Lady-arcane - Lady Arcane

: The Language Of Flowers :

"People trust what is beautiful, what is soft. But flowers can poison, too." – Lily Calloway

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"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."

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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.

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"She’s a liar, but a useful one." – Thomas Shelby

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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 Brightest Lie :

Everyone said Gojo Satoru was the strongest.

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

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

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

The Strongest.

The Brightest.

The Untouchable.

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

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It was winter when he met her.

Snow clung to the stone sidewalks like stubborn ghosts.

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

Tokyo was a graveyard at midnight.

Only vending machines and stray cats witnessed him.

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

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

For a moment, he thought she was a ghost.

Tokyo was full of them, after all.

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

“Cold night,” she said, voice soft.

He blinked behind his glasses. “Yeah.”

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

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

“You lost?” she asked.

Satoru laughed under his breath.

Lost.

If only it was that simple.

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

She hummed, brushing snow off the bench beside her.

An invitation.

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

-----

Minutes passed.

The snow kept falling in slow, weightless drifts.

He kept waiting for her to ask.

For the inevitable flicker of realization.

For the fear, the reverence, the edge.

It didn’t come.

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

He hesitated. Then said, “Satoru.”

She nodded like it meant nothing and everything.

“Nice to meet you, Satoru. I’m Aki.”

(He realized, distantly, she was blind.)

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

She doesn’t know.

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

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

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

Just a man with cold hands and tired shoulders.

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

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

She tilted her head, thoughtful.

"You sound lonely."

He almost laughed.

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

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

Instead, he said, "Maybe."

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

"Maybe," he said again, softer.

---

They sat like that until the streetlights buzzed and flickered.

Until the sky turned a bruised, electric purple.

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

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

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

He wanted to say something back.

Something stupid and raw and real,

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

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

Then he walked away, leaving only footprints behind him.

-----

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

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

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

Something old.

Something breakable.

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

Like he could hold himself still.

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

You’re not meant to need.

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

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

just him—

would he even recognize it?

Would he be able to stay?

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

until even the stars forgot how to find him?

-----

The city swallowed him up.

The night closed behind him like a door.

And Gojo Satoru — myth, weapon, miracle —

kept walking.

Kept pretending.

Kept being the brightest lie the world had ever told.

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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. )

---

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.

-----

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 ✨

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 ?

A Man Who Does Not Smile :

Nanami Kento does not go out of his way to frighten children. It just happens.

There is something about the way he exists—tall, severe, measured in movement and speech—that makes small creatures wary of him. Dogs hesitate before wagging their tails. Babies squirm when they sense his presence. And children, most unforgiving of all, take one look at him and decide he is someone to fear.

It is not something he does on purpose. It is not even something he particularly minds. But it is something he has noticed.

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The first time it happens, he is twelve years old.

He is at a family gathering, the kind that drags on forever and smells like heavy food and too much perfume. His mother has given him a task—keep an eye on his cousin’s toddler while the adults talk.

He does not like children. He does not dislike them, either. They simply exist, in the way that birds and passing clouds do—present, but not worth much thought.

The child is small, unsteady on his feet, and when he sees Nanami, he immediately bursts into tears.

Nanami does not know what to do. He has not done anything. He has not spoken, has not moved. He has simply existed in the same space as this child, and yet, somehow, this is enough to warrant terror.

His mother scolds him later. "You should try being friendlier. Smile more."

Nanami tries. It does not help.

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Years pass. He grows taller, sharper, more deliberate in his actions. He learns to choose his words carefully, to measure his tone, to move with the kind of efficiency that makes the world a little more tolerable.

But the pattern remains.

Children do not like him.

He is sixteen when he volunteers at a local library, mostly because it is quiet and does not demand much of him. One afternoon, a group of children comes in for story time. The librarian, a woman with a kind face and tired eyes, asks him to help.

Nanami sits down, book in hand. He does not make any sudden movements. He does not raise his voice. He simply reads.

Halfway through, a child starts crying.

The librarian pats Nanami’s arm. “Maybe try sounding a little less... serious?”

He does not understand what she means. He is reading the words as they are written. He is being careful, thoughtful. Isn’t that what people are supposed to want?

But when he looks at the children—small, fidgeting, casting wary glances at him—he knows.

They do not like his voice.

They do not like his face.

They do not like him.

---

He does not try again for many years.

It does not come up often. His life is not the kind that requires interaction with children. His job is not safe, not kind, not something that should be seen by those who still have softness left in them.

But then there is a mission—a simple one, supposedly—and he finds himself standing in a half-destroyed street, staring down at a child no older than six.

She has lost her parents.

She is shaking.

And when she looks up at him, all wide eyes and trembling hands, she does not cry.

Nanami does not know what to do with this.

He kneels, slow and careful. “You are not hurt?”

She shakes her head.

She is too quiet. Too still. He recognizes this—shock, fear held too tightly, the kind that makes people collapse hours later when their bodies finally catch up to their minds.

So he does something he has not done in years.

He smiles.

It is small, just the barest movement of his lips, meant to reassure, to make him seem less imposing. It is an effort. It is, he thinks, something that might be kind.

The child’s face crumples.

She bursts into tears.

---

Later, Gojo laughs so hard he nearly falls out of his chair.

“You made her cry by smiling?” he wheezes, wiping at his eyes. “Man, I knew you were scary, but damn.”

Nanami sighs. He regrets telling him.

“Maybe it was a bad smile,” Gojo continues. “Like, creepy. Serial killer vibes.”

Nanami does not dignify this with a response.

But later, when he stands in front of a mirror, he tries again.

He does not smile often. He never saw the point. But now, looking at his own reflection, he studies the way his face shifts, the way his expression pulls at the edges.

Does it look unnatural?

Does it look forced?

He does not know.

He does not try again.

---

Years later, when he is older, when the weight of his own choices sits heavier in his bones, he finds himself in the presence of another child.

This time, he does not smile.

This time, he simply crouches, keeps his voice steady, his movements slow, and waits.

The child does not cry.

Nanami exhales.

(It is enough.)

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Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

You know, I think I might be Nanami. Or at least, I deeply relate to his struggle with children. I don’t know if it’s a lack of patience or just the sheer confusion of what am I supposed to do with this tiny, unpredictable human? But yeah, I struggle.

Case in point: My maternal aunt once asked me to watch over my toddler cousin, Riya, during a family gathering while she cooked. Simple, right? Should’ve been easy. Except, the moment my presence registered, she started crying. And I mean, really crying. And what did I do? Nothing. I just stood there, because what do you even do in that situation? Pat her head? Start singing? Apologize for existing?

Anyway, that incident stayed with me, and when I wrote this, I couldn’t help but channel some of that energy into Nanami. The man just exists and children find him terrifying. I get it.

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So yeah, let me know—do kids like you? Or are you, like me (and Nanami), just out here unintentionally scaring them with your mere presence? Drop a comment, share your thoughts, and let’s collectively figure out how to interact with tiny humans.

✨ 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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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 ✨

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 ✨

The Loneliest Person in the Room Always Talks the Loudest :

Gojo Satoru talks like the world will stop spinning if he shuts up.

You noticed it the first time you met him, back when he was just your classmate, your friend—before you realized that being near him felt like standing too close to the sun. He had this way of making noise like he was afraid of what would happen if there wasn’t any. A running commentary on things that didn’t matter. Complaints about the cafeteria food. Arguments over what counted as a dessert. Long, convoluted rants about how nobody appreciated his genius.

At first, you thought he was just like that. Loud. Annoying, even. The kind of person who didn’t care if people were listening, as long as he was the one talking.

It took you longer than you’d like to admit to realize that he only filled the silence because he was terrified of it.

Because silence meant thinking. And thinking meant remembering. And remembering—

Well. That wasn’t something Gojo Satoru liked to do.

-----

Somewhere along the way, you learned how to read between the lines.

How his voice was always just a little too high-pitched when he was lying. How he made fun of things when he wanted to pretend they didn’t matter. How his laugh was just a little bit too loud, a little too sharp, like he was daring you to believe he was as happy as he sounded.

How, sometimes, when he thought nobody was looking, he would get this look in his eyes—something far away, something quiet.

The first time you saw it, you thought maybe he was just tired. Maybe he wasn’t sleeping well. But then it happened again. And again. And then, one day, in a moment of rare honesty, he said something you weren’t expecting.

"It’s funny, y’know?" he’d said, tilting his head back against the wall, the light catching on his blindfold in a way that made it impossible to tell if his eyes were open or closed.

"I can hear everything. Every heartbeat, every whisper, every single sound in a mile radius. And still, sometimes, it feels like I’m the only person in the room."

---

You don’t know when you started seeing him for what he really was.

Not Gojo Satoru, the loud-mouthed idiot with a god complex.

Not Gojo Satoru, the strongest sorcerer alive, the untouchable, the unkillable.

Just Gojo Satoru.

The boy who talked too much because silence was unbearable. The boy who smiled too much because frowning would make it real. The boy who laughed too much because, if he stopped, he wasn’t sure if he would ever start again.

Gojo Satoru, who could kill a god but couldn’t hold onto the people he loved.

Gojo Satoru, who had spent his whole life outrunning grief, only to realize that no matter how fast he moved, it would always be waiting for him at the end of the road.

---

"Do you ever get tired of it?" you asked him once.

"Of what?"

"The act."

Gojo grinned. "What act?"

You rolled your eyes. "The one where you pretend none of this matters. The one where you pretend you’re not—" lonely "—carrying the weight of the world on your back."

Something flickered across his face, there and gone in an instant. If you hadn’t been watching for it, you wouldn’t have noticed it at all.

Then he laughed.

"Oh, please," he said, stretching his arms over his head. "You think I do all this for fun? I’m naturally this charming."

"Liar," you said softly.

Gojo Satoru looked at you then, really looked at you, and for a second, you thought maybe he was going to tell you the truth. Maybe he was going to say that, yeah, sometimes it was exhausting. Sometimes, when he was alone, he didn’t even turn on music because the silence was better than hearing his own voice echoing back at him.

But then he smirked.

"Yeah, well," he said, standing up and stretching. "If I talked less, you’d miss me."

He left before you could tell him that you already did.

---

But sometimes—sometimes—you wake up in the middle of the night and find him still asleep.

And he looks different, then.

Gojo Satoru, who is always moving, always talking, always on, is finally still.

And in that stillness, he looks almost human.

Almost breakable.

You never wake him up.

Because you know that as soon as he opens his eyes, the act will start all over again.

---

"You know," you say one night, when the city is quiet and Gojo Satoru is sitting on your couch, blindfold pushed up, staring at the ceiling like it holds the answers to a question he hasn’t figured out how to ask. "You don’t have to be on all the time."

He hums. "I don’t know what you mean."

"Yeah, you do."

Gojo tilts his head, a slow, lazy movement, like he’s thinking about something too big to fit inside words. "If I stop," he says finally, "then what?"

(You don’t answer.)

Because you don’t know.

Because maybe he doesn’t, either.

So you sit beside him instead, close enough that he could touch you if he wanted to. Close enough that he could feel you there.

And maybe that’s enough.

Maybe, for once, Gojo Satoru doesn’t have to fill the silence.

Maybe he can just exist.

Maybe, for once, he doesn’t have to be alone.

---

You never say it out loud.

But some part of you thinks that Gojo Satoru talks so much because he’s trying to drown something out.

And maybe, just maybe—

He’s waiting for someone to listen.

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

You ever look at Gojo in that Toji scene and feel something uncomfortably close to pity? Not the kind you give to someone weak, but the kind that comes when you see someone who should’ve had a chance to be something else. Because that kid—that Gojo Satoru—was raw. Serious. The kind of serious that a boy his age shouldn’t have been. His face wasn’t blank, but it wasn’t guarded either. He was just there, fully present in the moment, taking the world in as it was. And maybe, back then, he still thought he was a part of it.

But fast forward a few years, and suddenly he’s the loudest guy in the room. A boy who never really grew up, at least not in the way that mattered. A boy who talks too much, laughs too hard, makes a joke out of everything—because the alternative is what exactly? Silence? Reflection? Feeling?

It makes you wonder. —What did he suffer, to look at the world and decide that maybe it wasn’t worth his real emotions? What did he lose to become someone who only lets himself exist through noise?

And the worst part? —Nobody even asks. Because Gojo Satoru is fine, right? Because he smiles. Because he jokes. Because he’s the strongest, and people like that don’t need to be understood.

But if you look closely—if you really pay attention—you’ll see it. He’s been holding the world at arm’s length for a long, long time.

--

Anyways I'll love to hear your thoughts on this one shot and do you too know people who like being the center of attention but for a complete different reason

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

Gojo Satoru’s Playlist Is a Cry for Help, but No One Notices :

Gojo Satoru has a playlist for every mood.

You think that means something. That it’s deliberate. That he sits down, carefully curates songs, matches them to the moments in his life with some kind of precision, like a film director setting up a perfect shot. You assume that when he walks into battle, he has something dramatic playing in his ears—classical, maybe, something weighty and orchestral, like he is the tragic hero of an opera no one else is privy to.

(maybe he is)

But Gojo Satoru has never been what people expect.

-----

You catch him once, sitting on the couch, eyes half-lidded, fingers tapping lazily against his knee. A rare moment of stillness. You pause, listening, assuming—just for a second—that maybe, just maybe, he’s indulging in something introspective. Some quiet, soulful melody, something that carries the weight of everything he refuses to say out loud.

Then the music filters through.

"Tell me why—"

You stare.

Gojo doesn’t even look up. Just nods along, entirely at peace, like the Backstreet Boys are revealing the secrets of the universe.

“You’re kidding.”

He finally opens one eye. “Disrespect one more time and see what happens.”

And the thing is—he means it.

He listens to early 2000s pop unironically. He has a dedicated anime opening playlist. He has hours of video essays queued up—ridiculous things, debates over the best artificial grape flavoring, five-hour breakdowns on why Scooby-Doo is an anti-capitalist masterpiece.

He watches them like they’re gospel.

And if you call him out on it? He just shrugs. “It’s nice to pretend dumb things matter.”

That sentence sits with you.

Because Gojo is a man who understands exactly how much things matter. He lives in a world where people die when he blinks. Where life is a sequence of battles and sacrifices and impossible expectations. He is too powerful, too untouchable, too aware of the fact that most things in life have already been decided for him.

So he listens to nonsense.

Because the alternative is unbearable.

-----

You don’t get it at first. You think it’s a joke, that he’s just being obnoxious for the sake of it. But then one day, the silence catches him off guard.

It’s late. The world is quiet in a way that feels unnatural, like even the city has taken a breath, waiting for something to happen. Gojo is sitting on the floor, legs stretched out, phone abandoned beside him. No music. No videos.

Nothing but quiet.

He doesn’t notice you at first. He’s staring straight ahead, not moving, like he’s listening to something. But there’s nothing to hear.

And suddenly, you remember something he said once.

"You ever notice how loud silence is?"

You thought he was joking. But he wasn’t.

Because Gojo doesn’t get silence. Not the way you do. Not the way normal people do. When everything is quiet, when there’s nothing to distract him, he hears everything else.

The past.

The future.

Every mistake.

Every loss.

All the things he couldn’t protect.

All the things he will lose, eventually, because that is how life works.

You clear your throat. “You okay?”

He blinks, just once, then looks at you like he’s surprised you’re there. Like he forgot about the present entirely. Then, with a grin that’s just a little too sharp, he reaches for his phone, presses play, and fills the silence the only way he knows how.

"Oh, I think that I found

myself a cheerleader—"

You almost laugh. Almost.

But you don’t say anything.

because now you understand.

Gojo Satoru doesn’t listen to music because he likes it. He listens to it because he needs it. Because the moment the noise stops, the real weight of his life settles in. And Gojo Satoru—who can bear anything, who can win any fight, who can carry the world on his shoulders without flinching—has no idea how to carry that.

So he fills his head with things that do not matter.

And if you ever see him alone on a rooftop at 3 AM, staring at the city like he’s trying to belong to it, do not ask him what he’s thinking. Do not ask him what he’s hearing.

Because he will just grin. He will push his sunglasses up his nose. And he will press play.

And somewhere, in the dark, Carly Rae Jepsen will start singing.

And Gojo Satoru will pretend that it’s enough.

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers 🌸✨

Honestly, who doesn’t do this? We all have that one playlist, that one show we put on just for the background noise, that one stupidly long video essay about something irrelevant that we suddenly need to know everything about. It’s almost funny how universal it is—how so many of us keep the volume up just to avoid our own thoughts.

But then there’s Gojo. And the thing is, he’s just like us. And at the same time, he’s nothing like us.

Because we can let ourselves stop. We can sit in the quiet, let the weight settle, and maybe—maybe—find a way to live with it. But Gojo? Gojo doesn’t get that. He’s not allowed to stop, not really. So he buries himself in nonsense, clings to the stupid, the mundane, because it’s the only thing that isn’t heavy.

And honestly? That’s kind of pitiful. But also… kind of him. And somehow, weirdly enough, it makes me like him more.

anyways— I'll love to hear your thoughts on this one shot.

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