#work is my ultimate and inescapable trigger

[g1v3an1nch]

me in my life

[reaveries]

▬  a warm place for numb fingers (18+)

summary: after a conversation with a friend, tension arises between the reader and arthur. action is ultimately forced into her hands... or fingers, more like.

pairings: high honor!arthur morgan x female!reader

warnings: mature content (18+)// explicit descriptions of fingering, cunnilingus, and some good ol' fucking

word count: 5.7k (estimated 23-minute reading time)

a/n: this goes out to all the cold and horny girls out there. i see you and i salute you. enjoy the fic

masterlist archive of our own

The chill was an inescapable thing and it followed her closely wherever she went. It burned her face red whenever she emerged from the mining town cabins. When she’d been forced to ride against it in fierce storms, it possessed her hair to lash violently across her cheeks in a blinding fury. And once those storms passed, it continued to insatiably lap at any skin left exposed to its gnawing teeth. Numbness in her fingertips became commonplace, leaving her defenseless as her trigger finger trembled beneath thin leather gloves. Like a starved coyote, the chill searched for any scrap of flesh it could find and devoured it to the bone. It wasn’t forgiving, as nature often isn’t.

She draws her coat closer to her body now, but the little winds continue to hungrily nip at her cheeks and dust them pink. What once ravaged her has become meek since they’ve descended the peaks of the Grizzlies. But it’s still there, and will continue to be until spring thaws the world. 

“Can’t believe I’m lookin’ at one of the most wanted outlaws this side of the Dakota.”

She looks up from her feet and sees Karen smiling, holding a cigarette between her fingers. She brings it to her lips and draws out the smoke.

“God, if the Pinkertons knew how big of a baby you really are, maybe they’d have tried their luck in Colter,” she says with a cheeky grin.

“That’s the only way those fuckers could’ve taken me down,” the outlaw says, laughing bitterly into her scarf. “I’ve never done well in the cold. Every day that I wake up and can’t feel my toes, I’m closer to packing up and fleeing to New Austin. Thinking of building myself a house made of cacti.”

She walks through the frost-laden grass to where her friend stands, overlooking the Dakota river.

“You’re fulla shit,” Karen says, rolling her eyes. “The day you leave this bunch will be the day God, himself, shoots you off your horse. Got too much love in your little heart for the lot of us.”

The woman chuckles dryly, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“Got too much love for you, Karen,” she says in a sickeningly sweet tone and leans in, tilting her head dramatically to the side as if to give her a sloppy kiss.

“Get the hell away from me!” Karen screeches and fumbles to push her away. 

The outlaw stumbles backward lazily with her head thrown back in laughter.

“You play around too much, you know that?” Karen says, shaking her head, but the forceful tug on the right side of her lips gives her away. 

She smiles down her nose at the blonde woman, “Yeah, that’s what I keep hearin’.”

Once they both settle down, Karen extends the cigarette to her, offering whatever she can manage as it quickly dies out. She takes it between her forefinger and thumb and lets the smoke warm her from the inside.

“You know what I overheard some of the workin’ girls sayin’ when I was in town?” Karen speaks up as the smoke escapes the woman’s throat. 

She hums in question. Words out of the mouth of a working girl can hardly ever be taken for truth, but damn if they weren’t entertaining.

“Apparently, the number of clients they get skyrockets in the winter months. Somethin’ about men subconsciously wantin’ to be warmed up so they seek out activities that make ‘em break a sweat.”

She nods, “I guess that makes enough sense.”

Karen shakes her head, “That’s not all. The girls were also sayin’ that as it gets colder, the men are more and more riled up. Almost like it’s something with the moon, but instead of turnin’ into the dogman, they just wanna bury themselves in a woman real bad. But all I’m hearin’ while these girls are sayin’ this is that we got ourselves a bunch of fools too dumb to think clearly down in that little town.”

She stomps the life out of the cigarette with the toe of her boot, her spurs jingling as she drives it into the dirt. 

“Ain’t no way that’s true,” she says with a sardonic smile. “That last part, sure, but the moon’s got nothin’ to do with it.”

“Well, somethin’s gotta explain it,” Karen says and crosses her arms defensively across her chest. “I can tell ya, once it gets colder the men start lookin’ at ya different. I never noticed the link ‘till now but it kinda makes sense.”

She has to fight the laugh rising in her chest as she tries to seriously process the idea that men are becoming more aroused due to a giant orb in the sky. It takes everything in her not to but Karen sees right through her.

“It ain’t that ridiculous, you know. You can’t tell me you ain’t never noticed Arthur actin’ different.” 

The amusement rapidly drains from her face and is replaced by a look of bewilderment. 

“What are you talkin’ about Arthur for? Arthur and I are just friends, we ain’t like that,” she sputters out. 

“Oh, sorry,” Karen says, putting her hands up, “I forgot you was still on that.”

Her flustered reaction surprises even herself, causing a creeping warmth to crawl its way to her cheeks. A biting retort fumbles dumbly in her mouth.

“I’m not on anything. Don’t know what got in your head but it ain’t never been like that between Arthur and me.”

“It ain’t just in my head, honey. Everyone here knows it. You think folk ain’t seein’ the way you two touch up on each other the way you do? How neither of you goes nowhere without the other? Get real. It’s plain as day to everyone but yourself.”

She tosses a quick glance over her shoulder, hoping no one is near enough to hear their conversation. Instead, she sees that the camp has slowly come to life while she’d been distracted by Karen. Folk have begun their morning chores, migrating from washboards to clothing lines or splitting logs of wood in two. Her eyes flit across their faces until they land on the one she’s searching for. He’s far enough away, speaking with Pearson by the food supplies wagon. The cook waves his hands around animatedly but he’s turned away from her so she can’t tell what they’re speaking about. Arthur looks past the man and meets her eyes. He smiles and nods at her, to which she returns with a forced thin smile of her own. 

“You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Karen,” she mutters, and without turning to say goodbye, walks away.

And yet, Karen’s words burrow themselves deep within her mind and linger in the spaces between each normal thought as the day continues. Surely she'd been exaggerating and not everyone in camp suspects her and Arthur to be intimate with each other. Karen just thinks she knows more than she does sometimes. It was very much like her to be overly confident about certain things, proclaiming them as fact even past the point she knows she’s wrong. Then again, that also wasn't the first time someone had mistaken their closeness for something more amorous in nature. Dutch, having watched her throw an arm around Arthur and share from his bottle, assumed the pair had made themselves official. This prompted some proud fatherly spiel wherein he clapped Arthur on the back and congratulated him. It was vague enough that neither of them knew what he was referring to until later. Once they both realized, it gave them a good doubled-over, tears-from-the-eyes sort of laugh. But Arthur quickly cleared it up with the man, assuring him that there was nothing of that sort going on. Apparently, Dutch remained unconvinced.

As she sharpens her knife, an interesting thought intrudes past the others. For a moment, she wonders if Arthur might be an exception to this phenomenon the working girls were talking about. He never spoke of women the way that most men did. So, if he’d ever been interested in that sort of way, she wasn’t privy to it in the slightest. But, he’s still a man and he isn’t immune to the desires of men. Could it be possible that Arthur wishes for a woman to warm his bed at night? Or perhaps, on the coldest nights, a woman to warm himself inside?

Her blade slips against the whetstone and nearly slices her hand open as depraved imagery flies behind her eyes. She curses loudly and the knife drops to the dirt with a muffled thud.

A horse gallops and skids next to the hitching post beside her and the rider quickly flies off the mount, hitting the earth with heavy feet. She looks up from her hand and it’s him. There’s a pristine buck carcass flung over the back of his mare from a hunting excursion he must be returning from. 

“You alright?” He asks in a raised voice, meeting her with a walk that holds no patience. He looks down at her hands, likely expecting to see them covered in blood. His shoulders drop in relief when he can’t find any.

“I’m fine,” she says, standing up quickly and brushing dust off her pants. She forcefully clears her head of the intrusive thoughts, worried he might be able to see them if he looks too close.

“You nearly gave me a heart attack, woman. Don’t know what I’d do if you went and chopped off your trigger finger,” he says, running a stressed hand through his hair.

“You’d have to find a new riding partner, that’s for sure,” she quips unenthusiastically.

A breath of laughter leaves his lips to tell her she’s being ridiculous.

“Naw… There ain’t no replacin’ you. Ain’t a single person here has what it takes to put up with half the shit you and I do. We’d just have to teach ya to shoot with four fingers.”

His tone is lighthearted but there’s a hint of sincerity to his words that makes her cock her head in intrigue. He notices the change in her expression and quickly backpedals.

“Ah, don’t let that get to your head, now! I can barely tolerate ya most days. There’s just… no denyin’ you’re one of the best shots here,” he says, avoiding her eyes.

She smiles smugly and pats his chest.

“Tell me something I don’t know, cowboy.”

“Like I said, I can barely tolerate ya,” he says, swatting her hand off him. “Anyways, you mind takin’ that buck to Pearson? I need to have a word with Dutch about tomorrow.”

“Sure thing,” she says and slips past him to retrieve the fresh game. 

She hoists the buck over her shoulder and nearly gasps from the unexpected weight. The animal is nowhere near light and it’s a wonder he managed to cleanly take down the thing. He looks over his shoulder at the sound of her boot scuffling in the dirt as she steadies herself. 

She stumbles over to Pearson’s wagon and throws the carcass down on the ground. The cook is nowhere to be found so she figures she’ll save him the trouble and put her sharpened blade to good use. The knife cuts cleanly through the skin like warm butter, separating the hide from tender pink insides. As she’s making the final incisions, she looks up from the gruesome sight and sees Arthur talking to Dutch outside his tent. He seems relaxed enough, his hands resting on the buckle of his gun belt while he talks. It’s something he does often, just like someone might stuff their hands in their pockets for the sake of keeping them occupied. An endearing little action. And yet, for some reason, the common and utterly insignificant act of him doing this makes her forget herself. 

Maybe it’s the suggestion of him holding a different object hidden beneath the confines of denim, right below his loose grip. Because the longer she looks, a vision of him taking himself into a fisted hand begins to overshadow her mind. He’s lying in his cot, and while everyone else huddles together for warmth in their makeshift beds, he’s fucking his hand in the darkness of his tent. His eyes are screwed shut and his mouth is parted slightly, but no noise escapes his lips to save himself the mortification of someone walking past and overhearing. He quickens the pace of his pumping hand and breathes out a quiet, ragged moan as he coats his stomach with ropes of sticky seed. His chest heaves, then slows to normal before he wipes the evidence away with a worn shirt.

Arthur looks at her with a confused look on his face. He waves a hand slowly in mock greeting to rouse her from her dazed state. Dutch, mid-sentence, turns to look over his shoulder, but she averts her eyes before they can meet his. 

“Holy shit,” she whispers. She frantically finishes skinning the deer with her chin to her chest to hide the furious blush tormenting her cheeks. 

Once she’s finished, she practically sprints back to her tent before Arthur can ask her what her deal is. She closes the flaps hastily and goes to sit on the edge of her bed to collect herself. 

It’s not like she’s never fantasized about a person before, and she’s taken people to her bed more times than she can remember. This flustered feeling isn’t rooted in some virgin-like innocence, and yet she might as well be a pastor’s daughter with the way she’s blushing over it.

It’s because it’s him. He’s her partner. Her friend. Someone who’s grown to understand her better than she understands herself. She’s been the same person for him ever since they crossed paths in Montana all those months ago. Many feelings, albeit platonic, have come and gone since that fateful encounter, but lust? Lusting after a friend may be the most foreign feeling she’s stumbled upon in all her years of living. 

A griminess so thick and so palpable enshrouds her, weighing heavily, filthily, on her skin. And there’s only one solution that comes to mind.

She straddles the firmness between her thighs as it bounces rhythmically beneath her. A moan unintentionally escapes her lips in response to the merciless feeling down below. Her blouse sticks to damp skin and plasters itself lewdly against the curves of her stomach and chest as her hips rock back and forth. Another moan. This one more pained than the last.

Her thighs have always burned something fierce whenever she’d mount her horse directly after a bath. Soft, herbal-scented skin would grate against thick cotton of riding trousers, eliciting the pained gritting of teeth. But this time, the minor uncomfortable sensation is preferable, simple, compared to the complexities of her consuming thoughts from earlier. A hot bath was her saving grace as it turned out. It cleared her head and made her feel like her normal self again. Whatever thoughts she’d been having of her partner had been washed away and left behind at the bottom of the steel tub like some tainted baptism.

She rides through the trees that fringe the perimeter of camp and calls out to Javier, who stands guarding the entrance. He gives her a short wave, and nothing else. The two of them haven’t talked much, despite having ridden together for over a year now. Most of the men in camp tend to keep to themselves, she’s noticed. It’s a shame the talkative Irish man went and got himself killed in Blackwater. He knew how to have a good time. He always claimed the two of them were kindred spirits, but she heavily denied it each time since it read like an insult. 

She swings herself off the saddle and, like a moth to a lantern, migrates toward the fire to warm herself. The sun has sunk beneath the horizon and with it any amount of heat it provided, leaving her a shivering mess. Dinner bubbles inside the stew pot, prompting her to grab a portion before taking a seat on one of the logs.

The fire is reduced to glowing embers that do little to warm her bones. She nudges the logs with her boot but they just shift and plume ash. Sighing, she tugs closed the lapels of her coat and brings a spoonful of venison stew to her lips. The steaming broth slides down her throat and settles in her belly, making a furnace of her stomach. It’s a nice feeling, one that quiets her mind.

Suddenly, the log shifts as someone sits beside her. 

“Where’d you disappear off to?” He asks. “I couldn’t find ya anywhere.”

Arthur settles to sit hunched over with his elbows resting on his knees, a bowl of stew in his hands. He’s wearing a dark long-sleeve shirt and a light jacket, but not much else to protect him from the cold. In fact, when she looks around, no one else seems to mind the chill as much as she does. Maybe Karen was right in calling her a baby.

“Nowhere special. I just had to go into town for a bit,” she says, taking another sip of the stew. 

He nods his head, “Had to go into town and get yerself a bath, huh?”

She turns sharply to look at him, her brows drawn together in confusion.

“I could smell the lavender oil the minute ya hitched yer horse,” he explains. “What’s that about? Are ya plannin’ on finally actin’ like a lady or somethin’?”

She shoves his shoulder with her free hand.

“Shut up Arthur. You act more like a lady than I do,” she accuses. “Also, it might do ya good to take a bath for once.”

That last part she says a little lower than the first. Sometimes when they’d be out on extended errands they’d bathe in the river together. But no matter how much he scrubbed his skin, the stench of cigarette smoke and sweat would linger in the closed tent when she lay beside him in her bedroll at night. She always put up with it though because it likely meant she didn’t smell much better.

“The hell’s that s’posed to mean?” He asks, looking visibly taken aback.

“It means you smell like—”

“Naw, not that. Whatchu mean I act like a lady?”

“Oh. It means you’re goin’ all soft, big guy. Take it as a compliment,” she says, trying to suppress a smile.

“Great. First Dutch, now you. I ain’t goin’ soft, girl. And I sure as hell ain’t turnin’ into a woman,” he says, looking away from her and shaking his head. “As if you even knew what it meant to be one. Look at yerself!” He adds with an indignant wave of his hand that gestures from the top of her head to her feet.

She doesn’t need to look. Her coat is crafted from bear and bison pelts, made to fit a man larger than herself because the trapper lacked the expertise to tailor one for a woman. It keeps her warm enough, which is all that should matter. Wearing clothes that flatter her figure ranks relatively low on her list of priorities when every day is a fight to not freeze to death. On top of that, folk have always been mighty eager to remind her of her femininity whenever she dared step outside the docile role of her fairer sex. Which, in her line of work, was often.

“I’ll have you know I consider myself an expert on the matter… ma’am.”

She starts to snicker but when she looks over at him his jaw is set and he’s giving her a side-eye that makes the noise die in her throat.

“Keep callin’ me a lady and see where it gets ya, woman. Y’ain’t gonna be laughin’ when I’m forced to prove myself to ya.”

If there was ever any heat being produced in her body, it's all gone and rushed to her face just now. She stares at him, unblinking.

“What?” 

“Mm, s’what I thought,” he says, bringing a spoon of potatoes and broth to his lips. “Now, if you’re done foolin’ around, are you comin’ with us tomorrow or not? Dutch said you might but I know you’ve got a lot on your plate as is.”

He said he’d prove himself to her. Prove that he’s a man. There’s hardly any innocent way to interpret that.

“Tomorrow?” She asks. “What’s happening tomorrow?”

He looks at her all funny-like, slightly annoyed even.

“Did you drink the bathwater or somethin’? The O’Driscoll told us they was all holed up in some cabin not far from here. Mentioned Colm is with’em. I only told ya about it a handful of times.”

She hears him but isn’t really listening. The phrase repeats on a loop in her head. She wants to ask him what he meant by it but the moment’s passed and she knows there’s no real answer. If asked, he’d just say he was teasing her and there’s nothing more to it. 

He calls her name, bringing her out of her stupor. She opens her mouth to say something but the wind picks up. A bone-rattling shiver possesses her, making her shrink inside herself. He stares at her, unphased by the chill but with concern etched into his handsome features.

“Sorry, Arthur. I- I don’t know where my head’s at,” she says through clenched teeth.

“S’Alright,” he says, looking her over. “I forget how sensitive you are to the cold.”

He sets his bowl on the ground and brings his hands to cup around his mouth, heating them with hot breath. He then takes her hands into his and clamps around them, transferring warmth to numb fingers.

“Jesus, you’re freezin’,” he says.

He brings her hands close to his mouth and repeats the same action, trying to warm them back to life with his breath. He presses into her palms, massaging heat from the pads of his fingers into hers.

Had he done this simple gesture for her yesterday, she likely would’ve just felt grateful to feel her fingers again. But today isn’t like yesterday. Yesterday, she wasn’t acutely aware of the ever-present moisture nearly dripping down her thighs or the dull, aching pain at her core as it practically begs to be filled by a man. Yesterday, she didn’t envision that man to be Arthur. She didn’t envision herself blissed out and bouncing on his cock, being guided by his hands gripping her ass and forcing her all the way down on him every time. She also didn’t visualize their sweating naked bodies pressed against one another as he hoists her legs around his waist and fucks her relentlessly against the side of his wagon. Yesterday was, without a doubt, much easier than today. Today she’d thought of all these things and more.

She watches attentively how he holds her slender fingers in the thickness of his own. Those hands have snuffed out the lives of many, brutally at that. She’d seen them wrapped around the necks of men, crushing their windpipes and severing their spines when he’d been provoked on the wrong sort of day. Lots of blood on those hands. But there’s just as much on hers and in this moment, those blooded hands are so tender towards her. 

If these same hands could kill without remorse, yet be so gentle when the time came for it, then by God, what else were they capable of?

She slips her hands out of his faster than she intended to.

“Thank you, Arthur,” she whispers, looking away.

“Sure. Maybe that’ll help ya to start actin’ normal again. Get the blood flowin’ to yer brain and such.”

If only he knew it was doing the opposite. Blood is flowing elsewhere and she’s the furthest from normal she’s been in a long while.

She stands up, leaving the bowl of stew unfinished on the ground.

“Here’s hoping,” she says, her hands clasped together to preserve his heat. 

Her boots crunch ice-bitten dirt loudly beneath their heels as she makes her way through the quiet camp and to her tent. She doesn’t realize she’s holding her breath until the flaps close shut behind her. 

“What… What is wrong with you?” she asks no one. Her tent is empty, and even though she wants to be alone, this is no comfort.

Her palms dig into the concave of her eye sockets, rubbing them furiously to wake herself up. She groans and shrugs off her coat, letting it collapse onto the floor. Her boots are kicked off her feet and her shirt is made quick work of before it’s thrown violently across the room. Her pants meet the same fate, being unbuttoned and kicked off, then kicked again so they lie atop the other garments. She collides with her mattress in a huff and lies there to stare at the ceiling of her tent, chest rising and falling rapidly.

She’s not going to be laughing when he’s forced to prove himself to her. 

Why is that phrase repeating over and over in her head? More importantly, why is she closing her eyes and slipping her hand beneath the waistband of her combinations?

She pauses. It’s wrong to do this. So wrong. To touch herself with visions of him in her head is sick. But she needs it so badly, so desperately she needs this to be taken care of. The throbbing at her core ultimately wins over her conscience, and forcefully pushes guilt to the side.

Her fingers slide between the delicate folds down below, the slick moisture coating her digits easily. She imagines it’s his hand. Large and warm, playing with her and teasing out moans by dancing around her clit. He asks her if it feels good, but only incoherent noises leave her lips. 

He chuckles and the breath of his laughter hits her center as he dips his head between her thighs. Lips replace fingers, sucking and leaving open-mouthed kisses heavy with tongue, ravishing her like a starved man. Her thighs clench around him and her calves tremble against his bare back. She whispers praises to him when she can find the words. 

Please keep going. You’re doing so good. So good.

Both of her hands tangle themselves in his hair. She can’t help but pull on the strands the minute he slides his thumb inside her all the way to the knuckle. Her back arches off the cot at the sudden sensation but he pulls her back down, locking her in with a hand wrapped around her thigh. She can feel him smile against her, momentarily letting up the relentless forces of his mouth. He’s loving watching her squirm beneath him, because of him. 

But the combined sensation of his thumb fucking her and the concentrated movements of his tongue at her clit nearly drive her to the edge. She squirms and brings her knees up around him, causing him to pull away and leave her empty.

Ya have to keep still, darlin’.

He coaxes her legs back open, spreading them apart with firm hands. But before he can return, she whispers desperate words that fall sweetly on his ears. He changes direction and begins to kiss his way north, traces of her still on his lips as they press wetly to her stomach, then her breasts, and then her neck. While he trails up her jaw, she tugs down his union suit from where it gathers at his hips. He assists her clumsily by shaking it off his legs and kicking it to the floor, where it now lies atop her own discarded clothing.

Before he takes her, he hovers on rested elbows and searches her face for any sign of reluctance. Only half of his features she can see clearly as warm oranges and yellows flicker across it from the lantern at her bedside. The fringe of his hair tickles her forehead, teasing her into closing the distance between them. With a hand on the back of his neck, she brings him down to her level and connects their lips. Their mouths move roughly against one another, their noses squishing and bending against the pressure of their touch. 

He’s warm, so warm. His mouth is hot against her tongue and the points on her body where the two of them meet are ablaze with a fire that spreads down, and down, until it rests in a sweltering mess at the apex of her thighs. She needs him, were the words she’d whispered. And she needs him now. She reaches down between their two bodies to where his cock grazes against her legs and with a sure hand, takes hold of it and guides it to her entrance. She can’t see it but it feels thick in her grasp; her hold not permitting thumb and forefinger to meet. 

The head slips gently inside and opens her up to him with a slow, shallow movement of his hips. He removes his lips from hers and rests his forehead against her own, looking down and indulgently watching himself disappear inside of her inch by inch. It fills her deliciously, stretching her open until he eventually bottoms out and their pelvises lie flush with one another. She lets out a sharp exhale at the contact, knowing he’s sheathed fully inside of her. Before he moves again, she brings her legs around his waist and crosses her ankles so his movements are limited to being shallow and forceful. 

The cot squeaks beneath them as he pulls out and thrusts back in, slow at first. He quickly picks up the pace, pistoling his hips to give short thrusts that fill her to the hilt each time with a near-bruising force. One hand wraps around the meat of her thigh and another hand starts rubbing furious circles at her clit. She throws her head back with a wide-opened gasp at the explosive euphoric sensation of being filled by him and the simultaneous attention given to the sensitive nub. He goes even faster when he sees how close she is, and within seconds she unravels beneath him. 

She notices through her clouded gaze his brows screwing together and lips parting as her soft muscles throb around the swell of his cock. It’s too much for him. He hurriedly pulls out and releases himself on her belly, coating it with spurts of his seed. He looks at her breathlessly through hooded eyes.

The two of them lie panting, him still stationed between her legs with a heaving chest and weary gaze. He leans down and places a chaste kiss on the inside of her thigh before slumping beside her and laying there in his nakedness.

She cums hard against diligent fingers. Hot and tingly ecstacy spreads from her core throughout her limbs, fluttering her eyes to the back of her skull and leaving her a panting mess. Once that passes and the drowsiness that always follows a dumbing climax sets in, she realizes she’d conjured a strange ending to her fantasy. It was one of genuine intimacy, not driven by the carnal desires of her body. 

Thankfully, sleep takes over before she can begin trying to process whatever that means. She drifts off as remnants of pleasure buzz beneath her skin and warm her beneath ticking sheets.

Morning comes quickly, and the accompanying chill of a new day forces her off the cot in search of heavier clothing. She pulls fleece-lined chaps over jeans and buttons them at the waist before throwing on the bear coat she’s worn every day since Colter. As she slips her arms into the clothing, she thinks back on last night. There’s no reason to make a big deal of it. Surely men get off with much worse ideas in their heads about the people they know. She hopes all of that is behind her now that it’s been forced out of her system.

But this is not the case. 

This hope is massacred in vain shortly after being conceived. For the day is ablaze with yearning, shame, and raging inferno. 

Accompanying Arthur to the hideout was soon realized as a mistake. Every small, inconsequential thing he did served to stoke the fire blistering her loins. Every word whispered atop the secluded hillock, every incidental brushing of skin, and every intentional one too. It all fanned incessantly at consuming flames.

She rides back to camp alone with heavy pockets and a heavier conscience. And as she approaches the grounds, she sees her friend, the blonde woman, standing guard outside. Without thought, she throws her reins and swings herself off the horse, hitting the earth hard and swift. A blustering storm brews inside her, fighting against fire and losing. She approaches Karen, treading heavily over branch and stone, a wild look in her eyes.

“Karen!” She calls out.

The woman turns to face her, her rifle lowering just as quickly as it’s raised.

“Oh, it’s just you. You here to tell me I don’t know what I’m talkin’ about again? If so, you can keep on walkin’, bigshot.” 

She sighs and runs a frustrated hand through her wind-tangled hair.

“No! No, I- I didn’t mean it,” she says, with an unmistakable sound of desperation in her voice. “Karen, you were right.”

Karen’s tensed shoulders sink beneath her coat and her features soften. She doesn’t seem to understand, but she’s no longer angry. It’s difficult to be when her friend stands before her, uncharacteristically vulnerable and fumbling with words.

Whatever forces are at work here, be it the chill, the moon, or an unknown third thing, it can be certain she is out of her depth, adrift in deep ice waters. And he is calling to her like a siren’s song but she knows it is an illusion she has conjured up and there is no solace allowed to be found there. He cannot take her like she needs so deeply to be taken by him. It would ruin them, for certain. Because they are not a wholesome people, and despite that, their bond has been forged by goodness. Something like that is uncommon for folk like themselves. It should be held closely, protected from whatever may destroy it, even if it is from herself. It’s for that reason she withdraws her hand, rides alone, averts wandering eyes, and tries her utmost best to quench the flames.

And yet, it has been only a day. 

“You were right.”

[whovianderson]

Why does Fox Mulder mean so much to me?

Trigger warnings: discussions of trauma, abuse, cancer, suicide, depression

Fox Mulder is so much more than a character to me. Never have I seen the inner workings of my mind represented in the way that I do in him. I feel like we understand each other, like we function the same way in this world.

Not to state the obvious, but Mulder is traumatised. Samantha’s disappearance changed his brain chemistry, and in turn, his life. As someone who has complex PTSD as a result of relationship abuse, I relate to this more than I can say. In ‘Oubliette’, Mulder’s desperation to change the course of events was out of fear of a repeat of what happened to Samantha. In this, I see myself trying to ensure that nothing like what I experienced happens again, both because of its effects on the other person, and on me. Of course, I've had to learn the hard way that I am ultimately powerless to control what happens to others. The difficulties I’ve had coming to terms with that are portrayed perfectly by Mulder's distress when he realised that Lucy had sacrificed herself for Amy, despite his best efforts. There's also a sense of inevitability and inescapability from the cycle of trauma when such things keep happening that is deeply harrowing.

In ‘Demons’, Mulder’s fear of not knowing something traumatic that happened reminded me of what I have been grappling with for years. As well as trauma from a past relationship, my sister has further traumatised me due to her severe mental health problems. It would trigger my own too much for me to know everything that is happening to her, but the unknown is worse for me, because I can't process it. My traumatised mind jumps to the worst case scenario. Thus, once again, Mulder’s reaction to being left in the dark felt like I was looking in a mirror. The sympathetic way in which his behaviour in this episode was written shows how no reaction can be considered disproportionate when it's because you're traumatised, and that is beyond validating for me. The depiction of flashbacks here also felt painfully accurate.

In ‘Memento Mori’, I recognised a lot of Mulder’s emotions due to my own experiences of life-threatening illness in people I love. Little did I know how much harder ‘Redux’ would hit! In ‘Redux’, Mulder believes he is responsible for Scully’s cancer and impending death. I know firsthand what it’s like to hold yourself responsible for someone else’s life, what it feels like to believe that you are killing somebody. I was continually shown that I couldn’t save the very person who told me I had to, because she kept getting sicker. As a result, other people’s suffering has become synonymous with my own personal failure and the consequent guilt in my mind. I would rather be failed by somebody else than have failed myself. This means that exactly like Mulder, on the verge of suicide in this episode, I would rather be the one who dies than feel so crushingly guilty. While horrible to witness, I have never seen the mental deterioration of a character who has assumed responsibility for another’s life so accurately portrayed, and that makes me feel more understood than ever before.

The entire premise of ‘The X-Files’ is that Mulder refuses to come to terms with his sister’s disappearance. His constant search for an alternative explanation, no matter how far-fetched, is what drives his character from the beginning. As an audience, we can see how that’s a form of denial, as can characters like Scully. Scully says “if it’s only by knowing where he’s been that he can hope to understand where he’s going, then I fear Agent Mulder may lose his course”. I haven’t finished the show yet, but having watched seven seasons, I am confident when I say that the crux of its development is that Mulder comes to understand “where he’s going”, without relying on “where he’s been”. As someone with a past that they quite frankly would rather die than relive, it brings me so much hope to think that I don’t have to dwell on it, that like Mulder learns to over the course of the show, I can live my life free of its shackles. That’s why ‘Closure’ is such a significant episode. However much one tries, it is impossible to explain away trauma - it happened, and one simply has to come to terms with its incomprehensible injustice. That is exactly what Mulder does here. It’s ironically titled, because there is no closure when it comes to the past, but he shows that personal growth isn’t dependent on getting that closure. Instead, he is of his own volition able to let go of the coping mechanism that has driven him up to this point: his belief that Samantha was abducted. Engaging in various types of therapy, including EMDR, to overcome my own coping mechanisms in response to my trauma is the scariest thing I have ever had to do (and that’s saying something). Seeing not only that journey represented onscreen, but shown coming to fruition, means everything.

Mulder’s trauma should incline him to be distrustful of everyone, as his ‘trust no one’ catchphrase would suggest. He evidently knows this, and yet he wants to believe in other people’s integrity so much so that it overrides the fear, and he trusts them anyway. He will take people at their word, whether that be about UFO sightings or something else. He chooses to see the good in everybody, despite having every reason not to, because, in his words, “if you don’t start trusting someone, you don’t stand a chance”. This attitude is possibly the aspect of my own personality about which I am most insecure. I used to hate myself so much for it that I wouldn’t open up to anyone at all in an effort to change who I was. I suppose I hated acting against what my experiences had shown to be true: that I could ‘trust no one’. Since meeting Mulder, though, I have thought of him every single time I begin to hate myself for being this way. This soothes me more than I can possibly describe. He makes me feel like it’s okay to be like me, or should I say, like us. Me wanting to believe in other people is not the detestable thing I had always viewed it as. I don’t think I would be able to carry on if it weren’t for his presence in this part my life. I cannot overstate his impact on me here.

Part of the reason for both me and Mulder being so trusting of others is because we do not trust ourselves. Deep down, he is insecure about whether his belief in Samantha’s abduction is credible, and so he relies on others to evidence it. For me, I do not treat my experiences as legitimate, and so I need other people’s responses to give me the validation that I cannot find within myself.

If it weren’t already obvious, I am autistic. My predisposition to trust, taking things at face value, is one manifestation of my autism. That’s not to say it’s the same for every autistic person, of course, but for me and for Mulder, I believe it is. In general, he is one of the most clearly autistic-coded characters I have ever encountered. He is ostracised by his peers and written off as ‘spooky’ for being different, something that many of us go through. Maybe, like it is for me, that’s part of the reason why he trusts people right off the bat: he wants to get the rejection that he’s used to facing out of the way before he puts in any effort. Or maybe he’s just a bad judge of what is and isn’t appropriate in a social context, again very much a trait of autism. And that’s not to mention his devotion to the X-Files and to Scully. Him surrendering every part of himself to them is exactly how I relate to the world, because all-or-nothing thinking is a huge way in which my autism functions. I was actually only diagnosed with autism two years ago, and having representation, implied or otherwise, in a character as alike to me as Mulder has helped me settle into my new identity.

It would be remiss not to further explore the fact that Mulder wouldn’t be Mulder without Scully. In the pilot, he tells Scully about his theory because he desperately wants someone on his side. She ends up not being the person he thinks he wants, but the person he actually needs. Without her, he wouldn’t have made it to the place he does in ‘Closure’; she challenges the beliefs he uses to cope, but most importantly, she loves him through it. Scully shows Mulder how genuine love can be when you’re not just being told what you want to hear, and as a result, she becomes the only person whom he can truly rely upon. The most important similarity between me and Mulder is of course that I too am in love with Scully! Scully is an incredible character who I would love to write more about in her own right, but I don’t feel as personally connected to her as I do to Mulder. I guess I’ll just say that I hope that I, and every other Mulder out there, find our Scully. People like us have so much love to give. We love so much and so deeply that people who return our love in full are almost impossible to find. One in five billion, you could say.

I cannot wait to get to know different facets of my all-time favourite character as I finish watching ‘The X-Files’. I know he will only become more important to me, especially since I know he ends up struggling with depression like I do. I hope I’ve demonstrated in writing this how beyond grateful I am to have been introduced to him, someone who is practically more me than I am! The fandom is a wonderful place to be, but in writing this, I also aim to remind myself how much the show and Mulder’s character mean to me personally.

Like Mulder, I am constantly moving, driven by the thought that “I wouldn’t know what I’d be missing”. But every once in a while, something comes along that makes me want to stay with it forever. And ‘The X-Files’, specifically the character of Fox Mulder, is one of them.

[ina-nis]

Why are you an avoidant?

You think it’s a waste of time.

Why spend your very precious and very little energy trying to form connections to soothe your pain and maybe relieve the loneliness, when you know how deep the wounds go and how old the loneliness is? The very act of seeking out bonds becomes a trigger, as you see it with weary eyes, and ask yourself: “Should I even bother?” The answer is clear as water. At least on your own, you will not be hurt anymore, you won’t have have to deal with added pain and rejection, and you won’t be constantly reminded of how lonely you are.

You’re aware of depriving yourself from opportunities for connection - which are the things you ought to seek, to heal your wounds and resolve the loneliness - and yet, you still feel like it’s a waste of time. The opportunities and any advantages that might come from engaging are not worth it, again, they end up serving as a trigger.

Even though you know there’s many ways to connect, the ways you know how, and the ways that are considered normally, don’t seem to be able to help you, they do not give you the reassurance and safety you need, they don’t go deep enough, and they don’t stay.

What do you avoid?

You avoid pain, discomfort, stress.

You take the “easy” way out, even though it’s far from easy, considering the ramifications and consequences.

You’re aware pain, discomfort and stress are inescapable aspects of life. You also know those can give you great opportunities for growth and learning. The issue is how unbalanced all that goes for you: even with the soothing comfort of good experiences, even when met with a complete trivial and uneventful calm day, those are not the things that stay with you. They don’t require you to rear your defenses, they generally don’t drain your energy (emotionally or otherwise). Nothing is wrong or going badly, so you can just live, instead of surviving. Ultimately, the impact they have on you is minimal when compared to the frustrating and stressful experiences.

Those are the ones that keep you on the edge, and those are the ones that stay with you. They’re old, they go deep, they’re numerous. Holding onto the “good” will do... nothing for you, even more if you can hold these distinct feelings dialectically inside of you: “Having a good and comfortable life, doesn’t erase or ease the pain of my old, deep wounds.” It feels like avoidance, doesn’t it? You look on the bright side to avoid seeing the darkness.

How do you avoid?

A better question would be: how do you not avoid? Avoidance comes naturally for you, and after a while, it stops feeling like avoidance.

The ways your mind work always boil down to finding an escape route, maybe seeing some situation from another angle and deciding whichever way feels less straining on you, to minimize discomfort and stress.

A lot of your “minimizing”, “reframing” and “harm reduction”, among other things, are essentially avoidant behaviours.

You’re aware you need to see (and act) past these so you can move past your limitations, find more power, learning, growth, etc. The problem is just the price being too high, and “failure” means more scars and wounds to be tended for. You cannot afford that price, and the alternative just is not worth it, considering how fleeting and superficial.

Where do you draw the line? Aren’t certain behaviours avoidant or is there another explanation?

Absolutely.

The lines are blurred because avoidance is also a good strategy. You can absolutely avoid places, people and feelings, and have that be beneficial for you; you can avoid memories, until you’re able to process them properly; you can avoid reactions in certain situations, for safety and other reasons; and so on.

Avoidance is a very powerful tool, that has many advantages. It’s hard to separate what is a healthy avoidance from what is a disordered avoidance though. It’s hard to know what to do or where to go from there, since it’s the same, but also not at all. It’s also hard finding alternative strategies to use instead. People avoid because it works well, other things might not do the job with the same intensity, giving the same comfort or safety as avoidance does.

Isn’t your avoidance, then, originated from all these pessimistic/negative behaviours and thoughts? How can you move forward when you’re stuck with such maladaptive strategies?

It can be, but not necessarily.

Avoidance is neutral. It can work in your favour, or against you, or anything in between really.

The thing with pessimism and negative behaviours is that, oftentimes, they don’t come out of nowhere. There’s very good reasons, and it usually has to do with chronic and/or complex trauma. In that context, avoidance could be considered “flight”.

The obvious answer to changing pessimism/negativity is to use optimism/positivity, right? When you take chronic/complex trauma into consideration things become far more complicated and difficult to address, to the point where using “good” to combat the “bad” could end up doing more harm than good. A good example of that is one of the “remedies” for avoidance: connection.

In theory, feeling connected and safe is one way to stay more grounded and feeling less like running away. The more you connect, the more present you become, and the less you avoid.

In practice, you end up having to deal with a lot of barriers. You learn quickly that connections are very brittle and they mostly remain superficial. Quantity doesn’t matter, since there’s no quality. You also learn these connections come with lots of strings attached, with lots of unspoken rules and conditions. These connections are also conditional, to a space, to a group, to a circumstance, etc. These connections are also transitional, they come, and then they go. They are temporary.

A lot of your wounds and trauma have to do with exactly that.

Even if you try your best to understand, accept and not take it personally, it doesn’t really matter. Maybe you remain alone with the knowledge that “this is how it is” and “maybe it’s not for me” and “I can have a good life regardless” and you’re... alone. That very fact haven’t changed, and maybe you have more scars now, from trying out all these, supposedly, “helpful” things.

Did they really help you? It doesn’t seem like it.

No matter how much you try to look on the bright side and have a more optimistic and positive outlook on life, your wounds are there, your scars too, and so is your loneliness. They remain unaddressed.

All you do is... avoiding them, huh? That’s what it feels like when you’re told, either directly or indirectly, to try to change the focus of your life: “just avoid these hurtful things, focus on what you can control.”

Thus, worsening avoidance even further.

How can you escape this?

[night-gay]

Into the Anthill pt 53 - Age of Ultron

Hank is in barely any of this story, but he's undoubtedly the most pivotal character since the fate of the world depended on whether or not Wolverine and the Invisible Woman could stop him from creating Ultron (spoiler alert: they could but it just made a different inescapable apocalypse). My major takeaways from this were:

Earth-616 could not survive without Hank.

Narratively, we've lost any chance of him ever being more than 'the man who created Ultron.'

Hank's got even more collateral damage on his record now, since this time travel starts the domino effect that kills Earth -1610

Not a great time to be Hank Pym. To be fair though, that can be said of a lot of his life.

🐜🐜🐜

Age of Ultron vol 1 #6, 9-10, 10AI

After years of scheming and evolving Ultron was able to realize his goal and wiped out nearly all life on Earth. The remaining heroes discovered that he was enacting this plan from the future using Vision as a conduit so they made their way to Nick Fury's hideout in the Savage Land to regroup. While Fury, Cap, And Iron Man led a team into the future using one of Doom's time platforms, Wolverine headed to the past to prevent the apocalypse the only way he knew how: by killing Hank Pym.

Logan (and Sue Storm who snuck along to keep an eye on him) tracked down Hank, who had been studying the Dragon Man's body and theorizing that he could create a true A.I. with this breakthrough. Logan attacked him and Sue briefly interfered, but with no other way to spare her family from the fate they suffered at Ultron's hands she ultimately stood down. They returned to the present to see how much had changed, noticing immediately that the Savage Land has become an alien ship graveyard, the site of this timeline's Kree/Skull War. This Earth's heroes had apparently been unable to keep it offworld.

In this new timeline Janet van Dyne was Captain Marvel, Scott Summers was Cable, and The Defenders were the world's premiere heroic team. Thor abandoned Earth after Latveria and Asgard went to war and Iron Man's forces were the only thing stopping Morgan le Fay from conquering the world. And when her forces arrived the heroes were unable to stop her, leading to a new-but-different apocalypse. Logan jumped back again to stop himself and the two Logans worked with Hank and Sue to come up with a better plan.

Hank would still have to create Ultron, but this time with a time-release virus programmed in that Hank could trigger just before this apocalypse unfolded. To keep Ultron from discovering the plan, Hank's memory of it was wiped and a message from his past self was recorded to teach present-day Hank how to follow through when the time came. The plan succeeded and Ultron was (for real this time) stopped for good. However, the repeated abuse to the time-space continuum created the incursion that would eventually destroy Earth-1610.

[anokaiwritingblog]

A Villainess's Mutiny- Prologue

A/N: I posted my project a long time ago. I decided to post my prologue here to show what I've been working on privately on the side. Idk, I just feel like sharing.

Prologue

Every story has a beginning.

Some stories start traditionally. That key event that kicked off everything in motion or the hero’s humble beginnings. Sometimes they start in the middle, at the heart of all the action or close to the climax… medias res as those snobbish literature majors like to state. Flexing their knowledge on a vocabulary word that everyone knew if they ever took eighth grade English. Other times, they start with the end, flashing a conclusion to make the readers wonder “how did this happen?” Slow burn. Fast-paced. Shocking. Humorous. Beginnings come in a million different shapes and flavors.

Mia’s story started with her body getting crushed in a metal death trap by an oncoming Freightliner when her friend thought she could beat the red light.

Okay.

So, this might sound bad but depending on how Mia looked at things, this event could be her beginning, middle, or end. This could be the start of a compelling story about how the heroine managed to overcome her disadvantages to lead a fulfilling life. Perhaps this was the climax where Mia “learned about the beauty of life” and turn a new leaf. As for the end… she didn’t even want to humor the thought. With all these possible paths opened before Mia (thanks to her misfortunate accident) why the hell was the triggering event just so happened to be the most overly dramatic, cliched opener ever?

Thinking back on it, Mia wondered how this all even came to be and how she ended up watching her inevitable death inched towards in her slow motion while her oblivious friends horribly sang Bad Guy by Billie Eilish that played over the radio. Mia couldn’t even scream a warning before the two vehicles collided. The resounding impact caused Mia's ears to pop; making all the following sounds of girls screaming, the breaking of glass, and the tires screeching as her friend’s 1996 Toyota Corolla spinning out of control all the more real. Each time Mia blinked, she saw a new angle of the four-way intersection they were just passing.

First blink. She saw the stoplight.

Second blink. She saw the other side of the intersection.

Third blink. She noticed how close the dashboard was.

 There was no fourth blink as her head crashed forward on the front dash of the car.

Just like that, a young life was snuffed out. The smoke rising from this unlit candle escaping through unseen gaps of reality, only to be captured and bottled. When Mia’s eyes closed for one last time, they opened for the first time once again.

People wondered what happens once you die, which religion got it correct? But Mia here got to experience it for herself. Opening her eyes, she expected the void, yet she found herself in some sort of limbo. It was blindingly bright. Her brain couldn’t process what she was seeing. It wasn’t fathomless darkness but inescapable light. Despite the overwhelming visuals that she couldn’t comprehend, Mia wasn’t alone.

A leap of logic that assertion was, even by Mia’s eccentric standards. There was only herself and the white void. No evidence would suggest that someone was keeping her “company”. Yet Mia can’t shake off the distinct feeling that she wasn’t alone. Call it her sixth sense or a woman’s intuition, but Mia had the feeling that she was being held in place by a sentient, unseen force. She looked around for what it was that made her feel uneasy.

Was this heaven, purgatory, or nothingness? There was too much to grapple with. Her death, afterlife, her friends’ well-being, and the suffocating feeling of being watched. No one would blame Mia if she broke down under the weight of problems on her shoulders, but she rejected such unfiltered emotions to overwhelm her and ultimately decided to categorize them in levels of importance to deal with. Her death was the last on that list as that was an unhelpful pandora’s box to unpack. If this was eternity, then Mia had eternity to accept her death.

This pushed the mysterious presence that refused to leave her alone was at the top of her to-do list.

Mia looked around for this… thing. Angel, demon, devil, or God… Mia refused to let it escape her perception. But it didn’t seem like the mystery of the universe intended for it to be discovered as an echoing voice spoke up. “Oh! Are you ready? Just give me a moment to move things around for you,” the disembodied voice said. It was a soft, masculine tone but Mia had a sinking suspicion that the person speaking to her wasn’t the same being that was watching over her. It was gone now, much to her annoyance but at least now she can have some answers.

As the light receded away, the place Mia found herself in wasn’t pearly gates with clouds as flooring nor was there brimstone and fires. Instead, it was a remarkably bland home office. Not just any home office but white suburbia architecture with beige walls, cheap beige carpeting, and a mixture of artificial wooden furniture from Ikea and Staples. Leaning her back just a little, Mia could spot the signature copy and paste housing you would see in any gated community between horizontal blinds. It didn’t look like hell, but it sure felt like it if Mia was forced to encounter the (one of many) things she hated the most: entitled rich folks.

            Sitting behind a desk was an older man who was no doubt pushing past late fifties judging by his sagging face and salt-and-pepper colored hair. He sat awkwardly with his head propped up straight up with his mouth partly slacked open while holding his reading glasses up on his nose. Mia couldn’t help but think he looked like every aged father when looking at something presented to them on a phone. Even though Mia was in the room with the man, he didn’t look at her no matter how much she waved her hand at him. For some odd reason, he stared at the computer screen instead.

There were several strange machines hooked up to the computer he was looking at. Mia couldn’t put an exact term for each device, but she could tell one was meant to be a motor, another was a miniature data bank, a camera of some kind, and some strange whirling attachment. It was weird, but considering that she just died, Mia decided not to question what she was seeing.

“There you are! You calmed down a lot sooner than I expected. The other souls tend to be more erratic when we first unzip them. You know what it’s like… traumatic deaths and missing loved ones. Et cetera, et cetera,” the man said while waving his hands around in an animated motion as he spoke to the web camera above the PC. There was nothing hostile about his body language; he came off friendly or homely.

If Mia was the ‘emotional hot-headed’ sort, she could have been easily offended by how he nonchalantly spoke about death to a deceased soul like her. But she felt eerily calm as her prerogative was survival and not pride. “I usually just keep them in quarantine until they’re a little calmer to modify their file. So, I was so surprised when Ouroboros alerted me that you’re ready for extraction!” he continued, “I nearly dropped my daughter’s birthday cake! I just had to interview you personally— Oh look at me. I’m rambling. How are you? Do you speak hu-man?”

Mia stared at the man in disbelief. How can he be brazenly offensive without realizing it? For a moment, Mia really wanted to believe that this was some sort of fever dream. That she was in a coma or having an extravagant prank being pulled on her. But the fact that she could think critically with a clear head only grounded her in this new reality. “Okay, Mia. This is really happening. I died and it turns out the afterlife involves the suburbs and something to do with a computer,” she thought. Mia set her skepticism on the side, letting the cosmos take the wheel and follow this strange path laid before her to see where it went. Everything will be revealed in due time if she allowed it to.

Hopefully.

The man impatiently waved his hand before the webcam, as if to catch Mia’s attention even though she was standing on his right. She considered not answering him but considering how this guy treated souls like computer files, she quickly spoke up before her soul got tossed in the trash bin. “Um. Yeah, yeah. I can speak… human? I’m just overwhelmed. Confused. In disbelief. Et cetera, et cetera,” Mia said, “As you put it.”

“Great! You can talk loud and clear too! Wow, this is amazing. All the other souls were too stressed out to run on their own without fixing their properties. If my wife was still alive, she would have been fascinated by you,” the man said. Mia snapped her fingers to see if it will catch his attention to turn towards her, but he didn’t seem to register it.

“Right. So, mister…?” Mia asked, trailing off for him to pick up. She moved her hand in front of his face but got no response. Yup. She was definitely a spirit alright.

“You can call me Mr. Mitchell.”

“Ooookay. So, Mr. Mitchell. Lots of questions, as you’re aware. But I gotta ask, you can’t see me at all. Right? Because I’m in this computer —­ yet somehow, I can see you and your entire office. Like… I’m in the room. Right now,” Mia said. It seemed to be counter-intuitive to give this knowledge to Mr. Mitchell if she wanted to gain an upper hand but knowing more about her incorporeal body was going to be important.

She attempted to place her hand on the computer, but her hand went straight through. “Ah! Ah! Ah! What the fuck?!” Mia thought, pulling her hand back quickly. Her hand felt like fuzz and static when it briefly went through. She was worried that she would lose her ghost hand, but it came out unscathed. Mia inspected her hand for any signs of damage but found none. She could wiggle her fingers and ball her hand into a fist like nothing happen. “What was that?” she thought.

Raising his hand, Mr. Mitchell smacked the side of the monitor mutter about ‘glitches’ under his breath. Mia was startled by the sudden violent action from the seemingly amiable man though, she quickly settled as his reaction was telling. She was a ghost/computer file, but it seemed like she was capable of affecting the real world. It got the gears turning in her head but what she could do was yet to be seen. For now, Mia was focused on squeezing out as much information from this bumbling fool while pretending to be a lost and naïve soul. An act Mia didn’t have to work much for as Mr. Mitchell didn’t think of her highly, based on how he addressed her.

Mr. Mitchell’s eyebrows were burrowed as he attempted to figure out what caused the issue, but they soon raised up to his warm facial expression once again. “What was it you asked again? Ah, right! About the room!” he said, recognition flashing in his eyes as he remembered the question asked. He leaned back on his chair as he looked around the room. He seemed to be both searching and not searching for where Mia was possibly standing. “You’re able to see this place, eh? I have a possible theory as to what you’re seeing,” he said, “Before my wife passed away, she did a scan of her office. I think she wanted it to be a central hub, but things didn’t fall through since you ‘soul files’ weren’t able to properly manifest.” Mr. Mitchell rubbed his chin between his index and thumb as he held a thoughtful look in his eyes. Mia was worried for a moment that he picked up on the fact that he spilled sensitive information to her and was overall unprofessional about the whole thing but as the dumb look returned to his face, Mia knew that she was in the clear.

“Ouroboros must have turned on the hub function for some reason, that rascal. But seeing how you’re fine— as in, very lively for a dead person, this arrangement should be okay,” Mr. Mitchell said, “My wife scolded me in taking spirits for granted but you guys are dead! Not like you could do something in the real world. And I trust Ouroboros to prevent anything risky.

“Um well…” Mia thought, finding it laughable that he wasn’t a little wary of the uncommon happening. Or at least wary of a stranger. Mr. Mitchell’s naivety was far too convenient for her. It made Mia doubt that Mr. Mitchell was telling the truth but a part of her really believed that he was that simple-minded. Plenty of people were and she knew to keep her expectations low. “You keep on mentioning your wife and this ‘Ouroboros’. Is it— I don’t know… something to do with your “PC of the Dead” here?” Mia said, taking control of the conversation in the direction she desired. It was time to finally get some answer.

Mr. Mitchell's expression turned serious at her question. Worry began building inside of Mia as she thought surely this was the question that would catch Mr. Mitchell’s attention that something wasn’t right. He leaned forward to the computer; an action that cause alarm to Mia as she knew that her soul could easily be tossed into the recycle bin. But that concern was quickly deflated as he sternly said, “Please don’t make fun of my wife’s work. She devoted a lot of time and effort to this.”

Really?! That was what he was focused on?!

Mia knew how to remedy this to keep Mr. Mitchell’s lips flapping. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to take this work lightly. I was simply… um, amazed! Yeah, that’s it. I was amazed by whatever this is. No words come to mind,” she said. She was glad that she was invisible, it only meant that Mr. Mitchell couldn’t catch her silently laughing from the side. Her shallow praise worked as Mr. Mitchell visibly relaxed and leaned back on his computer chair.

“Yes. You’re right. Sorry for being defensive. This was the only thing she left us before passing away,” he said, “It’s difficult to explain. But you know about that theory where we don’t know if our perceived reality is a simulation, yes?”

Mia nodded her head to answer though she was quick to recall he couldn’t see her. “Yes. The Simulation Theory,” she responded to him.

“Well. This invention isn’t quite like that.”

“Then why the hell did you bring it up?” Mia thought but decided to keep that to herself. She didn’t want to suddenly lash out in the middle of an exposition.

“Okay, that’s a bit misleading as it’s technically applicable right now. You see, my wife’s original goal was to bring to life a functioning and realistic simulation using AI so we can simulate events for, well, anything!” he explained, “But she found that the line between reality and a simulation was extremely thin before accidentally breaking a wall between the two. And because of that crack, things tend to slip through.”

“Okay. I’m getting confused by the genre. Is this sci-fi, fantasy, or supernatural?” Mia thought with some dry humor.

“It’s not common for things to slip out but it’s common for things to slip in. Most importantly, “souls” that aren’t bound to their reality,” he said, “To keep control of this space and plug the hole, my wife programmed this AI called Ouroboros. As it’s the first thing created in this cyberspace— it is effectively God in there. But out here, we’re its god. With Ouroboros, we can use these people to create these simulations since the thing that these simulations lacked was the human factor.”

“Wow, that is setting yourself up for disaster,” Mia thought.

“Unfortunately, my wife passed away before completion. I didn’t know much about her work and being left with a six-year-old daughter, all I knew was that this thing can talk with dead people,” Mr. Mitchell said. He affectionately patted the computer. “Booted it up, I tried looking for my wife. But Ouroboros contacted me instead. It taught me how to use it and how we aren’t restricted by realistic laws in what is simulated. Unfortunately, it wasn’t possible to talk to my wife,” he said. There was a long pause from him before continuing his story with a lighter tone. “I’m a bit of an author, you know. So, I decided to use this, thing to simulate my stories. See if it’ll catch something I didn’t see,” he continued, “I found it hard to make my characters life-like. So, using real people to simulate my scenario was eye-opening. But most importantly, using this made me feel a lot closer to my wife.”

Mia would point out the ethical question in doing such a thing but thought better of it. He was the man who was her executioner if she slipped up just once.  It’s better to let him monologue. “Later, I found out that my wife was working for a way for us to enter the simulation without, you know…dying. Her colleague finished it and left it with us,” he said. Mia noticed that Mr. Mitchell lied for once. It was an obvious nervous tick where he pulled on his loose cashmere sweater’s collar as if it were tight. It might be a fluke but considering how he mostly kept his hands on the keyboard and mouse, it was an action that caught Mia’s eye. “My daughter had a hard time without her mother. Hard time making friends. Hard time with everything,” he said, “I am too old to use it, so I allowed her to go in and play. Then as she got older, she showed that spark of a writer. Stories about knights and fallen gods. A haunted mansion and more.”

“Sounds like cliched pieces of shit,” Mia thought.

“Her and Ouroboros got along well, at first. But suddenly Ouroboros went silent. God knows what that thing is thinking,” he said, “It still listens to us but doesn’t talk anymore. But I know it’s there somewhere.”

Looking at the computer, Mia considered the possibility of the presence she encountered to be this AI that Mr. Mitchell was referring to. She was about 99% certain that it was it but there was always wiggle room for doubt. Regardless, she got the answer of how this was all possible but now she needed to know why she was here. The question hung in her mouth, but Mr. Mitchell needed no prompting from her to reveal the information. “Today is her 21st birthday and I decided to let my daughter take over Ouroboros and become the sole admin. She has this huge story planned with all the souls but were missing one,” Mr. Mitchell said, “We’re missing a villain.”

Mia nearly laughed at the dramatic reveal. They need a villain?! God, someone has been reading way too many otome villain isekai mangas. She hoped it was a joke, but Mr. Mitchell had been honest for almost the entire talk so far. “You’re the best candidate so far. Score fairly high on the dark triads but not too high. Around the same age as my daughter and, well, a girl!” Mr. Mitchell said, “We have to be very picky about the type of dark souls we let in. Let in one serial killer and we have a disaster going on. The last villain we had was pretty solid. But her file ended up corrupted after dying too many times.”

“I’m so flatter,” Mia said. Sarcasm dripped in every word, but the airheaded father didn’t seem to notice.

“I know. That’s why I must interview you. I want to make sure her special day is perfect,” he said. Mia watched Mr. Mitchell move the mouse and click around the screen. “Numbers on a screen don’t tell a lot about a soul. So, tell me about yourself,” he asked.

“Oh, I’m no one special. I enjoy long walks on the beach, kicking puppies, and stealing candy from children,” Mia said before she shook her head. She got the answer she desired and didn’t have the need to humor him anymore. There was something else she wanted from him now but she needed to wait for the proper moment to bring it up.

Mr. Mitchell picked up quickly that she wasn’t being truthful (obviously) as she can see him looking back and forth between her unseen file and the webcam. “Wait a minute… you’re answer doesn’t match the file!” he said. Mia rolled her eyes as if to silently say ‘go figure’ to this unaware audience member. If he could verify her information, Mia was baffled as to why he was interviewing her?  Curious, she moved to stand behind Mr. Mitchell and study what was on the screen.

It was a file of her which came to no surprise but from one quick look, it was incomplete. There was a download bar as new information about her came up every minute but there was still an invasive amount of information about her. There was some of the basic stuff about her such as her birthday and height. The file even included questionable factual information such as her zodiac sign, Myer-Briggs type, and even what Hogwarts house she belongs to? What does that have to do with anything? It even conveniently had a set of photos of her but unfortunately, it captured every flattering and unflattering angle. Hell, she doesn’t remember taking any of these photos! It had to be current as well since she recently cut her hair and she had yet to take a picture of it yet. Based on the lighting on her dark brown hair and the confused look in her brown eyes, Mia suspected it was taken when she was in that white limbo.

Leaning forward, Mia noticed an odd shape can be seen on her glasses. A reflection of someone. She could just barely make out that it was a person but her attention was soon broken when Mr. Mitchell suddenly moved and phased right through her. Startled, Mia jumped back and inspected her body. It was fine but, unfortunately, Mr. Mitchell scrolled the page onto something else. The opportunity to inspect was now lost.

Bummed out on the lost chance, Mia was even more reluctant in answering Mr. Mitchell’s bizarre and useless questions. “Okay, then answer me yes or no. Your full name is Mia… Hashimoto? Is that correct?” he asked.

“Yes. My father was Japanese, and my mother was Mexican.”

“A bit surprising there. You wouldn’t tell from how you look— your eyes are quite wide.”

“Highly racist comment but go off, I guess.”

Mia watched as Mr. Mitchell fumbled from her comment. He attempted to sputter out a mixture of ‘It’s not racist’ and ‘I’m sorry’. She hoped that the shame was enough to back his verbal inquires but it seemed she underestimated his audacity. “And you’re 21, as well?”

“I guess.”

“I see you were a computer science major but switched to film last minute. You also dabbled in your minors in criminology or psychology. Why is that?”

“I’m just bored.”

“Uh, I see. You worked at a movie theater. Did you learn anything there?”

“These aren’t yes or no questions, Mr. Mitchell. If anything, these are the wrong questions to ask. We both know you have these answers on your computer.”

Mia came into this conversation with a business exchange in mind. Mr. Mitchell won’t get anything while Mia walked away with everything. She intended to test the man now and see how many buttons she could push. As dense as he was, he was quick to anger if not obeyed as he slammed his hand on the desk. “Stop playing around. This is very important for my daughter,” he said, “I’ll delete you and your soul will be forever gone.”

Ah, the ultimatum scare. Just what Mia was waiting for. She got her information and now it was time to strike a deal. Mia wasn’t sure if she had anything to leverage until Mr. Mitchell talked about her being the perfect soul for a certain role. Might as well use it. “Go ahead. Delete me. I’m already dead. What are you going to do? Make me extra dead?” she taunted. Mia very much did not want to die. Again. A bluff like this seemed incredibly stupid, even for an overly cautious person like her. But despite all the logic and reason she liked tossed around, doing something risky was the “human factor” he mentioned.

Mr. Mitchell considered the threat carefully, not saying anything as his mouse tightly clutch the mouse. Finally, he relented and turn his head away from the webcam. “Let’s make a deal. I don’t want my little girl to miss out on celebrating a perfect birthday,” he said. Mia did a small victory dance. Man, she should take advantage of more loving fathers more often!

“First, tell me what happened with my friends,” Mia asked.

“What—? I can’t… hold on. Let me ask Ouroboros,” Mr. Mitchell said. The sound of typing filled the silence between the two of them. It felt like five minutes passed before Mr. Mitchell answered Mia’s question. “They’re alive. Mostly. One is in a coma, two are in critical condition and the other one got away with some light injuries. A miracle,” he said. Mia covered her mouth to hide her relief but also her grief. They’re alive but no one was in a good condition. No doubt the one who survived was facing some massive survivor’s guilt. What Mia would give to be there to comfort her and be by their bedsides. The only silver lining was that it was only her who died.

Despite not letting a single sound escape, Mia’s silence gave Mr. Mitchell a foothold to gain control of the conversation. “Let’s make this the deal. If you survive my daughter’s story, then I’ll return you to your world. As if you never died in that car accident,” Mr. Mitchell offered. Mia looked to see he was lying but he didn’t tug on his shirt.

“Is it… really possible for you to return me home?” Mia asked cautiously. Something felt off about how readily Mr. Mitchell gave her the opportunity to escape. There was always a catch in these types of situations.

“Of course. Let me ask Ouroboros to send you back… hmm, one minute before your death,” Mr. Mitchell said. He adjusted his chair before the computer and type something that Mia couldn’t see. She attempted to take a peak but was overwhelmed by a sudden dizzy spell. She snapped an arm out for something to hold on to but found herself sitting down.

Snapping out of it, Mia looked around in a panicked craze to figure out what happened now. The busy city streets zoom past her as Billie just reached the chorus. One of her friends in the back attempted to hit a low note but only let out an unsatisfactory grunt. She was back… back in her homeworld. Kicking into action, Mia turned to the driver— a Korean girl who could have been mistaken as Mia’s sister with her brown hair and circular glass. She was distracted by singing along with the group and didn’t notice Mia’s stare. Grabbing the girl’s arm, Mia drew her attention before hissing out, “Minnie! Stop the car right now!”

It was too late.

A minute was not enough time to pull off to the side to avoid the accident. Just like before, a truck crashed into the car and caused it to topple over. In a blink, Mia found herself back in Mr. Mitchell’s office on her hands and knees, shaking and breathing heavily. The paralyzing fear of dying struck her all over again though she recovered from the shock of it just as fast as the first time. Looking back up to the older man who was contently waiting behind the screen, Mia cleared her throat to catch his attention.

“I… I believe you. And all I need to do is play a role in your daughter’s story, right?” Mia said. She was still a little breathless from the experience, but she pushed herself from the floor. She rubbed her head as she stood next to Mr. Mitchell, her forehead throbbing with phantom pains from the accident.

“Yes. That’s all you need to do,” he said, nodding his head.

Mia still felt that something was off even after being shown the evidence. An icky feeling of doubt welled up inside of her but wasn’t this what she intended? “And there’s no catch. Nothing else to this deal,” she asked, having her doubts.

“It’s entirely a fair deal.”

There it was. Mr. Mitchell tugged on his shirt just then.

A lie! This wasn’t a fair deal, but she couldn’t figure out what’s about the deal was wrong. Was it the wording of the deal, the requirement, the reward, the lack of repercussion? More importantly, why does Mr. Mitchell need her consent to participate? This entire process seemed unnecessary to someone who can treat her soul like a file. Too many questions yet she doubted Mr. Mitchell would answer them now. It was a risky play, but Mia couldn’t imagine asking for more or how to re-phrase the deal. With her current situation, she couldn’t demand more even if she wanted to. This was the deal she desired, and if he didn’t intend to play fair then—

“DAD. THE CAKE IS BURNING.”

“Coming, Lily! I’ll be right there!”

Standing up, Mr. Mitchell darted for the door. He pointed to the computer to silently say ‘stay right there’ before leaving Mia alone in the room. As if she could go anywhere else, hah. But this was a fortunate chance to appear. Mia was this close to accepting Mr. Mitchell’s proposition without any tricks up her sleeves. Recalling how she affected the computer, Mia decided to place all her marbles in this one basket to see if she could gain admin rights. The system currently must be vulnerable if there was going to be a trade of hands.

Moving in front of the computer, Mia inserted her right hand then her left hand to shake things up. It was just as weird as the first time but as she submerged herself into the feeling, the sight of codes filled her vision. It was complex to read but given the chance, she could possibly decode it to see what Mr. Mitchell’s wife created. But that was far too time-consuming for what Mia needed at the moment. Pulling up a command prompt, she was quickly greeted with a password to type in. Password? That was easy. What loving parent doesn’t set up their child’s birthday as their password. Coming back to reality, Mia looked for a calendar.

Pinned to the wall way a hanging cats’ calendar with the date ‘May 14’ circled with a picture of a birthday cake. There it was. Putting it in, Mia now had access to making her own account. Copying and pasting her folder into the information request, Mia was nearly sucked into the computer by this action. As if the process was eating her soul and there was nothing, she could do about it.

Elbow deep. Arm deep. Shoulder deep. And finally, head deep.

Mia desperately attempted to pull herself back before it was too late. With a heave, Mia finally freed herself and fell backward onto the floor, falling straight through the computer chair. She let out a groan as her mind spun in circles with visions of numbers swirling. “Ugh, I think I’m going to be sick,” she said, covering her mouth. Taking several breaths, she took a moment to compose herself as she watched the PC go on the fritz. The screen flickered as it seemed to be processing her data as a viable user but the fact that she was a soul and not alive probably overwhelmed the purpose of the system. For a moment, the image of a snake eating its tail was on the screen before it blacked out.

“Oh shit! Am I going to die-die now?!” Mia thought. Scrambling to her feet, she patted her body to see if she was fading or turning into particles. From what was told, she assumed the PC was her lifeline but it became apparent that she wasn’t going anywhere. It seemed like it worked? The PC suddenly blinked back to life and back to the home screen as if nothing happened. Waving her hand through it once more, the PC signaled that it recognized her as a user before going back.

It worked.

IT WORKED. WOOH! FUCK YEAH!

Jumping up and down, Mia was far too consumed by her victory that she ended up letting out a startled scream when Mr. Mitchell entered the room again. He looked around confused as to where the strange sound came from. Once again, the blessing of invisibility saved Mia once again. “Did you decide on your answer?” he asked, pulling out the chair so he could sit.

If he asked that before, Mia wouldn’t feel confident in agreeing though, she would ultimately be forced to do so. But now that she had control within the system, she was confident in winning now. Hell, she doesn’t even need this stupid deal if she can just control Ouroboros. All she needed to do now was to lower Mr. Mitchell’s guard.

“Of course. What’re the rules?”

[with-love-from-hell]

The Flashback

Genre:  hurt/comfort, angst

Written for my Mc, Storm (her name and she/her pronouns used)

Cw: depictions associated with past sexual violence/rape, allusion to past physical abuse, flashbacks, panic attacks, catatonia, C-PTSD, self-harm (severe scratching) and  mentions of blood. Not polished.

Wc: ~2k

A/N: Doing another self indulgent fic with Lucifer because I can! Especially with the intrusive memories I've had lately, I felt as if this one is definitely needed for my wellbeing. This fic takes place before she begins dating Lucifer, a few weeks after Belphie is released from the attic and the brothers are trying to rekindle relations with him. 

Levi meant well.

She knew he did.

For someone with sexual trauma, Storm had almost a compulsive need to check through media to avoid triggering material. Though, in the devildom...this was easier said than done. There wasn't websites or apps like "does the dog die" here, so many movies and shows she went into blind, just hoping that there wouldn't be something graphic. Thus far, the usual recommendations by the brothers were free of this type of stuff, with a few exceptions that teetered on the line. Ultimately, Storm was able to grit her teeth through those parts, and successfully stave away the pain that reliving her experience brought.

Until today- when Levi's selected anime for “Family Movie Night” (well, minus the eldest- who had instead opted out to get some work done in his study)  had much darker themes. Its not like it was his fault. He didn't know...none of the brothers did at this point. Storm's relationships with them were much too new and she feared being vulnerable with them. Besides, what use would there be telling a demon about her trauma? At this point she still wasn't sure how hell worked...surely there were murderers and rapists here too, living amongst her. She pushed the thought away...she didn't like thinking about that sort of thing.

She tried her best to bear through the graphic torture scene. The memories began to flood back just as the primary torture ended and the show went back to another plot point. She breathed a sigh of relief, but it was short lived. Just when she thought it was safe to relax, the anime flashed to a graphic rape scene with little to no warning.

All storm could do was stare in horror at the scene unfolding, the characters seemingly shifting to an ex-boyfriend and her- an incident that happened shortly before she was teleported here. Her breathing became labored and tears welled behind her eyes as she became trapped in an inescapable flashback to the past torture she faced. The screams of the character being assaulted rang deafeningly loud through her head, causing a wave of nausea to ripple through her stomach. Mammon was the first to notice something was wrong. He was practically on top of her lap, as usual. So it was only natural that he noticed immediately when she began to shake violently.

She wasn't sure if it would better if no one had noticed.

“Oi, Storm...What’s gotten into ya?” Mammon scrunched his face in concern, leaning down to try to look her in the eyes as she finally ripped her gaze away from the screen. The damage was already done though. 

The others in the room turned to look at her, each immediately taking on a look of concern. One by one they all bombarded her with attempts at helping her, only managing to make the experience worse. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Do you need anything? I can go grab you some water if you want.” 

“Stormy, here. You can have my pillow.” 

“Try taking some deep breaths.” 

“Ooh, you look like you need a hug. Come here, dear!”

“Asmo, stop you’re makin’ it worse.”

Storms condition only worsened as the words bombarded at her by 6 of the brothers mixed with the horrific memories. She began to hyperventilate, struggling to get any breath in among the now crowded atmosphere the brothers had unintentionally created. The more they tried to help, the worse it got. It wasn’t until she was screaming at them to get away- now being unable to distinguish what was real from what was a distant, distorted memory. 

The 6 younger brothers panicked, unsure of what to do as she finally managed to gain some control over her body. Storm bolted out of the circle they created around her, wailing relentlessly as she tried to find an escape. Unfortunately, she found herself lost in the maze of the House, as she was too engrossed in her memories to find her way back to her room. Storm knocked over everything in her wake and slamming into various walls and doors as she tried to navigate the winding halls. She found herself coming to a stop in the library, falling to the floor shortly after entering the room. 

The energy she expelled fleeing the media room took everything out of her, especially with the scars on her back screaming from the memories of the trauma she had faced. The ringing in her ears continued reverberating through her head, causing the rest of her senses to dull to her surroundings. Storm was completely enveloped in the memories- unable to find even a meager means to ground herself back to reality. Her cries were desperate as she gripped her skin, trying as hard as she can to bring herself back. 

Lucifer had heard the distant commotion through the halls from his private study. He had figured it was his brothers arguing over something stupid and decided to pay no mind to it. But he was only able to ignore it for a brief moment until he heard the cries of the human exchange student just outside his study door. Lucifer rose to his feet and quickly made his way out the door in alarm to see the cause of her woe.

Lucifer paused immediately upon seeing Storm in the middle of the floor, tearing into the skin of her arms with her nails. Her whimpers echoed throughout the room, creating a symphony of ache to his ears. He approached her quickly, trying desperately to get her to release the grips her fingers had on her forearm. 

She tried to release herself from his grasp, writhing desperately against his firm grip. He tried to talk some sense into her, but it was as if she couldn’t hear him. When she finally began sobbing and begging him not to rape her, Lucifer’s heart collapsed into his stomach.  

“My dear Storm...what happened to you?” Lucifer murmured in a volume just barely above a whisper as she pulled back hard against his hold. He let her go for fear that she would dislocate her arm, but ensured she wouldn’t run out of the room by blocking the exit. She slid her body back to the furthest corner of the room away from Lucifer, continuing the scratching at her arms. 

Lucifer paused for a moment, trying to figure out what to do. His brothers approached from the hall but he stopped them, ordering them to stay put to prevent further harm from coming to her. He slowly closed the doors and began approaching where she was seated carefully. He stopped when she began to press her body against the bookshelf further, understanding this was as close as she would let him go. 

“Storm, can you hear me?” He cooed softly, sitting across the floor from her cross-legged in order to get on her level. When she refused to give him a response, he spoke again. “I will not harm you, I promise.” 

She slowly maneuvers her hands to the fabric, tracing the fur on the collar with her fingers. Something about the soft material calms her down slightly. The tension in her shoulders visibly lets up, and her breathing becomes slightly less ragged. Lucifer reaches out to her gently, offering for her to take his hans. He doesn’t say a word, only watches as she looks at him for a moment. After what seemed to Lucifer like an eternity, she takes it. 

Storm eyed him suspiciously for a brief moment before returning her gaze to the floor. He took the opportunity to scoot a bit closer. Lucifer takes off his coat and folds it in his lap as he moves, taking in her movements as he did. He manages to get close enough to reach out to her, but he doesn’t touch her. Instead, he gently sets his coat in her lap and leans back, continuing to survey her movements. 

She allows him to help her to her feet, guiding her gently to his office where he sits her down on the sofa. The fire in the hearth crackles and spits, providing both warmth and a grounding sound for her to focus on as she clutches Lucfier’s coat to her chest. He texts his group chat with his brothers, asking one of them to leave some first-aid materials outside his study door while he watches over her, ensuring she isn’t going to hurt herself further that she already had. The deep gashes caused by her nails were already bleeding profusely onto the dark cashmere coat, but that’s nothing a few stain-removing spells couldn’t fix. For now, his focus was on her and keeping her safe from herself. 

Once gathering the materials from his brothers, Lucifer sits on the coffee table across from Storm. His movements continue to be slow and calculated, as if he was trying not to scare a frightened bunny. Still, she watched him closely, taking in each movement he made with such intensity. If he moved too quickly, she winced, as if afraid he would be moving to hurt her. He continued to reassure that she was safe, and he harbored no ill will toward her as he worked to bandage her arms. 

After a moment of tense silence between the two of them, Lucifer finally spoke. “Storm...are you able to tell me about what happened to get you to act in such a manner?” 

Storm shifted her body nervously, still not totally rid of the memories that plagued her mind, despite the fact that she had calmed down significantly. She feared that any small thing could trigger another episode, and she wanted to avoid that at all costs. 

Lucifer reached out his hand to her, setting it gently on her knee. She tensed a bit at first, and then released as his hand didn’t trail any farther along her leg. “You don’t have to go into detail, but I would like it if we could avoid whatever happened to make you feel so deathly horrified of others around you.” 

She sighed, clutching the cloak tighter to her body. Lucifer gave her knee a reassuring squeeze as she began to give a vague description of the events leading up to her experience of a vivid flashback. Lucifer provided reassurance when she began seizing up once more that he was here, and that she didn’t need to provide any details of her own experiences should she choose not to. 

Despite only vague allusions to her own past, Lucifer had put enough pieces together to understand she had been violated by someone in the past- or multiple “someones”- and that seeing the events in the film chosen by Levi produced such a response. In turn, his brother’s over-eager manner in which they tried to provide comfort only worsened the experience, causing her senses to become overloaded and made grounding herself back from the scene more difficult. 

Lucifer made a detailed mental note to put every piece of media for “Family Night” up for vetting before allowing the media to be consumed, and encouraged them all to be cognizant of subject matter within the media they consume on their own time from here forward. He also made a silent promise to learn more about human trauma, and perhaps provide a sensitivity training of sorts to his brothers and the royals. With his plan in place, Storm felt reassured that a future incident would be prevented. However, it still didn’t ease the throbbing pain in her forearms or the exhaustion she felt after experiencing such a harrowing trigger. 

Lucifer turned on a soothing record and gestured for her to lye down on the couch. He covered her with his coat, enveloping her totally in his scent. He sifted his nimble fingers through her hair as she rested her head on his thigh, taking long, deep breaths to try to steady her still restless nerves. Perhaps another day would come where they could talk more about her experiences, but for now, the details didn’t matter. All Lucifer knew was that she needed someone to be there, and he was able to do that. The overwhelming feeling to protect the fragile human woman was overwhelming...and he found himself wondering if this path was right for him to stray down. Though...something about this moment felt right- as if a final piece of a puzzle had been settled into place. His heart burned for her, though she wouldn’t know it. He wasn’t sure if she ever would...but right now, he savored the way Storm involuntarily nuzzled into him further, breathing a content sigh as she eased into his touch. 

Who would have thought a human like her would stir up these feelings within him. 

[autumnalsteahouse]

hello I’m seeing soft and insecure bakugou all over my dash and you know what? Lemme just— make you guys feel absolutely terrible.

tw. HEAVY angst. uh blood. no happy ending. main character death.

so what if you and bakugou are hitmen. typically hitmen do work solo but you guys don’t go after just anyone- you go after the most sought out people; the worlds most important. the ones people only fantasize about killing because what’s needed is immaculate precision and the skill of being able to vanish from thin air without a hint or a trace— and most people can’t do that. but you can, and so does bakugou.

of course, when your partnership was proposed by the higher ups, it was an absolute shit show. there was huffing and fussing; the same argument was yelled out, “but i don’t need a partner, i’m best on my own! ”

ultimately, all those cries fell short. a curt, “suck it up or else.” was spat in your guys’ faces before it was set in stone. neither of you breathed another word about it until your first job (aside from angry grumbles your new tufted out blonde partner.)

teamwork was hard when it came to bakugou katsuki. yes, of course you’d heard of him before- he was an absolute show stopper. his assassinations were so clean and quick, it was almost an art form. you weren’t too bad yourself; with elaborate planning and lots of fun toys, you liked to rank how much they would suffer based on how terrible of a person they were in their life. similar to a vigilante of sorts, giving the bad guys what they deserve… but attempting to explain that to bakugou was frustrating. it has caused a lot of arguments which led to retaliation, which then let to causing a scene when a hit was in process— a line that should never be crossed in your line of work. you big had fucked up.

it had been a couple of jobs since you were assigned to each other and whosever fault it was didn’t matter now; staring down the thin barrel of a gun, tied down and vulnerable, you couldn’t do anything. bakugou was sitting in the exact same situation.

you knew it had been a bad idea; there were unnecessary things that were spat out and emotions ran high. maybe you were tired from being with him so much, maybe his temper triggered yours… maybe you should have listened to your gut. it has felt off that day, but you brushed it aside because he had been so certain- “one and done,” he’d said. “i don’t event know why you’re here with me. this is fuckin stupid. i don’t need a babysitter.” granted, it did feel like a simple task but, there was a reason they assigned you two for this job. “there were no signs of secretive protection! we were doing what we normally do.” yeah, bickering and biting, unaware of the chance that there was hitmen for a hitman lurking about.

luckily, you two were the best of the best and managed to get yourself out of a sticky and red situation rather quick. unfortunately, it was a sloppy job. with your line of work, there could be no sloppy jobs.

the thigh. they had timely shot you both in the thigh as punishment in addition to a leave of absence to “heal”; or in other words, sort your shit out before the next bullet will be shot directly between your eyes, clean and precise, unlike your last job.

the unexpected happened during your healing. the need to be around bakugou was increasing; you thought about him all the time. how he was fairing during his leave of absence, how his body was doing, how his big hands securely held a gun, his wicked smile when he landed the killshot, his demanding voice, the way he looked at you right after you both had been shot, the face he made as he watched you whimper in pain.

he was inescapable.

but you knew you were really screwed when he showed up to your door, merely a week after the punishment.

his eyes looked tormented as they shot up to meet your gaze, suddenly softening at the sight of you. his frame eased up and you could practically see relief wash over him.

“bakugou-“

“i had a bad feeling.” he’d interrupted, “i needed to make sure you were okay.”

his concern made your heart ache, his normal tone now raspy and thick with something nearly too deep to comprehend. this was so unlike what you were used to seeing; what was happening?

you invited him inside and made a space where he could be vulnerable- and he took it. he told you things you didn’t think he would. unfathomable things. how he ended up where he did and why he did things the way he did things.

he had a partner before.

as soon as he said that, your heart sank down before hearing the rest of his story. soon your throat felt a bit too tight, it was hard to breathe.

his partner was good, dangerously good. they defied odds and always did a perfect job; you could hear the admiration dripping from bakugou’s voice. the way he talked about them was so far away though, and when you found out why, you felt the tears prick your waterline.

when his voice cracked as he explained that his partner had been a little too good at what they were doing, the higher ups felt threatened.

you knew what that meant.

bakugou katsuki had watched a bullet go through his partner’s heart.

it was quick, happening all at once. as he spoke, you could only look at the floor. you knew he was crying- hell, you were too, but katsuki deserved privacy for that moment and you were going to respect that.

“i just- needed to make sure you were okay.” there was an underlying tone in his voice again, you couldn’t quite place it, but the urge to invite him to stay was too great.

he accepted with a quiet nod.

two weeks, he ended up staying. most of the time it was a comfortable quiet- just being with you put him at ease; knowing he could be there for you and protect you helped him. you never brought up that you could handle yourself; you are a trained killer after all, but something told you that wouldn’t have done anything but spark an argument, so you kept your mouth closed as he did the most mundane things.

he cooked, he cleaned, he never strayed too far- he insisted. there was no room to fight him about it, all you could do was sigh and nod, realizing that this is how he’s trying to cope with his fear.

in the time you two spent together, you inevitably got closer- so close that it began to feel weird if you guys didn’t sleep in the same bed, much less the same room.

nothing extraordinary happened when it started, all you knew was that it calmed his nerves.

you were so compliant, strangely no argument on the tip of your tongue- ever. part of you thinks that the vulnerability he presented was too much for you to mentally digest, so it was better for you if you just allowed it. the other part of you just… didn’t want him to leave.

that was solidified one night when he took you against his warm chest and kissed your forehead.

you were supposed to be asleep; you’d adjusted a little when you felt bakugou’s arm wrap around you and you just let him tug you closer.

you were hoping he couldn’t feel your heart pounding, but something was telling you he was simply ignoring it.

the day after that happened, both of your phones chimed simultaneously mid morning, the notification saying that you two were allowed to get back in the field- regardless if you leg was fully healed or not.

it was a sinking feeling to say the least; the glances got both shared made your chest heavy. you’d gotten comfortable with being domestic.

later that night you murmured, “it felt attainable. just living, you and me. regular jobs. we could simply just be together.”

as the words left your mouth, you could feel yourself sinking into a dark place. maybe in another life-

“it is attainable. we just- have to become.. invisible.”

you looked at him, brows furrowed. “how do you expect we pull that off? we’d be up against the higher-ups!” you whispered.

“listen- let me figure that out. i’ll sort it out, i know a few people who owe me a pretty penny. we could do it- if you… would like.”

your chest was heavy, shallow breaths as everything ran through your mind. too many things, it was overwhelming- it was dangerous. you were trying to focus, but it was too hard with just so much to process-

“no one’s gonna harm you, not while I’m around.”

it suddenly became quiet, all of his past behaviors now verbalized. his sentence hung in the air as you looked at him.

“katsuki…”

he looked at you with so much emotion built up in those red irises, his body stiff as he whispered, “will you have me?”

too many meanings and so little time, but as you stepped over to him, it felt like time was moving slowly until you were actually in front of him. hands suddenly became too feverish and touches never felt like enough when your lips met his.

at first it was soft, a small peck to start- to realize what you two had been holding back on. everything afterwards felt like a sugar rush- in the best way.

as you two laid in bed that night, skin against skin and soft sheets, bakugou felt like he was almost on cloud nine.

almost.

part of him couldn’t say he was surprised. no. he was cursed. he couldn’t have good things- he thought as he held your body close, blood gushing onto his lap.

he cried out in agony as the whole thing replayed in his head, thinking of what he could have done to prevent this.

he should have never fallen asleep. he should have kept his guard up.

he had you. you were there, lying right next to him. the last thing he saw was how content you looked as you slept, the idea of a bright future in your minds eye. he had gone to sleep with a smile; he saw that future too. now all he could see was your blood on his hands as he tried to apply pressure to your chest with no avail, your body looking sickly pale.

it was a clean and precise shot, straight through your heart.

[mrsgiovanna]

The Escape Route (Yan! Don Giorno x Fem!Reader)

A request from a lovely nonnie mouse asking how the Don would handle his darling attempting to escape from his home. A bit of a drawn out scenario... I really hope you enjoy the read.

TW: Manipulative relationship dynamics, possessive behaviour, yandere behaviour

Word Count: 2.7k

Your brisk walk was slowly turning into a run as you worked your way through the busy streets of Naples. With your breathing ragged and eyes darting around to make sure nobody was on your tail, you tried to think about how best to put your escape plan back on track.

You knew that Giorno’s influence extended further than most, but you hadn’t expected him to have the power to derail every single option you had thought of to escape from his overpowering grip. You had been running around for hours now, from station to station, none would book you a ticket to anywhere, every cab ride was hastily halted after a dubious phone call… resulting in you being unwillingly ejected from the vehicle each time. So there you were, running into the more dangerous parts of Naples, frantically looking for some kind of shelter to house you while you thought of what you would do next.

Thankfully, you found a tiny inn, sparse amenities, small and far removed enough you thought, to not be on Giorno’s radar. The kindly old lady didn’t ask many questions, and you paid with the cash you had been slowly hiding away for such an event.

You couldn’t pinpoint when your relationship with Giorno had descended to this but you knew that if you stayed any longer his charming brand of captivity would best your common sense and you would be trapped forever. With Giorno, you had access to anything, no request was too demanding… in exchange though he required you to be within his confines at all times, listen to and obey his honeyed instructions with minimal fuss, and to not run off in the occasions when he did take you out of the mansion. I’m just keeping you safe he said… little did you know that the most dangerous one of all was the Don himself with his hypnotic gaze.

To give him the benefit of the doubt, it could have been much worse, he never harmed you physically, never pushed the intimacy boundaries further than you allowed… in your moments of weakness, it was you who had sought out his embrace. The absurdity of it all- vacillating between love and hate for this man, and so to protect the fraying thread that held your sanity together, you decided to make a run for it. It was not an impulsive idea, you had spent the better part of the year planning your grand escape, trying to imagine every way in which your plan could go awry and possible solutions to the problems. Ironically, this was a habit that you had picked up from Giorno himself, and should your plan actually work, it would be quiet poetic- escaping using the traits of your captor against him. You had gathered small amounts of cash here and there, not enough to rouse anyone’s suspicion, and made sure that any and all evidence of you memorizing the layout of the surrounding areas was completely erased. Perhaps the most difficult task of them all, was to lure Giorno into false sense of security regarding your disposition towards your situation. In the weeks leading up to your escape, you had flawlessly played the part of the dutiful ‘wife’, listening attentively, spoiling him with gentle touches and loving gazes, making sure to build up your affections gradually, as if they had been blooming naturally so as not to trigger any suspicion.

Finally, you saw your opportunity to make your move that morning. Giorno had to leave early to meet with a few associates from Japan, so you rose with him, and watched as he got ready, helping him with his hair and doing up his tie. Looking up to meet his crystalline eyes, you noticed he considered you with an expression you haven’t seen on him before.

“What is it tesoro? Why are you looking at me like that?” you asked in a gentle tone.

“You’re… just so beautiful… would you like to come with me today? I’m sure they would love to meet you… I call them associates but in actual fact one of them is a relative of mine. You’ll only be bored for a little while; after that we can do whatever you would like to,” he asked with a gentle smile. You thought about how you were going to answer, ultimately you knew you didn’t want to go, favoring your grand escape instead, but denying him that quickly would definitely set off alarm bells in his mind.

“Ah! Perhaps next time my love, I’m not going to be good company today, I woke up with a bit of a headache… I’ll probably go back to bed and sleep it off after you leave,”

“Are you sure there’s nothing I can do to make you feel any better bella, I hate the fact that you’re hurting,” Giorno cupped your face in his hands and gently stroked your cheeks with his thumbs, “get some rest bella mio, I’ll be back to check on you as soon as I can,” kissing you on the forehead he left without another word. Waiting for him to be completely out of the villa, you watched as his car exited the driveway before quietly packing what you could, mentally going over your checklist more times than you cared to count. Since your change in attitude, the staff at the villa were more accepting of your whims, partly to do with the fact that Giorno had instructed them to do so - within reason, but also, because you had won over their trust and if you had to be honest with yourself, there was nothing you could fault them for. The dynamic Giorno had with them was not ruled by fear, but rather by admiration… all of them being drawn in by his charisma. Managing to maneuver your way through the mansion and out an exit that saw you climbing over a hidden portion of the eastern wall surrounding the villa, you had finally been outside the confines of the villa on your own for the first time in well over a year.

In the car on the way to meet with his guests Giorno was preoccupied. He had noticed the gradual change in your behavior and as much as he would have loved to give you the benefit of the doubt, a nagging inclination that you might be lying always clouded his thoughts. He loved you- entirely- even though there were days in which you rejected his affections, he was patient with you… eventually you’d understand, the dangers that lurked in every corner made your captivity, as you so unceremoniously called it, a necessity. He had grown so accustomed to making decisions with little to no advice, he had adopted that stance in his personal life as well. He rationalized that once you had accepted the fact that his actions were all borne from his desire to protect you, your lives would be peaceful, until then, he would be patient, enduring your tantrums and snide remarks with the grace of an aristocrat… which only upset you further. To Giorno, you were to be looked after, protected- treasured, and so no matter how much you had tested his patience in the beginning, not once were you ever hurt or taken advantage of. Violence and shackles were much too unrefined for a gem like you, so to correct your behavior, the young don resorted to other, less threatening means of discipline.

“Don Giovanna? We have arrived,” shaken out of his musings by his consigliere, his attention was drawn to the fact that they had arrived at their destination ready to discuss the matters at hand.

“Thank you Lorenzo, would you check if the staff has everything ready while I greet our guests?”

“Of course, excuse me,” with that, Lorenzo had left, hastily attending to a call as he walked.

“Ah, welcome to Italy, I take it you and your associates have settled in well?” said Giorno with a polite bow, being mindful of the cultural conventions of his esteemed guests. Drinks were ordered and everyone present had settled down in the private lounge, except for Lorenzo who had been animatedly conversing on the phone for enough time to make his absence felt. Frustrated by what he was tasked to do, he abruptly ended his conversation and sought out Giorno to give him the news, finally, the staff at villa Giovanna had realized you were gone.

“Don…”

“The expression on your face can only mean one thing… when did they notice?”

“A few minutes ago, she couldn’t have gotten too gar given the timeframe… what would you like me to do?”

“You stay here and keep our guests company, I’ll handle this…” not even bothering to alert the driver, Giorno collected the keys from the valet and zoomed off. Making a short drive even shorter, he arrived home in foul mood, although he did assign some of the blame to himself, recognizing his fatal error when he ignored his gut feeling, he was disappointed at how easily you had managed to slip from his grasp and wondered if his staff had been plotting with you all along. He would have to address that later on though, his primary concern now was to locate you and bring you back home.

“Mista, I have a special request to make, please come to the villa, bring Fugo with you,” said Giorno in a quick call, there were few who he trusted more than his underbosses, and this task was something that required only the most competent people. After a short explanation of the situation at hand, both men had already started making calls to the relevant people in an attempt to thwart your plans.

You would think the most frightening thing about Giorno would be his god-like requiem ability. But over and above the raw power he possessed was his reach, the world seemed so small, as if it had rested comfortably in his elegant hands- and you had been getting reminders of this inescapable fate over and over again. By the time you had given up on the idea of escaping through any traditional means of transportation, you must have tried fifty different avenues, each attempt failing more spectacularly than the last. Having had enough, you resigned yourself to the fact that you would not be leaving Naples immediately, and found refuge in the outskirts of the city. You climbed the rickety staircase behind the lady as she prattled on about her day.

“Shall I get you something to eat dolcezza? You look like you could use something warm and comforting in your system. In fact, let me do just that, you get settled in so long,” said the innkeeper before you had a chance to interject. Deciding to take a shower to wash off the day, you took comfort in the fact that this place was so remote, you were almost certain you were safe for the meantime. The tiny bathroom was a far cry from the palatial one you had grown accustomed to while being in Giorno’s villa, but it served the same purpose, only this time, you had your freedom. The place was peaceful though aside from the sound of what must have been a car backfiring and the small creaks from the natural expansion and contraction of the dwelling, it was quiet enough for you to calm down and organize your thoughts. Now that you were comparatively more at ease than before, you felt the strain of the day in your body, aching muscles, sore feet and cuts and scrapes that began to smart affixed a slight grimace to your face as you rummaged through your belongings to find some sort of pain relief.

A sharp knock on the door disrupted your search. You stayed silent for a moment, contemplating if you should ignore it or answer.

“Dolcezza, I’ve brought you a small snack, you’re going to enjoy it,” you just wanted to crawl into bed and forget the day you had, but you also didn’t want to snub her kindness, you reached out to unlock and open the door.

“Buongiorno tesoro… enjoying your little excursion? Marina here was kind enough to show me to your room so I could surprise you… seems like it worked, look at this charming expression,” turning to the smiling woman, Giorno nodded for her to leave. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears, you wanted to cry, to run, to jump right out through the hazy window but your feet were rooted to the ground.

“Well (y/n) … you’ve been running around Naples for the entire day, have you found what you’re looking for?” his usual honeyed tone was laced with derision as he critically eyed your surroundings. “is this what you were so desperate to escape to? Look at this place… look at the condition you’re in… how is any of this better than everything I’ve given you?”

“I have my freedom here…” was all you could muster as your mind raced thinking of how he had still managed to find you despite all the precautions you had taken. “Giorno, how…”

“How did I find you? I always have my ways…” he said, sauntering over to the window, opening it just enough to make eye contact with whoever was outside, dismissing them with a nonchalant wave of his gloved hand. Pulling out his cellphone, he showed you the opened application, explaining that he had been using it to track your location, following the signal from the diamond earrings he gifted you on your birthday, carelessly left on when you had made your hasty escape. In all fairness, you hadn’t considered that the dainty gems were anything more than that. Feeling your legs starting to give out under you at the revelation that you were the cause of your own undoing, you sat on the bed hanging your head in defeat.

“Freedom, you say? Tell me how has that worked for you?”

“That’s not fair! You’ve basically controlled every single encounter I’ve had, and even when I thought I had escaped you by coming here, you still somehow managed to manipulate the situation…” you shouted, tears of frustration running feely down your face.

“Stop being dramatic, the world is full of horrible people, everyone is looking out for themselves, I wish you would realize that… tell me tesoro, how many people turned you away? Threw you out of their cars, made up excuses to deny your requests? Not one of those people looked into those pleading eyes and thought you were worth helping. Why? Because people are selfish…”

“You… you threatened them all, you…”

“You give me too much credit, it’s not like I was going to kill them, I hate violence, despite your disappointingly low opinion of me, even you have to admit that I’ve never done anything to physically harm you… all I want is to protect you, you don’t understand how things work out there,”

“It’s not like you’ve ever given me the opportunity to find out how things are… I”

“Some people are just meant to be loved and protected tesoro, isn’t that enough? Why would you want to risk being hurt to get a taste of something that’s actually not even worth it… you’re not cut out for this life… I’ve been here so I know this isn’t what you deserve. You’re coming back home with me,”

“But, I- “ you attempted to interject but his intense glare halted you.

“(y/n), I’m very patient under most circumstances, but please don’t test me now, I won’t say it twice…” said Giorno with a slight bite to his voice, it was clear he was growing tired of this conversation, and you were losing your will to fight back. With a quivering lip and misty eyes, you moved to gather your belongings but was stopped by the young don, arguing that he can replace whatever is there, wanting no other reminders of this transgression to follow you both back. Resigning yourself to this fate, realizing there was nowhere beyond his reach, you grasped his outstretched arm and followed him to the car to return to your life of opulent captivity. Months and months of planning all resulting in nothing, it became glaringly obvious to you that escaping was futile…

[the-courage-to-heal]

When you witness or experience something terrible, you may try not to think about it. To help you, your brain may call on one of its most creative and ingenious coping strategies to keep you going: dissociation.In the simplest terms, dissociation is a mental block between your awareness and parts of your world that feel too scary to know.

Dissociation happens to just about everybody at some time. It takes many different forms for different people. But for people with a complex trauma history, dissociation keeps the brain in survival mode. Nobody can endure a constant state of fear and still function well. You can’t get through life unscathed while always feeling frozen, worried or shut down by your greatest fears. Dissociation can function as protection, by keeping people unaware of the distress of being traumatized. That’s when it can eventually cause problems for people who have been hurt very badly, especially as children.

Children are especially likely to use dissociation to manage the inescapable pain of family problems that lead to complex, developmental and relational trauma. Such problems can include ongoing abuse, neglect or disorganized, avoidant or insecure attachment. Children must do something to endure experiences that make them feel unsafe. They cope by becoming disconnected to the memories, feelings and body sensations that are too much to bear. On the outside, they may look okay. But constant dissociation as a means of protection or survival for years then follows them into adult life, where it doesn’t work so well. As a coping mechanism, dissociation often interferes with the life a person wants to have, when the abuse is no longer ongoing in the present.

When dissociation blocks awareness of pain, it can also obscure the path to healing. So let’s take a close look at dissociation as a coping mechanism for trauma survivors. If we can safely see where it comes from, and how it evolves, we can also see what healing looks like.

What is Dissociation?

Dissociation is a state of disconnection from the here and now. When people are dissociating, they are less aware (or unaware) of their surroundings or inner sensations. Reduced awareness is one way to cope with triggers in the environment or from memories that would otherwise reawaken a sense of immediate danger. Triggers are reminders of unhealed trauma, and associated strong emotions such as panic and fear. Blocking awareness of sensations is a way to avoid possible triggers, which protects against the risk of becoming flooded by emotions like fear, anxiety and shame. Dissociation allows you to stop feeling. Dissociation can happen during an experience which is overwhelming and which you can’t escape (causing trauma), or later on when thinking about or being reminded of the trauma.

Dissociation is a coping mechanism allowing a person to function in daily life by continuing to avoid being overwhelmed by extremely stressful experiences, both in the past and present. Even if the threat has passed, your brain still says “danger.” Unprocessed, these fears may stop you from living the life you want or changing unhelpful behaviors as you grow. Some level of dissociation is normal; we all do it. For example, when we get to work and have to leave the personal concerns behind, we choose to put them out of mind for a while. But when dissociation is learned as a coping strategy – especially in childhood for survival purposes – it carries over into adulthood as an automatic response, not a choice.

Children with Trauma Are More Likely to Experience Dissociation

As a protective strategy for coping with trauma, dissociation can be one the most creative coping skills a trauma survivor perfects. It detaches awareness from one’s surroundings, body sensations and feelings. Children who experience complex trauma are especially likely to develop dissociation. It often co-occurs with the earliest incidents of recurrent trauma, since the only way to survive the horrific experiences emotionally is to not be there consciously. There are many possible conditions that cause dissociation. Therapists are aware and focus their understanding of dissociation in connection with the underlying trauma – what happened to you.

A few simple examples of risk factors for dissociation are:

• A disorganized attachment style. Trauma inflicted by abuse from a primary attachment figure, for elementary school age children, can lead to dissociative disorders for the child. When someone the child depends on for survival is also a source of physical, sexual, or emotional abuse, a protective response is to vacate being present in their body in order to survive the abuse, while preserving the needed family tie or even their life.

• An insecure attachment style. A child consciously develops behaviors or habits to dissociate, like using loud music, so they don’t hear frightening arguments between parents that terrify, for example. They may turn to video games or other distractions while dad paces the floor worried because mom is out drinking.

• Recurrent abuse or neglect that threatens a sense of safety and survival of any kind, by anyone!

• Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and Complex PTSD (C-PTSD). Dissociation to cope with events that cause PTSD or C-PTSD (developmental, relational ongoing trauma) can include out-of-body responses to trauma. A neurological response causes some trauma survivors to dissociate to a level where they look out at their bodies from another perspective. This can be looking down from above or looking at a part of their body that doesn’t appear to belong to them.

Dissociation occurs on a continuum, often impacted by how long or often one relies on it, whether the person has any other coping strategies, or whether other trusted helpers or a safe space is available. Helpers or places where the child feels secure can provide a way to safely be connected to feelings, sensations and body, despite the overwhelm elsewhere.

Childhood Dissociation Persists In Adulthood

As children with trauma get older, they may use self-harm, food, drugs, alcohol, or any other coping mechanism to maintain the disconnection from unhealed trauma. As therapists, we see these behaviors serving two functions for trauma survivors

As a dissociative mechanism or way to dissociate (for example, using alcohol or drugs to physically disconnect them from their thinking brain) As a way to sustain behaviors that keep them dissociated (I’m not connected to my body, so I can cut without pain, or I’m not connected to my body, so I don’t notice that I’m full and don’t need more food to consume). Ultimately, this coping strategy that was useful in childhood, in adulthood compromises abilities to trust, attach, socialize, and provide good self-care. These challenges follow trauma survivors throughout their life, if not attended to.

Recognizing Dissociation In Adults

Adults don’t just outgrow dissociation learned as a childhood coping skill. It likely becomes a go-to coping mechanism for maintaining life. Adults may not be aware of their ongoing state of dissociation, while words and actions like these tell a different story:

• Someone tells a therapist their most traumatic experiences without knowing or trusting them first and does so without emotion connected to the story; they are speaking from a dissociated place.

• Someone uses drugs, alcohol, cutting, food, pornography, or other forms of self-injurious behavior to continue to dissociate and not be present with their feelings.

• Someone disconnects from the here and now when they’re triggered by a certain situation or even a scent, such as cologne, and find themselves inside a flashback which feels very real.

• A veteran hears a noise that causes a flashback to a wartime event.

• Someone is arguing with their spouse, but when their spouse yells, they “check out.”

Dissociation is sometimes the best way a person can survive a terrifying ordeal in the moment, or chronic developmental trauma over many years. Yet it actually becomes a problem, a roadblock, in adult life. Dissociation interferes with forming secure relationships and connections. Dissociation can prevent you from developing these relationships or being present for them.

The reality is, in your adult life, you may actually be safer today learning to notice, reconnect and reintegrate the dissociated parts. Perhaps you are safe now and don’t need this coping mechanism to protect you anymore! Most times, an individual will show up in therapy for some other reason besides the use of “dissociation” or even trauma—they are there because they feel sad, or are drinking too much or fighting with their spouse. They can’t figure out why these issues persist, as they have a nice life now. As trauma-informed therapists, we can help people safely discover what issues are showing up due to their past history. We can help them discover and notice what made sense at the time given what was going on in their life that they had to survive. We can help people understand they are not “bad” and something is not wrong with them – their issues are based on the dissociative coping skills they learned in childhood to survive (which were very useful at the time, but not anymore)!

source

[tcthetouch]

@mapleviewstarters​

𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚒��𝚌𝚑, 𝚜𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚢 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔 – 𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑 ... 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚐𝚜 .

『 nicole kidman. forty-eight. cis woman. she/her. 』 oh heavens, is that CORA WHITWORTH from FAIR LANE i see roaming around mapleview? minnie may’s always calling them -DECEITFUL & -MATERIALISTIC. i happen to think they’re not that bad! they’re a pretty cool FORMER MADAM, CURRENT... “ACCOUNTANT” and every time i’ve seen them, they’ve always been +NURTURING & +RESOURCEFUL. i hope i see them around again! 『 may. 21.est. she/her. 』

did her parents name her after cora taylor ? no, kae and i just decided they’re dumb enough to name all their kids ‘c’ names. did i, trying to come up with ‘c’ names, name her after cora taylor ? yes.

background

triggers: prostitution (anything triggering that often goes with it is either very very skimmed over or not mentioned at all), pimping, possessiveness (is that the right word to use)/implied abuse?, drugs/briefly mentioned accidental fatal overdose (but if it makes it better the dude sucked)

honestly ? the triggers may imply there were worse things that happened in cora’s life, but... no. the worst thing that happened in her life was being born to the whitworths. not because they were like... jerks. but because they named everyone ‘c’ names. THAT’S THE REAL TRAGEDY IN THIS STORY.

Also. The first half of this intro is :\ a downer :\ but the second half is * thumbs up emoji * * money emoji * like the tone change is AMAZING.

Anyway, on the topic of the Whitworths, they weren’t bad parents! But they also weren’t stupendous parents! They were just largely… not around. So where Clara filled the love she wished to get with… flowers, Cora was like “I will try to fill mine with validation from external forces and… I don’t know, maybe adventure? Probably not.

Also scorpio sun, taurus moon bc astrology?? Ugh we luv it.

So she was decent. But she was bored. She wanted to do something interesting, not just mope around in their small town with the very few subcultures they had.

When she was 18, she decided that the small town life was simply Not For Her. much like my boy stephen crane, she wanted to actually study humanity. She packed up, of all places she could’ve “studied humanity,” she chose Washington, D.C.

But… you see… when you don’t have funds, a consistent source of income, or… really anymore than $20… you’re gonna study humanity SO WELL. Like, she was so set up to really study and experience humanity!

Let it be known… her parents obviously weren’t awful enough to be like “yes, go stay with questionable figures! you reap what you sow!” - no, they just… forgot!

A few people who she did not know offered a couch for the night. It was through various experiences among these folks, along with some general strange advice, that Cora realized she could enter a silently booming industry: sex work. The people she stayed with were usually very familiar with where the nearest red light districts were, some familiar with how to best tell undercover cops from regular johns. So she took this into serious consideration. She was still young – it seemed like a viable option, right? Easy money! 

Turns out… it wasn’t! There are some strange people out there, aren’t there?

However, it did temporarily provide enough funds for Cora to rent a dingy little apartment. Until this one night when a man brought her back – but instead of proposing sex, as was obviously expected, he proposed a different idea: she join his ‘club.’ There’d be more protection, the pay would be even more lucrative, she’d have somewhere better to live within a matter of months… so, god, dear god, it didn’t take much thought for her to take him up on the offer.

Of course, he was a pimp. So… you know, things weren’t actually much better, but the clientele were richer! He didn’t lie about that part! 

After around a year of captivity being pimped, this man took further interest in her as she became one of the more popular choices amongst his girls. He simply couldn’t let the star only be had by rich clientele! Yes, he slept with plenty of his girls, but she became favored as he began treating her as more of a girlfriend (with a creepy age different) who… you know, he still pimped out!

Being ‘closer’ to him was both advantageous and detrimental. Advantageous in that she witnessed more of the business side and various clients were rejected, detrimental in that… having to spend so much time with him, he introduced her to a world that was even worse. In spite of where she’d been for so many years by that point, she never really thought of drugs or gambling or anything else the underbelly provided other than sex work. But he introduced her to that side.

I’ll go easy on this, but… drugs. Period.

After another year of what seemed like something inescapable, now made worse, the best possible thing happened: he overdosed. 

Y’all, we’re mostly out of the downer part of the intro!

With the money she’d gained being one of his stars, as well as that extra money he offered to keep her near, she knew what she had to do. Like… after a while, but we can skip that probably three-month-long gap: start her own brothel!

Using the money she’d received, she rented out a cheap empty building in one of the cheap red light districts. As far as most were concerned, what was once a bar was being converted into a nightclub. Which was, of course, a lie. A good front.

On the verge of bankruptcy by the time it was ready, she was most certainly desperate! But, lucky for her, one of the girls from her old pimp’s bordello followed her in. Soon enough, word spread amongst the community she’d once been so distant from – soon enough, her “nightclub” was filling up.

She would always have to pay thanks to the dead pimp, in a way. Had it not been for him and for how possessive he’d become, she wouldn’t have had a single clue on how to actually run it. And while she was still rocky at first, she gradually became better and better until she was on equal footing with other madams or pimps and was able to gauge clientele just as well.

In addition, had it not been for him, she wouldn’t have realized what was missing! Condoms were provided and deemed a necessity (although, to be fair, it wasn’t as though she knew everything that happened behind doors), the rooms that existed within the “nightclub” were listened to as well as possible to prevent violence (but rooms in other places? hotels, houses? nothing could be ensured, only hoped for - and hoped to be reported if anything happened so the client could be turned away), etc., etc. Ultimately, her girls were more her surrogate daughters – no matter how close or distant in age – than her paychecks.

But lmao she still took a hefty cut of their pay – a whole-ass 55% – less than what her pimp took, but still a LOT for performing no actions. And ss the brothel became more and more popular, that was SO DAMN MUCH. Just per WEEK, really!!

Everything was going so well!! For ten years, the brothel ran with minimal police interference. There were attempts at take-downs, but the brothel began to work like a well-oiled machine – true proof became rather difficult to find.

Until it wasn’t. Until they were clearly closing in. Until Cora was barely getting out by the skin of her teeth. If she and her girls were arrested… not only would they go to jail and all, but all of that money and all of that time? Wasted.

So she handed the keys over to the first girl who would take them – luckily, the girl she would never tell the others was the star (but… the others knew). Her official excuse? She was returning to North Carolina due to a family emergency (one that didn’t exist). If she just randomly fled, she’d certainly be guilty!

Catching word that Clara had wound up in Mapleview, Cora decided to lie low in the small town herself. 

And yes, I made the TikTok meme real. Yes, she’s an “accountant.”

Only not really, she doesn’t use OnlyFans. Whenever she’s “commuting” to that place accountants work… she’s in some one town or another in the mountains, scouting talent. will there be a “nightclub” in mapleview soon?? actually probably not bc it’s so small. but one nearby?? YES!! 

Old habits die hard! 

But May, she may’ve been able to live off of the madam money for a few years, but it must’ve run out by now?

You’re right! I’m currently doing more research into this, but some years ago, she bought out and now owns a nightclub in Asheville!

But May, isn’t that a little far away to be there everyday? And what about her plans? And why would she still have to say she’s an accountant if being a nightclub owner isn’t taboo?

She has hired a manager she trusts greatly and goes down there to oversee things in person perhaps only twice a week! The manager reports to her!

The manager also knows of her plans and aids her in scouting talent! And she does have dirt on the manager as a backup!

And, considering what the club will be turned into, it’s best to keep it mum!

Honestly there are some other things I want to say, but I just remembered Tumblr’s read-more feature broke :)

tl;dr 

(consult trigger list! much lighter in this portion but jic!) born to whitworths who weren’t awful parents but also weren’t stupendous parents i think they just sometimes forgot they were parents! decided to pull a stephen crane and go “study humanity” instead of like… go to college or enter the workforce… wound up in d.c. without much money. ppl in the sus districts were like “omg stay with me! s2g nthn creepy j offering a hand!” which was mostly true! some were like “sex work is lucrative.” she was like “omg ur right.” a young cora became a streetwalker. around 21, one of the johns was like “hi im not actually a john im a pimp do u want to be pimped it’s really cool.” and she was like “omg ya.” but he was pinocchio :\ that being said i feel like i shld mention that while this particular sex work wasn’t necessarily clean, guy at least made testing a thing. some years pass and he’s like “ur great im gonna act like ur my gf and that i’m the only person in ur world but also u still have to sleep w these guys bc i do love money.” good thing about that was that she overheard some of the business talk. bad thing was that he sucked and also liked even seedier things. some years go by and seedier things kill him tho! now catch cora, late 20s or early 30s idk, being like “well with this money… oh wow i have an idea.” was like “gonna convert this cheap empty place into a brothel i mean nightclub.” was almost broke after that but one of the pimp’s girls was like “wait i’ll come along!” soon had a lot of ppl. soon became successful and was actually as humane as a brothel cld be!! evaded the police narrowly, but evaded them. they started rly closing in at one point tho so she was like “oh no family emergency in nc here my best girl i mean u, girl, u r now in charge idk how that works my pimp just died.” went to mapleview. is an “accountant” and by “accountant” i mean that tiktok meme only more extreme bc she’s being a talent scout. old habits… die hard…

personality/misc.

if this bitch ain’t able 2 make her own way,,,, idk who is. (after moving to dc bc u kno financial status in boone wasnt awful or anything) real rags to riches story. benjamin franklin wld be so proud. she found the way to wealth.

probs sleeps on silk sheets covered in rose petals??

tbh tho?? absolute contradiction. manages 2 care a lot and also not care at all. rly depends on where the person stands. rly depends on the relatability. wld probs be a good mom but has no plans of becoming one!!!!!!!! too busy being an accountant!!!!!!

what,, is trust?? what,, is love?? (baby don’t hurt me)

i’m flying by the seat of my pants rn i suddenly got v distracted but!! maybe more will be added when tumblr FIXES ITS DAMN SELF.

connection ideas:

well we got the rest of her siblings over on the npc page and honestly w how different it seems clara and cora turned out,,,, wld be so curious 2 learn wtf everyone else is doing. r they being normal or r they also wilding??? j in different ways??? (0/2)

i’m hesitant to say someone she’s a parental figure to bc honestly,,, those exhaust me sometimes ahfdslk,,, but!! u kno what someone she’s ironically a good influence on (0/2?)

she got a mostly friendly front but bitch!! someone she’s a bad influence on!! (0/2)

some current or past flings (any gender, but keeping age in mind, past wld be like 43+ pls,,,current like 40+?) (0/?)

if anyone lived in boone, some old friends from boone (0/?)

if anyone lived in dc, some ppl she knew in dc (0/?)

also always up for brainstorming or j working off of chemistry!!

feel free to like this or hmu if you’d like to plot !

[whovianderson]

“Oubliette” hit me much harder than I was expecting. Sorry to everyone, but this post is going to get a little bit personal.

So, I have complex post traumatic stress disorder (CPTSD). Personally, I found this episode to be such powerful exploration of trauma that it left me reeling.

Firstly, I took the episode symbolically, wherein the whole story was an allegory for Lucy’s trauma. Amy’s situation paralleling hers felt to me like a real depiction of what it’s like to have flashbacks. While I don’t often get visual flashbacks, I do get emotional flashbacks, and that side of it resonated beyond measure with me. I almost cried when Lucy said “I don’t want to do this again”, because that’s exactly what it’s like for me to face my triggers.

Also, Amy’s injuries appearing on Lucy as a physical demonstration of how the past is still mentally hurting her felt very validating.

I related to Mulder’s trauma too. I take responsibility for everyone around me to ensure that nothing like what traumatised me happens again, and I saw that in Mulder’s desperation to change things for fear of a repeat of what happened to his sister, for example, the CPR on Amy.

Mulder’s distress when he realised that Lucy had sacrificed herself for Amy was impactful for me too. I’ve had to learn the hard way that I am ultimately powerless to control what happens to other people, and that upsets me greatly, as it did him. There’s also a sense of inevitability and inescapability from the cycle of trauma when you experience these things again that is deeply harrowing.

I’ve worked a lot on healing my inner child with my therapist. The ending of this episode, with Lucy’s death and Amy’s survival, felt like a message that it’s possible for the trauma in me to recede, and the child I never got to be to be free.

I left this episode emotional, but so grateful that something I could see so much of myself in something I love so much.

Finally, if this is relatable and you want to talk to someone who understands, please feel free to message me. It sounds hollow to say, but it really does get better, even if you don’t think that applies to you. I had gotten so used to living with trauma that I never thought I’d exist without it, and yet here I am, doing better than I ever thought possible!

[astyle-alex]

[FanFic] Start with Why | the Old Guard

You’d think, eventually, the excitement of posting a new chapter of something would simmer down a bit, especially when the chapter’s already live on other platforms, but nope. I’m still hyped up to share it here!

Start With Why

Fandom: the Old Guard Pairings: Background Nicky x Joe Characters / Focus: OT5 + Copley, reacting to Booker's betrayal Rating: Gen Audiences Warnings: None (well, language, because the team are all quite colorful) Total Word Count: 10,288 Chapter Word Count: 1,757

Summary:

The thing about betrayal is that it hurts. Sometimes it hurts too much to see the broader situation clearly. But after Booker's betrayal, the team has to look at themselves and see how every one of them is culpable. Booker may have done the deed, but his measly 200 years makes him a child to the others, especially Andy, and like babysitters are to blame when their charge sets the curtains on fire, the Family needs to ask themselves WHY and accept the honest answers. Why Copley, Why Merrick, and Why something made Booker believe that his choice was the right one for his Family...

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||  Read on Patreon  |  Read on Ao3  ||

Part III :: Nicky

           Nicky holds the middle ground.

           He provides a more ranged variety of support.

           It is the role he’s always had, the one he’s always volunteered for.

           He can be cold and objective when he needs to be, no matter what’s at stake.

           But this is a test like no other that he’s faced.

           He hurts for his little Family, for every member of it.

           Booker is his brother and yet he hurt the rest of them— hurt them acutely and intentionally in a way that he had to know would sting like nothing else ever could.

           And yet… Book is hurting so much as that and more, so lost in the despair as he was to have been unable to see things with any hint of clarity.

           Andy says he truly thought it would help.

           Nile says he never thought the others would be grabbed, that he’s worried for Nicolò and Yusuf’s future and the potential pain they’d face when the Almighty that brought them together eventually tore them apart.

           Joe is still too hurt and heartbroken to say anything he truly means.

           And Nicky doesn’t know where that leaves him. Where that leaves them, both the two of them and the four of them… and even the five of them, to be honest.

           Eventually, the argument lapses into silence, weighted and thick with too much grief to sort through the varied points of origin.

           Nicky stands.

           Joe nearly falls out of his seat as he stands to step in front of him— bodily barring his way toward Booker with a kind of heart-broke desperation that makes Nicky nearly crumble.

           And yet…

           Nicolò di Genova does not back down.

           Such is not a trait within his nature. His gaze is filled with sympathy as it meets Joe’s own despairing and betrayed one, but he does not back down.

           Yusuf is Nicolò’s heart and soul, his whole reason for being better than he was— for being a person who could overcome what Booker had not— but Yusuf is not all he is. Yusuf is not the piece of him that defines the limits of what he can be, but the start of his potential. He and Yusuf are still discrete entities, even after eons, they are their own people bound by Fate and love and history, but not merged in any way that makes their love banal or any less miraculous.

           They are not two halves of one whole.

           They are two hearts that beat in sync, two souls that sing in harmony, two minds that see and feel and know enough to teach each other— to show each other new things and new perspectives even after centuries of being in this world together.

           Joe cannot see what Nicky does, and Nicky won’t let his place at Joe’s side determine his ultimate loyalties without his own past-due evaluation.

           Nicky stares Joe down, implacable, until his lover deflates enough to sag back into his seat— heaving Nicky’s pseudo-betrayal off with a huff as he keeps his back firmly to the window.

           Nicky rests his elbows on the rail beside Booker and waits in silence until Book looks over at him— having heard the door open and braced himself for something louder and more final than a quiet conversation with Nicky.

           Nicky doesn’t deliver final verdicts.

           He’ll explain them if the initial delivery doesn’t get the message properly across, but he does not report the sentence first of all.

           If Nicky has a verdict for you, you’ll find it out when he’s put a bullet in your brain.

           Nicky also doesn’t ask. He demands the answers he seeks when he knows who has them.

           But here, he doesn’t know any questions that he actually wants to have answered, yet.

           He just wants Booker to explain, wants in turn to explain himself to Booker… because they are a Family, and none of them can possibly exist in true isolation.

           Book is the one who made the bad decision, but the rest of them are not absolved of all responsibility, as they were all party to creating what bleak circumstances Booker faced, to creating what dismay he believed was enough to push him into making his horrid choice.

           Nicky waits for Booker to speak his Truth, waits with his eyes on the restless sea.

           “I am so sorry, Nicky,” Booker says, looking at him with imploring eyes.

           “I cannot give you absolution, Basti,” Nicky tells him, gaze still on the ocean. “And I cannot yet bring my own self to forgive you, no matter what reasons you bring to bear.”

           Booker falls silent, defeated like a kicked dog.

           “We failed you too, however, in letting you face your despair as we did,” Nicky tells him after a long moment of solemn contemplation. “We failed you in how we brought you into our Family, failed you every bit as much as we’ve ever failed the civilians that we cannot save. But we also did not pull the trigger on this, as you did, and I am finding it difficult to reconcile such divisive and complementary guilts.”

           They always think of Joe as the one to give the pretty speeches, and his Yusuf certainly deserves the epithet, but Nicky appreciates those speeches not because he is incapable of wielding words himself, but because he is more economical with how he states his feelings.

           He pulls no punches, leaves no ambiguity.

           When he is confused, he says so, and when he’s not he states it clear.

           “Yusuf is my heart, my soul, my mind’s only true peace,” Nicky tells his little brother with the cool detachment of age and sympathy. “We have let you bear 200 years of misery and let ourselves forget, nigh even then, how truly young you still are. Nile helped me to remember it, her saying how you had called her so young. A ‘neighbor with a dead pet’, she said. It goes for comfort, too, Basti— it goes for certainty and calm.”

           “You’ve never been a father, Nicky, even as old as you are,” Booker pleads, half frantic to have his reasons reconciled. He wants to be clear, to give himself over unto the others’ understanding, to be heard and truly listened to… He is desperate for it, desperate to be understood, in a way Nicky has, unforgivably, realized he hadn’t the patience to fully see before.

           “And you’ve never had a love grow warm inside you over eons, to feel the Faith in Truth it brings,” Nicky replied, not ceding any ground.

           Booker bites his tongue— cutting off what was sure to be a sour retort, a snap of love turned too bitter to bear. Of trust that feels betrayed as what he feels should be a valid point is just summarily dismissed.

           “You loved them very much, your wife and children,” Nicky states, confident that his words will not be taken as any kind of understatement. “You loved them until it consumed you like a fire, as you believe Yusuf and I love. But you are still so young in how you see things if you think the love either of us has could ever die with the ones to whom we give it.”

           Booker blinks, equal parts surprised and hurt, Nicky thinks.

           “Your family hurt you at their end,” Nicky goes on, “They levied accusations, and you have let yourself descend to meet them. This man beside me is not the one they loved while living, and you do them disservice by believing you could become the monster that they made you. Their love is pure and powerful, tainted only by mortal concerns that I have Faith their immortal souls regret. But if they were first to meet you now, they would not be able to abide it.”

           Booker is retreating, sliding away from Nicky, inch by inch, along the rail.

           “If Yusuf dies, I will despair,” Nicky confesses. “I will ravage lands and wreck vengeance on all villains I can find, killing countless in his name. But the grief will ebb in the face of what good I can still do in his name, what good I can lay claim to having had his heart inspire. It will hurt, and I cannot bear to think of what horrors I may commit at the apex of it, but I cannot believe I will forget the goodness of my Yusuf, the good-work he had, in all his life, strove to create. I cannot believe I will dishonor my own love for him by failing to carry his work on.”

           “ ‘This is what we do’, you say,” Book says with a keening sort of hollow voice. “It’s a mantra, not true belief. You want to believe it, but you have no proof and you want it.”

           “You say Copley has proof, say you’ve seen it, yet you do not believe any more than I that what we do day to day affects things,” Nicky counters. “It is a mantra, and it is belief. The belief is more robust on some days than on others, but there is nothing that will break my Faith. I am a thousand years old, Basti, and the world has been awful for every single one of the years I’ve lived. But there are people who have lived longer lives because of my presence in the horrors of their worst moments, and I have found a way to let that be enough.”

           Booker doesn’t speak— can’t speak.

           Nicky turns his gaze away, looking back to the violent roll of the ocean waves.

           “Tell me why, Booker,” he demands, voice soft and smooth and inescapable. “Tell me what it is you want. Tell me what will help you, or will help me see you.”

           Booker half-collapses.

           “I don’t have excuses left,” he manages eventually. “I don’t have good reasons, or bad ones…. Or anything. I don’t have anything. Just the grief and the regret.”

           “You have us,” Nicky promises simply. “I cannot forgive you yet, but I can promise you that my inability is due only to the freshness of this hurt. You will be forgiven and welcomed back into the Family with no further stipulations, once you have paid your penance.”

           “I don’t deserve that. I don’t deserve you.” Booker knows Nicky cannot disagree.

           But he feels his test of faith has been suddenly decided.

           “Love does not care what you deserve,” Nicky says pushing off the rail to return to where the others wait inside for his assessment.

- - - - -

||  Read on Patreon  |  Read on Ao3  ||

[ina-nis]

It was good to have the professional reassurance, validation and (sort of) confirmation that what I’m dealing with is, indeed, AvPD. Now I know what to do when seeking help.

If not that, it’s definitely some personality disorder and the main issues are definitely these baseline avoidant behaviours, that are hard to pinpoint, all things considered; a unshakable feeling of emptiness because of the deep loneliness I feel; and an inescapable disconnection from other people, even when I’m able to connect, everything stays in the realm of shallowness.

The avoidance is so ingrained, it doesn’t feel like avoidance anymore. Haven’t felt like avoidance for a long time.

I give myself opportunities to be spontaneous and let go of the overcontrol that feels so grounding and familiar, but I can’t let go of avoidance. It feels like it’s inherent to me. Makes things really hard, and it’s hard to argue against it either.

For example, the whole “I could desensitize myself and get exposed to triggers so that they lessen their influence over me with time” and my answer to that is “actually, it’s much better to spend my energy around people I enjoy, instead of trying to fix connections with people I dislike.” It makes sense, and it’s avoidance. It’s the right thing to do, and yet, it’s the wrong thing. Since I’m doing all this on my own, it’s understandable that I (or rather, my brain), would go for a much simpler solution as a form of harm reduction, if at all possible.

“It’s better to be alone than in bad company” is a form of avoidance too. It’s impossible to be rid of “bad companies” at all, for as long as one lives around people, there will be bad actors and persons you will not like for whatever reasons. You cannot always “escape”, it’s not always the best course of action either.

Another point: most, if not all, of the skills I have learned to deal with stress (in general, from anxiety to triggers and more), now feel like avoidance too.

I can see myself and my behaviours with a clean mind now and all these old things that helped me get here are, perhaps, hindering my progress. I can’t move further, I can’t move past my current issues. Maybe I lack the skills required for that. What helped before, now obstructs my recovery, I believe.

A lot of the skills I know, a lot of the things I use, have to do with emotional regulation - and you can probably imagine what that means for someone with too much self-control issues and avoidant tendencies: sure, I let myself “feel” my emotions when I have to feel them, but I am quick to go back to my baseline neutrality, “it’s pointless” and “there’s no use getting worked over something like this” and “I can just let go” and “I can use my time/energy for better things” and “I can just focus on something else that’s under my control” and so on...

All those are good things to do, are good exercises to improve your mental health, and they all have helped me tremendously in recovering from a bunch of disorders.

But looking at it all from an avoidant perspective changes everything.

Ultimately, I avoid my feelings, I avoid unbearable situations, I avoid things out of my control, I avoid things that feel pointless, I avoid discomfort, I avoid uncertainty, and much more.

All that means... dialectically, I’m doing all the right things: I’m focusing on the good and in all things under my control, I’m shifting my attention and energy into things that are good for me while I try to deal with the ones that might not be as good, I take the challenges as they come knowing I can simply walk away if I have to.

By doing all the right things, perhaps, I’m only enabling avoidance further.

This is really tricky considering the goal of treatment for many mental disorders is to achieve exactly this: some degree of functioning and being able to live life as it is, with suffering and all.

It makes me frustrated and fearful of the prospect of treatments for myself in the future because... obviously, focusing on all the good things in my life and strengthening areas under my control don’t address avoidance, therefore don’t decrease suffering.

I feel like this problem became way too complex, even for me, even though I spent most of my time researching and trying to find answers.

It’s not going to be as simple as showing up to social gatherings regularly and trying to hit on people using apps - if that worked I wouldn’t be here writing walls of text on a journal on Tumblr, from all places - I don’t know what the answer is or what else I’m supposed to do, but I’m pretty sure my current skillset is doing more damage than helping.

That is in textbooks and self-help articles, that’s in the mouths of trained professionals, that’s the thing supposed to help you.

But if you have a problem like this disorder, it all serves as a fuel. You avoid more, and you function better, you call it something else but not avoidance. You have no issues whatsoever.

[thewrongexecution]

thinkin’ ‘bout final fantasy

I go by Not The Author for exactly the reason that I ain’t no expert on any given work of fiction, but I do like to make connections what make me seem smart: an illusion, haphazardly crafted by incident accident and supplemented by precocious pretentiousness. All the same, here are some fun thoughts I had that you might also enjoy!

I do have a point, that I do get to. I feel like I should say that ahead of time, all things considered. Like, I can appreciate if you can’t appreciate a shaggy dog story? But there is a point to all this.

...Eventually.

Spoiler Warning:

Final Fantasies 1, 6, 7, 7R, 13 and 15

Content Warning:

Discussion of death

Cussin’

Length warning:

5621 words

13 sections

16 digressions

Let’s dig in.

- - - - -

Final Fantasy 1 was not my first Final Fantasy experience, but I think it was the first I ever played by myself? The remaster for the GBA, came bundled with FF2 on the same cart, which I played briefly but did not complete and do not remember, except that it had Cid.

FF1 doesn’t have a Cid, but I really loved the narrative anyway, straightforward as it was, because it was very specifically about spitting in the face of an uncaring god who would doom the world for a laugh. Take these chains that bind us to darkness and, though we be forgot to history, strangle with them that selfsame darkness to bring an end to its tyranny.

((it is a terrible curse, to love time travel. so many grand expectations, so few ever met. play ghost trick, chrono trigger, radiant historia, majora’s mask, outer wilds. have you any recs yourself, lemme know! I digress.

((I digress a lot, as I may have mentioned. they’ll be noted in parenthetical, like this.))

This is the foundation upon which Final Fantasy is built, and while any student of architecture could tell you of many and varied perfectly valid construction techniques, it resonates. Grappling with an immutable past to course-correct an uncaring future is, too, an apt description of personal growth; a theme as universal as being alive. And I, as an impressionable youth, ate that shit up.

((I assume I was young, at any rate. my love for time travel, be it era-spanning or moment-stretching, is, I suspect, not entirely coincidental to my terrible temporal memory.))

And that was the tale of the studio, too. Final Fantasy was so titled because, the story goes, the developers knew they would shutter if it didn’t make bank. Staring your imminent demise in the face, knowing your fate is doom, and giving it your all, all the same.

And then they made another twelve, plus two-and-a-half MMOs, and god knows how many mobile games and spin-offs, and now the Fantasy is that there could ever be a Final one. so say I: life parodies art.

((the half-an-MMO is FF14 1.0, which no longer exists and is a fascinating tale, a rally against bleak futures all its own. I’ll [link] Noclip’s three-part documentary covering the developer’s side of things, because that’s the one I’ve seen. there’s plenty other material to hunt down, though, if you wanna.))

- - - - -

Final Fantasy VII is a game about fate, too. Particularly Death, that most ultimate of fates. Tragic, to be sure; preventable, or at least delayable, in many cases; necessary, at times, for the growth of something new.

Unrelenting. Unstoppable. Inescapable.

Death, and the fights against it, take many forms. There are the fascist death squads that hunt down your ragtag band and any dissent against their cruel masters, but these will only truly stop by cutting off the hydra’s head and building an entirely new society; eight dudes and their dog, faced with a corporate private military, can survive but never win. There are such disasters as do slay that hydra, be they natural or man-made. There’s the space alien and the apocalypse it ushers. There’s literal illness and injury, physical or otherwise. There are the deaths of loved ones, friends and family, that lead to some subtler deaths within those that survive them. The deaths of relationships, by neglect or abandonment. The ideological deaths we inflict on ourselves, accepting ever-growing lesser evils in the name of some impossible ideal.

Every day, the person we were becomes the person we are, and soon, the person we are will give way to someone new, and this, too, is a sort of death. In this sense, we tally Cloud’s deaths at least five: failure to become a Soldier and rebirth in shame, the massacre of Nibelheim and rebirth in grief, arrival at Midgar and rebirth in delusion, his cratering at the Crater and rebirth in nihilism, and his death and rebirth in the Lifestream of Mideel.

((you could prolly hunt down another two if you wanna be cheeky, but I lack the knowledge, motive and patience. frankly, this whole thing is to create a leading line of logic and probably isn’t, uh. academically ethical? or whatever the term is. I’m not necessarily wrong, but I’m definitely scuttling nuance. oh well!))

Now, I say “rebirth,” because that’s how deaths of identity more-or-less work. There’s usually some new identity waiting in the wings to take over. And rebirth is itself a notable theme, inasmuch as it is one outcome of death. But death is oft more final than that, and what people do in its imminence and wake is key here, too. Wutai’s collapse into an insular tourist trap. Avalanche’s vengeful fervor, in general and post-plate drop. Bugenhagen trying to pass his knowledge on to Red. The whole party’s ongoing post-traumatic depressive episodes.

Ultimately, death is the inescapable fate of all things. It’s what we do, in light of that, that makes us who we are.

- - - - -

Final Fantasies 13 and 15 are the only modern Final Fantasies I’ve beaten, and I bring them up because both deal very prominently with fate and death, and as Square’s most recent mainline FF titles, Remake can’t exist without comparison to them. Here’s what I remember:

Final Fantasy 13 was a game I enjoyed. The stagger system mixed up my casual FF tradition of Get The Big Numbers by putting a prominent UI element onscreen that says You Can’t Get The Big Numbers Unless The Bar Is Full. Suddenly there’s a natural-but-enforced ebb and flow to combat built in, where you gotta juggle chip damage, survival, and crowd control while keeping resources enough to burst down a staggered foe, but maintain situational awareness to swap back into survival mode if you’re not gonna down your enemy, all in something close to real-time. Very obviously a direct precursor to the combat of Remake. I didn’t realize the depth of it, but it was still super fun.

People at the time didn’t like the linearity of the game and, I can see that in retrospect? I think it’s closer to, there weren’t breakpoints, there wasn’t variety. It was cutscenes, combat, and the stretches of land between them; the only real thing for the brain to get a workout on was the combat, and eating only one kinda food is gonna make that food taste bland.

((I didn’t mind, but I like idle games, and, also probably had depression around then. Take that how you will.))

The story, though, I loved. You got your uncaring gods forcing mortals to do their increasingly-impossible bidding, cursing them to agonized unlife if they take too long, and with blissful, beautiful death if they succeed. It sucks! And here you have a ragtag band of incidental idiots trying to rebel against a system that, actually, wants them to? Like that’s the plan? Have mortals kill god and summon the devil to destroy all life, because god, doesn’t.... like life anymore?

((The lore gets more than a little impenetrable, and I remember bouncing off it a couple times. The throughline of God Sucks And Makes Zombies was good though.))

The biblical parallels are obvious, and if they weren’t, the final boss’ design will clue you in, god that’s a good design. hang on I can add pictures and already tossed a spoiler warning, here, look at this:

(per the Final Fantasy Fandom Wiki [X])

That’s literally The Holy Trinity But A Sword The Size Of A Building. It’s perfect.

Anyway, I love this game, because the heroes win, which is what God wants, so in winning, they lose, as was fated to be, right? Fuck All That, say the lesbians from space australia, as they turn into satan and, as satan, stop God’s shitty metal moon from crashing into space australia and destroying all life.

((this awakened something in me, though, as is becoming a theme, I wasn’t aware of it at the time. actually hold up I’m gonna rewatch that sequence.

((yeah okay wow on review that was aggressively cheesy and had a whole bunch of weird emotional whiplash that just leaves a super-bad aftertaste. I don’t really like it as an experience, but big bazonga lesbian satan with arms for hair is still a look-and-a-half.))

The whole thing is not entirely unlike if meteor was also Midgar, and there’s more than a few points where I went, hang on, are they trying to evoke 7 here? “Lightning” is ex-military and bad at emotions, Sazh is a black dad w/ guns and emotional trauma and I love him, quirky pink healer girl who might be an alien is here, the game starts on a train and leads into a robot bug fight; obviously it’s not one-to-one but the connections are there for a brain like mine to make, and only more prominent for the fact that FF7 was the more satisfying game.

((I cannot speak to 13-2 or -3; 13-2 was fun up until the enemies were abruptly 30 levels higher than me, more or less a mandate by the game for me to do all the side content, which I was not on-board with. I skipped 13-3 entirely, especially when I learned the whole game is on a timer. did not and do not need that stress in my life.))

- - - - -

But okay, FF13 was “too linear” and wasn’t doing super great. Enter Final Fantasy Versus 13, by which I mean enter Final Fantasy 15 actually, we don’t need any more of this 13 crap. And once again, I enjoyed it! ...Right up until it was bad.

Final Fantasy 15 was not a finished game, and we know this for certain now, because all its DLC was to make it a finished game. At the time, though, there was uncomfortable and inconsistent story pacing, only one playable character, relatively sparse combat mechanics... but it was open-world, and hey, that’s what you wanted, right? open, non-linear environments? I picked it up because, Teleporting Swordsman With a Motorcycle Sword. I am of simple pleasures, and those are they.

Of the little I remember, one point that’s stuck with me is the sequence following the Leviathan fight. See, we’ve been talking about fate and destiny and how Final Fantasy likes to spite them. Here in 15, our main man Noctis doesn’t want the destiny he’s been burdened with, to Become The King and Save The World from the Coming Darkness, or whatever. He’d really rather be doing, anything else? like hanging out with his buddies or actually getting married or, I dunno, grieving the death of his father. Nope! You don’t get to do that. Go find the ghost armaments of your dead ancestors so you can ~saaave the wooorld!~ I would have been in college around then, so, eminently relatable.

Now, on this journey, you meet a guy called Ardyn. He’s the sort of character that was built as an attack on me personally: sleazy, charming, possessing airs of casual familiarity with people he’s never met, kinda helps you out in tight spots, and also, by the way, vizier to the empire that killed your dad and wants you and your friends dead too. But not in the “secret good guy” way, he just likes fucking with you! he’s perfect.

Right up until the Leviathan fight.

See, Lunafreya, your betrothed--

((I’m so mad about this stupid, stupid garbage. I love Lunafreya on principle, but the game doesn’t bother to give her screentime. you only ever hear about her incidentally, which can be cool if you then meet the character and get to compare/contrast what you’ve heard, but the initial release only has her show up for this one chapter, and your party doesn’t really get to interact with her that much.))

Your betrothed is here and she’s some symbol of the peoples’ hope, right? she’s got light magic or something, and can actually commune with the gods. the gods are on your side, but you can’t actually understand a word they say, but she can, and that’s sick as hell. anyway.

You lose the fight against Leviathan, because you’re a shitty emo teen who doesn’t know how to use your ghost swords, and she got beat up earlier when Levi got all pissy at being summoned. And then Ardyn shows up in his magitek dropship.

Now earlier, Ardyn had Luna as his captive, completely at his mercy, and right now, he who would be king of kings, destined to save the world from darkness, is clutching at rock in a hurricane, beaten, wounded and dying.

Of the two, which do you think he stabs to death?

if you thought, “the protagonist, which will allow him to win, and subvert Final Fantasy’s themes of defying fate by having the villain be the one to do it, forcing everyone else to scramble for some alternate solution and deal with the fallout,” congratulations! You win disappointment, because that idea’s cool as hell and they didn’t. fucking. Do it.

((Ardyn, before this, had given me major Kefka vibes, and thinking on it now, the world descending into darkness in the 15 we never had could have played with even deeper parallels to FF6... but I never played 6, and that FF15 doesn’t exist, so... I’ll leave that analysis to better scholars.))

now, with the benefit of hindsight, that was never going to happen. too long in development hell, game had to ship, had no time or budget for mid-game upheaval. but at the time? made me lose any interest I had in Ardyn, made me mad at the developers for passing up on fulfilling the themes their series had explored in past, made me almost stop playing the game. I’m still mad about it for crying out loud!

((thinking about it gets me tensed up, coiled, with that sort of full-body thrum that’s best conveyed with letters that jitter around. best I can do here is bold italics, but it doesn’t have the right energy. it’s a fleeting feeling, but when it’s here? god. given the men that wrote this scene I would fight all of them and win.

((inhale...

((exhale...

((and move on.))

We, the player, never really meet Luna, so there’s no real... impact, no substance to it. It’s sad, but impersonal. villain kills damsel to inflict manpain on hero. that’s it. we’ve seen this song and dance before.

But kill Noctis? The character the player’s been controlling all this time, who they know intimately? Now it’s personal. Now your party members’ grief is a mirror to your own. And now you get to play as Luna, maybe? give the game time to flesh her out, have her bond with your old companions over their shared grief, and maybe use her connections and public speaking skills to rally the people of the world, in a perhaps-vain attempt to resist the oncoming darkness, while simultaneously using that public-facingness to drive her to hide her own fear and hopelessness...? That’s a complex character ripe for drama and tragedy right there! And then her, at the head of a story about people coming together to solve a global calamity themselves, rather than await their appointed savior?

Even then, but especially now... You can see the appeal, right?

- - - - -

Lemme step back and zoom out for a moment, because there’s one more kind of Fate to discuss before I finalize my thesis. Yes, I promise, there is a point besides being mad at FF15, this is still ultimately about Remake. Bear with me a little longer.

See, Remake’s premise is that it’s not quite FF7, but that itself is predicated on Remake being essentially FF7. Certain things must be in the Remake series, or it will cease to be the Final Fantasy 7 Remake series. The developers have gone on record saying as much, that they’ll still cover the thrust of the original, and that makes a lot of sense from a development standpoint. Building on an existing framework saves loads of time, and lets them focus on details as they have in Remake.

((I think they've already set up an in-universe justification for this, too. The party may have defeated the Whispers at Midgar, but the Whispers are the will of the planet. The only way to truly defeat them would be to defeat the planet itself, which: kind of the goal of the villains!

((a bit ironic, because the villains are the Whispers’ means to keep manipulating events. Remake backends a very large portion of the plot, and I don’t think Rufus seeing the Whispers is a throwaway detail. The party chases Sephiroth by chasing Shinra in the original, so even if the party has shaken free of the direct influence of the Whispers, manipulating Shinra should in turn manipulate the party.

((on top of which, Rufus prizes power, and the power to change or control fate-- something both the party and Sephiroth have seized-- would be as enticing as anything.))

But this begs the question: How much of Final Fantasy 7 is necessary before it stops being Final Fantasy 7? Do you need all nine characters? The Weapons? Rideable chocobo? Breedable chocobo? What about locations? Can you drop the Gold Saucer? or Mount Condor? or Mideel? How many minigames am I holding up? These are necessary questions, but so is this:

“Would a one-to-one recreation of the original game have the same emotional impact as when it released, twenty-three years ago?”

- - - - -

Now, the phrase “emotional impact” is necessarily kind of nebulous and subjective, so lemme dig into that a little bit.

The first significant chunk of the original FF7 takes place entirely in Midgar, which is one huge city. Every screen is densely packed; movement is typically constrained to narrow corridors and industrial crawlspaces. The whole world is deeply claustrophobic and visually hostile, by design.

This is FF7 for the first few hours, before a motorcycle chase deposits you outside city limits, and then... you hit the world map, and everything changes. The world is rendered in three whole dimensions, now! (Then, a technological marvel in its own right.) There’s a sky! There’s a horizon! Grass, mountains, the ocean!

Boundless, terrifying freedom.

From a mechanical standpoint, there’s only one real destination, an A-to-B with random encounters before a small enclosure with an inn and shops, no real change from what you’ve already been doing. But the mood? Everything’s fresh and new, now. Everything’s an unknown.

So, how do we do that again, two-and-a-half decades on?

Let’s say, something like this: Remake 2 starts with Cloud and Sephiroth en route to Nibelheim. For new players, this provides immediate intrigue: why are these mortal enemies hanging out in a truck? how did they get here, where are they going? For veterans, it’s familiar: oh, we’re in the flashback sequence.

For both, it provides mechanical familiarity. We just finished last game hanging out in Midgar, a bunch of town squares with shops and cutscenes connected to hazardous corridors. Well, Nibelheim’s a town with shops and cutscenes, connected to a monster-filled anthill and capped with a reactor. We know this. We’ve done this. We can do this again.

And when the flashback ends, we’re in Kalm. Another town, maybe with sidequests this time; Midgar looming in the distant skybox as a reminder of how far we’ve come.

And then you leave Kalm, and the camera zooms out, and out, and out...

Remake is essentially 7, and you can’t have the impact of 7′s world map reveal if Remake isn’t functionally open-world too. Square has plenty of experience with open environments, however successful their more recent attempts have been; I’m confident that the have the ability, at least, to craft an expansive world that feels appropriate to FF7.

((I’d like to take a moment here to talk about FF14, which mixes both compact twisty dungeons and wide-open overworld zones, and is necessarily wildly successful to still be operating as an MMO... but though I have played it briefly, I don’t claim knowledge sufficient to go in-depth. The point is, Square not only can make a game like that, they have, and are, and apparently possess non-zero competency. I have worries, but I’m not worried, if that makes sense.))

So, can you recreate a given kind of emotional impact? Yeah!

Can scenes from the original Final Fantasy 7 be rendered into a new context, more-or-less as they were? Absolutely!

Would a one-to-one recreation of the original game have the same emotional impact as when it released, twenty-three years ago?

- - - - -

Aerith dies.

If you opened this post and didn’t know that, well. There were spoiler warnings up at the top, the game’s more than two decades old, and the spoiler itself is basically a piece of pop-culture, up there with space dad and wizard killer. There’re probably plenty of people who know next-to-nothing about Final Fantasy 7 except that Aerith dies.

Everyone knows because, at the time, it was so big a thing. This was a title that Square hyped to heaven and back to push JRPGs into mainstream western markets, and it worked. And this was before major death was so common and arbitrary as it is today; even now, Game of Thrones and its ilk are a relative rarity. The death of a protagonist or love interest wasn’t a new thing for games, or any media really, but usually you knew it was coming, or it served some purpose. Aerith’s death was sudden, arbitrary, you’re almost immediately thrown into a boss fight so you don’t even have time to process it right away, and it’s the first stone in an avalanche of other pointless arbitrary tragedy. It’s an obvious narrative setup for the endgame confrontation with Sephiroth; instead, Cloud has a breakdown, Meteor happens, and now there’s an entire Disk 2.

Fandom has always been fandom, even before the continuous immediacy of the modern internet, but... people wrote letters to Square, and got sad on message boards. There’s an entire subset of forum signatures, back when those were a thing, that you could sort as “people fucked up over Aerith dying.” And again, this was the world. Not just Japan, or Asia, but everyone.

((Or, everyone with the finances to have a PS2 and/or an internet connection. Gaming as a pastime remains way expensive, whether played or watched. But you know how it is.))

And that’s the problem with answering that question.

See, FF7 is a lot of things, but for better or worse, it is defined by Aerith’s death. It’s one of many factors, but you can’t... leave it out, right? or it wouldn’t be FF7 anymore.

Aerith dies in FF7, and everyone knows it.

- - - - -

But Remake has promised, repeatedly, that things will be different this time. Everyone is coming together to defy fate, and Cloud in particular is here to keep Aerith from dying. Bodyguard jokes aside, Cloud repeatedly has flashbacks (flashforwards?) to Aerith’s death and the events leading to it. When he meets her in the church, when they cross into Sector 6, twice in the final battle. Hell, the very first time they meet, Sephiroth taunts him about not being able to save her. Even from a metatextual standpoint, since everyone knows Aerith dies, that’s like, The Most Obvious Fate To Change.

If, after all that, Aerith still dies? It’s not just tragedy, at that point. That’s the developers, actively lying to the player about their intent in making this game series. That’s frustrating, and immersion-breaking, and when said death is likely to still have one or more entire sequels to come after? maybe not great for sales! I know I didn’t bother buying the complete edition of FF15; I couldn’t bring myself to care enough about a game that set up this cool possibility, and then just, failed to deliver on every count.

And, Remake is being made for two audiences. I’ve said “everybody knows Aerith dies,” but that’s not really true, is it? It’s been 23 years, after all. Remake could well be someone’s very first Final Fantasy experience. That’s why they’ve been telegraphing Aerith’s death so hard. Not everyone knows, but at least everyone can guess. Is it fair, then, to this new audience, with potentially no knowledge or understanding of the legacy of this flashy new action game, to foreshadow tragedy in the future, have everyone come together to say, We’re Going To Stop This, and then... not? Is that good writing? Is that satisfying? When this is a multi-game and potentially multi-console investment of time and money, is this, as a newcomer, a story you’d want to keep playing?

And then on top of that, it’s 2020.

I don’t mean that in the current-year-fallacy, “we’re better than this now” kind of way. Rather, the way I felt about Final Fantasy 15 is even more relevant now. People, in real life, are realizing that the powers-that-be are failing them, have failed them, have been failing them for far longer than twenty-three years. The people that already knew that are actually showing up for each other, to spite what felt and feels like inescapable fate and finding that, together, they might just be able to ruin God’s day.

Game development is, of course, its own whole beast, and projects in motion tend to stay in motion; deviating from a plan takes time and money that Square may be unwilling to spend. But, under current world circumstances: is making a game where the hero sets out to save one specific person from their fated death, and following that with a game where that one specific person dies anyway, aside from everything else, a good business decision?

- - - - -

So... Aerith, shouldn’t die, right...? But, FF7 requires Meteor, and so requires the Temple of the Ancients and the Black Materia. And, Meteor can only be stopped by Holy, so FF7 requires the Forgotten City.

FF7 is a tragedy. FF7 demands blood.

...Hey, actually, hold that thought. How come Cloud can remember Aerith dying in the first place? He’s not from the future, right? He’s got a connection to Sephiroth, who is from the future... and Sephiroth can manipulate his memories...? but, why would Sephiroth let him, or make him, remember that?

Hey, how come Zack is alive, but like, in the “narrative scope” sense? Wouldn’t his presence circumvent Cloud’s delusions about the Nibelheim incident?

Hey, how come Cloud had multiple big climactic Sephiroth confrontations at what’s essentially the end of the prologue, including one that mirrors the very end of the original FF7? Shouldn’t that still come at, like, you know. the end?

Hey, how come--

- - - - -

Remake has these... Callbacks? Refrains? Like my favorite, when Sephiroth throws a train-- you know, The Fate Metaphor-- at Cloud, who absolutely shreds the thing. Or, for a more direct example:

And it frequently uses these to show that people are changing, that things can change. You know, the whole Running Theme the game has going on.

Sephiroth gets a refrain, too.

At the start of the game (give or take a reactor), in his first real appearance, Sephiroth philosophizes at Cloud, makes sure Cloud hates him, and tells Cloud what he wants.

At the end of the game, in his last appearance, Sephiroth philosophizes at Cloud, tells Cloud what he wants, and makes sure Cloud hates him.

Structurally, these encounters more-or-less bookend the game; thematically, it doesn’t exactly indicate change. Barret may or may not have come around on Cloud, and his admission that Cloud is important to him after all is, itself, important. Cloud, on the other hand, was always going to defy Sephiroth. He stands resolute, now, ready to fight rather than flee, but apathy was never on the table.

Now, Sephiroth’s whole Thing is psychologically manipulating Cloud to get what he wants, and as part of that, what Sephiroth wants is usually not what he says he wants.

All throughout the original FF7, Sephiroth riled up Cloud so that Cloud would pursue and defy him, culminating first in the Black Materia incident, and then again in the Forgotten City. None of the Sephiroth clones could survive the trip through the Northern Crater, so Sephiroth had to lure Cloud, with the Black Materia, to him, and then also convince Cloud to give up the Black Materia of his own accord. Mind control, memory manipulation and illusions were involved, but if Sephiroth could maintain those indefinitely, he probably just. Would have done that instead. Way easier,

The point is, in Remake, in addition to all the intermittent retraumitization sprinkled throughout the game, Sephiroth goes out of his way twice to directly ask Cloud, “hey, you hate me, right?” And, as part of that question, he tells Cloud, “this is what I want.” And Cloud? He hates Sephiroth, and will do his damnedest to keep Sephiroth from getting what he wants.

So. What does Sephiroth... say he wants?

- - - - -

One last aside before we cap off: This post would not exist without the valiant efforts of one Maximilian_dood. His devotion to the series kept myself and many others engaged and excited and, frankly, hopeful, in the leadup to the release of Remake, and his correlations between the rest of the FF7 series and Remake were enlightening and entertaining.

and had he not the gall to identify defying fate as a device to make aerith’s death more tragic, I would never have been angry enough to write this.

((I know, I know. Gaming and streaming and lit analysis are all hard individually, and I don’t begrudge losing one for the other two. And it was a first playthrough! I might have seen these lines sooner than some, but collating all this info was certainly not instantaneous. And Square can be hack writers at times-- see again my rant on FF15-- so even then, I can’t discount the possibility.

((but, still.

((Really?))

So, while I would like to believe that I have, by now, made my thesis on Remake’s narrative direction abundantly clear, here it is spelled out anyway:

- - - - -

At the bottom of the Forgotten City, at the shrine on the pillar in the lake, Cloud will find Aerith, who believes her fate immutable.

Sephiroth will descend, and Cloud will sacrifice himself, that Aerith should live.

This is Sephiroth’s plan.

- - - - -

Hey, thanks for reading this far! With my conversational tone and rambling tendencies, I’d have preferred to make this an audio post or, god forbid, a video essay, but I got a keyboard, and that’ll have to do. Diction is important to me, as the capitalization, italics and use of punctuation may have clued you in on, so... maybe you’ll get a dramatic reading sometime in the future? but, don’t bet on it.

Feel free to riddle me with questions, or point out inconsistencies with this big ol’ thing! I’m not exactly an expert, and I’m sure I glossed over, heavily paraphrased, completely forgot, intentionally ignored and/or aggressively misrepresented some stuff, but I love learning and teaching esoteric bullshit about The Vijigams. On that note, anything that sounds like it should be sourced is sourced from “I heard about it on social media or in a stream or youtube video one time, but if I actually had to hunt it down this whole thing would never see the light of day, and it has already been like three months,” which isn’t to excuse my lack of due diligence, but I do, lack diligence, so, tough.

Oh! but the Remake screens all come from [here]. Don’t care much for that splash screen, but, I Get It, so, whatever.

There were some other things I wanted to touch on but couldn’t really find a spot for. FF7 Remake as a metaphor for its own development, for example. Or, some of The Possibilities, like how Cloud’s death could very literally haunt Aerith, or how Remake sets up a more fleshed-out Midgar revisit that Cloud’s death specifically would make infinitely sadder.

On that note, if it was not yet obvious, I love speculation, and if they do go this direction, it’ll probably be their justification to go completely... off the rails? Remake only has to be FF7 until it doesn’t, after all. If there’s some wilder implications youall see for like... I dunno, a Jenova more fully-regenerated from also having Cloud’s cells back, getting into proper Kaiju-on-Kaiju battles with the Weapons, or anything like that? Feed me your brain juice, etc.

And, once more, for the road: this is interpretation; subjective, opinionated, and very much in denial of any kind of author-ity. Nor is this a claim on how things should be, or an assertion that this would be good or bad. Everything ultimately rests on Square's narrative design team and, we’ve touched on them already.

((but, for your consideration: I’m smart, and right))

Here’s hoping, whatever happens, we get the game we deserve.

thanks for coming to my ted talk, have a great day

[pettishrew]

P E T E R   P E T T I G R E W   B A C K G R O U N D

BASICS:

Name: Peter Thomas Pettigrew Age: Twenty Birthday: August 22nd Job: Obliviator w/ the Department of Magical Accident and Catastrophes House: Gryffindor 

PERSONALITY: 

+ forgiving, analytical, easy-going, optimistic    - forgiving - peter is the type of person that could be stepped one over and over again and he would forgive the person. It would be easy to say he would be bullied had it not been for the rest of the boys, but he probably wouldn’t have even considered it like that. He is so used to being the butt of the joke, or the scapegoat for a situation that he has grown very complicate and even willing falls into that role. This often makes him the best suited to be the mediator to some of the more temperamental discussions between them all.      -  analytical - although described my McGonagall as someone who was not as talented, smart, nor-popular as James and Sirius, Peter is extremely analytical. He likes to think through a situation before acting and being able to weigh and consider the various outcomes. This doesn’t mean that he is unwilling to go into risky situations, because he definitely is, but he likes to know what he stands to lose if things go sour. The world to him is a very large list of pros and cons, he is just ultimately deciding how the chips fall.     - easy-going - as personalities go Peter provides a nice contrast to the rest of the boy because he tends to go with the flow, more excited to be included than opinionated on what they should do. He tends not to harbor a lot of stress and is very passive when it comes to a variety of topics. This makes him easy to be around, and sometimes he provides more of a wall for people to talk at than someone who is actively apart of the conversation. This makes him a stellar listener and someone to confide in.      - optimistic - generally his outlook on the world leans toward the side of optimism, he likes to assure people that things are going to be all right even if it does not distinctly look like it’s going to actually be that way. This is also part of the reason he seemed to get low marks in classes because he was optimistic about the outcomes without always putting in the effort or work to receive a higher one. Overall his optimism is often a welcome change in a world that seems to be getting bleaker by the day. Just because his words are optimistic though doesn’t mean he wholeheartedly believes them. He would just rather lie to placate someone than strike fear in them.  -  fearful, cunning, indecisive, meek    - fearful - peter’s main motivation in life has always been fear. It began when he was younger with his parents and has continued onto his adult life. War, in particular, makes people do things based out of fear, and Peter is not exempt. Him joining the Order in some blind faith act in his friends, in this lie that Gryffindor’s are always brave, and that they are going to win this. He is fearful of what they would think of him if he declines. He is fearful of a future in which he fights and dies. He is fearful of what happens if he lives.  And most of all, his boggart even, has shown that his greatest fear is Lord Voldemort. He is plagued with the unending sense of doom that looms around them, and how inescapable it truly is.      - cunning - peter pettigrew is a head shorter than Sirius their fourth year, and chubbier than him too according to Harry’s flashback. He is literally and figuratively looked over, not just by his friends, but by his enemies too. There is something about him, perhaps it’s his demeanor, that allows people to discredit his malicious intentions and motivations. It allows him to be cunning ( he was a hat stall between Slytherin and Gryffindor after all ) and uses that to his advantage. He was not some bumbling idiot that his memory would like to paint him, but he was smart and used to advance himself, even if it was to the detriment of his friends.        - indecisive - to the annoyance of many of his friends it often takes Peter a long time to make any sort of decision. He is more easily swayed if he his prodded by someone else who has a stronger opinion and this is mostly due to how analytical he likes to be. There are very few things in life had has decided for himself without the proper time to actually consider everything,       - meek - due to his fearful nature the boy tends to not be as outspoken as some of his other counterparts. He leans toward the meeker side and this often means that people who only interact with him in passing do not get to know who Peter actually is, or what would motivate him. This also contributes to why people are able to write him off so quickly despite his obvious talents for not only being supportive but also logical about his actions.  

BIOGRAPHY: ( it’s not the trigger list but the bio has some emotional abuse aspects )

     The Pettigrew Family is not one of any status. Poor Enid Pettigrew fell in love with muggle-born wizard Sean Morivan when they were freshly out of school themselves. Throughout their school careers, they did not accomplish anything worth noting, and this mediocrity continued onto their adult lives. They were distinctly middle class and never strived to provide above their means for their life. They saved where they could, spent minimally, and ultimately were on track to lead a quiet life. That was until Enid realized that she was pregnant, which was not in their life plan, but she had Peter anyway.  It was tight on their budget and it was going to make their lives more difficult, but Enid loved the boy so much even before he was born that there was no contest.        He was particularly close with his mother, but even in his youth, he could tell that there was a coldness from his father that he could not place. Peter tried his best to be just like his father, whether it was in intention or walking stance, his Father was the type of person that he wanted to grow up to be just like. However, Sean wanted less to do with him than that, he tolerated the boy but he was never nurturing. Enid tried to do the best for both of them, but she had her own shortcomings. She would leave Peter alone for long stretches of time so that he slowly learned that in order to survive he would have to care for himself. His existence was regulated to something that was better seen, but not heard, something that he adapted surprisingly well too.       Throughout his youth, his Father would comment on the boy’s weight, or demeanor. His lack of skills when it came to practical muggle things that no one had even taken the time to teach him. His words stung on such a young mind, especially from the person who he strived to emulate most. He was not the only one this fell down on though, because as Peter grew older, the arguments that came from his parents grew louder. Sean would speak poorly about Enid’s ability as a mother, or the way she cooked, it was constant in his words, whether passive or active. He was a big lumbering figure who cast a big shadow. When he got home from work Peter would often hide in the closet in his room, trying to create a reality better for himself in there.         Around his tenth birthday, a year shy of Hogwarts, his Father left out of the blue. It was mysterious and without a reason that Peter could find. Peter took on his Mother’s maiden last name as she reverted back to it and they were a small, but happier family for it. Old habits die hard though and Peter was never free from wishing that his Father would come back. Never free from thinking that he was the reason that he had left in the first place.  As the boy headed off to Hogwarts he was worried about making friends, there were fewer opportunities in his childhood to form those sorts of connections. On top of that, he was unsure about what house he felt suited him best – his Father had been in Slytherin, but his Mother had been a Hufflepuff. There was no exception for what he was supposed to be and thus wasn’t sure what to root for. Luckily after his hat stall, he found himself in a sea of red and gold, making fast friends with Sirius, James, and Remus, who were the best people he had met in his entire life.        He would have liked to think that he knew what friendship was before them, but he didn’t. They were much as a family as anything else he had and for the most part, he considered them as such. He was there to listen if they needed to rant or to help Remus study for his exams, more than anything he was happy to have a place where he felt not only safe but wanted. He had spent so much of his life with a poor opinion of himself that it was nice for the tides of change to overcome him while they were in school.  However, throughout this time there was a lot of issues that Peter dealt with in unhealthy ways throughout his time, because it allowed him to fully experience the traumatic and unhealthy nature of his childhood, in a way that he had never been able to process before in order to spare Enid’s feelings on the matter.        After Hogwarts, it hit him that perhaps throughout his time there he ought to have come up with a plan for his future. It was at the suggestion of one of the professors who had been keen enough to notice his non-verbal spell casting talents that he pursue a career with the Ministry as obliviator. It was not like he had any better plans, so that was what he pursued as the world around him began to shift. At the urging of his friends, he joined the Order – terrified – and began to be considered as someone who was apart of the resistance. In all honesty, the prospect of a war terrifies him. As he goes through the motions of weighing the pros and cons of what the outcome of his war has from him, he is beginning to be faced with the bleak realization that the odds might be stacked against them. He doesn’t dare say it aloud though, because saying it aloud makes it real and it’s better for now that it say a thought experiment. 

HEADCANONS:

H1: Peter has always craved attention. There was always something about him that allowed him to naturally blend into the background. Overlooked, and undervalued, he found himself begging for his parent's attention, begging for the positive attention of an adult.  Enid tried her best and probably came closest to that, but everyone else seemed to pass him by. McGonagall undervalues him, pinning him as a bumbling idiot before he can even display talent. His friends are a beacon, but they are also a metric to which he can be compared. He’s not as charming as James, or a smart as Remus, or as cool as Sirius. Peter is always compared to all the nots that comprise him, instead of the positives. Even if someone else doesn’t do it Peter will do it for himself. 

H2: Peter truly enjoys his animagus form. Most people would have been disappointed with a rat, but it brought him a vague sense of comfort. He enjoys the fact that he is a smaller, faster animal in comparison with a larger animal. Not only is it easier to hide in dangerous situations but he likes being in smaller spaces. While most people might be unsettled and feel claustrophobic, Peter just finds it cozy. Something about the whole practice makes him feel safer. So he wouldn’t change it even if he could. 

H3: Peter isn’t often one for vices, in fact by all accounts he’s a lightweight when it comes to liquor. He does have a pesky habit of smoking cigarettes though. It is something he picked up when he got out of Hogwarts. It was a way to destress from his chaotic job at times. It’s something that he has tried to quit a couple of times, but it keeps coming back to him. With the tensions with the war rising steadily since the Curse was laid out, he’s given up on dealing with that particular vice. He is often chided by his mother about the health concerns with them. So when he’s around the company who knows him well he is more likely to hide the habit than he would otherwise. 

H4: Peter has an intense sweet tooth. Probably to the point where the attendants at Honeydukes know his name. When he was younger he collected a ton of the chocolate frog cards. He is also one that would share the wealth if there were people around him to do so. If chocolate frogs aren’t available Sugar Quills are his next favorite. 

H5: Peter often has a stutter. It’s something that happened when he’s nervous. It was really pronounced when he was a kid. His mother would often tell him to work through it and envision the word. As he got older and grew comfortable so it doesn’t happen as often anymore. However, if he’s really intently nervous it will come out for a portion of the time. He hates it and will do his best to hide it if given the option.