i have this problem where i have MANY, MANY fanfic ideas, but i get bored of writing it after a week. I want to share ideas but idrk whether if its a thing or not.
frieren art credit : 山田鐘人・アベツカサ/小学館 main m.list | series m.list | april [next chapter]
teen!fem!reader x teen!gojo
fluff. angst. slowburn. use of reader as a name. pov alternating. canon divergent. war, murder and injuries. maybe graphic violence. fighting. reader is physically weak. slice of life (somewhat). very self indulgent. jjk spoilers. this chapter specifically include's gojo's pov.
to preface : you, an apprentice mage from the west returns to japan temporarily after the jujutsu higher-ups call for you to assist them in missions and assassinations. while they lack accommodations to support you independently, you are an apprentice who is still learning, yes? might as well enroll into jujutsu high to learn your home country's magic—plus it serves as a facade, so students won't question your unfamiliar presence; they say. thus, on april 1st 2007, you enrolled in jujutsu tech as a third year while knowing nothing about jujutsu.
!!!!please read the series' masterlist description and tags before proceeding!!!!
wc : 4.7k
Today ends late again. You’re panting against a tree, holding your staff in exhaustion when your eyes desire to shut. Body slowly moving in caution to avoid more strain. It renders useless when everything is numb.
Have you not always hated war since the beginning, how the blood seeps into your boots and your robes, stiff and dry that irritates the skin? Yet here your legs drag you southward once more, limbs hanging loose and bruised, dragging your splintered staff along the dark red mud with a bloodied left hand.
You wonder what to do for the free few hours given. The next mission entails the east trench congested with multiple curses—
Schlop. Something cracked and the ground seems to darken red beneath your heel.
Your left foot feels slightly wet, and what it steps on feels soft and jelly. Grimacing at the putrid sensation, you forcefully pulling your eyes up ahead down the uneven road. Don’t look. No one wants to see rotten remains as a bump in a road. Your left foot continues to apply pressure regardless, an instinctive motor fueled by the need of an abode.
Breathe in, breathe out, even if it smells a little—thus off you go. Retreat behind the frontlines to the camps, and be relieved that you, an apprentice mage had returned alive from the brutal frontlines once more. You think a small ritualistic celebration is to be held later. Your cold dry skin starts to sweat a little from this rushing thought and feeling, starting a little jog.
Alas, the smell of flesh transitions into smoke. You’re nearer, being able to see the ashes falling down like smoke. Blood rushes in your limbs and face as your eyes widen from a person in your uniform walking slowly southward. Perhaps they are injured, left hand holding their stomach, right hand holding a staff. A low ring thrums in your ears, having to blink twice before your eyes couldn’t bear the weight anymore, forcinv yourself to look closer at the figure. Another apprentice? How could this be, lest Serie permits it. Regardless, you were unsettled to have found an equal. A small flicker of hope—
Those horns on their head shine.
Your back straightens immediately as your eyes darken, murmuring softly under your breath with the staff pointed at it. A motor memory you’ve enacted countless times. A small magic circle was summoned, and with a sigh exhaled deep from the bones—the demon was decapitated cleanly. Little to no blood spilled.
Dragging your weight with tired disgust and hatred, you reach to the corpse just to scowl at it. Its body frays quickly as ash lifts from its skin, carried away by the wind. The scents of ash seemed more putrid and understandable now. “..Demon,” you huffed lightly and continue on towards the camps.
You speculate on how the trenches will be tomorrow. But for now you have reached the camps, smelly and in poor condition. What is actually consumable currently? Your poor stomach aches with persistence. Resting sounds nice in this cold temperature.
It had been too long since you have seen an actual human whilst in the frontlines. Isn’t everyone supposed to fight together? Nurses carrying stretchers of bodies that emits a rotting smell, cries and shouts a common denominator of a usual morning. Morning. It’s early morning. You hope the sun will not rise now.
You went off to curtly report to the acting commander, walking fast like they always do to avoid the gazes of the poor. Locking eyes with one feels perturbing and your jaw raises slightly higher and your pace quickens. Perhaps that the attire you wore is eyecatching, with the way that blood is still dripping off your fabrics, and the emblem hanging of the capelet you wore resembles something controversial.
After your report, you stopped yourself in front of an abandoned church. This was your temporary home. There was a small chatter behind the door, and you think you know why. Unlocking the door and rushing in, your body instinctively looked for a bench to lie on, your left hand releasing the staff as it clatters to the floor with an echo.
The radio was cracking from the lack of signal, as a voice reports out the updates regarding the frontlines. Mindless propaganda and falsities to ease the heart, you thought bitterly as you took off your capelet and finally lie down on a wooden bench. Your eyelids relaxes, vision blurry and stinging from tears and exhaustion. This is for today. The tea stock has ran out, your flip phone is dead, and you are painfully alone here. Your limbs are numb and the ears are itching, body twitching slightly and uncontrollably. No, the ritual is incomplete and hurting. But you chose all of this.
“—..The Prodigal has ..slaughtered—invading curses ..—”
You chose this.
“d..Emo—n sightings has been—near campsites.. Ashes—”
You…
“…Sector Alpha Lima Papa—..breached! I-”
You chose this?
“..ector— ..Lima Pa…—brea.. —repeat..”
Your eyes close, zoning everything out in a need of rest.
—
“Immediate reassignment—..” The radio shrieks, ringing in a high pitch that pesters your slumber. It’s familiar, that specific pitch making your skin prickle and cold.
Gasping for air, your body tightens and sits up, left arm already reaching for your staff as the radio rings painfully. The light shining down from the windows blinds you, forcing you to squint and rub your eyes with bloodied hands.
Had it been noon now? Your clothes are completely dry in blood, limbs sore and unmovable. The sun had risen while you were unconscious. It’s better to catch up.
“—Prodigal. Respond.” The radio abruptly turns clear. No wonder it has been crackling since yesterday, and you sigh of relief that you weren’t actually losing connection from the news source. It’d be troublesome to steal another radio from a civilian.
You blankly stare at the radio, anticipating your next order with your left hand twitching furiously from not grasping your staff. Your mouth opens: “Prodigal, Receiving.” Voice rasp and dry from the lack of water, your throat almost revulsing in reflex.
“Great Mage orders presence. Abort and return to capital. Immediate reassignment—”
The audio loops continuously.
You sniffle. Everything reeks, your dirt blood clothes, still-soaked boots, and unclean wounds. Slowly you stand up and cast a spell to clean yourself up, good as new, ready for another command. There isn’t any stain on your white uniform. The fabric is stiff regardless.
Picking up the splintered staff and your dead flipphone, you finally depart without a word, immediately going back without supper. They’ll know the Prodigal returns to her master. The path towards the capital will be packed, it’s better to reroute near the frontlines. The thought makes your hand twitch.
—
It’s inexplicably dirty. While you do know civillians migrate here and there often, you didn’t expect for the road to be this bloodied. Blood, again. Your boots slosh against the wet red mud, a familiar sensation you ought to get used to. It is midday, yet the road is grim in contrast to the bright blue sky. You dislike how the light reveals what lies there on the ground. Ignore it, ignore it! You choose to look up at the sky and the distant skyscrapers.
A few hours into the mindless walking with your legs sore, the path transitions into bricks, then cement. And there was buildings once more. You’re nearing the capital. You can already anticipate honks of cars and the stares due to your uniform. Your ears could already anticipate a heavy strain, twitching like a butterfly flapping it’s wings. A familiar black car awaits you on a bridge, thus you enter it. The driver shifts a little at the rancid scent of blood, pressing the engine which works harder to drive you to the citadel centered as a heart of the capital. You don’t bother to see who it is.
You choose to avoid gazing at the tall foreign buildings closely from below. Structures like that do not have room for people like you. Fiddling with a splinter on your staff to ease the boredom and impending dread, your hands slowly turn clammy and pale as the car approaches the citadel. Even with a poker face, your trembling hands weren’t able to hide themselves. Both of your hands grip tightly the staff in retaliation.
The car door opens for you, and you slowly come out and enter the citadel through a hidden passage swiftly, avoiding to absorb in the huge structure. A shiver goes through you the moment you make a step in. That restrained mana.. she is close.
The boots make squeaky sounds when in contact with the marble floor. They left dark stains, but you choose not to stop. You reach the courtyard in the middle, rush to the back, then arrive at the gardens. Finally. Your stance relaxes, the end of your staff touches the brick floor with a small clack. It smells of petrichor and floral, the passage to the center packed with flowers and leaves. You hesitate as your right foot hovers from the ground, almost stepping on a fallen flower. However her presence seems to pull your attention immediately.
Serie.
Your foot falls into rhythm without thinking, the flower crumpling flat and glistens with blood from your boots. The cramped path made rustling noises because you kept nudging against the leaves, but at least you have arrived in this abode. She was sitting on a chair, one hand holding a cup of tea. There was another on the opposite side of the table, the steam still visible. And in the middle was an assortment of sweet desserts, untouched and cold.
“It has been a while, Reader.” She smiled, facing you as a hand sets her cup down. Her eyes glint with enigma. You do not want to even face it. “How is the frontlines treating you? You seem rather dull after.” She jabbed lightly, blinking up and down to examine your rumpled and dirty clothing.
You place your staff on the floor, then sit down on the other chair. Both the chair and table were both cold to the touch, your hands searching for the warmth of the cup. It was odd, truly. You felt relieved to be in her presence even if it was cold. The fast tempo slows by her command, and it gave you a moment of reprieve.
“It is alright. I simply miss the tea here rather than up north.” Lying straight through your teeth again, you know that she already knows. Somewhat. The tea was still too hot for your taste, you deciding to wait until it is moderate as you swallow your saliva.
Serie simply blinks with an amused smile, examining you more closely. She’s eyeing your face and ears as her eyes narrow with precision and relative coldness. “Have you continued your regimen as scheduled?”
“..No.” You truthfully told instead, shrinking a little in her gaze.
It was frustrating to focus with how your left hand continue to shake furiously without something to grip on. You’re supposed to get used to it. It’s inconvenient, truly. You’re incapable of cupping only warm thing here. However, she seems to turn a blind eye, seemingly directing the conversation to the main point.
“There is a special letter for you.”
She tosses it on the table almost too casually, looking away to the flora when it reached on your end. Her action was somehow out of character, making you decide whether to probe or not.
You choose to.
“Have you read it yet, Master?” softly you asked, eyes narrowing when she chose to look away as if it’s private.
“Please do summarize—” Your eyes wander down to the appearance of the letter, and the seal. That seal. The Jujutsu Society Seal. For a moment, you stop just to mull this over, fingers pressing against the hot teacup that it could hurt. You recognize that seal a little too fast.
“..That,” You start, feeling your heart sinking slowly and heavily. Placing your warm cup down before you could possibly drop it.
“..is not what I expected.” Had your Master sold you back to them now?
“They request you, specifically, to aid them on missions.”
“Is it because I’m most familiar with them?” You could not hide the bewilderment from your face. Your left hand twitches furiously as if in a tantrum, hurriedly you hide it under the table.
“…It is part of the contract.” She looks down at her teacup, watching the steam thinning. It persists against the cold weather. How she states it is oddly gentle, as if intended to pacify you.
Your frown eased at her stiff composure, and after a long dreaded silence, you nod to this obligation. As if you can nod and everything will be fine. The letter sits there on the table untouched. You refuse to touch that thing despite your agreement.
“Read it.” She ordered, taking a sip.
Seeing you freezing despite her command, she sighed softly and gently took it back. The envelope was thrown away carelessly to the floor, along with the insignia seal. A small disapproving glance to your blood drained face, she unfolds the inner paper and skims over a few paragraphs, before finally spotting what she wants to remark. She reads without inflection.
“As per the contract of custodial agreement,” she recites lamely, “the asset shall be subject to immediate recall upon formal declaration of emergency.” Her eyes gave a small assesment to your figure.
Another silence follows. A hum drones painfully, your heart beat is felt in your ears.
“Who shall replace me in the frontlines?” Managing to squeak out from astonishment, you ask about the frontlines for that worries you most.
“Lernen.” Serie hums.
“Him?” The word slips out almost too immediately before you could temper it, but the name makes you perk up. You wince internally but continuing to question nonetheless. “Does he not lack endurance?”
“Your senior brother,” she corrects, placing her cup down with a small clink, “who lacks your hesitance.”
While your frown does ease, your heart does not with these circumstances. It’s hard to comply, really. But if it’s for her sake… your eyes attract back to her, but she only reminds of the duty vowed. You almost grimace at the thought of returning there, not after everything here, after you tried so hard integrated yourself with magic so deeply in the wake of their choice.
“…Very well.” Saliva was swallowed hard and your head nods again, just with her voice is enough to pressure you. Your parched throat needs something to ease itself. The tea. Avoiding to see her, your neck cranes down to look at the amber liquid in the cup, and how no steam is emitting anymore. It’s too still.
“Reader.”
The tea had served as a reminder that you haven’t consumed anything yet. With a blink, your back slowly straightens up, then eyes lock to the Great Mage. Your right hand was reaching the untouched dessert.
“You,” Serie looks at you dead in the eyes.
But your stomach isn’t bothering you anymore.
“You will depart by my order.”
“You’ll stay,” His father accuses him with a tired glare.
“Hm, is that so?” Satoru huffed with a smug grin, giving a glance with those eyes, buttoning his uniform quickly.
The former freezes just at the gaze, sensing the slight threat behind it. Those eyes again. The clan’s treasure, not his son. Its almost comical with how the amusement Satoru had, terrified his own father.
“Simply wasting what we’ve built,” he mumbled, subtly scorning who, Satoru does not know. With the miserable failure, the father turns behind with a scoff.
Satoru’s eyes thin at the shrinking figure, grabbing his glasses roughly than needed. He slings his bag on his left shoulder, and slides the door shut as he looked up at the morning sky.
“A coward,” Satoru uttered under his breath with a bitter edge. Today will be a long day, a sigh leaves him as he walks down the stairs of his clan’s smaller estate resided near Jujutsu Tech.
Satoru was willing to saunter to school; at a slow pace at that. He is going to be late for the new term ceremony again if he keeps doing this, but he chooses to. While admiring the spring cherry blossoms, his hand rummaged through his bag in search of something before he stops to actually look inside.
..The weather is cold, and he forgot his scarf again. He huffs in annoyance, shoving his hands into his pockets and gradually walking at a fast pace. Neck is tingling from the cold, he better seek warmth fast. He now is a third year, a Junior. Thus only two years left before he graduates from Jujutsu High. Two years left before he is bound again. Classes will probably be as usual with Suguru and Shoko. New students are most unlikely, but he hopes there will be.
Speaking of new students, Amanai would’ve been a first year here. ..No, she won’t. Bile creeps up along the reminiscence, but his throat cleared faster. His pace hastens to clear the thought.
Satoru recalls of those higher ups scolding them both for quote unquote, ‘failing to retrieve the product back’, how Suguru seemed.. out of it. His eyes glared at nothing, fists tightening slowly that it almost bled. Breathe. He slowly took a deep breath, looking down at the sunlight bleeding on the ground through the trees. It did little to calm his heart. Nothing ever did; when being the Strongest does nothing. But he has an equal by his side, right?
The elders are corrupting the Jujutsu Society for their musings, and he shall be the one to reform it—he believed. Satoru is convinced that he still has time. There is no need for sweet promises anymore, he traced off to the moving figures of the higher ups, then to the decorative garden.
A petal from the cherry blossoms fell in the still pond, creating small ripples as it turns and wanders. He looks away before it’ll sink.
Had he been too stupid when it came her? Nothing had really changed due to their failure, Tengen had adapted without needing a vessel even if they’re now more than a human. It doesn’t matter to him. It does not. That mission was dragging in his head for months, there is no need to linger on. Everyone adapts. Hands shifted in his pockets for warmth as he chooses to stride under the sunlight, Satoru had arrived to the entrance of the school now.
The footsteps stutter when he finally sees Shoko and Suguru in the courtyard hanging out, seated up on a bench. Giving a bitter glance to Suguru, his wistful look morphs into a cheery smile. “Yo!” His pace quickens, smiling happy with a light skip.
“Satoru.” Geto greets first and smiles.
“Oh, Gojo.” Shoko blinked, fiddling with her cigarette pack.
The air was mildly colder when he joined in, a new presence that brings melancholy along his steps. It was awkward. Satoru looked at the two of them in a silent intrigue, examining how Shoko seemed rather tense and deep in thought while Suguru, seemed lighter despite everything. His eyes widen. The burden felt lighter in his heart.
Satoru grins at the chance to tease. “You seem out of it,” he remarked at Shoko, head tilted to see what she was holding.
Sighing, Shoko looked at the cigarette pack intently as her arm raised up, about to throw it. “I’m thinking of quitting.”
“First, don’t litter,” Suguru hums tiredly as he stares off a distance, shifting a little to make room for Satoru. His gaze seemed fixed.
“Big talk,” Satoru blinked, now amused by her sudden conscience. “What made you change?”
Her brown eyes glanced at the two figures with a click of her tongue. “Smoker’s cough,” she sighed, hesitance in her action, her hand gently placing the pack on the armchair.
“Figures,” both guys replied. They freeze a little at the synchronization, glancing at eachother before the laughter broke.
The three had found themselves in the familiarity once more, ambience warmer and upbeat than before. It had been many weeks since they’ve last met again.
“What did you guys do on holiday?” Suguru’s back eased a little against the bench, his previous tension melted by warmth.
Satoru huffed, his hands sliding beneath his arms and shoulder hunching from coldness. “Tch, training as always,” with exasperation he answered.
Shoko murmured in thought. “Mm, It was simply visiting my family,”
Suguru seemed to hesitate, posture straightening again. He’s quiet again. “I went to therapy.” He gave his answer in a mutter, a laden confession.
“Nice.” Her eyes softened, carried by a small lilt even as her eyes evaded looking at him.
It was silent for a while, until Satoru had something in mind to express. “You never really told us you struggled,” he peeked at Suguru over the rim of his glasses.
Silence returns.
“Bah, I’m thirsty! Lets go to the vending machine.” Satoru diverted after a long moment, clearing his dry throat from the cold. He rose without warning, walking in faith that they will follow along.
“..But they only have soda,” Shoko questioned, walking along with Suguru.
“Yeah, and?” The white haired glanced at her with a quirked brow.
“I thought you didn’t like soda.”
“Since when? Have you forgotten me, Shoko?”
“Since forever,” Suguru added in mirth, a dry chuckle leaving his throat.
Satoru frowned. He swears that he liked that drink, recalling his past preference. Though the last time he drank soda was a few months back, at a beach.. right. She was whining about needing a drink, but then bought too much for her own good. Amanai gave everyone a soda, including him too. They seem to be having fun while drinking it, that Satoru can’t help but follow. Reluctance passed easily with gaiety, along the sweet sizzly flavour in his mouth. Amanai.. she liked soda first.
His eyes wore down just at the thought, snapping back up by the cold breeze.
“You’re making me not want it anymore.” He mock sulked, but seeing the machine closer his legs quicken.
Suguru smiled fondly. “That’s too bad.”
“What’s hydrating here?” Vibrant blue eyes blinked at the soda display, the glass reflecting his figure.
Shoko halts beside the vending machine, pondering on which to select. Her eyes catch a glimpse of blond hair, tracing away to the seated figure. Nanami rested on a wooden bench beside the machine, his eyes blankly staring at a can soda grasped tight in his palm.
“Nanami,” She nodded to him, turning back to the vending machine while her hand busies itself in her side pocket.
Nanami returned the gesture, only a silent grunt coming out. Pondering on what, Satoru was intrigued.
Shoko’s busy hand searched in the pocket, finding nothing inside as it shifted through. “Ugh, I forgot my cigarettes,” she groaned, arms now hanged uselessly in demotivation.
“You just.. said you wanted to quit earlier.” Suguru questioned with tame interest, seating himself beside Nanami uninvited. He glanced once—then twice at the can Nanami held onto. “That’s Haibara’s favourite soda,” he blurted, purple pupils shrinking at the reminder that eventually it looks through instead.
“It was,” Nanami dryly replied, his other hand moving to open the can. It was opened with a click;, sizzles bubbling up.
Satoru observes silently, only for the trance was interrupted when Shoko told him to move aside for blocking the machine.
“Move, I cant see anything,” she rolled her eyes, scouting the selections of sweet drinks, just to choose a coffee drink instead.
“Seriously?” The blue eyed snickered at her drink of choice. “Boring like you,” he quipped, selecting a sweet cider soda.
“You’re one to talk, no-forehead.”
He chugged his soda down, sighing at the feel of the cool drink.
Satoru could discern Suguru’s bitterness with a glance. And for a moment, hesitance to join and break it slips in. He sighed, tossing the emptied can to the trash bin. He wishes to be spoken to, too.
—
The trio enters the class whilst conversing smoothly, all of them sitting beside eachother. Yaga sensei enters the class and everyone pays attention.
“Good morning everyone. Let me just cut straight to the point. We have a new student coming in, and I expect all of you to put up your best impression. Especially you, Gojo.” The teacher huffed, arms crossed out with that classic stern expeession.
“Reader, enter the class.” Yaga turns to the front closed door, as it slowly opens and a girl comes in. She seems stiff. Her left hand is twitching, now abruptly hiding behind her back.
“Hello. I am Reader.”
Wow, stiffer than he thought. But that reminds him of something else, his eyes narrowing at the thought.
Is she one of the newcomers the elder mentioned of earlier, Satoru pondered, looking up and down. His finger pulled his glasses down just the slight to assess her with his Six Eyes.
It’s abnormal. Her cursed energy seems… ‘purer’ than the average cursed energy. While she has little, it seems to be subtly fluctuating and rather.. dense? Satoru was intrigued by the new variable.
She deliberately sits behind, now closest to the back door. The girl frequently glance at the surroundings, scrutinizing everything. Unrestless she seems. What she does only makes her suspicious, he thought, eyes narrowing to focus closer. Then with a loud pang, the front table was slammed by Yaga-sensei’s hand to gather everyone’s attention back. Satoru faced back to the teacher whilst her foreign presence lingers behind his mind, brushing it off for now.
Yaga-sensei starts to summarize for the third year course, then starts teaching. However the whole time the new student was deadly silent and.. she’s not paying attention at all. Odd.
—
After Yaga had left, they had a few minutes before the first class starts. Suguru suggested to converse with the new student as a way to welcome her, especially with how odd her demeanor was.
“She appears.. cautious,” Shoko commented.
“So we have to ease her up,” He replied.
“Her cursed energy is weird,” another comment came, from Satoru this time.
“Well, you’re weird,” Shoko retaliated teasingly.
“Whatever, let’s go.” Suguru stood up unamused, walking to her table.
Satoru, however, lingered behind to watch the student first. He slid off his black glasses to analyze her better.
Wait. That’s not cursed energy. It was as if replaced with some sort of bizzare variant that’s similar to it in medium, however it’s too controlled. More questions seemingly to bloom in his mind, his stare penetrating through the black glasses.
Suguru was the first to greet her with a polite smile. “Hello.”
She curtly nods, her face hardens even more when they choose to approach her.
“…” Okay, too silent.
“I hope you have a good time here,” he continued, smile weakening.
Shoko stops for a moment. “Reader, yes?”
The girl nodded again. “Yes, and you are..?” she spoke again, rather slowly.
Satoru had to resist furrowing his brows.
“Shoko Ieri.” She smiled.
“I’m Geto Suguru.” He added along, hand rested lightly against his chest in a form of courtesy.
Satoru was baffled how she continuously does not put effort into conversing.
This girl was playing with some random wooden stick on her left hand, silently listening in the conversation. How absurd, she seems to be avoiding—with how her left hand trembles and ignoring his gaze especially. Maybe Satoru is just judging to much, but his blue stare leaving her unruffled.
Shoko and Suguru seemed to be glancing at him. Ah, he hasn’t introduced himself yet.
“I’m Gojo Satoru, the Strongest.” With that catchphrase recited, Satoru grinned as his hand supports his leaning weight against her table.
She looks at Satoru from her stilling hand, blinking slowly while her right eye twitched. His name perhaps clicked something in her brain. So that’s the trigger to reverence, he concluded to, anticipating it already.
She locks eyes with him for a moment, simply staring.
“Many want you dead.”
“..Huh?”
ely anecdotes : late because my family was looking for some new villas. this was stressful yet fun to write! but its just the prologue and im already pressured huhu. there might be some inaccuracies on gojo's end, i believe its easy to tell i had a hard time writing him. gojo is very hard to comprehend in my opinion. can you tell i got lazy in his section?
p.s. i forgot to add so much more different tags in the serie's m.list huhu, so i had to put up a disclaimer.
frieren art credit : 山田鐘人・アベツカサ/小学館 main m.list | series m.list | april [next chapter]
teen!fem!reader x teen!gojo
fluff. angst. slowburn. use of reader as a name. pov alternating. canon divergent. war, murder and injuries. maybe graphic violence. fighting. reader is physically weak. slice of life (somewhat). very self indulgent. jjk spoilers. this chapter specifically include's gojo's pov.
to preface : you, an apprentice mage from the west returns to japan temporarily after the jujutsu higher-ups call for you to assist them in missions and assassinations. while they lack accommodations to support you independently, you are an apprentice who is still learning, yes? might as well enroll into jujutsu high to learn your home country's magic—plus it serves as a facade, so students won't question your unfamiliar presence; they say. thus, on april 1st 2007, you enrolled in jujutsu tech as a third year while knowing nothing about jujutsu.
!!!!please read the series' masterlist description and tags before proceeding!!!!
wc : 4.7k
Today ends late again. You’re panting against a tree, holding your staff in exhaustion when your eyes desire to shut. Body slowly moving in caution to avoid more strain. It renders useless when everything is numb.
Have you not always hated war since the beginning, how the blood seeps into your boots and your robes, stiff and dry that irritates the skin? Yet here your legs drag you southward once more, limbs hanging loose and bruised, dragging your splintered staff along the dark red mud with a bloodied left hand.
You wonder what to do for the free few hours given. The next mission entails the east trench congested with multiple curses—
Schlop. Something cracked and the ground seems to darken red beneath your heel.
Your left foot feels slightly wet, and what it steps on feels soft and jelly. Grimacing at the putrid sensation, you forcefully pulling your eyes up ahead down the uneven road. Don’t look. No one wants to see rotten remains as a bump in a road. Your left foot continues to apply pressure regardless, an instinctive motor fueled by the need of an abode.
Breathe in, breathe out, even if it smells a little—thus off you go. Retreat behind the frontlines to the camps, and be relieved that you, an apprentice mage had returned alive from the brutal frontlines once more. You think a small ritualistic celebration is to be held later. Your cold dry skin starts to sweat a little from this rushing thought and feeling, starting a little jog.
Alas, the smell of flesh transitions into smoke. You’re nearer, being able to see the ashes falling down like smoke. Blood rushes in your limbs and face as your eyes widen from a person in your uniform walking slowly southward. Perhaps they are injured, left hand holding their stomach, right hand holding a staff. A low ring thrums in your ears, having to blink twice before your eyes couldn’t bear the weight anymore, forcinv yourself to look closer at the figure. Another apprentice? How could this be, lest Serie permits it. Regardless, you were unsettled to have found an equal. A small flicker of hope—
Those horns on their head shine.
Your back straightens immediately as your eyes darken, murmuring softly under your breath with the staff pointed at it. A motor memory you’ve enacted countless times. A small magic circle was summoned, and with a sigh exhaled deep from the bones—the demon was decapitated cleanly. Little to no blood spilled.
Dragging your weight with tired disgust and hatred, you reach to the corpse just to scowl at it. Its body frays quickly as ash lifts from its skin, carried away by the wind. The scents of ash seemed more putrid and understandable now. “..Demon,” you huffed lightly and continue on towards the camps.
You speculate on how the trenches will be tomorrow. But for now you have reached the camps, smelly and in poor condition. What is actually consumable currently? Your poor stomach aches with persistence. Resting sounds nice in this cold temperature.
It had been too long since you have seen an actual human whilst in the frontlines. Isn’t everyone supposed to fight together? Nurses carrying stretchers of bodies that emits a rotting smell, cries and shouts a common denominator of a usual morning. Morning. It’s early morning. You hope the sun will not rise now.
You went off to curtly report to the acting commander, walking fast like they always do to avoid the gazes of the poor. Locking eyes with one feels perturbing and your jaw raises slightly higher and your pace quickens. Perhaps that the attire you wore is eyecatching, with the way that blood is still dripping off your fabrics, and the emblem hanging of the capelet you wore resembles something controversial.
After your report, you stopped yourself in front of an abandoned church. This was your temporary home. There was a small chatter behind the door, and you think you know why. Unlocking the door and rushing in, your body instinctively looked for a bench to lie on, your left hand releasing the staff as it clatters to the floor with an echo.
The radio was cracking from the lack of signal, as a voice reports out the updates regarding the frontlines. Mindless propaganda and falsities to ease the heart, you thought bitterly as you took off your capelet and finally lie down on a wooden bench. Your eyelids relaxes, vision blurry and stinging from tears and exhaustion. This is for today. The tea stock has ran out, your flip phone is dead, and you are painfully alone here. Your limbs are numb and the ears are itching, body twitching slightly and uncontrollably. No, the ritual is incomplete and hurting. But you chose all of this.
“—..The Prodigal has ..slaughtered—invading curses ..—”
You chose this.
“d..Emo—n sightings has been—near campsites.. Ashes—”
You…
“…Sector Alpha Lima Papa—..breached! I-”
You chose this?
“..ector— ..Lima Pa…—brea.. —repeat..”
Your eyes close, zoning everything out in a need of rest.
—
“Immediate reassignment—..” The radio shrieks, ringing in a high pitch that pesters your slumber. It’s familiar, that specific pitch making your skin prickle and cold.
Gasping for air, your body tightens and sits up, left arm already reaching for your staff as the radio rings painfully. The light shining down from the windows blinds you, forcing you to squint and rub your eyes with bloodied hands.
Had it been noon now? Your clothes are completely dry in blood, limbs sore and unmovable. The sun had risen while you were unconscious. It’s better to catch up.
“—Prodigal. Respond.” The radio abruptly turns clear. No wonder it has been crackling since yesterday, and you sigh of relief that you weren’t actually losing connection from the news source. It’d be troublesome to steal another radio from a civilian.
You blankly stare at the radio, anticipating your next order with your left hand twitching furiously from not grasping your staff. Your mouth opens: “Prodigal, Receiving.” Voice rasp and dry from the lack of water, your throat almost revulsing in reflex.
“Great Mage orders presence. Abort and return to capital. Immediate reassignment—”
The audio loops continuously.
You sniffle. Everything reeks, your dirt blood clothes, still-soaked boots, and unclean wounds. Slowly you stand up and cast a spell to clean yourself up, good as new, ready for another command. There isn’t any stain on your white uniform. The fabric is stiff regardless.
Picking up the splintered staff and your dead flipphone, you finally depart without a word, immediately going back without supper. They’ll know the Prodigal returns to her master. The path towards the capital will be packed, it’s better to reroute near the frontlines. The thought makes your hand twitch.
—
It’s inexplicably dirty. While you do know civillians migrate here and there often, you didn’t expect for the road to be this bloodied. Blood, again. Your boots slosh against the wet red mud, a familiar sensation you ought to get used to. It is midday, yet the road is grim in contrast to the bright blue sky. You dislike how the light reveals what lies there on the ground. Ignore it, ignore it! You choose to look up at the sky and the distant skyscrapers.
A few hours into the mindless walking with your legs sore, the path transitions into bricks, then cement. And there was buildings once more. You’re nearing the capital. You can already anticipate honks of cars and the stares due to your uniform. Your ears could already anticipate a heavy strain, twitching like a butterfly flapping it’s wings. A familiar black car awaits you on a bridge, thus you enter it. The driver shifts a little at the rancid scent of blood, pressing the engine which works harder to drive you to the citadel centered as a heart of the capital. You don’t bother to see who it is.
You choose to avoid gazing at the tall foreign buildings closely from below. Structures like that do not have room for people like you. Fiddling with a splinter on your staff to ease the boredom and impending dread, your hands slowly turn clammy and pale as the car approaches the citadel. Even with a poker face, your trembling hands weren’t able to hide themselves. Both of your hands grip tightly the staff in retaliation.
The car door opens for you, and you slowly come out and enter the citadel through a hidden passage swiftly, avoiding to absorb in the huge structure. A shiver goes through you the moment you make a step in. That restrained mana.. she is close.
The boots make squeaky sounds when in contact with the marble floor. They left dark stains, but you choose not to stop. You reach the courtyard in the middle, rush to the back, then arrive at the gardens. Finally. Your stance relaxes, the end of your staff touches the brick floor with a small clack. It smells of petrichor and floral, the passage to the center packed with flowers and leaves. You hesitate as your right foot hovers from the ground, almost stepping on a fallen flower. However her presence seems to pull your attention immediately.
Serie.
Your foot falls into rhythm without thinking, the flower crumpling flat and glistens with blood from your boots. The cramped path made rustling noises because you kept nudging against the leaves, but at least you have arrived in this abode. She was sitting on a chair, one hand holding a cup of tea. There was another on the opposite side of the table, the steam still visible. And in the middle was an assortment of sweet desserts, untouched and cold.
“It has been a while, Reader.” She smiled, facing you as a hand sets her cup down. Her eyes glint with enigma. You do not want to even face it. “How is the frontlines treating you? You seem rather dull after.” She jabbed lightly, blinking up and down to examine your rumpled and dirty clothing.
You place your staff on the floor, then sit down on the other chair. Both the chair and table were both cold to the touch, your hands searching for the warmth of the cup. It was odd, truly. You felt relieved to be in her presence even if it was cold. The fast tempo slows by her command, and it gave you a moment of reprieve.
“It is alright. I simply miss the tea here rather than up north.” Lying straight through your teeth again, you know that she already knows. Somewhat. The tea was still too hot for your taste, you deciding to wait until it is moderate as you swallow your saliva.
Serie simply blinks with an amused smile, examining you more closely. She’s eyeing your face and ears as her eyes narrow with precision and relative coldness. “Have you continued your regimen as scheduled?”
“..No.” You truthfully told instead, shrinking a little in her gaze.
It was frustrating to focus with how your left hand continue to shake furiously without something to grip on. You’re supposed to get used to it. It’s inconvenient, truly. You’re incapable of cupping only warm thing here. However, she seems to turn a blind eye, seemingly directing the conversation to the main point.
“There is a special letter for you.”
She tosses it on the table almost too casually, looking away to the flora when it reached on your end. Her action was somehow out of character, making you decide whether to probe or not.
You choose to.
“Have you read it yet, Master?” softly you asked, eyes narrowing when she chose to look away as if it’s private.
“Please do summarize—” Your eyes wander down to the appearance of the letter, and the seal. That seal. The Jujutsu Society Seal. For a moment, you stop just to mull this over, fingers pressing against the hot teacup that it could hurt. You recognize that seal a little too fast.
“..That,” You start, feeling your heart sinking slowly and heavily. Placing your warm cup down before you could possibly drop it.
“..is not what I expected.” Had your Master sold you back to them now?
“They request you, specifically, to aid them on missions.”
“Is it because I’m most familiar with them?” You could not hide the bewilderment from your face. Your left hand twitches furiously as if in a tantrum, hurriedly you hide it under the table.
“…It is part of the contract.” She looks down at her teacup, watching the steam thinning. It persists against the cold weather. How she states it is oddly gentle, as if intended to pacify you.
Your frown eased at her stiff composure, and after a long dreaded silence, you nod to this obligation. As if you can nod and everything will be fine. The letter sits there on the table untouched. You refuse to touch that thing despite your agreement.
“Read it.” She ordered, taking a sip.
Seeing you freezing despite her command, she sighed softly and gently took it back. The envelope was thrown away carelessly to the floor, along with the insignia seal. A small disapproving glance to your blood drained face, she unfolds the inner paper and skims over a few paragraphs, before finally spotting what she wants to remark. She reads without inflection.
“As per the contract of custodial agreement,” she recites lamely, “the asset shall be subject to immediate recall upon formal declaration of emergency.” Her eyes gave a small assesment to your figure.
Another silence follows. A hum drones painfully, your heart beat is felt in your ears.
“Who shall replace me in the frontlines?” Managing to squeak out from astonishment, you ask about the frontlines for that worries you most.
“Lernen.” Serie hums.
“Him?” The word slips out almost too immediately before you could temper it, but the name makes you perk up. You wince internally but continuing to question nonetheless. “Does he not lack endurance?”
“Your senior brother,” she corrects, placing her cup down with a small clink, “who lacks your hesitance.”
While your frown does ease, your heart does not with these circumstances. It’s hard to comply, really. But if it’s for her sake… your eyes attract back to her, but she only reminds of the duty vowed. You almost grimace at the thought of returning there, not after everything here, after you tried so hard integrated yourself with magic so deeply in the wake of their choice.
“…Very well.” Saliva was swallowed hard and your head nods again, just with her voice is enough to pressure you. Your parched throat needs something to ease itself. The tea. Avoiding to see her, your neck cranes down to look at the amber liquid in the cup, and how no steam is emitting anymore. It’s too still.
“Reader.”
The tea had served as a reminder that you haven’t consumed anything yet. With a blink, your back slowly straightens up, then eyes lock to the Great Mage. Your right hand was reaching the untouched dessert.
“You,” Serie looks at you dead in the eyes.
But your stomach isn’t bothering you anymore.
“You will depart by my order.”
“You’ll stay,” His father accuses him with a tired glare.
“Hm, is that so?” Satoru huffed with a smug grin, giving a glance with those eyes, buttoning his uniform quickly.
The former freezes just at the gaze, sensing the slight threat behind it. Those eyes again. The clan’s treasure, not his son. Its almost comical with how the amusement Satoru had, terrified his own father.
“Simply wasting what we’ve built,” he mumbled, subtly scorning who, Satoru does not know. With the miserable failure, the father turns behind with a scoff.
Satoru’s eyes thin at the shrinking figure, grabbing his glasses roughly than needed. He slings his bag on his left shoulder, and slides the door shut as he looked up at the morning sky.
“A coward,” Satoru uttered under his breath with a bitter edge. Today will be a long day, a sigh leaves him as he walks down the stairs of his clan’s smaller estate resided near Jujutsu Tech.
Satoru was willing to saunter to school; at a slow pace at that. He is going to be late for the new term ceremony again if he keeps doing this, but he chooses to. While admiring the spring cherry blossoms, his hand rummaged through his bag in search of something before he stops to actually look inside.
..The weather is cold, and he forgot his scarf again. He huffs in annoyance, shoving his hands into his pockets and gradually walking at a fast pace. Neck is tingling from the cold, he better seek warmth fast. He now is a third year, a Junior. Thus only two years left before he graduates from Jujutsu High. Two years left before he is bound again. Classes will probably be as usual with Suguru and Shoko. New students are most unlikely, but he hopes there will be.
Speaking of new students, Amanai would’ve been a first year here. ..No, she won’t. Bile creeps up along the reminiscence, but his throat cleared faster. His pace hastens to clear the thought.
Satoru recalls of those higher ups scolding them both for quote unquote, ‘failing to retrieve the product back’, how Suguru seemed.. out of it. His eyes glared at nothing, fists tightening slowly that it almost bled. Breathe. He slowly took a deep breath, looking down at the sunlight bleeding on the ground through the trees. It did little to calm his heart. Nothing ever did; when being the Strongest does nothing. But he has an equal by his side, right?
The elders are corrupting the Jujutsu Society for their musings, and he shall be the one to reform it—he believed. Satoru is convinced that he still has time. There is no need for sweet promises anymore, he traced off to the moving figures of the higher ups, then to the decorative garden.
A petal from the cherry blossoms fell in the still pond, creating small ripples as it turns and wanders. He looks away before it’ll sink.
Had he been too stupid when it came her? Nothing had really changed due to their failure, Tengen had adapted without needing a vessel even if they’re now more than a human. It doesn’t matter to him. It does not. That mission was dragging in his head for months, there is no need to linger on. Everyone adapts. Hands shifted in his pockets for warmth as he chooses to stride under the sunlight, Satoru had arrived to the entrance of the school now.
The footsteps stutter when he finally sees Shoko and Suguru in the courtyard hanging out, seated up on a bench. Giving a bitter glance to Suguru, his wistful look morphs into a cheery smile. “Yo!” His pace quickens, smiling happy with a light skip.
“Satoru.” Geto greets first and smiles.
“Oh, Gojo.” Shoko blinked, fiddling with her cigarette pack.
The air was mildly colder when he joined in, a new presence that brings melancholy along his steps. It was awkward. Satoru looked at the two of them in a silent intrigue, examining how Shoko seemed rather tense and deep in thought while Suguru, seemed lighter despite everything. His eyes widen. The burden felt lighter in his heart.
Satoru grins at the chance to tease. “You seem out of it,” he remarked at Shoko, head tilted to see what she was holding.
Sighing, Shoko looked at the cigarette pack intently as her arm raised up, about to throw it. “I’m thinking of quitting.”
“First, don’t litter,” Suguru hums tiredly as he stares off a distance, shifting a little to make room for Satoru. His gaze seemed fixed.
“Big talk,” Satoru blinked, now amused by her sudden conscience. “What made you change?”
Her brown eyes glanced at the two figures with a click of her tongue. “Smoker’s cough,” she sighed, hesitance in her action, her hand gently placing the pack on the armchair.
“Figures,” both guys replied. They freeze a little at the synchronization, glancing at eachother before the laughter broke.
The three had found themselves in the familiarity once more, ambience warmer and upbeat than before. It had been many weeks since they’ve last met again.
“What did you guys do on holiday?” Suguru’s back eased a little against the bench, his previous tension melted by warmth.
Satoru huffed, his hands sliding beneath his arms and shoulder hunching from coldness. “Tch, training as always,” with exasperation he answered.
Shoko murmured in thought. “Mm, It was simply visiting my family,”
Suguru seemed to hesitate, posture straightening again. He’s quiet again. “I went to therapy.” He gave his answer in a mutter, a laden confession.
“Nice.” Her eyes softened, carried by a small lilt even as her eyes evaded looking at him.
It was silent for a while, until Satoru had something in mind to express. “You never really told us you struggled,” he peeked at Suguru over the rim of his glasses.
Silence returns.
“Bah, I’m thirsty! Lets go to the vending machine.” Satoru diverted after a long moment, clearing his dry throat from the cold. He rose without warning, walking in faith that they will follow along.
“..But they only have soda,” Shoko questioned, walking along with Suguru.
“Yeah, and?” The white haired glanced at her with a quirked brow.
“I thought you didn’t like soda.”
“Since when? Have you forgotten me, Shoko?”
“Since forever,” Suguru added in mirth, a dry chuckle leaving his throat.
Satoru frowned. He swears that he liked that drink, recalling his past preference. Though the last time he drank soda was a few months back, at a beach.. right. She was whining about needing a drink, but then bought too much for her own good. Amanai gave everyone a soda, including him too. They seem to be having fun while drinking it, that Satoru can’t help but follow. Reluctance passed easily with gaiety, along the sweet sizzly flavour in his mouth. Amanai.. she liked soda first.
His eyes wore down just at the thought, snapping back up by the cold breeze.
“You’re making me not want it anymore.” He mock sulked, but seeing the machine closer his legs quicken.
Suguru smiled fondly. “That’s too bad.”
“What’s hydrating here?” Vibrant blue eyes blinked at the soda display, the glass reflecting his figure.
Shoko halts beside the vending machine, pondering on which to select. Her eyes catch a glimpse of blond hair, tracing away to the seated figure. Nanami rested on a wooden bench beside the machine, his eyes blankly staring at a can soda grasped tight in his palm.
“Nanami,” She nodded to him, turning back to the vending machine while her hand busies itself in her side pocket.
Nanami returned the gesture, only a silent grunt coming out. Pondering on what, Satoru was intrigued.
Shoko’s busy hand searched in the pocket, finding nothing inside as it shifted through. “Ugh, I forgot my cigarettes,” she groaned, arms now hanged uselessly in demotivation.
“You just.. said you wanted to quit earlier.” Suguru questioned with tame interest, seating himself beside Nanami uninvited. He glanced once—then twice at the can Nanami held onto. “That’s Haibara’s favourite soda,” he blurted, purple pupils shrinking at the reminder that eventually it looks through instead.
“It was,” Nanami dryly replied, his other hand moving to open the can. It was opened with a click;, sizzles bubbling up.
Satoru observes silently, only for the trance was interrupted when Shoko told him to move aside for blocking the machine.
“Move, I cant see anything,” she rolled her eyes, scouting the selections of sweet drinks, just to choose a coffee drink instead.
“Seriously?” The blue eyed snickered at her drink of choice. “Boring like you,” he quipped, selecting a sweet cider soda.
“You’re one to talk, no-forehead.”
He chugged his soda down, sighing at the feel of the cool drink.
Satoru could discern Suguru’s bitterness with a glance. And for a moment, hesitance to join and break it slips in. He sighed, tossing the emptied can to the trash bin. He wishes to be spoken to, too.
—
The trio enters the class whilst conversing smoothly, all of them sitting beside eachother. Yaga sensei enters the class and everyone pays attention.
“Good morning everyone. Let me just cut straight to the point. We have a new student coming in, and I expect all of you to put up your best impression. Especially you, Gojo.” The teacher huffed, arms crossed out with that classic stern expeession.
“Reader, enter the class.” Yaga turns to the front closed door, as it slowly opens and a girl comes in. She seems stiff. Her left hand is twitching, now abruptly hiding behind her back.
“Hello. I am Reader.”
Wow, stiffer than he thought. But that reminds him of something else, his eyes narrowing at the thought.
Is she one of the newcomers the elder mentioned of earlier, Satoru pondered, looking up and down. His finger pulled his glasses down just the slight to assess her with his Six Eyes.
It’s abnormal. Her cursed energy seems… ‘purer’ than the average cursed energy. While she has little, it seems to be subtly fluctuating and rather.. dense? Satoru was intrigued by the new variable.
She deliberately sits behind, now closest to the back door. The girl frequently glance at the surroundings, scrutinizing everything. Unrestless she seems. What she does only makes her suspicious, he thought, eyes narrowing to focus closer. Then with a loud pang, the front table was slammed by Yaga-sensei’s hand to gather everyone’s attention back. Satoru faced back to the teacher whilst her foreign presence lingers behind his mind, brushing it off for now.
Yaga-sensei starts to summarize for the third year course, then starts teaching. However the whole time the new student was deadly silent and.. she’s not paying attention at all. Odd.
—
After Yaga had left, they had a few minutes before the first class starts. Suguru suggested to converse with the new student as a way to welcome her, especially with how odd her demeanor was.
“She appears.. cautious,” Shoko commented.
“So we have to ease her up,” He replied.
“Her cursed energy is weird,” another comment came, from Satoru this time.
“Well, you’re weird,” Shoko retaliated teasingly.
“Whatever, let’s go.” Suguru stood up unamused, walking to her table.
Satoru, however, lingered behind to watch the student first. He slid off his black glasses to analyze her better.
Wait. That’s not cursed energy. It was as if replaced with some sort of bizzare variant that’s similar to it in medium, however it’s too controlled. More questions seemingly to bloom in his mind, his stare penetrating through the black glasses.
Suguru was the first to greet her with a polite smile. “Hello.”
She curtly nods, her face hardens even more when they choose to approach her.
“…” Okay, too silent.
“I hope you have a good time here,” he continued, smile weakening.
Shoko stops for a moment. “Reader, yes?”
The girl nodded again. “Yes, and you are..?” she spoke again, rather slowly.
Satoru had to resist furrowing his brows.
“Shoko Ieri.” She smiled.
“I’m Geto Suguru.” He added along, hand rested lightly against his chest in a form of courtesy.
Satoru was baffled how she continuously does not put effort into conversing.
This girl was playing with some random wooden stick on her left hand, silently listening in the conversation. How absurd, she seems to be avoiding—with how her left hand trembles and ignoring his gaze especially. Maybe Satoru is just judging to much, but his blue stare leaving her unruffled.
Shoko and Suguru seemed to be glancing at him. Ah, he hasn’t introduced himself yet.
“I’m Gojo Satoru, the Strongest.” With that catchphrase recited, Satoru grinned as his hand supports his leaning weight against her table.
She looks at Satoru from her stilling hand, blinking slowly while her right eye twitched. His name perhaps clicked something in her brain. So that’s the trigger to reverence, he concluded to, anticipating it already.
She locks eyes with him for a moment, simply staring.
“Many want you dead.”
“..Huh?”
ely anecdotes : late because my family was looking for some new villas. this was stressful yet fun to write! but its just the prologue and im already pressured huhu. there might be some inaccuracies on gojo's end, i believe its easy to tell i had a hard time writing him. gojo is very hard to comprehend in my opinion. can you tell i got lazy in his section?
p.s. i forgot to add so much more different tags in the serie's m.list huhu, so i had to put up a disclaimer.
with pain still lingering, you leave this sweet spring.
art credit : 山田鐘人・アベツカサ/小学館 main m.list
teen!fem!reader x teen!gojo mini series.
fluff. angst. hurt/comfort. use of reader as a name. pov alternating. canon divergent. war, murder and injuries. maybe graphic violence. fighting. reader is physically weak. reader is very restrained. identity shift (?). slice of life (somewhat). very self indulgent. jjk spoilers, post hidden inventory!!
the setting : frieren x jjk mashup. the frieren world serves as a backdrop (sorry) and is at constant war. the jujutsu world is a little bit ignorant about conflicts occurring in the west and jujutsu students are particularly sheltered regarding these topics.
mages are, well, magicians who use spells: an extremely high form of mathematic spells that is recreated through imagination. mana is what cursed energy derive from. demons can be interpreted as a high form of cursed spirits who disguise themselves as almost human. there is a canon divergence where geto’s ideology doesn’t turn radical in action, he is however still depressed.
to preface : you, an apprentice mage from the west returns to japan temporarily after the jujutsu higher-ups call for you to assist them in missions and assassinations. while they lack accommodations to support you independently, you are an apprentice who is still learning, yes? might as well enroll into jujutsu high to learn your home country's magic—plus it serves as a facade, so students won't question your unfamiliar presence; they say. thus, on april 1st 2007, you enrolled in jujutsu tech as a third year while knowing nothing about jujutsu.
elychan’s note : the april chapter will be posted around 15-22 march!
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dailybridgerton
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