Latest Posts by lady-arcane - Page 2

The Loneliest Person in the Room Always Talks the Loudest :

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

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

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

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

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

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

-----

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

Just Gojo Satoru.

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

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

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

---

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

"Of what?"

"The act."

Gojo grinned. "What act?"

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

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

Then he laughed.

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

"Liar," you said softly.

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

But then he smirked.

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

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

---

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

And he looks different, then.

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

And in that stillness, he looks almost human.

Almost breakable.

You never wake him up.

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

---

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

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

"Yeah, you do."

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

(You don’t answer.)

Because you don’t know.

Because maybe he doesn’t, either.

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

And maybe that’s enough.

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

Maybe he can just exist.

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

---

You never say it out loud.

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

And maybe, just maybe—

He’s waiting for someone to listen.

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

: The 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 ✨

The Little Things He Remembers

Levi pretends he doesn’t care.

He has to, or else the weight of the world might crush him completely. It's easier to bury things under the surface. Harder to let them show. If he never admits he cares, he can keep things at a distance. At arm's length, where they can’t break him down.

But if you pay close attention, you’ll see the cracks. The way his eyes flicker when he sees you pick up your tea mug, the way he memorizes the subtle curve of your smile when you talk about something you love. He'll never say it, but he knows your favorite tea—green with a hint of jasmine, not too strong, just enough to calm the nerves. He’s noticed it, every time, when he makes you tea just the way you like it, with no questions asked. It’s almost like he’s learned it without trying to, as though his mind simply stores things that matter, even if it’s not something he ever lets you know.

-----

You don’t say much about it. The tea. The way he always seems to have it ready for you, even when he looks like he’s barely awake. You don’t mention how he remembers, even the smallest details. But you notice. You always notice.

And then there’s the bread. The way you take it—lightly toasted with just a smear of butter. It's something you’ve always done. Something small, but Levi knows it. He’ll pretend it’s nothing. He’ll never make a comment about it, but when he watches you sit at the table, tearing off pieces of your toast, he’s quietly acknowledging it. It’s the little things that make you human, make you more than just a soldier to him. He never says it, but he remembers.

"Stop looking at me like that," you tease one morning, as you catch him watching you for the umpteenth time as you take your breakfast.

Levi raises an eyebrow, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips, but he doesn’t respond. His silence is enough.

(He knows the truth in it.)

It’s easy to pretend he doesn’t care. It’s easy to hide behind his cold exterior, to keep his feelings locked away in some dark corner of his mind. But even Levi can’t stop himself from remembering the details. The way you hum under your breath when you’re content, how your hands always seem to find a way to smooth your clothes when you’re nervous. The way you fidget when you're worried, how you never quite look people in the eye when you're lying. He knows it all, even when he never asks.

There’s a comfort in knowing. A comfort in keeping it to himself, like a secret only he gets to carry. It doesn’t make him weak, he tells himself. It just makes him... human. And sometimes, that’s all he can allow himself to be. Just a little bit of humanity in a world that demands too much.

But then there’s the sleep. That’s when it all spills out. When you’re not awake to stop him, when you’re too vulnerable to hide it. You don’t know, but he does. He’s heard you speak in your sleep. Not often, but when you’re stressed or overwhelmed, your mind races in the silence of the night. He listens. And the words that slip out of your mouth don’t break him—no, they only draw him closer. He never mentions it. He knows better. But he hears you say things you would never dare to in the waking world. Words that are soft and unsure, the things you’ve been too afraid to share. He holds onto those too, locked away in his mind, tucked between the moments when everything else feels too heavy to carry.

“Stop moving around,” he mutters one night, his voice rough from sleep as you shift beside him.

You mumble something about the mission, about the weight of the world, and he almost doesn’t hear it over the blood in his ears. But he does. He always does.

The next morning, he’s as cold as ever. No mention of last night. No comment on the way you curled into him, your breath slow and steady as if you trusted him, even for just a moment.

You pretend you don’t notice either. Pretend it’s nothing. But you both know.

It’s easy to convince yourself the things that matter don’t make you weak. But they do. That’s the problem with caring, with remembering. The things you keep to yourself are the things that matter the most.

And it gets harder to pretend they don’t when every passing day adds another layer to it all.

-----

“You never ask me how I take my coffee,” you say once, breaking the silence as you both sit in the mess hall after another long day. It’s a quiet evening, the fire crackling softly in the background.

Levi doesn’t respond immediately. He sips his coffee, the bitterness cutting through the silence, before he finally speaks.

“You take it black. No sugar. No cream.”

Your eyebrows raise. “How do you know that?”

Levi shrugs, his expression unreadable. "I pay attention."

And there it is again—the way he says the simplest things like they don’t matter. Like the fact that he knows how you take your coffee, or the fact that he’s remembered all the little things, doesn’t mean anything at all. But you know better. You know what it means when someone remembers the things that are so easily forgotten. When they pay attention to the details, to the pieces of you that no one else cares about.

“Yeah, well, I take my coffee with the same amount of bitterness you carry around with you every day,” you say, your voice more playful than you mean it to be. But something shifts in Levi’s expression. For a moment, his mask cracks. It’s brief, almost imperceptible, but it’s there.

"Don't go around getting sentimental on me now," he mutters, though there’s a softness underneath the words.

You don’t press him, not this time. Instead, you sip your coffee, and for a while, silence falls between you two again.

(But you both know.)

He remembers everything. Every small, unspoken detail about you. The things you think he doesn’t notice. He carries them all with him, tucked into the corners of his mind, kept safe from the rest of the world. And maybe that’s the most human thing he’s ever done.

And maybe, just maybe, you can carry that with you, too.

You look at him, his eyes flickering toward yours for just a moment. You’ll never say it aloud, but you both understand. The small things matter.

The things you never say are the things you care about the most. And Levi, despite all his pretensions and all the walls he’s built, remembers them all.

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

You know, it’s funny how the smallest things end up meaning the most. A favorite tea, the way someone takes their bread, the tiny details no one asks for but someone still remembers. Who does that remind me of?

My Bua (paternal aunt), actually. The lady is too sweet for this world. She’s the kind of person who will remember exactly how you like your toast, even if you never told her outright. And the next time you’re around, she’ll make it just right—not because she has to, but because she wants you to feel comfortable, because she loves you in that quiet, thoughtful way. *Sighs* Ahhh, love her to the moon and back. Would probably kill for her—okay, that’s the intrusive thoughts talking, but you get the idea.

--

Anyway, feel free to comment and share your borderline obsessive yapping about your loved ones. We’re all a little feral about the people we adore.

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

He Still Drinks Tea Like She’s Watching :

Levi drinks his tea like Kuchel is watching.

Like someone, somewhere, will be disappointed if he rushes it. If he forgets to do it right. The first time you notice it, you think it’s just another one of his quirks—like the way he folds his cravat with military precision or the way he flicks his wrist when cleaning blood off his blade, like it’s not even worth a second thought.

But then you realize it’s something else entirely. A ritual. A quiet, fragile thing, stubbornly existing in a world that never stops breaking.

-----

You don’t ask him about it. Not at first. You just watch.

He boils the water himself. Even though there are lower-ranked soldiers who could do it, even though he has more important things to do. He lets it sit for exactly the right amount of time before pouring, never a second more, never a second less. And when he drinks it, it’s with the kind of patience he never seems to have for anything else. Like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the present moment.

It isn’t until months later, when you find yourself in his quarters during another sleepless night, that you finally ask.

“Do you actually like tea, or is this just another one of your obsessive habits?”

He doesn’t look up from his cup. Just takes a slow sip, the steam curling against his face like something alive. “Tch. What kind of stupid question is that?”

You shrug. “You treat it like a religion.”

A beat of silence. He sets the cup down carefully, like it’s something breakable. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than you expect. “It’s not about the tea.”

You should have known that already. With Levi, nothing is ever about what it seems.

You don’t press him, but after that, you start drinking tea with him. Sometimes you talk. Sometimes you don’t. But there’s a kind of understanding in the silence, in the way the both of you sit there, letting the world exist around you without demanding anything in return.

-----

One night, after a long mission that left more bodies than survivors, you’re sitting across from him when he finally says it.

“My mother used to drink tea.”

You almost miss it. The words are quiet, as if they might disintegrate if he speaks them too loudly. You wait, letting him decide if he wants to continue. He does.

“She never had much, but she’d always make time for it. Said it made her feel… I don’t know. Like a person.”

You think of the stories you’ve heard. The brothels, the underground, the kind of life that doesn’t allow softness. And yet, she had this. A small rebellion against the world, steeped in hot water and patience.

Levi exhales sharply, like he hates that he’s saying any of this. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not,” you say immediately, because it isn’t. And he must know that, somewhere deep down, or he wouldn’t be holding onto it so tightly.

He doesn’t say anything, but he pours you another cup. You take it, letting the warmth seep into your fingers.

In the months that follow, you start noticing it more. The way Levi treats the ritual with the same respect he gives to his blades. The way his hands are always steady, no matter how many deaths he’s carried that day.

The way he closes his eyes after the first sip, like he’s remembering something he refuses to forget.

-----

One night, when the weight of existence feels unbearable, you find yourself saying, “Tell me about her.”

Levi doesn’t look at you, but something in his posture shifts. “She was too good for this world.”

You nod.

Wait.

“She had this way of looking at people. Like she already knew how much they were going to hurt her, but she still wanted to see the best in them.” A humorless chuckle. “Fucking Foolish.”

“Sounds familiar.”

He shoots you a look, but you just sip your tea, unbothered. He doesn’t argue.

There’s a long pause, and then, softer,“ She deserved more."

You wonder if he means himself, if he thinks he wasn’t enough. You wonder how long he’s been carrying that with him, how many times he’s tried to outrun the ghost of a woman who gave him everything and got nothing in return.

You set your cup down, leaning forward slightly. “She’d be proud of you, you know.”

He tenses. Like he wants to reject the thought outright. Like he can’t allow himself to believe it. But he doesn’t tell you you’re wrong.

The tea cools between you, but neither of you move. The world outside keeps turning, keeps bleeding, keeps taking. But in this moment, at least, Levi lets himself exist in the quiet. Lets himself have this.

Like Kuchel is watching.

Like she never really left.

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers 🌸✨

I’ve always found comfort in the smallest things, much like Levi does with his tea. For me, it’s the little tokens from my mother. I still use her hair clutch sometimes—it's not just an accessory, it’s a way to feel close to her again. I also keep her old metal pocket makeup mirror, not just because it’s practical, but because when I look into it, I see her, looking back at me through the reflection. It’s almost as if she’s still here, in the way I inherited my face from her, in the way her eyes shine through mine.

I think that’s the beauty of Levi’s ritual. It's not just about the tea, it’s about finding a way to keep the ones we’ve lost alive within us, through the smallest, most personal acts. I hope you feel that same quiet comfort in reading this, like you can find a moment of peace amidst the chaos, even if just for a little while.

--

If any of you have had experiences with loved ones who’ve passed, I’d love for this space to be a safe haven. Sometimes it’s hard to speak the words aloud, but here, you can share them without judgment. Let’s make the comments a place where we can remember, heal, and connect. You’re never alone in this.

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

I fully support it 😭👍

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

“I Could Fight God” Energy

Gojo Satoru would fight a god.

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

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

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

-----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. “Pretty much.”

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

And that—that—makes you stop.

Because the thing is, Gojo is untouchable.

You blink. “What?”

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

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

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

And that’s terrifying.

-----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why him?

Why this life?

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

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

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

But he’s lying.

Because he already knows the answer.

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

And the worst part?

He’s been winning.

Every. Single. Time.

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

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

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

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

But you don’t.

Because you know he wouldn’t believe you.

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

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

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers 🌸✨

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

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

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

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

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

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 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 ✨

—Nothing Special—

Nanami doesn’t believe in doing things halfway. Not work, not fights, and certainly not meals.

----

It’s something you notice early on, the way he approaches cooking with the same quiet precision he applies to everything else. No shortcuts, no half-hearted attempts. Just careful, deliberate movements—measuring, chopping, stirring, tasting. He doesn’t rush anything, and there’s something almost meditative about the way he works. Like cooking is one of the few things in this world that make sense.

And yet, every time he sets down a plate in front of you, he shrugs it off with a casual, “It’s nothing special.”

Which is, frankly, insane.

Because Nanami’s cooking isn’t just good—it’s absurdly, unfairly good. The kind of good that makes you reconsider every meal you’ve ever had before. It’s balanced and flavorful and just indulgent enough to make you wonder if he missed his true calling.

He didn’t, of course. Because as much as you hate to admit it, he is a good sorcerer.-Even if you’d much rather see him somewhere else, somewhere safer. Somewhere with a kitchen instead of a battlefield.

-----

“You know, most people don’t just whip up a three-course meal on a random weeknight,” you tell him once, staring down at the plate he’s just set in front of you. “This is not ‘nothing special.’”

Nanami exhales through his nose, unamused. “It’s just a simple meal.”

“Nanami, there’s saffron in this.”

He barely reacts. “I had some left over.”

“Of course you did."

It’s a pattern, this quiet form of care he offers. He doesn’t say much about it, doesn’t expect praise or gratitude. But you see it in the way he portions out the food, always making sure your plate is full before serving himself. In the way he adjusts the spice level just enough to match your tastes. In the way he always, always makes sure there’s something comforting on the table after a particularly rough day.

You don’t always call him out on it. Sometimes, you just let it happen—this wordless, steady kind of love that he insists isn’t anything grand.

-----

But one night, after a long, exhausting day, you sit down at the table, take one bite of his cooking, and blurt out, “I think you love me more than I love you.”

Nanami pauses, chopsticks halfway to his mouth. Raises a brow.

You gesture at the food. “This is ridiculous. This is devotion. And I—what? I just show up? I sit here and receive all this?” You shake your head, overwhelmed. “It’s embarrassing, honestly. I need to step up my game.”

For a second, he just looks at you, unreadable as ever. Then, very quietly, he says, “You do more than you realize.”

And maybe it’s the exhaustion talking, or maybe it’s just the way he says it—calm, certain, like an undeniable fact—but you find yourself falling silent. Because when Nanami says something like that, you believe him.

The rest of the meal is quiet. Easy. And when you finish, setting your chopsticks down with a sigh, Nanami gives you a look and says, “So? How was it?”

You meet his eyes, dead serious. “Nothing special.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, just barely. But he doesn’t argue.

He just gets up, takes your plate, and starts cleaning up.

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

You know, I’ve been thinking—maybe cooking is a love language. My younger Bhai (cousin brother), for example, is an absolute menace most of the time (as younger siblings tend to be lol)

But when he’s in the kitchen, he always makes something for me too. Not in an overly sweet, “look how much I care” kind of way—more like a casual, “I was already making food, so here, take this” way. No big declarations, no dramatic gestures, just... an unspoken understanding.

Which, honestly, is kind of unfair. Because while I can barely cook to save my life, this little brat could probably become a chef if he wanted to. 😭✋

Meanwhile, I struggle to flip a half fry egg without cracking its yolk. Life is cruel like that. 🗿

But anyway—maybe food is one of those quiet ways people show love. No grand speeches, no poetic confessions—just a plate of something warm, made with care, set in front of you without a word. Feels very Nanami-coded, doesn’t it? lol

---

What about you guys? Do you express love through cooking? Or does someone do that for you? Let me know—I’d love to hear your stories! 🎀

Geto Suguru acts all cool, but if a cat rubs against his leg, he’s done for.

Geto Suguru carries himself with a kind of effortless grace, the kind that makes people watch him when he walks into a room. He is refined, deliberate—every movement measured, every word placed with precision.

Even next to Gojo’s blinding presence, Suguru stands out.

He is composed. Poised. Untouchable.

At least, that’s what he wants people to believe.

-----

You find out the truth by accident.

It is late, and the two of you are walking back from a mission, your uniforms still stained with dirt and exhaustion. Tokyo hums around you—neon signs flickering, traffic rolling past in waves of sound.

And then, out of the shadows, a cat appears.

Small. Scrappy. Orange

It rubs against Suguru’s leg with the kind of shameless affection only a cat can muster.

And he—he, the ever-composed, the ever-serene—freezes.

For a second, just a fraction of one, you see his carefully constructed persona crack.

His eyes widen. His breath catches.

And then, in the softest voice you have ever heard from him, he says:

“Oh no.”

-----

You do not expect what happens next.

You expect him to shake it off, to maintain his image of effortless control.

But instead—

Instead, he crouches down, tentative, as if in a trance. The cat, delighted by its new victim, purrs loudly and presses itself against his hand.

Suguru, the second-in-command of the strongest duo of Jujutsu sorcerers, lets out a breath like he’s been punched.

You stare.

“Are you—”

He looks up at you, eyes wide, as if you’ve caught him in something scandalous.

“Shut up.”

You don’t.

Because Suguru Geto, the epitome of cool, is now fully on the ground, scratching behind a stray cat’s ears like it’s the most important mission he’s ever been given.

-----

“You like cats.”

“I tolerate them.”

“You literally melted back there.”

Suguru exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s not—” He pauses, searching for a way to maintain his dignity. Fails. “They’re just… very soft.”

You watch him, amusement curling at the edges of your mouth.

“Soft?”

He looks away. “Yeah.”

You tilt your head, studying him. The way his hands, so often used for violence, had moved so gently through the cat’s fur. The way his entire body had relaxed in a way it rarely did.

And suddenly, you realize—

It’s not just about the cat.

It’s about what the cat represents.

Something small. Something vulnerable. Something that asks for nothing except warmth.

Suguru has spent his life being strong. Being in control. Being the protector.

But here, in this tiny moment, with a stray cat rubbing against his legs—

Here, he lets himself be soft.

-----

You expect him to forget about the cat.

He doesn’t.

The next time you pass that alley, he slows his steps, scanning the shadows. When the cat appears again, he sighs—long-suffering, dramatic, resigned.

“Guess I should feed it,” he mutters.

You smirk. “Tolerate them, huh?”

He ignores you, already kneeling, already reaching into his bag for the remains of his lunch. The cat, as if sensing his weakness, immediately begins twining around his arms.

You watch as he lets it. As his fingers curl absently into its fur, as his expression softens into something unbearably gentle.

You watch and wonder—

How many times has he wanted to be taken care of like this?

How many times has he wanted to be something small and loved?

-----

It doesn’t last.

Nothing ever does.

One night, weeks later, you find him standing in the alley alone, his hands empty. His shoulders are set in that careful way that means he is holding something back.

“The cat’s gone,” he says, and his voice is neutral. Too neutral.

You don’t know what happened. You don’t ask.

But the way his fingers twitch at his sides—the way he stares at the empty ground where something small and warm used to be tells you enough.

For the first time in a long time, you see something raw flicker through him.

A reminder that Suguru Geto does not get to keep soft things.

Not in this world.

-----

He never mentions the cat again.

But sometimes, when you pass pet stores, you catch his eyes drifting. Sometimes, when you sit together in silence, his fingers will tap idly against his knee—like he is remembering the feeling of fur beneath them.

And one night, long after everything has shattered, when you see him again across enemy lines, you wonder—

Does he still stop for stray cats?

Or did he learn, in the end, that love is never enough to keep something safe?

You do not ask.

And he does not say.

But when he walks away, his hands curl—just for a second—as if holding something that is no longer there.

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

So, fun fact (not so fun actually)—

this fic was actually inspired by a stray cat I used to see near my coaching center. it wasn’t mine or anything, but it was just… there.

A little Orange-Brown thing that had somehow become part of my daily routine. I had even mentally named it Kaju (because obviously, I was never going to not name a cat I saw every day lol).

Sometimes, if I had extra money, I’d buy a packet of biscuits (ParleG) and toss a few her way. Other times, I’d just look at it like we had an understanding. It was easy, unspoken. Just a thing that existed.

And then, one day, she wasn’t there.

At first, I figured she’d just wandered off somewhere, maybe found a new spot, doing something a cat would. But a few days later, I found out she’d been hit by a car. By mistake, of course. Just one of those things that happen.

And look—I wasn’t devastated. It’s not like I’d expected her to stay forever. But still… it sucked. The street felt different after that, like some tiny piece of it had been removed without warning. It’s funny how you don’t realize you’ve grown fond of something until it’s just gone.

Maybe that’s why I wrote this. My boi Suguru feels like the kind of person who lets himself care, even when he knows better. Even when he knows things don’t last.

---

Anyway, what about you guys? Ever had something like that happen? A small, unspoken attachment that disappeared before you even realized how much you liked it? Feel free to share—I’d love to hear if we’ve got some common circumstances. 🎀

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

—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.

—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 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.

-----

The Strongest Man and His War with Sleep :

Sleep is a mercy he cannot afford.

Gojo Satoru has never been good at resting.

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

No, it’s deeper than that.

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

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

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

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

And there is nothing more terrifying than that.

-----

You notice it, of course.

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t press the issue. Not yet.

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

And you know.

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

A man who is tired.

-----

When Gojo does sleep, it’s not gentle.

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

No.

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

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

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

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

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

-----

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

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

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

"I don’t need—"

"Shut up, Satoru."

Surprisingly, he does.

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

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

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

Fast asleep.

Completely, utterly, unmovable.

-----

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

You learn this the hard way.

You try shaking him—nothing.

You try calling his name—still nothing.

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

It’s honestly a little terrifying.

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

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

And that realization sits heavy in your chest.

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

Not with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

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

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

But here, now, with you—he sleeps.

And that means something.

-----

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

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

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

A pause.

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

You don’t answer.

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

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

A person who gets tired.

A person who needs rest.

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

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

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

"Don’t get used to it, Satoru."

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

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

-----

~A 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.