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

—Nothing Special—

Nanami doesn’t believe in doing things halfway. Not work, not fights, and certainly not meals.

----

It’s something you notice early on, the way he approaches cooking with the same quiet precision he applies to everything else. No shortcuts, no half-hearted attempts. Just careful, deliberate movements—measuring, chopping, stirring, tasting. He doesn’t rush anything, and there’s something almost meditative about the way he works. Like cooking is one of the few things in this world that make sense.

And yet, every time he sets down a plate in front of you, he shrugs it off with a casual, “It’s nothing special.”

Which is, frankly, insane.

Because Nanami’s cooking isn’t just good—it’s absurdly, unfairly good. The kind of good that makes you reconsider every meal you’ve ever had before. It’s balanced and flavorful and just indulgent enough to make you wonder if he missed his true calling.

He didn’t, of course. Because as much as you hate to admit it, he is a good sorcerer.-Even if you’d much rather see him somewhere else, somewhere safer. Somewhere with a kitchen instead of a battlefield.

-----

“You know, most people don’t just whip up a three-course meal on a random weeknight,” you tell him once, staring down at the plate he’s just set in front of you. “This is not ‘nothing special.’”

Nanami exhales through his nose, unamused. “It’s just a simple meal.”

“Nanami, there’s saffron in this.”

He barely reacts. “I had some left over.”

“Of course you did."

It’s a pattern, this quiet form of care he offers. He doesn’t say much about it, doesn’t expect praise or gratitude. But you see it in the way he portions out the food, always making sure your plate is full before serving himself. In the way he adjusts the spice level just enough to match your tastes. In the way he always, always makes sure there’s something comforting on the table after a particularly rough day.

You don’t always call him out on it. Sometimes, you just let it happen—this wordless, steady kind of love that he insists isn’t anything grand.

-----

But one night, after a long, exhausting day, you sit down at the table, take one bite of his cooking, and blurt out, “I think you love me more than I love you.”

Nanami pauses, chopsticks halfway to his mouth. Raises a brow.

You gesture at the food. “This is ridiculous. This is devotion. And I—what? I just show up? I sit here and receive all this?” You shake your head, overwhelmed. “It’s embarrassing, honestly. I need to step up my game.”

For a second, he just looks at you, unreadable as ever. Then, very quietly, he says, “You do more than you realize.”

And maybe it’s the exhaustion talking, or maybe it’s just the way he says it—calm, certain, like an undeniable fact—but you find yourself falling silent. Because when Nanami says something like that, you believe him.

The rest of the meal is quiet. Easy. And when you finish, setting your chopsticks down with a sigh, Nanami gives you a look and says, “So? How was it?”

You meet his eyes, dead serious. “Nothing special.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, just barely. But he doesn’t argue.

He just gets up, takes your plate, and starts cleaning up.

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

You know, I’ve been thinking—maybe cooking is a love language. My younger Bhai (cousin brother), for example, is an absolute menace most of the time (as younger siblings tend to be lol)

But when he’s in the kitchen, he always makes something for me too. Not in an overly sweet, “look how much I care” kind of way—more like a casual, “I was already making food, so here, take this” way. No big declarations, no dramatic gestures, just... an unspoken understanding.

Which, honestly, is kind of unfair. Because while I can barely cook to save my life, this little brat could probably become a chef if he wanted to. 😭✋

Meanwhile, I struggle to flip a half fry egg without cracking its yolk. Life is cruel like that. 🗿

But anyway—maybe food is one of those quiet ways people show love. No grand speeches, no poetic confessions—just a plate of something warm, made with care, set in front of you without a word. Feels very Nanami-coded, doesn’t it? lol

---

What about you guys? Do you express love through cooking? Or does someone do that for you? Let me know—I’d love to hear your stories! 🎀

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 ✨

I fully support it 😭👍

Reblog if you want the indian government to change the coin design

The Art of Losing. (to Persephone)

Hades does not lose.

Not in war, not in politics, not in the quiet negotiations of death. He is the keeper of order, the final voice in all things. He does not bend. He does not yield.

And yet.

And yet.

Persephone is sitting cross-legged on his throne, wearing his robe like a victory flag, and informing him, with great authority, that the entire room is a crime against aesthetics.

"It’s all very intimidating," she says, waving a hand at the great pillars of obsidian, the cold marble floors, the jagged iron fixtures that cast long, cruel shadows across the walls. "But it's also depressing. Have you ever considered rugs?"

Hades stares at her. "Rugs?"

"Yes, you know—woven fabric, pleasant texture, ties the room together?"

"I know what a rug is, Persephone."

"Then why don't you own one?"

"Because I am not a mortal man trying to make my sitting room more inviting."

She tilts her head at him, sunlight caught in her hair. "But I live here too."

And just like that, she has won.

-----

There is a lesson in marriage that Hades learns too late: it is not a matter of victories and defeats. Not truly. It is a slow, quiet surrender. A gradual rearranging of the self.

It starts with the throne room. A rug appears. Then a new chair. The walls are no longer bare, adorned instead with soft tapestries woven in the colors of spring. The candlelight flickers warmer. The skulls—his beloved, ancient skulls, collected over centuries—are quietly moved elsewhere.

Then it spreads.

His private study is overtaken by vases of wildflowers, tucked absentmindedly between the tomes and scrolls. The war table, once strewn with maps of mortal conquests, now hosts baskets of fresh fruit. There is a bowl of honey on the dining table, though Hades has never had a taste for sweets.

And the worst part—the strangest, most alarming part—is that he does not object.

He does not even notice until one evening, when he catches sight of his own reflection in the polished glass of a window and realizes that there is a small, white petal caught in his hair.

He plucks it free, turning it between his fingers, and exhales.

-----

Some changes are subtle. Others arrive all at once, like an earthquake splitting the ground beneath his feet.

One night, he finds Persephone sitting on the floor of their chambers, sorting through a stack of pillows and blankets she has dragged in from who-knows-where.

He watches her for a moment before speaking. "Am I to assume we are replacing all of our perfectly functional bedding?"

She looks up at him, smiling. "No, I just thought we could use more."

Hades raises an eyebrow. "How many does a person need?"

"As many as bring comfort," she replies easily, fluffing a pillow before tossing it onto the bed. "You sleep like a man waiting for disaster, Hades."

He blinks. "I am a man waiting for disaster."

"Exactly," she says, and pats the space beside her.

He hesitates. Then, against his better judgment, he sits.

She picks up a blanket, drapes it over both of their shoulders, and leans into him. "You're always bracing for something," she murmurs. "Even now, when there's nothing to brace against."

Hades is silent.

Because she is right.

He has spent eternity on guard. Watching. Waiting. Holding his kingdom steady beneath his hands, because he knows that all things—even gods—can break.

But Persephone is not afraid of breaking.

She arrives at the edges of his life like spring at the edges of winter, unafraid of melting the ice, unafraid of sinking her roots into the hardened ground. She does not fight him for space; she simply grows into the empty places he never knew were empty at all.

"You don’t have to hold everything so tightly," she whispers.

And Hades, the king of the dead, the god of shadow and silence, lets himself close his eyes.

-----

The throne room changes. The palace changes. The entire Underworld changes.

But the most terrifying change—the one he cannot stop, the one he does not want to stop—is the one happening within him.

One evening, as he sits at his desk, he reaches for a scroll and finds a small cup of tea waiting beside it. He lifts it, still warm, and frowns. "Did I ask for this?"

Persephone glances up from across the room. "No."

"Then why—"

"Because you always forget to have something warm before you start working," she says simply, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world.

He holds the cup in his hands for a long moment.

It is such a small thing.

And yet.

And yet.

He drinks the tea.

He does not ask why it makes his chest ache.

-----

One night, much later, Persephone rolls onto his side of the bed, buries her face against his shoulder, and murmurs sleepily, "Did you ever imagine it would be like this?"

Hades runs a hand absentmindedly through her hair. "Like what?"

"Like this," she sighs, pressing closer. "Not just the throne and the realm and the duty. But this. Us."

He considers it.

For a long time, he thought marriage would be a political act. A binding contract, a necessary tether. He thought love, if it came at all, would be something distant, something mild. A fondness, perhaps. A steady companionship.

But this—this ridiculous, irritating, impossible, wonderful thing—was never part of the plan.

And yet.

And yet.

Hades presses a kiss to the crown of her head and closes his eyes.

"I never imagined it," he admits. "But I would not have it any other way."

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers 🌸✨

Yeah, yeah, I know mythology is full of complexities, and the actual Hades and Persephone myth has about ten different interpretations, depending on who you ask and probably more complicated than this

But listen—at the end of the day, if I want Persephone to be a cottagecore goddess turning the Underworld into an aesthetic paradise while Hades is her mildly depressed, utterly whipped husband who just lets it happen, then that’s exactly what I’m going to write.

Historical accuracy? Scholarly discourse? Sounds fake. Delulu is the solulu, and in this house, we fully embrace it.

anyways—✨hope you all have a good day, bye and take care ✨

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 Strongest Man and His War with Sleep :

Sleep is a mercy he cannot afford.

Gojo Satoru has never been good at resting.

It’s not just about the nightmares—the ones that creep in like thieves, whispering names of the dead in his ears. It’s not just about the fear—that if he lets go, if he closes his eyes for too long, the world will crumble without him watching.

No, it’s deeper than that.

Sleep is vulnerability. And vulnerability is something the strongest man alive is not allowed.

So he doesn’t sleep. Not properly. Not often.

Instead, he runs himself ragged, burns his energy down to the wick, pretends exhaustion is something that only happens to other people. He hides behind laughter, behind endless motion, behind the overwhelming force of his own presence.

Because to stop—to be still—means to listen to his own thoughts.

And there is nothing more terrifying than that.

-----

You notice it, of course.

The way he’s always moving, always talking, always shifting from one thing to the next like silence might swallow him whole. The way he rubs at his temples when he thinks no one is looking. The way he leans against doorframes just a little too long, like standing upright is a battle he’s barely winning.

"You don’t sleep, do you?" you ask one night, watching him sprawl out on your couch like he owns it.

He grins, too wide, too easy. "Who needs sleep when you’ve got these?" He gestures vaguely at his eyes, like the sheer force of his existence makes him immune to basic human needs.

You roll your eyes. "That’s not how bodies work, Satoru."

He shrugs, lazy, dramatic. "Maybe yours."

You don’t press the issue. Not yet.

But you see the way his hands still for a fraction of a second. The way his smile flickers, just briefly, like a neon sign struggling to stay lit.

And you know.

You know that beneath all that brightness, beneath the godlike arrogance and the infuriating charm, there is a man running on borrowed time.

A man who is tired.

-----

When Gojo does sleep, it’s not gentle.

It’s not peaceful, like in movies, where lovers rest entangled in soft sheets and morning light. It’s not slow and dreamy, where sleep comes like a lover’s touch, warm and welcome.

No.

When Gojo Satoru sleeps, it’s like something in him collapses.

Like a puppet with cut strings. Like a body giving out after carrying too much for too long.

It doesn’t happen often—not really. But when it does, it’s as if his body is making up for years of neglect in one go. He sleeps like the dead.

No amount of shaking, nudging, or even yelling will wake him. You’ve tried. Once, you even held a mirror under his nose to make sure he was still breathing.

(He was. But it was unnerving, seeing him so still.)

-----

"You should go to bed," you tell him one night, watching as he leans against the counter, eyes half-lidded.

He smirks. "What, you worried about me?"

You don’t bother answering. Instead, you grab his wrist, tugging him toward the bedroom.

"I don’t need—"

"Shut up, Satoru."

Surprisingly, he does.

He lets you drag him, lets you push him onto the bed, lets you pull the covers over him like he’s something fragile, something worth protecting.

And when you card your fingers through his hair—slow, soothing, like a lullaby made of touch—he doesn’t protest.

His breath evens out. His body melts against the mattress. And before you can even make a joke about it, he’s gone.

Fast asleep.

Completely, utterly, unmovable.

-----

Gojo Satoru, the strongest man alive, is impossible to wake up.

You learn this the hard way.

You try shaking him—nothing.

You try calling his name—still nothing.

You even flick his forehead, the way he does to others—but he doesn’t so much as twitch.

It’s honestly a little terrifying.

It’s like he trusts you enough to completely let go.

Like, in this moment, in this space, he believes—just for a little while—that he is safe.

And that realization sits heavy in your chest.

Because Gojo Satoru is not a man who allows himself to feel safe.

Not with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Not with the ghosts of the past clawing at his heels.

Not with the knowledge that the moment he closes his eyes, something else might be taken from him.

But here, now, with you—he sleeps.

And that means something.

-----

In the morning, when he finally stirs, stretching like a cat in the sun, he blinks at you blearily.

"You let me sleep," he murmurs, voice thick with something you don’t quite recognize.

You hum, tracing lazy patterns on his wrist. "You needed it."

A pause.

Then, a quiet chuckle. "You didn’t try to wake me, did you?"

You don’t answer.

Because if you admit how hard you tried—how impossible it was—you might have to admit what that means.

Might have to admit that Gojo Satoru, for all his power, is still just a person.

A person who gets tired.

A person who needs rest.

A person who, in the end, just wants to lay down his burdens—if only for a little while.

And somehow, impossibly, he’s chosen to do that with you.

So instead, you smirk, flicking his forehead in revenge.

"Don’t get used to it, Satoru."

His laughter is bright, easy, filling the room like morning light.

But when he pulls you close again, burying his face in your shoulder, you think—maybe, just maybe—he already has.

-----

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.

-----

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 ✨

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 ✨

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??