Gojo Satoru’s Playlist Is A Cry For Help, But No One Notices :

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 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 ✨

: 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.)

-----

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."

----

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

-----

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.

-----

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.

-----

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.

---

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 Strongest Man and His War with Sleep :

Sleep is a mercy he cannot afford.

Gojo Satoru has never been good at resting.

It’s not just about the nightmares—the ones that creep in like thieves, whispering names of the dead in his ears. It’s not just about the fear—that if he lets go, if he closes his eyes for too long, the world will crumble without him watching.

No, it’s deeper than that.

Sleep is vulnerability. And vulnerability is something the strongest man alive is not allowed.

So he doesn’t sleep. Not properly. Not often.

Instead, he runs himself ragged, burns his energy down to the wick, pretends exhaustion is something that only happens to other people. He hides behind laughter, behind endless motion, behind the overwhelming force of his own presence.

Because to stop—to be still—means to listen to his own thoughts.

And there is nothing more terrifying than that.

-----

You notice it, of course.

The way he’s always moving, always talking, always shifting from one thing to the next like silence might swallow him whole. The way he rubs at his temples when he thinks no one is looking. The way he leans against doorframes just a little too long, like standing upright is a battle he’s barely winning.

"You don’t sleep, do you?" you ask one night, watching him sprawl out on your couch like he owns it.

He grins, too wide, too easy. "Who needs sleep when you’ve got these?" He gestures vaguely at his eyes, like the sheer force of his existence makes him immune to basic human needs.

You roll your eyes. "That’s not how bodies work, Satoru."

He shrugs, lazy, dramatic. "Maybe yours."

You don’t press the issue. Not yet.

But you see the way his hands still for a fraction of a second. The way his smile flickers, just briefly, like a neon sign struggling to stay lit.

And you know.

You know that beneath all that brightness, beneath the godlike arrogance and the infuriating charm, there is a man running on borrowed time.

A man who is tired.

-----

When Gojo does sleep, it’s not gentle.

It’s not peaceful, like in movies, where lovers rest entangled in soft sheets and morning light. It’s not slow and dreamy, where sleep comes like a lover’s touch, warm and welcome.

No.

When Gojo Satoru sleeps, it’s like something in him collapses.

Like a puppet with cut strings. Like a body giving out after carrying too much for too long.

It doesn’t happen often—not really. But when it does, it’s as if his body is making up for years of neglect in one go. He sleeps like the dead.

No amount of shaking, nudging, or even yelling will wake him. You’ve tried. Once, you even held a mirror under his nose to make sure he was still breathing.

(He was. But it was unnerving, seeing him so still.)

-----

"You should go to bed," you tell him one night, watching as he leans against the counter, eyes half-lidded.

He smirks. "What, you worried about me?"

You don’t bother answering. Instead, you grab his wrist, tugging him toward the bedroom.

"I don’t need—"

"Shut up, Satoru."

Surprisingly, he does.

He lets you drag him, lets you push him onto the bed, lets you pull the covers over him like he’s something fragile, something worth protecting.

And when you card your fingers through his hair—slow, soothing, like a lullaby made of touch—he doesn’t protest.

His breath evens out. His body melts against the mattress. And before you can even make a joke about it, he’s gone.

Fast asleep.

Completely, utterly, unmovable.

-----

Gojo Satoru, the strongest man alive, is impossible to wake up.

You learn this the hard way.

You try shaking him—nothing.

You try calling his name—still nothing.

You even flick his forehead, the way he does to others—but he doesn’t so much as twitch.

It’s honestly a little terrifying.

It’s like he trusts you enough to completely let go.

Like, in this moment, in this space, he believes—just for a little while—that he is safe.

And that realization sits heavy in your chest.

Because Gojo Satoru is not a man who allows himself to feel safe.

Not with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Not with the ghosts of the past clawing at his heels.

Not with the knowledge that the moment he closes his eyes, something else might be taken from him.

But here, now, with you—he sleeps.

And that means something.

-----

In the morning, when he finally stirs, stretching like a cat in the sun, he blinks at you blearily.

"You let me sleep," he murmurs, voice thick with something you don’t quite recognize.

You hum, tracing lazy patterns on his wrist. "You needed it."

A pause.

Then, a quiet chuckle. "You didn’t try to wake me, did you?"

You don’t answer.

Because if you admit how hard you tried—how impossible it was—you might have to admit what that means.

Might have to admit that Gojo Satoru, for all his power, is still just a person.

A person who gets tired.

A person who needs rest.

A person who, in the end, just wants to lay down his burdens—if only for a little while.

And somehow, impossibly, he’s chosen to do that with you.

So instead, you smirk, flicking his forehead in revenge.

"Don’t get used to it, Satoru."

His laughter is bright, easy, filling the room like morning light.

But when he pulls you close again, burying his face in your shoulder, you think—maybe, just maybe—he already has.

-----

—The Violet Hours—

The thing about truth is—it never arrives politely.

It kicks in the door, pours wine in your mother’s good china, and asks if you’re still pretending.

—From Journal Of Elora Haventon, 1975

Memory :

When she was nine, Elora asked her father if power made people kinder.

He gave her a polished smile and said, “Power makes people busy, darling.”

That night, she wrote in her diary: 'So kindness is a hobby, I guess.'

She never stopped watching after that—quietly, precisely, like a girl measuring the world before deciding whether it deserved her.

_________________________________________

Who Is Elora Haventon?

Birth : Haventon Manor, Outer London— 12th October, 1960, 2:06 AM

Age at Hogwarts acceptance : 10 years, 11 months

Date of death : 21st July, 1979

Place : A quiet field, still dressed in flowers. (Some say it was meant to be a celebration. Others say it was the last peace before the war found her.)

Known as: "The Ghost They All Knew"

Appearance : Dark hair like spilled ink. Eyes the color of twilight before storm—too blue to be black, too violet to be safe.

Sharp in mind. Silent in grief.

_________________________________________

Notable Relationships :

Jennifer Vance : Her first real friend. A half-vampire Ravenclaw girl who laughed like she was already bored of eternity. She once gave Elora a gold locket. Elora wore it even after her heart stopped.

Remus Lupin : A quiet understanding. They spoke like people who knew how to wait. She figured out his secret long before he confessed it. A bond built on books, trust, and not needing to explain.

Sirius Black : An occasional clash of fire and ice. He thought he could make her laugh. A boy who mistook silence for mystery, and misread indifference for elegance.

Adrian Del Marlowe : The boy she was meant to marry. The only one who saw her quiet ache and didn’t ask about it. He just handed her books and soft smiles instead. They wrote each other letters.

_________________________________________

What Happened to Her?

There’s a portrait of her in Haventon Manor.

Visitors say it’s just a painting, but something about it feels too alive—like the violet of her dress might rustle if the wind blew the wrong way.

She’s smiling. But it’s the kind of smile you only wear when you’ve learned how to survive.

And yet still—

no one survived 'The Violet Hours'.

_________________________________________

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

So yeah. Elora Haventon. She's been living rent-free in my head for months now—quietly, politely, the way ghosts do. at first, i thought she was just another side character. and then suddenly she had a name, a cursed locket, an entire tragic backstory, and this way of looking at the world that made me go oh. so here she is: the ghost they all knew. my third OC (yeah, we’re deep in it now lol I think I’m addicted to tragic girls with sharp minds and deadpan humor), and maybe the one closest to my chest.

she’s sharp. ironic. too observant for eleven. the kind of girl who would sit quietly at a political dinner table and memorize everything—not because she wants to be part of it, but because she’s already writing it all down in her head. her voice came to me so naturally it was a little scary. like she’d been waiting for someone to finally let her speak.

what inspired her? honestly? that song Dollhouse. you know, the whole smiling-perfect-family thing but under the surface it’s all porcelain cracks and red wine stains and quiet disappointment. that’s Elora. a girl raised in a house where truth isn’t forbidden—it’s just considered bad manners.

i’ll be posting more of her story (it’s called The Violet Hours, and yes, it gets worse), but for now, here’s a little introduction. if you’ve ever been the quiet girl in the room, the one watching more than speaking, the one trying to hold yourself together with pretty manners and sharp thoughts—i think you’ll get her.

---

feel free to scream in the tags, message me, ask questions—i literally love talking about her. just bring tea or trauma. both work.

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

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 ✨

~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.

: 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.

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Writer’s Note:

So, this is my first-ever OC, and honestly? I have no idea what I’m doing, but we’re rolling with it. Lily Calloway has been living in my head rent-free for weeks, so it’s about time I let her loose into the world. She’s manipulative but not cruel, charming but not harmless, and definitely not the kind of woman you want to underestimate.

I’ll probably be dropping the first chapter in 2-3 days (if I don’t get distracted by life ). I have the whole story outlined—25 chapters, slow-burn, morally grey choices, and a whole lot of drama. So, if you’re into that, stick around.

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Also, I’d love to hear your thoughts on Lily! Is she giving femme fatale or just a girl trying to survive in a man’s world? Maybe both. We’ll see.

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