So, Do I Keep Emotionally Devastating You With JJK One-shots, Or Do I Create An OC And Ruin Their Life

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 ✨

Your Violence Reminded Me of Home :

They send you in after the damage is already done.

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

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

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

To close wounds that were never meant to be opened.

To make dying quieter.

And that’s when he noticed you.

Not because you were brave.

Not because you were powerful.

But because you never flinched.

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

You didn’t look away.

That’s what got under his skin.

That’s what kept him coming back.

-----

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

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

He tilted his head like a dog hearing thunder.

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

“It’s Tuesday,” you said.

-----

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

Invisible until someone starts bleeding.

And maybe that’s what made him stay.

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

That kind of irreverence should have made him crush you.

Instead, he lingered.

-----

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

You didn’t scream. You didn’t pray.

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

Not to the gods.

To him.

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

You didn’t notice him watching.

He didn’t speak.

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

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

-----

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

You were honest.

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

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

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

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

-----

And that haunted him.

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

-----

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

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

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

But when your knuckles brushed his ribs, he stilled.

Not because it hurt.

Because it didn’t.

And that scared him more.

You didn’t make him human.

You reminded him he still was.

That was worse.

-----

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

Sometimes he asked questions.

“Do you believe in saving people?”

“Not anymore.”

“Why still try?”

“Because someone has to.”

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

“I stayed talking to you, didn’t I?”

He laughed. It sounded like breaking glass.

-----

It was never romantic.

But God, it was intimate.

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

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

-----

You started dreaming about him.

Not in soft ways.

In recognition ways.

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

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

It wasn’t love.

It was something older.

Like grief. Like guilt. Like home.

-----

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

“Do you think people like us get better?”

He didn’t answer for a long time.

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

You nodded.

You didn’t speak again for hours.

He didn’t leave.

-----

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

But then you got hurt. Badly.

And he lost his mind.

Not loudly. Not with roars.

Just with silence.

The kind that feels like a closing door—

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

But outside the door, you saw what he left:

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

Yours.

-----

You didn’t thank him.

You never did.

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

You just said, “You’re late.”

And he replied, “You’re alive.”

-----

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

He is the myth that devours the world.

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

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

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

Sometimes, you both exist in the same silence.

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

-----

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

You said, “Good.”

-----

You never tell him you love him.

But once, while half-conscious, he whispered:

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

You never bring it up again.

But you remember.

-----

You won’t survive this.

He might.

But not you.

And he knows it.

And that’s the tragedy.

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

He wants to keep.

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

---

But for now—

You sit in the rubble.

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

And he thinks:

Your violence reminded me of home.

But your silence reminded me of being known.

And he hates you for it.

And he keeps coming back anyway.

-----

The 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.

-----

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.

--

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 ?

A Girl Among Snakes { 2 }

_________________________________________

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

_________________________________________

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

I learned this early. I had to.

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

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

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

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

-----

Myrcella was the first person to call me a friend.

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

I let her believe in them.

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

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

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

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

Some dreams are too sweet to break.

---

Joffrey was something else entirely.

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

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

But I never flinched.

And that, more than anything, fascinated him.

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

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

It was a lie.

But it was a beautiful one.

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

-----

The brothels were my father’s kingdom.

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

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

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

But they also taught me.

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

I listened.

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

-----

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

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

“You think yourself clever,” he murmured.

“I am,” I said.

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

It should have worried me, too.

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

And the game had only just begun.

—End of Chapter Two—

_____________________________

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

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

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

---

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

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

How the Mighty Fall :(Quietly)

Gojo Satoru met her on a day so ordinary, he almost didn’t notice her.

Almost.

She was standing by a cracked vending machine outside a jujutsu conference hall, jamming the return button like it had personally insulted her.

Her uniform was rumpled, sleeves half-rolled, phone balanced on her shoulder as she muttered into it.

When she hung up, she let the phone fall into her pocket without ceremony, kicked the vending machine once (precisely, as if she’d calculated it), and grabbed the stubborn can of coffee that tumbled out.

When their eyes met, she gave him the same look she might’ve given a mildly interesting cloud.

He wasn’t used to that.

Gojo Satoru was used to stares that held awe, fear, lust, envy.

He wasn’t used to being dismissed.

He told himself he didn’t care.

(Later, he would realize that was the first lie.)

-----

Inside, introductions were made. "Gojo Satoru," the principal said, almost with a bow. "The strongest."

He flashed his trademark smile. The room tensed the way rooms always did around him — shifting in awe, or jealousy, or terror.

Except for her.

She glanced up from her can of coffee, blinked slowly, and said, "Congratulations," in a tone so dry it might’ve been sarcasm or exhaustion or both.

Gojo actually missed a step.

It was like tripping on a stair you hadn’t noticed.

Ridiculous. Forgettable.

Except the body remembers how it fell.

And the pride remembers harder.

-----

He found out her name later — a relic name from a once-great family.

Fallen into disgrace. Neutral.

Neutral in a world where neutrality was treason.

She hadn't come here for prestige. Or power.

She hadn't come to heal the broken system or tear it down.

She had come because, somehow, life had shoved her into it, and she hadn't found a way to shove back.

There was something about her that infuriated him.

The way she didn't try.

The way she didn’t look at him like a miracle or a weapon or a god.

He tried, subtly at first, to impress her.

(The strongman tricks. The lazy jokes. The almost-accidental flashes of power.)

She sipped her bitter coffee and said things like:

"You're flashy. That’s not the same as important."

Or worse:

"Sometimes I think the world doesn't want saving. It just wants witnesses."

He laughed it off, of course.

Loudly. Carelessly.

(And hated how much he thought about it later.)

-----

One night, after a mission gone sideways, they ended up on the same train platform.

She sat two benches down, damp with rain, bleeding slightly from a cut on her forehead.

She looked small, but not fragile. Just very, very tired.

He sat beside her without asking.

After a long silence, she said, "You don't have to sit here."

"I know," he said. "But maybe I want to."

She gave a dry, almost-smile. "Your charity is overwhelming."

Gojo tilted his head back and stared up at the grey sky, feeling the ache of bruises under his jacket, the throb of exhaustion deep in his bones.

"You ever think," he said, "that saving people is worth it even if it’s selfish?"

She didn’t answer for a long time.

When she did, her voice was very soft:

"Wanting to be needed isn’t the same as being good."

The train rattled by. Neither of them moved.

He didn’t know how to answer her.

He didn’t know how to stop wanting her to believe in him.

He didn’t know when wanting her belief started to feel more important than winning.

-----

Weeks passed.

Gojo Satoru, who had outrun every emotion in his life by being faster, louder, brighter,

found himself slowing down around her.

Not because she asked him to.

But because she didn't even notice when he sped up.

Because around her, there was nothing to prove.

No war to win. No audience to perform for.

Just the terrifying idea that maybe being "The Strongest" meant nothing if nobody was watching.

And maybe that was okay.

Or maybe it wasn't.

He wasn’t sure which scared him more.

-----

The fight, when it happened, was stupid.

A cursed spirit too small for his attention, too slippery to ignore.

She fought it first, knives flashing, blood wetting her sleeves.

She fought like someone who didn’t expect to survive, but would be damned if she made it easy for death.

When he stepped in — easy, graceful, efficient — she didn’t even thank him.

Just leaned against a wall, breathing hard, looking annoyed more than anything else.

"You didn't have to," she said.

"I wanted to," he said, before he could stop himself.

She wiped blood from her mouth and smiled, thin and crooked.

"Of course you did."

As if kindness was another form of violence.

As if saving her only proved her point.

-----

They sat on the curb afterward, side by side, rain seeping into their clothes.

He pulled down his blindfold, let his eyes roam the ruined street, the broken lamplight.

Everything was grey and wet and stupidly, achingly beautiful.

"You know," she said, conversational,

"all stars burn out."

He looked at her. Really looked at her.

Not as a mission.

Not as a critic.

Not as a fantasy.

Just — a tired girl, soaked in rainwater and blood, laughing at how the universe devours everything eventually.

"Maybe," he said, "some are just slow enough to light the way for a while."

She didn't respond.

Maybe she didn’t believe him.

Maybe she didn't need to.

Maybe it was enough that he believed it for both of them, for once.

-----

He would never tell her that she ruined him a little.

That she made him gentler, angrier, sadder, more human.

That she made the invincible feel a little more mortal.

That she made the strongest sorcerer alive wonder what strength was even for.

He would never tell her.

Because she already knew.

Because she didn’t care.

And that, somehow, was the most beautiful thing about her.

-----

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 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 ✨

Ahh, come on, man. I already had my JJK OC half-built in my drafts, all planned out and everything—but I guess that’s how it is.

But hey, I’m glad so many of you voted and actually enjoy my JJK one-shots! I’ll keep posting them, then.

---

Feel free to comment and throw your ideas at me—I’d love to hear what you guys want to read next.

So, do I keep emotionally devastating you with JJK one-shots, or do I create an OC and ruin their life instead?

~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

-----

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.