The Brightest Lie :

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 First Time He Saw an Office Job, He Thought It Was Freedom :

Nanami Kento thought he understood what freedom was.

It wasn’t some grand concept, not to him. It wasn’t rebellion or escape or even peace. It was something quieter, simpler. It was the absence of exhaustion, the absence of endless blood and death. It was the choice to walk away from a world that took and took and took until there was nothing left.

So when he saw his first office job, he thought—maybe this is it.

Maybe this is what it looks like.

No more curses. No more blood. No more endless nights wondering if tomorrow would be his last. Just a desk, a paycheck, and a life that belonged only to him.

It seemed Clean. Orderly. Safe.

He was wrong, of course.

But at the time, it was the only thing that made sense.

-----

He never had the illusion that he was a hero.

Gojo could talk about justice, about duty, about responsibility, but Nanami? Nanami knew better. He knew that none of it mattered, that the work they did wasn’t noble or righteous. It was just survival. Just a job that needed to be done.

And he hated it. He hated the way it made him feel, the way it carved pieces out of him. He hated the way his hands never felt clean, no matter how many times he washed them.

But the most of all, he hated was how it was all expected.

How no one ever really questioned it.

How this was just the way things were.

So when he looked at that first office building, at the neatly pressed suits and the fluorescent lights and the steady, predictable rhythm of it all—he thought, This is freedom.

Because wasn’t that what freedom was? The ability to walk away? The ability to choose something else?

He thought so.

For a while, he really did.

-----

The thing they don’t tell you about freedom is that it’s not the same as peace.

The office was quiet, yes. Predictable, yes. But it was also empty.

There was no blood, no curses, no constant fight for survival. But there was also no meaning. No purpose. Just an endless series of reports and meetings and numbers that meant nothing.

And at first, he told himself that was fine. That this was better. That this was what he chose.

But some nights, he’d wake up gasping, hands clenched, body tense, as if expecting a fight that never came.

Some nights, he’d find himself staring at his reflection in the office bathroom mirror, wondering why he felt like a ghost in his own life.

Some nights, he’d wonder if he had made a mistake.

-----

The day he walked away from the office was quiet.

No dramatic goodbyes. No second thoughts. Just the simple realization that this wasn’t freedom either. That maybe freedom didn’t exist at all.

But if he had to choose—between an empty life and a painful one—he’d at least choose something that meant something.

And so, he went back.

Back to the blood, the exhaustion, the endless cycle of fighting for a world that would never change.

Because maybe it didn’t matter what he wanted.

Maybe it never did.

-----

Nanami Kento never believed in freedom. Not really.

But when he died, he thought—at least I chose this.

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

My sweet, sad bbg Kento… I love him so much it actually makes me angry. Like, imagine being Nanami Kento. You do everything right. You work hard. You try to be practical. You just want a simple, decent life. And what does the world give you in return? Absolutely nothing. No peace, no freedom, not even the illusion of rest. He carried all that weight, all that exhaustion, and for what? For a world that chewed him up and spat him out like he was nothing.

To the people who hate Nanami… meet me in the parking lot. We gotta fight. Right now.

Honestly, I’ll probably write an AU one-shot where he actually gets to retire in Malaysia, eating all the good food his heart desires, because he deserves that. I don’t care what canon says. My man should have been sipping on some tropical drink, watching the sunset, alive.

---

Anyway, hope you liked the one-shot! Feel free to comment and share your thoughts—I’d love for some Nanami worshipers to come together and mourn this man properly.

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

The Quiet Kind of Tired :

You meet Nanami Kento on a Tuesday,

which feels exactly right. Tuesdays are the most unremarkable days of the week. Nobody romanticizes a Tuesday. You don’t expect to fall in love on one.

You’re working overtime again, elbows deep in paperwork that means nothing, for people who care even less. He sits across from you in the break room. Neat suit. Tired eyes. He drinks his coffee black, like he’s punishing himself.

You say something cynical. He doesn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitches. That’s how it starts.

No grand gestures.

Just a quiet understanding between two people too tired to pretend they’re okay.

-----

Dating Nanami is like walking into a room already cleaned.

Everything in its place. Emotion folded tightly into polite responses. He takes you out to dinner every Thursday. He walks you home. He buys you flowers—carnations, not roses. Clean, efficient, not too sentimental.

He doesn’t talk about his past. You don’t ask. You’re both adults. You both understand that talking about certain things doesn’t make them easier.

Still, some nights, when the city is too loud and you’ve had one glass of wine too many, you look at him and think—

I am loving a man who does not know what to do with softness.

And he looks back at you like you’re made of glass he’s trying not to break with his silence.

-----

You love him anyway. Not because it’s easy. But because he never lies to you. Not in words, at least.

He tells the truth in smaller ways. When he takes the side of the bed closest to the door. When he holds your wrist instead of your hand, like it’s easier to let go that way. When he texts, "I’m sorry, I’ll be late tonight,” and you don’t ask why.

Because you know the answer:

He is always late for himself.

---

You don’t realize how tired you’ve become until you stop recognizing your own voice. You speak less. Smile less. You don’t cry—you just compress.

Like your feelings are cargo in a suitcase too small.

Nanami doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does, and he thinks it’s something you need to handle alone. That’s the thing about him—he believes in self-reliance to a fault. As if needing people is something shameful. Something weak.

You once told him you wanted to take care of him.

He said, “That’s not necessary.”

You didn’t offer again.

-----

The silence grows slowly, like water under a door.

You tell your friends he’s “steady.” You tell yourself it’s enough.

But you start watching couples on the train. Not the loud, annoying kind. The quiet ones. The ones who lean their heads together. The ones who speak without speaking.

And you think—I want to be chosen without hesitation.

With Nanami, you are always chosen… responsibly.

-----

One night, you come home early from work. He’s already there, standing in the kitchen in a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He’s slicing something—methodical, perfect. His tie is loosened. His hair slightly messy.

He looks tired. Not in the dramatic, cinematic way. Just… tired in the way people look when they’ve been carrying everything alone for too long.

You drop your bag by the door and say, “You know you can talk to me, right?”

He pauses. Doesn’t turn around.

“I don’t want to burden you,” he says.

There’s no malice in it. No edge.

But God, does it hurt.

You say nothing. Walk to the bathroom. Close the door gently.

You stare at yourself in the mirror and wonder when you started mistaking restraint for kindness.

-----

You dream of him leaving. Not out of cruelty. But out of quiet, inevitable decay.

You dream of growing old beside him and never once hearing him say, “I need you.”

You wake up gasping.

And when you roll over to look at him, he’s still asleep, face turned away from you, hands folded like he’s praying.

-----

You don’t break up. Of course not. That would require a climax, and your relationship is built entirely on anti-climax. You just… let it fray.

There’s no cheating. No screaming. Just unspoken questions hanging like fog in the room.

You start eating dinner separately. You stop saying I miss you because he never said it first.

And he—he grows even quieter. Like he knows you’re drifting, and he’s letting you go in the only way he knows how: respectfully.

You wonder if he thinks that’s love.

-----

One day, he comes home to find you sitting on the floor, reading a book you’ve read before.

He looks at you like he wants to say something. You wait. He doesn’t.

So you say it for him.

“I’m tired, Kento.”

You’re not crying. You’re not shouting.

You’re just stating a fact.

And for the first time, he looks… afraid.

-----

He sits down beside you. Not too close. But not far.

“I never wanted to make you feel alone,” he says.

His voice is low. Honest.

You nod. “I know. But you did.”

There’s a long silence.

Then—

“I didn’t know how else to be.”

And you believe him.

You love him.

But you also know that love is not enough when it has nowhere to land.

-----

You don’t leave that night. You fall asleep on the couch, your back to his.

But something shifts. Not fixed. Just acknowledged.

And sometimes, that’s the beginning of something. Sometimes, it’s the end.

-----

Later—weeks later, maybe months—you’ll walk past a bakery the two of you never went into. And you’ll think about how many moments you both passed up in the name of being sensible.

How many soft things you gave up because he didn’t know what to do with them.

You’ll still love him.

But you’ll also understand: some people were taught that needing is dangerous. That showing pain is failure. That asking for help is weak.

And it is not your job to rewrite that for them.

-----

In the end, you loved a man who refused to be held.

And that is the quietest kind of heartbreak.

The kind that doesn’t end with a scream.

Just a sigh.

-----

—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! 🎀

—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 Girl Among Snakes { 2 }

_________________________________________

“You must learn the difference between a pet and a viper. And then you must learn how to hold both without getting bitten.”

_________________________________________

A court is a nest of snakes, but the trick is knowing which ones have venom and which ones are just pretending.

I learned this early. I had to.

Petyr Baelish never sat me down and taught me the rules of the game. He never needed to. My education was in his words, his glances, the way he could make a promise sound like a threat and a threat sound like a gift.

“My sweet Rowan,” he once said, fingers tilting my chin up so that my eyes met his. “Do you know why a mockingbird sings?”

I had been eight, still young enough to think his questions had answers. “Because it is happy?”

His smile was fond, yes. but not kind. “No. Because it is listening.”

-----

Myrcella was the first person to call me a friend.

It was not something I had ever expected to have, but Myrcella had a way of making things seem simpler than they were. She liked to pluck flowers and talk about knights, about love, about things that were soft and golden and good.

I let her believe in them.

For her, I was gentle. For her, I was kind.

But there was always a part of me—small and sharp—that knew better.

When she told me she wanted to be queen one day, I only smiled.

When she said she hoped Joffrey would be a good king, I did not answer.

Some dreams are too sweet to break.

---

Joffrey was something else entirely.

He liked me, but only because I let him think I was his to command.

Joffrey liked the illusion of power more than power itself. He liked to hold it in his hands, to wield it, to see people flinch when he spoke.

But I never flinched.

And that, more than anything, fascinated him.

“Rowan, do you love me?” he once asked, his voice filled with that arrogant certainty that only princes and fools possess.

I tilted my head, smiled just enough. “Of course, Your Grace.”

It was a lie.

But it was a beautiful one.

And beautiful lies are the ones that people love most of all.

-----

The brothels were my father’s kingdom.

He did not love them, not really, but he owned them the way a man owns a sword—because it was useful.

I was never meant to belong there, but I learned quickly that belonging was a matter of perception. If you knew how to wear a place, it would wear you back.

The whores were kinder than the ladies of the court. They saw me for what I was, not what I pretended to be. They called me sweetling, little bird, pretty thing. They brushed my hair and told me stories and laughed when I mimicked my father’s voice, sharp and knowing.

But they also taught me.

Men talk when they think no one is listening. They talk to women they do not fear. They talk when they drink, when they want, when they think they are safe.

I listened.

Because a mockingbird sings, yes—but only when it knows what song is worth singing.

-----

Petyr caught me once, slipping through the halls of his finest establishment.

He was not angry. Not truly. He only looked at me for a long moment, then sighed, as if I were a puzzle he had already solved.

“You think yourself clever,” he murmured.

“I am,” I said.

He smiled, and there was something unreadable in his expression. “Yes. That is what worries me.”

It should have worried me, too.

But I was young. And I was my father’s daughter.

And the game had only just begun.

—End of Chapter Two—

_____________________________

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

I know, I know—you might be thinking this chapter feels a bit too similar to the first. But I really wanted to slow things down and dig deeper into Rowan’s relationships, her thoughts, and how she’s beginning to navigate the world around her. This isn’t just about her learning manipulation; it’s about understanding the people in her life and the roles they play—whether as allies, pawns, or something in between.

Hopefully, this gives you a better sense of her dynamic with Petyr, Myrcella, and even Joffrey (because that’s a whole thing).

---

Let me know what you think—does it work? Should I have approached it differently? Feel free to comment, ask questions, or share your thoughts!

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

—The Violet Hours—

The thing about truth is—it never arrives politely.

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

—From Journal Of Elora Haventon, 1975

Memory :

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

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

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

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

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Who Is Elora Haventon?

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

Age at Hogwarts acceptance : 10 years, 11 months

Date of death : 21st July, 1979

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

Known as: "The Ghost They All Knew"

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

Sharp in mind. Silent in grief.

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Notable Relationships :

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

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

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

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

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What Happened to Her?

There’s a portrait of her in Haventon Manor.

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

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

And yet still—

no one survived 'The Violet Hours'.

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Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Pawn or a Player? { 3 }

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

A pawn that refuses to stay one."

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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.”

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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.

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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.”

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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.

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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.

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“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—

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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.

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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 Never Thought He’d Live Long Anyway :

Geto Suguru never really planned for the future. Not in the way normal people did.

He wasn’t careless, not exactly—just realistic. Sorcerers didn’t get old. They didn’t settle down, didn’t retire, didn’t fade into something softer. They burned out or got snuffed out, whichever came first. It was the nature of things.

You used to think he was being dramatic when he said things like that.

“You sound like an old man,” you’d tease, lying next to him on the temple floor, staring at the ceiling beams above. The incense was still burning, curling in soft wisps of white. “You’re eighteen, Suguru.”

“Exactly,” he’d reply, tipping his head to look at you, something almost fond in his gaze. “Ancient.”

And maybe, back then, it was a joke. A stupid one. But even then, there was something in his voice, something that made you uneasy.

Like he was saying it not because he wanted to, but because he already knew.

Because he had already done the math.

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He never talked about the future the way other people did.

Gojo made plans—half-baked, ridiculous ones, but plans nonetheless. Even Shoko, for all her cynicism, would talk about things like next year and someday. But Geto Suguru?

When he spoke about the future, it was always vague. Uncertain. Like he was already counting himself out of it.

Not in a self-destructive way. Not in a woe is me kind of way. Just in the quiet, inevitable way that someone acknowledges gravity.

He never said, *When I’m old.*

He never said, *Someday, when I retire.*

He only ever said, *If I make it that far.*

And it wasn’t until later that you realized—he didn’t think he would.

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The first time you knew, really knew, you were seventeen.

The mission had been hell. You’d come back exhausted, blood-soaked, drained to the marrow. Your hands were still shaking from the aftermath when you found him sitting outside, barefoot in the grass, staring up at the sky like he was trying to find something there.

You sat next to him, close enough to feel the warmth of him, but not touching. Neither of you spoke for a long time. The cicadas screamed in the distance, the only sound in the stillness. Then, finally—

“I don’t think I’ll live long,” he said. Just like that. Flat. Matter-of-fact. Like he was telling you the weather.

You turned your head sharply. “Don’t say shit like that.”

“It’s true.” He didn’t even look at you, just kept staring at the stars. “It’s fine, though.”

“It’s not fine,” you snapped, the exhaustion making you sharp. “You talk like it’s already decided.”

He let out a quiet laugh. “Maybe it is.”

You wanted to be angry. Wanted to tell him he was being ridiculous, that he was stronger than this, that he wasn’t allowed to talk about his own life like it was already over.

But when you looked at him—really looked at him—you saw it.

He wasn’t afraid.

That was what scared you most.

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Years later, you thought back to that night.

When he left. When you realized you wouldn’t be able to follow. When you realized—maybe he was right. Maybe he wasn’t meant to live long. Maybe he had known, even then.

You wanted to believe it was a choice. That he had decided not to live, that he had chosen a path that would lead him to an early end. But deep down, you knew—

This world was never going to let him grow old.

It was never going to let him be anything but a tragedy waiting to happen.

And the worst part?

(He had made peace with that long before you ever did. )

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The last time you saw him, it was raining.

He stood there, the same as always, looking at you like he was waiting for something. You could have said anything. You could have begged him to stay, or cursed him, or broken down right there in the street.

But all you said was—

“Did you ever really want to live, Suguru?”

He blinked, slow, like the question surprised him. Then, after a moment, he gave you a small, tired smile.

“I wanted to,” he said, quiet.

“For a little while.”

And then he walked away.

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Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

You know what gets me? The irony of it all. Geto probably knew—deep down, in that quiet, resigned way of his—that he was never going to live long. And Gojo? Well, he’s Gojo Satoru. The strongest. The untouchable. The one who’ll probably live to a hundred just because no one’s capable of killing him.

And what really messes with me is that they both made peace with it.

Geto never planned for a future because he didn’t think he’d have one. And Gojo—he made peace with having one. With outliving everything and everyone. With the idea that nothing in this world is permanent, that everything is just an illustration on water, fading the moment you reach for it. It’s almost in a way it’s kind of like the Buddhist idea of impermanence—the acceptance that nothing lasts, so you might as well let go before it gets taken from you.

But the difference is, Geto let go by leaving. And Gojo lets go by staying.

Which is insane, when you think about it. Gojo, who loves so much and so loudly, is the one who’s already accepted loss as a fundamental fact of life. While Geto, who acted like he could leave things behind, was never truly able to.

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I don’t know. It’s tragic in a way that feels too real. But what do you think? Do you read them differently? Because I’d love to hear your take on this.

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