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Three seconds

Geto Suguru x nonsorcerer! reader (x Gojo Satoru)

Summary: You were the only good thing left. He never planned to keep you.

TW: Graphic violence, blood and injury detail, emotional manipulation, physical restraint, g0re, Grief response, Themes of ideological extremism justifying murder, Domestic Tragedy, Angst with No Happy Ending, Geto Suguru Is His Own Warning, Emotional Horror

Suguru Geto had a smile that made the world tilt. His eyes crinkled and he looked at you, the only good thing left in his rotting world.

You should have asked more questions.

But you were sixteen, in love, stupid. He was beautiful in that haunted untouchable way, and you thought your warmth could fill every cold space inside him. You held his hand when he woke up in the middle of the night. You kissed the tension from his jaw. You told him it's okay, I've got you as if those words meant anything against the weight of a world he'd already decided to burn.

You noticed the changes though. You weren't blind.

The calls got shorter. His eyes got emptier. He stopped eating the food you cooked, stared at it like something foul. When you asked if he was okay, he'd look at you and you'd see something calculating behind the exhaustion. Measuring you. Weighing you.

"Do you think people deserve to suffer?" he whispered one night, voice flat.

You were curled against his chest half-asleep. "Hmm?"

"Never mind."

You should have run then.

The last week was the worst. He barely spoke. Stopped touching you entirely. You found him standing in the dark at 3 AM, staring out the window, and when you wrapped your arms around him from behind his body went rigid. "Sugu," you whispered. "Please talk to me"

He didn't turn around, but his hand came up to cover yours. "I'm sorry," he said.

What for?

The day it happened the sky was the wrong color, somehow too blue. You'd made his tea and he took it without a word. You remember thinking his hands looked like they belonged to a statue.

"I love you," you said.

"I know," he answered.

You smiled slightly. Here's what you didn't understand yet; this was the last time kindness would touch his face. He'd made his decision three weeks ago. Rehearsed this moment every night while you slept beside him, the only thing keeping you alive this long was the pathetic, cowardly part of him that still wanted to remember your laugh.

He killed that part this morning.

You turned to grab your phone from the counter. Your back to him for less than three seconds.

That's all it took.

You only feel what happens next.

Pressure first. Then cold. Then heat, wet, shocking, blooming across your chest like a second heart waking up somewhere it shouldn't be.

A hand pressed flat against your sternum. But it isn't his.

Pale. Wrong. Fingernails like broken glass sunk into your skin. His curse has reached through you from behind, arm passing through muscle and bone like water, until its palm found the front of your ribcage and stopped.

Goosebumps immediately rose on your skin.

Your knees buckled. One moment you're standing, the next the floor rushes up and your body meets tile. He follows you down, lowering himself to kneel beside you as your blood begins to pool.

His curse withdraws its arm. His hand takes its place. Suguru presses his palm flat against your chest, right over the wound. The pain hit a second later, white, screaming, but that wasn't what stole your air. It was his face. Oh God his face.

He wasn't smiling nor crying. He was watching, head tilted, observing some interesting scientific phenomenon, your blood warm on his fingers.

"Sugu—" Your voice came out wrong, confused and broken.

His jaw tightened. His hand came up to cup your face, thumb stroking your cheekbone so gently you sobbed.

"I'm sorry," he said again. And this time you understood.

This is what he was sorry for.

A flick of his wrist. A pulse of that cursed energy you never understood but never feared, it was his, and you trusted him. He could stop whatever he just did. You'd be okay. Broken. Betrayed. But alive.

He didn't.

If anything, he pressed deeper.

A raw, animal sound ripped through your throat. Your back arched off the floor. Your hands flew to his wrist, fingers locking around bone, nails digging in, trying to pry him off. It wouldn't budge. Why wouldn't it budge? His skin split under your nails. Blood welled up in thin red crescents. You clawed down his forearm in streaks, flesh catching under your fingertips, your own blood smearing across his knuckles. Your heart pounded a wild, desperate rhythm against the inside of your ribs.

"Shh," he breathed. "Shh shh shh.. "

Your lungs filled with something warm and thick. Your breath sounded like drowning. His face swam above you, a nightmare you couldn't wake from. But your eyes wouldn't close. Every time you tried, some primal part of your brain forced them open again, closing your eyes meant trusting him, and you couldn't trust him, not anymore and not ever again, because look, he is killing you!

"There they are," he murmured, almost proud. His other hand held your face in place, fingers digging into your jaw hard enough to bruise. Trapped. You'd been unknowingly trapped since the moment you loved him.

Another wave of pain. White. Hot. Endless. Your voice shattered mid-scream, splintered into a rasp, then nothing. Still your mouth opened, though no sound followed.

He watched as though you were breaking him, your scream a knife buried in his own chest, tears slid down his beautiful cheeks, and the horror that flooded you almost swallowed the pain; he was crying because he was enjoying this. Not the suffering itself or the meaning of it. The proof sat in his hands, killing the thing he loved most. The most honest moment of his ruined life, devastation and freedom tangled together behind those dark eyes, self-loathing curled alongside indifference, and he felt all of it at once.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

The words meant nothing now.

He leaned down. Pressed his warm lips to your forehead. The same lips that swore he'd never hurt you.

"Stay with me," he whispered. "Just a little longer.."

As if you had a choice.. As if he hadn't pinned you here with pain and betrayal and that cruel, lingering hope that maybe, maybe, he'd change his mind–

He watched the light drain from you. Your fingers went slack on his sleeve. Your chest stopped heaving. Your eyes, those eyes that looked at him like he was good, worth saving, loved, went glassy and still.

Your body went limp and cooling beneath him, your blood still seeping into the tile below. He pressed his forehead to yours and closed his eyes.

He slowly gathered you up off the cold floor, lifting you against his chest. A dead weight should not feel this light. Your head lolled against his shoulder, mouth slightly slack, eyes still open but seeing nothing. He left them that way.

"I loved you," he whispered to your dead ears, to the hollow shell of a girl who used to hold him and tell him the world wasn't all bad. "I loved you and I still chose this."

He stayed a long time holding you, rocking you without thinking, his sleeve soaked through and his cheek pressed flat to your cooling hair, until his knees ached from the tile, his legs soaked through, and he realized he was still holding you. He let go. Stood. Looked down at what he'd done; you, curled on the floor, face peaceful now, the pain was over, and you didn't have to watch him become a monster anymore.

His hands wore you like gloves. Your art engraved his skin, wild red strokes down his forearm, crescent moons where your nails caught, your last words pressed into him whether he wanted them or not.

He walked to the door. Paused with his hand on the frame.

"You would have tried to stop me," he said to the room. "And I couldn't have you standing in my way."

The door closed.

And opened six hours later.

Sunset. Dark apartment. Your phone had buzzed seven times, missed calls, texts, a voicemail from your dad that was just ten seconds of silence before "I love you, baby" and a click.

Gojo Satoru stood in the doorway.

He'd come because Geto never showed for a mission recently. The name Suguru had been screaming in the back of his skull all day, a dull roar he'd ignored, and now he was here.

He found you first.

There you were. Middle of the floor, blood dried now, brown and tacky, spread in a halo around your still body. Your eyes still open. Glassy. Empty. Aimed at the ceiling because he'd moved your head when he finally stood up. Arranged you almost tenderly, a doll returned to its shelf, waiting for hands that would never pick you up again.

Gojo stood there frozen, hand still on the doorframe, knuckles white. He could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears and it was the only sound in the whole world because the apartment was so quiet and you were so still and- AND—

His knees hit the floor with a wet sound and still he didn't notice, because all he could see was your face. Your face. You'd smiled at him last week. Asked how his day was. Told him he was reckless and should sleep more and oh, Satoru, you're such a disaster, who forgets to eat?

He'd laughed. He'd said that's what Suguru's for.

Suguru.

His trembling hand hovered over your cheek. He couldn't touch you, because if he touched you, he couldn't pretend you weren't really gone.

"Oh," he breathed. His voice cracked on the single syllable. Split right down the middle. "Oh!.."

He was supposed to be the strongest and here he was, kneeling in your blood, staring at you. His favorite person, gone. His hand finally made contact. His fingers brushed your eyelids to close them, the gentlest thing that had touched you since this morning.

He smoothed your hair back from your face. Your skin was cold.

So cold.

His breath hitched. Then broke.

The sound that came out of him was a choked, wet noise he couldn't swallow down no matter how hard he tried. Gojo Satoru didn't cry. Gojo Satoru was untouchable, untroubled, untouched by the weight of the world

But Gojo Satoru was also seventeen and his best friend had killed someone.

Had killed you.

Somewhere across the city, Suguru washes your blood from his hands.

The scratches burn.

The water runs red, then clear, then red again, he doesn't know why, he already rinsed them twice?..

He looks up.

The mirror shows only himself. But he could have sworn–

No.

He turns off the water.

Dries his hands.

Leaves the bathroom without finishing the thought.