𝐦𝐞𝐝𝐮𝐬𝐚 [𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐢 𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐞] ✓

prologue

disclaimers:

there will be mentions of violence, gore, as well as mild cussing ; other warnings will be later disclosed. none of the characters belong to me, only reader's cursed technique, backstory, and dialogue!

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"FATHER, WHERE ARE you taking me?!" You cried as your arm was pulled harshly by the familiar face. He didn't reply to you, only tugged you harder.

This made you panic and a silent tear rolled down your face as the two of you weaved through the maze-like corridors of your family's manor. You recognized the direction—your grandfather's room—and a shiver licked up your spine. "It hurts, father. Please!"

Something wasn't right. You had never seen your grandfather before. Why now?

The two of you stood silently in front of the menacing door, your father's hand squeezing yours, painfully tight, and you held your breath, nervousness tugging in your stomach.

After a moment that seemed like eternity, he spoke. "Your training is over." He said your name as if it were of a foreign tongue. "You are to inherit the family's cursed technique."

Your father and mother had made sure to teach you almost everything about Jujutsu Sorcery which included the history of your family's cursed technique. However, they had deliberately missed a certain, very important detail.

What was the family technique?

You gasped as the words exited your father's mouth. Am I really? Did they deem me strong enough now?

When you looked at your father's face, something in his expression told you otherwise. His eyes expressed worry and hesitation. You decided to brush it off rather than question it—your hunger for the power was growing with every passing second you stood in front of your grandfather's door.

"Will it hurt?" You only asked, bouncing lightly on the balls of your feet.

He didn't reply, only pulled the door back, taking off his shoes and urging you to do the same, before you both sat at a sheesham wood chabudai in front of an old man.

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YOUR GRANDFATHER WAS ancient—there was no doubt he was older that ninety five—and the beard that grew from his chin nearly touched the floor where he was sitting.

Wrinkles littered his face irregularly and a mole sat under his left eye. He was wearing a thin blindfold (you realized with quite a surprise) and out of the sides you could see dark ink against his skin peeking out.

The man spoke, his voice rough and unused. He said your name and you nodded in acknowledgement. "Your father has been updating me with your progress..." He said. A shiver ran down your spine, but you were unsure why. "You are doing well. It seems you are now old enough to inherit the family's cursed technique."

"Father, if I may–" Your father tried to intervene, probably to tell him that you were not ready yet, but your grandfather cut him off.

"No, you may not." He said, and though his voice was weak and raspy, his commanding tone shut the other man up with ease.

Your grandfather looked at you. You stared back and wondered how he was able to give such a sharp gaze when his eyes weren't even visible.

He spoked again, reaching his hand out to clasp yours on the table. You father still said nothing. "Speak the question that is on your mind, child."

You took a breath. "What is the family technique, grandfather? And will it hurt?"

"It will hurt after the procedure." He said. "As for what it is, you'll have to inherit it and find out." You huffed in childish frustration and nodded, casting your eyes down to your clasped hands. "We will start now." He looked at your father. "Son, if you will..."

Your father nodded once before getting up and exiting the room, without a single glance back. You were told to lay against your grandfather's lap, before he took out something sharp, mumbled a few sweet words, and then all went dark.

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YOU BANGED YOUR little fists against the stone wall of the room, tears endlessly flowing down your face, and you wailed ear-piercingly loud. "Please! Please, someone let me out!"

Your vision flashed with the image of a crumbling stone statue with a long beard. The mouth of the figure was fixed in a small smile and a blindfold covered its eyes. The image made you scream, more tears falling down your face.

You looked at the floor. Your tears fell onto the cold stone in a red color—blood—but you couldn't care less.

Your breath was ragged and your hands bruised—not to mention your eyes throbbed with searing pain—which made you cry out in agony. "I didn't mean it, I swear!" You exclaimed. "Please! I didn't know! I didn't..."

Your voice failed as your energy ran out, and you fell limp against the cold stone wall of the holy room.

Before you could bury your head in your arms and fall into a restless sleep, you heard a noise: a tittering squawk of a spring bird. It sat on the window sill of the only glass pane in the room and sang a beautiful melody to you.

You wiped your eyes and walked slowly over to the window, watching the little bird through the glass. You opened it a fraction. "You have a lovely voice." You told the bird, your voice raspy from screaming earlier, a bitter smile worked it's way across your lips.

The bird's attention then shifted to you and you locked eyes with the majestic creature. It twitted, as if in response to your statement, and you let out a small giggle.

You wanted to hold it, touch its gorgeous red feathers and caress its beak. So you did.

That only ended in an agonizing pain in your heart.

━━༻❁༺━━

THE ONLY SOUND that escaped your throat was a soft whimper. Your brain was chanting—begging even—a phrase over and over again, pounding around your head like a fresh open wound.

It's not real. It's not real. It's not real.

But it was. Of course it was—everything was.

Your shaky eyes were fixated on a stone statue of a grotesque creature in front of you.

I swear it was moving a second ago! You screamed at yourself. Its eyes were moving wildly and its fangs were about to pierce venom into my shoulder and–!

Something wet poured down on your face from your eyes, but you were too terrified to move your arms and feel whether it was tears or blood.

Your breath hitched in your throat as your vision faded, darkness taking over, relieving you momentarily from your overwhelming thoughts. You welcomed it, allowing the black to dissolve any nightmarish scenes that had previously unfolded before you.

Good night, Medusa.

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"HELLO, DEAR. ARE you alright?" You looked up at the person who spoke, but couldn't see anything. The person had shut your eyes.

Your breath hitched. Everyone is scared of me. Who even is this guy? You asked yourself.

The man spoke as if reading your thoughts. "I'm Gojo Satoru. And I'm here to take you someplace safe."

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note:
this is my first official jjk fanfiction so if anything is shitty, please forgive me hagshahs :)
also, if anything's confusing, just comment and i'll come back to you asap <3