Sukuna’s Reflection :

The Brightest Lie :

Everyone said Gojo Satoru was the strongest.

They said it like a blessing, like a curse, like a song.

Satoru knew the words by heart. Had known them before he even knew himself.

He thought — if he had a grave someday — they would carve that phrase into the stone before they ever remembered his name.

The Strongest.

The Brightest.

The Untouchable.

(And if he shattered under it — well, that wasn’t anyone's business.)

-----

It was winter when he met her.

Snow clung to the stone sidewalks like stubborn ghosts.

He had slipped out of the school that night with nothing but his jacket and a vague, gnawing ache he couldn’t name.

Tokyo was a graveyard at midnight.

Only vending machines and stray cats witnessed him.

He found her by accident — in the empty park near the bridge.

She was sitting on a bench with a cane resting against her knee, her head tilted up like she was listening for something beyond human ears.

For a moment, he thought she was a ghost.

Tokyo was full of them, after all.

But then she smiled — small, real — and he realized she was just... living.

“Cold night,” she said, voice soft.

He blinked behind his glasses. “Yeah.”

She didn’t flinch at his voice. Didn’t bow, didn’t whisper, didn’t freeze.

Just turned her face toward him with a polite kind of curiosity.

“You lost?” she asked.

Satoru laughed under his breath.

Lost.

If only it was that simple.

“Nah. Just walking,” he said, slipping his hands into his pockets.

She hummed, brushing snow off the bench beside her.

An invitation.

For reasons he couldn’t explain — not even to himself — he sat down.

-----

Minutes passed.

The snow kept falling in slow, weightless drifts.

He kept waiting for her to ask.

For the inevitable flicker of realization.

For the fear, the reverence, the edge.

It didn’t come.

Instead, she asked, “You have a name?”

He hesitated. Then said, “Satoru.”

She nodded like it meant nothing and everything.

“Nice to meet you, Satoru. I’m Aki.”

(He realized, distantly, she was blind.)

The idea bloomed in his chest like a strange, painful flower:

She doesn’t know.

She didn’t see the white hair that marked him like a warning.

She didn’t see the height, the swagger, the way space bent politely away from him.

She didn’t see the "Strongest Sorcerer" at all.

Just a man with cold hands and tired shoulders.

-----

"You always walk alone?" she asked after a while.

"Yeah," he said, shrugging. "Better that way."

She tilted her head, thoughtful.

"You sound lonely."

He almost laughed.

Almost told her about centuries of history tying themselves into nooses around his throat.

Almost told her about dying friends and dying enemies and the way his students looked at him sometimes — like he was a god and a monster and a brother and a curse, all in the same breath.

Instead, he said, "Maybe."

Aki smiled a little. "Lonely isn’t always bad. Means you’re still waiting for someone."

"Maybe," he said again, softer.

---

They sat like that until the streetlights buzzed and flickered.

Until the sky turned a bruised, electric purple.

Until Satoru forgot for one brief, staggering moment that he was supposed to be anything other than human.

When he finally stood to leave, she smiled up at him — clear and unburdened.

"Thanks for keeping me company, Satoru," she said.

He wanted to say something back.

Something stupid and raw and real,

like no one’s thanked me in years or stay blind a little longer, please.

Instead, he just shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and said, "Yeah. You too."

Then he walked away, leaving only footprints behind him.

-----

Later, standing at the top of the bridge, he looked back once.

She was still sitting there — small and bright and terribly, terribly human.

And Gojo Satoru — The Strongest — felt something splinter in his chest.

Something old.

Something breakable.

He pressed a hand against his heart like he could hold it still.

Like he could hold himself still.

You’re not meant to want things, a cruel voice inside him said.

You’re not meant to need.

But under the falling snow, for just a moment, he let himself wonder:

If someone could love him — not the title, not the strength, not the salvation he was supposed to be —

just him—

would he even recognize it?

Would he be able to stay?

Or would he run, the way he'd always run — bright and blinding and lonely —

until even the stars forgot how to find him?

-----

The city swallowed him up.

The night closed behind him like a door.

And Gojo Satoru — myth, weapon, miracle —

kept walking.

Kept pretending.

Kept being the brightest lie the world had ever told.

-----

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 ✨

He Thought Gojo Would Stop Him :

There are things that happen all at once.

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

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

Geto Suguru didn’t break all at once.

He unraveled.

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

Waiting for Satoru to stop him.

---

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

That was the moment he chose his path.

And maybe that was true.

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

That Gojo would refuse to let him go.

But Gojo never did.

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Geto felt something inside him go still.

Because this was it. This was proof.

That Gojo had let him go.

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

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

-----

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

Had Gojo been waiting for him?

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

“Come back.”

“Don’t go.”

“Stay.”

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

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

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

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

Just Suguru.

And Geto almost wanted to laugh.

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

That in the end, Gojo still saw him.

That in the end, it had never mattered.

That in the end, Gojo had lost him anyway.

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

Not really.

Not where it counted.

Not where it mattered.

-----

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

Geto thought "You should have stopped me."

But maybe Gojo had been thinking the exact same thing.

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

He 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 ✨

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 ✨

“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 ✨

okay so ngl I’m probably not gonna write these as good as I do for Gojo, Geto, or my sweet bbg Kento (character analysis just hits different with them), but I’ll try my best to ruin your emotions anyway. So, which one do I attempt next hmm ?

I fully support it 😭👍

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

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers 🌸✨

so—wanna know where i’ve been all this time?

Well. school started. and it’s been exactly as soul-sucking and exhausting as you'd expect.

i’ve been floating through days like a ghost that didn’t even get a tragic backstory. just assignments.

but in between the mess, i ended up writing a few jjk meta pieces. not planned, not polished—just… thoughts that wouldn’t shut up. little rants. poetic breakdowns. trauma essays disguised as fandom content. you know the deal.

i’ll be posting them all by this evening—there’s like 2 or 3 for now. they’re less “analysis” and more “me yelling into the void about how the jujutsu society is evil and i would physically fight god to protect every broken, bloody, emotionally-damaged character in that show.” so yeah. feel free to read, scream, cry, or argue with me in the tags. i’m down for it all.

they’re not perfect. but they’re honest.

and weirdly enough, they feel like the most me thing i’ve written in a while.

see you in the ruins.

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