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English
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Part 1 of Miscellaneous adventures with the jjk cast (ppl are not happy)
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A Collection of Beloved Inserts, McDonald's approved transmigration reincarnation time-travel fics, cauldronrings favs ( •̀ ω •́ )✧
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Published:
2023-10-23
Updated:
2024-04-11
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1,561
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2/?
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Byproducts of Change

Summary:

It is said that the birth of Gojo Satoru tilted the scales of the world, and he was there to witness it all, legs numb in a seiza and hands curled from the bloodcurdling screams of the mother.

He looks at the infant, all scrunchy fingers and flat nose, invisible but not less crushing weight on his shoulders the moment he descends into this mortal plane.

 

He thinks he pities him.

 

----------

in which where a reincarnated soul wants a refund and a paid trip to somewhere that isn't the Gojo clan

alas, losers can't be choosers

...at least he wasn't a curse or anything right?

-
-

Notes:

im sorry

Chapter 1: the birth

Chapter Text

 

His eyes were the delicate buds of flowers, hundreds of shades of a light purple writhing in his pupils as if they were alive. Peering at him behind a light veil of white hair, slightly quivering as if he was about to break into tears, dewdrops on petals. A mix of the usual glaring red eyes that comes with white hair at birth, and their blue divine birthright graced upon the family every few centuries. Tarnished and dirtied, never pure. 

 

It is said that when Gojo Satoru was born, the scales of the world shifted, the weight of the honored one too heavy a burden. That his mere presence made servants faint, with a glowing blue imprinted onto the back of their eyelids.

 

It is said that when Gojo Satoru was brought out of his womb, his cries brought forth a violent storm. His eyes a fractured sky, jagged pieces of cerulean glass, shattering onto the earth like tears. So favored that even the gods cry for him, bend reality for him, bestow the title of the honored one onto him.

 

(But is he favored because he is Gojo Satoru or is he Gojo Satoru because he is the favored one?)

 

It is said that the birth of Gojo Satoru tilted the scales of the world, and he was there to witness it all, legs numb in a seiza and hands curled from the bloodcurdling screams of the mother (His mother).

 

He looks at the infant, all scrunchy fingers and flat nose, invisible but not less crushing weight on his shoulders the moment he descends into this mortal plane. 

 

 

 

He thinks he pities him.

 

 

 

—————

 

 

 

Ever since the young gods’ arrival the atmosphere of the entire compound shifted into something joyous, with numerous old and young sorcerers coming upon the secluded Gojo compound in a frenzied visit, some treated it as a pilgrimage while others say it brings luck. Though with the attention also came the assassins, either curse users or killers but both no less in caliber, sending the first joyous clan into an easily irritated and arrogant bunch. The over confident ones went first, each felled by a quick draw of a blade or a miasma of cursed energy blended into their splattered blood, soon, the clan turn inwards, myriads of seals plastered onto thick concrete walls, complex guard rotations circling the entire premise, and the complete abolishment of any outsiders until the young god turns ten.

 

 

 So the young god grew and grew

 

 

Ah, but our protagonist isn’t him after all 

 

 

And thus time warps back another few years back, where a birth of a child was far less celebrated and grandeur. Where a certain purple eyed boy opened his eyes for the first time in this world, and was given a name

 

 

 

But a label is a label, and this name holds no meaning for him

 

 

And so he closes his eyes and sleeps.

 

The void was dreamless

 

 

 

—————

 

 

Mixed, churned, tarnished, his eyes held the broken promise of the honored one, the red of his mother’s irises polluting what was the height of all jujutsu, one rouge gene from the woman killing all possibilities of power. A shattered sky no more, but instead the blooming petals of a shimmering flower.

 

Ever since he’d opened his eyes and shown the world his status as a malfunctioned product, his mother was no where to be found, banished, unspoken, the greatest sin in 400 years was an uncontrolled strip of DNA which just happened to belong to her. The only fleeting memory he had of her were whispers of white, glowing hair and piercing red eyes, she was pale, ghostlike, skin half translucent in the sunlight, fading away like a specter, unseen and unheard.

Her thin boney fingers caressing his pudgy face, making his eyes flutter, and fade away she did, between slow blinks of hazy toddler vision.

 

Like a soft whisper, she disappeared.

 

 

When he reaches his first birthday the servants start to say that she’s preparing for another birth, that the discarded and disgraced lady was so desperate she tried every method possible, cursed techniques, fortune tellers, everything, how shameless, how amusing this must be.

 

She came back with colder eyes and a barely noticeable bump on her stomach, with longer fingernails chipped and unmanicured, with a wild gaze that catches the servants off guard, scurrying out of the room muttering some form of ‘witch’ under their breaths.

 

He’s glad he hasn’t developed motor skills yet, he doesn’t want to grow up in this cruel cruel world.

 

(It was also on his first birthday he’d realized the world he lives in, unmistakable evidence pointing neon arrows at the one possible answer, and denial wasn’t working much longer)

 

 

He can see the pale lines on her skin, can tell the signs, can catch the bruises under her collar, he wishes he couldn’t.

 

 

Because women turn into feral creatures and learn how to lick at their festering wounds

 

 

And beasts are the most threatening when they have everything to lose

Chapter 2: Mundane life

Summary:

A year passed in solitude after he was deemed mature enough to live on his own.

(He was six and was determined to be strong enough to face the world)

 

Alas, monsters were made, not born

Chapter Text

The first time he regains full consciousness was at the tender age of four, every thing before that remained a ghostly blur of watercolor and a cesspool of emotion. His first steps were achieved in the suffocating room that was his whole world, an aged crib, a cushion, a low table, all in a muted beige. The only splash of color in his world was a stark white lily wilting in a dust covered vase, shining a tarnished brilliance in the room.

 

The first word he speaks was muffled into a blanket, tinged with a strange intensity of despair that no child should ever utter. It was a guttural cry of a wounded beast, cornered but never cowing. It was the feral nature of the mother and the cold, indifferent nurturing of the father.

 

 

And so a monster was sculpted into a form of a boy.

 

 

 

 

——

 

 

A long time ago, there was a monster with no name.

 

The monster wanted a name so badly he couldn't take it anymore.

 

So he decided to go on a journey to find a name.

 

But the world was such a big place, so the monster split in two to fulfill the journey.

 

One went east and the other west.

 

The monster that went east found a village.

 

there was a blacksmith at the entrance to the village.

 

"Lord Blacksmith, please give me your name."

 

"I can't give you my name"

 

"If you give me your name, I will enter your stomach and make you the strongest man in the world in return."

 

"Really? I'll give you my name if you make me stronger in return"

 

And so the monster entered the blacksmith's stomach.

 

 

 

…

 

 

— The Nameless Monster

 

 

———

 

 

 

Ever since mother had birthed his brother, he had never seen her again, tucked too deep into the compound for him to ever find her.

 

He should feel happy for her, but all he can muster is a bitter sense of abandonment and a voice in the back of his head asking the same question over and over again,

 

 

 

“What did you even expect?”

 

“What did you even expect?”

 

“What did you even expect?”

 

“What did you even expect?”

 

“What did you even expect?”

 

“What did you even expect?”

 

 

 

 

(He had thought his mother could be tied down by blood, but feral beasts never linger, and he needed to learn how to let go.)

 

 

He was just a piece on a chessboard of something much greater than himself

 

He was just a pawn to be used, discarded, exchanged for a more powerful piece.

 

 

 

(His brother)

 

 

 

(But was his brother a queen or a player in this grand game?)

 

 

He supposes only time would tell

 

 

——

 

 

And so time passed, and the young god grew and grew

 

 

——

 

 

 

A year passed in solitude after he was deemed mature enough to live on his own.

 

(He was six and was determined to be strong enough to face the world)

 

Food was hurriedly passed through a crack in the sliding doors and hygiene was provided every once a week.

 

Though he was not looked down upon, people avoided him everywhere he went,

 

 

He missed talking to someone other than himself.

 

 

 

——

 

 

 

The second time he meets the young god was in early spring, the cherry blossoms not yet at full bloom but nonetheless paints a stark color onto the cerulean sky, cloudless still.

 

 

He found him standing idly under the tree, lithe fingers reaching at the blossoms. The boy’s figure was unstained by the soft pink petals that rested on his own shoulders. A servant stood nearby, his guarded stance and eerily sharp eyes are telling signs of a sorcerer.

 

 

Finding no words to utter to his brother, he masks his sigh and turns to leave.

 

 

He looks back, and finds a shattered sky staring back at him, his lips curl up uncontrollably as he speaks, gently, “It was nice finally getting to see you, brother”

 

He bows his head slightly, not enough to mean respect, but enough to acknowledge the young god’s existence, and promptly exits. Leaving the boy behind, eyes widened with shock and a childish sense of overwhelming curiosity.

 

 

The sorcerer’s eyes follow his parting figure until he disappears around a corner.

 

 

 

 

“Young master, it’s time for your afternoon sessions with Kumatoji sensei”

 

 

 

“Hmph, I know.”

 

 

“Then-“

 

 

“Alright alright, I’m going”

 

 

 

———