in another life, i would make you stay a gojo satoru (fix it) fic
pairing โธบ reincarnated!gojo x reincarnated!reader
summary โธบ you are a sorcerer, married to your husband who bears the burden of being the strongest. firsthand, you watch the love of your life fall apart, the world burdening him until, finally, he dies at the hand of sukuna. as you watch him through the broadcast, you blankly volunteer to be next and you die, praying to whatever merciful god out there that, in another life, you and satoru get the happy ending you both deservedโ until you wake up from your dream, gasping. why the hell was your dream so vivid? you were some sort of magician? with a smoking HOT husband? and why the fuck does the guy that's ten minutes late to the first day of lectures look EXACTLY like him?
warnings โธบ eventual smut fluff and angst (the holy trinity of aashi longfics), hurt/comfort, reincarnation fic, basically you and gojo have a miserable life in canon and get reincarnated into a modern au where i fix everything and give you the romcom you deserve, canon typical violence, jjk manga spoilers, mentions of blood and injury, major character death, fem reader implied
a/n i'll see u at the end :3
December 23, 2018.
โHow do you feel?โ
The both of you lay, side by side on the grass as you stared into the sky. The only sounds that surrounded you were the occasional rustle of leaves, the hum of the late afternoon cicadas, and the soft, almost inaudible rise and fall of your breathing.
The stars were really bright that day.
The sounds of nature were even more tangible in the absence of traffic. After the culling games had roped in both non-sorcerers and sorcerers alike, no one went out, so the roads were all virtually empty.
Satoru frowns thoughtfully, in a way that makes his nose scrunch up. His fingers play through your hair absentmindedly as he comes up with a response. With the way heโs thinking, your heart aches to tell him that you want his honest feelings, his doubts and fears, not some fake image he perpetually paints on for the rest of the world. You temper the urge.
โFighting Megumi is gonna beโฆweird,โ he says finally, with a sigh. โIโm just glad the real pain in the asses are out of the way.โ
You remember the day he had come back from killing the higher ups. There was still blood matting his face and hair, dried and flaking. His eyes had long lost their light, and when you had got him alone in your shared room, grabbed a washcloth to wash his face. While you made sure none of the blood was still there, he had asked: Did I do the right thing?
It had taken three face towels to clean it all. The others had gotten soaked too quickly.
He continues. โIโve been walking toward changing the system for so long, I forgot how to want anything past it.โ
You tilt your head to look at him. His eyes are on the sky, as if trying to memorize every cloud.
โYou can still want things,โ you murmur. โEven now.โ
What is left unsaid from you is, You can run away with me.
Itโs a pipe dream at best. He was born with the shackle of the six eyes, born in the prison called The Strongest. Running away from it all was as possible as it was for Sisyphus to escape the burden of rolling the rock forever.
At your words, he huffs out a laugh and turns his head just slightly, eyes meeting yours. The blue of them is softer in this light, dusk and gold turning them the color of worn glass. โI do,โ he says. โI want a stupid house with a stupid yard and a dumb dog who only listens to you.โ
You laugh, blinking against the sudden sting in your eyes. โThe dog would accidentally eat your god-awful heap of chocolates and drop dead.โ
โOkay, then maybe not a dog then,โ he accedes. โI could do with a cat. Just donโt confiscate my chocolates.โ
Your voice is a bit stuffy when you reply with, โI would never.โ
โGood,โ His smile is crooked now, warm. โIf I had all the chocolates and the cakes you bake for the rest of my life, I would die a happy man.โย
โYou already have those, Satoru,โ you laugh wetly.ย
โYeah, but I want grocery lists and laundry days and boring Tuesday nights. Not endless mission reports. God, Iโm definitely not going to miss the paperwork,โ he groans, and his tone would sound petulant to anyone else; to you, itโs a reminder of how heโs been worked to the bone.
You roll closer to him, forehead brushing against his temple. โWeโll have all of it.โ
Thereโs a beat of silence. The wind rustles through the trees again. He closes his eyes and breathes it in, like heโs trying to make a home of it. You canโt help but look at his serene face and think,
I love you.
It goes unsaid.
Then, โYouโll wait for me?โ he asks, almost like a joke.
You turn to him, gaze softening as it lingers on the line of his jaw, the sweep of his lashes, the eyes youโve loved in a thousand different lights. Heโs so beautiful it achesโlike something out of a dream or a poem scribbled by a lonely poet on a dirty street, staring up at a beauty wistfully peering out of a window of a high tower.
โAlways.โ
December 24, 2018.
He looks like heโs watching the sky again.
You are staring down at the shape of him broadcasted through Mei Meiโs crows. The ground is soaked, and the sky doesnโt seem to know whether to rain or just stay gray. His eyes are open.
But you know better. And still, you wait.
Around you, thereโs chaos. Your students, in disbelief, are talking loudly but itโs as if everyone around you is talking underwater, none of their words comprehensible. You feel someone shake you, but youโre still staring.
His eyes arenโt closed, but he looks peaceful.
The air thrums with cursed energy, of people in utter shock, and with fear so thick it could choke.
But all you can think about is a stupid patch of wildflowers blooming in your yard. They wouldโve been his favorite colorโblue, like his eyes when he was teasing you. Like his eyes when he told you he wanted a dumb dog and boring Tuesday nights.
You were going to plant them for him every spring.
You were going to make him cakes every time he forgot his own birthday.
You were going to grow old together.
Instead, youโll be the one laying flowers on his grave. Alone.
โIโll go,โ you say.
Itโs too quiet. Someone protests. You donโt even hear who.
โI said Iโll go.โ
Youโre already stepping forward. The fight is miles away but it doesnโt matterโyouโll find it. Youโll find Sukuna. Youโll follow the stench of blood and ruin until it leads you to him.ย
You know your death is imminent, but there is nothing left to want anymore. Because a future without Satoru is no future at all.
As you make your way through Shinjuku rapidly, you canโt help but think of Yujiโhis eyes wide and boyish, despite everythingโas he shoved a flyer into your hand and told you to try that ramen shop with him once this was all over.
You remember Megumiโs ginger candies, the ones you had to keep hidden or Gojo would eat them all in one go. Theyโre still sitting in a dish by the kitchen window.
You remember Shokoโs voice when she said, โJust come back alive, okay?โ
You remember Nanami, and Utahime, and Nobara. You remember every stupid, beautiful person youโve ever loved.
You love them, but love doesnโt always save you; instead, it makes you walk straight into the fire.
Your life had begun when Satoru had saved you from that lonely, dark prison you were forced into; you remember how you had thought that he was akin to a glowing deity, descended from heaven to be your savior. A discarded animal like you, made to believe you were human again by this savior.
So it feels right, in a terrible, sacred way, that your life should end with him, too.
When you finally spot Sukuna, you put up a good fight, but anyone who watches you knows you are resolved, have accepted your fate and prefer death. You donโt scream or cry when it happens; you stare at his face when your body is cleaved into spilling your blood like an endless dam.
You just think: I kept my promise.
I waited.
Then, as you feel everything growing darker and darker, thereโs only one thought left, just a silent prayer to whatever god that might still be out there:
Let us try again.
Pleaseโlet us try again.
โฆ
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
You wake up from your dream, gasping.
The noise your alarm makes is an unfriendly wake-up call; in your furious effort to locate your phoneโwhich has found itself nestled in your messy blanketsโyou notice your roommate, Maki, blearily shifting. You madly search to minimize the yelling youโre going to get from her later in the day (youโre already cooked by this point), until silence blankets the room once more.
Itโs only until your phone is silenced that you register how fast your heart is beating. Then, when you trudge over to the personal bathroom you and Maki share and flick the light switch, you see that tears had flowed down your cheeks in your sleep.
What a weird fucking dream.
One to have on your first day of classes for the semester, too. You squint at your reflection, the fluorescent light doing your sleep-addled eyes no favors as you grudgingly get ready, brushing your teeth and washing your face and all that. You donโt know why it was so vivid.ย
From the dredges of your mind, you first recall the flashing light beams and carnal violence in the destruction of the city, and then you. Were you some kind of magician? It was kind of likeโฆWinx Club, but you werenโt a cunty fairy in cute clothes. Something about sorcerers, so maybe Harry Potter? Hunter X Hunter?
You spit out the frothy mix of your saliva and the mouth freshener. So ridiculous. You couldnโt even blame stress for the weird fanfiction at this pointโclasses havenโt even started.
Memories of the dream ebb and flow as you try hard to remember what else had occurred as you wipe your face. Gazing upon the white of the moisturizer youโre dabbing on your skin, a flash of white suddenly resurfaces.
Gojo.
A violent feeling overcomes your chest at the name, and you think youโre having a heart attack with the way it clenches like youโre almost about to weep in longing of a beloved. You gasp, cupping the left side of your chest as you try to lower your heart rate.
What hurts most of all is the searing pain, like a spiral of thinly corded string has branded itself on your ring finger. In your rush to look up in the mirror to see what could be hurting you, you donโt notice the red glow it forms. What you see in the see in your reflection surprises you: youโre crying again.
Tears have fully started streaming down your face with the pain, carving wet valleys on your cheeks as they went. After your heart rate slows down, you frown while looking down at your hands. Why were they shaking?
You repeat the name numerous times in your brain, each time causing you to physically tweak. Gojo, Gojo, Gojo, and then resurfaces Satoru, Satoru, Satoruโ
Itโs after the tenth time you repeat his name that your body seems to calm itself down and get accustomed to whatever emotional shock that coursed through your name after you mentioned his name. His name originally came up because you remember the main person in your dream: the white-haired man. He was the reason you decided to confront thatโฆthree armed man? Or did he have four arms? Regardless, you basically offed yourself after he died because you loved him, or something. With the way your body seems to physically shake at the sheer thought of his name, as if the utter image of longing, love may not have been enough to describe what you felt.
Realizing that youโve drifted off at reminiscing sleepily, you start, as if suddenly animated. You pat your skin, setting in the final step of your skincare routine. Then, you click on your phone screen to check the time.
And notice immediately that you are going to be late.
Then ensues you scrambling to your room, putting on your clothes, tripping on the floor in the process, getting a sleepy glare from Maki that has doubly certified that you are getting a scolding, and then finally making it out the door. The somewhat cool fall weather hits your face as you walk on the pavement, checking your clock repeatedly to ensure it hasnโt hit 9am yet.ย
When you make it into the lecture, you realize that it is packed. There arenโt many seatsโit is a gen ed class after all, something on some ancient history, and you notice two empty seats, side-by-side, tucked away in the corner of the lecture room. You have to carefully maneuver yourself down the seats.
Navigating the maze of limbs and backpacks, you mumble a series of "excuse meโs" and "coming throughโs" until you squeeze past two guysโa stern-looking blond with glasses that scream "salaryman thirst trap" and a loud brunet beside him. Reaching your target, you slide into the seat that leaves an empty one between you and the blond. Youโre very pleased about the extra breathing room.
Maybe today wonโt be so bad after all.
You prepare your supplies to take notes on the first (of many) syllabus reviews to come. In the meantime, youโre privy to hearing the mumble and grumble of people around you; itโs only when a throat clears itself at the head of the class do you see a manโprobably the professor of this class, Yagaโwho has the slides already up. Ancient East Asian History is branded on the big white screen in bolded, black Arial font. Clearly, graphic design was not his passion.
His voice projects through the mic and is fairly deep and resonant, so itโs clear to everyone, despite the number of people in the room, that class is starting. As expected, the next slide is titled โWhat is Ancient East Asian History?โย
โLetโs delve deeper into what I mean by East Asian. Asia is a subcontinent thatโs home to a diverse set of cultures, and even so in East Asiaโฆโ
As Yaga speaks, time ebbs and flows around you. The monotonous sounds of papers flipping, pens scratching on paper, and the clicking of keyboards surrounds you. You canโt help but think the fluorescent lights, harsh and white, had to be designed to keep students from falling asleep, because their intensity paints the lecture hall in this weird lighting. The mood created by it is something akin to the filter horror movies perpetually have onโvivid, but cold and dark. Like when youโve been up for too long to the point that you donโt know if itโs night, or morning, because itโs still dark out. Then, dawn breaks, the sun enveloping the sky in its warmth.
Suddenly, the heavy set of doors that serve as your lecture hallโs entrance open loudlyโlouder than someone who is sheepishly entering late. Instead of the usual indifference reserved for a fellow student who had slept in, the room ripples with murmurs and giggles, shattering the silence that had settledโsave for Yagaโs lecturing.
You donโt look at first. You look at Yaga, who is pinching the bridge of his nose as he mutters, โIn Japanese culture, punctuality is a form of respectโsomething we are clearly still learning.โ
You donโt turn. You donโt need to. But, like a current pulling you under, your gaze follows the crowdโs. And you see him.
Gojo.
Suddenly, your heart clenches violently, and you can only help but gasp hoarsely and shut your eyes. If you didn't, streams of tears would flow down your face once more. You couldnโt help but swear internally; you had thought you had conditioned yourself to be stable at the mention of his name.ย
But, almost as if itโs subconscious, you wrench your eyes open, desperate to view the boy. Youโd assume something apologetic, maybe. Rushed. Someone with their hood up, mumbling an excuse as they shuffle into the shadows of the back row. But thisโ
This is someone who walks like he knows the sound of his own footsteps matters. His ivory hair is tussled, like he had just rolled out of your dream. He looks a bit younger than he did when you had seen him, but his eyes are the same unmistakable brilliant, cerulean color.
Now, heโs making his way down the stairs, skipping every third one with his long legs. Something leaves his lips, and itโs something humorousโdepending on how girls and guys around him laugh, a shared sense of adoration in their eyes. You can only help but watch as he comes closer and closer to you, and you remember belatedly that the seat next to you is the only empty one in the whole lecture hall.
Yaga huffs and rolls his eyes, crossing his arms in barely concealed annoyance. โNice of you to join us, Gojo.โ
Gojo lifts a hand in a lazy wave. โYaga, you ever tried finding parking on this campus?โ The lecture erupts in barely muted half-sleepy giggles.ย
Itโs only when a particularly loud high five he receivesโby the brunet in your rowโthat you break out of your reverie and turn to your laptop, flustered. Any attempt to act nonchalant would be funny as if the thing thatโs wrong with youโthat invisible thingโhasnโt been rippling violently inside your gut the moment you laid eyes on him. Like your body has just been handed proof. Like a wound cracking open in slow motion.
Heโs approaching, long legs trying to get through the sheer amount of people to where the empty seat next to you was, and when heโs there, right next to you, you shouldnโt look up.
But you do.
When your eyes meet his, something ancient and awful coils in your throat. A shiver, not of fear, but of recognition so buried it aches.
Pearly teeth and bright blue eyes glistening. A breathless, โHi.โ
And the invisible string, that had spiraled and corkscrewed itself into the jumble it was, pullsโuntil it is straight and wrung tight. You donโt know this boy. Youโve never seen him before.
So why does it feel like your heart just remembered how to break?
Your throat is dry, but you manage out a โGood morning.โ
You turn back to your desk, your fingers quivering. By your side, heโs moving and rummaging through the contents of his backpack quite noisily, one that can be heard throughout the lecture hall if one were to tune out Yagaโs droning. In curiosity of seeing what was taking him so damn long to find, you turn your head slightly, and notice the heaps of wrappersโall pastel colored and bright, like candy and dessert wrappersโthat his backpack is almost suffocated with. Then, he pulls out his laptop, opens it, and resumes the game of Run 3 he had paused beforehand.
Respectfully, what the fuck.
As if sensing your stare, he turns to you until meeting your eyes; you were caught. Like a deer caught in headlights, you helplessly stare back at him, heat creeping up your neck, and his gaze leaves your eyes to look at your lips, which you were biting.
Then, he leans in slightlyโyou also inching yourself back because why is he getting so close and why is your heart beating so fastโand whispers, โDo I know you?โ
Youโve never seen him outside of the weird dream you had, and it wouldโve been weird to admit that youโve dreamed about him. โNo, I donโt think you do,โ you whisper back, voice hoarse.
His lips quirk in response, but, to your dismay, he doesnโt retract. His brows furrow while he stares at your face, as if deep in thought, and nods, flirtatiously saying, โMakes sense. I feel like I wouldnโt have forgotten you if I had met you.โ
Despite the cheesy line, heat creeps up your neck, and you canโt help but bitterly look down at your desk after giving him a quiet, โNo, I donโt we have. Iโm sorry.โ If he flirted with a stranger like this, dream you mustโve had a really hard time as his wife. Shameless.
And thus the lecture runs its course. Throughout, youโre tense, the heat of his presence never letting you relax. You feel every movement of his fingers, his forearms, as he played his games or typed miscellaneous things that you didnโt see because you were physically forcing yourself to stare at the lecture slides, back ramrod straight.
Itโs only until his leg starts shaking that you start feelingโฆweird. His reaction is completely normal; you donโt blame him, because Yagaโs been going over the syllabusโ section of projects and how you canโt change project partners for over thirty minutes. But itโs the fact that a steady wave of nausea is building up inside you, until a sharp piercing sensation overwhelms your head.
Then, a vision.
Itโs hazy, as if projected on cloudy water. A shaking leg, clad in what seems like uniform pants, underneath a small wooden desk. Then, a hand reaches out to yours, grasping it firmly, and you feel a weird sense of nausea once more. However, itโs not the same feeling youโve been feeling since your dreamโinstead, itโs a stomach upturning feeling of being teleported somewhere.
A bed.
Itโs a small one, in a room that resembles a dorm. The hand grasping yours isnโt simply grabbing your hand; itโs now trailing up your sock-covered ankle, up your calves, and then under your skirtโ
The murky vision gets even murkier until you canโt register anything anymore. Then, you suddenly return, the fluorescent lights being the first thing you register after the weird deja-vu-memory thing. The feelings you felt from the vision linger, including overwhelming feelings of euphoria, lust, and sheer happiness that bloom in your heart warmly, like a flower in fresh spring.
Youโre so distraught from the complicated jumble of feelings that have thrusted themselves upon you that you donโt hear Yaga say his concluding words. Itโs the jarring, obnoxious screech! of the chair next to youโGojoโsโthat you jump to your senses and realize half of the students have left.ย
Thus, you hurriedly pack your things and book it the fuck out of there because you would rather die than be the last person to leave class, lest Yaga think you were staying behind to talk to him. Youโve had more than your fill of East Asian Studies today.
Maybe itโs best if you avoid Gojo, lest you slip up. The dreamโand the weird reactions your body seems to be having in his presenceโare tooโฆpeculiar. If something happened, you wouldnโt know how to recover.
In your haste, you donโt realize youโve left something behind, nor did you hear the โWait! You forgotโฆ.thisโ that Gojo had called out to you, staring at the object in his handโand your retreating backโwith a complicated expression.
next. the aftermath (soon!)
a/n short chapter, but this series is going to contain a mixture of: a lot of crack and fluff, yearning (as always, yall know me), and debilitating angst ("who did this to you??" oh i loved writing the angst) and crazy reunion sex. comment down below to be added to the taglist!!
to be clear, unless otherwise indicated, reader is getting these moments from the past as "migraines" / flashes / dreams.
TAGLIST P1:
@nithica @rh-tg1 @tbzzluvr @spookytyphoonfire @vsynical
@totallyuniquenut @yamiyas @nishayuro @nariminsstuff @starmapz
@sylusonlylove @purplemint @elliesndg @gggellaa @arabellasolstice
@arrozyfrijoles23 @yeehawbrothers @that-one-lightskin @candyluvsboba @avaults
@iheartkhloe @angelcherrry @madamechrissy @xxemmarldxx @lovenbesos
@liveforkny @nattie-smack @cherryredribbons @introvertatitsfinest @starlightoru-gojo
@hyori2 @gxldencloset @l0v3m3m0re @cuntysaurusrex @nanamineedstherapy
@oikawasxx @littlemisspoets-blog @anuncalledbridge @watermelonmuntchers @zeyno-14
@k-kkiana @nanamiskentos @kviwi @evawts @forest-nymph420
@bontensh0e @viiennie @blossomedfloweroflove @6isek @dreamssfyre
