The Quiet Kind Of Tired :

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 Strongest Man and His War with Sleep :

Sleep is a mercy he cannot afford.

Gojo Satoru has never been good at resting.

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

No, it’s deeper than that.

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

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

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

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

And there is nothing more terrifying than that.

-----

You notice it, of course.

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t press the issue. Not yet.

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

And you know.

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

A man who is tired.

-----

When Gojo does sleep, it’s not gentle.

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

No.

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

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

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

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

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

-----

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

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

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

"I don’t need—"

"Shut up, Satoru."

Surprisingly, he does.

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

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

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

Fast asleep.

Completely, utterly, unmovable.

-----

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

You learn this the hard way.

You try shaking him—nothing.

You try calling his name—still nothing.

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

It’s honestly a little terrifying.

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

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

And that realization sits heavy in your chest.

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

Not with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

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

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

But here, now, with you—he sleeps.

And that means something.

-----

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

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

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

A pause.

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

You don’t answer.

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

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

A person who gets tired.

A person who needs rest.

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

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

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

"Don’t get used to it, Satoru."

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

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

-----

I fully support it 😭👍

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

People Like Us Don’t Survive Love :

You met him when he was still almost whole.

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

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

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

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

-----

He used to say things like:

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

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

“Only if you didn’t act like one.”

He didn’t laugh back. Not really—

-----

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

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

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

You told him you did.

That was the problem.

-----

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

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

“That’s not true,” you whispered.

But it was.—

-----

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

“You make me hesitate,” he said.

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

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

And by this part, he meant you.

-----

But he didn’t kill you. He could’ve.

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

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

-----

You dream about him sometimes.

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

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

You always wake up aching. You never tell anyone.

-----

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

You never correct them. What’s the point?

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

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

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

---

You’ve tried to hate him.

God, you’ve tried—

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

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

How do you hate someone who almost stayed?

-----

And the worst part?

You understand him.

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

You just chose to survive it differently.

He burned.

You buried.

-----

You saw him again once. Years later.

He didn’t smile.

You didn’t cry.

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

He didn’t say a word.

Neither did you.

And then he left you standing there.

Again.

-----

Sometimes you wonder if he ever loved you.

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

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

And that’s worse.

Because he did love you.

And still chose this.

-----

People like you and Suguru—

You don’t survive love.

You dismantle under it.

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

You survive the aftermath, sure. You keep breathing.

But you are never, ever whole again.

-----

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

It echoes anyway—

Suguru.

Suguru.

Suguru.

A name like a wound.

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

-----

: 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✨

—The Strongest Sweet Tooth—

Gojo Satoru believes in a lot of things.

He believes in power—his own, mostly, because there’s no one else on his level.

He believes in choices—the ones that shape people, the ones he never really got to make.

He believes in change—though he’s never quite sure if he’s the one causing it or just watching from the sidelines.

And above all, he believes in sweets.

Not just as food, but as a philosophy. A worldview. A moral compass.

"Everything you need to know about a person," he tells you one afternoon, legs stretched across your lap, "can be determined by how they rank their desserts."

You raise an eyebrow. "You have an actual ranking system, don’t you?"

"Of course I do!" He looks almost offended that you’d doubt it. "Do you think I just eat sweets randomly, like some kind of amateur?"

You do think that. Because Gojo has never exactly struck you as the kind of man who puts deep thought into anything besides fighting and annoying people.

But the way he says it—the sheer conviction—makes you pause.

Because he isn’t joking.

Not even a little.

Satoru’s Official, Undisputed, Completely Scientific Ranking of Sweets is as follows:

S-Tier (Divine, Transcendent, Life-Changing):

Anything made with yuzu. "The perfect balance of tart and sweet," he sighs, as if discussing fine art.

Hokkaido milk soft-serve. "The texture, the purity—it’s poetry in frozen form."

Mochi. But only when it’s fresh, hand-made, and "the exact right level of squishy."

A-Tier (Excellent, but Not Godly):

Dark chocolate. "Because I have class, obviously."

Honey-drizzled pancakes. "Good enough to die for, but I’d prefer to live and eat more."

Dorayaki. "Childhood nostalgia and deliciousness? Unbeatable combo."

B-Tier (Enjoyable, But Flawed):

Pocky. "Overrated, but respectable."

Strawberry shortcake. "Soft, fluffy, sweet—but lacks the complexity of superior desserts."

Dango. "A little too dense sometimes, but still solid."

C-Tier (Edible, But Only If There’s Nothing Else):

Cotton candy. "Pure sugar, no depth."

White chocolate. "A coward’s chocolate."

Anything overly artificial. "If it doesn’t melt on my tongue like a love confession, I don’t want it."

F-Tier (Crimes Against Humanity):

Licorice. "If you like this, I don’t trust you."

That one brand of cheap convenience store cakes that always taste vaguely of regret.

"Diet" versions of anything. "Why even bother?"

-----

"You thought about this," you say, stunned.

Satoru nods sagely, like a monk revealing the secrets of the universe. "Of course. You can tell everything about a society by its desserts."

You snort. "Enlighten me, then, Oh wise one."

"Gladly," he grins.

And then he launches into a full-blown dissertation on the philosophy of sweets.

How dark chocolate is for people who like complexity, who appreciate depth, who understand that sweetness is best when paired with bitterness.

How mochi is the ultimate symbol of comfort—soft, nostalgic, always better when shared.

How artificial sweets are like artificial people, all flash and no substance, messing into nothing the moment you try to hold onto them.

He talks, and talks, and talks—gesturing wildly, hands moving as if he’s sculpting his thoughts into the air.

And you watch.

Because for all his ridiculousness, there’s something fascinating about him when he’s like this.

So alive.

So present.

So real.

People forget, sometimes, that Gojo Satoru isn’t just a force of nature, isn’t just a god wrapped in human skin.

He’s a person.

A person who finds meaning in small, silly things.

A person who cares—even if it’s about something as absurd as a ranking system for sweets.

And isn’t that what makes him human?

-----

Of course, the problem with having such a strong opinion on sweets is that Satoru will fight to the death over it.

Metaphorically. (Mostly.)

The first time you mention liking white chocolate, he gasps so dramatically you think he might actually pass out.

"Are you saying," he demands, "that you willingly consume LIES?"

"It’s not that bad—"

"It’s sugar pretending to be chocolate! A fraud! A scam!"

You roll your eyes. "Oh please, mister ‘pocky is respectable.’"

"Pocky is respectable," he says solemnly. "It is an experience. A ritual. A sacred bond between snackers."

You don’t even know what that means.

And yet, an hour later, you find yourself in a heated debate over whether yuzu or matcha is the superior flavor.

(For the record, you argue for matcha. He calls you a heretic. You tell him to go to hell. He tells you they don’t serve sweets there, so he’s not interested.)

-----

It’s stupid.

It’s so stupid.

But it’s also… something else.

Something warm.

Something easy.

Something that makes your chest ache in a way you don’t fully understand.

Because for all his strength, for all his burdens, Gojo Satoru is still this.

Still a man who will fight over desserts like it’s a matter of national importance.

Still a man who will wax poetic about the spiritual significance of mochi.

Still a man who will argue for hours, just to make you smile, just to keep the conversation going, just to have something—anything—that isn’t war, or loss, or the weight of being him.

And somehow, impossibly, you are the one he’s chosen to do this with.

Not the world.

Not the students.

Not the endless cycle of duty and expectation.

Just you.

Over something as ridiculous as sweets.

And isn’t that, in its own strange way, the most intimate thing of all?

-----

At the end of the day, it’s not really about the ranking system.

(Not really.)

It’s about the fact that Satoru chooses to care about something so small, so human, so pointless and beautiful.

Because if he can care about this, if he can make room in his world for something as silly as a favorite flavor, then maybe—just maybe—he can make room for other things, too.

For laughter.

For lightness.

For the quiet, simple joy of being here, being alive, being with you.

And that—more than any ranking, more than any argument, more than any philosophy—

is what really matters.

-----

~A Hollow God and His Quiet Devotion~

Human mind is the scariest thing of all.

He’s known this for a while.

There’s something about the way a person can laugh while breaking, smile while suffering, pretend while decaying. It’s horrifying, really. The mind’s ability to rationalize its own undoing. To keep existing even when everything inside it is burning down.

Gojo Satoru is no exception

He is the strongest. The untouchable. A divine existence trapped in human skin. A god, they say, though he would laugh at the irony of that title. Because what kind of god is constantly running from his own mind?

He wears a mask, not a literal one—though the blindfold, the sunglasses, the casual grins serve their purpose—but a mask made of distraction. A personality so large it drowns out anything real. Gojo is insufferable, overwhelming, a force of nature that never stops moving because if he does, he might have to listen to himself.

And yet, here, now—alone, in the quiet of his apartment, with you—he is something else entirely

Not a god. Not a teacher. Not a man with the weight of the world on his back.

Just Satoru

-----

The first time you noticed the difference, you almost didn't believe it.

Gojo is affectionate in a way that makes people uncomfortable. He leans too close, speaks too loudly, touches too freely. His love is an inconvenience, a joke, a spectacle.

But in private, it's different.

He doesn’t tell you he loves you. He doesn’t have to

You see it in the way he waits for you to enter a room before he does—an instinctual need to ensure your safety before his own. The way he lets his head drop against your shoulder like he’s finally found something solid enough to rest on. The way his fingers hesitate at your wrist before sliding down to lace between yours, like he still can’t believe he’s allowed this

Gojo Satoru, the strongest man alive, loves you in secret.

Not because he’s ashamed. Not because he doesn’t want the world to know.

But because love—true, real, terrifying love—is something he doesn’t know how to perform.

-----

"You’re quiet today," you say, lying beside him.

The lights are dim, the city hum outside muted by distance. His apartment is too big for one person, but not quite big enough to contain everything he refuses to say.

"Mm," he hums in response, gaze fixed on the ceiling.

"You’re never quiet."

A beat.

Then, a breath of a laugh. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"It’s not bad," you say, shifting closer, feeling the warmth of his body through the thin fabric of his shirt. "Just… different."

He doesn’t answer right away. His fingers play with the hem of your sleeve, like a nervous habit, like he needs something to anchor him.

"Satoru," you press, softer this time.

He finally looks at you. No blindfold, no glasses. Just bare, unguarded eyes—the kind of blue that makes the ocean look dull in comparison.

"I don’t have to be loud with you," he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

And you understand.

Gojo Satoru exists too loudly, too overwhelmingly, because that’s what the world expects from him. But with you, he doesn’t have to be anything. He can just exist.

No expectations. No performances.

Just silence, and the steady rhythm of your breathing beside him.

-----

Gojo does not know how to need people.

He has spent years pretending otherwise—being the center of attention, the life of the party, the one everyone looks at but no one truly sees.

And yet, in the moments that matter, he is always alone.

He was alone when Geto left.

Alone when he cradled Yuuji’s lifeless body.

Alone when he stood at the top of the world and realized there was no one there with him.

So when he lets himself rest against you, when he presses his forehead to your shoulder and lets out a sigh so deep it shakes something inside of him—he isn’t sure what he’s doing.

Is this what it means to trust someone? To be seen?

He thinks it might be.

And that scares him more than anything else. Because if he lets himself have this—have you—what happens when he loses it?

What happens when he loves you so much it becomes a weakness?

What happens when the world, cruel as it is, takes you away

(He doesn’t know. And he doesn’t want to know.)

So instead, he holds you a little tighter.

As if, for once, he can keep something.

As if, for once, he won’t be left behind.

-----

"You’re thinking too hard," you murmur, running your fingers through his hair.

He huffs, burying his face against your neck. "Maybe I just like your neck."

"Sure, Satoru."

A beat.

A laugh. And then, quieter—"You’re not going anywhere, right?"

The question catches you off guard.

You pull back slightly, just enough to see his face. There’s a lazy smirk there, but his eyes—God, his eyes—betray him.

"I’m not going anywhere," you say, with the kind of certainty he has never allowed himself to believe in.

He watches you for a moment longer, like he’s memorizing your face, like he’s searching for something—some proof that you’re real, that you mean it.

Then, with a sigh that sounds almost like relief, he lets his weight press fully against you.

Gojo Satoru does not pray.

But in that moment, he closes his eyes, exhales, and hopes—hopes that, just this once, the world will be kind.

That, just this once, he won’t have to be strong.

That, just this once, he won’t have to be alone.

And with your heartbeat steady beneath his palm, he almost believes it.

Almost.

-----

Human mind is the scariest thing of all.

Because it can trick you into thinking you’re untouchable.

Because it can make you believe that love is a weakness.

Because it can convince you that no matter how tightly you hold on, you will always end up alone.

But as Gojo Satoru drifts to sleep, his hand tangled with yours, he wonders—just for a moment—if, maybe, he was wrong.

—The Language of Silence—

Unlike Gojo, he enjoys silence and will often sit with someone for hours without talking.

Some people fear silence.

They see it as an emptiness, a gap that needs filling. They rush to fill the space with words, laughter, noise—anything to push back against the quiet.

Suguru Geto is not one of those people.

He has always understood that silence is not the absence of something. It is its own language, its own presence. It is the space where truths settle, where emotions breathe.

Gojo fills the silence because he does not know how to sit with it. But Suguru?

Suguru lets it stay.

And so do you.

-----

The first time you realize this about him, you are both sitting on the temple steps, watching the wind move through the trees. It has been over an hour, and neither of you has spoken.

You shift slightly, waiting for him to break the quiet, but he doesn’t. He just sits there, eyes half-lidded, hands folded in his lap, his presence as steady as the sky above.

And for some reason, that steadiness makes you stay.

Minutes pass. Maybe hours. The world moves, but you do not.

You look at him and wonder if he is thinking about something or nothing at all.

“Suguru?”

He turns his head, slow and deliberate.

“You ever get tired of sitting in silence?” you ask, half-joking.

A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Do you?”

You think about it. Shake your head. “Not with you.”

And that is enough.

-----

Suguru has always been like this. Quiet, contemplative. His silence is not an empty thing—it is full of thoughts he does not say, emotions he does not spill.

But sometimes, you wish he would.

Sometimes, you wish he would speak the things you only catch glimpses of in his eyes. The weight he carries. The exhaustion that lingers in the corners of his smile.

“Do you ever wish you could turn your brain off?” you ask one evening, lying on the floor of his dorm, staring up at the ceiling.

Suguru hums in thought. “Sometimes.”

“Do you ever succeed?”

A pause.

“No.”

You turn your head, watching him in the dim light. He is leaning against the bed, arms resting on his knees, his gaze far away.

“You could talk to me,” you say softly.

He looks at you, something unreadable flickering across his face. “I know.”

But he doesn’t. Not really. Not in the way you wish he would.

Instead, he lets the silence settle between you again.

And you let it.

-----

There is a difference between comfortable silence and avoidance. Between peace and distance.

You notice the shift before you name it.

It happens after Riko. After her laughter turns to memory, after blood stains the ground where she once stood.

Suguru stops filling the silence with meaning. Stops letting it be a presence between you.

Instead, he uses it as a wall.

You sit together, as you always have, but something is different now. He is farther away, even when he is right next to you.

You reach for him—not physically, but in the way you look at him, the way you wait for him to meet your eyes. But he doesn’t. Not like he used to.

One night, when the distance becomes unbearable, you finally break the quiet.

“Suguru.”

He blinks, as if pulled from somewhere far away. “Hm?”

“You’re shutting me out.”

He exhales slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m just… tired.”

It is a half-truth. You both know it.

But you do not press.

Because some things are too heavy to say out loud.

-----

You do not hear him leave.

One day, he is there. The next, he is not.

And suddenly, silence is no longer a comfort. It is an absence. It is something hollow, something sharp.

You sit on the temple steps alone, the same place where you once sat together, and you realize that silence is not always peaceful.

Sometimes, it is unbearable.

Because this time, it does not mean understanding.

It means he is gone.

-----

Years later, when you see him again, he is different.

His silence is no longer soft. It is a weapon now, honed and sharp-edged.

But when your eyes meet, just for a second, you wonder—

Is there still a part of him that remembers?

The quiet mornings. The easy stillness. The unspoken understanding.

You do not ask. And he does not say.

But when he turns to leave, you swear—just for a moment—he lingers.

Just long enough for you to know:

Some silences never truly end.

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 ✨

A Girl Among Snakes { 2 }

_________________________________________

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

_________________________________________

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

I learned this early. I had to.

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

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

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

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

-----

Myrcella was the first person to call me a friend.

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

I let her believe in them.

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

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

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

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

Some dreams are too sweet to break.

---

Joffrey was something else entirely.

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

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

But I never flinched.

And that, more than anything, fascinated him.

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

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

It was a lie.

But it was a beautiful one.

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

-----

The brothels were my father’s kingdom.

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

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

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

But they also taught me.

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

I listened.

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

-----

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

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

“You think yourself clever,” he murmured.

“I am,” I said.

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

It should have worried me, too.

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

And the game had only just begun.

—End of Chapter Two—

_____________________________

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

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

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

---

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

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