#the betrayal stings for jack but he places the good of the people over his own feelings at all times | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

anamelessfacelessnerd · 4 years ago

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Not me rewriting the ending to Mizumono only to have a much better idea halfway through so as soon as I finished the first one I started on the second

Rating: Explicit

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: M/M

Fandom: Hannibal (TV)

Relationship: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter

Characters: Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter, Abigail Hobbs

Additional Tags: Canon-Typical Violence, Episode: s02e13 Mizumono, Smut, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Mild Blood, Rough Sex, Coming Untouched, Not Beta Read, Dark Will Graham

Language: English

Summary: “I need him to know.” Will looked into Hannibal’s eyes then, searching for the desperation he could hear in his words. “If I confessed to Jack Crawford now, you think he would forgive me?”

“I would forgive you.” It’s clear that Hannibal’s not talking about the murder, but the betrayal. He would still forgive Will for conspiring against him. “If Jack were to tell you all is forgiven, Will, would you accept his forgiveness?” The double meaning is apparent. Hannibal was asking Will if he would go with him knowing that Hannibal would forgive him. It’s an invitation. One that Will wasn’t sure he wanted to decline.

“Jack isn't offering forgiveness.” Hannibal wanted to say “I am”, but he didn't. “He wants justice. He wants to see you. See who you are. See who I've become. Know the truth.” Will takes another sip of his wine and Hannibal accepts his defeat. He really hadn’t wanted to hurt Will, but it seemed that it would be the only option.

“Still, I suppose we don’t owe Jack that do we?” Will spoke again.

Notes: Okay, I know I rewrote the ending of Mizumono yesterday, but I had this idea while I wrote it and I couldn't help myself.

“Do you know what an imago is, Will?” Hannibal asked.

“It's a flying insect,” Will replied.

“It's the final stage of a transformation. Maturity.”

“When you become who you will be,” Will said, catching on to the point Hannibal was making.

“It's also a term from the dead religion of psychoanalysis. An imago is an image of a loved one buried in the unconscious, carried with us all our lives.”

“An ideal.”

“The concept of an ideal always searching for an objective reality to match. I have a concept of you just as you have a concept of me.”

“Neither of us are ideal,” Will says after taking a long drink of his wine. Hannibal considered what Will had just said for a moment. He had nearly trusted an ideal. He thought that Will would leave with him until he smelled Freddie Lounds on him. Perhaps Will was right, neither of them were ideal.

“We are both too curious about too many things for any ideals.” Hannibal paused a moment, feeling a twinge of hesitation for what he was about to ask. It was completely out of character for Hannibal to grovel, but in recent weeks he had grown accustomed to the idea of running away with Will, and he wasn’t quite ready to give the fantasy up. “Is it ideal that Jack die?”

Will matched Hannibal’s pause. Most would not even notice the hesitation, but Hannibal did.

“It's necessary. What happens to Jack has been preordained.” Will’s voice was cold, free from any emotion. In any other circumstance Hannibal would be proud of how well he schooled his expression, but now it just frustrated him.

“We could disappear now. Tonight. Feed your dogs. Leave a note for Dr. Bloom, never see her or Jack Crawford again. Almost polite,” Hannibal was nearly begging now and Will knew it. Their eyes locked and at once Will understood. Hannibal knew and he was willing to forgive.

“That'd make this our last supper,” Will said, considering Hannibal’s offer. Now, just days away from the sting that he and Jack had planned, Will still wasn’t sure whose side he was really on. Part of him wanted to be good, he wanted to atone for his sins and clear his name for good, because even though he had been acquitted, there were still those who believed he had actually killed all those people.

The other part of him wanted to become what everyone thought him to be. Though he hated to admit it, he had felt a thrill as he killed and mutilated Randall Tier. Even worse was that now thinking about that feeling didn’t make him feel guilty or sick, only enhanced the adrenaline.

If he was being completely honest, half of the thrill was seeing how Hannibal looked at him when he knew what Will had done. The subtle adoration and pride that he was no doubt allowing Will to see. Hannibal’s gaze made Will feel things, things that he had never felt with anyone before, and he wanted to chase that feeling.

“Of this life. I am serving lamb.”

“Sacrificial? Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world.” Will snorted.

“I freely claim my sin. I don't need a sacrifice. Do you?”

“I need him to know.” Will looked into Hannibal’s eyes then, searching for the desperation he could hear in his words. “If I confessed to Jack Crawford now, you think he would forgive me?”

“I would forgive you.” It’s clear that Hannibal’s not talking about the murder, but the betrayal. He would still forgive Will for conspiring against him. “If Jack were to tell you all is forgiven, Will, would you accept his forgiveness?” The double meaning was apparent. Hannibal was asking Will if he would go with him knowing that Hannibal would forgive him. It’s an invitation. One that Will wasn’t sure he wanted to decline.

“Still, I suppose we don’t owe Jack that do we?” Will spoke again. Hannibal perked up almost imperceptibly.

“Perhaps a note will be sufficient. I didn’t want to leave the dogs alone, but they’ll be fine for a while. Knowing Jack he’ll send a cruiser to my place within an hour after I don’t show up in the morning.”

“Let us prepare then. I would like to be out of the country before Jack realizes that you are no longer his man on the inside.” Hannibal stood and began gathering plates to bring to the kitchen because of course he would want to leave the house spotless. Will helped him with the dishes and wiping everything down. They caught eyes several times, both revving with the anticipation of what was to come. Will considered apologizing for his conspiracy, but when he looked into Hannibal’s eyes he knew he was already forgiven.

It was a little intoxicating to know that he had this kind of control over hannibal. To know that he made Hannibal beg. He wondered how else he could compel him to beg. That was, once they stopped dancing around the physical aspect of their relationship and finally just fucked like they both wanted to.

Once they were finished they retired to the study to write a note. Hannibal wandered around, collecting particular books and knick knacks that he wanted to bring while Will drafted a note. After much thinking and many balled up pieces of paper, Will finally got it right. When he finished, he handed it to Hannibal to read.

“This will do nicely,” Hannibal said. He slipped the letter into an envelope and sealed it with blood red wax and a stamp that bore his initials.

Will watched as the wax dripped. The flow of the thick liquid was giving him all sorts of dirty thoughts. Thoughts of Hannibal pouring that warm liquid all over his body. Thoughts of being covered in other kinds of red liquid. Will had to take a deep breath to steady himself and bring some blood back up to his head.

When the wax had dried, Hannibal handed the letter to Will, fingers brushing against Will’s skin tenderly.

“I have a surprise for you,” Hannibal said, hand coming to grip Will’s wrist.

“Oh?” Will replied.

“Come with me.” Hannibal led Will upstairs, never letting go of his wrist. Will had only been to the upper floor of Hannibal’s house a few times, and never in the dark, so he didn’t really know where they were going. He had two ideas, one much more enticing than the other, but both equally likely.

As it turned out, neither of his assumptions were correct. Hannibal led him to a closed door at the end of the hallway and knocked.

“May we come in?” He asked. Will didn’t even have time to question who was in there before the door was being opened from the inside. Standing in the doorway was none other than Abigail Hobbs.

“Hi Will,” She said, a small smile playing on her chapped lips.

“Abigail?” Will asked, voice barely audible. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Had Hannibal drugged him? Was he hallucinating?

“How are you here? You’re dead,” Will said.

“Not dead, just misplaced,” Hannibal replied, “they never found a body, well, not a whole body at least. It was merely a charade.”

Abigail tucked her hair back to show Will the flesh where her ear had been. It was healed over by now, but it still brought a wave of bile up in Will’s throat.

“You’ve been here this whole time?” Will asked, choking down the anger that was building in him. There was no sense getting angry now, especially when he was teetering on the edge of a new beginning.

“I’m sorry,” Abigail said, tears welling in her eyes.

“I forgive you,” Will said. Abigail took two big steps forward and wrapped her arms around Will’s middle, burying her tears in his shirt. He brought a hand to her hair and stroked, both soothing her and assuring himself that she was really there and really alive.

“Thank you,” Will whispered to Hannibal. He wasn’t sure what he was thanking him for. Maybe for keeping Abigail alive, maybe for bringing him to her, maybe just because he didn’t know what else to say.

Hannibal’s hand came to rest between Will’s shoulder blades, fingertips shooting electricity down his spine.

“I do not wish to rush you two, but we must be going,” Hannibal said, “there is still much for us to do and little time to do it.”

Abigail pulled back from Will and wiped her eyes on her sleeve, sniffling a few times.

“Will, would you care to help me pack?” Hannibal asked.

“Yeah, sure.” Will cast one last glance at Abigail before following Hannibal to his bedroom.

“Everything in that top drawer must come,” Hannibal said as he set a large suitcase on the bed. Will began transferring the carefully folded garments from the dresser to the suitcase while Hannibal sorted through his suits to find the ones he liked best.

Will and Hannibal's hands brushed for what felt like the 500th time that night as they both attempted to place clothing in the suitcase at the same time. Their eyes met and there was a moment of contemplation before they pounced.

Will dragged Hannibal to the floor and straddled him, hands balling up around fistfulls of Hannibal’s jacket as he pressed their lips together. Hannibal kissed back with equal fervour, hands sliding back to cup Will’s ass. Will moaned into the kiss and rutted his hips against Hannibals. Hannibal bit Will’s lip, not stopping until he drew blood.

They broke away, panting and breathing each other in. Hannibal brought one hand to Will’s cheek and stroked, the pad of his thumb brushing over Will’s parted lips. Will sucked the digit into his mouth, tongue lapping at the sensitive skin.

Will ground his hips down, ass rubbing against Hannibal’s rapidly hardening cock. The older man stared up at him in wonder, lips parted and eyes blown wide. He withdrew his hand, swiping his thumb along the bleeding cut on Will’s lip until the skin was stained red. Then he brought it to his own mouth, his eyes rolling back as he savored the metallic taste of his lover’s blood.

“You taste divine Will,” Hannibal said, deep voice sending tremors through Will’s body. That was it, that was the breaking point for Will.

“Take your fucking clothes off,” He demanded as he scrambled off of Hannibal to remove his own clothes.

“Such crass language,” Hannibal scolded, clicking his tongue disapprovingly, “whatever should I do about that?”

Hannibal was trying his best to regain some of the power he had lost in this exchange. Will would let him believe that he did, if only to sate his ego, but Will knew deep down that he was in control. He had known since before Hannibal had pleaded with him that he was in control here. Hannibal had several layers to his persona. The first was the polite, yet slightly eccentric doctor who loved good food and opera, behind that was the calculating psychopath cold, and emotionless. His true personality was hidden deep within himself, but Will was able to see it, after all, he had not yet met a person he couldn’t read.

The person that Hannibal truly was was driven by his emotions. Anger and hurt bubbled under his skin, suppressed by years of burying everything akin to a feeling deep below the surface. He was intensely narcissistic and hedonistic. Everything he did was to fulfill his desires. He ate to satiate his hunger, he killed to assuage a compulsion. He acted solely in his own self interests, and right now Will was his interest. That gave Will ultimate power over Hannibal. He wanted Will in every sense of the word, and would do nearly everything to have him.

Perhaps what solidified Will’s control was the fact that he was aware of this while Hannibal wasn’t. Hannibal had spent so much effort repressing feelings that he genuinely believed that they were never there in the first place. Will knew about Hannibal’s nature, not from the beginning, no he was fooled like everyone else at first, but certainly longer than he let on. He only raised the issue with Jack when he was in danger.

Will put on the facade of being overly emotional, of being unstable, but deep down he was something different entirely. That’s why he was so good at “faking” the coldness he showed with Hannibal, it was never fake, the emotions were fake, and Hannibal was none the wiser. This was Will’s game and Hannibal was barely aware he was playing.

“Will?” Hannibal asked, pulling Will from his thoughts. He kneeled in front of him, now fully nude, his erection jutting out proudly from a bed of well trimmed blonde curls.

“Fuck me,” Will insisted, trying to pass his momentary spacyness off as fascination with the admittedly impressive cock that hung between Hannibal’s legs.

“As you wish.” Yes, as Will wishes. Hannibal will do exactly as Will wishes.

Will doesn’t wait for any more negotiations. He turns around and sinks to his elbows, thighs spread wide to accommodate Hannibal. He heard the older man’s breath catch as Will displayed himself.

“Oh Will, you truly are exquisite. Beauty incarnate.” Hannibal mused. Will watched between his legs as Hannibal reached into the bedside table for a bottle of lube. Hannibal poured the lube onto his fingers, then pressed them to Will’s hole, tracing the rim to get it nice and wet.

Will buried his face in his crossed arms to stifle a moan. The last thing he needed was for Hannibal to know exactly how sensitive he actually was and to exploit that fact. They didn’t have much time and Will was really just looking to be fucked.

Finally, one finger breached Will. It slid in with little resistance and Hannibal added a second. His thumb came to press against Will’s perineum as he scissored his fingers. Will let out a choked sob when Hannibal’s other hand tangled in his hair and pulled his head up sharply.

“I want to hear you Will. I want to hear exactly how much you like this.”

“God, just fuck me already Hannibal,” Will begged, “I’m ready, just get in me.”

Hannibal withdrew his fingers at once. Will didn’t even have a chance to get a word out before Hannibal was pressing his cock inside.

“There you go sweet boy, taking my cock so well, like you were made for it. Like you were born to take me.”

Will had never heard Hannibal speak so lewdly before, but he liked it more than he would ever care to admit. Not that he even could right now with Hannibal thrusting into him with punishing force, hitting his prostate every time.

Hannibal still had one hand in Will’s hair. The other was gripping his hip so tight he would undoubtedly have finger shaped bruises in the morning. He brought his lips down to Will’s shoulder, placing a few gentle kisses there, and that would simply not do. Will needed him to be rough, he needed to be fucked hard.

“Harder,” Will grunted, “come on Hannibal, you can do better than that. Do it like I know you want to. Hurt me.”

“Are you sure you can handle it?” Hannibal panted.

“Fuck yes, give it to be Hannibal, fucking ruin me.”

Hannibal complied immediately, using all of the force he could to pound into Will like he was trying to split him clean in half. He bit down hard on Will’s shoulder, just short of drawing blood.

Will rocked back to meet every thrust, letting out a litany of pathetic noises that he probably should have been embarrassed about. Hannibal was groaning now too, grunting like a beast in Will’s ear as he shoved in impossibly deeper.

Will’s orgasm was so sudden, he didn’t even feel it coming. In an instant his body went rigid as white hot pleasure coiled in his abdomen and he came completely untouched.

After coming for what felt like hours, he dropped to the floor, thighs shaking too hard to support himself any longer.

Once he had caught his breath, Will rolled over onto his back and spread his legs.

“Keep going,” he told Hannibal, “I want you to use me to make yourself come.”

Hannibal didn’t need to be told twice before sliding back into Will. He hoisted the younger man’s knees up over his shoulders to get a better angle as he slammed in over and over again.

At last, Hannibal gave a final hard thrust and spilled inside Will, coating his insides with his seed. He pulled out and laid on the floor next to him, breathing hard and trembling.

“I would have run away with you a long time ago if I had known that was in store for me,” Will panted, struggling to sit up.

“If I saw you every day, forever, Will, I would remember this time,” Hannibal said, reaching over to brush a lock of curly hair behind his ear.

Will smiled and kissed Hannibal again. It was softer this time, full of much more affection, especially on Hannibal’s behalf.

“I would sit here with you for eternity Will, but I fear that we must leave soon. We would not want to keep Abigail waiting.” Hannibal said when they pulled away.

“Of course, but first will you promise me something?”

“What is it that you desire?”

“Do that again as soon as we get to wherever we’re going.” Hannibal grinned and cupped Will’s cheek.

“I would gladly have you every day, my dear Will.”

Notes: Listen, we all know who's actually in control and this relationship and it's not Hannibal "Simp" Lecter.

#hannibal #hannigram #hannibal lecter #will graham #abigail hobbs #smut #fanfic #ao3 #hannigram fic #hannibal fanfiction #mizumono #2.13

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imagineaworlds · 4 years ago

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I Love You (Part Forty-Eight) -- Aaron Hotchner

Written By: @desperately-bisexual

Request: None.

Warnings: Cursing. Mentions of Dom/sub relationship. I think that’s it? Let me know if I missed something.

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Greenaway!Reader

Word Count: 10,833

Timeline: A week after part forty-seven.

I drove us home that night when Hotch and Prentiss came home. Hotch was in the passenger’s seat, still holding baby Emily, staring down at her with a bright smile and cooing at her every so often. She kicked around and grabbed at the air in a futile attempt to reach him until he gave in and moved her up his chest so that she could grab at his beard. Lucky. I wanted to be the one to do that. The thought only made me chuckle, though, and move one of my hands towards him so that I could brush my fingers through his hair.

I think that during that drive, I somewhat came to terms with the fact that Prentiss was still alive. I mean… I was trying to be understanding, but at least my mind had wrapped around it, and now all that there was left to do was to move on from the slight anger and betrayal I felt coursing through me. Actually, the first thing we had to sort out were the names. It was too complicated to have Emily and Emily. Prentiss and baby Emily. Especially in the future, I could foresee it becoming a problem and leading to a handful of instances of miscommunication.

So, as we were pulling into the driveway, parking the car just next to Jessica’s, I asked Hotch how he felt about us addressing our daughter by her middle name, Scarlet. At least that way she was still named after Emily, whom we both adored and Hotch risked everything for—including betraying my trust, which was ballsy of him.

Hotch gave her an Eskimo kiss. “Scarlet…” She giggled. “It sounds like a good plan.”

When we headed inside, we saw Jack playing a videogame on his tablet while Jessica was reading a book. They acknowledged our entrance—Jack hardly looked up to even see that his dad was home, so I snuck up behind him and stole the game away from him playfully, holding it above my head so that he had to turn to face us while reaching for it. Jack did as I expected. Once he was sitting on his knees on the couch, making a move for the tablet, he saw his dad. Jack hesitated for a moment. Then, when reality set in, he forgot about the game altogether, and he scrambled to his feet and ran over to Hotch while cheering. Hotch leaned down to catch his son in a hug, careful not to squish Scarlet.

“I missed you so much, buddy.”

I set Jack’s tablet down so that I could sneak Scarlet out of Hotch’s arms. Once she was resting against me, Hotch immediately wrapped his arms around Jack and lifted him up off the ground, squeezing him as tightly as he could. Jack returned the favor. I missed seeing them hug like that—I mean, a real, true, solid Superman hug where both of them were straining and wanted nothing more than to just hold each other until the end of time.

“Are you back for real, for real?” Jack asking warily.

Hotch nodded against him while letting out a choked back sob with a laugh. “Yeah, buddy. I’m back for real.”

“Good,” Jack responded quickly. Hotch kissed Jack’s cheek as hard as he could. “Ew— Dad, your beard!” He wiggled out of Hotch’s arms to escape the scratch feel of his father’s facial hair. “I don’t like it!” Jack rubbed his cheeks clean with his palms.

Hotch laughed again. “I know, I know.”

“Are you thinking about shaving it?” Jessica asked playfully from the couch.

“In a few days.”

“Or longer,” I said. He looked at me and winked.

“Thank you for everything, Jess.” Hotch leaned forward to hug her after she stood. “I know I already owe you a thousand times over, but we can just add this to the long list.”

Jessica shook her head. “There’s no list; and you don’t owe me. Promise.” She leaned in to kiss Jack’s head. “I’ll see you guys soon.”

As she headed to the door, Hotch and I whispered, “See ya.” She collected her things and opened the door. “Thanks again,” we jinxed. She smiled politely at us and headed out.

Jack jumped on the couch and grabbed his tablet again, already bored with the idea of having his dad back. I rolled my eyes. Hotch didn’t seem to mind, though, because at least it felt normal, and it meant that Jack had no clue what drama was brewing between his parents, and that was really all that mattered. We tried to shelter him as much as possible. Some would say it wasn’t good to coddle him as much as we did, but then again, considering everything he had been through, and he was only seven, it was fair of us to want to protect him from everything—including ourselves.

Hotch made a gesture, asking if he could hold Scarlet again, so I gave in, gently handing her back, making sure that she wouldn’t wake up. His smile brightened. As she yawned and stretched, he giggled quietly and sat down next to Jack, who rested his head against his dad’s side. I sighed and sat, too. Hotch, without thinking, kissed my cheek. For a second, I forgot that I was mad at him at all, and I melted, letting my eyes flutter shut, and I relaxed into his touch. I could feel him smiling.

Then, hours seemed to pass. By the time it turned nine, Jack’s tablet slipped out of his hands as he fell asleep against his dad’s side, and Scarlet was already long gone on his chest. She was so tiny compared to him. She wasn’t even curled up, and yet she still only took up about half of his stomach. And then she would squirm to curl up and suck on her thumb while she was sleeping. I couldn’t believe how freaking small and adorable she was, and how she felt so relaxed when she was with him over everyone else. She was always a menace when Morgan, Jessica, or I would try to hold her. But with Hotch, she was just so… adorable… The perfect baby.

Eventually, Hotch ended up asking if we could talk about it—Not Scarlet’s name, but the fact that he left us in the first place. I didn’t understand why he wanted to rush this. We were in a good mood now, and I had actually managed to forget about some of the pain he caused just because I was watching him hold our kids and I was so relieved to be with him again. Why did he want to do this?

But then he said something that gave me cause for pause. “I was scared.” It made me look at him and hold him tighter. “When we found out that you were pregnant, I was- I was so excited. We always talked about having kids, and when it was finally happening, I was so relieved. It felt like all the pieces of our life were coming together, and I kind of just wanted to fast forward to the part where I would get to hold our little girl in my arms…” He looked down at Scarlet and wiped his large thumb over her tiny cheek. “But then she came, and I was holding her in my arms, and I suddenly realized just how scared I was.”

“Why were you scared?”

I didn’t understand how it was that Aaron Christopher Hotchner, of all people, could have been scared of a baby—especially considering the fact that it wasn’t even his first kid. He had experience. He knew what he was doing. But I didn’t know, which should have made me the scared one; yet I never was because I knew that I had him, and that we would navigate it together. What could have possibly scared him?

“The last time I started a family with someone, it fell apart.” Oh. “And I lost everything.” Oh… “I was terrified of losing you, Jack, and Scarlet because of decisions I made. I lost Haley and Jack because of work because it was important to her that I was always around and always available to cater to her needs, but I just couldn’t be; so she left. Honesty is so important to you, Y/N. You value that more than anything in the world. In our relationship, you’ve begged me a thousand times to be honest with you, and with most things, I’ve tried, but I couldn’t tell you the truth about Prentiss, and it was killing me to keep that from you. So, I was suddenly terrified of losing this,” he gestured to the way we were all laying on him, “because I couldn’t tell you the truth. So, instead of actively lying to you, I decided to leave. I ran like a coward, and I stayed away until I was sure that I couldn’t keep the lie from you anymore.” He kissed my forehead again, but this time, he didn’t pull away, “I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

I reached up to cup my palm around his cheek. “It’s okay.”

“No. It’s not. And I swear that I’m going to spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”

I looked up at him, gently maneuvering my head so that I didn’t hurt him as he pulled away from me. I swiped my thumb over his mole on his cheek. “We’re going to be okay. It’ll take time, but we’re going to be okay.”

“I can see it in your face, you know.”

I paused. “What?”

“The anger. The hate. The disappointment. I know that I fucked up, Y/N— and you can tell me a thousand and one times that you forgive me, or that we’ll move past it, or that if we just ignore it long enough we can pretend it never happened… But I see it in your face, Y/N. You’ve made me promise to always tell you the truth, and I just… I keep fucking up, and there aren’t enough ways for me to say that I’m sorry. I’m going to spend the rest of my life praying that you don’t leave me like Haley did because of this. The unfortunate truth, though, is that as long as I can see it in your face, I’ll never be sure…”

“Aaron Christopher Hotchner, you listen to me right now. I don’t forgive you.” I shook my head insistently. “I don’t.” I stopped to stare into his eyes again. “And I don’t know if I ever will. But here’s the difference between me and Haley. She couldn’t forgive you, and she wasn’t mature enough to just… talk it out and fix it. But I’m not going to let that happen to us. I’m not. I told you a long time ago that I would always fight for you, and I still mean that. It’s going to take me a long time to get over this, to not feel the sting of betrayal every time I look at you or think about Prentiss or hold our daughter in my arms—but the thing about time, Hotch, is that it heals wounds. Eventually, this’ll pass, and I won’t be so disappointed. Until then, though, you’re just going to have to trust that I’m not going anywhere, and you’re going to have to be ready when I want to talk about this and talk about all the lies when I’m ready. There’s going to be a day when I’ve come to terms with this, and I’m going to ask you to just lay out the rest of the lies and the secrets so that we can just get them out of the way and move on, so that we can go back to who we were. Don’t you miss that, Aaron? Being us? Traveling the country together, working random cases, looking into each other’s eyes and just falling in love over and over again. I know I do. So, the best thing we can do is just work towards being those people again. It’s going to take everything we have individually and together, but I know in my heart that we can do it if we just try. Agreed?” He nodded silently. “Then, stop worrying about me leaving, and worry about making it up to me and helping us move on.”

He removed his hold on Scarlet, letting her just rest against his chest so that he could reach for my face and hold me between his palms. “How did I get so lucky?” I didn’t say anything. “How did I manage to convince the one person in the world that I love most to love me and not run away from me?”

“You didn’t have to convince me, Aaron. You never have. I fell in love with you because I see who you are and who you can be, and I am… astonished. I fell in love with you because the feel of your touch makes my knees weak and my heart race. Why would I give all of this up just because you were an idiot?”

He chuckled. “I deserved that.”

“Yeah. You did. And you’re going to keep hearing it for a while, so get used to it.”

He leaned in and kissed me gently. “I will.”

----

After that night, Hotch took off a few days to be with the family. We ended up falling asleep on the couch or in the nursery every night while holding Scarlet and Jack. It was… a process getting used to calling her Scarlet and not Emily, but it almost felt necessary now that Prentiss was back. We weren’t going to change Scarlet’s legal name or anything because I still stood by my decision to name our daughter after Prentiss, but we also knew that it would get too confusing to keep calling both of them Emily all the time. Besides, Scarlet was still a beautiful name, and I thought it fit our daughter perfectly. It didn’t matter what her name or nickname was because she was still ours and she was still perfect in every single way.

Hotch seemed to catch onto the habit faster than I did, though, probably because he had been away for so long that the name Emily hadn’t stuck in his mind yet in relation to our daughter. When we called while he was away, we’d talk about her, but he’d mostly dance around her name. At the time, I didn’t think anything of it, but knowing what I knew now, I realized that it was because he also felt awkward calling her Emily when he knew that Emily Prentiss was still out there, waiting to come home.

Explaining it to Jack was somewhat complicated. We weren’t going to force him to call her Scarlet, of course. Emily was still his sister, and that was what he knew. But we didn’t want him to get confused when we would start calling her Scarlet all the time. He said he understood, and he was going to try, but, as expected, he kept forgetting, and we really didn’t blame him. It was going to be a one step at a time kind of thing with him, and we were fine taking it at his pace. He was still young, and the decision was his, honestly. Mostly, tough, I think he was simply happy to have his dad back. He couldn’t care less about Emily or Scarlet or whatever. He had never been away from his dad that long, even with Foyet.

Three months was a long time to be away from our family. A lot had changed at work— especially my temporary promotion— more had changed around the house. Jack was doing really well in school and in soccer, he hardly even needed my help with homework anymore. And Scarlet was trying to walk. She could get up on her feet, and I was absolutely terrified that Hotch was going to miss that first step, but by some miracle, she had held out until he walked through that door for the first time in months. He lifted her out of her crib, held and kissed her while she giggled and kicked at him, and he refused to let her go for the longest time. Eventually, she started getting fussy, so we sat down with her on the floor while she played with her toys. That was when she stood up, grabbed her stuffed animal elephant, then slowly waddled over to Hotch before dropping it in his lap and falling over. He caught her and the two of us were entirely shell shocked. It was like she knew we were waiting for us to be together again to see that little miracle together. Somehow, she made sure to save that special moment for the time when the two of us could witness it side by side.

Besides that, though, there was still so much he missed. I mean, the little things that never seemed important out of context or before the fact, but when they happened… I wished that Hotch was there for all of them. Hell, I even wished that he were there for the nights when Scarlet was sick that Hotch was there just to help out or have those little moments. It sounded stupid, but it was a part of watching and helping Scarlet grow up. He had already missed out on that, and I wasn’t sure when, or if, he could ever make up for it.

On Thursday afternoon, though, he finally had a chance to make that first step towards getting back into the mindset of being the hands on, caring parent he always was. We had a parent/teacher conference set up with Jack’s school to check in on how he was doing. Thursday was the only available day that we could manage to fit into all of the teachers’ schedules. Hotch had been hoping to get back to work by Thursday, to talk with Strauss about getting back into the field and transitioning the unit chief power back over to himself because I really didn’t want to keep it. It was nice while I had it, but it wasn’t my place. Hotch was the real leader of our team, and everyone knew it, even Strauss. But we had to postpone his return just by a few hours so that we could go handle this first.

Really, we just had to meet with Jack’s home room teacher the most. She was the central part of Jack’s education, and she knew the most about how he was doing in school. That being said, there was still his gym teacher, art teacher, and music teacher to meet with, though, of course, those meetings weren’t necessarily going to be that long. Actually, they only took about ten minutes each— if that. But the meeting with his home room teacher, Mrs. McKee, was a little longer than just that, which was expected.

She handed both me and Hotch copies of Jack’s current report card and some of his best homework assignments (all of which I helped with, but I wasn’t about to admit that). “Jack’s doing really well, I’m pleased to say.” She smiled at us as we looked everything over. “He’s reading a lot, writing more than expected, he’s drawing. He’s incredibly good at drawing. Sometimes he’ll get distracted and start doodling during class, but he’ll always stop when I ask him to. He’s extremely creative.”

That was good. Truth be told, I was always worried about Jack. Especially since Haley, I wasn’t sure how Jack was going to turn out. I was terrified that he’d get quiet, shy, mundane, and stagnant. Despite how hard he worked on homework at home, and he went above and beyond at soccer, I never knew how things were going at school, which was where he spent most of his time. Hearing from his teacher that things were actually alright was a huge relief. The fact that he was drawing and was excited about learning, I was so happy. It honestly meant that I hadn’t fucked anything up while Hotch was gone. That might have been extremely selfish of me to think, but I couldn’t help myself. It petrified me to think that I fucked up our son… But I didn’t. At least, not yet. There was still a lifetime to make mistakes— though I prayed I never would.

“As for socially, Jack gets along with the other kids, he doesn’t argue with his teachers, and he participates in class as much as possible. Truthfully, Jack’s one of my best students, but don’t tell the other parents,” Mrs. McKee laughed. We chuckled with her, too. “I’m impressed by Jack, but I’m also worried.” Our smiles fell. I grabbed Hotch’s hand. “Jack’s been getting picked on by another kid named Paul—”

“Paul Cain?” I questioned, my brow raising. Mrs. McKee nodded. “I don’t understand.” I shook my head in confusion, looking to the side at Hotch. “Paul’s been coming over for playdates over the past few weeks. Jack said that they were friends.”

“How long has this been going on?” Hotch inquired.

“About a month,” the teacher replied.

“I don’t…” I hesitated.

I had no clue. Jack seemed so happy when Paul was around, and it seemed like Paul was interested in being Jack’s friend. Why would Paul be picking on Jack this whole time and they’d keep acting like they were friends while around me? Why would Jack want to hang out with his bully? This made no sense. Not to mention, how did I not see it and profile it? I mean, that was my fucking job, right, and I couldn’t see what was right in front of me.

“The good news is,” Mrs. McKee continued, “I’ve separated them, and I’ve talked to Paul’s parents, too. It seems like keeping them apart has helped, and I’m keeping a close eye on it. I’m just worried that Jack might be letting Paul bully him outside of school. Why? I’m… I’m not sure. I was sort of hoping you guys would be able to find out.”

I nodded. “Yeah. Of course.”

Hotch agreed. “We’ll have to talk with him. Will you let us know if anything changes?”

Mrs. McKee nodded. “As soon as there’s any kind of update—good or bad—I’ll be sure to call you two.”

“Thank you so much.”

Hotch and I stood. As we collected all of Jack’s papers up, Hotch asked if we could keep them to look over and hang up on the fridge, to which Mrs. McKee agreed to with a bright smile, and then Hotch took my hand. We thanked her again and then headed out so that we could finally drive to work. Though, I stopped when we stepped outside of the school.

I sighed and took a slow seat onto the bench nearby. Hotch hesitated a moment before sitting next to me. On one hand, Jack was doing really well in school. He clearly had an interest in learning, and he was creative, and the reading that Hotch had been doing with him at home since getting back was making a difference already. On the other hand, someone was bullying my son. After everything we had been through, I didn’t need to add bullying to the list of things wrong with Jack’s childhood. Maybe it was time to put him back into therapy? We thought that after about three years since Haley’s death, Jack had moved on enough that he didn’t need consistent counseling. In fact, it seemed like receiving therapy for that fateful day was only causing Jack to relive it over and over again, whereas he had forgotten most of the bad since leaving therapy. But if he was getting bullied… Maybe he just needed someone to talk to. I thought that I could be that person for him, but maybe he was just too scared to come forward about it.

Did I really fail that much as a mother? Did my son feel like he couldn’t come to me about something going wrong in his life? Was there more going on than just the bullying? How about the good news? How much had I missed out on because Jack just didn’t know how to communicate with me? But I should have known, anyhow. We were profilers. The whole time Hotch was gone, I never once noticed any changes in Jack’s behavior. We would notice if something were bothering our son, right; so how the hell did we miss this?

“He’s doing the superhero thing,” Hotch finally whispered while nudging my shoulder with his playfully. I cocked a brow as I looked at him. “He’s trying to be the bigger person by making friends with the bad guy.”

“Doesn’t the superhero usually kill the bad guy?”

“Well, okay… We’ll call him Peter Parker and Paul Cain can be Harry Osborn.”

I chuckled. “Sure.”

“He’ll be fine. I’ll talk to him tonight, see if I can pry anything out of him, and then we’ll go from there.”

“Is it bad that I want to hurt a seven year old just because he hurt our son?”

This time, Hotch chuckled. “As long as you don’t actually do it.”

I sighed and rested my head on his shoulder. We interlocked our fingers again as I snuggled against him as close as I could. It probably wasn’t the time to reminisce, but I truly did miss just sitting with him, feeling how warm his body was, listening to his steady breathing and his constant heartbeat in his chest. It felt like home. And then, like usual, his phone started ringing. I rolled my eyes and sat up.

“JJ, what is it?” he asked after answering it. “Shit…” He sighed. “Okay. Thanks for the heads up. We’ll be in soon.” He hung up. After a moment of sitting in his own thoughts, he draped his arm around my shoulders and pulled me close again. “Strauss is looking for us. She wants to talk about the Senate’s meeting.”

I hid my face against him to keep my worry from him. Since Doyle, I had been taking a lot of heat from a Senate council that had been investigating our unit because of me. Because of the decisions that I made while appointed as Unit Chief, the entire team was taking a hit, and they all had to come up with answers and excuses on my behalf. When we first got word about the investigation, I offered to quit. I was the one who knew the risks involved with my decisions, I knew that I would have to answer for what happened, but I never thought in a million years that the team would be questioned, too. I wanted to make it easy. I knew that if I just left quietly, the Senate council would leave us alone, and things for the BAU could return to normal. I just wanted normalcy again. Or at least some reminiscence of it since we technically never had any kind of normalcy in our lives.

“We’ll face this and Jack the same way we face everything… together.” He kissed the top of my head.

I was so scared that I was going to get fired. Back when I offered to quit, Hotch begged me not to, just as he always did, and so he helped me deal with taking the heat from the aftermath of the Doyle case. But now it was out of my hands. Someone telling me that I was going to lose the BAU vs leaving it of my own volition was absolutely terrifying.

“You think the CIA will take me?” I joked. Hotch didn’t laugh. “Sorry…” I just thought that the parallel between us and my parents would be funny to him, but it turned out that it wasn’t. “That was in bad taste.”

When his phone buzzed again in his pocket, this time with a text, Hotch gently shimmied me off of him so that he could stand up. He spun on his heels so that he was facing me. “Let’s do it.” He held his hand out, and I took it, letting him pull me to my feet. “And I’d rather you go to the NSA.” He smiled.

I hit his arm playfully. “I’d rather die.”

“Don’t be hyperbolic, Agent Hotchner,” he whispered while leaning in.

“Yes, Sir…” I hardly got the words out before kissing him desperately.

----

Everyone watched us as we walked by their desks to head towards Strauss’s office, yet no one said anything. Even Rossi came out of his office on the balcony to eye us. Hotch and I kept moving, though, our heads held high, a fair distance between us so that we were still somewhat obeying our office rules about our relationship—not that anybody would’ve cared by this point. The rules were initially created when we first started dating, but now we were four months into being together… No one would’ve cared if we held hands casually while walking through the bullpen. Still, there was some amount of professionalism that Hotch liked to keep while we were in Quantico, and that was to maintain respect and ensure that everyone’s focus stayed on the cases instead of gossiping about us. Maybe one day that would change, though.

When we arrived at Strauss’s office, I knocked on her door and waited for her invitation to enter. After hearing it, I pushed the door open and stepped in. Strauss was sitting at her desk, removing her reading glasses so that she could look up at me, and she was sitting back in her chair to get more comfortable. She asked me where Hotch was, and I told her that he was waiting just outside in the hallway. She then said she wanted to speak with us at the same time.

I beckoned Hotch in, to which he looked shocked, which I didn’t blame him for. Usually, Strauss liked to meet with us one-on-one because it was a scare tactic, and it was easier for her to gain the upper hand in the conversation, but not this time. I felt like I should have been more wary than I was.

Hotch and I stood directly in front of her, the door closed behind us, a few feet of distance between us, our hands at our sides, our gazes glued to her. I hadn’t been much of a rebel back in high school, but Hotch sure was, so I wondered if this was what it felt like to be sent to the principal’s office. Not that I would ever ask him that. He hated talking about his past and the shitty decision he made back then when he was just acting out because his father was abusive, and his mother was absent. Honestly, I couldn’t blame him. At least he was raising Jack and Scarlet the exact opposite to ensure that they had the best childhoods and lives imaginable. It was just another thing I loved about him and his maturity.

“The Senate Committee concluded their investigation today,” Strauss began.

I felt my stomach churn. More than anything, I just wanted to reach for Hotch and hold on for dear life, praying that he wouldn’t let me fall over if I passed out or threw up everywhere. But I couldn’t. At least not in front of Strauss, the one person who tried to ruin our careers after she found out that we were dating. Even though she had come around since then, and she was deterred by the fact that Cody loved us and told her that our relationship wasn’t enough reason to fire us—especially since we got married— Despite all of that, Strauss and I still didn’t get along. I doubt that we ever would.

“They’ve decided that the BAU will remain intact and untouched.”

I let out a sigh of relief.

“But they want Agent Greenaway demoted and Agent Hotchner reinstated as the Unit Chief.”

“I’m not fired?” I questioned.

“Not yet.”

I looked at Hotch, both of us smiling, reassured by how the situation turned out.

“However, I’m quietly suspending the two of you for another three days—at least.”

My smile dropped and I immediately turned to glare at her. “What? Why? I thought they cleared us—”

“They did.” She threw her hands up defensively. “But this is the only way I can make sure that you stay home and just spend time with your family, and not think about work.” My jaw dropped. “After everything, I think the longer you guys have to get your house in order, the better agents you’ll be out in the field.” My jaw dropped even further. “But if I find out that you’re still working during the three days, I’m going to keep adding time off. Understood?”

For once in her life, Section Chief Erin Strauss was actually trying to be helpful. She was looking out for us. For once in my life, I felt myself actually relax around her and smile in her direction.

She ignored my politeness by turning back to her work—faking that she didn’t actually appreciate our gratefulness. “I’ll see you two in three days. Get out of here.”

We knew that she meant it playfully, yet we still weren’t going to stick around long enough to argue it. She had been incredibly kind giving us this offer, and there was really no point in fighting it, so Hotch opened her office door for me, and we both hurried out into the hall.

“What the hell just happened?” I inquired, baffled.

“I don’t… I don’t know…”

I smiled. “Three days.”

He was still in shock. “Three days.”

I cupped his chin with my fingers to make him look at me and snap him out of his trance. “Let’s go home.”

He smiled. “I love you.” He tried to lean in for a kiss, but I playfully dodged him and started shuffling down the hallway to head back towards the BAU. “Brat,” I heard him mumble under his breath before following me.

As we headed through the bullpen, leaving the way we came, no one was watching us this time around. Rossi had JJ in his office, the two of them chatting behind closed doors, and Morgan was gone to probably gossip with Garcia in her office. So, Hotch and I kept walking.

“Hey. Where are you guys headed?” Prentiss questioned, hurrying over before we could push past the glass doors.

We stopped and turned to face her. I smiled. “Strauss suspended us for three days.”

Her face fell. “What? Why? I thought everything was squared away with the—”

“She’s giving us time to be with our family.”

“Oh,” she said with a smile. “Good. I’m glad.” We both nodded at her. “So, then, what’s wrong with Jack?” I cocked a brow at her. “I mean, you guys were at his parent/teacher conference this morning, and now you don’t look too excited to get back to him. So, what gives?”

Hotch licked his lips to hide a smirk. We didn’t like to be profiled, but when it happened by accident, it was always impressive. Aaron Hotchner wasn’t easy to profile—I knew that better than anyone—but Prentiss caught it almost immediately. Nine months away couldn’t change her. She knew us like the back of her hand because we were family. Family knows when something was wrong. That was how I knew something was first wrong with the Doyle case and her leaving. That was why she was our family.

“There’s a kid in his class who’s being mean to him,” Hotch answered. “And Jack’s solution is to befriend him.”

Prentiss laughed, “Aw.” I smiled and chuckled with her. I missed her laugh. It wasn’t often that she cracked a smile, the same way Hotch hardly ever did either, but when they smiled, it was like the whole world lit up. “That’s the cutest… and saddest thing I’ve ever heard. What are you going to do?”

“We, um, haven’t figured that part out yet,” I said.

Hotch nodded an agreement. “He didn’t come to us about it, and we don’t want to pressure him into fessing up to keeping secrets from us—”

“He didn’t tell you this was happening?” Prentiss asked with furrowed brows. We both shook our heads. “He wants to solve it himself…”

“Yeah, but isn’t that our job?” I asked. “Aren’t we supposed to protect him?”

“Of course. But sometimes you can’t. Sometimes the best thing you can do is show him that he doesn’t have to face it alone.”

Emily Prentiss, giving us parenting advice? I never saw it coming. Not that it was a bad thing, though. In fact, it was actually pretty nice, especially considering that she hadn’t been around long enough to give any kind of advice with Scarlet before. So, I would take it with Jack. For now. Maybe if I just encouraged her to keep at it, she wouldn’t leave again, and I’d have her around forever to give us sound advice with the kids.

As Hotch and her finished discussing Jack while I zoned out, I snapped out of my thoughts to interrupt and say, “Em, do you want to come over for dinner tonight?”

They both paused, and she looked incredibly taken aback. For a moment, she exchanged a glance with Hotch, trying to gauge if he had been a part of this deal or not, and if he hadn’t been, then what did he think of her coming over for dinner? She had never been over before. At least, not on her own. But now that she was back since Doyle was gone, I wanted to make up for all of the lost time. I told her just before I lost her that I felt like I underappreciated her. I wasn’t going to let that continue. No matter what it would take, I would value Emily Prentiss, and I would never, ever take her for granted again—not when I knew what it was like to not have her in my life at all.

“Yeah.” She nodded. “Okay.”

“Seven?”

“Sure.”

I smiled and took Hotch’s hand—a relieving feeling. “We’ll see you then.”

“Yeah…”

I started tugging at Hotch’s hand, eager to just get back home with him and to utilize the next few days that Strauss had given us to just spend time with our daughter. Our little bug��as I started calling her. My little man and my lil’ bug. I could live with the idea of just spending another few days with them and not having to think about work. That wasn’t to say that I didn’t want to go back. I still did. I think that going back to work would actually help Hotch and I get over the tension that was brewing between us ever since he came back from the Middle East.

But I kept tugging because it was nice to have him back at home. I liked that it could just be us again, and I could focus on forgiving him a little bit at a time. Someday soon, this whole thing would be a memory lost in the back of my brain, but it would always be there, lingering and waiting for its chance to work its way back to the front of my thoughts as ammunition against Hotch in whatever argument we could possibly be having. But right now, it was all I thought about. 24/7. Prentiss this, Prentiss that. You betrayed me, asshole, and I hate you for it. But I also love you more than anything in the world, and I can’t lose you. Which only makes me hate you more.

I kept pulling him towards the elevator as we waved goodbye to Emily.

I wasn’t going to let us turn into him and Haley. I wasn’t going to let us fail the way she let their relationship fail. I loved my husband, my son, and my daughter too much to just call it quits—even though this should have been the last time he lied to me and pissed me off. If I knew better, I should have called it quits with him the second Emily came sauntering back into the roundtable room. I should have taken the kids and left. But then I wouldn’t’ve been any different than Haley, and as shitty as it was to think—especially since she wasn’t around anymore to defend her memory—I didn’t want to turn into her. That was perhaps my worst fear. So, maybe staying with Hotch through all of this was less about us, but I supposed some kind of point to a dead woman…

I pulled Hotch into the elevator before I could keep thinking about it.

When we got home, without hesitating, I ran upstairs to the nursery while Hotch paid the babysitter to leave early. We thought that we were officially getting back to work, and Jessica wasn’t free to watch the kids, so we hired a nanny ahead of time to start watching the kids—just like Hotch and I always said we would. Only, now we were home… and we were asking her to leave early and not come back for a few days… We would’ve been lucky if she came back at all.

I gasped playfully when I saw Scarlet in her crib, kicking her legs up and out in response to seeing me and hearing my voice. “Hi, my baby.” I giggled and cooed to her as I gently picked her up. “Did you miss me?” I kissed her cheek. She grabbed onto my hair and started pulling at it, something she was obsessed with now that her hands had more movement to them.

Hotch came running in, too, just as breathless as I had been because he was so excited to see her. We only left a couple of hours ago, yet being away from her during that time felt like a thousand years. I just wanted to hold her always. But then again, so did Hotch, and he hadn’t been able to hold her as long as I had, so I had to give her up to him when he approached and outstretched his arms for her. She immediately started laughing and grabbing at his face. She loved doing that, even though his beard was gone again and there was nothing to hold onto.

Hotch slowly sat down on the ground. When he was settled, he gently let Scarlet settle on his lap so that he could accept her pacifier and toys from me as I handed them to him. She cooed as she started sucking on her pacifier. As I grabbed the koala stuffed animal that Prentiss left for her before… well… leaving, I supposed… I sat down beside Hotch, holding onto his shoulder for balance. I groaned as I relaxed.

“You good?” he questioned while taking the koala from me.

I nodded. “Long day.”

“Yeah, well, things seem to be looking up now.”

“I’m… I’m actually grateful this time around for Strauss suspending us.”

Hotch chuckled again. “I thought I wanted to get right back into the field, but after spending those three days at home with you, Scar, and Jack…” He chuckled lightly again. “I’m grateful, too.” He rested his head on my shoulder, making my heart melt in my chest. “I love you.”

I kissed his hair. “I love you, too.”

Hotch lifted Scarlet off his lap when she got too squirmy, giving her space to try to crawl around on her own. She wasn’t very good at it, but she tried her best. At least she was still too young to start walking yet so I never had to worry about Hotch missing that, or her first words. All we had to worry about right now was helping her crawl around and not fall on her face when her arms slipped under her. So, while we were sitting there, Hotch started working on getting her to crawl towards him by holding the koala up as an enticing prize.

She giggled and moved to him a little bit before slipping, just like I assumed she would. I caught her. When she was up on her hands again, she made another attempt, but then she tried reaching out for the toy, forgetting that her arms were the only things holding her up, so she slipped again. I laughed and caught her again.

“She’ll get good at it eventually,” Hotch said. “She’ll be a track star or something one day, I’m calling it now.”

“Our son, the soccer star; Our daughter, the track star. And where do academics fit into that?”

“As long as they get good grades, work their hardest, and come to us when they need help, I don’t care…” He handed the koala to her. “We’ll worry about getting them into the Academy later.”

I laughed loudly. “Come on, Hotch. The Academy?”

“I mean, your parents work for the government, we work for the government, what are the odds that they don’t?”

“What are the odds you don’t force Jack into joining the Academy?”

Hotch squinted at me. “I would do no such thing.”

“Mhm,” I answered sarcastically.

I was just giving him a hard time, to be fair. Scarlet was just too young for us to be planning out her future because we didn’t even know what she liked. We could joke all day that she would be a track star or that she would follow in our footsteps at the Academy, but until she was older, and we would get to know her, we couldn’t actually know that for sure. As for Jack, however, I would have been shocked if he didn’t think about joining the FBI. He always looked up to his father like he was a superhero. I mean, growing up, he literally said we were superheroes, he said that our job was saving the world, and he even went as far to choose dressing up as his father over fucking Spiderman for Halloween! There was no way Jack wasn’t going to consider it. I knew that I wanted him to focus on school right now and being a kid, but come college, it was entirely possible that the conversation was going to come up. Three generations of Greenaway/Hotchners in the FBI? We would be fucking legendary.

“Oh—She’s got it!” Hotch cheered while watching Scarlet crawl around the room towards the beanbag chair across from us. “Future track star, baby,” he said to me as he flung his arm around my shoulders, “what did I tell you?”

I shook my head sarcastically at him. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“I am… so lucky…” He turned and cupped my chin with his free hand, making me look up at him as he pressed into me for a gentle, loving kiss. “I’m the luckiest man in the world.”

“Mhm.” I pressed into him a little more.

“I love you,” he mumbled against my lips.

“I love you, too—”

We parted when Scarlet threw her koala as a tantrum for not getting attention anymore, and then she started to cry.

“Well, now we know where she gets her neediness from,” he joked while standing to pick her up and set her down in her crib again.

I laid down on the floor. “Yeah. You.”

“Uh huh. Whatever you say, Agent Hotchner.”

“I thought I’m always right, Agent Hotchner.”

“You are.” He knelt beside me, then straddled my waist. “You always are.” He kissed me again. “And you always will be.”

I could forget that I was mad at him for just another hour or so… So, I tangled my fingers in his hair before pulling him close.

----

The doorbell rang while Hotch and I were trading places in front of the stove in the kitchen. I sighed as I wiped my hands clean on his apron, then turned to run for the front door,

Prentiss perked up when she saw me. “Hey!” And then she started giggling. “You’ve got a lil’ something’…” She pointed at her own nose, referencing that I must have had food there from when I was running around in the kitchen.

I quickly wiped my face with my sleeves. “Better?”

“Better.”

I widened the doorway, ushering her inside. As she stepped in, Emily handed me the bottle of wine that she brought for us as a polite thank you gift for having her over. I accepted it and showed her to the kitchen. Hotch was pulling the food out of the oven, setting it on hotplates, and stressing over trying not to burn himself in the process when we entered.

As he and Emily exchanged welcomes, I grabbed a corkscrew, and I asked Hotch if he could grab three glasses for us. He set his hot pads down before reaching into the cupboard for the glasses. Emily passed them to me.

“Where are the kids?” she asked.

I handed her the first full glass. “Scarlet’s passed out upstairs, and Jack’s eating dinner at a friend’s house.”

“Ryan Locke’s?”

“How did you know?”

“I kept my tabs on you guys while I was gone. Jack likes going to Ryan’s house after soccer practices.” She nudged my shoulder playfully before taking a sip of her wine, then heading to the dining room to sit down.

I exchanged a quick glance with Hotch, my eyes squinting into a short, accusing glare. He raised his hands in innocence. I shook my head at him, then grabbed our wine glasses and took them to the dining room as Hotch plated dinner for us. When he was ready, he juggled all of the plates in his hands and on his arms, slowly making his way out to the dining room, holding everything out for me so that I could help him before he could drop everything. He quietly thanked me.

He sat down beside me after giving Prentiss her food, too.

“How is it being back?” I asked.

She shrugged. “It’s… different. I’m adjusting well, but Reid and Morgan are still really mad at me.”

I shook my head. “Morgan isn’t mad. I think he’s confused, and he’s trying to deal with the fact that he mourned something that wasn’t real, but he’ll come around—They both will. It’ll just take some time.”

“I know, but I just wish things could go back to normal.”

“Maybe it’s a good thing that they aren’t. Means you can start over.”

“When did you get all wise with advice?” Emily laughed.

“I think we all changed a lot while you were gone. Don’t you think?” No one said anything. “You gave us parenting advice earlier,” I said behind my forkful of salad. “Did you realize?”

Prentiss’s face fell. “I’m so sorry—”

“No. Don’t be. It was nice.”

She smiled at me before looking down at her plate. “Have you talked to Jack about it yet?”

“Not yet,” Hotch answered. “I will, though, tonight.”

“What are you going to say?”

“I’ve got a trick up my sleeve.”

The three of us snickered.

Suddenly, we could hear Scarlet crying bloody murder on the baby monitor next to my left wrist. I quickly turned it down. I sighed as I started moving my seat back so that I could head upstairs to calm her down, but Hotch pushed his hand out flat, ordering me to stay and offering that he could handle it. I smiled shortly at him. As he continued on his way up to Scarlet’s bedroom, I settled back in my seat and picked up my glass of wine. Emily eyed me as she finished her dinner. She pushed the plate further up on the table so that she could lean forward. I watched her carefully.

“I missed you,” she whispered.

“I missed you, too.”

She shook her head. “No. I mean, I really missed you, Y/N. It killed me every day to know that you didn’t know the truth, and that you named your little girl after me because you thought that I was—”

“I don’t regret it, Em.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re still one of my best friends.”

“Even after everything I did?”

I nodded. “Of course.”

Hotch’s footsteps echoed through the house as he came back downstairs—a lot slower than the way he had gone up. I turned to see him coming into the living room, carrying Scarlet who was quietly fussing in his arms. He stepped to sit down, but Emily stopped him in his tracks with a question we hadn’t anticipated.

“Can I hold her?”

Hotch hesitated for a second, watching me, trying to gauge if I was at all opposed to the idea. I, of course, didn’t have any qualms with it. So, Hotch carefully handed Scarlet over.

“She’s going to be hard to chase around when she’s older,” Emily said while playing with Scarlet’s kicking feet. “She loves to squirm now… Imagine what she’ll be like when she’s on her feet.”

Hotch let out an exhausted chuckle. “Yeah. We were joking earlier that she’ll be a track star.”

Emily nodded.

Hotch threw his arm around the back of my seat as I leaned forward to keep eating. “Morgan’ll get to chase her around when she’s little, though. He’s always insisted, so we’re going to indulge him.”

“I’ll chip in on that.”

“Yeah?” I questioned.

She nodded. “Of course.”

I leaned back in my seat and put a comforting, innocent hand on Hotch’s thigh. He moved his hand from holding the back of my chair to resting on my far shoulder so that he could pull me close, tucking me under his arm and against his chest.

“You know,” I began slowly and carefully, trying to change the conversation as smoothly as possible, “she technically doesn’t have a godmother.”

Emily cocked a brow at us. “What?”

“Well, when she was born, we knew that we wanted Morgan to be her godfather, but her godmother… Well, she was gone before we got to ask if she wanted to be Scarlet’s godmother. So, we left the spot officially open, but, technically, I suppose, Jessica was her godmother.”

“’Was’?”

“You’re back now, so…”

Her jaw dropped somewhat. “You’re kidding.” I shook my head, then waited as she looked down at Scarlet. “Me?” She looked back up at me. “Are you… Are you sure?”

I nodded. “It was the original plan, so we might as well make it official now.”

Scarlet yawned and stretched in her sleep. Emily laughed down at her, making sure that she wasn’t loud enough to wake her. When she started snoring, however, Hotch slid his arm off of me, stood, and went to take Scarlet back so that he could take her back upstairs.

Since dinner was done, Emily helped me collect the dishes and take them to the kitchen, but at that point, I decided to kick her out. There was no way in hell she was going to help me clean up when she was a guest in our own home. Besides, Hotch and I had the next few days off, which meant we could afford to stay up late and sleep in tomorrow; but Emily, on the other hand, still had to be up bright and early in the morning in order to get to work on time. So, it was time for her to leave. Hotch and I ushered her to the door, insisting that if she ever needed anything, she could come to us, and she returned the favor with a bright smile while slipping into her coat.

“Good luck with Jack,” she said.

We smiled and thanked her, then Hotch opened the door for her. As she stepped outside and started towards her car, Hotch snaked his arm around my waist, and we both waved goodbye to her until she was in her car and driving around the corner. Hotch kissed my cheek and closed the door.

“Leave the dishes,” he pleaded against my skin.

I tucked into his side even more, a physical reaction to how desperate I suddenly felt for him. “You have to talk to Jack, baby…”

He turned and his hands started wandering up and down my sides, slowly feeling me up. “I know,” he pouted, “but afterwards—”

“You have three days ahead of you to do whatever you want with me.” I escaped his arms before things could progress out of control. “Go talk to your son.”

He squinted at me. “I’m counting this.”

“Counting?”

“As a bratty act.”

My eyes widened. “No, wait, that’s not—”

“Fair?” He smirked and towered over me. “Too bad.” He kissed my nose before turning to head upstairs.

I waited a few moments, staring at the kitchen, debating if I should go and do them now or leave them and regret not doing them in the morning. But we didn’t have work. I could do them whenever… I could afford to just let them sit there overnight… Besides, I was curious as to what was going on with Jack, so parent instincts took over, and I decided to head upstairs to listen in on what Hotch had to say to him.

I tip-toed down the hallway, creeping around the floorboards that I learned had a tendency to squeak. Jack and Hotch were whispering in his bedroom, and the closer I got, the better I could hear them. Hotch was talking about something new he wanted to try out with Jack in order to connect with Haley. I peeked my head in to see what they were talking about, that was when I saw Hotch lighting a candle before handing it to Jack.

“This candle represents Mom…” Hotch explained, keeping a careful eye on the flame. “Whenever you feel like you want to talk to her— whatever it might be about, I want you to tell me so that I can come light this for you and you can talk to her through this candle.”

“Why, though?” Jack asked.

“Because I know how much you miss her. I miss her, too. Every day. And I know that I wish I could still talk to her sometimes, so I think that it would be good for us to do this.”

“But won’t it make you sad?”

Hotch’s shoulders fell. “Buddy, you could never make me sad. Every day, I wake up and I see you, and I’m reminded of the great job Mom did with you, and I’m very proud of you both. I just think that if we start doing this every now and again, Mom can help us.”

“Like with what?”

“Well,” Hotch shrugged, “you know, like, if you’re having a bad day, or something.”

“But I have Y/N.”

“I know you do, buddy; but sometimes it’s just nice to get some advice from your mom, right?” Hotch hesitated for a second while he sucked in a deep breath. “Mrs. McKee told me and Y/N today that Paul’s been mean to you. And we know that you didn’t want to tell us because you don’t want us to worry about you and you want to try to handle it on your own, but sometimes it’s good to talk about these things with someone— especially someone you love. Sometimes there are things that you don’t want to tell me or Y/N, and that’s fine, but you should tell someone, so maybe that someone should be your mom through this candle. Does that make sense?” Jack nodded. “Good…” Hotch brushed Jack’s hair back slightly. “Try something like this.” He leaned forward towards the candle in Jack’s hands and said, “Mom, look over Jack. Be there when he needs it. I love you.” He leaned away from the candle, “Why don’t you give it a shot?”

Jack wiggled under his blankets as he tried to find a comfortable position to sit in again. When he was settled, Jack leaned towards the flame, just like his dad did, and he whispered, “Mom, look over Dad, Y/N, and Emily for me.” He was using his grown-up voice to sound more like his dad. “And don’t forget to tell Dad that I want that new Lego set for my birthday.”

I chuckled quietly from the doorway, but not loud enough for them to hear.

“Of course,” Hotch nodded, also chuckling. “Is that all?”

“And I love you.”

“Good job, buddy,” Hotch complimented after taking the candle from Jack. He blew the flame out and set it on Jack’s bedside table so that it would always be with him, no matter what. With one hand, Hotch blindly turned off the lamp beside him while kissing Jack’s forehead.

“Night, Dad.”

Hotch pushed himself to his feet, “Good night and don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

“Can you ask Y/N to come tuck me in, too?”

“Yeah. Of course, I can.”

I heard Hotch walking out of the room, and before I could turn to dash down the hall to be less suspicious, he came out and caught me standing there. I giggled when his lips turned up into a smile. Before he could expose my eavesdropping, I grabbed his forearm, and I pulled him towards me and out of the doorway, pressing him against the wall so that Jack would never know we were still there.

“Were you snooping?” he whispered. I nodded and hid my face against his chest. “I think he’s going to be okay.”

“Me, too.” I hugged him tightly. “But now we have to get him that fucking Lego set.”

He let out a laugh that was a little too loud, forcing me to quickly cover his mouth and shush him. After a moment, he peeled my hand away. “You should go tuck him in.”

“You look up that Lego set, I’ll tuck him in.”

“Deal.” He kissed my lips before sneaking out of my arms and heading down the hallway to go get ready for bed in our room.

When he was out of sight, I purposefully stepped on one of the loud, creaking planks on the ground to let Jack know that I was approaching—and to trick him into thinking that I hadn’t been standing there the whole time. He was snuggled under his covers, watching the doorway eagerly for me. When he spotted me, he perked up, all excited to get a kiss and a hug goodnight. How did I get so damn lucky to have a kid like him?

“Oh, boy,” I groaned while sitting down on the edge of his mattress. I pouted and feigned exhaustion for him—not that it was hard to fake, to be honest. “What if I just…” I started falling forward until I crashed against his bed, purposefully taking up a lot of space compared to him. “I think I’ll just fall asleep here.” I rolled over somewhat and flailed my arms about to really get in his personal space.

“Mom!” he protested through a loud laugh. I started snoring loudly. “Dad! Help!” Still snoring and keeping my eyes screwed shut, I tapped my hand around aimlessly until I found his tickle spot and started going for it just to keep him quiet so that he wouldn’t wake up Scarlet in the next room. “Mom— please—” he begged through the giggles. I started snoring louder. Finally, the kid got smart by grabbing Red from his other side and started hitting me in the head with it.

“Ouch,” I said, stopping my attack on him just to rub my head. “Touché, Jack Hotchner. You win this round.” I pushed myself upright and moved back to the edge of the bed so that Jack could get settled again. “Yeah, I think this bed’s too small for me anyhow.” I smiled at the way he was still giggling while trying to catch his breath. “My little man,” I cooed, pulling the covers up to his chin, “I love you so much.”

He cuddled Red close to himself. “I love you, too, Mom.”

I leaned down to kiss his forehead. “My little superhero.” I sat up. “Should I be concerned about Paul? Do I need to go all Luke Skywalker on him?” I held my hands up like I was using a lightsaber to deflect a bunch of laser bullets. “’Cause I will.”

“That’s not how Luke—” Jack rolled his eyes. “I’m okay. I promise.”

“Pinkie promise or I won’t believe you.” We held out our pinkies simultaneously before interlocking them tightly. I squinted at him. “Okay. Fine.” I kissed his hand quickly. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Night, little man.” I released him and started making my way out of his bedroom.

“Night, Mom.”

I turned off his lights then slowly closed the door.

------

criminal minds family: @peggy1999 @gorgeousdarkangel @alex--awesome--22 @oceaneblu @brithedemonspawn @absolutemarveltrash @bshelley322 @rousethemouse @sunshinepower17 @weexinling @pettttyyyc@ Braty-angel

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #Criminal Minds Fanfiction #criminal minds smut #criminal minds imagine #aaron hotchner #Aaron Hotch Hotchner #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner imagine

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shrimpemotions · 4 years ago

Text

Happy wedding day! I couldn’t resist writing something incredibly sappy for the new husbands.

i am loved, i am loved (1.6k words)

----------

As Dancing Queen blares from Charlie's speakers, Dean fights his way through the crowd of somehow-still-partying-at-two-AM dancers, beelining for the freakishly tall man heads above the gyrating hordes. Really, he lost focus for just a second to get some water, and he turned to find his husband had been whisked away from his side to dance again. And by his own brother, which is just the worst kind of betrayal. When he gets to them, Sam and Cas are more flailing limbs and wild laughter than any real moves (a far cry from their earlier dancing, which looked downright choreographed. Dean's convinced they went behind his back and hired someone, no matter what Sam says). Everyone around them is giving them a wide berth, which is probably the safest move, but Dean is on a mission, even if his frustration is already melting away. Heart full to bursting, he drapes himself over Cas's back and kisses his cheek.

"Hey there, sunshine. Havin' fun?'' he asks. Cas tilts his head to meet his gaze, and his already-stunning smile grows wider.

(continued under the cut)

"Hello Dean," he says warmly, and fuck, if that doesn't send Dean soaring, head right up in the clouds with no clear path down. "Are you here to dance with us?"

Dean shakes his head.

"Think I want you all to myself," he whispers in Cas's ear, delighting in the way Cas's eyes darken. It's a Herculean feat to tear his gaze away when Sam clears his throat.

"Hey, Sammy! I'm stealin' Cas," he says, and Sam pulls a spectacular bitchface.

"Y'know, he's my brother now, I think I have a right to dance with him."

"And he's my husband, so I win," Dean retorts, sticking his tongue out for good measure.

Sam sticks up his middle finger, even as his expression softens. Dean just laughs, stumbling off the dance floor with his arm around Cas. The overwhelming joy of the day has rushed to his head, which is pleasantly floaty and right on the edge of dizzy (being drunk on love, he thinks somewhat giddily, is much better than being drunk on alcohol). His throat hurts from singing, his eyes sting from crying, and his feet ache from dancing, but he doesn't think he's ever felt so happy in his entire life. He can't stop looking at Cas, at his husband, drinking in his shining eyes and wide smile. This is how Cas should look every day: blissfully happy, with all of the weight lifted from his shoulders. Dean's going to do everything he can to keep that look on Cas's face for the rest of their lives.

As the song changes to something slow and crooning, Cas releases a drawn-out yawn. Dean can't help his fond grin, and he kisses Cas's temple.

"Bedtime for handsome husbands," he says playfully (and definitely not selfishly. This has nothing to do with how badly he wants his husband's full, undivided attention). But Cas pouts, twisting in Dean's arms so that they're face to face. He stumbles a bit, nearly falls, but Dean catches him. He always will.

"One more dance," Cas says, eyes going wide, and. Well. Dean has always been weak for those eyes.

"One more dance," he agrees, gathering Cas up in his arms.

Cas beams, somehow brighter than before, as he presses their foreheads together and winds his arms around Dean's waist. He whispers warm endearments and quiet praise inches from Dean's lips, sharing both breath and love. It's all sappy as fuck, and the Dean of before (before Cas, before this whole family they've built from the ground up) would have scoffed at it all and tried to distance himself before someone saw them. The Dean of today savors it, basks in it, and presses himself even closer. They've earned a lifetime of chick flick moments, spectators be damned (and after their vows, there's really no more soul left to bare to these people anyway).

Eventually, the song draws to a close, and another takes its place. Regretfully, Dean pulls away from the embrace, already missing it. But Cas is yawning again, and it's beyond late. They share a glance, and Cas nods: time to leave.

As they stumble out of the room, smiling and swaying into each other, Dean is entirely too wrapped up in his husband to notice much else. He misses Crowley climbing up on a table, microphone in hand, while Ash chases after him; Jo and Charlie laughing together in a corner, sketching something ominous-looking on the floor; Benny and Meg causing some sort of loud chaos by the bar; Claire and Jack teaching Emma TikTok dances at the edge of the dance floor. He will hear all these stories later, with incredible exaggeration and embellishment. For now, all he cares about is Cas.

The walk back to their room should be short, but they keep stopping, every few steps. First, it's Cas kissing Dean's cheek, a short peck that shouldn't steal Dean's breath the way it does. And Dean can't let that go unanswered, so he kisses Cas's nose in a near-taunt. Cas retaliates by pressing a line of kisses to Dean's jawline, and then Dean can't take it anymore. He pulls Cas close and kisses him soundly, with all the love that's been building and building in him since he first caught sight of Cas at their ceremony, haloed by sunlight and shining with joy. Sure, they've kissed countless times today, but it will never be enough for all the love he holds, overflowing and pouring into every action he takes. The dam he'd built to protect that love so long ago has been cracking since he first met Cas, and now not a trace of it remains. He's free.

When they separate, the raw emotion on Cas's face is enough to take Dean's breath away.

"I love you," Cas says, and Dean closes his eyes, takes a steadying breath. It still seizes him sometimes, the memory of that beautiful face, damp with tears, disappearing into a black nothingness. Fear wraps its cold fist around his heart, the vise worse than any attack Billie sent his way, and he grips Cas tighter, anchoring himself. Cas is still here, and nothing is going to take this away from them. They're allowed to be happy. This is real.

"I love you too," Dean whispers, and Cas's answering smile is enough to quiet any remaining fears. Their fingers entwine, and they walk on together.

But when Dean reaches out to open their door, Cas places a gentle hand on his wrist.

"Wait," he says, head tilting.

"Hmm?" Dean starts to ask, but then he's being swept up in a pair of strong, warm arms. He shouts (he does not shriek) and grabs onto Cas's neck. Holy shit he's still strong. "What the fuck?"

Cas's eyes glitter with amusement, and a small smirk is tugging at his lips.

"Is it not traditional to carry your spouse across the threshold?"

Dean snorts and buries his face in Cas's neck to hide his blush.

"You callin' me your wife?" he grumbles into Cas's skin, reveling in the shivers he receives in response.

"If you truly wish to be limited by heteronormative gender roles, I will put you down. Otherwise, I am carrying my husband, who I love with all that I am, across our threshold." There's an audible smirk in Cas's voice, which is hot as hell. And, fuck, Dean's been hearing it all night, but being Cas's husband will never get old. What on earth can he say to that?

"Okay," he manages to croak out.

"Well then," Cas says, shouldering open the door, "welcome home, husband."

Dean almost opens his mouth to protest that this hotel room isn't exactly home, but then he catches sight of Cas's smile, and that train of thought halts in its tracks. Cas is here. Right now, it is home.

Cas, of course, is still Cas, so he takes advantage of Dean's distraction to dump him on the bed. And Dean is still Dean, so he pulls Cas down after him, both of them twisted up and laughing freely.

"We should really sleep," Dean says halfheartedly, suppressing a yawn. His hands are still tangled in Cas's jacket.

"Mmm," and Cas kisses the corner of his mouth. When he draws back, he has one eyebrow raised, and he looks so serious it nearly sends Dean into a fit of laughter. "To be continued?"

"Tomorrow," Dean promises, because they have nothing but time, and he seals the deal with a kiss.

When they make it into the tiny bathroom, they squish in beside each other at the sink, and they giggle like giddy teenagers every time their elbows knock. They brush their teeth in near-unison, grinning every time their eyes meet in the mirror. Toothpaste drips from Dean's mouth, but he can't stop smiling, especially when Cas lifts his left hand and lets his ring catch the light. After a few seconds of breathless adoration (they're married, Cas is his husband, he married an actual angel) Dean imitates the motion. He places his hand over Cas's so their rings tap with a quiet clink. They share an awestruck look in the mirror, and Dean lets the peace of the moment wash over him. This is real, he reminds himself. We're real. And the warmth of it carries him all the way into their shared bed.

"Hey," he whispers, nose to nose with his husband, limbs tangling.

"Hello," Cas whispers back, his amusement palpable even in the darkness.

"We're married," Dean says wonderingly.

"We're married," Cas echoes, voice heavy with emotion. He leans in, and kisses Dean in a way that can only be called reverent. His hands shake where they brush Dean's skin, and Dean catches them to still their quaking.

"We get to have this, Cas," he says softly, punctuating his statement with a kiss to Cas's knuckles. "For the rest of our lives."

"For far longer than that," Cas corrects. Dean breathes in, and pulls his husband close.

"Forever," he agrees, and lets himself succumb to sweet, dreamless sleep.

#destiel wedding #spn fic #destiel #destiel fic #deancas #listen listen i am the type of person who falls asleep immediately after big events and i am projecting #they are soft and in love and married!!!! they're husbands!!!#i couldn't make it clear but they did get married outdoors and it did snow on them the reception is just indoors for safety

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xxisxxisxxis · 4 years ago

Text

Gateway Drug | Part Ninety-Three [PT. 1]

Words: 3k

Warning(s): explicit language, drug abuse

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@fancywasmyname1 @teller258316 @ggorehorror @blowinmeupwithherlove @xrosegoldwolfx @mylifeisjustafeverdream @redlipscrystalskies14 @str4nge-haze @reigns420 @sixxseconds2love @leatherandheels @dogmom2014 @allyouneedislove-mp3 @n0-self-c0ntro1 @viinceneil

LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANT TO BE TAGGED

NIKKI

1987

I throw another drink back not long after yelling obscurities at Viv as she stomped out of VIP to leave and go home, between more lines of blow, a trip to the bathroom to get a fix and some drinks, we decide to take the party to Steven's new place.

"You guys just can't be too loud, though, got it?" He says as sternly as he can as we get inside and he fumbles for his key.

"Alright, alright, alright," I mumble, stepping inside, grabbing his bottle of Jack off the counter before getting comfortable on the floor by the window.

We all talk--as best we can--for a little while, Steven and the boys making some calls to get some dealers here, and the only thing on my mind is getting a potent fix, until I hear something...very faint, very familiar...very, very, familiar...I furrow my brows to focus more, ignoring the guys' laughter and voices, my eyes training on the wall opposite of me.

My subconscious puts it together before my conscious does, like smelling a blanket from a childhood home and immediately being taken back before your brain can quite grasp the feeling.

Multiple memories shrouding that sound of Vivian that only she can really pull off.

It doesn't take rocket science equation solving skills to put together why I'm currently hearing her soft, pretty moans carry on next door.

I'm pretty sure more members of Guns, aside from Steven, are staying here right now.

Apparently Stevie hears it not long after and slips into the next suite, where the sound is coming from, that's connected to his suite.

I don't hear it anymore after he gets back in here.

"Dealer's coming or what?" I ask Steven, my high starting to get blowed from the fact that my wife is next door on her back for someone who isn't me.

I'd be jealous if I weren't numb to it by now.

"They're all tied up, man." Steven tells me and I groan, thinking for a second.

An idea comes to mind that makes me want to bang my head against the wall, but I'm desperate and left with no option at this point.

"I know a guy," I mumble, dragging myself up to the phone in the little kitchen area, reluctantly dialing a number I never wanted to dial again.

It rings once...twice...three times…

"Hello?" He answers and I roll my eyes.

"'Sup man, it's Nikki." I reply, trying to put on my best "friendly" voice, even though it's making my blood boil that the bastard I could see myself killing is ultimately the one that's gonna be able to save the day.

"Hey, dude." He replies.

"Me and a few buddies of mine are out here at the Franklin Plaza Suites and need a few things." I rub the back of my neck.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

It's quiet, and he reluctantly breathes out.

"I'll see what I can do." I can hear the satisfaction in his voice that I'm having to call him.

Within the next forty minutes there's more people here than I'm comfortable with, groupies, and hangerson, and other drug adoring morons, and then my saving grace comes through the door once Steven lets him in.

Slash is already slipping into a Jack induced stupor. Sally came in a few minutes ago screaming at all of us guys for leaving her at the Cat House.

We didn't even realize we'd forgotten her.

She's in the bathroom, probably keeping herself in there to keep from starting an argument with Slash in front of everyone.

Robbin's on the phone with Laurie.

Apparently it's just in men's nature to get fucked up, call our wives, and profess our undying love for them despite the fact we cheat on them nearly every time we hangout with our friends.

I wonder what would happen if I went in there on her and Duff right now.

What would she say?

Probably nothing.

She'd just look at the floor and try not to cry, probably.

What would I do?

I know that I know what's going on between them, but if I actually walked in and saw them together, caught in the act…

I'd either be a pussy and cry over it, or kill them both--him first and make her watch, and then just slowly torture her or something. God, I'm fucked up. Even though I'm pretty sure being married to me is torture enough to her.

I know it's torture to me, too.

"Here dude," Sparkie hands me a syringe and a spoon, and I look at him, too out of focus to concentrate on getting it right.

"Fix me." I say to him and he scoffs.

"Okay, dude." He starts getting it ready and I look at that wall again. Staring at it, taking a sip of my drink.

Fucking Vivian.

Of course. Her. Of all the women I've hooked up with and dated in my life, she--the most harmless, at least in my dumbfuck mind when I first met her--is the one to screw me over like this.

And I've let her.

If I did what Vince does to Sharise and have that whole, "no hanging out with your boy friends without me" rule, this wouldn't even be an issue.

That's the problem. Somewhere along the way I loosened her leash a little too much and now she's chewed her way through it entirely.

"You look like you're in hell, you know," Sparkie tells me, fixing the tourniquet around my arm… "But that's okay, you're about to be in heaven in just a few seconds." He assures me.

I know he's right. I just need to hang on to that.

In just a few seconds, I'll be--

I hear Vivian, again, and I reach around my neck and grab onto her cross I've been wearing for weeks, now, squeezing it at the sting of the needle going into my skin.

I feel him shoot me up, my mind waiting to chase and catch the high that I just know is about to come.

My fingers slip from the crucifix, and I feel myself fall back before a weightless feeling washes over me.

Present

I keep rereading the damn paper, repeatedly, trying my hardest not to throw a fit...

Nikki Sixx and his wife, Vivian, recently confirmed that she is indeed pregnant issuing a simple and straightforward,"Yes, it's true," statement earlier this week through Nikki's manager, and--as speculated--her pregnancy is not with Nikki. Many fans and some friends of the couple are blown out of the water by this sudden turn of events, others who are familiar with the rockstar and his band but never really paid much attention to his personal relationships, are now curious as to who exactly Vivian Sixx is. Well, in an open letter, rumored to be intended for print in Rolling Stone, a few anonymous former roadies of Mötley Crüe--who partook on their Girls, Girls, Girls, tour in 1987--are here to introduce who they saw behind the scenes of flashing cameras and public sweet moments with husband Nikki.

"This is a letter to Mötley Crüe fans, we're a mere handful of people out of the many who witnessed monstrosities behind the scenes while on tour with the Crüe since Summer of 1987, none of which were caused by the band or any members, themselves, but one woman in particular. We had no reason to really bring any of this up, but in light of recent news, we are disheartened and angered of the betrayal against one of the four men who gave us an opportunity to live several months in our lives that will forever impact us in the best way known, and provide heartwarming memories by the dozen. This is not an attack on Nikki Sixx, especially given his past struggles with opioid addiction, alcoholism, as well as his abusive wife. The first time we met Vivian, she was polite and friendly, but very assertive. It was obvious it would be her way or no way, and often times she and Nikki would go back and forth with who was running things. It was obvious Nikki was unwell at times, whether it'd be hungover, sick from withdrawal or simply tired from a show the night before. Vivian would choose these times when he was at his most exhausted to pick fights with him. He'd tell her to go away or 'f**k off,' and she'd continue to verbally and mentally beat him down more than he clearly already was. When Rolling Stone came to interview the band shortly after the wild rumor Vanity started publicly, we were told Vivian had tried to physically attack the reporter working on the story, simply because he made the comment that Pepsi wasn't good for her. Small things like that would often set her off, leaving security, managers, and band members to try to dodge fists while pulling her off of her unsuspecting victim, who was typically Nikki. Many times we'd hear them arguing in the hotel rooms, dressing rooms, bathrooms, tour bus, etc., usually followed by sounds of what we can only describe as 'pitchy, hungry, pornstar moans' on her part--clearly using her body to get back in his good graces after wearing him down. After their fights, Nikki would always have a bottle of alcohol on hand, some kind of drug, and would keep to himself. Our comradery with him soon began to dwindle with each month because it was obvious she was beginning to suck the life out of him. He was more introverted overtime, and higher more often than he was at the beginning of the tour. It really got bad when Guns N' Roses came on tour for a month, because Vivian's attacks on him and the other members of Mötley Crüe, began to pop off as randomly and explosively as fireworks. We'd witness some foul exchange (brought on by Vivian) between her and Nikki backstage, either verbal or physical, nearly every night. People can talk down on the Crüe for being bad boys, but they've shown everybody that's helped them on tour, gratitude. All the wives and girlfriends that would come on that we'd offer food and drinks to would always express gratitude with a smile and a warm heart, but Vivian would always stay silent and cold towards us. She's a trashy, bitchy, whiney, hateful, spiteful, conniving, plotting python that now has her cold-blooded grasp around not only Nikki's neck, but also Duff's. Her game is to find the most well rounded guys while maintaining under her guise that she's a kind, Christianly woman, and see how far she can push them until they work themselves to death, literally, with trying to please her. We aren't surprised that she's pregnant, she probably video taped herself conceiving the damn thing and sent it to Nikki. We hope she did so it can be practice for her inevitable low-budget porn career when she runs out of rockstars to f**k and kill, as we've mentioned, she already sounds like one in the throws of passion. Anyway, Nikki, we're hoping you decide to kick her aside and start fresh. Duff, get a paternity test, dude. Crüe fans, don't let that red-headed bitch fool you."

"Who the hell is Page Six to give these bastards a platform in the first place, Doc?!" I snap.

"Nikki, I am handling it, I'm on it--"

"--You tell the L.A. Times and Rolling fucking Stone if they take this shit and run with it, too, I'm personally coming to their offices and fucking them up. Not the publications themselves, but the people trying to put this out there in print, individually." I hiss.

"Nikki, just--"

"--And who the hell--what roadies did this?!"

"I don't know, Nikki, but I'm trying my hardest to get it cleaned up." He assures me.

"'She's a trashy, bitchy, whiney, hateful, spiteful, conniving, plotting python that now has her cold-blooded grasp around not only Nikki's neck, but also Duff's. Her game is to find the most well rounded guys while maintaining under her guise that she's a kind, Christianly woman, and see how far she can push them until they work themselves to death, literally, with trying to please her'?!" I read that snippet, just so he can be reminded how fucked this is, trying my hardest not to start pitching a fucking fit.

"Fucking AJaxx isn't even cleaning this up! Press mongrels are gonna be humping these bastards legs for giving them sales for the next nine months!" I outburst.

"Sixx, don't worry about it, alright? It won't go past this shitty Page Six story, okay?"

"It's fucking horse shit." I ignore him, trying to keep my cool. "Fuck." I kick at the leg of the table, running a hand through my hair.

"I guess one decently positive thing is that Viv doesn't know about this," he says next and I shake my head a little, feeling a migraine starting to come on, strong.

I was tempted then to check myself out of rehab and 'handle' it myself, but decided it wouldn't be worth it. I hoped it would go away and it would all blow over eventually.

"Vivian, don't listen to any of it, alright? Me and you and everyone on that tour know damn well it wasn't just you being a bitch and us being the innocent victims." I say through the phone as Viv tries to calm down, her breathing shaky and ragged from crying so much.

"I know that but the fans and other people don't know that." She says to me, her voice quiet and tired. "I'm so embarrassed, Nikki." She adds. "I'm already embarrassed that everybody knows I cheated on you but now this whole thing…" she trails off and I feel guilt tug at my heart.

I don't know what the fuck to say.

I'm used to criticism from the press, but none of them have tore into me or any of the guys--except Vince after the Razzle accident--so personally and extensively as they're tearing at her.

Calling me a devil worshipper and saying my music is shitty gets annoying and frustrating and even infuriating at times, but attacking my wife and calling her a low budget porn star and telling me to kick her aside?

Fuck that.

"I'm sorry, Viv. I really am." I assure her, honestly, closing my eyes when I hear her stifle a little sob out. "Where are you at right now?" I ask.

"Duff wanted me to meet his family." She tells me. "I'll be back Saturday."

I'm relieved she actually has a reason for not being here, but I'm also hurt that she didn't give me a heads up. But I don't want to talk about it right now. I think she's been punished enough today.

"Okay...you didn't show yesterday and I was just worried." I admit.

"I know, it was just a spur of the moment thing. He asked me last week and I didn't think it'd be an issue."

"Oh."

I glance around and let out a breath.

"I, um, I'm gonna go. I got a group thing with the guys at 3:00." I tell her.

"Okay."

"Are you gonna be okay or do I need to break out and kick someone's ass?" I ask her, half-joking, and she laughs, making me smile.

"I'll be okay." She tells me.

"I'll see you next week, Sixx."

I can practically hear the smile in her voice when she says, "see you next week."

We hang up and I rub my lips together, taking a few deep breaths before heading to where me and the guys meet with Amber three times a week now.

Tommy and Vince are waiting for me, and I plop down beside them, leaning forward, elbows on my knees, hands running over my face…

"Psst," Tommy nudges me and I look at him as Vince gets up to grab a cup of coffee.

"What?" I ask him, and he puts his finger over his mouth.

"You seen the shit they're on Vivian for?" He whispers and I furrow my brows, looking around.

"The room is empty except us, dude, why are you--"

"--Shh," he says.

"Why are you whispering?" I finish my sentence.

"Because they probably have this motherfucker bugged out the ass." He replies, glancing around again. "I'm thinking of breaking outta here, man." He whispers very, very quietly.

"You do know we're not being held here by legal obligation, right? They won't chase us down and have the cops on us if we just check ourselves out." I point out and he furrows his brows a little.

"Oh."

"Why do you wanna 'break out'?" I ask.

"I miss Heather and my dogs and I wanna be able to be there Viv, dude. She fucking needs us right now and we're, like, over an hour away--disconnected from shit. I mean we wouldn't even know what the fuck was going on in the world if Doc wasn't keeping us in the loop, ya know?"

I think about it for a second.

"We're over a month into our three month stay, dude." I state. "We can't just throw in the towel, now."

"I don't mean ditch it and stay gone. I just mean check out for a few days, go back home, see what all is going on and come back." He shrugs.

It seems oddly appealing.

Way too appealing, actually.

"I don't know, Tommy…" I rub the back of my neck.

"I already talked to Vince about it and he's down."

"Of course he is."

"And we wouldn't be doing it tomorrow or anything. I'm thinking next week."

"Does Doc know?" I ask.

"Fuck Doc." He scoffs.

"Agreed." I nod, chuckling.

"So, you in or not, man?"

"Just for a few days?"

"Just for a few days."

"Then we're all coming back in?"

"Like we never left to begin with."

"No drugs, no parties, not even alcohol."

"Just spending time with our families and then back to the grindstone." He states.

"...I'm in."

...You know when you're on a shitty diet, eating boring, tasteless, "healthy" food, and then decide you've been stuck to your diet long enough that you can have one slice of cake because you're disciplined enough to control yourself? And now, two years later, you're still telling yourself you'll get back on your diet because after that slice of cake you just said, "fuck it," and never thought about forcing yourself to eat lettuce again? Let's just say leaving rehab prematurely works the same damn way.

#gateway drug #nikki sixx #nikki sixx x oc #nikki sixx fanfiction

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imtryingmyfuckingbe · 4 years ago

Text

And If This Is It

Second chapter in a short series.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Mentions: Jess, Sam, Charlie, Cas, Gabriel, Jo, Jules (OC)

Trigger warnings: Slight mention of smut

I am the sole author and reserve the rights to my work. However, I am not the owner of Supernatural as a franchise, or the characters including, but not limited to: Dean, Sam, Castiel, Gabriel, Jo, Jess, or Charlie.

CHAPTER TWO:

She cradles her phone between her cheek and shoulder, picking through ripe peppers. Charlie drones endlessly about some new video game or console or— Y/N honestly doesn’t know. Of all the shared personality traits between the pair, Y/N fails to see the wonder of Red Dead Redemption or Overwatch. Even still, she listens and hums agreement in Charlie’s pauses.

Placing a trio of red, yellow, and orange peppers in her cart, Y/N continues towards the avocados. Grocery shopping calms her. The comforting monotony allows her to move thoughtlessly on the familiar path from produce to deli and down aisles she could navigate in her sleep. It gives her a sense of control, and offers time to herself.

Y/N switches the phone to her other ear, rubbing the kink in her neck. Charlie finishes raving, in turn changing the topic to work. Some shitty guests left a lengthy poor review on both Yelp and Google, and now she has a meeting with Jason, their boss. “I’m going to quit that place, I swear it!” she emptily declares. She threatens leaving at least twice a week, but never seems to commit. Yes, the customers suck, and the managers have a canyon sized room for improvement, but the worthwhile money keeps her hooked like a dirty mistress. How else could afford tuition?

“I’m sure you will. Once you get your big girl job looking at computers all day.”

“That is an insulting minimization of what I’m actually going to do, and you know it!” Charlie scolds.

“I jest, I jest,” Y/N laughs. Getting a rise out of Charlie is her favorite past time. “But, for real, I have to check out. I have errands to run today. Dean is going to service my car.”

Y/N imagines Charlie’s eye roll and upturned smile. Not many people know of her affections towards Dean, but one drunken night led to confessions she can’t stuff back inside. Charlie has yet to let her live it down.

“Ah, yes. Our dear friend,” she stresses. “That leads us to another conversation, but I’m thinking I should get some tequila in you first.”

“Not going to happen. I’m fine, okay?” Even she doesn’t believe herself.

“Yeah, I’m calling bullshit. But, go, be merry. Tell the man I said hi.”

Y/N ends the call quickly, glad to finish the uncomfortable conversation. Her tense shoulders and the knots on both sides of her neck make her regret accepting Charlie’s call in the first place. She knows Charlie means no ill will but she can’t help the frustration building on her brow.

The checkout line moves quickly, not many people shopping at noon on a Wednesday. With her groceries tucked in her trunk, she makes her way to Dean’s house. He lives in a corner townhouse on the intersection of Sutler and Harrison, affording him a small side yard to work on his car— and sometimes Y/N’s. Despite his mechanic job, Dean enjoys spending his free time working on cars. He said it feels like a break from the world, blackened hands in his engine.

Y/N understands needing to take a step back. Life, in all of its intricacies, is only the withdrawing waters of the ocean, before rearing its ugly, tsunami head. She found her saving grace in writing: lyrics, poems, stories. Transporting herself into a new world saved her from this one when her bones grew heavy and her eyes tired.

She pulls into his driveway, parking next to his Impala. Its propped up hood hides a bent over Dean busying himself with tightening one thing or another. Grabbing the six pack in her passenger seat, Y/N emerges from her car.

“Howdy, partner,” she jokes.

Dean pokes his head around the side of his car, teeth bared in a wide smile. Black smudges decorate his nose and cheeks. His short hair received the brunt of frustration, pushed backwards with flyaways dancing in the wind. Y/N snickers, raking her eyes across his denim clad legs and up to the black t-shirt stretched across his chest, ending on his stained skin.

“What? Got something on my face?”

She shakes her head, amused. “Yeah, only here, here, and here,” she points to his nose and chin and cheeks.

He grabs her extended hand and pulls her inward, dipping his head down to her white shirt. Rubbing his face on her shoulder, he leaves behind the blackness in his wake. Y/N struggles against him and the bubbling laughter in her chest.

“This is white, asshole!”

Dean steps back, hands still holding her upper arms, and admires his work. She gently pushes against his chest, feigning anger and trying to ignore the muscles beneath her palm. She got this shirt for ninety-five cents at a yard sale; three similar garments hang in her closet. This isn’t a real loss.

“I think it looks good! Makes it seem like you know your way around a car.”

“Yes, because when fixing cars I use my shoulder. It’s super effective, you should try it.”

Dean rolls his eyes, finally releasing Y/N. She steps back, filling her lungs with much needed air. Any time spent closely to him required extra oxygen. Her heart runs rampage around her chest, and she knows if she looks down it may just shine through her shirt. Steeling herself, she returns to the task at hand.

Speaking of, the weight of the beer in her hand gives her something to do. Setting the pack on the hood of her car, she retrieves two bottles and cracks them open. The crisp coolness holds her to the ground, even as Dean’s fingers brush against hers when he accepts the offer. In silence, they sip the citrus IPA.

“All righty then, what’s going on with your gal?”

“Just need an oil change, I think. It doesn’t hurt to have it looked at, though.”

He nods, brows drawn together and lips pursed. Everything in Y/N, her lungs and head and skin, wants to take the rag from Dean’s back pocket and wipe his face, removing both the crease in his forehead and the gunk. Instead, she kisses her beer, watching as he pops her hood and checks the oil.

The betrayal of her body lingers in her movements when she walks to the front of her car, leaning next to a working Dean. His skin radiates warmth. Tendrils of his cologne overwhelm her. She breathes in, basking in him while trying to clear her foggy head. Fresh air is good, she fruitlessly tells herself. Fresh air is good; when it’s not mixed with the man she adores.

Dean moves his car to the grass, allowing more space for him to work on the Mustang. Y/N sits on the ground in front of the garage as he jacks her car up to empty the oil pan. From this vantage point, she can see Dean in all of his glory. His shirt rides up, reveling a thin line of hair and toned muscles. She clenches her jaw, then takes another drink.

Her head knocks against the garage door, focusing on the baby blue sky, not a cloud in sight. Dean grunts quietly as he works, and Y/N’s mind supplies a different activity for his sounds. His hands would wander across the expanse of her body; across her hips, up to her breasts, down to her pussy. His lips would cover wherever his hands could not, sucking on her neck, leaving a hickey.

Now, Y/N once failed to see the appeal of someone marking up her body. But, fuck, if Dean Winchester said he wanted to cover her skin in bruising kisses, she wouldn’t be able to deny him. She wouldn’t want to.

Fingers snap in front of face. Shaking her head, she realizes Dean finished with her Mustang and hovered over her. “Hey, back to the living?”

Heat rushes to her cheeks. She ducks her head to look at her very interesting, noteworthy knees. “Yeah. Just thinking.” Not a full lie, but not the full truth, either. What could she say? I was daydreaming about making love? Not just fucking; making love.

He retrieves a beer from the pack before settling next to Y/N on the ground, back against the door and thighs touching. “Yeah? What about?” his playful tone forces her further into reality.

She doesn’t answer for a moment, instead focusing on the sharp, stinging pebbles digging into her thighs and ass. “Work.”

“Ah, it’s always work. Something wrong?”

Another sip.

“Not exactly. I talked to Charlie today, and she said she wanted to quit.”

“Doesn’t she always?”

“That’s what I said! But it got me thinking. Am I too comfortable there? I mean, I’ve worked there for, what? Three years?” Y/N surprises herself with her own excuse. She hadn’t actually put much stock in leaving, her own or Charlie’s. But now that it’s out in the open, the weight on her shoulders flutters away. He nods, encouraging her to continue. “I dunno,” she tosses her hands in indignation, spilling a little beer on the concrete, “I don’t want to stay in some dead end job that I don’t really love. Feels like a waste of time,” her voice starts strong but trails off into a whisper.

Dean sets his hand on her thigh, caressing it in an attempt to comfort her.

Another sip, another sigh.

This is the last thing she needs, but the first thing she wants. She once more lets her head fall backwards while Dean studies her in silence, head tilted. “What do you think you’d do?”

“That’s the thing: I don’t know. I don’t have a degree and the only jobs I’ve ever had were serving, or something in that world. Who the hell is going to hire me?”

“I don’t have a degree, either, ya’know.”

“Yes, but you have a career, and you’re good at it. I mean, look at you! You’re ahead of the rest, already. Basically running your own shop; got a whole-ass home. And I’m proud of you, I am. I just feel like I’m headed nowhere. Like, what have I got going for me?”

She closes her eyes to avoid his gaze, but he stays silent. His fingers continue to trace shapes into her thigh. Dean knows Y/N well enough to stop talking; it won’t ease the tension in her breast or pinging pain on her temple. Now that she said the words aloud, however, her mind races wild with the possibilities and risks of leaving the security of Zest.

She could pursue something in writing, a pipe dream of hers. She could get a few gigs in bars and play for a few hours for some cash. She could also quit and not find another job, falling into destitution and then forced to return to waiting tables. Flashes of grabby hands and entitled guests flit through her mind.

Goddamn, she hates customer service.

Mindlessly, she tilts her beer back, only droplets gracing her tongue. Without a word, Dean passes her the bottle he grabbed for himself. She nods in thanks, taking a sip.

He pats her thigh. “Well, it’s no use dwelling on what you can’t do. What can you do?”

Y/N shrugs.

“C’mon, I know you can do more than balance glasses and pretend to care about lobster. You write. What about that?”

“It’s recreational. I don’t have anything published. I don’t—”

“— All right, piss baby. If you’re going to keep complaining, I’m going to smack you.” He rolls his eyes, not really annoyed.

“Fine, fine. I could do freelance, I guess.”

“Yeah, you could. You could work as a receptionist and work your way up somewhere, too. Like, the newspaper. Start there, prove you can write, and they’ll have no choice but to hire you. Maybe pitch a few ideas. Don’t need a degree to be smart; I’m living proof of that,” he gestures to himself.

Y/N laughs, shoving her shoulder against his. “Yeah, yeah. You’re the next Einstein of car mechanics.”

“I could be.”

Another silence, no longer pregnant with her frustration. The sun beats down with a vengeance, however, making the beer in her hand lukewarm. Beads of sweat pool on her brows. Still, she doesn’t want to move. The hand on her leg, pressed thigh to Dean’s, shoulder to shoulder; she wants to savor this moment.

Even still, she can’t sit for much longer. The comfort of the man beside her refuses to extend to the unforgiving concrete beneath her or the heat in the air. With a sigh, she pushes herself up, stretching her sore legs and wiping off spare gravel clinging to her skin. Dean stands too, utilizing Y/N’s extended hand. Truthfully, it doesn’t help much but she would do almost anything to hold his hand, even for a second.

When the pair straighten, Dean’s fingers remain clasped in hers, his thumb rubbing circles on her knuckles. She revels in the gentle caress, wishing she didn’t have to leave. The groceries in her trunk call to her; she needs to put them away before they spoil.

“I have to go,” she whispers. The tightness in her chest returns at breaking the silence and ruining to moment. She refuses to look Dean in the eyes, not wanting to see whatever is there. Instead, she trains her gaze onto his stomach.

“Yeah, I figured. Use and abuse me for your car then skip out,” he jokes.

Finally looking upwards, she takes in his smile and kind eyes. If she had any guts, she would grab his cheeks and pull him down to kiss him. But she doesn’t have the courage to leave her dead-end job, let alone kiss the breathtaking man before her. Instead, she settles for wrapping her arms around his waist and holding him close.

She can do this for the rest of her life, she tries to convince herself. If she can’t have Dean in her bed or on her arm or loving her the way she desires, she can handle these moments. This is okay, this is okay, this is okay.

A kiss to her head and a final squeeze, Dean pulls back. “I’ll see ya soon, kid. Enjoy your ride.”

The two part, Y/N longing to return to his embrace. Her skin prickles from her desire, her feet refuse to move. And then a car honks from somewhere up the road and her wondering mind snaps back to reality. A final goodbye, she clambers into her car. Dean waves as she reverses from his driveway and starts back to her apartment across town. The wind whips her cheeks through the rolled-down windows.

She only looks back once.

#dean winchester #dean winchester fic #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester fanfiction #and if this is it #supernatural au #supernatural fic #friends to lovers

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kbstories · 4 years ago

Text

Hegemony

he·ge·mo·ny (n.) A dominant influence or authority over others.

One cell, two captains and an uncertain future.

(Or: Kidd and Luffy in prison. Let’s talk about it.)

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Captivity, Blood and Injury, Enemies to Friends

Set in Wano. Spoiler warning for Act Two of Wano. Content warning for... Kidd (= bad language). Read Chapter 2 here.

***

It so happens that, one day, Eustass ‘Captain’ Kidd finds himself in a prison cell.

It’s not terribly big, perhaps ten by twenty steps and bland as all hell to boot. Stone floors, metal bars, a corner to sleep in and a bucket to shit in, nothing fancy about it. Standard fare, not that Kidd would have much experience with that.

There’s no brig on the Victoria Punk. The Kidd Pirates don’t take prisoners.

Of course, the reasons why Kidd’s in the cell aren’t that simple. None of it has been, this whole sordid tale of alliances and betrayal and a war botched before it could even begin. It’s too late for regret, far too late yet Kidd can’t quite rid himself of it, this cloying sensation that writhes just under the surface. Like peeling back his skin is all it would take to expose the maggots and rotting flesh beneath–

Don’t be dramatic, Killer would tell him right about now and he would be right.

And yeah, perhaps Kidd is throwing himself a fucking pity party. It’s not like there’s anything else to do in this shithole, every night spent with his thumb up his ass or dreaming about things he can’t change. His wounds sting as they heal; Kidd scratches at the newly-formed scabs out of sheer boredom, watches blood well up and dry in interesting patterns.

The ones he can reach that is, chained to the wall like a mutt by his remaining hand.

Ain’t anybody here to stop him, anyways – certainly not Killer, wherever he ended up, nor Heat nor Wire or any other member of his crew. They’re lucky if they even have a ship to return to, as things stand.

Kidd laughs, loud and a little unhinged. They couldn’t have fucked themselves over any worse if they tried.

Night turns to day, the morning sun a bright smudge beyond the bars of his cell as it struggles against the smoke gathering above like hazy storm clouds. The guards return for another day of work, same as the last and the one before that.

Kidd gets to his feet. His stomach growls.

He’s long stopped laughing.

By the end of that day, things change.

It’s black as pitch outside, the movements of Kaido’s goons vague in the shadows. There’s no mistaking the sound of a body hitting the floor, though. The clinking of shackles dragging across stone, forceful steps – Kidd closes his eyes and thinks, too slow, as the door slams shut and the bars rattle with the weight of something, someone crashing against them.

Panted breaths, wet. The scent of blood, heavy in the air. Finally:

“Bastards! Come back and fight me!”

Kidd’s eyes snap open.

Ah, fuck.

“Hey.”

Twenty steps up, twenty steps down.

“Shithead. I’m talking to you.”

The silhouette moves, up and down, in constant motion. A beast, caged, heaving with rage.

“Strawhat.”

A growl, “What?”, the word cut short by gnashing teeth. Unflinching, Kidd meets the glare glinting amidst swathes of bandages. They’re spotted black with blood.

“Sit the fuck down. They’re not coming back.”

A minute ticks by, then two. Monkey D. Luffy relents, the dejected frown on his lips perhaps real, perhaps something Kidd imagines. It’s hard to see shit in the dead of night, especially long-lost rivals who by some unholy coincidence decided to show up in the most unlikely of places.

“Screw them.” Strawhat throws himself against the wall with all the grace of a soggy towel, close enough that Kidd hears the strained hiss he exhales under his breath. Chains rattle with every motion.

“Screw this. I would’ve sent them all flying without the Sea Stone.”

Looks like they fucked him up good – sounds like it too, Strawhat’s voice raspy like he screamed his vocal cords to shreds. Kidd watches him settle down, knees pulled up and cuffed hands hanging in-between, limp.

A pretty tragic sight, all in all, not that Kidd particularly cares.

“Think I’m sitting here for shits and giggles?” He scoffs. “Get in line, brat. I’m killing them first”, and it’s not as satisfying a thing to say without Strawhat rising to the challenge.

In fact, the guy doesn’t reply at all. Back against the wall, Strawhat’s eyes search the bit of sky they can glimpse from their spot. There’s nothing to see, Kidd knows: Udon’s nights are devoid of stars, even the moon’s gaze turned elsewhere.

Kidd doesn’t care but it’s been just himself and his thoughts down here for a week now.

Killer would probably shrug it off, if their places were reversed: All this extra time would go into thinking up a plan to get out of here – perhaps get in that nap he’s been complaining about not-getting for weeks now – and… Kidd’s not one for scheming, never had to be. Brawling and killing and fucking, that’s what he’s good at and he’s always done it with Killer by his side.

The thought makes Kidd shift in place. The chains pull taut, the raw skin of his wrist burning with it. How pathetic.

“The hell are you doing here, anyways?”

Smooth is another thing Kidd is not, and it’s good Strawhat is as dumb as the day is long. Which is very, locked in a box made of bare, uncaring rock.

“I’m not supposed to tell”, says the brat, quietly, like he’s trying to contradict every single thing Kidd remembers about him. (Which isn’t much but it’s enough. No one who has the nerve to deck a World Noble and rail against the powers that be at every turn sounds like that.)

Kidd spits, “Fuck that”, and Strawhat just… shrugs. “So you’re still sailing with Law. Didn’t think the prissy bastard would stick around that long. You aiming for Kaido or what?”

Blinking at him, Strawhat’s surprise is apparent despite the bandages. “You know?”

“Are you stupid?” (Kidd doesn’t pause, the question more than rhetorical.) “Some people read the damn paper.”

Some people being Killer, so: Yes, Kidd knows.

“Ah. Traffy won’t like that.” Strawhat rubs his chin, realizes he can’t, pulls with some measure of frustration at the gauze around his jaw. It comes loose, badly done in the first place. Unraveling in the matter of seconds. “He didn’t get caught, though. That’s good.”

There’s genuine relief there, and Kidd laughs. “You mean he turned tail and left you behind. There’s a difference, dipshit.”

Bloody bandages are thrown aside. Strawhat gives him a look, ticked off.

“Traffy’s not like that.”

“Everyone’s like that”, Kidd bites back, a little faster than he means to, and the grin drops off his painted lips. “Whatever. See if I care.”

Silence falls, then, more than tense in this limited space, and while the previous monotony was bad having Strawhat here is worse: Somehow this Strawhat is even more annoying than the bubbly fool with the devil-may-care smile he met that day at Sabaody, all sulky and seething anger yet too drained to do anything about it.

A wildly familiar feeling and isn’t that a shitty realization to have, an hour into their captivity?

It grinds Kidd’s gears enough that he turns his back to him, tugging his fur coat tighter around the bare stump of his left arm. Sleep is going to be a challenge with Strawhat’s gaze etching a sense of danger across his neck; the drag of Sea Stone will get Kidd there eventually and so he focuses on that instead.

Of course, Strawhat pipes up before he can even get close to testing that theory.

“You fought him, too. Right, Spikey? You fought Kaido.”

Spikey? Kidd’s lips press together, a tight red line Strawhat can’t see. What am I, a dog?

“Spikey.”

“I have a fucking name, Strawhat.”

Kidd might as well have said jack shit with how little Strawhat is listening. “I did. Traffy said it's a bad idea and he tried to stop me but–”

Strawhat isn’t known to hesitate like this and really, it doesn’t matter. The haunted edge to his voice tells Kidd the gist of how that hopeless endeavor went, and his memories fill out the rest.

He stares into the dark and waits all the same.

“Spikey.” A strained breath, shivering on the exhale. “Did he get your crew, too?”

The tears are silent yet Kidd knows they’re there. Knows because that was him, a week ago, beaten bloody and furious and suddenly, shockingly alone.

It shouldn’t matter, none of it should.

Crying about it won’t change the fact they’re in here and their crews are out there, dead or alive – and even after a week in this hell Kidd still hopes it’s the latter. That, wherever they are, they’re laying low and still breathing when he finds his way back to them.

Luffy sniffs, loud and disgusting. Kidd closes his eyes and sighs.

“… Go to sleep, Strawhat. You’ll need it.”

>>Chapter 2.

#one piece #eustass kid #monkey d. luffy #fanfiction #one piece fanfiction #hi i'm emotional about One Feral Boy #this fic is also on AO3!!#(there's mentions of kidd/killer in this just as a head's up)#chapter 2 should be up sometime next week #my stuff

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leam1983 · 4 years ago

Text

Cyberpunk 2077 Thoughts

Having perused Dark Horse Books’ The World of Cyberpunk 2077 over the past few days, I’ve gotten a better feel for the various basic hooks that structure V’s inception as a protagonist. The short of it is the Polish wizards are on the right path to nailing Pondsmith’s treatment the same way they nailed Sapkowski’s works.

Consider the following as half a brain dump, half a series of prospective spoilers, and also half projection, so either skip this, find some other entry to read, or come back to this come late November.

I know I mentioned three halves, but it’s late and I don’t give a shit.

I’m serious - DO NOT PRESS ON IF YOU’RE THE TYPE TO BLOW A GASKET IF YOU’RE INADVERTANTLY SPOILED.

The latest Night City Wire as of August exposed three incipient “life paths”, or starting branches of V’s path. I’ll tackle my personal narrative approaches to them in the order of my choosing.

Nomads: CP2077 is set in a world where much of what we understand to define a family has been blown up, tossed around by climate change and nuclear fire and then stitched back together using grit, resourcefulness and the last dying embers of human decency. Nomads are less a group of people defined by blood relations and more a cadre of individuals that share something more significant than mere genes. It might be a common history, a set of shared hardships, a yen for similar automotive and engineering-related projects - whatever it is, that something pulls people together in ways Corpo rats and street kids will never experience.

This seems to define even the average Nomad’s degree of education. Surprisingly, Nomads are the most well-read group in Coronado Bay’s greater area, some caravans reportedly including entire RVs packed with books. Nomads generationally elect teachers and record-keepers and seem to care for those cultural remnants of the old world, before Pondsmith’s paranoid alternate sixties kicked off more than a century’s worth of technological progression and rampant dehumanization. To a Night City native, a Nomad’s speech patterns appear precious and uselessly florid, while they might appear almost normal to us - maybe slightly touched by the fact that Grandpa Joe or whatever really wanted you to have your Greek classics down before you were old enough to repair your first CH00H2 carburetor on your own.

That new, mega-clustered version of family matters immensely to the Nomads. You identify to yours the same way Orcs in Shadow of War might refer to their clan, or the same way a Scottish clan might design specific visual cues identifying its members. In normal circumstances, Nomads live, thrive and die in service to the clan - and the opening segment for V’s Nomad origins suggests that something happened to his clan. They’re gone, or so the narration says, without going into further detail. Is V responsible? We don’t currently know. As it stands, however, he is a lone Nomad in a clan of one, and soon finds himself pushed out of the Californian wastes and into Night City’s neon-drenched streets.

Seeing this, I considered the narration as an admission of guilt on V’s part. He feels responsible, and hopes that grinding his way to success will in some way atone for what he’s done. Consequently, my Nomad V would be as gruff as could be, but as moral and upstanding as the setting allows. He considers himself as having been invested with an example to set, and would intend to set his sights on more than just filthy lucre. Honest filthy lucre is what matters to him, if that concept even is possible: he might deal in unsavory types and illicit activities, but he always does so with a certain moral rectitude - as a tough and gruff, lean and stringy type you can occasionally catch in his battered Thornton pick-up truck with his feet up on the dashboard and a dog-eared copy of Plato’s Republic in hand. Jackie honestly wonders how he can put up with that Greek pendejo’s endless words and the lack of scrolling animations, while V keeps his Kiroshi optics’ News ticker locked onto grassroots Leftist RSS feeds that stoke a bit of an ignored Rockerboy ethos in him. Quoting Marx in Night City might feel like trying to teach lab rats in the finer points of string theory, but it at least feels genuine to him, compared to the predigested sociopolitical pap Militech, Arasaka and their ilk are more than happy to spew on the airwaves.

There’s a lot to be pissed off about in Richard Night’s failed utopia, a lot of fat cats to gut and buildings to burn. Still, he leaves the glowering act and the churning rage to Johnny Silverhand’s imprinted ghost. Being more of a down-low, gun-toting choomba than a classic Street Samurai, Vincent “V” Carson thinks first and strikes second.

Vinnie isn’t much for electric guitars and anarchy in the UK, much less in the Free State of Southern California; but he does love the occasional Leonard Cohen ballad or the occasional shot of Johnny Cash’s melancholy. Having picked up something of a Northern Texas drawl while cruising, he might feel like Harry Dresden’s Good Ol’ Boy cousin, magic tricks here pushed aside in favor of a measure of dermal plating and a good ol’ fashioned twelve-gauge and revolver combo. Not being much of a techno-fetishist, he considers his optics and his skull jack as being begrudging concessions to an era that looks down on fully “ganic” types. Having grown up with TV serials and the occasional visor-based Braindance all depicting cyberpsychosis as something vile that utterly dehumanizes its sufferers, he’s naturally wary around anyone who seems a little too giddy with the prospect of taking a few scalpels to perfectly decent muscles and bones.

His Thornton is where most of his Eddies go, and yes, he’s named his truck Suzie. Suzie’s done right by him, and he’ll do right by her - unless someone else with a pretty smile and a working moral compass makes him swoon.

Street Kids: if you weren’t taught on the highways or in corporate arcologies, odds are you became a positive blip in an otherwise grim statistic, one of the myriad fucked-up kids raised by other fucked-up kids with more seniority than you. With no roads and paid-for nannies, you survived off of grifts, grit, violence, deceit, smarts and gumption - and that, in its own screwball way, creates its own blood ties. You’re wise by Heywood’s standards - streetwise, that is - and you speak the back-alleys’ lingua franca of threats, insinuation and casual intimidation like no other.

If only Jackie hadn’t fingered that Rayfield, huh? This beaut could’ve been paydirt! Well, at least for a week or so, judging by the fact that hundreds of car thefts are reported across Night City on a daily basis. At least, Dean - who also goes as “V” - got to make a new friend while out in the pokey, and managed to shake a few proverbial trees... They’ve got a short-lease in with Trauma Team’s frequency and could maybe hook themselves up with a sweet finder’s fee for anyone who’s on the verge of death at the hands of the city’s Scavengers...

Little does V know, that’s selling Trauma Team as well as their clients painfully short. Shows of gratitude don’t mean anything if you’re not packing the right social status. He barely remembers his birth parents as it is, and grew up the fifth grubby prospect of one of the Valentinos’ “school clubs” (hence the nickname) - where the points of study refer to the proper observances to be held in Jesus Malaverde’s presence, intensive Chicano and Spanish immersion, as well as the handling of common types of weaponry.

Vincent and Dean would be likely to shoot one another, if placed in the same room. One clings onto nearly-lost value systems, while the other commodifies what can be discarded like so much flesh - only inasmuch as his efforts to pacify his unofficial five or six abuelas force him to forego extensive modifications. His knives and wrist-mounted data port are his main tools of the trade, although Dean keeps his hacking creds along the bare minimum. Why bother, when melting an ATM’s ICE wall and whacking the cops with a baseball bat is all you need? There’s a type of gun for nearly anything else, if someone knows where to look...

Dean has no last name, and is consequently registered as “Dean Smith” in the city’s Census records. That doesn’t suggest, however, that he wouldn’t want to make one for himself. As he’s less focused on the city’s legends than on its kingmakers and pawn-movers, Dexter DeShawn strikes him as someone to emulate, watch and learn from - all with a decent degree of caution.

Being on top matters a little less to him than eventually pulling Heywood’s stings. With a little fear and a lot of persistence, Dean “V.” Smith knows that one day, he won’t go hungry on a weeknight. To that end, he’s certainly a hearty eater, here paired with extensive free-weight training regimens and the use of anabolic stimulants. Oh, sure, he’ll speak of family and blood like the best soldier festooned in Santa Muerte visual codices, but his friend Jackie’s got a mind like a slow and steady steel trap.

Either Dean blows his new fellow Street Samurai out of the pond, or he does. Unlike Jackie, however, Dean isn’t realistic about it. Friendships are a rare gift in Heywood, if not the rest of Night City, and Dean’s convinced that Jackie could conceivably look past his final betrayal.

Corpo: nowadays, we’re mostly familiar with the idea of one-percenters creating a bubble of affluence for themselves. Boarding schools, private villas, prebooked vacations across the globe’s priciest spots, access to the hottest trends on the minute of their inception - what this tends to forego is the level of social disconnect that’s required in order to stay relevant. We’re only just waking up to the consequences of letting an aging, crusty first-generation Yuppie be crowned the ruler of the free world, and even someone who’s behind on their Bret Easton Ellis could tell you that Donald J. Trump is a sociopath and a narcissist.

Take that mindset, and cultivate it into an ethos that’s taught to children from a very early age - children who live, eat, shit and breathe in accordance with their parent corporation’s tenets. The more placid, mid-tier lifers in the genre are called sararimen, in reference to William Gibson’s use of the term to designate low-level company workers in Chiba City. A bit like Shenzhen’s factory workers and execs, everything in a corpo’s life is in service to the corporation.

In Night City, as of 2077, two major players have installed this culture of total obedience in their roster. Their names are Militech and Arasaka. One is a juggernaut in the field of military-grade personal defence, the other has a wider grasp and reach, but is more fragile. Arasaka owes that fragility to the last fifty years having involved its re-establishment and reconstruction. Fifty years ago, Night City’s Corpo Plaza was blasted open by a thermonuclear discharge that sent the Japanese giant packing. The charges had been set by three Edgerunners: Rogue, Morgan Blackhand and Johnny Silverhand - accessorily a well-respected Rockerboy and front-line member of the band SAMURAI. Only Rogue survived that fateful night, or so the street lingo goes, having gone on to start a legitimate consultation business as well as a fruitful career in the hospitality business. Her bar, the Afterlife, is Night City’s hotspot for every techie, script kiddie and accomplished cyber-spelunker.

Our gal Vivian knows this. She knows this, because Vivian “V.” Banks lives two lives.

In one of them, she’s a lean and hungry Junior Executive in Arasaka’s Counter-Intel division. In that line of work, you either fuck someone’s prospects or protect your own, or ensure that no up-and-comer just out of the company’s Law School program manages to push you off the board. She knows full well that in centuries past, corpo-speak was made up of mild euphemisms that at best referred to destroying a rival’s prospects or lifelihood. Taking a life was something that required careful deliberation, especially when tossing a fat severance bonus into an aging CFO’s three-piece pockets and letting your erstwhile rival snort cocaine off of the rolling hips of Tahitian dancers was so much cheaper...

Nowadays, zeroing someone is commonplace.

You’re born for Arasaka, and chances are you’ll die for Arasaka just the same. Viv’s killed, lied, cheated and even stole her way to her position, remorse being this vaguely churning sense of coldness in her gut that keeps one-night stands coming in and out of her bedroom. She only remembers her parents as being credit-chip enablers and personal enhancement drug addicts, cutting ties with them so completely on the day of her official hiring that it felt more like a tacit understanding.

On most days, sex and booze keep the cold at bay. On most days, Vivian Banks is a class-act of a sociopath. The stronger she gets, however, and the more paranoid her targets become - which reinforces her own paranoia. Before long, playing the part of one of Arasaka’s several poisonous flowers won’t work anymore.

Unfortunately, she trusts no-one. No Fixer could put her in contact with any hacker she’d trust, no rando fresh off the street with a retro-tinted National Arms plinker would satisfy her. To climb up the ranks and maybe share tea with Old Man Saburo himself, she needs a spotless performance record. She needs skills.

More importantly, she needs a reputation. That means leaving Arasaka Tower and mingling with the experts in their own field - and it means filling out her back book of successful hits. The drinks at the Afterlife are decent enough, but what she’s after is an official in.

If she can get to Rogue, or maybe even hook up with a ripperdoc not bought and paid for by the company, she might be able to score both new skills and increased performance...

If it were as simple as slitting Janet’s throat in HR and diving her way to an orgiastic performance review quite innocently left on the department’s server, she would’ve done that already. Viv is my obvious Pure Stealth build candidate, my main-line hacker and would-be engineer with a thing for black power skirts and designer offensive augments.

With that said, we’re months ahead of schedule, all the good shit’s already come out, so we’re stuck playing the waiting game...

What are your own character or build ideas for Cyberpunk 2077?

#cyberpunk 2077 #spoilers #build ideas #characters #roleplaying

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awedbyhersplendor-blog · 7 years ago

Note

Since you asked so nicely! Mirandail & #17 “Looks like we’ll be trapped for a while…”

Aha, sorry once again for the drunken prompt requests, I’m terrible! Also I got a little inspired by the prompt apparently… That or I write too much. I just love the entire band of characters being friends and wearing silly Halloween costumes!

So this is rated G, nothing happens, just Abigail being smitten. I had like, some smuttier ideas but they sounded a little… unrealistic aha. Hope you still enjoy it!

***

Abigail didn’t want to hate Halloween, but today she really,really did.

The two beer packs felt heavy and it pulls on her shoulders. Winter was coming and her… clothes werenot totally temperature-appropriate. Or anything-appropriate, really.

She had agreed to go to that Halloween party with Eleanorand her friends because she usually never went to parties and… well, she hadwanted to go to a party and Eleanor had told her this would be a relaxed party.Friends meeting for a few spooky cocktails and maybe a horror movie towardsmidnight. That sounded like fun. Something she could do.

The “only catch”, Eleanor’s words, not hers, was thatcostumes were compulsory. No costumes, no party. Everyone had to beridiculous. Abigail had looked up Halloween costumes online for two minutesbefore declaring that she couldn’t go.

“Eleanor,” she had retorted when her friend had tried topersuade her, “I am not wearing this, I’ll look ridiculous and not in the goodway. Why can’t they have like… costumes that actually cover your body. This isnot I-am-not-cut-like-a-model friendly.”

“You worry too much. Just take one, you can wear tights andwe’ll put some fake blood on it and you’ll be alright. My costume isn’t muchbetter.”

“What are you going out as?”

“The website said ‘sexy ghost catcher,” Eleanor answered, “ButI’ll make a few changes to make it more like ‘ghost catcher that hasaccidentally become a ghost herself” that should do, you know. Look at this one!You’d look great in this one!”

So Abigail went as a sexy Bride of Frankenstein. Except herskirt was so much shorter, and her bandages did nothing to make her feel morecovered. She did have to give credit where credit was due and say that Eleanordid an amazing job teasing her hair into the iconic shape, complete with thewhite streaks.

That really didn’t make the sting of betrayal she had feltwhen she had walked in the flat full of costumed people and got introduced to avery very tall man dressed as Frankenstein’s monster. (He must have found hiscostume on the same website she had because the costume didn’t cover much)

She couldn’t believe Eleanor was still trying to find her aboyfriend after she had formally promised Abigail she’d stop. And she couldn’tbelieve Blood-thirsty mermaid Max who hosted the party had been into theconspiracy as well. She had told them that she had never, ever, been withanyone because she never really felt the urge, the pull of attraction that theyhad been talking about. And when they had fallen over her and showed her a multitudeof pictures of very much not dressed people, she had told them she regretted mentioningit because it made her feel very uncomfortable. And then they had promised theywouldn’t mention it again.

And next thing she knew, she was been greeted by a very verytall man with a sheepish but cute smile who happened to be dressed asFrankenstein’s monster under the smirks of her “friends”.

She knew this was going to be a very long night.

She was sipping a porter in the couch with Anne who had anincredible pirate costume and Jack in an equally incredible Navy uniform,trying to avoid Max and Eleanor, when Silver had thrown himself in the couchnext to her: “Urgh, I have to go do the beer run again, but it’s so cold outthere and the elevator is so slow, and the lights are flickering sometimes andall…”

“Don’t take pity on him Abi,” Jack warned her, “He’s beentrying to get a good soul to do all his work for him since he arrived.”

“What are you even supposed to be?” Anne asked him, passinghim the joint all the same.

“I’m the bride of Dracula, duh,” Silver answered, chuckling,gesturing to his corset and torn dress pants. He did have two bloody puncturewounds on his neck and fake blood trailing over his pierced nipples.

At this moment, Charles Vane entered the room as a zombiepirate. It was mostly him being bare-chested with a fake plastic ribcage aroundhim, pirate boots and tight leather pants with a… skull and crossed bones onthe back.

If he saw her, he would end up telling Eleanor where shewas. And Eleanor would come with the very nice Frankenstein monster and thiswould be all very very awkward.

“I’ll go,” she announced suddenly, “I’ll go on the beer run.”

“Really? You save my life!”

“Sure, just tell me where the store is, I’ll go.”

So here she was, two packs of beer in her hands, not sure ifshe really wanted to go back there, but not really wanting to go home alone inher costume, trying to open the front door of the building without her hands.The music was so loud they probably didn’t hear the buzzer she was pressing onwith her elbow.

Oh this night was just great.

“Here, let me help you,” A voice came behind her.

Abigail turned to see a women, probably in her earlyforties, coming behind her, with her keys in hand. She was wrapped in a longnavy coat, hair in a bun, and impressive dark circles under her eyes. Shelooked her up and down and Abigail was sure she never felt as ridiculous in herentire life.

The woman kindly opened the door for her and held it whileAbigail hauled herself and the packs of beer inside.

“Cold night, isn’t it?” The woman asked.

She had the most amazing hazel eyes Abigail had ever seen.And a very kind smile. There was nothing judgmental in her voice. She wasn’ttalking about Abigail’s costume, she was just casually referring to how coldthe night was.

“At least the beers will just be fresh,” She answered shyly.

The woman’s smile widened. She walked to the elevator: “Whatfloor are you going to?”

“The fourth floor.”

The woman held the elevator door for her. Abigail couldn’thelp but think this was very chivalrous of her. She felt her ears and hercheeks burn. She didn’t quite know why.

She wanted to speak, to say something to fill the silence,but the elevator doors were closing. Abigail set the two beer packs on thefloor. The woman pressed the fourth floor button. Abigail tried to pretend shewasn’t deeply curious about which floor the woman lived in.

She didn’t press any other button.

“So you live on the fourth floor too,” She asked, trying notto wince at the banality of her question. She must have sounded like a banalgirl making boring small talk because she was just stuck here and…

“I am,” the woman only replied while tugging on her hairbandto release her hair from the bun. Abigail wondered how long it was. “It wouldappear we are neighbours. Have you moved in recently? I don’t recall seeingyou.”

“Oh, no, I… I don’t live here. I’m just here for the party.I hope we won’t bother you too much with the music. I can tell them to…”

Abigail didn’t have the opportunity to finish her sentencewhen the lights in the elevator started to flicker. She immediately looked up,addressing a prayer to deaf Fortuna, for normal lights.

Of course, deaf Fortuna happened to be very deaf tonight andtwo seconds later, the elevator started trembling, stuttering, and finallycompletely stopped.

Abigail gasped, struggling to recover her balance,instinctually grabbing the railing. The woman stood still, silent, tense, withher hair half-undone. Everything was silent for a moment, a beat, and it feltlike the world had stopped.

The woman looked back at her, as if checking with her thatthis was really happening.

Suddenly, recognition passed over her face: “The Bride of Frankenstein, James Whale,1935.”

Abigail, whose heart was suddenly beating as quickly as theelevator was not going, took a minute to understand. She frowned a little,blinked, and then found herself nodding a little, completely dumbfounded.

“The pose reminded me…” The woman said with a joyless smile.She turned back to the button panel and pressed the fouth one again. And again.“It usually works…” She muttered, more to herself than to Abigail, who wasstill torn between confusion and panic.

She pressed the ground floor button. Nothing happened.

With a deep sigh, the woman finally pressed the redemergency button.

“Do you have signal on your phone?” She asked Abigail, who triednot to blush while fishing her phone from the only place she have enough spaceto put it: in her bra.

“I only have one bar. It might be enough to call 911.”

“Good, good.” The woman sighed, closing her eyes as if thiswas the first good news she had heard today. “Have you ever called an emergency linebefore?”

Abigail shook her head no. The woman gestured for her togive her the phone.

After a short but very, very efficient conversation, the womanended the call and announced: “ So, looks like we’re going to be trapped herefor a while… They told me 15 minutes, thereabouts.”

“But what if the elevator drops? Can’t they come faster?”Abigail said, and immediately noticed how shrill her panicked voice sounded.

“The statistics for that to happen are very, very low. Butif it ever goes south, there’s always the emergency trap door. Although thisoption is not the safest one either. The safest bet is to sit here and wait forthe fire department to arrive. Will you be alright? Are you having a panicattack? Can you breathe?”

A little overwhelmed by the information, and the rapid successionof questions, Abigail had difficulty finding her words. She just shook her headyes, then no, and finally stuttered: “I’m fine. Just a little… nervous, youknow.”

The woman continued to look at her intently, this time witha mischievous smile that made her eyes lit up a little: “Is this your firsttime?”

Now Abigail was pretty sure she was blushing badly.

“Being stuck in an elevator,” the woman finally took pity onher.

“Oh, um, yes, I never… It never happened before… You, on theother hand, look like you have experience… in being stuck in elevators.”

“Only once before. But I definitively have some experiencedealing with… uncomfortable situations. I’m an ER doctor.”

“Oh,” was all Abigail could answer, trying hard not to thinkhow… fitting that was.

After apparently waiting for something for a beat, the womansmiled again and held out her hand: “Miranda Barlow. I live next door to theparty-goers.”

Miranda Barlow. What a distinguished name. Miranda Barlow. Shelooked very distinguished, despite the fatigue evident on her traits. With herhair still half-undone and her dark circles, she would have made the bestdoctor one could ask for. Sexy Frankenstein doctor costume. They would havemade such a hit at that party…

“Abigail. Abigail Ashe. Nice to meet you.” She shook herselfup and took Miranda’s hand, tightening her fingers a little and letting goalmost immediately, terrified she would linger too long.

Miranda’s smile widened a little. Her smile just made her cheekboneslook even nicer, and there was something purely bewitching about those eyes.She seemed wise, and kind, and warm, and there was something in Abigail thatcraved it.

“So, Abigail,” Miranda tested the name on her tongue.Abigail hoped she liked it. “Having a Halloween party?”

“Yes, I don’t usually dress like this,” Abigail joked with alittle smile, and then proceeded to mentally slap herself. It sounded like shethought Miranda was stupid. Of course she didn’t like this every day.

“It’s a shame. You look cute.”

Abigail had to lower her head to hide a smile. She wishedshe could use her hair to hide her face. Now was not the time to feel like herheart just burst in her chest because a woman was just offering her a politecompliment in a blocked elevator.

Lowering her eyes, she saw the two packs of beer at herfeet. Without thinking, she offered: “Since we’re stuck here… Would you like abeer?”

Miranda laughed. She looked at her through her eyelashes.That mischievous smile. Abigail loved it. “Just one. We need to at least besober when we get rescued.”

Miranda then let her coat slide down her shoulders and laidit on the floor of the elevator. She then sat down on it with a groan. Shepressed a hand against her atlas, massaging it with the tips of her fingers.Abigail took two bottles out of the first pack, looking for an acceptable spoton the elevator floor where she could sit in such a short skirt. Miranda smiledat her again and then inclined her head slightly to invite her on the coat nextto her.

Abigail gingerly lowered herself down on the coat, extendingher legs in front of her.

She could smell the acidic smell of sterile rooms, thestrong perfume of coffee, and just a hint, an afternote of honey and almond,probably from her soap, or her shampoo.

She passed a beer to Miranda and mentally scolded herselffor checking whether Miranda had a wedding band. She hoped Miranda hadn’tnoticed but she couldn’t bring herself to turn her head fully towards Mirandato check if she had.

Abigail started sipping her beer to look busy.

She didn’t have a wedding band.

“So, how did you meet Max and Silver?” Miranda asked.

“Eleanor, my roommate, she knows them since, like, high school,I think. I’m sorry you’ll have to hear the party after a long day at work.”Abigail apologized again.

“It really isn’t a problem. I like having the music, and thenoise. It helps me sleep.” Miranda’s voice became more pensive, and Abigailturned her head to look at her. Miranda was looking at the ceiling. She lookedvery tired. Abigail wished she could lend her her shoulder to sleep on, likeEleanor and her did sometimes.

It probably wasn’t appropriate.

Suddenly, her phone rang, making her jump badly, andspilling some beer on her thigh. She scrambled to get it, and unlock it. Aremote corner of her mind realized that Miranda had probably seen her phonebackground, which was a picture of John Singer Sargent’s portrait of Vernon Leewith the caption “I can take your breath away like your favourite painting”which was a joke she had made on Snapchat and that Eleanor has stuck as herbackground (and lock screen) to punish her for being “the worst nerd she hadever met”. Abigail had never changed because she didn’t know what to replace itwith… and also, honestly, it was still pretty funny…

“Yes, Eleanor?” She answered her phone.

“Oh thank fucking god, you’re alive! Are you alright? Wherethe fuck are you? Have you gone home?”

“No, I actually went on the beer run, like an honest person,and I’m not stuck in the elevator. With the beer.”

“Stuck in the elevator? How?” Eleanor’s words were slightlyslurred and it was difficult to hear her over the noise.

“Stuck as in, the elevator stopped, the doors won’t open,and we have to wait until the fire department arrives to unstuck us.”

“When the fuck… Wait… WAIT! Us?! Who are you with? Billy wasright fucking here not two seconds ago! Was it two seconds?”

Abigail heard Miranda chuckle next to her. Oh no, no, no,she couldn’t have Miranda think she had a boyfriend!

“I’m not with Billy, I’m with Miranda Barlow. The neighbour.”

As if Miranda had just been conjured back to the realm ofreality, she manifested herself by dabbing a little at Abigail’s thigh with atissue, to wipe away the beer she had spilled. Abigail tried not to gasp in thephone.

“Oh, okay…” Eleanor answered, like she was thinking aboutsomething but was not sure enough to actually talk about it. Which was veryrare.

“I don’t want my phone to run out of battery, so I’ll justhang up, okay?”

“It’s a shame Billy is here tonight because he could havebeen working and you could have met like this, and it would have been fuckingromantic,” Eleanor started rambling on only to be drowned by people cheering anew song.

“I’ll call you back,” Abigail said and ended the call. “Sorryabout that, it’s… Eleanor…”

Miranda smiled at her, like they were sharing some kind ofsecret by sitting here in a blocked elevator, sipping beer. Abigail did herbest not to look at her lips, but felt like she couldn’t look into her eyeswithout being entirely unveiled.

She wanted to kiss Miranda. Very much so. She wanted to justlean in and press her lips to Miranda’s. She wanted Miranda’s hand to stay onher knee. Wherever she wanted to put her hands, really. Miranda just… made herwant to lean in.

Miranda just drank some of her beer: “So, is Billy yourboyfriend?”

“Oh, no, he’s really not. I barely met him. But my friendswant to set me up with him.”

“Don’t you want to be set up with him?”

“I… Um… It just… feels kind of awkward, I guess. Like…Forced.”

“Contrary to being stuck in the elevator with someone,”Miranda answered without missing a beat.

Abigail almost choked on her beer. Was Miranda suggestingthey were… having a first date?

“What about you?” Abigail asked, “do you have a boyfri…husband?”

Miranda smiled like she knew something Abigail didn’t. Sheprobably did. Many things. “I don’t. Neither boyfriend nor husband.”

Abigail had to bite her tongue not to answer “Good”.

They spent the next minutes drinking their beer and idlytalking about their favourite movies, movies they wanted to watch at thecinema, how they used to celebrate Halloween when they were younger… Abigailfelt that Miranda was just making her talk to forget that they were stuck soshe wouldn’t panic, but she was doing a very good job at looking veryinterested. She even remembered the details of what she was telling her.Abigail felt like she needed to stop uncovering her entire life to thisnear=stranger, but then Miranda would share something very nice and interestingabout the many places she had travelled to, and it all felt so genuine.

There was something in Miranda that Abigail felt drawn by.The way she spoke, how deep her voice was, how you could hear the smile in herwords, how effortlessly funny she was. There was definitively something… rawerabout it as well. A very simple desire to touch her and be touched by her. Itwas surprising how physical that desire was.

When the team from the fire department finally spoke to themthrough the emergency line in the elevator, they both jumped a little. Mirandalaughed a little and leaned her forehead against Abigail’s temple, making hergasp softly.

All in all, they were out half an hour after having steppedin the elevator, but Abigail could barely remember anything that did notinclude Miranda this evening.

She did feel a little ridiculous when she stepped out of theelevator dressed like a sexy Bride of Frankenstein, but that was nothing nextto Silver drunkenly suggesting things had happened in the elevator before thefire department had arrived, when Miranda stepped out with her hair undone andher coat on her arm.

Suggestion to which Miranda had replied with agood-humoured: “You’re just jealous because James hasn’t come to your party.”

Which was belied by a man dressed in an impressivelywell-made 1931 Bela Lugosi Dracula costume stepping through the crowd to drunkenlygreet Miranda.

The next day, Abigail woke up with a slight hangover in abed she didn’t remember as hers. Her heart beating in her chest, she walked tothe other room, only to find Miranda sleeping on the couch, wrapped in ablanket. Abigail smiled and went to the kitchen to start making some breakfast.

#thank you for the prompt!#hope you enjoyed reading it!#if someone ever draws everyone in their halloween costumes i will love you forever #just saying #mirandail #abigail ashe #miranda barlow #black sails fanfiction #sometimes i write

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pardontheglueman · 7 years ago

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Swn Festival

A last minute invite, from the gracious Jayne Rowlands, to attend the BBC Horizons/ Sŵn festival press launch at Clwb Ifor Bach on Saturday meant that I had to desperately bone up on all those artists about to descend on Cardiff over the weekend in order to devise a precise route map for crisscrossing the capital and catching as many of the leading acts as I possibly could. I asterisked the list down to 28 must-see artists and, armed with a downloadable itinerary for each of the festival’s nine venues, set about creating a strategic campaign that would leave Churchill’s detailed invasion plans for the Normandy landings look half-baked by comparison.

First stop was the press bash, which was good fun; there was a chance to mingle with rising stars like Dan Bettridge and Aled Rheon, to grab a complimentary cupcake and even to polish off a glass or two of Prosecco into the bargain. Bethan Elfyn, noticing I was propped up on my crutches, kindly offered to fetch me another glass of wine, before she dashed on to the stage to introduce the first of the day’s formidable Horizon/Gorwelion acts

Any regular readers of kevonhissoapbox will know that Dan Bettridge is mentioned frequently in dispatches, so his set was almost guaranteed to be a festival highlight. Dan kicked off with the unbearably poignant “Letters Home”, a song which shares common ground with Willy Vlautin’s spoken piece “Postcard Written with a Broken Hand”, even down to its use of an unreliable narrator. It’s a song, like so many in his repertoire, that never fails to send a shiver down the spine. Other highlights in a fine performance included his momentous single “Third Eye Blind”, reproduced magically here by his tight-knit band, and a couple of tracks from the 2014 “Darker Days” E.P, “Drive” and “Rosie Darling”. The only disappointment, in an otherwise top-notch set, was the omission of “Darker Days” itself. There may well be 120 acts lined up for this year’s festival, but this is the guy they all have to beat!

*A strange footnote to Dan’s performance – midway through his set he claimed to have just eaten a cupcake with his face on it. Rock N ‘Roll stars are renowned for their excesses, of course, but I don’t remember reading this particular anecdote in Keith Richard’s notorious autobiography Life. Either BBC Wales is really pushing the boat out or Dan’s showing the first signs of a little-known complaint, hallucinatory narcissism!

It’s a tough ask to follow in the footsteps of Dan Bettridge these days, but Hannah Grace proved herself to be equal to the task. Grace is a singer’s singer, able to switch from demure diva one moment to a jazzed-up Janis Joplin the next. This was a punchy, no holds barred, performance with “Black and White” and “Walk Away”, (its stoned-out scat singing finale nearly took the roof off the place), providing some of the day’s most memorable moments. The festival was off to a sensational start.

* photographic evidence of a Hannah Grace themed cupcake has subsequently come to light, so I’m pleased to confirm that Dan Bettridge has, indeed , outdone the legendary Keith Richards in the category of culinary debauchery!

Bilingual singer-songwriter Aled Rheon is another act who kevonhissoapbox has steadfastly championed this year. His captivating ballad “September” has, quite simply, been one of THE tracks of 2015 so far, and it’s no surprise, therefore, that he opens his set with it today. What is surprising, though, is the appearance of five other people on stage to perform it with him! Aled Rheon and the Gorgeous Charge, making their live debut, included the Climbing Trees pair - Matthew Frederick (keyboards) and James Bennetts (drums) as well as Tender Prey bassist Mark Foley. There’s a poignant moment, too, towards the end of a fine set, when Aled dedicates his wistful ballad “Wrap up Warm” to his newborn son.

A brief chat with Matthew Frederick, as he was finishing his guest spot, gleaned the unwelcome news that the Climbing Trees’ gig at 10 Feet Tall had been brought forward to 6.30, leading to a direct clash with the much-lauded Hooton Tennis Club. ‘See you later’, I casually remarked, although, even then I sensed the seed of betrayal beginning to bloom in my heart, after all HTC had been tipped up by the NME, no less, as one of the four must-seebands of the festival. And, anyway, I had already bought my ticket for the Trees’ forthcoming hometown Christmas gig, so, what could it hurt, I reasoned, if just this once I stood the Trees up? My conscience was clear, sort of!

So it was that as the St John the Baptist church bells struck 6.30 I was to be found in the front row of a packed out Jack Rocks stage in Clwb Ifor Bachready to watch the second coming of comedy Indie–Rock (HTC is nothing if not a humorous cross between Supergrass and Space with a sprinkling of Neil Hannon, or indeed fellow Sŵn artist Simon Love (more of whom later), thrown in for good measure. Like a flash, though, the enormity of my actions struck home; sure the more glamorous HTC looked and sounded enticing, but, by the end of the band’s third song I was starting to feel like some sort of squalid adulterer, about to consummate the ultimate act of betrayal. It was Fatal Attraction all over again! Visions of the buoyantly bearded Frederick dutifully soundchecking, still blissfully unaware of my illicit rendezvous, began to dance before my eyes, pangs of guilt come out of nowhere and did a dozen quick laps around my breaking heart. Suddenly I was forcing my way tearfully through the crowd and out into the night air in a desperate attempt to salvage my long-term relationship with Climbing Trees.

I arrived at 10 Feet Tall breathless and panic-stricken and managed to bump straight into, of all people, Matthew Frederick himself, busily working his way back to the stage through a tightly packed crowd, ‘How much have I missed?’ I managed to innocently croak ‘Nothing, it’s running late’. Thank goodness, as the Trees turned in a terrific set, mixing classics from their outstanding debut Hebron (“Aloisi” and “Under the Lindens”) with three spellbinding new tracks that augur well for the band’s upcoming sophomore record.

The set opened with the first of those new songs “Caesar”, a raging fire and brimstone instrumental, impressive enough to overcome the unresolved sound problems that had delayed the gig in the first place, and the forthcoming single “Graves”. Before introducing the band’s ‘token’ pop song “ Lost”, a number which really sees the band pump up the volume, Frederick amiably joked that a recent review in the Carmarthen Journal had described the band as ‘successfully climbing the pop ladder’. The Journal is, if anything, underplaying the band’s appeal. For me, the Trees are a truly magical group of musicians, perched nine-tenths of the way to the top of pop’s metaphorical beanstalk and on the verge of making a fairytale dream of world domination come true (well, I have been drinking all day on an empty stomach, complimentary cup-cake aside!)

Between these excellent sets, I managed to catch Canadian garage rocker Michael Rault at the Undertone basement. In all honesty, this was an under-whelming gig that only really came to life with the blunderbuss wig-out that closed the set; that really was something to behold, though, so perhaps I’m doing him something of a disservice and he seemed to go down well enough with the small congregation of punters in attendance.

Next up, in the same un-atmospheric venue, was 16 yr old wunderkind Declan McKenna, winner of this year’s Glastonbury’s Emerging Talent Award. His internet smash “Brazil” is an electro-poppy critique of worldwide football corruption and was certainly the stand-out song in an engaging set. He’s an extremely likable and unpretentious performer; kitted out in a Winnie-the-Pooh type t-shirt, he makes no attempt to disguise his tender age, cheerfully admitting, in fact, that his mother is in the crowd tonight monitoring his use of bad language.

I was back in the Undertone basement, following my flirtation with HTC, at 7.30, to see London’s Honey Moon deliver a superlative batch of songs that recalled the very early days of The Servants (think “She’s Always Hiding”) and renowned U.S janglers Real Estate. Before kicking off their set, the band’s front-man Jack Slater-Chandler made a hand on heart declaration that they were ‘gonna play some love songs for the people of Cardiff’. Amen, to that!

They proved to be as good as their word, easing their way through a half-dozen sun-dappled songs, the best of which were the dreamy “Tripping (On the Thought of You) and “Waiting” - both of which were taken from their eponymously titled debut E.P which I will certainly be checking out a.s.a.p.

That was day one over, brought to a brilliantly luminous conclusion by the kind of band Sŵn is so good at unearthing; my plans to leg it across to Abacus to catch the much-hyped Protomartyr abandoned, at the last minute, due to a dietary imbalance – plenty of drink, no food!

I had recovered my equilibrium by Sunday afternoon, however, just in time to catch a quality set by Simon Love at the Buffalo Bar. Love’s acerbic approach may not appeal to everyone, but he definitely has the pop chops to take some of the sting out of his waspish worldview. His latest single “The New Adam and Eve” is a prime example, a jocular, jangly pop song laced with murderous intent. It’s a fascinating gig that culminates in a bizarre duet, between Simon and his Dad, of the Traveling Wilburys’ classic “Handle with Care”.

From there it was straight past a packed out Peaness gig downstairs at the Clwb Ifor Bach and upstairs to the Jack Rocks Stage for Beach Fatigue (formerly Heavy Petting Zoo) and another chance encounter with Dan Bettridge who’d hot-footed it straight from the Tender Prey gig in the Buffalo Bar. Another large gathering was royally entertained by Amy Zachariah and co’s blistering psych-surf set, which actually threatened to loosen my teeth on a couple of their higher octane numbers. Opening song “Isabelle” was a frenetic slab of garage rock, which, majestically, seemed to go on forever. I, for one, would have been happy if the group had played that track over and over again in a sort of garage rock version of Groundhog Day. Of course, I would have then have been denying myself the pleasure of hearing new single “Drunken Grrrls” and the equally excellent “Cut Throat”. In singer Zachariah Beach Fatigue definitely have a front-person with real stage presence, whether she’s tightening the microphone lead around her neck, stealing her guitarist’s glasses, or jumping off the stage to boogie with the crowd!

Across the street, at the Moon Club, local boys The Cradles were playing their clever, Kinksian pop, to a smallish crowd. I managed to catch the second half of the gig, meaning that I’d missed out on hearing the superb “Denmark Street”. “Stamp Man”, another of their kitchen-sink character studies, is well crafted enough, though, to suggest that this is a young band set to make their mark in 2016.

My final stop for the weekend is at the Four Bars. I arrive just in time to catch the end of an extremely well received set from Cristobal and the Sea and bag a sofa seat in readiness for Bristol’s Rebecca Clements. I had intended, right until the very last minute, to watch Elle Mary and the Bad Men, simply because anybody putting the poetry of Pablo Neruda to music deserves an audience, so I was really hoping that Clements’ performance would vindicate my choice. Unfortunately, her introspective set didn’t quite come to life. “Coma Boy” was easily the best of her own compositions, while her faithful cover of The Cure’s classic “Boys Don’t Cry” was the obvious highpoint of a somewhat listless gig. The last band to take to the Four Bars’stage was Beach Baby, fresh from a support slot on the Hooton Tennis Club tour. Their short, sharp, six-song set showed rich promise. Whilst summer single “No Mind No Money” is furiously catchy, it’s more than matched by current release “Limousine”, a shimmering slice of surf-rock, and final number “Powderbaby” a gleaming track which quickly escalated into a savage, guitar-thrashing, semi-deranged finale. It was the single most exhilarating moment of my Sŵn festival weekend!

So, Sŵn is over for another year. Of the 28 artists I’d hoped to check out, I managed to see a grand total of fourteen! Missing Protomartyr still rankles, and I regret that Lazy Day and The Big Moon escaped me too. There were still plenty of highlights, though. The Horizons showcase brought together a clutch of brilliant Welsh artists and the festival’s curators certainly did a fine job in casting their net far and wide, attracting genuine contenders in the shape of Hooton Tennis Club alongside proven big hitters like Everything Everything. Sŵn, certainly warms the soul, it’s a feel-good festival that has the capacity to re-invigorate and re-enthuse anyone with a genuine passion for new music.

In a surreal coda to the evening, Mrs kevonhissoapbox and I had arranged to give Matthew Frederick a lift home at the festival’s close. Unfortunately, M.F. was having some difficulty in navigating the long and winding road from Womanby Street to St Mary Street! Six texts later there was still no sign of the Trees’ gregarious pianist. We eventually tracked him down at the entrance to the Millennium Stadium. Just goes to show what Sŵn and a Lucozade too many can do to you!

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