lady-arcane

Latest Posts by lady-arcane

Your Violence Reminded Me of Home :

They send you in after the damage is already done.

You’re not a hero. You’re what comes after.

The body bag. The Suture. The ghost that cleans up after gods.

You were trained to fix what can’t be fixed.

To close wounds that were never meant to be opened.

To make dying quieter.

And that’s when he noticed you.

Not because you were brave.

Not because you were powerful.

But because you never flinched.

Even when he stood over you, soaked in someone else’s blood, smiling like he was born to ruin.

You didn’t look away.

That’s what got under his skin.

That’s what kept him coming back.

-----

You didn’t speak to him with reverence. You spoke to him like someone who'd seen too much to be impressed anymore.

“Move,” you said once, knee-deep in what used to be someone’s liver. “Unless you’re going to help.”

He tilted his head like a dog hearing thunder.

“You’re awfully calm for someone standing in a massacre.”

“It’s Tuesday,” you said.

-----

You were the kind of person the world forgets until it needs you.

Invisible until someone starts bleeding.

And maybe that’s what made him stay.

You never looked at him like he was legend or apocalypse. You looked at him like he was inconvenient.

That kind of irreverence should have made him crush you.

Instead, he lingered.

-----

The first time he watched you lose someone, you didn’t cry.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t pray.

You just pressed your hand to the boy’s cooling chest and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Not to the gods.

To him.

He saw the way your shoulders locked, the way you didn’t breathe for a full minute. Like maybe if you didn’t move, you wouldn’t feel it.

You didn’t notice him watching.

He didn’t speak.

But later, you found the curse responsible strung from a tree, head twisted the wrong way.

It had taken you three hours to get there. Sukuna must’ve gotten there in two.

-----

You weren’t kind to him. That’s not what this is.

You were honest.

He once asked, casually, why you didn’t run like the others.

“Because I’ve spent my whole life cleaning up after men who think violence is the only language worth speaking.”

“You think I’m just another man?” he said, voice sharp.

“No,” you replied. “I think you used to be.”

-----

And that haunted him.

Because he’d burned down whole cities just to forget that—

-----

The first time he touched you, you were bandaging his side. A jagged gash from something that didn’t know better.

You didn’t ask why he didn’t heal it himself.

He didn’t ask why your hands shook a little.

But when your knuckles brushed his ribs, he stilled.

Not because it hurt.

Because it didn’t.

And that scared him more.

You didn’t make him human.

You reminded him he still was.

That was worse.

-----

He started showing up more. Missions you weren’t supposed to survive. Places no one should be. You’d find him in the aftermath, leaning against rubble, watching you with that same expressionless violence in his gaze.

Sometimes he asked questions.

“Do you believe in saving people?”

“Not anymore.”

“Why still try?”

“Because someone has to.”

“You always do things that don’t work?”

“I stayed talking to you, didn’t I?”

He laughed. It sounded like breaking glass.

-----

It was never romantic.

But God, it was intimate.

The kind of intimacy that doesn’t look like love.

It looks like two people who can’t lie to each other anymore.

-----

You started dreaming about him.

Not in soft ways.

In recognition ways.

His voice in the dark. His blood on your hands.

Your name in his mouth like a secret he hates knowing.

It wasn’t love.

It was something older.

Like grief. Like guilt. Like home.

-----

One night, you asked him something you’d never dared to ask anyone.

“Do you think people like us get better?”

He didn’t answer for a long time.

“No,” he said eventually. “But sometimes we get understood.”

You nodded.

You didn’t speak again for hours.

He didn’t leave.

-----

You told yourself it wasn’t connection. Just mutual ruin. Two broken things orbiting the same grave.

But then you got hurt. Badly.

And he lost his mind.

Not loudly. Not with roars.

Just with silence.

The kind that feels like a closing door—

When you woke up in a makeshift shelter, your wounds stitched with unnatural precision, he was already gone.

But outside the door, you saw what he left:

A trail of bodies. Eyes gouged. Faces melted. Blood spelling out a name.

Yours.

-----

You didn’t thank him.

You never did.

But the next time he appeared beside you, you didn’t ask why.

You just said, “You’re late.”

And he replied, “You’re alive.”

-----

You don’t belong together. You know this. You knew it from the start.

He is the myth that devours the world.

And you? You’re the woman who keeps trying to tape it back together.

But sometimes he sits close enough for your knees to touch, and doesn’t flinch.

Sometimes you reach for the same gauze at the same time, and your fingers linger.

Sometimes, you both exist in the same silence.

And it feels like the closest either of you has ever come to peace.

-----

He once told you that your eyes made him feel guilty.

You said, “Good.”

-----

You never tell him you love him.

But once, while half-conscious, he whispered:

“You’re the only thing I’ve ever seen that wasn’t ugly.”

You never bring it up again.

But you remember.

-----

You won’t survive this.

He might.

But not you.

And he knows it.

And that’s the tragedy.

Because for the first time in his life, he doesn’t want to win.

He wants to keep.

And the world doesn’t let men like him keep people like you.

---

But for now—

You sit in the rubble.

He watches you patch another dying sorcerer together with trembling hands and exhausted breath.

And he thinks:

Your violence reminded me of home.

But your silence reminded me of being known.

And he hates you for it.

And he keeps coming back anyway.

-----

People Like Us Don’t Survive Love :

You met him when he was still almost whole.

Geto Suguru—with his easy smile and sleepless eyes, the boy who said the world was cracked like glass and still tried to carry it in his bare hands. Back then, he hadn’t yet decided to hate it. Not entirely.

And you—naïve enough to believe that love could be a soft place to land. That maybe, just maybe, you could be enough to keep him tethered to the light.

You were wrong, of course. But that’s the thing about people like you and Suguru.

You want to believe in beautiful endings even as you sharpen your teeth for the fall.

-----

He used to say things like:

“If we were gods, would you still love me?”

And you’d laugh, kiss the corner of his mouth, say:

“Only if you didn’t act like one.”

He didn’t laugh back. Not really—

-----

You knew he was slipping long before the massacre. Not by his actions, but by the pauses between them.

The silence after missions stretched longer. The way he’d stare at children with something like dread curdling in his eyes. His hands still touched you gently, but his words grew heavier, like they were being dragged out of a well.

He told you he was tired. He told you that saving people started to feel like holding sand with bloodied fingers. He told you that no one cared.

You told him you did.

That was the problem.

-----

When he finally broke, he didn’t shatter. He peeled. Like an old wall cracking in slow motion, truth flaking off with every breath. You watched him rot and rebuild in the same breath.

“You love me,” he said once, “because I haven’t hurt you yet.”

“That’s not true,” you whispered.

But it was.—

-----

The last night you saw him before he disappeared, the moon was hanging like a sickle in the sky. He wouldn’t look at you when he spoke.

“You make me hesitate,” he said.

You stood still, heart in your throat. “Good. You should hesitate.”

“No.” His voice was quiet, almost reverent. “That’s why you have to go. I can’t carry this part of myself anymore.”

And by this part, he meant you.

-----

But he didn’t kill you. He could’ve.

Instead, he left you alive with the softest kind of violence: the knowledge that he was still out there, being terrible, being brilliant, being lost—and that somewhere deep inside, he still loved you.

That was the cruelty. Not the leaving. But the not-quite.

-----

You dream about him sometimes.

In those dreams, he comes back. Not reformed—don’t be stupid. No, in your dreams, he’s still the Geto Suguru who believes the world needs fixing, but he’s tired and he crawls into bed beside you, smelling like blood and smoke, and he doesn’t say sorry.

He just touches your face like it’s still sacred.

You always wake up aching. You never tell anyone.

-----

When the world speaks of him, they call him a traitor.

You never correct them. What’s the point?

(You just nod and keep your mouth shut and bleed quietly in places no one can see.)

Because how do you explain that you were loved by a ghost long before he died?

How do you explain that you watched him become the villain, and still sometimes miss the boy who asked if you thought cursed spirits cried?

---

You’ve tried to hate him.

God, you’ve tried—

But how do you hate someone who was sick and brilliant and yours before the sickness won?

How do you hate someone who once touched your hand like it meant something?

How do you hate someone who almost stayed?

-----

And the worst part?

You understand him.

Not the killing. Not the cruelty. But the loneliness beneath it. The isolation of knowing too much, feeling too much. You’ve seen the way the system feeds itself—how kindness is disposable and the weak get left behind. You know how loud the silence is when you scream into the void and no one listens.

You just chose to survive it differently.

He burned.

You buried.

-----

You saw him again once. Years later.

He didn’t smile.

You didn’t cry.

But when your eyes met across that broken corridor—battle rising, blood in the air—you saw it again: hesitation. The ghost of the boy he was. The boy who once made you tea when you were sick. The boy who told you cursed spirits were just grief given shape.

He didn’t say a word.

Neither did you.

And then he left you standing there.

Again.

-----

Sometimes you wonder if he ever loved you.

If maybe it was all projection—an echo of his old self reaching for something warm before he extinguished the last light.

But then you remember the way he looked at you. Like you were the only thing in a crumbling world that made him consider staying.

And that’s worse.

Because he did love you.

And still chose this.

-----

People like you and Suguru—

You don’t survive love.

You dismantle under it.

Because when you give yourself to someone who’s breaking, you don’t just lose them. You lose the part of yourself that believed you could fix them. That love could be an answer.

You survive the aftermath, sure. You keep breathing.

But you are never, ever whole again.

-----

He exists now only in half-memories, in the spaces between sleep and sobering clarity. You never say his name. You don’t need to.

It echoes anyway—

Suguru.

Suguru.

Suguru.

A name like a wound.

A god who tried to save the world and hated you for being the reason he couldn’t.

-----

The Quiet Kind of Tired :

You meet Nanami Kento on a Tuesday,

which feels exactly right. Tuesdays are the most unremarkable days of the week. Nobody romanticizes a Tuesday. You don’t expect to fall in love on one.

You’re working overtime again, elbows deep in paperwork that means nothing, for people who care even less. He sits across from you in the break room. Neat suit. Tired eyes. He drinks his coffee black, like he’s punishing himself.

You say something cynical. He doesn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitches. That’s how it starts.

No grand gestures.

Just a quiet understanding between two people too tired to pretend they’re okay.

-----

Dating Nanami is like walking into a room already cleaned.

Everything in its place. Emotion folded tightly into polite responses. He takes you out to dinner every Thursday. He walks you home. He buys you flowers—carnations, not roses. Clean, efficient, not too sentimental.

He doesn’t talk about his past. You don’t ask. You’re both adults. You both understand that talking about certain things doesn’t make them easier.

Still, some nights, when the city is too loud and you’ve had one glass of wine too many, you look at him and think—

I am loving a man who does not know what to do with softness.

And he looks back at you like you’re made of glass he’s trying not to break with his silence.

-----

You love him anyway. Not because it’s easy. But because he never lies to you. Not in words, at least.

He tells the truth in smaller ways. When he takes the side of the bed closest to the door. When he holds your wrist instead of your hand, like it’s easier to let go that way. When he texts, "I’m sorry, I’ll be late tonight,” and you don’t ask why.

Because you know the answer:

He is always late for himself.

---

You don’t realize how tired you’ve become until you stop recognizing your own voice. You speak less. Smile less. You don’t cry—you just compress.

Like your feelings are cargo in a suitcase too small.

Nanami doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does, and he thinks it’s something you need to handle alone. That’s the thing about him—he believes in self-reliance to a fault. As if needing people is something shameful. Something weak.

You once told him you wanted to take care of him.

He said, “That’s not necessary.”

You didn’t offer again.

-----

The silence grows slowly, like water under a door.

You tell your friends he’s “steady.” You tell yourself it’s enough.

But you start watching couples on the train. Not the loud, annoying kind. The quiet ones. The ones who lean their heads together. The ones who speak without speaking.

And you think—I want to be chosen without hesitation.

With Nanami, you are always chosen… responsibly.

-----

One night, you come home early from work. He’s already there, standing in the kitchen in a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He’s slicing something—methodical, perfect. His tie is loosened. His hair slightly messy.

He looks tired. Not in the dramatic, cinematic way. Just… tired in the way people look when they’ve been carrying everything alone for too long.

You drop your bag by the door and say, “You know you can talk to me, right?”

He pauses. Doesn’t turn around.

“I don’t want to burden you,” he says.

There’s no malice in it. No edge.

But God, does it hurt.

You say nothing. Walk to the bathroom. Close the door gently.

You stare at yourself in the mirror and wonder when you started mistaking restraint for kindness.

-----

You dream of him leaving. Not out of cruelty. But out of quiet, inevitable decay.

You dream of growing old beside him and never once hearing him say, “I need you.”

You wake up gasping.

And when you roll over to look at him, he’s still asleep, face turned away from you, hands folded like he’s praying.

-----

You don’t break up. Of course not. That would require a climax, and your relationship is built entirely on anti-climax. You just… let it fray.

There’s no cheating. No screaming. Just unspoken questions hanging like fog in the room.

You start eating dinner separately. You stop saying I miss you because he never said it first.

And he—he grows even quieter. Like he knows you’re drifting, and he’s letting you go in the only way he knows how: respectfully.

You wonder if he thinks that’s love.

-----

One day, he comes home to find you sitting on the floor, reading a book you’ve read before.

He looks at you like he wants to say something. You wait. He doesn’t.

So you say it for him.

“I’m tired, Kento.”

You’re not crying. You’re not shouting.

You’re just stating a fact.

And for the first time, he looks… afraid.

-----

He sits down beside you. Not too close. But not far.

“I never wanted to make you feel alone,” he says.

His voice is low. Honest.

You nod. “I know. But you did.”

There’s a long silence.

Then—

“I didn’t know how else to be.”

And you believe him.

You love him.

But you also know that love is not enough when it has nowhere to land.

-----

You don’t leave that night. You fall asleep on the couch, your back to his.

But something shifts. Not fixed. Just acknowledged.

And sometimes, that’s the beginning of something. Sometimes, it’s the end.

-----

Later—weeks later, maybe months—you’ll walk past a bakery the two of you never went into. And you’ll think about how many moments you both passed up in the name of being sensible.

How many soft things you gave up because he didn’t know what to do with them.

You’ll still love him.

But you’ll also understand: some people were taught that needing is dangerous. That showing pain is failure. That asking for help is weak.

And it is not your job to rewrite that for them.

-----

In the end, you loved a man who refused to be held.

And that is the quietest kind of heartbreak.

The kind that doesn’t end with a scream.

Just a sigh.

-----

ngl I'm in love with this— 😔🖐

Rockstar Girlfriend 🎸

You were probably his first real listener. First fan, even. His account had no followers. No clout. No tags. He wasn’t even looking for one. He just posted banger songs—heavy and haunting. You were high out of your mind one night, scrolling through underground tracks, trying to find something that hadn’t been overplayed into dust.

Then you hit the bottom. Clicked on his album.

And it changed everything. The voice was deep, like smoke and rage. The beat was grimy and sharp. It wasn’t just rap. Or rock. Or alt. It was all of it. And none of it. It sounded like a demon crying through broken speakers.

You thought for sure he’d be famous. But he wasn’t. So you DMed him. Didn’t even think he’d see it.But that same night, he replied. You talked for hours. He asked for your number. You FaceTimed until the sky turned grey.

The next day, he invited you to his spot. To listen. To smoke. To just... be.

Honestly it could have ended badly and it would have been the worst decision you ever made. But the vibe—the intensity— You didn’t have to speak. Just your eyes did all the talking.

It wasn’t lust. Not really. It was that aching, desperate something that clutches your ribs and won’t let go. You didn’t know if he felt the same, so you played it casual.

Casual as in… Basically living together. Unspoken everything. No sex. No labels. Just you and him.

He’d send you unreleased tracks. Half-finished verses. You started running his page, organizing stuff, posting updates. You weren’t official. But you kind of became his manager. His shadow. His safe place. His favorite ear.

He never said thank you. Not in words, anyway. But every song had pieces of you in it. A line that sounded like something you once whispered. A beat that matched the rhythm of your laugh. A song titled with your birthday, but flipped backward so no one else would know.

And then it happened. One day, everything changed. Some random TikTok kid found one of the old tracks and used it for an edit. A week later—millions. Plays, likes, followers. He hated it. You watched him pace around the apartment, wild-eyed, muttering, “They don’t even get it.” “They’re just biting now.” “Where were they before?”

But you were still there. Sitting on his kitchen counter. Hoodie that wasn’t yours. Eyes tired but soft.

You handled it. Emails. DMs. Interview requests. Labels circling like vultures. You told him which ones to ignore. Which ones to play with. He let you do it. Trusted you. Only you.

He didn’t post selfies. Didn’t talk in interviews. He just kept making music. And every time, you were the first to hear it. Headphones passed between you. Knees touching. Eyes closed.

One night, he paused a track halfway through. You looked up at him. He didn’t say anything for a while.

Then “You think I’d be doing any of this if it weren’t for you?”

You didn’t know what to say. So you didn’t. You just reached for the play button.But he stopped you. Caught your hand in his. Held it for a second too long. Then another.

Your chest felt like it would crack open. Still, nothing happened. Still, it was... casual.

A year into the fame, you were all the way in. No more crashing at his place—you lived there. The two of you had upgraded to a bigger apartment, one that felt more like a bunker than a home. Dark walls. Concrete floors. Unfinished ceiling that looked like it belonged in a warehouse.

But it was warm. It smelled like weed and sage and your shampoo. Music always humming from a speaker somewhere. Sometimes his guitar was just lying on the couch. Sometimes your books were. You shared space like you shared silence—easily.

You were still juggling school, barely hanging on some days, but you made time to manage his account, answer emails, line up deals. He made music and money. A lot of both. Labels wanted him. Brands begged. Venues called. You handled most of it. He hated everyone except you.

And the relationship is still undefined. Still everything.

He’d hold your hand in public. Pull you close when crossing the street. His arm would always be around your shoulders like it belonged there. To anyone watching, you were together. Like… together together. And maybe you were, just not officially. No titles. No pressure.

He kept his mystery locked up tight. Still no face. No selfies. No stories. That was about to change though. His first concert was coming, a real one. Not an underground event or livestream, but a sold-out, packed venue with screaming fans.

You asked him, quietly one night, “Are you nervous?” He just looked at you, exhaled smoke, and said, “Not about them. Just about you seeing me like that.”

You didn’t ask what he meant. Didn’t need to. Just reached over, took his hand, and held it like you always did—like it was normal. Like he was yours.

---

The city was buzzing like a live wire. You could feel it in your teeth. The venue was packed, lines curling around the block. People had signs. Painted their faces. Screamed lyrics. It was insane.

You watched from backstage, heart beating a little too fast, wearing his leather jacket and tight short black dress.

He was pacing a little, fingers twitching, jaw tight. But he looked good. Too good. Tall, jacked, inked up— black tank clinging to him, tattoos peeking from his neck to his fingers. Hair messy like always, like he rolled out of bed and still looked like a god.

No mask tonight. No hood. This time, they’d see him.

You caught his eye just before he walked out. Just looked at you like you were the only thing grounding him. You nodded once. That was enough.

Then he stepped out.

And the place. Exploded.

Screams. Like actual shrieking. Phones shot up so fast the light almost blinded you. Someone in the front fainted. A girl sobbed. The crowd was feral.

He didn’t flinch. Just walked to the mic like he owned the world. When he finally spoke— “Yeah. It’s me.” —people LOST it.

A whole different war broke out online . “WHY IS HE HOT??” “I THOUGHT HE WAS UGLY???” “HE LOOKS LIKE HE KILLS PEOPLE AND WRITES POETRY ABOUT IT.” “Someone said he was faceless—why is he the face of my future now???”

His name trended within an hour. Clips went viral before the second song ended. People were pausing videos just to zoom in on his hands, his tattoos, his jawline. New fan accounts popped up in real-time.

But he only looked at you. Once. Halfway through the set, spotlight behind him, crowd screaming his name, he glanced toward the side of the stage. Found you. Smirked like the devil. Then tore into the next song like his soul was catching fire.

When it was over, and the venue started to empty out, he came offstage drenched in sweat, hair sticking to his forehead, chest rising and falling. Still high off the energy, off the chaos. You handed him water. He took it, but didn’t drink. Just stared at you.

“They love me now,” he muttered. Then, quieter, “But I still only care what you think.”

Your throat closed up. You didn’t answer, didn’t need to.

He tossed the bottle. Stepped closer. Close enough to feel the heat rolling off him. His hand found your face like he’d been meaning to do it for years. Fingers on your cheek, thumb brushing your lip. His forehead rested against yours, and he whispered, “Say something. Anything.”

You looked up at him, breath caught.

“You’re mine,” you said.

And this time, he kissed you.

---

The concert was over, but the night wasn’t.

You two didn’t even go back home. He tugged you into the car, adrenaline still buzzing in his veins, saying nothing but “Let’s go out.” You didn’t ask where.

The club was already dark and pulsing by the time you got there. Lights flickering red, music loud enough to feel in your ribs. People turned when you walked in, like they knew. He hadn’t even been unmasked for four hours, but already, the city recognized him.

He didn’t care. Just grab your hand and pull you to the middle of the floor. Bodies everywhere, sweat, bass, smoke. And still, it felt like it was just you two.

He was behind you, hands on your waist. Not even grinding, not all sexual—just close. Like he wanted to keep you tethered to the ground. His face buried in your neck every now and then, lips ghosting skin. You leaned into it. Eyes closed. Smiling.

Someone recorded it. Of course they did.

Posted it within minutes.

On Twitter (or X whatever that cursed app is):

@.cryboutitgrl: this man just revealed his face and already pulled up to the club with the baddest girl i’ve ever seen????

@.undergroundangel666: bro was faceless yesterday now he’s 6'4 tatted and got a mysterious girlfriend. i’m sick. 😭

@.smokysylvia: wait wait wait. is she the one from the side stage?? the one he kept looking at????

@.hotguyshateus: yeah i zoomed in. it’s her. same leather jacket. same girl. he’s in love i’m sorry.

@.helooksinlove: she whispered something to him before the encore and he kissed her after the show. we lost. I fear the album’s gonna be sad and horny now 😩

The internet was spiraling. Fan edits were already in motion. Clips of him touching your face, that blurry club video, someone even managed to catch a shot of the two of you leaving the venue— his arm around your shoulders, your head tucked into his chest.

You checked his account the next morning. A million new followers. Inbox was flooded. Everyone wanted to know: Who was she? Who was the girl?

And all he did was post a blurry photo of the two of you sitting on the floor that night, you leaning against him, laughing into your cup, and him looking at you like you were the only thing he’d ever believe in.

Caption: “She been here since zero followers. Don’t ask again.”

--------

bonus::: the first text and meet up...

It was around 2:37 AM when you messaged him.

“idk why no one knows abt you yet. this is actually insane.”

You didn’t expect a reply. Didn’t even think he’d see it.

But twenty minutes later— “yo.” One dot. No emojis.

You blinked at the screen.

“that was you?” “the message?” “yeah. thanks.”

Simple. Dry. But then he asked: “wanna hear some unreleased?”

Your breath caught. “yeah.”

He sent a file. No title. Just noise at first. Then the beat dropped— low, almost crawling. His voice— raspy, like smoke and teeth. You could barely breathe.

Before you could even process, your phone lit up again.

“what’s your number” Not a question. Not begging.

You gave it.

Thirty seconds later: FaceTime.

Your heart slammed. You almost didn’t pick up. But your thumb moved on its own.

Click.

It was dark.

No light but the red glow of a monitor on his side. Backlit tattoos. Shadows across his jawline. Hair messy. Shirtless. Sitting back in a desk chair like he owned time.

You didn’t speak. He didn’t either.

He looked at you. Eyes flickering across your face through the screen like he was studying something rare. A small smirk tugged at his lips.

“damn.”

One word. But it cracked something open.

You laughed, too soft. Told him he looked like a villain.

“good.” Then: “you real?”

You didn’t answer. Just tilted your head. Let him stare.

And then, just like that— you both started talking. Not loud. Not excited. Just low. Whispers like secrets in a church.

He showed you the corner of his room. Posters. Wires. A mic stand leaning. Unfinished lyrics on the wall in sharpie.

“i stay up all night,” he said. “no one to talk to.”

“you do now,” you whispered.

His lips twitched. He leaned forward like he was trying to see more of you through the screen.

“can i call you again?”

You bit your lip.

“i’m not hanging up.”

And you didn’t. Not until the sun started bleeding through your windows. Not until your eyelids got too heavy. He didn’t say goodbye. Just watched you drift off to sleep. And whispered, so quiet you almost didn’t catch it:

“don’t leave.”

You woke up with your phone in your hand, battery barely alive. Your screen still had his name on it. Still connected. He never hung up.

You sat up slow, blinking through sleep. Heart pounding when you remember everything. The music. The call. His voice. The way he watched you fall asleep like he meant to remember it forever.

And then—your phone buzzed.

him: “u still down to pull up?”

No address. No time.

Just that.

And still… you replied: “drop the pin.”

You didn’t tell anyone. Didn’t even think it through. He could’ve been a killer. Could’ve chopped you up, turned you into a beat.

But your chest was quiet. Calm.

It was cold when you stepped out. Your hoodie swallowed your frame. Headphones in, but no music playing— just replaying his voice in your head like a loop. When you reached his spot, it looked like nothing. Gray building. No buzzers. Just a metal door and the pin.

You texted him once.

No reply.

Then the door creaked open. And there he was. Tall. Sleeves rolled up. Tattoos crawling up his arms. Hood half on. Eyes heavy like he hadn’t slept.

He looked at you for two full seconds before stepping back.

“come in.”

You did.

It was dark. Not scary dark—just dim. Curtains closed. Cigarette smoke faint in the air. There was a speaker set up on the floor and wires running like veins all over the place. A mic stand crooked in the corner. A mattress on the ground, black sheets. And his scent—something between weed, laundry, and the ghost of cologne.

You stood there like you were in a museum.

He didn’t touch you. Just nodded toward the couch.

“u want tea? or... water? i got like 4 capri suns too.”

You laughed. He smiled for real that time.

You stayed for hours. Then one day.

Then two.

The playlist never stopped. He let you read his notebooks. You found one where your name was scribbled on the top corner of a page.

He didn’t explain.

At night, he didn’t try anything. Just let you lay next to him, in his clothes, backs turned but feet tangled.

You remember the first time he turned to you in the dark and whispered: “i don’t like being alone anymore.”

And you said, without thinking:

“me neither.”

------

any band recommendations??

The Brightest Lie :

Everyone said Gojo Satoru was the strongest.

They said it like a blessing, like a curse, like a song.

Satoru knew the words by heart. Had known them before he even knew himself.

He thought — if he had a grave someday — they would carve that phrase into the stone before they ever remembered his name.

The Strongest.

The Brightest.

The Untouchable.

(And if he shattered under it — well, that wasn’t anyone's business.)

-----

It was winter when he met her.

Snow clung to the stone sidewalks like stubborn ghosts.

He had slipped out of the school that night with nothing but his jacket and a vague, gnawing ache he couldn’t name.

Tokyo was a graveyard at midnight.

Only vending machines and stray cats witnessed him.

He found her by accident — in the empty park near the bridge.

She was sitting on a bench with a cane resting against her knee, her head tilted up like she was listening for something beyond human ears.

For a moment, he thought she was a ghost.

Tokyo was full of them, after all.

But then she smiled — small, real — and he realized she was just... living.

“Cold night,” she said, voice soft.

He blinked behind his glasses. “Yeah.”

She didn’t flinch at his voice. Didn’t bow, didn’t whisper, didn’t freeze.

Just turned her face toward him with a polite kind of curiosity.

“You lost?” she asked.

Satoru laughed under his breath.

Lost.

If only it was that simple.

“Nah. Just walking,” he said, slipping his hands into his pockets.

She hummed, brushing snow off the bench beside her.

An invitation.

For reasons he couldn’t explain — not even to himself — he sat down.

-----

Minutes passed.

The snow kept falling in slow, weightless drifts.

He kept waiting for her to ask.

For the inevitable flicker of realization.

For the fear, the reverence, the edge.

It didn’t come.

Instead, she asked, “You have a name?”

He hesitated. Then said, “Satoru.”

She nodded like it meant nothing and everything.

“Nice to meet you, Satoru. I’m Aki.”

(He realized, distantly, she was blind.)

The idea bloomed in his chest like a strange, painful flower:

She doesn’t know.

She didn’t see the white hair that marked him like a warning.

She didn’t see the height, the swagger, the way space bent politely away from him.

She didn’t see the "Strongest Sorcerer" at all.

Just a man with cold hands and tired shoulders.

-----

"You always walk alone?" she asked after a while.

"Yeah," he said, shrugging. "Better that way."

She tilted her head, thoughtful.

"You sound lonely."

He almost laughed.

Almost told her about centuries of history tying themselves into nooses around his throat.

Almost told her about dying friends and dying enemies and the way his students looked at him sometimes — like he was a god and a monster and a brother and a curse, all in the same breath.

Instead, he said, "Maybe."

Aki smiled a little. "Lonely isn’t always bad. Means you’re still waiting for someone."

"Maybe," he said again, softer.

---

They sat like that until the streetlights buzzed and flickered.

Until the sky turned a bruised, electric purple.

Until Satoru forgot for one brief, staggering moment that he was supposed to be anything other than human.

When he finally stood to leave, she smiled up at him — clear and unburdened.

"Thanks for keeping me company, Satoru," she said.

He wanted to say something back.

Something stupid and raw and real,

like no one’s thanked me in years or stay blind a little longer, please.

Instead, he just shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and said, "Yeah. You too."

Then he walked away, leaving only footprints behind him.

-----

Later, standing at the top of the bridge, he looked back once.

She was still sitting there — small and bright and terribly, terribly human.

And Gojo Satoru — The Strongest — felt something splinter in his chest.

Something old.

Something breakable.

He pressed a hand against his heart like he could hold it still.

Like he could hold himself still.

You’re not meant to want things, a cruel voice inside him said.

You’re not meant to need.

But under the falling snow, for just a moment, he let himself wonder:

If someone could love him — not the title, not the strength, not the salvation he was supposed to be —

just him—

would he even recognize it?

Would he be able to stay?

Or would he run, the way he'd always run — bright and blinding and lonely —

until even the stars forgot how to find him?

-----

The city swallowed him up.

The night closed behind him like a door.

And Gojo Satoru — myth, weapon, miracle —

kept walking.

Kept pretending.

Kept being the brightest lie the world had ever told.

-----

How the Mighty Fall :(Quietly)

Gojo Satoru met her on a day so ordinary, he almost didn’t notice her.

Almost.

She was standing by a cracked vending machine outside a jujutsu conference hall, jamming the return button like it had personally insulted her.

Her uniform was rumpled, sleeves half-rolled, phone balanced on her shoulder as she muttered into it.

When she hung up, she let the phone fall into her pocket without ceremony, kicked the vending machine once (precisely, as if she’d calculated it), and grabbed the stubborn can of coffee that tumbled out.

When their eyes met, she gave him the same look she might’ve given a mildly interesting cloud.

He wasn’t used to that.

Gojo Satoru was used to stares that held awe, fear, lust, envy.

He wasn’t used to being dismissed.

He told himself he didn’t care.

(Later, he would realize that was the first lie.)

-----

Inside, introductions were made. "Gojo Satoru," the principal said, almost with a bow. "The strongest."

He flashed his trademark smile. The room tensed the way rooms always did around him — shifting in awe, or jealousy, or terror.

Except for her.

She glanced up from her can of coffee, blinked slowly, and said, "Congratulations," in a tone so dry it might’ve been sarcasm or exhaustion or both.

Gojo actually missed a step.

It was like tripping on a stair you hadn’t noticed.

Ridiculous. Forgettable.

Except the body remembers how it fell.

And the pride remembers harder.

-----

He found out her name later — a relic name from a once-great family.

Fallen into disgrace. Neutral.

Neutral in a world where neutrality was treason.

She hadn't come here for prestige. Or power.

She hadn't come to heal the broken system or tear it down.

She had come because, somehow, life had shoved her into it, and she hadn't found a way to shove back.

There was something about her that infuriated him.

The way she didn't try.

The way she didn’t look at him like a miracle or a weapon or a god.

He tried, subtly at first, to impress her.

(The strongman tricks. The lazy jokes. The almost-accidental flashes of power.)

She sipped her bitter coffee and said things like:

"You're flashy. That’s not the same as important."

Or worse:

"Sometimes I think the world doesn't want saving. It just wants witnesses."

He laughed it off, of course.

Loudly. Carelessly.

(And hated how much he thought about it later.)

-----

One night, after a mission gone sideways, they ended up on the same train platform.

She sat two benches down, damp with rain, bleeding slightly from a cut on her forehead.

She looked small, but not fragile. Just very, very tired.

He sat beside her without asking.

After a long silence, she said, "You don't have to sit here."

"I know," he said. "But maybe I want to."

She gave a dry, almost-smile. "Your charity is overwhelming."

Gojo tilted his head back and stared up at the grey sky, feeling the ache of bruises under his jacket, the throb of exhaustion deep in his bones.

"You ever think," he said, "that saving people is worth it even if it’s selfish?"

She didn’t answer for a long time.

When she did, her voice was very soft:

"Wanting to be needed isn’t the same as being good."

The train rattled by. Neither of them moved.

He didn’t know how to answer her.

He didn’t know how to stop wanting her to believe in him.

He didn’t know when wanting her belief started to feel more important than winning.

-----

Weeks passed.

Gojo Satoru, who had outrun every emotion in his life by being faster, louder, brighter,

found himself slowing down around her.

Not because she asked him to.

But because she didn't even notice when he sped up.

Because around her, there was nothing to prove.

No war to win. No audience to perform for.

Just the terrifying idea that maybe being "The Strongest" meant nothing if nobody was watching.

And maybe that was okay.

Or maybe it wasn't.

He wasn’t sure which scared him more.

-----

The fight, when it happened, was stupid.

A cursed spirit too small for his attention, too slippery to ignore.

She fought it first, knives flashing, blood wetting her sleeves.

She fought like someone who didn’t expect to survive, but would be damned if she made it easy for death.

When he stepped in — easy, graceful, efficient — she didn’t even thank him.

Just leaned against a wall, breathing hard, looking annoyed more than anything else.

"You didn't have to," she said.

"I wanted to," he said, before he could stop himself.

She wiped blood from her mouth and smiled, thin and crooked.

"Of course you did."

As if kindness was another form of violence.

As if saving her only proved her point.

-----

They sat on the curb afterward, side by side, rain seeping into their clothes.

He pulled down his blindfold, let his eyes roam the ruined street, the broken lamplight.

Everything was grey and wet and stupidly, achingly beautiful.

"You know," she said, conversational,

"all stars burn out."

He looked at her. Really looked at her.

Not as a mission.

Not as a critic.

Not as a fantasy.

Just — a tired girl, soaked in rainwater and blood, laughing at how the universe devours everything eventually.

"Maybe," he said, "some are just slow enough to light the way for a while."

She didn't respond.

Maybe she didn’t believe him.

Maybe she didn't need to.

Maybe it was enough that he believed it for both of them, for once.

-----

He would never tell her that she ruined him a little.

That she made him gentler, angrier, sadder, more human.

That she made the invincible feel a little more mortal.

That she made the strongest sorcerer alive wonder what strength was even for.

He would never tell her.

Because she already knew.

Because she didn’t care.

And that, somehow, was the most beautiful thing about her.

-----

He Would Let You Live :

If Ryomen Sukuna were ever to love someone—

truly, terribly, without the mask of power or cruelty—it would be a slow undoing. A ruin of a ruin. A tragedy wrapped in something like warmth, but not quite. Love, for him, could never be soft. It would come with claws. It would come limping, feral, and afraid.

And he wouldn’t call it love.

Because naming it would make it real, and real things can be lost.

He has always known how to keep power. To hold it in his palm like a pulse he can squeeze. But love—love would be the one thing he couldn’t crush without feeling it bleed through his fingers. And that would drive him mad.

It would start in silence. Not the silence of peace, but the silence of awareness. Of you existing in his world like a candle in a slaughterhouse. Not asking to be saved. Just… being. Alive. Stubborn. Unafraid.

You would look at him like he wasn’t a god, wasn’t a monster, wasn’t anything to worship or destroy.

And that would be the first sin.

-----

Sukuna doesn’t understand kindness.

He recognizes it—like one recognizes a dead language. He sees it in the way people reach for each other, beg for mercy, cradle each other’s names in the dark. It confuses him. Makes him restless.

He would hate you for being kind to him. For seeing past the fangs and calling what’s beneath it human.

“You think I’m something to fix?” he would sneer, the way you might snarl at a mirror that showed you too clearly. “Don’t mistake survival for softness.”

But it wouldn’t matter. You wouldn’t try to fix him. You wouldn’t offer him redemption like a leash. You’d simply see him—and refuse to look away.

And Sukuna—undone, ugly, blood-soaked Sukuna—would find that unbearable.

-----

He wouldn’t know how to be gentle.

Not with hands that have only ever broken, gripped, ripped things from bone.

Not with a mouth that speaks in the language of threat and irony.

So he’d love you the only way he knows how: with fear, with possession, with distance. He’d guard you like a secret. Watch you from shadows. Kill for you without you ever knowing your life was threatened. Tear down whole cities just to make sure the wind didn’t reach your throat wrong.

And then deny it. Always deny it.

“You think you matter to me?” he’d say, voice low and too careful. “You’re just amusing. That’s all.”

But his eyes would betray him. They always do.

They’d hold something ancient.

Something awful.

Something that wants to kneel before you and call it hate because “love” would burn too hot.

-----

He’d love you like a curse.

Like a habit he couldn’t kill. He’d resent you for being the one thing in this godless world that made him hesitate. That made him think. And in his hesitation, he’d find something that felt like fear.

Not the fear of loss.

But the fear of what he might become if he didn’t lose you.

Because if you stayed—if you truly stayed—he might have to believe he was more than a monster.

And he’s not sure he wants to be.

-----

When he touched you, it would not be tender.

Not at first.

It would be rough. Unsure. Like someone holding fire and expecting to be burned. His hands would shake—not visibly, no, never—but something beneath the skin would tremble. As if the act of touching something without destroying it is the hardest thing he’s ever done.

And it would be.

Because Sukuna has never known love that didn’t come with screams.

To want to protect instead of possess—that is foreign to him. A new tongue. One he’s too old and too ruined to speak fluently. But he would try. Quietly. Without asking you to notice.

You’d find food you didn’t cook. You’d wake with the blood of your enemies dried at your doorstep. You’d feel eyes in the dark—watching, waiting—not as a threat, but as a promise.

He would never say “I love you.”

But he would let you live.

And in his world, that is the highest act of grace.

-----

There would be irony in it.

That the King of Curses—the butcher of centuries, the calamity of heaven—would fall not in battle, not in rage, but in devotion.

Slow. Terrifying. Sacred.

He would never beg for you. But he would remember your silence like scripture. He would trace your voice in the air after you left a room. He would hate everyone who made you smile—because he doesn't know how to be the reason.

He doesn’t know how to be good.

But he’d want to be better. Not for the world. Never for the world.

Only for you.

Because you never asked him to be.

And that’s the part that would kill him.

-----

If you ever walked away—he wouldn’t stop you.

He’d let you go.

And then he’d rip apart the world in your absence.

Not because you were his.

But because without you, he fears he’d forget how to be almost*human.

-----

So no. Sukuna wouldn’t write you poems.

He wouldn’t tell you you’re beautiful.

He wouldn’t beg for your touch, or whisper your name in sleep.

He’d carry you like a wound he refuses to heal.

He’d make the world burn quieter so you could breathe.

He’d say “you’re alive, aren’t you?” when asked if he loves you.

And maybe—maybe—that would be enough.

Maybe that’s love, in his language.

Maybe, in a world where everything bleeds,

letting you live is the greatest confession he will ever make.

-----

Gate, Gate—

(gone, gone beyond)

They brought him to the temple like people leave things at riverbanks.

A last attempt. A gentle abandonment dressed in incense.

“He has something wrong in him,” the mother whispered.

Or maybe it was the aunt.

Or maybe no one said anything at all. Maybe they just looked.

The monks accepted him like they accepted stray dogs and dying birds.

With open hands and quiet eyes.

He was six. Or seven. Thin. Quiet.

Too quiet.

He didn’t cry when they shaved his head.

Didn’t flinch when they poured the cold water down his spine.

He just stared at the stone floor like it had spoken to him in a language no one else could hear.

-----

The temple was kind. In theory.

They rose at dawn, washed in silence, chanted in circles.

Everything smelled of sandalwood and routine.

Things were clean here. Predictable.

But Sukuna?

He was not a creature of clean things.

He learned fast. Too fast.

By the second week, he was sitting longer in meditation than boys twice his age.

By the third, he had the Heart Sutra memorized.

By the fourth, he could mimic the chants with a tone so exact it felt mocking.

Not cruel—just empty.

One of the older monks said, “He’s gifted.”

Another muttered, “He’s hollow.”

(Both were right.)

-----

They named him Reien. (Distant Flame.)

He never used it.

When called, he looked up slowly, like surfacing from somewhere deeper.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t play.

Didn’t cry when the others whispered things like witch-child or thing with teeth.

He once told another boy during chores,

“I think people hope temples make monsters polite.”

The boy blinked.

Sukuna shrugged, soft and almost gentle.

“But I was never rude. Just honest.”

-----

The monks thought perhaps routine would save him.

Structure. Compassion. Years of stillness pressed into his ribs until something softened.

But it never did.

He lit the incense with perfect fingers, poured tea without spilling a drop.

He knelt so still he looked like a statue left behind by an older god.

And when he whispered the sutras?

They sounded like elegies.

Like grief recited backward.

-----

There was one monk.

Old.

Kind.

Tired in the way that made you trust him.

He brought Sukuna extra rice on cold mornings.

Helped him adjust his robes when no one else would get too close.

Once, he said,

“You remind me of a bell before it rings.”

Sukuna looked up.

“You’re waiting for something,” the monk said. “I don’t know what. But I hope it’s peace.”

Sukuna didn’t answer. But later that night, he buried the monk’s prayer beads under the snow.

Not out of malice.

He just didn’t want anyone to believe too much in rescue.

-----

Years passed.

Sukuna grew. Not into someone better. Just someone more.

More silent. More watchful.

His eyes started to scare people.

He never raised his voice.

Never raised a hand.

But once, when a boy shoved him during chores, Sukuna whispered something into the boy’s ear.

No one knows what was said.

But the boy never spoke again.

-----

Sometimes he would sit under the Bodhi tree at night, alone.

Whispering pieces of chants.

Not the full sutras. Just fragments. Broken syllables that didn’t fit together.

“Form is emptiness…” he’d murmur.

“…emptiness is form.”

Then laugh to himself, soft and cruel and tired.

It wasn’t joy. It wasn’t madness.

It was a boy telling a joke no one else understood.

-----

Once, a traveling girl came with her father, a rice merchant.

She sat beside him at lunch and offered him a peach.

He stared at her.

“You don’t talk much,” she said.

He blinked.

“Are you sad?” she asked.

He didn’t answer. Just took the peach and held it like a thing he’d never earned.

She grinned. “I think you’re pretending to be a monk.”

That night, he didn’t sleep.

He just stared at the peach pit in his hand for hours, wondering why it made him feel anything at all.

She never came back.

And that was the first time he realized—

Even kindness leaves.

-----

The breaking didn’t happen all at once.

Not like a sword through the ribs.

More like water over stone.

Small cracks.

Soft erosion.

A boy watching compassion become something quiet and useless.

-----

One winter, he found a bird dying in the courtyard.

It was shaking. Mouth open. Tiny heart fighting too hard.

He sat with it for an hour. Just watching.

Didn’t touch it.

Didn’t help.

Didn’t look away.

When it stopped breathing, he buried it with his bare hands.

And whispered the full Heart Sutra over its grave.

The first and only time he ever said it with feeling.

-----

Later, when the elder monk was dying from fever, Sukuna sat beside him.

The monk wheezed, clinging to prayer beads with pale hands.

He said, “Do you believe in rebirth?”

Sukuna stared.

“Maybe you’ll come back as something… softer.”

Sukuna leaned in, voice gentle and cruel:

“This is my second life. I think I was something softer before.”

(The monk wept.)

-----

He left soon after.

No one remembers how.

Some say he disappeared into the snow.

Some say the temple doors opened and never closed again.

Some say he burned it all.

But here’s what’s true:

He carried the chants with him.

Not because he believed.

But because belief was the first lie anyone ever told him.

-----

And now?

Now he walks like a God who doesn’t want worship.

Kills like someone remembering something ancient.

Speaks in riddles and old truths.

Sometimes, before a battle, when the wind is just right,

he mumbles a chant to himself :

“Gate, gate, pāragate…”

Gone. Gone. Gone beyond.

He always pauses after that.

Not out of reverence.

Out of memory.

Out of the sound of snow falling on temple roofs.

Out of the soft weight of a peach in his hand.

Out of the silence after a dying bird stops shaking.

He doesn’t say the last line.

Not anymore.

Because it was never for him.

And he knows, with a kind of terrible peace:

Not everything is meant to be saved.

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

I don’t think I meant to make this version of Sukuna. It just… happened. I kept circling this quiet idea of a boy left at a temple like an afterthought—like maybe someone thought peace could be taught into him, like sutras could smooth out what was already unraveling inside.

This isn’t about battles or glory or blood. It’s about stillness. About a boy who memorized all the sacred words but none of them saved him. About silence, routine, ritual. About being watched, studied, never understood.

I didn’t want him to be tragic in a loud, dramatic way. I wanted the ache to be quiet. Familiar. Like bruises you don’t notice until someone touches them.

There’s something that haunts me about characters who know how to sit still but not how to be comforted. Who learn everything except how to ask for help. Who are full of language but empty of meaning. I think some part of me understands them too well.

So yeah… this version of Sukuna? He’s not softer. He’s just more human in a way that hurts.

---

Anyway. If you made it this far, thank you. Feel free to comment and share your thoughts—I’d love to hear your opinions. You guys always see things I missed.

✨ Bye and take care, hope you all have a good day ✨

The Monster That Purrs :

Sukuna has spent a thousand years learning how not to be human.

That is what the world expects of him. That is what the world made him.

A man who became a myth. A myth that became a monster. A name that people still whisper like a curse, like a prayer, like something they are too afraid to summon.

And what is a violence if not the absence of everything soft?

Sukuna is rage and ruin, destruction woven into the fabric of his being. There is no place for tenderness in his body, no home for kindness beneath the weight of his legend. Whatever he was before, whatever warmth might have once lingered in the hollow space between his ribs, has long since turned to rot.

And yet.

When the world is quiet—truly quiet—his body betrays him.

It happens without his permission, like an instinct long buried, like muscle memory from a life he no longer claims.

A sound. A hum, low and deep, vibrating in his chest.

Not quite a growl.

Not quite a sigh.

Something in between. Something dangerous.

Because it is something alive.

Something human.

And if anyone hears it, if anyone dares to notice—he will rip their throat out before the thought can fully form.

It is better this way.

It has always been better this way.

Until you.

***

It is late when you first notice it.

The fire in the room has burned down to embers, casting the walls in flickering shadows. You are pressed close to him, not because you are foolish enough to think he needs warmth, but because your body, unlike his, still listens to instinct.

The silence between you is easy. Not because he is kind, not because you are unafraid, but because something unspoken has settled between you.

For once, he does not have to perform.

For once, he does not have to be the villain in someone else’s story.

For once, he is simply here.

And in that moment, in the stillness of it, his body reacts before his mind can catch up.

The hum slips out—deep, steady, unwavering.

You feel it before you hear it. The vibration against your skin, the way it rumbles through his chest like something meant to be there, like something that belongs.

You blink. Your lips part slightly, and before common sense can stop you, the words are already leaving your mouth—

“…Are you purring?”

Sukuna stills.

For a fraction of a second, there is nothing. No breath, no movement, no shift in his body.

And then, like a storm breaking, the warmth vanishes.

The air changes.

He turns his head, slow and deliberate, his crimson eyes gleaming in the dim light. His expression is unreadable, a mask of cold amusement stretched over something darker.

"Say that again," he murmurs, voice quiet. Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that warns of something sharp waiting beneath the surface.

Your heartbeat stutters.

A normal person would backpedal. A smart person would apologize, pretend they never heard it, let it slip into the silence between you and never bring it up again.

But you are not normal.

And you have never been particularly smart when it comes to him.

So instead of looking away, instead of swallowing your words, you do something infinitely more dangerous.

You smile.

“You were purring.”

It is immediate.

One moment, you are lying beside him. The next, you are beneath him, wrists pinned above your head, his weight pressing you into the futon.

The air crackles between you, thick enough to drown in.

His claws rest against your throat, his grin all teeth, all venom, all warning.

“Say another word,” he purrs—actually purrs, just to mock you, just to remind you who you are playing with—“and I’ll carve out that sharp little tongue of yours.”

You should be afraid.

But you aren’t.

Because in this moment, despite the sharp edges, despite the threat in his voice, you see something you shouldn’t be able to see.

Not just a monster.

Not just a legend.

But something in between.

And the realization is like a blade slipping between his ribs.

Because you know.

You know that sound was not a mistake.

You know that it was instinct.

You know that, buried beneath centuries of cruelty and ruin, there is a body that still remembers what it means to be at peace.

And worst of all—worst of all—you have the audacity to ask, voice quiet but certain,

“…Why does it bother you?”

Something flickers in his expression.

A crack in the armor.

A hairline fracture in the mask he has spent centuries perfecting.

Sukuna hates you in that moment.

Hates you for seeing him.

Hates you for not fearing him.

Hates you for existing in a space he swore he would never allow anyone to occupy.

His fingers tighten around your throat—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you that he could. Just enough to make sure you understand.

“You think I am embarrassed?” he scoffs, voice low, dangerous. “Foolish little thing.”

And yet—

He does not kill you.

He does not silence you.

Instead, he exhales, slow and deliberate, and leans in close—so close that his breath brushes over your lips.

"You will not always be so lucky," he murmurs.

And then, as if to prove that none of this meant anything, as if to prove that *you* mean nothing, he lets you go.

The warmth, the weight of him—it all vanishes.

As if it had never been there at all.

As if the sound you heard—the sound that should *not* exist in a monster like him—had been nothing more than a trick of your imagination.

But you know better.

And so does he.

-----

That night, after you have drifted into sleep, Sukuna stays awake.

He does not need rest.

But for the first time in a long, long time, he does not know what to do with the silence.

For centuries, the quiet has been easy. He has worn his solitude like armor, a kingdom built from blood and terror.

But now, as he sits in the stillness, he is aware of something else.

Something beneath the violence.

Something beneath the legend.

Something unsettling.

He does not sigh. He does not hum.

But if, in the quietest part of the night, something deep within his chest rumbles—low, steady, impossible—no one is awake to hear it.

And that is enough.

For now.

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

Honestly, if I ever had to stand in front of that curse king in real life, I’d probably be too busy shaking to even breathe properly. But hey, this is my story, so I get to look him dead in the eye and say, "Dude. You’re purring.”

Anyway, let me know what you think! Feel free to comment and share your thoughts—I’d love to hear them. And if you have any ideas, send them my way! Who knows? Maybe the next thing I write will be inspired by you.

✨ Bye and take care, hope you all have a good day ✨

—The Violet Hours—

The thing about truth is—it never arrives politely.

It kicks in the door, pours wine in your mother’s good china, and asks if you’re still pretending.

—From Journal Of Elora Haventon, 1975

Memory :

When she was nine, Elora asked her father if power made people kinder.

He gave her a polished smile and said, “Power makes people busy, darling.”

That night, she wrote in her diary: 'So kindness is a hobby, I guess.'

She never stopped watching after that—quietly, precisely, like a girl measuring the world before deciding whether it deserved her.

_________________________________________

Who Is Elora Haventon?

Birth : Haventon Manor, Outer London— 12th October, 1960, 2:06 AM

Age at Hogwarts acceptance : 10 years, 11 months

Date of death : 21st July, 1979

Place : A quiet field, still dressed in flowers. (Some say it was meant to be a celebration. Others say it was the last peace before the war found her.)

Known as: "The Ghost They All Knew"

Appearance : Dark hair like spilled ink. Eyes the color of twilight before storm—too blue to be black, too violet to be safe.

Sharp in mind. Silent in grief.

_________________________________________

Notable Relationships :

Jennifer Vance : Her first real friend. A half-vampire Ravenclaw girl who laughed like she was already bored of eternity. She once gave Elora a gold locket. Elora wore it even after her heart stopped.

Remus Lupin : A quiet understanding. They spoke like people who knew how to wait. She figured out his secret long before he confessed it. A bond built on books, trust, and not needing to explain.

Sirius Black : An occasional clash of fire and ice. He thought he could make her laugh. A boy who mistook silence for mystery, and misread indifference for elegance.

Adrian Del Marlowe : The boy she was meant to marry. The only one who saw her quiet ache and didn’t ask about it. He just handed her books and soft smiles instead. They wrote each other letters.

_________________________________________

What Happened to Her?

There’s a portrait of her in Haventon Manor.

Visitors say it’s just a painting, but something about it feels too alive—like the violet of her dress might rustle if the wind blew the wrong way.

She’s smiling. But it’s the kind of smile you only wear when you’ve learned how to survive.

And yet still—

no one survived 'The Violet Hours'.

_________________________________________

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

So yeah. Elora Haventon. She's been living rent-free in my head for months now—quietly, politely, the way ghosts do. at first, i thought she was just another side character. and then suddenly she had a name, a cursed locket, an entire tragic backstory, and this way of looking at the world that made me go oh. so here she is: the ghost they all knew. my third OC (yeah, we’re deep in it now lol I think I’m addicted to tragic girls with sharp minds and deadpan humor), and maybe the one closest to my chest.

she’s sharp. ironic. too observant for eleven. the kind of girl who would sit quietly at a political dinner table and memorize everything—not because she wants to be part of it, but because she’s already writing it all down in her head. her voice came to me so naturally it was a little scary. like she’d been waiting for someone to finally let her speak.

what inspired her? honestly? that song Dollhouse. you know, the whole smiling-perfect-family thing but under the surface it’s all porcelain cracks and red wine stains and quiet disappointment. that’s Elora. a girl raised in a house where truth isn’t forbidden—it’s just considered bad manners.

i’ll be posting more of her story (it’s called The Violet Hours, and yes, it gets worse), but for now, here’s a little introduction. if you’ve ever been the quiet girl in the room, the one watching more than speaking, the one trying to hold yourself together with pretty manners and sharp thoughts—i think you’ll get her.

---

feel free to scream in the tags, message me, ask questions—i literally love talking about her. just bring tea or trauma. both work.

✨ Bye and take care, Hope you all have a good day ✨

If You Loved Gojo, You Should’ve Cried for Geto Too :

(A eulogy for the other half of the story.)

People talk about Gojo like he’s a myth. A phenomenon. A force.

The strongest.

The honored one.

The boy who walked into battle laughing, who blinded the world and somehow still burned quietly inside.

But nobody talks about Geto.

Not really. Not in the way that counts.

Not in the way you'd talk about someone you lost too young.

-----

Geto Suguru didn’t fall.

He unraveled.

Piece by piece. Year by year.

Not in one great tragic moment, but in the quiet, steady disillusionment that happens when you love too much in a world that keeps asking you to be okay with cruelty.

He was the best of them, once.

Sharp. Kind. Smiling. He used to laugh so loudly it echoed. He used to believe in saving people.

Until belief wasn’t enough anymore.

Until the children kept dying, and no one cared unless they were born with power.

-----

And what do you do when you’re powerless in your grief?

You either collapse…

Or you radicalize.

Geto didn’t want to destroy the world.

He wanted to make it stop.

He wanted silence after years of screaming.

Peace after endless loss.

A future where the people he loved could live without watching civilians beg them for help and then flinch at their existence.

That kind of hope can rot you from the inside out.

-----

They always say Geto left Gojo.

But maybe Gojo left him first.

Not on purpose.

Not by choice.

But when Gojo became the strongest, Geto became the one standing still.

Watching his best friend evolve into something divine while he stayed painfully, helplessly human.

And Gojo Satoru kept moving forward because he had to.

And Geto Suguru stayed behind because he couldn’t.

That’s how people break—not from a single fracture, but from the silence between footfalls when you realize you’re no longer walking beside each other.

-----

You want to know something unfair?

Even after everything—after the ideology, after the murders, after the war—

Suguru still loved him.

You can see it.

In the way he smiled, tired and soft, when they met again.

In the way he said, “You’re the only one who ever understood me.”

And in the way Gojo couldn’t bring himself to kill him, not really.

Couldn’t even finish the sentence.

“At least curse me properly in the end, Suguru.”

Even when they stood on opposite sides of a ruined world,

(They never stopped being each other’s first home.)

-----

So if you cried for Gojo Satoru—

For the burden he carries, for the loneliness he wears,

For the way his laughter covers something too quiet to name—

Then cry for Geto Suguru too.

Because Geto is why Gojo hurts the way he does.

Because Gojo lost the one person who saw him, not as a weapon, not as a god,

But as a friend. As a boy. As someone who could be laughed with.

Because every time Gojo smiles now, it feels just a little bit borrowed.

A little bit hollow.

Because the strongest sorcerer in the world couldn’t save the one person he wanted to.

-----

Geto wasn’t the villain of the story.

He was the tragedy no one was ready to hold.

So here’s to him—

The one who stayed kind for as long as he could.

The one who carried too much.

The one who gave in to silence, because it was the only thing left that didn’t hurt.

You don’t have to agree with what he did.

But if you really loved Gojo Satoru…

You should’ve cried for Geto Suguru too.

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

So, here’s a random thought that’s been bouncing around in my head for a while. I swear, Gojo and Geto are basically two sides of the same coin. I know, it sounds cliché, but it’s true. Whether you ship them or not doesn’t even matter—there’s this unspoken bond between them, this shared history and pain that’s just too strong to ignore. And, honestly, it’s like they were meant to be connected in some tragic, inevitable way.

It’s funny, every time I write about Gojo, Geto’s right there. Like, I can’t get one without the other, and I don’t even want to. It’s like a natural thing, a reflection of each other’s choices and consequences. They are the embodiment of that one truth that always haunts us—people become the very thing they try to escape.

I don't know. Maybe I’m overthinking it, but there’s something so tragic in how they’re both broken by their own choices. It’s like they were never meant to be fully happy or to save each other, but somehow, in the wreckage, they’re the only ones who understand. That’s the tragedy, right?

---

Anyway, this is just me rambling about them again, because, well... someone has to say it. I hope you liked this meta, and if you’ve got thoughts—please, let me know. I’m all ears. Always love hearing different perspectives on these two, especially when it comes to this tragic duo.

✨ Bye and take care, hope you all have a good day ✨

The Tragedy of Gojo Satoru:

( Being the Strongest Means Dying Alone)

They call him the strongest. As if it’s a blessing. As if it’s anything more than a curse dressed in praise.

Gojo Satoru walks through Jujutsu Kaisen like a myth that got stuck in a man’s body. Limitless, Six Eyes, a bloodline older than reason. He’s the kind of person stories exaggerate—only, with him, there’s no need to exaggerate. He is the exaggeration. Power personified.

But there’s something no one tells you about being a god.

It’s cold up there.

And nobody stays.

-----

The Cage That Shines Like Heaven :

There’s an irony in Gojo’s existence that the story never says out loud but bleeds through every panel he appears in: he’s not just the strongest sorcerer—he’s the most trapped.

He can do anything. He can beat anyone.

He just can’t save everyone.

He couldn’t save Geto.

He couldn’t save Riko.

He couldn’t save himself.

And that’s the thing, isn’t it? When you’re the strongest, everyone assumes you’re fine. That you don’t need help. That nothing touches you. That you’re floating above it all, untouchable.

But Gojo is not floating. He’s sinking.

Under expectations.

Under grief.

Under the knowledge that he could destroy the world in a heartbeat, and yet—somehow, he still wasn’t enough to save the one person who asked him to choose love over duty.

Satoru walks around smiling like a boy who never grew up, like the world still has color in it, like he doesn’t hear the echo of Suguru's voice saying “You’re the only one who ever understood me.”

He understood. And he let him fall anyway.

-----

Power As Exile :

Power isolates. That’s something people like to romanticize in stories—“with great power comes great responsibility” and all that. But they never talk about the quiet horror of it. The silence.

Gojo is revered. Worshipped. The entire jujutsu society depends on him the way a city depends on electricity: blindly, constantly, without gratitude.

But nobody really knows him.

They know his strength.

They know his sarcasm.

They know the way he walks into a battlefield like God just clocked in for work.

But not his grief. Not his loneliness. Not the way he stands in that empty white cube (the Prison Realm) for nineteen days with only the sound of his own thoughts—his own regrets—for company.

You realize something, watching him. Being strong doesn’t make you invincible.

It just makes it harder for people to admit you’re in pain.

And Gojo is in so much pain.

But who would believe that?

The strongest sorcerer in the world?

The man who can rewrite physics?

Cry?

(That’s the tragedy. People only want Gojo to be strong. Not human.)

-----

Suguru Geto And The Ghost That Never Left :

All great tragedies have a ghost. Gojo’s is Geto.

They were twin stars. Heaven and earth. The two most powerful jujutsu sorcerers of their generation. But while Gojo kept choosing the world, Geto stopped pretending he could live in it.

Geto fell. And Gojo let him.

Not because he didn’t care. But because he believed in the system more than he believed in the ache between them. He believed power could fix things. Could save them. Could protect the next Riko.

He was wrong.

(Geto’s death wasn’t just a loss. It was a mirror shattering. The first real crack in Gojo’s limitless reality.)

And when they meet again—Geto’s body desecrated, taken over by a puppet with a smile like a scalpel—Gojo doesn’t fight. He reaches out. Gently. Like he’s touching the ghost of a future that could’ve been.

And what does he say?

*“At least… curse me a little at the end.”*

That line. That line.

The way it aches. The way it strips him bare.

Gojo doesn’t ask to be forgiven.

He asks to be hated. Because even now, he can’t forgive himself.

-----

The Empty Center :

For all his power, Gojo Satoru is a man without a center.

He has students. He has duty. He has power enough to rewrite reality. But he has no home. No constant. No love that stayed.

He’s funny, flirty, dramatic. He fills every room with light and noise. But all of it—all of it—is scaffolding. A mask. A distraction.

Because once the battle is over, the students are asleep, and the world is quiet—he has nothing.

(Nothing but a memory of a friend who walked away and a world he promised to protect, even as it devoured everything he loved.)

And maybe that’s why he’s always smiling. Because if he doesn’t laugh, he might shatter.

-----

The Irony Of Salvation :

Gojo believes he can save everyone. He wants to. He trains his students with real care, not because he loves the system—but because he wants to break it. Fix it. Undo the rot from the inside out.

But the system he wants to destroy?

It’s the same one that made him.

And the thing about systems like that? They don’t let you win.

Not without bleeding.

Gojo isn’t a hero. He’s a consequence. A byproduct of everything the jujutsu society created and condemned. They made him a weapon. They crowned him king. And now they expect him to keep smiling while the whole kingdom burns.

He is the cage and the prisoner. The God and the Sacrifice.

And when he finally dies—if he dies—it won’t be in glory. It will be in silence.

(A myth swallowed by the machine that birthed him.)

-----

And Still. And Still. And Still—

And still, he smiles.

And still, he teaches.

And still, he hopes.

Because Gojo Satoru, for all his sorrow, believes. In people. In his students. In a world where things can be better.

And maybe that’s what hurts the most.

That the strongest man in the world is still just a boy who wanted to protect his friends. Who believed he could carry everything if it meant no one else had to suffer.

But no one can carry that much alone.

Not even Gojo.

Especially not Gojo Satoru.

---

They’ll say he was the strongest.

They’ll say he was untouchable.

They’ll put his name in textbooks, his techniques in archives.

But no one will say:

He was tired.

He was lonely.

He was trying, God, he was trying.

That’s the real tragedy of Gojo Satoru.

Not that he died alone.

But that he lived that way, too.

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

this one took a weird kind of toll on me.

not in a dramatic way, just… quietly exhausting, yk? like i sat down to write about gojo and somewhere in the middle i realized i wasn’t just writing about him.

i think the thing that gets me is—everyone calls him a god. The Strongest. The Honored One. The Chosen. Yet… the people closest to him still die. Still slip through his fingers like he wasn’t even holding them.

and i can’t help but wonder how many times gojo's thought, “am i really a god?” or worse—“if i’m not, then why would god make me like this?”

no mortal should ever be handed this kind of power and still be expected to carry that much grief.

to smile like it’s fine. to protect everyone except the ones that matter most.

it’s almost cruel, honestly.

like he’s not god’s favorite child—he’s god’s favorite toy.

anyway. that’s where my brain’s been lately.

not to be that person but yeah, school’s started and life’s been kind of heavy so maybe this meta feels a little different. more tired. a little sharper around the edges.

still, i’d really love to hear your thoughts. if it resonated or if you felt anything while reading it.

i write because i love these characters—because i want to understand them, not just worship them.

---

so yeah. feel free to drop a comment or scream with me in the tags.

✨ Bye and take care, hope you all have a good day ✨

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers 🌸✨

so—wanna know where i’ve been all this time?

Well. school started. and it’s been exactly as soul-sucking and exhausting as you'd expect.

i’ve been floating through days like a ghost that didn’t even get a tragic backstory. just assignments.

but in between the mess, i ended up writing a few jjk meta pieces. not planned, not polished—just… thoughts that wouldn’t shut up. little rants. poetic breakdowns. trauma essays disguised as fandom content. you know the deal.

i’ll be posting them all by this evening—there’s like 2 or 3 for now. they’re less “analysis” and more “me yelling into the void about how the jujutsu society is evil and i would physically fight god to protect every broken, bloody, emotionally-damaged character in that show.” so yeah. feel free to read, scream, cry, or argue with me in the tags. i’m down for it all.

they’re not perfect. but they’re honest.

and weirdly enough, they feel like the most me thing i’ve written in a while.

see you in the ruins.

✨Bye and take care, hope you all have a good day ✨

The Things He Never Forgets

Sukuna does not remember the faces of the men he has killed.

They blur together, indistinct, insignificant. A thousand screams, a thousand lives, all reduced to echoes lost in time.

He does not remember the first time he tasted blood.

Only that it was warm. Only that it tasted like power.

He does not remember the last time he spoke without cruelty.

Perhaps he never did.

Perhaps he was born sharp-edged, made only to take, to destroy, to rule.

And yet—

Sometimes, something shifts.

Something rises unbidden, uncalled for, unwanted.

A scent, a sound, a fleeting phrase spoken without thought.

And suddenly, he is somewhere else.

Suddenly, he is something else.

Something before.

-----

It happens on an evening like any other.

The fire is low. The air is thick with the scent of whatever you’re cooking, something simple, something forgettable. He is not paying attention. He does not need to.

Until you hum.

A tune, quiet, absentminded. A fragment of something old, something small.

And the world lurches.

Because he knows it.

Not the song itself, but the shape of it, the feeling of it. The way it pulls at something he does not remember storing away.

The air changes.

Sukuna does not move. He does not react. But his fingers twitch, curling just slightly where they rest.

It is nothing.

It is nothing.

Except—

His mind betrays him.

A flicker. A glimpse. A place he does not recognize, a life that is not his.

Or perhaps it was.

Once.

Long ago.

Before he became a god. Before he became a curse. Before his name was spoken in fear and reverence and hatred alike.

He does not remember.

And yet his body does.

The way his shoulders tense, the way his breath slows. The way he knows that if he reached out now—if he closed his eyes, if he listened just a little longer—

Something would come back.

And he is not sure he wants that.

-----

"Why did you stop?"

Your voice snaps him back.

He blinks, sharp and immediate, as if tearing himself free from something he does not want to acknowledge.

"You were humming," he says, and his voice is too even. Too careful.

You tilt your head. "Did it bother you?"

He scoffs, the sound rough. "Hardly."

A lie.

Because he does not forget things.

Not like this.

Not in ways that matter.

And yet, when he closes his eyes that night, long after the fire has burned down and silence has settled over the room,

The tune lingers.

It settles into the quiet spaces of his mind, the places he does not look too closely at.

And for the first time in centuries,

Sukuna remembers something he never meant to.

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

Sukuna having an internal crisis? Maybe. Or maybe I’m just delulu. Who’s to say?

But honestly, music is one of the most human things there is. It lingers. It carries. A song from centuries ago can still be sung today, and I feel like that’s the kind of thing that would get to him. Maybe not in a way he’d ever admit, but in that quiet, unwanted way where he finds himself listening when he doesn’t mean to.

And that line—what is immortality if not a curse? To be left behind when the other part of you is gone?—I swear I’ve read it somewhere before. It sounds like something that should be carved into a tombstone or whispered by some tragic figure who’s lived too long. (If you remember where it’s from, tell me because my brain is blanking.)

But yeah, completely agree with that sentiment. Who the hell wants to live forever? Tom Riddle was as stupid as he was good-looking.

---

Anyway, let me know what you think! I’d love to hear your thoughts on this one. Feel free to comment or send ideas—you know I love them.

✨ Bye and take care, hope you all have a good day ✨

The Taste of Memory :

Sukuna does not eat because he needs to.

Not in the way humans do.

His existence is beyond such trivial things. He is a curse. A god, a monster, a thing carved out of legend and blood. His existence is not bound by mortal needs. He does not hunger the way humans hunger.

He has long surpassed the fragile demands of a mortal body.

And yet—

He still eats.

Not out of necessity, not even out of hunger, but out of something older. Something deeper.

Because the body remembers what the mind does not.

And though he may have forgotten what it is to be human, his tongue has not.

---

The first time you notice it, it almost seems insignificant.

A meal placed in front of him, a casual thing, something to pass the time. He looks at it, considers it, and then—

With an expression of pure disdain—

Pushes the plate toward you.

“Trash,” he says. “Eat it if you want.”

You blink. “You haven’t even tried it.”

“I don’t need to.” His mouth twists in something between disgust and condescension. “The smell alone tells me enough.”

You should have expected it. Should have known. Sukuna does not tolerate mediocrity, does not entertain anything that does not meet his impossible standards.

He holds himself above the world, and the world has never been worthy.

Still, you roll your eyes and take the plate.

It is not the first time.

It will not be the last.

---

He does this often.

Rejects food without hesitation, discarding anything that does not meet his unspoken, unreasonably high expectations.

Too bland. Too dry. Too greasy.

Too human.

It is not that he cannot eat. It is that he refuses to eat something unworthy of him.

He takes no pleasure in mediocrity.

He does not need to, does not have to, does not want to.

But then—

Sometimes, very rarely, something changes.

-----

It happens without fanfare.

A dish placed before him. The same routine, the same look of practiced indifference. He lifts his chopsticks, takes a bite, chews.

And then—

Nothing.

No complaint. No insult. No dramatic dismissal.

Just silence.

You glance at him, waiting, expecting the usual disapproval. But he keeps eating, slow, measured. And when he finishes, he sets his utensils down with the same detached carelessness as always.

“...Not bad,” he mutters, almost as if to himself.

And then, in a voice quieter, that is more grudging—

“Make it again.”

---

The second time, it is deliberate.

He does not shove the plate away. Does not scoff or sneer. He eats, and when he finishes, he leans back, watching you with something unreadable in his expression.

“Do you remember how you made this?” he asks.

There is something strange in his tone. Not interest, not curiosity—something else.

You nod.

He exhales through his nose, thoughtful, almost irritated at himself. “Good. Do it again.”

Not an order.

Not a demand.

A request.

Something he cannot take, only accept.

And that knowledge unsettles him more than anything else.

-----

Sukuna does not remember his last meal as a human.

That life is a blur, a ghost too distant to reach.

But his body remembers.

Remembers the feeling of warmth in his chest after something good. Remembers the weight of a meal that satisfies more than just hunger. Remembers the distant echo of something familiar, something lost.

It does not come often. But when it does—when a dish reminds him, however faintly, of something he cannot name—

He does not know what to do with it.

Does not know how to exist in a moment that is not about power, or blood, or war.

Does not know how to want something that is not destruction.

So he says nothing.

But the next day, he asks again.

“You’re making that thing.”

And you do.

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

Another Sukuna piece for you all—this one feels like tasting something from your childhood. You know, that one dish you used to eat all the time, only to have it again years later and realize it doesn’t just taste like food—it tastes like a memory. Like a time, a place, a feeling you can’t quite name.

Except here, it’s Sukuna, and nothing is ever that simple. It’s not just nostalgia—it’s something buried, something almost forgotten, something he probably doesn’t want to remember but does anyway. And of course, because he’s him, it’s a whole lot more complicated (and God-King-like) than just reminiscing.

---

Anyway, let me know what you think! I’d love to hear your thoughts on this one. Feel free to comment or send me ideas—you know I love them.

✨ Bye and take care, hope you all have a good day ✨

The Hands of a God-King :

Sukuna’s hands were never meant to be touched.

They were carved by power, molded for violence. Fingers meant for destruction, palms that know only the heat of blood, the crack of bone, the sharpness of steel.

And yet, they are scarred.

Not from battle—no one has ever been strong enough to leave a lasting wound on him—but from himself. From the weight of his own strength, from the countless times he has torn himself apart and stitched himself back together with sheer will alone.

His body is a temple built and rebuilt from ruin.

And his hands are the proof of it.

-----

The scars are strange things. Some thin as hairline cracks, others jagged, deep—memories of a power so vast it could not be contained, even within his own skin. He has felt his bones fracture under the pressure of it, muscles split, skin burned away, only to heal again, over and over, as if his body has long accepted that it will never truly be whole.

He doesn’t think about it. There’s no point.

It is what it is.

And yet—sometimes, when the world is quiet, when his hands are still, he can feel it. The ghosts of old wounds, the echoes of destruction.

The knowledge that his body is both indestructible and deeply, deeply broken.

-----

He doesn’t know when you first noticed.

Perhaps it was the way his fingers curled absentmindedly when he wasn’t using them. Perhaps it was the way he flexed them, as if reminding himself they were still there. Or maybe it was the way they traced over things—absent, almost thoughtful—when he thought no one was watching.

Whatever it was, you had noticed. And that was a problem.

Because people who noticed things about him usually didn’t live long.

And yet, there you were.

Watching. Thinking. Understanding something he did not want to be understood.

One night, as his fingers drummed idly against his knee, your gaze flickered down to his hands. The movement was so slight he almost didn’t catch it.

"Does it hurt?" you asked.

He had half a mind to ignore you. To dismiss it with a sneer, to tell you that pain was beneath him. But something about the way you said it—calm, certain, like you already knew the answer—made him pause.

And for just a moment, his hands stilled.

Then he laughed. Low, sharp, edged with something unreadable.

"You think a god suffers from something so trivial?"

But you didn’t back down.

"Gods suffer more than anyone, don’t they?"

And he should have struck you down for that. Should have reminded you of what he was, of what you were, and of how your words were nothing but fleeting air against the weight of his existence.

But he didn’t.

Instead, his fingers twitched.

And in that moment—so small, so insignificant he almost didn’t notice it himself—his hands curled, just slightly, as if remembering something they were not supposed to.

-----

Sukuna does not think about his hands.

Not in the way you do, with your quiet observations, your thoughtful little remarks.

But sometimes, when your gaze lingers on them—when your fingers brush against his in passing, when your touch lingers for just a second too long—he thinks about what they would have been in another life.

If they would have held instead of taken.

If they would have been human.

And then he laughs, because the thought is absurd. Because that life never existed, and never will.

But sometimes, when the world is quiet, when he lets his hands rest against you without thinking—when they do not tighten, do not wound, do not take—they do not feel like weapons.

If they would have built instead of destroyed.

They feel like hands.

And that is the cruelest trick of all.

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

Here I am—stupid little me—trying to make this walking catastrophe feel a little human again. Like that’s ever going to work.

If Sukuna knew I was sitting here, dissecting his hands like some tragic metaphor, he’d kill me before I even got to my second sentence. No hesitation. Just a flick of his fingers, a scoff, maybe an "Tch. Foolish human," and then—nothing. I’d be gone. Reduced to a smear on the ground, utterly irrelevant to a god-king who has never needed to justify a single thing he’s done.

But I don’t know. I keep coming back to it. His hands—scarred, precise, brutal—feel like they tell a story he has no interest in acknowledging. They’ve taken everything, ruined everything, but they’ve also rebuilt him over and over again. He’s been unmade by his own power more times than anyone else ever could, and yet, here he is. Still standing. Still undefeated. And if there’s one thing Sukuna hates, it’s the idea of anything having power over him.

So what does that mean for the hands that have both created him and destroyed him?

---

Anyway, those are just my thoughts. Maybe I’m reading too much into it. Maybe I should shut up before Sukuna manifests just to personally smite me. But hey, feel free to comment and share your thoughts—I’d love to hear what you think. And if you’ve got headcanons, send them my way. I might try writing them too.

Until then, I’ll just be here, waiting for the inevitable divine wrath.

✨ Bye and take care, hope you all have a good day ✨

Sukuna’s Reflection :

Sukuna does not linger in front of mirrors.

It is not because he fears what he sees. Fear is for lesser things—mortals who cower before their own shadows, kings who wake in cold sweat at the thought of losing their crowns. He is not them. He is not afraid.

But he does not look for long.

Because there was a time when his face was different. A time before he had four eyes and a mouth that split his body like a curse.

A time before he became something whispered about in the dark.

And though he does not regret it, there are moments—quiet, fleeting—where he wonders.

What would he have been if he had chosen differently? Would he still be feared?

Or would he simply be forgotten?

---

Once, long ago, he had a face that belonged to a man.

He remembers it only in fragments. A glimpse in the still water of a river. The shadow of it in dreams that do not belong to him. A sensation—muscles stretching over bone in a way that no longer feels familiar.

It is a strange thing, to forget your own features. To remember only the weight of them, the absence of them, rather than the thing itself.

But that is what he is now. A body made and unmade by his own hands. A temple built from ruin.

And temples are not meant to be beautiful. They are meant to be worshiped.

---

There are no mirrors in the places Sukuna calls his own.

Not because he cannot bear to see himself—no, that would be too human, too weak—but because he has no need for them. He does not need a reflection to know what he is. He can see it in the way people look at him. In the way they refuse to meet his gaze, as if to do so would invite death.

He is written across history in the blood of the fallen. That is proof enough of his existence.

And yet.

And yet, sometimes, he catches himself in the polished steel of a blade, in the dark glass of a window, in the eyes of those who do not yet understand what they are looking at.

And for just a moment, he sees not what he is, but what he was.

Not the King of Curses. Not the monster.

Just a man.

---

"You look like you’ve seen a ghost," you say one day, and he nearly laughs.

Because he has.

Because in every reflection, in every ripple of water, there is something half-familiar staring back.

The remnants of a boy who was born in blood and grew into something worse.

The bones of a man who once might have been kind, if kindness had ever been an option.

The shadow of someone he no longer recognizes.

And isn’t that the funny part?

He has spent centuries carving his name into the world, forcing people to remember him, fear him, and yet—

He is the only one who cannot remember himself.

---

Sukuna tilts his head, studying his reflection with a faint, unreadable expression. He watches the way his second mouth curls into a sneer of its own accord. The way his extra eyes blink a fraction too slow, out of sync with the rest of him.

It is a face made for terror. A thing meant to be seen and feared, not understood.

And still—there is something missing.

Not regret. Never regret.

But a question.

Would he have been happy?

If he had chosen differently, if he had not become this, would there have been joy? Would there have been laughter, something real and full instead of the sharp, cruel thing he lets slip past his lips now?

Or would he have faded into obscurity, just another nameless fool in a world that does not care?

Would he rather be a forgotten man or a remembered monster?

The answer should be easy.

It should be.

But in moments like this, when he stands before a mirror and sees something that does not belong to him, he is not so sure.

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

Look, I know I write Sukuna with a lot of philosophy, but I don’t think I’ve fully understood him yet. Every time I try, he ends up a little too lost, a little too weighed down, and I know that’s not quite right. Sukuna isn’t the type to sit in a corner and sulk about the meaning of his existence—if he ever caught me writing him like this, I’d be dead before I could even start explaining myself.

Like, picture it: I’m standing there, notebook in hand, ready to argue about his inner demons, and he just looks at me—amused, vaguely disgusted—before shaking his head and flicking his wrist. Ah, foolish little woman. And then I’m gone. Just a thought, just dust.

But hey, he’s not here to do any of that, so here I am, rambling away.

---

And that’s where you come in. Tell me—am I getting him right? Or am I making him too introspective, too… human? Is there something in Sukuna that justifies this angle, or am I just trying to squeeze meaning out of something that doesn’t need it? Let me know. Let’s figure out this god-king together.

✨ Bye and take care, hope you all have a good day ✨

A Pawn or a Player? { 3 }

_________________________________________

"Do you know what the most dangerous piece on the board is?

A pawn that refuses to stay one."

_________________________________________

Petyr Baelish never told me I was shaped.

He didn’t have to.

The thing about growing up in the shadow of a man like him is that you begin to understand silence better than words. You learn the meaning of a glance, the weight of a pause, the way power curls itself around a room like smoke, barely visible but impossible to ignore.

I was ten the first time he let me sit beside him while he played cyvasse against a visiting merchant.

It was not a lesson, not officially. Petyr never wasted time on things so direct.

But when the game was over and the merchant had left, my father turned to me and asked, as if it were nothing, “Did you see how I won?”

I hesitated. “You trapped his dragon.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “No, sweetling. I let him believe he was winning. Until he wasn’t.”

---

I learned quickly after that.

Petyr never told me to watch. But I did.

I watched the way he spoke to lords, all soft smiles and careful charm. I watched the way he moved through a room, unassuming yet ever-present. I watched the way people underestimated him, the way they dismissed him as nothing more than a minor lord with a sharp tongue and sharper ambition.

I watched the way he let them.

And I watched the way he won.

---

The first time I played cyvasse against him, I lost.

I was eleven, and I had thought myself clever. I moved my pieces with confidence, mirroring the strategy I had seen him use before.

He beat me in seven moves.

“Why? I asked, frowning at the board. “I did everything right.”

His fingers traced the edge of a pawn, thoughtful. “Did you?”

I looked again.

And then I saw it—the mistake. The opening I had left without realizing it.

The moment I had lost, before I even knew the game was over.

Petyr smiled, reaching out to smooth a hand over my hair, his touch as light as his voice. “You learn quickly, Rowan. But so do your enemies.”

---

I did not trust my father.

I respected him. I studied him.

But trust? No.

Petyr Baelish was not a man who inspired trust. He inspired awe, perhaps. Caution. Admiration, in the way one might admire a well-forged blade.

But never trust.

And he knew it.

Which was why, I think, he never asked me to.

---

I let him shape me. But only so far.

I let him teach me how to speak, how to smile, how to make a man believe I was harmless even as I unraveled his secrets.

But I also watched.

I watched him as much as he watched me.

Because if he was making me into a tool, then I needed to know what kind.

A dagger is not the same as a key. A shield is not the same as a lockpick.

And I did not intend to be used blindly.

-----

“You are too clever for your own good,” he told me once, when I was twelve.

I only smiled. “I wonder where I got it from.”

He laughed at that, shaking his head.

But he did not answer.

Because he knew.

And so did I.

—End of Chapter Three—

_____________________________

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

This chapter focuses heavily on Rowan and Petyr’s dynamic—the push and pull of power, trust, and manipulation between them. She plays the role he expects, but beneath it, she’s always watching, always learning. It’s a complicated relationship, built on something that resembles loyalty but is laced with too much calculation to be love.

I wanted to explore that tension—how much of her father’s influence she accepts, how much she resents, and how much she quietly resists.

---

Let me know what you think! Does their relationship feel as layered as I intended? Feel free to comment, share your thoughts, or ask any questions about Rowan!

✨Bye and take care, hope you all have a good day ✨

A Girl Among Snakes { 2 }

_________________________________________

“You must learn the difference between a pet and a viper. And then you must learn how to hold both without getting bitten.”

_________________________________________

A court is a nest of snakes, but the trick is knowing which ones have venom and which ones are just pretending.

I learned this early. I had to.

Petyr Baelish never sat me down and taught me the rules of the game. He never needed to. My education was in his words, his glances, the way he could make a promise sound like a threat and a threat sound like a gift.

“My sweet Rowan,” he once said, fingers tilting my chin up so that my eyes met his. “Do you know why a mockingbird sings?”

I had been eight, still young enough to think his questions had answers. “Because it is happy?”

His smile was fond, yes. but not kind. “No. Because it is listening.”

-----

Myrcella was the first person to call me a friend.

It was not something I had ever expected to have, but Myrcella had a way of making things seem simpler than they were. She liked to pluck flowers and talk about knights, about love, about things that were soft and golden and good.

I let her believe in them.

For her, I was gentle. For her, I was kind.

But there was always a part of me—small and sharp—that knew better.

When she told me she wanted to be queen one day, I only smiled.

When she said she hoped Joffrey would be a good king, I did not answer.

Some dreams are too sweet to break.

---

Joffrey was something else entirely.

He liked me, but only because I let him think I was his to command.

Joffrey liked the illusion of power more than power itself. He liked to hold it in his hands, to wield it, to see people flinch when he spoke.

But I never flinched.

And that, more than anything, fascinated him.

“Rowan, do you love me?” he once asked, his voice filled with that arrogant certainty that only princes and fools possess.

I tilted my head, smiled just enough. “Of course, Your Grace.”

It was a lie.

But it was a beautiful one.

And beautiful lies are the ones that people love most of all.

-----

The brothels were my father’s kingdom.

He did not love them, not really, but he owned them the way a man owns a sword—because it was useful.

I was never meant to belong there, but I learned quickly that belonging was a matter of perception. If you knew how to wear a place, it would wear you back.

The whores were kinder than the ladies of the court. They saw me for what I was, not what I pretended to be. They called me sweetling, little bird, pretty thing. They brushed my hair and told me stories and laughed when I mimicked my father’s voice, sharp and knowing.

But they also taught me.

Men talk when they think no one is listening. They talk to women they do not fear. They talk when they drink, when they want, when they think they are safe.

I listened.

Because a mockingbird sings, yes—but only when it knows what song is worth singing.

-----

Petyr caught me once, slipping through the halls of his finest establishment.

He was not angry. Not truly. He only looked at me for a long moment, then sighed, as if I were a puzzle he had already solved.

“You think yourself clever,” he murmured.

“I am,” I said.

He smiled, and there was something unreadable in his expression. “Yes. That is what worries me.”

It should have worried me, too.

But I was young. And I was my father’s daughter.

And the game had only just begun.

—End of Chapter Two—

_____________________________

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

I know, I know—you might be thinking this chapter feels a bit too similar to the first. But I really wanted to slow things down and dig deeper into Rowan’s relationships, her thoughts, and how she’s beginning to navigate the world around her. This isn’t just about her learning manipulation; it’s about understanding the people in her life and the roles they play—whether as allies, pawns, or something in between.

Hopefully, this gives you a better sense of her dynamic with Petyr, Myrcella, and even Joffrey (because that’s a whole thing).

---

Let me know what you think—does it work? Should I have approached it differently? Feel free to comment, ask questions, or share your thoughts!

✨ Bye and take care, hope you all have a good day ✨

The Daughter of Littlefinger { 1 }

________________________________________

"They call me Baelish’s girl. A whisper behind silk fans, a name spoken with knowing smirks and hushed amusement, as if I am some pet my father keeps in his pocket, trained to play his games. But I am not a pet. Nor a pawn. Nor a fool. I am something else entirely—though, if I were wise, I would not admit to what."

_________________________________________

I was born in a brothel, though no one in court would ever say it aloud.

They would whisper it, of course, behind painted fans and smirks, in the same breath that they called me Baelish’s girl. Not quite a lady, not quite a bastard, something between a shadow and a secret.

My mother was a whore. She had hair like autumn and eyes like the first bloom of spring—Catelyn Stark’s ghost in a cheaper dress. She was beautiful in the way that made men reckless, and that, I suppose, was her first and final mistake.

I do not remember much of her. A voice, soft and humming. A hand, cool against my forehead. The way she smelled—lavender and something warm, something fading. When I try too hard to summon her, she dissolves into candlelight and smoke.

She died when I was four.

No one ever told me how. Some said illness, some said an accident, some said a jealous man who did not take kindly to her affections being divided. Maybe it was all of them. Maybe it was none. I used to think that if I asked my father, he would tell me, but I never did.

And perhaps that is the truest thing about us—our relationship was built not on what was said, but on what we both refused to say.

-----

Petyr Baelish took me in, but he did not raise me.

No, I think I raised myself.

I learned early that silence was my strongest armor. That men would mistake beauty for softness, that kindness was only currency, that power was not about strength, but about knowing which strings to pull and when.

I watched my father, listened to him, memorized the way he twisted words into something sweet and sharp all at once. I learned when he lied and when he only made people think he was lying. I learned that truth is a weapon like any other.

And I loved him, in my own way.

How could I not?

He was the one who took me from the filth of that brothel, who dressed me in silk, who gave me a name that people whispered with something like fear. I could have been nothing. I could have been dead.

Instead, I was here. In the capital. In the court. In the game.

-----

The first lesson my father ever taught me was this: Power is an illusion, and the best illusions are the ones people choose to believe.

He told me this when I was seven, sitting across from me at a table too grand for two people alone. His fingers toyed with the stem of his wine cup, a casual gesture, but I knew better than to think my father’s hands ever moved without purpose.

"Tell me, Rowan," he had asked, voice soft, almost amused, "do you know why men follow kings?"

I had hesitated, uncertain. Because they must? Because the king commands them? Because that is how the world works?

But even then, I had understood that my father rarely asked questions to hear simple answers. So I did what any good daughter of Petyr Baelish would do.

I smiled and said, "Because they choose to."

He had leaned back, his expression unreadable. Then, after a long pause, he had nodded. "Smart girl."

I had known then that I had pleased him.

But what I did not know—what I could not know—was how much that lesson would shape me.

-----

Court life was a performance, and I was a fast learner.

At first, I was merely the little shadow at my father’s side. A girl with clever eyes and a too-sweet smile, always listening, always watching.

The lords dismissed me. The ladies pitied me. But Myrcella Baratheon found me interesting.

It was not a friendship in the way of stories— no promises of forever—but I was her lady-in-waiting, and she was the closest thing to a true friend I could afford.

She looked up to me, I think. She liked how I carried myself, how I never shrank away.

I exist in the spaces between. A girl who listens more than she speaks, who watches more than she acts. I am careful. Cautious. A shadow in silk.

And yet, I am not invisible.

She calls me her dearest friend, her wisest lady-in-waiting, though she is far too young to understand what wisdom truly costs. She clings to my arm and tells me her dreams, her hopes, her childish fears. I listen. I nod. I smile when required.

“You’re not afraid of anything,” she once told me.

And I smiled, because I had already learned that fear was not something you showed. It was something you used.

-----

Joffrey liked me too, in his own way.

Or perhaps he just liked that I was never foolish enough to cower before him. I knew how to speak to him. Knew when to flatter, when to feign laughter, when to let him think he had won.

He once asked me if I was loyal to him.

“Of course, Your Grace.”

It was the only answer he wanted.

But later, when I was alone, I thought of my father and all the times I had asked myself the same question.

Was I loyal?

To whom?

my father?

To myself, I decided. That would have to be enough.

-----

People think power is won in battle, in blood, in steel.

But I knew better.

Power was a whisper in the right ear. A secret traded at the right time. A name spoken in the right room.

It was knowing when to smile and when to strike.

And I was my father’s daughter, after all.

Even if I was trying, so desperately, not to be.

—End of Chapter One—

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

So, here it is—chapter one of Life and Lies of Lady Rowan Baelish. Honestly, writing this introduction felt like stepping straight into the viper’s nest that is Westeros. Rowan’s childhood, her mother’s death, and her first real taste of court life—this chapter lays the groundwork for everything she’ll become.

I wanted it to feel real, not just as an origin story but as a reflection of how survival shapes people differently. Do you think it captures that? Does it need more? Less? Let me know your thoughts—I’d love to hear what you all think.

---

Comment, ask questions, or just scream about the chaos to come. I’m here for all of it lol.

✨ Bye and take care, Hope you all have a good day ✨

Ahh, come on, man. I already had my JJK OC half-built in my drafts, all planned out and everything—but I guess that’s how it is.

But hey, I’m glad so many of you voted and actually enjoy my JJK one-shots! I’ll keep posting them, then.

---

Feel free to comment and throw your ideas at me—I’d love to hear what you guys want to read next.

So, do I keep emotionally devastating you with JJK one-shots, or do I create an OC and ruin their life instead?

A Man Who Does Not Smile :

Nanami Kento does not go out of his way to frighten children. It just happens.

There is something about the way he exists—tall, severe, measured in movement and speech—that makes small creatures wary of him. Dogs hesitate before wagging their tails. Babies squirm when they sense his presence. And children, most unforgiving of all, take one look at him and decide he is someone to fear.

It is not something he does on purpose. It is not even something he particularly minds. But it is something he has noticed.

---

The first time it happens, he is twelve years old.

He is at a family gathering, the kind that drags on forever and smells like heavy food and too much perfume. His mother has given him a task—keep an eye on his cousin’s toddler while the adults talk.

He does not like children. He does not dislike them, either. They simply exist, in the way that birds and passing clouds do—present, but not worth much thought.

The child is small, unsteady on his feet, and when he sees Nanami, he immediately bursts into tears.

Nanami does not know what to do. He has not done anything. He has not spoken, has not moved. He has simply existed in the same space as this child, and yet, somehow, this is enough to warrant terror.

His mother scolds him later. "You should try being friendlier. Smile more."

Nanami tries. It does not help.

---

Years pass. He grows taller, sharper, more deliberate in his actions. He learns to choose his words carefully, to measure his tone, to move with the kind of efficiency that makes the world a little more tolerable.

But the pattern remains.

Children do not like him.

He is sixteen when he volunteers at a local library, mostly because it is quiet and does not demand much of him. One afternoon, a group of children comes in for story time. The librarian, a woman with a kind face and tired eyes, asks him to help.

Nanami sits down, book in hand. He does not make any sudden movements. He does not raise his voice. He simply reads.

Halfway through, a child starts crying.

The librarian pats Nanami’s arm. “Maybe try sounding a little less... serious?”

He does not understand what she means. He is reading the words as they are written. He is being careful, thoughtful. Isn’t that what people are supposed to want?

But when he looks at the children—small, fidgeting, casting wary glances at him—he knows.

They do not like his voice.

They do not like his face.

They do not like him.

---

He does not try again for many years.

It does not come up often. His life is not the kind that requires interaction with children. His job is not safe, not kind, not something that should be seen by those who still have softness left in them.

But then there is a mission—a simple one, supposedly—and he finds himself standing in a half-destroyed street, staring down at a child no older than six.

She has lost her parents.

She is shaking.

And when she looks up at him, all wide eyes and trembling hands, she does not cry.

Nanami does not know what to do with this.

He kneels, slow and careful. “You are not hurt?”

She shakes her head.

She is too quiet. Too still. He recognizes this—shock, fear held too tightly, the kind that makes people collapse hours later when their bodies finally catch up to their minds.

So he does something he has not done in years.

He smiles.

It is small, just the barest movement of his lips, meant to reassure, to make him seem less imposing. It is an effort. It is, he thinks, something that might be kind.

The child’s face crumples.

She bursts into tears.

---

Later, Gojo laughs so hard he nearly falls out of his chair.

“You made her cry by smiling?” he wheezes, wiping at his eyes. “Man, I knew you were scary, but damn.”

Nanami sighs. He regrets telling him.

“Maybe it was a bad smile,” Gojo continues. “Like, creepy. Serial killer vibes.”

Nanami does not dignify this with a response.

But later, when he stands in front of a mirror, he tries again.

He does not smile often. He never saw the point. But now, looking at his own reflection, he studies the way his face shifts, the way his expression pulls at the edges.

Does it look unnatural?

Does it look forced?

He does not know.

He does not try again.

---

Years later, when he is older, when the weight of his own choices sits heavier in his bones, he finds himself in the presence of another child.

This time, he does not smile.

This time, he simply crouches, keeps his voice steady, his movements slow, and waits.

The child does not cry.

Nanami exhales.

(It is enough.)

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

You know, I think I might be Nanami. Or at least, I deeply relate to his struggle with children. I don’t know if it’s a lack of patience or just the sheer confusion of what am I supposed to do with this tiny, unpredictable human? But yeah, I struggle.

Case in point: My maternal aunt once asked me to watch over my toddler cousin, Riya, during a family gathering while she cooked. Simple, right? Should’ve been easy. Except, the moment my presence registered, she started crying. And I mean, really crying. And what did I do? Nothing. I just stood there, because what do you even do in that situation? Pat her head? Start singing? Apologize for existing?

Anyway, that incident stayed with me, and when I wrote this, I couldn’t help but channel some of that energy into Nanami. The man just exists and children find him terrifying. I get it.

---

So yeah, let me know—do kids like you? Or are you, like me (and Nanami), just out here unintentionally scaring them with your mere presence? Drop a comment, share your thoughts, and let’s collectively figure out how to interact with tiny humans.

✨ Bye and take care, Hope you all have a good day ✨

: Life and Lies of : ~Lady Rowan Baelish~

"The court loves a tragedy, but the audience? Oh, they're worse. You all watch with bated breath, waiting for the fall, for the blood, for the spectacle of it all. You’re no different from the vultures that circle the Red Keep—except you do not even pretend to mourn. But then again… what’s wrong with being a little wicked, hmm?"

—Lady Rowan to Viewers

(A jest, perhaps. But there’s always truth in a well-timed jest.)

-----

A Memory —

Rowan Baelish learned young that silence was a weapon sharper than steel. She had been a child of quiet corners and half-heard whispers, of watching men lie and women smile as they twisted the knife. 'Clever girl,' her father had once murmured, pride curling in his voice like smoke. But cleverness was a double-edged thing.

Once, when she was very small, she had asked a whore in her father’s brothel if the world was kind. The woman had laughed—a soft, bitter sound—and kissed her brow. "No, little bird," she had said. "But if you learn how to sing the right tune, the world might pretend it is."

----

Who Is Lady Rowan Baelish?

Born: The only acknowledged daughter of Petyr Baelish, a girl born on the fringes of power and raised within its shadows.

Age: 13 years old at the start of A Song of Ice and Fire

Titles: “Baelish’s Girl,” “The Mockingbird’s Daughter” (Later: Lady of Highgarden)

Appearance: Warm copper-colored hair, mint-green eyes, favors dark blue and green gowns

Personality: Socially charming, observant, strategic, kind-seeming but never naïve

(a girl who understands that power is not just taken—it is earned, owed, and wielded.)

Role in Court: Lady-in-waiting to Princess Myrcella, navigating the world of power and deceit

-----

Notable Relationships :

Petyr Baelish – The father she respects but does not trust, the man who shaped her but does not own her. A lesson and a warning, all in one.

Loras Tyrell – A husband in name, a friend in truth, a partner in ambition. A marriage of convenience that became something more—an unspoken understanding, a promise of survival, a bond that no bedchamber could define.

Aegon VI (Young Griff) – A love written in stolen moments, in hands that reached but never held for long. A romance that could never be, a longing burdened by duty. In another life, perhaps. But in this one? Love is a sacrifice, and kings do not keep what does not serve the crown.

-----

What Will Be Her Legacy?

She is the daughter of a man who built his fortune on whispers and deceit, a girl raised not on lullabies but on half-truths and well-placed smiles.

Born from a fleeting moment of want and accepted only when it suited him, Rowan Baelish grew up learning that love and loyalty were currencies—rarely given freely, always traded for something.

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

Alright, after seeing the polls (tf it was a tie 💀) ( after much internal screaming and debating), I’ve decided to officially step into A Song of Ice and Fire! And what better way to do that than by introducing an OC I’ve been obsessing over for way too long?

Of course, I’ll still be writing my usual one-shots and headcanons, but I really wanted to dive into a full character study because, let’s be honest—I’ve been consumed by ASOIAF for years now.

So, meet Lady Rowan Baelish. Petyr Baelish’s only acknowledged daughter, a girl born into manipulation and ambition yet trying to carve her own path. She’s everything I love about morally complex characters—sharp, observant, deeply self-aware, and walking that fine line between survival and power.

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I hope you all like her! Feel free to send in questions, theories, or just yell at me about her—I’d love to talk more about the world I’m building around her. First chapter should be up tomorrow, so stay tuned!

✨ Bye and take care, Hope you all have a good day✨

He Thought Gojo Would Stop Him :

There are things that happen all at once.

Sudden, sharp, irreversible things. A blade slicing through skin, a building collapsing, a name being spoken for the last time.

And then there are things that happen slowly, so gradually that you don’t realize they’re happening until you’re too far gone. Until you wake up one day and everything that was once yours is gone—your beliefs, your convictions, your place in the world. Your best friend.

Geto Suguru didn’t break all at once.

He unraveled.

Thread by thread, thought by thought, moment by moment—until he was standing at the edge of the world he used to know, waiting for someone to stop him.

Waiting for Satoru to stop him.

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He had already made up his mind. That’s what he told himself. That’s what he told everyone else. That the moment he looked at the pile of corpses in that damp, rotting village, the moment he realized just how little sorcerers meant to the world—they were nothing but disposable tools—that was the moment he knew.

That was the moment he chose his path.

And maybe that was true.

But maybe, in the back of his mind, in the deepest part of himself that still remembered being sixteen and invincible, he thought Gojo would come for him. That Gojo would grab him by the collar, shove him against a wall, and tell him to stop being such a fucking idiot. That Gojo would remind him that they were supposed to change the world *together*.

That Gojo would refuse to let him go.

But Gojo never did.

And that was how Geto knew—he really was alone.

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The first time he saw Gojo after he left, he almost laughed.

Because Gojo still looked the same. Still carried himself with that easy, careless arrogance, still spoke like he had never known loss, still acted like nothing in the world could touch him.

And for a second, for a brief, aching second, Geto almost believed it.

Then Gojo tilted his head and said, “Why?”

Not in anger. Not in pain. Just—*curiosity.*

Like Geto was just another equation to solve, just another variable in the grand, meaningless world of sorcery.

Like he wasn’t the person who had once known Gojo better than anyone else.

Like he wasn’t the person Gojo should have *stopped.*

And Geto felt something inside him go still.

Because this was it. This was proof.

That Gojo had let him go.

That he had walked away, and Gojo had *let him*.

And if Gojo wasn’t going to stop him—if even *Gojo* wasn’t going to fight for him—then maybe there really was nothing left in the world worth saving.

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But years later, standing on a rooftop in Shinjuku, watching Gojo smile at him for the last time, Geto wondered—had it been the other way around all along?

Had Gojo been waiting for him?

Had they both been standing on opposite sides of a war neither of them wanted, waiting for the other to say it first?

“Come back.”

“Don’t go.”

“Stay.”

But neither of them had. And now it was too late.

Now all Gojo could do was stand there, looking at him like he still knew him, like he still understood him, like nothing had ever changed.

Like, despite everything, despite all the blood and death and years between them, Satoru still looked at him and saw Suguru.

Not an enemy. Not a traitor. Not a mistake.

Just Suguru.

And Geto almost wanted to laugh.

Because wasn’t that ironic? Wasn’t that the cruelest, funniest, saddest joke the universe had ever played?

That in the end, Gojo still saw him.

That in the end, it had never mattered.

That in the end, Gojo had lost him anyway.

(That in the end, neither of them had ever been strong enough to stop the other.)

Not really.

Not where it counted.

Not where it mattered.

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And as the world faded, as his own voice echoed back at him—“At least, let me curse you a little”—as Gojo stood there, smiling, still looking at him like they were kids again, like nothing had changed—

Geto thought "You should have stopped me."

But maybe Gojo had been thinking the exact same thing.

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Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

Man, my heart actually hurt while writing this shit. Like, physically. These two should’ve just shut up and kissed already because let’s be honest—both of them wanted to say it. They just never did. And that’s the tragedy of it, isn’t it?

That’s how the story goes. Not just for them, but in real life too. We wait for the other person to speak first. We wait for someone to reach out, to stop us, to tell us, “Don’t go,” or “Stay,” or “I still care.” But they’re waiting for the same thing. And in the end, all that’s left is what if?

What if Geto had said something? What if Gojo had? What if just one of them had stopped being so damn stubborn?

But they didn’t. And that’s why we’re here, writing and crying over two emotionally constipated disasters who loved each other in a way that neither of them could admit.

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Anyway, thanks for reading! I’d love to hear your thoughts—what do you think about their dynamic? Let’s talk about these two absolute babies who ruined my life.

✨ Bye and take care, hope you all have a good day ✨

okay so ngl I’m probably not gonna write these as good as I do for Gojo, Geto, or my sweet bbg Kento (character analysis just hits different with them), but I’ll try my best to ruin your emotions anyway. So, which one do I attempt next hmm ?

So, do I keep emotionally devastating you with JJK one-shots, or do I create an OC and ruin their life instead?

The First Time He Saw an Office Job, He Thought It Was Freedom :

Nanami Kento thought he understood what freedom was.

It wasn’t some grand concept, not to him. It wasn’t rebellion or escape or even peace. It was something quieter, simpler. It was the absence of exhaustion, the absence of endless blood and death. It was the choice to walk away from a world that took and took and took until there was nothing left.

So when he saw his first office job, he thought—maybe this is it.

Maybe this is what it looks like.

No more curses. No more blood. No more endless nights wondering if tomorrow would be his last. Just a desk, a paycheck, and a life that belonged only to him.

It seemed Clean. Orderly. Safe.

He was wrong, of course.

But at the time, it was the only thing that made sense.

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He never had the illusion that he was a hero.

Gojo could talk about justice, about duty, about responsibility, but Nanami? Nanami knew better. He knew that none of it mattered, that the work they did wasn’t noble or righteous. It was just survival. Just a job that needed to be done.

And he hated it. He hated the way it made him feel, the way it carved pieces out of him. He hated the way his hands never felt clean, no matter how many times he washed them.

But the most of all, he hated was how it was all expected.

How no one ever really questioned it.

How this was just the way things were.

So when he looked at that first office building, at the neatly pressed suits and the fluorescent lights and the steady, predictable rhythm of it all—he thought, This is freedom.

Because wasn’t that what freedom was? The ability to walk away? The ability to choose something else?

He thought so.

For a while, he really did.

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The thing they don’t tell you about freedom is that it’s not the same as peace.

The office was quiet, yes. Predictable, yes. But it was also empty.

There was no blood, no curses, no constant fight for survival. But there was also no meaning. No purpose. Just an endless series of reports and meetings and numbers that meant nothing.

And at first, he told himself that was fine. That this was better. That this was what he chose.

But some nights, he’d wake up gasping, hands clenched, body tense, as if expecting a fight that never came.

Some nights, he’d find himself staring at his reflection in the office bathroom mirror, wondering why he felt like a ghost in his own life.

Some nights, he’d wonder if he had made a mistake.

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The day he walked away from the office was quiet.

No dramatic goodbyes. No second thoughts. Just the simple realization that this wasn’t freedom either. That maybe freedom didn’t exist at all.

But if he had to choose—between an empty life and a painful one—he’d at least choose something that meant something.

And so, he went back.

Back to the blood, the exhaustion, the endless cycle of fighting for a world that would never change.

Because maybe it didn’t matter what he wanted.

Maybe it never did.

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Nanami Kento never believed in freedom. Not really.

But when he died, he thought—at least I chose this.

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Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

My sweet, sad bbg Kento… I love him so much it actually makes me angry. Like, imagine being Nanami Kento. You do everything right. You work hard. You try to be practical. You just want a simple, decent life. And what does the world give you in return? Absolutely nothing. No peace, no freedom, not even the illusion of rest. He carried all that weight, all that exhaustion, and for what? For a world that chewed him up and spat him out like he was nothing.

To the people who hate Nanami… meet me in the parking lot. We gotta fight. Right now.

Honestly, I’ll probably write an AU one-shot where he actually gets to retire in Malaysia, eating all the good food his heart desires, because he deserves that. I don’t care what canon says. My man should have been sipping on some tropical drink, watching the sunset, alive.

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Anyway, hope you liked the one-shot! Feel free to comment and share your thoughts—I’d love for some Nanami worshipers to come together and mourn this man properly.

✨ Bye and take care, Hope you all have a good day ✨

He Never Thought He’d Live Long Anyway :

Geto Suguru never really planned for the future. Not in the way normal people did.

He wasn’t careless, not exactly—just realistic. Sorcerers didn’t get old. They didn’t settle down, didn’t retire, didn’t fade into something softer. They burned out or got snuffed out, whichever came first. It was the nature of things.

You used to think he was being dramatic when he said things like that.

“You sound like an old man,” you’d tease, lying next to him on the temple floor, staring at the ceiling beams above. The incense was still burning, curling in soft wisps of white. “You’re eighteen, Suguru.”

“Exactly,” he’d reply, tipping his head to look at you, something almost fond in his gaze. “Ancient.”

And maybe, back then, it was a joke. A stupid one. But even then, there was something in his voice, something that made you uneasy.

Like he was saying it not because he wanted to, but because he already knew.

Because he had already done the math.

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He never talked about the future the way other people did.

Gojo made plans—half-baked, ridiculous ones, but plans nonetheless. Even Shoko, for all her cynicism, would talk about things like next year and someday. But Geto Suguru?

When he spoke about the future, it was always vague. Uncertain. Like he was already counting himself out of it.

Not in a self-destructive way. Not in a woe is me kind of way. Just in the quiet, inevitable way that someone acknowledges gravity.

He never said, *When I’m old.*

He never said, *Someday, when I retire.*

He only ever said, *If I make it that far.*

And it wasn’t until later that you realized—he didn’t think he would.

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The first time you knew, really knew, you were seventeen.

The mission had been hell. You’d come back exhausted, blood-soaked, drained to the marrow. Your hands were still shaking from the aftermath when you found him sitting outside, barefoot in the grass, staring up at the sky like he was trying to find something there.

You sat next to him, close enough to feel the warmth of him, but not touching. Neither of you spoke for a long time. The cicadas screamed in the distance, the only sound in the stillness. Then, finally—

“I don’t think I’ll live long,” he said. Just like that. Flat. Matter-of-fact. Like he was telling you the weather.

You turned your head sharply. “Don’t say shit like that.”

“It’s true.” He didn’t even look at you, just kept staring at the stars. “It’s fine, though.”

“It’s not fine,” you snapped, the exhaustion making you sharp. “You talk like it’s already decided.”

He let out a quiet laugh. “Maybe it is.”

You wanted to be angry. Wanted to tell him he was being ridiculous, that he was stronger than this, that he wasn’t allowed to talk about his own life like it was already over.

But when you looked at him—really looked at him—you saw it.

He wasn’t afraid.

That was what scared you most.

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Years later, you thought back to that night.

When he left. When you realized you wouldn’t be able to follow. When you realized—maybe he was right. Maybe he wasn’t meant to live long. Maybe he had known, even then.

You wanted to believe it was a choice. That he had decided not to live, that he had chosen a path that would lead him to an early end. But deep down, you knew—

This world was never going to let him grow old.

It was never going to let him be anything but a tragedy waiting to happen.

And the worst part?

(He had made peace with that long before you ever did. )

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The last time you saw him, it was raining.

He stood there, the same as always, looking at you like he was waiting for something. You could have said anything. You could have begged him to stay, or cursed him, or broken down right there in the street.

But all you said was—

“Did you ever really want to live, Suguru?”

He blinked, slow, like the question surprised him. Then, after a moment, he gave you a small, tired smile.

“I wanted to,” he said, quiet.

“For a little while.”

And then he walked away.

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Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

You know what gets me? The irony of it all. Geto probably knew—deep down, in that quiet, resigned way of his—that he was never going to live long. And Gojo? Well, he’s Gojo Satoru. The strongest. The untouchable. The one who’ll probably live to a hundred just because no one’s capable of killing him.

And what really messes with me is that they both made peace with it.

Geto never planned for a future because he didn’t think he’d have one. And Gojo—he made peace with having one. With outliving everything and everyone. With the idea that nothing in this world is permanent, that everything is just an illustration on water, fading the moment you reach for it. It’s almost in a way it’s kind of like the Buddhist idea of impermanence—the acceptance that nothing lasts, so you might as well let go before it gets taken from you.

But the difference is, Geto let go by leaving. And Gojo lets go by staying.

Which is insane, when you think about it. Gojo, who loves so much and so loudly, is the one who’s already accepted loss as a fundamental fact of life. While Geto, who acted like he could leave things behind, was never truly able to.

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I don’t know. It’s tragic in a way that feels too real. But what do you think? Do you read them differently? Because I’d love to hear your take on this.

✨ Bye and take care, Hope you all have a good day ✨