Memory :

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 ✨

Gojo Satoru’s Playlist Is a Cry for Help, but No One Notices :

Gojo Satoru has a playlist for every mood.

You think that means something. That it’s deliberate. That he sits down, carefully curates songs, matches them to the moments in his life with some kind of precision, like a film director setting up a perfect shot. You assume that when he walks into battle, he has something dramatic playing in his ears—classical, maybe, something weighty and orchestral, like he is the tragic hero of an opera no one else is privy to.

(maybe he is)

But Gojo Satoru has never been what people expect.

-----

You catch him once, sitting on the couch, eyes half-lidded, fingers tapping lazily against his knee. A rare moment of stillness. You pause, listening, assuming—just for a second—that maybe, just maybe, he’s indulging in something introspective. Some quiet, soulful melody, something that carries the weight of everything he refuses to say out loud.

Then the music filters through.

"Tell me why—"

You stare.

Gojo doesn’t even look up. Just nods along, entirely at peace, like the Backstreet Boys are revealing the secrets of the universe.

“You’re kidding.”

He finally opens one eye. “Disrespect one more time and see what happens.”

And the thing is—he means it.

He listens to early 2000s pop unironically. He has a dedicated anime opening playlist. He has hours of video essays queued up—ridiculous things, debates over the best artificial grape flavoring, five-hour breakdowns on why Scooby-Doo is an anti-capitalist masterpiece.

He watches them like they’re gospel.

And if you call him out on it? He just shrugs. “It’s nice to pretend dumb things matter.”

That sentence sits with you.

Because Gojo is a man who understands exactly how much things matter. He lives in a world where people die when he blinks. Where life is a sequence of battles and sacrifices and impossible expectations. He is too powerful, too untouchable, too aware of the fact that most things in life have already been decided for him.

So he listens to nonsense.

Because the alternative is unbearable.

-----

You don’t get it at first. You think it’s a joke, that he’s just being obnoxious for the sake of it. But then one day, the silence catches him off guard.

It’s late. The world is quiet in a way that feels unnatural, like even the city has taken a breath, waiting for something to happen. Gojo is sitting on the floor, legs stretched out, phone abandoned beside him. No music. No videos.

Nothing but quiet.

He doesn’t notice you at first. He’s staring straight ahead, not moving, like he’s listening to something. But there’s nothing to hear.

And suddenly, you remember something he said once.

"You ever notice how loud silence is?"

You thought he was joking. But he wasn’t.

Because Gojo doesn’t get silence. Not the way you do. Not the way normal people do. When everything is quiet, when there’s nothing to distract him, he hears everything else.

The past.

The future.

Every mistake.

Every loss.

All the things he couldn’t protect.

All the things he will lose, eventually, because that is how life works.

You clear your throat. “You okay?”

He blinks, just once, then looks at you like he’s surprised you’re there. Like he forgot about the present entirely. Then, with a grin that’s just a little too sharp, he reaches for his phone, presses play, and fills the silence the only way he knows how.

"Oh, I think that I found

myself a cheerleader—"

You almost laugh. Almost.

But you don’t say anything.

because now you understand.

Gojo Satoru doesn’t listen to music because he likes it. He listens to it because he needs it. Because the moment the noise stops, the real weight of his life settles in. And Gojo Satoru—who can bear anything, who can win any fight, who can carry the world on his shoulders without flinching—has no idea how to carry that.

So he fills his head with things that do not matter.

And if you ever see him alone on a rooftop at 3 AM, staring at the city like he’s trying to belong to it, do not ask him what he’s thinking. Do not ask him what he’s hearing.

Because he will just grin. He will push his sunglasses up his nose. And he will press play.

And somewhere, in the dark, Carly Rae Jepsen will start singing.

And Gojo Satoru will pretend that it’s enough.

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers 🌸✨

Honestly, who doesn’t do this? We all have that one playlist, that one show we put on just for the background noise, that one stupidly long video essay about something irrelevant that we suddenly need to know everything about. It’s almost funny how universal it is—how so many of us keep the volume up just to avoid our own thoughts.

But then there’s Gojo. And the thing is, he’s just like us. And at the same time, he’s nothing like us.

Because we can let ourselves stop. We can sit in the quiet, let the weight settle, and maybe—maybe—find a way to live with it. But Gojo? Gojo doesn’t get that. He’s not allowed to stop, not really. So he buries himself in nonsense, clings to the stupid, the mundane, because it’s the only thing that isn’t heavy.

And honestly? That’s kind of pitiful. But also… kind of him. And somehow, weirdly enough, it makes me like him more.

anyways— I'll love to hear your thoughts on this one shot.

✨ 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.

---

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✨

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??

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

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.

-----

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 ✨

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.

-----

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 ✨

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.

-----

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.

-----

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.

-----

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. )

---

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.

-----

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.

--

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 ✨