Lady-arcane - Lady Arcane

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.

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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 ✨

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.”

---

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—

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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 ✨

The Things He Never Forgets

Sukuna does not remember the faces of the men he has killed.

They blur together, indistinct, insignificant. A thousand screams, a thousand lives, all reduced to echoes lost in time.

He does not remember the first time he tasted blood.

Only that it was warm. Only that it tasted like power.

He does not remember the last time he spoke without cruelty.

Perhaps he never did.

Perhaps he was born sharp-edged, made only to take, to destroy, to rule.

And yet—

Sometimes, something shifts.

Something rises unbidden, uncalled for, unwanted.

A scent, a sound, a fleeting phrase spoken without thought.

And suddenly, he is somewhere else.

Suddenly, he is something else.

Something before.

-----

It happens on an evening like any other.

The fire is low. The air is thick with the scent of whatever you’re cooking, something simple, something forgettable. He is not paying attention. He does not need to.

Until you hum.

A tune, quiet, absentminded. A fragment of something old, something small.

And the world lurches.

Because he knows it.

Not the song itself, but the shape of it, the feeling of it. The way it pulls at something he does not remember storing away.

The air changes.

Sukuna does not move. He does not react. But his fingers twitch, curling just slightly where they rest.

It is nothing.

It is nothing.

Except—

His mind betrays him.

A flicker. A glimpse. A place he does not recognize, a life that is not his.

Or perhaps it was.

Once.

Long ago.

Before he became a god. Before he became a curse. Before his name was spoken in fear and reverence and hatred alike.

He does not remember.

And yet his body does.

The way his shoulders tense, the way his breath slows. The way he knows that if he reached out now—if he closed his eyes, if he listened just a little longer—

Something would come back.

And he is not sure he wants that.

-----

"Why did you stop?"

Your voice snaps him back.

He blinks, sharp and immediate, as if tearing himself free from something he does not want to acknowledge.

"You were humming," he says, and his voice is too even. Too careful.

You tilt your head. "Did it bother you?"

He scoffs, the sound rough. "Hardly."

A lie.

Because he does not forget things.

Not like this.

Not in ways that matter.

And yet, when he closes his eyes that night, long after the fire has burned down and silence has settled over the room,

The tune lingers.

It settles into the quiet spaces of his mind, the places he does not look too closely at.

And for the first time in centuries,

Sukuna remembers something he never meant to.

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

Sukuna having an internal crisis? Maybe. Or maybe I’m just delulu. Who’s to say?

But honestly, music is one of the most human things there is. It lingers. It carries. A song from centuries ago can still be sung today, and I feel like that’s the kind of thing that would get to him. Maybe not in a way he’d ever admit, but in that quiet, unwanted way where he finds himself listening when he doesn’t mean to.

And that line—what is immortality if not a curse? To be left behind when the other part of you is gone?—I swear I’ve read it somewhere before. It sounds like something that should be carved into a tombstone or whispered by some tragic figure who’s lived too long. (If you remember where it’s from, tell me because my brain is blanking.)

But yeah, completely agree with that sentiment. Who the hell wants to live forever? Tom Riddle was as stupid as he was good-looking.

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Anyway, let me know what you think! I’d love to hear your thoughts on this one. Feel free to comment or send ideas—you know I love them.

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

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 ✨

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

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

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

He is composed. Poised. Untouchable.

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

-----

You find out the truth by accident.

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

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

Small. Scrappy. Orange

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

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

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

His eyes widen. His breath catches.

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

“Oh no.”

-----

You do not expect what happens next.

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

But instead—

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

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

You stare.

“Are you—”

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

“Shut up.”

You don’t.

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

-----

“You like cats.”

“I tolerate them.”

“You literally melted back there.”

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

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

“Soft?”

He looks away. “Yeah.”

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

And suddenly, you realize—

It’s not just about the cat.

It’s about what the cat represents.

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

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

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

Here, he lets himself be soft.

-----

You expect him to forget about the cat.

He doesn’t.

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

“Guess I should feed it,” he mutters.

You smirk. “Tolerate them, huh?”

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

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

You watch and wonder—

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

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

-----

It doesn’t last.

Nothing ever does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not in this world.

-----

He never mentions the cat again.

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

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

Does he still stop for stray cats?

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

You do not ask.

And he does not say.

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

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

So, fun fact (not so fun actually)—

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

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

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

And then, one day, she wasn’t there.

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

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

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

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

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

Sukuna’s Reflection :

Sukuna does not linger in front of mirrors.

It is not because he fears what he sees. Fear is for lesser things—mortals who cower before their own shadows, kings who wake in cold sweat at the thought of losing their crowns. He is not them. He is not afraid.

But he does not look for long.

Because there was a time when his face was different. A time before he had four eyes and a mouth that split his body like a curse.

A time before he became something whispered about in the dark.

And though he does not regret it, there are moments—quiet, fleeting—where he wonders.

What would he have been if he had chosen differently? Would he still be feared?

Or would he simply be forgotten?

---

Once, long ago, he had a face that belonged to a man.

He remembers it only in fragments. A glimpse in the still water of a river. The shadow of it in dreams that do not belong to him. A sensation—muscles stretching over bone in a way that no longer feels familiar.

It is a strange thing, to forget your own features. To remember only the weight of them, the absence of them, rather than the thing itself.

But that is what he is now. A body made and unmade by his own hands. A temple built from ruin.

And temples are not meant to be beautiful. They are meant to be worshiped.

---

There are no mirrors in the places Sukuna calls his own.

Not because he cannot bear to see himself—no, that would be too human, too weak—but because he has no need for them. He does not need a reflection to know what he is. He can see it in the way people look at him. In the way they refuse to meet his gaze, as if to do so would invite death.

He is written across history in the blood of the fallen. That is proof enough of his existence.

And yet.

And yet, sometimes, he catches himself in the polished steel of a blade, in the dark glass of a window, in the eyes of those who do not yet understand what they are looking at.

And for just a moment, he sees not what he is, but what he was.

Not the King of Curses. Not the monster.

Just a man.

---

"You look like you’ve seen a ghost," you say one day, and he nearly laughs.

Because he has.

Because in every reflection, in every ripple of water, there is something half-familiar staring back.

The remnants of a boy who was born in blood and grew into something worse.

The bones of a man who once might have been kind, if kindness had ever been an option.

The shadow of someone he no longer recognizes.

And isn’t that the funny part?

He has spent centuries carving his name into the world, forcing people to remember him, fear him, and yet—

He is the only one who cannot remember himself.

---

Sukuna tilts his head, studying his reflection with a faint, unreadable expression. He watches the way his second mouth curls into a sneer of its own accord. The way his extra eyes blink a fraction too slow, out of sync with the rest of him.

It is a face made for terror. A thing meant to be seen and feared, not understood.

And still—there is something missing.

Not regret. Never regret.

But a question.

Would he have been happy?

If he had chosen differently, if he had not become this, would there have been joy? Would there have been laughter, something real and full instead of the sharp, cruel thing he lets slip past his lips now?

Or would he have faded into obscurity, just another nameless fool in a world that does not care?

Would he rather be a forgotten man or a remembered monster?

The answer should be easy.

It should be.

But in moments like this, when he stands before a mirror and sees something that does not belong to him, he is not so sure.

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Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

Look, I know I write Sukuna with a lot of philosophy, but I don’t think I’ve fully understood him yet. Every time I try, he ends up a little too lost, a little too weighed down, and I know that’s not quite right. Sukuna isn’t the type to sit in a corner and sulk about the meaning of his existence—if he ever caught me writing him like this, I’d be dead before I could even start explaining myself.

Like, picture it: I’m standing there, notebook in hand, ready to argue about his inner demons, and he just looks at me—amused, vaguely disgusted—before shaking his head and flicking his wrist. Ah, foolish little woman. And then I’m gone. Just a thought, just dust.

But hey, he’s not here to do any of that, so here I am, rambling away.

---

And that’s where you come in. Tell me—am I getting him right? Or am I making him too introspective, too… human? Is there something in Sukuna that justifies this angle, or am I just trying to squeeze meaning out of something that doesn’t need it? Let me know. Let’s figure out this god-king together.

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

Your Violence Reminded Me of Home :

They send you in after the damage is already done.

You’re not a hero. You’re what comes after.

The body bag. The Suture. The ghost that cleans up after gods.

You were trained to fix what can’t be fixed.

To close wounds that were never meant to be opened.

To make dying quieter.

And that’s when he noticed you.

Not because you were brave.

Not because you were powerful.

But because you never flinched.

Even when he stood over you, soaked in someone else’s blood, smiling like he was born to ruin.

You didn’t look away.

That’s what got under his skin.

That’s what kept him coming back.

-----

You didn’t speak to him with reverence. You spoke to him like someone who'd seen too much to be impressed anymore.

“Move,” you said once, knee-deep in what used to be someone’s liver. “Unless you’re going to help.”

He tilted his head like a dog hearing thunder.

“You’re awfully calm for someone standing in a massacre.”

“It’s Tuesday,” you said.

-----

You were the kind of person the world forgets until it needs you.

Invisible until someone starts bleeding.

And maybe that’s what made him stay.

You never looked at him like he was legend or apocalypse. You looked at him like he was inconvenient.

That kind of irreverence should have made him crush you.

Instead, he lingered.

-----

The first time he watched you lose someone, you didn’t cry.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t pray.

You just pressed your hand to the boy’s cooling chest and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Not to the gods.

To him.

He saw the way your shoulders locked, the way you didn’t breathe for a full minute. Like maybe if you didn’t move, you wouldn’t feel it.

You didn’t notice him watching.

He didn’t speak.

But later, you found the curse responsible strung from a tree, head twisted the wrong way.

It had taken you three hours to get there. Sukuna must’ve gotten there in two.

-----

You weren’t kind to him. That’s not what this is.

You were honest.

He once asked, casually, why you didn’t run like the others.

“Because I’ve spent my whole life cleaning up after men who think violence is the only language worth speaking.”

“You think I’m just another man?” he said, voice sharp.

“No,” you replied. “I think you used to be.”

-----

And that haunted him.

Because he’d burned down whole cities just to forget that—

-----

The first time he touched you, you were bandaging his side. A jagged gash from something that didn’t know better.

You didn’t ask why he didn’t heal it himself.

He didn’t ask why your hands shook a little.

But when your knuckles brushed his ribs, he stilled.

Not because it hurt.

Because it didn’t.

And that scared him more.

You didn’t make him human.

You reminded him he still was.

That was worse.

-----

He started showing up more. Missions you weren’t supposed to survive. Places no one should be. You’d find him in the aftermath, leaning against rubble, watching you with that same expressionless violence in his gaze.

Sometimes he asked questions.

“Do you believe in saving people?”

“Not anymore.”

“Why still try?”

“Because someone has to.”

“You always do things that don’t work?”

“I stayed talking to you, didn’t I?”

He laughed. It sounded like breaking glass.

-----

It was never romantic.

But God, it was intimate.

The kind of intimacy that doesn’t look like love.

It looks like two people who can’t lie to each other anymore.

-----

You started dreaming about him.

Not in soft ways.

In recognition ways.

His voice in the dark. His blood on your hands.

Your name in his mouth like a secret he hates knowing.

It wasn’t love.

It was something older.

Like grief. Like guilt. Like home.

-----

One night, you asked him something you’d never dared to ask anyone.

“Do you think people like us get better?”

He didn’t answer for a long time.

“No,” he said eventually. “But sometimes we get understood.”

You nodded.

You didn’t speak again for hours.

He didn’t leave.

-----

You told yourself it wasn’t connection. Just mutual ruin. Two broken things orbiting the same grave.

But then you got hurt. Badly.

And he lost his mind.

Not loudly. Not with roars.

Just with silence.

The kind that feels like a closing door—

When you woke up in a makeshift shelter, your wounds stitched with unnatural precision, he was already gone.

But outside the door, you saw what he left:

A trail of bodies. Eyes gouged. Faces melted. Blood spelling out a name.

Yours.

-----

You didn’t thank him.

You never did.

But the next time he appeared beside you, you didn’t ask why.

You just said, “You’re late.”

And he replied, “You’re alive.”

-----

You don’t belong together. You know this. You knew it from the start.

He is the myth that devours the world.

And you? You’re the woman who keeps trying to tape it back together.

But sometimes he sits close enough for your knees to touch, and doesn’t flinch.

Sometimes you reach for the same gauze at the same time, and your fingers linger.

Sometimes, you both exist in the same silence.

And it feels like the closest either of you has ever come to peace.

-----

He once told you that your eyes made him feel guilty.

You said, “Good.”

-----

You never tell him you love him.

But once, while half-conscious, he whispered:

“You’re the only thing I’ve ever seen that wasn’t ugly.”

You never bring it up again.

But you remember.

-----

You won’t survive this.

He might.

But not you.

And he knows it.

And that’s the tragedy.

Because for the first time in his life, he doesn’t want to win.

He wants to keep.

And the world doesn’t let men like him keep people like you.

---

But for now—

You sit in the rubble.

He watches you patch another dying sorcerer together with trembling hands and exhausted breath.

And he thinks:

Your violence reminded me of home.

But your silence reminded me of being known.

And he hates you for it.

And he keeps coming back anyway.

-----

—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.

_________________________________________

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.

_________________________________________

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.

_________________________________________

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'.

_________________________________________

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.

---

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 ✨

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 ?