Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When you woke up, the first thing you noticed was the ceiling.

It was off-white, slightly cracked in one corner, and there was a faint scribble in pen that read: “get milk.” The bed beneath you creaked like it was made from leftover wood from a shipwreck, and the sheets were anime-themed. Not even the cool kind. Some random nonsense.

You blinked slowly, your brain foggy, vision still adjusting. Then it hit you.

No ambient sound from your air purifier. No comforting buzz from your phone.

No Google Assistant politely asking if you wanted to reorder your iced brown sugar oat milk latte.
You sat up, heart thudding.

The room was small and messy. Empty instant noodle cups littered the floor like fallen soldiers. A flip phone charged precariously on a frayed cable near the wall. Posters were taped up at odd angles, and a wooden sword leaned against a desk next to what looked like... a first-aid kit and five packs of strawberry milk.

You scrambled to the window.

Outside, the street was alive but different. Kids were playing with Tamagotchis. A boy zipped by on a skateboard with a Walkman clipped to his jeans. A woman pulled out a map.
An actual, paper map.

You pressed your fingers against the glass, horrified.

“Oh my God,” you whispered. “I’ve gone back in time. Without Wi-Fi.”

Your knees buckled a little. You took a shaky breath, tugging your silk hoodie tighter around yourself. You were still wearing your pastel-pink Juicy Couture set, plus your husband's oversized shirt—the one you always slept in.

Your lip gloss was still intact, at least. One thing in this nightmare made sense.

Then without warning the door burst open like someone had kicked it in.

You jumped with a squeak as a tall figure strolled in, yawning like he owned the place.

He was wearing sunglasses indoors. Shirt halfway buttoned. Hair silver-white and wildly unbrushed. In one hand, he carried a half-empty carton of strawberry milk.
“Yo,” he said, blinking at you. “You are alive..”

You blinked back. He blinked again.
Then he grinned and asked again,“Have we made out before?”

You screamed.

Ten minutes later, you were pacing the tiny apartment with the dramatic flair of someone who once cried because their boba delivery was five minutes late.

“You live like this?” you snapped, flinging your arms toward the overflowing trash bin. “You’re rich! Rich! And this is how you live?”

Satoru Gojo sixteen, cocky, and tragically unbothered grinned from where he sat cross-legged on the floor, unwrapping a Pocky stick.

“I mean, yeah. I don’t really care about stuff.”

“You don’t care? There’s a sword in your fridge.”

“It’s a cursed tool. It needs to stay cold. I am testing something.”

“You also have expired yogurt and nothing else in there!”

“That’s what the strawberry milk is for,” he said seriously. “Balanced diet.”

You stared at him, deeply offended. “You have an entire Black Card and you sleep on duct-taped furniture.”

He shrugged. “Minimalist.”
“No. Homeless chic. There’s a difference.I thought you were always loaded”

" I am loaded ..I just live like this"

You dropped onto the sad, flat couch and buried your face in your hands. Your silk bonnet was gone. Your skincare routine was destroyed. You didn’t know what year it was.

“God, I’m gonna die here,” you muttered.

“Dramatic,” he said, throwing you a blanket that smelled vaguely like Axe body spray and ramen seasoning. “You talk like a spoiled rich girl.”

“Because I am one. Also-” you looked up, eyes locking on his “I’m your future wife.”

He paused. For once, no smirk. Just quiet blinking.

Then, “...huhhhhhhh?”

“In the future. 2027 You marry me. You buy me a penthouse. I change your shampoo. It’s actually kind of cute.”

He leaned back, chewing thoughtfully on a Pocky stick. “Future wife’s kinda hot.”

You threw a rice cracker at his face.

Later, as the sun started to set, the apartment bathed in a warm orange glow. You were curled up on the couch, wrapped in a hoodie two sizes too big. Gojo sat near the window, one leg swinging, sipping his fourth carton of milk.

You watched him silently.

He was young. Careless. Kind of annoying. But still... him.

Satoru glanced over his shoulder.

“What’s your name again?”

You smiled softly, fingers curling around the blanket.

“You’ll figure it out later.”

He flashed a grin. “Seriously, though who are you? I found you passed out in my living room.”

You whirled around to face him, arms crossed. “I told you already. I’m your wife.”

Gojo blinked. “Right. The whole ‘I’m from the future’ thing.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You don’t believe me.”

“I thought it was a pickup line. A weird one. But kinda creative.”

You took a deep breath, then flopped onto the couch and muttered under your breath, “You always think I’m joking.”

“What?”
“Nothing.”

He sat down beside you, elbow resting on the back of the couch. The sunlight hit his white hair just right, making it glow like the edge of a cloud. For a long minute, he was quiet.

Then, softly, quieter than before he asked, “Who are you, really?”

You looked at him.
Really looked.

The way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes yet. The way he carried himself with lazy confidence, not knowing what kind of weight was waiting on his back. He was so young. So untouched by what was coming. You felt something ache quietly behind your ribs. Is he okay?

“I’m just someone,” you said, “who’s loved you a really long time.”

He tilted his head, watching you. “That sounds heavy.”

“It is.”

“Should I be scared?”

You just smiled.

Gojo was silent for a moment. Then he leaned back, resting his arms behind his head, letting the sun warm his skin.

“Alright,” he said. “If you’re gonna be mysterious, you at least owe me one thing.”

“What?”

“Help me clean this place. Future wife or not, I’m not letting you roast me for expired yogurt and still sit on my couch.”

You snorted. “Your couch is two cardboard boxes and a futon.”
“It cool.”

Later that night, as he started snoring lightly from the floor (still wearing his sunglasses), you pulled his hoodie tighter around your body.
The world outside had gone quiet.

You looked toward him, and whispered softly
“...I miss you.”

And for once, he didn’t have a joke ready.

Because maybe, some part of him heard you.

Chapter Text

The café smelled like burnt coffee and too much teenage perfume.

You sat at a sticky table across from three very confused high schoolers: one dark-haired, brooding boy named Geto Suguru, whom you had never seen before, one sleepy-eyed future doctor named Shoko(your future friend) and one tragically, stupidly pretty white-haired menace who wouldn’t stop staring at you like you were the suspicious one here.

“I’m sorry, say that again?” Gojo asked, resting his chin in his palm, narrowing his ice-blue eyes like you were trying to sell him a pyramid scheme.

“I’m your wife,” you repeated, sipping a lukewarm lemonade with the energy of someone who was very done with this timeline. “From the future. Time travel. Sparkly magic. Boom. I fell through a tear in space-time and woke up in your little apartment.”

“Right,” he said, nodding slowly. “And I’m actually the prince of Sweden.”

“Sweden doesn’t have a monarchy,” you muttered.

“Exactly. You see the problem here,” he said, smirking.

Shoko leaned back, amused. “I like her. She’s weird.”

“I’m not weird, I’m married.”

“To me,” Gojo added flatly.

Geto tilted his head, skeptical. “If you’re from the future, and you know Gojo, what’s something only someone who knows him well would know?”

You sat up straight, cracking your knuckles. “Easy. He cries at romantic anime but lies about it.”
Gojo froze.

Shoko raised a brow. “Wait, he cries at romantic anime?”

“No,” Gojo muttered quickly, glaring at you. “She’s lying. Obviously.”

“I’m not lying. I married your dramatic ass. That’s the first secret you told me to keep”

“Okay,” Gojo said slowly. “But that still doesn’t explain why you passed out on my living room floor, or why you’re not a sorcerer.”

You stabbed your fork into your cake like it had personally betrayed you. “I’m not a sorcerer. Big deal. What do you want me to do? Levitate? But that doesn’t mean I’m not your wife in, like, 2027.”

Gojo leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Alright then, time traveler, what happens to me?”

You froze.
He smiled, cruelly curious. “Come on. Spoil the plot.”

You looked down. “I’m not telling you. Butterfly effect. Or whatever.”

Geto suddenly asked, “You dont know me… do you? You have talked to both of them and you can’t even make eye contact with me”

You glanced at him and shrugged. “I don’t know you.”

The silence was instant.

Shoko blinked.
Gojo sat up straighter.

And Geto? He just stared at you like something cracked.

“You know Shoko,” he said slowly, “but not me? I’m his best friend.”

“I am sorry,” you whispered. “IBut I never met you. Ever.”

Gojo’s joking tone faltered. “Wait. Why?”

“I don’t know,” you answered. Seriously who was this man?

Now that silenced the table for a beat too long.

……..Later That Day

You failed at 2007. Hard.
You got in a cab and forgot how cash worked. You got lost twice without GPS and nearly cried in a supermarket because there was no self-checkout. A cashier asked if you were okay and you just said, “No,” while staring at a shelf of cereal like it personally offended you.

By the time you stumbled back into Gojo’s apartment, you were sweaty, dusty, and clinging to a grocery bag with one broken bottle of peach soda dripping down the side.

Gojo was on the couch, spinning his keyring on one finger. “Did the time traveler have a rough day?”

“I hate it here.”
“You bought juice for me..why?.” He blinked at the can you tossed into his lap.

You flopped face-down onto the bed. “Yeah. It’s your favorite. Duh.”

He stared at the can for a second. He’d never told anyone he liked that specific flavor. Hell, he didn’t even know he liked it until he took one sip and it hit just right. Familiar. Comforting. Like muscle memory.

You cooked that night. The kitchen was too small, and the stove smelled like dust, but you made it work.

You didn’t ask him what he wanted. You just made it.

Grilled chicken marinated in soy and sesame, with steamed white rice and miso soup so perfectly balanced he stopped talking mid-sentence. The dessert? Mont Blanc, chestnut cream piled like a little mountain, something he hadn’t had since he was five.

He stared at it for a full ten seconds. “How did you even know…”

“I know you..,” you answered, wiping your hands on a dish towel.

He didn’t ask more. But he didn’t stop watching you either, not all night.

That night, after he thought you were asleep, he stood at the bedroom doorway, arms crossed.

You weren’t magic. You weren’t a sorcerer. You were kind of annoying, loud, and left your hairbands everywhere. Exactly the kind of girl his clan wouldn't let him marry. And also you didnt even know Geto.

But something about you scratched at the inside of his soul.
Like he was trying to remember a dream he hadn’t had yet.

Chapter Text

The morning started with Gojo screaming.

Not from a nightmare …no, no. That would be normal.

He was screaming because you had, without any shame or hesitation, stormed into the bathroom while he was brushing his teeth, holding a tube of face wash like it was a weapon.
“You’ve been using body wash on your face?!”

Gojo nearly swallowed a mouthful of toothpaste. “What the..why are you in here?!”

You pointed at him accusingly. “This is why your skin is dry.”

“My skin is flawless!”

“You’re seventeen with the skincare routine of a truck stop raccoon.”

Gojo grumbled and shoved you out, slamming the door behind you only for it to bounce back open because, in typical Gojo fashion, he never fixed the damn latch.

……
You were digging through his closet, complaining loudly about how he had no sense of color coordination, when Gojo finally snapped.

“You know,” he said, leaning against the doorframe, “for someone who claims to be my wife, you complain about me a lot.”

“Because I know what you become, Satoru,” you said, not looking at him. “And it’s not this... tragic fashion disaster.”

He stepped in, trying not to smile, and started helping you sift through his mess of clothes.

“Alright then, time traveler,” he teased. “If you’re really my wife, prove it. Where’s my birthmark?”

You froze.

And then, without a word, you turned and poked a spot just behind his left knee.
He jumped.
“WHAT THE HELL?!”

“Boom,” you said, smug. “Right there. Slightly crescent shaped. Faint. But it’s there.”

Gojo looked genuinely disturbed. “Okay but how do you know that?!”

You smirked and walked off."Do I really need to teach you what husbands and wives do?”

He didn’t sleep much that night.

……
You still couldn’t use a payphone.

You cried again in public , this time because a bus driver yelled at you for not having coins. Gojo had to fish you out of the situation, laughing way too hard for someone who allegedly cared about your well-being.

He bought you a flip phone. You opened it like it might explode.

“Don’t you have these in the future?” he asked.

“We have phones that talk to satellites,” you muttered. “This thing looks like a calculator mated with a stapler.”

….It was raining when it happened.

You were sitting in his room, knees pulled to your chest, listening to the water hit the window. Gojo had just walked in with convenience store snacks when he saw the look on your face.
You didn’t even realize you were crying.

“Hey,” he said gently, crouching in front of you. “What’s wrong?”

You looked at him , really looked at him. His eyes. His dumb messy hair. The way his voice dropped when he was being soft.
And something in your chest ached.

He wasn’t yours yet.
He didn’t know.

You forced a smile. “I just miss home.”

Gojo didn’t press. He just sat beside you, shoulder to shoulder, and opened a bag of honey chips.
Later that night, he couldn’t sleep.

Because when you handed him his favorite snack before he even asked...

When you knew which umbrella was his without being told...
When you quietly pulled the blanket over his legs as he dozed on the couch...

Something inside him whispered:
She fits. Too well.

Chapter Text

Five months.

You’d been stuck in 2007 for five whole months.

No internet. No air fryers. No memes. No GPS.

Just cassette tapes, dial-up internet, and Satoru freaking Gojo, who learned how you liked your tea in the morning and now kept your favorite hairclip on his desk for no reason at all.
But it still sucked. Because he left.

For “missions.” For “duty.” For Jujutsu stuff you weren’t even allowed to know.

Why was a sixteen-year-old made to work so much anyway? Why did he come back limping and laughing like it was normal?
Sometimes, you hated how quickly you got used to it.

The Apartment Felt Like Home
There was a routine now.

You complained about the lack of skincare products.
He bought you the expensive ones from Shibuya.
You made fun of his terrible shampoo.

He stole yours like it was a peace offering.
He took the blanket in his sleep.

You kicked him off the couch like it was a sport.

You argued like kids.
You laughed like lovers.

And somewhere along the way… he started calling it “our place.”

You Wondered What Broke Him

Sometimes, when he thought you were asleep, he stared at the ceiling for hours.

And when he came home from missions, there were moments where he just… zoned out.
Hands trembling. Eyes dull. Mouth smiling anyway.

You didn’t know what kind of world he lived in.
But you knew, in your future, something about him shattered.

This version of him, loud and annoying and not pretending to be okay, this was the version you could fall in love with.
Maybe already had.

And you wondered what kind of cruelty it was … to find him like this and know you couldn’t keep him.
“Hey… If I Asked You to Stay, Would You?”

He said it one night like a joke.
Except his voice cracked at the end.

You were both sitting on the floor, surrounded by crumpled receipts and terrible instant ramen.

Bleach was playing on a grainy CRT screen. Ichigo yelling. You slurping noodles. Him pretending not to watch you eat.

You blinked. “Satoru…”

He rubbed the back of his neck, looking away. “I know you’re not mine...yet. But it kinda feels like you are sometimes. And that sucks.”

You tried to laugh, light, airy, brave.

“You’re sixteen,” you said, poking his shoulder. “You’ll find me again in the future. We get married, you know. Big wedding. White dress. You cry first.”
He blinked. “Wait what?”

“And also, for the record?” You pointed at yourself. “I would love to go back to looking like an adult, because I am NOT built to survive in 2007 as a teenager again. My knees hurt. I miss phone chargers. I can’t even use a microwave right.”
He laughed.

“Okay, grandma. Chill.”

That question came later, when you were both half-asleep on the couch.
Your legs in his lap. His hand warm where it curled around your ankle like he didn’t even realize.

“Why me?” he whispered.
You didn’t open your eyes. “What do you mean?”
“Out of all the people you could’ve loved,” he said, voice smaller now, “why me?”

You opened your eyes.
And instead of answering, you reached over… and smoothed the white strands of hair away from his eyes.
“Love is..love.. It just happens,” you said softly. His breath hitched.

He kissed you that night.
Right after you teased him about how dumb he looked when he blushed.

You had both laughed too hard, leaned in too close, and it just… happened.
It was messy and too fast and you bumped noses.

You squeaked. He panicked. You laughed harder. He blushed so hard he turned pink.
He backed up so fast he almost fell off the couch.

“Wait…..did I….did I just…was it okay?!”
You, breathless, heart pounding: “You kissed me like a dork.”

He, flustered and melting into the floor: “I am a dork!”
You both burst out laughing.

But somewhere deep inside you, something cracked quietly open.

Because even if he never remembered you, even if the world reset for one second, he chose you anyway.

Chapter Text

You didn’t say goodbye.

That was the worst part.

There was no cosmic light show. No mysterious portal. No ticking countdown or final warning.
Just the rustle of your jacket, the soft clink of a tea cup, and the faint smell of Gojo’s shampoo on the couch cushion.
You were gone.

And the cup of tea you left behind was still warm.

The Morning Felt Off. He woke up late. You were always the one who made fun of his bedhead.
But the apartment was too quiet. Not funny-quiet. Not cozy-quiet. Just… empty.
He found your hoodie draped over the chair.

The one you wore every time you were cold.
The one you always stole back from him even though it technically was his to begin with.
The window was open. The sun was soft.

But something in his chest twisted like a bad omen.
He Waited. At first, he thought it was a prank.

Maybe you had gone out for a walk. Maybe you were testing him. Maybe you wanted to see if he cared enough to freak out.
He did.

He waited all day. Then the next. Then a week.

He asked around. Shoko. Geto. No one had seen you.

Not even the weirder sorcerers who might’ve caught a trace of cursed energy.
But there was nothing. No trail. No echo. Just… gone.

You had vanished from his world as suddenly as you had entered it.
And Gojo, for the first time in a long time, stopped laughing.

“Why did you have to leave?”

He said that to the couch one night, weeks later, in the dark.
He was alone. He had ramen again. He had your stupid hairclip in a drawer he refused to open.
But the silence stayed.

And Satoru Gojo, at sixteen, learned the first true lesson of loss: Sometimes the people who feel like home don’t get to stay.

Seven Years Later…
He sees you in Kyoto.
Not a battlefield. Not a magical accident. Not even a dramatic reunion.

Just a quiet temple, late afternoon, golden light falling like rain on everything.
You’re pacing. You look exactly the same just older.

Not a teenager but still bratty, confused, holding your phone up to the sky like it’s your last lifeline.

You’re muttering, “Why is there no damn signal here? Are we in a dead zone or in 1600? Like seriously”

And his heart stops.
You turn.

He’s taller now. Sharper jaw. Darker smile. A quiet sadness in his eyes he didn’t have before.

But the second he sees you, he knows.

“Hey,” he says, voice too casual for the way his hands are shaking.

You freeze.

“I’m gonna marry you.”

You blink. “Excuse me—”

“I’m dead serious.”

You look at him like he’s lost his mind. But your heart is pounding. Because… . something about him felt safe.

“…Are you okay?” you say carefully, one step back. “Do you need water? A therapist? Directions?”

He laughs, head tilting like you just told him the sky was green.

“No,” he says. “I need your number.”

You gape at him.“What?!”

“I mean, I already know I’m gonna marry you eventually. But we can start with a coffee if that makes you feel safer.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“I do. More than you think.”, he snaps back with a smile.

“That’s creepy.”
“I know. But I’m very charming. You'll get over it.”

He leans in a little. Not too close.

“...What’s your name?” you ask, voice barely above the wind.

“Satoru.”

“Okay, Satoru,” you say, unsure why your chest is warm. “You get one coffee. Just one. Just cause you look cute”

He smiles, boyish and relieved. “One is all I need.”