#tw mention of burning

[justamasskinnie]

MOTHERFUCKER I JUST CONNECTED THE DOTS

I had a really fucked up dream in middle school where I was sat in history class but I was floating above and looking down at everyone, including myself (at least I thought I was floating at the time)

The part that's just hit me right now is everyone was burnt and red, including the me I could see

Mf, I just registered that I wasn't floating, I was unnaturally tall, it was a fucking dream related to Phen and of course I've only made the connection now because The boiled one phenomenon has been made and I'm Phen

This is equal parts fucked up and kind of euphoric as well? I finally understand that weird fucked up dream I had..

[spookedwerewolf]

finally felted the mask. fingers burnt. 12 injured. 2 dead. /j

[kyeterna]

"Oh General, what did you witness the night of the tragedy?

Oh General, could you have even known that your inability to act doomed the world?"

The Army of the Primordial Flame, the only strictly military guild- working directly under the Fourth Overseer, has been known for its expansionist expeditions throughout the world. Expedition "AURORA" was one like many. To lead such an expedition means your strategic skill has been acknowledged by the Fourth Overseer himself, the greatest honour. Gale was never really religious, he didn't care much about the Fourth's vision of the world. He just liked the prestige and importance that came with his role. And he was good at it.

The expedition was successful, only taking 4 months with no casualties. Back at Farport, he had managed to return with all 560 soldiers and mercenaries contracted from the Pharus Guild alive. Their trip back to Arkhan would have taken 3 days by boat. As Volkan had warned him; "It would be the best course of action, after all I have good reason to believe you might get attacked by enemy guilds on your way back. Keep an eye out for ambushes". The god couldn't accompany them as he had other matters to attend to. But Gale had other plans. His wife had given birth to their first kid just 2 months prior and his home, Spithol, was less than a day away. Sure it was the opposite direction than their destination, but surely it should be safe. There was no way any other guilds could have possibly known about the detour. And he missed his family so much.

They were at the town gates by evening. A joyous occasion, worthy of festivities. By night an entire festival was ready for both the civilians and the soldiers to enjoy. A celebration of the success and safe return. In honour of the hero of the town Gale. What later turned into the event known as the Unyielding Flame Massarce.

After a few hours of time with his family, plenty of food and a couple of drinks, movement away from the venue caught Gale's eye. A little drunk but still aware enough of his surroundings he ventured deeper into the dark alleyways of the town. At that point people were either fast asleep in their houses or still celebrating at the centre of the town, so the only light by now was coming from the clear starlit sky. A moment of peaceful quiet. The general slowly breathed in. The scent of the night humidity and- gunpowder?

What a terrible time to be drunk. After investigation, as much as one can investigate when under the influence, he realised that most of the town seemed to have been trapped. But no sign of culprits- everyone he had seen up to that point were people he knew. None of them could have done this, right? He ran to the town walls, towards the gates. Frozen shut via an impenetrable substance. Upon further investigation he came to the grim realisation that they were all trapped inside for good. As he looked for potential suspects or ways out if the worst was to happen he came across one of the people contracted from the Pharus guild. "We are in trouble- have you seen anyone suspicious around town?". A pause. It was too dark for Gale to read that man's expression. "No- not that I am aware-" "You need to warn the rest of the crew, we have to find a way to evacuate everyone" another pause. "Sure".

After minutes pass with no news from the crew or any results from his investigation, he headed towards the centre himself. And in the distance, in the sky, he could clearly see smoke. Mind racing he ran towards the festival. Tripping on his way back- what a terrible time to be drunk- he came across that same mercenary holding a torch. Making eye contact they both froze. Adam- he thinks that was his name, stared at him like a deer caught in headlights. Gale tightened the grip on his sword. He thought he understood what was happening in front of him. He thought for a moment that of course this was happening. He thought of killing the man in front of him. But he hesitated. At a standstill he couldn't help but think how much he just wanted to see his wife and daughter. The sound of explosions and loud screaming brought him back to reality. And he ran towards his home. Letting the man go.

It didn't take long for the fire to spread throughout the city. It didn't take long for the laughter of joy from the festivities to be turned into screams for help. It didn't take long for the smoke to overtake all the senses. Chaos and confusion spread. Gale tried directing his crew to help the people calm down- but where would they go? There was no escape, none that he could find. It didn't take long till the men in his crew who weren't consumed by the flames starting fighting each other. And all Gale could think about at that moment was how badly he wished to see his wife and daughter. He ran and ran, burnt corpses surrounding him. The smell of smoke and burnt flesh slowly choking him. His armour suffocating him, oh how badly he wanted to get rid of it. But it was his only protection from the fire. And he ran as towering flames grazed him. And he ran tripping on collapsed people, some still conscious enough to scream in pain. Maybe they were all cursing him at that moment. But all he could think about was how badly he wished to see his wife and daughter.

When he finally arrived at his home, it was completely ablaze. "Lyn?!" He shouted, choking on some of the smoke. No response. He jumped inside and looked around. He couldn't see anything but fire and smoke. Parts of the roof had already collapsed. And as he walked forward the floor beneath him crumbled and he fell in the basement, which had been untouched from the fire. As he was attempting to stand up again more debris fell on him, knocking him unconscious.

Hours passed before he finally got up to the first light of dawn. He slowly stood up, and made his way upstairs. By now his house had been completely burnt. Looking outside there were still fires burning some of the houses but he couldn't hear anything or anyone else. He walked further inside the house. A burnt corpse hunched over the what used to be a cradle. Ah. He sat there for what felt like ages, staring at the gruesome sight in front of him. He got to live out of sheer dumb luck. Just dumb luck.

When evening started approaching he just walked out. Very few fires were still burning in the distance, only some smoke now visible. He started looking around the streets and houses for anyone alive. He made sure to count them all. 2, 5, 10, 27, 42, 75, 100, 341, 784, and the number kept growing, and growing. People he could no longer recognise, people he had grown up with, people he had fought with, people he had so horribly failed. 1207 civilians dead. 558 soldiers dead. 1 missing person. Only survivor- Gale himself. By night he reached the gates of the town. Still completely frozen shut. And so he dug.

What followed after was a haze. He just walked for days, dwelling on that night. Ways he could have prevented it, ways it could have been better. Plagued by images of that night, all the victims. Why did they have to die. Why did he have to live.

A chuckle echoed in his ears. He looked up and saw a figure of legend. At least he thought he saw Her. It had to be. White robe, blindfold, the three halos decorating Her head, the pale hair and complexion. The doting Mother, Creation, Amatheia. She was smiling at the man. A smile that invoked fear. She reached Her hand out. The Witness of the end, of fates worse than death. And the verdict was decided.

================================================

Have some stills I like

(for the previous one i like both cleaned up and sketch versions a lot)

[writemeagoodprompt]

"You set fire to my wings and watch me burn alive."

"Just so you can be mine."

[cuppajj]

has this been done yet sorry

[stars-bean]

M*A*S*H | 2.14 - "Hot Lips and Empty Arms"

[rockwgooglyeyes]

Taking into consideration Till's history with sexual assault (i will be tw and cw tagging for this), it puts the Ivantill kiss in round 6 in so much more perspective for me. Not only that, but it gives a lot of context and reasoning to the way that Till interacts with other people (as well as his rapid, violent mood swings) into perspective.

I just to preface with this- I have never been the victim of sexual assault or sexual harassment, so my discussion on this purely comes from what I know at a psychological angle, in addition to what I know based on this video from pop culture detective on Youtube and his videos on the male interaction with abuse and generally seedy behavior in media. It's really good, I enjoy his content a lot. Anyways analysis below the cut. Content and trigger warning for discussion of sexual assault, sexual abuse, psychological abuse, and pretty much everything else relevant in this fandom (slavery, child abuse, etc)

Out of all of the characters in Alien Stage, Till is the most openly dehumanized. Sua is treated like a doll, Ivan is treated like a trophy horse to parade around, Luka is something of a combination of both- but Till is the lab rat. He's the losing dog that Urak is betting on. They're all dehumanized to a degree but Till is dehumanized so much so that his defining feature is his rebellion. Even amongst the fandom, he's made into Ivan's side piece or the idiot who's hopelessly in love with Mizi and yeah, I do think Till is a dumbass but I say that out of the deepest affection possible, I love this little freak and I want the best for him. I truly do.

He's so smart and talented and yet, he hates himself. He's passionate about music, he uses it to express himself in ways that he can't otherwise, and he's so good at music, too. He's not good with people and he has a temper and he's easily flustered, yes, but he's so complicated. He was hopeful and innocent to the ways of the world but when he was bought by Urak, he was shown how utterly and hopelessly cruel the world could be. Comparatively, even Ivan and Sua got lucky, with their absent and emotionally abusive owners- Till was put through hell, experimented on, forced into a cage and treated like a feral animal that needed to be shown who was boss- even when he was willing to go along with anything at the start. He wanted to be loved. He wanted to be cherished. Children always want so desperately to please their authority figures, I can't imagine that he would have resisted in the beginning, hoping that if he went along with whatever Urak told him to, that he would be rewarded and treated with tenderness and care.

He never was. He was beaten and broken and thrown through the wringer time and time again. They made him miserable because that's what Urak wanted- that's what makes good art, after all. A tortured artist who cuts off their own ear but paints the most beautiful night skies.

Even in Round 2, we see this dehumanization. Till has a tether, keeping him to the stage, because he's "dangerous." He's marketed as this rebel, who needs to be tied down, who needs to gagged and muzzled, we can't let him speak because if he opens his mouth, he'll bite. He's pushed down to the ground, subdued, IN HIS MARKETING. This is how he's presented FROM THE BEGINNING. He is forced into this role of the mad dog who screams and claws and bites because this is the mold he was given, he pushed himself into it because that was all he could do. He's giving Urak what Urak wants and even that isn't enough. Because he might be broken, he might have given in, but he's still a stubborn bastard.

Before Round 6 (but after Round 5), Till refuses to sing Mizi's song in the bar. He gets angry with a member of the audience for implying that Mizi is dead, maybe even saying shitty something about her, and he goes at them with a bottle. As @a-star-that-burns-brightly said, he's the only human we've ever seen to get violent with an alien within the bounds of Alien Stage, which makes Till all the more impressive- which means that they have to bring him down all the more forcefully.

I will admit- I didn't understand the scene to be SA until it was pointed out to me (not that I thought it wasn't, it just went over my head) but it adds so much to Till's character to analyse it through that lens.

They rape Till, punishing him for refusing to sing and punishing him to attacking an audience member. Terry Crews, who some may know from Brooklyn-Nine-Nine or other media, is a survivor of sexual assault, and he talked about it before the United States Senate Judiciary committee. He was assaulted by his manager, who was a man. And you may be wondering why I bring this up, and it's simply because I want to remind people that sexual assault is not about sexuality. It can be connected but correlation is not causation. Sexual assault is about exerting power over an individual to make them feel weak, lesser, and show them who is in control of the situation. It's not dissimilar to bullying (but far, far worse). After all, why would corrective rape be a phenomenon if it wasn't about exerting power over the victim and showing them that they don't have autonomy or agency? Because if they had autonomy or agency, they would be able to consent or conversely, the ability to say no.

Of course they don't have autonomy/agency, though, right? Because they're pets. They're possessions. It's akin to how we treat dogs and cats, we breed them and we don't let them say no, because they don't have an understanding of consent like we do, why would they need to say yes or no? They can just fight someone off if they don't want it, right?

Right?

Something that @k9punkout (Numso) said stood out to me, though, is that this might not even be the first time that this has happened to Till. This breaks my heart. Like, legitimately, it made me nearly cry when I read it, because the idea of sexual abuse being used as a form of regular and routine punishment against someone is horrible- but at the same time, that already happens. In prisons, in war zones, in households, sexual abuse is used as a regular punishment against people and that's horrible. The way that Till's experience specifically reflects that of a child in a toxic and abusive household is immensely interesting because of how people forget about that, how people don't seem to really care. He's a sopping wet kitten, yeah, he's a silly little guy, but he's been abused for his whole fucking life. He has a superiority complex that's teetering on an incredibly thin knife's edge and sometimes it wobbles into self-hatred and an absolute absence of self worth.

It's no wonder that Till clings so fiercely to the idea that Mizi is innocent and pure and hopeful, like he once was, because if she isn't- then does that mean he was stupid to ever hope at all? Was he stupid for expecting love and affection, from the people who were supposed to take care of him? Does that mean he's suffered for no reason, save Urak's amusement? Does that mean he's miserable just because, just because Urak demands that someone be miserable in order for them to be great? Does that mean he's been beaten, broken, made into this wretched, ugly thing simply because he's around? It's not so much that his suffering needs to have a purpose, it's more that if it's pointless and based on whim, then that says something about Till himself. That says that Urak saw something in him, something sturdy enough to be broken again and again and get back up. It says that he deserves this. (He doesn't, no one deserves that and deserving things is horseshit, but I can't imagine Till to be thinking anything else.)

Back, finally, to the whole reason I started writing this fucking thing: the Ivantill kiss in Round 6. I've seen some people call it SA, and while I can see why (and of course, I respect their opinions), I disagree.

Ivan shouldn't have continued to kiss Till after Till pushed him, yes, but at the same time, through the narrative of their kiss- it wasn't really a kiss at all. Not in the sense that it was an expression of sexual intent. And maybe this is because I'm on the acearo spectrum but. I don't believe Ivan wanted to kiss Till, it wasn't a romantic kiss, it was one last attempt to get Till to wake up, before it was too late.

Through the lens of knowing that Till is a survivor of sexual assault, the way that Ivan kissed him and his reaction to Ivan kissing him is all the more impactful because Till pushed Ivan away, yes, but he didn't seem horrified, or hollowed out like he is post assault in the bar scene. It shows his trust in Ivan, and maybe even the fact that he knows that Ivan isn't doing this to hurt him, Ivan is kissing him in a final effort to say "I love you. You're loved. I'm sorry."

Blue (@bluemoonscape) talked through this with me a bit earlier and he said something that stuck out to me as well "The kiss, if anything, shows how much control the aliens assert over them to put them in a position where this would be two friends’ last chance to communicate with one another, hence how desperate it is on Ivan’s part. (...) Ivan wasn’t trying to assert power over Till in any way; that just isn’t in his nature. Over the years, he basically lets Till dictate every aspect of their relationship, hell, he even gives power to Till over Ivan’s own freedom (power that Till didn’t want but nonetheless got)" and he really summed it up beautifully in my opinion. The ivantill kiss WASN'T romantic because it wasn't meant to be- Ivan was just saying that he loved Till period. It was a fucked up way to do it. I wish he hadn't.

But he was just trying to say goodbye.

(@atrophiedemotion because i mentioned this to you! <3)

[trans-axolotl]

content note: discussion of suicide.

this next monday will be the six year anniversary of losing one of my friends to suicide.

when he died, my high school barely mentioned his death, even though for other students who died by things like car crashes or illness, there were so many public expressions of grief. they believed that having any memorials for a student who died by suicide would encourage other people to die the same way. in their rush to erase the circumstances of his death, they erased the memory of his life.

there are so many things i am angry at that high school about in terms of how they treated mental health (mandatory reporting and collaborating with cops, their refusal to recognize the ways in which that system led to peer-to-peer crisis support, their refusal to recognize the ways that trying to keep each other alive through trial and error was scary and exhausting, carceral disciplinary policies, etc etc etc). but i think one of the things i am still angriest about is the way they enforced shame around his death. it felt like they were retroactively blaming him for the constellation of circumstances that made suicide an option in his life. it felt like they were blaming those of us who missed him and cared about him and wanted to grieve him. it made those of us still there who were actively suicidal feel even more scared about the reaction if we did reach out for help from one of those mythical safe adults.

as an adult now involved in psych abolition/mad liberation work, it makes me so fucking mad to see the ways in which he was discarded by people in authority positions. and the older i get, the more options i have found in my life for making sense of the world and finding healing and community and support which were never available to him because he died when he was 16 and the only things offered to him were a carceral psychiatric system that blamed him for his own fucking death. it feels so incredibly unfair.

i miss him and i think i always will; i can't remember his laugh or the sound of his voice or his favorite color any more and that aches. this grief is so heavy and it feels harder in a new way each year, when i become older than he will ever be. sometimes meeting new comrades or seeing new anticarceral suicide support models hurts because i wish so fucking bad that we had that back then. i remember how close we came to losing even more people that year and i know it is simple fucking luck that i'm still here when he's not.

i remember another letter (never sent) that i wrote to a friend while they were in an ICU bed after a suicide attempt when i didn't know if they would live or not. i have spent so much time in the past 10 years begging for anything to keep me and my friends alive, but even in that letter i knew that there is so much fucking violence that is hidden beneath psychiatric logics of cure and safety that promise a "solution" to suicide. I knew that institutionalization, coercion, and shame would not have helped build a life more liveable for him or **** or any of the people i've loved and lost since.

there needs to be more fucking options for care and support that aren't so incredibly cruel to suicidal people. i know so many people doing incredible work in alternatives, peer respite, a million different frameworks for healing and liberation. but it makes me so mad every day i have to live in a world where there are still people restrained, locked up in psych wards, having all autonomy and personhood taken away from them. knowing there are dozens of people every day getting blamed for their deaths the same way he was blamed for his.

i miss him. i cared so fucking much for him. and he died by suicide, and all of those things are true. he has been dead for 6 years and he lived before that and the people who loved him want to remember all of him; our celebrations of his life should not require hiding the way that he died.

Image description: [1000 origami cranes in all different colors and patterns that are tied together in strings of 25]

(these were the 1000 cranes we made to give to his parents, in memorial and recognition of how much he meant to us.)

[oozebrain]

Slow burn Art X Reader. Reader is ND, has anxiety, and low self esteem. I tried to make the reader gender neutral but there will be instances the reader’s transmasc status comes up.

M rating, warnings will vary from chapter to chapter.

General warnings for this chapter include implied abuse, mention of eating disorders, angst, an instance of a homophobic slur, adult themes, descriptions of starvation, poverty, and food insecurity, and thoughts associated with low self esteem. Minors DNI.

Chapter summary: You receive a great kindness from a strange man you meet in an alley.

“I lean on you, in peace,

Everything stood still, and you You sang to me so softly, You sang to me so softly. In the moonlight I see you in a ditch, In the moonlight you turn into a blue hum, And I thank you for the hope you have given to me, I thank you for the hope...”

Chapter 1

“Am I… am I being fired?” You ask, voice trembling despite your best efforts.

“Yes, this is your last paycheck. I took out what you owe me and left you with two hundred dollars.” Your boss taps on the exact decimal point before handing you your final paystub and check. Two hundred dollars. That’s all you had in the world. Rent was due tomorrow and so was your electric bill. You are descending into hell. You are shell shocked and all you can offer is a polite and awkward goodbye as you part ways for the final time.

Your boss had been waiting on the bench along your usual route to work. You knew when you saw him sitting on that bench with a paper in his hands it wasn’t good news, but you never expected this. And the reasoning behind it...

The reasoning made you feel sick to your stomach. A million questions race through your head and shame floods your face. Once you are out of sight the tears come, the anger, the humiliation. You feel betrayed and hurt, so deeply wounded that you are unsure if you will ever fully recover. You swallow a lump in your throat and snivel as you look down at your phone. You’re going to have to tell people. But what will you say?

Will you admit what you were fired for? It wasn’t bad enough just eating trash. No, not only that, but your love interest had thrown you under the bus and accused you of harassment. For a year he has flirted with you regularly, and loved driving you wild. He’s felt you up discreetly while the two of you worked together and he always found a thrill in breaking the rules. You were only wanted when it was a secret.

As seemed to be your norm, your status as a trans man made the situation messy. In your heart, you knew he was ashamed of his feelings for you. In his shame, he denied any interest in you. You felt as though he had forsaken you and your heart was broken. But still, you took the fall to protect him so he would not lose his management position. Of course he would not claim you and out himself as being attracted to “a faggot”, as your coworkers had put it. He said he loved you but his true love was his reputation.

You aren’t worth it. You never were.

You duck into an alley as a place of solace, just somewhere quiet and dark to put the pieces together. You had no food in your home, nor have you in a little over two months. You work in the food service industry and the smells, the sights, the sounds...

Your stomach cramps again at the mere thought of food. You manage to stave off a dry heaving spell and rest against the cool brick wall. You feel small, insignificant, and like you’ve been kicked while you were down. Despite the rapid weight loss, the dizziness, the headaches, they all looked the other way. You knew that they knew but they were not required to help, they were merely your coworkers.

Still, you feel betrayed that one of your crew saw you saving food dropped on the ground instead of throwing it away. It was regarded as theft in everyone’s eyes and the coworker had purposefully done it to be rid of you. This wasn’t paranoia or anxiety, it was just the hard truth of what life was like in the adult world, a world you struggled to navigate.

After a few moments reprieve you are faced with a decision: what can I do?

Dejection overcomes you. What can you do? Can you do anything? No, you know you can’t do anything right, something that has been drilled into your head every day for as long as you can remember. Tears come again and you walk further down the alley, further away from the sounds of traffic and passersby. You don’t want anyone to see you like this.

You’re starving, exhausted, and unmedicated. In addition to food, you’ve had to forgo your medication and the withdrawal still wasn’t easing up. You have to take your medicine with food and that hasn’t exactly been an option. You’ve barely been able to keep it together to go and work a twelve hour shift. Today would have been your second week in a row without a break.

‘At least I finally get a day off I guess.’ You think to yourself as you wipe your eyes with your sleeve. You take your glasses off to clean them and find yourself tripping over something solid. With a thud, you and the ground collide.

Collecting yourself, you stumble to your feet and adjust your glasses to your face. Turning around, your heart flutters in fear as you realize you’ve not just tripped over something, you’ve tripped over someone. His attention was fully on you as he stared at you with a stoic expression. Was he upset?

“I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you there. Are… are you alright? Are you hurt? Im so sorry. Are you okay?” You inquire nervously, your words coming out a befuddled torrent of noise. The thought you’ve done something wrong again stabs you in the heart and as the knife twists you feel tears return to your eyes. No, not here. You don’t want people to see you sniveling and snotting around, “I’m sorry I... it’s been a really hard day. I hope I didn’t hurt your leg.”

Strangely, he offered no response. He was a thin, tall man, about six foot and dressed like a mime. Or perhaps he was a clown. Regardless, his clothes were dirty and the makeup on his face smeared to reveal the sections of the person underneath. The most striking thing about him was his eyes and you found yourself unable to meet them. Staring down a lion would be easier than meeting his gaze.

His lack of response revs up your anxiety a few more notches. You avert your eyes to the ground shyly, a prickle of humiliation creeping up your neck and spreading over your cheeks. Your ears burned hotly. Was he angry with you? What would he do to you? Did you hurt his feelings? Did you break his leg? Did this ruin his life? You ruin everything else, after all, don’t you?

‘Look at what you’ve done you stupid bitch’ the words often bespoke to you frantically cycle through your head.

The unrelenting hurricane of thoughts halt when out from the mutual silence, your stomach grumbles angrily. Its a miserable sound, different than an ordinary stomach pang. You grip your stomach and involuntarily double over slightly, a strained grunt of pain escaping you. It was as though you could feel your stomach shriveling up and imploding on itself. It screamed at you for something, anything, besides water and garbage.

Your forehead broke out in a sweat and you steadied yourself on a nearby pallet. You find yourself apologizing again and try to minimize, “I’m sorry, I’m not feeling well. I’m not contagious, just stomach problems.”

He watched you for a good minute before he started rummaging in an oversize black trash bag next to him. The man said nothing as the heavy plastic crinkled loudly. His mouth was slightly agape and his eyebrows raised as he peered inside, clearly on a mission to find something specific. After a moment he withdrew... a sandwich?

The speed and ferocity in which he thrust it out to you made you start slightly. It was as though he meant to throw it to you but stopped just short of actually doing it. You were dumbfounded. He was offering you food? But out of the trash, of course. How ironic.

However, it was in its original packaging, he hadn’t made it himself, so it was probably safe...

Your stomach growls again and the nausea overtakes you. Though you are ravenous, the thought of food is simultaneously sickening. You fumble slightly in your stance and grip your stomach painfully. The last time you’d eaten was four days ago, and right now a sandwich from a gas station that had been in a stranger’s garbage bag of curiosities was looking pretty good right now. It was either this or go another day hungry.

“Th-thank you...” You close the distance and tentatively take the packaged sandwich from him. He lowers his hand but continues to watch you. You can’t tell what’s going on behind those shark-like eyes of his, but he’s calculating something. It unnerves you, as though this is some sort of trap, yet still he makes no move to come towards you. He is still and silent like a statue.

A part of you goaded it was all just one step in his plan to overpower you. This city was not known for its inviting community. Still, at this moment, you did not get that impression. Instead, you notice something else. He seems overly comfortable sitting among the rubbish and disarray, as though this is a common occurrence for him, and it makes you wonder if perhaps he is homeless. A feeling of empathy and concern washes over you. He was so gaunt; he was starving too.

Though you were without food, at least you had a home. Taking food away from someone in a more difficult position than you seemed... greedy. Your anxiety ramped up at the thought of essentially taking food out of his mouth. At least have a look inside…

You open the cardboard packaging and the smell hits you like a brick to the face. Cajun roasted turkey breast, provolone cheese, tomato, some kind of fancy aioli, and greens, all on a seasoned ciabatta roll. You want to tear into it like a rabid animal but still yourself. You salivate so much you can feel it drip from your lip. You wipe your mouth on your sleeve with a hint of shame and look to him sheepishly.

“Here.” Withdrawing one of the halves, you hold it out to your gracious host. His eyebrows furrow, he frowns, and it appears it is his turn to be dumbfounded. You nudge it at him, “I don’t feel right taking it all from you, so let’s share. I think we could both use a bite to eat.”

With hesitation, he takes the sandwich and holds it, but makes no motion to eat. You, however, cannot stand the hunger anymore and, with restraint, take a small bite of your sandwich half. It makes your jaws and teeth ache sharply at the cold texture and invitation of something that has become foreign. Another small bite here and there… and then you break. You chomp, tear, and devour. You wolf it down in a matter of four bites, nearly choking at the speed and quantity of which you were eating.

You knew he was watching you but you didn’t care; you were starving and this was ambrosia. This was your salvation. Something primal within you awakened and you could not eat fast enough.

You stuff your mouth so full you cannot fully close it to chew and end up swallowing pieces whole. You ate through the nausea as your stomach tried to expel the contents and forced it back down. All you had been eating for the past week were ketchup packets and honeysuckle flowers. Finally, something sustainable, something edible, something safe. Something not dropped on the floor or left in the trash. Real food. It is less than a minute before you are licking the residual mustard and crumbs off your fingers.

After your hunger fueled trance you once again pay attention to your companion. You feel ashamed, less than. You feel as though you are a beast in human skin and shrink away some. You expect him to laugh at you or call you names, but it never comes. In fact, nothing ever does. He remains quiet, posture so still he could be mistaken for a mannequin.

He still has not eaten his sandwich and has been staring at you this entire time. The man gazes at you with a look of... what was that look? His face held a strange expression. It wasn’t disgust, it was something else. His mouth was slightly agape, showing his darkened yellow teeth.

You felt a strange kinship with him because of his teeth. Yours, too, were in a state of disrepair. Past years of daily vomiting and smoking had not been kind to you and, to top it off, you had not been able to afford toothpaste. You hadn’t brushed your teeth in a month and had several cavities and a broken molar. It didn’t help you’d been uninsured for two years. You felt like he wouldn’t judge you and you offered him a nervous smile, showing your teeth.

His lip curled into a sneering smile to mirror you. He was studying you so critically you wondered if he could reach into the depths of your soul and read it like a tangible object. It was strange, scary, and disconcerting. His look held no malice that you could perceive, but it was still unreadable and therefore unnerving. Whatever look he was giving you, you hoped to your god that it wasn’t pity.

“Thank you. I was just... I guess I was hungrier than I realized! Uh… Oh, um, If you need to charge your phone, the gas station nearby has charging ports, and the corner store gives you free ice water if you’re thirsty after you eat your sandwich.” You offer this knowledge in an attempt to be helpful but also change the subject. His expression doesn't change, his gaze is transfixed on the half of a sandwich clutched in his dirty hand. Slowly, he looks back up at you, eyes burning with curiosity, but at what you were uncertain.

You feel immediately uncomfortable. This is already a place you know you shouldn’t be, and a situation that you shouldn’t be in. Being eyed up and down by a strange man in an alley sounded like the start of a true crime podcast. Though you were seeking an exit, that was not the kind you were seeking.

You clear your throat to find your voice and offer a brief, polite, smile, “Thank you. Um, I’m sorry, I have to get going soon. But, thank you, again. My name is (y/n). It’s nice to meet you.”

He held his hand up as though to speak, lips parted but instead he drew shapes in the air with his pointer finger. No, they weren’t random shapes, they were letters. A…R…

“Art?” You ask and he nods joyfully with a wide, tooth filled smile spread across his face. You return his smile, be it with less enthusiasm, and feel yourself relax a little, “It’s good to meet you, Art. Are you ok? Did I hurt you?”

He waved you off and made a theatrically nonchalant expression before pointing to himself and then giving two thumbs up in response. You give a small smile again and finger spell his name in ASL. Art looks at you with confusion, miming you awkwardly, and you offer an explanation with every letter you make, “A-R-T. That’s how you spell your name in sign language.”

He gives a wide eyed ‘a ha!’ expression and repeated the letters with his fingers time and time again. He seemed enthralled with this new information and looked at you, expecting more. You weren’t opposed to talking to him, but you needed to get home. Now that you had relief from your hunger you were starting to get groggy.

Art waves at you to grab your attention and he points to himself then you before drawing a question mark in the air. After he repeated the motion a few times you realized he was asking how to spell your name and you happily showed him. He frantically signed both your and his names, his fingers flying furiously. Was this the first time he’s heard of sign language? Surely not… but the way he acted…

What a lonesome existence.

You were lonely too, and felt a connection with him. You offered a polite smile as your anxiety returned with a ventence at the idea of being alone, but it had to be done. Your body was screaming for rest. “I have to get going Art, thank you so much. Will you be here tomorrow?”

He smiled and nodded enthusiastically, the little hat he wore bobbling and wobbling around with each shake of his head. Art patted the ground where he was, indicating he would be right here in this very spot. The smile he showed you felt… warm? Perhaps excited, giddy even. Was he really that happy to know you? It made something in your chest flutter nervously. You were apprehensive of everyone after today, but if Art had bad intentions he could have well acted on them by now. You were curious about your new friend, and the idea of seeing him again evoked a flicker of happiness in your chest.

“Well, I’ll come by and see you tomorrow, okay?” Your response earned a joyful applause from him. He batted his eyelashes at you and gave you a playful wave goodbye and you couldn’t help but offer him a genuine smile which only made his own grow. You mirror his playful wave as you begin to leave, “See you later, Art! Be safe!”

You turn and leave, his wide smile lingering in your mind as the distance between the two of you grows. You look behind you to see if he is following, but there is no one. it seemed like he was a decent guy who was down on his luck, a similar position to your own. Perhaps this could be the start of a new friendship. You didn’t have faith you’d find him tomorrow, but you did have hope.

[raiiny-bay]

but I can't wait until I see your face and my brain thinks that it's looking at a stranger

[ibrithir-was-here]

Rosemary is for Remembrance Part 7

Part 6

Part 1

Part 8

[mika-writes-fanfics]

As It Was

Dabi x Reader Angst

Warnings/tags: angst, hurt/no comfort, brief mentions of burns, major character death, pre-established relationship, reader cares for flowers

Synopsis: Dabi returns to you after completing his life's mission, his body now badly burned and damaged. He wonders, will you accept him with open arms? Will you take what is left of him?

Author's note: I've been on a Hozier binge. "As It Was" from Wasteland, Baby! was giving me major Dabi vibes. This is kind of different from the content I usually like to write and read, but I felt so inspired I just had to write it. Word count: 1.1K

He’s now thankful your home is on the outer reaches of the city, tucked in a secluded pocket between the border of the forest and the concrete hell of the city. After what he’s done, there’s not a person in Japan that wouldn’t recognize his face. Had you not lived in the middle of nowhere, he’d already be arrested by some weak police officer or jumped by some rookie hero. 

It’s ironic, the thinks, that his opinion has changed. He hated it, at one point. You lived so far away from his shitty apartment at the time, meaning that every time he wanted to see you, he had to take the agonizingly long train rides. It was like you lived in a fucking retirement community since all the elderly would take the same train, giving him judgemental stares all the while. It pissed him off to no end. And if that wasn’t enough, being in the forest always reminded him of Sekoto. 

But still, he bore it all for you, back before he let his rage consume him. 

Before he devoted himself entirely to revenge. 

Before he started burning himself all over again. 

Before he fucked it all up.

Despite the way he left you, he hopes you’ll be kind enough to him to accept his return, to not instantly slam the door in his face.

If he even makes it to your doorstep, that is.

Each step he takes feels like a battle between life and death. These heavy and labored movements exhaust him, made worse by the state your driveway is in. Of all the days for it to rain, it just had to be today. The torrential downpours make the path harder to traverse. Mud clings to his boots with every trudging step he takes, threatening to suck him into the earth, burying him at his final resting place. 

The puddles of water settling in the tire tracks of your car show him grim reminders of his appearance, showing him glimpses of just how ghastly he’s become.

He’s a burnt husk of what he once was.

Nothing is left of him now that he's achieved his life’s purpose. 

The only thing that remains of him is this homing instinct to return to you.

To go back to the start. 

To give you what’s left of him.

To feel his final sensation of comfort.

To feel loved again.

He’s faced with the reality of how long it’s been when he finally catches sight of your home. In the year he was by your side, he never saw those Foxgloves bloom once, as he met you in the late summer. But now, judging by the towering violet, bell-shaped flowers framing the sides of your window, it’s been three years.

It’s in this moment that his mind replays the memory of the following summer, the one in which he noticed you agonizing over the flowerless plant beds. He remembers it, with surprising clarity amongst the mental fog. 

“Why do you bother taking care of those stupid flowers if they never fucking bloom?” He asked you, critically. 

“They’re foxgloves,” you answered. 

“So?”

“So, they do bloom, just biennially, and their flowering season just passed. You’ll see why I keep ‘em around in another year,” you explained.

The fact you even implied he’d still be in your life a year from then filled him with a sense of security. Whether you meant it or not, he took it as a promise, and kept it tucked in the darker reaches of his heart. 

Three long years have passed since he left you, since he abandoned you without a word. But he has known you have a patient side to you, he’s seen it in the way you always gave him space in his darkest days, how you allowed him the time to come back to you when he was ready, how you never took his frustrating habit of pushing you away to heart, weathering his toxicity with love and carefulness. Maybe, since you’re so patient, you have been waiting for him. If you welcomed those flowers despite their long absence, maybe you’d accept him, too. 

Normally, he’d sneer at the thought of you turning him into such a hopeless romantic, a weaker version of himself, but considering how there’s nothing left of him anyways, he’s fine with the idea. Maybe the positivity you give him would turn him into something beautiful again. 

He finally climbs up to your doorstep and stumbles against the door. When his shaky and weak hands turn the knob, expecting to be met with a locked door, it turns easily without resistance. Your door is unlocked, which in his state of hopeful delusion, he interprets as you waiting for him.

Maybe you knew he would come back.

You had made it easy for him to crawl back into your life.

Or maybe you just forgot to lock it. 

He swings open the door as he leans against the door frame. Any other time, the sound of the groaning hinges would grate at his ears, but right now, the sound feels familiar and comforting. It feels like nothing has changed, everything is as it once was.

He trudges deeper into your home, shambling past your living room and tracking mud all over your floors. There’s a pit of anxiety forming in his stomach the longer he walks through your home without seeing a glimpse of you. But it’s when he approaches the kitchen that he hears you humming, the sound calming his mind. 

His boots thud on your tiled floor, loud, and uneven. He sways as he walks, bumping into one of your dining chairs, the movement scraping the chair against the floor. Your humming abruptly cuts off at the sound and you turn to the source, on high alert, only to see him propping himself up against the walls.

A sharp gasp escapes your lungs. 

All he can see is you as the edges of his vision grey out. Against your better judgment, you rush over to him as his legs start buckling underneath him.  

He starts to collapse on the spot. You close the distance and open your arms around him, catching his fall and attempting to bear the brunt of his weight. 

Despite what he’s done, despite how he left you so suddenly, he can still feel your love for him.

It’s in the way you try to make sure he doesn’t fall, despite tripping being the least concern to him given his injuries.

It’s how your voice sounds frantic as you ask him if he’s okay if he can hear you, if he’s still in there.

It’s how you start to sob at seeing the state he’s in. 

You’re so worried about getting him to lie on the ground safely and checking his pulse that you fail to see him softly smiling at how you fuss over him, what’s left of his burnt face forcing out a peaceful expression. 

The last thing he hears, the last thing he feels, the last thing he thinks about, is you.

[45622211111]

the description fits this sukuna drawn by @cuviz . i'll commission (they're open!) a fitting piece to this story, so stay tuned.

"…field worker of food enterprise »yūjiocha« has collapsed on the 24th of this august. health officials have shared that the 52-year-old suffered from breathing difficulties up to a heat stroke. following this shocking incident, the company has been under fire due to its low payment of field and indoor workers in rural sendai. the company's domicile in tokyo has been blocked by strikers as we speak, demanding fair working conditions. what makes citizens worry is the CEO-"

"anotha day with the same ol' stories," the taxi-driver mumbles, his head cowering under the windshield to examine the billboards.

you follow his direction and are greeted with the shiny exterior of ads over ads, raging from fashion brands to promotional thumbnails for upcoming movies. they contrast wonderfully with the grey and damp weather, the vividness too intense for this early traffic jam.

orange plus green letters of the said brand appear with a 3d animation of a rotating matcha tea packet. the name alone makes you swallow, your shoulders knotted as rain drops glide down the window. "hm, unfortunately."

"headin' there, aren't ya? ya're with dose devils?" you are quick to pick out his sarcasm but don't hold back from covering your chest with sweaty hands. "no, no! i'm here for the press conference! have to step in for my colleague, that's why."

"ya nervous?" from the backseat you hear the lightness in his tone. if he can sense it, than what's the point of trying to make excuses? really, it was a mixture of both excitement and nauseau. if it weren't for your co-worker telling you last minute, you would've had to wait for the next blue moon. it couldn't be compared to the never-ending online researches at home - this was a once in a life time opportunity for your career.

your thoughts come to an abrupt stop when the car pulls over. "kick their asses, yeah?"

"… queries are only allowed within your designated time. please refrain from shouting out," after half an hour of a protracted introduction with the help of a slide-show, the lady in glasses puts the microphone down - especially painful when your view is blocked by loads of technical equipment and tall backs of men in suits.

"good morning, shibuya network speaking here. we're interested in hearing the opinion of the CEO himself." the reporter sits down and the action builds anticipation in you with how swift this already works. nothing like what's shown on edited broadcasts or 30 pages of transcript for homework.

you raise your chin from the back of the spacious room. the two men at the podium exchange expressions. at first you don't understand their worrisome looks, until a screeching vibration echoes in the hall, as if an object is being dragged along something sharp. you squeeze your eyes open to the third person in the middle.

"you wanna hear my opinion?" your gaze dances across the room, trying to search for a reaction in the several women and men around you. have they just heard the exact same thing as you or are you caught in the sketch of some sadistic comedian?

"yes sir, your opinion."

the silence doesn't drag on for long, "of what?"

"sir, one of your worker-"

"i'm aware of that."

"after he collapsed-"

"yeah?"

"what exactly are you-"

"what are you aiming at?" a quasy feeling settles in your stomach.

"sir, what measures are you going to take?" the man finally snaps with rushed words, as anyone else would naturally do so.

"doin' as always." his face is cold, his movements solid.

"next question please," the spokesperson on the left side states.

you mouth goes dry. you recall why you've been hesitant when you got the call from your fever-plagued office partner, nobara kugisaki.

a few journalists and news outlets survey general questions relating to the company itself which makes your legs bounce with thin patience. can't they postpone these for another public gathering? at this state you weren't even sure if everyone would get a turn.

"in the last five years ryomen sukuna has held back from providing the public with clarifications on the many rumors he has been involved in… mr ryomen, would you be so kind and enlighten us?" a tall, white-haired woman sits down. some part of your brain tells you that she is grinning, although her voice has been stagnant despite some alarmed countenances on the stage.

the addressed man leans back - not without a chuckle though.

the next participant takes the mic. you are confused.

you reread your notes. is it worth asking when this conference has either denied or made fun of the press inquiries this far? you aren't one to defend gossip magazines who survive off his or anyone's questionable past, but this was too out-of-place for your own liking. simply put: it is disrespectful.

"good stories osaka, mr ryomen, please tell us about your alco-"

"we don't entertain this type of output from here on. please focus on recent activities or refrain from speaking."

you follow the white bow. "good morning, kyoto today here. sir, have you already been in contact with the victim's family? and how will you compensate your workers in the future? thank you for your cooperation." your ears perk up and you immediately cross out one scribbled line.

"that man is out of the hospital. i don't see a need to compensate anyone."

gasps and whispers spread throughout the tense air. right now, you can observe the only positive: the reporter's stance - how she confidently protrudes among the hushed outbreak, her grip on the microphone unwavering.

"so i'll take you don't intend on raising the standard of your worker's conditions anytime soon?"

"never planned to."

honestly, you aren't sure what to do when the room errupts with audible complaints and writers violently pressing down on their keyboards. "is this legal?" a reporter with a green notepad wants to know. others demand their camera men to "get everything on camera! no, zoom in!" and give them a slap on the back to get closer.

"please keep it quiet for the last contendors - if not, we are obligated to cancel this session."

your heart picks up at an uncomfortable frequency. you take deep breaths.

"from the daily press - mr ryomen, how will you deal with the recent protest in front of this very building?"

the men around him have long ago loosened their ties, sitting back in their chairs, handkerchiefs pressed against their red temples. by reading them you understand their missing courage to talk some sense into the CEO. even if, is this man capable of seeing his own faults?

"i'd like to see how long they'll drag this out - prolly not long."

the lady's arm points upward, "but sir! you are aware the people outside are your employees, right?!" it wasn't the first time during this knot garden that an interviewer has sounded like they are on the edge of insanity.

"so? there are enough volunteers who will take their places."

the woman near you sinks down without another word. your wrinkly page has ended up as a muddy ball of paper. you could theoratically get up and leave at any given time but with the cramped up space around you, you'd have to sit through this until the end.

thanks to your inner monologue you almost miss the black object pocking into your panorama.

now or never.

when you take the mic into your hand, you wince at the short self-noise. "kanagawa news… sir, i'll be brief: what's your purpose at yūjiocha?"

you can't unsee the way his knuckles push against the side of his cheek with the most uninterested glare - pierced brow not moving an ounce while you are mentally fluctuating for his answer.

"you tell me what my purpose is. you journalists love to pretend to know everything. isn't that so…"

you raise your brows. his derisive layer of throwing you and other hard-working writers into the same pot with gossipers leaves a bitter taste on your tongue.

"sir, i didn't assume anything. my question is: what's your personal ambition - you don't give the impression of having a goal as the chairman of your own company." you're at loss for words by none other than your own self. from the edges of your vista you find heads sticking together. the camera directed at you doesn't go unnoticed either.

that was the harmless part - not when his eyelids drop at your comment. in a flash, you question your own professionality. are you wrong?

"oh, so now you're telling me what to do?"

you huff. "that is not my intention, sir. i'm wondering why this - when you're acting reckless with the company of your-"

"a nobody from the gutter press is seriously teaching me about my business? tch."

"next one," the spokesperson moves on.

you remember the prominent throb in your throat, blurring out the last back-and-forths until everyone, one by one, started to exit the hall. his team is the first one to do so and you fear that this belittling memory will never fully dissolve.

the next day doesn't reward you for your rookie service either. the brown-haired woman walks up and down, prior to sitting down and repeating the same pattern anew.

"…means i can't use it?"

nobara, your senior of two years with more experience in the world of critical writing supports her head with her right palm. "hold on," the corner of her mouth twists in annoyance as she analyzes the screen of her pink tablet.

"these sons of bitches have not only imposed a copyright restriction because of a goddamn power point presentation but also threaten us with cutting our money!?" it was only a question of time when she would go berserk. you weren't going to risk calming her down when she had all the right in the world - unfortunately copyrights excluded - to complain about the supergiant's legal terms.

as you found out - just hours ago after terrible five hours of sleep - the press is not allowed to share the conference recording on any platform. on top of that, the financial pressure of withdrawing advertising money is pushed down your throats in case companies release a - as quoted - smear campaign against their precious CEO.

"i don't get it… why attempt hiding it? the media already knows," you chew on your lip at the thought of having to let your very first citation go to waste. you weren't going to allow your own sweat and (almost) tears go down the drain. not when they are the ones in the wrong on so many levels.

"i'll tell you why… these pigs can't risk more damage! knuckles-deep in the mud and they still have the audacity to stop journalism! over my dead body!" the aroma of berries floats your nostrils when she raises her steamy mug.

"what's the plan?"

"(name). see this as your first main quest from your kugisaki girl herself, 'kay? WE'RE GOING TO FINISH THIS NO MATTER WHAT! EVEN IF THEY WERE TO FLOAT THIS OFFICE! those recordings aren't going anywhere!" her arm cramps up when the coughing fit returns.

you immediately begin your text, fueled with fire from her motivational speech. as your job requires, you are here in the first place because you've promised to reveal the shady side of the business world. you wouldn't want to let your partner in crime down - not when you were entrusted with this important task.

"thank you, nobara-san."

"that's the spirit, rookie. let's end those wretched capitalists! they better be grateful that i had a fever… i would've jumped them all!"

the yellowish light of your overly bright display blinds you in the shades. the blue logo of the daily press dissapears. your thumb enters the key words and urgently scrolls down the black on white.

user8653346

another nepo baby who gets away with THEIR usual egotistic IDIOCITY. we live in a rich man's world everyone!

anonymous

I'm dissapointed with the amount televison and CO publicize. Why do they downplay the traumatizing event of a victim and make traces of the protest dissapear.... inhumane. Thank you and anyone else who has covered this evil crime for us.

z.9999

Why act surprised? He has a bunch of illegal acts held against him yet he gets away!!? I'm more concerned for the people who've lost their jobs!

anonymous

threathening journalists shocks me the least... what has daddy’s company become? ヾ(´∀｀)

a notification from nobara pops up, showing screenshots of hilarious responses under other tokyo-based publications over the last days. it's quite a relief they haven't held back either.

but the happiness wouldn't last long of course.

"utahime-senpai just emailed me. (name), you can't imagine how enraged i am. meet me at the office." the green and red symbols dissapear along her name.

your heart pounds as you run down the busy streets. no time to take a bite or look in the mirror. at the crosswalk, you weigh if you should get a quick meal and later hop into a taxi or train.

the neon green window display of the convenience store finds you at the right time. after paying for food and a bottle of water you're about to run to the next station, however, the magazine stand catches your attention instead. you should sprint to your office as soon as possible yet you're curious about one thing.

you turn the pages and eventually find your own article. you quiver at the touch of the physical copy. it hasn't vanished. you let out a relieved groan and with the satisfied exploration, you flee through the automatic doors.

"i would like to have a word with the manager regarding the supply of non-updated newspaper in here."

"nobara…"

the said woman is leaning her arms against the top of her cluttered desk. without any remark you place your bag down.

her lids are shut.

minutes pass.

"these fuckers have taken down utahime-senpai's entry," striking back this early? "legal protection for copyright violation! copyright violation?! - they can't be serious!" her skin slams against the wood, twice. she lets out another yell, "gahhh!"

"she hasn't inserted the entire video material on her website," you can't find a reason why on god's green earth there should be any dilemma with her senior's article. it's not like writers aren't familiar with the rules in connection to giving credits, likewise with how and when to use correct quotations and other sources.

"ah you see, three minutes out of 2 hours crisis communication is too long! hah! how dare we forget about proprietary visuals! that half-assed presentation and ugly logo are allegedly commercialization!" she clears her throat in a dramatic manner, "now they limit distributions unless certain parts are changed. exploitation of underlying speech my ass!"

you curse under your breath. "what about us? have we exploited proprietary materials?" you cringe at the terms.

she shares the same sentiment, although now more wearisome. "that's why i've invited you over. just got a message from the pitiful sons themselves," she rolls the computer mouse with her index. "i'm not surprised anymore," she lets out. "we consider filing for legal action regarding the article written and published by your media press journalist (fn) (name) in case it is not taken offline within the next 12 hours,"

you bump into her side and continue to read out loud, "the content of the article titled »fair payment for hard labour: executive ryomen sukuna's biggest income or greatest weakness?« on the 28th of this month includes reputation-damaging conspiracy on behalf of CEO ryomen sukuna's private and professional credibility. our chief executive officer has suffered great harm to his public image in recent days through burgeoning cyber harassment and thus financial destabilization.

the usage of »[…] he's shamelessly open about his lacking empathy for his own work force.«, »[...] getting his position handed (and maintained) on a silver platter […]« and the last paragraph in your text, »what does mr ryomen intend to achieve? one can only look at the priviliged offspring with the empathy he seems to miss whenever he makes an appearance on national TV […]« are missleading accusations without official proof. throughout his career as an executive chief, ryomen sukuna has worked hard for his responsibilities no matter what grand force he is facing.

we must also remind you that mr ryomen has fairly earned his position as the heir of the late wasuke itadori. his accomplishments as a widely-accepted humanitarian representative can be reached via the links provided below. we request you take your article offline or we are duty-bound to take legal proceedings against your company »kanagawa news« and journalist (fn). we are looking forward to a quick response."

you are torn between laughing and touching grass outside. "isn't that funny?" the brunette turns to you but you shake your head in disbelief. "this must be a sick joke."

"not gonna lie, i was a click away from sharing this on my socials. should've send it to every single media channel in this damn prefecture. hah… what a circus… humanitarian? pff…"

your fingers poke at your forehead. you never had to deal with this before, not when you had already covered big names once or twice without any backlash on how angelic their respective nepo babies are. a brat disguised as a grown man… making his minions do the dirty job while he is getting payed millions for exploiting farmers and factory workers.

you can't believe it.

the difficultty of trying to swallow is suffocating. besides just giving up and doing as they preach, this is surrendering - falling down on your knees to get spared by his hierarchic superiority. is this how the rest gets treated behind the scenes? - getting their own principals deranged by some power-hungry maniacs? oh, you have truly underestimated them.

another pause befalls the small office. you see colleagues from the other department pass by the huge pane. the broken light bulb above is twitching. you huff in exhaustion. nobara should tell you what to do since any decisison today will be regretted in one way or another.

"we can't give those bastards the satisfaction," she finally breaks the silence, "let's make them shake longer and solve this pile of shit in the evening, i'm too tired for this freak show. also… we can't delete your oscar-worthy exposure just yet, can we?"

purples and oranges bleed between the mild blue patches. when you step out, the town is dipped in a desaturated shade. at least the sun isn't fully up so you can escape the heat in the confinement of your four walls.

with every step you fall deeper into a spiral: a dark abyss of humiliation and utter disgust in the face of your new reality. what wong-doing outside of wanting to serve justice have you commited? you want to scream to your heart's content but even that is prohibited to you.

damned be that disgusting man.

what makes his horrible soul deserving of power when he's shamelessly spitting at workers? just because he doesn't consider them worth his while?

your skin burns with anger whenever you revisit his responses. a nobody. you shouldn't let it get to you but experiencing it first hand leaves you with wishing him the absolute worst. your article could only express one-sixth of your honest opinion on a self-centered bitch like him. you can't wrap your head around the fact that he still stands proud as the official CEO. no consequences for him.

"ahh!"

the numbness is abruptly replaced by a mild ache in your nose.

"oh i'm sorry!" you are still busy holding your face when you catch a glimpse of your opposite. the novelty of the stranger's face feels weirdly soothing the exact moment you meet his blue orbs.

"my bad! hey, are you hurt?" his limbs spread out with a respectful distance, his concern tangible.

"it's okay!" you wave your hand, "should've looked where i go and not space out, hih," you try to lighten the situation with a chuckle. it does its wonder as he drops his long arms to his sides.

"you're from here?" you are taken back by the asudden quizzing. "uh, yes," you manage to respond back after just starting to slip by him. you are not in the mood to start a conversation with a male stranger so you stride with the same heaviness again.

"(fn) (name). i quite enjoyed reading your article. what was it again? - big executive who doesn't pay his employees?"

you throw a glance over your shoulder. should you be on high alert in his presence? who is this white-haired man and how does he know it's you? you don't have any official pictures- oh. the press conference. don't tell me he's one of his men? as expected, a pinch of fear gets in your way, yet you can't let that stop you.

"yeah, that's me. want to enlighten me to whom i owe the pleasure of speaking?" your arms stick to your body like magnets. as much as you want to appear strong, on the inside you try your best to not freak out.

white teeth manifest as he lets out a playful laugh at your irony. "huh, if you insist this early - gojo satoru," he does a slight bow which you accept with rolling eyes. what a player. "hope your majesty is in a joyful mood," he goes on. shouldn't you feel threatened like you've preached seconds ago?

"oh, don't escape me!" he launches forward and you pick up your pace. "what?!"

"but you didn't let me finish!" he puffs his cheeks out and you don't know how to reply to that. is he being serious? are you trapped in a money laundering scheme from nearby, perhaps?

"nuh uh, i don't need your money! on the contrary, give me a minute to introduce myself!" you try your best to stand your ground despite his childish antics. "you have to trust me for that though…" his index beckons you, "would you do a favour for me? - with recompensation, of course," he grins.

commissions, support: ko-fi 🍥

[wifegideonnav]

i just think that if gisele pelicot is brave enough to make her trial public then you can be brave enough to say the word rape when using her story for ad revenue on tiktok

[cheesecakemermaid1048]

TW for suicide mention

If I had a nickel for everytime,it was revealed/implied a beast cookie was suicidal.I'd two nickels,which isn't a lot but it's sad it happened twice.

[krystal-prisms]

Again, this is not what you want to actually experience, just objectively the sexiest way for you to go out