He Would Let You Live :

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.

-----

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.

-----

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?

---

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 ✨

The Hands of a God-King :

Sukuna’s hands were never meant to be touched.

They were carved by power, molded for violence. Fingers meant for destruction, palms that know only the heat of blood, the crack of bone, the sharpness of steel.

And yet, they are scarred.

Not from battle—no one has ever been strong enough to leave a lasting wound on him—but from himself. From the weight of his own strength, from the countless times he has torn himself apart and stitched himself back together with sheer will alone.

His body is a temple built and rebuilt from ruin.

And his hands are the proof of it.

-----

The scars are strange things. Some thin as hairline cracks, others jagged, deep—memories of a power so vast it could not be contained, even within his own skin. He has felt his bones fracture under the pressure of it, muscles split, skin burned away, only to heal again, over and over, as if his body has long accepted that it will never truly be whole.

He doesn’t think about it. There’s no point.

It is what it is.

And yet—sometimes, when the world is quiet, when his hands are still, he can feel it. The ghosts of old wounds, the echoes of destruction.

The knowledge that his body is both indestructible and deeply, deeply broken.

-----

He doesn’t know when you first noticed.

Perhaps it was the way his fingers curled absentmindedly when he wasn’t using them. Perhaps it was the way he flexed them, as if reminding himself they were still there. Or maybe it was the way they traced over things—absent, almost thoughtful—when he thought no one was watching.

Whatever it was, you had noticed. And that was a problem.

Because people who noticed things about him usually didn’t live long.

And yet, there you were.

Watching. Thinking. Understanding something he did not want to be understood.

One night, as his fingers drummed idly against his knee, your gaze flickered down to his hands. The movement was so slight he almost didn’t catch it.

"Does it hurt?" you asked.

He had half a mind to ignore you. To dismiss it with a sneer, to tell you that pain was beneath him. But something about the way you said it—calm, certain, like you already knew the answer—made him pause.

And for just a moment, his hands stilled.

Then he laughed. Low, sharp, edged with something unreadable.

"You think a god suffers from something so trivial?"

But you didn’t back down.

"Gods suffer more than anyone, don’t they?"

And he should have struck you down for that. Should have reminded you of what he was, of what you were, and of how your words were nothing but fleeting air against the weight of his existence.

But he didn’t.

Instead, his fingers twitched.

And in that moment—so small, so insignificant he almost didn’t notice it himself—his hands curled, just slightly, as if remembering something they were not supposed to.

-----

Sukuna does not think about his hands.

Not in the way you do, with your quiet observations, your thoughtful little remarks.

But sometimes, when your gaze lingers on them—when your fingers brush against his in passing, when your touch lingers for just a second too long—he thinks about what they would have been in another life.

If they would have held instead of taken.

If they would have been human.

And then he laughs, because the thought is absurd. Because that life never existed, and never will.

But sometimes, when the world is quiet, when he lets his hands rest against you without thinking—when they do not tighten, do not wound, do not take—they do not feel like weapons.

If they would have built instead of destroyed.

They feel like hands.

And that is the cruelest trick of all.

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

Here I am—stupid little me—trying to make this walking catastrophe feel a little human again. Like that’s ever going to work.

If Sukuna knew I was sitting here, dissecting his hands like some tragic metaphor, he’d kill me before I even got to my second sentence. No hesitation. Just a flick of his fingers, a scoff, maybe an "Tch. Foolish human," and then—nothing. I’d be gone. Reduced to a smear on the ground, utterly irrelevant to a god-king who has never needed to justify a single thing he’s done.

But I don’t know. I keep coming back to it. His hands—scarred, precise, brutal—feel like they tell a story he has no interest in acknowledging. They’ve taken everything, ruined everything, but they’ve also rebuilt him over and over again. He’s been unmade by his own power more times than anyone else ever could, and yet, here he is. Still standing. Still undefeated. And if there’s one thing Sukuna hates, it’s the idea of anything having power over him.

So what does that mean for the hands that have both created him and destroyed him?

---

Anyway, those are just my thoughts. Maybe I’m reading too much into it. Maybe I should shut up before Sukuna manifests just to personally smite me. But hey, feel free to comment and share your thoughts—I’d love to hear what you think. And if you’ve got headcanons, send them my way. I might try writing them too.

Until then, I’ll just be here, waiting for the inevitable divine wrath.

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

—The Violet Hours—

The thing about truth is—it never arrives politely.

It kicks in the door, pours wine in your mother’s good china, and asks if you’re still pretending.

—From Journal Of Elora Haventon, 1975

Memory :

When she was nine, Elora asked her father if power made people kinder.

He gave her a polished smile and said, “Power makes people busy, darling.”

That night, she wrote in her diary: 'So kindness is a hobby, I guess.'

She never stopped watching after that—quietly, precisely, like a girl measuring the world before deciding whether it deserved her.

_________________________________________

Who Is Elora Haventon?

Birth : Haventon Manor, Outer London— 12th October, 1960, 2:06 AM

Age at Hogwarts acceptance : 10 years, 11 months

Date of death : 21st July, 1979

Place : A quiet field, still dressed in flowers. (Some say it was meant to be a celebration. Others say it was the last peace before the war found her.)

Known as: "The Ghost They All Knew"

Appearance : Dark hair like spilled ink. Eyes the color of twilight before storm—too blue to be black, too violet to be safe.

Sharp in mind. Silent in grief.

_________________________________________

Notable Relationships :

Jennifer Vance : Her first real friend. A half-vampire Ravenclaw girl who laughed like she was already bored of eternity. She once gave Elora a gold locket. Elora wore it even after her heart stopped.

Remus Lupin : A quiet understanding. They spoke like people who knew how to wait. She figured out his secret long before he confessed it. A bond built on books, trust, and not needing to explain.

Sirius Black : An occasional clash of fire and ice. He thought he could make her laugh. A boy who mistook silence for mystery, and misread indifference for elegance.

Adrian Del Marlowe : The boy she was meant to marry. The only one who saw her quiet ache and didn’t ask about it. He just handed her books and soft smiles instead. They wrote each other letters.

_________________________________________

What Happened to Her?

There’s a portrait of her in Haventon Manor.

Visitors say it’s just a painting, but something about it feels too alive—like the violet of her dress might rustle if the wind blew the wrong way.

She’s smiling. But it’s the kind of smile you only wear when you’ve learned how to survive.

And yet still—

no one survived 'The Violet Hours'.

_________________________________________

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

So yeah. Elora Haventon. She's been living rent-free in my head for months now—quietly, politely, the way ghosts do. at first, i thought she was just another side character. and then suddenly she had a name, a cursed locket, an entire tragic backstory, and this way of looking at the world that made me go oh. so here she is: the ghost they all knew. my third OC (yeah, we’re deep in it now lol I think I’m addicted to tragic girls with sharp minds and deadpan humor), and maybe the one closest to my chest.

she’s sharp. ironic. too observant for eleven. the kind of girl who would sit quietly at a political dinner table and memorize everything—not because she wants to be part of it, but because she’s already writing it all down in her head. her voice came to me so naturally it was a little scary. like she’d been waiting for someone to finally let her speak.

what inspired her? honestly? that song Dollhouse. you know, the whole smiling-perfect-family thing but under the surface it’s all porcelain cracks and red wine stains and quiet disappointment. that’s Elora. a girl raised in a house where truth isn’t forbidden—it’s just considered bad manners.

i’ll be posting more of her story (it’s called The Violet Hours, and yes, it gets worse), but for now, here’s a little introduction. if you’ve ever been the quiet girl in the room, the one watching more than speaking, the one trying to hold yourself together with pretty manners and sharp thoughts—i think you’ll get her.

---

feel free to scream in the tags, message me, ask questions—i literally love talking about her. just bring tea or trauma. both work.

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

A Pawn or a Player? { 3 }

_________________________________________

"Do you know what the most dangerous piece on the board is?

A pawn that refuses to stay one."

_________________________________________

Petyr Baelish never told me I was shaped.

He didn’t have to.

The thing about growing up in the shadow of a man like him is that you begin to understand silence better than words. You learn the meaning of a glance, the weight of a pause, the way power curls itself around a room like smoke, barely visible but impossible to ignore.

I was ten the first time he let me sit beside him while he played cyvasse against a visiting merchant.

It was not a lesson, not officially. Petyr never wasted time on things so direct.

But when the game was over and the merchant had left, my father turned to me and asked, as if it were nothing, “Did you see how I won?”

I hesitated. “You trapped his dragon.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “No, sweetling. I let him believe he was winning. Until he wasn’t.”

---

I learned quickly after that.

Petyr never told me to watch. But I did.

I watched the way he spoke to lords, all soft smiles and careful charm. I watched the way he moved through a room, unassuming yet ever-present. I watched the way people underestimated him, the way they dismissed him as nothing more than a minor lord with a sharp tongue and sharper ambition.

I watched the way he let them.

And I watched the way he won.

---

The first time I played cyvasse against him, I lost.

I was eleven, and I had thought myself clever. I moved my pieces with confidence, mirroring the strategy I had seen him use before.

He beat me in seven moves.

“Why? I asked, frowning at the board. “I did everything right.”

His fingers traced the edge of a pawn, thoughtful. “Did you?”

I looked again.

And then I saw it—the mistake. The opening I had left without realizing it.

The moment I had lost, before I even knew the game was over.

Petyr smiled, reaching out to smooth a hand over my hair, his touch as light as his voice. “You learn quickly, Rowan. But so do your enemies.”

---

I did not trust my father.

I respected him. I studied him.

But trust? No.

Petyr Baelish was not a man who inspired trust. He inspired awe, perhaps. Caution. Admiration, in the way one might admire a well-forged blade.

But never trust.

And he knew it.

Which was why, I think, he never asked me to.

---

I let him shape me. But only so far.

I let him teach me how to speak, how to smile, how to make a man believe I was harmless even as I unraveled his secrets.

But I also watched.

I watched him as much as he watched me.

Because if he was making me into a tool, then I needed to know what kind.

A dagger is not the same as a key. A shield is not the same as a lockpick.

And I did not intend to be used blindly.

-----

“You are too clever for your own good,” he told me once, when I was twelve.

I only smiled. “I wonder where I got it from.”

He laughed at that, shaking his head.

But he did not answer.

Because he knew.

And so did I.

—End of Chapter Three—

_____________________________

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

This chapter focuses heavily on Rowan and Petyr’s dynamic—the push and pull of power, trust, and manipulation between them. She plays the role he expects, but beneath it, she’s always watching, always learning. It’s a complicated relationship, built on something that resembles loyalty but is laced with too much calculation to be love.

I wanted to explore that tension—how much of her father’s influence she accepts, how much she resents, and how much she quietly resists.

---

Let me know what you think! Does their relationship feel as layered as I intended? Feel free to comment, share your thoughts, or ask any questions about Rowan!

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

: The Language Of Flowers :

"People trust what is beautiful, what is soft. But flowers can poison, too." – Lily Calloway

---

"When I was little, my mother told me that good girls are loved, and bad girls are left behind. But I watched the world, and I learned—good girls get nothing. Smart girls take everything."

-----

Tucked away in the heart of Birmingham, Calloway’s Garden is a charming little shop where the air is thick with the scent of lilies, violets, and roses. People walk in for fresh-cut flowers, never questioning why some bouquets come wrapped in whispers and secrets. A flower shop is a good place for business—the real kind. The kind no one talks about.

---

"She’s a liar, but a useful one." – Thomas Shelby

---

Lily Calloway is not the woman people think she is. A social butterfly, warm and disarming, she knows exactly what to say to make people lean in, listen, trust. But beneath the charm is a mind that sees, calculates, and survives. She’s not cruel—cruelty is too messy, too blunt. She prefers subtlety, making people think they’re in control when she’s already three steps ahead.

-----

Theo Carter : He was her brother’s best friend. Now he’s hers. He came back from the war when Charles didn’t, and she doesn’t know if she keeps him close out of loyalty or something heavier.

Janifer Smith : Her partner-in-crime, her best friend, and sometimes the devil on her shoulder. They are two sides of the same coin—one soft-spoken, the other bold, but both dangerous in their own way.

---

Tommy Shelby?— She respects him, and he sees potential in her. But she knows what men like him do to people who get too close. And Lily Calloway? She wasn’t made to be anyone’s pawn.

-----

Writer’s Note:

So, this is my first-ever OC, and honestly? I have no idea what I’m doing, but we’re rolling with it. Lily Calloway has been living in my head rent-free for weeks, so it’s about time I let her loose into the world. She’s manipulative but not cruel, charming but not harmless, and definitely not the kind of woman you want to underestimate.

I’ll probably be dropping the first chapter in 2-3 days (if I don’t get distracted by life ). I have the whole story outlined—25 chapters, slow-burn, morally grey choices, and a whole lot of drama. So, if you’re into that, stick around.

--

Also, I’d love to hear your thoughts on Lily! Is she giving femme fatale or just a girl trying to survive in a man’s world? Maybe both. We’ll see.

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

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.

-----

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 ✨

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 ✨

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 ✨