The Little Things He Remembers

The Daughter of Littlefinger { 1 }

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"They call me Baelish’s girl. A whisper behind silk fans, a name spoken with knowing smirks and hushed amusement, as if I am some pet my father keeps in his pocket, trained to play his games. But I am not a pet. Nor a pawn. Nor a fool. I am something else entirely—though, if I were wise, I would not admit to what."

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I was born in a brothel, though no one in court would ever say it aloud.

They would whisper it, of course, behind painted fans and smirks, in the same breath that they called me Baelish’s girl. Not quite a lady, not quite a bastard, something between a shadow and a secret.

My mother was a whore. She had hair like autumn and eyes like the first bloom of spring—Catelyn Stark’s ghost in a cheaper dress. She was beautiful in the way that made men reckless, and that, I suppose, was her first and final mistake.

I do not remember much of her. A voice, soft and humming. A hand, cool against my forehead. The way she smelled—lavender and something warm, something fading. When I try too hard to summon her, she dissolves into candlelight and smoke.

She died when I was four.

No one ever told me how. Some said illness, some said an accident, some said a jealous man who did not take kindly to her affections being divided. Maybe it was all of them. Maybe it was none. I used to think that if I asked my father, he would tell me, but I never did.

And perhaps that is the truest thing about us—our relationship was built not on what was said, but on what we both refused to say.

-----

Petyr Baelish took me in, but he did not raise me.

No, I think I raised myself.

I learned early that silence was my strongest armor. That men would mistake beauty for softness, that kindness was only currency, that power was not about strength, but about knowing which strings to pull and when.

I watched my father, listened to him, memorized the way he twisted words into something sweet and sharp all at once. I learned when he lied and when he only made people think he was lying. I learned that truth is a weapon like any other.

And I loved him, in my own way.

How could I not?

He was the one who took me from the filth of that brothel, who dressed me in silk, who gave me a name that people whispered with something like fear. I could have been nothing. I could have been dead.

Instead, I was here. In the capital. In the court. In the game.

-----

The first lesson my father ever taught me was this: Power is an illusion, and the best illusions are the ones people choose to believe.

He told me this when I was seven, sitting across from me at a table too grand for two people alone. His fingers toyed with the stem of his wine cup, a casual gesture, but I knew better than to think my father’s hands ever moved without purpose.

"Tell me, Rowan," he had asked, voice soft, almost amused, "do you know why men follow kings?"

I had hesitated, uncertain. Because they must? Because the king commands them? Because that is how the world works?

But even then, I had understood that my father rarely asked questions to hear simple answers. So I did what any good daughter of Petyr Baelish would do.

I smiled and said, "Because they choose to."

He had leaned back, his expression unreadable. Then, after a long pause, he had nodded. "Smart girl."

I had known then that I had pleased him.

But what I did not know—what I could not know—was how much that lesson would shape me.

-----

Court life was a performance, and I was a fast learner.

At first, I was merely the little shadow at my father’s side. A girl with clever eyes and a too-sweet smile, always listening, always watching.

The lords dismissed me. The ladies pitied me. But Myrcella Baratheon found me interesting.

It was not a friendship in the way of stories— no promises of forever—but I was her lady-in-waiting, and she was the closest thing to a true friend I could afford.

She looked up to me, I think. She liked how I carried myself, how I never shrank away.

I exist in the spaces between. A girl who listens more than she speaks, who watches more than she acts. I am careful. Cautious. A shadow in silk.

And yet, I am not invisible.

She calls me her dearest friend, her wisest lady-in-waiting, though she is far too young to understand what wisdom truly costs. She clings to my arm and tells me her dreams, her hopes, her childish fears. I listen. I nod. I smile when required.

“You’re not afraid of anything,” she once told me.

And I smiled, because I had already learned that fear was not something you showed. It was something you used.

-----

Joffrey liked me too, in his own way.

Or perhaps he just liked that I was never foolish enough to cower before him. I knew how to speak to him. Knew when to flatter, when to feign laughter, when to let him think he had won.

He once asked me if I was loyal to him.

“Of course, Your Grace.”

It was the only answer he wanted.

But later, when I was alone, I thought of my father and all the times I had asked myself the same question.

Was I loyal?

To whom?

my father?

To myself, I decided. That would have to be enough.

-----

People think power is won in battle, in blood, in steel.

But I knew better.

Power was a whisper in the right ear. A secret traded at the right time. A name spoken in the right room.

It was knowing when to smile and when to strike.

And I was my father’s daughter, after all.

Even if I was trying, so desperately, not to be.

—End of Chapter One—

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Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

So, here it is—chapter one of Life and Lies of Lady Rowan Baelish. Honestly, writing this introduction felt like stepping straight into the viper’s nest that is Westeros. Rowan’s childhood, her mother’s death, and her first real taste of court life—this chapter lays the groundwork for everything she’ll become.

I wanted it to feel real, not just as an origin story but as a reflection of how survival shapes people differently. Do you think it captures that? Does it need more? Less? Let me know your thoughts—I’d love to hear what you all think.

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Comment, ask questions, or just scream about the chaos to come. I’m here for all of it lol.

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

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 ✨

Ahh, come on, man. I already had my JJK OC half-built in my drafts, all planned out and everything—but I guess that’s how it is.

But hey, I’m glad so many of you voted and actually enjoy my JJK one-shots! I’ll keep posting them, then.

---

Feel free to comment and throw your ideas at me—I’d love to hear what you guys want to read next.

So, do I keep emotionally devastating you with JJK one-shots, or do I create an OC and ruin their life instead?

—The Strongest Sweet Tooth—

Gojo Satoru believes in a lot of things.

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

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

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

And above all, he believes in sweets.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because he isn’t joking.

Not even a little.

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

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

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

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

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

A-Tier (Excellent, but Not Godly):

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

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

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

B-Tier (Enjoyable, But Flawed):

Pocky. "Overrated, but respectable."

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

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

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

Cotton candy. "Pure sugar, no depth."

White chocolate. "A coward’s chocolate."

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

F-Tier (Crimes Against Humanity):

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

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

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

-----

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

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

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

"Gladly," he grins.

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

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

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

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

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

And you watch.

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

So alive.

So present.

So real.

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

He’s a person.

A person who finds meaning in small, silly things.

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

And isn’t that what makes him human?

-----

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

Metaphorically. (Mostly.)

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

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

"It’s not that bad—"

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

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

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

You don’t even know what that means.

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

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

-----

It’s stupid.

It’s so stupid.

But it’s also… something else.

Something warm.

Something easy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not the world.

Not the students.

Not the endless cycle of duty and expectation.

Just you.

Over something as ridiculous as sweets.

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

-----

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

(Not really.)

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

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

For laughter.

For lightness.

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

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

is what really matters.

-----

~A Hollow God and His Quiet Devotion~

Human mind is the scariest thing of all.

He’s known this for a while.

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

Gojo Satoru is no exception

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

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

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

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

Just Satoru

-----

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

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

But in private, it's different.

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

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

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

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

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

-----

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

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

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

"You’re never quiet."

A beat.

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

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

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

"Satoru," you press, softer this time.

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

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

And you understand.

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

No expectations. No performances.

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

-----

Gojo does not know how to need people.

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

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

He was alone when Geto left.

Alone when he cradled Yuuji’s lifeless body.

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

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

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

He thinks it might be.

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

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

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

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

So instead, he holds you a little tighter.

As if, for once, he can keep something.

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

-----

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

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

"Sure, Satoru."

A beat.

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

The question catches you off guard.

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

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

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

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

Gojo Satoru does not pray.

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

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

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

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

Almost.

-----

Human mind is the scariest thing of all.

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

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

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

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

: The Language Of 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 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.

-----