Gate, Gate—

The Taste of Memory :

Sukuna does not eat because he needs to.

Not in the way humans do.

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

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

And yet—

He still eats.

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

Because the body remembers what the mind does not.

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

---

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

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

With an expression of pure disdain—

Pushes the plate toward you.

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

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

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

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

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

Still, you roll your eyes and take the plate.

It is not the first time.

It will not be the last.

---

He does this often.

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

Too bland. Too dry. Too greasy.

Too human.

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

He takes no pleasure in mediocrity.

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

But then—

Sometimes, very rarely, something changes.

-----

It happens without fanfare.

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

And then—

Nothing.

No complaint. No insult. No dramatic dismissal.

Just silence.

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

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

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

“Make it again.”

---

The second time, it is deliberate.

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

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

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

You nod.

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

Not an order.

Not a demand.

A request.

Something he cannot take, only accept.

And that knowledge unsettles him more than anything else.

-----

Sukuna does not remember his last meal as a human.

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

But his body remembers.

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

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

He does not know what to do with it.

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

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

So he says nothing.

But the next day, he asks again.

“You’re making that thing.”

And you do.

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

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

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

---

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

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

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 ✨

The Monster That Purrs :

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

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

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

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

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

And yet.

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

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

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

Not quite a growl.

Not quite a sigh.

Something in between. Something dangerous.

Because it is something alive.

Something human.

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

It is better this way.

It has always been better this way.

Until you.

***

It is late when you first notice it.

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

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

For once, he does not have to perform.

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

For once, he is simply here.

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

The hum slips out—deep, steady, unwavering.

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

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

“…Are you purring?”

Sukuna stills.

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

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

The air changes.

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

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

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

Your heartbeat stutters.

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

But you are not normal.

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

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

You smile.

“You were purring.”

It is immediate.

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

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

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

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

You should be afraid.

But you aren’t.

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

Not just a monster.

Not just a legend.

But something in between.

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

Because you know.

You know that sound was not a mistake.

You know that it was instinct.

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

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

“…Why does it bother you?”

Something flickers in his expression.

A crack in the armor.

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

Sukuna hates you in that moment.

Hates you for seeing him.

Hates you for not fearing him.

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

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

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

And yet—

He does not kill you.

He does not silence you.

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

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

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

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

As if it had never been there at all.

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

But you know better.

And so does he.

-----

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

He does not need rest.

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

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

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

Something beneath the violence.

Something beneath the legend.

Something unsettling.

He does not sigh. He does not hum.

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

And that is enough.

For now.

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

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

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

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

The 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 ✨

—The Weight of Protection—

Love is a tricky thing.

It’s supposed to be soft, gentle. It’s supposed to be the warmth of a hand on your cheek, the quiet assurance that someone is watching over you. But sometimes, love is a cage. Sometimes, it is hands gripping too tightly, pulling you back from the ledge before you’ve even had a chance to decide if you want to jump.

Suguru Geto loves like that. Like a force of nature. Like inevitability.

He has always been protective—of Satoru, of his classmates, of you. Maybe too much. Maybe in ways that feel suffocating, but never quite enough to make you pull away. Because how could you? How could you resent someone who looks at you like you are the last pure thing in a world that is constantly trying to ruin itself?

He doesn’t just want to keep you safe. He wants to keep you untouched.

And that is where things begin to crack.

-----

“You don’t need to come,” you tell him once, tugging at the sleeve of his uniform as he moves toward the door.

Suguru doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even hesitate. “I’m coming.”

You sigh, because of course he is.

The mission isn’t even that dangerous—just a low-grade curse outside of town, something you could handle on your own. But Suguru doesn’t care about classifications. Doesn’t care that you’re more than capable of taking care of yourself.

He has already made his decision.

So you walk together, side by side, his presence a quiet thing that presses against your ribs, a reminder that he is always watching. Always keeping you within arm’s reach.

And you wonder if he even notices. If he even realizes how often he places himself between you and the world, how often he moves first, reacts first, takes the blow before you even realize there’s danger.

It is not nQ&Aormal, this level of devotion. It is not sustainable.

But he does it anyway.

And you let him.

-----

The first time you argue about it, it’s not even about you. It’s about Satoru. About their shared burden, about the weight of being strong in a world that expects them to bear the impossible.

“You can’t save everyone,” you tell him.

Suguru’s expression is unreadable. He is good at that—keeping his emotions folded neatly inside himself, like pressed sheets that will only unravel when no one is looking.

“You say that like I don’t already know.”

“Do you?” You step closer, searching his face. “Because it doesn’t seem like it. It seems like you’re still trying to hold everything together by yourself."

He looks at you then, really looks at you.

“You don’t understand,” he says quietly. “I have to.”

And you realize, with a sudden, awful clarity, that this is not just about protecting you.

That this is not just about keeping you safe.

This is about him. About the guilt curdling inside his chest, the way he still hears the voices of the people he couldn’t save.

He is trying to make up for something.

And you don’t know if he ever will.

-----

Suguru doesn’t sleep much.

You notice it in the way he carries himself, in the way his hands shake when he thinks no one is looking. He still smiles, still jokes, still acts like the same boy you’ve always known. But something is different.

Something is breaking.

“I can take care of myself,” you tell him one night, voice barely above a whisper.

He is sitting on the edge of the bed, hands folded between his knees, eyes trained on the floor.

“I know.”

“Then why—”

“Because I need to.”

It is not an answer. Not really. But it is all he gives you.

And you think: This is not protection. This is fear disguised as love.

You don’t know how to fix it.

So you let him stay.

-----

It happens gradually, then all at once.

The world tilts, the ground shifts, and Suguru is no longer the boy who laughed with you under the stars, who stole bites of your food when you weren’t looking, who stood too close but never close enough.

He is something else now.

Something colder.

You see it in his eyes, in the way his fingers tighten around the edge of his sleeve, in the way he looks at the world as if it has already disappointed him.

“You’re scaring me,” you whisper one day, after everything. After Riko, after the silence, after the distance that has grown between you like a chasm too wide to cross.

Suguru exhales slowly, tilts his head, considers you. “I don’t want you to be afraid of me.”

“Then stop giving me a reason to be.”

And for the first time, he hesitates. Just for a second. Just long enough for you to wonder if there is still a part of him left that wants to stay.

But then he says, “I can’t.”

And that is the end of it.

-----

There is a version of this story where Suguru does not leave. Where he stays, where he listens, where he does not let the weight of the world crush him beyond recognition.

But that is not this version.

This version ends with his back turned, with your fingers curling into your palms as you watch him walk away,

with the realization that no matter how much he loved you, no matter how fiercely he tried to keep you safe—

Some things cannot be saved.

Not even by him.

Not even by love.

And the cruelest part?

You understand.

You understand why.

And it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

-----

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 ✨

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??

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 ✨

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 ✨

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

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

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

The strongest.

The honored one.

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

But nobody talks about Geto.

Not really. Not in the way that counts.

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

-----

Geto Suguru didn’t fall.

He unraveled.

Piece by piece. Year by year.

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

He was the best of them, once.

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

Until belief wasn’t enough anymore.

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

-----

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

You either collapse…

Or you radicalize.

Geto didn’t want to destroy the world.

He wanted to make it stop.

He wanted silence after years of screaming.

Peace after endless loss.

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

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

-----

They always say Geto left Gojo.

But maybe Gojo left him first.

Not on purpose.

Not by choice.

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

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

And Gojo Satoru kept moving forward because he had to.

And Geto Suguru stayed behind because he couldn’t.

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

-----

You want to know something unfair?

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

Suguru still loved him.

You can see it.

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

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

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

Couldn’t even finish the sentence.

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

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

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

-----

So if you cried for Gojo Satoru—

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

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

Then cry for Geto Suguru too.

Because Geto is why Gojo hurts the way he does.

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

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

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

A little bit hollow.

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

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Geto wasn’t the villain of the story.

He was the tragedy no one was ready to hold.

So here’s to him—

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

The one who carried too much.

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

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

But if you really loved Gojo Satoru…

You should’ve cried for Geto Suguru too.

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Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

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

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

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

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

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