𝗔𝗡𝗔𝗚𝗔𝗣𝗘𝗦𝗜𝗦 the loss of feelings for someone you once loved, or simply falling out of love, a fading of affection that turns a once strong love into a burning hate.
PAIRINGS: curse-user!geto x sorcerer!reader
SYNOPSIS: When an undercover mission leads you and Satoru Gojo into the heart of Tokyo’s underworld, they are unprepared for the name that resurfaces from the past: Suguru Geto. What begins as a curse investigation quickly becomes a calculated confrontation, nobody was ready for..
TAGS: suguru!geto x reader, slight satoru!gojo x reader, plot heavily based of Eremika, mikasa!reader , slight plot aotxjjk crossover, wine/alcohol mention, undercover police, curse energy/users/techniques, blood, injury, violence, !!angst!! , drug mentions, underworld criminals.
When you step into the restaurant the first thing that hits you was the smell of privileged alcohol and meat filling the rooms aroma.
As customers who sat around the tables of the restaurant began to panic and flee. Clearly involved in illegal behaviour. You had already taken out your ‘Badge’ and shown it to the waiter who had ran to the entrance the second you walked in.
Steps behind you was Satoru Gojo. You were both currently on a special grade undercover mission that required both of you to dress up as officers.
“O-Oh, I see. I’ll call the boss right away.” The waiter stuttered before running towards the back of the building. Clearly not expecting the police showing up to their obviously illegal establishment.
Though truthfully Satoru and you had known well before entering about the unlawful environment where multiple groups of the Japanese underground would come to visit. Though that wasn’t your guys job. You were both Jujustu sorcerers here to take care of curses not stupid, money-hungry criminals.
While waiting for him to call his supposed ‘boss’ your eyes scanned the room realising most the customers had left. The police uniforms Gojo and Yaga suggested really did the trick. It worked much better than you thought it would.
You both wore dark forest-green military-style outfit with a structured, fitted jacket. The jacket has sharp lapels, silver shoulder epaulettes, red-and-silver collar insignia, and four front pockets with buttoned flaps.
Worn with a black tie, matching green trousers tucked neatly into tall black leather boots, and a black belt at the waist. A peaked cap completes the look, Making you both looked strict, authoritative, and formal enough to get through the mission.
The restaurant music still continued to play, pounding both you and Satoru’s head with ridiculously loud opera music making it near impossible to focus. The other restaurant workers clearly having the same thoughts but too scared to show it.
Then your eyes finally caught a glimpse of your client. A Greek-Japanese man named Nicolo. who was heavily involved in underworld crime but didn’t hesitate to call youse and report sightings of a curse that appeared around his restaurant during the day.
Though unexpectedly he began to ran towards you and go down on his knees. Grabbing one of your hand and disgustingly sobbing into it.
“T-Thank you. Thank you for coming. They all didn’t believe me and called me mental when I told them But, I saw it. I-I really did.” He cried pathetically gripping your hand and wiping his snot all over it before Satoru thankfully stepped in.
“That’s enough, sir.” Satoru said sternly. Seemed like he was enjoying acting in uniform more than he should. Ripping the man’s hand off your own.
“How about instead of cryin’ you tell us what you saw and where you saw it. Then we can start our investigation and get out your way.” Gojo’s tall and lean-built frame unintentionally scaring the client. Though thankfully, it helped in hurrying up the progress.
“Yes!!Yes!!Yes!! Of course. Follow me.” He had gotten up from the floor and began to run towards another room in the established.
While following him with a good distance behind. He leads you both to a corridor with about nine doors all together distributed along both sides.
One side in particular stood out from the rest. It was one with 2 rooms very close together. Instead of wooden doors with a knob like others in the hallway. They were designed with a doorway arch. Though unlike usual one of the rooms were barricaded with wooden planks. Forbidden anything coming in or out.
“Oh right!! After the third time I saw it I shut the room down. I’ll go call someone to come take them done. You can just wait and rest in that other room.” He explained before rushing off to call one of his workers. Leaving you and Satoru entering through the unblocked doorway of the other room.
The room was a formal, restrained dining space that feels quiet and slightly austere, more functional than welcoming.
All around the room were large round dining table, draped in a crisp white tablecloth that falls evenly toward the floor. Surrounding it are several wooden dining chairs with straight backs and muted green upholstery, their color adding the only soft warmth to an otherwise neutral palette. The chairs are evenly spaced, suggesting order and etiquette rather than comfort or casual use.
The walls as well painted a pale cream, broken up by white wainscoting that runs along the lower half of the room. To the right of the entry stands a tall wooden cabinet, polished and dark, with shelves neatly lined with glass wine bottles arranged with precision.
Overall, the space gives off a controlled, formal, almost military neatness. It’s a place meant for official meals or quiet discussions, not warmth or relaxation. Not to mention the private atmosphere gave it away that this room was used for illegal gatherings, trading or deals.
“Wow. This room is pretty fancy.” Gojo glanced around exaggeratedly, tilting his head as if inspecting the place for aesthetic value rather than hidden danger. Though still on high alert.
“I bet it’s usually reserved for criminal meetings.” You answered simply, eyes low-lidded as usual though this time it was drawn to the cabinet. Your expression unchanged as you took in the symmetry and precise order.
“Hey, I’ve heard a whole lotta talk about this wine. It’s so nice it’s only served to high ranking citizens.” He stopped in front of the other cabinet beside you, peering with open curiosity.
“Y’know, if you think about it aren’t we high ranking sorcerers. I’d say we earned ourselves a quick sip of liquid luxury.” Gojo smirked, holding onto wine bottle while reading its label. Clearly baiting you, though his body stayed angled defensively toward the door.
You walked toward the cabinet he stood at with steady, quiet, deliberate steps, boots barely making a sound against the floor.
You stopped right beside him, just short of the cabinet. Close enough that the wine glass reflected your face faintly back at you. Your posture straight, arms resting at your side.
“Don’t even think about it—wait..” You rolled your eyes before pausing when your eyes caught sight of something you were not expecting to see. Though it didn’t make sense..
“Whoa, calm down. I was just screwing around so relax. No need to ake a big thing of it.” Gojo chuckled, sliding the bottle back into place without another thought. That should have been the end of it.
Your gaze followed along his movements. Watching him put the wine bottle down. Though unintentionally your eyes moved lower, drifting along the cabinet shelves out of habit rather than concern.
And then you caught sight of it. A row of bottles that didn’t belong. Different glass. Different seal. The liquid inside sat unnaturally still, heavy in a way that had nothing to do with quality or age.
Your body tensed instantly. Your shoulders stiffened, your breathing paused. You didn’t speak. Gojo noticed. Not the bottle but instead, You.
The absence of movement was what caught him first. The way your posture changed—not alert, not defensive—but coiled. Like something inside you had snapped into focus.
His smile faded gradually, not all at once. He turned his head toward you, reading the signs he’d learned over years: the tightened jaw, the stillness that only came when you recognized something you didn’t want to.
“isn’t that..” The words slipped from you quietly, eyes never leaving the bottle. Gojo followed your line of sight. And then his senses finally caught up.
“Cursed Spinal fluid!? What the hell is that doing here.” Any trace of humor vanished. Realising their assignment had only gotten more complicated.
Cursed spinal fluid; a powerful substance derived from the remains of curse power and cursed energy, that allows anyone who ingests it into a mindless pure curse or attract many curses to haunt a specific place/person.
It was known fact that cursed objects are stored to commonly used to protect locations where negative human emotions tend to accumulate and manifest curses. It seemed Nicolo must have knew that when opening his restaurant, Though instead of cursed liquid he obtained, protecting the restaurant. It start attracting and making humans into curses instead.
“We’re not certain..Put a veil up and spill out one of the bottles on the floor just to make sure. If anything happens then we’ll take the rest to jujustu high.” You placed a hand on the cabinet, feeling the weight of the bottles, hoping it was just a misunderstanding. As Gojo put up a veil around the location, sealing the building off from non-sorcerers from the outside world.
That was when Nicolo burst back in. His voice snapping through the tension.
“My wine!! What do you idiots think you’re doing to my wine!! Do you have any idea how hard it is to get such privileged wine.”
He rushed towards where you stood, snatching the wine bottle from off your hands and pausing in between you and the cabinet. Arms stretched out and him positioned in a T-Pose in order to shield the rest of wine from you. His reaction panicked enough to know he didn’t want you to find something.
You shot your hand out, gripping his collar and slamming him back against the cabinet with force. The wood rattled beneath the impact, bottles clinking sharply behind him. A shriek leaving his lips.
“Hey old man. Just what’s that wine doing being sold over here?” Gojo’s added. Calmly and slightly alerting his attention that was flicking between you pinning Nicolo and the wine.
“Don’t—!” Nicolo shouted, panic snapping into something frantic. “Leave it alone!” he barked, breathing hard, eyes wild. “You don’t understand—!”
Before you were Gojo stopped. Mid-step, Mid-thought, Mid-breath. The world seemed to cut out around him, sound dropping away in an instant. His eyes widened. Not in alarm—in recognition and denial. You being to distant to notice.
Breath caught hard in his chest, shallow and uneven, like his lungs forgot their rhythm. His shoulders drew tight all at once, spine snapping straight, posture rigid without being defensive.
His six eyes aware of the familiar curse-energy filling the room. The cursed energy flowing closer to the room you both were in, it all felt wrong. Not heavy. Not aggressive. Familiar. As if everything about his six eyes memorised it thread by thread.
His fingers twitched once at his side, useless and unconscious. His jaw parted slightly, expression blank—caught between denial and something his mind refused to name. No. The thought struck sharp and immediate. He didn’t move. Or more he couldn’t. Because if he did, then the cursed energy flooding his senses was real. And Suguru Geto would behind youse.
You noticed it a second later. At first, it barely registered—just a pause where there shouldn’t have been one. Gojo didn’t stop moving often. When he did, it was intentional. Casual. Annoying. This wasn’t that.
Your grip tightened slightly where you were braced against the wall, eyes flicking to him. His back was rigid, shoulders tense in a way you’d only seen once or twice before—never during a mission like this.
“Gojo?” you called his name. No response. Gritting your teeth at his sudden reaction, Unsure whether to let Nicolo out your grip or check on your partner.
You turned your head to left where he stood. He was staring at the floor now, eyes unfocused, like he was looking through it rather than at it. The usual careless ease was gone from his posture, replaced by something unnervingly still.
That was when the building broke. Not structurally. Spiritually. Cursed energy flooded the restaurant like a dam had been opened. From the hallways came screams—sharp, panicked, cut short as curses began manifesting everywhere at once. Walls warped. Ceilings split. Shadows peeled themselves free and took form.
Walls warped. Ceilings split. Shadows peeled themselves free and took form. Workers were seized mid-motion, dragged screaming into darkness as curses wrapped around limbs and throats with deliberate precision.
Gojo now moved instantly. Alerted and ready to fight. But, he was different now. Quieter. Angrier. Because he knew what was to come.
He dispatched the curse nearest to him with brutal efficiency—no commentary, no wasted movement, blue eyes narrowed, jaw set tight. Every strike was clean, controlled, restrained.
Signalling you the idea, to not loosen your grip on the restaurant owner as he’ll take care of the low-levelled curses coming towards the both of youse.
You then shoved Nicolo harder into the cabinet, forearm pressing into his chest, pinning him there as his breath stuttered.
Soon after the floor under you cracked. Sensing it an instant too late. A curse surged upward through the wood, malformed and violent, its presence snapping against your awareness. You started to turn—just enough to register movement—A bottle tore free from the cabinet.
Glass slammed into the side of your head. Wine running down on you. The impact exploded white behind your eyes. The bottle shattered, shards scattering as pain detonated through your skull. Before you could recover, a punch followed—heavy, deliberate.
Your body lifted off the floor. You flew, rolled hard across the room, and slammed into the wall with a sickening crack, breath tearing from your lungs as your vision blurred. You hit the floor and didn’t move. Unable to use any reverse curse technique or any curse any in general, for the hit on your head was to hard to allow precise focus.
The curse didn’t hesitate. It turned immediately and grabbed Nicolo. It seemed that had always been the curses objective. You were just in the way.
It wrapped him up mobilising him from any type of movement, ignoring everything else as it followed its command with mechanical devotion.
When seeing this, you knew you couldn’t stay down. Although Nicolo was undoubtedly one of the causes for the increasing number of curses. It was still a jujustu sorcerers job to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves from curses.
Your vision blurred violently, shapes smearing together as blood streamed from the gash at your head, dripping down the left side of your face. It soaked into your hair, slid over your eye, staining your cheek and jaw red, thick enough that it partially blinded you.
Your hands pressed weakly against the floor as you dragged yourself upright, forcing your knees beneath you first. The motion was slow, unsteady—your body lagging behind your will.
You almost made it. Your foot slipped. Blood smeared beneath your palm as your strength gave out, balance failing at the last second. Your body lurched forward uselessly, shoulder dropping as you caught yourself just before collapsing completely, breath shaking, vision flickering in and out. Until you started seeing a sight that felt too real to not be a hallucination.
You stayed there, kneeling. Head bowed. Blood dripping steadily onto the floor.
“Satoru..” you said, voice steady despite the ringing in your ears. No response. Giving you more certainty that you weren’t going crazy.
Gojo was staring at the floor now, eyes unfocused, posture rigid in a way that made your chest tighten.
Then behind him a voice interrupted the scene. Calm. Measured. Unmistakable.
“That’s enough, Satoru.” The words came from behind him. Soft. Close. The air shifted as he stepped forward.
Suguru Geto walked into the room of the ruined restaurant, walking through the chaos like it wasn’t there. Curses parted instinctively around him. His robes were pristine, untouched by blood or debris, footsteps unhurried as he crossed the floor.
His expression was composed. Almost gentle. Dark eyes settled on Gojo’s back first—not surprised, not triumphant—just observant, like he’d known exactly how this would go. Then his gaze shifted. And found you.
Lying against the wall. Blood in your hair. Breath shallow. Still alive. For the briefest moment, something flickered across his face. You hoped it was worry, Though you knew it wasn’t.
Blood continued to drip from your hair, sliding down the left side of your face in slow, heavy trails. It blurred your vision, burned where it met your eye.
Your breath shook once. Tears welled—hot, involuntary—but you refused to let them fall.
You forced them back, jaw tightening, swallowing hard as you kept your head lowered. Not here. Not like this. You pressed your palm harder into the floor, nails biting into wood as you steadied yourself.
Footsteps cut across the room. Fast. Gojo was there in an instant. He dropped to one knee in front of you, one hand hovering just short of your shoulder like he was afraid to touch you too hard. His jaw was clenched tight, blue eyes blazing—not with panic, but something sharper.
“Hey,” he said, low, controlled. “Stay still.” His gaze flicked over the blood, the way it covered half your face, the tremor in your hands. For a split second, his expression fractured—something raw and unguarded flashing through before it was buried just as fast.
His jaw tightened further. Behind him, cursed energy surged. He didn’t turn. Didn’t take his eyes off you.
But the fury rolling off him wasn’t meant for the curse-infested room. It was aimed somewhere very specific.
“…Of all the times,” he muttered under his breath, voice edged thin with restraint.
“That’s enough Satoru, I just want to talk…” He said. Suguru Geto’s presence settled fully into the room. Not like an entrance. Like gravity asserting itself.
The curses stilled. Mid-motion, mid-breath, they froze as if their strings had been pulled tight. The pressure in the air deepened, pressing everyone downward, not violently—but insistently. An unspoken command threaded through the space, heavy and absolute.
Slowly and reluctantly, the tension bled out of the room—not because the threat was gone, but because resisting it would have meant breaking everything at once.
Chairs scraped against the floor. One by one, you were guided—not forced, but directed—toward the round dining table at the center of the room. By the time it was over, all four of you being seated on one of the round dinning tables in the room. You, Satoru and the restaurant owner, ordered to keep your hands open on the table where Suguru Geto can see.
Suguru sat opposite the three of you, posture relaxed, hands folded loosely on the table as if this were nothing more than a casual meeting. His cursed energy lingered just beneath the surface, enough to remind everyone that this calm existed only because he allowed it.
“Suguru,” Gojo said, voice tight, and controlled. His unserious expression gone. “We’re the ones who wanted to talk.”
“What made you go and attack that village on your own?” Gojo continued. “Did some crazy siren curse hypnotise you and really convince you to side with her?” Gojo angrily smirked while making that sarcastic joke. It was unclear that it suggested to slightly irritate Geto.
“I am free to do what I want.” The word landed flat. “The things I do,” Geto continued evenly, “And the choices I make are all decided by my own free will.” Your fingers curled slightly against the tabletop.
“So everything you’ve done,” Gojo said. You were shocked on how steady his voice. “Destroying that village… killing innocents… even turning against your own parents—That was all you?”
Geto nodded once. No hesitation. “I can’t allow my parents to be a special exception. Besides I don’t consider those people my family anymore.”
“No… you’re being manipulated,” you said, leaning forward before you could stop yourself, even as Gojo sucked in a sharp breath beside you. “You wouldn’t do this. You wouldn’t drag children into it. You wouldn’t kill people who had nothing to do with any of it—no matter what they did.”
Your voice wavered. You hated that it did. “I know you,” you continued, quieter now, like you were afraid raising your voice might shatter whatever was left. “You care about us more than anyone. You always did. Don’t you?”
Your fingers pressed harder into the table. Unaware of it your body was slowly being lifted from your seat and table. “The reason you saved me back then… the reason you stayed,” you whispered. “The reason you gave me that scarf—”
Geto’s eyes hardened the second you spoke about the scarf. Not with anger. With distance. “I said,” he cut in calmly, “keep your hands on the table.” The words landed heavier than a shout.
Your body froze mid-motion, breath catching painfully in your throat. Slowly, reluctantly, you pulled your hands back, placing them flat against the cold surface like you were being restrained by something invisible. The silence stretched.
“I spoke with Yuki Tsukumo, A special grade sorcerer, back at Jujutsu Tech,” Geto continued, voice even, almost gentle. His gaze slid away from you—just for a moment—and settled on Gojo instead. “She understands curses and their cures better than even the higher-ups.”
He spoke like none of this hurt him. Like he hadn’t just cut straight through you. Your chest tightened, the ache spreading until it felt hard to breathe. You stared at him, searching—desperately—for something familiar. For doubt. For regret. There was nothing. Just that same calm expression. And somehow, that hurt more than if he’d yelled.
Geto’s gaze then shifted fully to Gojo.
“Satoru,” he said quietly, almost tired. “Aren’t you still dancing exactly where the higher-ups want you?”Gojo looked up sharply.
“You’re praised as the strongest,” Geto continued, voice even. “Admired. Feared. Kept satisfied just enough that you never tear the system down.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Do you really think that’s your free will?” The room went silent. “If actions are what shape a person,” Geto replied calmly, “then look at yours.”
“You obey missions. You protect the structure that exploits sorcerers. You smile, you joke, you play the role they gave you.” Geto tilted his head. “That makes you a weapon.”
Gojo’s jaw clenched. “Within you,” Geto went on, “is someone controlled by people who are just as rotten as the curses they claim to fight.” His voice lowered.
“Satoru… power has gotten so comfortable around you that you stopped questioning who it serves. You’re the one manipulated by the enemy.”
“Suguru, what are you—” you started. His voice interrupted before you could finish. He cut his gaze to you instantly.
“You too.” The words were quiet. No emphasis. No emotion. Not even irritation. Just a statement—flat, final. Your breath caught sharply, chest tightening like the air had been pulled out of the room. For a moment, you couldn’t even hear the curses outside—only the sound of your own pulse roaring in your ears.
“Those of your clan,” Geto said, voice measured, surgical, like he was reciting something long memorized, “were intentionally designed to protect power. Sorcerers. Higher-ups. Royal bloodlines.”
Cold crept down your spine. It wasn’t by fear. But instead, recognition.
“Back then, faced with a life-or-death situation,” he continued, eyes never leaving yours, “you heard my order: Fight. In that moment, instincts awoke from within you.”
“By mistake, you thought I was the host you had to protect.” He spoke. The room in silence. Gojo saw your panicked figure as Geto’s word echoed in your mind.
“No,” you whispered. Voice vulnerable. Eyes widened. The word barely escaped you. “No—it wasn’t like that.” Geto didn’t pause. Didn’t soften.
“It wasn’t a mistake.” you said, louder now, the restraint slipping despite yourself. Your eyes burned, tears threatening, but you refused to let them fall.
“I became strong because it was you, Suguru.” His name shook on your tongue. Because it mattered. Because he mattered. Though Geto looked at you like you’d said nothing at all. Like all your words were cause you were delusional.
“It’s documented,” he replied evenly. “Members of your bloodline apparently experience severe headaches when their old self resists being forced to protect their host. Sound familiar?
The tears in the brim of yours eyes causing your vision to blur, as you remembered the day you had privately told Suguru about your constant headaches. His unsettling reaction he gave you that day only making sense now.
“…No,” you breathed. “No, I—” Nothing else able to leave your lips.
“Your family was made to forget who they are and live only to protect. In other words, slaves.” Geto interrupted coldly, cutting straight through you.
Each word pressed you deeper into your seat, like an invisible weight was forcing you down. He leaned back slightly, utterly at ease.
“That’s enough, Suguru!” Gojo’s voice cut in sharply, Hoping his loud voice overtook Geto’s harsh words. —too late, too thin. The words had already been said. They were already inside the room.
Geto didn’t even look at him. His gaze stayed on you.“Do you know who I hate more than anyone?” he asked quietly. “Suguru—”
The question wasn’t rhetorical. It wasn’t provocation. It was delivered with the calm certainty of someone who had lived with the answer his entire life.
The table between you felt impossibly wide. Your fingers rested flat against the table cloth just like he ordered, but they had gone numb. You could barely feel the surface beneath your palms. Somewhere deep in your chest, something hollowed out, slow and quiet.
“Those who aren’t free,” Geto continued. The words were unhurried. Measured. “Just like livestock.”
Your breath caught—not sharply, not dramatically. It simply… stopped for half a second too long. Your shoulders stiffened, spine locking as if your body had decided movement was no longer an option.
“Suguru,” Gojo said again, firmer now, his voice lowering, strained. It showed anger but seemed more of it was warning. “That’s enough.” He repeated himself.
Geto finally shifted his eyes—only slightly, just enough to acknowledge Gojo’s presence without granting him importance. Turning back to you quickly.
“Just seeing you,” Geto said, turning back to you fully now, “has always irritated me.” Your jaw tightened. You didn’t look away. Both your eyes locked onto eachother.
“And now,” he added, voice colder somehow, “I finally know why.”
“I can’t stand it,” Geto went on, unbothered, eyes unwavering, “the way you obey without question.”
Each syllable landed cleanly. No shouting. No heat. Just the harsh aggressive truth, he saw in you.
“I can't stand the sight of a slave who obeys orders without question,” he finished quietly, Something sharp pressed behind your eyes.
You sallowed. Once. Twice. The tears burned, heavy and insistent—You were unable to hold them anymore, as the now ran down your cheeks. Your face that usually remained unreadable, expression tight and disciplined was no longer there. Your chest ached with the effort of holding yourself together.
Geto saw it. He knew about your feelings. He always had. He had known and analysed you well enough to recognize the moment your walls went up—the precise second vulnerability shut its doors and left only discipline behind. He had seen you break once before. He knew exactly what it took. And still—
“Ever since I was little,” Geto said, almost thoughtfully now, “I’ve always hated you.” Ending the sentence saying your name. The word hated wasn’t emphasized. That was what made it worse.
Gojo inhaled sharply. His chair scraped violently. Suguru barely had time to turn his head before it happened.
“Suguru! How could you say that to--?” Gojo shouted surging forward across the table, rage finally cracking through restraint, hands slamming against the tabletop as he lunged for Geto without thinking.
You moved before your mind caught up. Pure instinct.
Your chair tipped back as you rose, one hand snapping out, grabbing Satoru’s arm that was inches from punching Suguru, gripping it and twisting it behind him. Grunting in pain from your sudden force.
The other planting firmly against his shoulder. You drove him back down against the table in a single, efficient motion—pinning him there, forearm pressing across his back, and your knee anchoring his movement. Torso leans forward, weight centered downward, keeping Satoru immobilized.
You were pressing him into the table. Satoru’s head is turned to the side, cheek against the surface, his body twisted slightly but unable to rise because of your knees and forward pressure. Practically straddling his lower body while your hands aggressively held down his upper-self.
The impact rattled the glasses across the room. Only realising your actions when he groaned your name from the pain. Quickly lifting your hands from him afterwards.
Your shaking figure aware that you had only proven Suguru’s words to be factual. Hands risen up to cover your mouth. Tears falling down your face.
“Your entire life has been dictated by your subservient blood. It's all you really are.” Geto continued, voice cutting through the stillness. Making Satoru even angrier.
Geto saw the tears. He didn’t look away. They slipped past her control despite how hard she fought it, gathering at her lashes before spilling down her face. Her breathing turned shallow, uneven—quiet, but unmistakable.
That hurt more than if she had screamed. A flicker of guilt stirred in his chest. Small. Unwelcome. He acknowledged it, then pushed it aside just as quickly.
This is why he had made an appearance. Not to explain. Not to reconcile. Not to be understood. He had come to sever ties cleanly. And make it all easier for what’s to come in the future.
And pain—real, undeniable pain—was the only thing sharp enough to do it. He watched her struggle to keep her composure, jaw trembling, her pretty eyes glossy with tears. He knew how much effort that cost her. Knew how deeply she hated being seen like this. Especially by him.
That knowledge twisted something in him—but it also confirmed that his words had landed exactly where he intended.
Good. If she hurt now, she wouldn’t hesitate later. If she hated him, she would bring herself to do it in the future.
That was the justification he clung to. And beneath it—quiet, darker, and harder to admit—was something else. Satisfaction. Not pleasure. Resolution.
The bond had cracked. The attachment had been wounded beyond repair. He had done what he came to do.
So Geto straightened slightly, expression smoothing back into calm, voice steady when he spoke again—as if the tears in front of him meant nothing.
Because if he allowed himself to linger his eyes on her gorgeous crying face the guilt will be more heavy than he can handle. If he acknowledged how much he’d destroyed in her— Then he would have to face the truth only him and Satoru knew about.
Then a contact between the two males happened without warning. The sound of skin meeting skin split the room—sharp, violent, final.
Gojo’s fist connected with Geto’s face before anyone could react. There was no cursed technique or energy behind it. No Infinity. No restraint. Just raw, unfiltered rage—months of grief and fury compressed into a single, devastating blow.
Geto staggered back. For the first time since he’d entered, his composure broke.
His heel caught against the leg of the table, balance slipping as his body pitched backward. The chair behind him scraped violently before tipping over entirely, Geto hitting the floor hard, breath knocked from his lungs.
The room froze. Your heart lurched—but your body didn’t move. Geto on the other hand pushed himself up onto one elbow, eyes lifted slowly to meet Gojo’s. There was no anger in them.Only quiet acknowledgment.As if he’d expected this.
“I already told you to shut your shit-full mouth ,” Gojo said, voice low and shaking, “say one more word—and I won’t stop next time.”
For a fraction of a second, something unreadable crossed Geto’s face. Then—The door burst open.
“Geto-sama!” A man in dark robes stumbled into the room, eyes wide, breath frantic. The cursed energy clinging to him was unmistakable—one of Geto’s followers. His gaze flicked from the overturned chair to Geto on the floor, then to Gojo standing over him like an executioner.
“We have to leave,” the man insisted urgently. Silence stretched. Geto exhaled slowly. He rose to his feet without haste, brushing dust from his clothes, posture settling back into calm as if he hadn’t just been struck. His eyes slid past Gojo—past Nicolo trembling—And landed on you.
Still frozen. Still bleeding. Still crying. For a moment, it felt as if everyone else in the room had disappeared only leaving the both of you. Staring at each other neither of you speaking. You unable to speak. Then Geto turned away.
“…Fine,” he said quietly. “We’re leaving.” His follower bowed quickly, relief flashing across his face, and ushered him toward the exit. The two disappeared through the doorway, their cursed energy receding—heavy, oppressive—then gone.
The door shut. The sound echoed. Too loud. Too final. The room felt wrong without him. Even with the chaos he caused. It still felt more empty in a way that hurt more than his presence ever had.
Gojo stood there, chest heaving, fists clenched at his sides. Then he turned to you. The anger drained from his face all at once.
“Hey—” His voice broke. He crossed the space between you in two steps, His hands hovered, unsure where to touch, terrified of hurting you more.
“…You’re bleeding,” he said softly, thumb trembling as it hovered near your side of your head. A clear head injury that needed to be checked out soon.
Behind you, Nicolo slid down the cabinet, collapsing onto the floor, shaking violently, hands covering his face as reality caught up to him.
“I—I didn’t know,” he sobbed. “I can explain I swear, I didn’t—” Neither of you answered. Because none of that mattered anymore. The curses were gone. Geto was gone. And all that was left in the room was the aftermath—
Blood on the floor. A broken table. And the quiet, unbearable weight of someone who had walked away without looking back.
You stayed standing after he left. After the cursed pressure drained from the room and the air felt breathable again. You answered Gojo when he spoke. Letting him inform jujustu-tech and handle Nicolo while letting him check your head, in the meantime like he insisted
“I’m fine,” you said. Your tears dried on your cheeks. And Eyes blood-shot. Something Gojo secretly found attractive.
A sharp pulse detonated behind your eyes—sudden, blinding—like something had split open inside your skull. Your vision swam violently, the edges of the room smearing and doubling. You blinked once.
Your voice didn’t shake. Though your body disagreed. In sooner than 3 minutes. The second Satoru looked away for a second. Your knees hit the floor. The sound was hollow. Final. You didn’t brace yourself. Your hands didn’t move to catch you. You simply folded downward, landing hard on your knees. Chest on your knees while your fingertips were aggressively pressing onto your forward.
A pain in your head throbbed. Deep. Crushing. Each heartbeat sent another wave through your skull, radiating from your temple down the side of your face where the bottle had struck. It felt like pressure building with nowhere to go—too tight, too loud.
One hand slowly, fingers pressing against the side of your head. It didn’t help. The room dulled, sounds stretching and warping. Gojo’s voice reached you like it was coming from far away. You didn’t answer.
You focused on breathing instead. In through your nose. Out through your mouth. Slow. Controlled. You’d done this before—after explosions, after blunt force trauma, after missions where stopping meant dying. Your vision dropped to the floorboards.
You watched your blood drip down between your knees, dark spots blooming against the wood. Each drop landed in time with the pounding in your head.
Host… Slave… The idea of your bloodline being the reason to your connection to Geto. The words echoed, sharp and nauseating. Another spike of pain flared behind your eyes, bright enough to make you squeeze them shut. You clenched your jaw hard, refusing to make a sound.
Tears leaked out anyway—silent, involuntary—sliding down your cheeks and dripping onto the floor alongside the blood. You didn’t wipe them away. You didn’t sob. You stayed still.
Your other hand curled into a fist against your thigh, trembling once before you forced it to stop. You straightened your back again, even as dizziness washed over you.
As if posture could anchor you. As if staying upright meant you weren’t breaking.Gojo knelt in front of you now.
You could feel him there even without looking. His cursed energy shifted—uneven, frantic, restrained only by fear of hurting you.
“…Your head,” he said quietly. “That hit was bad.” Satoru tried shifting the reason of the your headache to the bottle hit but what Suguru had said aswell stayed in his mind.
“I can still fight,” you replied immediately. The words came out clipped, automatic. Your head screamed in protest.
Every movement sent another pulse of pain through your skull, vision blurring at the edges, black spots dancing when you inhaled too sharply. You pressed your palm harder to your temple, fingers slick with blood.
You remained kneeling on the floor, blood and tears dripping silently as your headache worsened—relentless, consuming—while you held yourself together through sheer will. Because collapsing completely wasn’t an option.
Either way whatever you did. Wouldn’t stop the higher-ups opinion about this whole situation. The consequences and paperwork Gojo and you were definitely going to happen no matter what.
OTHER…Thank you for reading. likes and reblogs are appreciated. I love interaction so don’t be afraid to comment and tell me what you think <3
