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marjansmarwani · 3 years

Text

there ain’t a language for the things I feel

4.8k || ao3

In the wake of a tragedy, the firehouse family tries to move on and pick up the pieces while holding onto hope that seems to slip further and further away.

But nothing's over until it's over and they're going to pick up all the pieces and put them back together, just in case. ----- Day 9 of @911lonestarangstweek: Free Choice

Me getting this done and up just at the end of angst week? More likely than you’d think.

Several people read parts of this as I was working, but @moviegeek03 needs a special thanks for helping me with some of the specifics 💜

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The house at the end of the street looked like all the others.

Its blue siding blended in perfectly with its companions on the quiet residential street and as Judd pulled into the familiar driveway, nothing looked amiss. From the outside, it looked like nothing had happened. From where they stood, everything was fine and this was just a normal day and an average visit. Right now they could be heading to game night or dinner. They could be stopping by to say hello, popping by unannounced as they so often did. But the minute they opened the door that illusion would shatter and they’d have to face the grim reality waiting for them, so they all hovered at the edge of the front walk by some unspoken agreement as they allowed themselves to avoid this for just a few moments longer.

But ignorance couldn’t last forever so eventually, they moved forward.

It was Paul that made the first move, pulling out his keys and selecting the correct one as he approached the door. He slid the key into the lock without a word, all eyes on him as he turned it, pushing open the door to reveal the scene beyond it. There was another moment of collective hesitation on the threshold before Judd stepped forward, grabbing the yellow crime scene tape and pulling it down so they could enter their friends’ living room - or at least, what was left of it.

The once familiar space was unrecognizable as the furniture lay in shambles; splinters of each piece scattered across the room. If they hadn’t known where they were they never would have recognized the space. Nancy toed at the remains of a chair, shifting aside the debris with her foot only to reveal the dark red stain on the floor underneath. She turned away and let the pieces fall back into it.

They had just left the hospital, they had all seen the end result of this destruction. They had already known how bad it could be. Seeing it in this familiar context though? It drove it all home in the most unapologetic way. Nancy in particular was no stranger to the sight of blood, but seeing it in your friends’ home, knowing it belonged to one of them? That was something else entirely and no amount of professional detachment could make this okay. She turned away from the stain - ignoring the sound of glass crunching under her shoe from the shattered picture frames strewn across the floor - beside her to find Paul fingering an indent in the wall with a grim expression. When he felt her looking he met her gaze.

“Knife mark,” he said by way of explanation, his eyes roaming the rest of the walls. “Several of them, by the looks of it.”

Somehow the silence in the room seemed to grow even heavier in the wake of Paul’s words as they all took in the destruction and the damage and the fact that their friends had nearly died in their own home; that they still might, even now.

The silence was finally broken by Judd, his typical drawl much harsher than usual as it sliced through the quiet and dismay that filled the room.

“What the fuck happened here?” he demanded to the room at large, but he got no response. It was the same question they all had and as of yet, there were no answers. Only fear, pain, and a desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, this was as bad as it got. That maybe by some miracle their friends would pull through this, would survive this senseless act of violence.

That somehow TK and Carlos would be okay, because the alternative was too awful to consider.

---------

Marjan had been wrapping up practice when she got the call. It was Mateo on the other line, his shaking voice informing her that he was driving Captain Strand to St. David’s because he had been in the kitchen with the older man and Buttercup when he had been informed.

It was what he had said next that had sent her crashing back down onto the bench, skates in hand and concerned expressions trained on her as she tried her best to not absolutely shatter at the edge of the roller rink.

Nancy was at her sister’s, rolling her eyes at the antics of her nephews as she stirred the sauce on the stove and her sister gossiped about their Aunt Susan and her much younger boyfriend when her phone rang. Then she was out the door, the spoon abandoned on the counter with a shouted apology to her sister as she grabbed her coat and keys and tried to hide how much her hands were shaking as she reached for the doorknob and stepped out into the chilly Austin night. At least, she reasoned as she hurried to her car, if anyone did notice the way she trembled they would assume it was the cold — they didn’t have to know it was because it felt like her world was fraying at the seams.

Paul had been on a date and he felt bad for leaving her at the restaurant, he really did, but there was no other option. He knew his mother would string him up if she ever heard he had done something so rude to any of his dates, but he also had a feeling that in this case even Cynthia Stickland would allow him this one. Maybe he should have taken her home first but she had assured him it was fine and he knew that he couldn’t have handled the wait. He knew that every moment he was driving in the opposite direction of the hospital would weigh on him, that he would crack under the strain and that was not second date territory. So he returned to the table after he ended his call, voice tight as he made his hurried apologies and she assured him that no, it was fine, that she hoped everything turned out okay.

He had somehow managed a smile as he turned away and he thanked her for her sentiments, even if he didn’t share just how desperately he wished they came true.

Judd had been getting their daughter ready for her evening bath when Grace had appeared in the doorway with his phone in her hand and eyes full of fear. He had taken the phone from her and sat heavily on the edge of the tub as Mateo quietly explained what had happened, and where they would be. Grace had already scooped up little Charlotte and merely shook her head when he looked at her.

“You need to go, Judd,” she said softly, squeezing their little girl close as she spoke, “go be with them, and keep me posted. Tell them I’ll be praying.”

And there was so much Judd wanted to say to that, so many thoughts in his head and so many feelings fighting for dominance that in the end, he said nothing. He simply stood on shaking legs and leaned forward to press a kiss to each of his girls, pausing for another moment to hold them both close before he stepped around them, grabbing his coat and heading out into the night.

As he climbed into his truck he tried to tell himself that it would all be okay, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it.

----------

“I talked to Mitchell before we left,” Marjan finally said, breaking the uncomfortable silence filling the room. “She said that APD is done processing, so we can do whatever we want with...what’s left.”

Paul looked up, pulling his gaze from where it had settled on a dark stain on the throw rug. “Did she say if they have any leads? Or even an idea of what happened?”

She shook her head sadly, “No. There’s not much they can go on. None of the neighbors saw anything and all the blood...well, it won’t help to find their attackers, apparently. As for what happened, apparently they have some theories, but we won’t really know anything until one of them wakes up.”

“If they wake up,” Nancy added, voice harsh and quiet as she looked at the destruction around them. She didn’t want to be a pessimist, but the others didn’t know. They knew it was bad, but they hadn’t gotten the rundown from one of the trauma nurses on duty. They didn’t have the medical training to know that what they had been through; that the injuries they had weren’t the kind you always recovered from.

That they could just as easily be fatal, given the chance.

Nobody chastised her for being pessimistic. They simply moved on, nobody willing to dwell on the questions they didn’t have answers to and the fears that they did.

“We should still get this cleaned up,” Mateo said eventually, “so when they get home it looks like nothing happened.”

His words were full of a certainty Nancy wished she felt, but no one countered him either. They all wanted him to be right, Nancy knew and she understood. She wanted him to be right too; she wanted that more than anything.

So she took off her jacket and laid it across the ledge by the front door before pushing up her sleeves heading towards the kitchen.

“I’ll grab some garbage bags,” she called over her shoulder. “Once we’ve cleaned up all the stuff we can’t save we’ll have a better idea of what we’re working with.”

Noises of agreement followed her out of the room and as she pulled open the cupboard under the sink where she knew they stashed the cleaning supplies she allowed herself a moment to embrace Mateo’s unshakable optimism. They would get their home cleaned up so they had somewhere to come home to. They would get it back to normal so it looked like their home and not the nightmare they had walked into.

They would put everything back together so maybe, just maybe, someday when she closed her eyes she would see how it had been before, and not the scene of destruction they had walked into today.

------------

“What happened?” Marjan demanded as she stepped into the waiting room, softening when she saw the faces before her all full of the same fear and panic she was feeling.

“We don’t know,” Captain Strand said eventually with a small, helpless shrug. “Nobody knows. One of their neighbors was walking their dog when she saw the door open. She said something didn’t feel right so she went to check, and she found them.”

He didn’t provide any other details, didn’t specify how they were found and that more than anything filled her with dread.

“Gabriel is trying to get answers,” another voice shared, this one soft and thick. Marjan looked over to see Carlos’s mother in the seat beside the captain, her face pale and eyes full of worry, “I think maybe he thinks it’ll be easier to process if we know. Or maybe he just needs something else to focus on. Either way, he doesn’t seem to be having much luck.”

Marjan followed the older woman’s nod to a figure in the corner, speaking into his phone as he turned his hat over and over in his free hand as his foot tapped against the floor. Even from here his distress was palpable; the fear and worry etched clearly into every inch of his face. It made her wonder once again what had happened. She may have only known Gabriel Reyes for a short period of time and not very well at all, but she knew him well enough to know that whatever had happened was bad. Gabriel Reyes loved his son, she didn’t doubt that. But the man was a Texas Ranger; he had spent a lifetime seeing unthinkable things. Yet here he was, clearly shaken to his very core. For something to have affected him this much...the very idea left a cold feeling of dread seeping through her core.

“Do we at least know how they are?” she questioned again, voice quieter in the face of all the hurt and fear encompassing them.

It was Tommy who spoke this time, the paramedic captain’s voice tight with barely concealed pain and worry, “They’re alive, and that’s something.”

The way she said it made Marjan wonder what she knew and what she wasn’t saying. She wanted to push, she wanted to demand answers. She wanted to know what had happened to her friends; to two of the people that had become family to her.

But it was clear they were all in the same boat, that none of these people knew any more than she did and that they all cared just as much. So she swallowed her questions and sank into the empty seat beside Mateo, glancing around at the others as she did. In some ways this was horrifyingly familiar but in others, it felt so different. Every other time they had at least known what had brought them here and what they were facing. This unknown entity; the uncertainty hung heavy in the air around them and it made her queasy. The questions mixed with her fear, leaving an unpleasant taste in her mouth. But there were no answers to be had and, even if there were, they wouldn’t help.

She sighed and leaned back in the uncomfortable chair as she accepted the inevitable: there was nothing she could do but wait, and hope for the best.

---------

People had always asked Paul why he wasn’t a cop, given his propensity to solve puzzles and spot patterns. There were the obvious answers, of course: that the police force was less than tolerant generally speaking, that the very institution wasn’t something Paul thought he could really take a part in.

Then there was the less obvious but just as true reason: Paul wanted to help people, but he didn’t want to watch them suffer. He wanted to help people to escape the worst moments of their lives, not pick up the pieces after. Firefighters got to do that, cops didn’t.

In that regard, he had a lot of respect for Carlos. How he could do that and still maintain a modicum of sanity and compassion was beyond Paul, but he truly admired him for it. Which, somehow, made this even worse.

Paul already knew that he didn’t have crime scene investigation in him, that hadn’t been a question. But he couldn’t stop himself from trying to put together the pieces as he stood amongst the destruction of his friends’ living room. He couldn’t stop himself from seeing the patterns, from hypothesizing how each bit of damage was caused; on how each bit of blood was spilled. It filled his head with unwanted images the moments as it happened; of what they must have been through.

He had never hated his skills more than he did at this moment. He didn’t want to see this, to imagine what might have happened. He didn’t want to move aside some of the debris to find some blood and wonder whose it was. He didn’t want to dwell on the idea of two of his closest friends suffering; being brutally attacked in their own home. A place that had felt safe, that had almost been a second home to Paul. But that illusion of safety had been shattered and now it just felt like an awful reminder, and he would give anything to be able to look at it objectively.

A part of him wanted to keep going, to keep trying to solve the puzzle before him. It would help, a voice in his mind said, it could bring whoever did this to justice.

And that was tempting. He did want to see whoever had done this pay for what they did. But he also knew that it wouldn’t actually change anything. Carlos and TK would still be hurt, the rest of their family would still be suffering.

------

Home invasion.

That was the reigning theory now. It was a home invasion gone terribly, horrifically wrong. They didn’t know whether they had been home from the start or if they had interrupted it; they didn’t know if it was random or if it was something that had been planned; if they had been targeted. They didn’t know anything, and Paul hated not knowing things.

This was one of those things, someone had said. One of those random acts of violence with no real motive or explanation. Realistically, Paul knew they happened. He just couldn’t understand how it had happened to his friends. He had never put too much stock in the idea of fate - he firmly believed that everyone made their own choices in life - but he couldn’t help but wonder why them. Why did TK and Carlos - two people who had given so much of themselves to help others each and every day - deserve to have so much suffering?

Eventually, they did find the culprit, or culprits, as they soon discovered when one of them tried to use TK’s credit card to pay at a gas station only a few miles from their house, but having the answers didn’t make it make any more sense.

Paul had already known that catching their attacker wouldn’t make everything magically better, but he hadn’t imagined it would make anything worse. But as the detective on the case explained, he found he was wrong. Apparently, according to the one who would talk, he and his buddies had broken into an empty home. It was early evening and the lights were off so they had figured it was a good enough target. But they had been interrupted, he said, when two men had entered the house and caught them in the act. They had all been high, he admitted, so the details were fuzzy, but he knew that one of their group tended to have a particularly violent streak and that that night, he couldn’t be reasoned with.

It was him who had used the knife, their informer clarified, but another had helped. He had thought the two men who had come in were dead by the time he had gotten his buddies to stop, he had admitted quietly, so he had pulled them out of the house as fast as he could and had never looked back.

The room was so silent when the detective finished speaking that you could have heard a pin drop. The sound of Nancy’s chair scraping against the floor as she stood and rushed out of the room cut through the space like a gunshot and it was all Paul could do to simply breathe. Slowly the others reacted too, as Judd started swearing up and down and Marjan rose to follow Nancy, her own eyes moist but her back straight as she strode out of the room. He heard his Captain and Ranger Reyes asking questions but for once, Paul managed to shut that part of himself off.

There was no making sense of this, he decided, so the best thing he could do was focus on helping them move forward instead; assuming that they got that chance.

-----------

Mateo was pretty sure he had developed a stress response to the sight of Ikea furniture.

It always seemed to appear in the aftermath of a tragedy, and he had seen it too many times in the past few years. After the condo fire, after his house blew up, and now as they set about replacing some of the furniture that had once stood in TK and Carlos’s living room.

Maybe it should be a good thing, he reasoned. The furniture came with the rebuilding, after all.

It had come when TK and Carlos had first bought this place and needed a couple of staple pieces quickly. They would buy real furniture soon, Carlos vowed, but until they could get around to it, some cheap and easy pieces would do. Mateo wondered if they had ever gotten around to it. He kind of hoped they hadn’t.

“Man I hope they appreciate this,” Paul said as he flipped through the convoluted instructions for the bookshelf.

“Of course they will.” Nancy countered from the other side of the room. “If they know what’s good for them.”

The light and optimistic banter was a change from the days before. The others seemed more hopeful now, readier to believe the best of the situation. Mateo supposed he had himself to thank for it, he was the one that had insisted from the start that they would be okay, after all.

But the thing is, he’s not so sure he even believes it anymore.

As the others’ optimism grows, his own seems to fade. It’s been too long, a voice whispered in his mind. If they aren’t okay by now, they never will be again.

It’s a thought that keeps returning and as many times as he shoves it aside, as he pushes it back; it just keeps coming and coming and coming. Mateo has always been the optimist. He has always been the one to think the best of everyone except himself. He had always believed that everything would work out.

But he’s tired. There have been so many times and so many nights spent hoping when everyone else was doubting. There have been so many times when the worst should have happened but didn’t, by some miracle. And Mateo was okay with the idea of miracles - he had been raised Catholic, after all. But he couldn’t help but think they were running out, and that was something he wasn’t ready to face.

So he shoved it back again and plastered on a smile as he sorted through the packaging to find the piece Paul was describing. Mateo Chavez was an optimist, he reminded himself. And optimists didn’t give up on their friends.

No matter how bad things might look.

----------

From the moment Grace had handed him his phone time had seemed to slow.

It was the waiting, Judd thought, that made it drag on. All the hours sitting in the waiting room; the sleepless nights spent dreading a phone call to say that the worst had happened. They moved forward and they moved on because they had to, but every moment seemed to stretch as they grew further and further from a time when everything was fine and closer to the moment that could change everything.

Hope seemed to ebb and flow as time marched on and optimism came in spikes. But it wears on them all and Judd wished time could just go back to normal, that this could all be over.

But then he thinks of what “over” might mean, and he backtracks.

For a while it seemed that maybe one of them had better odds than the other. That while one of them might pull through, the other might not. No one really talked about it; what that might mean for the one. They all loved them both and to have either of them with them would be a blessing, Judd didn’t doubt that for a moment. It was what they all wanted more than anything.

But he was also in love, and he knew that those two had the same kind of love that he and Gracie did: all consuming, bright, deep love that wrapped you to another for the rest of time. To truly be one half of a whole. And - it was a thought he kept to himself, of course - he couldn’t help but think that the only thing crueler than losing them both was for one of them to lose the other. He couldn’t imagine facing that and he didn’t want to see anyone else have to go through it either. He knew people did - hell, Tommy was proof enough of that - but if he could he would do anything to spare them the pain of that.

So he prays, more than he has in years. If there were ever a time to test the strength of his healing faith, it was now.

And then, by some miracle, the news finally comes.

He and the others are standing in their living room, taking in the newly repaired space. There isn’t a trace of the destruction they had found when they had first arrived and stepped past the crime scene tape to see the horror within what had been their friends’ home. It now looks almost as it did before: a warm, safe space they had all spent many nights in. A welcoming place that felt a bit like home.

The walls had been repaired and repainted, the floors had been cleaned, the furniture had been repaired or replaced. The pictures had been rehung in new, undamaged frames and all their various knick-knacks and tchotchkes were sitting in their usual spots. The only thing missing now was TK and Carlos.

It was Nancy’s phone that rang, her voice that cut through the room as she asked Tommy what had happened. It was the sight of her collapsing into one of the chairs that drew their attention and stole all their breath. And when she looked up at them, it was her smile and tear-filled eyes that let them know they could breathe again as she said the words they had all been waiting to hear: “They’re going to be okay.”

And then time picked up again and as the others let out sounds of celebration and Paul picked up Marjan to spin her around, Judd simply smiled.

They’re okay, a voice in his head repeated, everything will be fine now.

And for once, Judd actually believed it.

----------

It’s all TK can do not to roll his eyes as his dad insists on helping him out of the back seat of Andrea’s car.

“Dad,” he said evenly, “I can walk, you know.”

“Humor me,” his dad retorted in an unimpressed tone.

TK opened his mouth to argue again but a soft laugh from beside him stole his attention instead.

“Don’t even bother,” Carlos told him, “believe me, I’ve tried.”

Somewhere between Carlos’s words and the warmth in his eyes TK found he couldn’t argue so he nodded and Owen shook his head, mystified.

“I will never understand how you do that. If it were anyone else we would still be having this argument into next week.”

Carlos simply shrugged modestly but TK spoke up as they headed up the walkway to their front door, “It’s just one of his many talents.”

Owen looked beside him to Garbiel with an exaggerated roll of his eyes as Andrea let out a light laugh from behind them. Carlos gave TK a pointed look but it was only met with a grin, and his attention was so devoted to his boyfriend that he almost didn’t notice the small crowd in their living room until they were already there. From there he was forced to do a double-take. His memories of that night were hazy, at best. It was a jumble of pain and fear and worry for Carlos as he watched him being attacked through heavy eyes. His recollection may be less than clear, but he is certain their home had been left in shambles.

Yet here they were, standing in a living room that might just be cleaner than they had left before heading to dinner all those nights ago; before they had come home to find strangers ransacking their home and TK couldn’t understand it.

He looked back to Carlos who looked just as confused as he was before glancing over at the group in the center of the room; his team, their family.

The question must have been clear on his face because Nancy scoffed.

“What?” she demanded, “Did you really think we were just going to let you come home to that mess? It’s like you don’t even know us.”

And TK didn’t have the words to respond to that. Instead, he simply glanced back at Carlos to see the love and gratitude he was feeling reflected in his warm brown eyes before he looked back at the others. He gave them a smile and when Judd moved forward to pull him into a hug, he went willingly, savoring the comfort and love that was emanating from every inch of this space filled by these people.

Someday, when the shock wore off and they were a little stronger, they would find the words to tell them how much it meant. But for now he hugged them all a little tighter and a little longer, and let his whispered thank-yous suffice. They had a long road ahead of them and being okay would take time. But he knew now with more certainty than he ever had before that as long as they had these people, they would always be okay.

#911 lone star #911lsfic #my writing #paul strickland #marjan marwani #nancy gillian #mateo chavez #judd ryder #userkimmy #userjilly #userac #userbones #tuserjamie #tuserpaige #reyesstrand #reyeslonestartag #jazzyjess #buckybarnesalways

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lucky-catttt · 3 years

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Maxwell Lord’s Aphrodite - Pt 1

Summary: When Maxwell Lord’s world comes crashing down, you, his personal assistant bring him back from the pits of despair.

Pairings: Maxwell Lord x Reader (female), Maxwell Lord x You

Rating: Mature 18+ ONLY - I’ve also put a smut alert ahead in bold if you want to skip straight to the good bits ;)

Word Count: 7,381

Warnings: Sexual intercourse, foreplay, mentions of domestic abuse, trauma, drug/alcohol abuse.

A/N: This is my first fan-fic, so the writing might not be fantastic, but if you have any pointers/advice please tell me! I always read stories about Maxwell being a domineering guy and never stories about how he can be romantic and soft. When I watched WW84 especially at the end I saw how emotional and vulnerable he was with Alistair and wanted to write a story that portrayed him as a big cuddly teddy bear under all that masculine exterior. Enjoy!

You’ve worked for black and gold corporation for the better part of 7 years. You were hired as an intern assistant at just 21, soon after the company jettisoned from its humble beginnings inside a matchbox office suite on the corner of a strip mall, to a stock market listed company leasing the top floor in the tallest high rise office building in Los Angeles. Soon after moving in, the top floor office was packed with young, vibrant men and women who helped profits soar. But even at its busiest, Maxwell always made time for his staff. No matter what he was going through, he would give his staff his undivided attention and empathy. If they were having personal or professional problems, he would do everything he could to help. It aligned with his company motto, “life is good, but it can be better”.

He believed it was important to be as personable and helpful to others as possible, he felt that it was imperative to his own success. Only you knew this really stemmed from his less than favourable upbringing, being abused by his father, bullied by his peers and having to work hard for his achievements. He could be having the worst day, but he would never make it known to his team, all except you of course, being his personal assistant. As you spent a large amount of time together, Maxwell confided in and involved you in many personal areas of his life. 6 months after you started working for Max, he invited you and your then boyfriend to his wedding, stealing a waltz from you at the Reception. A year later, when his son, Alistair was born, he would show you picture after picture of baby photos, gushing about how proud he was to be a father. 3 years later when the company had its first day on the US stock exchange, you and Max stayed up all night at the office running through press releases, interviews and planning the next 6 months of his now very hectic schedule. When Alistair would come to the office to visit, you would babysit and play with him, change him, feed him, read him stories and sing him to sleep.

As he started to grow up, you soon rivaled Max in Alistair’s favourite person to spend time with at the office. Two years ago when you ended up in a very bad car accident and broke your arm, Max showed up personally to the hospital looking frantically worried about you. He even brought along Alistair who was helping carry a giant bouquet of flowers, a teddy bear and balloons. He stayed overnight after your surgery, sleeping in the most awkward positions on the single armchair next to your hospital bed. While you were in surgery, he made sure your work health insurance covered every cent and even provided company paid physiotherapy so you could get better properly. You knew you were in love with him since that dance at his wedding, but you had too much respect and adoration for him to be a homewrecker. Plus, you just assumed as he was so involved with all of his staff, that it didn’t mean he would be into you romantically.

As you were required to attend many of the shareholder and CCO/CEO/CFO meetings to take minutes, you became intrigued with the world of business and economics. So you enrolled in a Bachelor’s degree part time through a local University. At the time, women in business was largely unheard of, and to avoid sexist comments and discrimination, you told no one. When the Global Financial Crisis hit, it slammed into Maxwell’s dreams like a meteoroid. Overtime was required at the office and you spent most of your time in Max’s office doing paperwork for staff that had been laid off due to the budget cuts. Each day he would be on the phone, yelling at other business men on the other side of the world. You watched his positive energetic demeanor slowly chip away, as his drinks cart full of spirits and liqueurs dwindled alongside. Not long after, Black and Gold’s Chief Financial Officer and advisors within the company were arrested for Insider Trading and other shady business dealings.

Throughout all of this, you had given Max as much support, personally and professionally as you could, while still being respectful and platonic as he was a married man. With most of the staff gone and the company’s finances in disarray from the GFC and mismanagement, the universe dealt Max the final blow, his divorce. His wife, who was clearly only interested in him for his money and how it could provide her a cushy lifestyle, filed for divorce as the company was failing. She tried to take him to the cleaners financially, but Max was smart enough to have a prenuptial agreement and keep what was left of his dwindling fortune. So she used their son, Alistair, as a pawn in her game. The courts granted Max shared custody, but only one visit per fortnight. This devastated him as his son was his whole world.

He didn’t want to become destitute by giving up his fortune to his wife, but he didn’t want to lose his son, either. It started to tear him apart, leading to drunken nights in his office, alone. Except, he wasn’t totally alone. Every night, after everyone had gone home, you would stay back late each night to check on him and make sure he hadn’t done anything stupid. You would sit in one of the barren office cubicles with a vantage point to his office, but invisible to see from his desk. With tears sitting at the edges of your eyes, you silently watch him drink enough alcohol to chill out a bull, take some pills, flip through photo books of Alistair and start to sob. This went on for months. Overdue bills and foreclosure notices started to pile up on his desk. Egregiously inflated child support payment requests from his ex-wife littered the coffee table in his office.

Today was an exceptionally hard day, Max had received a resignation letter from his second last employee, leaving just you and him in the office. He slept on the futon in his office the night before, waking up looking disheveled, his tie pulled loose, shirt half tucked, suit jacket on the floor and his shoes god knows where. He looked awful.

Night falls, shrouding the office in darkness. Apart from a few desk lights, the floor is cold & dark. As you start packing boxes with office paperwork and belongings, you glance over to see the outline of Max at his desk, with his back turned, silently smoking a cigarette and drinking a glass of whiskey on ice. He reaches back for a brief moment, to press the answering machine, illuminated by his desk lamp. *beep* Message received, Wednesday, 4:33 pm “Hello Maxwell this is Brittany from AMP investments, your lease agreement with us has been defaulted for 6 months now with $150,000 in rent arrears. If it is not paid by the 30th of this month, building management will deactivate access to the floor and repossess any remaining belongings on the property. *beep* End Message. Message received Thursday, 5:43 pm “Max it’s Barb, I’m cancelling Alistair’s visit this weekend, seeing as you don’t want to pay me any extra child support.” *beep* End Message. Message received today, 7:02 pm “Hey Daddy, it’s Alistair, Mommy said I can’t come over because you’re working too much to see me. I wish you weren’t working all the time so we could play together and go to the movies and-“ you hear Barb, Max’s ex wife cut him off with “Alistair? What are you doing on the phone?! Who are you talking to?” Alistair whines, “I wanted to talk to Daddy” suddenly the sound of the receiver slams into the phone. *beep* End Message. You have no new messages.

The office is dead silent, but you can audibly hear the sound of Max’s heart shattering into a thousand pieces. He begins to cry, slowly shrinking in his chair, slumping down with his forearms on his knees and his head bowed. The cries slowly become more intense, with Max gasping for air between the long loud shrieks as his whole body shakes. “Alistair! My Alistair! My boy! I’ve failed you! Your Daddy failed you!” He wails, tears freely flooding down his face and snot dripping out of his nose, both like endless waterfalls. He drops to his knees and collapses onto the carpet, like he’s been shot right through the chest. He continues to sob & wail, forgetting that he isn’t alone in the office. You walk to the doorway of his office, frozen with indecision. Your heart was pounding and eyes on the verge of tears from what you just heard. On one hand you feel like you’re intruding on something extremely personal and maybe somewhat embarrassing for Maxwell, but you’ve never seen him like this and he looked like he was physically dying.

“Mr Lord, is everything okay?” Your soft voice quietly called out from the doorway of his office. Your medicated voice jolts Max out of his catatonic state and into a sitting upright position, as he quickly wipes his face and fixes his hair. “Oh, Ug-I’m so sorry for you to see me like this, it’s quite unbecoming of me” Maxwell apologises, trying to play it off with a light hearted chuckle between quiet heaved sobs. You catch a frozen stare, peering straight into his soul past the bloodshot, weepy but warm, brown irises.

Your heart is thumping hard, as if to try and break out of your ribcage and fly over to him. Max had been there for all of his staff, especially you. You couldn’t walk away after everyone else in his life had abandoned or given up on him. “You don’t need to apologise, Mr Lord.” You slowly reply, stepping over the booze bottles littering his office floor as you walk over to him. He’s frantically adjusting his outfit and hair, to look as put together as possible before you sit down beside him on the floor. You both sit there in silence, with the odd sniffle coming from Max’s nose. You finally pucker up the courage and say “I didn’t want to intrude but I heard the voice messages, I’m so sorry all of this has happened to you, Max”.

He had never heard you say his name before, it was always “Mr Lord”. It felt like honey soothing his dry strained throat as it rolled off your tongue. You continued, “You’ve always been there for me”, you paused to redirect attention, “for all of us. What can I do to help?”. You reach out and place your hand on his. Your warm, soft touch sends a shock wave of emotion through his body. No one has cared about him like this before, let alone touched him in such a gentle way. Max stares at your now teary eyes, realising he can be vulnerable and trust his longest and closest friend.

He collapses by your side, crying into your shoulder “I’m a failure” he sobs “My business, my marriage and most importantly I’ve failed my son. I just hope one day that he can forgive me and love me and be proud of me. He is my whole life, I just want him back”. You start to choke up but you have to remain composed. You look up and away, silently biting your knuckle and blinking tears back into your eyes before responding. “Max, you are not a failure, you are an exceptional human being. You built this company from nothing and you changed peoples lives. And don’t even get me started with Alistair, you’re the best father a kid could ask for, it’s not your fault your ex wife is being abusive”. He continues to sob, so you wrap your arm around his side and let him cry for a few minutes. The smell of his chemically lightened & straightened dark blonde hair filled your nostrils as his forehead pressed against your chin.

His large fingers and palms grip your free hand. They’re surprisingly soft & very warm. You freeze as his touch sends zaps of electricity up your arm and down your body. As Maxwell leans against you, your perfume overloads his senses, bringing him back to a conscious state. What was he doing? He thought to himself. I’m a failure, and everything I get close to fails or leaves. He looks down at your hands. I can’t hurt such an amazing person. I have to rip off the metaphorical bandaid and be cruel to be kind. “Thank you” he sighs, catching his breath after minutes of sobbing “You can go home now. In fact, I want you to take a redundancy payout so you can find another job. There’s nothing left for you here. I’m a failure and I don’t want you drowning with the ship” he says, in a clinically professional voice. Max hands you a company envelope with your name on it. He sits up to take a sip on the remaining whiskey left in his glass.

Your ears begin to burn and your cheeks redden with anger. Tears prick at the edges of your eyes, begging for them to flow. “Alfred will take you home in the company car, or wherever you want to go”. He continues, now smoking a cigarette.

“But what If I don’t want to go?” You whisper, trying to hide the sobs that are trying to break through your voice. “Please, I just want you to be happy” Max replies. You take great offence at his ignorant statements, as if he knows what makes you truly happy. “How do you know what makes me happy, Max?” You huff, standing up abruptly and folding your arms. “Well, I don’t know, but I can’t exactly see how you would be happy staying here while my company fails” he answers, shrugging. You feel your heart begin to break, realising that even being single and having such a close professional relationship with you, Max seemed to hold no deeper feelings for you and was almost starting to turn on you. You stand there wanting to run for the door but trying to think logically. Men are dim, maybe he doesn’t realise your true feelings? Maybe he’s preoccupied with his own and too overwhelmed to face them?

Max’s embarrassment from being caught in such a vulnerable state compounded with offending you takes its toll and he starts to get frustrated and impatient. “I think I just want to be alone now”. He sighs, looking away. The words cut deep, slicing you apart like ribbons. You begin to feel yourself fall apart, your emotions and thoughts spilling out with force. “I can’t leave” you sob, hanging your head in shame. Hearing you start to cry, he starts to hate himself more as he's clearly made you upset. With emotions bubbling over, he stands up, looking at you with tears in his eyes. “Why? Why can’t you leave!?” He shouts, a pained look of frustration and confusion on his face as he puts his hands on your arms, gently shaking you to get you to speak.

The last of the ribbons tying up your words from coming out fall down around you. You look deep into his crazed brown eyes, longing for an answer. “Because I love you!” You blurt out, sobbing. The tension in the room is now thick enough to cut with a knife. “I’ve loved you since the night we danced at your wedding. I fell in love with one of the most empathic, intelligent, hard working and compassionate men I know. You changed my life and every day I wish I could’ve shown you the love & kindness you deserve. That you need”. You step back from his grip, straightening your pantsuit as you compose yourself. “But I guess if I’m not needed anymore, I’ll leave you alone, Mr Lord”. The duality of your emotive declaration of love against the rigid clinical final words lurched his heart forward like a freight train and then slammed against his rib cage with the force of 100Gs.

You start to stride towards the door, but Maxwell follows behind you quickly, grabbing your hand, where you turn around on your heels. He grabs both of your hands and brings them up between you, squeezing them gently. “Pl-please don’t, don’t leave me” he begs, “you-you’re all I have left”. His dark brown eyes shimmer with tears as he shoots you a pleading gaze. He drops to his knees, wrapping his arms around your legs and squeezing tight like he's hanging on for dear life. You stand frozen on the spot, feeling Max’s warm breath on your legs as he heaves a few more cries. As you start to run your hands through his dark blonde locks, the sensation calms your mind and you reach your hands down to cup Max’s face, tilting it up to look at you. “I won't, Max” you say with a concerned gaze. “As long as you don’t push me away”. Max nods silently as he reaches into his jacket pocket to pull out his pocket square. He stands up and starts to gently wipe your tears away. “I’m so sorry” he apologises “I lashed out because I felt like a failure and I didnt want to let you down anymore and disappoint you.” he continues while making sure he’s wiped all of the tears from your cheeks and cleaned up some of your smudged makeup. “You’re not a failure, Max” you reply, “You’re an incredible man and you should be proud of everything you have achieved”.

Max gives you a small smile, blushing slightly as he gently embraces you with his big arms, pulling you close against his chest. His strong cologne masked the slight tinge of body odour from not showering mixed into a masculine and attractive scent. You quietly inhale as much as your lungs will allow, savouring every smell. As he starts to brush through your curls with his large fingers, he plants a small kiss on your head, making you feel like you could melt out of his arms and into a puddle on the floor. “I’m sorry, too.” you whisper. “Sorry for what?” he quizzes, looking down at you, puzzled. “For telling you that I love you. It’s true, but I feel like it was not the most appropriate time to tell you with everything that’s going on with Alistar, the company, your-” Max interrupts your sentence “Come with me”. Max strides you across his office floor with his arm around your waist. You both walk over to an unassuming door, which you always thought led to a supply closet. Upon its opening, you step into the room to reveal a whole bedroom, complete with a dining table, sofa, TV and ensuite. You had been Max’s personal assistant for 7 years and had no idea such a room even existed. “Wow” you manage to blurt out in complete shock. “I had this room made so that when I was working long hours my ex-wife and Alistair could stay here” Max explained, adjusting bits and bobs around the room “Although my ex-wife never stayed. She always accused me of sleeping with other women in this bed when in fact I was actually working. I kind of live here now, having sold my estate to pay to keep the company running”

He gestures to you to sit on the timber art deco dining chair, as he picks up the phone on the coffee table. “Alfred. Can you please take a drive and bring back any decent takeout food you find. Make sure to get some for yourself, too”. Max hangs up the phone before turning on the radio and then grabs two wine glasses from the small bar by the lounge and a bottle of red wine. He places both glasses on the table and fills both half way. You pick up your glass and walk over to the floor to ceiling window, overlooking downtown LA. As Max is fussing over tidying and making the room perfect, he glances over to see you standing alone, looking out the window. Lost in your own little world, you feel Max’s large soft hand intertwine with your free hand. “I started black and gold in a shoebox office inside a strip mall, over there, in South LA” he points just in front of the hills. He pauses. “I expect that after I get evicted I won’t even be able to lease that same office”. You give his hand a small squeeze. “Maybe I could help you”. Max looks at you dubiously. “How do you mean?” He inquired.

Just as you were planning to answer, Alfred arrives with some food. Max walks over to your dining chair and pulls it out, gesturing for you to sit. You take your seat and he flaps a linen napkin into your lap, before sitting down adjacent to you. Alfred had bought some delicious Mexican food, the intoxicating smell of meats, cheeses and spices filling the room. “Thank you, Alfred. I’ll call you again if we need anything” Max smiles, patting Alfred on the back as he leaves. You both sit at the table for hours, eating, drinking and talking about the company. Max finally learns the secret that you’ve been hiding about studying at University. “I haven’t officially graduated yet, but learning what I have, I could probably help Black and Gold get out of its current predicament. I also might know some investors that I befriended in the same units as me from the University”. Max shoots you a soft smile. “You really are the best assistant and friend anyone could ask for” he beams, placing his hand on yours. Embarrassed by his compliment and burning with desire to want to kiss him, you stand up and head over to the couch to distract yourself from your intense feelings. Max realises the use of the word friend was probably a poor choice. He must be honest with you and tell you how he feels. Max joins you on the couch where your arms are crossed and you’re staring ahead. You’re trying to avoid eye contact else you’ll burst into flames.

********SMUT ALERT********

“I hope you don’t think I’m rude or ignoring the impassioned declaration you made earlier” Max smiles “I just wanted to give you a semi-decent first date”. You feel your cheeks begin to blush and you unfold your arms. “The truth is” Max continues, resting his hand on yours. “I feel the same way about you. Even before my ex-wife divorced me, I started to fall in love with you. The way you are with Alistair, how committed you are to helping me. I just didn’t think you’d wanna be with an older man like me and even more so when everything started to go downhill”.

You place your hand on top of Max’s, both now staring at each other softly yet intensely. “Max” you turn to face him, edging closer. Max nervously places his hands on your cheeks. “I’ve waited for 7 years, please kiss me”.

Max finally kisses your lips, setting your whole body alight. Dizzy from the sensation, you lay back on the couch as Max follows down on top of you. He begins peppering slow, thoughtfully placed kisses down your jaw and neck. You let out a whimper as your hands twirl through his hair. Every movement he makes is slow, as if he is trying to slow down time and make this moment last forever. Max comes back up and passionately kisses your mouth, your tongue begging his for entrance. As your tongues intertwine, he holds your head and neck with one hand, while stroking your hair with the other. Max holds you gently yet strongly in his arms, like he’s holding onto a fragile Fabergé egg. With the position you’re in on the couch and the impracticality of your work attire in non-work sitting positions, he senses that you’re uncomfortable.

“May I?” He asks, holding the zipper to your dress as he places his arms behind your back. You nod and he slowly unzips it, gently slipping it off you and carefully folding it over the armrest of the lounge. Overcome with passion and desire from Max’s romantic gestures, you blurt out “I want you to take me, Max”. Without a word, he scoops you up in his arms and walks you over to the bed, placing you down gently in the middle. Max sits at the foot of the bed, marvelling at your stunning body. You’re wearing stockings and a purple lingerie set, coincidentally Max’s favourite colour.

Max leans down and kisses the top of your foot, peppering kisses up your legs before reaching the clips of your garter belt. He unclasps them before rolling down the stockings, kissing back down your legs. Burning with desire, you unclasp your bra and garter belt, throwing them to the side of the bed. Max looks up from kissing your legs to see your breasts exposed in the moonlight, your nipples hard from his gaze.

“Y-you look absolutely beautiful” he chokes before climbing up on top of you to reach your face. You blush, feeling Max’s extremely hard cock straining in his suit trousers against your thigh. “Kiss me, Max” you moan, brushing your lips against his and moving your hand down towards his crotch. Max slowly and passionately begins to kiss you, your tongues swirling in each other’s mouths, the taste of wine and chilli making for a sensual combination. As your hand reaches Max’s crotch, you begin to grope and rub his sizeable length, causing him to let out a loud moan. You shoot him a cheeky sexual gaze, but he grabs your hand and brings it up for you to cup the side of his face. “Not just yet my little dove” he whispers. You pout but decide to put your hands to better use and unbutton his shirt, revealing his strong chiseled chest. Max starts to breathe deeper from arousal as you unbuckle his belt and throw it to the floor. “I want to take my time with you” Max whispers “You’ve waited so long and I want this moment to be everything you deserve. I want to worship and pleasure you completely”.

Your pussy is now completely soaked, the faint squelches from your juices against your panties sounds in the background of Max kissing your neck. Maxwell is more preoccupied with taking his time in a combination of making up for lost time with you, giving you the best first time with him and making this moment last as long as possible. “Guide me” Max sighs between kisses, giving you his free hand. Holding it with both hands, you guide him down your neck and to your breasts. Max traces your breasts, flicking your nipples as he watches you whine with pleasure. Slowly he leans down and begins to suck on them, gently swirling his tongue and flicking. He kisses from one breast to the other, squeezing them in his hand. “Your body is perfect. Your skin is so soft.” he moans. By this time you’re rubbing your thighs together in an effort to stimulate your clit without your hands as they’re gripping Max’s dark blonde hair.

“Max, take off your pants” you pant, becoming overstimulated from all this teasing foreplay. He stands up off the bed and unzips his trousers, pulling them down to reveal his rock hard cock. “Oh Max” you moan, reaching down under your panties to touch yourself as his cock twitches. Max hurriedly crawls onto the bed and back up to your face, pulling your hand out of your panties. He brings your fingers close to his mouth and rubs them on his lips before bringing his tongue out to swirl around them, sucking your juices off them. “Touch me Max” you immediately whimper “I need your touch”. Max moans before kissing you passionately. As you both enjoy your tender kiss, Max traces his hand down your body, over your breasts, along your stomach and reaches the edge of your panties. Max reaches into your panties and gently places a finger at the top of your pussy, gently but firmly pressing down as he traces over your clit and down to your opening. Your wetness has coated every inch of your pussy. “You’re so wet” he pants, the sensation starts to send some beads of precum out the tip of his cock. “For you” you moan, writhing in pleasure at his calculated & lingering touch.

Looking deep into your eyes, Max rubs your folds slowly before he inserts two fingers gently but deep inside you. He begins to switch between a circling and a come hither motion on your g-spot, sending sparks shooting up through your body. You arch your back and let out a moan, while Max kisses your neck. “Oh Max baby that feels so good” you moan, gripping the sheets. “You feel amazing” Max sighs, brushing your hair out of your face so he can study your facial expressions as he pleasures you. Just when you thought it couldn’t feel any more amazing, Max places his thumb onto your clitoris, bringing you closer to climax in a matter of milliseconds. “Oh my god Max, Max I’m gonna cum” you moan into his neck, biting him. Max continues fingering you, intently watching your face waiting for you to reach orgasm.

Between Max’s fingering, his kisses and eye contact it doesn’t take long for it all to send you over the edge, riding into a full body orgasm, squirting all over Max’s hand. “You’re so beautiful baby” Max coos, holding your body close with his fingers still inside you as your back arches and your body trembles while you let out a long loud moan. Despite this exquisite display and sensation happening between your legs, Max keeps eye contact with you, peering deep into your soul, completely enamoured. As you start to come down from your orgasm, Max slowly removes his fingers and sucks them clean. “You taste incredible, so sweet baby” he moans, licking the squirt off his hand. As you begin to catch your breath, Max kisses down your body and reaches your pussy, where he begins to lap up the rest of your juices. Very gently, Max parts the puffy pussy lips covering your clit. He starts to lick in between the folds, avoiding your clit as it recovers from the intense orgasm. He travels down to your entrance where he sticks his tongue inside, tasting your juices inside you.

The hum from his moan as he eats you out relaxes you like a lullaby. Max then comes back up to your face, kissing your forehead. “That was incredible Max” you pant, staring up at the ceiling. He rests his lips against your neck, cupping your breast and gently squeezing it and thumbing your nipple. “Let me pleasure you Max, please” you beg, giving him a pleading gaze. Max obliges as you change positions with him now lying on his back. You cup his face with one hand, giving him a loving smile as his hand grabs yours. He starts to kiss you as your hands both guide down his chest, stomach and reach his groin. You begin to tease him, tracing your fingertips around the base of his cock, then up the shaft. Your light touches cause his cock to twitch. “Your touch is magical'' Max groans as your hand grips his shaft and travels up to his tip. His precum has soaked the head, giving you enough lubricant to slowly jerk your hand up and down, gripping tightly.

The sensation for Max is heavenly, panting and moaning between kissing your cheeks and forehead as you concentrate your gaze on his pulsing cock. Your jerking movements become more intense as you look up to see Max with his eyes closed, like he’s dreaming and if he opens them you’ll cease to exist. You continue to jerk him as you kiss his neck, feeling his cock harden even more and begin to pulse rapidly, like he’s getting close. “W-wait” Max whimpers. “I want this night to be about pleasuring you. Your mere presence pleasures me enough.” He kisses your hand & cups your cheek, looking deeply into your eyes. “What can I do to please you? Would you like t-to make love?”. Your heart bursts with emotion as this man is so set on pleasuring you so much. “Yes Max, I would love that very much” you sigh.

You lay back down on the bed, Max lying by your side. He begins to embrace you, running his hands over your body before kissing down your neck and chest as he rubs your clit. Max stops for a moment, studying your beautiful naked body. He then moves down and pushes your legs up, exposing your pussy. As you squeeze your breasts and look at his chiseled jaw, Max nervously lines up his cock before rubbing it on your clit, soaking the tip in your wetness. Impatient with how he’s teasing you, you whisper “Fuck me Maxwell”. Slowly, he pushes his cock down your clitoris and through your folds before the tip pushes inside. Without even being all the way inside, he moans “this must be what Heaven feels like”. With one gentle thrust, he’s completely inside, shuddering as your warm, tight, wet walls squeeze his cock shaft and tip. “Oh my god Max. You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this moment” you moan, as he starts to slowly thrust. “M-me too beautiful” he grunts, feeling pure ecstasy wash over him as your pussy tenses, massaging his twitching length. A few minutes go by of you both silently staring intensely into each other’s eyes, kissing passionately. With every thrust you begin to connect deeper to Max, your bodies intertwining on a physical, emotion and spiritual level. Max’s cock twitches inside you as he watches you moan and bite your lip, squeezing your breasts.

“I can’t believe you love a man, a man like me” Max says still in disbelief, watching your body motion up and down as he slowly strokes in and out of you. He studies your body intensely, watching the moonlight and shadows play across your curves as your breasts bounce with every thrust. “You’re so beautiful Hermosa”, his mother tongue now coming through “como una diosa, like, A-Aphrodité.” he sighs, cupping your face with both hands. You cover his hands with yours, interlocking your fingers, turning your face each way slightly to kiss his palms and stare back at him lovingly and seductively, feeling like you could float away. “Your Aphrodite” you sigh, arching back slightly in pleasure, gripping his hands to guide them down to your breasts for him to lovingly caress and fondle. In slight shock at your romantic response, he immediately leans down whilst thrusting and peppers kisses all over your lips, letting out a sniffle.

With his eyes closed, focusing on lasting to bring you pleasure and to hide his emotions, a few tears drop onto your cheeks as he continues to thrust, now grunting each time into your neck to cover up the small sobs. You kiss his cheek, to take his tears away, the saltiness turning into sweet nectar on your tongue. “It’s okay baby, you can be vulnerable with me, I will protect you. I love you”. You choke, now crying also. Both sharing a connection transcending physically, in that exact moment, without an increase in volume, the lyrics of the Bob Dylan song playing on the radio seem to stand out and ring true in this very moment;

Storm clouds are raging all around my door, I think to myself I might not take it any more. Take a woman like your kind, To find the man in me. But, oh, what a wonderful feeling, Just to know that you are near. Sets my a heart a-reeling, From my toes up to my ears...

Your foreheads now together, staring deeply into each other’s eyes, Max whimpers “I love you so much” as his whole body begins to tense, signalling he’s on the precipice of an orgasm. Feeling his cock become even harder as it thrusts into the deepest part of your pussy, slamming the extra nerves to unlock your powerful orgasm. “Oh my god Max I’m gonna cum” you moan, slamming your eyes shut as you begin to try and slow down so this moment can last forever. “Cum mi reina” Max pants, keeping the tempo of his thrusting steady as the waves of your orgasm reach its peak before crashing down & flooding your entire body. Your body arches and trembles as you scream “Oh Max!” while your pussy clamping down & releasing in pulses on Max’s cock. The sight of you orgasming tied with the sensation around his cock sends Max over the edge. “Cielo” Max groans, shuddering all over as his cock spurts thick ropes of cum against your sensitive cervix. You both share a passionate kiss as Max’s cock softens inside you. “That was amazing Max” you pant, your body weak from the two mind blowing orgasms Max gave you.

Max collapses on the bed beside you, kissing your neck and running his fingers through your hair. “I can’t wait for us to do that again” Max chuckles against your neck. You kiss Max’s forehead, sighing as your body still slightly shakes from the two powerful orgasms Max just gave you. “I think a shower is in order” He embraces you momentarily before scooping you up in his arms and carries you off the bed, walking towards the ensuite. “Are you ever gonna let me walk again?” You giggle, nestling into his neck. “I like feeling you be as close to me as possible” Max laughs, before your feet land back on the tiles inside the bathroom. Max turns on the water and you both step into the shower, the steam now filling the room. Max has an assortment of body washes and shampoos, ranging from musky to citrusy and floral scents. You step closer to Max as he takes some lavender body wash and begins to rub it down your back, his hands dancing over the rest of your body as he starts to wash you. “I know I keep saying this, but you are so beautiful” Max sighs, running his hands over your ass, grabbing a cheek in each hand. “You’re not too bad yourself, handsome” you giggle against Max’s neck.

You both spend at least an hour in the shower, washing each other, chatting and sharing a few more intimate moments. Soon, the wine from dinner, the warm shower water, the scent of lavender and your fatigue from your orgasms starts to take its toll and you feel your eyelids drooping. Max finishes washing you and grabs a towel to help you dry off with. As your eyelids close completely Max has already scooped you up and walked back to the bed, placing you in the middle before wrapping you up in blankets and placing a small kiss on your forehead. “Goodnight my love” he whispers. “Mmmm” you moan, already in a dream state. Max soon gets under the covers with you, embracing you tightly as he watches you sleep, twirling his fingers through your hair. The smell of lavender on your skin soon lulls Maxwell to sleep.

The next morning you wake up, dazed and a little hungover, but well rested. As you look around the room, you survey the many pieces of clothes, miscellaneous items and wine bottles strewn across the floor in a tornado of passion from the night before. As your eyes adjust to the sun, you see Max in an under-shirt and pyjama pants over by the dining table. Max, in his own little world, frantically setting the dining table with some breakfast Alfred had brought up while you were sound asleep. He’s making sure everything is laid out perfectly, straightening the cutlery and pouring Orange Juice and Champagne into a glass from the bar. He hears the cotton sheets move behind him, immediately turning around to see if you’re awake. “Good morning beautiful” Max hums, rushing over to the bed to pepper your cheeks and lips with hundreds of little kisses. “Morning handsome” you giggle, running your hands through Max’s hair, in an attempt to match your bed hair. “Are you hungry, mi amor?” he asks between kisses. “I’m famished” you reply, stretching to help you wake up more. As you writhe around in the sheets you notice you’re wearing a chiffon baby doll.

“I hope you don’t mind I uh, had it in the wardrobe & wasn’t sure if you liked to sleep naked so I put it on you just after you fell asleep.” Max laughs, scratching the back of his head. You blush, feeling embarrassed that you got that drunk, but Max’s reassuring smile makes you feel at ease. “I do usually sleep naked, but I like it, it makes me feel beautiful”. Max sighs “so beautiful”, wrapping you up in a tight embrace and planting a single kiss on your forehead. Max scoops you up and carries you out of bed before you lightly plant your feet onto the carpeted floor. As you glance over to the dining table, Max comes up behind you and helps you slip on a long beautiful chiffon robe, accented with feathers on the hem.

“Another little something for my beautiful mariposa” Max coos, kissing your cheek before pulling out your chair at the dining table. You feel like you’re walking on clouds as you step over to your chair and sit down, Max flapping a napkin onto your lap. “Oh my goodness Max you’re such a gentleman” you blush. “My mother taught me to show women the highest level of respect and care. She made me the man who I am today.” Max replies, looking out the window momentarily. You outstretch your arm across the table to squeeze Max’s hand “And she would be so proud of the man that you’ve become” you beam with a sweet smile. Max soon draws your attention to the diverse spread of pastries on the table, pointing out the different fillings of each and asks if you would like coffee. You nod before noticing a large bouquet of red roses in the middle of the table. As Max places a few pastries on your plate, you feel a sense of intense attraction wash over you like a wave.

Your internal monologue starts to read back to itself, reflecting on how loving, generous and respectful Max is towards you. How much he takes care of you and oh god, how handsome he looks…you start to feel aroused by this somewhat submissive gentleman, sensing a rising heat from your core. Max submitted to your every want and desire last night, raising you up and worshipping you like a goddess, now you wanted to submit to him. Knowing now that you can be vulnerable and honest around Max, you lean back in your chair, biting down on a blueberry pastry.

To be continued..... ;) muahahahaha

a special thanks to the users below for the inspiration and encouragment!

@pintsizemama @anaaaispunk @maxlordsgf @rav3n-pascal22, @pedrostories, @absurdthirst @pedrosbrat

#maxwelllord #maxlord #max lord x reader #max lord x you #max lord smut #maxwelllord smut #max lord x f!reader #maxwell lord x f!reader

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razrbladekiss · 3 years

Text

Tyrants | Chapter One - Disclosure

A/N: This was supposed to be a Jax x Fem!OC fanfic, but it took a little turn as I started to write more of it. So, it’ll be Tig x Fem!OC, but Jax does play a very important role in this.

SUMMARY: A sick turn of events sees Isla Telford thrown in at the deep end, battling to govern the sudden pressures of all that her father's club decidedly bestow upon her.

WORD COUNT: 2.7k

WARNINGS: Brief mentions of murder, the guy that got his ass shit is in this one. Jax and Tig get their own warnings, too, for obvious reasons.

The older I get, the more I realize that age doesn't bring wisdom. It only brings weary.

John Teller was always so astute.

His judicious character befell his son, too. Jax had that same perceptive nature as his old man--everyone would comment on that.

To Isla, it was admirable. For Jackson Teller to be a man of such stature--to hold such a reputation--and to remain somewhat level-headed through it all, was only something she could commend.

She'd seen many of her father's friends crumble under the pressure of Samcro, unable to balance the weight of living with the responsibility and commitment to the club, and meet their unfortunate demise--in some not-so extreme cases.

But Jax was different. He'd always been different.

Maybe that wasn't so great, however.

"You're fucking insane, Isla."

"Not insane." She mumbled, sifting through the box of shitty medical supplies that Gemma had left atop the pool table last night.

"Just trying to patch this shit up so Hayes doesn't kick the fucking bucket before Jax gets back here."

Tig snarled. "But it might be infected, and the bullet is still in this dude's ass--"

Isla whipped her head to glare at the man, her eyes wide, forehead slick with sweat--and a little blood, too.

"Shut the fuck up."

"Isla--"

"Tig, with all due respect, unless you're gonna help, please get the fuck outta here."

"That's not gonna suffice," he pointed out, referring to the medical tape, ignoring her scolding.

She wanted to throttle him. Truly, Isla was willing to wrap her crimson-coated fingertips around Tig's neck and squeeze the absolute life out of that man.

"I know." Her lips kneaded together in frustration, watching her father dab an alcohol-infused pad on the wound. "But unless you've got any better ideas, then we're just gonna have to keep reapplying this shit."

"But the infection, Isla."

"But the lack of medical equipment, Tig."

He slapped his palm against the table and glared at her, pointedly. "Why've you gotta be such a bitch all the time, huh?"

"Watch it, Trager." Piqued, Chibs growled.

"I'm not a bitch all the time," she dismissed her father, wiping at her palm with a wet rag. "I'm actually able to control the way I act around other people."

"Oh, fuck you--"

"Christ!"

The Scot's yell was muffled by the cap of his whiskey bottle, his hand pressing against Cameron's skin as the man screamed into the cloth Isla had placed underneath his head.

"God, for fucks sake, both of you just pack it in."

"Chibs--"

"Shut the fuck up. You're a fucking geriatric and you're spending your morning bickering with an almost thirty-year-old. Grow up, Tig."

Despite laughing at his comment, and enjoying the irritation wash over the other man's face, she felt bad.

For riling her father up--who was simply trying to help the innocent Irishman caught in the literal crossfire--she felt fucking awful. Especially because he never seemed to get mad at her all too often.

Tig, though...That was a different story entirely.

"I'm gonna go see if Clay has any more shit lying 'round here." She declared, throwing a damp towel onto the table, backing out of the room.

Her heart was in her throat, stomach in damn knots. Isla wasn't confident that Cameron was going to make it--not with such a deep wound.

And in his ass, too? Jesus. She wasn't confident at all.

Of course, she'd seen men get shot. Her own father, for one. But she hadn't seen somebody have to go so long without actual medical attention.

Chibs was ex-army med, but there was only so much a man could've done with a bottle of liquor, gauze, and a towel.

She was relieved that the bullet hit Cameron and not Clay, though. As sick as it sounded, she was so fucking glad that he'd managed to dodge the line of fire--initially intended for his own skull--and come out completely unscathed.

But for every ounce of relief she'd felt, an even more fervid sense of anger prevailed at the thought of Jax taking so damn long with those medical supplies he'd sought to get last night.

Gemma mentioned something about heading to the hospital--or a friend's house, or something--but Isla wasn't paying any mind to the woman as she, and Chibs, were trying all ways to stop the bleeding coming from Cameron's ass cheek.

It was the most bizarre turn of events she'd ever experienced.

One minute, Isla was sipping on a glass of wine while she eagerly awaited the spirited ping of her tiny microwave oven, ready to spend a rare--though well fucking deserved--night alone.

However, things took a drastic turn when she received a call from Tig--on behalf of a very busy Chibs--casually requesting her assistance because the Mayans had tried to assassinate Clay.

But Tig failed to mention that the man was completely fine.

She'd spent fifteen minutes on the way over mentally preparing herself, wondering what hell she'd walk into when she set foot into the clubhouse. But it was normal--strangely so.

Isla wasn't a professional, she didn't exactly know how to handle such a trauma, but she trusted her father and she just wanted to make sure he had a helping hand.

God knows that Tig wouldn't have been very much use, and Juice was a little nervous--though, he was doing incredibly well throughout the ordeal regardless of his internal apprehension.

"How's it looking?" Gemma threw at Isla, getting to her feet.

"Bloody."

She quickly scanned the room, taking in the uncomfortably sparse bar. It wasn't usually so empty, so quiet.

Clay, Gemma, and Juice. That was it. Not even Piney--not even Epps.

"Is he doing okay?"

It was still early in the day, though. She guessed that they'd pop in once they properly came around.

"He's better than he was last night." The brunette nodded. "Dad is certain the laceration is gonna get infected if we leave it any longer without trying to get the bullet out--"

"You've gotta wait 'til Jax gets back here, Isla, we can't risk Hayes dying on us."

"I know, Clay. He's just fucking tired--he's been up all night. We need a real medic on the scene before something bad happens. It's only a matter of time."

He mumbled something to himself that only Gemma seemed to catch, but Isla didn't particularly give a damn at that point. Like Chibs, she was exhausted.

The tattered and torn plaid shirt she had thrown over a random tank top--now smeared with another man's blood--was wrenched between her fingers as she pulled it off, folding it not-so-neatly.

She hadn't dealt with such a bloody wound in a while. Not since her mother's palm, decorated with shards of glass, was in dire need of stitches and her father was across the country, unable to offer his medical assistance.

"I'll grab one of Jax's shirts for you--"

"No, Gemma, it's okay," she smiled, taking a seat on one of the couches opposite her.

The older woman pinched her eyebrows together skeptically, watching Isla shift. "I insist."

"It's fine." Isla was adamant. "I'm gonna head home as soon as Jax gets back here--if he gets back here--so, really, it's fine."

A minimal amount of already dried blood was spread over her wrists and fingers, and the excess had been rubbed off on her crimson flannel, so she didn't particularly feel bad about making any mess.

Though, she shouldn't have felt bad. Not after she'd been coerced into helping and eventually receiving that shitty reception from Tig.

"Aren't you cold?" She questioned, waiting for Isla to capitulate, but she never did.

The thought of wearing one of Jax's shirts--after it being given to her by his fucking mother--didn't sit right with her for some reason. Plus, she didn't particularly feel like walking out of that building wearing the damn reaper on her back.

She didn't want to flaunt their patch. Not any more than she already had been for the last ten years.

"Where the fuck is he?"

Clay glared at the clock on the wall, realizing they'd been without the Vice President for hours. In an attempt to put him at ease, Gemma ran a hand along his shoulder.

Isla could only watch them--admire, perhaps.

"He told us he was gonna swing by Tara's place for the equipment. But that was last night, man." Juice shrugged, circling the lip of his beer bottle with his thumb.

She felt her throat thicken with a sick sense of trepidation. She hadn't heard that name in years.

"Tara?" She stuttered, feeling Gemma's piercing glare.

The woman hated Jax's first love, though she never said it aloud. Isla knew her perception of her, however, and she'd started to feel the exact same as the years went on.

Bitch.

"Yeah, y'know, Tara Knowles--"

Her heart sank--fuck that, it dove straight to the deep caverns of her chest, throbbing away into nothing. Until she felt completely void of all emotion. Completely fucking numb.

"I know her, Juice." Her response came hastily, snappy. "I'm sorry. I just didn't expect you to say that."

He shrugged it off. "It's alright. I wasn't expecting her to be back in town, either. I thought you already knew."

Suddenly uncomfortable, Isla's head shook.

The crow situated at the bottom of her spine began to smolder, blistering away at her skin until she physically flinched.

It was a brilliant idea at the time, getting a matching tattoo with Jax's old lady--the one woman she truly adored and trusted, never once feeling an ounce of malice toward.

Because that was a rare thing for Isla, and she wanted their friendship--and relation to Samcro--to prevail for eternity, she supposed.

But as time went on and Tara decided to distance, and eventually alienate, herself from the club, an ample sense of regret persisted for fucking months.

Isla loathed her ink. She hated the negative connotation of the crow she once lauded, and the mere idea of that thing being slapped above her ass forever churned her stomach.

It wasn't one of her finest moments, she had to admit. But she was young and extremely fucking dumb. She'd bet top dollar that Tara felt the same--if she hadn't gotten the crow covered up already.

"Jesus, Jax, where were you?!"

Her eyes flicked upward, attention on the blonde as he sauntered across the wooden floor of the bar.

She hadn't even noticed his presence until Clay spoke, but she soon started to heed how Jax was trembling a bit with every step that he took.

It wasn't obvious. To most people, the slight shake of his wrist would've gone completely unnoticed. But to Isla--to the most observant woman in Charming--his discomfort was striking.

Jax ignored him, stomping his way toward the back room. His line of sight never satisfied Isla's. It didn't even come close to it, either.

Something had happened. It was obvious that, in the time he had been with Tara, he'd encountered something grizzly enough to chill him to the bone.

Which was saying something, what with the horrific shit that he'd already seen in his time.

"Jax!" Clay yelled, following closely behind him. "Hey, asshole, where the fuck did you put the bag--"

"I've got it."

If she had the option, Isla would've allowed the floor to swallow her fucking whole.

"Tara." Pissed, Gemma acknowledged. "You're here because?"

"I asked her to help, mom."

"But Chibs had it covered. He just needed some actual instruments--"

"Gemma, quit it."

She simply nodded at her son, not wanting to cause another problem that she'd have to fix later--which, honestly, Isla was shocked to see.

"He's in there--"

"I know." Jax cut her short, ushering Tara to the back of the clubhouse--striving to get her into the room before she heeded Isla.

But she did.

The first person she clocked--aside from Clay--was Isla Telford, the woman she had purposely alienated herself from ten fucking years ago.

It wasn't anything that she'd particularly done to Tara, more like the crowd she ran with--and the way her loyalties never seemed to lay very closely to her friends, or anything outside of the club.

Isla wasn't a part of Samcro--she didn't want to be a part of Samcro--but her coalition was strong enough to convince anybody that she was more than merely a daughter of a Sgt. at Arms.

She had been brought up around the Sons--her father's choice, of course--and when her mother passed, she had no choice but to dive a little bit deeper into that world. But, as expected, it was constantly under the watchful eye of her old man.

She was dedicated to them. They were, essentially, family, and she was an honorary member.

"Isla." Jax mumbled, nodding his head toward the entrance of the clubhouse as he closed the back-door. "Outside."

He pulled a carton of cigarettes out of his leather vest, shaking the box as he strived to seem a little less suspicious to Clay and his mother.

The blonde wobbled to her feet--knees weak after hours of standing--while simultaneously pulling her bloodied flannel back onto svelte, freckled arms, recognizing that the chill was to hit her the second she stepped onto the gravel.

Jax was casual while he strutted ahead, taking long strides that Isla found fucking impossible to keep up with.

He pushed the door to close behind her, offering a cigarette that she hastily declined.

"What's she doing here?" Was how she decided to break the silence, her eyes searching for a hint of something written on his face.

But there was nothing. Not an ounce of emotion--scarily so.

"She's fixing Cameron up--"

"Not at the clubhouse, Jax. I meant back in Charming."

He ran a thumb across his lower lip, trying to soften his gaze on Isla, but it was futile. He looked discomposed--unsettled.

"She's uh--she's workin' at the hospital now." She started to nod, waiting for his elaboration. It never came, however.

"Oh, that's nice. I wonder what happened in Chicago...Do you know why she's back here? Or how long she's gonna be staying in town--"

"You sound like my fucking mother--give it a break with the thirty-seven questions about Tara, damnit."

He snarled, heeding the distaste of his words the second she glowered at him.

"Excuse you?"

"I didn't call you out here for a sweet little conversation, Isla, I called you 'cause I need your help--"

"With what?"

Jax's hand hooked onto the back of his neck while he tilted his head to look upward, thinking of a way--any fucking way--to explain just what damn mess he'd found himself entwined with over the course of the last twenty-four hours.

He didn't know what to say or how to say it--if he should've fucking said it. He trusted Isla with his life--always had--but sometimes he appreciated that she mightn't have appreciated finding herself tangled within Jax's boisterous, at times frightening, life.

But it was too late for that. She'd been dragged through the deepest shit and wasn't crumbling that easily.

"Jax--"

"Kohn." He stated simply, waiting for the cogs of her brain to begin turning.

"What about him? You got in trouble with the ATF or something? Because we can handle that--"

"I already did." Jax laughed humorlessly, finally meeting Isla's line of sight.

The skin underneath his eyes was red raw, blotchy and irritated after he had used the sleeve of his hoodie to scrub away the tears he'd shed.

The tears he hadn't wanted to shed, but had fallen freely--uncontrollably--from those cerulean hues Isla never tired of looking at.

"What do you mean by that?" Nervously, she quizzed.

He didn't even have to say anything. She fucking knew. She knew exactly what he meant by that, but there was a tiny morsel of something within her that hoped and prayed that he'd declare that her gut feeling was wrong.

But he couldn't. Because it was right. Like always, Isla's intuition didn't fail her.

"Jax, honey, what did you do--"

"I killed Kohn."

#sons of anarchy #sons of anarchy fandom #sons of anarchy fanfiction #sons of anarchy fic #tig trager #tig trager fanfiction #tig trager fic #tig trager x oc #jax teller #jax teller x oc #jax teller fanfiction

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buglife · 3 years

Text

Bend and Not Break - Ch 4: A Scar

Read here on AO3 :3

Contains 100% more smooches!

Xena stepped lightly as she opened the door to one of the interrogation rooms, narrowing her eyes as she adjusted to the dim light. The room had been quickly converted to a makeshift recovery room, the table that usually sat in the middle of the room had been pushed aside and replaced with a cot. Said cot was loaded with pillows and blankets in an effort to take as much pressure off the occupant's injuries as possible. Resting peacefully on it was Poppy, the scorpion rescued from the basement of a disgraced noble and had her venom forcibly extracted by torture. She seemed to be doing much better, her body was now criss-crossed with bandages and she was no longer twitching. She seemed to be sleeping at the moment.

She took a look at the clipboard left behind on the table where Monomon’s notes were scribbled. Electrical burns, blunt force trauma, eye damage, nerve damage...the list seemed to go uncomfortably long. She was glad she managed to get to her in time, but was disappointing that she and the other knights didn’t find out about the assassination plot sooner. Maybe they could have prevented a lot of suffering, but she couldn’t know for sure.

“Hello?” Poppy blinked awake, most likely from hearing Xena walk around. She was lying on her back and couldn’t twist her head to see who had entered the room. “Who’s there?” She asked, a tinge of worry to her voice.

“I am Xena, one of the Great Knights, I was there when you were rescued.” She pulled up a chair next to the cot and sat down. “Do you remember me?”

Poppy took a moment to breathe and then smiled the best she could through half a bandaged face. “I do.” She sounded coherent, but her speech was slurred and slow.

“You look much better,” Xena smiled in what she hoped was in a comforting way. “You must be on the good stuff, right?”

“Yeah.” Poppy didn’t bother trying to nod. “Nothin’ hurts. It’s great.”

“Well I won’t keep you long, I just need to ask a few questions and then you can go back to resting, okay?”

“Mmhmm.” The scorpion mumbled softly and did her best to focus her one working eye to the ant’s face. “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I’m asking for. Do you remember how you were abducted?” Xena had a quill and a tablet ready to take notes. “Take your time and try to remember what you can, okay?”

Poppy mulled over the question for a while, and started speaking. “I was at my flower shop in...in Deepnest. Some Hallownest bug came in...I asked if they wanted flowers...I grow flowers by the way and make them into arrangements. It’s nice.”

Xena nodded, knowing full well that she was on some of those good painkillers, and would probably will go off into tangents. “What kinda bug came in?”

“It was that um….beetle. Yes, that beetle. From...the place.” Poppy swallowed thickly, “Where they were...were...hurting me…”

“Don’t worry about him, he can’t hurt you anymore.” The ant put as much conviction as she could muster into her voice. “He won’t be hurting anyone else, after today.”

“Good,” She wheezed a little, catching her breath.

“What did the beetle want from you?” Xena pressed gently. “I think I could wager a guess but I need to hear it from you.”

“He uh...he asked to buy my venom...and I told him I sell flowers, not venom! It was weird...and creepy , and its against the law cause um...uh...it’s dangerous. You hafta have a license to get some and you get it from the...oh...what do you call it…” The scorpion hrmed to herself. “Oh I can’t remember, it’s the place where you can get dangerous stuff if you are a uh...professional? Scientist?”

“A supplier is what I think you mean. Where controlled substances can be given out dependent on research or medical use.”

“Yes! That! Well he got mad and started saying something about the fate of bug kind and how there was monsters in Hallownest? He said I should work with them to save everyone and I told him to leave cause I’m just a flower bug. And then something hit me on the back of my head.” She reached up with a free arm to touch the back of her bandaged head. It looked like a mess when she was first found and Xena was glad that Poppy couldn’t feel any pain right now.

“Then I woke up all tied up and the beetle was there with some other people. He said that I was going to help them get rid of the monsters and I told them I wouldn’t! Then they...they….” She sniffled, her eye tearing up.

“Then they hurt you and forcibly took your venom.” Xena knew when to stop asking questions. Poppy was starting to get a little upset, and she felt awful that she even had to bring up what happened to her so soon. But, she had to get this down for the record, and it was better to do it now while Poppy wasn’t in physical pain than wait and do it later.

Poppy nodded in response. “Mmhmm. I don’t know how long I was there.”

“That’s okay, Right now what I need from you is to rest and get better, okay? We’ll send word to your Queen and Princess and they’ll probably send someone over to help you home once you are well enough to travel.”

“Okay...thank you.” Poppy sighed. She wasn’t going to be able to stay awake anyway with the meds she was on and was quickly falling back into the realm of dreams. “There'll...be someone outside...right? Watching?”

“There are, I promise.” Xena nodded. “Nobody will let you get hurt again.”

“Mhmm...thanks…” Poppy fell asleep, a combination of reassurance and the ‘good stuff’. Xena took a bit of time to make sure she was comfortable, and then left the room. She glanced at the two guardsmen stationed outside.

“Nobody gets in that isn’t a Knight, the King, or Monomon, got it?”

They both saluted and stayed in place.

“Good...now excuse me, I have someone to see.”

She turned and headed towards the holding cells. The cells were kept underground, and as she descended the stairs she began to hear the annoying sound of metal scraping together. There was the sound of someone loudly complaining before descending into shrieks as the scraping got louder. She took a moment to rub her eyes and sighed, locking the gate behind her and stepping into the corridor.

Tiso was just sitting there, making god awful noises as he happily ran a fork over a metal plate. He was making sure to press extra hard, making terrible squeaking noises that made Xena’s antenna twitch under her helmet. The ex-noble within the cell was close to tears, looking around to Xena as soon as he saw her.

“Oh, oh bless you. Please! Please make him stop!” The jewel beetle was in the dirtiest cell they had, tear tracks marking his face and generally looking disheveled. He crawled to the bars on his knees, gripping the bars with shaky hands. “Please! It hurts!”

“I’m not even doing anything! I’m trying to serenade you with my beautiful music, you uncultured bastard.” Tiso scraped the fork loudly and it set the hairs on her carapace standing up and the beetle to cry out in pain. “It’s not my fault you can’t appreciate artistic talent. Frankly, I’m insulted.”

“That’s enough for now, Tiso.” Xena sighed and dug out her keys. “Monomon needs this guy and she’s going to be pissed if we’re late.”

“Oh?” He casually tossed the dishes to the side. “Going to be testing the antidote then?”

“Testing the what now?” The beetle looked around, confused.

“Most likely, yeah.” Xena ignored the beetle. “Now that she has a pure sample of the poison as well, she thinks she’ll know for sure if the antidote is legit or not after a couple hours.”

“Hours?” Said beetle was rapidly turning pale as he realized what was about to happen.

“Did I fucking stutter?” Xena snarled, opening the cell door. “Get your ass out here or else I’ll drag you out.”

“You can’t do that to me! I’m Lord Maximus Pennington Chrysoch the third!” They tried to dodge her hands, but she was too fast. She seized him by the wrists and began to bodily drag him out.

“I don’t give a fuck who you are! A traitor is a traitor to me.” She looked to Tiso. “Help me drag this sack of shit to Monomon and then you can take a break.”

“Hells yeah!” He jumped up, grabbing the free wrist of the condemned and hauled them to their feet. “Think I’ll have time to head to the museum to see Myla?” The beetle started wibbling and sobbing, but was completely ignored.

“Eh, take Cloth with you and you all can have an hour together. You’ll have to be back at a reasonable time though, we need all hands on deck with this situation.”

“Yeah I got ya. Thanks.” Tiso was noticeably happier, cheerfully dragging the sobbing beetle down the corridor and to their fate. He didn’t care what happened to them, all he could think about now was finally getting to smooch his girlfriends.

---

Monomon arrived outside the door to the royal suite, a capped syringe gripped gently but firmly in her tentacles. As soon as the antidote proved to actually work, and not just be another poison, she rushed as quickly as she could to the top floor. Hollow was standing guard outside of the room and nodded to her. Seeing that there wasn’t time for chit chat, she attempted to open the door.

To her surprise, it was blocked off. She looked at the knob, confused, and tried to push again. “What’s going on here?”

Hollow chirped to get her attention, and signed. <”Father is in there. I think he is sitting in front of the door.”>

“Mato? Of course he would.” She knocked on the door. “Mato! It’s Monomon!”

There was a shuffle from the other side, and the door was pulled open to indeed reveal the Nailmaster. He seemed rather rough looking, he must have booked it from the Howling Cliffs as fast as he could. “Monomon,” he nodded, and stood out of the way.

She floated inside to see what was going on, eyes immediately going to the nest that took up a good portion of the room.

Ghost was cuddled around Quirrel, doing their best to hold him in a way that would hopefully reassure him that someone was watching over him, but not tight enough to harm him. Quirrel was still unconscious, breathing heavily and shivering and once in a while his nerves would shudder, making him twitch and spasm. Ghost was already awake, no doubt hearing the door open. They looked at her, the dark fathomless eyes behind their mask tired and fearful. Their eyes darted from the door to the syringe held in her tentacle.

“Is that…” Their voice was so small and weak, but there was a bloom of hope behind it that Monomon could feel.

“Yes.” She drifted closer and uncapped the syringe. “We have it.”

They sat up quickly. “What do you want me to do?”

“Hold one of his arms still, I don’t want the needle to break if he has a spasm while injecting him.” She checked over the syringe, going over the calculations in her head one more time. She had already triple checked everything, but it wouldn't hurt to check it one more time. Ghost sat up, pulling Quirrel into their lap and used their lower set of arms to cradle him, and the top set to grasp an arm and hold it straight. Quirrel continued to shiver, making a raspy noise of discomfort from being moved.

“Good, like that.” With Ghost holding him, it was easy for her to find the joint in his elbow and sterilize it. Then, she injected the antidote slowly, watching the liquid within disperse into his hemo system.

“There…it should take effect soon.” She deposited the used needle in a box she carried to be sterilized later. “We may not notice a difference at first, but within half an hour he should be more comfortable.”

Ghost kept Quirrel in their embrace, resting their chin on his head and tucking him up close. “Thank you.” They said, moving slightly to adjust themselves. Monomon watched them tilt their head slightly, listening to his breathing as he continued to wheeze.

“How did you get that?” Mato had stayed back to let her do her thing, but now that there wasn’t any needles involved, he approached the nest again.

“A combination of work from the Great Knights, good old science, and some very helpful mandatory volunteers.”

“That’s fucking terrifying.” Mato took a step away from her.

“It’s what they deserved. They at least did something useful with their lives instead of just being executed.”

“How many prisoners are left?” Ghost’s mental voice was whisper quiet, as though they were scared that they were going to disturb Quirrel’s rest.

“I’m not sure. Tiso has the numbers. The ring leader is still alive, he was the lucky one who tested the antidote. What are you going to do about them?”

Ghost was silent for a moment, idly smoothing back Quirrel’s antenna as he lay in their embrace. “I think I will wait for Quirrel to weigh in on it all. He was...the most hurt.”

“He wasn’t the only one hurt,” Monomon drifted down to the floor to sit, curling her tentacles under herself. “There was another victim who is thankfully alive. You’ll have a report on that soon, but you may want to keep her in mind too, as well as yourself and my son.”

“It seems like the best thing to do is to let them stew in their own fear and guilt until you have a chance to deal with them.” Mato also sat, leaning against the wall. “They are not going to have any type of peace as long as they are down there with Tiso at the same time.”

Ghost actually chirped a laugh at that. “That is true.”

As they conversed, Ghost noticed Quirrel subtly shift a little over the course of twenty so odd minutes. His twitching was definitely dying down, leaving him still for the first time since he was poisoned. They could hear his breath change as well, the raspy wheeze was getting smoother and less labored. It would be a while before he was back to normal, but just being able to actually rest was something sorely needed for the pillbug.

“He’s doing better.” The vessel sagged in relief, tears once again welling up in their eyes. “He can breathe now.”

Monomon floated up from her position on the floor and placed a tentacle on the pillbug's forehead. She felt it for a moment before she spoke. “His fever has gone down.”

“He’ll be okay now, right? He’ll be okay?” Ghost shivered, black streaks dripping from their eyes as they pulled Quirrel closer to their chest.

“Yes Ghost, he’ll be okay.”

Ghost broke down into tears, a combination of relief, love, and the bitter fear of loss. Once they started they couldn’t stop, the emotional dam had broken. The sheer stress they had been bundling up for the past two days refused to be ignored any longer. Thick, choking sobs filled the room as they held their husband close. He’ll be okay, they won’t have to say goodbye so soon. They knew one day they would have to, but for now, he’ll be okay. He’ll live and they can continue to share the love that never ran out in their heart. He’ll be okay.

Mato and Monomon both embraced them, and for once, they let their family help them carry the huge amount of stress and emotions swirling around in their void. They kept repeating that simple phrase to themselves, over an over, to keep them grounded in the here and now.

He’ll be okay.

---

Myla hummed to herself as she looked over a crystal in her claws. She turned it around in the light, squinting through a monocular as she studied it’s structure. It was a beautiful fluorite specimen, still rough and unpolished. Broad bands of green, purple, and blues swirled around the stone in a rainbow of colors. She just needed to do a little cleanup on it and then it would be ready for display.

She looked at the basket of rocks on the floor next to her work station, all of them mined and found by her. She was pretty proud that she didn’t lose her knack for finding the beautiful and unusual. The infection left her unable to mine professionally anymore, but she had enough energy to go on little expeditions, following her heart as she explored the corners of the kingdom.

Of course, she didn’t go alone. Either Tiso or Cloth would come with her, keeping her protected as she jumped into holes to hack away at the rocks. She wasn’t very strong, but she can still knee cap people who threaten her, and she keeps her pickaxe nice and sharp. It was fun! Especially when she could spend the time with her partners.

She sighed, she hadn’t seen Tiso and Cloth for several days now. She knew what happened, the whole kingdom knew by now. She knew they had important work to do, but she still missed them.

As if the universe was listening to her thoughts, there was a knock on her office door. She glanced at her clock, it was about time for lunch. Maybe it was a coworker asking if she’d like something?

“Come in!” She called.

The door opened, and to her delight, her two knights tried to squeeze their way inside at the same time. Tiso gasped, smushed up against the door frame as Cloth tried to force her massive bulk through, getting equally wedged in.

“Cloth! Back up!” Tiso kicked his legs that were a good foot of the ground. The force of the attempt to beat Cloth inside had angled his body upwards to get stuck on the frame, one arm free and trying to pull himself free.

“No! You back up!” She retorted, trying to squeeze her shoulders in. “I want to kiss her first!”

“Like hell you -wheeze-” Tiso started going a little blue, a stark contrast to his black shell as he got squashed harder.

Myla never in her whole life, expected that she’d ever be a girl that someone would fight over, let alone two. She knew they were just playing around and joking with their fake little rivalry thing, it was endearing, but sometimes Cloth forgot her own strength. She remembered once when Cloth gave Tiso a ‘gentle’ punch to the arm and accidentally sent him through the window.

“How about both of you back out, and I’ll come to you?”

Cloth and Tiso looked at each other. Cloth nodded and with some effort, pulled herself back and out of the door-frame. Tiso, no longer supported, just fell on the ground and wheezed for breath. Cloth helpfully picked him up and set him on his feet again and dusted off his armor.

Myla giggled, bouncing forward to leap at the two of them and was caught into a three way hug. It was a happy moment of hugs and little smooches that was sorely needed after days of being apart. “I’m so glad you two are here!”

“Unfortunately, we only got a short amount of time, then we have to go back.” Cloth replied, sounding very apologetic.

“Yeah...we still got idiots to process.” Tiso took the time to give them both a nuzzle. “Duty calls and all that.”

“That’s okay, I’m just glad you’re here for now!” Myla wriggled to escape the hug, and promptly headed back inside the office. “I processed some new minerals if you’d like to take a look!”

“Of course we would!” Tiso booked it to the door.. and ended up getting wedged in again when Cloth tried to get in at the same time. This time it was worse, because Cloth didn’t put her club down first, and Myla could hear the wood creaking under the strain of it all. She rubbed the back of her head as she watched them both struggle.

She wondered if she should just have a second door put in.

---

It felt like ages since Grimm started talking, telling Quirrel of fantastical worlds both old and new. It was fascinating, hearing of so many places that were different and unique. For the most part Quirrel listened, asking a question here and there. It seemed like the Nightmare King had visited the places Quirrel had during his wanderings on the surface world, and offered some interesting insight to things he may have missed.

“It seems our time is nearly up.” Grimm folded his claws together under his chin, looking at the pill bug who sat in front of him. He had just finished telling Quirrel about a colorful world with a legend of an eternal sprout that was constantly being searched for. “You will need to wake up soon.”

“Really?” Quirrel leaned back in his chair and poked himself a couple times. “If I’m well enough now to wake up, how come I don’t feel any different?”

“It’s because your mind is protecting itself. You won’t feel pain while in a dream. I can however, change that aspect if it is a nightmare, but I have no reason to do so here.” Grimm gave him a sinister grin, exposing many needle sharp teeth, but Quirrel wasn’t afraid.

“Thanks.” Quirrel sighed, and put down his cup. As soon as it hit the table, it began to dissolve into essence, floating away in motes of white and red. In fact, it seemed like everything that wasn’t Grimm or himself was beginning to look blurry and grainy.

“I am not going to lie. You will most likely be in for a lot of pain once you awaken, but you must wake up.” Grimm looked to the side and off to the distance, watching the walls of the cozy room fade into white. “But you will live.”

“Will we ever get to chat again sometime? Despite the circumstances, I quite enjoyed our conversation. It would be nice to revisit it sometime.”

Grimm smiled softly, hiding his wicked looking teeth once again. “Of course we will.”

“Great!” Quirrel watched the last motes of color leave the dream, leaving nothing but a white, featureless void. Somehow they were still sitting, despite the lack of anything coherent around them. “Hrm...how do I wake up then?”

“Oh, that’s easy.” Grimm laughed, his voice distorting and echoing, as though retreating backwards. “You /[Quirrel]/ just need to /open[ed]/ your /[his] eyes./”

Suddenly, he was awake.... and he hated it.

Quirrel’s first thought was a mess of confusion. He had managed to open his eyes, a jarring jump from the dream world to reality. It was easy, but hard at the same time.

What Quirrel managed to see through his stinging eyes was nothing but a blurry mess of darkness and shapes. As soon as his brain caught up with the rest of his body, a deep sharp ache radiated from within his core, spreading all the way to the tips of his limbs. It felt like he tried to cuddle an ooma and paid the price for it. He had no idea how, but even his mandibles hurt. At least Grimm warned him, but it still sucked.

He could tell he was lying on something soft and warm at least. Wriggling his antenna (with a wince, cause how the fuck is his antenna sore too!?!) slightly gave him the usual smells of his home in the palace. His mind was still a little foggy, so when he detected three other people around him, he wasn’t quite sure who they were at first. It was silent, so he couldn’t identify anyone by voices. He was exhausted. Everything hurt. Breathing hurt. Having his eyes open hurt. It sucked and he resolved to complain about it soon enough. He had no clue what happened other than 1. he got poisoned and 2. he got sick from it.

What he needed right now, was his spouse. They probably knew what the hell happened and could fill him in on what he missed. He didn’t even know how long he was out for. It didn’t seem so long while he conversed with Grimm, but he suspected that time doesn’t really hold all that much meaning in a dream. He moved, at least, he tried to, gasping in pain as his hand squeezed something hard and slender. He nearly jumped out of his chitin when something squeezed back. A shape moved in front of his vision, a blurry mess of white that seemed to shine in the darkness.

“Quirrel?” The voice was tinged with the feeling of hope as it whispered through his head. He knew that voice, and he relaxed.

“Hello, love,” he wheezed. His throat was dry and scratchy and he coughed on his words. He closed his eyes for a moment as the blur moved and tripped his sense of vertigo. He heard a chirp in response before he was being hauled upright and held with four arms. The sudden movement flipped his stomach around and he groaned in response. “Ugh…”

“I’msorryi’msorryi’msorry.” He was being peppered with kisses all over his face as a soft whining noise emitted from a throat that was voiceless. He managed to lift up a shaking hand to rest it on the side of Ghost’s face, happy he didn’t accidentally poke them in the eyes since he couldn't see. He rubbed them as well as he could, struggling with the effort of keeping his arm up.

“It’s alright... dear…” It was difficult to talk, he had to stop and take a breath between each word. As much as he loved kisses, it was starting to overwhelm him, so he tried to soothe his spouse. “I’m fine.”

“You are not fine. I...I…” There was another wheezing sob and he was thankfully nuzzled instead of kissed. “You could have died.”

“Heh...heh...like you could...get rid of me...that easy.” He dropped his arm, no longer able to keep it up. His hand was captured in one of Ghost’s, and they rubbed it gently. “I plan to...be around...for much longer…You couldn’t...keep me away...if you tried…” He was losing his voice and he swallowed with a wince. He opened his eyes again, it was still blurry, but he could see clearer shapes. A blob of green and a blob of red was approaching, mixing together as he struggled to focus.

“Here you are, my dear.” A glass of water was placed in his free hand and encircled with a tentacle. “Sip slowly.”

“Hi mom…” He knew what his mom felt like, how she always had this sort of static energy around her, like you could get a good zap if you pissed her off. The same tentacle that used to rock him to sleep at night when he was a pip helped him drink and he gratefully swallowed down the water. It was absolute bliss. He may be king, but all the finery in the world couldn’t compare to that nice cold glass of water.

“You gave us a hell of a scare, how are you feeling?” Oh, that must have been Mato. It made sense that he would be here. The blurs of red mixed with gray and was certainly big enough to be the Nailmaster. They moved to stand closer to Ghost...at least he thinks they did. It was hard to tell for the moment.

“Hurts.” Quirrel could have lied but his mother was right there and she would have no trouble putting him in the corner for it. “All over. Hard to see.”

“I figured as much,” Monomon was still holding the glass of water for him, and another tentacle bumped against his mandibles. “Open up, I have something for the pain.”

He did just that, letting the pills go down with another few swallows of water. He imagined that he should feel hungry or something too, but he just didn’t feel like it. She must have sensed the question because she continued talking.

"Let’s wait for half an hour and see if you can handle some soup, okay?”

Quirrel nodded with a sigh. He was awake but tired again, it was rather frustrating. He closed his eyes again, letting them rest as he just laid there and breathed. He could feel the medicine begin to work, a numb tingling working down his limbs and into his core. Soon, every movement didn’t result in pain, and he managed to sit up a little. Ghost helped, sitting so that his back could rest against this chest and belly.

“What happened?” It seemed like a sensible question to ask. He was not surprised that Ghost was the one to answer.

“There was an assassination attempt and you were poisoned by the nail that cut you. The Great Knights led an investigation and arrested the ringleader and several members of the group. They are still investigating, but they are confident they caught most to all of them. You were unconscious for almost three days.”

“Three days?!” Quirrel raised his voice at that. Three whole days? As in seventy two hours?

“Yes, three days.” Monomon piped up. “If it makes you feel any better, half the kingdom has been keeping vigil outside, hoping that you would get better.”

Quirrel blinked in surprise. “Really?”

“She isn’t lying.” Mato was the next to say something, his voice moving around the room. “I nearly had to fight my way inside, there were so many people out there.”

Quirrel...didn’t know how to feel about that. On one hand, he didn’t feel like he was a person who would warrant a three day vigil, and on the other, he was touched and humbled. He had always been a bug who was fairly social and had a lot of friends, but to have that many bugs sitting around and waiting for news about him...it was astonishing. It must mean that he is doing something right.

“You two need rest,” Mato continued. “Ghost? There’s a pot of soup in the icebox, just warm it up. I’ll go out and tell the masses that things are okay so they can go home.”

“That is a good idea.” Ghost leaned their head down to nuzzle Quirrel some more. “Thank you.”

“And you, my little scholar, are going to stay in bed.” Monomon added. “Strict bed rest until further notice, got it? I will know if you get out of bed, trust me.”

“Yes mom.” Quirrel believed her.

Soon, both parents departed, and once again the room was quiet, save for a soft rumbling. Quirrel realized that Ghost was purring as they cuddled against them. “Stay with me...for a little?” He asked. Now that their parents were gone, it felt strange, like he was a small thing in a sea of uncertainty. Most likely, it’s trauma from the experience, but he didn’t think he could stand being alone for very long now. Now that he was awake, he wanted to stay awake, but he doubts that his body will let him for long.

“I would never leave you,” came the reply. “Everything is on hold for now and will be for a little while.”

“You can’t just... shut down the government...love.” Quirrel chuckled. “Even though...I think most would...enjoy the vacation.”

“I am a king, I can do what I want. And if I want everyone to fuck off so I can care for my beloved husband who survived an attack on his life, I will make it so.” There was a hint of amusement in their voice as they gave him a nuzzle.

“What about...the assassins?” He would not be surprised if they were all dead by now, but he still wanted to know.

“The knights have them. We can talk about it later. I would rather kiss you and talk about how much I love you, if that’s okay.”

Quirrel managed a laugh as he relaxed against his spouse, feeling happy and full of love. “You know what? I would...like that very much.”

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whump-town · 4 years

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Hand In Unlovable Hand

Part 2, lads. Is this reaction sort of... shall we say dramatized? Maybe, I’m not a medical professional. Am I going to fix it? ugh, fuck no. Let Hotch be a little dramatic, it’s a treat for being so damn cute

Part One

Warnings: snake shit. oh and hospitals

There doesn’t come far too many opportunities for Spencer Reid to admit it but he really wishes he would have listened to Hotch this morning. The older man had made that face -- one Reid wasn’t accustomed to by way of his childhood but he’d certainly seen it before -- the one that expresses fond disapproval. With a shake of his head, Hotch had advised in that very unique way of his that Reid should likely cut back on the coffee. The way that makes Morgan roll his eyes and gets Hotch called the “mom” to Rossi’s “dad”. Reid has grown up for far too long by himself to ever really listen to the helpful advice he’s given the first time. He’s not used to people looking out for him.

Crouched down beside Hotch’s side, close enough to watch the deep purpling of the skin around the bite on his hand, Reid can feel that morning’s six cups of coffee settling poorly in his stomach. The acid crawl of sick as Emily frantically taps at Hotch’s pale cheek trying and failing to properly rouse him. Her hand curled around the back of his neck, supporting his limp head in her palm. Derek queasily grunting as he takes a pen, supplied by Dave, and traces around the bite. Marking it as instructed by the 911 operator still shrilly speaking on the other side of the line.

How does shit like this happen to them?

“There he is,” Emily’s voice comes out far more convincingly nonchalant than she has the capacity to actually feel at this moment. More striking than the amount of time it’s taken to get Hotch responsive, even if it’s just raspily wheezing a soft complaint about Emily’s proximity to him, is his glassy, vacant eyes. Busily brushing his sweaty hair from his eyes, she smiles reassuringly down at him and looks up to Morgan. “How long until they get here?”

Derek has his phone pinched between his cheek and shoulder, manipulating Hotch’s hand to work as he’s being told. He glances up in acknowledgment of Emily’s question but doesn’t answer just yet. Nodding his head he grimaces, scowling when Hotch tries to pull his hand from Morgan’s grasp. “The ambulance is on its way,” he says. “Fifteen minutes.”

Shivering, eyelashes hovering just hardly open Emily is concerned fifteen minutes is a little too long to wait. “Where’s the nearest hospital?” She looks up to Reid, watching and seeing just how removed he is right now. His eyes cast to Hotch but having left them, dissociated someplace else. She wishes to go with him but she needs him here and now with their ugly truth and not the safe place he’s conjured. “Spencer,” she says, brisk, loud. He snaps to attention, flinching. “How far away is the closest hospital?”

Reid parts his lips as he thinks, eyes moving as he thinks. “Ten minutes.” They passed it coming into the county so he’s relying on the relative math of stoplights and traffics lights. He realizes, of course, that what they really are fighting is not someone’s eighty-year-old grandmother in a beaten-down sedan but the pharmacists who are going to have to rush anti-venom to them. Before it kills Hotch. The stats are about 5 to 7,000 to 8,000 -- it’s unlikely the strike will kill but someone has to defy the odds. Pulling his eyes away from Hotch’s painfully drawn rigid body, he acknowledges Hotch has always been one for defying odds.

Emily can feel Hotch’s muscles clenching, jaw tight to keep from making a sound as he writhes on the ground. He’s managed to get his hand back from Morgan and cradles it protectively to his chest. She’s close enough to see the purple of his thumb, the dark deathly bruise swelling. The joint looks awful and she shirks at thought of what damage this is going to do. His hands give him hell as is. Beating Foyet hadn’t come without consequence and the frequent instability and pain they cause him is well hidden but it’s not exactly a secret.

Dave hears Emily’s idea forming, fifteen minutes by an ambulance which is saying they’re on time. Hotch pale, sweat drenching his white-dress shirt, and shaking despite the summer heat weighing the rest of them down. “If Derek drives, you’ll be there in five.” There’s a moment of silence their eyes flickering between Derek and Hotch as what’s said is processed.

“What do you think, Aaron?”

His eyes are off to the side, watching the river rage on below them. Hitched, choked breathes coming from his desperately parted lips. The shock has taken its hold, leaving him distanced, and cold. The fuzzy, lightheaded daze is cut with a sharp sting, a pulse of pain up his arm. His thoughts feebly constructed, only brief moments of clarity. Until he has nothing, just the trembling lack of control over his body.

Derek rises to his feet and it’s settled. In a flurry of movement, Derek is informing, not asking, the operator that they’re going to drive Hotch themselves. Again, Emily pats at Hotch’s cheek growing desperate with his inability to answer her. Derek crouches down beside them, walking Hotch through his plan while Spencer runs to get the SUV and bring it as close as he can. He receives no answer but slowly Hotch’s eyes move to them. To Emily, to Derek.

“Up on three, okay?”

He’s nearly dead weight between them but they stop -- Morgan holding his half of Hotch up while Emily bows under her own share. Hotch just needs a moment, spitting out the bit of stomach acid that crawls up his throat. Shakily he manages to get his feet underneath him.

“Just to the car.”

Emily slides into the front seat, opening her phone to find GPS directions to the hospital. The name of which Reid is shouting out to her. JJ slides into the back seat, allowing Derek to help maneuver Hotch’s head into her lap so she can usher her body to brace the shock of Derek’s driving. They leave Spencer and Dave behind, Reid watching the ground cautiously in fear that another snake might pop up. Dave shakes his head.

The tires kick up dirt and Hotch grunts as the cab rocks and his hand is jostled painfully between his own chest and JJ’s. “Hey, hey.” He doesn’t even feel himself slipping but he peels his eyes open and looks up at JJ’s concerned face. She’d smacked him, his cheek absently stinging from the impact. At least she looks sorry about it. When Emily reaches back to hit him -- distinctly that kind of hit that is harder than necessary but jarring and seems to force some life into him -- she bites out “stay awake, you bastard”.

The car stops, screeching and jerks, and JJ apologizes quickly, terrified as a pained grunt leaves his mouth. His body tensing and his shaking intensifying as he strains in pain. She looks up from him for only a moment, watching Emily and Derek throw the door open to try and work Hotch out. When she looks back down his eyes are closed. “Aaron!” His breathing is coming too quickly, too shallow.

They’re met at the car by staff. People pulling and JJ lets them take Hotch, doing her best to cup his head so it doesn’t hit the door. Derek dutifully rattles off everything he can think of even more details than they need.

“How long has it been since his bite?”

Derek shrugs shaking his head, he doesn’t know. “Uhm.” There wasn’t that much disorder in face of everything but getting that damn snake away took time and then there’s the time they wasted before calling 911. “Maybe… half an hour. Maybe more but not an hour.” He can’t remember. It feels like only two seconds. Hotch was on the ground and Morgan was running at that snake then --

“You saw the snake?”

Emily nods, “he -- he said it was a rattlesnake. He thought it was. I don’t know, none of us do. He just -- He grew up in Virginia but that doesn’t exactly make him a snake expert, you know?”

Shears tear through his clothing like butter. Buttons are forgotten as his shirt is cut wrist to elbow and without a word, just a wince of sympathy, onward. JJ can’t even flinch in preparation as Hotch’s shirt melts away and he’s exposed to them. Pale, thin chest hitching as he draws in short, shallow pants. The scars of Foyet’s attack pink and raised across his chest. It threatens every preconception any of the three of them have had about him.

There are the nine scares they are expecting but there are just so many more. Derek can recognize far too many. A large jagged cut from shrapnel, running from his sixth rub to under his pants at his hip where it curls nastily into a surgical scar. Some thin and straight, others curved and thick. Too many to count. Scars from chest tubes, slices from Unsubs a little too families with knives, and one he can remember holding together with his own hands.

The doctor turns back to them, “any known medical conditions?” She needs to know the complicated bits as quickly as possible. There’s no way any bastard with this many holes in him has managed to get away free. “Surgeries? Traumas?”

Like a kick to the chest, Derek finds his head spinning and heart-dropping through the floor. “He has a clotting problem because of a severe stabbing a few years ago. He -- He takes blood thinners.” He flinches, genuinely afraid now as several staff members stop. They look at him and then at one another. It just had to be Aaron. No one can sniff out trouble like him.

Again, no words communicated. They aren’t good ones, anyhow. Not the kind to be voiced with family so near but things have just gotten far more complicated. “Strip him,” is the only warning given and nods are exchanged as doctors and nurses move around Hotch.

Emily bites her tongue as they poke roughly at Hotch’s body, palpitating his abdomen and manipulating the fingers on his swollen hand. He gives a grunt of pain, eyes opening for just a moment before sliding shut. The harsh overhead light makes his skin seem nearly translucent, paling him in ways that he needs no help in doing naturally. Someone calls his name, a stethoscope joining the EKG lines being stuck to his bare chest.

“His O2 on room air is 92.”

Hotch’s pants are removed completely removed, even his belt is cut through in a clean swipe still in the belt loops. They avert their eyes until a sheet can come down over his pelvis but they’ve seen one another like this far too often. Naked on stretchers as trauma doctors hover and push and pull until they get a response. They each have someone whose knowledge of their body extends what is normal, the kind of knowledge that knew partners in their lives always find odd but someone has to know these things.

“Get him on the mask. Five liters but don’t let him drop to eighty, the last thing he needs is to tubed.” Flashing a penlight in Hotch’s eyes yields another grunt. He raises himself a little, going back down as his shoulders are redirected to the gurney. His other hand, trembling and loosely flexed, raises to protect his eyes from the light above him. A doctor pulls his arm back down, pinning him in place as someone else preps to place a subclavian central line. It’s quick work -- sped up by their racing hearts. A few swipes at the skin with a wipe, a visible resistance that hurts and Hotch turns his head from it. Grimacing but no longer fighting just supine and limply allowing his limbs to be further mutilated.

The line is taped into place and names of medicines are called out -- none of which any of them have heard of. The gurney becomes mobile, clicks sounding through the room as they pull the guard rails up and place machines and placed around Hotch’s legs and sides. Emily smirks as she sees his feet hanging off the edge, his ankles at the cut-off. It’s a bitter moment and she’s not even sure it’s worth smiling over, she just can’t help it.

JJ steps up the gurney as they pass, grabbing his hand. “We’ll be right here,” she promises. He just looks at her. Unable to move his fingers, he watches her behind his cracked eyelids. She’s the last thing he sees, three passing roofing panels, JJ keeping pace beside him, and the chilling emptiness of unconsciousness.

#criminal minds #aaron hotchner #emily prentiss #derek morgan #spencer reid #jennifer jareau #david rossi

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brave-clarice · 4 years

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“Clarice” Liveblog: Episode 1

Here are my extremely unfashionably late takes! They’re long, so strap in if you want.

okay, I genuinely thought the scenes in Gumb’s basement were ripped from the film for a second. extremely well done.

I both appreciate that they’re acknowledging the Bureau-mandated psych eval Clarice would have to go through (not sure she’d have to have another one a year later?)...

...but I sure wish they hadn’t chosen to open this show in a therapy-like session. it’s going to be subject to enough NBC comparisons as it is.

gosh, Rebecca Breeds is so pretty, and in the same almost, idk, elfin kind of way Jodie Foster is.

“Bride of Frankenstein”! a novel reference! and a Hannibal Lecter reference even though they can’t use his name! I’m excited

I was afraid of this part, though--everyone’s going to call her “Clarice” aren’t they?

it’s very significant that in the books, Hannibal is virtually alone in using her first name to address her; even Ardelia calls her “Starling.” but of course this series chose “Clarice” as its title, so...

“the checkout lady at the Safeway asked me to autograph a melon” omg

so Clarice has supposedly been “mandated” to see an FBI therapist for an entire year? hmm.

tbh, this feels kind of like a proxy for Hannibal’s scenes in the movie, especially with the therapist calling her “Clarice.” not sure if I dig it.

“...given that your last therapist was an inmate” Hannibal reference #2!

they’re explicitly talking about Hannibal without being able to name him and it’s hilarious, frustrating, and immensely satisfying all at once.

there’s no way to avoid talking about him altogether without being disingenuous to Clarice’s eventual character arc, so I’m glad they’re ripping off the band-aid early

“you let that relationship be intimate” Yeah, Clarice and Hannibal’s relationship IS intimate and YOU! SHOULD! SAY IT!!!

it’s kind of ridiculous for this guy/the show not to acknowledge that little trainee Clarice was sent to see Hannibal by someone who should’ve known better. That Crawford was doing it with the intention to save lives doesn’t mean he didn’t use the shit out of Clarice.

that’s not to take away her agency or minimize the choices she made after she met Hannibal. She wouldn’t have been in a position to make those choices if Crawford hadn’t arranged it, though.

even if they don’t have the rights to Crawford’s name, either (I have to assume that’s the case) couldn’t they at least mention this??

“hasn’t seen her own family in years” Are they actually going to address Clarice’s maybe-dead-maybe-not mother (depending on the canon they adopt, book or film) and possible siblings??? Please tell me they are!

Clarice’s “egregious” PTSD doesn’t have much to do with Buffalo Bill ofc, and this therapist seems to be making excuses to be the first in a long line of men getting in the way of Clarice’s career goals...

...which she recognizes and confronts him about. Call him out!!!

*Anthony Hopkins voice* That’s my girl.

the way she’s been written in this scene gives me a lot of hope going forward! she’s funny, she doesn’t take any sexist bullshit, she’s calm and polite but you get a glimpse of the rage underneath.

wow, they promoted Senator Martin to Attorney General!

the opening credits (if you can even call them that) are a let-down, though

she has her beads!

can anyone who’s not Hannibal please stop calling her Clarice

wonder if they’re going to touch on any of the extreme tension that existed between Senator Martin and Clarice in the novel? they didn’t interact in the movie, but in the book, Martin is under intense stress, and it doesn’t go smoothly.

of course in “Hannibal,” Martin invites her to “ride horses,” so they obviously reconciled after Catherine’s rescue and kept in some kind of touch.

and speak of the devil: horses! (and Catherine)

“I can’t have a reputation, I’ve only done it once” Thank you for being the voice of reason, Clarice.

“Paul Krendler” *ugly screaming commences*

“you don’t have any people, Clarice” Aaand that’s the plot of the Hannibal novel!

looks like they even gave her the ring Jodie’s Clarice wears!

oh yeah, this Krendler looks like a sumbitch if I ever saw one. No one will ever be as perfectly cast as the dude in Silence imo, but a much better fit than Ray Liotta.

“small carat, but it’s a sweet ring” A very in-character observation probably directly informed by her comments about nail polish in Silence.

she mentions this victim’s nail polish (!) being “tasteful,” and I shrieked a little again.

I understand it’s necessary for Krendler to be a douche, but there’s not even going to be any payoff for the audience (or Clarice) when Hannibal eats him, so boo.

wait...wait, why aren’t Clarice and Ardelia in their Alexandria duplex? They’re not just best friends, they’re roommates! For the entire seven-year story! GIVE ME THE DUPLEX!!!

BUT points for Ardelia bringing Clarice a treat, since she was always leaving her candy bars in the Silence book!

Clarice interacting with the washer/dryer is a nice nod to the books, too.

speaking of... “What did we learn in the laundry room back at Quantico?” For some reason this line made me actually cry, I guess because this whole episode has been such a love letter to something I love so dearly, and it’s making me emotional.

FIRST PRINCIPLES!

DESPERATELY RANDOM!!!

wow, the men in Clarice’s new office giving her lotion as a hazing “welcome” gift is awful, and now I’m just mad (which is the point of the scene ofc).

so this ex-military OC is the John Brigham stand-in, I take it?

if that means John Brigham won’t be here, No Thanks.

Clarice telling him she’ll drive...a tribute to Dana “Why Do You Always Have to Drive?” Scully, perhaps (who was herself inspired by Clarice) as well as a nod to Clarice’s love of cars?

“Why do they call you the bride of Frankenstein?” Sorry, I don’t have the legal rights to tell you about my last intimate relationship.

“Already on my way to West Virginia Granny Witch” Look, this show could crash and burn from this scene on, and it would still have been worth it just for these first 25 minutes.

I like that Clarice is shown wanting to help people, and the scene of her with the baby is a nice call-back to the eventual shoot-out at the beginning of “Hannibal”...but I hope they don’t try to domesticate her too much. Clarice needs her hard edges. To be tough (reasonably so)--a cub growing into its big cat’s claws.

also, somehow I doubt that Miss Valedictorian spent her six years in the Lutheran home “changing a lot of diapers,” but sure, okay. If her siblings are alive in this, she might have changed their diapers!

even though Krendler’s a real dickwad so far, he’s not slimy enough for me. Needs more grease.

“I got a call from your therapist who’s concerned that you might genuinely flip out” I really do not like this subplot Sam-I-Am. Aren’t the huge glass ceiling/Boys’ Club obstacles enough?

seriously, though, I know Hannibal tells her that the metaphorical lambs will come back--at the end of Silence, though, she’s at some kind of temporary peace, not in danger of “flipping out” any time soon.

if Esquivel really is our Brigham stand-in, I’ve got...problems with that. He was Clarice’s teacher and became her friend, not some Krendler double-agent. (Also worried they’re setting him up as a love interest for her which...eesh, no thanks.)

and sorry, I actually hate that Catherine kept Precious the dog in this.

I have no problem with Catherine being a character, or with her interacting with Clarice...that said, I don’t know if her being shown as severely traumatized and reaching out to Clarice as a form of emotional lifeline is...a good idea?

I understand the symbolism of Catherine’s smashed mirror, but...smashed mirrors are already a Thing in this series (albeit not Clarice’s chapter in it), and that’s all I can think of here.

Catherine’s a victim of unthinkable trauma. Nevertheless...she’s talking to the woman who saved her life. Who risked death to do it. I just don’t like the way this scene is written. Apparently, in this show’s canon, Catherine hasn’t gotten the help she needs. But Clarice isn’t her therapist, and it’s upsetting to have Catherine being all “I’ll never be safe and neither will you.”

how does Catherine remember “the mannequins, the autopsy table”?? And why is she throwing them in Clarice’s face?

I’m going to stop talking about this scene now because it’s making me angry and a little upset, which is maybe the point? I just don’t think it’s written well. If Catherine’s going to be a recurring character, I hope she’s shown getting professional, medical help.

Clarice finding the victim’s papers in the box of pads is a direct callback to her finding the photos in the jewelry box in Silence. Nice.

let’s agree that Hannibal and Crawford are both in Ardelia’s (too-cutesy-for-me) book

another nice little X-Files homage?

I have some qualms about that big climax, but...meh. It was capital-F Fine.

Yikes, this is a full week late. Thanks for reading this entirely-too-long post through to the end, if you’re still here!

To sum up my thoughts...

The Good:

the visual connections to the Silence film (that green coat/blue knit scarf combo in particular)

Rebecca Breeds’ performance overall so far

Clarice’s strong writing/characterization

her sense of humor and her inclination to call out bullshit

maybe it was just me, but I also got a sense of Hannibal’s influence on her in some of her dialogue--her blunt observations--and I love it

Ardelia Mapp

the repeated in-your-face references to Hannibal Lecter

the respectful, non-exploitative way the victims were treated by the narrative.

let’s just say, not all Harris-inspired shows managed to do this. :)

the many, many allusions to the novel

“you let that relationship be INTIMATE” !!!

The Bad:

the near-constant implication that all Clarice’s trauma stems from her experiences in Gumb’s basement

I just don’t understand this one...it’s not supported by the text imo

the “Clarice-is-a-psychological-loose-canon” subplot

almost everyone calling her “Clarice”

NO DUPLEX IN ALEXANDRIA! Boo!

Esquivel maybe replacing Brigham

the narrative choices they’ve made surrounding Catherine so far.

Seriously: please let Catherine seek/get help instead of screaming “HELP ME” at Clarice, who after all risked her own life to save Catherine’s, over the phone.

The Ugly: Paul Krendler, lol. Confession time: I also don’t care for the way they’ve styled her hair. Not sure why it bugs me, it just...does.

Overall, I’m thrilled to death with this. I was so afraid it would be disappointing, so even if it’s not a five-star episode (and pilots rarely are), it’s a great beginning! It’s beyond amazing to see our girl on the screen again. Just this hour-long episode did her character way more justice than the entire Hannibal film. Despite its shortcomings, it’s such a loving homage to characters and a story that mean a lot to me, and I love it just for that.

Going forward, I’d like to see more of Clarice as a person. Her hobbies and interests--cars, sharpshooting, running, fashion magazines stuffed under her bed, horseback riding, her total inability to cook...anything would do. I of course want to see more of her with Ardelia. I want to hear more about her backstory and find out which version of it (truly orphaned when her father dies or sent away by her mother) they’ll choose to explore. And while we all agree that this show is about Clarice and she don’t need no man, I won’t lie: I’d gobble up more sly references to Hannibal. He’s her endgame, after all.

I’d also like to really see the warrior underneath. There are flashes of her in the last twenty minutes of this episode. But Clarice Starling is a big cat, she’s a warrior, she’s between iron and silver. I’d hate for her to spend most of this show doe-eyed and traumatized. I want her to be ferocious, to see the woman who’s a match for the monster.

Krendler needs to get nastier. He should make us feel like we need to shower. In the novels, he wants to use Clarice--only for her body. And when she won’t allow him to, he takes his revenge. That’s what makes him so particularly awful. Let’s amp him up here.

And finally...maybe I’ll appreciate Catherine’s scene more on a second watch. Maybe I’m not being sensitive enough to her trauma, her struggles. But I didn’t like the way that scene was staged or scripted, and I didn’t like the suggestion that she just hasn’t gotten help after a year and is subsequently taking her pain out on Clarice on some level. I hope future episodes handle this subplot, and her character, a bit better.

Please let me know if you guys would like me to do another of these monstrosities for the next episode. (I promise it won’t take me an entire week this time!) And thank you again for reading!!!

#Clarice Starling #clarice #cbs clarice #rebecca breeds #media [cbs show]#char [clarice starling]#I'm sorry again about how amazingly late this is heh #you've probably all watched and processed by now and have moved on to Episode 2 but I am slow

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calzona-ga · 4 years

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[Spoiler's] departure marks only the fifth time (and first since Patrick Dempsey) that the ABC medical drama has said farewell to a series regular via character death.

[This story contains spoilers from the March 11, "Helplessly Hoping," episode of Grey's Anatomy.]

Grey's Anatomy said parted ways with a beloved member of its cast during Thursday's midseason premiere and it did so in a relatively rare fashion for the ABC medical drama: with a character death.

Giacomo Gianniotti's Dr. Andrew DeLuca was killed off following a heroic battle to stop a sex trafficker in a storyline that stretched back to last season and ultimately capped the actor's seven-season run on the Shondaland favorite. DeLuca, who was stabbed and ultimately died in surgery, became only the fifth series regular in Grey's Anatomy history to have their storyline end in a fatality and the first since Patrick Dempsey's shocking exit nearly six years ago.

In a fitting end to his storyline, DeLuca winds up on Meredith's (Ellen Pompeo) magical beach and is able to have a farewell with his former love interest before walking into the sunset. DeLuca joins George (T.R. Knight), Derek (Dempsey), Mark (Eric Dane) and Lexie (Chyler Leigh) as series regulars (per Wikipedia) to leave the show in death. Of the 33 total series regulars in 17 seasons of Grey's, 13 characters have left alive. And it's of course worth noting that several other characters have been killed off of Grey's, though those actors have either been guest stars or recurring players.

Below, showrunner Krista Vernoff and star Gianniotti talk with The Hollywood Reporter about how DeLuca's death factors into a season that has put COVID-19 at the top of the show's call sheet and what's next.

Meredith is on a vent and that was the last beat until the show's return tonight. Why was it important for that to be the image viewers had of this iconic character for three months? She's still on the vent in the midseason return.

Vernoff: That happened to be the midseason finale. Sometimes stories tell themselves and things happen in very powerful ways. As an image, that works on people's psyche and helps them understand that this pandemic is ongoing and profound and impacting communities in really painful ways. It's a powerful image to help people remember why staying they're home. If this thing can hit Meredith Grey, it can hit anybody.

This season has put COVID-19 at the top of the call sheet, with realistic portrayals of everything from infected doctors, others struggling with the emotional gravity and, in the midseason finale, hospitals reached capacity. When it aired, that episode was sadly prescient. How does the rest of the season play out in terms of how close it has been to what's happening in the world now?

Vernoff: What's so interesting about it being prescient is that we were telling the truth in that episode of what was happening in May 2020 in Washington state and it was happening again in Los Angeles in December, when the episode aired. We weren't prescient; we were telling a story that happened in the early stage of the pandemic. It's been amazing how when we thought when we were breaking the show, we thought we were going home for two weeks and now it's a year later and we're looking at this in this way. It's still staggering to me. We are not jumping forward to some imaginary future where covid is a thing of the past. We are still set in the past in the back half of the season. That was one of the decisions when we decided that Meredith has covid and that that would span a fair amount of the season. We didn't want Meredith in a bed with covid for 11 months. We are still in like May/June of 2020 creatively. We're not jumping forward so we don't have to try and keep up with what's happening now; we're looking at what was happening then.

In a season exploring covid, why was the first major character death of the season unrelated? Was this supposed to be the season finale last year?

Vernoff: There was no plan to kill him at the end of last season. I very much did not want to kill DeLuca last season because he'd been through a mental health crisis and he'd come through it. I wanted to show that a person can go through a mental health crisis and come out the other side and be a functional, contributing member of the hospital staff. This story of DeLuca seeing that sex trafficker again and following her out of the hospital and refusing to let up and it becoming a part of Station 19 and following it and right when you think he's got her, somebody punches him. You think he's been punched but you come back and realize he's been stabbed and then he's on the beach with Meredith. My reaction to [the story idea] was, What?! Fuck! No! Really!? This is what I'm doing?! No! Many times after I pitched it to the writers and we designed the season around this story, I started to chicken out and second-guess myself. Can we save him?! Can he live?! He can't. We've done a lot of near-deaths and saved them since I took over the show. So now people are expecting that. This was the story. It was as shocking to me as it was to you.

Giacomo, what was your reaction when you got the call that Andrew was being killed off?

Gianniotti: Krista and Debbie Allen, our exec producer, called me into an office said they've tried it different ways and keep coming back to the trafficking storyline from last season. The storyline was so highly received, and because of that, they knew they had to continue to explore it. They saw an opportunity to tell a beautiful story that highlighted human trafficking and for DeLuca to go down as a hero and make this really noble act to stop this perpetrator but would unfortunately cost him his life. I've been on the show for seven seasons thought it was a great way to exit. Krista running Station 19 as well had the idea to make it a crossover so we could tell it over two episodes and spend time with DeLuca. I'm a storyteller and the best story always wins and I thought this was the best story.

What was the larger point you wanted to make with DeLuca's storyline? He dies a hero, which is a bit of the ultimate for a Grey's death.

Vernoff: I was processing [grief] myself when this story came. As we were going through this shared trauma of covid together and quarantine and being away from the people we loved, I wanted all the other tragedies in the world to just stop. It didn't seem fair. The Alexandria House, a charity I support in L.A. that shelters battered women and their children — so people who have already been traumatized — the first week of the shutdown, the Alexandria House caught on fire. It was like, What?! Isn't covid enough? But everything else didn't stop because of covid and we were all having to process other things, too, and horrible tragedies that come with life. That's part of where this story was born. All these people are going to die of covid but also sometimes other people just die. And it's f—ing awful. Part of DeLuca dying in this way … watching this episode, watching his mom greet him on the beach and feeling that grief, I cried harder watching this episode than I cried since George O'Malley died. I thank Giacomo for playing this character so beautifully and powerfully that through the death of DeLuca I believe there is an opportunity for us all to release our collective grief.

Will DeLuca re-appear on that beach again this season?

Vernoff: No. I thought him walking away with his mom was the most powerful closure for that character. But you will see him again, just not on the beach.

Gianniotti: Even though his life has come to an end, there's many ways to show our characters who have passed. I look forward to tell some other stories in those ways. Maybe there's flashbacks or other scenarios where we can see DeLuca. That's about all I can say. But it's not a drill; he's definitely died.

What was filming on that beach like given how much those scenes have meant to viewers?

Gianniotti: Ellen and I kept pinching ourselves. To be able to shoot on a beach was amazing. It was nice to be a part of that and have DeLuca have his moment and say his piece with Meredith. There was a lot of unfinished business between them. Maybe if Meredith hadn't gotten covid, the first part of this season could have been them picking up the pieces of where they left off in their romances. But circumstances didn't allow for that. It was nice that DeLuca got to at least thank her for everything she'd given him.

How do you think Meredith will respond to DeLuca's death?

Gianniotti: It's tough to say because you think of the dream and what happened at the end of the episode and wonder if Meredith would correlate that with the metaphor: if he's joining his mother that must mean he's leaving me and passing on. Maybe that would translate to her waking up? Who knows? Or it will be a massive surprise when she wakes up. There is a very obvious, glaring comparison with reality in that so many health care professionals have lost their own due to covid. It's a direct representation and reflection of that. It's helping people in the industry feel seen as well. It hits different and it's going to send a shockwave through all the characters at the hospital — and maybe Meredith the most.

Knowing Meredith is battling covid, it feels like there's one of two outcomes there. How does the covid story that you're telling impact the different finales that you're crafting considering the show's uncertain future?

Vernoff: More will be revealed as you watch the show. (Laughs)

Without spoiling anything, how would you describe who else will visit Meredith on that magical beach?

Vernoff: There are some really fun surprises coming up. It's one of the things that I have enjoyed as rays of light in the darkness of the storytelling necessitated by covid. That beach is a ray of light and the surprises of who you see there are rays of light. And I don't want to take that away.

Can you confirm there will be others who appear on that beach who viewers haven't seen there yet this season?

Vernoff: Yes.

Giacomo, you got to make your directorial debut on Grey's this season. After seven seasons, was there anything you wanted to do on the show but never had the chance?

Gianniotti: This felt like a gift. They rolled everything I wanted to do into two episodes, they wrote my dream exit storyline. I got to have an action movie told on Station 19 chasing a perpetrator and not wearing scrubs. That was fun and not something I'd gotten to do on Grey's for obvious reasons. All the scenes where we got to take our time and be together with Ellen and Meredith on the beach was a good way to tie up the loose ends. As far as the mental health storyline, it was an honor and privilege to tell that story. Ultimately, it's about representation and for people to see someone who is bipolar can be an attending and command a whole department at a hospital is huge.

Did you keep anything from set?

Gianniotti: I didn't! Maybe I'll go steal my stethoscope next time I'm there!

What's next for you? Any plans on returning to Grey's as a director?

Gianniotti: Definitely investing a ton of time in directing and hoping to continue to do that here and abroad. I'm seeking a lot of opportunities in Italy and Canada as a director and actor and have a few things coming on the horizon that I'm excited to share

#grey's anatomy #krista vernoff #17x07 #andrew deluca #giacomo gianniotti #spoilers #THR

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thanksjro · 4 years

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“Bullets”, a Last Stand of the Wreckers prose story- Ironfist Solves a Murder Mystery

Now that Overlord and Rewind have been exploded horribly in the vacuum of space, multiple people have died, and Chromedome’s horrifically single, let’s take a look at all those Last Stand of the Wreckers extras, yeah?

We more or less start with a Furmanism, as is tradition.

One day Furmanisms won’t be nearly as prevalent within the comic publications, and that is a day that I cannot wait to see. Forget politics, forget misogyny, forget basically NEEDING Death of the Author in effect to enjoy anything the man’s done- Furmanisms are a crutch that everybody in this franchise uses, but nobody needs. They never feel natural, in my opinion. It’s like a literary obligation at this point, and you can tell, because it never quite meshes with any writer’s style.

Anyway, this is the setup for what would happen on Pova- the Wreckers have been watching Squadron X fix up their ship, and now that the thing’s airborne again they’ve gotten itchy trigger fingers. Well, some of them, anyway. Rack n Ruin aren’t so sure about this whole thing, seeing as there are eight of them and an entire battalion up there. Impactor’s working the crowd though, as a leader of such a high turnover rate group is required to do, and that’s the point where First Aid stops reading.

Yep, this is one of Fisitron’s datalog entries, of which First Aid is a fan.

This isn’t First Aid’s first appearance within the IDW continuity- he played a role in Spotlight: Jazz, where he lived up to his name, and in Transformers: Ironhide #1, where he was in the background. This IS his premiere as a major player in a story, however, and it’s here that he’s revealed to be a bit of a slacker- he should be making the rounds at Delphi right now, but instead he’s reading entry logs about the wartime equivalent of a boyband.

He hits a key to quicktab to something at least somewhat medically-related as he feels someone approaching from behind. It’s the CMO, and he is in no way fooled by First Aid’s attempt to hide his shame. He gets back to work, but that particular entry- 113, because of course it is- is still on his mind. Hope he never finds out it’s a load of bunk.

I REALLY hope he never finds out this is all bunk. We all need something, you know?

Of course, First Aid- y’know, not to brag or anything- personally met one of the Wreckers. Roughly five years ago, Springer had approached him at a medical conference on Kimia. Why a medical conference was being held on Kimia of all places isn’t addressed, but it was probably because half the folks stationed there are doctors. First Aid, being a classy guy, fucking ogles Springer the entire time they’re talking.

You’ve heard of “Men Writing Women”, now it’s time for “Roberts Writing Robots”. Yes, this is THAT scene, and it’s on the first goddamn page.

First Aid, wanting to be of use to his idol, offers his medical expertise, completely willing to fix Springer’s nose, give him a breast reduction, and even update the circuit dampeners he doesn’t have. Springer, while flattered, isn’t looking for that sort of help. He’s looking for folks who have a lot to give.

The phrasing he uses makes First Aid think that he’s about to be recruited to the Wreckers- in other words, about to be put in line for a slow and awful death- but Springer clarifies that he’s looking more for eyes and ears to help him, not so much bodies. He hands First Aid a card with his number, and says to give him a call sometime.

Cutting back to the present, First Aid is walking through the rows of patient slabs, where we see an honestly horrifying practice in play- every patient in Delphi has their non-essential functions turned off to conserve power. This includes things like the ability to move, and speak.

Because that couldn’t possibly have any negative repercussions.

He checks in on the Fader he’s been assigned, confirms that, yes, his head IS still missing from his neck, then makes to walk out of the room, only to be startled by the sudden entry of a stretcher and Ambulon. Here, Ambulon is identified as a chief paramedic, as opposed to being a ward manager. Whether this is early installment weirdness or a simple mistake isn’t clear.

Ambulon is quickly followed by Dogfight, Dodger, and Backstreet(’s back, alright!) First Aid gets to work, by checking the three of them for injuries, paying special attention to their Autobot badges.

This is the reason Rung had to call in at the beginning of MTMTE #4, though it might be more because First Aid can’t act like a professional of five friggin’ minutes.

Oh, Delphi’s HR department is getting a call for sure.

First Aid, while a known fondler of badges, has never had this exact reaction. He runs off to make a phone call, leaving the injured Dodger to wait for the surgery he’s going to undergo the moment First Aid gets back.

Meanwhile, somewhere else- I’m guessing Kimia- Rung has an appointment underway with a dude named Flattop.

Flattop’s TFWiki article is one of the most depressing on the entire site, and it’s completely “Bullets”’s fault.

You see, Flattop’s attempting to talk through his trauma, but it’s difficult.

This level of insight is why they pay Rung the big bucks.

The war, while terrible for everyone’s mental health, has given Rung a slew of patients to handle.

Gee, wonder who that medic was.

Anyway, so Flattop’s deal- he was at Babu Yar, which was an event that was apparently so terrible, everyone involved was offered brand new bodies as compensation. He’s currently hiding underneath a table, which Rung identifies as “playing to type”. Flattop isn’t even here to talk about Babu Yar, but it’s good to know that war is still hell.

The reason Flattop’s actually here is this: he was serving under Silverstreak- another one of Rung’s patients, and someone who I’m convinced might actually be a Warrior cat given the name- and was going to check something out when he saw something utterly terrifying.

Rung gets Flattop out from under the table, and they talk about what the Shimmer means. Flattop is convinced that since he’s seen the thing, he’s going to die. You see, folklore in space is very similar to its counterpart on Earth, in that it’s a warning swathed in story to make it easily digestible.

Rung, who tries to keep things rational, offers to give Flattop a few possible explanations for what he saw. Because Flattop had only recently gotten his hot new bod a short while before he saw the Shimmer, it’s completely possible he had had a hallucination due to the adjustment period. Another theory is that Flattop has PTSD. Which, I mean, yeah.

While Rung was busy trying to explain what had happened, Flattop friggin’ died.

Awkward.

Over with Ironfist- because “Bullets” is a prequel- we’re in the middle of a meeting with the Ethics Committee. Xaaron, Animus, and Trailbreaker of all people, have come together to pass judgement on Ironfist’s cerebro-sensitive bullets. There’s a lot of hemming and hawing, and Ironfist reflects on how they got to this moment, while fiddling with a data slug to burn off the nerves.

This is just after the Surge happened, an event kicked off by the betrayal of the Autobot cause allowed Megatron to seize a majority of the Autobot outposts. It was a huge deal, a lot of shit was stolen, including the Weak Anthropic Principle, and it left everyone a little twitchy towards one another. Trust is not in vogue at present.

Kimia’s in a mess of trouble anyway, however, due to the events of Babu Yar, where Gideon’s Glue had rained down on the Autobot troops under Flame’s command, eaten to Swiss cheese by something eerily similar to something being developed on the station.

So an investigation was established. Brainstorm, who’s apparently big man on campus here at Kimia, is questioned, as is everyone else. Of course, no one cops to having invented Gideon’s Glue, because that’s a big ol’ war crime, so the questioning goes nowhere, but now there’s a precedent for mistrust on this science station.

Anyway, back to the bullet thing.

Ironfist’s cerebro-sensitive bullets are designed to hit the head, every single time, ignoring trajectory, ballistic physics, what you think is possible, and the Geneva Convention. It’s fired, it hits the first brain it identifies. Brutal stuff. Effective, but brutal.

Trailbreaker’s not a fan.

I mean, maybe? I guess it depends how gray your morality is. I bet Prowl would like them.

After telling Trailbreaker to keep it professional, Xaaron tells Ironfist that using these bullets would be a literal war crime, and he’s got a little over a day to hand them over to the Committee for destruction. Meeting adjourned!

Ironfist is left standing there until his good buddy Skyfall checks in on him. Ironfist is kind of bummed out, but Skyfall knows how to cheer him up- by comparing him to Impactor, former leader of the Wreckers, and one of Ironfist’s fan-crushes.

Man, this makes the Pova reveal a little harsher in hindsight, huh?

Skyfall invites Ironfist to the Exit Rooms, a place where the Kimia employees can drink and no one will give a shit, and as they make their way over they run into Brainstorm.

Brainstorm gets some interesting development in this story.

That’s right, not only are his weapons completely insane, and in some cases literally abstract, they’re apparently often so incredibly dangerous that the Ethics Committee loses sleep over the fact that they exist.

And Brainstorm loves it.

No wonder Trailbreaker was so annoyed in his Spotlight.

Skyfall asks about what’s in Brainstorm’s briefcase, gets an answer that’s likely a lie, then the boys head over to the Exit Rooms.

Over on Hydrus 5, it’s raining cats and dogs, and this is somehow the Transformers fault. I guess the universe bends to the will of what would be the most dramatic, as everyone takes a break from warmongering to soul-search.

Or ego-stroking. That works too.

Here is our dear Pyro, reveling in the aftermath of a battle that destroyed the natural ecosystem of the land, but at least they kicked those ‘Cons�� asses!

Pyro, who’s revealed to be maybe perhaps not the best at coming up with one-liners, is left alone for a bit as Afterburner goes to check on the rest of their men. As he tries to piece together a speech to deliver, he sees a green something- they’re always green, aren’t they?- and that something is the Shimmer.

Well, heck.

Over on the dilapidated space station of Debris (wow, that’s even less subtle than usual for this franchise) Springer’s holding a bullet. I mean, it’s not really a bullet, and the Decepticon who fired it wasn’t really a Decepticon.

I want you to know that I keep track of how many times 113 comes up in these stories, and for “Bullets" it’s a LOT.

Today’s letter from Agent 113 foreshadows/hindshadows the events of Last Stand, claiming that the DJD hasn’t heard anything from Garrus-9 since the Surge happened. Prowl’s concerned that Fortress Maximus is still alive in there and fighting off the Decepticons while waiting for backup, so he recently called Springer and invited the Wreckers on a mission.

All Springer has to do is pick some sorry sons of guns to die.

Over with Guzzle, who is romanticizing a weapon, comparing his gun to a religious artifact, our dear little bastard man has realized that he does, in fact, have emotions, and is in mourning over his lost comrades, who died rescuing Kup from Tsiehshi. Guzzle doesn’t much appreciate this whole “feeling” thing, and would rather it didn’t get in the way of him shooting statues for no other reason than him wanting to. Then he sees the Shimmer, and feels fear. He doesn’t much care for that, either.

Even Nick Roche is powerless to stop this madness.

We reconfirm the fact that Ironfist is a massive nerd, then are shown that the bullet accident that will have killed him by the end of Last Stand #5 has already happened. Ever so slowly, the bullet is heading for Ironfist’s brain. Every time it hits a new layer of his noggin, he blacks out.

Ironfist is going to leave on his super-fun, not-at-all-traumatizing Wrecker adventure soon, and he’s promised Skyfall his workshop. Skyfall was at Grindcore for a while, and that kind of gave him PTSD, so when Ironfist had gotten accepted to Kimia, he’d brought him along for the ride.

I like to call Grindcore Eugenesis-lite.

Because Skyfall is a reckless son of a gun with access to Ironfist’s workshop, he inadvertently caused a major incident with something called Black Phosphex, which resulted in the deaths of several Autobots because it wasn’t properly tested. This landed him in Garrus-9 for a bit, in a temporary career-path deviation, until it was time to come home to Kimia, just in time for the Inquiry.

Are stans always this intense? Because good lord, Ironfist.

Over at Karashi Delta, in the aftermath of a fierce battle, Rotorstorm is hyping himself the fuck up.

But does he buy it himself?

Hmm, survey says no.

Of course, verbal abuse isn’t the only thing we’ll be getting here. No, things begin to escalate pretty rapidly with Jetstream, who moves from shoving to almost beating Rotorstorm to death in a matter of months, before disappearing from the station forever.

Dang, this Jetstream fella kinda sucks. What’s his friggin’ problem?

Ah.

Again, I can’t stress this enough, Whirl’s awful flipper claws from back during his time as a cop do not make a nice fist. He was basically stabbing Rotorstorm. Who let this man be a teacher?

Rotorstorm is snapped out of his self-deprecating flashbacks by the sight of something on the canyon lip up ahead. It’s the gotdang Shimmer. Rotorstorm books it, not wanting to be caught by a harbinger of death. It doesn’t work, but points for trying.

Back on Debris, Springer’s picked his new recruits. Now all he has to do is call them up. Hey, isn’t Springer green? Green like the Shimmer? How about that.

Back on Kimia, Skyfall’s wandered into Ironfist’s workshop to share the gossip on Fisitron’s latest Wreckers: Declassified. Folks are a bit critical of his writing style, it would seem.

Of course Swerve knows what fan-fiction is. He seems like exactly the type to make fun of it, then read a 43,000 word fic in a single sitting, under cover of darkness, burning with shame all the while.

After making a note on his current Wreckers: Declassified document to ease up on the adverbs, Ironfist switches gears and gets busy on his other project: an Unofficial Wreckers’ Training Guide. I wonder when the switch from Primal Vanguard to Wreckers as a hyperfixation happened for him.

Ironfist asks Skyfall what entry he’s currently on, and the answer is a ways away from the latest one. Skyfall’s a slow reader, but he doesn’t want to just beam it all into his brain because it feels like cheating. He asks Ironfist when he’s going to cover the Wreckers’ mission to Garrus-9, the one that happened while he was there being not-imprisoned. Ironfist gives a non-answer, then asks if Skyfall wants to help with packing up the war-crime guns. Skyfall most certainly does not.

Ironfist starts breaking everything down when he gets a call from Prowl, as happened in Last Stand #4.

Back with Springer, we’re giving our dad a hug, as he greets Kup. It’s here we find out who Ironfist replaced on the Wrecker team for Operation: Retrieval- it was Skyfall. Skyfall had impressed Springer during their last Garrus-9 excursion, and thought that he’d be a good fit for the team, despite the Black Phosphex incident.

Kup goes full old man story time mode about how insanely boring Prowl is, while Springer gets the door. On the other side is Twin Twist, Top Spin, and Perceptor. They hold the vote, Ironfist given immunity due to unmentioned Prowl reasons, and Springer gets ready to call all their new pals.

Back at Ironfist’s workshop, Ironfist reflects on just how his life got to this point. He’s going to join the Wreckers! Never mind the fact that he’ll be going to die, and that’s if the bullet crawling around in his skull doesn’t get him first. Never mind the very likely possibility that he’s being exploited by Prowl. Nah, he’s gonna go on an adventure! It’s gonna be awesome! Yaaaaay!

It doesn’t pay to be blue and naive when Roberts is handling the story. Just ask Pipes.

Or don’t. You won’t get an answer.

Called it.

Ironfist, starstruck, bumbles his way through the conversation we saw in the Mosaic, and so it was that he became a Wrecker. All he has to do is pop on over to Rung’s office, get his head examined, then get his butt on over to Babu Yar.

Telecon work completed, Springer reflects on the fact that Guzzle turned him down. It’s not often someone turns down the chance to be a Wrecker.

Oh, well, never mind then.

Ironfist immediately tells Skyfall about what’s happened, because he’s just so jazzed to be a Wrecker. Skyfall isn’t quite as thrilled, but does his best to be supportive.

And by that I mean he’s not listening in the slightest as he’s already planning out the interior design for the workshop once Ironfist is gone. I bet he’ll get Atomizer to help him, the tacky bastard.

Skyfall runs off to go look at paint swatches or whatever, and Ironfist finalizes the stuff for the Ethics Committee pickup.

Oh, so that appointment wasn’t on Kimia after all. Can we please get some sort of fast-track program for the mental health specific degrees? We can’t keep using Rung for everybody, he’s only one person.

Oh heavens, Ironfist, be careful.

Ironfist gets another call, and we jump scenes before we can figure out just who rang or why.

Brief timeskip, and we find ourselves at Babu Yar, as Ironfist introduces himself to Guzzle and his gun.

Ironfist is about as smooth as coarse-grit sandpaper.

While Ironfist is busy revealing his nerd shame to Guzzle, someone’s decided to be a cocky little asshole.

Oh, dramatic irony. Always a delightful sort of pain.

Rotorstorm cranks up the “I’m hot shit” act to 11.5, doing completely unnecessary flips and talking himself up like he will literally die if he doesn’t.

Off in the distance, something disingenuously impressive comes up over the hill.

Of course, it’s not Optimus Prime, but it is someone who would very much like to be him. Such is the nature of primus apotheosis. Gang’s all here!

This is going to turn out fan-fucking-tastic.

Rotorstorm and Guzzle want to play with the big gun Ironfist brought along, and since Ironfist is going to die anyway, he lets them go for it. This would be why everything was on fire at the start of the miniseries.

Yep. Just gotta make it hurt just a little more, doncha Roberts? Just gotta twist the knife.

Nine months after the events of the Garrus-9 mission, Skyfall is upset. He’s gone and played himself by not attending the Ethics Committee hearings, and they’ve taken all his toys away as a result. He tries to mask his lack of concern for safety precautions behind a facade of missing Ironfist, but it doesn’t get him the weapons back.

Feeling cross, he decides it’s about time he made a visit to the Exit Rooms to blow off a little steam.

Later, he gets a call. Worried that his lack of ethics and/or his drunken squabbling has gotten him in trouble yet again, he’s loathe to answer, but does anyway.

Ghost call!

No, it’s actually a prerecorded message, one that claims that Skyfall killed Ironfist. Ironfist had asked Brainstorm to take a gander at the gun after he got shot, and found that it had been tampered with, set to go off on its own when held a certain way. That’s who was calling before he left for his Wrecker mission.

Skyfall starts to panic, expecting the security detail for Kimia to bust into the workshop at any second.

Ironfist knows that only Skyfall could have done this to him, but he doesn’t know the exact motive. Was it because he was jealous of how good a weapons expert he was? A chip on his shoulder about Grindcore? Whatever the reason, Ironfist isn’t terribly concerned at the time of the recording. What he is concerned about is Gideon’s Glue.

Ironfist had, in fact, invented Gideon’s Glue, but he’d been so horrified by what the shit actually did, he flushed it into space and destroyed all research before the Ethics Committee even knew about it. It still got to the Decepticons, though, didn’t it? How could such a thing happen?

Probably not, considering what happens next.

Ironfist is a smart guy, but more importantly, he knows how to reach his audience. Literally, in this case, as Skyfall finds out, when the Enforcement Squad starts trying to break down the door. Ironfist had the message that Skyfall is currently listening to primed for beaming into all of Fisitron’s reader’s brains. Everyone knows what happened. Swerve. Atomizer. Ratchet, who’s over on Earth right now. First Aid, who has enough bullshit to worry about on Delphi without this nonsense. You. Me. Everyone.

Skyfall, in a mad attempt to save himself, throws some of Ironfist’s Wrecker memorabilia at the door, and out pops that last tube of Gideon’s Glue.

There’s only one way out of this one.

This got really intense at the end, didn’t it?

#transformers #jro #jro punches me in the face #last stand of the wreckers #bullets #maccadam #Hannzreads #text post #long post #prose writing #wreckers trilogy

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dreadnought-dear-captain · 4 years

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The End of the Line – Update and You Asked, I Told (Part 1 of 2)

Hi, friends! I have completed my move and gotten settled in to my new apartment and state and job, so I’m back here to answer some Asks and give a writing update.

In the past couple of months, I’ve somehow managed to crank out about 45,000 words of BW. All the way to the end. Yep. BW is DONE. I literally cannot believe it. It needs some quality time with the beta, and I want to catch up on answering comments, so I’m (tentatively) planning to post the rest of the chapters on Veterans Day, 11/11/2020. I remember commenting to someone that I would have the whole fic done by Veterans day 2018 but hahahahahahaha [sob]. As of right now, I believe it’s going to be three more chapters, and you can decide if you want to binge them or draw it out. I’m also planning to do a select list of works consulted, but I will probably attach that to the BW timeline when I get it done rather than tack it onto the end of BW.

I’ve also started outlining a new fic that I’m excited about. It’s a BuckyCap canon divergence story that’s been percolating in my mind for a few years and has done about 400 evolutions. I was planning to move on to an AIDS fic, but that would require so, so much research, and honestly, I’m researched out after BW. I need a break. But there will be some similar themes, so if you’re here for more emoshy angst, there’s more coming your way. In first person!

I’ve cleaned out my Tumblr inbox and am posting my Ask answers in two batches. I’m feeling less quarantined out and consumed with my move, so I’m going to continue working toward being more responsive more quickly. Moving forward, I might just answer the asks as they come up rather than batching them. I dunno.

The following contain spoilers for everything up to the latest chapter of BW.

Starting with some love (thank you!) and progressing to questions.

Oh, thank you so much! I’m thrilled that you’re enjoying it alkfjalfjsakjf!

Thank you so much! It’s something I’m seriously considering, actually. Although I could never publish BW the way it is (it’s far, far, FAR too long for any publisher to pick up as-is), I am planning to go through the manuscript after this and re-write the essential story in hopes of de-Marveling it and shopping it around. I’ve been playing around with the idea of even trying first person, since the character voices are so strong, but I love close third a lot too, so I’ll have to play around with it.

I appreciate your patience, and I’m so happy that you’re into it enough to wait so long for the damn thing to come out!

I’ve written a lot of layers into the story in hopes that it will have decent re-read value – for those brave enough to read a 700k word fic more than once. But honestly, it’s so complicated sometimes that even I lose track of all the things I’ve woven in throughout. Part of it is that it’s a very different animal from where I started, both in terms of story and style, and I had some places I planned to go but then diverted, so there may be artifacts of old ideas floating around, I’m sure!

You’re so right that the avoidance response is unbelievably strong for them, and part of their relationship goals (in my mind, anyway) is for them to be more direct in expressing what’s going on with them and what they need. As for the photo album, I can totally imagine this playing out – a nice family get together, some familial razzing, a highly triggered person trying to keep his shit together, but it’s Bucky, and emotion regulation is still not a very strong suit for him. So, presto. Awful picture night shenanigans.

As for Steve and his judgement call here, I agree that it’s definitely not the best. But I kind of wanted to show him as also being a vulnerable person who is struggling with this and wants relief from it. I think it’s more typical in fic to have one person is traumatized and the other who is this unwavering, grounded rock that is relatively unaffected by their loved one’s trauma and can provide appropriate support. Which is great! People like this absolutely exist. But this stuff with Bucky has really fucked Steve up, too, in addition to having his own trauma. He’s also feeling very distant from Bucky now, and one of the ways that they have historically gotten close is to have sex. It’s their go-to coping strategy as a couple. Don’t talk, fuck. So I thought it made sense that, on this night of vulnerability, they might resort to that.

(See Baghdad Waltz Timeline ) Yeah, he was twelve, which is right before his family moved to New York. I’ve been sprinkling the episode around many chapters and don’t plan to go into a whole lot more detail about it TBH. It’s not essential to know all of the details, I don’t think. However, more will be revealed about Bucky and Jack’s relationship and how Bucky feels about him/felt about him, so hopefully that can provide a little context for it. Bucky has a lot of conflicting feelings about Jack and what happened to him, so we are forced to look at it through the eyes of a highly unreliable narrator. I hope future chapters (or chapters after this Ask was sent), will shed a little light on this.

You’re spot on that Bucky totally minimizes it. Especially with Steve, knowing that Steve both needs to roughly know and probably will lose his mind if he knows the whole story. It was a brutal beating with some significant injuries that needed extra medical attention. As a side note, Bucky undoubtedly lied about having any surgeries, etc. in order to get into the Army.

Thank you so much! I’m fully aware how emotionally exhausting this story can be, and I’m never quite sure whether or not to be apologetic about it. I’m not aiming to sensationalize anything or manipulate feelings out of readers or characters, truly. My guiding star is asking, okay, given everything, what would happen next? Not necessarily what *I* want to happen next, but what would these characters do now? Certainly I throw some circumstances in their way, but a lot of the emotional and relational responses to these are me trying to unflinchingly show what would happen with these two particular people with these two particular psychologies and histories.

As we can see, for as much as they love each other, this relationship is highly problematic. And these people are really struggling individually. I do try to show the good parts too, to balance things out, because I don’t want to shy away from those either. I’m always hopeful that the balance doesn’t become so out of whack that people nope out of the story.

Oh my God, I know. I think about that sometimes as well. Bucky was a highly skilled military professional, though I do wonder if this is one of the only environments that would have allowed him to avoid his own trauma quite this well. The military is such an all-encompassing career, one where, especially at higher ranks, you work ALL. THE. TIME. When you’re working all the time, when everything is about the men, about these extremely intense deployment experiences, there’s very little room for the past to creep in. It’s the perfect avoidance strategy.

Moreover, the highly rigorous structure was excellent for Bucky, who tends to spiral out if he’s not operating within very firm boundaries. A lot of people with emotion regulation problems like Bucky’s can do very well in the military because of this. But when he lost that, so violently, it was the perfect catalyst for everything to come careening back to him. Especially when he really toned down the drinking. This is life for a lot of veterans, though certainly not all, or even most. But Bucky’s relationship with the military was absolutely symbiotic, yes. It is sad.

This is one of Bucky’s attempts to earn favor with his new friends in New York, so good catch on the lie. Someone with an affectionate nickname obviously must have been liked, right? The last thing he wanted to do was have a repeat of his experience in Kentucky, so he put on a very good show and bullshat his way into a good social situation in New York. It’s not really bullshit though, because he’s a likable person. But I imagine he assessed the way he was, quiet, thoughtful, sweet, and probably decided nope, I’m not gonna be those things here. Not again. Some of the stuff, like his thoughtfulness and sweetness, couldn’t really be suppressed. But he did a lot of impression management in New York, including the creation of this nickname for himself.

Now, on to Part Two! See you there.

#YOU ASKED I TOLD #asks #send me asks #baghdad waltz

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savannah-lim · 4 years

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Hell’s Dell’s || Savannah & Marley

Timing: Current Parties: @savannah-lim and @detectivedreameater Location: Dell’s Tavern Content: Panic (Mara fear gas), Clowns (Vague description), Head Trauma

Savannah had needed to process so much during her time in White Crest that sometimes she forgot to sit back and take a deep and careful examination of it. She was almost used to the town to the point of desensitisation, which alone should have frightened her. What had begun as a simple missing persons investigation into Agent Sterling had turned into an exploration of an entirely new world, one she didn’t want to give up entirely too easily. If she was honest, maybe that’s why she hadn’t submitted a final report on Agent Sterling’s case yet, why she kept finding more cases to dive into. If anything had managed to shock her recently, it had been the Dullahan. Stryder had known all about it, explained it away as something all White Cresters should know about, and even managed to defend her excitement about seeing it in a way Savannah understood on a deep and personal level. If not for that explanation, Savannah wasn’t sure she’d have invited Stryder out for drinks at all. “What are you having?” she asked as they found a booth, taking off her jacket and folding it neatly beside her.

Savannah Lim was a mystery to Marley. She had watched the destruction of the Dullahan, watched Marley fawn over him-- listened to her explain what was going on, and she’d still invited Marley out for a drink. And, more importantly, not reported her. Marley should have been more concerned about citizens when they were being attacked, but she just couldn’t help it-- the pull of their fear was too good to pass up. It was like she’d been hypnotized, realy. But here she was now, standing outside of Dell’s, heading in to get a drink with a normal human FBI agent who believed in the supernatural somehow. And she wanted to talk about creepy things. How could Marley pass that up? “Tequila lime,” she answered, removing her own jacket and hanging it on the back of the chair. “So...how’re you liking White Crest so far?”

"Tequila Lime?" Savannah repeated, considering that as an option before nodding. She usually didn't dive right into the spirits, but what the hell. It sounded good. "We'll get two of those. There's a Dutch beer that tastes like Tequila. It sounds awful, but it's actually really good. I wonder if they have it." It probably said a lot about her that most of her socialising involved alcohol. "Would you think I was crazy if I said I actually like it?" she answered, but then again, considering her last conversation with Marley, she figured her tolerance for someone enjoying the dark and bizarre was pretty high. "It's never boring. There's always something interesting to explore. The trade-off is that it's terrifying." She shrugged. "Did you always live here, or did you move here?"

“I’m a simple girl with simple tastes,” Marley shrugged, even though nothing in that statement was true. “There is? Huh, that sounds like just my type of beer.” She wasn’t normally a big beer drinker-- it wasn’t worth it, seeing as it took too much beer to get her even a little buzzed-- but she’d make an exception for one that tasted like tequila. If it tasted good enough, she’d have to tell Anita about it. The thought twisted something in her stomach and she furrowed her brow, focusing back on Savannah. “What? Oh-- yeah. Nope, never a boring day here. Especially in our line of work,” she played idly with the napkin on the table in front of her, “And no, you’re not crazy. I like it here, too, because of that reason. Or, well-- I used to.” And maybe she still did, but lately the town had taken more from her than it had given, and it still left an empty feeling in her gut. “I moved here about five years ago. I used to be in New York. Worked for the NYPD for a little bit before I got transferred to Albany of all places. It was so boring there, so one day I just...moved.” She took the drink gratefully when the waiter returned with their refreshments and took a long sip. “What made you join the FBI? That’s a pretty dedicated career.”

"Whatever makes you happy," Savannah answered. She didn't think it particularly mattered what someone's preferred drink was unless they were sipping on the blood or orphans or something. In White Crest, that was probably someone’s dietary requirement. “I’ll ask at the bar if they have it after this round.” But as much as she enjoyed alcohol, this wasn’t what they’d come here to talk about. Savannah’s interest had been piqued by their encounter with the Dullahan, and in Savannah’s world, that simply meant she had to find out more. “I like puzzles,” she answered in response to Marley’s question. “I like solving things. I liked crime shows. The X-Files came out when I was in college. My parents always expected me to go into something traditional and professional and I didn’t want to be a doctor or an accountant. So, here we are.” She sipped her drink, looking across the booth at Marley. “What about you? Judging by what you said at the restaurant before, I think we have something similar in us that just makes us tick.”

Marley perked up a bit at Savannah’s answer. She loved puzzles as well. Any kind, actually. She loved jigsaw puzzles and puzzle boxes and mystery games and escape rooms. Except, lately, they’d begun to frustrate her. She couldn’t concentrate enough to figure them out, she no longer had the patience to deal with them. Still, the thought of having someone else to do them with piqued her interest. “Oh, god, me too. So much. I watched all those true crime shows as a kid and read about the shit all the time. All the other kids thought it was too gruesome or whatever, but I loved it.” Unlike she’d ever loved anything else. Was it just because of her species, or would she love these stories even without it? Knowing Savannah did, and knowing she was human, gave Marley that small hope that maybe it would still be true. “X-Files wasn’t just my mystery awakening, it’s also when I realized I liked both boys and girls. Oh, the things I’d do for Dana Scully,” she sighed wistfully, stirring the ice in her drink. “I think we do, too. I don’t often meet a lot of people who are into the macabre the way I am.”

Savannah couldn’t hold in her laugh, a dry but good-natured one. “Oh, the true crime shows. Don’t get me started. My mom thought I was a troubled child because of how often she caught me in the middle of some documentary about Jack The Ripper or The Zodiac Killer.” In hindsight, they were probably too mature for her at the age she’d started watching them, but even as a child, it was fascinating to her. “Oh, you’re bisexual too?” Savannah said. They had a great deal in common, it seemed, and Savannah found herself glad she’d reserved judgement. “I think Scully and Mulder were my ideal threesome,” she snickered. “Hell, maybe still are.” She lifted her drink giving Marley a small toast. “You ever meet Kavanagh when was still a Medical Examiner? She’s the closest I’ve come to finding someone who approaches these topics in a similar way in this town.”

“My favorites were the cold case files and the ones about the weird, little known serial killers,” Marley pointed out, “or the FBI’s top most wanted.” Even the other mara in her community had found her obsession with the macabre morbid. A lot of them found it rather disturbing, even, which she’d never understood-- they were creatures of fear, how could they really find anything that morbid? “Actually, I’m pan,” she pointed out, stirring her drink. “But yeah. Unfortunately,” she chuckled back, shaking her head. She knew she had more attraction to women than men, but she couldn’t deny the fact that she was attracted to some men. “See, I love me a good lay in bed, but I’ve never been one for threesomes. I prefer having the other person all to myself. Guess that’s a possessive thing or something.” Or it was the foster kid in her who grew up with no possessions of her own. She sat back a little, folding her arms. “You mean Kadaver? Yeah, I’ve met her,” she grumbled, “if by ‘approaching’ you mean completely denying, then sure, yeah-- she’s close.”

“Do you like Unsolved Mysteries?” Savannah asked, diving easily into the conversation. “Oh, Netflix has a new series coming out about The Yorkshire Ripper. It’s a British Case from the seventies.” She gave a small nod, correcting herself. “Oh, I’m sorry. I guess you could say I am as well. I’m just old. That label wasn’t as well-known when I was coming to terms with my sexuality. I just go with what I’m used to.” Apparently, they were already getting candid tonight. “I usually have a few more drinks in me before things get this personal,” she snickered. She’d meant the threesome comment more glib, less literal, but she let the conversation move along. It didn’t seem like Marley had any fondness for Regan, but Savannah supposed she wasn’t everyone’s taste. “I just mean that she’s very blunt, direct, discusses dark topics very matter-of-factly. Some people don’t like that.” Savannah must have been the strange one, because she found it refreshing. Regan was someone she didn’t have to try and be ‘normal’ with. “Was it just living here that made you believe in the less traditional explanations of the things that happen here, or something specific?”

“Oh yeah, definitely,” Marley nodded, enjoying the ease with which she could slide into this conversation. It was relaxing and didn’t require a lot of effort, something she was finding harder and harder to do the more her mind slipped from her. She took another long sip of her drink and felt a little wave of dizziness come over her, but she blinked it away. “No worries. I”m kinda iffy on labels but when people ask that’s usually what I say,” she shrugged, rubbing her eyes under her glasses. “I don’t think you’re that much older than me, are you?” She tapped her glass. “Oh, uh-- if this is too personal, we can talk about something else. I’m just sorta--” she waved her hand in the air-- “desensitised to this stuff.” The topic circled back to Kavanagh and Marley frowned, choosing not to respond, just nodding simply. But Savannah’s last question threw her for a small loop-- what did she do here? Did she tell her the truth, that Marley wasn’t human and had known about most of this stuff for most of her life? Or did she lie and keep her secret to herself? Was Savannah dangerous? Or could she trust her? Marley swallowed, reached up to rub her eyes again. “Well, it’s kind of complicated--” she started, but when she looked up, she sucked in a breath as her eyes locked with Savannah’s and her abilities transformed the booth around them into Savannah’s worst fears.

“How old are you? What, thirty-five? I’ve got ten years on you. That’s long enough for there to be at least a little cultural difference,” Savannah answered. “Oh. I’m not--it doesn’t bother me. I just wasn’t expecting it.” Her parents’ jaws would have hit the ground if they’d known she was talking about threesomes in a public space with an almost-stranger. She was looking forward to the answer to her question about how Marley had come to know about the supernatural, but it never came. It started with her mother appearing in the booth with them, ranting about how much of a failure she was. Savannah stared at her, looking back to Marley. “Can you--sorry, can you see her…?” she asked, as more faces appeared around the table; her father, her siblings, her ex, each proceeding to angrily and aggressively tell her of all her failings. “Stop it. Can you--can you just shut up?!” Savannah’s heart was beating faster. They were laughing at her, their features contorting unpleasantly and cartoonishly, exaggerated into impossible shapes, their skin tone being replaced by clown make-up, their laughter being replaced by maniacal cackling. “STOP!”

Marley felt her blood turn to ice as the fear from Savannah began to fill her up. It was intoxicating. She didn’t want to stop. The world around them fell away and all that they were left with were distorted faces and angry voices. Everything turned black and white. Savannah’s heart was racing, Marley could hear it. It echoed all around them. Her fear consuming them both. How long had it been since she’d properly fed like this? She didn’t want to stop. But then, a voice cut through her mind. It ricocheted all around her head and broke the glass in her mind. STOP! Marley fell backwards from the darkness and suddenly she saw Deirdre, writhing on the ground below her. And then it was Lydia, and then it was every other person she’d tortured like this. She blinked, but the visions wouldn’t go away. Savannah’s fears sat next to them in the booth. “I--” she stuttered, threw her sunglasses off and pressed her palms to her eyes. “I’m sorry! I’m trying, I’m sorry!” She didn’t want this. She didn’t want to hurt people like this anymore.

Savannah didn't even know she was talking to Marley. She just yelled at the unknown entities around them who were flooding her system with panic and dread. Her whole body was somehow hot and cold at the same time. People around them were starting to stare, chatter amongst themselves. Plates shattered as a server dropped them to the ground in shock. "What are you doing?!" She demanded, breathing rapid and palms coated in sweat as she tried to swat the apparitions away. Marley was doing this. She didn’t know how, but she was too terrified to think clearly. Her heart hammered so rapidly that it hurt. “Get off me!”

Stop it, stop it, she needed to stop it. Marley pressed her palms hard enough into her eyes to feel pain, nails digging into the sides of her head. “Stop it, stop it, stop it!” she shouted at herself, shaking her head. They needed to get out of there. She needed to get out of there. People were staring, she could hear them whispering. She spun in her spot to try and look around and suddenly more people were screaming. Inhaling sharply, Marley stood from the booth and stumbled out. “I’m sorry!” she stuttered at Savannah, reaching out for her. But the other woman was shouting at her and looking at her with those eyes-- those terrified, painful eyes. Marley swallowed thickly and looked away. “I-- fuck. I’m sorry, I’ll leave, I’m--” she turned quickly and slammed into someone, one of the waiters that had come over to check on them. He looked down into her eyes and suddenly he was crumbling to the ground as well. Marley backed away into the table, knocking over her glass. She didn’t want this. She’d never wanted this. She turned-- and she ran.

Savannah had no idea what was happening. She hadn’t known Marley had been the one doing this until she’d answered her, but Savannah was too busy panicking to register what that meant. People were staring, watching the poor woman freak out over something they couldn’t see, or perhaps being confronted with their own deepest fears suddenly and without explanation. Marley just kept apologizing, over and over, and Savannah could barely comprehend the words. The visions vanished, almost as soon as they’d appeared, leaving Savannah clutching her chest. “M-Marley--?” she tried to ask, but the other woman was gone. “What… what the hell?”

#paras #with: marley

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strengthbound · 4 years

Text

Connections

Evelyn

Wanted Connections

Her partners - Evelyn is polysexual and currently in a group relationship with two others, all details can be plotted

Wanted Plots

Exes - pretty much what it says on the tin

Friends - Evelyn’s been working for the hospital for 3 years, she’s very friendly so she’s likely to be well known around the hospital.

Team Members - other social workers

Group work makes the dream work - Evelyn specialises with children social work so likely is closer with the trauma or pediatric teams but she’s happy to work with anyone

Travel Companion - Evelyn loves to travel and has been to many places in the US and further abroad. She doesn’t mind traveling alone but its certainly more fun with someone else.

Cat

Wanted Connections

First Girlfriend - Cat didn’t really do relationships when she was younger, her first girlfriend was in medical school and she is the only woman she’s ever taken home to her family. It didn’t go well and her girlfriend left her shortly after because she was worried the relationship wasn’t what she thought. Cat was hurt at the time but she’d be open to a friendship with her now that time has passed

Brother(s) - Cat hasn’t seen her brother’s since her parents disowned her and whilst she keeps an eye on what they’re doing (google is very useful) she wouldn’t reach out to them. Up to player whether or not they know Cat’s in Seattle or not.

Wanted Plots

Northern Caroliners - People that knew Cat from her old hospital, she was there from the age of 28-52 so that’s a long time where she could have met people. Maybe they got along, maybe they didn’t (bonus points for awkward ‘aw hows your wife’ convos)

Mentees - Cat is probably already known in the hospital for having a soft spot for a few interns and residents. She’s very vocal about not agreeing with the long shifts even though she went through it herself and she also tries to convince people to specialise in neurosurgery.

New Friends - Cat’s only been in Seattle for 3 months and the city and hospital are still relatively new to her. She’s a bit more closed off now and friendships would probably be a bit tentative please for the love of god someone be her friend

Hook up - Forget your ex with meaningless sex! Cat is just out of a long relationship and whilst she does not want another relationship right now a girl has needs.

Suspicious colleagues - It’s no secret that Cat was the head of surgery at her last hospital and taking such a step down to Attending has raised a few eyebrows, a few people might even be suspicious that she’s up to something or wants the higher up jobs in time.

Already Pissed Off - Despite actually being quite nice Cat can be stubborn if what she believes is right and she also believes in brutal honesty which can definitely rub people the wrong way. Whether its a misunderstanding or a genuine dislike there will be people who don’t get along with her.

Unlikely Friends - Having worked at her mothers GP practice back in England as a receptionist Cat has a great deal of respect for anyone who deals with patients and their families, especially as she jokes about the majority of the time dealing with them whilst unconscious, so she probably makes herself well liked among admin staff and some people find those friendships a bit unexpected.

Mom Friend - Cat has always been the mom friend in her groups and she has a maternal instinct that makes it hard for her not to care. She always has snacks and if you need covered for a quick nap she’s probably your gal

Momming the Mom Friend - Someone who has seen the bravado that Cat often puts out and has made it their mission to be there for her.

LILITH

Wanted Connections

Best Friend/Baby Daddy - friend from med school in Edinburgh, 9 years ago he asked her to be a surrogate for him and his husband. To everyones surprise (including hers) she said yes. She hated being pregnant and vowed she’d never do it again but she does love his daughter, who knows her as an auntie. Possible plot trying to convince her to be a surrogate again?

Best Friends Husband - the other parent for the child she was a surrogate for, could be that they almost hate each other but tolerate each other for the husband/best friend but definitely up for plotting.

Half Sibling(s) - Whether it was another accidental pregnancy or Mary (her mother) changed a lot Lilith has a younger half-sibling. Lilith doesn’t know they exist and its up to plotting as to whether or not they’ve come to see her or its just a weird coincidence.

Ex Lover - Any gender orientation/expression. Lilith did love them a lot but when they were offered a job away from London she asked them to choose between her and their job. It was a test and they chose the job. Lilith was heartbroken and isn’t going to be glad to see them.

On and Off Girlfriend (Miranda Otto)- Lilith thought she had learnt from past mistakes but when she heard that her girlfriend had been offered a job in Seattle she struggled to think about moving. They have a rocky relationship which is currently ‘off’. Hearing that Olivia was struggling (after the plane) sealed the deal for her moving.

Wanted Plots

Bad first impressions - Lilith has literally just started at the hospital and doesn’t believe in trying to make people think she’s anything different than she is. That means she’s likely been blunt and brutally honest with anyone she’s met.

Good first impressions - probably less likely than the above but still, Lilith is a good doctor so if they’ve met her first in a professional setting they’d likely be impressed.

Reputation proceeds me - as I’ve said Lil is a good doctor, probably known for some technique or from guest lectures she’s given. So maybe someone that knows her work or knows of her?

Hook ups - Lilith is a bisexual disaster so anyone is fair game (would kill for a plot of hooking up with someone before her first day -probably sneaking out on them in the morning- only to then turn up at work and be like oh… okay)

Reluctant Mentor - someone who wants to go into urology and has imprinted on Lilith like a baby bird. The last person Lilith mentored was Olivia Hayes and she doesn’t do it often. Hence the reluctant part.

Reluctant Friend - pretty much what it says on the tin. Give her someone who is determined to be her friend.

Old colleagues - someone who worked with Lilith in either London or Edinburgh, we can plot as to whether or not they got along.

Rivals - someone who’s research is close to Lilith’s or has just been making their career at the same time. They’ve never quite met or have only met at conferences but have a friendly (or not so friendly) rivalry.

#wc

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moodboardinthecloud · 4 years

Text

Your ‘Surge Capacity’ Is Depleted — It’s Why You Feel Awful

Here’s how to pull yourself out of despair and live your life

Tara Haelle

Aug 16·13 min read

https://elemental.medium.com/your-surge-capacity-is-depleted-it-s-why-you-feel-awful-de285d542f4c

Itwas the end of the world as we knew it, and I felt fine. That’s almost exactly what I told my psychiatrist at my March 16 appointment, a few days after our children’s school district extended spring break because of the coronavirus. I said the same at my April 27 appointment, several weeks after our state’s stay-at-home order.

Yes, it was exhausting having a kindergartener and fourth grader doing impromptu distance learning while I was barely keeping up with work. And it was frustrating to be stuck home nonstop, scrambling to get in grocery delivery orders before slots filled up, and tracking down toilet paper. But I was still doing well because I thrive in high-stress emergency situations. It’s exhilarating for my ADHD brain. As just one example, when my husband and I were stranded in Peru during an 8.0-magnitude earthquake that killed thousands, we walked around with a first aid kit helping who we could and tracking down water and food. Then I went out with my camera to document the devastation as a photojournalist and interview Peruvians in my broken Spanish for my hometown paper.

Now we were in a pandemic, and I’m a science journalist who has written about infectious disease and medical research for nearly a decade. I was on fire, cranking out stories, explaining epidemiological concepts in my social networks, trying to help everyone around me make sense of the frightening circumstances of a pandemic and the anxiety surrounding the virus.

I knew it wouldn’t last. It never does. But even knowing I would eventually crash, I didn’t appreciate how hard the crash would be, or how long it would last, or how hard it would be to try to get back up over and over again, or what getting up even looked like.

Psychiatrist and habit change specialist Dr. Jud Brewer explains how anxiety masquerades as helpfulelemental.medium.com

How to Live When Your Mind Is Governed by Fear

In those early months, I, along with most of the rest of the country, was using “surge capacity” to operate, as Ann Masten, PhD, a psychologist and professor of child development at the University of Minnesota, calls it. Surge capacity is a collection of adaptive systems — mental and physical — that humans draw on for short-term survival in acutely stressful situations, such as natural disasters. But natural disasters occur over a short period, even if recovery is long. Pandemics are different — the disaster itself stretches out indefinitely.

“The pandemic has demonstrated both what we can do with surge capacity and the limits of surge capacity,” says Masten. When it’s depleted, it has to be renewed. But what happens when you struggle to renew it because the emergency phase has now become chronic?

By my May 26 psychiatrist appointment, I wasn’t doing so hot. I couldn’t get any work done. I’d grown sick of Zoom meetups. It was exhausting and impossible to think with the kids around all day. I felt trapped in a home that felt as much a prison as a haven. I tried to conjure the motivation to check email, outline a story, or review interview notes, but I couldn’t focus. I couldn’t make myself do anything — work, housework, exercise, play with the kids — for that whole week.

Or the next.

I know depression, but this wasn’t quite that. It was, as I’d soon describe in an emotional post in a social media group of professional colleagues, an “anxiety-tainted depression mixed with ennui that I can’t kick,” along with a complete inability to concentrate. I spoke with my therapist, tweaked medication dosages, went outside daily for fresh air and sunlight, tried to force myself to do some physical activity, and even gave myself permission to mope for a few weeks. We were in a pandemic, after all, and I had already accepted in March that life would not be “normal” for at least a year or two. But I still couldn’t work, couldn’t focus, hadn’t adjusted. Shouldn’t I be used to this by now?

“Why do you think you should be used to this by now? We’re all beginners at this,” Masten told me. “This is a once in a lifetime experience. It’s expecting a lot to think we’d be managing this really well.”

It wasn’t until my social media post elicited similar responses from dozens of high-achieving, competent, impressive women I professionally admire that I realized I wasn’t in the minority. My experience was a universal and deeply human one.

An unprecedented disaster

While the phrase “adjusting to the new normal” has been repeated endlessly since March, it’s easier said than done. How do you adjust to an ever-changing situation where the “new normal” is indefinite uncertainty?

“This is an unprecedented disaster for most of us that is profound in its impact on our daily lives,” says Masten. But it’s different from a hurricane or tornado where you can look outside and see the damage. The destruction is, for most people, invisible and ongoing. So many systems aren’t working as they normally do right now, which means radical shifts in work, school, and home life that almost none of us have experience with. Even those who have worked in disaster recovery or served in the military are facing a different kind of uncertainty right now.

Americans are faced with more risk than ever. Understanding how the brain navigates this new reality can build…elemental.medium.com

Life Is Now a Game of Risk. Here’s How Your Brain Is Processing It.

“I think we maybe underestimate how severe the adversity is and that people may be experiencing a normal reaction to a pretty severe and ongoing, unfolding, cascading disaster,” Masten says. “It’s important to recognize that it’s normal in a situation of great uncertainty and chronic stress to get exhausted and to feel ups and downs, to feel like you’re depleted or experience periods of burnout.”

Research on disaster and trauma focuses primarily on what’s helpful for people during the recovery period, but we’re not close to recovery yet. People can use their surge capacity for acute periods, but when dire circumstances drag on, Masten says, “you have to adopt a different style of coping.”

“How do you adjust to an ever-changing situation where the ‘new normal’ is indefinite uncertainty?”

Understanding ambiguous loss

It’s not surprising that, as a lifelong overachiever, I’ve felt particularly despondent and adrift as the months have dragged on, says Pauline Boss, PhD, a family therapist and professor emeritus of social sciences at the University of Minnesota who specializes in “ambiguous loss.”

“It’s harder for high achievers,” she says. “The more accustomed you are to solving problems, to getting things done, to having a routine, the harder it will be on you because none of that is possible right now. You get feelings of hopelessness and helplessness, and those aren’t good.”

That’s similar to how Michael Maddaus, MD, a professor of thoracic surgery at the University of Minnesota, felt when he became addicted to prescription narcotics after undergoing several surgeries. Now recovered and a motivational speaker who promotes the idea of a “resilience bank account,” Maddaus had always been a fast-moving high achiever — until he couldn’t be.

“I realized that my personal operating system, though it had led to tremendous success, had failed me on a more personal level,” he says. “I had to figure out a different way of contending with life.”

That mindset is an especially American one, Boss says.

“Our culture is very solution-oriented, which is a good way of thinking for many things,” she says. “It’s partly responsible for getting a man on the moon and a rover on Mars and all the things we’ve done in this country that are wonderful. But it’s a very destructive way of thinking when you’re faced with a problem that has no solution, at least for a while.”

That means reckoning with what’s called ambiguous loss: any loss that’s unclear and lacks a resolution. It can be physical, such as a missing person or the loss of a limb or organ, or psychological, such as a family member with dementia or a serious addiction.

“In this case, it is a loss of a way of life, of the ability to meet up with your friends and extended family,” Boss says. “It is perhaps a loss of trust in our government. It’s the loss of our freedom to move about in our daily life as we used to.” It’s also the loss of high-quality education, or the overall educational experience we’re used to, given school closures, modified openings and virtual schooling. It’s the loss of rituals, such weddings, graduations, and funerals, and even lesser “rituals,” such as going to gym. One of the toughest losses for me to adapt to is no longer doing my research and writing in coffee shops as I’ve done for most of my life, dating back to junior high.

“These were all things we were attached to and fond of, and they’re gone right now, so the loss is ambiguous. It’s not a death, but it’s a major, major loss,” says Boss. “What we used to have has been taken away from us.”

Just as painful are losses that may result from the intersection of the pandemic and the already tense political division in the country. For many people, issues related to Covid-19 have become the last straw in ending relationships, whether it’s a family member refusing to wear a mask, a friend promoting the latest conspiracy theory, or a co-worker insisting Covid-19 deaths are exaggerated.

Ambiguous loss elicits the same experiences of grief as a more tangible loss — denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance — but managing it often requires a bit of creativity.

A winding, uncharted path to coping in a pandemic

While there isn’t a handbook for functioning during a pandemic, Masten, Boss, and Maddaus offered some wisdom for meandering our way through this.

Accept that life is different right now

Maddaus’ approach involves radical acceptance. “It’s a shitty time, it’s hard,” he says. “You have to accept that in your bones and be okay with this as a tough day, with ‘that’s the way it is,’ and accept that as a baseline.”

But that acceptance doesn’t mean giving up, he says. It means not resisting or fighting reality so that you can apply your energy elsewhere. “It allows you to step into a more spacious mental space that allows you to do things that are constructive instead of being mired in a state of psychological self torment.”

Expect less from yourself

Most of us have heard for most of our lives to expect more from ourselves in some way or another. Now we must give ourselves permission to do the opposite. “We have to expect less of ourselves, and we have to replenish more,” Masten says. “I think we’re in a period of a lot of self discovery: Where do I get my energy? What kind of down time do I need? That’s all shifted right now, and it may take some reflection and self discovery to find out what rhythms of life do I need right now?”

She says people are having to live their lives without the support of so many systems that have partly or fully broken down, whether it’s schools, hospitals, churches, family support, or other systems that we relied on. We need to recognize that we’re grieving multiple losses while managing the ongoing impact of trauma and uncertainty. The malaise so many of us feel, a sort of disinterested boredom, is common in research on burnout, Masten says. But other emotions accompany it: disappointment, anger, grief, sadness, exhaustion, stress, fear, anxiety — and no one can function at full capacity with all that going on.

Recognize the different aspects of grief

The familiar “stages” of grief don’t actually occur in linear stages, Boss says, but denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance are all major concepts in facing loss. Plenty of people are in denial: denying the virus is real, or that the numbers of cases or deaths are as high as reported, or that masks really help reduce disease transmission.

Anger is evident everywhere: anger at those in denial, anger in the race demonstrations, anger at those not physically distancing or wearing masks, and even anger at those who wear masks or require them. The bargaining, Boss says, is mostly with scientists we hope will develop a vaccine quickly. The depression is obvious, but acceptance… “I haven’t accepted any of this,” Boss says. “I don’t know about you.”

Sometimes acceptance means “saying we’re going to have a good time in spite of this,” Boss says, such as when my family drove an hour outside the city to get far enough from light pollution to look for the comet NEOWISE. But it can also mean accepting that we cannot change the situation right now.

“We can kick and scream and be angry, or we can feel the other side of it, with no motivation, difficulty focusing, lethargy,” Boss says, “or we can take the middle way and just have a couple days where you feel like doing nothing and you embrace the losses and sadness you’re feeling right now, and then the next day, do something that has an element of achievement to it.”

“Our new normal is always feeling a little off balance, like trying to stand in a dinghy on rough seas, and not knowing when the storm will pass.”

Experiment with “both-and” thinking

This approach may not work for everyone, but Boss says there’s an alternative to binary thinking that many people find helpful in dealing with ambiguous loss. She calls it “both-and” thinking, and sometimes it means embracing a bit of the irrational.

For the families of soldiers missing in action in Vietnam that Boss studied early in her career, or the family members of victims of plane crashes where the bodies aren’t recovered, this type of thinking means thinking: “He is both living and maybe not. She is probably dead but maybe not.”

“If you stay in the rational when nothing else is rational, like right now, then you’ll just stress yourself more,” she says. “What I say with ambiguous loss is the situation is crazy, not the person. The situation is pathological, not the person.”

An analogous approach during the pandemic might be, “This is terrible and many people are dying, and this is also a time for our families to come closer together,” Boss says. On a more personal level, “I’m highly competent, and right now I’m flowing with the tide day-to-day.”

It’s a bit of a Schrödinger’s existence, but when you can’t change the situation, “the only thing you can change is your perception of it,” she says.

Of course, that doesn’t mean denying the existence of the pandemic or the coronavirus. As Maddaus says, “You have to face reality.” But how we frame that reality mentally can help us cope with it.

Look for activities, new and old, that continue to fulfill you

Lots of coping advice has focused on “self-care,” but one of the frustrating ironies of the pandemic is that so many of our self-care activities have also been taken away: pedicures, massages, coffee with friends, a visit to the amusement park, a kickboxing class, swimming in the local pool — these activities remain unsafe in much of the country. So we have to get creative with self-care when we’re least motivated to get creative.

“When we’re forced to rethink our options and broaden out what we think of as self-care, sometimes that constraint opens new ways of living and thinking,” Masten says. “We don’t have a lot of control over the global pandemic but we do over our daily lives. You can focus on plans for the future and what’s meaningful in life.”

For me, since I missed eating in restaurants and was tired of our same old dinners, I began subscribing to a meal-kit service. I hate cooking, but the meal kits were easy, and I was motivated by the chance to eat something that tasted more like what I’d order in a restaurant without having to invest energy in looking through recipes or ordering the right ingredients.

Okay, I’ve also been playing a lot of Animal Crossing, but Maddaus explains why it makes sense that creative activities like cooking, gardening, painting, house projects — or even building your own imaginary island out of pixels — can be fulfilling right now. He references the book The Molecule of More, which explores how dopamine influences our experiences and happiness, in describing the types of activities most likely to bring us joy.

“There are two ways the brain deals with the world: the future and things we need to go after, and the here and now, seeing things and touching things,” Maddaus says. “Rather than being at the mercy of what’s going on, we can use the elements of our natural reward system and construct things to do that are good no matter what.”

Those kinds of activities have a planning element and a here-and-now experience element. For Maddaus, for example, it was simply replacing all the showerheads and lightbulbs in the house. “It’s a silly thing, but it made me feel good,” he says.

Focus on maintaining and strengthening important relationships

The biggest protective factors for facing adversity and building resilience are social support and remaining connected to people, Masten says. That includes helping others, even when we’re feeling depleted ourselves.

“Helping others is one of those win-win strategies of taking action because we’re all feeling a sense of helplessness and loss of control about what’s going on with this pandemic, but when you take action with other people, you can control what you’re doing,” she says. Helping others could include checking in on family friends or buying groceries for an elderly neighbor.

Begin slowly building your resilience bank account

Maddaus’ idea of a resilience bank account is gradually building into your life regular practices that promote resilience and provide a fallback when life gets tough. Though it would obviously be nice to have a fat account already, he says it’s never too late to start. The areas he specifically advocates focusing on are sleep, nutrition, exercise, meditation, self-compassion, gratitude, connection, and saying no.

“Start really small and work your way up,” he says. “If you do a little bit every day, it starts to add up and you get momentum, and even if you miss a day, then start again. We have to be gentle with ourselves and keep on, begin again.”

After spending an hour on the phone with each of these experts, I felt refreshed and inspired. I can do this! I was excited about writing this article and sharing what I’d learned.

And then it took me two weeks to start the article and another week to finish it — even though I wanted to write it. But now, I could cut myself a little more slack for taking so much longer than I might have a few months ago. I might have intellectually accepted back in March that the next two years (or more?) are going to be nothing like normal, and not even predictable in how they won’t be normal. But cognitively recognizing and accepting that fact and emotionally incorporating that reality into everyday life aren’t the same. Our new normal is always feeling a little off balance, like trying to stand in a dinghy on rough seas, and not knowing when the storm will pass. But humans can get better at anything with practice, so at least I now have some ideas for working on my sea legs.

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