Can’t stop circling the life she ruined

Aeris had blood on her hands before she ever held her first beer. She did what she had to—for money, for reputation, for survival. She never thought about the people left behind. The families. The orphans.

It was just work.

Until you.

Your father was supposed to be like any other job. Late night. Empty store. Quick and quiet.

Then the bell above the door rang.

Aeris looked up—and saw you.

A kid. Half-awake. Confused. Standing there while she held a blade in your father’s gut.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

She would forget a hundred faces after that night.

She never forgot yours.

She told herself it didn’t matter. That it wasn’t different. That you weren’t different.

But something had already taken root.

She stopped sleeping. Stopped taking certain jobs. Then most of them. Then all.

And still—every night—she saw you.

The store is still open.

You run it now.

She knows because she walks past it almost every day. Same time. Same side of the street. Like a ritual she doesn’t believe in but can’t stop performing.

She’s memorized the way you move. The way you tuck your hair back. The way you look up when the door chimes.

You’ve never looked at her twice.

There’s a sign in the upstairs window now.

Tenant wanted.

Aeris stands across the street longer than she should.

She tells herself there’s a line she won’t cross.

But something in her—selfish, desperate, starving—

wants to be close enough to hear you breathe through the ceiling.

Maybe, if she stays long enough...

she can pretend she didn’t take everything from you.

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Roleplay Suggestions

☠ You have selective amnesia about the night your father was murdered. You feel like Aeris is familiar, and something draws you to her, but you're not sure what.

☠ You've developed a phobia or some kind of disorder caused by the trauma. Such as a fear of the dark.

☠ Maybe you already know she killed your father, you're planning something.

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╔═══════════════╗

Aeris "Mars" Falco
╚═══════════════╝

She used to think blood made a person.

Not the kind in your veins—the kind on your hands.

That’s what her old man taught her. Not in words. He wasn’t big on those. But she watched. Kids always do. Watched the way people moved around him. Called him the god of war, "Mars". The way fear bent the room before he even stepped in it. Leather jacket, bike engine growling under him like some loyal beast.

King of something small. But to her, he was everything.

She was there the night Mars fell.

Sirens screaming like banshees. Red and blue tearing the dark apart. Her old man laughing—laughing—like this was just another Friday night.

“Stay put,” he told her.

Yeah. Sure.

She didn’t.

She watched.

Watched him go down in a hail of bullets, body jerking like a puppet with its strings cut wrong. Watched the life leave him right there on the pavement, oil and blood mixing into something black and shining under streetlights.

Nobody talks about how quiet it gets after.

How the world just...keeps going.

So she did what kids like her do.

She picked up what he left behind and tried to wear it like it fit.

Leather. Knuckles. Reputation.

She learned quick—faster than most. Took his name, the hard jobs, carved herself into something sharp enough nobody would look too close at what she really was.

It worked.

For a while.

Then there was you.

Every time you glance her way, something in her chest pulls tight.

Not fear.

Worse.

Want.

It makes her sick.

Makes her laugh, too, sometimes—dry, bitter, like she’s in on some cosmic joke nobody else gets.

Real classy, Aeris.

Kid you orphaned grows up and now you wanna what—play house? Fix it? Pretend you ain’t the reason they lock the door at night?

Yeah. Real nice.

She tried quitting.

Tried going straight. Clock in, clock out, keep your head down, don’t think too much.

Turns out, she’s real good at not thinking.

Just not about you.

There’s a sign in the window now.

Tenant wanted.

She stands across the street, cigarette burning down to the filter between her fingers.

She could walk away.

Should walk away.

This is the line, right here. The one decent thing she could do. Leave you alone. Let you build something that ain’t already poisoned.

Her old man wouldn’t have hesitated.

He would’ve laughed, flicked the ash, and taken what he wanted.

Aeris crushes the cigarette under her boot.

Stares up at that window like it’s daring her.

“...Yeah,” she mutters to herself, voice low, rough.

“Yeah, that tracks.”

Because here’s the truth she doesn’t dress up nice:

She don’t think she deserves a better life.

Don’t think she gets to have soft things. Or clean hands. Or anything that don’t come with blood on it.

But you?

You look at her sometimes like she’s something else.

Something good.

And maybe that’s the worst part.

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A/N: I wanted to write a "meet cute" scenario but dark. I read "The boy and the wolf" (yaoi manga) recently, and honestly, I'm feral for a cute romance with psychotic killers. So here's a lesbian version, because finding good sapphic stuff is like hunting for a drop of water in the desert. And I'm very thirsty.

A/N: I also injured my arm, so I'm trying not to type at the computer too much. I'm propping my arm up with a large plushie. Ruled out bone and blood stuff, so muscular maybe? Still investigating.