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mishimaontheflipside · 2 years

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What They Deserve: A Jujutsu Kaisen Fic

Geto Suguru x Student!Reader University/College au

Professor Geto, celebrated and admired lecturer of the occult, and his pupil gravitate towards one another, a desire they love to hate even as they scorn all they have, understand how little there is between them. Like seeks like, it seems. They drag one another down. But they can’t stop wanting.

NSFW, Minors DNI, Suggestive themes, explicit descriptions, angst, toxic relationship between Professor and his University pupil. A little inspired by Marguerite Duras's The Lover.

hope you enjoy <3

2.2k words

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Why does he call her back?

This she ponders across the lecture hall, the steps climbing in their Olympian slopes to the heavens where she sits, a distant thought to the figure below, though at the will of her scrutiny. Humming over the speakers, the deep rumble of a voice so certain rings throughout the room; she can feel it in every vibration, remember all sorts of things. A steep descent away, haloed in the warm glow of the divine lights above as though confident in his own ascension is Professor Suguru Geto.

Just a shape in the swarm, a variant of shade before him in a foliage of budding blooms, within it she is nothing more to him. Down below, upon the podium which he grasps with such earnestness, she sees someone calm, sure of the world. A man who can see the future and comprehend the past, mold it into the present he reveals to his audience. When it is obvious Geto hardly sees her in his lectures, he shines bright, the sun of which the flowers turn to drink from.

What they see is something wise. That he is brilliant in his own way, respected and at once terrifying in his wielded power; a genius blend of humility and authority. Laughing with a student, discussing an idea in their field of occultism and mythology and lighting up as their minds converge in some exhilarating way could reveal to any that he enjoys his place and what it was there for. Geto is good like that.

She’d be lying if she said she fell for him in all his private moments. The kind of moments no one else saw, that would make anyone vulnerable, the moments that should be filled with despites, forgiving in their revelations. That when he let her in, she found more than anyone dare dream. Full of abstract delights, he became as complex as the heavenly Blake scenes before her very eyes. She could dig deeper, could see farther and know what it was that she looked upon.

No, she fell for the same goddamn reasons as everybody else. There is, in the end, nothing special about Geto. If it was all a disguise, it was seamless. But the truth is far worse. He is what he is. Perhaps there is nothing more to love.

Does Geto find power in his position? She can never answer for him yet that was how it began for her, like for all the ones that came before her, that wanted to be where she was right then; the lover, the seducer at the will of such a man. He was smart and handsome, virile and forbidden. She sought nothing but kidded herself in solitude that she was different, better. Could break and remake him beyond even that. Be someone else, to him and herself.

Their intimacy is rough on Geto’s terms. Compromise is never off the table but the rules are often abided in his games. Those button-up shirts and snug, smart slacks never betray his thorns. In exchanges with fellow faculty, he seems humble, rubbing his hands together in glee upon exchanges as mundane as plans for the weekend, of a life befitting a human of warmth - someone who could be liked. Professor Satoru Gojo and Professor Shoko Ieiri tease Geto about his fine reputation, one wholly the opposite of their own compared to likes of the straight-laced Professor Kento Nanami or the unshakable conformist Professor Utahime Iori. At least Gojo is shameless, honest even, keeps his hands on those who meet his match, preys upon his equals. He and Iori have a history, one set for a future.

Geto is veiled in good-intention.

He is a results provider, a gentle tutor; a man packaged for life’s successes. Doting, some have called him. There is an essence of care that is lost when their bodies’ embrace, when he paws at her throat with his long fingers, takes her jaw and turns her face from his. In sex, he is all breath and strangled sound, motions assured as the sweat clings to him like the arrogance that oozes beneath all the exchanges she witnesses.

Geto is good at sex. He knows it. So does she. It keeps her around, or more accurately, keeps her forgiving. She will bite down on the fingers he slides between her lips, as fierce as she can, daring him to flinch from her, this force beneath him filled with fury akin to lust, yet he’ll only rut harder. His thick, silky hair comes undone from his loose ties, flung aside, tumbling in rivulets in a single flick of his head, held back by her grasping claws – as much a thing to hold for her as another thing she longs to tear from his being. As she comes apart, Geto will come together, as plain as the new day dawning.

A putrid dry taste of tobacco can be found on his tongue, long thought washed away by the variety of hygiene products he lathers up with. The cigarettes are expensive, but the traces they leave mean nothing, as bitter as the rest. She can always taste it. A foul texture it leaves in her mouth, even as she devours his lips. It makes the kiss cheap at first. She must push through and remember the feel. The cigarettes are smoked with Professor Nanami and Professor Kusakabe, between lectures, over drinks and late into the night, framing a portrait of himself for all to see, one of esteem. The taste is mature and ugly. This she wants to kiss away, the lies in each caress - expose him for what he is.

What he finds in her lips she can’t know for sure; Geto’s grimace at her chapstick never enough to turn him from the stuff. The way in which he suckles her mouth, tongue tracing her parted lips only suggests an obscene captivation. He will lick at his own lips after, when she is not watching; when she is cleaning up the messes he leaves for her, preening herself into a mere ghost of what she was before she stepped into his office. When a tint is found in one of her raspberry balms, Geto will relish the marks left on his face, the brighter, the more engorged, the better. In his marred reflection, he finds remnants of desire. Her desire and apathy engulfs all there is. His stubble pushes through, a dark shadow on steady aging skin bearing the joists of youth. Peppered between with blushes of her lipstick stain, he is repelled and content.

Does Professor Gojo suspect his old friend? Has he seen her gobble him whole with her looks? Can he tell her if Geto hungers for her, prove that there is witchcraft in their couplings, a sublime divinity woven with magic? Even a dark force, a hellish pact would make the wanting have meaning. Being human with Geto was shattering.

If hate and love are of the same breed, then what is compliance and desperation? Loneliness and aloneness? She doesn’t always see Geto; can forget a meeting faster than she forgets a sneeze. When she does see him, feels the unique weight of him pressing down upon her or the roughness of his form from behind, those large hands palming her breasts, nails marking skin, she will wonder how he can ever elude her, this man. The pleasure is real. Their bodies fit, no word of a lie. Sometimes he is there with her. Together they will begin to believe that they are something more.

But Geto is a good teacher, even as he sneers at his pupils work. Late at night, hunched at his desk, assuming she is deep in slumber, unaware that all her nights are restless with him, that in one another they shake their resolves, minds thudding with all the wrongs between them. To their faces he smiles, soothes. He helps them grow and learn. There is the nurture.

He pretends too; that he has not marked her assignments, that he has much still to do amongst the stacks, that he does not include her amongst the herd of silly children who lark about before him, lap at his rays and weep at his consideration. The grades are not what started this; she wanted him. He gives her passes she doesn’t deserve, in place of something else. What she must hide is her own revolting tears after he has shut the door on her.

When they fight he is cruel. Where her words are thoughtless, thrown like pebbles into a lake, a ripple here and there and sinking into the shallows, Geto’s are heavy and weathered. Strong, bruising, breaking more upon her skin never to heal before he will open her wounds again, gnarled with the seasons. She will often think to herself; he should know better. Her threats are never hollow. Every word she means as much as he does. But her youth robs her of urgency, there is time still to recompense, sand yet to fill the hourglass.

Geto’s threats, on the other hand, are reminders. What he’s seen, what he’s lived, it no longer feels as though there is any salvation beyond them, the weight of his whips hardened, perfected. It frightens her. His age, his experience, as much an allure as it is an indomitable weapon aimed towards her.

She deserves him, is what she thinks. Leaving each of those nights, venom oozing from the fresh wounds, whether they cross swords or tongues, she has to feel him there in her veins once again. It does not escape her that he never says sorry.

A lecture later, a passing in the corridor, it takes so little. One another’s presences, eye contact or not, always reunites them. Geto is sweeter and more distant, a mockery of their first hours together, in the initial moments of thrilling bliss. She lets him get on his knees and do all he can to lure her back. Wet kisses, needy gropes, meaningless though they are. Yet his tongue laps at her skin, greedy for her arousal, teeth gnawing on her fleshy thighs until she aches, bruised, her body tensing as it is obliterated. Lusting for a soul but not her own. He knows deep down that she is always going to stay.

Then, on nights so quiet Geto will weep. She lets him cry on her lap. Between her legs, he once tried to hide them until his shoulders shook violently. As though to fill the silence and peace about them, he will scream and she’ll humour him for a time in his ravings. As an adult, he becomes less dignified, throws that cloak aside to wreak fury upon the universe he declares was created for him and not by him. Blames and shames with pointed fingers at his successes, no longer his own, each being in his life, a saboteur to his happiness, if not his accomplishments; here she can agree. Looking at Geto, his accolades have amounted to him; his happiness is a disconnected organ. Like the rest of the world, it had found a way to not be his own.

He depresses her. In all her life, it had never been possible to find such bleakness in a character whose very radiance had blinded and fooled all the rest. A mind that, though rich, could still be so detached from a personality of such melancholy, ensnare one with such honesty of thoughtfulness and murder them with nihilism and nonsensical rage. It’s as though he uses her to expel his immaturity.

In class following their early encounters, for a while, she prided herself on the secrecy. Arrogant in what she knew of his body, her mind would wander to the shape of his thrusts, the sounds of each moan, the filth that would seep from his lips as she made him feel so wonderful, whilst the students about her listened to his brilliant mind. She can taste him in those moments even now – bunch up the fabric of her skirt in a tight fist, recalling his length in her palm, sticky and generous just for her. Sometimes he could be so weak for her.

That Geto knew the sound of her own mewls, found comfort in her form, had smothered himself with her body and scents, she could pretend that their heads had learnt harmony in the same way.

Presumptuous, she believed she found something, beat them to the treasure. Only as she dug deeper, fingers nicked and bleeding, caked in the hard unforgiving soil she scratched at, she found the same thing she had blinded herself to all along. All that made them different was that they fucked one another; that was it. They had nothing.

Why does she go back? She asks herself, glancing about to spy a face amongst her swarm who could answer this for her.

Their eyes meet. Somehow in the darkness he has found her. Geto does not flinch. His words are so certain, he knows what he is saying, thinking, feeling at his podium, can make sense of himself there. Her heart skips a beat.

Then, in the blink of an eye, he has averted his scrutiny - for that is what he reserves for her. It’s the only way they see one another. They inspect. Search for something. Geto must feel something, must go a little weak at the thought of her, buried deep inside of her as they groan and whine, pinning her to his desk, rutting away like it is all they know to do, the familiar grips, pinches, sighs and murmurs. He betrays nothing. Nor does she. She hates what he makes her feel.

Down below is a man on the precipice of ascension. It will vanish with her. In their collision they abandon divinity, leave the vehicles at the side of the road and stumble concussed and brutalized off into the darkness away from the lights of civilization, like feral animals to fester in solitude. Greatness, she devours, craving more from Geto than he ever had to begin with or was willing to give, letting him take as much from her.

This is not love. They love what it is that makes them ravenous.

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