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vividiana · 2 months ago

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chapter 1

pairing: Astarion x f!Durge · word count: 4.3k

rating: M for now, eventually E (18+)

tags: modern AU, witness protection, strangers to friends to lovers (see AO3 for a more exhaustive list)

summary: It’s been over a year since Eve had to uproot her life and assume a new identity—anything to distance herself from the past she wishes she could forget. When an erratic, if oddly charming, newcomer stumbles into her place of work, she recognizes something familiar within him and the two can’t seem to stay away from each other. But Eve is not the only one running from her past. An alternative, modern take on the Dark Urge x Astarion romance, filled with friendship, secrets, healing, and ABBA.

a/n: IT'S HEREEEEE 📣 a huge thank you to everyone who hyped me up as I was working on this, you guys are the best 🫂❤️

the title is from "Like Real People Do" by our lord and savior Hozier

read on AO3 · dividers

Eve grips the edge of the sink, knuckles white as she tries to ease her breathing.

Only one more hour. One hour and she gets to go home.

Her shift started, rather unfortunately, with a birthday party: pushing together four tables, trying to keep up with the customers who constantly changed their mind about the order and deliberated endlessly on who’s paying for what and with what card, all the while their children were screaming for attention. But even worse was the mess they left, along with the few spare coins they tossed on the table as an afterthought, which somehow made her angrier than if they hadn’t tipped at all.

And then it was back to the usual, mundane torments of her job, the worst of which were the never ending comments that made her scream internally when the most she could do was a polite nod. She thought she would get used to them by now, but alas, the hundredth one was just as insufferable as the first. They were delivered by all kinds of people in a variety of tones, ranging from patronizing to objectifying to just plain stupid. They fueled countless rants that Eve’s roommate patiently listened to before noting that perhaps she should look for a job that doesn’t fill her with rage every single day.

The customers’ words echo in her mind on a loop, like a twisted Greatest Hits compilation.

“Why is a young girl like you slaving away in a place like this? Did you plan to be a waitress?”

“Why would you cover up that pretty neck with a tattoo? Don’t you know what it will look like when you’re older?”

“I’m surprised your boyfriend is okay with you working this late. I wouldn’t be, that’s for sure.”

“Does it cost extra for you to smile?”

Managing to tear her thoughts away from this pity party, she looks up, wincing when she sees her reflection in the chipped mirror. The ponytails she hates but that, without fail and for reasons she doesn’t want to entertain for too long, make people tip her more. The makeup, just enough to conceal her dark circles and soften the edges of the scar running down her cheek, but of course not enough for people to notice she is wearing any, lest they think she’s trying too hard.

And finally, the dragonfly tattoo lining her throat. The artist did a great job with the cover-up, but despite the quality of the craft, all Eve sees when she looks at it is the dagger concealed within the insect’s body, the ever present reminder that no matter how far she runs, or how much she tries to conceal it, her past will forever be carved into her skin.

She takes another deep breath, counting seconds as she inhales, holds, then exhales—one of the only useful skills she’s gained from her series of short-lived flings with therapy.

One more hour. I can do this.

Eve fixes her crooked name tag and heads out the door. She makes her way through the backroom into the kitchen, and perhaps the smell of grease would assault her senses were it not already embedded into her skin, hair, and clothes.

On the center counter, she spots a tray with a ticket for booth four. Yes, booth four she can do. It’s largely unproblematic, if a little strange. She grabs it and heads out the kitchen, past the main room to a smaller side one with the bar, a couple smaller tables, and a line of booths.

As she enters, she spots a man sitting by the bar, looking a bit lost. His hair is bleached so light it’s basically white. He’s wearing a t-shirt with a patterned sweater vest over it that’s a couple sizes too big and way too warm for May. He’s hunched over the bar counter, pen in hand, working fervently on something or other.

She passes the newcomer and makes her way to booth four, featuring her favorite regular: an older man, wrinkled beyond belief, who arrives at 4 p.m. every single day. He always comes alone and without fail, orders the same exact thing every time: a plate of chicken tenders and a Dr. Pepper. No sauce, no sides. Just the chicken and the beverage. Eve stopped bothering to take his order months ago.

“Good afternoon, Sir,” she says, placing the plate in front of him. She opens the soda can and starts pouring it into his glass. “How are you doing today?”

“Fate spins along as it should,” he says in that trademark monotone voice.

“Mhm,” she hums, trying to think of a way to stall, so she doesn’t have to return to her other customers. “Did you hear there is going to be a thunderstorm tonight?”

“That may be so.”

“Right. Well, enjoy your meal then.”

“Thank you.”

She scans the room, but seeing no one who looks like they need help, she fishes out the notepad from her apron and makes her way behind the bar.

The white-haired man doesn’t look up when she stands before him, seemingly lost in thought as he scribbles something in a journal in sweeping, messy handwriting. Through the scent of stale beer and fried food, she singles out a hint of his cologne—citrusy, fresh, and far more pleasant than anything the men frequenting this establishment usually wear, if they even bother.

“Hello, my name is Eve–”

He startles at the sound of her voice. There is a trace of panic in his eyes as he looks up at her, one that he instantly tries to cover up by straightening in his seat and donning a forced smile.

The moment their eyes meet, Eve gets the strangest feeling of déjà vu she’s ever experienced. There is something familiar in the creases of his smile lines, in the way his hair curls around his ears. It catches her off-guard, the rehearsed introduction dying in her throat mid-sentence.

“I’m sorry, do I know you from somewhere?” she asks instead.

The man instantly tenses up with a loud scoff.

“Of course you would know me from somewhere. What else did I expect?” He gestures animatedly as he speaks, Eve blinking in confusion as she listens to his rant. “Are you one of those true crime freaks? Do you want an autograph or are you content with just standing here and gawking?”

Great. Just great.

Exactly what she needed to top off this hell of a shift: entertaining a man’s delusions of self-importance. The True Crime Celebrity has to go into this month’s top three, along with The Alien Abductee and Mr. FBI-Poisoned-My-Cows. At least those guys were more polite.

“You move halfway across the country to finally get a break for once and– Fucking hell!”

He drops his fountain pen on the counter with a loud thud and slips his glasses off to massage his temples, eyes shut tight in frustration. A couple patrons turn their heads to glance their way, Eve’s cheeks growing hotter at the sudden attention.

And perhaps, after seven hours of being on edge, that was simply the last straw.

“Do not raise your voice at me,” the words escape her lips before Eve can think better of it.

The man seems genuinely taken aback and he opens his eyes, brows furrowed when he asks:

“Excuse me?”

“You seem to think you’re some sort of big deal. Sorry to burst your bubble, but I have no idea what you’re talking about. And no matter who you are, you shouldn’t speak to people that way, but especially not to those who handle your food and drinks.”

She didn’t mean it to sound like a threat, but she has no emotional energy left to dull the edge of her words.

Maybe getting fired wouldn’t be so bad. Then I’ll never have to come back here.

For a moment he just looks at her wide-eyed, opening and closing his mouth a couple times. Eventually he clears his throat and puts his glasses back on, sounding genuinely embarrassed when he admits:

“You’re right, I’m sorry. It’s just– It’s been a long day. But still, that’s no reason to– I’m sorry.”

The anger pent-up in her body starts to dissipate at his tone. He sounds… tired. In a way she recognizes all too well.

“It’s been a long day for me, too,” she says. “Maybe we can try again.”

She turns away and takes a couple steps along the bar, then returns with a polite smile on her face to say:

“Hello, my name is Eve, I’ll be taking care of you today. Can I get you started with something to drink?”

He chuckles softly and now that his face is more relaxed, Eve can’t help but think that he is quite handsome, in a manner that feels utterly out of place.

“Well, that depends,” he says. “Do the drinks come with spit or poison?”

“You’ve apologized, so neither. But you’re on thin ice.”

He scoffs, but there is no real edge to it. He watches her intently, a hint of curiosity in his gaze that she is not sure what to make of.

“So, do you need more time?” she asks after a moment.

“Time for what?” he asks, stumped.

“To order. Do you know what you want to order?”

Suddenly, as if a prompter whispered his lines to him, he remembers they’re in a restaurant of all places, and he is, in fact, playing the role of the customer.

“Ah, yes. Food,” he says, gaze falling upon the empty bar counter before him.

Eve sighs and retrieves one of the folded menus from a holder to her right.

“Is this your first time?” she asks, handing the paper to him.

“First time here?”

“First time in a restaurant.”

“Let’s say it is,” he chuckles, grabbing the menu from her. “What then?”

“Well,” she starts, leaning forward to rest her elbows on the counter. It’s a tad sticky, but she chooses to ignore that unfortunate detail. After all, the more time she spends with this fumbling, if oddly charming, idiot, the less she has to deal with the other, less-than-savory regulars. She unfolds the menu, trying to sound as patient as she can when she says:

“Here is the list of foods, here are the prices. Here, for some unknown reason, are the calorie counts, which I suggest you ignore, for the sake of your sanity.”

“Hm,” he hums thoughtfully, eyes gliding down the list. He looks up, a curious glint in his eyes when he asks: “So, what do you recommend?”

She doesn’t have a response at the ready, mostly because no one ever asks her that. Nothing, she wants to say, but with the final remnants of self-control, she dons her best service-industry smile, the one that says: I love my job and I haven’t been dying to go home.

“Well, that depends: how hungry are you?”

“Not terribly.”

She flips the menu over to their All-day Lunch selection.

“The club sandwich is a crowd favorite.”

“Alright. But what is your favorite?”

Eve looks up to meet his eyes, their greyish blue alight with amusement, and she can feel the edge of her lips tugging up into a disbelieving smile. She finds no hint of mockery in his tone, just sheer curiosity. He seems to genuinely care about her opinion, which is a rarity in this place.

“The grilled chicken panini is not half-bad,” she whispers, like she is revealing some meticulously guarded secret.

“I’ll have that, then.”

“Got it,” she says, standing up straight. “And to drink?”

“Surprise me.”

“I can’t put a surprise on your tab. You do actually need to pick something.”

“Do you have diet cherry coke?”

Eve summons all of her mental strength to not roll her eyes at him.

“We have diet, non-cherry pepsi. Is that okay?”

“It’s a travesty, more like. But I’ll make do.”

“Great. One sec.”

She scoops some ice into a glass, then retrieves the pepsi from a small fridge under the bar. As she starts pouring it into his glass, she asks:

“So, are you visiting someone, or just passing through?”

“I actually just moved here a couple days ago,”

“Oh.” It’s not often that they see a new face around here. And certainly not one this good-looking. “In that case: welcome.”

“Thank you. I suppose I wanted to get to know the town a little more. Check out the…” his gaze wanders around the room, the flickering Coors Light neon signs, the truckers belly-laughing at one joke or another, “…local scene.”

“And how do you like it so far?”

“Well, so far you’re the only person in this place I’ve managed to have a half-decent conversation with. So yes, I suppose it’s alright.”

“Half-decent? You wound me.”

He smiles, but before he gets a chance to respond, Eve hears someone snap their fingers at her like they’re in a fucking Tarantino movie. She’s surprised they didn’t yell garçon!

“I’ll be back with the panini,” she says, and however, reluctantly, pries herself off the bar counter to attend to the obnoxious client at booth one.

The pace picks up, as it always seems to do when she is almost done with her shift. When she brings him the food, they exchange a couple more amusing if largely meaningless comments, before she has to go tend to her other customers.

Eventually the man asks for the check and pays with cash. By the time Eve comes to collect it from him, he’s gone. Opening the tab, she sees two $20 bills and for a moment she’s convinced it must be a mistake, because the total was just over $17.

But then she notices a small ink stain on the thin receipt paper and turns it around to read a note in that same sweeping font: Sorry again for being a dick. Enjoy your weekend.

Eve chuckles softly and pockets the receipt on a whim.

When she’s clocking out 15 minutes later, she hears that grating voice behind her, the one that always manages to set her on edge.

“I saw you arguing with a customer.”

“That’s odd. I don’t recall doing that,” she says, not looking away from the keypad.

“You know damn well who I’m talking about. The one with the glasses, dressed funny.”

Eve sighs and turns around to meet the man’s eyes. He’s a couple inches shorter than her, a fact he tries to make up for by puffing out his chest and glaring at her in a way that is presumably supposed to be intimidating. It’s funny, she thinks, how much of a power trip he gets from being a manager at a run-down place like this. She wonders sometimes what must be going on in his personal life that he’s trying to make up for.

“Oh, him!” she says with a forced cheeriness. “Well, he actually seemed quite pleased with the service, he left me a very generous tip. Did you hear any complaints? You know I would hate to leave a bad impression on a new customer.”

His lips tighten into a firm line as he watches her, and Eve is fully aware he has no arguments left. After a moment of tense silence, she nods politely before turning towards the exit.

“See you tomorrow, Wulbren.”

Eve frees her hair from the ponytails and runs her fingers through it the moment she steps outside. The afternoon sun cradles her skin as she crosses the parking lot and makes her way to Gizmo—her trusted 2012 Toyota Prius that has seen better days.

It’s a fairly nondescript car, what with it being a Prius and a bland beige, but she has taken to decorate the inside with some personal touches. The back is adorned with two bumper stickers: one with the logo of her roommate’s youth soccer team, the Clinton Comets, and another that reads: “My other car is a Honda Civic.” It’s a leftover gift from the previous owner that Eve is too amused by to peel off, despite how worn and faded the lettering has become.

She starts the car, turning the radio off immediately—she listens to it enough at work and right now, she just wants to enjoy the silence. As she pulls out of the parking lot, she rolls the windows down to welcome in the fresh air, warmed with the promise of summer.

It only takes her seven minutes to get to the elementary school. Surprisingly enough, she managed to leave at 5 p.m. sharp, so she still has some time before practice ends. She decides to park in the visitor’s lot and walk towards the pitch.

The shrill whistle reaches her ears, and as she steps up onto the mostly empty bleachers, she takes in the sight of 20-something children running around in navy blue uniforms, Lae’zel standing off to the side as she watches them intently.

Her thick chestnut hair looks immaculate as always, interspersed with small braids here and there, the upper half pulled into a near-perfect bun. Despite the temperature, she’s wearing a matching cream-and-black Adidas tracksuit, the light fabric bringing out the warm hue of her skin.

Suddenly, there is a commotion as an argument breaks out between two girls. Someone missed a clear shot, or something of that nature—Eve was not paying attention. Others join shortly, the bickering growing incessantly loud.

A whistle cuts through the chatter and Lae’zel waves her hand in a beckoning motion.

“Mol! A word.”

The group immediately falls quiet and from the crowd emerges a short girl with russet brown skin, her hair gathered into a high ponytail. Her expression is sour as she approaches, like she’s ready to argue further.

Lae’zel lowers herself into a squat, her eyes leveled with the girl’s. From her seat, Eve can make out most of their conversation:

“You’re the captain, Mol. You need to act like one. If you don’t have faith in your teammates, then who will?”

The girl’s defiant expression melts into one of embarrassment, her gaze suddenly very focused on the tips of her cleats.

She mutters something that sounds like: “I’m sorry, Coach.”

“Don’t apologize to me. Apologize to your team,” Lae’zel says, rising to her full height, which, admittedly, is not a lot. “Now, go out there and be a leader. Understood?”

The girl nods decidedly and runs back onto the field as Lae’zel blows the whistle, resuming the game. Eve smiles as she recognizes her gift: a silver whistle with the words #1 Coach engraved on the side. Lae seemed very flustered when she gave it to her, but Eve has never seen her go back to the plastic ones she’d used before.

The game ends 2:1.

Lae’zel makes some closing strategy-related remarks, then reminds the girls about the game next week with the team from a neighboring county.

“And remember that there will be summer practice available all throughout June, and then resuming in August. I’ve emailed the details to your parents. Any questions?”

When none arise, Lae gathers the team in a circle, and on the count of three, they erupt into a group cheer, accompanied by dance moves that look awfully close to the “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes” song.

“UP, DOWN, LEFT, AND RIGHT, CLINTON COMETS WIN THE FIGHT!”

The group disperses, and as the children are gathering their things and getting ready to leave, Lae’zel checks her notes and says:

“Arabella, Yenna, and Ide, I still haven’t gotten those permission slips back. If you don’t want to miss out on the last game of the season, I’ll need them by Wednesday.”

“Yes, Coach Medina,” the three girls in question say in a practiced unison.

The pitch eventually empties out as the children leave, along with some of the parents who were waiting on the bleachers. Lae’zel is gathering the orange plastic cones from the field as Eve makes her way down to help her.

When Lae turns around and meets her eyes, Eve breaks into dance with unparalleled enthusiasm:

“UP, DOWN, LEFT, AND RIGHT, CLINTON COMETS WIN THE FIGHT!”

“Do you have a problem with our battle cry?” Lae’zel asks, trying her best to look unamused.

“No, I love it. It’s adorable and so, so corny.”

“The girls wrote it themselves. I didn’t want to interfere with their creative process. It’s good for team morale and their self-esteem.”

“Of course. You know I would never question your pedagogy.”

They pick up the last of the cones and as they’re heading to Lae’zel’s office, Eve says:

“Oh, you know what I just remembered?”

“What?”

“UP, DOWN, LEFT, AND RIGHT–”

“Keep doing that and I will evict you.”

“Oh, but then who would drive you around?”

“I’ll take my chances with the bus.”

Once they put everything away, they make their way back to the car and head home.

“Are you doing anything tonight?” Eve asks as she turns onto the main road.

Lae’zel picks up her phone and then directs the screen towards her.

“Her, if all goes well.”

Eve glances sideways to catch a glimpse of a Hinge profile. Jen, 25, the caption informs her. The girl in the photo sports heavy makeup and short bangs, her hair split down the middle with half-white, half-black dye.

“Pretty.”

But Lae’zel just hums approvingly in lieu of a response.

Before Eve can probe any further, her phone rings, and a message appears on the center screen: Call from: Wyll Ravengard 😎

“Hi Wyll,” she answers. “You’re on speaker. I’m in the car with Lae’zel.”

“Hello Lae’zel,” the man responds in his signature friendly tone.

“Hello. Don’t worry, I’m not paying attention,” Lae says, not looking up from her phone.

“She’s not paying attention, she’s busy texting a goth girl on Hinge.”

“Been there. Anyways, Eve, sorry to disturb your Friday evening, I just wanted to confirm that we’re still on for coffee, Monday at 4?”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

“Perfect. And you remember that I scheduled that�� consultation appointment for you at 2 pm that same day?”

Eve sighs softly. Another therapist. Agent Ravengard has been relentless in trying to find a good match for her. She’s pretty sure she’s gone through everyone within a 20-mile radius.

“Yup. I do remember that.”

“Mhm. And do you plan on attending?”

She pauses for a second, and then says, unconvincingly:

“I do.”

“Lovely. Can’t wait to hear all about it over coffee.”

“Sounds delightful,” she says dryly.

“I’ll text you the details again, just in case. It’s up in Fairview, so about a half hour drive. You should have plenty of time to be back by 4.”

“Okay.”

“Alright then, have a wonderful weekend, Eve, and I’ll see you soon, yes?”

“Yes. I– Thank you, Wyll. I appreciate you.”

“Happy to help. Bye now!

“Bye, have a good one!”

The moment he hangs up, Eve lets out a pained groan.

“You sound frustrated,” Lae’zel remarks, still typing. And when Eve doesn’t respond, she adds: “Maybe you should sleep with him.”

“With Wyll?!”

“Yes. You are attracted to him, are you not?”

“I suppose I am, a little. I mean, have you seen him? But no, that is either illegal or unethical or both.”

“I don’t see the issue.”

“Well, I do. Plus, not all of life’s problems can be solved with sex, you know?”

“It sounds like you just haven’t had great sex, then.”

“It sounds like you really want to walk home. I can pull over at any moment, just say the word.”

There is a moment of silence before Lae’zel asks:

“In all seriousness though, do you want to talk about it? This appointment of yours?”

“No. That’s the last thing I want to be thinking about right now.”

“Understood.” Lae’zel seems to ponder something, then adds: “I’m meeting her for drinks at 9, so I still have some free time. Do you want to pick up ramen and watch people be idiots on the Game Show Network?”

“Yes, please.”

Lae’zel calls the ramen place on the first floor of their building to put in their usual order. Once they get back to the apartment, she goes to pick up the food while Eve heads to her room to change.

The space is quite bare, especially in comparison to Lae’zel’s room, which is full of photos, trinkets, and memorabilia to remind her of home. Eve doesn’t have any of those, but she still tried to make her room her own, whatever that means. A couple plants line the windowsill, and her shelves are overflowing with books she thrifted: mostly non-fiction, with the occasional Stephen King novel tucked between her usual reads. There are plenty of lights, too: a salt lamp, numerous candles, and a cascade of fairy lights above her bed. Anything to not have to turn on the harsh overhead light.

Before they sit down to eat, she wants to get rid of that ever-present diner smell. When she pulls her jeans off, a piece of paper flies down onto the wooden floors. She snatches it up, ready to toss it into the trash, when she spots the now familiar, swirly handwriting.

Eve chuckles, remembering this oddly charming man, looking entirely out of place, who probably had an even worse day than she did, somehow.

She unfolds the paper fully, straightening out the wrinkles, and heads over to the small desk in the corner of the room. There is a cork board above it with a couple ticket stubs from events she went to with Lae’zel and a few holiday cards from Wyll. It’s the closest she can have to a picture board, ever since she was explicitly instructed to never allow herself to be photographed.

She isn’t sure what propels her to pin the receipt to one of the empty spaces on the board.

But it fits right in.

a/n: thank you for reading! lmk if you would like to be tagged when I update this, or when I post in general. have a lovely rest of your day/night, whenever you're reading this 💛🧡

taglist: @roguishcat ✨

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#astarion x durge #astarion x the dark urge #durgestarion #bg3 fanfiction #astarion fanfiction #bg3 modern au #my fic

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ackerfics · 1 year ago

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my love is mine all mine ch 2 | toji fushiguro x female reader

part one of to the girls who are failed by the narrative series.

series summary:

'the glorified womb', 'the heir bearer', 'the blessed flower of the jujutsu society' — they are just some of the titles given to the women of your mother's clan, and all of them eventually fell to you, the prodigal firstborn who has the misfortune of birthing someone who will be stronger than their predecessors. with the fate of someone's clan on your shoulders, there are only a handful of things told to you while growing up; be as demure as you can be, never open your mouth and squash your thoughts, sit with a posture befitting that of a lady wearing an invisible yet heavy diadem. but the one that rings the most goes like this: your only purpose in this world is to be a silent wife to a man who will give you the opportunity to carry the next generation of powerful sorcerers. you remember all of these as you walk toward zen'in ogi in your uchikake, the constricting material around your waist akin to the gripping hold of your cursed technique.

and in fate's funny little ways of fabricating legacies and stories, you forget them when you are spirited away by the man who always welcomes the coming of the seasons with you without fail.

chapter title: in our circle of green

warnings: objectifying women, misogynistic beliefs, pregnancy, miscarriage, stillbirth, death

Toji already figured that the Zen’in clan was cruel the moment he could understand words.

Some say that the birth of his older brother marked the downfall of a clan so revered they were supposed to be placed on a pedestal alongside two families in the jujutsu society. Born with a cursed energy that didn’t make the shadows dance, Jinichi is the first ink blot on a pristine scroll of names. Their father, ever the people pleaser and the self-proclaimed heir of the clan, tried to appeal to the elders and the head who are all a bunch of stoic people whom Toji didn’t have the mood to list because they are so withered and grey they are almost unforgettable. Zen’in Ichiro begged them to give him another chance to prove that the Zen’in clan still had the potential to carry on the technique that spoke of them being shadow puppeteers.

And then came him.

While his brother earned cursed energy, Toji did not.

His life ended the moment it started.

He is used as an excuse for blows and barbed words. The scars littering his back and upper arms are just some of the few inflicted on him, the others healing with time. When they saw that his resolve wouldn’t easily break, all of the bruises and wounds went to his parents.

The family finally drove his father insane; and with his father spiralling, the suffering of his mother begins.

Then, came the blaming.

His mother, a woman so kind that she even smiles after receiving the end of his father’s verbal daggers, became a target for the elders. With the veins on her hand visible to the naked eye from how pale she is and the purple bags under her eyes from lack of rest, the wife of the assumed clan heir loved her second son despite being the one thing the Zen’in loathed. Dry hands cupped his chubby cheeks often, her chapped lips murmuring sweet nothings to his ears. She told him she prayed to the gods to make him just the way she was—normal and untainted by the world they were living in. They were words that would remain meaningless to him for they rang with false promises. He never understood her spending more time with him when he was younger. Until he saw her getting dragged by the hair after refusing to lay with him for another child that would become another failure. For the months that his mother endured, just this one rippling event made her take her last breath.

The reason for the death of his mother was him—the boon of the Zen’in clan.

All unlucky things revolved around him.

At least that’s what he was told when they pushed him into a room full of cursed spirits to test his strength.

There is a certain air of unparalleled dignity when covered by the rooftops of the Joushou clan compound, the potent air of purity ringing through the pillars holding it together. Compared to the Zen’in clan residence, those who bear the Joushou family name all lived in a small village in Kyoto, a space barricaded by so many barriers that Toji felt like it’s too much for a clan that isn’t within the triad of the Jujutsu society.

They are going to attend a funeral, his grandfather said. There was no mistaking that when the old man announced that everyone should be on their best behaviour, he was directing the words to both sons of his failed firstborn, specifically him, the boy they threw into a room of cursed spirits and the one they left scars on. When the creaking old man finally retreated to his chambers after the announcement was made, Toji could finally roll his eyes at the absurdity of the situation, the action never unnoticed by his older brother, judging by the low snicker Jinichi made.

Now, they are hiking toward the main house, a parade of black under the canopy of green and slivers of light. The chosen members of the Zen’in clan who were honoured (he wants to barf because it was exactly what the ancient old man said) to attend this funeral walked for about an hour; the compound of this family of purity or whatever they are called is that expansive. Toji swallows the complaint rising in his throat the more he feels his feet straining against the straps of his geta, choosing to keep quiet instead. He doesn’t begin to comprehend the complex layout of this clan compound. Why can’t it be a single house like theirs? With all the talk his uncles make about their family, one would think that the Zen’in clan is the epitome of perfection in the jujutsu society. It’s both bewildering and funny that they don’t hold a candle to the opulence boasted by the Joushou clan.

“Hey,” an annoying voice buzzes in his ear like a fly.

Toji stops giving the gravel his attention and places it on his ugly brother. “What?”

“You notice it?” Jinichi asks.

He keeps on looking at the dimwitted boy with hooded eyes. “What?” he repeats. Toji is not a repeater of his words but when it comes to Jinichi, he tends to do it a lot. His older brother has this habit of never fully explaining the context behind his words, one of the many reasons why Toji’s patience sometimes runs so thin it’s almost like a piece of thread now.

Jinichi rolls his eyes. “The barriers; it’s the twelfth now. ” A second of haughtiness passes in his eyes and he jeers at Toji with an air of superiority over him. “Oh, I forgot — you can’t sense anything.”

“Get to the point,” he grits out.

With a concealed smile, his older brother basks in his simmering irritation while gesturing around the towering woods with his chin. “Do you remember the stories that circulate about Father and Uncle Naobito? How they nearly went ballistic because of a woman so beautiful she managed to ensnare the Gojo heir as well?” Jinichi huffs a laugh, his eyes boring through the backs of their grandfather’s eldest sons. Toji’s eyebrows meet on his forehead at all the stalling. He is about to walk ahead when Jinichi continues talking, “That woman has a daughter and she’s about the same age as us. The barriers around this compound are all for her.”

That piece of information is anything but relevant to Toji. All he knows about the clan they are attending a funeral for is that they are so revered because of their strength that they can walk through someone’s Domain Expansion unscathed. This is the first time he has heard a member of his family mention a woman in this kind of light, almost worshipping with no shred of degradation and discrimination. His brother was talking about this girl with a tone similar to that of his uncle when he found the perfect woman to ruin. Toji doesn’t hold back the sneer on his lips, the scar pulsing with a phantom pain that lays out the image of grotesque humanoid creatures crawling on blackened walls and ceilings. He looks away from his brother and fixes his eyes on the nearing building ahead of them. Too bad there are no pockets in his black kimono. He would have buried his hands hours before.

“What’s that supposed to mean, aniki ?”

Jinichi cracks a chilling smile. “That means she could be offered as a wife to me.”

Toji snaps his neck to give the older boy a look painted in incredulity.

“I am the clan heir’s heir; it is imperative that I have a wife as bewitching, alluring, and docile as a woman born from the bloodline of the Hanamo clan. She will bring a new age of Ten Shadow users to our family and the Zen’in name will be stronger than it was before. With twelve—oh, thirteen—barriers protecting her from the outside world,” Jinichi snickers under his breath, “she must be a treasure.”

“Like I care about her.”

“Of course, you don’t,” his older brother scoffs. “You will never deserve a girl with that kind of calibre—you and your title of the clan’s disappointment.”

A vein nearly pops in his forehead. There is enough of the badmouthing Toji gets from the adults in the clan, he doesn’t need any more of it from his older brother who is a kid himself. “Do not test me, aniki. ”

“What are you going to do about it—grovel?”

“I will tear you to shreds like I did to the room of curses they threw me in,” Toji blandly replies with wide eyes. He notices the slight flinch making Jinichi’s shoulders rise but that is not enough to brew satisfaction into his body, which is already catching up to the older boy even though he is two years Toji’s senior. “So, you can shove your fantasies of marrying a wife made for carrying children right up your hairy ass before I do it for you.”

It takes Jinichi a couple of moments to answer, cold sweat dripping over his brow. “You don’t scare me, you little shit. You are just a fucking bug to me—amounting to nothing. Know your place as the outcast before spewing bullshit like that.”

Toji’s voice is kept within his throat, only choosing to look at Jinichi for as long as it takes until his older brother has enough. Jinichi walks past him, remembering to knock his shoulder against Toji’s. The impact feels like a breeze that only brushes on a piece of fabric. Even the force his older brother has to exert will never make him falter, which is why he is the perfect piece to twist in the puzzle that is their clan. How Fate laughs at him, he thinks; the strength given to him by the deities walking on clouds is the reason why he carries blemishes on his skin like battle armour.

He nearly lets out a scoff. All this is because of a faceless girl so fragile that she should be protected by how many barriers the sorcerers of the Joushou clan can produce.

Yet this faceless girl is anything but ordinary, living up to the hearsays passing around the halls of their residence.

She is small and the kimono covering her figure is embroidered with outlines of red flowers. It is the first time Toji has seen something so bright even with her hair covering the side of her face—practically blinding that he looks at the flower arrangements around the small coffin over her shoulder instead of her miserable face.

For someone who should be mourning for their little sibling, the girl never gives a glance at the displayed body in the middle of the room. Instead, she is tugging on the sleeves of her mother’s kimono, calling for her attention, which in turn attracts all those who are present. Toji can hear the murmurs of the adults around him — curious, unwarranted things that should not be said regarding children. There are whispers of her blooming beauty (how she will grow up to become the next bride touched by the fingers of Izanami) and the suffocating yet pellucid air of her cursed technique (calling to the flowers near him); they are all comments made by men who are older than her father.

Then, she turns around to fix her eyes on him and suddenly, Toji finds himself at a standstill—eyes blank and breathing stagnant as the flowers in her irises bloom with curiosity. She blinks and Toji can see that they touch the skin underneath her eyes.

It is only when she faces her father that Toji can breathe again.

He shakily lets out the sigh lodged in his throat.

A memory surfaces.

In the Zen’in residence on a certain day, there are dolls lined up in the main receiving area, all dressed in elaborate kimonos with the sound of their accessories twinkling from a single gust of wind from the open window. Toji remembers transfixing his attention on these dolls when he was four years old, his curiosity pulsing through his undeveloped mind to touch one of them. His fingers reach out and the tip of his toes carry him closer to the girl wearing a headdress that can tangle with a single nudge. The doll is almost calling to him—the crinkling eyes closing because of the smile on her face, the folds on her attire devoid of creases, and the platforms possessing patterns that match her partner. But Toji also remembers feeling a hand crack against his skin, pushing him from peeking through the edge of the display area and to the ground below him. He remembers the pain that erupted after his head roughly bumped on the hardwood floor. There was no time to whimper in pain because the hand gripped the tendrils of his hair in between their fingers. His eardrums nearly burst as he closed his eyes to accept whatever punishment the hand gave him.

The doll gives off the same feeling as the girl walking through the door. He is itching to reach out to make sure she is real but he knows once he does that, the hand will come back again.

“Man, she is perfect for me,” Jinichi muses beside him.

Toji never takes his eyes off the doorway where the main family of the Joushou clan disappears, answering, “Keep on dreaming.”

“You don’t think so?” Jinichi scoffs. “What? Are you planning on taking her? Don’t—you’ll only soil her holiness with your curse or the better lack of it rather. She will give birth to my heirs and the possible holder of the Ten Shadows cursed technique, mark my words.”

He makes no sign of using his voice. Toji flickers his eyes to the body of the little boy that will be burned later on in the ceremony. If the Hanamo clan can bring forth life with their wombs, why would the mother of that girl give birth to something dead? The doll-like girl then comes into mind—her fluttering eyelashes, the plushness on the apples of her cheeks, her eyes that seem to carry an entire flower field, and her air of only existing in dreams. Will she suffer through the weight of carrying death inside her? Will she assume that lifeless look her mother donned?

“What will you do?”

“What?”

He keeps on talking to Jinichi, “What will you do if she becomes her mother?”

“You mean to test our bond as brothers?”

Stupid. “If it comes to a point that she is not who our world tells us she is—giving birth to dead babies. Will you still accept her? Be faithful and not take any mistress like our father did?”

“Father is a coward,” Jinichi answers. “The women who have the privilege of being offered to us are the cream of the crop as the elders have been saying. We are told that they are the perfect women to breed children into and I will do everything in my power to make sure they will bring life instead of death. The Joushou girl is not an exception.” Toji feels his skin crawl at Jinichi’s smile. “In fact, her womb is the best reason to try and try again, am I right? I bet her father will do that to her mother tonight. Have you seen the look on his face?”

All Toji can offer as a response is silence.

“It’s the look of someone with a goal in mind. Maybe the next time we visit the Joushou compound is for a festival, not a shitty funeral for a dead kid.”

It’s another funeral—this time, not for a dead kid, but for the esteemed Lady Joushou instead.

The previous one was not as suffocating as this one and Toji is not an idiot to detect the miasma of tension surrounding the entire compound. With the Lady gone, the clan is in chaos—if the rotting smell of flowers drifting in the air is any indication. He can hear the elders of both the Jujutsu society and this family urge the head to find potential women to replace the one they have lost. It’s not a surprise to him—older men telling leaders what to do with the future of their clan, having lived in the most grappling environment he knows in his life—but it repulses him that they are outwardly discussing it in the Lady’s funeral.

The funeral rites have ended, the ashes are gathered, condolences are given, and Toji leaves it all behind to enter the withering gardens of the Joushou main residence. He may not have the capacity to feel cursed energy but he can tell that this decay is caused by the Lady’s death. With no one to educate him on the many clans in their society, Toji learned everything by himself. One particular scroll has been hidden away in the library of the Zen’in residence and they entail the history of the Heir Makers. It was only a year ago that he was curious enough to learn more about the doll’s familial lineage. Of course, the Joushou made a name for themselves with their impenetrable cursed technique but it is the Hanamo clan that made the doll’s birth possible. Just like their name, they have something to do with flowers and something about the manipulation of their souls—befriending them to follow their bidding. All of these are overlooked by the fact that just like flowers, they represent the essence of life—fertile wombs and precious beauty above all.

While he walks in this grey scenery, Toji is silent on his feet. Not a single sound emanates from his footsteps. The heavens are not that cruel—they still blessed him with an advantage against those who can sense cursed energy. There is no symphony of birdsong here, almost like they feel that their voices shouldn’t tarnish the melancholy dome around the compound. Toji blends in with the silence. His eyes roam around the dropping shrubs and the raining leaves, his hands nestling inside the sleeves of his black kimono.

A splash of green on the stiff grass catches his attention. He follows it. They form a line, stepping stones even, toward her.

The doll is crying in the middle of a pond of grass, her back turned from him. Her hair is pinned close to her head, her black funeral garb once again embroidered with red outlines of flowers that seem to bring colour to this eternal void. Even without facing him, he can tell she is crying from the way her tiny shoulders shake. Of course, she won’t notice him, nobody can, so Toji takes this time to watch her silently and let her heart cry for her mother. The sight in front of him calls all of his attention for her tears bring a solitary flower to sprout from the ground. It’s oddly beautiful, he finds himself thinking. He expects her to grow more flowers from her grief.

What he doesn’t expect is her looking over her shoulder to zone in on him, those flower fields for eyes arresting him in place and rendering him motionless.

The pounding of his heart echoes through the chambers of his heart, alerting the tingles in his stomach to flutter their wings. It’s different from the paced heartbeat he experiences whenever someone pushes him into the mud in the Zen’in estate. This particular reaction from just her making eye contact with him pushes the heat to climb to his face, dusting his cheeks and the tips of his ears. It’s the first time he feels embarrassed about being noticed.

She is as pretty as her cursed technique.

“Who are you?” her voice carries through the dead garden.

Toji nearly jumps in place but he covers it with a cough from behind the sleeve of his kimono.

She cuts him off from answering. “You’re not supposed to be here.” Her eyes cut through the open shoji doors behind him.

“And you’re supposed to be out there,” Toji nonchalantly remarks with a thumb pointing behind him.

The doll blinks, her eyelashes fluttering like butterfly wings on her skin. She looks away from him and blue washes over her tiny figure. “I don’t want to.”

“And I don’t want to be there either, which is why I’m here.”

Annoyance flickers on her face as she juts her bottom lip in a pout. Toji blankly stares at the unwarranted gesture—cute. She really is like a doll; so fragile, dainty, and tiny that nobody has the right to touch her, including him. The distance between them will remain as is; something he will never lessen through weathering seasons. This girl’s existence is everything he is not and she is worth more than him, way more than his family can offer. She breathes life in her tears—who knows what she will bring with her touch. “The elders won’t like it if you’re here,” she finally fills in the silence.

“I don’t care what the elders have to say. I stopped caring a long time ago.”

She thoughtfully brings her attention back to him. “I remember you.”

Toji can’t help but wear shock on his face.

“You’re the boy who looked friendly two years ago. You were at my,” she chokes up, “brother’s funeral two years ago.”

So he did leave a lasting impression on her. For whatever reason, Toji doesn’t know.

“I think you’re the only one who looked friendly, that’s why I remember you.”

Him—friendly? He is described as looking like a demon spawn by many. Not to mention that he inherited his family’s signature harsh look, narrow eyes, and face always set in a scowl without trying. People will say otherwise if they heard what came out of this princess’s mouth.

“Hey, princess, I’m anything but friendly.”

“The flowers aren’t afraid of you, including this one,” she nods at the flower swaying in the wind, the only witness to their exchange and the first one to many to come. There’s no smile on her face but her tone suggests something that douses Toji in a foreign feeling. Nobody has given him this kind of attention before and it’s getting hard not to look away from her. “You’re not like the rest of your family.”

Toji scoffs. “Of course, I’m not—”

“I can tell you have more heart than them.”

He raises a disbelieving eyebrow.

“If other people from your family found me here, this conversation wouldn’t be the same as the one we’re having now. They will tell my father and he will scold me like he scolded Mother. Or worse, they’ll pick me as a bride.”

He remembers his older brother asking their father about his possible betrothal to the treasure of the Joushou clan but Jinichi was instantly shut down by a drunk remark, saying that he will never be good enough for something precious as the girl. Toji also remembers Jinichi letting out his frustrations and anger at him in the dead of the night when the servants were asleep and the night was cold, pushing him out of the residence and forcing him to lay on the garden’s pebbled path as if it’s his fault for ruining a potential alliance—Toji is bad luck as Jinichi stated.

After gaining sentience and understanding, Toji hates everything that his clan stands for. So, he should also be hating this girl. She is the pinnacle of jujutsu and every special case is something to be revered at. However, looking at her right now, how can someone suggest that they marry someone younger than the youngest member of the Zen’in clan?

“You’re too young to marry anyway,” Toji replies while scratching his head. “What good would marrying a kid give to the old geezers I know?” He then sighs, “Besides, aren’t you supposed to be playing with dolls at this age? Why are you already talking about marriage?”

She looks away. “Because my mother is dead.”

“Hah?” he exclaims. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Her eyes dim a little and Toji curses himself for not thinking before speaking. “Father needs good alliances for ruining the one he has with my mother’s family. I’ve heard him talk.”

“And he’s what? Selling you to my clan?”

“It’s a possibility.”

“Well, that sucks.”

The doll nods.

Toji clicks his tongue. “If they keep on pestering you to be their wife, you might as well just run away.”

She tilts her head, making her look like an adorable stuffed toy hanging on stalls in festival games. “Mother told me that would be the worst thing to do. Father would be angry and I would be chased.”

Something becomes stuck at the back of his throat. How will those words influence you when your mother is dead, is the unsaid thought lingering in his mind. He chooses to let them bubble inside him. Instead, he says, “If I were you, I would have run away from the moment I heard my father arranging marriage proposals. It sounds like an escape that I would want from everything if I’m being honest. And now that I’m thinking about it, marrying into the Zen’in clan will mean that you will become either my aunt or my sister. I don’t know which of the two I prefer.”

“I don’t think I’d prefer any of that either.”

Toji watches as she fiddles with the petals of the carnation resting on her palm. Hesitation keeps making him twitch, from the tips of his fingers to the shuffling in his feet. The distance between them lessens as he follows the trail of green toward her. His hands are still hiding in his sleeves and he paints a picture of nonchalance on his face, one that doesn’t betray how his heart is racing at the thought of being in the same circle as her. The doll he was reaching for when he was young is finally within his reach. He plops on the spot next to her, far from her and the flower but not that much to warrant any awkward air around them.

“Toji.”

“Hmm?” The girl doesn’t even flinch in surprise at his proximity.

He fixes her a glance, almost grumbling, “That’s my name—Toji. Figured that if you want my help in running away, you should know it.”

She finally smiles, a tiny one but still noticeable within the monochromatic background they are surrounded by, and his hands become sweaty at the sight. The girl doesn’t even know the power she has while doing it. A piece of hair falls from her elaborate hairstyle, draping itself over her shoulder, with Toji’s hand itching to push it behind her ear. What is wrong with him? He feels his face heat up while looking away from her. Unwarranted thoughts circle the caverns of his head, all concerning the girl beside him. Regretting his decision to sit with her in the only vibrant area of the withered garden, Toji covers the bottom half of his face with one hand, finding the gentle swaying of the breeze among the grey leaves entertaining.

“[Name].”

“Huh?”

“Nice to meet you, Toji-san,” she once again offers a small smile that reaches her eyes. “I’m [Name]. Thank you for talking to me.”

He clicks his tongue. “It’s nothing—just thought that you could use some company because everyone seems to be fawning over your father.”

She doesn’t reply, simply looking down at her lap like she is taught.

No words are exchanged between the two of them. The silence is not palpable to push them into creating meaningless chatter.

It’s just the two of them—a boy who has nothing to his name except for being part of a family he wants to escape from and a girl who starts feeling the strings dictating her every move.

As the funeral rites go on behind them and as the afternoon makes way for the sun to peek through the cloud formations, the colour spreads from where they are sitting, and in the space between them, Toji notices a small bush of hydrangeas* touching the tips of his wooden slippers.

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