The Monster That Purrs :

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

I fully support it 😭👍

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

He Thought Gojo Would Stop Him :

There are things that happen all at once.

Sudden, sharp, irreversible things. A blade slicing through skin, a building collapsing, a name being spoken for the last time.

And then there are things that happen slowly, so gradually that you don’t realize they’re happening until you’re too far gone. Until you wake up one day and everything that was once yours is gone—your beliefs, your convictions, your place in the world. Your best friend.

Geto Suguru didn’t break all at once.

He unraveled.

Thread by thread, thought by thought, moment by moment—until he was standing at the edge of the world he used to know, waiting for someone to stop him.

Waiting for Satoru to stop him.

---

He had already made up his mind. That’s what he told himself. That’s what he told everyone else. That the moment he looked at the pile of corpses in that damp, rotting village, the moment he realized just how little sorcerers meant to the world—they were nothing but disposable tools—that was the moment he knew.

That was the moment he chose his path.

And maybe that was true.

But maybe, in the back of his mind, in the deepest part of himself that still remembered being sixteen and invincible, he thought Gojo would come for him. That Gojo would grab him by the collar, shove him against a wall, and tell him to stop being such a fucking idiot. That Gojo would remind him that they were supposed to change the world *together*.

That Gojo would refuse to let him go.

But Gojo never did.

And that was how Geto knew—he really was alone.

---

The first time he saw Gojo after he left, he almost laughed.

Because Gojo still looked the same. Still carried himself with that easy, careless arrogance, still spoke like he had never known loss, still acted like nothing in the world could touch him.

And for a second, for a brief, aching second, Geto almost believed it.

Then Gojo tilted his head and said, “Why?”

Not in anger. Not in pain. Just—*curiosity.*

Like Geto was just another equation to solve, just another variable in the grand, meaningless world of sorcery.

Like he wasn’t the person who had once known Gojo better than anyone else.

Like he wasn’t the person Gojo should have *stopped.*

And Geto felt something inside him go still.

Because this was it. This was proof.

That Gojo had let him go.

That he had walked away, and Gojo had *let him*.

And if Gojo wasn’t going to stop him—if even *Gojo* wasn’t going to fight for him—then maybe there really was nothing left in the world worth saving.

-----

But years later, standing on a rooftop in Shinjuku, watching Gojo smile at him for the last time, Geto wondered—had it been the other way around all along?

Had Gojo been waiting for him?

Had they both been standing on opposite sides of a war neither of them wanted, waiting for the other to say it first?

“Come back.”

“Don’t go.”

“Stay.”

But neither of them had. And now it was too late.

Now all Gojo could do was stand there, looking at him like he still knew him, like he still understood him, like nothing had ever changed.

Like, despite everything, despite all the blood and death and years between them, Satoru still looked at him and saw Suguru.

Not an enemy. Not a traitor. Not a mistake.

Just Suguru.

And Geto almost wanted to laugh.

Because wasn’t that ironic? Wasn’t that the cruelest, funniest, saddest joke the universe had ever played?

That in the end, Gojo still saw him.

That in the end, it had never mattered.

That in the end, Gojo had lost him anyway.

(That in the end, neither of them had ever been strong enough to stop the other.)

Not really.

Not where it counted.

Not where it mattered.

-----

And as the world faded, as his own voice echoed back at him—“At least, let me curse you a little”—as Gojo stood there, smiling, still looking at him like they were kids again, like nothing had changed—

Geto thought "You should have stopped me."

But maybe Gojo had been thinking the exact same thing.

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

Man, my heart actually hurt while writing this shit. Like, physically. These two should’ve just shut up and kissed already because let’s be honest—both of them wanted to say it. They just never did. And that’s the tragedy of it, isn’t it?

That’s how the story goes. Not just for them, but in real life too. We wait for the other person to speak first. We wait for someone to reach out, to stop us, to tell us, “Don’t go,” or “Stay,” or “I still care.” But they’re waiting for the same thing. And in the end, all that’s left is what if?

What if Geto had said something? What if Gojo had? What if just one of them had stopped being so damn stubborn?

But they didn’t. And that’s why we’re here, writing and crying over two emotionally constipated disasters who loved each other in a way that neither of them could admit.

---

Anyway, thanks for reading! I’d love to hear your thoughts—what do you think about their dynamic? Let’s talk about these two absolute babies who ruined my life.

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

“I Could Fight God” Energy

Gojo Satoru would fight a god.

Not out of spite. Not for revenge. Not because he had something to prove.

He’d do it because if something stronger than him existed, he’d have no choice but to challenge it. Not for the thrill—though he’d pretend that’s all it was. Not for the spectacle—though he’d make sure it was a damn good show. No, he’d fight because if there was something out there more powerful than him, then maybe—just maybe—he wasn't alone.

And that would be a relief, wouldn’t it?

-----

You don’t think about it much at first, not until one night when the two of you are stretched out beneath the stars, watching the world spin on without you.

“If you met a god,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper, “what would you do?”

Gojo doesn’t even pause. “Kick their ass.”

You huff a laugh, half-asleep. “That’s sacrilegious.”

“Nah,” he says, grinning. “Sacrilegious is letting them think they’re untouchable.”

You turn to him, raising a brow. “What makes you think they aren’t?”

And that’s when you see it—just for a second. The way something flickers behind his glasses, sharp and searching. The way he tilts his head, considering, before he says, “What even is a god?”

“A god.” He gestures vaguely. “What does that even mean? Something more powerful than us? Something beyond human understanding?”

You nod. “Pretty much.”

He hums, closing his eyes like he’s weighing the thought in his mind. “So what’s the difference between them and me?”

And that—that—makes you stop.

Because the thing is, Gojo is untouchable.

You blink. “What?”

Because the thing is, Gojo is untouchable. He is unknowable. He walks through the world like it was made for him, like nothing could ever truly reach him, and most of the time—nothing does.

When Gojo Satoru moves, the universe rearranges itself to accommodate him.

It’s not arrogance. It’s not even confidence. It’s just fact.

And that’s terrifying.

-----

“You’re not a god,” you tell him, but the words feel weak the moment they leave your mouth.

“Maybe not,” he says easily.“But what if I was?”

You shiver. Not because of the question itself, but because you don’t know what would be worse:

A world where Gojo Satoru was a god, or a world where he wasn’t.

Because if he was, then everything was exactly as it should be. The balance of power, the way the world turned, the weight he carried alone—all of it was simply the natural order of things.

But if he wasn’t—if he was just a man, just another human among billions—then all of it was unfair.

Then the weight was too heavy. The world was too cruel. The burden he carried was never meant for one person, and yet, he had been given it anyway.

You think, that’s why he’d fight a god.

Not to prove his strength. Not to claim some divine throne.

But to look them in the eye and demand to know why.

Why him?

Why this life?

Why was he born into a world that could never hold him, onto a path he could never stray from, into a role that would only ever leave him alone at the end of it?

“Would you win?” you ask, voice softer now.

Gojo exhales, stretching his arms behind his head. “Dunno,” he says. “Guess there’s only one way to find out.”

But he’s lying.

Because he already knows the answer.

Because he’s been fighting gods his whole life. The gods of fate, of destiny, of inevitability. The gods who decide who lives and who dies, who gets to stay and who gets ripped away. The gods who made him the strongest, and then cursed him to bear that title alone.

And the worst part?

He’s been winning.

Every. Single. Time.

You watch him, the way he stares up at the sky, expression unreadable, like he’s waiting for something. A sign. A challenge. A reason.

“Satoru,” you say, barely above a whisper.

He turns his head toward you, a slow, lazy motion, and grins. “Yeah?”

You want to say something. Want to tell him that he doesn’t have to fight anymore, that he doesn’t have to keep proving himself, that you see him, even if the rest of the world never will.

But you don’t.

Because you know he wouldn’t believe you.

So instead, you shift closer, just enough for your shoulder to brush his, just enough to remind him that he isn’t as untouchable as he thinks.

And for the first time that night, he stops looking for a god to fight.

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers 🌸✨

Okay, listen. I know how scandalous and borderline blasphemous this sounds, but honestly? If Gojo Satoru ever met a god, I genuinely think he’d try to throw hands. Not out of arrogance (okay, maybe a little), but because, deep down, he’s got questions. Real, human, aching questions. The kind that keep you up at night, staring at the ceiling, wondering why you exist the way you do.

Like—why him? Why this? Why was he born so strong that he can’t ever live normally? And if there is some all-powerful being pulling the strings, how does he get up there and demand some damn answers?

Honestly, imagine being so powerful that you could challenge the gods themselves. That’s some Greek mythology-level tragedy right there. Like, Gojo is basically Achilles if Achilles had Infinity and trauma instead of a weak ankle.

Anyway, what’s your take on this? Would Gojo actually win, or would he finally meet something bigger than him? Drop your thoughts in the comments—I’m way too invested in this theory now.

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

The Loneliest Person in the Room Always Talks the Loudest :

Gojo Satoru talks like the world will stop spinning if he shuts up.

You noticed it the first time you met him, back when he was just your classmate, your friend—before you realized that being near him felt like standing too close to the sun. He had this way of making noise like he was afraid of what would happen if there wasn’t any. A running commentary on things that didn’t matter. Complaints about the cafeteria food. Arguments over what counted as a dessert. Long, convoluted rants about how nobody appreciated his genius.

At first, you thought he was just like that. Loud. Annoying, even. The kind of person who didn’t care if people were listening, as long as he was the one talking.

It took you longer than you’d like to admit to realize that he only filled the silence because he was terrified of it.

Because silence meant thinking. And thinking meant remembering. And remembering—

Well. That wasn’t something Gojo Satoru liked to do.

-----

Somewhere along the way, you learned how to read between the lines.

How his voice was always just a little too high-pitched when he was lying. How he made fun of things when he wanted to pretend they didn’t matter. How his laugh was just a little bit too loud, a little too sharp, like he was daring you to believe he was as happy as he sounded.

How, sometimes, when he thought nobody was looking, he would get this look in his eyes—something far away, something quiet.

The first time you saw it, you thought maybe he was just tired. Maybe he wasn’t sleeping well. But then it happened again. And again. And then, one day, in a moment of rare honesty, he said something you weren’t expecting.

"It’s funny, y’know?" he’d said, tilting his head back against the wall, the light catching on his blindfold in a way that made it impossible to tell if his eyes were open or closed.

"I can hear everything. Every heartbeat, every whisper, every single sound in a mile radius. And still, sometimes, it feels like I’m the only person in the room."

---

You don’t know when you started seeing him for what he really was.

Not Gojo Satoru, the loud-mouthed idiot with a god complex.

Not Gojo Satoru, the strongest sorcerer alive, the untouchable, the unkillable.

Just Gojo Satoru.

The boy who talked too much because silence was unbearable. The boy who smiled too much because frowning would make it real. The boy who laughed too much because, if he stopped, he wasn’t sure if he would ever start again.

Gojo Satoru, who could kill a god but couldn’t hold onto the people he loved.

Gojo Satoru, who had spent his whole life outrunning grief, only to realize that no matter how fast he moved, it would always be waiting for him at the end of the road.

---

"Do you ever get tired of it?" you asked him once.

"Of what?"

"The act."

Gojo grinned. "What act?"

You rolled your eyes. "The one where you pretend none of this matters. The one where you pretend you’re not—" lonely "—carrying the weight of the world on your back."

Something flickered across his face, there and gone in an instant. If you hadn’t been watching for it, you wouldn’t have noticed it at all.

Then he laughed.

"Oh, please," he said, stretching his arms over his head. "You think I do all this for fun? I’m naturally this charming."

"Liar," you said softly.

Gojo Satoru looked at you then, really looked at you, and for a second, you thought maybe he was going to tell you the truth. Maybe he was going to say that, yeah, sometimes it was exhausting. Sometimes, when he was alone, he didn’t even turn on music because the silence was better than hearing his own voice echoing back at him.

But then he smirked.

"Yeah, well," he said, standing up and stretching. "If I talked less, you’d miss me."

He left before you could tell him that you already did.

---

But sometimes—sometimes—you wake up in the middle of the night and find him still asleep.

And he looks different, then.

Gojo Satoru, who is always moving, always talking, always on, is finally still.

And in that stillness, he looks almost human.

Almost breakable.

You never wake him up.

Because you know that as soon as he opens his eyes, the act will start all over again.

---

"You know," you say one night, when the city is quiet and Gojo Satoru is sitting on your couch, blindfold pushed up, staring at the ceiling like it holds the answers to a question he hasn’t figured out how to ask. "You don’t have to be on all the time."

He hums. "I don’t know what you mean."

"Yeah, you do."

Gojo tilts his head, a slow, lazy movement, like he’s thinking about something too big to fit inside words. "If I stop," he says finally, "then what?"

(You don’t answer.)

Because you don’t know.

Because maybe he doesn’t, either.

So you sit beside him instead, close enough that he could touch you if he wanted to. Close enough that he could feel you there.

And maybe that’s enough.

Maybe, for once, Gojo Satoru doesn’t have to fill the silence.

Maybe he can just exist.

Maybe, for once, he doesn’t have to be alone.

---

You never say it out loud.

But some part of you thinks that Gojo Satoru talks so much because he’s trying to drown something out.

And maybe, just maybe—

He’s waiting for someone to listen.

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

You ever look at Gojo in that Toji scene and feel something uncomfortably close to pity? Not the kind you give to someone weak, but the kind that comes when you see someone who should’ve had a chance to be something else. Because that kid—that Gojo Satoru—was raw. Serious. The kind of serious that a boy his age shouldn’t have been. His face wasn’t blank, but it wasn’t guarded either. He was just there, fully present in the moment, taking the world in as it was. And maybe, back then, he still thought he was a part of it.

But fast forward a few years, and suddenly he’s the loudest guy in the room. A boy who never really grew up, at least not in the way that mattered. A boy who talks too much, laughs too hard, makes a joke out of everything—because the alternative is what exactly? Silence? Reflection? Feeling?

It makes you wonder. —What did he suffer, to look at the world and decide that maybe it wasn’t worth his real emotions? What did he lose to become someone who only lets himself exist through noise?

And the worst part? —Nobody even asks. Because Gojo Satoru is fine, right? Because he smiles. Because he jokes. Because he’s the strongest, and people like that don’t need to be understood.

But if you look closely—if you really pay attention—you’ll see it. He’s been holding the world at arm’s length for a long, long time.

--

Anyways I'll love to hear your thoughts on this one shot and do you too know people who like being the center of attention but for a complete different reason

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

The Daughter of Littlefinger { 1 }

________________________________________

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

_________________________________________

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

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

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

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

She died when I was four.

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

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

-----

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

No, I think I raised myself.

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

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

And I loved him, in my own way.

How could I not?

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

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

-----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I had known then that I had pleased him.

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

-----

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet, I am not invisible.

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

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

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

-----

Joffrey liked me too, in his own way.

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

He once asked me if I was loyal to him.

“Of course, Your Grace.”

It was the only answer he wanted.

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

Was I loyal?

To whom?

my father?

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

-----

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

But I knew better.

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

It was knowing when to smile and when to strike.

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

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

—End of Chapter One—

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

: 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✨

A Man Who Does Not Smile :

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nanami tries. It does not help.

---

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

But the pattern remains.

Children do not like him.

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

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

Halfway through, a child starts crying.

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

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

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

They do not like his voice.

They do not like his face.

They do not like him.

---

He does not try again for many years.

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

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

She has lost her parents.

She is shaking.

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

Nanami does not know what to do with this.

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

She shakes her head.

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

So he does something he has not done in years.

He smiles.

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

The child’s face crumples.

She bursts into tears.

---

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

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

Nanami sighs. He regrets telling him.

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

Nanami does not dignify this with a response.

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

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

Does it look unnatural?

Does it look forced?

He does not know.

He does not try again.

---

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

This time, he does not smile.

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

The child does not cry.

Nanami exhales.

(It is enough.)

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

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

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

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

---

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

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

Sukuna’s Reflection :

Sukuna does not linger in front of mirrors.

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

But he does not look for long.

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

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

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

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

Or would he simply be forgotten?

---

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

And yet.

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

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

Not the King of Curses. Not the monster.

Just a man.

---

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

Because he has.

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

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

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

The shadow of someone he no longer recognizes.

And isn’t that the funny part?

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

He is the only one who cannot remember himself.

---

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

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

And still—there is something missing.

Not regret. Never regret.

But a question.

Would he have been happy?

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

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

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

The answer should be easy.

It should be.

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

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

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

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

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

---

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

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