I Really Wanted To Draw Him.

I really wanted to draw him.

(*´꒳`*)

Choso 💭 *matchy-matchy = fated brothers*

credits to the original artist @yakult9_chim on X & ig

I'm sorry for reuploading, I wouldn't sleep if I didn't change on right version... Sukuna Ryomen has been sealed.... in a pumpkin. Poor thing. Keep your fingers off. This chibi happened absolutely spontaneously. Found cute reference, wanted to draw Sukuna in costume but then this happened... Actually I'm kind of proud of coloring, of course there is a lot to work with, but! that was a step further. So yea. This happened. Want to learn this soft, warm rendering to make cozy arts ♥ Hope you guys are doing good. I keep my October marathon~

i colored him (finally)

gojo killing the shit out of hanami and then just turning and saying “next” GOOD GOD-

The sky cried for them, its tears falling in unrelenting streams, soaking the earth. Cold, unmoving, their bodies were no longer their own. The rain whispered against their skin, tracing the stitches that bound their foreheads—a mockery of their once-proud existence, now defiled by others’ hands. It dripped on the grey asphalt, mingling with the dried blood and the dirt, weaving sorrow into the fabric of the air. The rain did not cleanse; it eroded.

(The strongest died with his eyes still open, but he couldn’t see anything anymore.)

Gojo’s body was cold, his skin pallid like porcelain shattered and hastily glued back together. His big blue eyes, hidden beneath lids that would never open again, had once seen everything, grasped the infinite. Now, that limitless was shut by the cruelty of a world that had always demanded too much from him. Threads wove across his face, a visceral mark of the man he was no longer. The weight of the rain traced the lines of his jaw, pressed upon his chest, and the cold crept in as if to claim him entirely, drop by drop, plic, plic, plic.

It seems the void had finally reached Satoru.

Far from him, Geto’s body laid in shadow, missing from the narrative, equally silent, equally lost. Suguru had been snatched from the earth, perhaps entombed in some forsaken corner, still bearing the weight of a cursed love. His once warm, knowing smile was twisted in a way that felt wrong, stitched up by hands that didn’t know how to shape his suffering. His body had forgotten how to feel. He had fought for something once, something that fluttered like fragile wings, only to watch it wither. The same black stitches crept over his brow, crossing the lines of his face.

There was no peace, no quiet resolution. Only the earth beneath them that accepted their weight with indifference.

In another universe, perhaps they would have found peace. In another universe, perhaps they would have laughed about the absurdity of it all. They would have walked shoulder to shoulder, they would have tasted the salt of shared tears, spared one another the agony of what was to come. In another universe, they wouldn’t have had to die like this—alone, their bodies repurposed.

But in this one, they were cursed.

(And hope hanged itself in that instant.)

The rain did not relent. It washed away nothing but left behind the stark truth: they were no longer saviors, no longer gods. The water soaked through their clothes, binding them together in death, but there was no warmth. They were remnants of a world that had moved on, bodies violated by forces they could not resist, puppeteered by unseen hands even after their souls had departed. Their bones weren't allowed to crumble into the earth with grace, to be mourned, to fade away like normal men.

Regret hovered above them, bitter and thick, clinging in the air like smoke. It lingered, as if the world itself could not decide whether to mourn or forget. The scars of their betrayal—by the world, by each other, by themselves—ran deeper than the stitches on their skin, of the love twisted into something unrecognizable. They had once been so much more than this, but in the end, they were corpses. Dead, but not allowed to die. Even in death, they were never their own. Empty, used, discarded. Was this what it meant to be strong?

(Strength was a lonely thing.)

Wherever Suguru’s remains lay, they were forever connected to Satoru’s—two souls intertwined even in absence, caught in a dance of grief and longing. The earth, soaked in sorrow, became their rained graves.

The stitches they share would remain long after their bodies decayed. At least now, in death, they were closer than ever before.

The water fell, and it seemed as though it would never stop.

this was a slight breakdown a few days after seeing a lot of gojo's heartbreaking artworks—i was actually going to post it like 2 am while drugged with sleep. i plan to either delete it and pretend it never happened or post it on ao3. for all that matters, i know gojo didn’t have a proper funeral in the manga, and that he isn’t actually buried or anything like that. i confess that i haven’t finished the manga, so i had to do some research to find out that geto’s body is gone—beforehand, i just had the idea to talk about their corpses. since it’s all a matter of context, i hope you don’t mind the poetic license i took. see what i refer to as “earth” as a metaphor for death and “rain” as something like their connection/friendship, or as anything else you choose. all of this is quite hypothetical. this isn’t necessarily a romantic matter, but feel free to interpret it however you wish. i hope you liked it! also, english isn’t my first language, so i’m sorry for any possible mistakes. please like or repost if you enjoyed, it means the world <3