#「the oracle」 g. satoru | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

despairots · 2 years ago

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THE ORACLE: ACT 1, SCENE 1

「 i want to touch. i want to be touched. i want to hurt. i want to be hurt. and if you feel the same way, you’re as bad as me 」

CONTENT WARNING: swearing, suicide, suggestive themes, cults, implied self harm, self destructive behaviour, depression, mental health, disorders, sexual assault, blood, canon violence, implied misogyny, reader gets mistaken as a women from men and they get mistaken as a feminine man to women, reader goes by they/them, torture, cult activities, murder, masochism, sadism, manipulation, slow burn, obsessive themes, unhealthy love, religious trauma, etc.

AUTHORS NOTE: first chapter lets gooo!!! :333 my writing might suck but please bare with me it’ll get better. did you guys pick up that reader isn’t exactly healthy and is completely deranged when it comes to their reverse cursed technique. also slow updates i forgot to say this but im not a really motivated writer when it comes to fanfics and long chapters, im okay with oneshots that have 3 parts but anything that goes 4 and beyond drains me so im sorry if chapters are slow :( just please be patient

the way you’ve been dotted and spoiled was too much that you thought you would grow up to be spoiled brat (you didn’t but it would be likely). always littered in white and always clean— they never liked dirt on your skin— so, you were always spotless.

spotless until the sacrifices.

you watched on your throne that was made but thorns, how so many people were restrained and sacrificed for you. their yells and pleads hunted your memories, the cheers and claps from your worshippers made vomit edge your throat but you held it back. they didn’t like it when you were dirty.

if you could’ve healed them, you would, but they were sacrifices for you, you. everything they did was for you, because you deity, a child above human society—when you didn’t mean that much— all because of your technique.

it could only help people if they were on the verge of death. simple wounds like a cut wouldn’t be enough to heal it, so if you restrained them and done enough damage to make them on the verge of death, you could help them and they would be okay.

physically, not mentally.

that’s also a thing you couldn’t heal. someone’s mentally stability. couldn’t heal what they saw, couldn’t heal the mental scar that had cut open their heart and burned itself there.

you weren’t capable of it—you wish you did— then maybe you could heal all the people that had come up to you and asked for you to heal the things they’ve seen, that had went ahead and snapped their minds.

the faces and curses that were shown to you once you had told them you couldn’t help. there was one time where a man had went ahead and sliced your cheek, he was apprehended and sacrificed.

but still.. you couldn’t wipe that moment away. it was a sign that you were only ever good at healing people physically. that in the end, you were actually useless if you couldn’t help them, mentally and emotionally at least.

the worshippers expressed their concern to you, watching you sit on your knees while holding onto your bloody cheek—they don’t like it when you were dirty— they took you to a bathroom. so white and bright.

a white bathtub, which was being filled with warm water, in the middle of the bathroom, herbal essentials being poured into the bathtub as they stripped you from your white clothing and helped you into the bathtub.

washing the impurities from your skin and cleaning the cut on your cheek. staring at the water of your reflection, something that shows you you’re human—anything, please just something that says you’re heart is beating and you’re real.

they had hummed a tune they always hummed when being in your holy presence, it almost seemed like they blushing while touching your skin. were always so smooth? they thought, you were some deity sent from above.

you doubted it.

some simple child with a reverse cursed technique wasn’t special nor were they sent from heaven. you born into a clan that had not visited you once and had given you to an insane clan that worshipped the child who inherited this technique.

but you weren’t a child anymore.

and here you sit. watching your worshippers laugh maniacally and kill themselves or killing eachother—they don’t like it when you’re dirty— so why? why is their blood imprinted on your hands?

did they want you to be impure? did they drag you out for so long that they went and burned these sins on you? you were supposed to be a saint, an angel, a deity.

but look.. you’re followers are dying for you and you couldn’t save them.

you’re no saint, no angel, no deity. you were a sinner, a devil. their blood was shedded for you because you were so special to them, so divine. you couldn’t help but laugh.

laugh to save yourself from sanity as you clenched onto the now stained white clothes. tears were flowing down your cheeks where it started to grow sore from all the painful laughing.

you were free. you were finally free from an endless cycle, an endless addiction that they had said you were. it was a mass slaughter of eachother.

until it went quiet from you. all their bodies were surrounded you, some would assume you killed them, you wouldn’t blame them. it was your fault. it was because you were so divine that they went ahead and sacrificed themselves for you.

your eyes widened when you felt a hand be placed on your shoulder— no, this was moving to fast— just a few seconds ago, your worshippers had killed themselves for the sake of you and now, a impure hand (though it’s ironic) laid their hand on you.

“don’t worry my child.” did you know her? why was she so warm? so motherly? why were you so drawn to her that you had crawled into her arms where you shredded no tears, you already wasted them.

thoughts and words swarmed your head, it almost seemed like you’re going insane. it reminded you off all the people who asked you to heal mental scars, you were turning into them. now you knew why that memory had craved itself in your head.

there was butterfly and spider that had managed to crawl inside the house of divinity, both had positioned themselves beside eachother, waiting for one another to attack. until heels went ahead and stomped on the butterfly, carrying a 13 year old in her arms.

could you ever guess the significance of your life? no, you couldn’t. you didn’t value your life nor did you value the time that was wasted on you. if life and death was given to you, you would’ve chosen death.

after all, you were responsible of so many people’s death and sanity. their blood was still stained on your hands that couldn’t be washed away by the water in the bathtub you submerged into. there was blood all over your body that only you could see through the water.

you couldn’t take it.

sinking your face into the water was the only thing that made the blood wash away from your view. drowning yourself in blood and guilt was relieving and delicious. did you enjoy the sight of their blood?

it made you grin with happiness. you were insane. sharp ends were dragged through your delicate (which was cut multiple times) skin, blood dripping into the bathtub as it turned the water into a wine colour.

your eyes saw black dots—you were dying— until the cuts were healed once again and you popped your head out the water, staring at the now bloody bathtub with empty eyes.

“haven’t i told you? stop staining the bath with red.” a women sat beside the bathtub, holding a towel and waiting for you to stand up—you looked good in red— she held a soft smile that made you swoon.

turning your attention from the large window beside the bathtub to the women, you sighed softly and threw your head back against the bathtub, staring up at the ceiling.

how long has it been since the incident? 2 years— no, it was 3. you were 16 now and with your family. every since the women beside you had found and taken you back to your clan, you were taught more about your clans curse techniques.

they had two techniques you had inherited: stringing art cursed technique and the technique that had cursed your entire cult.

“but it’s beautiful.” you had whispered so softly that people might’ve not heard it but she did. she always did. especially now, when she cleans and wipes the impurities off from your skin.

hearing her light and breathy chuckle made you blush from how sweet she was— and then she proposed a question she always had asked you; “would you like to die by a knife?” and you’d always respond, “i wouldn’t want to die by something so boring—so trivial— like a knife.”

and she would always hold a knife against your throat before drawing it away with no intentions of actually harming you. you had always held admiration towards her, how she can be so cunning, you wished to be like her.

you changed into a new pair of clothing, a black turtle neck, a greyish black blazer over it (that had reached the back of your thighs), and shorts with black tights. a necklace with a ring on it was around your neck, you had almost forgotten who had given that ring to you if it weren’t for the letter that was framed.

my one regret was not being able to marry you.

how childish but yet how sweet. remembering the time you had gotten that letter was the moment that made you cry for a second time but that was year ago… and you hadn’t moved on yet.

maybe one day though. one day— “thinking about him?” her voice had interrupted your thoughts about him, turning your head towards her while she stood at the foot of your door, waiting for you to start walking out.

you closed your eyes with a sigh and walked to her side, “he’s too precious to not think about.” hearing you speak so highly about him made her wonder what would happen if she died. would you speak highly about her?

no. you wouldn’t.

not after what she did.

and she knew that aswell. you wouldn’t have ever forgotten about that, you could forgive but you didn’t dare to forget. rather would take it to the grave then forget—

“oh, look at you, my dear web!” another women had approached you, taken your hands and pulling you close to her. your mother, yuka etō, now you knew where you got your looks from, and your father, arata etō, was the man who you had taken your personality from.

humming softly, one of your hands fingers slid in between hers as you held it softly, “morning.” her other hand went and caressed your cheek—never called you by your actual name— “my lovely and dear web.” her tone was implying something you didn’t want to be hooked into.

she smiled, a haunting look in her eyes that was covered sweetness, “they’ve requested you to come to tokyo metropolitan jujutsu technical school.” oh. she had stated with a slight laugh seeing your eyebrow twitch in irritation.

you wished you could decline, you really did, why couldn’t the women standing behind who’s laughing take the job? a child weaned on poison considers harm a comfort. sighing, you pulled your hands away from her grasp and shoved them into your pockets.

some heavy god has put more pain on you then any other human being.

what becomes of the shepherd when the sheep are cannibals?

couldn’t escape this one now, “yeah, i’ll go.” your tone was evident of clear irritation as your mother cheered and clapped her hands, your father approaching you and patting you on your head—what a sinful touch.

“satoru gojo, huh?” you dangled a photo of the boy above your head, a lollipop being savoured by your tongue as you smirked and threw a leg over the other, leaning forward with a cheek in the palm of your hand.

the women in the driver’s seat had chuckled at your fascination towards the boy. no, it wasn’t fascination, it was more of a short interest, “where’d your sudden fascination for him come from?” she had questioned, not sparing you a glance.

she didn’t want to see the annoyed look on your face when she had said that, knowing it wasn’t a fascination or admiration, “don’t jump to conclusions.” go jump of a cliff instead was cut through your throat, keeping your mouth shut.

though, she already knew what you wanted to say. you had always wanted to say something snarky but bit your tongue back until the blood trickled down the corner of your mouth.

you sighed, rolling the window down and throwing the photo of him away, watching it fly through the air then disappearing from your view. “what’s so fascinating about this boy?” you queried, glancing at the women and tilting your head when she hadn’t responded.

all you heard was silence from her, did you she really not want to say anything about this boy? you knew gojo satoru was important and you had done your research but what’s so fascinating about him?

pouting, you crossed your arms and leaned back—until her mouth opened which got your attention�� “you’ll find out.” what a boring answer but it’s better then nothing. you groaned and once again, leaned back into the seat.

you craved knowledge, more then anything actually, you were probably more gifted with knowledge then anyone else in your family. always anticipating someone else’s moves and predicting them aswell, your father had said you were truly terrifying.

knowing the gojo clan and having them technically burned into your head since your parents were teaching you about the most powerful clans out there when you came back, satoru gojo hasn’t been told to you.

a smile appeared on your face while biting your pinkies nail, satoru was cute, just not in a way where you’d expect. more like, you wanted to hold him down, cut him up and study him.

but the corpse still remains.

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