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twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat · 6 months

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i love you, i love you (kill me in the morning) ; suguru geto

synopsis; everyone has a weakness. some are harder to get rid of. (or, alternatively; suguru geto befriends a non-sorcerer as a child.)

word count; 10.0k

contents; suguru geto/reader (not explicitly romantic but the subtext is there), gn!reader, geto-typical angst, childhood friends to [redacted], mild gore, suguru geto’s defection but with added angst, twisted depictions of love, depictions of stalking, depictions of death/murder, general bloodlust (geto wants to kill u soo bad but also not really), unresolved yearning, hurt/no comfort, curse user geto is his own warning tbh

a/n; ok so. this is kind of a mess. just my own take on geto’s childhood and defection + how i think he’d deal with a non-sorcerer reader after defecting……. so it turned out kinda. Dark. it’s entirely sfw to be clear!!! just sorta twisted. in conclusion i love my cult leader wife who wants me dead <3 (pls listen to ’kill me’ by indigo de souza it is SO geto)

suguru geto meets you in the afterglow of sunset, by a dusty summer creek.

it’s his special place, hidden in the outskirts of your tiny town; a place where the water glimmers with silver-hued fish, and all the biggest cicadas reside, singing softly and waiting to be caught.

a place where he can be himself. alone, with no one to curse him.

— except, this time, he isn’t alone.

your crying face is the first thing he sees. big, wet tears, cascading down your scrunched-up face, accompanied by little sniffles as you sit there. curled up into a ball, knees against your heaving chest.

the next thing he sees is the bruise on your leg. a scrape on your knee, gritty and a little bloody, but it’s not so awful. he can tell that it hurts, though — you bite your lip to stop yourself from trembling, like you’re trying to be brave. but you look pained.

and it sends a tremor running through his very soul.

suguru was born with a bleeding heart, an empathy unusually developed for his age. always pushing him forward, coaxing him into taking action; this nagging desire to protect, to nurture. born with an inability to avert his gaze from the suffering of others.

so when the two of you lock eyes, he manages a smile. warm and soothing, even though deep down he’s alarmed. but he masks it, slathers over it with something kind, something comforting — and he can tell that it works, from the way your teary eyes seem to soften in the buttery hue of the afternoon glow.

you’re crying. and suguru finds himself wanting to wipe those tears away, more than anything. you look small, and you’re in pain.

(protect the weak, urges some voice in the back of his mind. insatiable. protect those who can’t protect themselves.)

he asks for your name, all while cleaning your wound. the wince that slips from your lips when the cold water of the creek licks at your knee makes his heart clench.

but you tell him. you tell him your name, as the sun sets in the horizon, and he tells you his.

suguru. a sweet kid who sees you fall and patches you up. a cool kid who teases you a little for being so clumsy. who holds your hand tightly in his own, to make sure you won’t fall again.

the sun melts away beyond the cluster of trees that surround you, its burning glow breaking through the gaps between the branches and dyeing the summer creek a deep red. illuminating your blurry silhouettes, as you walk back home. hand in hand.

and that’s how it begins.

the two of you grow closer, in the same way flowers who share a stem learn to lean on each other, grow in the same direction, a mess of mingled roots. a natural connection, blooming out of nothing more than a sweet coincidence — that kind of blissful, innocent childhood friendship. the kind you never have to question.

you learn very quickly that suguru isn’t like the rest. that when compared to all the other kids you know, he’s mature, almost mystical, like he knows something they don’t.

you learn that there’s a gentleness to him, one he could never fully hide. one that shines through when he looks at you, when you play and laugh to fill the silence of the hills overlooking the small town you both live in.

you also learn that he can see ghosts.

curses, you’ll both come to learn, but that’s later. for a child in a remote town, isolated and alone, the familiarity of the ghost stories that adults tell you is the only kind of comfort suguru has to cling to. something lighthearted, to explain the predicament that haunts him — the flickers of black in his vision, that lingering taste of charcoal on his tongue.

suguru is different, you realize, different from the rest. and you eventually learn, from him, that you are far from alone in that belief.

in the town you both had the misfortune of being born into, suguru is the black sheep. his parents think there’s something wrong with him. the other kids think there’s something wrong with him. he isn’t right in the head, they whisper, he sees things that aren’t there.

(it’s a debilitating isolation that never truly leaves him.)

so suguru learns to stay silent, learns to keep his pretty little mouth shut, learns to lie. it’s easier that way. easier to survive, in the remoteness of your tiny town, with all the adults who scorn him and look at him like he doesn’t belong anywhere at all.

and suguru learns to be content, in that solitude. that heaven-granted isolation. a lone white chrysanthemum, in a sea of red and lavender; blossoming alone.

but then suguru meets you.

and, contrary to everyone else, you don’t think there’s anything wrong with him. when you tell him that he’s different from the rest, you mean it in the best possible way. you say it with starlight in your eyes, gleeful, giddy. like he’s special, not broken. like you’re also tired of those other kids, those sneering adults, the silence of a town so isolated it could crush a child’s heart.

like you have something in common. like you’re the same.

and you stay by his side. throughout the most difficult years of his early life, when he’s still growing accustomed to the duty he’ll have to bear for the rest of his life, you’re there. every single day. to smile at him, to speak to him like you’re both just normal kids — even though suguru is well aware that he’s anything but normal.

(when he’s with you, he feels like it, though. feels like he’s just a normal boy, like there isn’t something glued down wrong inside his brain. something twisted, something that needs to be plucked out.)

suguru finds comfort in you. in your presence, in the notes you pass him when classes get boring, in the way you cling to his sleeve while exploring the woods during recess. in the way you grin so brightly after managing to catch a firefly in the darkness of the summer night, all proud and toothy, a childlike innocence he wishes he still had.

you’re sweet, and understanding, and suguru thinks you might be the coolest person he knows. you’re his friend, his very best friend, his one and only.

and when he tells you what’s wrong with him — when he tells you what he can see — you ask him something that will forever rest in his subconscious. a flicker of precious, fleeting, genuine acceptance, one he won’t ever feel again. not until he meets a certain boy with blue eyes, but that comes later.

(a memory he’ll return to, over and over again. even after all the evil in the world has already descended upon him like a crackling hurricane.)

what do they look like?

there is no judgement in your voice, in the way the question slips from your lips. no mocking laughter, no silent rejection or whisper of crazy, evil, wrong. there’s only you, the way you’ve always been, curious and understanding and wise beyond your years.

suguru decides, right then and there, that he’ll protect you forever. no matter what.

you can’t see curses. you aren’t like him, in that regard, and he learns that quickly. and as suguru grows up, grows a little taller, a little wiser, he is glad that it’s true. he’s glad, because he already knows what kind of road lies ahead of him.

he already knows what kind of world you both live in, how unforgiving it can be. how many people die every day, every second, because of monsters only a select few can even see. he already knows that curses aren’t the eccentric, silly ghosts you were hoping for when you were kids — but pure, unadulterated evil.

(he already knows what they taste like.)

and suguru takes careful measures, day by day, to keep you away from it. as much as he can without lying outright. you’re curious, by nature, almost fascinated by curses and sorcery and everything you do not understand. an endearing trait, though it exasperates him to no end.

someone like you has no business sticking their nose into that kind of cruelty, he thinks, that kind of bloodshed.

and you’ve always been clumsy, a little scatterbrained. enough to make him worry instinctively when you’re out of his sight. like when you tripped and scraped your knee, by that tiny summer creek, all because you wanted to catch a dragonfly.

so he tries his best to keep you away from it, all of it, away from a darkness he knows would swallow you whole. away from the small, weak curses that sometimes litter the woods or the schoolyard; away from his cursed technique, the disgust of a power he never once asked for.

(he never lets you see him swallow those things, never lets you witness the way he throws them right back up again before it happens so many times that he grows used to the disgust. you’re sharp, though, and he can’t hide the grimace that always lingers on his features.

you don’t ask — you only give him a packet of gum, to chew away the taste with, and suguru thinks to himself that he’ll love you forever.)

time passes by, slowly but surely, and the two of you stick together.

and as he grows into his teenage years, so much weight already resting on his tiny shoulders, suguru has already developed some sense of it all. of his ability, of the world of sorcerers. he’s already spoken to people like him, has already been made well aware of his potential.

he’s already been given a choice, a choice that was never really a choice at all, but he decides that it doesn’t matter.

suguru decides to become a sorcerer. to train his abilities, to hone his skills. to eventually move away, from the stifling silence of that town, the silence that was only ever filled by you.

and suguru thinks to himself that he’s doing this for you. that in doing this, in being this, he’ll fulfill his promise to protect you.

(forever. no matter what. he echoes the words in his mind like a prayer.)

suguru wants to protect those who cannot protect themselves. those who are weak, those who are alone, people he has the power to help.

but more than anything, above all else, suguru wants to protect you.

you are the most precious thing in his life. and if he can turn the world a little brighter for you, just a little bit kinder, then isn’t that enough? isn’t there enough meaning in that to give him the strength he needs?

there is. suguru decides that there is.

so when he tells you about his plans, under a pleasant, ephemeral starry sky, he does so with conviction. he knows that you will understand, because he knows you. you’re his best friend.

and he’s right. you do understand. you’re proud of him, and he’s your best friend, too.

i’ll support you, no matter what.

the instantaneous answer makes suguru smile. not the kind of smile he plasters on to appease the adults around him, nor the smile he wears when he needs to lie convincingly. a full, genuine smile, that reaches his eyes and blossoms like a flower in the light of the moon; a warm, gentle smile, one you’ll always, always associate with him.

(forever and ever. no matter what.)

and when suguru eventually has to leave, for a high school he’ll spend the next few years of his life living at, he carries that conviction with him. his choice is steadfast, unyielding, inevitable. the only one that matters.

the whistling of the wind breaches his ears, as you both stand on the platform and wait for his train to arrive. a spring breeze caresses your skin, and suguru’s bangs flutter in the wind. sunlight scatters across the train tracks and seagulls cry out in the distance, and the acute sensation of a parting lies heavy in the air.

it’s embarrassing. it’s childish. suguru wants to claim that he isn’t a child, anymore; that he wouldn’t give in to hesitation, at the sight of your meek expression. that he wouldn’t cry, at the thought of moving away from his best friend.

but the slight puffiness under his eyes is evidence enough. evidence of the tears he shed last night, when the reality of the situation finally dawned on him.

suguru doesn’t want to part from you. he’s nervous, too — leaving you alone in that town, all by yourself, with no one around to protect you properly.

it's stupid. because deep down, he knows that you’ll escape too. that you’ll come after him, no matter how long it takes, that'll you'll both end up in tokyo. that you'll end up together, despite his duty as a sorcerer — eating soft serve ice cream cones, playing shooting games at the arcade, strolling around the big city aimlessly. doing all those things you always talked about doing.

because the two of you will always, always find your way back to each other. just like how he found you with that bruise on your leg, all those years ago, a fated encounter as natural as the glow of sunset. two lone dragonflies, who always meet somewhere in the middle of a dusty summer creek.

still, suguru can’t help but feel sad. a little lost. he can only hope you don’t notice the soft frown on his face, the faint redness of his eyes.

(then again, when have you ever not noticed something he was trying to hide?)

there's no need to worry about it, suguru knows. he’s never had to worry about you judging him, looking down on him. never you.

and when his gaze falls on your face, after the train he’s supposed to board screeches to a halt behind him, your own tears are enough to make him realize how silly he’s being.

he laughs, from the bottom of his stomach, when you tackle him into a hug and tell him with teary eyes that you’ll come visit. he squeezes you especially tight, in a boyish fashion he can never quite hide from you, and murmurs into your ear that he’ll be waiting.

he asks you not to forget him. you laugh through your tears, and tell him that you never could.

before he has to let go and step into the train, you tell him that you love him, and his grin blooms with honeyed affection. he ruffles your hair, always gentle, always teasing, always the same suguru.

he tells you that he loves you, too.

— then he’s gone.

(you’ll forever regret not convincing him to stay.)

the two of you stay in contact, all throughout his first year. texting, calling — making sure neither of you get the chance to forget the other. suguru tells you about his life, his missions, his classmates, leaving out all the gritty details. and you listen; attentive, curious.

at one point, you even visit him. his friends tease him relentlessly, but all he does is roll his eyes and flick their foreheads, biting back a smile. that makes you laugh, and he’s relieved that the sound hasn’t changed in the slightest.

and suguru stays the same, throughout that one first year. he is steadfast, unyielding, decisive. he has a conviction he’ll never let go of, and people he's vowed to protect. people he needs to protect.

(non-sorcerers, is what he tells satoru, and he means it. but suguru chooses to omit the fact that he specifically wants to protect one single non-sorcerer, above all else.)

and suguru is happy, with his choice. thoroughly and wholly. the road ahead of him will be long, full of obstacles and thorns, but he always knew that would be the case. and he knows that it’ll hurt, that it’ll be tough, but he also knows that this is what he sincerely wants to do. what he was meant to do. the only choice worth making.

suguru is content. suguru will not falter.

— then, his second year descends upon him.

riko amanai dies. toji fushiguro dies.

satoru gojo becomes the strongest sorcerer of the modern era.

(and suguru geto is left behind.)

it is a slow, sinking realization. one whole year to lose sight of his goal, lose sight of the conviction he held onto so tightly. one whole year to feel it slip through the gaps between his fingers, helpless to stop its course. everything grows muddled, molding, rotting before he has a chance to root it out — and all he can do is wait, as it festers like bile in the bottom of his gut.

suguru geto falters.

(he doesn’t quite know who he is, anymore.)

words he’s swallowed down like curses all his life keep flooding his subconscious, building up inside the back of his throat, spinning and spinning and spinning inside his brain until he feels sick enough to throw up. evil. crazy. protection. responsibility.

duty, duty, duty —

(what does that word even mean?)

suguru doesn’t remember. he can’t recall what made him step onto that train with such conviction, how he was able to smile so assuredly. how he was able to laugh, from the very bottom of his gut, as if it was the easiest thing in the world. he just can't remember.

who is he doing this for? what meaning lies in all this pain?

suguru keeps watching, hoping for an answer that’ll save him just enough. waiting and watching. he’s always just watching, isn’t he? never changing anything. always too late, too weak, too fucking useless to stop even a single person from dying.

he watches helplessly as a little girl gets shot in the head, for the crime of having been born different, for the sake of simple currency. watches helplessly as satoru carries her lifeless body in his arms, across a room full of people so vile that some deep, rotten, intrinsic part of suguru just wants to —

but there would be no meaning to it.

(does there really need to be one?)

suguru honestly doesn’t know, anymore.

riko dies.

(curses spring up like flies. he devours and devours.)

then haibara dies, too.

(in the distance, he thinks he hears the sound of clapping.)

sorcerers. non-sorcerers. curses.

the words begin to rot inside his mouth, like wilted flowers, syrupy sweet and nauseating. crumbling on his tongue, numbing his senses until it’s all he can taste. a mouthful of honey, sticking to the walls of his throat, too sweet to stomach.

this is wrong, he thinks. everything is all wrong.

everything is wrong and i don’t know how to fix it.

— and then there’s you.

during your third year, both of you are busier than usual, but still find the time to talk when you can. the normalcy of your little stories is a comfort, to suguru — but also makes him burn with something he fears may be close to envy.

you tell him about your new school, your new town, your new beginning; bright and dazzling. one that suits you just fine.

the two of you are different, he realizes, all at once. some part of him always knew. you were born to be happy, kept away from the bloodshed, hands unsullied by the deep red that always dries beneath his fingernails. there was never a place for you in the world of curses. and he’s glad, that it’s true, he always has been, but —

(resentment festers in his gut. he can’t tell how long it’s been there, and he’s afraid to know the answer.)

these days, suguru takes a little longer to answer your texts. his voice comes out sounding a little more fatigued when he’s speaking to you through the phone, and he doesn’t talk as much as he used to. your voice soothes him, though, he thinks. just a tiny bit. but it’s enough.

(he’s doing this for you, too. he can’t forget that.)

and when you come to visit him, during his third year, suguru is surprised. surprised to see you, standing outside of his dorm, bags full of his favorite snacks in hand. smiling.

you look the same as always.

(he’s the only one who’s changed.)

it’s a pleasant surprise, though, despite everything. he really did miss you. in his life, your presence alone has been nothing but a comfort, for as long as he can remember. even now, when everything feels so blurry and uncertain, you appear to him as a flicker of starlight; shining through the darkness that’s been plaguing him for the past year.

so he tries to smile, tries to sound the same as always, but he knows you don’t buy it. you know because you know him, despite everything.

suguru wonders what you would think of him, if you could hear the thoughts he’s been having these past few weeks. he wonders what he looks like, reflected in your eyes. he wonders how much he’s changed since you last saw him.

(he hasn’t felt like himself in months.)

your presence is like a balm, to his soul, but it also seeks to hurt him further. because you’re still the same. still so understanding and wise and patient. you can tell that he’s fading, and he can tell that you can tell. but he doesn’t want to tell you why. he refuses to open up to you, because what would that accomplish? how could you possibly understand?

how could you understand his hatred, his resentment, towards the very people he’s supposed to protect? he told you that, himself. he decided to protect them, on his own accord. that’s his duty — steadfast, unyielding, inevitable. that’s all it was ever meant to be.

protect the weak. protect the ugly. protect everyone except his comrades, until all of them lie dead in a pile of maggots and tangly limbs and buzzing flies.

a bitter, heavy kind of vomit settles inside his chest, his throat. and somewhere deep inside suguru’s mind, in the very bottom of a drawer he vowed never to open, the image of non-sorcerers shifts, distorts, flickers on and off under the light.

protect those monkeys until his very last breath.

(what a fucking joke.)

you couldn’t understand. he doesn’t want you to. he promised himself that he would keep you away from that kind of darkness, no matter what, and —

and you’re the only good thing he has left.

not only that — you’re a non-sorcerer, too. and suguru knows what that means. if what his brain is telling him is true, if that’s really how it is, then you are no exception. then you’re just like the rest, something lesser, nothing but a —

(he thinks he might throw up.)

suguru does not tell you anything. despite everything, despite your pleading expression, despite the heavy bile at the bottom of his gut. he does not tell you what is truly wrong. he does not open up to you.

and that is suguru’s first act of betrayal, to you. before he even betrays the jujutsu world.

(it is perhaps the only betrayal he’ll ever feel any kind of remorse over.)

you try, though. persistent in your affection. he loathes how little you’ve changed, how brightly you still shine when reflected in his eyes. you sit right next to him, under a pleasant, ephemeral starry sky, stars blurred by the light pollution, and tell him what you always have.

i’ll support you, no matter what.

…

suddenly, all he can hear is the whooshing of the sea. as if he's been pulled underwater, a heavy weight tugging at his limbs, lungs gasping for air that doesn't exist. pure static, in his ears, a sharp crack of something. like a rib, or a train of thought. all he can taste is saltwater.

the dam begins to break. it cracks at the edges, like two giddy children poking a stick into a puddle layered with ice, giggling at their scattered reflections. memories resurfacing, images flashing in his subconscious. suguru looks at you like he’s lost. something inside of him breaks, disintegrates into a pile of despair.

because you don’t understand what you’re telling him. you don’t understand what he thinks about doing, sometimes, when the nights are especially long and the school is especially empty and the taste of curses lies especially thick on his tongue.

you don’t understand. you never will.

but you’re smiling at him, so very gentle. so accepting, so all-encompassing of everything that’s good, everything worth cherishing. just like always.

suguru recalls your teary face; when you scraped your knee, when he left that town behind. he recalls all the ways you’ve soothed him, saved him, in all the years you’ve known him.

i’ll definitely come visit. i love you.

i’ll support you, no matter what.

what do they look like?

— suguru falters. these days, that’s all he ever seems to do.

how could he hate non-sorcerers, when you’re among them? how could he hate a world that has you in it?

(he can’t, he can’t, he can’t. he can’t hate you. not you.)

the words that spill so very easily from your lips break him. he can’t tell if you’ve mended the damage, or only worsened it. he can’t tell where the jagged hole inside his chest ends and begins. he can only tell that it’s extending, extending, extending.

suguru wants to fall apart. he wants to fall apart, for only you to see, because you’ve always been the only one who could ever understand. the only one who wouldn’t turn your eyes away from him, even back then. the only, only one. the only other white chrysanthemum.

he wants so desperately to be honest with you, to let every dark thought he’s ever had flow out from his lips. for you to hear, for you to scorn or to accept at your leisure, doom him or bless him, a bleeding dog at your feet. to get rid of the tangled mess of thoughts inside his muddled mind — to just let go of everything, even if it’s only for a minute or two. just a second would be fine.

suguru wants to drag you down with him. drag you down into the depths, into the abyss, to share the weight of his suffering. so that you can be together, just like you always have; through thick and thin. always and forever.

but he doesn’t.

(and what a betrayal that is.)

suguru keeps his pretty little mouth shut, and he gives you a smile. a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, the kind he always wears when he needs to lie convincingly.

he could tell you so many things. could ruin you completely, take you down with him. hand in hand, staining your unsullied skin with the blood on his own. into the gaping maw.

but at the end of the day, he chooses not to.

suguru chooses your peace of mind over his, just like he always has, and feeds you a vague half-truth. not quite a lie, but something that ignores the underlying question of your statement, a silent plea for sincerity. something deep and true, but almost sorrowful.

i know, he says.

i know you will.

the moment does not save him. but suguru does feel just a little more hopeful, a little less like he’s slowly rotting from the inside out. a little less like he’s completely and utterly alone, isolated in his agony.

you are the same as always. and what a relief that is.

(for you, he can wade through the hell for just a little longer.)

when it’s time to say your goodbyes, suguru can tell you aren’t satisfied. that you wish you could do more. but he also knows that you won’t push it, because you’ve always respected him in a way no one else ever cares enough to do.

before you leave, you tell him that you love him. in a quiet voice, a whisper, as if trying to squeeze some sincerity from his chest — a last-ditch attempt at reaching him. he squeezes your hand, instead, and doesn’t say it back.

suguru just smiles, flimsy, a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

you look like you want to say something, but you don’t.

and he watches you go, with forlorn eyes, until the dot that is you gets too small to distinguish from the darkness of the night. until he can almost delude himself into thinking that you’ve turned into a star. he watches you go as if trying to burn the sight into his memory, as if this is the last time he’ll ever see you.

(the curse of i love you rots in his mouth, unspoken, unvoiced.)

two weeks later, suguru stands in front of a cage, covered in blood.

the girls in front of him, skinny, frail, crying — beaten and exhausted — look at him like he’s a god. him, pale, smiling, with blood staining his white uniform, bathed in moonlight —

like some kind of angel of death.

suguru soaks up the metallic scent of the room, basks in that sickeningly sweet feeling of release. he soothes the girls, as best he can. he leads them away, careful not to let them see the bodies.

(there isn’t much left of them, anyhow.)

suguru geto makes his choice. the only choice that matters.

he will twist himself into a curse. he will devour his ideal, until it’s all that’s left of him. he will embody it, become it, through and through. it’s fine if he dies in the process, it’s fine if everyone dies — just as long as it means something.

that is the conviction he will carry with him. the decision to only ever see the line between ends and means, the bright light at the end of a never-ending tunnel.

the blood of an entire village is on his hands.

(a part of him wants to throw up. another grins with ecstasy. every part agrees that it was inevitable.)

their screams weren’t beautiful. they were aggravating, revolting, the wretched buzzing of bugs ringing like static in his ears. but it felt good. it felt just. something in his bones settling into its rightful place, a spark of affirmation.

and suguru doesn’t stop there. as if desperate for the cup to finally run over, to make sure that there truly is no going back, his feet take him to a place he always hoped he’d never have to see again.

when suguru returns to that stiflingly silent town, to kill his parents, you are no longer there.

it’s not a surprise. he knows you escaped, long ago, just like him — just like you always said you would. not quite to tokyo, to your grave disappointment, but you managed to find some other town to live in. bigger, better. the new beginning he always hoped you’d get.

suguru does not want to think of you. he doesn't want to remember your face, the sound of your laughter, the way your eyes shone in the light. he wants to erase every single trace of your existence from his memory, if only to protect you from the person he will soon become. or perhaps only to spare himself the heartache of it all.

but when he passes by that one summer creek, forgetting you becomes an impossibility.

his eyes gaze at the silver-hued fish, sparkling beneath the moonlight, the big cicadas singing sadly under the shadows of the trees. he closes his eyes, and breathes in the solitude, and recalls a child with teary eyes.

suguru knows what school you go to. he knows what your town is called, what your street looks like.

and it is far, far away from the town he’s in. far from tokyo, too.

— and suguru is relieved.

(it gives him an excuse not to hunt you down just yet.)

the sight of his childhood home stirs no fondness in his heart. it is empty, it is silent, it is the same as always. and now it doesn’t even have you in it, anymore.

so it doesn’t matter.

suguru moves on with conviction, with bloodstains scattered across his clothes, seeping into the fabric. the screams of his parents don’t mean anything — they blur together with old echoes of evil, crazy, wrong.

(there is something wrong with that child.)

their blood sticks to the soles of his shoes and he is repulsed by their fragility. their blood stains his shirt and he is elated by the irony of it all. all he sees is a blur of red.

the road before him becomes clear.

finally, there truly is no turning back. that one sliver of good still left in him, crushed beneath the heel of his boot. at last. homicide, patricide — the more he adds, the easier it’ll be. easier to distance himself, easier to convince himself that his choice matters. that the blood of mere animals is a small price to pay for the future he envisions.

that he is right. that he is just.

(self-affirmation. what a holy thing it is.)

there is still much left for him to do. so suguru leaves the town behind.

he leaves that tiny summer creek behind.

it is a premature death; a resignation of identity. he isn’t an adult, not yet, but he has long since stopped being a child. he stopped being a child the moment he saw a bullet go through the skull of an innocent girl, the moment he saw haibara’s ghostly pale skin. no sorcerers stay children for very long.

none of it matters, anymore.

time passes with a speed that’s almost frightening.

suguru disappears, almost entirely faded, leaving only geto in his wake. a new person, an entirely different human being — ten years of living in an echo chamber, ten years of forming his personality in the shape of something twisted.

(something almost divine.)

and geto is right. just. geto has conviction, and that’s all he needs. everything goes according to plan; geto has a goal, and a family to pursue that goal with, to pursue that goal for. everything finally feels just right. breathing feels a lot easier. living feels a lot easier.

but everyone has a weakness.

and there is one thing, only one thing, that still acts as a thorn in his side. something that holds him back, a stain yet to be wiped away, a piece of gum stuck to the sole of his shoe. a tattered memory, clinging to his subconscious as if haunting him.

(i’ll support you, no matter what.)

if only you could see him now.

when geto left his old life behind, he did not contact you. he did not say goodbye. he threw away his phone, deleted every single thing that someone could use to locate him with, and left. he hasn’t heard from you in years, hasn’t spoken to you.

but he has seen you.

geto knows where your town is. what your apartment looks like. he knows what university you go to, where your go-to café is located.

so resisting the temptation eventually becomes impossible.

he tries not to think of you, he really does. he tries to act like you are nothing, to him, because you aren’t. you are proof of weakness and a fragility that geto loathes, proof of his own foolishness, his young naivety. you are everything he hates and everything rotten and everything he’s vowed to cleanse from the earth.

but, despite that undeniable truth, geto cannot help but seek you out.

he tells himself that it means nothing. that he’s only doing it to make sure he knows where he’s got you, like a predator watching over their prey, preparing to lunge out of hiding when the moment is right. because geto knows that your death, at his hands, is inevitable. what you are is a weakness, a connection that lingers on his skin like a mold, one he still has to the creatures that disgust him so.

so it’s inevitable.

in reality, he should have killed you first. before his parents, before the village — he should have killed you, because that would have solidified his devotion in a way nothing else ever could. but he didn’t.

geto likes to think of it as a symbol, of sorts. that he’ll save you for last. the same way children eat every last part of the cake, greedily, before gulping down the strawberry. every single non-sorcerer will be dead by the time he gets to you. you’ll be the one remaining obstacle, the one final stain to rinse away before his dream becomes reality, the one thing still standing between him and the divinity he seeks.

it is an honour, geto thinks, an honour he would not bestow to anyone but you.

but until that time comes, all he can do is watch over you. silently, so you don’t notice. always from afar, sometimes through the eyes of the curses he’s bound to. just to make sure that you’re still alive. that you haven’t tripped over your shoelaces and gotten yourself into a car accident, or gulped down a mouthful of food too fast and choked to death, or anything similarly pathetic. he wouldn’t put it past you. really, he has no idea how you’ve survived this long without him.

weak, fragile, clumsy. soft enough to sink his teeth into. you are everything that geto hates. you are nothing, nothing at all.

(and you are the same as always, despite everything. what an aggravation that’s become.)

he watches you, anyway; like a god finding amusement in his creations, an omniscient overseer watching you stumble day to day. he watches as you live your life, as you talk to other people with that familiar smile on your face. it hasn’t changed in the slightest.

he watches you laugh, watches you grab a crêpe from a street vendor, watches you cry when you think nobody is there to see.

(the sight sends a tremor running through his soul, one he desperately wants to pretend not to feel.)

on melancholic summer days, when the sun paints the sky pink and golden, he watches you clutch onto his old sweater. one you always said you were going to return, but never did — never got the chance to. you used to tell him it was too comfortable not to steal. that it smelled like him, that it made you feel less lonely. geto so tenderly wishes he could have forgotten those words, by now.

but he watches you, in the solitude of your apartment, as you bury your face in the wool and inhale the fading tinge of his old cologne. then you cry and cry, like a child, until the moon rises in the sky; until you’re breathing softly, lulled to sleep by his scent.

(geto thinks to himself that you are a fool, to still miss him after all these years.)

it’s not an everyday occasion. most days, he does not think of you. there are many other monkeys to kill, many things to discuss. there’s money to be made, plans to be forged, wars to be brewed. geto is a busy man. a family man, no less.

but when boredom is all he can feel, he still finds himself seeking you out. just to make sure no one has gotten to you before him. just a god enjoying the struggles of a lesser being.

that’s all it is, geto tells himself. that’s all it’ll ever be, from now on.

no one needs to know if he spends the occasional morning checking up on you, curious if you did well on that exam you were studying for. no one needs to know if he absorbs the curses that sometimes cling to your fragile skin, gulping them down before they cause too much damage. no one needs to know if anyone who gives you a little too much trouble suddenly disappears off the face of the earth.

no one needs to know if he reminisces, every once in a while, when the summer nostalgia is too much to bear. about your childhood, about that question you asked him — a million years ago, back when the center of his universe was a single summer creek.

(no one needs to know if he finds comfort in your presence, even now.)

on days when the moon hangs low in the sky, and geto can’t choke back the longing in his chest, he sits by your bed and watches you sleep. a forlorn expression on his face, lips stuck in a tight line. it’s risky, careless, but he’s helpless to the temptation.

most nights, you lie perfectly still. so still he can almost delude himself into thinking that it’s over, that you’ve passed on, that he won’t have to kill you after all. sometimes you twist and turn, mumble something unintelligible under your breath that he doesn’t catch.

he wonders what you dream about. he wonders if you ever have nightmares, if they’re ever about him. he wonders why he even cares at all.

geto resents you. resents you for existing, for smiling every day, for being a bridge between him and lesser creatures. he resents you, resents you, resents you.

(self-affirmation. what a holy thing, indeed.)

— he could kill you so easily.

he wouldn’t even need a curse to do it. a flick of his pinkie would be more than enough. that’s how fragile you are; asleep, right in front of him, breathing softly while he watches you like how the fox watches the lamb.

(he could end all of this, right now, in the silence of the night. in your most vulnerable state.)

and yet, geto allows the opportunity to pass him by.

he can’t get too greedy. that’s what he tells himself, as he slips out of your window in the dead of night, leaving your sleeping figure behind him. it’s not the right time. he can let you sleep, for just a little while longer. the bags under your eyes have looked especially heavy, recently.

(he tries not to remember the sleepover you had as kids, when he stayed perfectly still as you dozed off on his shoulder. doing his best not to wake you, watching you fondly until the sun began to rise. back when all he wanted was to protect you.)

geto knows that you know he’s not dead. he knows because he’s almost certain that satoru spoke to you, back then, even if he probably didn’t let you in on any details. because he knows that you’re sharp, sharp enough to know that he’s alive.

and even if that were not the case, geto knows because he’s sent you gifts. letters. absentminded, almost taunting, cruel in their joviality — always anonymous, always mysterious and vague and impossible to trace back to him. but he knows that you know who they’re from.

a little dance, if you will. geto haunts you like a ghost. he never lets you see him, but he lets you know that he’s there, sometimes. just out of frame.

he can only hope it’ll eventually haunt you to death.

(if it ends up as a comfort to you, instead, then, well — it is what it is.)

all of it is a safety measure in disguise. a way to satisfy the yearning inside his chest, without coming too close. that doesn’t mean he never falters, though.

every once in a while, he feels strangely compelled to talk to you. to waltz into your home, in a lighthearted fashion, to soak up your shocked expression. to ask how you’ve been, casually, and watch you stammer, stumble over your words — he can imagine the face you’d make, the way the lilt of your voice would tremble. would you cry? he can’t help but wonder, sometimes.

yet he always resists the temptation. careful, cautious, with every move he makes. like a shadow. he deliberately leaves no traces of himself behind, no breadcrumbs for you to follow like the curious creature you are. geto lets you know that he’s there, but he doesn’t let you see him, because if he talks to you he knows that he’ll kill you. and he can’t have that, not just yet.

eventually, he’ll do it. he’ll do it, and he’ll watch as your blood stains the silk of his robes like the inevitability it is. but not yet.

you’ll be the last one, the last one he’ll kill. the final proof of his devotion.

until then, he can have this. this sickeningly sweet scrutiny of your life, your life without him. the sound of your laughter, the reflection of untainted light in your iris.

(you are the same as always, and you are a weakness that geto is learning to live with.)

he can’t rest, won’t rest until it finally ends. until the curtain calls on your bloodied body, until he feels the cold skin of your palm against his lips.

only then will he finally know if it was all worth it. only then will he be free of this yearning. only then will he be able to say that the last remnants of suguru have been well and truly cleansed from his soul, that there is nothing left of the person he was.

only then will geto be able to call himself wholly divine.

but until that time comes, he can do nothing but watch you. when the temptation begins to crawl under his skin again, when he needs to remind himself of what he’s fighting for. that one thing, at least, never once changed; suguru geto has always fought for you. for your protection, for your survival, for your demise.

for your happiness, in life or in death.

(geto hates you, loathes you, resents you for being what you are; but suguru will always, always love you. forever and ever. no matter what.

and that will be their undoing.)

suguru geto dies without saying goodbye to you.

if there are any regrets to speak of, any at all, then maybe that’d be it. he never got to see that shock on your face, never got to hear you stammer in the way you always used to when you were nervous.

in the golden hue of sunset, the last of his resentment finally fades away. the curse known as geto disappears, and what remains is no more than a ghost — the ghost of suguru, the person he was, the person he never quite stopped being.

and when geto disappears, when the last of his resentment fades away, suguru finally allows himself to think of you. fully, without interruption, without unspilled blood festering beneath his tongue. just one single touch of sincerity, one last indulgence before it all ends. he thinks of you, you as a person, not you as a non-sorcerer. he gives your memory the respect it deserves. something worth cherishing.

he wonders what you’re doing, right now. he wonders if you studied enough for that exam next week, if you found a good gift for your friend’s birthday party. he wonders if you still miss him, even though he'll never be deserving of it.

satoru stands in front of him, genuine, sincere. and suguru thinks that he is a fool, just like you; to still have any kind of affection left for someone like him. after he left you both behind, that summer.

satoru doesn’t curse him. suguru wishes he would.

a soft bout of laughter falls from his lips, as the sun sets behind him, and he knows you would have found the sight breathtaking. you always did love sunsets, didn't you? the sun was setting when he found you with that bruise on your leg, he recalls — such a miniscule detail. he wonders why he remembers only now.

suguru chokes back his tears, still smiling. it’s a smile of love. a smile of regret. he thinks of satoru.

at least curse me a little at the very end.

those should be his final words. he should avert his gaze, follow the script, tear his eyes away from the only other person besides you who ever truly knew him —

but he doesn’t. he can’t. suguru looks straight at him, at satoru, into his eyes, so blue they seem to gleam in the orange hue of the melting sun. sparkling like little galaxies, like the crinkling of soda pops, like crystallized summer skies. he looks beautiful, as beautiful as he always was.

(i wish i had told you, suguru thinks. i wish i had told you everything.)

in a voice so small he barely hears it, so tender that geto would’ve felt disgusted to his very core, suguru asks his best friend for one last favour. he’s not sure why, not sure why it matters —

but maybe, just this once, it’s fine if it’s meaningless.

satoru listens, intently. he looks at his best friend with eyes so soft it makes suguru want to laugh and cry and go back to a time when they were all happy. but they can’t, that choice was lost ten years ago — he threw it away. smothered it beneath his boot heel. there was never any going back, from the very beginning.

satoru answers his plea. one final favour, one best friend to another.

of course.

a shaky breath. he can’t tell who it came from.

of course i will.

suguru smiles. a full, genuine smile, that reaches his eyes and blossoms like a flower in the light of the sun. it’s the last time anyone will see it.

satoru clenches his jaw. he crouches down, and presses his fingers against his best friend’s battered body, right over his bleeding heart. he will never, ever forgive himself for what he's about to do.

(suguru already has.)

and the moment before the last flicker of light leaves his eyes, suguru chooses to think of you.

he thinks of your smile, the way your lips curled up at even the smallest things. he thinks of your curiosity, how it always lead him back to you. he thinks of what could have been.

he thinks of that question you asked him, all those years ago — how accepted it made him feel. that sensation of being understood. suguru thinks you saved his life, that day.

(he never got to thank you for it.)

you were his childhood friend. his nearest, dearest, oldest one.

suguru doesn't believe the world he lives in is kind enough to allow him a second chance. and he doesn't think he really deserves one, either way.

but if there is a next life, if he’s lucky enough to be reborn —

then suguru hopes he’ll be born as a dragonfly, so he can find his way back to you.

he’ll meet you, again; in the afterglow of sunset, by that dusty, forgotten, tiny summer creek. framed by silver-hued fish and cicadas, and the silence of a town that glimmered while you were both in it.

he won’t be able to wipe your tears away, won’t be able to clean the bruise on your knee — but he can be with you. and maybe, in your next lives, that’ll be enough.

(what a lovely thought.)

suguru smiles, and lets a final breath of air course through his burning lungs.

— it tastes like summer.

there is a silent understanding, between the two of you.

it’s been ten years since you last spoke to satoru gojo. it wasn’t a very pleasant conversation, and somehow, you doubt this will be an exception. an acute awareness lies heavy in the air — and deep down, some part of you knows what he’s about to tell you.

(as if it was an inevitability.)

gojo doesn’t smile. his voice has no masked amusement to it, no sense of joviality. if you strain your ears, you think it may even be wavering, slightly, so faint it’s hard to tell for sure. just that one low shiver of his lips, saying more than words ever could.

he doesn’t beat around the bush. and you see that for the kindness that it is, despite the ice cold chill that creeps into your veins when his words spill out into the air, a full body shiver traveling down your spine.

he tells you that suguru is dead, and you don’t flinch. you don’t even cry. that comes later.

in the moment, all you can do is nod, a little pitiful, teeth digging into the flesh of your bottom lip to stop it from wobbling. like you’re trying to be brave.

truthfully, you had a feeling that was the case.

sometimes, it was as if you could feel him. just barely out of reach, a certain cologne lingering on your windowsill, a box of cookies you’ve liked since you were little delivered to your doorstep. a sudden feeling of being watched. a note wishing you luck on whatever exam or driver’s test or job interview you had the next day, accompanied by a silly smiley face so distinctly suguru it made you want to cry.

— how cruel of him.

but you couldn’t help but feel comforted by it, all the same. it made you feel like he was still with you, somehow, like he still cared. even though he disappeared from your life without saying anything. even though gojo told you explicitly all those years ago to stay away, if you ever saw him, as if he was suddenly dangerous —

but you could never be afraid of him. you don’t think you have it in you.

to you, suguru will always just be the boy who helped you up when you scraped your knee, all those years ago. a sweet, cool kid, who held your hand firmly and gently wiped the blood off your skin.

(he’ll always be your nearest, dearest, oldest friend. even if you aren’t his.)

but lately, there’s been nothing. you haven't felt any traces of him at all, no lingering gazes boring into your back. so you knew. deep down, maybe you always kind of knew.

gojo looks at you with compassion, understanding. and without him having to say it, you know he loved suguru too. you know because his breathing is shaky, because his eyes look puffy from hours of crying; you know because grief is like a stench, thick and heavy, overwhelming, one that clings to your skin and haunts your very being. just like love.

and you can smell it on the both of you.

(you both loved the boy who died for his ideals, the man who was so moral it killed him.)

the news will sink in, later. you are sure that you will crumble, and you are sure that you will cry. you’re sure that the road ahead will be a long one, full of obstacles and thorns. but that’s fine. you’ll deal with it when the time comes. suguru was always a little mystical, a little too good to be true.

maybe you always sort of assumed things would end like this; that he’d walk ahead without you, with all his whispered secrets and gentle lies.

(asshole.

he could have given you a call, at least. even just once.)

for now, all you can do is try to keep your trembling skin intact. and you assume that gojo will leave, now that you know, that this was all he came here for. just a messenger of death, coated in a grief so strong you doubt he’ll ever be rid of it.

but gojo doesn’t leave.

he hands you something, instead.

a polaroid, you quickly realize. a photograph, of three kids — one with white hair, one with brown hair, and one with black hair. the black haired boy is trying hard not to smile, you can tell. the other two have got their arms around him, squeezing his body tightly with matching grins, throwing up peace signs. he looks at them with exasperation in his eyes, but you can tell that there’s a love there. you can tell, you know, because despite everything, you still know him.

a lump forms in your throat.

it’s not the original copy, is what gojo tells you, apologetic. you’re almost certain that he kept it for himself, and you don’t blame him. i’m sorry. but i wanted to… you know.

(he wanted to give you something to hold onto.)

the gesture is a little bit awkward, just a tad clumsy. but it’s a genuine concern, a sincere kindness. you aren’t really surprised that suguru spent his last moments with this man instead of you.

gojo continues to speak, and you continue to listen, attentive — hungry for anything to mend the hole in your heart. but your eyes never once stray from the photograph.

(suguru looks so, so happy.)

he tells you that suguru talked about you a lot, back then. and without him having to say it, you know what he really means is he loved you a lot. the words of consolation ring like static, in your ears. it hurts. the hole in your heart just keeps extending, extending, extending.

gojo notices. so he gets to the point, the final point, the only one that matters. this is his duty, too — granting suguru’s last request. the only one he ever asked of him in words.

(it’s the least he could do, for the man he loved so dearly, the one who left him behind in the shadow of summer.)

he tells you that there’s one more thing. that suguru asked him to tell you something, that it was the last thing he ever said. words that he wanted you to hear, more than anything.

gojo’s voice does not waver. it is not his place.

you listen. you listen as if it will bring him back. you listen as if it is the last thing you will ever do.

and gojo speaks.

the words mean everything, and also nothing at all. how very like him. they bounce off the walls of your apartment, spilling into the suffocating air, echoing inside your mind. cutting into your bloodstream, rooting themselves in a particularly soft spot deep within your ribcage, chrysanthemums blooming from your flesh. petals filling up your stomach until you can scarcely breathe.

the final words of your childhood friend. your nearest, dearest, oldest one; suguru geto, who you will always love, in the same way the sun loves the moon, as naturally as breathing.

the dam breaks. the sky shatters. the sob you choke on tastes salty, and gojo looks remorseful, his figure blurred by your tears. everything comes crashing down around you — an inevitability you were hoping to put off, in the same way suguru put off talking to you all those years.

and now, finally, he tells you his honest feelings. when it’s already far too late. how very, very like him.

(tell them i’m sorry. and that i hope their exam goes well.)

— honestly. what a fucking asshole.

not once did you ask for an apology. you never wanted one, never thought to even wish for it. you didn’t need one.

all you wanted was for him to come back to you. to find you, again, the way he always did.

tears cascade down your scrunched-up face, big and childlike, but no one’s there to wipe them away anymore. you cradle the photograph in your hands, savouring every single memory you have of him. all the love your heart can muster.

the tears never seem to end. they continue to run down your cheeks, until all you can smell is sea salt, until the sun has set in the horizon, until the moon has hanged itself in the sky. a silent comfort, but it’s not enough. it never will be.

a sniffle pushes past your lips, and you hear yourself laugh — bitter, raspy, gentle all the same. what a moron, you whisper, a soft lull of your tongue. didn’t he know?

(you forgave him long ago.)

bonus 👀

#get u a man who loves you so deeply it causes him cognitive dissonance #im a lil unsure abt this piece pshshs but it has a rly special place in my heart!!#i just like the idea of geto being so desperately in denial about his love for u that he forces himself to hate u. self-affirmation yknow?#subconsciously putting u on a pedastal above the rest… being unable to let go of the connection between u even though he wants to sever it #having this evident fondness for you but its constantly battling with the part of him that hates what your existence means for him #telling himself that he’ll ’save u for last’ but its more of a measure to keep himself from killing u bc he knows his ideal is unattainable #so he’ll never have to kill you. it'll never get to that point. he wants to so badly though. but does he really?#yeahhh. im normal abt fucked up curse user geto <3 soft canon divergent sugu is still my fave to write for tho #geto suguru x reader #geto x reader #geto x you #geto suguru x you #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk #geto angst #jjk angst #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen x you #geto x y/n #jjk x y/n

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lovesickeros · 5 months

Text

☆ even the gods bleed [ pt 4 ]

{☆} characters arlecchino, furina, lyney {☆} notes cult au, imposter au, multi-chapter, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings blood {☆} word count 3.7k {☆} previous [ 1 ] [ 2 ] [ 3 ]

Fontaine was bathed in darkness, not even the moon daring to illuminate where the common man fears to walk. The streets were bleak and empty save for the constant, rhythmic ticking and clanking of machines marching on endlessly, dauntlessly wading where even the bravest dared not to venture. Not even the sharp click of the Gardes boots followed the occasional hisses of steam as they walked the barren streets.

It was haunting, and it'd been like that for days now. It showed little signs of stalling in the slightest, too. Every inch of Fontaine was practically crawling with Gardemeks– like a swarm of rats skittering about.

Arlecchino had secluded herself in the Hotel Bouffes d'ete for days at this point, waiting– biding her time. Her nails clicked against the wood as she tapped at the table in a stilted rhythm, the subtle click of the clock mixing into the clanking outside, weaving in and out of earshot as the patrols slipped by. She reached forward after a moment of thought, reaching for the white king.

She leaned back against the chaise, tilting her head just enough to catch a glimpse of a patrol of Gardemeks as they vanished behind the rows and rows of buildings. It wasn't enough to keep her attention for long, however, her features twisting in disinterest as she glanced back to the chessboard– and the letter neatly resting beside it. The seal was unmistakable and a sobering sight, demanding her attention– the soft hues of blue etched into the shape of a dragon stared back at her in a way that almost unsettled her.

She had already parsed through it's contents hundreds of times, but she was met with only vague, flowing script that only served to irritate her more then anything– it filled the page top to bottom yet managed to say nothing at all. Her hand reached out again, but instead of reaching for the letter she plucked the black rook from the board, setting it down with a soft click.

Arlecchino had all the time in the world to sit back and observe her prey, but all that time would be useless if she lacked the information to act.

And he was quite tight fisted about it, evidentially. None of her inquiries or attempts to decipher any potential codes in the letter left her empty handed. She could not act without even knowing the reason for his summons– it was almost worded like a personal affair rather then one would expect for a foreign diplomat. In truth, she'd expected a scalding report on her operatives, but it lacked any mention of anything of the sort.

She was no stranger to people masking hostility behind pretty words and compliments, not that it was ever unwarranted per se– the Fatui did not create connections through honesty and genuine kindness. They have strong armed more then their fair share of people into cooperation to the point distrust is all the Fatui are met with outside of Snezhnaya. Every word was meant to conceal the deceit, every action meant to conceal the price later paid.

So she had been..skeptical of the letter, to put it lightly. She doubted the Iudex of all people would offer a hand to the Fatui without a price attached– a trap, perhaps, meant to lure in the most powerful piece left on the board. Her eyes narrowed, reaching for a white rook and moving it to the right.

Or he was hiding something. Something that he simply couldn't risk getting out to anyone, not even the Divine themself. A tempting prize, whatever it was.

..A dangerous prize, too.

She'd considered burning the letter and forgetting it all together– the risk was great, and she couldn't risk getting caught up by whoever else the Iudex may have on his side of the board. But she could hardly pass up the challenge and the prize that he fought so hard to keep from prying eyes and ears. Even her agents came back empty handed each time. She lazily picked up a black rook, sliding the white pawn aside.

"Lyney," Arlecchino drawled, crossing one leg over the other and turning her gaze to the door as it slowly creaked open. The pale visage of Lyney stepped through, though his siblings were noticeably absent. The weariness that weighed down on his shoulders was apparent in the slightest furrow of his brows and the subtle creak of leather as he clenched his fists behind his back. "Father." He choked out, the title dragged out by the sharp inhale and shaky exhale.

He looked out of breath, she noted.

The silence that lingered after the small exchange was punctuated only by the click of another chess piece being moved. She sets aside the black rook, letting it sit among the dozen other pieces that had been wiped off the board. She can see the conviction glinting beneath the fog of exhaustion, but if he would utilize it was another matter all together.

He had seemed to make his choice quickly, at the very least.

"Our contacts and operatives within the Fortress of Meropide have gone silent– all we have is their final confirmed missive.." His voice is confident, but it is rigid as the words spill from his lips. He takes a sharp step forward, unfolding his arms from behind his back and opening his hands– the small, water stained and messily folded note catches her eye, plucking it from his palms with a half hearted interest. "They believe the Duke left the Fortress of Meropide..and that he may be coming to the Court of Fontaine."

Her eyes narrow dangerously, nearly crumpling the thin paper in her hands– yet just as quickly, she collects herself.

But she cannot get rid of the bitter taste on her tongue, lingering as she sets down the note and slides it to the side, her lips pursed into a thin line.

So the Iudex had shown one of his pieces..she tightly grasps a black rook, tipping over the white rook, letting it roll against the board.

If the Duke was involved, things were much more complicated then she expected– he would be a problem, she was certain. She couldn't blame the lamb for fearing the wolf, either. Whether her agents had been killed or captured by the man mattered little. He had his ways, and he was a force that could instill fear in even them.

Which meant the possibility that her operation was already compromised was far too real.

What had the Iudex so concerned he had gone through the trouble of bringing in the Duke and herself? The Fatui was one thing, but to specifically request one of it's Harbingers..

The Prophecy? The thought had her clenching her fist, but..no. If it were to rear it's head now, the Iudex could simply not afford to waste time on his contacts deciphering his nonsensical script– If the prophecy were to be the issue, there time would be limited to mere minutes in the worst of cases. Which meant it was worth biding his time in order to ensure absolute secrecy.

So if not the prophecy, then what?

Her next moves were..limited. She was already walking on eggshells considering her position and the reputations of the Fatui– especially with a Harbinger in the midst. If they caught wind of her operations, they'd weed out her operatives and be on guards for any snakes that lingered in their garden.

She reached for the chessboard again, picking up one of the white rooks from the board with a scowl. The sharp click as she sets down the white rook and sets aside the black pawn draws a shaky inhale from Lyney as she moves another black pawn, the dull click of the pieces drowning out the distant clinking of machines.

..A draw, perhaps.

The pieces were all falling into place– the players of this game were slowly being revealed. Whether she could secure her victory..she was unsure.

She wasn't even sure who her opponent was. Only that the Iudex himself was but another piece in their game.

Arlecchino reached for the board again, yet this time she hesitated. Perhaps she could still swipe the win from beneath them, if she played her cards right.

She would simply have to capture the king– or, if need be, let it end on a draw. Either way, she would not concede. She could not afford to concede. Down to the last piece, she would drag out this match until she was in a position to force their hand into the outcome she desired.

She stood slowly, picking up the king piece and observing it for only the briefest of moments before she set it down on the table, taking measured steps around the table and across the room. She was hunting a much more dangerous quarry today– it would be no simple runaway traitor this time.

"Do you remember the directive?" She inquired coldly, her hand lingering on the door for that long, tense moment. "..Yes, Father." Lyney faltered, taking a hesitant step back and bowing at the waist. "Then do not stray."

All that was left was the silence and click of the door shutting behind her as she disappeared down the hall, her boots clicking harshly against the floorboards. The rest of the agents knew better then to linger in her path as she stepped down into the lobby, adjusting the cuffs of her sleeves. She barely even acknowledged the Fatui agent standing at the ready by the heavyset doors, their gloves hands held out with her cloak held loosely in their palms. She quickly snagged it from them, tugging it over her board shoulders and clasping it around her throat.

With a quick tug, she brought the hood up over her head to conceal her sharp features, lifting her hand and placing a neatly folded note within their waiting hands. She had only one chance to make the right moves and secure her victory– no matter the cost.

Each piece had it's purpose.

Oft, that purpose was a bloody and horrible end– but for the grand goal of the Fatui built on the backs of the dead, it was an honor.

She didn't bother speaking a word as she dismissed them with a wave of her hand, pushing open the heavyset doors and stepping out into the barren, damp streets. The rhythmic clink and whir of Gardemeks was still distant– she needed to move. Her boots clicked and splashed in the rain soaked stone of the streets as she slithered between the buildings, ducking through the openings in the patrols.

It was almost too easy.

She tilted her head back, taking in the towering Palais Mermonia with a scowl, her hands clenched into fists. The final moves were being played– the king was within her reach, yet she felt no more confident then when she began.

The air carried a sense of unease, thick and heavy, filling her lungs until she felt her breath still in her chest– listening to the empty, bleak night that seemed so..quiet.

She'd done her fair share of research, had more then her fair share of her agents try to peer into the Iudex's office or the Archon's supposedly hidden chambers, but every attempt was a failure. She had to give them credit, they were quite elusive when they wished to be. Though now she only thought about it bitterly– this was all a risky gamble, in the end, and only time would tell if it paid off.

With minimal effort, she'd managed to pull herself to the flat, tiled roof, eyeing the massive tower peaking out of the center cautiously. At least here the wandering patrols down below weren't likely to notice her..she could hear them passing by the spot she'd been in only a few minutes ago, just beneath her. She pulled the hood further over her face, peering through the sheer darkness of the night for any oddities, but it was almost impossible to see in the dark.

Her boots clicked softly against the tiles as she approached the tower jutting out from the Palais, her hand gliding along the smooth stone, pressing against odd indents or crevices. If it was for the Archon's chambers, she doubted they made it very difficult– she'd only met the woman once, but she doubted the Iudex make it all that complex just from a brief glance. And it surprised her little when one of the stones sunk into the wall, gears whirring as the walls split open to reveal a stairwell straight into an inky black hall. Only the barest hint of light peaked under the door at the bottom, but it's occupants must have heard her, considering it went out not a moment later.

She cautiously stepped down into the small crevice, her breath visible in the bitter cold air– her shoulders tensed at the subtle sound of muffled footsteps behind the door, her vision flaring with a molten heat between her shoulder blades as she reached for the worn handle of the door. The heat of her vision was enough to just barely heat the metal, her vision flaring like a quickly building inferno.

Arlecchino was prepared for a fight, if it came down to it.

The door creaked as she pressed against it, shoving it open with a grunt of effort and surveying the room with narrowed eyes and a biting remark on the tip of her tongue– the lavish opulence was expected, she supposed, but the lack of the towering figure of the Iudex was not.

Yet before she could get a word in or even take in her surroundings properly, the light flickered back on and she had to squeeze her eyes shut with a hiss at the sudden brightness. She could hear the door being shoved closed behind her, the hurried footsteps retreating just as quickly as her eyes adjusted to the light.

..This was a joke, wasn't it? It had to be.

She'd expected the Iudex, perhaps even the Duke if she'd been unlucky, not the Hydro Archon. She had half the mind to test her worth as an Archon then and there, her temper flaring like an uncontrollable blaze, barely kept at bay. It took all her self control to force herself to smile politely at the woman rather then snarl.

"Miss Furina," She sneered beneath her hood, x shaped pupils locked onto the startled, trembling Archon with thinly veiled contempt. "What a..pleasant surprise. You'll have to forgive my manners, I assumed I was meeting with the Iudex." She observed her body language carefully– the way her eyes darted about like a frightened rabbit seeking escape, the slightest tremble of her lips..

Arlecchino opened her mouth to offer another scathing remark, but her jaw audibly clicked shut as her entire body seemed to lock up. Even her vision went cold against her back, a chilling feeling creeping up her spine as someone, or something, crept up behind her. Their footsteps were almost silent, the slight rustling of their clothes the only thing she could hear over her heart pounding against her ribcage.

Arlecchino had always prided herself on being on the other end of that sensation– she was the monster, and her target was the prey frozen like a deer between the hunters crosshair.

It was a chilling feeling to have the dynamic shifted on it's head.

She couldn't even swallow, her jaw clenched so hard she could hear it creak as she tried to reason with her quickly splintering mind– a futile effort, her joints locking up almost painfully. Black spots were quickly swallowing her vision from the lack of air in her lungs, the sound of shuffling behind her barely audible over the ringing in her ears.

For a moment – a moment too long to have only lasted the seconds that it did, yet so quick it gave her whiplash – she thought she would hit the floor dead before she could even glimpse her assailant.

And then it was gone. She came crashing back into reality with a startled inhale, her lungs burning and her knees nearly buckling under her. The instinct to lash out and kill whoever had done it was intense, yet she couldn't bring herself to move even a finger– it would be so easy to twist around and ignite them with searing flames, but her feet were rooted in place.

She almost didn't notice the surprisingly gentle hands unclasping her cloak, tugging it off her shoulders, if not for the sheer intensity of the presence still lingering behind her. Her mind was still fractured, struggling to right itself after the ordeal, and it had her seething.

"..Are you certain you held back enough?" Furina croaked, the normally soft lilt raspy and almost hoarse. "Not– not that I doubt your capability, most Divine!"

Arlecchino felt her nails dig harshly into her palms, heat swelling beneath her skin– Divine? Had she lost her mind? The Divine was..

The Divine was upon their throne where they belonged. She'd seen them!

"Hm. Well, maybe? Sorry, I didn't think it'd affect you too." Their voice was sickeningly soft as they stepped around her like she wasn't even there, focusing their attention on the Archon who seemed more then delighted about it. "What gave you that impression, most Divine? Aha, I..was completely unaffected, as you can see! Perfectly fine."

Furina let out a small squeak when they pinched her cheek, but the almost affectionate smile that tugged at their lips revealed the lack of malice behind the action.

"You're a bad liar, Furina. You might want to sit down..please?" They didn't take her protests for an answer, gently pushing her to sit on the bed before abruptly turning to face Arlecchino once more, a forced smile on their lips. "Oh, good, you're..uh, not dead. That's good. I thought I fried your brain. Sorry?"

..Had she hit her head on the way here? The Divine should still be on their throne, yet she couldn't shake the weight of their stare– it felt tangible. She felt like she was standing face to face with the stars– galaxies and constellations bearing down upon her.

She grit her teeth and clenched her hands until she felt the sting of her nails against her palms, grounding herself in the pain through the sheer overwhelming nature of their existence.

"You.." She croaks, reaching out with a shaky hand and grabbing them by the collar of their shirt, lifting them up until their feet left the floor– she pays no mind to the startled protests of the Archon. Arlecchino would crush her like a bug before she even got the chance to intervene and they both knew it. "You shouldn't exist– you aren't them, and yet you..you're the imposter, aren't you?" Her grip tightens yet they face her without an ounce of fear, meeting her unyielding glare with a pondering look.

Arlecchino wanted to make them bleed just to see if she could, the urge to sink her teeth into skin welling up in her chest to the point she visibly snarled, her mask of politeness long . "You're the imposter." Her expression falls for a moment before she schools it into one of apathy, setting them back down and holding them there for a moment, finally releasing them after a tense moment. "Or you were supposed to be."

Hers brows furrow– she wants to demand answers, to throttle them for damning them to being nothing more then dolls for the supposed Divine to break at their whim, but none of the words come to her.

"..Why now? The current Divine has been in power for years, yet you descend now?" Her shoulders tensed, lips pursed into a thin line– it's impossible to ignore the truth that lay before her. The Divine is a fraud and this..imposter is the true Divine. How many years had they been in power, now? How many years were they waiting? Why did they wait? Was the suffering of Teyvat not enough? Was the blood that painted the steps of their stolen throne not enough?

She'd personally been on the wrong end of the Divine's wrath– she wonders..had they watched? Had they seen the cruel hand of their imposter and turned their back on Teyvat?

"I.." They hesitated. It made her seethe, her hands clenching into fists at her sides– her vision flickered, flames swelling within it's casing just to be smothered by the presence of the Divine. But once that spark had been lit, she refused to let it go out. "I didn't know."

The answer does not satisfy her. There is an itch beneath her skin that she cannot scratch, a fire that burns in her chest so hot it scorches even herself.

"And what about now? Are you content to cower like prey in the safety of the Palais Mermonia?" She snapped, taking a step forward, her brows furrowed and her glare intense– she can see the slightest bit of worry in their eyes. She revels in it. "Will you let them use your acolytes like pawns? How many more need to be broken on the steps to your throne before you act?"

Again, her vision flares and dims– it refuses to be used against the Divine that created it.

"Have you no answer?"

The room is silent. They do not speak and neither does she.

Even the world itself seems to quiet in the face of her accusations, fury boiling to the surface so hot it incinerated all it touched.

"I will kill them myself."

Their words are quiet, but they are not soft– there is a vindictive, searing anger that explodes out like dying stars within their eyes. The sight of constellations replaced by a void that would not be . The smell of ichor grows stronger– to the point she feels almost lightheaded.

"..I am aware that I have failed in preventing this, but I had no choice in the matter. Still," They muse, their voice like the tolling of bells. A solemn melody that stills the swelling fury burning in her chest, if only for a moment. "I will rectify it– I will tear down their throne of lies and let not even the earth tarnish itself by burying their corpse among it's soil."

They pause for a moment, holding out their hand– scarred and bandaged by the weapons of the devout, yet still they take upon the burden of dirtying their hands to save those who did not save them.

"Do you trust me, Arlecchino?"

Did she?

"Will you help me?"

She exhales heavily, meeting the starry iris' of the Divine with a scowl still tugging at her lips. Arlecchino trusted no one but herself.

"..Yes."

#sagau #genshin sagau #self aware genshin #genshin impact sagau #self aware genshin impact #fic tag #imposter au #genshin cult au #genshin impact cult au #arlecchino #lyney #furina #you do NOT wanna know what i got put thru writing this fic #trying 2 find out where arle was in the few times we DO see her and going down a rabbit hole of fuck fontaine and its layout actually!#I spent like 3 hours looking it up and checking in game it gives me a migraine thinking abt it. ew #anyway trying to write a really smart character is surprisingly difficult when ur as dumb as rocks #also used an actual chess match for this and gave myself an even worse migraine trying 2 make sure i didnt repeat moves or smth #furina doesnt get a spotlight yet just imagine her sitting in the corner trembling like a wet kitten you found on the side of the road #arlecchino goes thru a crisis more at 11 #shes a tired single dad shes isnt getting paid enough for this okay #hands u a fic over half the length of the other THREE PARTS #ehe :]#is arle actually on ur side??? is she gonna double cross u???? who knows!!!!!#shes unpredictable she might stab u for funsies #anyway im gonna go nap in a ditch now this took SO LONGGGGG OH MY G-D #also just think acolytes who arent buddy buddy w reader and even resent them is so tasty #bc how r they supposed 2 know reader was a human vibing 5 minutes before their got eebied 2 teyvat..#reader gotta roll up their sleeves and get 2 WORK sometimes murder IS okay #they gotta fix some shit around here and that means committing several crimes all at once. sometimes more #a group can be g-d (just got here) their dragon (neuvi) their cat (archon) their dog (wrio) and their wolf (arle)

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