REARRANGED
Foreward
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When a young woman is hit by a truck and falls into the world of Jujutsu Kaisen, things hardly go the way she expected. Everything is terribly, terribly wrong. Instead of a warm reception from the characters she knows, she manages to piss off the strongest Jujutsu Sorcerer alive within minutes of meeting him. Convinced that she's up to no good and fascinated by her absurd story of inter-dimensional travel, Gojo keeps her firmly tucked under the heels of his boots.
And he's decided that he'll never let her go.
What follows is a slow-burn enemies-to-lovers romance between Gojo Satoru and the unnamed Reader Avatar (AFAB Original Character), though that's hardly at the forefront. The story is about subverting expectations, breaking down character archetypes, and building up the world of Jujutsu Kaisen in a way the manga neglected to.
This fanfiction deconstructs popular aspects of "yandere" love interests, the emotionally catastrophic results of too-young protagonists facing insurmountable odds (a formula that Shonen anime/manga favor), and the common tropes that we writers use every day.
In keeping with this platform's stance on explicit sexual content, all of it has been edited out for this iteration of the story. This is to prevent the story's removal form the site. If smut is what you crave, the version on my AO3 account is available to read as well; it will have plenty.
Enjoy! Please don't hesitate to comment/review, even if it's just to mindlessly hate. I appreciate feedback in all forms, and comments help let me know what I'm doing correct/incorrect. Remember that fanfiction writers put out content for free, and that we appreciate feedback in return for our work.
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Prologue - Unfinished Painting
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When death strikes, it's sometimes a long, slow cut. And sometimes, it's swift as the blink of an eye. It does so efficiently, without remorse, and without discernment. We all die, in the end.
I was nineteen when I was made an orphan. It wasn't sudden, nor was it unexpected. Mom had been sick for a very, very long time. But she'd been talking, holding my hand. Then she was gone. In a single blink of an eye, a lonesome tick of the clock. Her hand went slack in mine.
Mom's death had been a slow cut, festering over months and months until it was long overdue. I'd been preparing for months for the day she finally found peace. But it was still a surprise, still a shock. It was still an inescapable personal tragedy. My own corner of Hell, in a white tiled room with ventilators and heart monitors, and a million other cold and impersonal little machines.
I watched the doctors rush around like I was a thousand miles away, observed from outside of my body as they tried in vain to bring her back from beyond the threshold. Death did not relinquish her, no matter how much they pumped into her IV or compressed her chest. In the end, they called it. September twenty-sixth, 6 o'clock in the evening.
There were sympathetic words from the hospital staff, gentle pats to my shoulders and even a hug or two from the nurses I'd grown familiar with. But I heard none of it, felt none of it. I went about my motions like I was piloting myself remotely. Papers signed, one after another—release forms and notices and so, so many bills. Personal effects gathered—a picture of baby me cradled in Dad's burly arms, another photo of Dad and I at my high school graduation, flowers and get-well cards, a hand-knitted blanket from some of Mom's church friends.
When I got home to my little studio apartment, I placed the box of Mom's most precious things on my counter. And I stood there in my kitchenette, just staring in space. Unsure of what to do now. She'd been sick for so long, in the hospital for so long, that it felt unreal.
My short, jagged fingernails tapped on my linoleum countertops as I lost myself in thought. Mom had always begged me to stop chewing them, but I'd never quite broken the habit. Mom had always wanted to see me with long, pretty, painted nails. Now it's too late. It's funny and sad how stuff like that doesn't matter until it does.
Even as I unpacked her stuff, I didn't cry.
I was just... empty, I guess. Too tired, or maybe too shocked.
Her flowers went into the windowsill, where they could stay pretty for just a little longer before withering away; the nurses had offered to toss them, but the bouquet had been comprised of all her favorite flowers and I just couldn't bring myself to throw it away. When I pulled my baby photo out of the box, I pressed a kiss against Dad's frozen likeness. "She's with you now, Daddy; take care of her, okay?"
His photos went on my bedside table, alongside the rest of my family stills. A picture of my baby sister caught my eye and I stared at the thing blankly. How I was going to tell her that Mom passed? Would I even be able to tell her? She was hard to reach more often than not—probably out backpacking in some remote country without cell service. With her rich boyfriend. While Mom battled organ failure, and lost.
I swallowed the last bits of lingering resentment and sighed, flopping down onto my back and knitting myself into the weave of my sheets. And, to the soundtrack of the air conditioner's steadfast hum, I slipped away into a fitful sleep.
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Whatever calls that needed to be made were taken care of by Mom's oldest brother. The will had already been drafted earlier this year, and funeral arrangements were set up even before Mom had gotten sick. After Dad had died unexpectedly from COVID complications, she'd made sure that we wouldn't have to suffer though inheritance drama if something happened to her as well. And so she'd gotten with a reputable law firm to cover all the basics. To make it so that all I'd needed to do was sign a few papers here and there while our uncle rounded out the last few rough edges.
She'd always been thoughtful like that, worrying about the little details that most other people would simply ignore, doing the things that most other people would put off. And she'd done it for my sister and I. Because she'd always given her everything for other people. Selfless.
Or maybe, even then, she'd been planning for the inevitable.
Morning started with a much-needed cup of coffee and the remnants of the half-eaten peanut butter sandwich from the day before. My appetite had waned so much over the last few months... It was crazy to see just how much, though. I'd been able to see my ribs at one point, and my collar bones had become pronounced in the v-necks of my shirts. In taking care of Mom, I'd left myself by the wayside.
I'd neglected other things, too.
An easel and canvas lay covered in the corner of the room, doing little more than collecting dust. Every morning, I gave it a nasty side eye, wondering when I'd just get rid of the stupid thing. Maybe it'd be good to start fresh on a new piece. If I ever found inspiration to draw or paint, anyway. My book collection was little more than decoration at this point, too. Only a few manga volumes had been touched, when I'd take them to the hospital to read with Mom; she'd liked looking at the pictures.
I scrolled through my phone, noting that I had a few missed calls from work. Ouch. They'd even left a message. I exhaled through my nose, placing the phone up to my ear and dreaded what was going to come next.
With good reason.
"Hey, this is Cheryl from HR. I know that we'd previously approved intermitted leave to care for a sick family member, but your absentee hours have gone over what was allotted. My records show that you were given a final warning about reaching the limit last week—"
I hung up and tossed the phone unto the countertop. Trying to self-soothe, I pressed the heels of my palms into my eyes. My hands trembled. And I told myself that it would be alright, that the company would understand that it's hard to deal with the loss of a family member, that they would make an exception for me, that I could still go back to work tomorrow as if nothing had ever happened.
I picked up the phone and finished the message.
"—reaching the limit last week. Unfortunately, your time with us wasn't long enough to accrue any PTO, so we can't transfer any sick time over. With your extended absences in mind, we would like you to come in and talk to a member of management about your exit options. You aren't eligible for a severance package, and your sign-on bonus needs to be refunded to us since you didn't pass the year mark. A manager can discuss payment options with you, if you're unable to pay in one lump sum. Thank you for working for us. We're sorry that it had to end on this note, but we'd love for you to reapply in the future!"
It ends on that note, with a cheery tune playing through the speakers. I'd just lost my job. I'd just lost Mom. And then I'd gotten fired for taking care of her. I'd just... I dropped onto my knees and wheezed out a little laugh of disbelief.
"Of fucking course," I whispered, fingers tangling in my hair and yanking. "How am I going to pay for the funeral?"
Most of Mom's money had gone to hospital bills. What had been originally allotted to pay for the end-of-life ceremonies didn't exist anymore. I'd been prepared to pay foy everything. My uncle couldn't, not being on Disability with a fixed income, and Mom's other brother had been estranged from the family since the eighties.
And my sister certainly wasn't going to help. Not with the way she felt about Mom at the end.
I huddled on the floor of my kitchenette, fingers clawed into my scalp, wondering what I was going to do. How was I going to pay for the apartment? With the cost-of-living skyrocketing, there was no way I was going to be able to pay to live with a crappy fast-food job, and all the factories around were laying off workers by the tens. And I wasn't exactly qualified to do anything else, since I'd dropped out of college—not that an art degree would've been helpful anyway, but...
I still didn't cry. Not when my whole world was collapsing around me. Not when I'd lost my mommy and my job back-to-back.
And I resolved that I was going to go back into the store and talk to my boss. Maybe I could work something out? Maybe I could switch shifts or departments or... well, anything, really?
Or...
Maybe, if I didn't get my job back, I could've started doing murals for the businesses in town again. It'd gotten me through high school, and I'd made enough to buy a used car. I could've paint windows for offices or the brickwork facades downtown, or done commissions for smaller pieces. If there's anything I can bank on, always, it's my skill as an artist.
I pulled myself up off the floor and crossed over to where my easel had remained untouched since the night Mom got sick. The sheet came off and I eyed my work critically. The painting on the canvas was half-finished, a work-in-progress that'd never quite made "progress". It was an ambitious landscape painting: colorful sunrise breaking over the Colorado Rocky Mountains, with clouds encircling the highest peaks and rays caressing the jagged edges of the cliff faces. It'd been detailed, almost obsessively so, and vivid.
I traced the edges of the painting fondly. It was supposed to be my best work yet. And it had been. For a time.
Until, in a fit of rage, I'd thrown an entire tube of red paint at it. Crimson splatters dot the scenic mountains like blood spray. It's thickest at the center, where the tube had impacted like a meteor. A bullseye, Dad would've joked if he'd been alive to. The painting wasn't necessarily ruined; I could still restore it if I worked hard. And I could sell it for a pretty penny. It'd been commissioned by a museum in Colorado Springs, originally, for quite a bit of money. The offer had long passed, but I might've be able to find somebody else willing to buy it—though at a sharp discount.
I could paint again. Be an artist again instead of a caretaker.
My fingers touched the painting longingly. But, in the end, I tossed the tarp back over the mountains, covering them and their red, red stain from my view.
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The parking lot in front of my former workplace was packed, as per usual. I found my usual spot with one hand on the wheel, the other kept my phone pressed against my ear.
It wasn't a surprise when my sister's phone went straight to voicemail, not with how our relationship had been tanking the months before. I sat in my car, watching people mill about the parking lot with their shopping carts full of goods. And I scowled when one person pushed their empty cart into another parking spot instead of the cart return. Idiot. The answer tone in my ear gave me my sister's name and told me to leave a message.
Beep.
"Hey, it's me," I stated into the phone, feeling like an idiot. Of course she knows it's me; that's probably why she hadn't answered in the first place. "So, listen, you don't have to come back from whatever exotic country you're touring. It can wait. But I thought you should know... Mom died last night." I feel my throat tighten. "I'm taking care of everything, along with Uncle Bub. And I now you said you didn't want to be involved with anything, but... I just... I thought you should know."
Beep.
"Fuck!"
Snapping in anger, gripped the phone so hard that the fragile class façade threatened to break. Part of me hoped it would, that spiderweb cracks overtook it and the screen shattered in my grasp. So I'd lose her number and never have to call her again. Then I'd never have to see her again, either.
I'd never see her again, just like Dad. Just like Mom.
Was that what I really wanted? ... Maybe not.
I rolled my shoulders, loosening my white-knuckled chokehold. And I flipped my phone back on and opened up the browser. Taking a moment to compose myself, I scrolled through the news on my home screen and blocked out the outside world. And I saw a headline titled "JJK: Fan-Favorite Character Killed in Battle", with a picture of Sukuna next to it.
"They finally ended that fight, huh?" Gojo had been kicking his ass on and off for a few solid chapters, so it wasn't a surprise that Sukuna had finally met his match. "Oh, right. I missed the latest update." Out of curiosity, I clicked on the article and scrolled down, looking for the manga panels in question. And I stopped and blinked once. Twice. Not able to comprehend what I was seeing.
"Th-that's not possible, right?" I inhaled through my nose. Out through my mouth. Trying to calm myself.
My car suddenly felt claustrophobic, hot. On the rearview mirror, little chibis of my favorite anime characters hang and jingle together. I made eye contact with tiny Tsunade from Naruto and sigh. Then my eyes met the blindfolded gaze of Gojo; his figure mocked me from its place next to Levi Ackerman. I stared at him for a bit, and yanked his chain off the mirror, tossing him into the back seat where I couldn't look at him anymore. Then I pressed my face into the backs of my hands and screamed at the top of my lungs.
Because it wasn't Sukuna dead. Gojo Satoru had been bisected, cut clean through, and left in a pool of his own blood. Because of course this had to happen now! Because the universe was so fucking funny that it had to play some sort of cosmic joke on me. Because Gege killing off that character just had to happen now!
Unable to help myself, I laughed. I laughed so hard that my shoulders shook. And I laughed so hard that the laughs turned to sobs, and then to wails. And I laughed so hard that tears finally broke free from my eyes, pouring down my cheeks and dripping off my chin. After all the shit that'd happened the last two days, and it was the death of some stupid manga character that finally did it.
I cried.
It was ugly, and violent, and so stupid. I was an idiot, losing it over some fake guy when I couldn't even shed a tear for the woman who'd raised me. And though I tried to stop, the waterworks kept coming and coming and coming. Until I was left spent and hiccupping in the parking lot like a baby. Until snot and drool stained my t-shirt, and salt from my tears was caked to my face. I cried for what felt like hours.
Until the tears just... stopped.
And, little by little, I came back to myself.
In the aftermath, there was a bit of clarity, of peace. The buildup and the release of pressure. Catharsis. Weight lifted off my shoulders and I felt a levity that I hadn't in months. Despite the tightness of my chest, I felt like I could breathe again. Like my lungs were expanding properly and my heart was beating in my chest instead of my throat.
Turns out that crying is good for you; who'd have guessed?
I took a baby wipe to my face and observed my reflection. There were bags under my eyes from sleepless nights, and my cheeks had a hollowness to them that I'd never seen before. Still looked like death warmed over. Still vaguely resembled something out of a horror movie. But I felt a little bit better.
"Okay," I talked to myself out loud like a crazy person, "you're going to march in there and ask for your job back. But first, you're going to call that brat and tell her that she has to come to Mom's funeral. You don't care abut her personal feelings on the subject; Mom raised her and she owes it to the woman to watch her be laid to rest!"
I nodded in affirmation. This was it. I exited my car and exhaled the last bit of frustration out. Then I reached into the back seat to grab my purse, stopping for a moment when my fingers brushed over the little figure of Gojo. I stared at him and breathed in shakily, telling myself not to start crying again. I carefully bypass him and snatch my back up by the handle.
Before I stow my phone, I take one last look to check the time. Eleven in the morning; HR would still be in. Then my eyes traced the photo in the background. I gazed at my lock screen with fondness. It was a photo of the four of us—before Dad got sick, and Mom, and before my baby sister ran off with some guy twice her age. A time capsule, a moment preserved in perfection.
I missed when we were all together. I missed Dad; I missed his big, loud laughs that startled me, and his terrible jokes, and how he'd seemed to have the answer for everything. And I missed Mom; I longed for who she'd been before the stroke and the mental impairment and memory loss, when she'd still been as warm as sunshine and calm as the summer sky.
My gaze flickered over my sister's toothy, gappy pre-teen smile. Fondly, I recalled those years, when she was young and still looked up to me. She'd grown colder as she'd also grown older—developed a chill to her presence that not even the warmth of familial love could thaw. Dad's death had made it worse. But Mom... well, after the initial hospitalization, the chill had turned to a sheet of thick and impenetrable ice. Seeing an old photo of her, carefree and still such a proactive member of our family, was a punch to the gut.
I missed my little sister, who'd always wanted to turn our bunk bed into a blanket fort, who'd always insisted that she be greeted with a kiss to her knuckles because 'that's how you say hello to a princess'. I'd loved her like nobody else. I missed her so much.
And then she'd become an adult. And she'd left me behind without a backwards glance.
The thought just left me fighting back more tears. I cleared my throat and dialed her number again. Voicemail, again. But I'd come to expect that.
"I know you and Mom had a rough relationship the last few months, I get it." I exited my car. A gust of wind blew the loose shopping cart in front of me, and I let it cross before making my way towards the building. "I know you think you hated her—and maybe you did, maybe you still do—but I know you'll come to regret it if you don't say goodbye. She loved the two of us more than anything, and letting her mistake take away from the love she gave us is unforgivable. If you don't come to Mom's funeral—"
I'll never forgive you.
But I never got to finish my ultimatum. The screeching of tires cut me off as I whirled around just in time to see the grill of a large truck barreling toward me. And then there was the sickening crunch of bones breaking and somebody screaming.
Because that shopping cart had blown onto the road, in front of a vehicle going way too fast. Reckless. Stupid. And in a bid to avoid hitting it, the driver had cranked their wheel. And hit me instead.
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When death strikes, it's sometimes a long, slow cut. And sometimes, it's swift as the blink of an eye. It does so efficiently, without remorse, and without discernment. We all die, in the end.
I'm nineteen when I meet death head on in the parking lot of a shitty retail store. Barely an adult, and the thread of my life is cut with one swift schlink of a Fate's scissors. All the hopes and dreams inside my head smear across the pavement like paint spatters on a canvas. Just a red, red stain. I'm not even old enough to drink. I never got to go back to school. I never got to fix my painting. I'm leaving my sister all alone. I'm only nineteen and I have so much unfinished business that even as the darkness closes in, I rage against it.
Something wraps around my chest and tugs.
My eyes slip closed and I fall into the void.
.
Further.
.
.
Down.
.
.
.
I plummet into the deepest darkness I've ever experienced. And I'm left here. Alone.
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Prologue - End
