“atsumu, When I Die —”

ding!

. . . gojo satoru. to me, to you.

note. vague manga spoilers ahead. i’d love to elaborate more on this dynamic; please let me know if you want me to as well.

satoru does not remember much of his childhood.

to him, memories of forever ago are left as though they were faded film strips, too damaged to even try and make something out of them. he doesn’t dwell on that part of his life because all he could ever recall was when he’s enlightened of his fate and the omnipotent power he possesses from a very young age.

but he did, however, catch a glimpse and managed to hold on—cling to—a few of the good ones.

and those memories were mostly with you.

“someone’s lost in their train of thought.” he hears your voice approaching from behind. he merely shrugs his shoulders, relaxing against the marble railing of his estate’s balcony.

“mm. yeah, guess i am.”

you offered him a can of soda—his favorite brand and flavor—that you brought with you. satoru’s lips curled into a small smirk as he awed at the thought of you remembering despite almost two decades of not seeing each other.

“you remembered.”

“of course. why wouldn’t i?” you reply with a quick, feeble chuckle. “you always used to nag me about how you could only ever enjoy a few sodas.”

“i just have preferences,” he tells you with a slight nudge to your side. “and it just so happened to be very specific.” he glances at the can he held, and though he had his blindfold on, he could still tell that you got it right; you got it down to a t. “i knew you loved me.”

“in your dreams.”

“mhm. in my dreams, indeed.”

“oh, god. i hate you.”

“i knew you missed me.”

you rolled your eyes at his remark, glancing at his soda, then taking a gulp of your own. “still your favorite, right?”

satoru doesn’t know what you’re referring to. whether you’re asking if you’re still his favorite or the soda, though he does have a concrete answer.

“yep! you’re so thoughtful, even though you pretend to have not missed me.”

“don’t feed your little ego, ‘toru. your head’s going to keep on expanding until it’s the size of a hot air balloon.”

“hey!”

conversations breeze by like the chilly night air, creeping in and making their way known. he thinks this is the most he’s ever felt like he’s home. his childhood home, a haven where he felt safe and could truly live a life that his younger self was deprived of duty to a handful of “duties” and whatnot.

it’s like the calm before the storm. the rest—his rest—before he takes on something that he should’ve dealt with a long, long time ago. he’s not afraid, oh no.

because he is satoru, after all. the strongest.

and then the memory of someone he also held close to his heart replays, like a sudden alarm that wanted to remind him.

“are you the strongest because you’re gojo satoru? or are you gojo satoru because you’re the strongest?”

“a penny for thought?” you ask, noticing his sudden quietness.

he perks up, a bit stunned in place. “just a question,” he sighs, setting his drink aside for later. “who am i to you?”

he thinks it’s stupid because he’ll always feel that there’s a barrier that separates him from others. from you. because he’s the strongest, and that’s what it means to be the strongest, right? to feel as though you’re being distanced from everybody else.

“who you are . . . to me?” you said, tilting your head to the side. “like, how i see you?”

“yes.”

god, satoru swallows the lump in his throat, anticipation clinging to his whole body as he waits.

“oh, well . . .”

he expected a handful of answers, but none of them ever came close to yours.

“is it weird that i still feel like i’m talking to fifteen-year-old you?” you told him. “it’s like my mind’s still processing to bridge the gap of our memories together; to fill in the years we haven’t seen each other, y’know?”

“i see you as ‘toru. and to me, you are just ‘toru. that same ‘toru who i’ve been with since when we’re literally in diapers,

who kept on annoying me to wear matching pajamas when we were kids for the sleepover he begged his parents to agree to,

that same ‘toru who was spoiled to the core that he was so surprised that he went quiet when little me decided that they were over it with your incessant whining of wanting to play on the seesaw when they wanted to play on the sand box,

thee ‘toru who’s eyes almost always surprised me during the most random times, in a good way, of course.”

ah, now he remembers. those good memories, which were probably his core ones.

“you’re satoru—no, ‘toru,” you hum, thrumming your finger against the marble top. “my best friend. not the strongest sorcerer, not the wielder of the six eyes, not the teacher at jujutsu tech, but just ‘toru. my ‘toru. ”

satoru swore he’d lost his voice upon listening to your answer. and suddenly he feels as though he were a little kid again, looking at you with the utmost adoration—slight infatuation, even—as you told him through his little tears that it was normal to scrape his knee when he’s learning to ride a bike to be able to join you!

“thanks,” he says with a chuckle. “didn’t know i needed to hear all of that until now.”

“don’t mention it, ‘toru,” you nod. “ah, now that sounded sappy. ew! bleh, thought i left all of that behind.”

“heh, i like it when you’re a sap,” he mused.

“of course you do. but we have a lot to catch up on, so you better not die out there, mr. sorcerer.”

he smiles at that. “yeah. i’ll keep that in mind.”

“you still have those big, blue eyes you always used to get out of trouble?”

“knew you missed my eyes, too.”

“do not. you sure they’re not neon green now?”

“ha. ha. funny.” for a moment, he takes his time to remove his blindfold, his hand shaking a little as he does so. he doesn’t know why he’s so nervous.

“look.”

satoru notices the way you paused, examining how his features have matured over the years, and yet he’s still the satoru you knew. your ‘toru, as you said so yourself.

“eh. put the blindfold back on.”

“y/n!”

“i’m just saying,” you laugh a little. “your eyes haven’t changed; still as ethereal as ever.” you slid your half-empty soda next to his, signaling that you wanted him to finish yours. he’s known this for so long.

“let’s catch up again when you’re free, ok? i already gave you my number, right?”

he glances at the can, seeing the number—your number—written against the glossy layer. “yeah, do you want me to walk you home?” he offers, soft and warm.

you shook your head. “some other time, ‘toru.”

he nods in understanding as he watches you leave. as you fade alongside the background, slowly yet surely, satoru’s memories of his childhood are rekindled, outdoing his dim ones.

he’s glad that you’re home.

noomon © 2023. do not copy, modify, or translate my work.

let go of the idea that you have to be the best or do the most to be worth something.

🥐🍳 cause' you took me home, but you just couldn't keep me

ding!

. . . tsukishima kei. sweeter when i’m with you.

“did you even use a recipe—“

“yes, tsukishima. i did.” you answer.

continuing to apply frosting to your freshly baked cupcakes, you did your best to ignore the man in front of you. culinary class was fun, especially if your class was tasked with making a simple dessert for a graded activity. however, it was not that fun when you have a snarky middle blocker who always had a way to get through your nerves—watching you work throughout the process of creating such a sweet dessert.

even your sweet desserts would turn salty whenever he was around.

kei hums, amused by your response. “did you now?” he replies with that all-knowing smirk plastered on his stupidly good-looking face. “and what happened to calling me by my first name?”

“i changed my mind, that’s all.” you shrug, and he has the audacity to be the one frowning in this conversation. “it’s better to keep things professional, tsukishima. wouldn’t you agree?”

he huffs. “whatever,” he murmurs, propping his elbows on the counter, his head resting on his palm as he gazes up at you—just . . . admiring how you skillfully worked with the fluffy strawberry frosting—not that he’d ever admit it out loud, no way.

with the silence that followed, he quickly grew bored. “can i have some?” kei asks, eyes darting toward the strawberries you had cut specifically in the shape of little hearts for decorations.

“i don’t know, can you? what’s the magic word?”

“fuck you.”

“that’s not the magic word,” you coyly said to him. “i guess i’ll just give these extra strawberries to the volleyball team,” the thought wasn’t a bad one either, “maybe even have hinata or kageyama try these cupcakes i made once it’s graded.”

“no,” he says, slightly glaring at you.

now, it’s your turn to be amused. “no? did i hear that correctly, tsukishima?”

“it’s kei to you,” he corrects, softly this time. his expression was no longer stern, but this time, rather, it was one of slight annoyance and even pouting. “and . . . can i please have the extra strawberries?” he tries again, and for the first time in all the time you’ve known him, he looks at you with this soft, endearing look—as if he were some sort of kicked puppy by the street, begging to be adopted.

“see? it doesn’t kill you to be nicer to me,” you say, feeding him a strawberry or two—which he didn’t mind.

from the other stations, your classmates watched with either surprised or puzzled expressions after they’d witnessed your interaction with kei. even your teacher couldn’t help but ask, “are those two. . . ?” to which your classmates couldn’t answer either.

kei is definitely sweeter when he’s with you.

noomon © 2023. do not copy, modify, or translate my work.

stop defining yourself by what you lack. you are not the absence of qualities, you’re the presence of them.

“what’s on these?” megumi asks, holding up a box of memory cards.

cleaning day always unearthed all types of lost and forgotten items. sometimes it was clothes long forgotten in you and gojo’s closet, other times it was the kid’s old books or toys. you knew every inch of your little apartment, so most times you could identify any mystery items that came up.

“i don’t know,” you hum, plucking a card from the box to inspect it a little more closely. the only hint as to what’s actually on it seems to just be a date.

2006

…and it’s in gojo’s handwriting.

curious, you pop one into the video player and turn on the tv. the kids join you on the couch, clearly eager to entertain any distraction from your cleaning crusade.

when the screen flickers to life, a familiar courtyard comes into view.

you can’t help the gasp when haibara comes into focus…but then you see satoru standing standing across from him, arms spread out.

“who is that?” megumi asks, pointing at haibara.

you think of the bright smile of the boy still lingering in the edges of your memory and tell him, softly, “an old friend.”

“suguru!” gojo shouts, looking towards the person holding the camera. he’s all messy hair and wide smiles, exactly how you remember him in his youth. “make sure you get this one!”

geto grumbles someone about how he’s paying attention, and suddenly you remember exactly what this is.

“ah, these are from when yaga would make us record ourselves practicing cursed technique application,” you explain as a haibara lines up a shot with a pencil.

the pencil hits gojo in the face, gifting him a small cut on his cheek. “ah, shit!”

behind the camera you can hear nanami and geto laughing haibara apologizes profusely, and shoko comes over to practice her healing. you come over too, holding a cloth.

“don’t pout,” your younger self says, reaching up to wipe a thin trail of blood from his cheek. “you’ll get it next time.”

as soon you turn away, you hear geto snicker and the camera suddenly zooms in on gojo’s face.

he’s blushing.

“ugh,” you hear him groan behind the three of you, finally finished cleaning the bathroom. “are we done cleaning yet?”

“we’re taking a break!” tsumiki tells him, as megumi pops another card in.

gojo ignores megumi’s protests, stealing the spot on the couch next to you and wrapping an arm around your shoulders with a smirk. “move your feet, lose your seat.”

tsumiki, angel that she is, moves over so her brother can sit on your other side as the video starts.

this time, gojo is the one recording, holding the camera out so it’s pointed at his own smiling face. “haibara versus nanami, round one!”

you feel your boyfriend stiffen beside you, looking over to see an odd look on his face. “oh, fuck—”

“jar,” megumi says flatly.

he glares at the kid, and is about to get up when you stop him. “wait! i want to watch this!”

he slumps back, throwing an arm over his eyes as he groans dramatically. ignoring him, you watch the fight play out, which ends with haibara whining whilst in a headlock.

you hear geto’s murmured commentary off camera as nanami releases his classmate, expecting the video to zoom in on the victor.

but it drifts a little to the left, where you’re laughing with shoko on the sidelines.

“so obvious,” geto scoffs. the video wobbles for a moment before being pointed directly at the tips of satoru’s shoes, then ends abruptly.

when you glance over at satoru, he’s pulled his sunglasses over his eyes as if they can hide his pink cheeks.

the next videos are similar. memories of your past viewed through a different lens, showing you things you’d never picked up on when you were living them.

some moments you watch with an aching heart. like when suguru leans close to you and makes a joke at satoru’s expense, or when you reach up to ruffle haibara’s hair.

(moments with cherished friends proving that the grief of losing them never got any lighter as you moved forward with your life, but at some point you’d just gotten used to carrying the weight.)

but what might be most interesting is seeing yourself in satoru’s eyes.

his focus, whether he was the one holding the camera or not, always seemed to drift to you. for all the times he’d denied crushing on you in your early years, the camera proves otherwise.

the way he peeks at you shyly as you fix your hair before a fight.

the way he reaches out insticntively whenever you’re knocked backwards.

the way he smiles brightly whenever you laugh at one of his jokes.

the way your gaze would occasionally meet his, and his smile seemed to come naturally.

“okay, that’s enough for tonight,” satoru announces, shutting the tv off and shooing the children away. “go clean your rooms, you freeloaders.”

you stand, looping your arms around his neck before he can run away. smiling, you gently pull his glasses off, tossing them onto the couch.

“hey! those are gucci—”

you shut him up with a kiss, feeling the way his lips curve upwards against yours. “i love you, you know that?”

blue eyes meet yours, the pensive look he’d been wearing melting into something a little softer. something reserved for you. “you’re obsessed with me, i know.”

you simply laugh, letting him dip down to give you another kiss.

(because you’d had his heart in your pocket long before either of you had realized.)

“Wasn’t that the definition of home? Not where you are from, but where you are wanted.”

— Abraham Verghese

ding!

. . . nanami kento. in another universe.

note. happy birthday, kento! for my lovely, @yeonruco

birthday cakes were fun to make.

it was sweet, simple in its own way, and carried its own share of sentiment to both the birthday celebrant and the baker themself.

one of kento’s favorite mundane things to do on his days off was bake. he may not be the best at it, sure, but he has you right next to him as you read the instructions in your recipe book aloud. days like these are what he treasures most—a day where he can do things at his own pace, and though he usually does this even on his work days, he prefers these moments because he gets to spend them with you.

“you have, uh, a little something there, love,” you chuckle, wiping away the excess powdered sugar that got on his cheek with a clean cloth. “there we go!” you happily beam, “still as handsome as ever, eh?”

kento blinks at you, honestly stunned. after years of being married to you, his lovely spouse, he still found himself a bit flustered by the little mannerisms you do for him. he can’t even deny that it made his heart do little backflips—even cartwheels by the gesture, not that he’ll ever do so.

“oh, thank you,” he replies, offering you a soft kiss on the cheek in return.

“mm, happy birthday, kento!” you cheer. “you’re on year closer to becoming an old grandpa.” you glance at the cake and frosting you had prepared on the table, then back at your husband. “shall we get to decorating your cake?”

he can’t help but chuckle quietly at that. kento’s thumb softly caresses your cheek, completely disregarding your last sentence. he leans in closer, his face inches away from yours.

“but i’ll be an old grandpa alongside you, right? we’ll grow old together.” he says this, and it’s not a question, rather a statement.

he’d grow old with you until he’s all wrinkled and have gray hair.

you smile. “of course we’ll grow old together!” you reply, placing a soft kiss on his lips.

“really, happy birthday, love!”

you were met with an unwelcome silence. you must’ve been recalling things again because it’s been five years since your husband unfortunately passed away during his line of work.

a careful, melancholy sigh escaped your lips as you sat on his grave. his headstone newly polished since you had just visited a few days ago, and you didn’t even know if you were missing your dear kento because only his possessions are buried in his grave. were you technically just mourning his belongings? or did his memory become what your heart yearns to properly mourn instead of his absent physical body?

you didn’t dwell on the thought too much.

“happy birthday, love.” your voice is quiet and defeated. “i made your favorite cake.”

smiling sadly to yourself, you took a bite of your portion of the delicious cake, not before offering him the first slice, of course.

kento always loved it when he had the first slice or piece of something you baked. it made him feel as though he was the most important critic and fan of your masterpiece.

in another universe, kento is helping you bake his favorite pastries, just after baking his own birthday cake after many unsuccessful attempts.

noomon © 2023. do not copy, modify, or translate my work.

ding!

. . . ushijima wakatoshi. if you ever forget that you love me.

note. timeskip content + spoilers for the manga franchise ahead. inspired by a song that my lovely @yeonruco recommended, it's if you ever forget that you love me by isak danielson!

arguments with your husband were a rare occurrence.

but the chances of it not happening were not guaranteed when you sealed in your simple, intimate vows; this does not mean that you two didn’t make the effort and time to talk things through whenever exhaustion and workload made the retaliations blunt and evidently heated.

your husband, wakatoshi, was a patient man.

his patience could reach for miles and back, but there were just days when he felt so exhausted from volleyball practice that his attitude could come off as cold and blunt. you’ll be able to tell that he was not in the mood to argue further with you when he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, as he’ll then suggest that he’ll be sleeping on the guest bedroom—sleeping much earlier than he would on a normal day.

usually, your arguments simmer down after a day or two. though this one went on for literal weeks.

stubbornness clung onto the both of you, which was rare, not wanting to admit that they were in the wrong, even though both were to blame and could be considered to be in the wrong in this argument.

conversations were kept to a minimum, and still, you two ate dinner together, a silent oath to yourselves and reassurance that no matter how much you two ignored one another throughout the day, you still loved each other.

of course, wakatoshi is the first to apologize, since this whole petty argument started because he wasn’t in the mood to entertain your silly question when you asked him so nicely and even told him beforehand as his day just began at that time.

when you entered the bathroom and glanced at the mirror to carry out your usual routine, what was once a squeaky-clean mirror now had a little note on the bottom right corner.

good morning. you look stunning, as always. :) i made your favorite breakfast. we’ll talk about our argument when i get home later, ok? i love you, now and forever.

now and forever is what he always told you, and wakatoshi says it, whether it’s written neatly with a whiteboard marker or spoken with that soothing voice of his, you know he means it through and through. no questions are asked. nothing to argue about there because when he says now and forever, he means it with everything he could ever offer.

a smile made its way to your lips as you read this.

at the kitchen table, a plentiful variety of your favorite was indeed, made, along with a note that was written on a sticky note. curious, you took your time to read through the simple message your husband had left you.

have a wonderful breakfast, love. i already ate before i went to practice, and i didn’t want to wake you up so we could have breakfast together because you came home exhausted last night.

the end of his note is sealed with a small heart, and your day is instantly brighter than the days before.

wakatoshi snuggles closer to you, considering that the argument has been resolved. he’s missed this and he couldn’t wait to bask in your attention, and make up for the time lost over some petty argument. to him, time is gold.

“love, about your question.”

“hm?”

“your question before our argument.”

“oh? what of it?”

“while i do love you, waxing my legs before an important friendly match is not ideal.”

“what? why not?”

“y/n, love. that hurts,” he replies, basing his answer on experience.

“it was one time,” you huff. “and i’ve gotten better at it now!”

safe to say that you two went to bed with lots of laughter after that.

noomon © 2023. do not copy, modify, or translate my work.

cop: you’re receiving a ticket for having three people on one motorcycle. toji: shit! gojo!reader: wait, three? cop: yeah? tsumiki: OH MY GOD MEGUMI FELL OFF!!!