How The Mighty Fall :(Quietly)

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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.

---

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.

---

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.)

-----

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.

---

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 Quiet Kind of Tired :

You meet Nanami Kento on a Tuesday,

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

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

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

No grand gestures.

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

-----

Dating Nanami is like walking into a room already cleaned.

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

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

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

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

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

-----

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

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

Because you know the answer:

He is always late for himself.

---

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

Like your feelings are cargo in a suitcase too small.

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

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

He said, “That’s not necessary.”

You didn’t offer again.

-----

The silence grows slowly, like water under a door.

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

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

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

With Nanami, you are always chosen… responsibly.

-----

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

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

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

He pauses. Doesn’t turn around.

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

There’s no malice in it. No edge.

But God, does it hurt.

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

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

-----

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

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

You wake up gasping.

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

-----

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

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

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

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

You wonder if he thinks that’s love.

-----

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

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

So you say it for him.

“I’m tired, Kento.”

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

You’re just stating a fact.

And for the first time, he looks… afraid.

-----

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

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

His voice is low. Honest.

You nod. “I know. But you did.”

There’s a long silence.

Then—

“I didn’t know how else to be.”

And you believe him.

You love him.

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

-----

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

But something shifts. Not fixed. Just acknowledged.

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

-----

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

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

You’ll still love him.

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

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

-----

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

And that is the quietest kind of heartbreak.

The kind that doesn’t end with a scream.

Just a sigh.

-----

: The Language Of Flowers :

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

---

"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."

-----

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.

---

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

---

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.

-----

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.

---

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.

-----

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.

--

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 ✨

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers 🌸✨

so—wanna know where i’ve been all this time?

Well. school started. and it’s been exactly as soul-sucking and exhausting as you'd expect.

i’ve been floating through days like a ghost that didn’t even get a tragic backstory. just assignments.

but in between the mess, i ended up writing a few jjk meta pieces. not planned, not polished—just… thoughts that wouldn’t shut up. little rants. poetic breakdowns. trauma essays disguised as fandom content. you know the deal.

i’ll be posting them all by this evening—there’s like 2 or 3 for now. they’re less “analysis” and more “me yelling into the void about how the jujutsu society is evil and i would physically fight god to protect every broken, bloody, emotionally-damaged character in that show.” so yeah. feel free to read, scream, cry, or argue with me in the tags. i’m down for it all.

they’re not perfect. but they’re honest.

and weirdly enough, they feel like the most me thing i’ve written in a while.

see you in the ruins.

✨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.

---

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 ✨

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.

-----

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—

-----

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.

-----

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.—

-----

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.

-----

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.

-----

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.

-----

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?

---

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?

-----

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.

-----

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.

-----

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.

-----

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.

-----

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.

-----

The Little Things He Remembers

Levi pretends he doesn’t care.

He has to, or else the weight of the world might crush him completely. It's easier to bury things under the surface. Harder to let them show. If he never admits he cares, he can keep things at a distance. At arm's length, where they can’t break him down.

But if you pay close attention, you’ll see the cracks. The way his eyes flicker when he sees you pick up your tea mug, the way he memorizes the subtle curve of your smile when you talk about something you love. He'll never say it, but he knows your favorite tea—green with a hint of jasmine, not too strong, just enough to calm the nerves. He’s noticed it, every time, when he makes you tea just the way you like it, with no questions asked. It’s almost like he’s learned it without trying to, as though his mind simply stores things that matter, even if it’s not something he ever lets you know.

-----

You don’t say much about it. The tea. The way he always seems to have it ready for you, even when he looks like he’s barely awake. You don’t mention how he remembers, even the smallest details. But you notice. You always notice.

And then there’s the bread. The way you take it—lightly toasted with just a smear of butter. It's something you’ve always done. Something small, but Levi knows it. He’ll pretend it’s nothing. He’ll never make a comment about it, but when he watches you sit at the table, tearing off pieces of your toast, he’s quietly acknowledging it. It’s the little things that make you human, make you more than just a soldier to him. He never says it, but he remembers.

"Stop looking at me like that," you tease one morning, as you catch him watching you for the umpteenth time as you take your breakfast.

Levi raises an eyebrow, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips, but he doesn’t respond. His silence is enough.

(He knows the truth in it.)

It’s easy to pretend he doesn’t care. It’s easy to hide behind his cold exterior, to keep his feelings locked away in some dark corner of his mind. But even Levi can’t stop himself from remembering the details. The way you hum under your breath when you’re content, how your hands always seem to find a way to smooth your clothes when you’re nervous. The way you fidget when you're worried, how you never quite look people in the eye when you're lying. He knows it all, even when he never asks.

There’s a comfort in knowing. A comfort in keeping it to himself, like a secret only he gets to carry. It doesn’t make him weak, he tells himself. It just makes him... human. And sometimes, that’s all he can allow himself to be. Just a little bit of humanity in a world that demands too much.

But then there’s the sleep. That’s when it all spills out. When you’re not awake to stop him, when you’re too vulnerable to hide it. You don’t know, but he does. He’s heard you speak in your sleep. Not often, but when you’re stressed or overwhelmed, your mind races in the silence of the night. He listens. And the words that slip out of your mouth don’t break him—no, they only draw him closer. He never mentions it. He knows better. But he hears you say things you would never dare to in the waking world. Words that are soft and unsure, the things you’ve been too afraid to share. He holds onto those too, locked away in his mind, tucked between the moments when everything else feels too heavy to carry.

“Stop moving around,” he mutters one night, his voice rough from sleep as you shift beside him.

You mumble something about the mission, about the weight of the world, and he almost doesn’t hear it over the blood in his ears. But he does. He always does.

The next morning, he’s as cold as ever. No mention of last night. No comment on the way you curled into him, your breath slow and steady as if you trusted him, even for just a moment.

You pretend you don’t notice either. Pretend it’s nothing. But you both know.

It’s easy to convince yourself the things that matter don’t make you weak. But they do. That’s the problem with caring, with remembering. The things you keep to yourself are the things that matter the most.

And it gets harder to pretend they don’t when every passing day adds another layer to it all.

-----

“You never ask me how I take my coffee,” you say once, breaking the silence as you both sit in the mess hall after another long day. It’s a quiet evening, the fire crackling softly in the background.

Levi doesn’t respond immediately. He sips his coffee, the bitterness cutting through the silence, before he finally speaks.

“You take it black. No sugar. No cream.”

Your eyebrows raise. “How do you know that?”

Levi shrugs, his expression unreadable. "I pay attention."

And there it is again—the way he says the simplest things like they don’t matter. Like the fact that he knows how you take your coffee, or the fact that he’s remembered all the little things, doesn’t mean anything at all. But you know better. You know what it means when someone remembers the things that are so easily forgotten. When they pay attention to the details, to the pieces of you that no one else cares about.

“Yeah, well, I take my coffee with the same amount of bitterness you carry around with you every day,” you say, your voice more playful than you mean it to be. But something shifts in Levi’s expression. For a moment, his mask cracks. It’s brief, almost imperceptible, but it’s there.

"Don't go around getting sentimental on me now," he mutters, though there’s a softness underneath the words.

You don’t press him, not this time. Instead, you sip your coffee, and for a while, silence falls between you two again.

(But you both know.)

He remembers everything. Every small, unspoken detail about you. The things you think he doesn’t notice. He carries them all with him, tucked into the corners of his mind, kept safe from the rest of the world. And maybe that’s the most human thing he’s ever done.

And maybe, just maybe, you can carry that with you, too.

You look at him, his eyes flickering toward yours for just a moment. You’ll never say it aloud, but you both understand. The small things matter.

The things you never say are the things you care about the most. And Levi, despite all his pretensions and all the walls he’s built, remembers them all.

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Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

You know, it’s funny how the smallest things end up meaning the most. A favorite tea, the way someone takes their bread, the tiny details no one asks for but someone still remembers. Who does that remind me of?

My Bua (paternal aunt), actually. The lady is too sweet for this world. She’s the kind of person who will remember exactly how you like your toast, even if you never told her outright. And the next time you’re around, she’ll make it just right—not because she has to, but because she wants you to feel comfortable, because she loves you in that quiet, thoughtful way. *Sighs* Ahhh, love her to the moon and back. Would probably kill for her—okay, that’s the intrusive thoughts talking, but you get the idea.

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Anyway, feel free to comment and share your borderline obsessive yapping about your loved ones. We’re all a little feral about the people we adore.

✨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 ?

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 ✨