Your Violence Reminded Me Of Home :

: Life and Lies of : ~Lady Rowan Baelish~

"The court loves a tragedy, but the audience? Oh, they're worse. You all watch with bated breath, waiting for the fall, for the blood, for the spectacle of it all. You’re no different from the vultures that circle the Red Keep—except you do not even pretend to mourn. But then again… what’s wrong with being a little wicked, hmm?"

—Lady Rowan to Viewers

(A jest, perhaps. But there’s always truth in a well-timed jest.)

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A Memory —

Rowan Baelish learned young that silence was a weapon sharper than steel. She had been a child of quiet corners and half-heard whispers, of watching men lie and women smile as they twisted the knife. 'Clever girl,' her father had once murmured, pride curling in his voice like smoke. But cleverness was a double-edged thing.

Once, when she was very small, she had asked a whore in her father’s brothel if the world was kind. The woman had laughed—a soft, bitter sound—and kissed her brow. "No, little bird," she had said. "But if you learn how to sing the right tune, the world might pretend it is."

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Who Is Lady Rowan Baelish?

Born: The only acknowledged daughter of Petyr Baelish, a girl born on the fringes of power and raised within its shadows.

Age: 13 years old at the start of A Song of Ice and Fire

Titles: “Baelish’s Girl,” “The Mockingbird’s Daughter” (Later: Lady of Highgarden)

Appearance: Warm copper-colored hair, mint-green eyes, favors dark blue and green gowns

Personality: Socially charming, observant, strategic, kind-seeming but never naïve

(a girl who understands that power is not just taken—it is earned, owed, and wielded.)

Role in Court: Lady-in-waiting to Princess Myrcella, navigating the world of power and deceit

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Notable Relationships :

Petyr Baelish – The father she respects but does not trust, the man who shaped her but does not own her. A lesson and a warning, all in one.

Loras Tyrell – A husband in name, a friend in truth, a partner in ambition. A marriage of convenience that became something more—an unspoken understanding, a promise of survival, a bond that no bedchamber could define.

Aegon VI (Young Griff) – A love written in stolen moments, in hands that reached but never held for long. A romance that could never be, a longing burdened by duty. In another life, perhaps. But in this one? Love is a sacrifice, and kings do not keep what does not serve the crown.

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What Will Be Her Legacy?

She is the daughter of a man who built his fortune on whispers and deceit, a girl raised not on lullabies but on half-truths and well-placed smiles.

Born from a fleeting moment of want and accepted only when it suited him, Rowan Baelish grew up learning that love and loyalty were currencies—rarely given freely, always traded for something.

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Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

Alright, after seeing the polls (tf it was a tie 💀) ( after much internal screaming and debating), I’ve decided to officially step into A Song of Ice and Fire! And what better way to do that than by introducing an OC I’ve been obsessing over for way too long?

Of course, I’ll still be writing my usual one-shots and headcanons, but I really wanted to dive into a full character study because, let’s be honest—I’ve been consumed by ASOIAF for years now.

So, meet Lady Rowan Baelish. Petyr Baelish’s only acknowledged daughter, a girl born into manipulation and ambition yet trying to carve her own path. She’s everything I love about morally complex characters—sharp, observant, deeply self-aware, and walking that fine line between survival and power.

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I hope you all like her! Feel free to send in questions, theories, or just yell at me about her—I’d love to talk more about the world I’m building around her. First chapter should be up tomorrow, so stay tuned!

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

The Tragedy of Gojo Satoru:

( Being the Strongest Means Dying Alone)

They call him the strongest. As if it’s a blessing. As if it’s anything more than a curse dressed in praise.

Gojo Satoru walks through Jujutsu Kaisen like a myth that got stuck in a man’s body. Limitless, Six Eyes, a bloodline older than reason. He’s the kind of person stories exaggerate—only, with him, there’s no need to exaggerate. He is the exaggeration. Power personified.

But there’s something no one tells you about being a god.

It’s cold up there.

And nobody stays.

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The Cage That Shines Like Heaven :

There’s an irony in Gojo’s existence that the story never says out loud but bleeds through every panel he appears in: he’s not just the strongest sorcerer—he’s the most trapped.

He can do anything. He can beat anyone.

He just can’t save everyone.

He couldn’t save Geto.

He couldn’t save Riko.

He couldn’t save himself.

And that’s the thing, isn’t it? When you’re the strongest, everyone assumes you’re fine. That you don’t need help. That nothing touches you. That you’re floating above it all, untouchable.

But Gojo is not floating. He’s sinking.

Under expectations.

Under grief.

Under the knowledge that he could destroy the world in a heartbeat, and yet—somehow, he still wasn’t enough to save the one person who asked him to choose love over duty.

Satoru walks around smiling like a boy who never grew up, like the world still has color in it, like he doesn’t hear the echo of Suguru's voice saying “You’re the only one who ever understood me.”

He understood. And he let him fall anyway.

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Power As Exile :

Power isolates. That’s something people like to romanticize in stories—“with great power comes great responsibility” and all that. But they never talk about the quiet horror of it. The silence.

Gojo is revered. Worshipped. The entire jujutsu society depends on him the way a city depends on electricity: blindly, constantly, without gratitude.

But nobody really knows him.

They know his strength.

They know his sarcasm.

They know the way he walks into a battlefield like God just clocked in for work.

But not his grief. Not his loneliness. Not the way he stands in that empty white cube (the Prison Realm) for nineteen days with only the sound of his own thoughts—his own regrets—for company.

You realize something, watching him. Being strong doesn’t make you invincible.

It just makes it harder for people to admit you’re in pain.

And Gojo is in so much pain.

But who would believe that?

The strongest sorcerer in the world?

The man who can rewrite physics?

Cry?

(That’s the tragedy. People only want Gojo to be strong. Not human.)

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Suguru Geto And The Ghost That Never Left :

All great tragedies have a ghost. Gojo’s is Geto.

They were twin stars. Heaven and earth. The two most powerful jujutsu sorcerers of their generation. But while Gojo kept choosing the world, Geto stopped pretending he could live in it.

Geto fell. And Gojo let him.

Not because he didn’t care. But because he believed in the system more than he believed in the ache between them. He believed power could fix things. Could save them. Could protect the next Riko.

He was wrong.

(Geto’s death wasn’t just a loss. It was a mirror shattering. The first real crack in Gojo’s limitless reality.)

And when they meet again—Geto’s body desecrated, taken over by a puppet with a smile like a scalpel—Gojo doesn’t fight. He reaches out. Gently. Like he’s touching the ghost of a future that could’ve been.

And what does he say?

*“At least… curse me a little at the end.”*

That line. That line.

The way it aches. The way it strips him bare.

Gojo doesn’t ask to be forgiven.

He asks to be hated. Because even now, he can’t forgive himself.

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The Empty Center :

For all his power, Gojo Satoru is a man without a center.

He has students. He has duty. He has power enough to rewrite reality. But he has no home. No constant. No love that stayed.

He’s funny, flirty, dramatic. He fills every room with light and noise. But all of it—all of it—is scaffolding. A mask. A distraction.

Because once the battle is over, the students are asleep, and the world is quiet—he has nothing.

(Nothing but a memory of a friend who walked away and a world he promised to protect, even as it devoured everything he loved.)

And maybe that’s why he’s always smiling. Because if he doesn’t laugh, he might shatter.

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The Irony Of Salvation :

Gojo believes he can save everyone. He wants to. He trains his students with real care, not because he loves the system—but because he wants to break it. Fix it. Undo the rot from the inside out.

But the system he wants to destroy?

It’s the same one that made him.

And the thing about systems like that? They don’t let you win.

Not without bleeding.

Gojo isn’t a hero. He’s a consequence. A byproduct of everything the jujutsu society created and condemned. They made him a weapon. They crowned him king. And now they expect him to keep smiling while the whole kingdom burns.

He is the cage and the prisoner. The God and the Sacrifice.

And when he finally dies—if he dies—it won’t be in glory. It will be in silence.

(A myth swallowed by the machine that birthed him.)

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And Still. And Still. And Still—

And still, he smiles.

And still, he teaches.

And still, he hopes.

Because Gojo Satoru, for all his sorrow, believes. In people. In his students. In a world where things can be better.

And maybe that’s what hurts the most.

That the strongest man in the world is still just a boy who wanted to protect his friends. Who believed he could carry everything if it meant no one else had to suffer.

But no one can carry that much alone.

Not even Gojo.

Especially not Gojo Satoru.

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They’ll say he was the strongest.

They’ll say he was untouchable.

They’ll put his name in textbooks, his techniques in archives.

But no one will say:

He was tired.

He was lonely.

He was trying, God, he was trying.

That’s the real tragedy of Gojo Satoru.

Not that he died alone.

But that he lived that way, too.

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Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

this one took a weird kind of toll on me.

not in a dramatic way, just… quietly exhausting, yk? like i sat down to write about gojo and somewhere in the middle i realized i wasn’t just writing about him.

i think the thing that gets me is—everyone calls him a god. The Strongest. The Honored One. The Chosen. Yet… the people closest to him still die. Still slip through his fingers like he wasn’t even holding them.

and i can’t help but wonder how many times gojo's thought, “am i really a god?” or worse—“if i’m not, then why would god make me like this?”

no mortal should ever be handed this kind of power and still be expected to carry that much grief.

to smile like it’s fine. to protect everyone except the ones that matter most.

it’s almost cruel, honestly.

like he’s not god’s favorite child—he’s god’s favorite toy.

anyway. that’s where my brain’s been lately.

not to be that person but yeah, school’s started and life’s been kind of heavy so maybe this meta feels a little different. more tired. a little sharper around the edges.

still, i’d really love to hear your thoughts. if it resonated or if you felt anything while reading it.

i write because i love these characters—because i want to understand them, not just worship them.

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so yeah. feel free to drop a comment or scream with me in the tags.

✨ 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.

_________________________________________

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 ✨

People Like Us Don’t Survive Love :

You met him when he was still almost whole.

Geto Suguru—with his easy smile and sleepless eyes, the boy who said the world was cracked like glass and still tried to carry it in his bare hands. Back then, he hadn’t yet decided to hate it. Not entirely.

And you—naïve enough to believe that love could be a soft place to land. That maybe, just maybe, you could be enough to keep him tethered to the light.

You were wrong, of course. But that’s the thing about people like you and Suguru.

You want to believe in beautiful endings even as you sharpen your teeth for the fall.

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He used to say things like:

“If we were gods, would you still love me?”

And you’d laugh, kiss the corner of his mouth, say:

“Only if you didn’t act like one.”

He didn’t laugh back. Not really—

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You knew he was slipping long before the massacre. Not by his actions, but by the pauses between them.

The silence after missions stretched longer. The way he’d stare at children with something like dread curdling in his eyes. His hands still touched you gently, but his words grew heavier, like they were being dragged out of a well.

He told you he was tired. He told you that saving people started to feel like holding sand with bloodied fingers. He told you that no one cared.

You told him you did.

That was the problem.

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When he finally broke, he didn’t shatter. He peeled. Like an old wall cracking in slow motion, truth flaking off with every breath. You watched him rot and rebuild in the same breath.

“You love me,” he said once, “because I haven’t hurt you yet.”

“That’s not true,” you whispered.

But it was.—

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The last night you saw him before he disappeared, the moon was hanging like a sickle in the sky. He wouldn’t look at you when he spoke.

“You make me hesitate,” he said.

You stood still, heart in your throat. “Good. You should hesitate.”

“No.” His voice was quiet, almost reverent. “That’s why you have to go. I can’t carry this part of myself anymore.”

And by this part, he meant you.

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But he didn’t kill you. He could’ve.

Instead, he left you alive with the softest kind of violence: the knowledge that he was still out there, being terrible, being brilliant, being lost—and that somewhere deep inside, he still loved you.

That was the cruelty. Not the leaving. But the not-quite.

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You dream about him sometimes.

In those dreams, he comes back. Not reformed—don’t be stupid. No, in your dreams, he’s still the Geto Suguru who believes the world needs fixing, but he’s tired and he crawls into bed beside you, smelling like blood and smoke, and he doesn’t say sorry.

He just touches your face like it’s still sacred.

You always wake up aching. You never tell anyone.

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When the world speaks of him, they call him a traitor.

You never correct them. What’s the point?

(You just nod and keep your mouth shut and bleed quietly in places no one can see.)

Because how do you explain that you were loved by a ghost long before he died?

How do you explain that you watched him become the villain, and still sometimes miss the boy who asked if you thought cursed spirits cried?

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You’ve tried to hate him.

God, you’ve tried—

But how do you hate someone who was sick and brilliant and yours before the sickness won?

How do you hate someone who once touched your hand like it meant something?

How do you hate someone who almost stayed?

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And the worst part?

You understand him.

Not the killing. Not the cruelty. But the loneliness beneath it. The isolation of knowing too much, feeling too much. You’ve seen the way the system feeds itself—how kindness is disposable and the weak get left behind. You know how loud the silence is when you scream into the void and no one listens.

You just chose to survive it differently.

He burned.

You buried.

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You saw him again once. Years later.

He didn’t smile.

You didn’t cry.

But when your eyes met across that broken corridor—battle rising, blood in the air—you saw it again: hesitation. The ghost of the boy he was. The boy who once made you tea when you were sick. The boy who told you cursed spirits were just grief given shape.

He didn’t say a word.

Neither did you.

And then he left you standing there.

Again.

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Sometimes you wonder if he ever loved you.

If maybe it was all projection—an echo of his old self reaching for something warm before he extinguished the last light.

But then you remember the way he looked at you. Like you were the only thing in a crumbling world that made him consider staying.

And that’s worse.

Because he did love you.

And still chose this.

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People like you and Suguru—

You don’t survive love.

You dismantle under it.

Because when you give yourself to someone who’s breaking, you don’t just lose them. You lose the part of yourself that believed you could fix them. That love could be an answer.

You survive the aftermath, sure. You keep breathing.

But you are never, ever whole again.

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He exists now only in half-memories, in the spaces between sleep and sobering clarity. You never say his name. You don’t need to.

It echoes anyway—

Suguru.

Suguru.

Suguru.

A name like a wound.

A god who tried to save the world and hated you for being the reason he couldn’t.

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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.”

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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—

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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).

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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 ✨

~A Hollow God and His Quiet Devotion~

Human mind is the scariest thing of all.

He’s known this for a while.

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

Gojo Satoru is no exception

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

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

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

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

Just Satoru

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

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

But in private, it's different.

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

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

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

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

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

-----

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

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

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

"You’re never quiet."

A beat.

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

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

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

"Satoru," you press, softer this time.

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

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

And you understand.

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

No expectations. No performances.

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

-----

Gojo does not know how to need people.

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

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

He was alone when Geto left.

Alone when he cradled Yuuji’s lifeless body.

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

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

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

He thinks it might be.

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

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

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

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

So instead, he holds you a little tighter.

As if, for once, he can keep something.

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

-----

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

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

"Sure, Satoru."

A beat.

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

The question catches you off guard.

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

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

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

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

Gojo Satoru does not pray.

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

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

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

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

Almost.

-----

Human mind is the scariest thing of all.

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

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

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

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

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 ?

If You Loved Gojo, You Should’ve Cried for Geto Too :

(A eulogy for the other half of the story.)

People talk about Gojo like he’s a myth. A phenomenon. A force.

The strongest.

The honored one.

The boy who walked into battle laughing, who blinded the world and somehow still burned quietly inside.

But nobody talks about Geto.

Not really. Not in the way that counts.

Not in the way you'd talk about someone you lost too young.

-----

Geto Suguru didn’t fall.

He unraveled.

Piece by piece. Year by year.

Not in one great tragic moment, but in the quiet, steady disillusionment that happens when you love too much in a world that keeps asking you to be okay with cruelty.

He was the best of them, once.

Sharp. Kind. Smiling. He used to laugh so loudly it echoed. He used to believe in saving people.

Until belief wasn’t enough anymore.

Until the children kept dying, and no one cared unless they were born with power.

-----

And what do you do when you’re powerless in your grief?

You either collapse…

Or you radicalize.

Geto didn’t want to destroy the world.

He wanted to make it stop.

He wanted silence after years of screaming.

Peace after endless loss.

A future where the people he loved could live without watching civilians beg them for help and then flinch at their existence.

That kind of hope can rot you from the inside out.

-----

They always say Geto left Gojo.

But maybe Gojo left him first.

Not on purpose.

Not by choice.

But when Gojo became the strongest, Geto became the one standing still.

Watching his best friend evolve into something divine while he stayed painfully, helplessly human.

And Gojo Satoru kept moving forward because he had to.

And Geto Suguru stayed behind because he couldn’t.

That’s how people break—not from a single fracture, but from the silence between footfalls when you realize you’re no longer walking beside each other.

-----

You want to know something unfair?

Even after everything—after the ideology, after the murders, after the war—

Suguru still loved him.

You can see it.

In the way he smiled, tired and soft, when they met again.

In the way he said, “You’re the only one who ever understood me.”

And in the way Gojo couldn’t bring himself to kill him, not really.

Couldn’t even finish the sentence.

“At least curse me properly in the end, Suguru.”

Even when they stood on opposite sides of a ruined world,

(They never stopped being each other’s first home.)

-----

So if you cried for Gojo Satoru—

For the burden he carries, for the loneliness he wears,

For the way his laughter covers something too quiet to name—

Then cry for Geto Suguru too.

Because Geto is why Gojo hurts the way he does.

Because Gojo lost the one person who saw him, not as a weapon, not as a god,

But as a friend. As a boy. As someone who could be laughed with.

Because every time Gojo smiles now, it feels just a little bit borrowed.

A little bit hollow.

Because the strongest sorcerer in the world couldn’t save the one person he wanted to.

-----

Geto wasn’t the villain of the story.

He was the tragedy no one was ready to hold.

So here’s to him—

The one who stayed kind for as long as he could.

The one who carried too much.

The one who gave in to silence, because it was the only thing left that didn’t hurt.

You don’t have to agree with what he did.

But if you really loved Gojo Satoru…

You should’ve cried for Geto Suguru too.

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

So, here’s a random thought that’s been bouncing around in my head for a while. I swear, Gojo and Geto are basically two sides of the same coin. I know, it sounds cliché, but it’s true. Whether you ship them or not doesn’t even matter—there’s this unspoken bond between them, this shared history and pain that’s just too strong to ignore. And, honestly, it’s like they were meant to be connected in some tragic, inevitable way.

It’s funny, every time I write about Gojo, Geto’s right there. Like, I can’t get one without the other, and I don’t even want to. It’s like a natural thing, a reflection of each other’s choices and consequences. They are the embodiment of that one truth that always haunts us—people become the very thing they try to escape.

I don't know. Maybe I’m overthinking it, but there’s something so tragic in how they’re both broken by their own choices. It’s like they were never meant to be fully happy or to save each other, but somehow, in the wreckage, they’re the only ones who understand. That’s the tragedy, right?

---

Anyway, this is just me rambling about them again, because, well... someone has to say it. I hope you liked this meta, and if you’ve got thoughts—please, let me know. I’m all ears. Always love hearing different perspectives on these two, especially when it comes to this tragic duo.

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

A Pawn or a Player? { 3 }

_________________________________________

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

A pawn that refuses to stay one."

_________________________________________

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—

_____________________________

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.

---

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 ✨