to focus on the figure who’d come running into the cell. He couldn’t understand a word of what she was saying, but he was happy when she pressed her cool little hands against his forehead.

He allowed her to prop him up next to the bed. She held onto his hand, squeezing it tight. Why was she holding it like that? That hand was bleeding. When did that happen?

Her arms wrapped tightly around him. He wanted to shove her away -- it was too hot -- but couldn’t. In his ear, he could make out her words. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please, Fuuta. Don’t leave me alone. I’m so sorry...”

As she pulled back, he recognized Amane. Her uninjured eye was filled with tears. Was she upset? He thought he’d been making her happy. He wanted to keep making her happy. He’d never made anyone happy before.

He opened his mouth to say something, but no words would come out. They all scrambled up in his mouth. He felt the cell swirling around him.

Amane raised her voice. She looked desperately upwards. “This can’t be --! This isn’t right!”

Fuuta looked up at the ceiling. There was nothing there.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

She continued talking. Fuuta was too busy studying the ceiling. She was shouting. Or maybe crying. Fuuta didn’t like that she was so upset. Huh, had there been someone there? He surveyed the empty cell. What was he doing on the ground?

He looked down at his hand. The sheet from his bed had been pulled down and wrapped hastily around it. Why? His eyes felt sticky as he blinked. Everything hurt. It was so hot. What was going on? He was so angry. He was so scared. He wanted to cry. Why was he here? Why couldn’t he just hurry up and die already?

The next time she entered, Fuuta recognized Amane instantly. Her one hand pointed to him, the other held onto someone else. The second figure hurried over to him.

Fuuta was not a big fan of dying. Shidou reassured him he wouldn’t.

—

“You’re wearing the eyepatch,” Fuuta observed.

He was playing a dangerous game, drawing attention to it like that. He was too exhausted, and his curiosity won out over his better judgment. If Amane was going to explode with one of her typical speeches, he’d just let her.

She didn’t.

Amane’s hand drifted up to her eye. It had been hastily covered before, but now it was cleaned and wrapped in professional-grade materials. She simply said, “Kajiyama Fuuta. How do you feel?”

“Like shit.”

“But--”

“-- But I’m better, yeah.”

Amane nodded, her shoulders releasing.

“Oi, I haven’t seen you in a while. Not since…” He wasn’t sure how to finish the sentence. Shidou had told him what happened, but it was difficult to believe. He couldn’t quite trust his own memory of the night. No matter how much clearer his mind felt since receiving proper treatment, those days of fever still muddled together. He heard that Amane had up and switched her beliefs overnight -- she was now complacent about all of Shidou's treatments -- but Fuuta knew people didn't just change like that. He wanted to hear it for himself.

She lowered her gaze in shame. “I… I thought you hated me.” Her voice was steady. “As you should. I almost killed you. I accept any ill will you may feel.”

“I -- what? You’re wrong. You… it wasn’t…” He grabbed his head, grunting in frustration.

After standing awkwardly in the entryway the whole time, Amane took a few steps inside. She made it to his bedside when he finally collected his thoughts.

“It was your fucked up family or whatever that caused everything. They did this. And I went along and made things worse.” He looked away. His next words felt stupid to say to a little kid. He felt like the most pathetic, weak, loser. But it was too important not to say.

“They almost killed me. You saved me.”

#milgram #fuuta kajiyama #amane momose #i am emotional about them!!!#my other drabble between them hinted that fuuta would convince her away from her dangerous beliefs before things got too bad #but i wanted to see what would happen if things Did get bad ya know #we were talking about what could convince amane to think twice about the medicine ban (if anything)#and i think seeing her closest friend is literally on deaths door finally gets through to her #shes sees him weak and bloody and completely out of it and knows this is Wrong #i dont know how long it takes fuuta to realize that it really was all for him that she changed but he does accept it eventually #it helps both of them grow #he feels worth saving (and therefore worth turning his life around) and she is freer from her cult #not completely #but one step at a time #tried to make fuutas narration simpler and shorter to reflect his thoughts but idk if that worked #i thought they were going to do a lot of stuff with mahirus head injury and memory but they never did- i played around with that a bit here #i thought about writing out amanes monologue to her god about how shes not doing this anymore but 1. its more dramatic to leave that to #the imagination and 2. idk if its silly but some things are so personal for a character and i dont wanna intrude... like yeah its my #story but thats between her and god fr #drabbles #tw cults #tw child abuse

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