#she'd grow old but she would never have the fortune she wanted

[makipedia]

reflections

:go tell the birds that i am gone

:masterlist

note: tw, gore, death, descriptions of panicking and a slur like once. any discomfort after choosing to read is not my responsibility.

Shoko refused to see you, after what you've done. You can't say you blame her, though you can't say it doesn't hurt, either. She refused to heal your hip properly, saying she had already cut contact the moment you became a traitor. The punishment was only being kind; Shoko would've done much worse if she had the energy for it. Yuta had to use his reverse cursed technique to heal your hip, and even then it wasn't fully recovered. You'd need to go to a hospital to get better treatment but all the hospitals nearby are shut down.

When the second years talked about you having changed since last year when times were still alright, Maki didn't believe it. She thought it was because you were just maturing, you were just growing up. Panda suggested that you'd become more blunt and quiet than last year, and dare he say, mean. Maki didn't believe it. Over the phone, when Maki was spending time on her own, Yuta would say the same thing. And in natural, she didn't believe it.

And now that she's been forced to go what felt like an eternity without you, her eyes have been opened. She sees what the others were talking about. The way you stare at the ground or at the wall like you want to punch a hole through it. The way you avoid everyone else despite their best advances. The way you sit, eat, drink and entertain yourself alone while everyone else sits together. A shadow is always cast over your face, your eyes are always dark and empty. This is what the others were talking about. That sad and depressing lump in the corner of the room drowning in who knows what, that lingering thought in the back of everyone's head that rots their minds like the plague.

A gust of wind blows through Maki's short hair, a stand of hair softly dancing in the wind, and she glares at it in a silent command to sit still, but it never stops. The strand keeps dancing. The wind keeps blowing. Her fingers tighten around the cup of water she's holding close to her chest, crossing her legs and leaning back against the couch.

Megumi, standing next to the couch adjacent to hers on the other side of the coffee table in the middle of the room, crosses his arms and lifts his eyebrow at her silence. In the moment that's passed she was arguing with Megumi about his role as the Head of the Zenin clan. Megumi was adamant about not doing it, though the fortune, the cursed tools, the power, role was all his. She understands why he doesn't want it but not why he won't do it. It would benefit the clan, wouldn't it? Or at least begin to. To evolve instead of go back in time, learn to move on from an old mindset and grow and change as a community. Because she'd be damned if another girl like her was born in the next generation and be treated any similarly like she was if she had a thing to do about it.

"I don't want to," Megumi argues back, tilting his head downwards to prove his point. "It's not for me."

"Who else is it for, then, Megumi?" Maki looks back up at Megumi—her eye narrowed slightly, as her other one had been bandaged. Her eyebrow furrows, making a crease in her nose. Megumi shrugs. He looks at the corner of the room, glancing at you sitting on the floor with your legs propped up and your arms on your knees, your head tilted down towards your crotch. He looks back at Maki.

"Wouldn't it be more suitable for you? Isn't that why you became a Jujutsu sorcerer in the first place?"

"There's no way they'd accept me as clan leader with the way I am now," Maki refers to her scars by looking down at her wrist. She almost flinches at the burned tissue. She swallows the lump in her throat, her thumb rubbing the side of her cup. Megumi silences for a moment, taking in the context of her words by looking at the floor.

"Plus, you inherited the family cursed technique, and learned a domain, and Satoru favored you, so it all adds up to you being good for the clan. So just take it."

Megumi rolls his eyes and sighs sharply, narrowing his eyes at Maki.

"But stuff like acceptance...does that really matter? You'll get those benefits like money and cursed tools, just by becoming clan head. Acceptance should be the least of your worries when you have a clan to run."

"I can't," Maki snaps, making Megumi flit his eyes again. He goes silent, biting his tongue to keep himself from arguing, and sighs quietly. "I'm still not good enough. Acceptance was...a big thing, back then. It still is now. And I can't make a place where Mai can feel like she belongs, and..."

Maki makes a quarter turn with her head, making sure to just barely have you in her sights. For a moment she wonders if you're paying attention to any of this or if you're and in too deep in your depression that you're knocked out and taking a nap. She tries to clear her thoughts by thinking of what to do about Mai but it doesn't work; as much as she loves her sister, which is a lot, Maki's afraid she might love you just a little bit more.

"I just need you to do it. And give me the keys to the cursed warehouse so I can collect the tools."

"No problem," Megumi sighs once again and looks around the room. He sees that it's nearly completely empty with the exception of you three (if Megumi would even dare count you as a real presence). No Itadori, no Yuta. The AC turned off, leaving a newfound warmth crawling up his skin.

"I'll go later on to collect the cursed tools," Maki announces, after finishing her room temperature cup of water and gently sets it down on the coffee table. Megumi watches her stand up from the couch, her head making another quarter turn to look at you in the corner. You hadn't shifted from your spot once since the last time she took a glance. Maki sighed deeply and turned back to Megumi.

"You can't tell anyone," Maki whispers, leaning closer to Megumi. He shifts his head closer to her face so he can hear more clearly amidst her hoarse voice. "I'm taking Y/n with me."

"What?" Megumi's eyebrows furrow. "You can't. Hatake-senpai's a fugitive."

"They're also a special grade. There's not much those shitty Higher Ups can actually do other than tell us off."

"They're injured," Megumi counters, Maki twitching her head to look him in the face. They lock eyes for a while, trapping each other in a staring contest. Maki purses her lips into a line, gritting her teeth.

"It'll be fine," another quarter turn. "Just don't tell anyone."

"Will they even go with you?"

"They have no choice. They're injured, remember?"

"Not so injured that they can't retaliate. They have a hole in their hip not in their stomach. They can still move."

"Just trust me," presses Maki, clenching her jaw in frustration. Megumi parts his lips to retaliate, only for blank air to escape. He silences, nodding his head briefly and turning to walk away and leave Maki be.

She shuffled over to your corner which the paint on the walls was being permeated with depression as you sat there like a troll. Maki looked down at you, an indifferent look in her eyes—eye, she reminds herself, gently bringing her fingers up to the bandages covering her right eye. Her fingers tremble and her throat closes up and she feels like crying, and she just might. Her eye felt a heat growing from the center and rushing to the front before she willed the hot tears away in favor of keeping an eye on you; literally.

Maki let her arm drop as her other one came up to swat you in the back of your head. It was harder than she wanted it to be, as you'd brought your hand up to where she swatted and rubbed it painfully, whining quietly at the throbbing in your scalp.

"Come on. We're going to the Zenin Estate," Maki demands, not even waiting for your upcoming protest before she turns on her heel and struts away. Your head lifts up slowly like your bones have rusted, you find Maki in just enough time to watch her turn the corner and—now she's out of sight, out of mind. You put your head back down thinking she'll leave you alone upon realizing you still haven't gotten up, until she storms back in with a noticeable frown, the left side of her nose crinkling as her eyebrow pushes towards the middle of her forehead covered by off white bandages.

"Come on," she hisses, and the demanding tone in her voice lifts your head, and the rest of your body, up like a spell. The need to follow her stirred in your gut as your feet shuffled on the floor. Your shoes dragged against the tiles, barely picking your feet up, nearly moonwalking across the room to reach Maki who'd already turned the corner again.

You reached the hallway Maki had favored over that dull and bland room, the lightbulbs were smashed, leaving the hallway dim and shadowy with the only source of light being on the other side that Maki was stepping towards to. You shuffled along that, the darkened bricks hidden by shadows and the lack of light judging you with silent glares like walking through the Hall of Shame.

When you emerged from the shadows of the small hall, Yuji and Megumi and Yuta all looked up and turned to face you. Their faces were all the same upon seeing your arrival; disappointed. You couldn't blame them.

Silence filled the air as you all stood and sat there, almost on pause while you looked around and noticed Maki wasn't in there. Your heart dropped like you were on a roller coaster, lungs shrinking and thrashing for air as you looked at each door on either side of the room trying to guess which one Maki was behind. Then she was in your field of vision again, now without a hoodie but her black sleeveless turtleneck and her cape. You internally admired the cape, as it was fitting for her, then looked back up at her eye which was glaring back at you—with a twinge of regret in her iris.

"We'll be back," she tells to the rest of the peanut gallery sitting in the room, looking at the boys indifferently. They all nodded briefly, Maki's one-eyes gazed shifted back to you and lifted her visible eyebrow.

"Come on," she demands again, turning away and opening the door to step out. She does little to hold it open for you, letting you get it yourself. You pry open the relatively dense door, shoving it and trekking your way down the narrow hallway which had only one light on one side.

"Why are we going to the Zenin estate?" You question, lifting an eyebrow. Maki reaches around to her hip and twirls a thing of keys around her finger before catching them with her hand, latching it back onto her belt.

"We're going to the weapons closet, if you weren't listening from earlier."

"Well forgive me for having other things I'd rather be doing than listen to you talk about some cursed tools."

"Like what? Painting the streets red with blood?"

Maki's retort silenced you, the words caught in your throat. All of them bunched together caused a knot to form in your esophagus, having no choice but to force them all back down and to keep quiet. Maki felt a bit proud of herself for having shushed you, and visibly so as she added a bit of sass to her step.

________________________________

It seemed as though the years had passed slowly, like time was dragging its feet on the carpet and made people seemingly more miserable. Narrow, unforgiving eyes watching never ending turning of the earth had grown sunken. Pursed lips usually plump and full of life were pale and dry like plants going through a drought, as well as the skin which was (unbelievably) at one point smooth and warm. Now the skin that covers the man was coarse and cold with heavy actions weighing down in his pores.

The air was as cold as he was. The wind was blowing viciously, sending wind chimes thrashing to and fro in violent gusts. Watching from outside made it look more intense than what it really was, the man's eyes staring at the wind chimes dancing in the aggressive wind. Unfortunately it was just the air conditioning that made the room so cold; Isamu wondered if the people of the Zenin clan were cold blooded animals disguised as humans lurking in cold rooms at the end of fall.

No Naobito was present; he was somewhere around the estate suffering from burn wounds he'd gotten from Shibuya. For some reason Isamu had been called up to the Zenin estate and discuss the future of a clan he had no part in. The room—unfortunately—was occupied with a man who seemed to be the closest human being to a werewolf with how much hair covered him, Isamu assumed it was because of a lack of hygiene. The other few were both men as well; Naoya, whose face was indifferent and even grumpy and another dude who Isamu never bothered to ask the name of.

"Hatake-san," the werewolf lookalike started. Isamu glanced disapprovingly at him, his lip slightly curled in disdain. "Yes?"

"The sass isn't necessary. You're a Jujutsu Higher Up, yes?"

"I figured that's why I was summoned here," Isamu tsks—actually tsks comically—in disapproval and crosses his arms. He leans back in the seat he was sitting in and touches his back to the wall. The werewolf lookalike purses his lips at the tone coming from Isamu, and he lets out a small disapproving exhale.

"It's been outlawed to unseal Satoru Gojo, as he's been permanently exiled, correct?"

"That and any active plans to unseal him. Penalty is execution," he answers, letting that statement hang in the air. Naoya and the other man look at each other momentarily, conversing silently with their eyes before Naoya looks at Isamu.

"Fushiguro Megumi has plans to unseal Satoru Gojo, correct?"

"I assume so," Isamu sighs softly, as he expects the other men to already know what his answer will be, "he's Fushiguro Megumi's benefactor."

Naoya clicks his tongue just like Isamu did earlier, turning away and looking back at Jinichi—the Sasquatch—as well as Isamu.

"Are you aware of any others who have active plans to unseal Satoru Gojo?"

"No," he nibbles on his bottom lip for a moment. He lets his answer hang in the air, his teeth nagging at the flesh on his lip and his head swimming with ideas on what to say next. He gets the urge to scratch his head comically but he ignores it, instead shifting in his seat.

Isamu gets the idea that with Yuta bringing you in alive, that you may potentially possess plans to unseal Gojo as well. He suspects it—although there's no solid evidence of that, and therefore that's not enough to put another bounty on you. He finishes nibbling on his lip, his tongue gently rubbing the spot where his teeth wreaked their havoc on his flesh and signified he was done thinking.

"I suspect other Jujutsu Tech students have plans as well. Okkotsu Yuta turned in both Itadori Yuji and Hatake Y/n to collect the bounty. Okkotsu made a binding vow to execute Itadori Yuji...but he was insistent on burying the boy himself. I suspect he lied and somehow managed to keep him alive. As for Hatake...—"

"The Hatake child is another problem. Your suspicion of Okkotsu Yuta and Itadori Yuji?"

Isamu crinkles his nose shortly, glaring at Jinichi. His cheek twitches when his eyes land on the man's face, certainly not a sight to behold with the amount of hair and scars covering it. Isamu presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth before letting out a quiet breath, rolling his eyes.

"You underestimate that child," Isamu states, sitting up in his seat. "They certainly are another problem; bigger than Okkotsu and Itadori. I do suspect they also have plans—or at least intentions of that sort. Seeing that Hatake is held responsible for the killings of hundreds of people during the Shibuya Incident, they're rendered a bigger nuisance than Okkotsu or Itadori, and plans to unseal Satoru Gojo make them an enemy to the Jujutsu world."

The room is silent for a moment. The three Zenins in the room looking at each other like they don't know what to do with that information irks Isamu, unfortunately giving him the idea that their brains are much too slow to comprehend what he just said. And in light of that suggestion, he clears his throat to break the silence, and draws their attention.

"In other words, I can't outlaw them unless I have solid evidence like their killings. Jujutsu Regulations demand I have concrete proof of their plans and I can't find that out unless I encounter them."

"So what are you to do about that?" Naoya interjects, moving his arm and resting his cheek on his knuckles and looking at Isamu. The older man pays no mind to Naoya, opting to keep his gaze at the speck of dirt on his knee.

"I have no idea where they are now," he finally announces. He flicks the small speck off his knee with his middle finger, keeping his lidded gaze on his kneecap instead of looking around at the men who look at each other in confusion and irritation. "Someone is to find them, though, and bring them to me—"

"I'll find them," Naoya immediately insisted, earning a judgmental glance. Isamu stares at Naoya with an unreadable expression, his eyelids hooded and his own pupils looking unpleasant to gaze at. He lifts a judgmental eyebrow at Naoya as if to ask with disgust why he's so certain on finding you. He lets out a huff despite, crossing his legs and shifting his weight onto his arm.

"If you're so insistent on finding them," he murmurs with a slight roll of his eyes and a quiet scoff with a puff of his cheeks. "Then you are free to do so."

Naoya felt a sense of pride grow and fester in his chest at the approval of the higher up, a cheeky grin creeping up his lips at the essence of someone of Isamu's rank recognizing his capability to search and capture such an outlaw. He internally promised himself that he'd bring you to Isamu with you over his shoulder and barely a heart to pump the shriveled up blood through your veins if it would make him proud.

He stood up from his seat. All bare minimum respect Naoya had previously held for you flew out the window once he was granted permission to go about this conquest. The other men shifted their gazes to Naoya as they watched him stand there before he silently dismissed himself to his own office that had been appointed to him once he became Head of the Hei.

"Their body is yours to bury with your own hands, Hatake-san."

________________________________

There was a slight limp in your step, from the improperly healed hip bone.

The Zenin estate hadn't changed since you last stayed. The walls were still painted a bland manilla color, some areas on the walls the paint was chipped and discolored, going to show how little the members care for their own home. The atmosphere surrounding it was still eery and unpleasant to stand in. The gravel crunched under your feet as you and Maki both approached the entrance gate.

Not many words were said between you two. In fact, it was silent the whole time. You had not one thing that was about to roll off your tongue that would soothe you and Maki's situation, so you kept quiet. The silence was deafening, in response. There were plenty of words Maki wanted to say and they all hung in the air like clothes being air dried, but she never said them. She figured you weren't going to listen to a thing she said in the midst of your own self pity so she kept quiet to save her the dissatisfaction of being ignored.

The silence was growing irksome. Listening to shoes crunch gravel for the thirty meters to the entrance. You could've swore it was shorter when you were walking this exact same route of gravel last year. But the year was long, and the occurrence of the falling out with Maki and the incident in Shibuya, the number of lives lost to your blade seemed to lengthen the trail to make the silence agonizingly slow. The air only got thicker the closer you got to those giant doors; the ominous dark brown disguised as black at under the dark gray clouds forming in the air growing larger as the distance between you and the mere 5 inches of wood grew shorter.

Maki's hand—visibly the only part of her body you could see that wasn't afflicted by the fire—rested on the gold knob. The cold metal sent a quick shiver down her spine—not long enough to stun her but short enough to make her head shake in an automatic response. She pulled it down before pushing the door open. The sound of wood scraping against asphalt scratched her ears and hers and your auditory systems uncomfortably, your eyes squinting slightly at the unpleasant noise similar to TV static.

You looked to the left and found a well that definitely wasn't there last year. Someone must've added renovations to the estate; that doorknob went down more smoothly when Maki pushed it than it did when you were leaving, and much more quiet and neat in contrast to the old and faded silver one. Gravel was also lined along where there were stepping stones that let symmetrically right and left to different sides of the estate. Whereas last year it was grass.

Something in your stomach gets the feeling that something bad will happen—you can't put your finger on what it is or when it'll happen, but the weary, uneasy feeling stirring in your gut like a stomach bug makes you lightheaded. Maybe it's the air pressure around you that's practically oozing with cursed energy; it only seems to be getting stronger the further in you two go. You aren't sure if Maki feels it—she's probably hiding it if she does; she hides everything: her sadness, her fear, her stress. It's hidden behind nooks and crannies that only a select few people know where to look.

Maki makes a sharp turn down some hallway which you assumed was an important stop because her steps were much more frequent than earlier. You listened to how lightly they hit the floor (which by now you both were walking on hardwood) and figured she was impatient.

You catch up with her to find her standing in the doorway of some office which you've never been to before, watching stare at whoever's in it with narrowed eyes. You listen to her and the other voice—who you concluded was Naoya's when you poked your head around the corner—talk and the phrase 'Your face, which was your only saving grace, is now ruined. How are you ever gonna find a man to help support you? What're you gonna do now, Maki-chan?' in his trademark smug voice caught your ears and you figured you just might blow from the anger that dug your nails into your palms hard enough to form crescents on your skin.

"You can worry about your own damn self! Maki doesn't have a man to 'support' her because she doesn't fucking need it!" You yelled once you turned fully from the corner to face Naoya with a scowl, crows feet forming around the corners of your eyes as they narrowed, your jaw clenching tightly.

Naoya's eye twitched when he finally saw you. From when you first set foot in a mile radius of the estate he felt your presence, though he wasn't certain you were heading here, and that's why he was in his office: getting ready to hunt you down.

He narrowed his eyes and scoffed.

"It's so like you to defend this trash. If you care so much then you can support her yourself, dyke."

"That's why you don't have a fucking wife! Cuz no woman fucking wants you, you piece of chicken shit!"

"That's enough!" Maki yanked at your arm once she saw Naoya stand up from his chair with a scowl mirroring yours, his fist clenched and his nose twitching. Maki pulled you behind her in a swift move to keep you from further stirring the pot, glaring at you for a moment before turning to Naoya.

"Don't instigate, asshole," she grunted, tilting her head slightly at him. He rolled his eyes and released his balled up fist, sighing to release the tension in his chest and sitting back down in his chair.

"I'm lonely. Shall I bully you like I used to?"

"You have a lot to say about bullying for someone who got his shit rocked by a kid last week," you grumbled, earning a look from Naoya as he moved his head to glare at you from behind Maki, who pushed you further back with her arm.

"Anyways. I'm heading to the weapon's closet; the clan head gave me the green light," Maki moved so her hand was gripping your forearm tightly, wincing at how her skin roughly rubs against yours. Naoya scoffed again as he watched you and Maki with disgust filling his gaze, his lip lifted judgmentally.

"I bet you won't find anything there," he calls, turning in his chair to face his desk. You flip him off with both your hands, throwing them around in the air and rolling them around each other before raising them closer into his office.

Maki yanked you by your arm once again after regaining her grip on it, tugging you away from Naoya's doorway and walking down the hall.

She released you once you both were far away from the office, turning her head to give you a dirty look as if to scold you silently. A tug in her heart stopped the words from climbing up her throat; her skin felt warm as she thinks about how quick you were to defend her even when she didn't need it and how close you were to fighting Naoya for her. She instead internally scolded herself for overthinking your actions and brushed it aside as you wanting to take your anger out on him (which she would've done the same thing if it were that serious), turning her head away to keep moving forward.

Your hand rubbed the sore patch of skin on your forearm, soothing it with the warmth of your palm. Your heart sunk when you saw how visibly irritated Maki was that you said all that to Naoya (that part which you couldn't comprehend but it's probably beyond you). Your gaze drifted over to Maki, watching her walk slightly further ahead than you in a silent hurry to the cursed tool warehouse. You looked at the burn scars on her face—really looked at them for once and felt a harsh pang in your heart for knowing that it was the result of your own selfishness that caused her so much pain. Even when she said she was fine, you knew it was true physically, but you weren't blind to the glint in her eye stained with disappointment that this was what she had to live with for the rest of her life. Maki never said it, though you and every other person who knew her well knew that a piece of her actually missed being...easy to look at. Though your mind can't understand why, it would take much barging from Yuta to get the truth (which you promised yourself you would do later on).

The rest of the walk was quiet. Neither of you had anything to say that would make the tension less awkward between you both. The words stayed caught on your twisted tongues but the connotation was hung in the air. Maki's anger and your regret and self loathing for all that has happened. Maki's anger for...where would she even begin...being lied to, being left behind even when she was the one who said for you to leave, anger for watching your back turn to her while she was dying. Anger at herself for not initially listening to you.

Your regret for being the liar, for letting yourself be lazy and let Maki believe that you could've been something wonderful in her heart. Your self hatred for letting yourself fall away instead of turning to her. Your heart would be mended with the bandages that would be her acceptance and reassurance and your soul would be at ease. You would be at ease, instead of the constant fear in the back of your head that is slowly becoming a reality that this is what your relationship with Maki will permanently be: strained, distant, cold. Instead of the never ending shaking of your hands from the anxiety of being seen and heard of as a curse, the fear of being looked at and in the gaze of spectators they see something ugly, and that it will stay that way forever even after your death when your grave is graffitied with slurs and insults on your headstone.

You shook your head to free yourself from your own headspace when Maki pushes open a loud door leading to a giant hallway, the walls laid with bricks, cracked and discolored from years passing by and the air drying up over them. Ceiling lights occasionally flickered over your heads as you and Maki walked through. Your footsteps were damp, seeing that the ground was somehow wet (probably from water damage somewhere), and echoed around the ominous walls. It was almost empty and silent. Almost.

A woman was standing to the side about halfway to the door on the other end of the corridor; you'd think she's something out of one of those weird paintings or from some creepypasta with how she ominously stood out. A beige kimono, dark hair, and an expression you can't make out (but you figured was a scowl) was her look. You could tell she parted her lips to say something, as you'd heard the echo from her drawing a breath as you and Maki got closer to the door, which the woman seemed to be weary of.

"Maki...what are you doing here? Go back," she hissed upon watching Maki approach her and the door. Maki simply dug into her pocket and pulled out a ring and a bunch of keys attached to it, swinging it around on her finger.

"Going through the cursed tool warehouse. Clan head said it was alright—"

"I said go back!"

A chill ran up your spine once the woman shrieked. The echo of her shrill voice bounced off the walls and rang irritatingly in your ears. You covered them with your hands for a moment in case anymore banshee sound waves decided to take a trip down to your eardrums, and then let them down once you felt Maki's arm brush past your sleeve. A chill went down both your spines this time; goosebumps broke out on yours and Maki's skin. Your breath hitched while Maki shivered in silence.

Clearly you both went anyways, Maki bringing the key up to unlock the warehouse, only to find it was unlocked already. You frowned as you sensed a sudden shift in the air, and you put your hand on the door, stopping in front of her.

"Don't go in there," you whispered, not daring to let the strange woman know that her suspicions were right and that something bad is waiting beyond that door. Maki looks at you, her eye narrowed. For a moment she considered listening to you for once and not going in, but her pride got the best of her and considering that she had to argue with Megumi(who presumably is just as stubborn as Maki is) for these damn keys and put up with Naoya's bullshit and even dragged you out here, she was not turning back around.

"Move," Maki shoved your hand away from the door. "If you don't wanna go in there, that's fine. But don't bring me down, too."

You were about to sulk at how deeply Maki's words hit you, about to turn away and clutch your sleeve and try not to cry at the reality that you've already brought her down enough just by letting her fall within two inches of her own life. But another presence, familiar and unpleasant ticked your brain. Your head shot to face the left side of the hallway from your perspective, which was now seemingly darker. You found your legs involuntarily wandering towards the hallway in between the walls on the left side, leaving Maki to wonder what was wrong as you began jogging towards the corner and disappearing behind the stone.

The pressure increased the further you walked. Your footsteps damply echoed and bounced off the walls which were starting to be infested with mildew and mold. Such little light was given through the hall that the only source was coming from the other end where dull lamps hung from hooks on the ceilings covering the breezeway. Your heart began racing in your chest and your brain began screaming at you that this was your gut feeling that something bad was about to happen, not only to you, but to someone else as well. The amount of cursed energy you could feel pouring off of whoever was waiting gave you a clue as you turned a corner and found an open door on the side of the wall that went left.

You stood outside of it silently. Evidently you couldn't see beyond the wall, but your eyes were fixated on a certain spot on it that was in place of whoever was sitting there. Your heart raced faster and faster, thumping harshly against your ribcage as if trying to break free and run away. Adrenaline rushed through your veins. Your breath grew short. Your legs felt like jelly yet your feet were stuck to the hardwood floor, your toes curling to get away.

As your eyes—widened and sharp with your anger practically fuming out of them—watched the shape of the soul behind the wall begin to stand out of its spot, your breath caught in your throat. You felt as if your heart would surely pump out of your throat and spew onto the floor, forcing you to choke on your own blood as it poured out of your lips and drained the life out of your body. Goosebumps broke out on your skin as the figure moved past the wall and stopped right as its gaze landed on you, staring down at you through the hooded eyelids and covering the top half of its eyeballs.

You found yourself face to face with Isamu once again.

Your heart almost stopped as you looked up at him. His face changed drastically, but you still recognized him after a few seconds of staring into those cold black eyes seemingly devoid of any life. His lips were sealed, like they'd ran out of things to say to you once he gave you away to this godforsaken clan. You almost thought he didn't recognize you (which you wouldn't be surprised if he didn't after not seeing you for so long) until he tilted his head at you, his eyes hardening.

"Naoya isn't very good at his job, I see."

One would've thought that Isamu would have a change of heart over the last nine years. Maybe guilt would've been eating at him all the time he'd spent without his own daughter. You'd only seen him happy one time and you couldn't even remember it. The man standing before you seems so stone faced all the time like he's a statue or even a gargoyle. A gargoyle more fitting for him—the shadow casted over his face from his hair painting an ominous picture of him. His never ending glare would send chills down anyone who was trapped in his medusa-like gaze for too long, perhaps trapping them in place out of fear. He looked too much like how men are depicted in articles and Wheel of Fugitives.

"What?"

"He left a short while ago to linger in that thing he calls an office to supposedly wait for you and some other people to arrive," Isamu turned his head to the corner, where the previous hallway started to the much bigger corridor leading to the cursed tool warehouse. "For you to have come here through that hallway you would've passed his office already. I don't see why he didn't take that opportunity when he had it right at his doorstep."

"You sent that bastard to find me?!" Your anger spiked and your heart set off again, pounding like a flag had been waved for the muscle to drive in a Nascar race.

"You watch your tone, child," Isamu turned his eyes back to you sharply, glaring at you like a speck of dirt on his shoe. "You're lucky I don't strike you down where you stand and leave you a bloodstain on that floor."

"You'd kill your own daughter?" You hissed, your fists balling up until your nails began digging into your skin, causing blood to flow down the creases in your palms and leaking through the cracks between your fingers. "Wasn't selling me already enough?"

"Don't question my morals. I was the one who issued the bounty on you."

You almost felt your heart jump out of your throat like you had the premonition of earlier. Your nails dug further into your palms and your breath grew shorter as your body trembled. Not with any sort of fear or anxiety or sadness at the fact your own father issued a bounty and permitted a goddamn execution over you. The anger racking in your brain turned into a rage that leaked more blood from the crescents in your hands, your teeth grinding so hard you felt a molar crack from the pressure.

Without thinking twice, your arm twisted back and threw a mean hook at Isamu's cheek while it was still facing you, listening to the sound of the pop coming from his skull. He shuffled in his spot but never stumbled or lost his balance. His lips stay pursed as his fingers rubbed his cracked and dislocated jaw, eventually popping it back into place as he listened to you shout your anger into his ears.

"You bastard! You sent my own goddamn friend after me! Your own damn orders got a hole in my fucking hip and now I'm damn near crippled because of you!"

You threw another punch onto Isamu's jaw, one that didn't go unanswered. His eyes shifted over to you as his own knuckles met your chin in an uppercut, a sharp pain shocking your entire skull. You were caught in your few seconds of shock as Isamu landed a swift punch against your gut, putting cursed energy into his fist and sending you flying back to the end of the breezeway, tumbling back against the wall.

You coughed and gasped for breath as your back hit the wall violently. You were sure the impact cracked a rib or two as an almost blinding pain stemmed from your back, your hand holding your side as you slowly got up, your lungs still burning for air. Your body shook against the wall. A cord being struck in your brain warned you that Isamu was coming for you, forcing you to swing your head to the side to avoid getting your skull bashed into the wall.

The impact from his raw fist landing in the concrete wall tore the skin open over his knuckles, blood staining the damaged paint and his own skin. Isamu clenched his jaw and ignored the sting in his knuckles before turning his head and finding a blank space where you used to be.

He narrowed his eyes and retracted his fist from the wall, standing idly and looking around the complex of the breezeway. His eyes carefully scanned over every door and wall you could've hidden behind, searching for your cursed presence as he breathed deeply. Isamu's cursed technique, which you'd inherited from him, came out and reached around the complex and strikes through all the lamps hanging on the hooks, making it darker underneath the dark gray clouds. He caught a drop of rain landing against the fence of the veranda. The slight shift in attention was enough time for you to come up behind him and perform an inside crescent kick against his head, sending him tumbling against the fence. As his old and labored body hit the wood, your hands grabbed him by his hair and began bashing his forehead against the bar of the fence, his blood splatters mixing with the drizzling rain coming down over the complex.

Isamu gathered the strength to keep his head from meeting the fence one more time before he was sure you'd split his skull. He nearly used all his strength to push his head back up until your hands slid off the strands of his hair, snapping his head back so it could clash with your forehead. A crack came from your skull from the impact of your heads bashing, your brain spinning for a moment before Isamu whipped around and threw a punch to your temple.

Your shoulder hit the wall, a nasty pop dislocating the bone out of its socket. A blood curdling scream rippled from your throat. Isamu grabbed you by your shirt and threw you over the fence, the wood hitting you right in your stomach as you toppled over it and hitting the ground harshly. Blood streaked out of the corner of your mouth as you lay there weakly. Your already weakened hip was aching after landing on it from being thrown over the veranda.

Your cursed technique came out, a shadow of a sword forming in your hand. You listened to Isamu's shoes trekking against the dirt, his breaths coming out in quiet huffs as he looked down at you almost pitifully. He summoned his own sword in his hand, keeping it in his grasp as he stared downward, taking in the sight of your labored body on the ground, blood leaking from your mouth and staining the specks of dirt.

You turned your head so you could side eye him, the muscles in your eyes straining from turning so far.

"If you're gonna kill me just like you always wanted to...now's your goddamn chance."

Isamu stood there silently for a moment, contemplating the opportunities appearing in his head like counting sheep. His eyes scanned over your mangled body, the rib bone poking out of your skin covered in blood. After what felt like an eternity of life-draining silence, he stuck the blade of his sword into the dirt and summoned a shadowy cross. You couldn't see it, but different pieces of rope were summoned in his hand before he walked over to you and grabbed you by your good arm, yanking you up and dragging you up to the cross.

Isamu took your hand and pulled it up to one side of it, your eyes widening and your heart racing in your chest once you got an idea of what he was doing. You looked over at his face, noticing the chipped tooth you gave him and felt a sense of pride swirling in your gut.

"What, you gonna nail me to the cross?" You spat out a small puddle of blood onto the ground before the cross, watching it stain a part of the wood.

"Not nailing you, foolish child," Isamu grumbled as he took the rope and tied a knot around your wrist and the wood, double knotting it in case you do break free before he permits it. He went on to do the other arm, instantly sucking your teeth at the sharp pain in your elbow as he extended your arm to the other side, tying your wrist to the wood. This piece of rope was longer than the other one, seemingly long enough to wrap around your throat and hold your body against the cross before he stepped back.

"I'm not killing you," he started, bringing his hand up to his mouth and nipping his thumb with his teeth until they drew blood. "I'm forcing you to kill yourself."

Isamu approached you, the blood on his thumb being used to mark a line down your forehead and to the bridge of your nose before drawing across just before your eyebrows. You concluded he was placing yet another curse on you, as you felt your heart begin to grow heavier in your chest and connecting it to whatever incantation he was whispering.

"Your heart will be 'broken.' Meaning your heart is weak, your breath shall be short and your bones will begin rotting from this moment forth. The pain in your chest will become unbearable if left alone for too long, and your ribcage will be split open by the curse placed upon you, and you'll be erased from everyone's memories. Everyone who ever knew you will forget you."

Isamu turned his head back towards the hall which you came from. He narrowed his eyes, almost as if he knew that Maki was somewhere down that way and came to a conclusion for his manipulation.

"Even that girl you hold so dearly to that filth you call a heart."

Tears almost welled up in your eyes as your ears caught his words. Your brain processed the depth of the situation—you'd be erased from everyone's memories. Maki, Yuta, Shoko, Gojo. You'd be forgotten by everyone. There'd be no proof of your existence except your room back at the school, which you were sure was trashed by other people in the Jujutsu world. Part of you felt relieved. Maki would forget about all the pain you caused her. She'd forget that you turning your back on her was the reason she was left to be burned alive. She'd forget why there was a hole in her chest that nobody else seemed to fill. Another part of you wanted to keep living. To know that Maki and all the others still remembered you in the back of their minds.

Isamu pressed his thumb against your aching forehead, the touch nearly rattling your brain and shaking your conscience.

"That being said...you'll fight and kill everyone in your path, and let their blood feed the curse sprouting in your heart until you are gone."

Isamu released the ropes and the cross, the shadows dissipating into thin air. He steps away, his head tilting upwards. Nowhere in his heart did he feel any remorse for what he's doing. No regret, no shame, no guilt. His philosophy is solidified and his choices have been made without a second doubt about it. Whether this will affect him negatively or positively depends on if he cares; and frankly, he does not.

Your breath picked up, each inhale getting harder and harder to take. You wondered if it was the effect of the curse or if it was your own panic settling in your stomach that made you want to throw up. You felt tears welling up in your bottom eyelids, blurring your eyesight. You felt a sharp pain in your knees; you realized you'd fallen straight from the cross when it faded away. You breathed heavily, your vision blurring out. Your voice cracks as the tears begin rolling down your cheeks. Every bad thing possible you could think of couldn't match up to this. You didn't want it. You couldn't bring yourself to kill Maki, much less fight her. You couldn't let yourself sit around and die on your own and be erased from her memories. Having that cursed placed upon you made you realize how much you didn't want to die.

________________________________

A muffled crash came from the outside of the cursed tool warehouse. A man, different from Isamu, with longer hair tied back into a ponytail and beady eyes. His shadow stood over the stairwell leading to the floor of the discipline room, looming over the two nearly lifeless bodies lying flat against it.

He turns his head around in the direction where the crash came from, an eyebrow raising as he contemplates going after it to see what's going on. His mind is changed when he hears the faint rustling of clothes against tile, his head whipping back around to face his two daughters on the floor.

"The curses in here are scared of me now," he looks around the room, a pause. He looks back down at Maki and Mai, a look of disgust shadowing over his face. "But soon enough they'll come out to eat you."

Maki was unconscious, her still body lying on the white floor. Her shadow was cast onto the large tiles from the light escaping to the room from the corridor outside. Mai was sitting—no, looming over her with her hand on Maki's chest. Her heartbeat was still going; albeit, weak. Mai clicked her tongue as she exhaled sharply, looking around the room. Her father left to see what the crash was when a wave of cursed energy practically washed over the entire Zenin estate.

Mai sighed again, clenching her jaw as she hesitantly leaned down. Mai knew you were somewhere around the estate; she wished you were here right now to be the one to wake Maki up.

"Tough as always," Mai scoffed, shaking her head as she leaned further down until her face hovered over Maki's. Her breath fanned over the damaged skin, the burn wounds that welted onto Maki's body. A shiver went up her spine, unpleasantly. The next breath that came out was in the form of a fog; Mai's skin was going cold. She was dying, she concluded. The ugly truth.

Sand roughly caressed Maki's skin—her arms, getting in her nails and in her hair. The element got between her toes and slightly tickled her feet. A gust of warm air jolted her awake, and her eyes peeled open to find herself looking up at a blue sky, not a cloud in sight. The sun shone brightly in her eyes and stung her retinas, making her look away.

Next to her was Mai sitting with her feet flat on the sand and her knees propped up. Her elbow rested on one of them, her palm supported her cheek. She was staring at the water ahead of them, seemingly waiting for Maki to wake up and come to her senses.

"You're a real dumbass, you know," Mai glanced at Maki with a tinge of hardness in her eyes reserved only for her. Maki sat up instantly at the sound of Mai's voice, like a command of her full attention. She straightens her posture and toughs out the cool water splashing against her bare feet.

"I don't have much longer left. I'm suffering from my wounds that father gave us. After I make this thing for you, I'm gone."

"What?"

Mai stood up from her spot. No sand was stuck to her dress, to Maki's surprise. A tug in her heart pulled her to her feet as well. An incredulous expression waved over Maki's face like window curtains pulled to show the outside. She watched Mai with a wide eye as she strolled into the water. Confusion took over her as she curled an eyebrow.

"The fuck are you talking about?" Maki frowned as she took a step into the water. An uncomfortable coldness splashed on her skin and sent a shiver up her spine, goosebumps appearing on her skin. "What thing? Doesn't matter. Get back over here."

"I finally figured out why twins are a sin in the Jujutsu world," Mai stopped in the water when it was up to her shins. Maki's face pulled into another confused frown as she silently waited for what else she was to hear. The conflict of all her emotions were causing a malfunction in her lips. They wouldn't part because she had all too much and nothing to say at all.

"As long as I'm around, Maki, you'll always be half-assed."

"Mai, wait—"

"If you ever do see them after this, don't tell anyone else," Mai added. Her own face scrunched up into a soft frown—not like Maki's. The creases in her forehead didn't carry an aggressive path in the ripples of her skin. Her eyes weren't rough anymore. The clarity of her fate was settling over her shoulders. She had nothing in her power to do what was to come of her. "I don't think you and Y/n were ever supposed to meet."

A weightless thing in Mai's hand appeared suddenly. Her wrist flicked and showed in the palm of her hand a small flower. She looked down at it. She had to will away the tears about to gloss over her eyes and blur the vision she had of what would come next. She closed her fist and shifted the flower up to her fingers, extending her arm out towards Maki for her to take it. A weight dropped on Maki's heart as she came forward and took the flower in her gentle grasp.

"When I leave," Mai started, turning her head to look at Maki. "Destroy everything, big sister. Everything."

Maki felt like she was knocked off her feet again. The feeling was worse than before when she was facing her father. It was like being on a roller coaster or falling into that curse's mouth just a year ago. Her stomach churned and her heart felt like it was being inflated from adrenaline pumping in her veins. The feeling of her consciousness hitting the cold hard floor was like hitting wet cement. She felt as if every bone had shattered in her body.

Maki found herself curled into a fetal position, mirroring Mai in front of her. Blood was trickling down from her nose; her skin looked pale. More than usual, at least. Maki had the premonition that she wasn't breathing. She thought right.

"Mai, wake up," Maki whispered. A weight in her hand settled on her palm. She looked down to find a sword was in her grasp. A moment was taken for her to process the weight and the situation and the sword and the lifeless silence of her sister before she figured out it was a replica of the Soul Spit Katana.

"Wake up!"

________________________________

You fell from the ropes, landing roughly before your hands could catch you or at the very least break the fall. The sudden change in altitude and the speed of your fall made you feel lightheaded. You were hyperventilating, you realized when your chest felt continuously empty no matter how many breaths of air you try to take. Panic was swirling in your ribcage, squeezing your lungs and forbidding you from taking any oxygen. The claws of anxiety and fear were ripping at the seams of your heart. You figured it was the effect of the curse. The conclusion dissipated out of your mind's eye as quickly as it came from the lack of oxygen in your brain.

Your skin felt like it was on fire, burning hot to the touch to incinerate anyone who came too close. The heat spread to your face; flames of anger licked your skin and made your arms tremble. Tears salty from the ugly taste of resentment lingering on your tongue left what felt like streaks of lava as they rolled down to your chin. Your heart hammered in your chest, thrashing and slamming against your ribcage which you felt would surely shatter from the pressure. A million and one thoughts raced around the matter of your brain, all of them being images of Isamu's body laying lifeless to your hands in one way or another.

Your nails dug into the dirt under your palms. Your breath shook as you picked yourself up. All your conflicting emotions, all the thoughts swarming in your head, all the curses in the world couldn't stop you from getting the urge to rip him apart until only his blood vessels stained the soil. It was his fault. The pain of being thrown into the chains of the Zenin clan, the pressure of his hatred pressing your lips shut and forcing you into silence even when the words you wanted to say were suffocating you. It was his fault.

The weight of a sword fell into your hand. Wind blew into your eyes and made them water. The swiftness of your feet dashing across the estate to reach Isamu where he'd been planning to leave left no footprints. Adrenaline raced through your veins at a breakneck speed. The pace of your sword cutting through the air was even faster, cutting right into Isamu's shoulder blade. The result of your purposeful miss was him turning to find your sword right in front of his eyes, his own blood dripping from the blade. The crimson red was barely visible against the void color and the shadows clouding around it.

His heart raced in his chest as he formed a katana for himself, swinging his arms to strike back. His age seemed to catch up to his speed. Your head ducked away from his blade cutting through the atmosphere. You turned your sword and drove it through his torso, piercing his pancreas. Blood curdled the scream ripping through Isamu's throat, spilling out from his mouth and staining his teeth an evil red, dripping down his jaw and to his chin. The bottom of your shoe met the other side of his stomach, kicking him back. The katana he made fell from his grip, landing on the pavement with a sharp clang.

His back hit the asphalt. The sound and the commotion of the fight alerted other members of the Zenin clan which came rushing out to watch you stick your sword into Isamu's shoulder. You were quick to send shadows after them to strangle them and rip through their throats, making them drop to the ground. Blood got onto your pants and your shoes. The racing of your heart went even faster, like you were getting a kick from seeing him in pain. The iron scent of his blood filled the air, permeating your nostrils and making your nose twitch.

"Doesn't feel good being bullied and beaten to silence, does it, dad?"

Your chest rises and falls quickly. Your jaw clenches. The muscles contract in your arms, twitching and itching to strike him again as you listen to the silence that comes from Isamu. The only thing you expected from him. But the disappointment was growing nonetheless. The hope that he dared speak up would leave you all too happy and satisfied to beat him until he knew not to utter another word, to give you the satisfaction of force feeding him the hell he once shoved down your throat.

Too much blood was in his mouth for him to speak. A result of all the bad blood he stirred.

"What's wrong? Can't talk anymore?" You raised your arm, pulling your sword out of Isamu's shoulder. A spark of joy tainted your face as you smiled gleefully down at him, at the pathetic look on him.

"This is good, dad," you pop your knuckles as you stick the blade in his thigh, eliciting another wail of pain with an undertone of anger in his voice. You shook your head as you listened to the resentment behind his screaming, pulling the blade out and sticking it in his hip.

"You don't get to be angry at me!"

Your throat itches from how loud you'd raised your voice. You could look at this forever: the sight of Isamu laying there before you, helpless with the carnage done to his body. The blood you hated so much had seeped onto the pavement and melted into the cracks.

"You sold me! You gave me away! You forced me into this hellhole! Do you know how long I wondered what was so wrong about me that you sold me?! Wondering what was wrong with me?! I was a servant! I was a servant in my own home! Why?! Is your life so bad that you can't lift a finger to do things around your own house so you make your child do them for you?! And when you think about my efforts to make you see that I'm more than a thing to you, you make me someone else's thing?! You made my life a living hell! Everyone else had a dad and I had men to serve! You sold me here as a weapon and a slave and nothing more! Bullied me down until I had no human value to be seen! And when you're finally paying the price for your actions, you're angry?!"

Isamu's eyes were filled with fear. His irises reflected the length of your blade raising in your hand. The silhouette of your face would be the last thing he sees.

"You can burn yourself in hell with that anger!"

Blood splattered from Isamu's skull. The metal of your sword was messy from muscles and veins getting caught on it. Pink matter from his brains splattered onto the curve of the blade. You felt your stomach churn at the sight of it, but the satisfaction, the weight being lifted off your shoulders outdid the nausea. You stood there, staring at the lifeless body on the pavement. The carnage had been done. The feud between you and him was over. You tried to overturn the guilt creeping up in you by looking on the 'bright side' and thinking that you were free from him. But the curse was still there. You were still dying.

Voices of other Zenin clan members were echoing through the walls, getting louder as they were getting closer. You looked at the other members on the pavement, their blood mixing together into a messed up puddle. Your breath hitched as you quickly turned to the direction of the voices, pulling your sword from Isamu's skull and walking towards them.

________________________________

Maki looked at the maroon liquid that stained her Soul Split Katana. Her fingers ran against it, feeling the stickiness and the iron of her blade. The scent filled her nostrils. The smell of copper, the smell of death around her. Her head turned around to find her father on the floor with half his head missing.

She let out a small sigh. Mai's death still weighed heavily on her scarred shoulder. The look was evident on her face, the gloss of her eyes. The air pressure changed suddenly, like a presence had just left the estate. Her head lifted upwards as her hand tightened its grip on the handle, her skin feeling irritated from the texture rubbing against her palm. An unpleasant feeling stirred in the pit of her stomach. The thought lingered in the back of her mind (which made her head begin to ache) that you had something to do with it.

"Come on, Mai. Let's get started."

Her feet drifted over the pavement of the corridor from the cursed warehouse. The footsteps of other members caught her attention. The vibrations in the walls were going in the direction which you left earlier. Her head whipped around to the hallway you'd gone through, her eye narrowing. The urge to follow after the ghost of your steps won her over; her own feet dragged her across the corridor and to the other hallway. Something in her heart pulled her to race out. Something bad was going to happen. She could feel it. Like it was a sixth sense given to her after awakening Heavenly Restriction. The feeling made her feel queasy, but she couldn't let herself stop. Reaching you was the only thing her mind would let her think about.

When she brushed past the end of the hallway, she found a piece of the viranda broken, a hole in the wall, blood, and hand marks on the dirt. Maki inhaled sharply and turned her head in the direction where she heard voices coming from. All of them were cut off by a wet and graphic squelch of blood. She listened to the other members of the Zenin clan choke on their own blood, listening to blows land against bodies and the bashing of their skulls.

Maki raced as fast as she could to reach the source. Every bone in her panicking body was hoping that none of those sounds were the sounds of your blood streaming out of your throat, or the crack of your skull getting busted open. Her heart slammed in her chest as all the possibilities were racing around her head, moving too fast for her to grab ahold of and strangle until it faded away.

The sight wasn't what she expected. She did expect to see your body laying lifeless against the asphalt in a pool of your own blood or with a bashed skull. But the bodies of other Zenin clan members were what she found. Carnage and gore and death painted the scene. In the middle of it all was you, looking at Maki with a thousand yard stare. She was about to part her lips to say something, anything that might've comforted you, but she was only silent. Tears glossed over your eyes as you started for her, your bloodied up sword swinging as you picked up your pace.

Maki furrowed her eyebrows in confusion. The previous images of your dead body went away, scurrying off to the side like a bunch of roaches crawling away to their hiding spots. A new genre of questions were swarming in her mind and blurring her focus. Were you under some sort of mind control? She'd be the one to pull you back out. Did you get brainwashed? She'd knock the sense into you. No matter what it was, she solidified her promise to fix it all up.

The only thing she couldn't fix was your fate.

The speed of your sword swinging towards her was almost too fast for her to process. She barely swayed her head to the side just in time. The very tip of your blade grazed her cheek, a small scratch on her skin.

"Y/n, what the hell are you doing?!" Maki shouted as she dodged swing after swing. More members of the Zenin clan came rushing towards you and her both. Maki used the rushed timing of your swings to kill those other people, the peanut gallery, the randoms were nothing more than people she would barely consider relatives.

"I can't stop!" You cried as you yanked your sword from the side of a man's skull. You pulled yourself around to face Maki, a tear rolling down your cheek.

Maki frowned, raising her Soul Split Katana to block an attack, deflecting it. She raised her leg to kick you back and gain some distance. Her heart raced in her chest. She couldn't possibly come to the conclusion of the very depths of her thoughts. The darkest thing that could possibly be true, the revelation made her head spin. Her face contorted into a look of shock. She couldn't accept it. Even when your sword nearly stuck her shoulder or her side, even when you kept charging at her. You were trying to kill her. The very thing you came to Jujutsu high for, it was finally happening.

Maki didn't know if you were serious about killing her or not. Serious about ending her life without a second thought, without a care in the world. The tears were what she'd seen before; the shining of your glassy eyes, the stress etched onto your face. Doubt swirled in her mind. The despair practically pouring off of you made her heart clench and squeeze in her chest from the claws of the weight of her situation. She felt like throwing up.

When your fist connected with Maki's jaw, she snapped out of her own thoughts. The impact made her head whip to the side. She stumbled to the side before immediately spinning back and landing an uppercut to your chin. The strength of her punch was so hard it lifted you off the ground for a moment before she pulled you back down so she could bash foreheads together.

Your brain rattled in your skull. The harshness of Maki's head banging was knocking your focus all over the place. You were growing dizzy. You couldn't hold a single thought for only a second; you felt you'd get knocked out soon if she kept going. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head each time your skulls clashed. Blood was flowing down your face from your forehead, getting in your eyes and in your mouth.

Maki was growing dizzy herself. The collision was making her brain grow fuzzy and practically turn to stew. She eventually gave up with that, using her fists to knock you back and sucker punch you. Her knuckles were already bleeding. Whose blood it was, she wasn't sure.

Just when your senses were about to come back to you, Maki's fist landed against your temple, knocking you back and spinning into a wall. You collided with the wood, denting it before pushing yourself off and running down the hallway you initially came through. Maki frowned as she watched you dart around the corner; her hand grabbed her katana and dashed after you, speeding down the hallway, her damp footsteps echoing around the walls.

You were hiding behind the left corner, waiting for Maki to speed right past you. She did just as you planned, watching her blur past the corner and look to her right first. You jumped out and grabbed Maki by her hair, pulling her to the wall and almost slamming her head into the bricks. Tears filled your eyes as you watched Maki break the impact with her arms, keeping herself up and pushing her head away from the wall. Your heart clenched in your chest at the pain you were inflicting onto her. Maki was tough, hard headed and a hard hitter. She was all those things, but allowing yourself to harm and break her skin and draw blood was like you were doing it to yourself.

Maki pushed her arm off the wall and elbowed you in the nose, breaking it and stunning you as the pain in your cartilage burned. You were too late to react as she punched you in the gut, making you cough. The air escaped from your diaphragm like it was fleeing from the impact of her fist. You coughed as Maki brought her knee to your chin and sent you tumbling backwards.

Your back hit the middle of the corridor roughly, a crack coming from you. You groaned as you felt one of your shoulders dislocate. You made another katana, the weight feeling like a bag of rocks inside of what it usually was. You lifted your arm up and swung to strike Maki, getting her collarbone and making her hiss.

Her heart sank in her chest as she clashed her blade with yours. Sparks flew from the iron collision, her muscles twitching and her jaw clenching as she kept pushing. Maki wasn't sure why she was about to kill you. Was she still angry at you? Of course she was. How could she not be? You're trying to kill her just the same, you lied to her, left her to die, ruined her life. Why would she not be angry? Why would she not hate you? Why would she not want to rip you to shreds?

Your foot met with Maki's abdomen, kicking her back. You leapt to your own feet and raised your arms to swing upwards. Maki acted entirely on instinct. Her brain didn't even process that she was acting from combat experience and not her emotions. She couldn't even stop her arms or slow them down. It was too late. Blood splattered onto her face, getting on her cheeks and her nose.

Maki's heart raced and sank in her chest all at once. Her breathing picked up, but no air could fill her lungs. Her eyesight grew blurry as she could barely process your arm lifting up to her forehead. Her own hand was reaching out to touch your chest, to feel your heartbeat when your palm touched her forehead.

________________________________

Wind blew through ivory green strands of hair. The air warmly caressed her skin like a hug.

Maki felt like she was floating and falling at the same time. Like she was falling from a cliff and an angel was flying down and barely saving her. Her eyes suddenly widened, a sharp gasp escaping her lips.

She finds herself leaning against a tree stump with her Soul Split Katana in her lap. She'd been sharpening it with a rock this whole time? She looks around and recognizes that she's back at the Jujutsu Tech training field. Nobody else was there. The painted football field lines were faded and the place looked slightly wrecked. Grass was overgrown as wildlife took over the building to the side. She blinked slowly as she straightened her posture, rubbing her eye— she finally noticed she could see out of both her eyes again. Or maybe she always could? She felt so out of place...

"Took you long enough."

Maki whipped her head to find you sitting next to her. For once you were looking peaceful. Your back was against the tree stump as well, sitting criss crossed with a small notebook in your lap. She parted her lips in surprise as she looked around again. Your skin looked healthier, she noticed. When did it not look healthy and hydrated? Had she been dreaming so long that she'd grown accustomed to the sight of you looking so dead?

"What?"

"I wanted to talk to you one more time without getting interrupted by a blow."

Maki's eyes widened. So it wasn't a dream. That was reality, and this was the dream. She felt her heart beating strongly in her chest as she stared at you, watching you peacefully write down whatever it was that you were writing. A frown etched its way onto her face.

"You...what the hell is this?"

"Not quite a daydream," you click your tongue as you pause the moving of your pencil. You look away from your notebook and glance at Maki. She swears she feels blessed with a gift from God himself when she sees the smile on your face. She knows she's being tricked, that this isn't real, but damn if the lie didn't feel like a balm for her aching heart.

"Think of it as a space between life and death. I'm dying right now. I don't even have much time left."

"You sound stupid," Maki says breathlessly. She's aware she's the one who sounds stupid. But she's in denial. She couldn't lose you once again. She could barely stand sitting here knowing it'd be the last time she ever sees you. The sight of your calm and gentle smile makes her heart ache again, her jaw clenching as her breath begins to shake.

"Yeah, yeah," you chuckle, shaking your head before going back to looking at your pages. You inhale slowly as you feel your heartbeat begin to slow down in your chest. Time was running out.

"You never did listen, you know. About why I first came to Jujutsu Tech."

"I didn't."

Maki confirms it with another frown; half hearted and soft, because she knows in these last moments with you she couldn't bear to be mean. She puts down the rock in her hand that was irritating against her palm, letting it tumblr wherever the hill takes it. Her body shifts closer to yours, desperate to search for any kind of warmth that indicates this is reality.

"I'm listening now."

"That's not gonna save me, you know."

"Goddamnit, Y/n."

Maki sighed as her hand gripped a patch of grass underneath her. She closes her eyes, taking a deep breath as her chest rises and falls slowly.

"Just...tell me. Let me know now because if I'm gonna lose you, I deserve to be left with the truth about you."

You close your eyes with her, your hand slowly moving across the grass. Your fingers gently touch hers, a smooth embrace on Maki's skin. She's all too eager to take your hand into hers as if that would keep you here with her any longer. Your heart sinks in your chest at the gesture, knowing no amount of hand holding or truthful speaking can keep you from dying.

"I never did want to kill you."

The words were starting to fall from your lips like water escaping a broken dam.

"I was selfish. I took up the offer because I wanted freedom. I wanted to break the shackles from my ankles and to be able to walk and talk without getting forced into silence. I was to get there, kill you, and leave. But I couldn't find it in myself to even raise a hand against you or even look the wrong way in your direction. So I kept quiet. I slept on it for as long as I could, and when Mai came that day in July, it was all I could do to tell her the truth because I needed to tell someone. When silence is pushed upon you for so long, there are too many words to spill out and it all comes crashing down in a giant mess of ugly truths. When I saw you standing there, I knew there was no way that I could kill you now. I wanted you to move on, to forget me and the monster I am. I only wished I'd gotten to memorize the weight of your hand in mine so I wouldn't forget before having to carry a sword for the rest of my days."

You looked up at the gaps of sunlight peering through the leaves and the tree branches. Another breeze blew through you and Maki's hair, the wind wiping away the crystalline tears from your eyes that Maki wishes she could wipe away herself.

Words couldn't explain what she was feeling in her chest, in her mind. It was like it all came crashing down on her soul. She couldn't find any tears in her ducts to let out, so she'd use your own as an outlet.

"When the air was denser, lighter, and I felt I could float away effortlessly, that was when I knew you were near."

You let another tear roll down your cheek, your throat closing up. You try to hold back a cry, your breath shaking as you exhale through your nose. The wind isn't strong enough to pick up the tear weighted down by the despair in your stomach like a tornado. You were about to die. You were going to leave Maki all alone. You didn't want that, because that meant she'd be moving on.

"I'm almost gone," you chuckle, your voice wavering as you sniffle your nose and let another tear roll down your other cheek. "You're about to destroy the Zenin clan, and now I'm leaving you out here all alone."

Your eyes burn with tears as they come streaming down your face. Maki squeezes your hand as she holds a straight face. It's killing her inside. She'll have to live the rest of her life without you, but only left with memories of you in her mind. Soon she'll forget your face, the sound of your voice, the feel of your skin. She wouldn't allow herself to forget the weight of your hand, just because you couldn't memorize it yourself. She squeezed it again, urging more and more tears to gloss over your puffy eyes.

"Don't let me go," you whisper softly as you feel a blinding pain in your chest. "If you'll be the one killing me today, could you hurt me a little less in the end?"

A streak of blood trickled from the corner of your mouth. Maki's eyes widened as it dawned on her that you were about to leave. Already? So soon? She just got here. She squeezed your hand again and again in hopes that your heart would start beating again. The life faded from your eyes, your irises looking pale and dark as even a light as bright as the sun couldn't make them glisten the same again.

"No...no. Y/n, wake up!"

Maki shifted in front of you and tapped your cheek gently with her free hand. Her breath shook and her body trembled as the world around her began to fade into black. Her attempts at making you stay were in vain. The echoes of her voice screeched in her ears as everything went black.

And suddenly she was back at the Zenin estate. Her hand was still on your chest, feeling your heartbeat slow down until it finally stopped. Your body fell backwards, leaving the blade of her Soul Split Katana tainted crimson with your blood. Your body hit the floor, the red liquid streaming out of your body. The puddle that was your life source now gone was staining her boots.

All Maki could do was stand and watch as the shining white—dark red mixed with it— remained still and untouched. Her eyes widened and her lips parted as she watched your corpse lay there before her, your blood surrounding you resembling the gate to the afterlife opening and welcoming you, stealing you away from her.

This was it. You were gone, her heart was gone, and she could only watch it be ripped away.

Your words echoed in Maki's mind. Her blood ran cold under her skin as her breath hitched. The look in her eyes went from a shocked, saddened glint to a flash of anger. Her lips pursed together as she gripped her sword in one hand, and the other balling up, like she was holding the weight of your hand in hers.

Could you hurt me a little less in the end?

It was the least she could do to avenge you and Mai both on the people who ruined all three of your lives. To make carnage and free herself after not being able to free you and Mai.

Reflections were only left of herself.

_________________________

𝐄𝐍𝐃

_________________________

𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄

It's been a year since the Zenin clan massacre. I don't even know where to begin to tell you all the things that happened.

I killed Naoya for you. I know you hated him just as much as I did. He got what he deserved, for making mine, yours, and Mai's lives a shit storm.

Yuta's dead. So is Satoru, and Megumi, and so many other people. Sukuna's finally gone. He's no longer a nuisance. I suffered some of the effects of fighting him, but I'm okay.

Panda misses you. He says he misses joking around with you and poking fun at you. Shoko-san doesn't say it, but she misses you, too. It takes a little of insight, but it's there. The feeling of dread lingering in her chest.

I miss you, too. I don't like saying it. More than anything, I miss you. I can't bring myself to own anything of yours anymore. I know if I do, then it only serves to remind me that you're gone. Nothing has been the same for me. I can't even eat a cake on my own birthday because it reminds me too much of your sweet sixteen.

It's so lonely without you. Winter isn't the same as it was two years ago when I still had you around to keep me company when the nights get too cold.

You're in a better place. I just wish I could've provided that better place for you by listening when I had the opportunity. I know your voice is gone and only a memory in the back of my mind, but I know in any life after this, I'll always listen to you.

Don't you worry anymore about forgetting the weight of my hand in yours. I've already got yours memorized by the gram.

I'll see you after a while, if you don't appear in my reflections again.

_________________________

a/n: THANK U ALL SO MUCH FOR READING <3333

[belit0]

Hello!! I'd love to see Madara with a single mama. Baby could be hers and the dad died or poofed, or could be her friends passed and in their will they requested her to care for the baby. With Madaras temperament I think a little girl would be so perfect! She'd put flowers in his hair or share her bows and no one dares say A THING about it. Please and thank you!!

As soon as I received this request, I had to write it, because I love Madara's tender side (and having a break from nsfw things is also nice)!🤗💕

This ended up being way longer than I anticipated, I hope you like it!

(Y/N) finally realized the depth of her problems when she held her baby in her arms, the physical proof that things were not going to be easy at all. Of course, she adored her little girl, and after giving birth alone and unaided, without any support, she knew it would be the two of them against the world.

One night of passion and need turned into a lifelong contract with the one she now carries in her arms, and nine months of pregnancy were far from easy. (Y/N) only wanted to feel alive, experience some sort of sensation, and she made the mistake of getting involved with a man who was only interested in the bounty between her legs.

With no clan, no family, and no friends, she went through gestation on her own, until the physical changes in her body would no longer allow her to work. She couldn’t do anything to earn a living, resorting to begging for charity among the wealthy as her only source of income.

Childbirth was devastating and traumatic, full of uncertainty and terror. The pain was overriding, and (Y/N) had to sneak into an abandoned barn in order to give birth indoors. She didn't know if she or the baby would survive, pushing and struggling alone to finally meet the only bit of happiness in her life. After hours of suffering, hearing her daughter's cry gave her back her willpower, and she forgot all her negative thoughts.

It would be difficult, but the two of them would make it together.

(Y/N) found a new motivation in her little ray of sunshine, and fortunately, people were kinder when donating money because of the baby in her arms. For years, she managed to get by, doing her best to find shelter and food.

When her child was five years old, (Y/N) knew things had to change. Her daughter could not grow up on the streets, exposed to any person or factor that would harm her, and the woman became determined to find a permanent destination for them both.

She asked anyone who might be willing to talk to her about possible inexpensive and friendly places to go, and got information about a particular territory. The journey would be long and laborious, a month of walking at least, but as the person who gave her the information related, "Senjus are the most compassionate and empathetic clan in the whole world, if anyone will help you, it will be them."

Ignorant of the war and all the chaos surrounding that particular family, (Y/N) embarked on a journey to find them, praying the legends about the mighty Hashirama were true.

The first weeks passed without any problem, fifteen days of movement where she met people kind enough to give them both a hot meal and a place to spend a few nights. Her little girl resisted the adversities alongside her like a warrior and never stopped smiling. Her attitude helped (Y/N) stay afloat, fighting against life to reach their destination.

The last two weeks of the trip got chaotic, with hints of war along every road they traveled. Near Senju territory, all the houses seemed to be abandoned, and the territory completely destroyed. Trees had been reduced to ashes, residences collapsed, the skies were gray and filled with smoke.

It was a battlefield, and she walked into it without any qualms.

A feeling told her something was wrong, and her daughter refused to walk in those surroundings, demanding to be carried in her arms out of fear. After a few kilometers of walking, she realized she would find no shelter or help there, and decided to retrace her steps.

They would find a more promising route.

A strange sound sings on the horizon, and (Y/N) can see how the heavens turn red. Clouds seem to bleed, as hurricane-force winds wake up unprecedentedly from the ground. The panorama becomes apocalyptic, triggering panic and terror in the two of them. She hugs her little girl and crouches to the ground, trying to hide her face from such brutal and sudden weather.

Two groups of five people each approach from opposite sides, as if they are about to confront each other. A few meters away from her, they run at impossible speeds, and the attack swiftly begins. Fire and water fly everywhere, screams, and metal on metal.

Smoke and debris fly through the sky, landing near where (Y/N) is reduced. She knows they must flee, and her little girl's cries indicate urgency. She has to get them to safety right now, or something terrible could happen.

Quickly scanning her surroundings, she finds no place to hide, the ground crumbling to dust and ruins. Far from any structure that could shelter them and make them go unnoticed, (Y/N) squeezes her daughter tightly, and hopes those men are too intent on their battle to notice them.

She decides to run in the opposite direction of the battle, standing again on shaky legs and holding back tears. There is so much dust in the air it is impossible to see, and she keeps her child's face hidden in her chest for protection. Holding the infant with one arm, she covers her eyes with the other in an attempt to move forward.

While taking her first unsteady steps, there is an embracing heat coming towards them, feeling almost as if about to be burned alive. Everything happens so fast there is no time to react, instinctively acting. Her first impulse is to scream, clutching her little girl tightly and hoping to shield her from whatever might be happening.

An incredible explosion hits just a few meters from where she is standing, and the shockwave sends them both flying backward. In the air, (Y/N) continues to hold her daughter, an inexplicable force helping to keep her close to her. She has a few seconds to calculate how to position her body and be the one to hit the ground, but it never happens.

Before she can slam into anything, two large hands grab her under her legs and shoulder blades, holding them both and pulling them away from the floor. The event is sudden (Y/N) cannot comprehend what is happening, only seeing the face of a man both handsome and terrifying holding them in his arms, preventing them from falling to the ground.

(Y/N) feels the cold armor the man wears against her body, rising and falling with his agitated breathing. Long, frizzy black hair hides half of his face, and upon making eye contact, she is met with an unnaturally red eye.

At that moment, she falls prey to an overwhelming drowsiness, and can only think of her daughter as she falls asleep against her will.

......

"That was close, you know..." A male voice booms against her ears, as (Y/N) tries to gain order and command of her body. All her muscles feel exhausted as if she has gone days without moving. She struggles to open her eyes, but when she does, she finds a cozy room, lit only by candles.

A window indicates it is nighttime, and the mattress under her body feels comfortable and warm. Examining her surroundings, the woman notices she is lying on a large bed, and wearing clothes that are not hers.

"My daughter..." she whispers feebly, trying to sit up and get out of her comfortable rest. "Don't worry, she's fine. Last time I went to see her, Izuna was with her buying candy."

(Y/N) focuses her eyes on that disembodied voice, and is met with a heavenly image. A handsome man with prominent shoulders is sitting against the sliding door of the room, looking out into the starry night and admiring the view. He wears a yukata similar to the one she wears, but much bigger. Long black hair rains down his back, framing his defined jawline.

She might have blushed if finding her girl wasn't a priority, and the stranger seems aware of her urgency. "Izuna!" he shouts into the darkness of the night, and another man extremely similar to him immediately appears. In his arms, he carries the sleeping child, who embraces a bouquet of flowers and a small bag of candy.

"Ah... so she finally woke up. Does this mean our fun evenings are over?" the boy presumably named Izuna asks the sleeping toddler tenderly, as if she would answer. He gives the girl to the mysterious man, and carries her to (Y/N).

Hugging her daughter for the first time in what felt like years, she can't help the tears, kissing her head and remembering those events which brought them here. They both could have died in the middle of that battlefield, but life decided to give them more time.

Well, maybe not life, but that man.

"My name is Madara, and this is my younger brother Izuna... If I hadn't been there to deflect his attack, both of you would be charred right now." The younger man scratches the back of his neck guiltily, and sharing a glance with his older brother, leaves the room, disappearing back into the night.

"Of course, it was not purposeful... the colors you were wearing were easy to mistake for those of the enemy. My apology on behalf of us both." Madara analyses her from his position, arms crossed over his chest and a comprehending look. (Y/N) carefully deposits the small child on the bed, and cuddles her between covers for a peaceful sleep. She tries to get up, but her legs quickly give way under her, too weak to support her weight.

Before hitting the ground, Madara holds her, keeping her against his chest. He carries the woman to where he sat a few seconds ago, and takes a spot next to her. The night is beautiful, and a warm breeze is blowing in the garden, signaling wonderful weather. "Would you mind telling me your name?"

"(Y/N) ... I am (Y/N)." The place is exquisite, and the beautiful room she woke up in is nothing compared to her current view. All the clan's territory can be seen from her position, a million houses lit by fire.

"How long was I asleep...?"(Y/N) asks uncertainly. "About a week. We had to resort to the family healers for keeping you healthy. According to their professional prognosis, I was a bit aggressive with the Genjutsu I used on you."

"Gen...justu?" trying to understand the words and the situation, (Y/N) asks almost to herself, "I confirm you are not familiar with warfare in this territory...I assume you must have traveled from afar. What brought you here?"

"The legend about a wonderful clan and the promise of a good life..." There are tears in her eyes still, mentally going over all the troubles and the terrible experiences lived.

"Hm... that must be regarding Hashirama... Well, (Y/N), we may not be the Senjus, but life here is delightful and comfortable. You are invited to stay as long as you wish... Personally, I recommend not leaving anytime soon, Izuna is too fond of that child to allow it."

Madara stands and smiles at her, before disappearing into the darkness of the night like his younger brother.

........

It's been months since their accidental arrival at the Uchiha compound, but as Madara commented on their first night, life here is nice and beautiful.

(Y/N) found a stable place to live, friends to share with, and a promising future for her little girl. The child begged her mother to allow Izuna to train her, and she started developing in the ninja arts.

She learned a lot about the clan and the family, about their standards and ways of living. Madara did not disclose being the leader of it until a few weeks after she awoke, trying to help her adapt as best as possible and not intimidate her with his position. She understood the importance of the Uchiha family and the power Madara carries within, profoundly respecting him.

The two became extremely close, almost to an intimate point.

The Uchiha adores her little girl, and (Y/N) admits embracing him as a father figure every time she witnesses how the young child fills his hair with flowers or paints his lips bright red. Who would have thought one of the strongest men in the world could have such a soft and tender side for them both?

Seeing the leader of the family stroll around the compound decorated by her daughter was definitely a wonderful scene, especially as no one dared to comment on it, except Izuna. His younger brother was dedicated to teasing him from the first time it happened, until he fell victim to those little hands himself, and had to walk around full of flowers and paint in front of everyone.

Madara was right... they might not be the Senjus, but they were even better.

[limerental]

here, have a half-finished witcher americana retelling I've been sitting on for years now. I didn't quite have the gusto to go everywhere I wanted with it but here she is. I got in my yenralt & ciri feelings mostly :')

It did not go like this:

Yennefer was born the unfortunate eldest daughter of a local farmer of dairy goats and hogs, the sort of farm built into a gully that boiled up with mud and shit when it rained. Born all twisted up in the womb, her spine curved in a permanent hunch. 

Some devil got to her mama, her daddy always said, leaning on a fencepost, hard-eyed and jeering as he spit tobacco into the dust.

Some devil had likely looked a lot like the young man her mama fancied just a few months before she was married quick to her daddy.

The devil long vanished off to the city. 

Yennefer was no good for farm work, but she could do well enough bussing tables at the diner off the main road. She worked there more hours than not for less than scraps, but she did her work and ducked her head and kept mostly quiet about it. If she was just patient enough and careful, she could find her way out of there in time.

Yennefer kept a secret. 

She'd been born with witchcraft hidden in her crooked body, the sort that ran in rich veins through the land itself. The kind that sang in the creek-carved ravines and thrummed through the gnarled roots and swaying branches of the forest. 

She could call the animals to her and find anything lost and drive out the snakes from the chicken coop with a word, and she'd heard stories about things like that all her life so wasn't surprised by the possibility at all. Except for the fact that no one had ever taught her those things, and nobody knew she could do it.

In only a few short months she'd come into the full depth of her magic and the Witch would come for her and changed her life for good.

Before that, she met Geralt.

Yennefer'd long given up fantasies of being spirited away, thinking about strangers' lives with the kind of detached daydreaming of a girl who did dull work for ceaseless hours. 

She wondered who this man was, old enough to have seen the war but younger than her daddy, who had been exempt from the draft on grounds of being a farmer. Which was good fortune, because he would have made a bloodthirsty soldier.

Geralt was a simple man who worked in travelling pest control. His beat up company van coughed over the miles, tools of the trade rattling in the back, big cartoon rat grinning evilly painted across the side. 

Geralt kept a secret.

He knew every trick and gimmick to eliminate a rodent problem, could give his usual spiel about baiting and trapping to any fellow who asked, but had never employed anything that mundane even once. The pests he controlled and catalogued tended to be bigger and meaner and not as pretty splashed over the panels of a van.

Monsters were real, and he knew them by name. Kept tabs on the quiet ones and put down the loud and messy ones.

 Always respectfully, that is.

 Most of them weren't evil, just creatures as old as the land or older, the growing civilizations on this Continent encroaching more and more on the wild places they had once owned.

The war was many years over, and they said the future was bright. The future was now. Geralt didn't know by what metric they measured those things, because to him the world looked the same as always. 

He'd done pest control enlisted in the war too, chasing the sort of monsters that paled in their wretched cruelty in comparison to men. Most of the things he sought out were just trying to survive with shrinking odds in a world rapidly forgetting them.

Geralt got that. 

Got it in ways rural poor America did, living the same rusted out life they always had, going on in the usual quaint and tragic ways.

Yennefer didn't quite get it yet, but she was going to.

She poured burnt coffee for the grey-haired  stranger in the far booth, a typical dusty midday silence settled over the diner. The slanted cartoon eyes of the rat on his sepia-toned van stared at her from where it was parked beside the pumps. 

Places in towns this small wore many faces, general store, filling station, and diner in one. The main road was a common route north, and Yennefer liked to wonder where passersby were going, what lives they led. Imagine what faces they hid from the world, same as her. 

Geralt had a job out this way with a few hours left to drive, hoping the company van didn't shit the bed again before he made it there, and he watched the waitress' hands shake as she poured him his coffee. Crooked through the shoulders, she limped when she walked and seemed to have trouble with the weight of the full carafe. Geralt smiled at her, an ugly, little smile on a face unused to such gestures, but the girl smiled back. He hoped they paid her fair. She had nice eyes, sharp and a cool violet.

Yennefer brought him a slice of apple pie and wondered where the stranger'd got his scars. He had a number of them on his face and hands alone, pink puckers and angry mauve ridges and was sure to have more hidden by his dark coveralls. Probably the war. If it had been the other waitress working, the chatty one, she would have asked, mister, did you get those in the war, must have gotten half blown to hell, but Yennefer didn't ask.

She smoothed her hands down the front of her starched apron and got back to work filling salt shakers, and neither spoke a word to the other.

Geralt didn't make much of a living on the road, but he lived simple and didn't need much anyhow. The pie was an extravagance, tart and sweet. The girl had working hands, calloused. He thought of saying something to her, making conversation, but he didn't. There was the sound of flies humming against the dust-streaked glass, the occasional rumble of traffic on the road, the quiet noise of his fork on chipped china.

He didn't stick around to watch his dollar tip fluster Yennefer's cheeks red. Didn't look back at all. If he had, he would have seen her pause in the screen door to watch him drive off, wondering about what sort of work he did in a strange vehicle like that, what sort of man he was. 

The van's ignition choked and then caught. He had some miles to go.

*

Neither left a lasting impression on the other at that first unremarkable meeting, but when Yennefer next saw him two decades on, she knew him at once in the way that witches always know those sorts of things. 

How fascinating it was to see that the stranger looked exactly the same despite the years. Same greyed hair, same dour expression, probably same pale orange van parked at the edge of the festival grounds. Witchers didn't age the same as men, after all, and that's the sort of thing she saw he was. Perilously slow heartbeat, calculating look in his newspaper yellow eyes, scars curved by talon and tooth and not shrapnel.

Geralt had known what she was by her description, whispered low and reverant like something holy, that this woman was no ordinary medic. Knew before he parted the canvas flap of a shabby tent in some muddy, over-trodden field and stepped into an opulent throne room, the stone walls hung with erotic tapestries, the high ceiling shimmering with a cloud of stars. 

The witch herself sprawled perfectly naked on a high-backed throne with a seat of red velvet. Alone, she looked on in detached interest, still as a statue, a haughty and omnipotent sentinel. Geralt thought her ethereal, beautiful, enthralling. 

Trouble.

In truth, Yennefer was wretchedly hungover after a riotous orgy the night before and could avoid the throbbing of her temples if only she kept perfectly still.

It was by her eyes, shrewd and violet, that, with a jolt of surprise up his spine, Geralt recognized her as the crooked waitress from the diner many years past.

There'd always been witches hidden behind any great power, old world or new. King Arthur ruled by the guiding hand of the wizard Merlin and JFK by a blonde starlet in a snow white dress, though none would ever have taken the latter for a sorceress.

How tiresome it was, thought Yennefer, how empty, how thankless.

Geralt sighed and adjusted his hold on the unconscious Dandelion's thighs, hitching his friend higher across his back as he wheezed into Geralt's ear. Would have rather gone elsewhere. Would have rather the idiot had not offended the ancient, moth-winged creature Geralt had come to reason with into making less noise.

But there was no talking sense into Dandelion. Damn lucky the creature the locals here called Mothman hadn't thought to curse him with something more severe than whatever ailed him. 

It didn't take kindly to flirting.

Dandelion was a poet and a philanderer and a starchild and a balladeer and a free spirit and a scholar and a conscientious objecter and a right pain in Geralt's ass, except that he was also good to talk to and steadfastly humorous even all these years on and the sort of friend who remembered little details like your brand of cigarettes or your favorite candy, who Geralt liked even for his numerous flaws because Geralt liked most people truly and was a good man and loved deeply and loved consistently with his whole damn too-big heart.

"A friend?" asked Yennefer and Geralt shrugged.

What happened next happened the way it always did in every version of the story.

Two broken, fragile-hearted people and something close to tenderness.

*

It didn't happen like this:

Somebody had a pest problem, a wealthy widow with a pretty young daughter. Somebody'd cursed a poor son of a bitch into beastly form. Said he roamed the hills howling by night and walked the streets a man by day. 

The curse broke in the usual way, just as Geralt said. The daughter's kiss on a full moon. True love and all. Happily ever after.

Except a new war broke and in time, it widowed the daughter too and her poor heart couldn't take the grief, and then the market turned sour and the wealthy widow lost her fortune and hung herself in the pantry. Geralt got a letter naming him next of kin by some questionably legitimate legal twist of fate and then, he sighed deep and resigned and drove north to pick up the girl.

It wasn't so unusual in his line of work, strange orphans scattered all over like grisly flotsam. But he didn't usually see to raising them. He'd never had a father besides the old man, and he'd never thought much of having his own children. 

He couldn't know the true dark web of conspiracy around her and would never know the whole of it. The sort of man her daddy was to bear a curse like that in the first place. The old and intricate magicks, bound up in blood and circumstance. The sort of woman young Ciri would be.

Even if he'd known, Geralt would have drove to get her even so. He found the girl buck-toothed and scrawny and lugging a too heavy briefcase down the slumped front stoop of the elderly neighbor who'd been putting her up. Hair the pale color of woodsmoke, eyes like her mama, green as a copper kettle.

And just like her mama, young Ciri had some whisper of something else in her. Something carried over from older lands than this and bolstered by the ancient things here, passed on like the detritus of trauma gained generation to generation. Something tainted and bigger than he had the know-how to suss out.

Geralt sat down and fumblingly wrote a letter.

*

Meanwhile, young Ciri passed an idyllic summer and cold as tits winter on the isolated Morhen ranch in the rural mountains. She'd never worked a farm before and never even seen a farm animal up close, especially not a ranch like that one which was straight out of some pastoral fantasy. 

A painted red barn and swaying, golden fields and a willow tree with a swing beside a white farmhouse on the ridgeline and a little cliche collection of animals. A black and white cow and a billy goat and a pair of checkered chickens and an old, whiskered horse and a little, scrappy dog. 

Keeping up appearances, old Vesemir said and made her go muck out the pen. She wished they'd keep up appearances with mucking too and when she said that, the old man's eyes bugged out his head and Uncle Eskel wheeze-laughed folded over smacking his knees. 

But the others didn't come until later into fall when the harvest needed brought in. For many long, humid, dust mote days of summer, it was just Ciri and her new, mysterious guardian and the old man who trundled on his tractor with a pipe dangling from his lip, mowing grass and cussing when the tires dipped into a whistlepig hole.

Most days, Ciri was expected up early to feed and muck and clean, which she did with a healthy amount of complaining. Her little pink hands sloughed red with oozing blisters, and Geralt held them in his rough palms to apply salve, feeling like he wished he could give this girl something more, something grander, but this was what they had, this was what he knew.

But Ciri liked the idea of it, her hands going rough and calloused and big like his, her body going hard and lean. She wondered about his scars and his lined face and how strong he was when he lifted her up in his arms.

The lightning bugs came out over the fields each night, so numerous that she could cry over it, and Geralt taught her how not to be afraid when catching them cupped in her hands, kneeling before her with the flickering light held out like a solemn offering. 

He prayed it would be enough, the small things he could give her, but Ciri had never known anything bigger. Her daddy sitting on the creaking edge of her bed in the attic to tell her a bedtime story. One with the true monsters and evils smoothed out into a fairytale. 

Geralt told her many stories. Long ago, there were elves and giants and wizards and queens and all of them tangled up together in mysterious and elaborate ways. Ciri reminded him about the knights, and he said, ah yes, the knights, and told her about the quests and the riddles and the labyrinths and the dragons. Ciri liked the dragons best. And the swords that slayed them.

When she asked about his own monsters, he said only that there were things in this land older than all of them.

Sometimes the land itself resisted occupation.

And if she was ever on a dirt road along a field of corn or alfalfa at night, never stray in, no matter what beckoned. And if the screams of the coyotes took on a different pitch, don't go looking. And if the cicadas and the crickets went silent all at once and the woods gathered a hush, run home and run fast and don't glance behind your shoulder.

She brandished a pitchfork out in the animal pen, playing at killing beasts, and Geralt watched from the front porch of the farmhouse wishing he could make it all true for her. Heroes and legends and noble truths.

Instead, he whispered a prayer to the wind rattling through the corn fields and held tight as he could to her little, calloused hand.

*

It all went more or less the same in the end.

*

"And that's it!" says Ciri, waggling her fingers in a dramatic flourish. "Well, it didn't happen like that." She keeps her voice low and steady in the manner of storytelling, perched up on a fence rail,  hands dangling between her legs. "Well, it all did happen. But not like that. Not in those places at that time."

The farm boy she is speaking to looks at her with big eyes, dumb as a newborn lamb. He doesn't know where this America is or half of the words she uses. 

Ciri yawns. She doesn't think she'll tell that version again. Or else be choosier with her audience. The sky has started to go red with fading light, and the bats loose themselves from the eaves of the barn to take wing over the fields.

"Don't you have evening chores to do, boy?" she asks, and the boy startles as though awakening from a dream. "Those sheep won't feed themselves."

Later, when his mama cuffs him over the head for his tardiness, he will not be able to explain the reason for the dawdling. He remembers the dark silhouette of a stranger on the border of the fenceline and a peculiar sort of hollow sadness.

In all the darkest and strangest days of his life afterward, his thoughts will return sometimes to that shape in the cradle of dusk.

 And one night when his own young, sleepless daughter asks to hear a story, he will close his eyes and draw a breath and tell her one.

[attonposting]

Had a nasty little 2 am idea last night that refused to let me sleep until I scrawled it down. I'll take ”fics that would physically hurt me to read, much less write” for 800, Alex.

Premise starts with the endgame. Atton loses the fight against Sion and is tortured to the point of death. The Exile finds him fading, and he confesses to everything – confesses to something that was reciprocated, even, it was just never the right time and now the end of the road is staring them in the face way too soon. And he's so desperate not to die like this, and the Exile so desperate not to lose him now of all times, that he stumbles onto what Sion did. He grabs a hold of his suffering, his spite at the universe, and uses it to power through. He doesn't heal, not really. But he gets back up.

It's fucked up, but so's everything right now. The Exile's gonna take what she can get. They're both alive, and it's all over, and she just wants to put Malachor behind them. So she tells herself that Atton always gets back up. Nothing's okay right now, but nothing would be – she just discovered she's a wound in the Force, revisited the site of all their worst mistakes, was forced to kill her teacher after she tried to kill her in turn! They're both wrecks right now. It will be okay, eventually.

'Okay' keeps her waiting. The dust settles, and it just reinforces the niggling feeling that something's off. Atton's no less devoted to her – fixated on her, really, and of course there's the question of how much of that is him and how much of that is her influence. But he's on edge all the time now, angry at everything that isn't her, and on paper that's no different from how he's always been. But it is.

They chart a course for the Unknown Regions and prepare for another wild gizka chase across the galaxy. They visit new planets. Trouble follows them the way it always does, and seeing the way Atton interacts with the locals, the way he moves to handle things? Gets that off feeling sharpening fast. It's like they're fresh off Peragus again, except this time Atton isn't shy about sharing what's really on his mind. She's getting worried that his near-death experience seriously traumatized him – and trying to convince herself that a near-death experience is all it was, because he's ashen as hell (but he nearly bled out and he's still recovering, that's normal) and he's got lines and veins he didn't before (but of course he does, Sion cut him up everywhere, there was no falling back on his pretty face after that.) So she tries to talk to him, and he's a brick wall. The Exile doesn't know what to do. She's waiting for things to settle into their old equilibrium, and they don't. They just keep deteriorating, until there's one too many fights, or cruelties, or sex that's not quite lovemaking, and she finally has to admit it.

He's less of the Atton she was starting to fall in love with every day. Definitely not the one she empathized with. She sees few of those sides of him she'd started to unbury after Nar Shaddaa, once she got past his guard and found the contradictions hiding beneath. Instead it's all of his worst, callousness and spite and seething nasty vindication, and beyond that, something new and cold that genuinely frightens her. Whatever spark they have falls apart fast if she's fortunate, turns downright toxic if she's not. Disagreements grow into arguments grow into bitter drawn-out fights, and sometimes he goes past shouting.

And there's one point where the Exile actually gets through to him. It chinks the rage that keeps him going, makes him realize what he's becoming. Atton falters... and he starts to die. All those old not-quite scars open back up; he can't breathe anymore. Self-preservation kicks in, because that's what he does best, and the moment's over.

That's when she has to face the music. There's no fixing this. Atton was starting to become someone else, being with her, but that's not possible anymore. He's sustained by the Dark Side now, all hate and pain and sadism strung together by one all-consuming obsession, and that's physically all he's capable of - a headlong plunge to his worst self, orbiting the person he loves and hates and wants to preserve and take apart most of all.

There's only two ways it can end. It's Sion all over again, just with a man she could have loved. Either she talks him into accepting his death, or she has to put him down by force... as many times as it takes for it to stick.

[karrenseely]

A Letter to my bio mother.

A few years ago my mother wrote me out of the blue, after having not spoken to me for 20 years. She ignored me when I finally managed to graduate college despite all she'd done to me, she (and the rest of the family) ignored me at my father's funeral, she ignored me when I graduated from medical school. That first year after she and dad disowned me I wrote to them about once a month. I never got a response. That Christmas I stopped by our house and dropped off Christmas presents for everyone (Mom, Dad, Sister). Mom wouldn't even look at me and retreated into the house. Dad basically told me to go away, I didn't belong there anymore. It hurt, a lot. Then a few weeks went by, and I got a box in the mail, I was excited because the return address was my old home, I thought maybe, they've finally accepted me and come to their senses. I opened the box and was immediately crushed, they had sent back all the gifts I'd worked so hard to find for them, unopened, still in there wrapping paper. So needless to say, I was very surprised to see she had messaged me on FB, and that old hope resurfaced once again. I opened the message and was crushed... once again. She had sent me a message to yell at me. This is the letter I would have liked to send back. Instead, I blocked her because it hurt so much, even now I second guess that decision because a part of me still wishes she could have loved the daughter she had.

The message I am responding to: "I just saw your go fund me page. Our hope in "cutting you off" was to leave enough time and space for you to grow up and really think about the huge step you were wanting to take. It didn't help that YOU told us it was our fault and then demanded that we pay all your medical expenses to have the surgery. You are as much to blame for the family separation as your Dad and I are. I will accept my part of that blame. I knew when we did it that we might never see you again but it was a risk both of us were willing to take because we were hoping you would not choose to take such a difficult path through life. It was a gamble and we lost, but so did you. You have a wonderful, intelligent, funny, sweet, smart family members you have never even met. Erin's kids, Paul and Kayla. Your loss, believe me. They are great great kids and that is not a comment just from their grandmother. We hear it all the time from other adults that get to know them. When you left I lost my only son, then I lost him again when you had the operation. Not having children you can not begin to comprehend the depth of that pain. Losing a parent doesn't even come close. God gave me a second chance to have a son in my stepson, Karl, and now that has been snatched away from me as well because he committed suicide in April. Do not underestimate the amount of pain and loss your family has gone through because of your choices. Your Dad, Mother, Grandma Seely, Grandpa Seely, and all your aunts and uncles grieved for you and the person we all knew and loved named [Deadname]. Fortunately, your Grandfathers never knew what you were doing as it would have destroyed both of them. Life changes ALWAYS leave huge ripples in the pond. I wish you well in your chosen life but don't place all the blame on the family YOU chose to leave behind."

Dear Mom,

I do not understand you. I am your daughter. I have always been your daughter. On some level I'm sure you've always known this. I'm sure as a toddler I said I was a girl. I remember doing lots of things that were not typical for a little boy, but certainly were for a little girl. So I'm sure you knew, though you denied it. You denied me.

I will always be grateful to you for letting me play dolls and barbie with my sister, for letting me get a doll instead of a transformer, for teaching me how to cross stitch, knit, and encouraging me to read. For teaching me how to do household chores and how to cook. For making sure I took my medicine and staying up with me at night when my asthma was bad, for sending me to camp Not-A-Wheeze, for not letting me die on those horrid nights when I couldn't breathe. For saving my ankle and my ability to walk. For going to bat for me when that teacher really didn't like me because I had such a hard time acting like a boy.

But this is also why you hurt me so deeply. Because I mistook you loving the son you thought you had, that you wanted, for loving me. I was hurting so much. By the time I came to you, I was desperate. I was already self harming, though you never knew. I had already gone through the process of accepting I was trans, not that I liked it, but it was the only way I knew of to find any relief from the torment of not being allowed to be me. I was dying. I was already fighting the shame I'd been taught. I'd already learned it was bad to be a girl, and that it was doubly bad to be girl that everyone insisted was a boy. I had desperately tried to hide it, I was terrified of being friends with girls, because I thought if I was, someone would learn my horrible shameful secret. I had been dealing with these feelings for years before I came out to you. And I knew, if I didn't get help, I wasn't going to survive. So I came to you. But you denied my feelings and called it a phase... except this phase had lasted for years, when I look back, it lasted as long as I could remember, though I didn't understand that at the time.

I was so lost and confused, my parents didn't believe me. I didn't know what to do, so I tried to last a little bit longer. I think I came out to you again. This time you denied I was your daughter again. Things were bad, really really bad. By that time, puberty had already started and was destroying what little comfort I could find in my body, worse, to my horror, my voice started to drop. I knew there was treatment to stop this from happening, and I so desperately needed it. But everytime I asked for help I was denied. Worse, anytime I couldn't hide the fact that I was your daughter you yelled at me, shamed me, made me believe I was freak, a pervert, a monster. I felt so helpless, so hopeless, and so very very alone. I broke. I know I stopped growing mentally at that point. I dissociated so much, that what memories I have are fragmented, and I got stuck at age 15/16 for years. I couldn't cope with the world anymore. Somewhere in there you sent me to a counselor. I didn't know you were hoping he would erase me. And he hurt me, he hurt me so much. I thank the gods and the universe that you didn't force me to continue seeing him, and instead sent me to the only female psychologist in that office... but it was in that office, it was impossible to fully trust her, I never was able to talk about how I was really feeling, because I never felt safe in that office.

I stopped feeling safe at home too, after I came out to you. My parents who were supposed to love, accept, and support me, instead turned on me. Demanded I explain why I existed, why I knew I was a girl. Adult's can't even explain this, and you demanded this of me, a child. And no matter what explanation I managed to draw up, it was never enough for you. Instead you twisted it, and used it to dismantle any self worth I had, any sense of safety I had with you. For some reason, looking back I have no idea why, I trusted you right up to the day you disowned me. I thought I deserved everything you did to me. I thought that if you didn't love me, then no one could. I never even tried talking to my only two real friends I had after you disowned, as I was convinced they would hate me too if I came out to them. Thankfully, I was wrong about that.

Sometime later, I began to learn that what you did to me was wrong, I began to understand it was abuse, but it didn't really sink in, until I was at a queer youth retreat and one of the sessions was about the power and control wheel. It was then that I really saw what you had done to me, that what you were doing to me was abuse. You gaslit me from the day I was born, and everytime I tried to tell you otherwise, you told me I was crazy, I was shameful, I was broken, I sick, I was wrong, I was sin incarnate. You did everything you could to try to control and erase me short of outright murder. Worse, you actually told me you wanted me dead. What kind of mother tells her daughter she wants her daughter dead?

At some point, my maternal grandmother got a hold of me. I think it was a letter via snail mail. I learned that she still wanted to have a relationship with me. She didn't understand, and she constantly misgendered me and dead-named me, but she at least talked to me and welcomed me into her home. Then a few years later after she moved into assisted living for awhile, she disappeared. There was no forwarding address, I had no way to contact her, you stole her away from me. By that time she didn't have the cognitive faculty to get a hold of me on her own. I never saw her again. You took away the only living relative that still wanted a relationship with me... Then years later, you dangled her contact information in front of me, like I had done something wrong by not talking to her all that time. And you told me she was dying. But by that time I had already grieved for her, I couldn't go through that heart break again, and she was so far into her dementia that she wouldn't remember me anyway... why reopen those old wounds. Today I understand that was my CPTSD (from you, my peers, and society's abuse) telling me to avoid anything that would hurt.

Then, seven years ago... gods has it been seven years? It still hurts so much. Seven years ago, you apparently found out about my project to try and create a halfway house for homeless LGBT+ kids. You decided to write me the last message I ever got from you. You blamed me for what you did. That somehow it was my fault that you disowned me. You know, that day that you cut me out of your life, out of our entire family, you showed me your love was conditional. I remember you telling me that you'd take me back if I only would continue to pretend to be a boy for you, but you would be monitoring me to make sure I wasn't letting the real me out. You shattered the love and trust I had in you.

Even if I figured out somehow that I was wrong and I was a boy, how could I go back to you? To parents who never really loved me enough to let me figure everything out, to parents whose love was so conditional. And yet you say you did it for me. That is a lie. You did it for yourselves in a last ditch effort to try and continue to control me to be your imaginary son. You didn't do this to help me understand "what a huge step [I} was wanting to take." I was already well aware, I had spent years figuring that shit out even before the first time I came to you looking for help. I knew what I was in for, I'd had flashes of it for years in the abuse I suffered from my peers when they saw the girl I was trying to hide. I knew it from all the research I had done, from the fellow trans people I knew online by that time.

I didn't choose to be disowned. You chose to not love me, accept me, or support me. You chose to disown me. I didn't have any say in the matter. And yes, how you chose to respond to my distress, my suffering IS your fault. Shaming me for being your daughter when you wanted your imaginary son. Shaming me for being a girl, for teaching me that I was something that needed to be hidden, something horrible, something icky, for forbidding me from talking to my sister about it, the only other person I had ever considered talking to about it after coming out to you, why? The only conclusion I could reach at that age is that I was so sick, so horrible, I would somehow corrupt her too. So I obeyed you and no, I never told her. She learned some of it on her own, but because I wasn't allowed to talk to her about it, she considered me a pervert. I never discussed any of it with her... not until after you disowned me.

So yes it is your fault. I WAS A CHILD! Worse, I was your child! Of Course I thought you would help me! It's why I came to you in the first place, it's why I kept coming to you. Because I WAS YOUR CHILD! I was your daughter and I was suffering so much. The only two paths I could see, that I could ever see was death or finally getting to be me, in a body that didn't constantly hurt me so much. But you denied me all of that. You denied me. You chose to do all of that to me. For what? For an imaginary son that never existed? You broke me. Of Course I blame you for that. I blame you for all the emotional abuse, neglect, and medical neglect you did to me. You were my mother, you were supposed to love ME, not some imaginary person you wanted instead, but ME. It is beyond twisted to me that you think I am as much to blame for what you chose to do to me. I didn't have a say in the matter. I had two options: live and be myself (while apparently losing everyone I ever loved) or dying. I chose to live. I refused to die for you. You haven't accepted any blame at all. You never did. All you do is try to gaslight me into believing that my being your daughter is somehow my fault. I didn't get the choice. You decided to create me. You decided to give birth to me. You decided to accept the responsibility of raising me. And then when I refused to be what you wanted... you threw me away like garbage. The only reason you never saw me again is because you never accepted that you had a daughter instead of a son. You never loved me. You wanted me dead and told me so yourself. With everything I went through growing up, it's a miracle I survived. To this day, I don't know how I did. Not with how much you tried to destroy me. You gambled with my life, hoping I would choose to continue to pretend to be your son, that I would continue to endure the constant torture of not being me. I would not have survived that. I barely survived at all.

Thank you for reminding me how much you took away from me. You took away my parents, my sister, my extended family. You took away everyone I ever loved. Thank you for reminding me that I have never been allowed to meet my niece and nephew, who by now are adults living their own lives. I pray to this day that neither of them were LGBT+, given the family they grew up in... it would have been a nightmare for them. I still grieve that they never tried to get in touch with me, that my sister never allowed me to be part of their lives.

You said when you disowned me you "lost [your] only son." But that's the whole problem. You never had a son. And you refuse to see this. To this day, you deny my existence, and blame me for it. And you assume I don't have kids. I have 3 wonderful kids who are becoming adults as we speak, or are approaching adulthood far to rapidly for my liking. They are amazing. And unlike my niece, nephew, and step brother, you chose to never have them be a part of your life. I am so proud of them. So please don't presume to know how I would understand the pain if I were to lose them. And please don't presume to think that the pain of losing a child is the same as losing everyone you ever loved, of knowing your parents hate you, of knowing your mom wanted you dead. The pain of knowing this when I was still just a child. These are two entirely different traumas. Please don't equate them. And please don't presume that it wasn't you who chose to throw your child away like she was garbage.

When father died, you ignored me, you tried to keep me away from his funeral. If my sister hadn't called me, I would never have known. And then at the funeral you never acknowledged my presence, no one from our family did. Instead you had your church lackeys try to push me out the door while I sat in that chair weeping, grieving. Did you know, that it was then that I finally understood you were not ever going to love me, accept me, or ever be a positive part of my life.

My grandfathers never knew the real me, because you made me believe telling them would kill them. I remember I tried reaching out to one of my uncles once, but it was such a hard conversation, and it only felt like they wanted to get off the phone. They never called me back or tried to reach out to me. No one except my maternal grandmother ever reached out to me in any positive way. So please don't tell me they all grieved for me, they chose to never talk to me again. They chose to cut me out of their lives as much as you did. I have very little sympathy for them, given when you disowned me I was homeless. I couch surfed throughout that summer. I really needed their help, since you refused to help me. Had it not been for some amazing friends letting me stay with them, and helping me get back on my feet, I would have ended up on the streets, like so many homeless LGBT+ kids. They chose to do that to me, just as you did. So no, I won't cry any tears for them choosing to throw me away too.

You mentioned that I had a step brother, whom I was never able to meet. You seemed to think you could replace me with him. I feel so bad for him, that you would put that burden on him. And then before I even knew I had a step-brother, he took his own life. I wonder every day if it was because he was LGBT+ and the abuse he suffered killed him. I wonder all the time if you abused him like you abused me. I wonder, what if he had been able to talk to me, get support from me, if he'd still be here. It hurts to know he died by suicide, because I wonder if it was for the same reason I almost died. I will always wonder...

You wrote this letter hoping to hurt me I think. You succeeded. You hurt me again. I had managed to live my life, find a family for myself. A family that actually loves me for me. Whom I can share all the joys and sorrows of life with. Whom got to see the joy I experienced when I finally got to be myself. When I didn't have to hide anymore. Who got to see me graduate college, who got to see me go to medical school, who saw me graduate and flourish. With three wonderful children that I helped to raise, and 6 others that are like nieces and nephews to me. But out of the blue, you wrote to me, to try to hurt me again. For what? Because I wanted to help other LGBT+ kids who went through what I went through? How petty is that? And yet despite everything I had accomplished, everyone I loved currently. You still managed to find me and hurt me again.

The day I got that message from you, was the day I was finally able to make a choice about our relationship. I'd never been able to before. It was the day blocked you from contacting me on FB ever again. Please don't try to contact me again. You made your choice, and it is apparent to me that you will never acknowledge what you did to me. How much you hurt me. How 27 years later I'm still in therapy over what you did to me. I've long since lost hope that you'll ever tell me you love ME and that you're sorry.

Sincerely, your daughter, always,

Karren

[jellydishes]

The gulls screamed like little children over the heights of the old house. The sounds pounded in the way of waves of a far distant ocean, wearing on her day after day after day. One day, she dropped her mouth open and screamed with them. She screamed until her voice withered away to the croak of a raven she had seen once in a museum, stuffed and posed with mouth agape just as hers was... or so she imagined, having never heard it in life.

In the end her voice left her, too, and all that was left was the tireless shrieking laughter of the gulls.

If this had been one of her husband's tawdry horror novels, the house should have stood shuttered and gaping, yawning open for hungered souls. Instead it was bright and airy and full of blue fabric that may have been snipped from a cloudless sky.

She washed those pretty curtains once or twice a week, depending, straining out the muddy brown water until it ran clear. Sometimes there were blots that could almost be confused as being black or red at their core, and she muttered to herself as she scrubbed at the stubborn, relentlessly returning spots.

Within the house, there were corners that took her by surprise when she was unwary, angles that made her jump at the thought that someone she knew awaited her there. Her husband had built the little house into a middling house into a sprawling effigy of stability. Looking at it made one want to lean one way or the other to fix it properly in your mind's eye. The crowded hallways always seemed to bend towards her in such a way that she tried to hurry through them.

It always ended at his portrait.

Sometimes, she almost stumbled to a halt at the sight of his face. Today, she reared back, frozen in place as if she'd been cast in oils beside him.

"I hate you." The words clung to her tongue, unsaid. It would be so simple to say them, but even attempting to gasp them out felt like she were being throttled, choked and left adrift in waters too cold to name.

"I miss you." This came out stronger, but even so it was still a whisper. She couldn't meet his painted eyes, and instead allowed her own to skitter from side to side as if they were two tiny beasts seeking shelter from his eagle-eyed gaze. She made to clutch at her upper arm, but let her hand fall before it was halfway there, turned and made her slow and solitary way through the house.

~~~

The cheerful blue decorations sat atop heavy, dismal disarray in the flimsiest attempt at convincing anyone who cared to look that there was nothing to the shapes beneath. That once they were swallowed by layered waves, anything they had once been would be gone, consumed.

She stared dully at the draped fabric where it lay ponderously heavy over the domed skulls her husband had made his fortune on, and felt nothing. Once, she would have snatched the cloth away with a wordless, inarticulate shriek that she always felt building and building within the cage of her ribs. Now, she allowed her eyes to drift away to the dark, featureless windows. She'd grown tired of what she hadn't seen outside, so she had closed and shuttered them.

There was scratching, of course, but you could grow used to anything if you gave it long enough, and she had her memories of showtunes and nursery rhymes to keep her company when the noises from outside grew too loud.

She hummed one to herself as she mounted the stairs to the old nursery come bedroom. It was brown again, a dusty, gritty color slathered in streaks where she had last tried to clean away filth. She knelt down with soap and water and took her time picking out grit from each of the deep scratches scored into the wood. Every now and again there was a harder, crescent shaped bit of garbage stuck inside, and she tossed them towards the trash backed in the corner without looking.

The time came when there was no more cleaning to do, and so she sat on her son's bed and looked through the open door at the old dumbwaiter, which her husband had expanded as he added floors. There were scratches there, too, but those were a part of the house, she reasoned. They had always been there, as much as the gulls and the ceaseless, pitiless press of noise on the other side of these walls. She could hear all of it now, if she chose to listen.

She did not.

It wasn't her business, any more than the epitaphs written on crumbling tombstones had been her husband's business.

Her business was this house all that lay within it. She knew that in the way that she knew that without a sin-eater to consume her failings upon her death, she would never leave these raggedy corners. It was a calm and simple truth, and it kept her moving in the way that the noises alone may have made her hesitate unto death. She had to keep moving, keep cleaning, keep the house clear of any who sought to invade it.

Her next circuit took her to the basement. This chore took the longest, but she didn't avoid it anymore. After all this time, it had simply become one more task to do in an endlessly expanding list.

There were no blue drapes down here, save where she'd laid some across an expanse of teeth that first night in a vague attempt at offering dignity where there was none to be found. It had turned brown, too, sunken into the crevices of that first invader. He still moved from time to time, but she knew by now that there was no reasoning with him, no help to be given that wouldn't be wasted.

So she ignored the piteous gusts of noise from one throat and simply set her jaw, grabbed their ankles, and dragged them into a pit her husband had dug long before.

That first invader groaned a word, a familiar one that gave her pause. She lowered his feet to the dirt floor and walked up to where the brown paisley pattern fluttered in and out in time with his lies. "You aren't him," she said gently, and even patted his shoulder even though it was a wasted gesture. "My son is dead. He knew better than to leave this house. Whoever you used to be, take that name with you when you go."

He wheezed that word again, but by then she had resumed dragging his filth into the pit.

Her husband had always said words at this point, but she had no more left in her after all of these years.

The bleach container was lighter than it had been last time, and the amonia is lighter still.

[cvrdelia]

Welcome to Aurora Bay, [CORDELIA DANVERS]! I couldn’t help but notice you look an awful lot like [MARGOT ROBBIE]. You must be the [THIRTY TWO] year old [NEWS ANCHOR]. Word is you’re [ASSERTIVE] but can also be a bit [VINDICTIVE] and your favorite song is [HISTORY OF MAN BY MAISIE PETERS]. I also heard you’ll be staying in [CRYSTAL COVE CONDOMINUMS]. I’m sure you’ll love it!

BASICS

Name: Cordelia Genevieve Danvers Gender/Pronouns: Cisfemale/She&Her Sexual/Romantic Orientation: Bisexual Age: 32 Birthdate: 17th November Occupation: News Anchor

ABOUT

Cordelia Danvers was born in 1989 in Aurora Bay, to a mother and a father that she assumed were soulmates. However, years later, after both of her siblings were born, she'd be proven wrong with a divorce and a new girlfriend on her father's arm. This would have warped her perception of love, romance, relationships until her late teen years... and she'd become conditioned to believe that nothing ever lasts forever, so why bother.

Growing up, Cordelia always wanted to be the center of attention, she'd give anything to be in the spotlight — but mostly because once her sisters had arrived, she found herself often overlooked by people due to their youth and 'cuteness'. At least with her mother, the favoritism was retained until she was ten — and until Sloane had showed a talent far greater than hers. All because of...

Pageants. Cordy hadn't shied away from her early age dream of stardom, telling her mother she wanted to be like the princesses she saw on television. Fortunately for her, Daphne Danvers entertained her daughter's ambitions, and began entering her into local beauty pageants at her request.

It was something that she carried on competing in — and winning — until her teenage years, gathering crown after crown and hoping that eventually she'll go on to compete in Miss California USA one day. Although, it was not meant to be when her father intervened at sixteen and said enough. It had taken over her life and she needed to focus on her academics, he'd said, much to her disapproval. After several arguments between them, Daphne caved and told Cordy that she could only continue competing in pageants if she achieved highly in her studies.

Unfortunately, academics had never been her strong suit, and that was the end of her pageant career.

For the rest of her teenage years, she despised her mother and father, and made it known through truancy and bad behavior. She wasn't the perfect golden child like Sloane.

Luckily, she was able to scrape the grades to earn her a place at the Florida State University, majoring in journalism. It was an almost random choice, something to keep her parents happy, and she'd grown up watching Sex and the City, and believed she was in fact a Carrie.

She joined Kappa Kappa Gamma sorority, and eventually became President on the Chapter Council. Again, she allowed herself to stray from her academics and began to focus more into planning events and the guys from Kappa Sigma.

Graduating in the summer, she was able to secure an internship through her just above average grades and extra-curriculars, to KTLA-TV station in Los Angeles. She grew tired of running around and collecting coffees, and began to make connections — sweet talking anyone who would listen, those particularly that she'd spotted needed an ego boost.

It was only a few years down the line that she'd been able to swindle her way into an interview for a field reporter for KTLA 5 News and was offered the role of a lifetime. It wasn't a secret to her that perhaps her employment hadn't been solely based off her ability to talk, but potentially more so her preened appearance. However, it didn't matter, she was here.

After successful runs for a number of years, she soon became a co-anchor for the evening news and could report on current events from the comfort of the studio, becoming a known name in Southern California — if people watched the news.

Living in Los Angeles and not far from her small hometown, she attempted to keep in contact with her family as much as she could — however, she often became distracted by the lavish parties she attended and the single life she so independently lived.

She was on track to receive a promotion as a solo news anchor, when she'd heard of Sloane's pregnancy, she couldn't believe it. It was typical that of course, her sister had to steal the limelight, again. However, she wasn't completely heartless and after making sure her promotion was secure, she booked some time off, then decided to visit her old town — with definitely no coercion from her mother.

She doesn't know how long she plans on staying in town, but she's here to give Sloane some support and have a 'well deserved' break.

CONNECTIONS

younger sister @dancingdanvers

best friend @arkin-oconnell

hook up/public annoyance @benj-hyun

fwb without the friends @borawinters

@AURORABAYAESTHETIC

[evermorehqs]

CATCHING MY BREATH, STARING OUT AN OPEN WINDOW

Violet Parr is based on Violet from The Incredibles. She is a 31 year old superhuman, secretary, and uses she/her pronouns. She has the power of invisibility, force field generation/manipulation, levitation and enhanced durability. Violet is portrayed by Margaret Qualley and she is taken.

CATCHING MY DEATH, AND I COULDN’T BE SURE

Most kids, it seems, grow up wishing to be something special. Princesses, heroes, knights in shining armor. For Violet, she grew up longing to be painfully average. She didn't want to be super, she didn't want to be seen. Her powers might have been a gift, but she had never asked for them, and it didn't seem fair she couldn't just be a normal kid. Whether it was going invisible or hiding behind her hair, Violet was a loner well into her middle school years. Fortunately with age came comfort in her own skin, and she began to start to appreciate herself, her abilities, and all of the things about her that she had to keep a secret from society. She was a badass, she could quite literally save the world... at least, as long as her family was by her side. She even used her newfound confidence to ask her crush out. Violet really blossomed in high school and college years, making her path in life that she enjoyed and could be proud of well into her twenties — all of which was forgotten upon crossing Evermore's borders. Entering the town was like she'd instantly resorted back to her old ways, just... slightly better. She wasn't quite as reclusive or insecure as she used to be, or so she thought. But she couldn't really remember. There was very little that she could remember outside of her family and her name, her past practically a blank slate with the strong feeling that she was leaving behind something she had worked so hard to hold onto. It was frustrating to no end, and even more so the fact that they couldn't leave. None of them even knew why they'd come to Evermore in the first place, and now they were all trapped in this little town that didn't even really need superheroes, so she had to suck up her disappointment and settle in the best that she could. Surely one day they would find a way out. But until then, she guessed she'd just be arranging files.

I HAD A FEELING SO PECULIAR

❀ Chandler Potts: Way more optimistic than Violet, Chandler is the perfect friend to balance her out. She's constantly dragging her out of the house, and is a true ray of sunshine in her life. ❀ Wesley Abbasi: He always holds such nice conversation and makes her feel seen, Violet has started to hope he's working when she stops by The Lucky Cat for breakfast. ❀ Zelda Borne: Zelda is special, Violet just knows it, and she's always been so kind when she sees her around town. She feels like they'd be good friends if she ever found the nerve to ask her to hang out...

THAT THIS PAIN WOULD BE FOR EVERMORE

[winksasleeplesseye]

File #010 - The End of The Beginning

City of the Dead

Pairing: Leon Kennedy x OC

Word Count: 6.4k

Summary: Making it out of the lab, Amara, Leon, Claire, and Sherry find shelter at a place Amara never thought she'd see again so soon. Amara finally breaks down after everything.

Warnings: SMUT

Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Ten minutes removed from the situation, Amara thought the statement “The grass is greener on the other side,” couldn’t be more true. 

A train that Claire had found had been their key to freedom. With only one more surprise left to burn within the train tunnel, they escaped. They were outside, away from the lab, away from Raccoon City. The first inklings of sunlight broke over the horizon, illuminating the pavement much like the Ozmites guiding Dorothy to follow the Yellow Brick Road. 

Symbolically, it stood for a desperate journey that Dorothy and her companions took to reach their dreams. 

But, right now, Amara was certainly no Dorothy and there were no reaching dreams, just figuring out where to go first would suffice. 

The sun, while a welcome relief, began to burn a tad against Amara’s skin. But she didn’t mind. It cast an almost yellowish hue over everything as it broke through more of the clouds, it’s a beautiful sight. 

It kind of reminded Amara of the paintings she’d seen in a museum. When she and her sister weren’t higher than their mother’s knees, she’d take them to whatever free art exhibit she could find, dressing them up in their Sunday best (not on a Sunday, of course) stating, “Appearances are everything.” 

She wanted to touch it like she had those paintings. To feel the brushstrokes underneath her fingers, the oil paint that ran together to make something that others would deem a masterpiece. 

Amara chalked up her pure whimsiness to just being alive. Even just breathing, just hearing the rocks and pieces of gravel chip underneath her boots had her wanting to jump for a joy she hadn’t ever felt before. 

And the people beside her. Her heart fluttered a little as she glanced over to Leon as they walked along the road. He met her eyes, playfully running his fingers over the new streaks of white in her hair. “I have to say, shitty circumstances aside, I like the new look.”

She swats his hand away, chuckling. “You know, the hair is actually kind of growing on me.” 

“I think it makes you look like a superhero!” Sherry pipes up, the compliment makes Amara smile. They were both now inexplicably linked by all that had occurred. Amara felt a fierceness to protect her from anything, as did Leon and Claire.

Claire, who Amara only knew by association, already felt like an old friend. Considering the shit they all just survived, they certainly were bonded for life. 

Amara could tell the thought of Chris weighed heavily on her. He wasn’t in Raccoon, nor was Jill (she’s sure that that lady would be stopped by nothing) but Amara’s mind takes her to those who aren’t so lucky, those still more than likely hiding—cowering within their homes, just waiting for rescue within the city. 

Though, she’s convinced no one would want to trade places if they learned of the night she just went through. They’d think she was describing a movie and not a real-life situation. They made it out, and that was enough for now. 

After walking god knows how many miles, the glimmer of civilization became clearer and clearer to the group. As far as cruel and unusual punishments go, Amara didn’t put walking down as one of them. 

Her feet would probably always throb in pain if she ever wore boots like these again. 

As fortune would have it, and just as Amara guessed, a city is on the horizon. A bit puzzled at just how normal everything appears to be. 

Were they not aware of the chaos, the hell, the absolute depravity of Raccoon City? 

People covered their noses as they passed them, giving weird and confused stares as they cut through the crowds. It’s not exactly every day you see a police officer who looked like he’d been through a warzone flanked by two other women and a child who looked like they were knocking on heaven’s door. 

Amara is sure the metallic scent of blood, fecal matter, sewage water…and god knows what else they’d been seeping in for hours would sink in their skin if they didn’t find a place to get cleaned up. 

They huddled together in a nearby park. Birds chirped. Children laughed on the playground. Fresh-cut grass and its smell wafted by their noses, pieces blowing over their shoes. Had this been a normal day (very much emphasis on normal), Amara would probably be taking a walk through Spencer City Park. A chai latte that would slightly burn her tongue upon first sip but warmed her body as the change to fall would become more and more apparent. 

Here, fall nor much of anything had become apparent to the people here. 

Standing out like a sore thumb was an understatement. At this point, that thumb was broken. 

“We need to lay low,” Amara paced the concrete path, pedestrians barely smiled as they crossed her path. “We don’t know what anyone here knows.” 

They were drawing a lot of attention as it is. While Amara enjoyed her fair share of it, right now, attention is the last thing they needed. 

“Yeah, but where?” Leon questions, his vibrant blue eyes were dull and tired, eyebags evident from a mile away. “We’ve never been here. Don’t think these people are open to giving us a warm welcome.” 

To emphasize his point, a young couple just so happens to walk by. The smiles they wear drop instantly as they see them and they begin speaking to one another in hushed tones. 

The more Amara looked around, she began to feel a sense of recognition come over her. Some of the landmarks they’d passed seemed a vague memory in her head. She’s been here before, she knows it. 

A light bulb goes off in her head. “I think I know a place.” 

Once or twice, in the past few months, Amara took road trips with some of her academy friends. 

The roads were long and winding but oh so pretty. 

North Carolina was certainly a favorite stop. This wasn’t relevant to now but the place was. After long days of driving, the fluorescent sign of the Alien Coffee Motel was a godsend for her and her friends. It signified how close they were to home. 

Never would Amara have thought she’d see this place again to say it still was. 

A dingy place is still better than no place. At least now the chances of encountering weirdos here were slim to none. Turns out, looking and smelling like shit had perks. 

An electronic bell sounded as Amara pushed open the door to the manager’s office. If she was right, a familiar face would come out in…3…2…

“Thalia!” A lovely old man comes from behind a curtain of beads. 

“Abraham!” He crushed her with a hug that she would probably feel later. A needle or something poked her back. His knitting needle, she assumes. For the first time in a while, she felt a joy in seeing someone she knows. The first time she’d stayed here with friends, she also happened to meet his teenage granddaughter, Tabitha, who just so happened to have her 1978 Oldsmobile Cutlass (if there was one thing her father knew besides his way around a drink, it was cars) break down after spending the day with Abraham. 

With Abraham’s know-how around a car but rather shaky hands and Amara’s need to help anywhere she could, she checked in with her friends and dropped her bags off before rolling up her sleeves and taking directions from the older gentleman. Tabitha sat within the car with the windows down and asked her personal questions about where she came from among other things while Abraham scolded her gently for “being so impolite.” Amara remembered shrugging it off with a smile as her hands fiddled with the alternator. 

She, in turn, asked Abraham little things, making small talk while the nearby radio played a Janet Jackson record. He reminded her of her grandparents, giving her short bursts of his German family stories that even had his granddaughter enthralled by them. It was a nice memory, a small gesture that Abraham told her he was indebted to her for as Tabitha drove off. 

If only he could remember her name. It’s funny considering her name wasn’t that hard to remember. 

“Will you ever get my name right?” 

“Thalia, Amara, tomato, tomayto—” Abraham only just now seems to pick up on her scent, a slight gag coming from him. “My god, you smell like horse shit, young lady!”

Amara takes a whiff of herself. Ugh. “I was wondering when you’d notice, old man. Do you think you have any rooms available? My friends and I–” She turns to look outside, Leon, Sherry, and Claire sitting on the curb, their backs facing the window. “--could use a place to stay.” 

“Did you all just come from rolling in the dumpster or something?”

“You could say that.” She tries to keep her face straight. Amara would rather not recount everything they’d been through. If these people had no idea what had gone on, that’s how it was going to stay. “So, two rooms?” 

“You’re in luck, girlie! I have two!” He walks behind the desk, grabbing the only two pairs of keys on the wall. “Shoot, these aren’t next to each other. Is that okay for you and your friends?”

“That’s more than okay, Abraham. Thank you.” She takes the keys gingerly. “You also wouldn’t happen to have some change of clothes, would you?” 

All of my damn clothes are back in Raccoon City, my whole life. 

Abraham nodded and reached down underneath the desk, producing a cardboard box that had donations written on it. “I’ll have Tabitha see if she can’t scrounge up some things from my daughter’s place but for now, take a few things from there, sound good?” ‘

She looked down into the box, it was a mishmash of hand-me-downs but they were unquestionably cleaner than what they all currently were wearing. Digging through, she found some pieces that would fit every one of them. “That’s more than good, I can’t say thank you enough, Abraham.” 

“No need to thank me, you all look like hell so get some rest, alright?” He wears a warm smile as he turns to head back to his office, more than likely making the phone call to Tabitha. 

She steps back outside, and the same electronic bell alerts the trio to her presence. “We’re in luck.” She smiles, holding up the keys in one hand and clothes in the other. Leon takes one set of keys from her, a relieved smile on his face. Claire and Sherry seem to share in the relief. 

“Wait, the rooms aren’t side by side?” Leon asks, looking at the room numbers. Amara finds it a tad sweet that there’s apprehension at even being just a little bit separated from the pair. 

“Afraid that these are the only rooms he had left, I think we can manage, right?” 

It doesn’t take much convincing once Claire and Sherry chime in, but it doesn’t escape Amara’s notice at the almost knowing smile that Claire wears as they head off in the opposite directions to the rooms. She wants to roll her eyes at that but doesn’t. 

The room, believe it or not, is pretty decent for a motel. It was for sure the cleanest place they’d seen over the past few hours. So, Amara doesn’t hesitate to collapse on the carpeted floor and toe-off her boots. “I’ll never complain about motels ever again, I promise,” she speaks freely to no one in particular, putting her hands together in prayer, but it still makes Leon chuckle a bit. 

“I-uh…I guess I’ll shower first then,” Amara nods in agreement to his words as he takes the clothes and heads into the bathroom. She hears the telltale signs of clothes hitting the floor before the spray of water drowns out anything else. 

A dumb thought crosses her mind as she sits on the floor, eyes falling upon a phone on the nightstand. Monet. Maybe they could stay with her, she should probably tell her she’s okay?

Crawling on hands and knees, she snatches the phone from the stand, no care for the cords connecting it to the wall. 

She dials a number that she has become accustomed to. To a certain extent, she wants the line to ring and ring until she hits voicemail but if Monet is still anything like Amara, she’s already been up for hours—another unfortunate habit from their father’s routine. Both of them still stuck to waking up early…Monet hated it but somehow Amara quite enjoyed it, the anesthetic repetition of it certainly helped her get more done in a day. 

“Hello?” 

Amara’s spine straightens. Shit, she really was banking on her not answering for once. For the first time in maybe…ever, she didn’t know what to say to her own sister. 

Hi, Monet. Just calling because I survived one of the shittiest nights ever and got infected by an evil pharmaceutical company and barely made it out of Raccoon City alive. Yeah, right, like she could actually say that outright. 

A rush of nervous energy floods through her and she slams the phone back down on the receiver. She releases a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, massaging the bridge of her nose to release tension. 

She had a lot of tension as of late. Physically and mentally. Of everything she’d ever been through in her life, she never would’ve dreamed…imagined something of this level. 

Light, dull padding against the carpet is just about the only thing that alerts her to Leon exiting the bathroom. Without so much as a glance or word to him, she speeds into the bathroom. The warm steam from the shower stall brushes lightly against her skin and she practically tears the clothes from her body. At least a scalding hot shower would wash away some of the fucked up shit. 

The brief pain of the heat paled in comparison to everything else she’d put up with. Swirls of dirt, blood, and god knows what else followed one another down the drain. So quickly. So easily. At any other time, that probably would’ve disturbed her. 

She’d never be ungrateful for all she had ever again.

After a few more minutes of letting the droplets of water run down her body, she steps out. The condensation fogs up the mirror but she wipes it away to look at herself. 

Really look at herself. 

Aesthetically, nothing had really changed except the streaks of white in her hair and the bags under her eyes…God, she was tired. 

She really didn’t want to ponder further on what exactly the white in her hair or anything else meant, considering that Annette told them that the antiviral only got rid of some of G but not all. Would something physically manifest later down the line? Could she still infect others? 

She looked away from herself. She wanted to stop thinking altogether. 

Luckily, she needed to patch herself up. Going through the motions of wrapping herself in gauze almost robotically allowed her brain to stop overthinking and complete its most basic function: keep her alive. 

Getting dressed in the clothes she got from Abraham almost made her want to laugh, the Nirvana shirt was a little bigger than she expected and the sweatpants were certainly baggier than what she usually wore but it’ll do. For now. 

She slowly peeks her head out from the bathroom, the creak of the door making Leon turn his head from his spot on the bed. A small, closed-mouth, almost awkward smile comes to his face and Amara mirrors that. 

And she hates it. Hates it so much. This guy went through hell and back for her and all she can muster right now is this awkwardness. Mainly because she feels like she has so much to say but not sure how to say it to him. 

“Feel better?” Leon asks, breaking the silence. She notices the clothes fit him pretty well. Who knew a donation box would have so many band T-shirts? 

“Much,” she sits down on the opposite side, her back facing Leon. She lets out a sigh, placing her head in her hands. The silence gives way to another round of overthinking. A slight dip in the mattress moves her slightly until Leon is now sitting next to her. 

“Talk to me. What’s on your mind?” 

Amara looks up at Leon, meeting his eyes and finding nothing but a gentleness, sincerity behind them. She feels like she could ask him the same thing. 

She doesn’t even know where to start with what’s on her mind but she lets out a breath before going into detail. The very thing that got her here. Wesker. 

“Wesker took my blood without my consent. He was the one who let me go on that trip.  And I’ve been agonizing ever since. Agonizing about whether there’s something I’ve missed in all this. What’s my connection in all this? Did he always intend to do this to me?” 

“Amara.” Leon rubs a comforting hand on her shoulder. “You couldn’t have known.” 

“Yeah, but that doesn’t make it better. I mean, this whole time, he knew.”

Amara’s mind felt even more jumbled. So many pieces to this puzzle but none of them seemed to be of the same picture. For what felt like the millionth time, she wanted her thoughts to silence. And she only knew one way she never thought she’d choose to do. 

She ran a hand over her face as she glanced at the mini fridge nearby. “I need a fucking drink.” Drinking was always the easy way out, she’d seen enough of it with her father and yet never understood the vice, but now, everything hurts so much.

She needed a moment. A reprieve, just once. From shouldering this burden, from thinking, from everything. She wanted to go numb. 

It’d taken a lot for her to finally, finally break down, especially since she’s not alone. So when all of this has come down at once, it hits Amara hard. Not even halfway through taking a sip, and already she is on her knees. The glass shatters around her, the amber liquid soaking the carpet.

And she breaks. Amara’s shoulders shake violently and she can’t barely breathe as sobs wrack through her body. She had once been the one utterly confused on how someone could be so vulnerable, so ready to display what she thought were ugly emotions, and yet she found the roles had reversed. 

Such intense confusion, so many answers and yet still so many questions. When would things ever just make sense?

She had forgotten that Leon still sat before her. He hadn’t uttered a word but through her blurry vision, he came closer to her. Treading lightly over the broken glass before sitting down next to her. Somehow, his silence is more comforting than any words of support could’ve been. It’s nice. 

Amara is so enveloped in her misery, it took her a second to realize she is wrapped in Leon’s warm embrace, a fierceness to his grip that she hadn’t registered. He’d been gripping her as if she’d disappear if he let go. 

The close proximity to him makes her head spin. It scares her how drawn to this man—this relative stranger— she is, especially in this state. The shaking in her shoulders eases as tear stains dry on her cheeks, she lifts her head to look at Leon.

“Thank you.” Her voice is small. Almost like a child. “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t quite meet her eyes, finding the mattress in front of them infinitely more interesting all of a sudden. 

But what he says next surprises Amara more. “Don’t apologize if you don’t have to.”

Amara couldn’t recall a time in her life, a moment, maybe ever, where someone had ever said that to her. Anytime she’d had even a hint of an emotion come about, even a stray tear, she could distinctly remember being told to suck it up or not to cry. Vulnerability was put on the back-burner, meant to be an after-thought. 

It was clear her own display had set something off in Leon, not in a particularly bad way. She doesn’t feel quite so guilty for showing a basic human emotion, but she feels desperate to connect with him. 

In her desperation, she cups his cheek in her hand, setting his eyes upon her. 

His eyes were blue. Intensely blue.

To be honest, Amara wasn’t sure what she intended with her actions nor what motivated her beyond this moment. Hell, she wasn’t even sure if Leon knew what she was doing. 

So, she’s admittedly surprised when he closes the gap between and kisses her. Something in her had wanted to pull away, to make this easier for herself. Another part of her wanted to savor what he tasted like before anything else could occur.

Peppermint. Strawberries.

She kisses him slowly then, gliding her tongue

along his bottom lip before slipping it into his

mouth. One hand comes to rest on the back of

her head as the other wraps around her waist, practically putting her in his lap. She towers over him now.

Instinctively, she brings her other hand to cup the other side of his head, pulling him up towards her to deepen the kiss - and, once he's close enough to be satisfactory, runs her nails down his shoulders to rest her palms on his chest. His breath hitches and he shudders minutely, using the momentary separation to mouth at the exposed skin on her neck. 

Amara lets out an almost pathetic yelp at the sensation. Just as Leon lets his hands roam underneath her shirt, three abrupt knocks cut the moment short.

“Leon! Amara!” Claire.

Despite the interruption, Amara found that the noise instead made her cling more tightly to Leon, she almost wanted to whine as he removed his hands from her skin. 

Amara slowly detached herself from Leon’s lap, “Guess I’ll go open the door.” He nods briefly.

“Hey, the manager had his granddaughter see if they had another pair of clean clothes. I’m not sure if they’re your size but better than nothing, right?” 

Amara takes the clothes from Claire’s outstretched hands, thanking her briefly as she leaves and sneaking a glance back to Leon. He hadn’t moved an inch from where she left him. 

“What’s going on in that brain of yours?” She notices the soiled gauze wrapped around his shoulder. It could use some change, especially since every other part of him was clean.

He doesn’t answer.

At first, Amara is a bit hesitant to be in his space again to help. But she works with a practiced ease at cutting loose the gauze, grabbing the necessary items to clean it up. Though she’s sure that wound was the last thing on his mind. 

“Look, about just now…” Leon starts, looking at her evenly. “I’m really sorry.” 

“For?” 

“Kissing you like that. You were vulnerable—“

Amara cut him off. “Well, I’m not sorry. Like you said, don’t apologize if you don’t have to.” 

“Right.” 

“Though let’s not discuss the mental breakdown I just had ever again, okay?” Amara hates how pathetic…helpless she sounds asking that. 

Leon brought a hand up to Amara’s cheek, rubbing his thumb lightly on her cheek, her lips, tracing them. Her breath caught as she watched him watch her. His eyes alight with a sincerity but there was something else there too, he really did remind her of a puppy.

The next crucial words Leon says are just about enough to end her. 

“Forgive me-“

Then he’s kissing her again, and there’s nothing sweet and gentle about it. He kisses her like a man who wants to do a thorough job of convincing her this is what she might want to do every day for the rest of her life, and it may be working.

His other arm, barely fully wrapped in the gauze at his shoulder, snakes around Amara, crushing her front against his. 

Amara had kissed before, kissed many times actually, but this was nothing like that. She wanted to keep kissing him, hands threaded through his hair, breathing in every part of him. She wanted. 

In one swift motion, Leon picks Amara up and stands wrapping her around him and throwing her down on the bed. She gasps, still wanting to be cautious of his injury. “Leon! Your shoulder!” 

“It’ll heal.”

She laughs at his words briefly, “Not if you do that!” In one fluid motion, Amara uses her legs to flip them over (a move she learned completely by chance). Now she’s the one on top. “I think you’ll just have to follow my lead.” 

Careful of her own bandages, Amara pulls off her shirt, throwing it behind her. Leon’s eyes and hands don’t seem to know where to stay as all this new skin was revealed to him.

Desire takes over his features, the blue in his eyes nearly black as he pulls her in even closer by the back of her thighs. 

She leans forward to kiss him, hesitant at first as they both take the time to taste one another’s lips and enjoy the feeling, the warmth, he still tastes like peppermint and strawberries.

There’s a brief moment as Amara pulls away, Leon’s eyes heavy-lidded as he finds hers. “I’ve been thinking about that all night.” 

“Have you now?” 

Amara pulls him up by the collar, planting another kiss on his lips. Leon crowds her, pressing her closer to his front. He broke the kiss, sinking his mouth into her neck. 

He pulls back gently, a thumb running over her right shoulder. “What’s this mean?”

Amara’s eyes follow Leon’s, transfixed at the tattoo. 

It’s Sanskrit. It’d been a while since anyone had asked about it (or seen it for that matter), so she’s more than happy to answer. 

“Breathe. Just breathe.” 

He smiled briefly, placing a gentle kiss on it. “I like that. Very you.” 

She finds herself returning the smile.

A low rumble sounded in his chest; he cupped her cheek, then slid his hand down to her jaw, neck, shoulder, her side… and finally, under her bra. 

She eyed him, not directing him or pushing him, and slowly let him slip it off. He held her breasts in his hands for a moment, and then leaned down to place a wandering kiss just above her cleavage.

Amara sighed contentedly, and with that, he reached down to try to pull down her sweatpants. There was a little floundering, and as hard as she tried to, Amara couldn’t hold back her giggling.

“I’m sorry…”

 “No, don’t apologize!” she contradicted with a grin. “I think you’re cute. Next time, just ask me to get up.”

A voice in her head that sounded very much like a more cynical side of her told her dryly that there might not be a next time before Leon interrupted her ominous reverie by weighing her breasts curiously in his hands. She groaned, and he once again dipped his head and placed a kiss on one of her breast. 

Amara purposefully pushed him backward, gracefully placing herself between his legs. “You’ve been my hero all night, time to return the favor, don’t you think?” 

“Are you sure?” Her hands tug at his sweats, slipping inside his underwear and curling around his cock and pulling it free. Leon can’t tear his eyes away from Amara’s face. 

In lieu of responding to his question, Amara seals her mouth around the head and sucks. 

“F-fuck,” Leon whines, unable to stop himself from the ragged rut of his hips, burying himself deeper into the wet heat of her mouth. 

Amara licked and parted her lips, allowing her tongue to rest easy as she took him in-inch by inch, hollowing her cheeks out and sucking- causing his muscles to clench and his breathing to become shallow. “I’m sorry, I can’t stop - I can’t, it feels so good.”

Amara’s hands guide his hips, mouth and jaw going lax as she takes slow breaths in through her nose. Leon starts a slow rhythm, testing the waters, testing how much Amara can take before she moans around him, his pace increases until his lower half brushes the tip of her nose and lips kiss his skin with every thrust. The ache in Amara’s jaw is more than worth it to be able to look straight up the line of his body and see his pretty half-lidded eyes staring back. “A-ah, shit, not gonna last long.”

The taste of him sits heavy on her tongue. Somehow, Amara is a bit surprised. As someone almost obnoxiously, unreasonably attractive as Leon, she’d thought he’d have more experience, which is a real fucking shame because this man looks devastatingly divine when he cums. 

Leon’s eyes screwed shut and face flushed an almost pretty shade of pink as he lets out a choked moan of her name, a visible shudder runs through him as his hands tangled in her hair, pressing his cock as far as it could go down her throat as his cum fills her mouth and coats the back of her throat, the clean smell of his skin filling her nose.

There’s a moment of silence, broken only by Leon’s wet gasps before he gently pats down tangles of Amara’s hair, even as she still lightly sucks on his cock as it slides out of her mouth with an audible, wet pop, swallowing his cum with a quiet hum.

He lets out a ragged breath as Amara climbs back up on his thighs, now completely bare for him.

His hand delved between her legs, his fingers gliding through her folds, sliding his thumb over her clit, already coated with the evidence of her arousal. 

She gasps, maybe Leon had more experience than she thought. She wanted him to keep going but she also didn’t want to waste anymore time, the throbbing between her legs had become damn near painful. 

She grabs his wrist, “Wait.” 

He froze, raising himself up on his elbow. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, no! But if I don’t have you inside of me right now, I may very well go insane.”

Leon can’t help but smile and laugh a tad and Amara does the same before he pulls her down to slot their lips together, very thoroughly she might add, when she pulls away it’s to take off the T-shirt he had only just put on and toss it to the floor. 

Amara delicately runs her lips across his skin, a pathetic whimper leaves his lips at the attention. Clearly this is something that Leon doesn’t quite get enough of and she’s determined to change that. 

He ushered her onto his body a bit more comfortably, tucking her hair behind her ear and positioning himself right at her core before she lowered herself down onto him. Both of them gasped in unison, relieving themselves of the anticipation. 

She rocked her hips lightly, getting used to the feeling of him inside her. Her walls clench around him in a vice like grip, an electric jolt of pleasure going through her core. Shit, she could very well come undone at that very moment. 

Leon lifted his hips to meet hers, her hands were pressed to his chest and his head thrown back into the mattress underneath him. The sounds that left his throat made her desperate to hear more of them, that same desperation is present in Leon’s touch, hands grabbing at her hips. Almost like he needs to make sure that she’s real, that he hasn’t slipped into a coma and that this isn’t a dream. 

He watches Amara with rapt attention, she tries her best to do the same though her eyes are heavily lidded, too lost in the pleasure and bucking her hips to keep getting that feverish pleasure. They both needed a release, they were still both humans; something about that makes Amara feel better.

One particular roll of her hips makes Leon gasp, hands clutching at her thighs desperately, softly calling her name, practically begging her to keep going. 

“Fuck, don’t stop, please don’t stop—“  the rest of his words get stuck in his throat as he groaned reverently. 

After some time, though, Amara could feel all the heat in her body begin to head south, her impending orgasm coiling low in her belly.

“Leon. Leon, I’m-” she moaned out, trying to give him a warning. Her hips pounding down, urging him deeper with each thrust, the same coiling in her lower stomach becoming more urgent when he was fully sheathed in her wet heat.

“Me too, baby. God, you feel so good,” he managed to gasp out before his lips were on hers. His pace became more erratic as his orgasm approached. Without warning, his hand reached between their writhing bodies and rubbed expertly at her clit, watching as Amara trembled above him and cried out his name before throwing her over the edge into a mind blowing, body-wracking orgasm.

“Oh fuck, Leon! Yes. Yesyesyesyes,” she babbled as white-hot pleasure rolled through her body in a wave. He fucked her through her climax, brow furrowed with pleasure and concentration as he slammed up into her again and again. The feeling of her pussy clenching around him finally triggered his own orgasm and with a shuttered cry of Amara’s name she felt his cock twitch deep inside of her.

“‘M coming, baby. Gonna come in you. Fuck, Amara,” he groaned.

Once, twice, and on the third thrust he buried himself deep inside of her, cock head impossibly deep, impossibly full as he emptied himself in her welcoming walls. Her hips stuttered at the feeling of being filled like this. 

The thought of him coming so deep inside of her nearly set her off again, but Amara was too tired and blissfully-fucked out to try and come again.

Amara all but collapsed on top of Leon, his arms wrapping around her as she shivered at the feel of his cock still inside her.

“That was…unexpected…” Leon breathes, rubbing circles into her thigh, still trying to come down from their respective high. “How was it for you?” 

As if he had to ask. Amara couldn’t remember the last time she’d been fucked like that, the cobwebs in her underwear certainly could’ve attested to that. She most definitely would have to ask him at some point what the S meant for his middle name, because right now all it was for her was Leon ‘Sexy’ Kennedy.

She lightly smacks his chest, raising herself off of him to look at him. “If you’re wondering if I thought that was bad sex, Leon Kennedy, I will kick you out of this bed, I swear.” 

Leon, still panting a tad, wears a beautiful yet exhausted smile on his face at the response, “Oh, I know it was good, just had to make sure.” 

She rolls her eyes playfully. “Who knew you could be so cocky?”

They scoot closer to the headboard, no regards for anything else as they both get underneath the covers. Leon circled Amara with his strong arms, practically gluing her to his front. She could hear his heart beating wildly against his chest and she enjoyed the melody. 

In all the displays of tenderness that Amara has become accustomed to Leon over the course of knowing him, him placing a kiss on the top of her head as he buries his nose in her hair is one that makes her blush immensely. 

Both of them drift off into a peaceful sleep shortly after.

They lay bare, Amara’s head on Leon’s chest, careful of his shoulder. Their limbs tangled in a way that made it hard to tell where she ended and he began. She listened to the easy, calm thrumming of his heart. Something about it comforted her. She figured he was asleep but after everything, no way would sleep come easy. She remembers drifting off briefly but something in her couldn’t let her sleep for long.

It was safe to say now her body ached in a good way, completely thanks to Leon. 

“Leon?” 

“You’re supposed to be sleeping, Amara,” Leon responded quietly, fondly chastising. 

“What do you think will happen now?” 

Silence, only the sound of both of them breathing in the stillness and darkness of the room. 

Leon lets out a year’s worth of sighs. “Don’t know, honestly.” 

Things had changed drastically, yet stayed the same. She felt as though she were back to square one, her investigation status was now unknown. Considering half of what she needed now lay destroyed underground.  

All she gathered wouldn’t be enough, she only hoped Jill or Chris got the damn email. This couldn’t end here, she needed to figure out where those two were like Jill planned for them and meet up. But first, they needed to go to the authorities, she remembered that they had to have set up roadblocks around different parts of the city and this wasn’t the only way into Raccoon. 

“Think if we keep going, we’ll hit the military? They set up roadblocks somewhere, had to…there’s no way they won’t be looking for survivors, right?”

Leon clears his throat, but his voice still holds an almost low, syrupy tone. “Who’s to say they won’t find us first?” He rubs light circles into the skin of her shoulder blade.

“What do you mean?” 

“You said it yourself. If word gets out about the city, I’m sure they’ll try hard to contact survivors.” There it was. That hope. Amara had long dropped it when she was inside of that cell but something about Leon’s words helped bolster something she thought illogical. She could only hope he was right. That they both were. 

“Maybe…but it’s all just—“ Amara finds herself getting choked up. It’s all just so insane is what she wanted to say but her emotions had been all over the place. She didn’t sob, hiccup, or gasp, but somehow Leon knew she was crying.

Leon nudges her closer, placing a comforting hand on her head, tucking his chin over top of it. “Let it out…no use in apologizing or bottling it up. Not with me.” 

Amara wasn’t sure how long she cried in Leon’s arms. 

All that she knew is that when they woke up the next morning with Leon asleep by her side and daylight pouring through the cracks of the blinds, things didn’t feel quite so awful as it did as when she’d gone to sleep. 

[fiixer]

[ I had an ask thing for a headcanon about Jordi growing up, but I saved it to my drafts and it fkn disappeared into the void, so ??? Not sure what happened there. In any case, I rambled off my headcanon here, so if you were the one who sent that ask, I'm sorry, I don't know what Tumblr did, but here's the thing! ]

Born in Beijing, he grew up in what was, by all accounts, a loving family.  They didn't have much, just enough to get them by - sometimes just barely that - but they were exceptionally close.  Both of his parents busted their collective behinds for every single thing the family had, and still they made time for their kids whenever possible, as often as possible. Along with his parents were two siblings, an older brother and sister, the latter being one of Jordi's best friends through much of his childhood and into his teen years.  

After she'd finished schooling, with the ultimate goal of becoming a nurse, his sister had gotten involved with a rougher crowd, thanks to the man she'd been seeing at the time.  He and his "friends" began using her and her skills to patch their wounds, save their allies in a pinch, procure medicines for their group (and sometimes to sell for a little extra cash), and the like - things that, on the whole, weren't necessarily harmful, but she didn't want any part of that world.  She didn't want to be part of the criminal realm, but upon expressing that to her then-boyfriend, and expressing her wishes to leave him if he continued doing what he was, he started making threats to keep her where he needed her.  Had she not confided her fears in her brother, no one would have known, and he might never have had a chance to intervene before it was too late.

It was then he got his first taste of what would later become his career.  Jordi went with his sister to gather some of her things from her beau's chosen hideout.  Someone on his side had seen them entering and made an appearance in an attempt to scare the shit out of her - and him, by extension.  They hadn't expected him to be prepared for it.  After a scuffle, as he would countless times after he brought that man to his knees, and with the snap of a neck, ensured he wouldn't be bothering anyone ever again.  The two of them quickly gathered her stuff and hightailed out of there, vowing to never speak of it again.  They assumed the worst was over. Alas, fortune was not on their side.  These guys were determined to keep their free, discreet medical care and supplier. Add that to the fact that she knew their names, their hideout locations, their faces, and whatnot and she may as well have had a massive target painted on her back.  Soon after the first, another was sent on her tail, and another fell to Jordi, this time without his sister present to witness it.  The man's lack of stealth worked in Jordi's favor, and he caught the guy well before he'd reached a dangerous point.  The same fate befell the next they sent, and the one after that.  It became a game, of sorts, one he was more than happy to play.  

And win.

Fortunately, Jordi had picked a few tricks up in his time, so he managed to avoid retribution.  That part was easy.  The problem was, the same people after him also knew about his family; who they were, where they were, the whole nine yards, and they were not hesitant to use that information against him.  He realized that one night while visiting his sister's place.  When the heat of the first round of chaos died down, she'd managed to get herself a little apartment in the city, to which he'd been a frequent visitor.  Late one night, the splintering crack of a door giving way woke them both.  The intruder knew she'd be there, of course, but he hadn't accounted for Jordi.  Once again, he was brought back to the days of old, protecting his sister from the scumbags of the city's underground.  

Word travels through the grapevine pretty quickly.  The next who approached was not after his sister, but him.  Instead of aggression, the man offered him a paying gig.  While Jordi was young, he clearly had a knack for this sort of work.  Plus, charging someone outside the cell with the hit meant it was less likely to be traced back to said cell, and if things went south, none of their men were lost.  If it worked, everyone got paid.  It was a win-win.  So, Jordi took it, and the pay it offered when he provided proof of the bullet he'd lodged in the target's heart.  From there, his career officially began.  The Fixer offered him a place within their organization.  At the time, the terms were a mere fraction of the usual pay for gigs, and in return, he'd help keep random mooks away from Jordi's sister.  Again, a win-win as far as he was concerned, so he agreed.   And for a while, all was well.  No one knew what he'd stepped into, and he preferred to keep it that way.  As far as the family was concerned, he'd taken a job after school, and as far as his sister knew, her problem had disappeared thanks to him. 

Things were great! He had found his niche, it seemed, and for a few years, everything was pretty streamlined.  He had his job, which brought in a nice chunk of cash to help the family out; his family - his sister in particular - was left in peace, and they lived their lives. His brother got married, his sister started seeing someone new, his parents no longer had to work their fingers to the bone and could take more time for themselves; at the time, he couldn't ask for more.

Shortly after he'd turned eighteen, though, everything took a drastic turn.  A job went south, his mark escaped and spilled the beans on the fixers who'd been on his tail.  Naturally, people were pissed.  Not only was the group forced into the legal spotlight, but a huge amount of cash just up and fled the country because somebody missed their shot.  That somebody was going to pay for it – and every single finger was pointed at Jordi.  

That was also the night he got the back scar mentioned here.

And  it didn't stop there.  Voicemails, notes, emails - they mentioned his family by name, along with varying threats and warnings…it wouldn't stop.  As long as he remained, it wouldn't stop.  He couldn't be everywhere at once, so how was he supposed to keep them safe? How could he let them suffer for his fuck-up? He couldn't, in either case, as much as he hated to admit it. However, one thing he did know was, if his family didn't know where he was, they were of no use to anyone.  If they couldn't reach out to him, no one could use them to hurt him, or use him to hurt them.  It wasn't a guarantee, of course, but it seemed like the best option at the time. They might receieve some harassment for a while, but sooner or later, it would go away, right? It had to...So, he left. 

Sometimes he catches himself thinking about home, how things used to be, but he's usually pretty quick to cut those thoughts off. It helps no one, changes nothing, and it's safer for everyone if things are the way things are.

No fanfare, no painful goodbyes, no rissking seeing his mother's face while she pleaded for him not to go. - he just boarded a plane under an alias, and came to the US.  Illegally, mind you; he wasn't going to register with the damned government, are you kidding.  And that was that.  No one knew where he went, exactly when he went, nothing. He's hoping his family assumes he died somewhere along the line. Somehow it feels like that would be less painful for them than knowing he just bailed. Or why he did so.

He hasn't been home, hasn't contacted his family.  The only thing he has done as far as the family goes is, have a contact poke around and see if they were still alive, which…depending where you the timeline we're talking, they are.  In Jordi's later years, his parents have passed, but that's…y'know.  Later later years. By my default timeline (around WD2-ish), his parents are alive and well and enjoying their golden years. His sister married one of the doctors at the hospital where she worked - that actually hurt, because while he was happy for her, he'd also always hoped to be there for her when she got married. His brother had gotten married shortly before Jordi left, and with the secret check in, Jordi found out he's an uncle to his brother's two boys. It was one at the time when he'd checked in, with the second on the way. It's been a few years since he'd looked into them, though, and it's better that way. All it did, aside from ease some worried curiosity and confirm his suspicion that leaving was the right choice, was hurt to see everything he'd missed out on.

So, that's the way they're going to stay.

[visd3stele]

Fish out of water

tw: mentions of drugs and alcohol, underage, mentions of canon violence, death, killing ("off screen"), minors, sexual themes: forced prostitution, children forced into prostitution

summary: y/n is thrown into the Hunger Games, but life after her victory promises to be more bitter than she expected

District Four was packed with people trying to find a good spot to watch the Reaping from. Mothers, fathers, older siblings and grandparents crammed together in a sea of worry, hoping to see their kids in the mob of Tributes.

A couple of years ago, y/n y/l/n would have searched the crowd for her own family. But President Snow made sure to lift that burden off her shoulders after her first Reaping. Her parents were rebels. Or at least engaging in rebelious acts.

Y/n remembers when her father used to take her with him on his boat. Under the guise of fishing, he'd test the limits of the electric field that surrounds Panem.

Everyone knows there's nothing left of the world anymore. But a select few believed it to be a lie. If they survived, someone else must've as well. Her parents were of these sort. Hopeful. Confident in a better life. If not for them, then for their daughter.

Y/n's mother wasn't a simple supporter either. She'd bake pastries and goods with hidden messages inside and deliver them to the right people. Secret meetings were held, their participants growing in number by the year.

With that many people, one ought to turn to be a mole. Of course, not a spy. Because y/n's parents were too smart, too careful, to allow it. But a scared individul who cost Mister and Mrs y/l/n their lives.

"May the odds be forever in your favor." Y/n smiled bitterly as the ceremony begin. Odds were never in their favor, no matter who stepped inside that Arena.

Sometimes, y/n hoped her name would be called. She always thought of herself as a Victor. Not out of a false sense of superiority amongst the other Tributes, but because her life felt like an Arena after her parents were killed.

She was evicted from her house and left on the streets, a continued fight for survival. She had to snatch food and water, clothes and blankets and first aid kits from other poor people. It was either them or her and as horrible as she felt, y/n wanted to live. She bet this must be how the Hunger Games felt as well. A play designed by President Snow where one can either dance along misserably or die.

At least if she was chosen, maybe tbe guilt would wash away. In the Games she has no choice. If there are no more people dear to her heart, then her District would be punished. The entirety of it. Inside the Games y/n could lie to herself that she's looking after more than her own self. She's protecting hundreds of souls in District Four.

Or, her guilt would just increase. New feelings adding on the pile y/n carefully avoids. Maybe she'll just die, then. Allowing herself to be reunited with her parents.

But then again, a sick, hateful part of her wanted to spite Snow. To live, to take her parents' legacy further and find other survivors outside Panem. Build the world they died for. It's this part that keeps her going.

"Starr ...." The escort's voice chirped through a microphone, snatching the fifteen years old out of her thoughts. Y/n looked over to where the twelve years olds hearded together, searching for the petite girl u fortunate enough to own the name. Her parents used to be ones of y/n's parents' closest friends.

No shock, nor surprise glued her to the spot. Much less fear. Y/n didn't move because District Four trains Careers: highly athletic Tributes with a real chance to win the Hunger Games that volunteer at the Reaping. With each new Victor, the District gains more. More food, more suplies, more supporters in the Capitol so they children could receive whatever they might need inside the Arena.

But no one spoke up. No one raised their hand, bravely, for the twelve years old. Sometimes the kids that train aren't good enough by the time of Reaping to volunteer. Or don't want to risk their lives for strangers, or just freeze.

"I volunteer!" Y/n shouted. Step by step she made her way through the parted crowd, cowering under the pressure of all the gazes locked on her. As she climbed the stairs, though, she straighten her posture and raised her hand, waving and smiling at the people, her people, that now started to cheer. She made sure to spot some of her parents' friends, their kids, anyone who could ground her in a feeling of confidence and safety, as fake as it might be.

In the corner of her right eye, she caught a smile blooming on the young man who stood next to Mags, the oldest Mentor District Four produced. He seemed proud, hopeful. The smile of a dying man on a ship having spotted land.

Finnick Odair, the Capitol's Golden Boy, the darling puppet. Y/n saw him on tv in the Grand Market when she was running from an angry merchant, having stolen something. A traitor, she thought.

After his victory at only fourteen, the youngest in the whole history of the Games, Finnick Odair practically moved to the Capitol. His family don't see much of him anymore. And y/n imagines they barely want to. Finnick could always be seen with someone at his arm in the Capitol. Sometimes multiple people, bathing in their extravagance, swimming in their luxury. Slowly losing his soul and becoming a pretty shell just like them.

Y/n learned soon enough she couldn't have been more wrong about him.

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"Ready for your chance to shine?" Finnick Odair, the male Mentor of District Four asked the two silent Tributes. He was only seventeen himself, younger than the male Tribute ellected that year. Y/n's partner was older than her by three year. He almost managed to make it out of the Reaping age alive and well. But fate is a sore mistress and Sylus was elected in his last year as a Tribute.

Sylus scoffed loudly, turning his back on the blonde teenage boy while y/n kept stuffing her mouth with food. She may share his sentiments, but the sense of manners her parents taught her won't leave, even agter years on the streets.

"I think we're looking at the whole situation a bit differently."

Finnick chuckled and nodded. Y/n haven't watched much tv, lacking the means to do so, but she caught enough of the seventeen years old's antics to not be surprised at his lightness. How easy he'd slip into a conversation with a stranger, his disarming charm, the ability to joke off any serious matter.

Y/n used to think it was the Capitol's lasting effects on him. Now, looking Finnick in the eyes – two pearls of deep, baby-blue colored with a hint of powerful green – eyes that can't lie, no matter how hard their owner tries, y/n found herself questioning that line of thoughts. Perhaps it was a coping mechanism or...

"So what's your name? Didn't catch it back home. Too much noise, everyone seems to love that little girl."

Home. Many things surprised y/n in Finnick's short speech: how it seemed to have escaped him that that little girl was only twelve and she didn't need to be known or loved among District Four for good people to cheer her salvation; how he spoke so matter-of-factly, as if making a simple conversation about the weather, when, in fact, they were talking about the Hunger Games, a situation of literal life and death. But the fact he still called District Four home came first.

"Y/n," she said, not even bothering to hide the smile that crept on her lips, muscle reflex from a time long since gone.

"Sweet," Finnick whispered, sizing the girl up and down. He took in her appearance – shaggy, thin framed, but not weak. Lean muscles slithered over her bones. He evaluated her smile – inviting in iys warmth, yet mysterious in its curve of cold detachment. Her eyes shone with witt and intelligence and Finnick plastered that winning smile on his face all over again.

"You've got manners as well," he kept mumbling, half to himself, half for y/n as well. "That'll help at the interviews."

Before y/n could do anything more than nodding along, half following his train of thoughts, Finnick spoke again. "How old are you? Seventeen? Eighteen?" He said, leaning back in his chair, rasing a glass of water at his lips.

"Fifteen."

And Finnick almost choked on the sip he took. "Fifteen?" There were people who looked younger than they were, he knew that all too well – either naturally or with some surgeons' help, he thought with a shudder. Volunteers, Careers, are usually from the older kids. Very few dare to jump inside the Arena at sixteen, but seventeen and eighteen is the normal pool the trained kids select themselves.

"Why did you volunteer, then?"

"I'm not as helpless as I look."

You don't look helpess, Finnick wanted to retort. Just young. Instead, he asked "What about your family? Why in Panem's name would you ditch them for... what? Glory?"

It was y/n's turn to chuckle. A maniac, high pitched sound, nothing like the breathy, sensual one characteristic to the boy in front of her. "Glory?" She rasped. "I did it for a little girl who has yet so much to live for. No one will mourn me if I die!"

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In the days nearing the Games, the Tributes were supposed to learn everything they could from their Mentors: atrategies, interviews tricks, whom to try and ally with, how to wield certain weapons and so on, so forth.

However, Finnick Odair, male Mentor of Four, cpuld barely be seen at the Training Tower. He was always gone somewhere in the city. Day, night, party or aftermath, Finnick barely had a chance to close his eyes, much less relax in the busy schedule President Snow had planned. After the first couple of days, he stopped bothering to even ask Mags about their kids. Images blurred between his eyes, poisoning his mind: either a result of the drinks they poured down his throat, the drugs they forced him to sniff, the lack of sleep or a combination of all three.

All Finnick could see, smell and hear was the deafening music played in Capitol's clubs throbbing in his ears, the sweet perfumes glittering the sweaty skin of his clients, their faces on the brink of pleasure stolen from his torment.

"Fucking whore," Sylus muttered one day. "You'd think he could wait to party and sleep around until at least we're dead, but no, the Capitol's Golden Boy can't do that."

"He said something about meeting sponsors this time," y/n whispered weakly. She didn't really believed it, but part of her that clung to others' humanity still hoped Finnick would show some interest in his mentoring duties.

"You don't actually buy that, do you?" At y/n's sounding silence, he added "Look, I know that's what you want to believe. It'd mean we might have a chance to survive in there. But that's just Finnick Odair for you: going out, screwing some people on television, you know, the usual."

The boy cut himself short, shaking his head and heading to bed. There was nothing more to the conversation, after all. Their Mentor is a slut and they'd be dead in a couple of days because of it if not for Mags' hard work with them.

Y/n headed to bed as well, but couldn't get an hour of sleep. Her body sunk in the soft mattresses with ease, heavy as a pieve of wood, but her mind was too active to let it rest. Questions swam through her head, too tired to untangle them at the moment, too worked up to stop trying. She couldn't decide what she resented the most about the seventeen years old that was her Mentor. Was it his way to occupie his time? Was it the fact that he forced an old lady to carry the whole burden of the Hunger Games?

The kids saw even less of Finnick in the last hours counting down to the beginning of the 68th Hunger Games. He made a short appearance the night before to wish them luck, but that was it. Both y/n and Sylus pretended to be asleep and didn't say anything back to him. In the morning, they found him still sleeping on the couch. Sylus sneered his way and y/n rolled her eyes, but neither tried to wake him.

"It'd make no difference," Sylus whispered, mostly to himself, but y/n nodded her agreement. The girl lost every single trace of respect she might have had for the youngest Victor the night before, when so many questions that refused to produce answers tired her enough eventually and she slept 'til noon.

They left Finnick sleeping and followed Mags to get some more training in. When the seventeen years old woke up, a note from President Snow awaited him on the coffee table. His interview with Ceasar about his Tributes, something all Mentors have to go through, was moved earlier so he can have time to meet with a couple that paid good money to have a night with him.

Closing his eyes tight and holding in a breath to muffle the groan threatening to escape his mouth, Finnick forced his face to morph that fake smile he manufactured for the Capitol and got up to ready himself for a full day.

He knew he didn't spent enough time with his kids. He barely knew their strengths and the strategy they agreed to follow in the arena. He didn't know how loved they were, if they managed to attract the Capitol's attention or not or how they did in their interviews. Because any time Finnick tried to talk with one of his clients about District Four Tributes, trying to use his nightly torture to his advantage for once and earn those kids some sponsors, they'd shush him down. Too much of a reminder for them that Finnick wasn't a shiny toy, but rather a person, a human being with a life outside their beds and responsibility for two lives in the arena.

So, he prepared himself to do what he learned to do best in the past three years. Charm his way around. It turned out, he didn't have to. Ceasar asked him trivial questions about how it feels to be a Mentor for the first time before briefing in on Sylus. The main point of their talk, though, was y/n.

"Yes, Sylus is an amazing boy. We all saw how talented he is. But let me ask you about y/n. That girl is a mystery."

"Oh?"

"A young beauty she is, the Capitol was dearly reminded of you. The smile of a winner on her lips, but is she as lethal as you were?" Ceasar's eyebrows wiggled sugestively on his face and Finnick broke into a sweat, gulping down the knot tightening in his throat.

Ceasar was known to be among the firsts to buy the service of available Victors. Not once did he booked a whole weekend with Finnick himself. Behind closed cuttains, in that dim light of lovers the seventeen years old learned to dread, the host's easy demeanor, kind smiles and encouraging comments shifted to something else. Something new and dark.

Finnick's smile started quivering. He heard from Four's escort that y/n was quite evasive at her interview. She didn't spoke about her family - or how she didn't have one, she proved to be a smooth talker, answering back with another question, directing the interview in ways she'd feel comfortable. All the while being polite and keeping a beautiful smile plastered on her face. All the while winning the audience's interest. Winning Ceasar's interest.

"Wouldn't you want to know, Ceasar, dear?" Finnick winked at the man in front of him, leading him to believe he knew more than he did, but that small remark was all he was willing to give away.

Ceasar laughed. "Well, ladies and gentlemen, we shouldn't be surprise at dear y/n's antics. It's quite clear whom she got it from."

The audience laughed along their most adored celebrity, clapping their hands like thunders. If he wasn't frozen in his spot, Finnick would have flinched and trembled. The way Ceasar spoke of the fifteen years old he was to keep safe was the same he spoke of him once upon a time when he won the cruel Games only to be thrown in crueler ones. And he didn't want to think much of it, of what it meant for y/n if she won - what if he'll jinx it? - but this was the Capitol, the city that brings his worst fears to life day after night.

So Finnick regained his posture, shook Ceasar's hand and stepped in the car waiting to bring him to his clients. There was nothing to do but to hope the girl will die, but as soon as he received calls from sponsors, fighting to pay for a new raining coat for y/n, a new weapon, water and food, the boy knew there was no hope left. So he braced himself to train y/n for one last game when she'll step out of that Arena.

》~》~》~》~》~》~》~》~》~》~》~》~》~》~》~》~》~》~》~》~》~》~》

Y/n and Finnick were both standing in front of a fine wooden desk. The room they were confined into seemed to swallow them, as large as it seemed to be due to the lack of furniture and the white walls, ceiling and floor.

They haven't dared to move at all, not even to glance at each other. But, still, the two Victors mirrored one another regardless. Hands clasped together in front of them, fidgeting chaotically, plucking skin from around their nails until blood spilled and dried on their fingers. It was all the movement present in their bodies. Their legs were still, not even the slightest bump, their heads were locked looking forward, glued to the chair Snow will seat on. Even their blood barely moved, turned to ice despite the frantic beating of their hearts.

Y/n was scared of the unknown, too panicked to find sense in this meeting, yet still seething with burning anger. She imagined she'll jump on President Snow, claeing at his throat, ripping it to shreds with her bare hands as she did to some innocent kid during the Games.

All the while Finnick was slowly descending into madness, knowing what Snow will tell the girl at his side, knowing there's nothing he can do to save her, wondering if he should warn her, all while reliving the time he himself got the news the President will pimp him to the hightes bidder.

"Ah, mister Odair, miss y/n, take a seat." Snow said after he walked in silence over them to sit at his desk.

Both Victors did so mechanically.

"Congratulations are in order," Snow smiled, but it was more sinister than the bland expression he worn so far. Like a predator playing with its trapped prey. "Dear y/n here not only won, but she managed to have quite a lot of people fussing over her victory. Mister Odair, you trained her well."

The seventeen years old gulped. He hated that he could read behind the President's words so well, that he could properly hint on what he meant. He missed the days when Snow would say something like this and he'd have the same confused frown as y/n did.

"In fact, I have a couple of friends that expressed their interest in meeting the two of you. Finnick, I trust your training goes further that the arena." And there was something in his voice that made Finnick's skin crawl. For it wasn't the Games Snow talked about, but what was to come next.

"Well, Finnick, my beautiful boy, don't be rude. You are her mentor, after all. Explain to dear y/n here the etiquette she must follow."

His tongue dried, mouth opening and closing in again and again as futile attempts to for words dragged on the insufferable minutes. Eventually, he managed to break the news to her. And y/n shot back to her feet, shock, fear, disgust and, as understatement settled in, pity, playing on her face as she locked her eyes on Finnick, not daring to watch the President in these moments.

"And if I won't do it?" She lowered her voice in her chest, arms crossed in feigned bravery. She was still looking at Finnick, talking to him. Clinging to the hope that he wasn't just as much of a puppet on Snow's strings as she was, despite her knowing better now.

"Accidents happen, miss y/l/n." Snow answered. "It would be a shame if one of your loved ones fall victim to one."

"The only person I have left is myself. Are you going to kill me if I don't sleep my way around your city?"

Finnick draw in a shaky breath. He has forgotten y/n had no loved ones to be held above her head for obedience. Snow must know that, though. He knows everything. Which only means he wasn't talking to her, he was talking to him. They were bought together after all. Her refusal to deliver meant his own inability to do so.

Snow's head turned to him slowly, hypnotizing, like a snake seizing up its next victim. "If miss y/l/n refuses to comply, you will have to, my boy. But I'm afraid that is only halfway a good job. And the storms are getting worse and worse in District Four. Perhaps not enough to kill, not yet, but missing limbs and brain injuries are not that uncommon, I heard. Lack of oxygen and such, no?"

A weak "please" escaped Finnick then. "I'll do whatever you want, More clients, kinkier, anything." He'll work more, "I'll make sure the clients are so pleased they'll forget y/n wasn't there," he found himself saying outloud.

But Snow ignored him, his whole attention trained on y/n.

"Mister Odair, as your mentor and requested partner, is not only responsible, but also dependent of you, miss y/l/n."

Finnick turned his head away from y/n. He knew how pleading his gaze must be, begging the girl to understand and save his family. But he couldn't ask that of her. It was his responsibility to keep them safe, he won't make a fifteen years old girl into a Capitol's toy for his sake.

"You're gonna... you'll... but I'm the one disobeying you! Finnick did nothing wrong."

Tears welded up in Finnick's eyes as he clenched his jaws to keep the sobs at bay. He dropped to his knees, face hot with desperation, ready to beg for his family. But y/n beat him to it.

"Where are we to meet this lovely people?' She asked after a long silence. Finncik's head snapped up at her, not bothering to hide the cheeks wet with tears and the glistening upper lip from a runny nose.

"Excellent choice, dear y/n. I'm sure Finnick will answer all of your questions on your way out. Have a wonderful stay in the Capitol."

And with that, her fate was sealed, twinned as it was with Finnick's.

[andie-cake]

🌁⛺ for ALL OF YOUR FELLOWS! (if you want lmao)

🌁 - Does your HF oc have any kind of reputation around town? Have they ever been the subject of townie gossip, or the center of a well-known town story, ala "Becky Barnes climbed a tree and stayed there for two days"?

for jasper, technically yes? it's moreso their entire family, the mckenzies suddenly inheriting a fortune from a "dead relative who lived in clivesdale" was a big point of gossip around town for a hot second.

mo is very much just some girl, not particularly notable to the townsfolk. even when she starts working on her documentary and snooping around, the general public doesn't have much to say about her.

neferata is the witchwood bat-child, enough said. whether feral or rehabilitated, she's gonna have folks talking about her.

nicolas used to have a lot of gossip centered around him during his high school bad boy days, but he hasn't gotten much attention since cleaning up his act as an adult. and he much prefers it that way.

⛺ - Did your HF oc ever go to Camp Idonwannabang? If so, what was that like for them?

jasper absolutely would not. his family is not remotely prudish or religious enough to consider sending him there, and they've heard enough horror stories from a friend of their big bro to know that they don't wanna go ever. No Thank You.

mo went one summer when she was 15, and hated it so much that she fake-promised her parents that she'd be A Good Abstinent Youth until she got married to an upstanding young man so they'd never send her back. now she's a weed-smoking lesbian. also, boy jerry was one of the camp counselors when she attended, and now he's one of her co-workers at hatchetfield action news and she (and i) just thinks that's really funny.

neffie is a forest cryptid who would probably eat any idonwannabang campers or staff who looked at her funny, if lumber-axe hadn't already called dibs on the place. in the timeline(s?) where she's rehabilitated into human life, she ends up in the care of hidgens (long story), and he has no reason to send her there.

nicolas' parents did end up sending him to camp once or twice with some reluctance- knowing that the church of the starry children resides in the woods, hoping that maybe it'd help set him on a kinder path than the one he was on at the time (and that the camp staff would protect him if their family's old enemy tried to hurt him out there). in a weird way, it kinda did help him, because camp idonwannabang was where nicolas and his future husband jimmy first became friends. like, they'd already known each other since kindergarten, but the shitty circumstances helped them bond and grow beyond mere acquaintances.

[kulemii]

If and when you ever feel up to it, I would like to know more about Maria and the relationship dynamic between her and Masato. What kind of parent is/was she? Etc.

I LOVE THIS QUESTION!!! There should be more Maria info out on my blog but I'm too hard on myself. Anyway, I've touched on this before somewhere but that was last year and I know lots of details have changed for both Aizawa and Maria. I'm still working on my Maria backstory too and once I square that away I can get back to rewriting Aizawa's.

Anyway, Maria and Masato had a very interesting relationship! If it weren't so codependent, I'd go so far as to say that they had a good, healthy relationship! They were honest with each other, they supported each other, leaned on each other and truly loved each other. But they might have leaned on each other too much, I think- for different reasons but the result still wound up the same.

After the life she lived, Maria found no merits in letting people in. So majority of the time it was just her and her son. She felt that he was her only friend. She wasn't happy in her life but she did find her happiness within him. So long as he was happy, healthy and well taken care of, she felt that inner peace that she lacked most of her life. She'd do anything for him and if she was ever put in a position to, she would've risked her life to spare his without hesitation.

[Note: Although she found a friend in him, she always encouraged him to make friends of his own, his own age, simply because she would've hated for him to grow to be as lonely as she was. She wasn't territorial over in the slightest. She wanted him to thrive.]

She had lots of hopes for her son. That he'd grow up big, strong (and he did), perhaps get a good, respectable job and someday, raise a family of his own without having to wear himself down the way that she did for him. As an Brazilian immigrant, she was sort of harsh on him, wanting him to work hard and never take his life in Japan for granted.

He was always lucky. He'd say it himself. Good fortune always had it's way of landing itself in his lap whether he sought it out or not. He always sort of believed that if God was out there (raised Catholic thanks to Maria but not really practicing) he was repaying his mother for the hell he put her through by way of him.

Growing up half-Japanese wasn't easy on him, when he was young he often got bullied because he physically stood out so much. He originally had a little bit of an accent as well, what with Portuguese being his first language (and him initially learning Japanese from people who didn't speak it naturally). And Maria, bless her heart, kind of didn't help the situation because in her efforts to help him live a more authentic Japanese life, she unintentionally almost made him feel like he should be ashamed of his Brazilian roots. She'd refuse to speak Portuguese with him out in public, she sent him to school with more Japanese style lunches (not her forte), she encouraged him to behave more like his Japanese peers.

She didn't do this out of malice. In her mind, she thought that she was protecting him. Perhaps, curtailing some of the bullying that he'd receive and minimized the awkward attention they'd get when they'd go out for like, groceries but it didn't quite work like that.

This gave him some identity issues that still to this day he has to work through, but once he was old enough to make more of his own decisions, despite what he'd gone through growing up (be it by fault of Maria or his peers) he knew that he was proud to be half-Brazilian. And he wanted her to be too.

He very rarely went against her. He had tons of respect for his mom but It's not an exaggeration to say that Masato grew with some resentment toward her for this. He most certainly did. There are things about his blood that he never got to appreciate because of her 'protection'. Sure, he could've discussed it at length with her after he'd become an adult but aside from a few snide comments here or there, he found that there were more important things to worry about. Like, her health for instance.

Later, when Maria first got sick, Masato took those years as his opportunity to repay her for all the years she'd taken care of him. He made sure that she didn't want for anything. He allowed her as much independence as she could handle but once it came time for him to become her full-time caretaker, he dropped everything to put her first. Nothing in the world could've been more important than her and her needs at that time. He'd even begun to neglect himself. Though to him, it didn't matter. He knew she'd done the same for him all his life. He was a great son to her.

Drama and heartbreak aside, when it all came down to it, when they felt that they had no one else, they always knew that they had each other.

[lucarus]

                                                  𝟽:𝟸𝟿:𝟶𝟻 𝙿𝙼

When   you   open   your   eyes   you   wonder   if   you’re   going   to   go   blind.   There’s   a   light   that   shines   so   bright   it   hurts   to   pry   apart   your   eyelids.   It   takes   a   second   for   you   to   realize   that   there   is   no   light.   There’s   just   white.   A   white   as   pristine   as   freshly   fallen   snow,   the   type   of   white   you   picture   in   your   head   but   can   never   seem   to   create   with   your   two   hands.   A   white   that   seems   eternal,   like   it’ll   soak   up   anything   that   gets   too   close.   It’s   dangerous   to   feel   so   serene   in   a   place   that   feels   so   hungry   for   your   bones.   

You   don’t   realize   you’re   in   pain   until   you   try   to   stand   up   and   your   body   threatens   to   crumble   underneath   you.   It   feels   like   weights   are   tied   to   every   lower   joint   and   you’ve   never   felt   this   sort   of   ache   that   seeps   into   you.   You’re   fighting   against   quicksand   but   your   feet   are   planted   firm   on   the   ground   below   you.   In   the   battle   against   your   body,   you   find   yourself   wondering   if   death   was   supposed   to   feel   so   painful.   It   takes   you �� months   to   remember   that   you   were   aware   of   your   lifelessness   in   that   moment.   A   fleeting   thought,   but   a   conscious   one.   The   dead   are   well   aware   of   when   they’ve   stopped   existing   on   the   plane   of   mortality.   

When   you   look   up,   there’s   nothing   above   you.   The   space   seems   to   blend   into   itself,   and   you   only   come   to   the   conclusion   that   you’re   in   a   hallway   when   your   arm   span   doesn’t   reach   its   full   potential.   Your   fingers   graze   against   the   sides   as   you   slowly   put   one   foot   in   front   of   the   other.   Your   vision   has   begun   to   adjust   so   you   can   make   out   the   slightest   shadow   that   carves   out   the   path   in   front   of   you.

You’re   in   a   maze,   and   it’s   a   daunting   realization.   Like   a   mouse   in   an   experiment,   you   instinctively   look   up   as   if   you’ll   find   your   captor   watching   down   on   you.   There’s   no   profound   disappointment   when   you   don’t.   In   fact,   there’s   a   sense   of   ease.   Like   you   belong   here.   Like   curling   up   in   the   corner   of   this   maze   will   lull   you   into   a   tranquility.   For   a   second,   you   even   humour   the   idea.   Your   knees   knock   against   each   other,   and   you   picture   your   body   sliding   down   the   wall   and   coming   to   a   still.   You’re   not   sure   what   part   of   your   brain   decides   otherwise,   but   you   don’t   give   in   to   the   hypnotizing   urge.   You   continue   forward.

The   first   dead   end.

You   hear   them   say   your   name.   With   the   right   curl   of   their   tongues,   you   hear   Luciana.   The   walls   speak   to   you   and   you   close   your   eyes   because   you   like   hearing   the   way   people   say   it.   Strangers,   people   that   don’t   really   know   you   but   convince   themselves   they   do.   There’s   not   many   of   them,   enough   for   you   to   discern   voices   from   one   another.   You   think   you’d   hold   each   individual   near   and   dear   to   your   heart.

There’s   a   smell   that   wafts   into   your   nose   and   it   makes   your   forehead   crease.   Something’s   burning   and   it   reminds   you   of   the   cheap   salami   you   had   to   live   off   of   during   your   student   years.   It   brings   back   memories   of   barely   making   ends   meet   and   you   wrap   your   arms   around   your   middle   in   discomfort.   A   life   you   had   tried   to   leave   behind   with   the   promise   of   fame   and   fortune   creeps   back   into   your   senses.   The   voices   come   and   go   like   waves   washing   up   on   a   shore.   They’re   loud   all   at   once,   they   applaud,   they   jeer   and   then   they   disappear   and   that   smell   comes   back.   

The   lump   in   the   back   of   your   throat   spills   down   your   cheeks   as   tears.   A   vicious   cycle   of   recognition   and   the   consequences   of   fifteen   minutes   of   fame   dawn   on   you.   You   stumble   backwards   as   the   voices   come   to   a   stop.   They   don’t   return   this   time,   and   that   feeling   of   sudden   fatigue   threatens   to   swallow   you   whole.   

The   second   dead   end.

This   time   there’s   more   of   them.   The   voices   are   so   loud   they   ring   in   your   ear   drums.   This   time   they   call   you   Lucy,   some   call   you   Lulu,   but   none   of   them   say   Luciana.   They   won’t   shut   up   and   you   try   to   place   your   hands   over   your   ears   but   it   only   makes   it   worse.   You   take   a   deep   breath   in,   the   way   you   do   before   stepping   out   of   a   car   and   onto   a   red   carpet.   You   brace   yourself.   You   put   on   a   smile   as   if   you’re   actually   addressing   a   crowd   you   can’t   see,   but   there’s   a   sinking   feeling   in   the   pit   of   your   stomach.   You   want   to   crawl   out   of   your   skin,   and   before   you   can   stop   yourself   you   feel   your   nails   clawing   at   your   own   arms.

What   scares   you   more   is   that   there’s   no   voice   in   the   back   of   your   head   telling   you   to   stop.   They   don’t   stop   crying   out   your   name   with   joy   and   enthusiasm,   and   you   can’t   stop   wanting   to   shed   the   face   you’re   wearing.   It’s   not   yours.   You   don’t   recognize   yourself   in   the   mirror.   And   you   won’t   recognize   yourself   in   your   own   casket.

So   you   run.

The   third   dead   end.

This   one’s   all   too   familiar.   Maybe   because   your   routine   is   always   the   same,   it’s   hard   to   pry   one   event   from   the   other   when   you   follow   the   same   steps.

You   hear   the   roll   of   tires   against   the   road   and   it’s   like   you   can   feel   the   silk      draped   across   your   skin.   You   hear   yourself   shuffle   to   find   the   compact   in   the   purse   you   brought   with   you   and   your   driver   asks   if   you’re   okay.   You   hear   his   voice,   gruff,   he   always   sounds   like   he   has   a   sore   throat.   You   offer   him   a   grin   that   he   catches   in   the   rearview   mirror   and   sends   you   one   back.   You   experience   the   bliss   of   not   having   a   care   in   the   world   as   you   fish   around   your   purse.   Chopin   plays   on   the   speakers,   and   you’re   mildly   embarrassed   that   it’s   the   only   thing   that   keeps   you   calm   before   a   big   party.   You’ve   never   understood   why,   the   piano   wasn’t   even   your   favourite   instrument.   You   much   prefer   a   violin.

Suddenly   your   head   feels   like   it’ll   burst.   Your   heart   is   racing   and   you   reach   up   into   hair   that   you   expect   to   come   out   bloodied   and   matted,   but   your   fingers   come   clean.   Your   hand   shakes   in   front   of   you,   and   you’re   not   sure   what   happened.

Somewhere   in   the   distance   you   hear   the   faint   sound   of   sirens   approaching.   The   world   is   still   spinning   and   you   have   to   keep   your   hand   against   the   wall   to   remind   yourself   that   you’re   still   here.   You   hear   the   static   of   a   police   radio   somewhere   near   your   left   ear.   You   can’t   hear   anything   out   of   your   right.   You   shudder   when   you   feel   a   finger   against   the   side   of   your   neck,   their   pulse   beats   against   your   skin.   Yours   isn’t   there.   The   police   report’s   a   car   crash,   and   you   think   you’ve   heard   enough.   So   you   continue   in   your   search   for   an   exit.

The   fourth   dead   end.

You   stop   and   stare   at   it   from   a   distance.   There’s   nothing   menacing   about   the   way   it   hangs.   

As   you   draw   closer,   you   think   you   can   hear   it   speaking   to   you.   Whispers   that   curve   around   the   shell   of   your   ear   as   your   arm   reaches   out   to   it.   Your   chest   heaves   as   your   heart   pounds,   and   fear   seems   to   take   control.   Your   thoughts   don’t   run   in   a   straight   line   and   you   feel   like   the   only   way   to   stop   the   world   from   spinning   around   you   is   grab   onto   the   rope.   For   stability.   For   closure.   Tied   tight,   you   clutch   onto   its   circular   form   and   you   find   everything   coming   to   a   still   again.   

You   wonder   if   your   head   will   fit.

                                                 𝟽:𝟻𝟼:𝟸𝟹 𝙿𝙼

You   wake   up.

[whimsicallyreading]

For Rowaelin Month day 17

 “A sick day”

CW- PTSD, mentions of violence

Aelin considered herself a fortunate person.

She has survived genocide, her family's murders, losing loved ones, slavery, torture, and the Great War. Now she is a queen, a mother, a beloved Mate.

Her life had changed since those bleak days where she'd wondered if she would ever escape captivity—the days when Aelin didn't know if she would ever be free or find love again. Every morning she woke up curled into Rowan's side, and while she drank her morning tea, Aelin could count on her young daughter snuggling into her lap.

Yes, she was swamped most days, but that was normal for a queen. But even the moments between boring meetings brimmed with life and laughter. Rowan's hand on her thigh beneath the table. Fenrys' theatrics when conversation spiraled off-topic. And even the hardened lords thought it was hilarious when their three-year-old princess barged into councils and demanded her mother's attention.

Her family gathered for dinners at the end of every day. Aelin's little family, Fenrys, Emrys, and Malakai were the regular attendees. Aedion, Lysandra, Elide, and Lorcan joined when they were present. It was a time reserved for family only, and it was by far Aelin's favorite part of the day.

Aelin had a good life now. Her family was growing, and her country thrived beneath her rule.

So it always took her by surprise when a bad day came.

She had woken up fine. Delly had slammed open the chamber door with a gust of wind and squirmed herself between her and Rowan in the early morning. Usually, Aelin treasured the moments when her daughter joined them, but being pregnant again had taken a toll on her sleep.

Rowan tried to stop their child before she entirely collapsed onto Aelin but was a moment too slow. Delly flopped onto her mother's chest in a disarray of wrinkled nightgown and golden curls. Soft sobs were sputtering out of the tiny figure.

I'm sorry. Rowan whispered into her thoughts. He knew how hard pregnancy was on her and took his mate's comfort very seriously. It troubled him that their toddling daughter woke Aelin so abruptly.

Aelin blinks the sleep from her eyes and sends him a happy smile to assure him everything is fine.

"What's wrong, Dell?" Aelin soothes a hand up her baby's quaking form.

Adelia sniffles harder, unable to talk through the tears. She'd started to have bad dreams in recent weeks, but never had she been so inconsolable.

Aelin shifts as Adelia's arms tighten uncomfortably around her bump. Rowan sees her discomfort and reaches around to pull Dell to him instead, but it is met with resistance.

"No," Adelia finally wails. "Mama. I want Mama."

Rowan frowns. Adelia was a daddy's girl to the bone, and this was the first time she'd ever refused to go to him. Their daughter squeezes harder and burrows her face into Aelin's torso.

"Dell," Rowan leans next to her and whispers, a cool breeze brushing against her flushed cheek. "What's wrong little love?"

Adelia lifts her head, and Aelin's heart contracts painfully. Her cheeks are red and swollen from the intensity of her crying, little sobs still stumbling from her chest as Rowan settles her down enough to speak.

"Mama was gone. She was hurt, and she couldn't see me." Dell sniffles, her green eyes glassy. "Can you see me, Mama?"

Aelin tugs her daughter in closer, unable to stand the sight of her so sad. "Yes, of course, I can. I'm right here."

"You were in a box. She wouldn't let me see you," Adelia whimpers in a small voice. "She told me she was gonna keep you. I don't want you to go, Mama."

Aelin's face blanches. It wasn't possible. Her little baby couldn't possibly have seen what was coming to her mind. She looks at Rowan, and his face is pinched with worry.

"It's not real, Dell." Rowan uses a thumb to wipe the tears off her cheek.

Adelia flinches. "Uncle Ress told me it was. He told me Mama had got stollen and put into a box by the bad lady and that she should have stayed there."

Aelin's heart stops. Nausea crawls up her throat, and Rowan tugs Adelia away just in time for her to crawl out of bed and gag into a potted plant. The sickness grips Aelin, the shudders in her arms only growing worse with her daughter's mumbled cries.

"Daddy, I want Mama to stay here." Rowan hushes her and murmurs quiet reassurances. "Don't let her get stollen."

Ress had said that? In front of her daughter? Aelin tries to close her eyes against the visions creeping into her mind. The places her scars used to be ache, and her hands pulse with the remembered pain of reconstruction.

The baby in her womb squirms under its mother's stress, and Aelin throws up again.

She should have stayed there.

Cairn brings the hammer down onto her frail knees, the ringing of cracking bone splits the air.

She should have stayed there.

Aelin opens her eyes to endless darkness. Sweet smoke wafts through invisible holes and sends her to sleep- leaving her mind vulnerable to Maeve's manipulations.

She should have stayed there.

More and more memories swarm behind her eyelids until a pair of grounding arms wrap around her shoulders.

"Fireheart, you are home. You are safe. Can you breathe with me?" Rowan sighs loudly behind her shoulder, and Aelin tries to force her own breath out.

Breathing in is harder, but Rowan's scent fills her nose and loosens the binds on her lungs. Soon, Aelin is doing the exercises independently, and Rowan nuzzles his face into her neck. His hands snake under her bump and lift some of the pressure, easing more of her tension.

"There you are," Rowan kisses her cheek as Aelin comes back around. "Are you okay?"

Aelin shakes her head and sinks into his arms. "Can you take me back to bed?"

Her legs feel like jelly, and her stomach is weak from turning. Rowan lifts her with ease. His arms are warm, and he murmurs sweet nothings into her ear as he carries his mate back to their bed.

"Adelia?" Aelin looks around for their daughter.

Rowan pulls back the duvet and reveals the sleepy from nestled right into the middle of the pillows. "She fell back asleep quickly."

"I can't believe Ress told her those things," Aelin can feel a tear slipping down her face. Ress had never forgiven her for her days as Celaena. Darrow had grown to accept her, but Ress never warmed up to having Aelin as his queen despite her efforts.

She hadn't realized the extent his hatred went.

Rowan scowls as he lays Aelin down next to their daughter. "Ress is young and foolish. I have forgiven a lot of his hostility and ignored most of his juvenile antics, but Aelin, I can't forgive this."

"He should never have said those things to Dell." Ress's words linger in her head. She tried to do right by her title and live up to her parent's legacy. Aelin took a lot of pride in listening to the demands of her people and tending to their problems personally. But the odds of Ress being the only one to feel this way are slim. Did they wish she'd never returned? Was she arrogant to take the crown just because it was her inheritance? She'd never had the formal training as ruler and relied a lot on Rowan to help manage foreign affairs. Despite the loss of her fire, many still feared her and considered her a murderer. No matter how hard she tried, Aelin's history as Adarlan's Assassin proceeded her.

Tears burn Aelin's eyes, and Rowan's scowl deepens. "He should have never spoken of you like that at all."

Aelin shakes her head, "It's his right to think what he wants. Maybe he has a point."

"No." Rowan growls, and Dell flinches in her sleep. Taking a deep breath, Rowan softens his voice. "He's wrong, Aelin. Ress was wrong to scare Dell, and he has no right to demean everything you've sacrificed. You've suffered for your people."

"I closed the lock because I had to Rowan," Aelin argues. "That doesn't automatically make me a good queen. What if I'm failing?"

Rowan pulls their duvet up to Aelin's chin, and Dell instinctively snuggles to her mother's side. Her daughter was a leach for warmth, and Aelin could feel her remaining flames writhing in her veins agitated.

"You are a wonderful ruler, Fireheart." Rowan bends down and kisses her lips reverently. "I've met my fair share of emperors, kings, and queens. None of them have given up so much to better the lives of their people. They care for you in return."

Rowan steps away from the bed, and Aelin makes a displeased noise. "Where are you going so early in the morning."

"I'm awake now. I feel like a flight through Oakwald. Go to sleep, and when you wake up, I'll bring my females breakfast," Rowan pulls on a plain white tunic. "Sleep, love. You both need your rest."

Rowan can read her too well. Aelin can feel her eyes drooping despite how much she wants to deny it. "Very well, but there better be tea and pastries."

As Aelin drifts back to sleep, she swears that a mischievous smile passes across her mate's face.

~~~

"Aelin," Maeve twirls a lock of blonde hair in her fingers. "Where are the keys?"

Cairn twists the blade in her thigh again, and Aelin screams, "screw yourself."

Aelin writhes beneath the pain and the dark queen's gaze. Her torturer goes to twist the blade again, but Maeve holds up a hand. "Wait. There is a smarter way to go about this."

"I won't tell you anything," Aelin gasps, the blood seeping from her thigh pools onto the table. "There is nothing you can do."

"Not even to spare the princess?" Maeve smiles as the cell door opens. Connall walks into the room, a squirming girl in his arms.

"Let me go," the girl screams, and the air in the room turns frigid. Her blonde hair whips around as she twists and fights. The little girl's head turns, and she freezes when she catches sight of Aelin. "Mama?"

"Adelia?" Aelin asks, confused. "You can't be here. You aren't supposed to be here." With renewed energy, Aelin thrashes against her bonds and bares her teeth at Maeve.

Maeve takes Adelia from Connall and strokes her hair. "Such a pretty one."

"This isn't real," Aelin hisses. "I wasn't pregnant when you took me. Adelia was born in Terresan."

Maeve hums a sympathetic note, "It seems you're confused." Aelin fights as the dark queen sits with a frozen Adelia in her lap. "Begin again, Cairn."

A hot iron is lain against Aelin's neck, and Adelia's screams rattle the stone chamber.

~~~

Aelin wakes with a gasp. Her chest is seizing in uncontrollable fits, and little hands cup the sides of her face.

"Mama?" Adelia's concerned face hovers over Aelin's. "Why are you crying?"

Relief washes over her at the sight of her daughter, safe and sound. She tries to take deeper breaths, but her body fights against her. The baby in her womb squirms uncomfortably. Aelin feels guilt that they are so subject to her moods. She tries to open her mouth to speak, consol her frightened daughter, but Aelin can't get any words out.

"Daddy!" Dell screams, frightened tears gathering in the corner of her eyes.

Rowan bursts through the door, "Dell?"

Adelia sniffles and kisses Aelin's face sadly, "Daddy, what's wrong with Mama?"

Aelin grabs at her chest, trying to ease the tightness there. She was scaring her daughter. What kind of mother would do that? Rowan sits beside her, and a cool wind goes up her nose and fills her lungs.

"Fireheart," Rowan lifts Adelia and sits beside her. "Is this a sick day?"

It was the code they'd come up with for the days when the past came back to haunt them. When the turmoil in their mind forces their bodies to rebel, and they can't seem to put on their usual facades. It used to shame Aelin, the days she couldn't rise from bed and do her duty. But her mate's unwavering love soon cracked that lie and eased her burden. Rowan had convincing arguments. Aelin's people needed their queen at her best, and on sick days, she wasn't able to give that to them. Their court was strong. They wouldn't allow Terresan to fall while she recovered. Aelin deserved time to heal.

Rowan must have been able to tell that she wouldn't be able to settle herself this time as his winds continued their push and pull in her chest. "Yes," she rasps dejectedly.

Dell buries her face into Rowan's shoulder. Her mate rests a hand on the side of her face and soothes her cheek. "To whatever end, Aelin. We will get through this just as we do everything else."

Rowan kisses the side of Dell's face. "Little love, do you think you can go to the kitchens and have someone bring Mama tea?"

That fae instinct to fuss rears its head in their child. Adelia perks up at the opportunity to do something useful. "Yes!"

Rowan sets her on the floor, and she takes off in a blur of untamed hair and swishing skirts. They wince as a gust of wind slams the doors of their chambers against the wall.

"She's a handful," Rowan talks, aware of the soothing effect his voice has on her. "But we always knew our children would be. I can't wait to see what kind of chaos our son brings into our lives."

Aelin wraps her arms around him as the remnants of her dreams finally fade away. "You think it's a boy?"

"I know so," Rowan pinches her side, and Aelin smiles. He'd also been confident that their first child would be a girl. His smugness after Adelia's birth was unbearable.

"Rowan," Aelin whispers. "Can we just lay here today?"

"I could never deny you anything," Rowan leans against their headboard and kicks off his shoes. "You don't need to ask, Aelin. It's okay to take time for yourself."

"What if I'm just proving Ress right?" The insecurity slips from her lips before she can stop them. "What if there is someone more capable?"

"Ress won't be a problem anymore," Rowan rests a hand against her bump, and the baby withing kicks at it, bringing a smile to his face.

Aelin narrows her eyes, "What have you done?"

"Nothing that anyone will blame me for," Rowan assures. "He would be in a lot more trouble if the rest of the court learned what he said in front of Dell. Ress should be grateful I didn't do a lot worse."

Aelin sighs, "I don't understand why I can't just let it all go. Why do I allow myself to be so haunted?"

"It's not that simple," Rowan shakes his head. "I'm hundreds of years old, and no matter how many years pass, there are things from my past that haven't healed. The mind is different from the body, and sometimes it takes longer for it to recover. There is nothing wrong with that. You gave up everything for the people you loved."

"Because I had to," Aelin contradicts.

A hardness comes over Rowan, "because no one else could."

Rowan rolls over her body into a plank and looks deep into her eyes. "No one else that day would have made the same sacrifices out of love. Not even me. I was too selfish to let you go. You gave up everything, and by the strength in your soul, you came home to me. In all my decades, I have never met someone so remarkable, and I never will again. Take as many years as you need to recover, Aelin. This world owes a debt to you, and I will make sure it pays. You deserve every happiness."

His hand threads through one of hers and drags it up to rest on the bump between them.

Happiness.

Dell darts back into their room, a cup of tea sloshing in her hands as she runs. "Daddy, I put extra sugar in it. Uncle Fen is coming with more cups, but I made this one special."

Rowan pulls away from her, and the laughter on his face is contagious.  

Aelin smiles and accepts the tea from Dell's hands. She even manages a few sips without cringing from the sweetness. Fenrys follows behind her shortly and sets a fresh cup covertly on her bedside table.

There may be hard days, Aelin realizes as her family gathers around her, but the love they showed her every day made it all worth it.

[curiousconch]

Chase You / Chase Me (Pt. 1)

Part 1: Burning on the Edge of Something Beautiful

Catch up here: Series Masterlist

Chapter Summary: Alex finds herself personally affected by the Rothswell case and Gabe attempts to find out why.

Book/Pairing: Choices - Laws of Attraction / Gabe Ricci x MC (Alex Keating)

Words: 1.8k+

Rating/Warnings: Mature (16+) / implied sexual content, alcohol consumption

Disclaimer: Most of the characters as well as some dialogues belong to Pixelberry. I am merely borrowing them.

Wednesday Evening at McGraw Byrne

Back from a day in the courts, Gabe stepped out of the elevator and into the halls of McGraw Byrne. Eager to finish the day's work, he passed by the break room where he unwittingly heard something that made him instantly halt.

"Did you see how clammed up Keating became when you asked her that question?" Gabe heard Vanderweil's deep voice.

"Actually, I sensed something irked her during the ride back. Seems like I did strike a chord," a serious female voice replied, which Gabe presumed was Sinclair's.

He made the assumption that the line of conversation was about their visit to the Rothswell's mansion. Earlier that day, the law firm's major client Philip Rothswell, demanded that they see to the whole Lydia and Joey situation. So Gabe and Sadie instructed the associates to go see the young heiress, trying to give the firm more time to create a more solid strategy than playing family counselor.

When they were placating Rothswell, he noticed how Alex fidgeted in her chair as she listened to their client. The way her body pulled up every defensive stance in the book full with meaning.

Seems that what he just overheard confirmed his suspicions. Something was bothering Alex Keating. And like all things Alex, it piqued at his curiosity.

It irked him that he did, more than he was willing to admit. Seems like even as trivial as office gossip, as long as its about her, Gabe is guaranteed to take notice.

Hastening his strides, he continued on to his plush new office, the setting sun coloring the wood furnishings with a hue of orange. He tossed his briefcase on the khaki couch, his leather soles padding on the clean white carpet. Loosening his tie, he crossed the room towards his desk. He took off his coat, hanging it on the rack nearby and turned to face the glass walls which offered a much better view of the concrete jungle below.

His mind whirred as he rationalized with himself as to why he was so invested with Alex. He initially chalked it up as a familiar, primal response to her... attractiveness. Yet as he watched her emerge from every pressure test and challenge he and Sadie gave her, he can't help but root for her.

It's not just that. After a long time, Gabe wanted to be near someone. He wanted to hear what bothers them, their goals, even their history. A level of interest he never exhibited to his usual carnal pursuits.

She stirred up something sleeping within him, something he willed never to return.

Consumed by the thoughts of her, Gabe finds himself glancing at his Rolex and hatching a guise to know what made the mighty Alex Keating got so worked up about.

**

Sometime later, uptown New York

"Alex... Have you ever had someone like Joey mess with your head? It's not about smart or stupid," Gigi had asked.

Alex poked her fork at the piece of chocolate soufflé as her mind whirled back to the ride back to the office.

"I'm not buying you any more of that Riesling if you wouldn't even bother being a worthy companion," Gabe teased, before downing another glass of scotch across her.

Her head immediately perked up, breaking free from her introspection. Alex forced a smile in response.

"As if another glass would make a dent in your indomitable fortune," she leaned back, trying to hide her thoughts under the façade of her sarcasm, rolling her eyes at him for added effect.

The two find themselves in a swanky New York restaurant, its upscale interior design worthy of the five star Yelp rating. The sleek tables and gray scandinavian chairs made Alex grateful that her wine red dress fit among the crowd. With a private booth overlooking the city lights and the delicious gourmet food served, she did not regret accepting Gabe's dinner invitation to meet a client.

Her mind decided that more work and Gabe's company was a great way to distract herself from the nagging of her memories, and it didn't hurt that the senior partner was easy on the eyes.

And when the supposed big shot canceled at the last minute, Alex completely saw it as a win.

"Something bothers you." Gabe suddenly articulated, breaking her from her contemplations.

Alex's brow arched in reply, as Gabe stated it like a fact, not as a question.

Crossing her legs under the table, she folded her arms across her chest.

"And why does that concern my pretend-boyfriend, hm?" she interjected, hoping to evade his interrogation.

"You're not the only astute one in this booth," Gabe let his eyes trail across her defensive stance the second time today.

Throughout the course of their meal, the heat between them simmered as well as the flow of their usual banter. Their chemistry was palpable, convincing even the waiter of the restaurant. The cocky man was certainly redefining the phrase hot and cold for Alex. He quickly and easily shut down her attempts to flirt, pulling back when the temperature between them reached a boiling point.

But Alex was more surprised, pleasantly so, when Gabe briefly opened up about his past and the vague explanation of why he's still not settled down.

She sensed the current trajectory of their conversation was what Gabe planned to have all along.

But now, as she swirled the remaining expensive liquid in her glass, trying to decide whether to put her guards up or to just give in, she couldn't deny the uncharacteristic softness in his gaze. It was magnetizing, making Alex want to fold and drop her pretentions.

She watched him as he seemed to eagerly anticipate for her retort, a half smile lingering on that pretty mouth of his.

Alex knew he won't push her if she didn't want to, yet a part of her wanted to share the heaviness that weighed on her shoulder since meeting Lydia Rothswell. Of how much the teenager reminded her of her old, naïve self.

She's been trying to rack her brain for a reasonable explanation for her growing desire to introduce herself to Gabe more than she'd allowed the string of men that she had trysts with. Despite her continuous self-denial, her gut is telling her that Gabe wasn't like any other she crossed paths with.

Making up her mind, she decided to let the door open. Maybe just a little.

She sipped her wine beckoning some needed courage, wishing that she ordered something stronger.

Taking a deep breath, she began, her eyes fixed on the view behind him.

"Since you were wondering, my otherwise impeccable track record is stained by one mistake," she paused, finally turning her gaze to Gabe's waiting eyes.

"Like Lydia, I trusted the wrong person," she continued. "I... risked everything and got nothing."

Gabe's mouth twitched ever so slightly, sensing a fluttering in him because of Alex's candor. There was no trace of the witty comebacks he'd grown to see in her, only vulnerability.

And somehow, he adored her more.

He watched her as she bit her thumbnail, an action greatly contradicting the fiery personality she projected in front of everyone else.

Alex gritted her teeth as she fought back the overwhelming emotions as she stopped herself from revealing more than she's prepared to. Not yet, not tonight, she thought.

"But I woke up from that nightmare, solemnly swearing to myself that I wouldn't repeat the same wrong decision that almost railroaded my whole future," she concluded, determined not to expose herself any further.

A hush fell between them.

Alex raised her head to meet the eyes of the man that made her walls crack, expecting to find intrigue. Instead, she found a subtle look of understanding.

It's as if it was telling her that he knew. He knew every pain and every hurt that she wanted to just forget and bury inside a box, never to be opened again.

Just because for him, pain was a familiar companion. That like her, he too, has been through hell and back.

And while she relished under his attention, her breath slowed, letting herself be trapped within the depths of those reassuring brown eyes. Alex thought nothing can make her drop down her guard, but Gabe's next actions proved that there's still more he can do to break down her walls.

Without thinking, Gabe reached for her hand and took it in his, skimming his own thumb on her knuckles in an attempt to comfort her. He smiled warmly at her, expressing a gentleness that she never thought he was capable of.

It made Alex's heart skip a beat.

Even Gabe seemed to slowly enter the same daze, unable to veer away from Alex's unguarded view. Any remnants of his resistance, leaving him. He found himself leaning in, lured by the heady scent of her perfume - a mix of coffee, vanilla and jasmine. An unexpected combination that enticed him more to her.

For a few moments, their world stood still, as if they were on the edge of discovering something that all their lives they subconsciously sought.

Something more than any flirtation or any pursuit for lustful pleasure. Something more...

"More drinks, Gabe?" a familiar voice broke them from the temporary oasis that they pulled themselves in.

All of a sudden, they were sucked back to the reality of their actual surroundings. The noise of other patrons of the restaurant, the soft ambience of the lights overhead, and the fact that he was her current boss, and that she was under his professional supervision.

Gabe turned to James, their waiter, and refused the offer nonchalantly, and instead asked for their check.

"We should head back to the salt mines, the stack of work on my desk probably hasn't gotten any smaller since we left," Gabe casually said, erasing any trace of what just happened between them. Alex silently agreed, following his queue by checking her phone for emails.

The trip to the lobby was wordless, as well as the wait for their ride. Up until Gabe opened the door of the town car, not following Alex inside.

"Aren't you coming?" Alex inquired, briefly confused.

He cleared his throat, his expression stoic before he answered her. "I think its best if we part ways here. I wasn't kidding about needing to head back to the office," he paused, a look of contemplation in his eyes before it softly shifted to that of sincerity.

"You, on the other hand, should go home and get some rest. Partner's orders."

Alex couldn't help but smile. "Whatever you say, Gabe."

"Careful, Alex. I just might hold you to that promise one of these days," Gabe replied, the usual playfulness evident in his tone.

And with that, the door closed and the car pulled away.

But as Gabe watched the vehicle fade out of his sight, his phone pinged for an email. Glancing down at his screen, he saw the name of the sender, prompting him to open it in haste.

The message contained a single statement: "I found what you asked me to look for." An attachment was included.

When he opened the file, he saw a picture of a younger version of the woman he just parted from.

And a look of recognition passed over his face.

Author's Notes: This is getting a little canon divergent, though I'm just expanding their dinner conversation and using the intimate setting provided in the original book.

Tags: @adiehardfan @pixelnutrookie @starryjieun @fucking-random1 @choicesficwriterscreations

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