#tw: burns mention

[berenosthepotato]

I've been doing some thinking, and I have to confess, with all the picking and choosing from all Fallout games to make this strange patchwork lore for the series, I'm disappointed with what they did to ghouls. They've a long way from zombie-like people that'd eventually rot away to very bad burn victims to... monsters? It's all very grey but let me explain.

In the games, where everything's gone to shit and racism seems a thing of the past, people in the wasteland were shown to be very particular about ghouls, as they feared that they'd go 'feral' at any moment, that they'd stop being a rational person and turn into this generic rabid zombie that attacks anything it sees. I can't tell right now if this was ever addressed properly, but I had the understanding that going feral or not simply happened as you became a ghoul. That you are or you aren't, and it's not a matter of time. So, in a way, racism did not die... it just stopped being about skin color and became more of a skin texture thing. In Fallout 3, ghouls had their own settlement in the Underworld, in Fallout 4 they're not allowed to set foot in Diamond City, and they're one of the 'things' the Brotherhood of Steel despises on principle, without a distinction between feral or not. The series has destroyed this by making all ghouls dependant on some mystery chem to remain themselves, which suddenly makes it more reasonable to be afraid of ghouls, as they really are time-ticking bomb one missed dose away from attacking you. I'm not saying I need fantasy racism in the post-nuclear world, I'm saying that they took what amounted as very bad burn victims that were ostrasized out of unjustified fears and turned them into the monsters the games always showed us they aren't - or, at least, not any more or any less than any other person in the wasteland.

[griim]

DEAD BY DAYLIGHT VERSE

Even from her birth, Gemma's father made it clear that her mother was a nobody, much like she was. Gemma had believed that her mother was dead or something worse. Through paperwork, many years later, Gemma found she was alive but knew nothing of them because of the machine used by the Rossum Corporation. Meaning that to Alexandria, Gemma did not exist, something Gemma had become used to knowing. The young girl knew that she could never have a ‘normal’ family life. But Gemma made sure that Alexandria would not know of her or her Christian's existence, even if this would be possibly the only chance at having a family she would ever have.

During one of the many nights she began stockpiling evidence against her family, Gemma found a secret file. This file contained information about her and what they had been doing to her. Opening it, Gemma was horrified to find out that they had been experimenting on her, using the chair in hopes to remake it and break her in the process. They were hoping to make her a weapon, for the highest bidder. And reading through the files, each line got worse. These things done to Gemma should never happen to anyone. Let alone a child. That was when the voice started, ‘Take revenge, you know you want to.’ A voice that seemed to come from nowhere. However, the thought did cross her mind. Having enough, she would not be their test subject anymore. Grabbing what she could, Gemma stuffed it in her backpack and ran away at seventeen. 

Years passed, and Gemma joined the military, slowly amassing kills, almost as if something else lived within her. Something dark. Some soldiers even rumored she e n j o y e d the killing. Whispers began, calling her The Reaper. During this time, she met Jordan, someone who looked past this ‘darkness’ within her. Showed her the gentle touch she had wanted all along. However, that gentleness and peace ripped from her. 

Gemma remembers it as such; 

“We were out on a typical mission, going in when no one else could or would. You know, because we are the ballsy type. As we approached a small village, things seemed fine and quiet, but we were used to that. So, in that time, we made jokes and, you know, shoot the shit, as you do with people you consider family. That didn’t last long. Nicole, our unit's dog, alerted us to something. So, in typical fashion, we started to scope out the area. But it was too late. We had been ambushed.” Her heart began to race, even when she swore she felt nothing. Gulping, she remained stone-faced, not needing to show them any emotions. 

‘Take cover’, ‘coming from the east’, ‘hold your ground.’ The commands sounded clear as day in her mind. If she had done a better job at giving commands, Jordan would still have been here, or if she had not decided to go into the town, he'd be alive. 

“So, we took cover and began to return fire, something we were used to dealing with, most of us being seasoned members. Jordan, being my partner in the front. We had been behind cover together, taking turns shooting and reloading. Covering for the other. Stuff we both had done hundreds of times before,” this was where the guilt set in, a survivor who believed it should have been t h e m. “As I reloaded, it jammed for a split second, and that second cost Jordan his life…” Pausing, she struggled internally with speaking the words. “He had been shot. Pretty badly, you get used to seeing gunshot wounds. But because it was him, it felt different… After he fell behind cover,” once again, those screamed commands echoed in her mind.

‘Man down’, ‘Man fucking down’, ‘we need a medevac.’ However, now knowing that there never was one.

“I assessed the situation and called for help, but nothing came. Jordan was dying, and I had to hold off the enemy until my unit made its way to me. I could not cry. Because that would not have done shit at that moment. I was a soldier, damn it. One of our operatives told me we needed to move a bomb was set to go, it was all a trap. And, me being me, I wanted to save him, not just because I loved him, but because he was part of our unit, we do not leave men behind.” The tears fought desperately to fall from her eyes, but Gemma held them back. "Jordan knew he would not make it, so he told the team and me to go. I fought like hell to bring him with us, and when they attempted to grab me, that voice from my childhood. When I felt so much rage returned, telling me to fight back if he meant so much to you. Then something snapped in Gemma, she turned on her men, and in what seemed like a blur, she saw nothing but red, and then, she felt p e a c e. 

Blood soaked the ground around Gemma, and the bodies of her team littered the ground at her feet. A laugh escaped her lips as a voice from the darkness beckoned her from over Jordan's body, whispering. 'It is a very mean and nasty place, the world. And it will beat you to your knees and keep you there permanently. But not you. You became that mean and nasty thing.' Smiling, the woman stumbled over to her lover's body, laying herself over him, blood covering her. As the final ticks of the bomb sounded, she looked up. Face met with a blast of flame. The flame consumed nearly all of her face, and as Gemma thought it was over, something engulfed her, The Red Forest. 

A surviving Unit member swears he heard a laugh, something evil coming from her, and a mask. A skull mask shrouded in a cover, then she was gone.  Who knows, maybe you will find yourself facing The Reaper. 

[xtinyslip]

following her conversation with lawrence, she had been quite quick to prepare the medicine and remedies that she knew would help with the burns. burns that she had treated on herself. yes, it had been trial and error then but she knew far more about what worked now than she had the first time. no, she wasn't going to administer anything whilst he was sleeping. it was going to hurt like a bitch, and she didn't want to interrupt his rest. sitting on the edge of his bed, her fingers tracing gently patterns on the inside of his wrist. of course, not where he had been burnt. watching her fingers gently move across his skin was almost distracting her from her own thoughts. "it's me." gently brushing his hair out of his face when she saw he was stirring. "your a fool for getting burned for me. you know?" taking his hand and squeezing it. "i can think of quite a few people i would happily watch burn but you will never be one of them. how are you feeling?" @fcrafcrtnight

[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.)

[harmonyrae]

Power Couple

CHAPTER 14 - Right Here

I’d like to apologize for this chapter, it’s gonna hurt. Like angst doesn't even begin to describe this. Also, this is completely my own head cannon & is ABSOLUTELY NOT lore accurate (as far as we know).

Photo: From Pinterest, all credit to original poster NSFW: Mentions/Depictions of violence, PTSD, torture, death

Your armchair is not as comfortable as you remember. You sit with your knees curled up to your chest. Your hoodie pulled down over your knees, your arms hugging your legs. You rest your chin on your knee, trying to organize your thoughts. You try to imagine you are so small that no one will know you’re even there. 

The lights are dimmed, you can barely see Sylus sprawled out on the floor of the cage. You remember the night you first brought Sylus here. You were so confident, how did you end up here again? 

You replay that night in your head. His voice echoing in your ear. You stare blankly at his unconscious form, digging your fingernails into your palms willing yourself not to cry.

"I’d hate to disappoint you Miss Hunter."

But he did.

"But her mind… that’s what is most fascinating. It’s brilliant, calculated, and somewhat haunting."

And now it’s haunted by him. His voice. His touch. His empty promises.

"Seems like everything about you is special, kitten."

You were a means to an end. A tool to be used and tossed aside. Nothing special.

A soft groan brings you back to the present. You see Sylus roll away from you and onto his side. His back muscles tensing as he tries to ground himself. He reaches a hand up to the side of his neck. He lets out a soft grunt as his fingers trace the sensitive flesh where the needle deposited the heavy drug. He sits up and scans the room, his eyes straining against the darkness.

You hold your breath. You know he can crush the doors of the cage and simply walk out. But this is the only place you could think of bringing him. You could at least lock him in the lower levels of your tower long enough to evacuate everyone else if it came to that. You take a deep breath before using your phone to turn up the lights. Sylus’ eyes snap to yours in an instant. He was usually hard to read, his emotions hidden behind a wall. But when you look at him, you can see he is raw and broken. 

You pull your hoodie up to release your legs, you shiver as the cold air hits your bare skin. You stand and slowly make your way closer to the cage. The room is eerily quiet, the soft pitter patter of your bare feet on the linoleum echoing through the room. As you approach the cage, Sylus shifts to face you. He makes no attempt to stand up. He draws one leg up and props his arm on his knee. 

“There’s a shirt on the chair.” Your voice is void of emotion. You barely recognize it.

Sylus glances over to the chair to see the sweater you brought for him to put on. He returns his gaze to you. His eyes have glazed over, if it wasn’t for his ragged breathing you’d think he was perfectly calm. He tilts his head as he looks you over. From your head to your toes, it doesn’t feel sensual this time, he’s sizing you up. Trying to determine your motives.

“Why?” 

One word. That’s all he says. The base in his voice is amplified, the simple question rings in your ear. You straighten up, your eyes narrow and you cross your arms. You’re the motherfucking leader of Himitsu, time to act like it.

“That is the question of the hour, isn’t it Oni?”

At the mention of his code name, his eyes close. He drops his head. He sighs deeply before looking up to you once more.

“Did the kid tell you before you killed him or did you dig that up on your own?” His words cut through you like a razor.

“Have you heard of a hacker who goes by the name of Macintosh?” Sylus nods. “He’s on my payroll. Took him less than 24 hours to narrow it down once he had the burner.” 

His jaw clenches. He brings a hand to the back of his neck, his eyes finally dropping to the floor.

“Bit of advice. Tossing a burner off the pier is not the most effective disposal method.” Sylus chuckles. 

“And what would you suggest then, kitten?” 

That’s when you lose it. 

“Don’t fucking call me that. I’m not your goddamn kitten. But I am, apparently, your plaything, right? Distract me, fool me, fuck me. Was that your plan? So you could stroll into my territory and do as you please? Attack my clients? Destroy Himitsu?”

Sylus jumps to his feet and stalks over towards. He tries to grab you through the bars, but you’ve moved far enough back. He uses his evol to pull you forward. Before you reach the bars your gun is in your hand. Your body slams against the bars, you look up to see the barrel of your gun resting at the center of Sylus’ forehead. He doesn’t back away or try to pry the gun out of your hand. He rests his head against the barrel and holds your upper arms tightly against the bars. 

“Do you really think I fucked you as a distraction?” 

You can’t stop your bottom lip from quivering. The tears you’ve held back threaten to fall once more. You take a deep breath and try to force a smile.

“I wouldn’t be surprised at this point. You’ve lied about everything else.” 

“I’ve never lied about how I feel about you. I can’t.” 

“But you did lie.” Sylus finally reaches a hand up to your face, holding your chin steady. His thumb slowly brushes against your jaw.

“I’m sorry.” 

You break away from him. He doesn’t try to pull you back. You drop your gun on the table next to your armchair. Your fingers rake through your hair as you try to calm down. When you turn back to Sylus, he has an arm propped above his head leaning against the bars of the cage. His other hand extended through the bars to you.

“Please let me tell you why. Why Ridgeway and why I couldn’t tell you.”

You stare at him. His bare chest and strong arms make you ache for him. Your body craves him and it hurts to resist. Your heart hammers in your chest. Should you give him the chance? Your mind drifts to earlier that morning. Sitting in the tub, your body pressed against his, his voice in your ear, that heartbreaking tone as he tells you about your shared Aether fragments.

"You wished we could be free. And I made you a promise, that I would find a way for you to be free."

Your heart wanted nothing more than to reach out to him. To hold him close. You see his arm drop and retreat back into the cage, his head pressing against the bar. You take a cautious step forward. His eyes flutter up to meet yours. You wrap your arms around yourself.

“Why?” 

“Ridgeway has a brother. Goes by Sinclair. He’s a member of the board for a medical tech company. I needed information on Sinclair and I was hoping Ridgeway had records that could lead me to whatever hole he has crawled into.”

“Why are you hunting Sinclair? And how does burning down Ridgeway Liquors help you with that? And why couldn’t you have just talked to me about this?” 

“I needed to send a message to Sinclair. His family will suffer if he crosses a line. I couldn’t tell you… I couldn’t…” He struggles to form the words, he starts to tap his head on the bars. Slowly building the intensity until his forehead is red.

You close the distance and grab onto his hand that has reached up to hold onto a bar. He stops and looks down at you. His eyes are hazy, a tear finally falls.

“I couldn’t risk them finding you.”

You blink rapidly, trying to process what he could mean. 

“Sinclair was one of the doctors that worked on us. He’s looking for you.” 

Your eyes widen and you shake your head.

“I made a promise to you. I promised I’d find a way for you to be free. And I found a way. As long as I knew you were safe, I could deal with what they did to me. But when I heard he was leaving to look for you, I couldn’t let that happen. You’ve kept your identity hidden, it’s bought you time. But if he finds out, he’ll come for you. You being unaware kept you safe, at least that's what I convinced myself.” 

“What do they want with me?”

“You’re an energy source. The most pure and regenerative source ever discovered.”

“Is it the Aether core? What about you?”

“The Aether core amplifies your evol, changes it. Possibly adding to it if you’re unlucky. They used me for… honestly, I don’t know how long. But my energy isn’t enough it seems.”

“Is Sinclair working alone or…” 

“The group he runs, their slogan is A New Kind of Energy for a Brighter Tomorrow - safe to say he most likely has a small army hunting us.”

“I thought I knew every major corporation in the Zone.”

“It’s not in the Zone. It’s in Linkon. But they have their people everywhere.”

“What’s the name?”

“Ever.”

Your heart skips a beat. The name feels burned into your memory. But something Sylus said before is the only thing you can think of. You are afraid to ask, but it’s tearing you up inside.

“You said you could deal with what they did to you… What did they do?” 

Sylus drops his gaze to your hand, still wrapped around his hand on the bar. You see his eyes dim, as if he has retreated into his mind. You squeeze his hand, reassuring him.

“After I helped you escape, they punished me. More experiments, more surgeries. As I became more powerful they put more security measures in place. I can’t access all of my power. They called it a 'bio-metric inhibitor'. All I remember is I couldn’t get out of bed for weeks. Eventually they installed a patch over my eye so I couldn’t control anyone. My cell was the energy conduit they used to…”

He looked up at you now, the pain in his eyes so great you could hardly breathe. You hadn’t noticed you had started crying. He brings his arm down to reach through the bars and brush the tears away. You lean into his touch.

“I’ll stop.”

“No. Sylus. Please tell me.” He takes a deep breath before looking down to stare at his feet.

“The regenerative part… when they drain the energy… it… it kills you.” A sob escapes your throat. Sylus doesn’t look up.

“When they first tested their theory… they chose you. No matter how much I begged and fought, they took you away. And when you came back, you had no idea who I was. After that, I spent every day, every hour, every minute working on a plan for you to escape. A month later, I succeeded. You were free. I don’t know how long it was before they needed another energy transference but when they strapped me down I found myself hoping to forget. To forget losing you. But then I woke up. And I remembered everything. My first surgery when they cut into my eye, the first time I saw you, the first time we touched, the first time we kissed, the first time we made love, every time there was pain in your eyes, the fear in them when I put you on the shuttle…”

His grip on the bars was weakening, his body shaking as he spoke. You were frozen, listening to what he went through, for you. Your heart ached. But nothing could have prepared you for what he said next.

“And I remembered how it felt to die. Pain so intense I wanted to tear myself in half. Blinding heat then complete stillness then everything was cold. So fucking cold. And dark. It was completely dark, no light anywhere, I searched for days but it was just dark. I found myself wishing for pain and then I’d feel it, like a knife in my chest, my heart started again. I opened my eyes and I was back. I don’t remember how many times I died. I stopped counting. But every time I woke up I would look for you. Wishing that my previous life was a dream and you were still there with me. And every time I would see your empty room and… and I…” 

His voice finally broke. His grip on the bars faltered and he sank to the floor. He pulled his legs up to his chest, for the first time he looked small. You ran to the door of the cage and pressed your thumb to the lock. The door swung open and you rushed inside, crashing down next to Sylus, your arms wrapping around him. You pull his head to your chest and run your fingers through his silver hair. His body was shaking and he didn’t dare touch you. He wouldn’t even look at you. Desperate to bring him back to you, you start placing gentle kisses to his shoulders and up to his neck. You see his eyes close and you move to sit behind him, your legs on either side of his torso. Your arms pull him back towards you. You caress his chest and place kisses on his back.

You sit like that for what feels like hours until one of his hands reaches up to take yours. He strokes your palm slowly. 

“Y/N…?” 

“I’m here. I’m right here.” 

Tag List (comment if you wanna be added!): @trishiepo0 @not-so-quite-human @kitsunetori @babyx91 @libriomancer

[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.

[griim]

The chair and its effects on Gemma

okay, so big trigger warning the following contains mention of; child abuse, child experimentation, general abuse, inhumane treatment, memory loss, electroshock, memory loss and memory wiping, trauma, and burns mention. (if I missed any more please let me know.)

before we start there are a few things you need to know;

Treatment; Was/is the code word for what they called being wiped. Each doll/person believed it was a simple appointment, not a wipe. They would not know anything about this. 

Blank Slate/Doll-like state; This is post wipe/treatment where the person has not been given a personality, during these times the person will be child-like and not know most things. They like routine. The Chair; Now I will interchange this with the machine because they are the same thing. The chair is hooked up to a machine that does the work but you are in the chair as it happens.

Matthew Harding many years before the twins were born, worked for and with a company that ran these places that were around the world. They were called Dollhouses. Each house having its methods of running things. While not much is known about the other houses. Gemma learned about how her father had done things in his, or rather how he didn’t do things in his house. He did not care for them, he was inhumane, keeping all the people there in CAGES. The chair that he used was one of the most painful, to him this was just a way to make money and this was the start of the future. One where he could help prolong life, though at the cost of people who never had a say. One of those very people being the twin’s mother, though Matthew would never admit it. The chair in question looked like a normal dentist chair, but once on it and it was turned on it was completely different. Electrical impulses and frequencies would begin to change everything about you.

Once activated for the first time on a person, the chair would map all things about you. This would be your brain and its functions, any talents or muscle memories you had. After doing this your personality and everything about you that makes you… are stored on a flash drive. IF YOU’RE LUCKY. Once you have been ‘saved’ the machine that is connected to the chair then wipes everything about you, right down to any talents you might have. When it is all said and done you are nothing more than a blank slate, ready to be programmed as the person sees fit. Each of these ‘treatments’ can last minutes to seconds depending on what is happening to them. When a person is in their blank slate, they will have no personality and be flat. Because well they don’t know any better. They also will be easily over-stimulated and not understand most things and raising your voice at them will get you nowhere. It would be like talking to a brick wall.

After being programmed a person could be whatever or whoever the person giving you the treatment wanted. There were records of there being thousands if not hundreds of thousands of people who had been programmed. Gemma, having found some files found that they could make someone speak any known language to man. She also found they could make them a cold-blooded killer… Or a sexual person. But after all, is said and done the person who had done these things remembered nothing. While the person they were with or the family of the person they killed lived with the reality. This was all funded by contracts, secret ones, that were funded by organizations like HYDRA. During one of his experiments, Matthew realized he could prolong life and make people live on forever. Or be in multiple places at once. Matthew knew he could capitalize on this, putting it out there people began to realize this was not good. As word got out the organization was quickly taken down, everything either destroyed or taken and heavily locked away. Though HYDRA continued to reach out to Matthew, though knowing best for them to remain in the darkness.

The future that Matthew had planned came crashing down, he and his family quickly went into hiding. After years of remaining in the darkness, he began to weave himself more into HYDRA, his beliefs aligning with theirs. Matthew even managed to wrangle in a couple of scientists who began to help him recreate the chair, promising those who supported this idea eternal life. HYDRA began to get him what he requested, though under the stipulation that if this failed he would be paying with his life. Years passed and with a few setbacks, it was finally time to test it. Matthew realized he needed subjects, to make sure that it was going to do what he promised it would. Asking HYDRA for those subjects, he was told to get his own, they needed to make sure that they would not be wasting their recourses. Being rejected made him angry, but he was going to make sure this continued. Knowing he could not kidnap anyone, he needed to lay low, and HYDRA wasn’t going to supply him with anyone he had two choices. Gemma or his son. Matthew not wanting to harm his heir, Matthew chose to try it on his daughter, who was only seven at the time. Once everything had been hooked up, he and a few scientists take Gemma from her bed and strapped her down to the chair.

Gemma not understanding began to struggle, though this soon stopped as the machine was turned on. Lights began to flicker around the room as a buzz filled her ears and the young girl began to convulse and eyes rolling to the back of her head, arms struggled against the restraints and screams filled the room. Though they fell on deaf and uncaring ears, this was all in the name of science. As the electrical pulses surged through her burns began to form on her temples, the current being too high and the chair not being safe for such a young mind. This continued for minutes as it mapped everything about the seven-year-old girl’s brain. Moments before the process had ended Gemma’s body gave out and she laid in the chair unmoving. Her eyes had become glossy and she knew nothing, not even her name. Unlike most of the dolls who came before her, Gemma’s memories were not stored. So the first seven years of her life are gone, anyone, she might have known or things she might have seen were just… GONE.

Once Gemma regained consciousness the questions began, and bright lights were shinned in her eyes. Though she knew none of the answers to what they asked, they continued. The scientists took their notes and Gemma was returned to her room, frightened and alone. Head throbbing Gemma knew nothing, it wasn’t until the next morning when she was finally told what her name was. When she had asked what happened she was told she was given ’a treatment’ and that these things would help her, not remembering much she trusted it. This process continued for years, memories were made, changed, and replaced. Each time the burns on her temples becoming more and more pronounced, and the effects had begun to show. Once Gemma was proven a success, the project was given the go-ahead, more people were tested on. HYDRA becoming more please with the outlook, they began to visit the house more. Sometimes even sitting in on Gemma’s ‘treatments’. Each time Gemma’s screams and pleads being ignored.

While the scientists did not think about the side effects, Gemma began to feel them. They were slow at first, a headache here and there but it soon began to worsen. One day while sitting in her room she noticed her left side began to become weak, and she could not feel anything. Panicking she tried to get help but they ignored her and dismissed her, after this Gemma collapsed and slept for nearly forty-eight hours. After waking she remembered things she had not before, these instances continued the rest of her childhood. Each time she was put in the chair only made it worse. When Gemma found out what they had been doing to her she ran away and chose to live on the streets rather than be some experiment. Even though Gemma had escaped, others were not so lucky, and her father continued to work on the chair. Most likely perfecting it, hurting countless people in the process. **

It was when she was on the streets that Gemma began to learn how to handle the headaches. Gemma began to realize that if she was around certain frequencies of sounds or flashing bright lights (STROBE LIGHTS) she would begin to feel the headache and numbing feeling. After finding out what triggered her, Gemma would actively try to avoid them, though sometimes she was not so lucky. But even though Gemma avoids these as best she can, she can not escape the damage to her brain. Now and then Gemma will begin to feel an intense headache followed by numbness and weakness on the left side of her body. After some time she usually faints and when she wakes she either has lost days, months, and sometimes years of memories. If she is extremely unlucky she even goes to a blank slate. Learning how to combat this is something Gemma continues to learn to do, some tricks she has learned are to put little notes in random places with names and such to try to jog her memory. But for now, Gemma has no idea how to stop this from continuing or how to fix it.

(okay that was a lot i know but i hope that all made sense.) **Gemma’s father is still alive and working on the chair, she wants to kill him but just hasn’t had the chance yet.

[raiiny-bay]

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

[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.

[ibrithir-was-here]

Rosemary is for Remembrance Part 7

Part 6

Part 1

Part 8

[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.