#top high schools in pennsylvania by SAT

[vaspider]

Last year I wrote about what happened at Pride when a couple of kids didn't understand why us older folx were so bitter about Reagan.

This year, I have something a little softer.

Someone who looked a little older than me came up to the booth wearing a pink t-shirt proclaiming him one of the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence, San Francisco chapter. As I was ringing him up, I asked if he'd been involved for a while.

"Yes," he said, "for a bit," in that way us middle-aged people do when we're sort of wincing and feeling old.

"Okay, well," I said, sitting at my register in my queer booth full of queer clothes and patches and pins, topless in public for the first time. (I had pasties on for my own comfort bc I was working, but I live in the city of the Naked Bike Ride, and I took full advantage). My baby brother and both of my partners ran around behind me, my brother wearing a loose tank top that makes his scars visible.

"I need to tell you that you all helped keep me alive."

He blinked at me as I continued, "I was a kid in high school in the early 90s. I lived in the middle of nowhere in Pennsylvania, and what you all were doing was so loud and so out there that even I heard about your work. It was one of the things that kept me alive. So thank you, and please thank the rest of the Sisters."

I heard about them through people in my parents' church complaining about them, and then I sought more information through the beginning of the internet, through newspapers, through anything I could find. I found the cover of Newsweek that one of the Sisters was on. I read about their "exorcism" of fundamentalist preachers whose books sat on the shelf in my parents' basement and probably still do. I saw how loud and colorful and unapologetically queer they were.

The knowledge that someone was out there, so full of defiant joy, refusing the shame that people kept trying to put on them? Oh, that kept me alive. I saw them, and I knew I could make it through. I wrapped my hands around that knowledge, and I held on so tight.

It took me a long time - a long, long time - to unwind most of it for myself and get to the point where my fat butch ass was sitting bare-chested in the July breeze, looking up at him as he held out his arms and said "you're actually giving me chills." I answered, "I mean every word. You helped keep me alive. So thank you."

I never know what to say when people come up to me in public and tell me that I helped them or changed their life in some way. I appreciate it, and I genuinely love the people who apologized for "fanpersoning" at me last weekend, I just never know what to say. I'm incredibly grateful that the Sister I spoke to was incredibly gracious, saying "usually we give blessings, but I feel like you blessed me." Another member of the party let me pet their tiny dog, who was not very interested in me, and that's okay. It was an overwhelming day. Then, they moved on.

Me? I'm still sitting with the fact that I looked last weekend into the faces of people who didn't know they were holding my head above water, and that I got to tell them the work they do matters. It's a rare thing to get to tell someone, "You saved me," and I'm treasuring it.

Last weekend, I wore my new battle vest with nothing underneath it, unless it was too hot, and then I just sat in my chair, chatting and ringing ppl out with my skin free to the air. I decided last year that top surgery isn't for me, but that also I'm going to love this body unapologetically, and it's no less a transmasculine body because the soft new dark hair on my belly isn't accompanied by pink scars along my ribs.

I didn't get here on my own. I got here because someone else cut through the undergrowth ahead of me so I could take another step forward. Here I am, decades later, still taking step after step, one at a time, and trying to lay paving stones behind me.

Last weekend was another step along that way, another step through unwinding the fear and shame and sadness that my parents and their church built into me. Another step out of hating myself for hiding parts of myself for so long, for acting out in other ways to distract people from my queerness, for feeling so much guilt when other people tell me I'm brave, because I know how much of myself I hid for how long because I was a coward, because I was afraid.

Another step into expiating stigmatic guilt.

[gyllenhaalstuff]

Shotgun -

Detective Loki

Summary: You and Detective Loki are assigned to work on a case together. You hook up in the patrol car.

Warnings: mention of murder and kidnapping, smoking, shotgunning yayay, making out, dry humping, car sex, riding, piv sex, unprotected sex, dom!loki if you squint

Word count: 1840

Notes: I feel like this sucks cause it feels pretty uncanon. But those pics of Jake as Loki having a cigarette made my head spin, so whatever. I won’t lose anything by posting it instead of having it rot in my phone.

•☽────✧⋆⋅☆⋅⋆✧────☾•

Small town Pennsylvania was usually calm, but once every few years a major crime occurred. Someone got murdered, kidnapped or vanished into thin air.

This time around a woman got murdered in her own home. Her boyfriend seemed genuinely upset and was declared innocent pretty early on, which meant that the likeliest killer was ruled out. This meant that the town’s detectives needed to search every nook and cranny for clues. That included knocking on doors, talking to all local registered sex offenders and calling the forensic science unit to nag them about DNA results.

You had been with Conyers’ police department for a year as a police detective at the time of the murder. You had started to make some friends to eat with in the lunchroom and even tagged along to AW’s from time to time.

It was announced that the department would be split into small groups to investigate the murder. An email was sent out with the pairings. You crossed your fingers and hoped for someone you already knew. But no. Detective David Loki. David wasn’t that bad, to be fair. He was attractive, really attractive, but he was notoriously anti-social. And those two combined made you both nervous and interested. Though, you weren’t looking forward to the quiet car drives.

Your first days on the case were, as expected, spent in silence, unless you had to discuss the case. The worst were the lunch breaks. You would sit on some bench or on the hood of the patrol car. You would have a sandwich and David would either click his pen or smoke a cigarette. Though he was withdrawn and cold, he took his work very seriously; you had to give him that. Once in a while he would tiredly sigh and rub his eyes. And you would watch him from the corner of your eye before stopping and scolding yourself for admiring your partner.

A few more days in you couldn’t take it anymore. You were leaned against the hood of the car and he was lighting up a cigarette. “You’re not very talkative” you said. You probably should’ve chosen something else to say, but the silence was too loud to think. David shrugged, “most of the time I don’t have a lot to say” he explained. You nodded. “You should start to come up with things then” you joked and you got a light chuckle in return. From then on things felt a bit lighter. One day he even started speaking all on his own. “Sometimes I think this job will be the death of me.”

It was cold, but you still sat on the car‘s hood during lunch. It felt rude to eat inside when David stood outside in the cold with his cigarette. You were parked on top of a hill looking over the suburbs. You opened your sandwich, getting ready to take a bite when you saw David’s hand in the corner of your eye. “Want one?” he asked, holding out a cigarette. “Oh no” you said with a smile, “I haven’t smoked since high school, it’d probably kill me.” He shrugged and lit his own. You watched him inhale before blowing it into the cold, damp air. He noticed and gave you a look, “You seem tempted.” You chuckled and thought about it for a second, “fine, but I don’t want a whole we can just share” you said thinking he’d pass it over to you. But instead he took another drag and while the smoke swirled in his lungs he told you “open up.”

It took a second for you to catch on. He wanted to shotgun you. And what else could you do but part your lips and let him. He leaned forward and stopped just millimeters from your lips before exhaling. You took a deep breath in and felt a rush. Though you weren’t sure if it was from being so close to David or inhaling nicotine for the first time in years. You hoped it was the latter. You blew the smoke out smiled. David let out a quiet, quick laugh at your sudden relaxation. He continued to smoke and you ate your sandwich.

During the break you told him about how you used to smoke before going into the force, knowing your physical health would be detrimental. He in turn told you about his experience in the police academy, how he tried to quit but couldn’t. You ate half your sandwich, deciding to save the rest for later. You put it in your bag, stood up and stretched your arms before looking at David and asking for one more. “Just don’t start smoking again and blame it on me” he half joked before taking a drag. “I won’t” you said as you shook your head. He leaned in again and you savored the moment, but you also noticed how the rush came before the nicotine.

He blew the smoke into your mouth, you inhaled and exhaled, but you didn’t move. Your body wouldn’t allow you to. “Sorry” you managed to get out, but you didn’t know what you were apologising for. Just after you said it he kissed you. Soft and short. When he pulled away gently even he looked confused, but you kissed him again before he could speak. There was no real reason as to why, or at least no reason valid enough.

Your hand came to cup his jaw and his hand, still holding the cigarette, found its way to your lower back and he pulled you closer by it. Pulled you, so his thigh was between yours and you practically sat on it. You broke the kiss for air. David actually looked content in that moment and you relaxed your shoulders not having to worry about him freaking out. He removed his hand from your back and put the cigarette to his lips. He kept eye contact as he breathed in the smoke. You thought you would die on the spot. You leaned in to catch the smoke but this time your lips touched. He exhaled into your mouth and you welcomed it down your lungs.

David stumped his cigarette on the hood and nodded at you to stand up. You did and you both went into the car. He sat behind the steering wheel and stared off into space for a moment. You were starting to get really nervous before he finally opened his mouth. “How much is left of our lunch?” he asked and you checked your phone. “25 minutes.”

He looked at you and said “get in the back.” He sounded so sure it made you feel sure. You slid into the backseat and sat in the middle before David joined you. He sat in the seat next to you and he kissed you again. More eagerly than last time. “Don’t think I haven’t fucking noticed you” he mumbled against your lips making you blush heavily. He grabbed on of your legs and draped it over his lap. As you straddled him his tongue entered your mouth. It tasted like spearmint gum and tobacco. You moaned and rutted against his clothed crotch. As you made out you felt him grow beneath you til he was straining hard through his pants.

He pulled away, looked at you as he unbuckled his belt. You leaned back and watched as he pulled himself out of his restraints. You felt yourself squirm as you watched his cock lay heavily on his uniform. You started unbuttoning your own pants, pulling them off and throwing them somewhere on the floor. You straddled his lap again, grinding against him. You kissed him on his open mouth and he responded by giving you a low groan in return. It was sloppy and messy, tongues and teeth clashing. You felt your wetness cover his cock and every time you ground up on his tip it threatened to enter you.

“Just fucking sit on it” he breathed out in between two kisses and you lined yourself up. You closed your eyes as you sank down on him, grabbing his shoulder for support. Though when remembering it later you wished you would’ve kept your eyes open to see the relief wash over him. It didn’t go without pain when he bottomed out. You hissed at the stretch but quickly reassured him you were fine. “You’re just big” you stated and laughed at how cringe it sounded. He grinned at you, probably feeling quite proud. You ground against his pubic bone stimulating your clit and David helped by placing two hands on your hip and moving you back and forth.

When the pain had subsided you started moving up and down on him. His hands still held onto your hips, setting a fast pace. He held on so hard you’d come to find marks the day after. He looked up at you as you moaned and writhed on top of him. Your hair was in your face and you bit the inside of your lip to try and keep quiet (unsuccessfully), and David thought it was the hottest thing ever. He sneaked a hand up under your uniform to grab one of your breasts. He hummed happily as he noticed you had no bra on. His calloused hand starting kneading your breast and pinching at your nipple, all the while you put all your power in trying to keep your legs moving and not collapse over him.

David noticed you trembling and started thrusting up into you, every time he did his breaths became a little faster than they were before. You were a mess by then. Back arched as you felt David hit your spot over and over. “Gonna cum” you got out in between moans. He upped his pace, abandoning your breast to let both hands rest on your hips once again, thrusting harshly into you. “Go on. Cum on me” he said quietly as he looked at you through furrowed brows.

You came crashing down seconds later and pulsed around his cock. Your hands flew to his shoulders so you wouldn’t melt into a puddle. You leaned in and kissed his lips, but stopped when you realised how much you wanted to hear his sounds. You pulled away, regained your strength and started bouncing on him again, determined to make him fall apart. By this time David only breathed through his open mouth, watching his cock disappear in and out of you. When you came down on him particularly hard he would moan and let his head fall back onto the headrest. “‘M close” he almost whimpered. His brows furrowed and his eyes shut close as he came inside you. He held you down by your hips as he did and you could feel him pulsing inside you, emptying himself.

You put on your clothes and caught your breaths. “I won’t tell” you assured David, feeling like he might stress out over this. He turned to you and responded “you better not.” You smiled and pretended to zip your mouth and throw away the key. He laughed.

[isaacswhy]

boy next door

isaacwhy x gn!reader (sfw) summary: you grew up admiring the boy next door, isaac. on the night of your graduation from high school, you confess your feelings. requested?: no

It started when you were six. You were living place-to-place for a while, given that your dad was an a military man, but he finally got a permanent position in Pennsylvania. It wasn't the best place to live, but you were in a good neighborhood, and you were six. Your parents had bought a beautiful house with two floors, and you personally picked the room on the top floor with a window that peered pretty much entirely into the house next to you. Little did you know, the boy in the room across the fence would change your life.

You met the next day when you enrolled in first grade and your teacher introduced you to the class. She was nice enough to not make you talk about yourself in front of everybody and assigned you to sit next to one of her nicest kids in the class, Isaac. You were pretty nervous when you walked over and sat down next to him, but you quickly learned he was as friendly as your teacher said and more.

That was the start of the friendship between you and Isaac. You began hanging out after school almost every day, and his parents became like your own, and yours to him. As you grew up, the two of you would tackle everything life threw at you. Everything that scared you was shared and you comforted each other through the hard things. Even in the weird times that came with puberty, there were no secrets between you and Isaac. Until there were.

It was around fourteen when you caught onto what you were feeling. Isaac had begun maturing and he was getting tall, and every time you were around him you noticed your heart started to beat faster than normal and your stomach turned constantly. The intense reactions you were having when around him subsided somewhat with time, but they never went away. It took a while, but you figured it out: you had a crush on Isaac.

It freaked you out, to say the least. You'd known each other for eight years and you were terrified at the prospect of making things complicated. You'd sit at your bedroom window and catch yourself staring at the window across from you at the boy that you had grown up with. His bright smile and his caring outlook on life just made you like him more, but you knew deep down you couldn't ever get yourself to say anything to him.

Four years later, you were still head over heels for him. It was a long four years, watching him get in and out of relationships with people you were far too jealous of. He excelled in his classes and you saw how promising his future looked. On top of your fear of confessing, the fear of Isaac leaving you behind for a good life worried you even more. With each passing semester of school, your anxieties were boiling up further and further.

Then, graduation came. You walked the stage alongside Isaac. You briefly mingled with families, but the two of you decided to do an old tradition of climbing to the roof and watching the stars at the end of the school year. So, there you sat. He chattered away about how he was so excited to go off to college and making his life into something he was proud of. You loved to see him talk, but you just couldn't get everything off of your conscious long enough to listen.

"Isaac."

He turned to you, letting out a light laugh. "Oh, sorry. I was really going on there."

"No, it's not that. No worries." You looked down at the roofing below you, "I've just got a lot on my mind."

"Oh, anything you want to share?"

"Yes, but-" You sighed, "It's hard to explain, and it's fucking scary."

"Listen, I'm here for you, always." Isaac reached over and put a hand on your shoulder, rubbing it lightly. "Tell me when you're ready."

"First thing's first, I'm so scared. Scared that even if we're at college together, you're going to forget about me. Studies might keep you too much, and I'll just get in the way. Once college's over, you'll want to move away and get rich, no time for me."

Isaac laughed. "Seriously? Y/N, you know damn well I'd never let you out of my sight long enough to leave the city. If I have any say in it, the two of us will die in a joint grave."

Your heart fluttered and tears pricked at your eyes. "God, Isaac.."

"Oh shit, I'm sorry. Did I overstep? That was probably too much, listen-"

"I'm in love with you, Isaac."

As soon as the words left your mouth, the silence that hung in the air and a block of regret dropped in your stomach. You looked over to Isaac, who looked utterly shocked. He didn't say anything for a while, and the two of you sat staring at the tiles below you.

"Come on, Isaac. Say something. Please." Your voice quivered, trying your best not to cry.

Isaac ran a hand through his hair. "I'm just.. surprised. Definitely not what I expected, you know?"

"I get it. I've just been holding that in for fucking ages, I couldn't hide it from you anymore. I'm really sorry if this ruins things."

"No, it doesn't."

You paused. "What do you mean?"

"I think.. I love you too."

You looked over to Isaac, who now had the kindest smile on his face you've ever seen. Your heart melted in that moment, relief flushing through you like a tidal wave.

"Holy shit."

Isaac scooted closer to you and you leaned in, pulling him into a soft kiss. Your lips touched and you thought that you could die happy in that moment. It wasn't very long, but you pulled away and saw the man you loved staring back at you with a look you'd never seen before.

"I've liked you for a while now, I think. I was too scared to say anything, and life got hectic, so I rolled with it. I thought it would take my mind off the worry that I'd scare you off and you wouldn't want to be my roommate in college anymore." Isaac confided.

"No, I get it. I thought if I told you, you'd get all awkward and closed off. But I couldn't hold it in me anymore."

Your hands locked and you put your head on his shoulder, and his head leaned on yours.

"I love you, Isaac."

"I love you, too."

[final-girl96]

Killer Geek Chapter Nine

Authors Note: Just a little Authors Note. The diner I mentioned in this chapter is a real diner. Red Rabbit was established in 1964 and is in Duncannon, Pennsylvania. I don't leave too far away from the diner, maybe about 30 minutes. I haven't been there since I was probably around ten, but it's a great place with great food. Now, it does not look like I describe in this story, and no one comes out on roller skates, sadly. It only opens Friday to Sunday and not year-round. I am using this diner just because it is the only diner I could picture when coming up with this scene.

The Date

I was expecting at some point on the drive to the diner Parker would have tried to reach over and put his hand on my thigh or try to hold my hand; he did neither and I was grateful for that. He even drove decently, only going a few miles over the speed limit. “So, what movie are they playing tonight?” I asked. Parker looked over at me for a brief second and smiled. “Uh…I'm not too sure to be honest. I figured we could just leave it as a surprise and if you wanted to stay and watch whatever they're playing then we could and if not we'd just do whatever. If that's alright with you, of course.”

“Yeah, that's fine.”

After an hour of driving we made it to the diner. Cars were parked under the canopy That hung out from the small diner. Waitresses and waiters come and go on roller skates. picnic tables sat out front and a menu was displayed on the window of the diner. A girl wearing a white baseball tee-shirt with red sleeves with red tight shorts, and white knee high socks with red stripes along the top came rolling over to the driver's side of the car. “Welcome to Red Rabbit. Can I take you drink orders?”

We gave our drink orders and she rolled away to the next car. “So, you know what you wanna get?” Parker asked. “Um…The bunny burger sounds good,” I said. “With a chocolate shaky?” Parker asked. I looked over at him and smiled. “Yes, definitely!” I laughed. “Inlike dipping my fries in the shake.” I nodded in excitement, “oh, my god, yes! Billy says I gross for doing that. But tye sweet and salty, cold and hot mixed together is just absolute heaven.”

“I know. It's so good. Especially Wendy's fries and frosty. That's my favorite,” Parker Said. It looks like I have more in common with Parker than I had thought. But that doesn't mean I like him. He's an asshole who thinks he can have whatever and whoever he wants just because he's rich, pretty, and popular. The waitress came back, taking our orders. Then she started flirting with Parker like I was even there. I just rolled my eyes when he flirted back. “Im going use the restroom.” I opened the passenger side door and got out, and walked around the side of the building.

When I got around the corner Billy was standing there. “He's already flirting with some bitch,” he said. I rolled my eyes, “I don't give a fuck what he does as long as he keeps his hands off of me. So far he's done that, so if he wants to first with a waitress in three towns over than he can. I thought you weren't going to follow me? Hm? So why did you? Dad make you do it. No, I doubt he'd do that. Or is it the simple fact that you actually care about your little sister and what happens to her.”

Billy just glared at me, “Shut the fuck up. Dad would kill me if something bad happened to you. And Parker Miller is all kinds of bad news. You heard about Hallie Knight, right? She dated Parker last year. One day she came to school with brusies on her arms and a busted lip. Claimed she fell. But everyone saw her fighting with Parker the day before. He's got a temper, yn. And if he does lay a hand on you I'll fucking kill him.”

After my little chat with Billy I went back to the car. “Hey, there you are. Where'd you go?” Parker asked. “The restroom. I told you that but you were too busy flirting with the waitress. I think I want to go home now.” He looked at me with a mix of surprise and anger,maybe? “We haven't gotten our food yet. Look, I'm sorry. It's a habit and I promised myself I would be different with you and I'm doing a poor piss job at it. I'm sorry, please just at least eat and if you still want to go home, then I'll take you.”

I agreed and waited until we finished eating. “So, wanna see that movie?” Parker asked, hopefully. “Um… let's see what's playing first.” A smile broke out across his face and he turned the car on, backing out,heading to the drive-in theater. “Let's see. Let's see. Um-they are playing…Friday the 13th,” Parker said. “Which one?” I asked. “Uh…the second one.” I nodded my head with a hum. “Fine. We can watch the movie.” He hit the steering wheel in excitement, then pulled up to the ticket booth. “Two tickets please.” He handed the cash to the person in the booth and then parked the car.

“Did you want any popcorn or candy or anything to drink? I can get you a slushie,” he said. I sighed, “yeah, sure. Blue raspberry for the slushie, please,” I told him. She smiled, “Sure thing, gorgeous. I'll be right back.” He opened the car door, got out, and headed to the concession stand. “Dinner, a movie, and snacks. Damn he must really like you.” I jumped, placing my hand on my chest over my pounding heart. “Jesus Christ, Stu! What the fuck are you doing?” I asked. “Checking in like Billy asked.”

I rolled my eyes, “You are such a little lap dog for my brother,” I scoffed. “Am not! Look, I know Parker better than Billy. He's going to try and make a move. He's liked you or I should say wanted you since your Freshman year when we Sophmores. I heard him talking about tonight. He said he was going to be the one to…ya know…” he made a popping sound, “ your cherry.” My face screwed up in disgust. “Ew! I would never let him touch me like that.”

“Well, Billy and I are a few cars behind you to the right. If he gets too handsy and doesn't take no for an answer, hit him in the face and come find us.” Stu left after that and five minutes later Parker was at my window handing me a slushie and the popcorn. He jogged around the front of the car and got back into the driver's seat. “I got candy too.” He set the candy on the dash and set his cup in the cup holder. “I have blankets in the back in case you get cold,” he said, scanning his eyes down my body. “I'll be fine.”

This went well for the first half of the movie. We talked a little about our favorite horror films and ate popcorn and candy. But then he tried to put his hand on my leg. I pushed it away and he tried again. “Can I at least hold your hand?” He asked. I looked at him and raised my eyebrow. “No. This is a simple date to shut you the fuck up and to get you to leave me alone. This isn't an invitation to feel me up.”

His jaw clenched and anger flashed in his eyes for a second before his face softened. “Look, I'm not trying to push you. I just think…” he leaned a little closer. “We'd be good together. I bet you have such a pretty little pussy and I could make you feel things geek Meeks will never be able to. Stretch you out real good, make you come all over my cock while screaming my name. I can give you everything you want.” His hand landed on my thigh, squeezing tight and moving up closer to my crotch.

I gripped his wrist and dug my nails into his skin. “I wouldn't let you dick with in fifty feet of me. God only knows what kind of disease you've got!” I pushed his hand away and opened the passenger side door with the other. “Where the fuck do you think you're going?!” He yelled. “To get my brother.” His face paled a little. I got out and slammed the door to his precious car. “Fucking bitch!” Billy must have seen me getting out of the car because he was walking towards me.

He walked to the driver's side, yanked the door open, and pulled Parker out of the car, slamming him against the side of it. His hands gripped the collar of Parker's shirt. “If you ever come near or touch my sister again, hell even if you look at her, you'll regret it. Do I make myself clear?” Billy pulled Parker closer to him and then slammed him against the car. “Do I make myself clear?!” He yelled. Parker pushed him away, brushing his shirt off. “Don't worry, I don't want you whore of a sister anyway!” He spat. Before I could even blink Billy's fist was connecting with Parker's face.

[4kennels]

Snowflake. - PART 1

_______________________

CHAPTER 1-

Head Out On The Highway

———————————————————-

Danny Sullivan planned on spending the long Thanksgiving weekend with his girlfriend at her off-campus apartment, but when Stephanie broke up with him at the last minute (having caught him cheating for the third time), the sophomore stud decided to hitchhike home for the holiday. Despite being cautioned by friends and parents alike, Danny had done this several times with no hassles. He took it for granted nothing bad would ever happen to him.

When Danny hooked up with Stephanie, not only hot but a trust fund chick, his friend Gary said, "You're a lucky dog, man." But Danny shrugged, "I can get chicks like her anytime I want. She's the lucky one." Modesty was definitely not one of his shortcomings. After Stephanie cut him loose, Danny simply looked forward to the next rich bitch to come along. The opposite sex was meant to be used and discarded when he got bored. Babes threw themselves at his feet, and other dudes formed lines for the honor of being his buddy and wingman.

Everything came easily to this golden boy. He was handsome, glib, charming, and confident. In high school he was the class president two years in a row, prom king senior year, and valedictorian at graduation. In college on a scholarship, his natural athletic prowess won medals for the diving team, and academic accolades fell into his lap. He always got whatever he went after, although he attributed his success to shrewdness and hard work, and disparaged others for not trying hard enough. In fact, Danny Sullivan hardly worked a day in his life.

It was dusk and snow, which the local meteorologists failed to forecast, was falling thickly when Danny put out his thumb on the access ramp to the Pennsylvania turnpike. Although two hundred miles lay between him and home, he expected to arrive in time for late breakfast, maybe lunch. His insulated hooded parka, one of numerous gifts from Stephanie, protected him from the raging elements.

The change in weather seemed driven by some mysterious, threatening malevolence. Standing in the cold for over an hour as the mercury plummeted and the wind howled in all directions, Danny still had no cause for despair. He was confident his luck would hold out. It always did. Fortune seemed to watch over him like a guardian angel. His leaf-green eyes peered through the thick, fluffy precipitation, trusting any minute some generous stranger would deliver him from this predicament.

"That's more like it," he beamed, when at last a black Escalade SUV with tinted windows pulled to the side of the access ramp. Danny trotted over to it. The large side door slid open. Once again Fortune was looking out for him. Didn't she always?

An older, heavy-set bear of a man with a grizzled beard sat behind the wheel, flashing a jovial smile. A younger bear man, sporting a knitted woolen cap and dark sun-glasses, sipping from a silver flask, sat shotgun. Old school Rock and Roll poured from the radio, and the welcome stench of herb sweetened the rush of heated air.

"Looks like you need a lift!" greeted the driver.

"Sure do! Thanks a lot!" Danny replied. "How far are you going?"

"Philly."

"That's where I'm headed. I've got a couple bucks I can give you for gas."

"Climb in!"

It was dark inside the vehicle, so Danny didn't notice two other shadowy figures sitting behind him until the SUV was moving at top speed.

"Don't move!" growled a menacing voice. Danny froze, feeling the cold steel of a gun barrel pressed against the back of his neck.

Another surly voice demanded: "Empty your pockets!"

Trembling, Danny handed over his embossed leather wallet to the guy in the passenger seat, turning around to snatch it from the victim's hand. Danny was terrified.

As he counted Danny's cash, the young man chortled, "You was holdin out on us, boy. Looks like you got more than a couple bucks!" Danny's wallet contained almost two hundred dollars.

Danny was quickly deprived of his gold Rolex (another gift from an ex-girlfriend), cell phone, parka, and brand-new Timberlands. He felt utterly helpless, dreading what these hoodlums might demand next. The lethal weapon was still pressed firmly against his neck.

"Get your clothes off!" demanded the voice behind him.

"Yahhh, that's right! Strip, bitch!" growled the driver. "Hurry it up!"

In blind panic, Danny unbuttoned his flannel shirt and slid off his trousers until all that remained were his white athletic socks and white jockey shorts. Danny prayed silently that he wouldn't have to remove his underpants. Surely, these criminals had no need of those. He felt utterly helpless for the first time in his young life.

"You ever wonder what it's like to suck a dick?" said one of the two men behind him.

Oh shit, thought Danny: these crazy guys are gonna rape me... I don't believe this is happening... this is a fucking nightmare.

"Open your mouth and close yo' eyes, boy!"

Jesus fucking Christ, thought Danny: Why is this happening?

"Boy! Your master said open your mouth and shut your eyes!!!" barked the driver, glancing at Danny in his rear-view mirror.

Danny's frenzied thought: calm down... you're gonna get througt this... I'll just do what they want... and then forget it ever happened...

Fearing the very worst, Danny squeezed shut his long-lashed eyes, and opened his trembling mouth.

"Wider!" demanded a voice in the dark.

A powerful arm crooked Danny by the throat, and he felt the cold steel barrel of the pistol pass between his quivering lips.

"Suck the piece, bitch!"

Danny closed his mouth around the barrel and sucked reluctantly.

"Now you know what it's like sucking dick! When it goes off, bam!!! You’re in heaven!"

"He's suckin real good. I bet he's done this before. You a faggot, boy?"k

Danny tried to shake his head no, but his body was far too petrified to move. He expected to die any second now. If sucking their cocks spared his life, he was prepared to do just that.

"I think the boy wants the real thing," chuckled the front seat passenger, as if reading Danny's mind.

"Nah," vetoed the driver. "We got us bitches for that."

There was a round of harsh laughter. The deadly weapon was slowly withdrawn. The SUV pulled over to the side of the turnpike. The door slid open.

A pair of strong hands grabbed Danny by his bare shoulders from behind and shoved him toward the opening. A swift boot to Danny's cotton-clad buttocks sent him sprawling from the vehicle. He landed face first in a deep bank of snow.

"So long, boy!"

The black Escalade sped off, leaving Danny Sullivan half-naked in the frigid snow, grateful to be alive.

———————————————

CHAPTER 2-

Over the river and through the woods

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Danny staggered along the highway. His virtually transparent snowy white jockey shorts were soaked, and his nuts felt like ice cubes. A few vehicles sped by, but no one wanted to stop for a half-naked youth frantically waving his arms. A sign proclaimed, Next Exit 13 Miles. Snow continued falling steadily. The wind roared. How long before hypothermia sets in, he wondered.

Looking around, he spied the lighted windows of an isolated structure on a small, flat hill not too distant from the turnpike. It was Danny's only hope.

Making his way across a snow-covered field, stumbling and sliding as he made the steep ascent, Danny came at last to a two-story farmhouse. A wrap-around veranda enclosed the front and side. Smoke billowed from the chimney.

Shivering, he knocked on the door. He could hear music and what sounded like someone chanting.

"Who's there?" boomed a deep baritone.

"Help me," pleaded Danny through chattering teeth. "I was robbed. I was hitchhiking and these... these guys robbed me." He told the large black man, silhouetted against the light, opened the door.

"What happened to your clothes?"

If there was an undertone of amusement in the man's voice, Danny did not notice. His brittle ears felt like they would crack. It was hard to concentrate.

"They t-t-took them! The g-g-guys who robbed me. P-p-please, can I come in?"

Picture Danny with snowflakes glittering in his long brown hair as he clutched himself in vain for warmth. This good looking college boy, naked save for his socks and bright white underwear, shivering in the merciless cold.

"Of course, come inside."

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CHAPTER 3

HOME SWEET HOME

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There was a fire blazing in the hearth, beside which were two empty bowls set out for a pet. Upon the walls hung primitive African masks with fearsome faces. Tall bookcases displayed countless volumes. A large-screen TV on one wall. A mournful saxophone played softly from unseen speakers. No sofa, but capacious leather armchairs were arranged in a semi circle before the fireplace. A low, round, marble table was set with magazines, burning candles. a laptop and a cedar humidor.

"I'll get you a blanket," said the good Samaritan. He strode from the living room, returning with a heavy woolen blanket. He tossed it over to Danny, who wrapped it around himself as much for warmth as to conceal his state of dishabille.

One would think that getting warm was all that mattered under these circumstances, but for some reason being nearly naked was equally distressing to Danny. Parading around the campus pool in a skimpy Speedo was one thing, but being in a stranger's home with only almost transparent wet jockey shorts clinging to his shrunken privates felt like a callous insult heaped upon injury. Almost too ignominious to bear.

"Sit by the fire and get warm, son."

"Th-thank you, thank you so m-much!" said Danny, teeth still chattering, grateful to be safe and warm. "I saw your lights from the highway. Thank you so much!"

"Not a problem. Are you hurt? You want me to call 911?"

"N-no... I'm okay... I guess. I'm just... really, really cold. I just need to get warm."

"Of course. What's your name, son?"

"D-danny Sullivan."

Danny extended his hand, but an odd, tense moment passed before it was received by a firm, lingering grip. The warmth of that large, brown hand seemed to flow into Danny. He almost did not want to let go.

"Pleased to meet you, Danny. I am Master Shabaz."

"Thank you again, Mister Shabaz."

Obviously, Danny had not heard Master Shabaz correctly. It was a wonder his brittle ears still functioned at all. For the first time, Danny took a steady, long look at his gracious benefactor.

Shabaz loomed close to a footb taller than the 5’-7” youth. He had dark brown, chiseled features, with large obsidian eyes, and a bright dazzling smile framed by full, sensuous lips. A perfectly trimmed, jet-black chin beard set off the line of his jaw. Draping from his broad shoulders was a black, ankle-length linen thawb, the sort of robe Danny had seen in pictures of men from Africa and the Middle East. Black canvas slippers encased his large feet.

"Well, Danny Sullivan, all things considered, you were quite lucky tonight. There isn't another house around for miles. I don't think you would have lasted much longer out there in just your drawers."

"Yeah, lucky," said Danny, bitterly, shivering under the blanket.

"So, tell me. What happened to you, exactly?"

Danny related how the ruthless thugs robbed and stripped him.

"Is that all they did to you?" inquired Shabaz, with a gleam in his dark, jewel-like eyes, as he came to rest in a large brown-leather armchair. "Suppose you tell me everything."

Something strong and reassuring about this man filled Danny with trust. Much to his own surprise, he shared the entire story, including how he was made to suck the barrel of a pistol. Of course, Danny did not refer the thug's obscene comment, likening it to fellating a man's cock. Danny dared not mention that.

"What were you thinking, attempting such a journey in this kind of weather?"

"That's just it," said Danny. "Before I set out, I listened to the weather report. There was nothing about it snowing, let alone a fucking blizzard. It was strange. The storm came out of nowhere just as I was leaving."

"Yes, that is very strange," said Shabaz, with a hint of irony, as if he knew more than he was willing to say.

Danny rambled on about his friends and family, his achievements, how Stephanie caught him cheating, his hobbies, all kinds of trivial matters. He was not sure why. But it was like a burden being lifted from his shoulders. Giving the facts of his life as if they were separate from himself, something he knew about, like a movie he had seen, or a book he had read. Like someone else's life not his own.

With steepled fingers, Shabaz listened intently, asking questions at various points, encouraging the college boy to repeat his traumatic experience once more as if he found it all too incredible to believe. Then, he shook his head with compassionate dismay.

"You've certainly been through a lot," he sighed, consolingly. "Listen, Danny, there's a bathroom down that hallway to the left. Why don't you take a long hot shower while I see if I can't find something for you to wear. How does that sound?"

"That sounds great! I can't thank you enough!"

"I'm sure you can't."

"I mean it," said Danny. "I really appreciate this. I don't know what I would have done. I could have been..." He choked, unable to finish.

"Take your shower. You will feel better." It was more of an order than a suggestion, one that Danny was more than complacent to obey. He really did not want to think about it.

The piping hot shower did the trick, massaging Danny's tense, aching muscles. Unscented soap and shampoo made him feel almost human once more, a

luxury he would he never take for granted ever again. He lingered under the scorching water longer than necessary so happy to thaw out. If only he could he would scrub away the grime of his recent terrible experience.

This bathroom suited Danny with its paneled, spartan decor, so unlike the way Stephanie furnished her pink-tiled bathroom with girlish charm. No fragrant little floral-shaped soaps set out for show, pretty guest towels, decorative bottles filled with lotions and perfume, cosmetics. Why did chicks value so much artifice? Was it to please men or themselves?

Like so many men, Danny thought the vanity of women was unnecessary when good pussy and breakfast in the morning were all that really mattered. It was that kind of sexist thinking that always got him into trouble. Luckily his charm and good looks always enabled him to move on to the next girl. So many fish in the sea.

There was a single medium white towel hanging on a brass rack, which Danny used to vigorously rub his shaggy brown mane, before drying off the rest of his body. Steam fogged the mirror above the sink, which he was about to wipe away, but decided against. It was an unconscious decision to avoid looking at his own reflection as if that might bring back unpleasant memories.

Securing the towel barely around his waist, Danny poked his head out the bathroom door and glanced around. Shabaz stood a few feet away, beckoning Danny to follow him back to the living room. "I found you some small sweatpants and a t-shirt that may not fit exactly, but will have to do.”

Flushed with self-consciousness at wearing nothing more than a towel around his loins in a stranger's home, Danny told himself it was a step up from the scandalous condition he arrived in. After all, beggars can't be choosers.

"Give me the towel and get dressed," said Shabaz, offering the clothes in one hand, and holding out the other for the towel.

It was an almost outrageous request. Did this man expect Danny to stand before him naked? Why couldn't he get dressed in the bathroom? Yet the authoritative timbre of his savior's voice was strangely compelling. The important thing was that Danny was safe and warm. Still, the self-confidence he always relied upon and took for granted recoiled inside, curled up like a snail without a shell.

Uncertain what else to do, Danny simply complied. The towel came off, and the tall, dark man studied him up and down as if taking a quick inspection. The youth's small, pink nipples hardened, even as his cock and balls shriveled and contracted. He felt as if more than his private parts were revealed. It was painful to endure. He felt like a small child next to Shabaz

"I'm sure these will fit," said Shabaz. "They belonged to someone who used to live with me." He sounded sad, as if recalling a companion who meant a lot to him but now was gone.

How mortifying this would have been had his benefactor been a woman? It was ironic, Danny reflected, that a naked man usually does not feel discomforted being flaccid around other men, but at this moment he felt small and submissive. The sweatpants and shirt were a little tight, clinging to Danny's well-formed swimmer's physique. But what did that matter? It was better than being naked.

Strange that sexual thoughts should cross his mind. Strange that he felt sexual at all. After all, they were both men. Of course, black men were sexually intimidating. Danny had seen naked black men in the locker room. There was something to the popular myth however much he did not want to accept it.

Shabaz exuded such an aura of masculinity that Danny felt weak and insufficient by comparison, but why, why, was he thinking about these things? Why had the thugs in the Escalade threatened him sexually? Taking his parka he could understand, but the rest of his clothes? What was that about? Why did Shabaz order him to hand over the towel?

No, he was determined not going to associate this kindly gentleman with those thugs. Shabaz was nothing like them. He was not the same at all.

"I want to thank you again, Mister Shabaz," said Danny, pushing aside these invasive prurient notions once and for all.

"That's Master Shabaz," the tall, deep-voiced black man corrected gently.

"Oh? Okay. Master Shabaz."

Daniel thought “Master?” That sounded like something a student of the martial arts would call his teacher. Maybe that was it. In some ways, Shabaz reminded Daniel of his coach.

"Master is my given name," chuckled Shabaz, as if gleaning the young man's thoughts. "You see, Danny, my mother was from South Africa where she suffered many indignities. She wanted me to be addressed with respect. You don't mind me calling you Danny, do you?"

"No, of course not."

"Actually, my mother named me Bwana."

"Like in the Tarzan movies?"

"Something like that. It's Swahili for Sir or Master. When we moved to the States, my mother decided Master would subject me to less ridicule."

"I can't imagine anyone making fun of you, sir, " replied Danny, uncertain why he said that. Why did he add sir. He was used to getting compliments, not dispensing them.

"Let's just say that some of my classmates tried, but I showed them the error of their ways. A man who does not insist upon being treated with respect can't really be considered a man worthy of the name, now can he?"

"No, I guess not."

"It would please me if you called me Master. I don't see any reason why we shouldn't be on a first name basis, do you?"

"Sure, okay.... Master," said Danny. "You're the boss."

"That's better," Shabaz laughed cordially. "You're very polite. I like that about you. Your parents did a good job raising you."

Danny smiled. When this was all over, he could not wait to tell his friends about the strange black man named Master who came to his rescue. Yes, someday he was going to look back on this episode and have a laugh himself. Fortune still looked out for him.

"I made some hot chocolate to warm you up," said Master Shabaz, producing a large mug. "I have also taken the liberty of preparing something for you to eat. But, first, drink."

"Thank you," said Danny, sipping the rich, sweet, dark beverage. It had something else in it besides chocolate that yielded a nutty, creamy flavor. "This tastes really good."

"How was your shower? Feeling better now?"

"Oh, yeah, yes! Thank you so much... Master. You're a godsend!"

"So are you, Danny," nodded Shabaz. "So are you."

"What is it that you do?" Danny ventured, sitting down in one of the capacious armchairs.

"I'm a writer, among other things. Stories, articles, books. Nothing you have read before, I'm quite sure. I will show them to you later if you are interested."

Danny looked around the room, taking it all in. The wooden African masks on the wall appeared to be laughing or scowling, depending on their chiseled expressions. Flickering firelight cast shadows, lending these artificial faces the semblance of mobile life, or was it merely a figment of his imagination?

It was then Danny saw an odd piece of antique furniture which had he not seen before. It was a prie-dieu with a narrow ledge upon which crouched the stone statue of a black dog-like creature with gleaming ebony eyes and large upright, pointed ears. Around the throat was an unusual collar adorned with glittering, faceted gems.

"What is that?" he asked. The strange statue seemed to stare back at him.

"An artifact picked up on my travels," said Shabaz. "The people of Nubian Egypt believed the jackal was the sacred totem of Anubis, God of the Dead."

"The dead?" A shiver ran down Danny's spine like ice water, like he was back outside in the cold, dark, infinite night that nearly caused his demise.

"Figuratively speaking, of course," said Shabaz, as if that was meant to ease the young man's superstitious dread. "Death is not the end. It is but a transformation. Death is the beginning of life, just as life is the onset of death. The circle of existence."

"I guess."

"According to myth, the jackal was reputed to guide the living from one life to the next. Would you like a new existence, Danny?"

"I'm happy with the one I have," said Danny, finishing his chocolate, an craving more. It was the most delicious thing his buds had ever tasted. Not just sweet, but nourishing. Relaxing and invigorating at once. He meant to ask Master Shabaz what went into it.

"Are you quite sure?"

"Yes, I think so. Except for what happened tonight, my life has been pretty good."

"The world is full of unforeseeable misfortune. Wouldn't you like a life where you are safe from harm? One with real meaning in which you are needed and have a purpose?"

A chord was struck, making Danny aware of how true that was. Emotions new to him. His lifelong habit of depending on fortune and using others seemed to crumble within his soul. It was all true. He did not feel needed. He did not have a purpose.

Questions arose in his mind. Was Master Shabaz lonely, living out here in the country all by himself? Did he have a wife and friends? Were there others like him? Why did his air of self-sufficiency fill Danny with such a sense of inadequacy? Why did Danny feel so small and helpless?

"I never thought about having a purpose," said Danny, mustering his scrambled thoughts. "I always figured we were meant to enjoy life. To have fun, you know?"

"I think that is part of it," Shabaz smiled. His white teeth gleamed against the burnished polish of his dark skin. "But there is more to life than hedonism. One must know his place. If you don't know your place, you are lost. Like a dog in the street begging for scraps. Like a pet seeking a collar.”

Danny tried to stand, but his legs wobbled unsteadily. His tousled head was heavy with sudden drowsiness. Outside, the wind howled like a banshee or a wild animal in pain. "Don't know why I feel... so tired," he mumbled.

"You have been through an ordeal, little man."

As Danny collapsed, Master Shabaz sprang to his feet, catching the young boy in his arms, lifting him up as if he weighed nothing at all.

"So tired..." Danny moaned. His eyelids fluttered.

He was vaguely aware of being carried down a flight of stairs. His head came to rest on soft linen pillows. His heavy limbs were useless. The last thing Danny Sullivan heard before passing out was the voice of his benefactor, deep and warm, urging him to rest.

"Sleep, sweet little one. Sleep well, and dream of the new life that awaits you. You are home at last."

Then came blessed oblivion like an overwhelming, drowning tide of blackness.

———————————-

CHAPTER 4

A SNOWY MORNING, ONE YEAR LATER

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It was early morning. Master Shabaz stood at a window in the living room, looking out on the heavily falling snow. The land surrounding his house on the hill lay beneath a thick white blanket. The turnpike was visible in the distance since all the trees were bare. It was one year to the day since Danny Sullivan knocked on his door, frozen to the marrow after his terrifying brush with death.

Shabaz wore a pair of red unionsuit long, underwear and woolen red socks. One large, brown hand held a glass water-pipe, with a blend of opium and chanvre-indiens filling its brass bowl. He took a slow, deep inhalation of smoke, held it in his lungs for a minute before exhaling. The sweet-scented silvery fumes circled above his head like an evanescent halo.

There was a roaring fire in the hearth, soft jazz saxophone on the stereo, just as there was a year ago. How swiftly the months had flown. Setting his pipe on a low, round table, Master Shabaz took a seat in front of the fireplace. Then, he took up a large, leather bound tome and leafed through it slowly, pausing over the full page illustrations. One caught his attention in particular, a very detailed drawing of an antique silver chalice labeled the Warren Cup.

One side of the unusual vessel depicted a bearded man and beardless youth engaged in anal penetration. The lad appeared to be lowering himself by means of a strap onto the other's enormous phallus. Shabaz smiled with obvious delectation. How like the Romans, he mused, to have devised such an ingenious contraption, let alone adorn its likeness upon a silver cup. Th purport of this craftsmanship was evidently designed to arouse concupiscence.

Shabaz turned the page and lingered over another illustration of satyrs pursuing nymphs with small, pink-tipped breasts and ample, fleshy buttocks. Another page featured voluptuous, naked women with kohl-lined eyes and ruby-painted lips engaged in providing a swarthy sultan with oral pleasure. There were pictures of slim, smooth-skinned, handsome Ganymedes with girlish blond locks devoted to the same erotic task. Pink-lipped mouths hovering over enormous black members, frozen in time, poised on the brink of consummation.

Not that Master Shabaz had need of stimulation. His nature rose of its own accord each morning, as testosterone naturally brought his blood to a boil, making its way to the sexual parts which produce and discharge the life-force seed of man. He lived in accord with that rhythm which modern man abjures in his over-active mentality. A solitary individual like Master Shabaz kept himself apart from the madding crowd lest he draw unwanted attention. His needs were simple, but even such a man may require companionship at times. Only a saint bound by vows of chastity and self-denial could dwell in isolation without someone to speak to now and then, or to slake his carnal urges when they naturally arose.

That very hour of need was upon him. Shabaz closed the book, and took another deep puff of smoke from the water pipe

He reached down to unbutton the last 3?buttons of his unionsuit. His dark brown member stood erect like a long, thick, wooden baton. Jet-black hair curled about the base, thick and lustrous. His heavy testicles were the size and color of plums.

————————————————

CHAPTER 5

MAN’S BEST FRIEND

————————————————

"Snowflake!" he called. "Come here, boy! Come get your bone!"

The young man formerly known as Danny Sullivan scampered into the room on his hands and knees. He was utterly naked save for a collar stitched with strange symbols and studded with lustrous black gems. A stainless steel cage to prevent self-abuse contained his cock and balls. In his rectum was inserted a black rubber plug with a long tail like that of an Irish setter. The simple, uncomplicated expression on Snowflake's pallid face was that of unquestioning devotion.

"Good boy," said Shabaz, reaching out to stroke the youth's tousled long brown hair, and to scratch behind his tender ears. "Did you sleep well? Did my little pup dream of chasing butterflies? Yes, you're a good boy, aren't you. Ready for your bone? Was that what you were dreaming about? Go on, little guy. Get your bone. Make your Master feel good. Do your job."

With a soft, eager yip of delight, the human canine kneeled between his owner's powerful, thick, brown thighs, and began to expertly lick the large testicles and throbbing shaft of flesh until everything shone wet and glistening with saliva. He wrapped his avid, pale-pink lips upon the bulbous, dark-brown head and took it into his mouth, moving slowly downward until the massive shaft filled his throat. Master Shabaz grunted with deep, rumbling satisfaction.

Snowflake, as he now answered to, enjoyed giving his Master head more than anything else in the world. It had taken awhile getting used to that massive pole of flesh inside his ass, but over time that became pleasurable as well. Yet even a long, hard, deep fuck was nothing compared to the fullness of his Master's big African bone massaging his gums, or the sweet, nutty, creamy reward which made his taste-buds tingle.

The college boy's past life was little more than a half-remembered dream. It seemed as if he had always been the Master's faithful companion, house pet, and servant, and nothing else. At least nothing important. Nothing that held any real purpose. Sometimes when Snowflake was left alone for hours, curled up before the fire or waiting patiently in his doggy bed by the back door for his Master to return from a walk, vague snatches of memory came back to him. Images of faces, people he no longer recognized. The soft, friendly laughter of women.

He had no memory at all of Master Shabaz directing him to write a letter to his parents explaining he dropped out of college because he was gay and living in Los Angeles with the man of his heart. They were not to try to contact him. That went without saying because Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan wanted nothing more to do with a homosexual son. He was dead to them.

"You do that so well, boy," murmured Shabaz, as his member pulsed with sensual excitement. He was accustomed to these ministrations each and every morning from his pet. The perfect way to start off every day before sitting down to write in his study. Opium served to heighten the warm, wet sensation of Snowflake's mouth, but it was the application of his agile, fluent little pink tongue which sent shivers throughout the Master's lower body.

Snowflake sucked away knowing it was never up to him when Master Shabaz would ejaculate. That decision belonged to the Master alone, who let the act go on until he was ready. Dogs do not make decisions. A good dog simply obeys, for obedience is not a response but a state of mind. It was not long or did it take forever, Snowflake could not be sure, he felt his Master's member pulse and throb until it exploded with delicious nectar, thick, gooey, and sweet, rich in Nubian DNA. The sound of his Master's groans of pleasure made Snowflake happy.

Sometimes Master Shabaz wanted the act to last for an hour or even longer as he reclined in a reverie of perfect contentment. At other times, he needed to get off quickly, which was always a disappointment to little Snowflake. Nonetheless, the good dog understood, as well as a subhuman creature can possibly understand anything abstract at all, that he had a lifetime ahead of providing service. His simple animal consciousness belonged to the everlasting present. He lived in the eternity of now.

Sucking the Master's beautiful, juicy bone was not Snowflake's only duty in the remote farmhouse on the hill. When necessary Snowflake was permitted to stand on his hind legs in order to prepare meals and see to other chores. He had been well trained in that regard. In the finished basement, where Snowflake slept on a soft, clean, comfortable large doggy bed which was littered with pillows, were free weights and a Solo-flex machine which he was expected to use to keep in good physical condition. And he ate nutritious meals and lapped spring water from the two bowls by the fireplace.

During the warm summer months, Snowflake frolicked in the grassy field, playing fetch, chasing butterflies, barking at squirrels in the trees.

In the evening after the dishes were washed and put away, Snowflake loved curling up at his Master's feet while Shabaz watched the news and occasionally movies and shows on the large screen TV in the den. He was so proud to be collared by a Man of such power and wisdom and compassion. The savior who took him in from the cold and gave him shelter, purpose, and meaning out of the goodness of his heart. He could not imagine any other existence. It was a good life, the perfect existence.

On this morning of their anniversary, after Snowflake gulped his Master's exquisite semen, Shabaz brought out a number of gifts from an armoire. There was a thick warm, leopard-print fleece blanket for Snowflake's bed. Rawhide chew toys. Tasty biscuits and milk bone treats. There were two new handsome tails attached to anal plugs. It was a very special day, and Snowflake was a very fortunate little dog indeed. He barked happily.

"Do you know what day it is, little one?" cooed Master Shabaz, as if talking to an infant. "It has been a year since you came to live with me. I was lonely then. But I prayed to the gods for a new companion, and you showed up unannounced at my door. Oh, if you could have seen how you looked that fateful night. You were cold and wet, lost and scared, a little homeless boy, a stray puppy...."

Wagging his tail, Snowflake licked the outstretched hand of his loving Master. He sometimes understood what his Master was actually saying, but that was only when his Master wished it so. Mostly, it was the tone of voice that Snowflake heard and responded to.

"You looked so pitiful, just a mongrel with nowhere to turn, a miserable subhuman thing pretending to be a man, left to perish in the cold by very bad men. But I saw your potential. I knew what you needed. Yes, I did. I saw it in your big green puppy dog eyes. So, I cleaned you up, and fed you, and put you to bed. I gave you the new life you needed. The life for whicbyou were meant. Oh, you looked so endearingly foolish pretending to be a man. But you were never a man. You were always a dog, weren't you. Only you did not realize it at the time. But you know it now. You know what you are.

"There are so many like you out there in the world wandering about like strays, pretending to be men, living empty lives without purpose or meaning. Taking without giving. You all need forever homes, but there just aren't enough Masters to go around. And my life was empty without you here to keep me company. My friends tell me that a good dog is not enough, that a man needs a special partner, an equal to share his life, and they may be right. But having you here with me makes up for that... a little. Enough for now. Quantum satis."

For a brief moment, a melancholy shadow crossed the Master's chiseled features. He was a complex man. But the instant passed. He smiled, and his dark eyes kindled as he returned his full attention to the naked, white, simple creature squatting on the floor, proudly wagging its tail. "I have another anniversary gift for you, little one," he said, affectionately. "Roll over on your back."

Snowflake rolls on his back with his legs splayed wide and totally exposed.

Using the key which hung around his neck on a silver chain, Master Shabaz unlocked the steel cage which contained Snowflake's cock and balls. The limp, white pizzle and low-hanging testicles dangled free for the first time in months. Snowflake looked up with a questioning glance. It was not an expression of Why, for being subhuman, the creature was incapable of asking that. The question Why was too abstract for him to manage. It was a simple gaze that inquired, What? What do you want of me? What will you tell me to do? What, Master?

"I want you to hump, play with yourself," said Master Shabaz. "Go on, boy. Use your front paws. Or use the furniture. Go on Puppy, grasp that little pink thing between your legs and get it hard. That's your toy. It was never more than that. Just a toy-thing. But because it is our anniversary, and because you have been such a good puppy,byou get to play with it."

Snowflake seemed not to understand at first. It had been so long since he had used that slender tube of flesh to do anything but urinate when let outdoors. The toilet was off limits even on cold, snowy days like today. Twice a day, he was let out. There were several trees on the property marked with his distinctive scent. If his penis had any other purpose than that, he seemed to have forgotten. The steel chastity cage was simply a preventative measure.

“Let me show you puppy,” as he rose and began to rub Snowflakes doggy meat with his right foot incased with the wool socks.

"Go on, boy. Get it hard," urged Shabaz. "You can do it. Do it for me. Get that little white piece of doggy meat nice and hard. You're a good boy. Play with it. You remember how that feels? Stroke it, my sweet little bitch. What's the matter? You can't get it hard? Has it been so long you don't know what to do with it? You better get it hard, little one. That's an order. Don't disobey your Owner. You hear me, Snowflake? Get that thing hard! I know your pizzle is only good for pissing, but if you don't get it hard, I'm going to get upset. Don't make me have to punish you on your special day. Unless you want to be punished. Is that you want? Don't make me get my belt. Because I will….”

With the continued stoke from his foot, Snowflake started to use his front paws to hump against his puppy penis.

“…There you go, little one. It's getting there. I knew you could do it if you tried. You're a good little dog. You can do it."

As Shabaz withdrew his foot, Snowflake lay upon his back, milky white legs in the air, stroking his slender, pale penis desperately, looking up at his beloved Master with tears welling in his green eyes, dimly recalling how he used to masturbate in his former life. All those hours he once spent jerking off compulsively even when he had plenty of girlfriends to choose from because no pussy, no mouth, ever felt quite as good as his own right hand. He wanted to ejaculate for his Master so badly. He did not wish to be punished. Once when he took a shit inside the house, the Master rubbed his nose in it, and took a belt to his soft ass which stung for days.

"Come on, boy. Think about sucking Master's big dick, think about how good Jo it feels in your cunt-hole, and come for Daddy. I am going to count to three. And when I'm done, you are going to shoot, understand me? I am in control. When I say three, you are going to have your little orgasm, because that is my command. Are you ready, little guy? Are you gonna spurt for Master like a good puppy? One... stroke it harder... think about my black dick inside you... Two.... Feel your little nuts about to explode or I'm gonna have them cut off and you're never gonna need them again... Get ready.... Do what you're told.... Three!!!"

At that very instant Snowflake released his quivering, thin rod and thin, milky semen gushed from the tip, spattering the hardwood floor. He remained on his back, panting awhile, before scrambling to all fours, looking at the puddle he made. Knowing not what else to do, he leaned forward with his tongue out, prepared to lap it up, but the Master stopped him with a firm rebuke.

"Don't eat that, boy," said Master Shabaz. "It's nasty. Go fetch a rag and clean it up. Then, I want you to get dressed. The snow has stopped. The driveway has to be shoveled, and the porch cleared off."

————————————

CHAPTER 6

SNOWFLAKE, DADDY’S BOY

—————————————

Clearing the long, twisting drive to the main road took three hours of arduous labor. It was ludicrous and unnatural standing on his hind legs for so long, not to mention wearing clothes. Denim overalls were tucked into rubber boots, and a long-sleeved thermal undershirt with waterproof mittens encased his front paws. During summer months when Snowflake mowed the yard and tended the garden he wore the same overalls absent a shirt. Garments of any kind made the canine feel like he was pretending to be something he was not. He could not wait to return inside to once again be naked and on all fours as his Master and nature intended.

Once his chores were completed Master stripped Snowflake on the porch, removed his tail and sent him out to his favorite tree where he wandered a while, sniffed the tree and then naturally lifted his leg next to the tree and did his business and then came happily romping to the porch with his rear shaking despite missing his tail, in complete joy.

With one of his new tails plugged into his hole, Snowflake was provided lunch, two large cans of beef chunks and gravy warmed up and poured into the bowl which bore his name. It tasted delicious. Snowflake slept most of the afternoon, exhausted from his chores, curled up before the fireplace, while Master Shabaz watched a football game on the large screen TV. From time to time, Snowflake stirred, lifting his head to observe the helmeted figures in colorful uniforms but if their actions ever meant anything to him, it was not evident.

That evening as the full moon shone bright upon the snow-clad hill, three guests arrived. It was rare that Master Shabaz had any visitors. But this was a special occasion.

First to arrive was Master Antoine, a young man barely out of his teens, carob-skinned, of medium height with a wiry physique and shaved head. He was casually dressed in a knee-length black tee-shirt, loose gray cargo pants, and black Converse hightops.

Antoine held a long leash attached to the collar of a much older, naked white male on his hands and knees. The hair on the creature's head, shoulders, chest, and belly was gray. Like Snowflake, he too proudly displayed a bushy tail plugged into his rectum.

At the sight of this intruder, Snowflake instinctively bared his teeth and growled, only to be admonished by Shabaz with the threat of spending the night in the basement if he did not behave. Snowflake whimpered and fell silent, but did not take his eyes off this territorial imposition. Masters Antoine and Shabaz embraced fraternally.

"I forget your pet's name," said Shabaz.

"I just call him Mutt," replied the Black youth. His deep voice held a rural Southern accent. "He's a good boy. His previous owner was a white college student , can you imagine? He told me that Mutt had been one of his professors that he found on Craiglist and soon took control of. Some white guy pretending to be a Master?"

"Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, they say."

"I suppose," Antoine shrugged.

"I have found when whites role-play Master and servant, they often take turns," said Master Shabaz. "Both want to be the submissive, so one of them has to pretend to be something he is not. It can't be very fulfilling for either."

"As I understand it," said Antoine, "the so-called master married another gay college student who did not want this poor animal around. Subs marrying subs . That's something else I will never comprehend."

"More role-playing," Shabaz opined, "in imitation of the exemplary bond only Real Man with mutual love and respect can feel for one another."

"Ah, yes, warrior love. Very rare, but when it happens, it's said to run deeper and stronger than the bond between a man and woman. I have never known the pleasure, have you?"

Shabaz smiled, but did not reply. No more needed to be said of this matter, for Nubian silence, as it is called, is more articulate than speech.

"I see you do not keep his pizzle locked up," Shabaz observed.

"It isn't necessary. He was already old when I got him. I have never seen him attain an erection."

"They lose vigor with age. Their sexuality becomes more and more an act of the mind." Shabaz imparted knowledge like a professor learned in the mysteries of sub-anthropology.

Antoine: "It surprises me that you keep your pet's little thing in a cage. If this one is anything like your last pet, he is more dog than man. I don't know how you do it. I have always admired your way with these subhumans."

"I will share my secrets when the time is right," smiled Master Shabaz. "As for the cage of chastity, that is because my pet has only been with me for a year. Most of the time he does not function like a man at all, but when there is work to be done, it is necessary that some of his human wits are restored to him. It takes time and training to produce a servant worthy of the name. Today, for example, I had him shovel the driveway. There was a chance, a slim one, but a chance nonetheless, he might have remembered how to play with his little toy of flesh."

"We can't have that," Antoine laughed.

"Indeed not," said Shabaz. "The white man must be completely subdued. I tell him when to shit and piss, when to eat, when to work or rest."

"And when to play with its toy."

"Exactly."

Master Antoine unhooked the leash from Mutt's collar and told it to get acquainted with Snowflake. The two creatures sniffed one another's hindquarters before curling up on the floor side by side before the fireplace.

No sooner had Master Shabaz offered Antoine a snifter of Nigerian brandy, came a knock at the door. The next guest had arrived.

Master Hieronymus was a tall, strapping man in his mid-thirties with gold-nut skin, dark brown curls, and eyes the color of the earth. Shabaz greeted him with an embrace. Their foreheads touched. Then Antoine reached out to dap the fist of the newcomer.

"I am glad you could make it," said Shabaz. "It usually does not snow this time of year."

"The weather was no obstacle," said Hieronymus as he removed his heavy coat and hung it on a rack beside the door. "Unfortunately, Omar could not make it. Hunter business."

`That's unfortunate," said Shabaz. "I was looking forward to seeing Omar again. I appreciate what the Hunters do, but there are so many of these creatures running loose and wild. What is one more?"

"Hunters serve at the pleasure of the Magistery," Hieronymus shrugged. "They take their job very seriously."

"As do I."

Hieronymus wore a biceps-bulging, short-sleeved crimson silk shirt that draped his broad shoulders and deep chest. Blunt nipples poked the fabric. His strong, thick legs were encased by black leather pants. A brown leather band was strapped to his left wrist.

At his side was a naked white human canine on his hands and knees, about the same age as Mutt, shivering from the cold. His inquisitive nose wrinkled at the potpourri of new scents which greeted him: wood, leather, musk, black rose oil, and the stench of something else, something familiar but unpleasant. His round eyes narrowed at the other two naked subhumans.

"You still have Kizingu, I see," Shabaz chuckled.

The name Kizingu was Swahili for "little white man," an apt appellation indeed. Not only was the old fellow unimposing of stature, its fungus-white pizzle and testicles were shriveled almost to the point of non-existence.

"Yes," nodded Hieronymus. "He isn't good for much anymore except to keep me company. Sleeps most of the time. But he is loyal to a fault. Still wants that bone, know what I'm saying? I don't have the heart to replace him."

"Not to mention his pension and Social Security checks come in handy."

"There is that," Hieronymus concurred. "I don't need the money, but it pays for his keep and medical bills."

"You're a good man, my friend."

"I try to be."

At no point in their conversation, did Masters Shabaz and Hieronymus look away from one another. Their dark eyes met in an embrace of perfect understanding as if thoughts passed back and forth between them above and beyond the words they chose for speech. Nor did Master Antoine feel excluded. They were brothers linked by blood, history, revelation, and purpose.

The third and last guest to arrive was Master Malchizedek, followed by his canine servant Boxer. Malchizedek was eldest of the four True Men assembled, although his rightful age could not be guessed without some idea of his unique nature and practical knowledge of the arcane.

Although not tall and somewhat slight of frame, Malchizedek moved with vigor and vitality. His bespoke suit of gray tweed with its suede vest and the silver wolf's-head cane he carried bestowed an air of dignified, gentlemanly elegance.

"I am glad you were able to come," said Master Shabaz, taking one of the elder's small hands in both of his. "It is always an honor."

"The honor is mine, young one," said Malchizedek.

"Not so young anymore." Despite the cordial disagreement, there was no mistaking the reverent tone. It was like that of a devoted pupil reunited after long years with his beloved teacher.

"I will be the judge of that." Malchizedek settled the matter with executive authority, and then changed the subject. "This is an important night. There are forces at work which wait upon the outcome of this night with favor. One more white beast will be brought to heel of his own free will. The Gods will be pleased."

"This is my hope," said Shabaz. "But I cannot be certain what little Snowflake will choose. The decision rests with him."

"Can you not?" The ageless old man smiled. His dark brown face glowed with knowing reassurance.

Shabaz thought awhile. His brow darkened with concern, but then he looked upon the venerable Master's face, and smiled. "Perhaps, I can."

"Is Omar not here?"

"I am told he is on Hunter's business."

"Very good. I had hoped to see him, but that is more important. The Magistery wants those stray creatures rounded up. Left to their own devices, they are either a menace to themselves and others, or a perfectly good commodity going to waste."

"But there are so many of them. More and more of these caucasians every day catching -- what do they call it? -- this jungle fever? It's an epidemic."

Said Malchizedek solemnly, "As it was prophesized in the Book of Thoth. The first sign of the coming Age was foretold: `the white-skinned dwellers of caves from the frozen north shall return upon their knees begging forgiveness like frightened, disobedient household servants long astray.'"

"It is also said: those who act like dogs will become as dogs."

"So true, so true," roared Malchizedek, and his mirth filled the room. "Like this one here," he looked down at Boxer.

The servant pet was maybe forty-five years old, hairy chested, hairy legged, hairy backed. The creature still retained some definition in his arms and legs but his hirsute belly was swollen to a paunch. His ugly little member resembled a white mushroom cap protruding from a thatch of fur.

While the canines became cautiously acquainted, rubbing snouts and sniffing hindquarters, the Masters sat down to share a long-stemmed pipe of kef. Soon the room was canopied by billows of smoke. Master Shabaz brought out a silver tray laden with meat and cheese, along with crystal goblets and three bottles of imported Senegalese wine. The four men spoke in low voices casually punctuated with laughter.

As the night wore on, the Masters fell silent, seated like grave kings of old upon their thrones, and only their dark eyes kindled. It was a fraternal communion the white pets would never be able to comprehend. The breed of homo sapiens these Masters chose to domesticate were limited creatures with weakened senses and lesser mind and body skills. So much went over their heads, so much was wasted on them.

The pipe was refilled many times and passed around. They watched with attention a documentary (privately distributed by the Black Magistery) on the TV screen concerning the auction of white servants and plans already underway for building compounds all across North America in secret locales. All were in agreement, the future was looking bright.

When the clock chimed midnight, it was time to get down to business. Four thick, tall, black candles were ceremoniously lit. The subhuman pets were commanded to squat beside their Masters, all but Snowflake who kneeled unknowingly, dim with doggy consciousness, in the center of the room with all eyes fixed upon him.

While the other pets still retained a glimmer of human thought and awareness of self, Snowflake was deeply submerged in his canine identity. He crouched, naked save for his chastity cage and collar, looking around absently, patiently, heedless of the discussion taking place.

"This is the long-awaited hour," announced Master Shabaz. "This is the reason I have asked you, my brothers, to convene. As you know, the white race is by its nature and history fated to be our servants, but we do not take them into service against their will. A year ago today, I called upon the Ancient Gods to deliver a servant to my door. Thus, by chance, as we sometimes call the winds of destiny, came to me this very creature you see before you. He was nearly naked, almost frozen to death. Surely he would have died that night if not for my compassion and pity. As you know, it takes little effort to peer into such minds as these creatures possess. What I beheld was a young man without plans, without a future, a selfish, hapless mongrel who was relying upon luck and the generosity of others to get through life. I would have given him the opportunity to choose his destiny at that time, but it was clear to me that he could not choose what he did not know. That is why I buckled the Collar of Obedience around his throat."

The other Masters nodded and murmured in accord. Of the four assembled, the youngest, Master Antoine, knew the least about arcane matters, but he even he had heard of the legendary Collars. This was the first time he saw one. Hieronymus had some experience with Black Magick and a little knowledge of the Dark Arts, but did not practice. Of Melchizedek nothing further needs to be said. Whatever transcendental knowledge the old one acquired on his long sojourn through time does not suffer reduction. Only Master Shabaz had some idea.

"The Collar of Obedience must only be used when absolutely required," affirmed Malchizedek with authority. "I find no fault with your decision. This poor creature would have perished without your timely beneficence."

"The Collar has effectively dimmed the boy's memories," said Shabaz. "From btime to time, I have lessened its power to enable him to perform simple human tasks. He has dreamlike glimpses of his former self when he can almost remember who he was, when he almost knows what he is doing, but that is but an echo of the past, it fades away. He is as you see him, a loyal, friendly, well-trained canine."

"He seems like a good dog," smiled Malchizedek, patting Snowflake on the head.

"When I remove the Collar, all his memories will return," Shabaz continued. " He will recall his human name and the life he lived. He will remember the last twelve months, as well. Only then will he be able to compare one existence with the other, and be sufficiently informed to select the life he prefers."

"It shall be so," said Master Malchizedek, "but with one condition. If this creature chooses to return to his former life as a human being, you must return him to the outer world exactly as he came to you. Naked, helpless, at the pitiless mercy of the elements."

"He will freeze to death outside," exclaimed Master Hieronymus. "Is that necessary?"

"Master Malchizedek is correct," said Shabaz. "If little Snowflake does not wish to continue in my service, he must return into the world exactly as he left it. There can be no other way."

Shabaz looked like a tall priest draped in his long, black thawb. He was a man of great stature with slow, deliberate moves, always mindful, always present. His deep voice wielded authority, yet his expression was ever one of patience, insight, and personal depth perception. This perfect balance of yin and yang inspired friendship among his peers, and devoted, servile obedience from lesser beings.

"Will he be informed of this?" asked Master Antoine, also considering the moral implications.

It was a fact many of Antoine's and Hieronymus's servants called them the Benevolent Dark Lords. Black Dominion does not have to be cruel. Letting whites serve and worship should be an act of mercy. Of course, it is also said: a Black Master's wrath and mercy are one and the same.

"I am afraid not," said Master Shabaz, shaking his head. "That knowledge might influence his decision. It cannot be otherwise."

Snowflake kneeled before the assembled Masters, wagging his tail as if oblivious to their stern faces. The other pets crouched on their haunches, apprehensive with abject awe.

Once Master Shabaz unbuckled the Collar of Obedience from Snowflake's throat, a sudden change swept over the servant pet. His relaxed, happy, eager expression tensed. In his soft, adoring, unworried eyes was now a fractured gleam of light. He shook his tousled head like one waking from a deep sleep fraught with dreams. As his green eyes glanced over his nakedness, blood rushed to his cheeks.

"Do you remember your name?" asked Master Shabaz.

The naked servant cleared his throat, hesitating, not accustomed to forming words for the last twelve months. There was so much to process. He winced, realizing his anus with plugged with an Irish Setter's tail.

"It's Danny," he uttered, at last. "I mean, it used to be. I'm not Danny anymore."

"What is your name now?"

"It's Snowflake."

"What do you remember?"

After another rush of hesitation, Danny spoke: "I remember all of it, but I don't like who I used to be. I was a real prick, only thinking of myself. I got into trouble and you rescued me. You helped me change. You gave me a better life. Now, I feel useful. I have a purpose."

"I am pleased to hear you say that," smiled Shabaz, with genuine warmth. "The time has come for you to make a choice. Do you wish to return to the world as Danny, or remain here with me as Snowflake? Think it over, and choose your words carefully."

"I don't have to think it over," gushed the naked servant. "I know where I belong. At your feet! Keeping you company, working for you, pleasing you any way that I can."

The way Snowflake blushed at "pleasing" spoke of sudden embarrassment as if he had revealed more than he intended.

"Tell my friends what it is you like to do to please me above all other things," said Master Shabaz. "Tell them what you love doing."

"I love sucking your cock, sir."

Master Antoine stirred in his high-backed seat. "That's what I'm talking about!" he exclaimed.

The young brother in high tops believed vigorously in whiteboys sucking Black Dick by any means necessary. Having a Collar of Obedience would come in handy. Antoine was about to ask Shabaz how he could get his hands on a Collar of Obedience or make one, when Master Melchizedek held up his hand for silence. Hieronymus steepled his long brown fingers, and nodded with silent approval for Shabaz to continue.

The three white, naked, caucasian service-dogs fidgeted. Snowflake straightened his carriage, although still on his knees. The Collar of Obedience made caging his genitals unnecessary, but Shabaz thought it necessary as a reminder for those times when he had Snowflake on his hind legs allowed to think a little more like a man than a dog for awhile.

Shabaz resumed the interrogation with a statement of fact. "Before you came to live with me, you were a lover of women. You never gave a man sexual pleasure before. The thought of performing fellatio never crossed your mind. Is that true?"

"Yes, sir," said Snowflake. "I thought sucking cock was something only females and faggots did."

"You were right. Only females and faggots suck dick. Are you a female, Snowflake?"

"No, sir. Guess now I'm a faggot. All I know is that I love when you give me permission to suck your cock. I love everything about it. I really do. I still feel straight, I like chicks or would if you would let me, but I go crazy thinking about your cock, wanting it in my mouth so bad like right now. I don't know what I am."

"You're my cocksucker," said Master Shabaz. "And you have always been a faggot. You just never realized it. If I had physically forced you to I worship my African phallus, you would have come to enjoy it eventually, but there may have been a struggle. The Collar simply helped you become what you always were. My faggot. My cocksucker. My dog. My servant. My bitch."

"Yes, sir. Now I see it, I was a faggot, all my life."

"Are you sure? We can't proceed unless you convince me you are."

"I've always been a faggot, sir. All my life. I never realized it until you let me suck your cock, sir. I love your cock. I love sucking your cock. I love being your dog. I want to always be your bitch. I know that I don't deserve you, I'm just a faggot, but you mean everything to me."

"I'm almost convinced," said Shabaz. He turned to the other masters. "Is anyone else convinced?"

Antoine and Malchizedek were satisfied, but Hieronymus wanted to hear a little more before he could make up his mind. Shabaz warmed the brother in the red silk shirt with a dazzling smile.

"Do you have more to say?" Shabaz asked of Snowflake.

"I don't know what else to say," said Snowflake, sounding defeated. "I just want you to be my owner. If I left here, I would just find another Master whether I loved him or not, just to be owned. You showed me the truth about myself. I love you for that. I worship everything about you. If you let me be your dog, I'll never be any trouble, I'll be a good dog, you'll see. Please let me be your dog again."

"I'm convinced," said Hiernonymus.

"So am I," Shabaz concurred.

"Thank you, Sir," said Snowflake with such sincerity there could be no doubt of his convictions.

"One other decision remains," said Shabaz. "You have chosen to continue living and working as my servant. You may do this with or without the Collar of Obedience. It is your choice. If the Collar is restored, all memory of your human existence will be erased. You will have no choice but to obey my slightest command. Should you choose to go without the Collar, you will experience the joy that comes of willing servitude. You will be the same as these other humbled pets, retaining free will and awareness of self, but dedicated to the service of your master."

What Snowflake said next brought raised brows of astonishment to Masters Hieronymus and Antoine. Even serene Malchizedek and stern Shabaz with their deeper insight into the minds of lesser beings, seemed somewhat surprised by something in this final development.

"I choose the Collar, sir," announced Snowflake, emphatically. "I want to be under your power. I love being your obedient servant. I want to forget all about that sorry excuse for a human being I used to be. I need to be totally controlled. Use me, Master! Use me, Master!"

Firelight flickered across Shabaz's noble features. He seemed to hear strains of celestial music, a remote ethereal choir acknowledging Snowflake's last three repeated words. "Use me, Master!" There was an old Swahili mantra taught to white servants as a sort of mission statement, "Kutumia me, Bwana," which means in English "Use me, Master!"

But Master Shabaz never taught Snowflake that. It was uncanny. How did Snowflake know to say those words? Then again, those three words summed up a servant's existence. They were the answer to any question a servant could come up with. Use me, Master! That was always the answer.

Maybe Snowflake was bound to say those three words sooner or later. It was a possibility. But maybe there were other forces at work. Sometimes the Ancient Gods do more than watch the sacred rituals of Man, sometimes they make things happen that cannot be reduced to coincidence.

"Kutumia me, Bwana!" declared Shabaz in a loud, amused voice. When he smiled, all hearts turned toward him. "The true servant has spoken the three simple words that have ever been his birthright: Use me, Master!"

The three white dogs yelped with happiness at the sound of those three magical words which they knew so well.

Master Shabaz buckled the Collar of Obedience around Snowflakes tender, white throat. This was followed by a round of applause, and the pets yipped with joy. Snowflake gratefully licked his Master's hand.

After the clock chimed one, Shabaz showed his distinguished guests to comfortable rooms on the second floor, each loyal, well-trained pet trotting a few precise paces behind its owner. What transpired behind closed doors was a tale told by the sound of slurping, choking, grunting, and firm flesh slapping soft.

As for Snowflake, this was one of those rare occasions when he was permitted to curl up at the foot of his Master's large, luxurious, four-posted bed. But not, of course, before directing his eager, hungry mouth to Master Shabaz's large, rigid, brown member, rewarded for his labor of love with African Ambrosia.

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[a-simple-gaywitch]

Ohana

Spencer Reid x Reader

Summary: Spencer’s in love with his new neighbor- and her son that’s just like him

Word Count: 3234

Warnings: Typical CM stuff (Amplification specifically), Single Parent!Reader, slight angst

“Ohana means family. Family means no one gets left behind, or forgotten.” -Lilo and Stitch

~

Spencer remembered the day you moved in. He remembered you lugging boxes up five flights of stairs by yourself. When he saw you struggling with a heavy box, trying to find your key, he decided to be bold and help. 

“You look like you could use some assistance,” he said. “I’m, uh, I’m Dr. Spencer Reid, I live right across the hall.”

“Dr. (Y/N) (L/N),” you said.

“Here, let me hold the box for you.”

“Careful, it’s heavy,” you said, shifting it into his arms. 

Spencer was jostled for a moment from the weight of the box, which was labeled (Y/N)’s Books. “So, MD or PhD?” he asked you as you searched for the right key. 

“PhD, I’m too squeamish to be in the medical field,” you said with a laugh. It was the most beautiful sound Spencer had ever heard. “What about you?”

“What? Oh,” Spencer shook his head, focusing back on the conversation. “PhDs.”

You stopped sorting through your keys and turned to face Spencer. “Plural? Holy shit, are you a genius or something?”

Spencer let out a small laugh before saying, “Yeah, technically. But I don’t think intelligence can be accurately quantified.”

You finally found the right key and sighed as you heard the lock click. “Um, you can set the box with the others by the bookshelf.”

Spencer turned to see a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, much like his own, with boxes upon boxes of books in front of it. Some were labeled Academics, some had the same label as the one he was currently holding, and some had Oliver’s Books scrawled across the top.

“So, uh, where are you moving from?” he asked you, following the maze of boxes to your kitchen.

You offered him a bottle of water. “Erie, Pennsylvania. I got a job at Georgetown as an Associate Professor in the history department.”

“Oh, I guest lecture there every once in a while. In the criminology department. Uh, what’s your concentration?” Spencer took a sip from the water bottle. 

“Medieval and Renaissance history,” you said. “I get to teach fun classes like Medieval Weaponry and Warfare.”

“Well, maybe I can sit in on that class someday.”

You smiled at him and that was when Spencer knew, you’d worked your way into his heart and you were never leaving.

~

Spencer remembered the first time he met Oliver. It was 53 hours, 27 minutes, and 15 seconds since the day he met you. He was coming home from an exhausting case when he saw you trying to balance paper shopping bags in your arms while opening your door. A small boy, no older than 6, stood behind you with oversized headphones and a mobile gaming system. He had a huge backpack on his shoulders.

“Ollie, take the keys. Ollie. Oliver.”

“You need some help?” Spencer asked, setting his go-bag in front of his door.

“Spencer, hi! Um, some help would be great.” Spencer took the bags from your arms so you could open the door. “Oh, uh, this is Oliver, my son.”

“Your-your son?” Spencer asked. If you had a son, it was likely you had a partner. 

“Yep, he’s my boy.” You tapped his shoulder and gestured for him to say hi. The boy gave a small wave before going back to his game.

Spencer cleared his throat. “So, uh, where’s-where’s his father?”

“California. At least, that’s where he went when he left us.” Your hand was resting on top of your son’s head. He looked just like you. “Here, can you just set the bags on the counter?” you asked after opening the door. Oliver started down the hallway when you grabbed the loop of his backpack. “Not so fast. You know the rules. Homework first, then you can play your game again.”

Oliver groaned and handed you his game. You set it on the counter next to the bags of groceries. 

“So, you’re raising him alone?” Spencer asked you. 

You nodded and started unpacking the bags. “Yeah. You know, it’s been hard, but I can’t imagine life without my Ollie. He’s my heart and soul.”

~

Spencer and you became friends quite quickly. He told you about his job as a profiler, and you told him about working at the university. He would come over after cases and watch movies with you and Oliver. He’d help you put groceries away and he’d help you with simple tasks. 

He also picked up on Oliver’s eccentricities. He reminded Spencer of his younger self. He didn’t talk much about kids at school and he breezed through schoolwork. His interests seemed heightened beyond what could be considered normal for a kid his age. One day, Spencer decided to ask about it as inconspicuously as he could. 

The two of you were playing a game of chess when he brought it up.

“So, Oliver seems to be doing pretty well in school. What grade did you say he was in, second?”

“Yeah, the school bumped him up a grade. They wanted me to move him up to fourth, but I know how important it is to have friends your own age. And he already struggles to make friends.”

“He does? Why?”

You sighed, moving your knight. “Check. He was diagnosed as autistic when he was three. He doesn’t quite get social cues so it’s hard for him.”

Spencer moved his bishop and took your knight. “I’m sure his dad leaving didn’t help.”

“Well, he, uh, he never actually met his dad. Leo left me when I was four months pregnant.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

You waved him off. “It’s fine. It was almost seven years ago. I moved on, and I learned to balance motherhood with college. I completed my undergrad when he was only a few months old and I worked on graduate school when he was a high-energy toddler. It just proved to me that I can do anything. Checkmate.”

~

Spencer was enjoying a rare day off on a Tuesday when his phone started ringing. He groaned, thinking it was Hotch with an urgent case. But when he saw your name on the caller ID, his face lit up. 

“(Y/N), hey!” he said. “What’s going on?”

“Ollie’s school just called me. He’s sick but I have classes and meetings all day so I can’t go get him and-”

“Are you asking if I can go get him?” Spencer said, cutting off your rambling.

“Yes! Could you, please? I’d be so so grateful.”

Spencer smiled, grabbing the spare key you gave him. “Of course.”

“Oh, thank you so much. There’s a spare car seat in the coat closet. I’ll call the school and let them know you’ll be picking him up. Thank you so much, Spencer.”

When Spencer got to the school, he was fidgety. He’d never spent time alone with your son before. And he wasn’t even sure if the kid liked him. 

He walked into the front office and said, “Hi, my name is Spencer Reid, I’m here to pick up Oliver (L/N)?”

“Oh, (Y/N) said you were coming to get him. If I could just see your ID?” the receptionist asked. Spencer nodded and pulled out his driver’s license. “Great, if you could just sign Oliver out on the clipboard here, you’ll be good to go.”

Spencer scribbled his signature on the clipboard and the receptionist got up to get Oliver from the back office. Oliver followed the receptionist, his backpack on his shoulders and a paper bag clutched in his hands. His face was pale and he was swaying slightly. 

“Hey, Ollie,” Spencer said.

“Hi, Spencer. Where’s my mom?”

“She got stuck at work, buddy. You’re gonna stay with me until she comes home, okay?”

Oliver nodded. “Okay.” He followed Spencer out of the school and climbed in the back of his car.

“Do you want me to put the window down?” Spencer offered, looking back at the boy in the mirror. When Oliver nodded, Spencer put his window down and pulled out of the parking lot.

After pulling into the parking garage, Spencer looked in the mirror again. Oliver was fast asleep, his head slumped against the door. Rather than waking the boy, Spencer unbuckled him and scooped him up in his arms. 

Oliver wrapped his little, sweaty arms around Spencer’s neck as he was carried inside. Maybe it was instinct, maybe it was how much he cared for the boy, but Spencer pressed a small kiss to the side of his head. Spencer dug your spare key out of his pocket and unlocked the door, setting Ollie down on the couch.

After covering him with a blanket, Spencer dug around in your kitchen for some ginger ale and crackers. After setting them on the coffee table, he heard a small voice say, “Why are you being so nice to me?”

Spencer noticed Oliver watching him from the couch. He sat on the edge of the coffee table, handing Oliver the soda with a red bendy straw. “What do you mean, bud?”

“I know you like-like my mom. But you’re nice to me even when she’s not here. Matt didn’t do that. He called me names when Mom wasn’t around. He said I was weird.”

Spencer knew Matt was your ex from your time working at the Erie campus of Penn State. He was the first person you’d been with since Oliver’s father. And hearing how he treated Oliver didn’t sit right with Spencer.

Spencer sighed and looked at Oliver. “I’m nice to you because I like you, too. And I was a lot like you when I was your age.”

“You were?” Oliver handed the cup back to Spencer to set back on the table.

Spencer nodded. “People still think I’m weird. But being weird is good. How boring would the world be if everyone was normal?”

Oliver smiled. “It would be pretty boring,” he said.

“Get some rest, okay? It’ll help you feel better.”

You finally managed to sneak out of work and get home. When you opened the door, you saw Spencer sitting in the chair across from your sleeping son, reading a book. 

“Hey,” he said in a voice just above a whisper.

“Hey. How is he?”

“He has a low-grade fever and he hasn’t been able to keep anything in his stomach. I’ve been having him nibble on some crackers but even that doesn’t stay down.”

“Oh, my poor boy. Thank you for staying with him.”

“Of course. You know I’d do anything for you, for both of you.”

~

The team got back from a particularly rough case dealing with kids. Hotch gave them the weekend off to recuperate. 

“Anyone want to go grab a drink?” Derek offered to the group.

“Or five?” Emily added.

“What do you say, kid? You in?” Derek asked Spencer as the younger man packed up his bag. 

“Oh, no, sorry. I, uh, I have plans,” he said with a smile before slipping out of the office. The team watched him hurry out of the building before sharing glances with each other. 

“Spence has a girlfriend,” JJ realized. 

“Pretty boy has a girlfriend?”

“Think about it. When does Spencer ever have plans? And when was the last time he didn’t stay to do paperwork when we were given the time off?”

“And he upgraded his phone out of nowhere,” Emily chimed in. “He went from one that had only the bare essentials to a smartphone he texts on all the time.”

“We need to find out who this girl is,” Morgan decided. 

Spencer had been keeping you a secret from the team on purpose. Not because he was ashamed of you, or embarrassed, but because he knew the team saw him as the baby and they would be invasive if they ever found out. He didn’t want them to scare you away, he loved you too much to lose you. Though, he hadn’t said it out loud yet.

~

You and Spencer were walking down the street, Oliver asleep on Spencer’s back, snoring against his shoulder, his arms wrapped around Spencer’s neck.

“You have no idea how excited he is for you to see his science fair project,” you said. “It was all he could talk about all week.”

Spencer smiled and adjusted the boy on his back. “I think I’m just as excited to see his project, especially since he wouldn’t let me know anything about it.”

You reached the apartment complex and you dug your keys out of your bag. “Are you sure you can carry him up the stairs? I can wake him if you want me to.”

“No, it’s fine. I got him,” Spencer whispered, moving so that Oliver was clinging to his front rather than his back. He followed you up the stairs to your apartment. When you unlocked the door, he went straight to Oliver’s room and put the tired boy in his bed. He kissed Ollie’s forehead before flicking on his nightlight and leaving the room. 

“Oh, hey,” you said when Spencer came out of the room, “Is he still out?”

“Yeah. I think we might have put him in a coma.”

You laughed and kissed Spencer’s cheek. “Go get some sleep. I know you’re tired, too.”

“I’m not-”

“Spence, you nearly fell asleep at the movies tonight. Go.”

“Fine, fine, I’ll go. But not without a kiss goodnight.”

You gave Spencer a kiss before shooing him across the hall. When Spencer unlocked his door and flicked on the light, he saw his team sitting in his living room. 

“What the hell? What are you doing here? JJ, I gave you a key for emergencies!”

“This is an emergency!” Penelope said. “You have a girlfriend and you didn’t tell us!”

“Kid, please tell me she’s a single mother and you haven’t been keeping a family a secret from us for years,” said Morgan.

Spencer was still annoyed his friends broke into his apartment, but he couldn’t resist talking about you, especially when they’d already seen you. “Her name’s (Y/N), she moved in about a year ago with her son, Oliver. We’ve been dating for three months.”

“Spence, why didn’t you tell us?” JJ asked.

Spencer looked down at his shoes, his hands stuffed in his pockets. “I didn’t want you scaring her off. I love her. I love both of them. And you guys can be intimidating.”

~

“Spencer’s coming to the science fair tonight, right?” Oliver asked you as you got him ready for school. 

“That’s what he said,” you told him. “And you know Spencer likes to keep his promises.”

“I can’t wait to show him my mold project!”

“Okay, kiddo, we have to go. We don’t want to be late, do we?”

Meanwhile, Spencer was in the conference room at work, worrying about the latest case they’ve been presented. Someone was releasing a new strain of anthrax in public places around the DC area.

But under his stress over the case, he was worrying about you and Ollie. Maybe that’s why he worked so much harder on this one. 

He and Morgan were sent to the suspect’s house, and Spencer entered first. Looking around, he noticed his mistake. When Morgan made his way to the door, he slammed and locked the door. 

“Reid, what’s going on?”

“I’m sorry.”

Spencer was infected. He knew there was a large chance he would die, but he couldn’t stop working. He needed to find the antidote. HIs breathing was getting heavier and he felt sweat dripping down his face. He pulled out his phone and dialed. 

“Hey, Garcia?”

“Reid! Oh, my god, Derek told me what happened. How are you feeling? Are you okay?”

“That’s not important right now,” he said. “Um, can you- can you record a message for me? It’s for (Y/N) and Ollie.”

“Oh, uh, of course.” He heard her typing. “Okay. Go ahead.”

Spencer cleared the lump in his throat. “Uh, hi, (Y/N), it’s Spencer. Um, I-I wanted to let you know that, uh, I love you and…” he paused, taking a breath and blinking tears from his eyes, “and I’m so happy you let me into your life, into your family. And I want Ollie to know I love him, too. You- both of you- you’re my family.”

After that, things happened too fast. Spencer was being pulled out of the house and hosed down before being ushered to the waiting ambulance. He fell out of consciousness on the ride to the hospital. 

When he woke up in a hospital bed, Morgan was sitting by his side. 

“Are you eating Jell-O?” he asked, his voice cracking from being dry.

Morgan lit up with a smile. “Welcome back, kid.”

“Is there anymore Jell-O?”

Morgan chuckled. “You know, there’s some people here waiting for you.”

“What?”

Before Morgan could explain, you and Oliver burst into the room.

“Oh, my god, Spence!” You ran over and hugged him the best you could with the various medical equipment attached to him. “Don’t you ever scare me like that again,” you scolded. 

Oliver climbed onto the bed and curled up next to Spencer. “Yeah, don’t do that again,” he said. “How can I take you to Donuts with Dad if you’re dead?” He looked up at Spencer with his big doe-eyes and Spencer felt his heart break a little bit. 

“You-you want me to go to Donuts with Dad with you? Even though I missed your science fair?”

Ollie nodded. “I don’t care that you missed my science fair. I just care that you’re still here.” He looked up and Spencer and wrapped his arms around his torso. “I love you, Spencer.” He gave Spencer a light squeeze. 

Spencer smiled and ruffled his hair. “I love you too, Ollie.” He looked up at you. “And I love you, (Y/N).”

You smiled and gave Spencer a soft kiss. 

“Ewww!” Ollie squealed, making you both laugh. 

~

Spencer proposed to you about a year later. You’d both decided you didn’t want a huge wedding, just family and close friends. Rossi gave his backyard for you to use for the ceremony. It was simple and small, but it was special and wonderful. Spencer had flown Diana out, and you’d flown your parents out.

After the ceremony, Spencer announced that the both of you had a surprise for Ollie. He went inside Rossi’s house and returned with a manila envelope. He cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen, in this envelope, I hold the most important document I have ever signed.” He opened the envelope and pulled out a piece of paper. He cleared his throat. “This certificate certifies that Oliver B. (L/N) is the adopted child of Spencer W. Reid,” he read.

Oliver’s jaw dropped. “What? You’re- what?”

“Remember all those Saturdays Penelope watched you while Spencer and I went out? This is what we were doing,” you told him. 

Oliver ran over to you and Spencer and wrapped you in hugs. The rest of Spencer’s team and your parents joined in. In just two years, your family had gone from just you and your son to more people than you knew what to do with. And that was more than okay with you.

~

“They may not have my eyes, they may not have my smile, but they have all my heart.” -Anonymous

[stevesharrlngtons]

i measure time by days spent away from you.

roman godfrey x reader

summary: while you’re off on a girls weekend, roman is left missing you.

word count: 5.9k

a/n: ingredients: just sweetness. instructions: read when you are feeling sad. results: good feelings resulting in feedback 4 the writer (-:  

“I can’t believe you’re being such a baby about this.” 

“Fuck off,” Roman grumbled in reply, moving to lay flat against the mattress with a huff. 

You just laughed and continued to fold clothes into your bag. You were very meticulous when it came to packing, wanting everything in your suitcase to be stored efficiently to maximize space. Roman always teased you about it. Although, each and every vacation taken together, he always complained that he couldn’t fit everything he wanted to bring in his suitcase. You’d counter his irritation by offering to help him pack next time, and he’d always roll his eyes stubbornly.

But, you wouldn’t have to hear his snarky comments or annoyed ramblings this trip, because you were leaving Roman behind in Pennsylvania. 

Destiny had invited you to her bachelorette party in Atlantic City for the long weekend, and you had happily accepted. You had been awaiting this girls trip for weeks and you were excited that it had finally arrived. You didn’t have many female friends anymore, having grown apart from the ones you made in high school and college, so the opportunity to have some good old fashioned girl time was overdue. While you and Destiny were close, you had never met any of her other friends. You were silently hoping to come out of the weekend with some new buddies, a few good stories, and plans for future adventures. 

“I just don’t understand why it’s three days…” he said, watching you riffle through the closet for a party dress. 

“Hardly,” you snorted, “I’ll be gone tonight, tomorrow and Sunday morning. You’ll barely even notice.”

The sound of you moving hangers around covered Roman’s pouted not likely.

Roman had been dreading your departure all week and now that it was here, he was stewing in self pity and pubescent angst. He didn’t want you to fly to New Jersey and go partying with a bunch of rowdy women, he just wanted you to himself. Which he knew was selfish and borderline unhealthy, but he didn’t really care. He liked you right by his side, slung under his arm, safe and sound. He wasn’t used to you going out with friends and especially not for so long. If you were out for an evening, you were back and in bed snuggled to his chest well before dawn. 

“I just don’t see why you can’t fly out Saturday morning, do whatever Destiny wants, then fly home in the evening,” Roman sighed, waving his hands lazily in the air. 

“What kind of loser does that? It’s like showing up for the birthday party and leaving before the sleepover,” you took a dress from the closet and walked to the mirror to pose with it infront of your body. 

“You hated sleepovers as a kid,” he argued. 

“I never wanted to sleep in a sleeping bag on the floor,” you shuttered, “but when I’m promised a nice mattress, along with tons of drinking and dancing? Count me in for the sleepover and all the party favors.” 

“So, what?” Roman pushed up to rest on his elbows, “You’re just going to get wasted and dance? You could do that here, y’know?” 

“You wanna go dancing with me, Rome?” you shifted your eyes from the dress to look at his reflection in the mirror. 

“You know I’d go with you if you asked…” 

“Then, we should totally go dancing next weekend, baby.” 

You turned to place the dress you had been modeling in your bag and Roman groused petulantly. He watched closely as you folded the slinky designer dress on top of your other clothing and toiletries, smiling when it fit perfectly. You mouthed your checklist to yourself, counting off on your fingers that you had everything you needed, before you zipped the suitcase shut. When you had finished, you shuffled around on your knees to look at him.

“What if I fly down with you and we could get our own room? Have some hotel fun?” he raised an eyebrow and you just shook your head at his pleading. 

“Ro, this is a girls weekend, meaning no boys allowed. Including you.” 

He once more threw himself back down on the mattress in theatrics. 

“You do know that Peter lives here now?” you walked over to the bed and hopped on to straddle his hips, “How can you be mad at me for leaving you to have a fun weekend with your best friend?”

“Peter has plans.” 

“I know for a fact that he doesn't,” you took Roman’s face on your hands and pivoted his chin to look at you, “so go out with him. Have some fun, get drunk, do whatever you can’t do when I’m here.”  

Roman let you handle him completely, his neck limp and suggestible. He stared up at you with sad emerald eyes. 

“What if I make some calls and get the jet? I could get it here in an hour and you could go to New Jersey and be home before dinner?”

You just smiled and leaned down to kiss him softly, “I love you.” 

“Is that a yes?” 

“It’s a no, but I still love you.”

Again, Roman slumped and sulked.  

You looked down at your moping boyfriend and kissed his jaw affectionately. You knew that Roman loved you, but you weren’t entirely sure why he was throwing such a fit about your leaving? Sure, he liked being with you, doing things with you, fucking you; but he wasn’t one of those partner’s who was lost without their other half. Roman did plenty of things alone, even went on the occasional business trip all by his lonesome and never put up this kind of fight before. 

You had mentally chalked it down as him being a possessive worry wart, which is why you already had plans to text him often to ease his mind. 

As you continued to lay soft kisses to his skin, there was a honk outside followed closely by a buzz of your phone. Your car had arrived to pick you up. Roman groaned as you sat up. 

“I gotta go, baby.” 

“Five more minutes?” 

“I don’t think I can ask the driver to do that,” you hummed as you pushed yourself off him. 

You went to the door and you looked over your shoulder to see Roman still laying down, a scowl on his face. 

“Are you gonna walk me down, at least? I’d like to say goodbye to you.”

Roman’s scowl deepened before he released a deep breath and pushed up from the mattress and walked to you. When he reached you, you made a move to grab your bags, but Roman beat you to it. He picked up your luggage without any haste and left the bedroom without a word or backward glance. You just rolled your eyes at his childishness and followed him, catching up with his long legged strides to wrap your arms around his waist. You pressed your cheek firmly to his back, and wound your fingertips in the fabric of his shirt. It made walking down the stairs a struggle, but Roman didn’t move to peel you off, which you appreciated. 

“You off?” Peter asked from the living room, lifting the remote to pause whatever he was watching on TV. 

“Sure am,” you said from behind Roman, giving him a gentle squeeze. 

“Have fun, will ya? Say hi to D for me.” 

“I will,” you grinned as Roman stayed silent. 

You could see Peter's face screw up with confusion on Roman’s stoic behavior, but kept his mouth shut on the matter, something you were thankful for. There was another honk from outside which prompted you to start to drag your oversized boyfriend to the front door. 

“Have fun!” Peter called again, his voice muted by the closing door. 

Once outside, Roman handed off your suitcase to the town car driver. The man took your luggage, then opened the backseat door swiftly for you to enter, waiting expectantly. 

“Give us a minute,” Roman said, dismissing the driver with a little too much hostility. 

The driver gave no indication of being offended by Roman’s tone, as he nodded and went to put your bag in the trunk of the car and then returned to the driver's seat. When he was out of sight, Roman looked you in the eyes. 

“You really sure you wanna go?” 

“Really sure,” you responded with a quick nod. 

“I guess I can’t talk you out of it then, now can I?” he frowned. 

“Roman, I promise you everything is going to be OK. I’ll be fine there, and you’ll be fine here.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” he slumped his shoulders. 

“Then what is it?” 

Roman just shrugged. Too stubborn to admit how much he would miss you. 

You sighed, “Well, whatever it is… I’m going to miss you.” 

Roman took his hands from his pockets and placed them on your hips. 

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll miss you, too.” 

You slid your hands up his chest to meet behind his neck, pulling him close. 

“I love you very much,” you placed a chaste kiss to his lips, which Roman chased. 

“Love you, too.” he returned, giving you a much longer, more passionate kiss. 

When you pulled apart, Roman spoke again. 

“Text me when you get to the airport, when you board the plane, when you take off, when you land, when you actually get off the plane, what kind of car you're taking to the hotel, get me the driver’s info if you can --” you interrupted his rambled list. 

“I will, I will do all of that and I will tell you when we get to the hotel.” you said in a soft, placating voice. You smoothed your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck and felt tiny goosebumps form along the skin underneath. 

“Fine, fine, OK.” Roman’s jaw tightened. 

You leaned up and pressed your lips to the tensing muscle, “I love you and I promise to keep you posted, but I gotta go. I don’t wanna miss the flight.” 

Roman nodded stiffly, but said nothing. 

You began to wiggle away from his hold, when Roman decided to swoop down one last time to kiss you. You were sure the driver was retching by the sheer amount of times you both had done so, but you didn’t care. You loved this silly man and would drown him in smooches to his heart content before you left. 

When your final kiss ceased, you both with labored breathing and gloss swollen lips, Roman let you enter the backseat of the town car and shut the door behind you. 

As the car drove away, you unrolled the window and leaned out the opening, blowing him a dramatic kiss as you swayed your arm in the wind like a 19th century on looker to a parting ship. Roman watched you with a stilted smile until you disappeared down the road. 

When Roman came back inside the house, Peter was waiting for him.

“So, the ol’ ball and chain is out for the weekend. What are your plans?”

Roman said nothing to him as he began to march up the stairs, hand clenching the rail. 

“I’m thinking strippers? Huh? Could be fun?” Peter walked to the staircase and watched Roman until he receded into the hallway without a reply. 

“Maybe rent the fight on pay-per-view? Get some beers?” he called louder. 

Still he only received silence. He rested his chin on the banister and waited a moment before he yelled, “Fine, be a pussy and cry that your girlfriend is gone!” 

The sound of a door being thrown open was Peter’s first response, followed by a verbal one. 

“I never said no, Jesus! So fucking fine, let’s go to the strip club, asshole.” 

Peter smirked as he heard Roman’s indiscernible grumbles before he shut himself right back into his bedroom. Roman liked to pretend he was complicated, but Peter could play him like a fiddle. 

Roman was surrounded by body oil, neon lights and gyrating women. A few years ago, this would have been his heaven, his domain. But now, it all felt trivial and antiquated. It felt played out and pathetic. With the neck of a beer bottle cradled lazily between his fingers, he watched on as the beautiful women of the club stripped from their skimpy costumes and revealed themselves in new and arousing ways. 

Peter, who sat next to him at their small circular table, was transfixed by the women around them. Reclined in his seat with a smile on his face, his eyes followed the dancers as they spun around poles, as they groped and shook themselves. Roman knew that he should have the same appreciation for the dancers as his friend. He knew that he should be calling over the ones who eyed him up and down with lust, he knew that he should be paying for private dances until his bank account ran dry. But he didn’t want to. He didn’t feel like it, at all. 

Peter picked up on his friend's lack of enthusiasm when he found him slipping his phone from his pocket every few minutes to check for notifications. He let out a snort through his nose, one that was muffled under the booming music, but still heard by Roman. 

“What?” he asked as he tried to discreetly put his cell back in his front pocket. 

“Nothing,” Peter hummed, raising his eyebrows, “Just find it funny.” 

“Find what funny?” 

“That you’re so whipped.” 

“Fuck off,” Roman scoffed, taking a swig of his beer. 

“Sure, sure, whatever. It won’t make you any less whipped, though…” Peter smirked. 

“I am not fucking whipped.” 

“Yeah? Then why do you look like you just put your fucking dog down when you should be looking like a kid in a candy store? Huh?” 

“I’m just not feeling it, OK? These girls are ugly. If I see one more cesarean scar I might vomit,” he sneered. 

“These girls are all tens and you know it! You’re just being a pouty little whipped boy because your girlfriend’s gone.” 

Roman’s face hardened as he turned to glare at Peter, “Fine, y’know that? Fuck you, you goddamn prick. Have fun with these busted bitches. I’m out of here.” 

Roman shot from his seat and slammed his beer on the table, causing a few other patrons to look over. He was already gathering his things to leave. 

“Hey, hey, hey, cool down, bud,” Peter said, trying to pacify a Godfrey level tantrum, “I was just joking around, OK? I’m just bustin’ your balls, that’s all.”

Roman’s mouth pressed into a thin line as he loomed over the table with a glower in his wide eyes. 

“C’mon man, just sit,” Peter pleaded, “Don't be weird about it, just sit.” 

Roman eventually relented after a long pause, collapsing his long limbs back into his chair with a loud sniff, his posture rigid. Roman picked his beer back up and took a pull from the bottle. 

“Look, I really was just kidding around, alright? Don’t take it to heart or anything,” Peter said, leaning toward his friend so he wouldn’t have to talk over the music. 

“Yeah, Ok. Fine,” Roman replied, refusing to make eye contact by letting his gaze wander around the club. 

Peter sighed, “I get it, alright? I do. When you’re in love, things are different. You have blinders on to everything but that one person, and as easy as it is to make fun of, it’s not a bad thing, Roman. It’s good, and it’s a good feeling to have.” 

Roman finally looked over the table to Peter, whose gaze had wilted and saddened. He could practically see him thinking about Letha, her face forming and twisting in his irises. 

He swallowed thickly before he slapped Peter on the shoulder in a search to break the tension, “No hard feelings. I’m gonna head out for a smoke, yeah? And I promise when I get back I’ll have a better time. OK?” 

Peter pursed his lips in an attempt to ward off the bubbling curse of his fallen love's memory and nodded, quickly downing the remainder of his drink and calling a waitress over for another. 

Roman took his jacket from the back of his chair and headed for the exit. Once outside, he collected his pack of Marlboros from his pocket, then a cigarette and the lighter that fit snuggly beside each other. 

As he sucked on the filter under the club’s awning and fluorescent flood lights, he felt his phone vibrate. He scrambled to retrieve it from his jeans and read the text hurriedly. 

just got to dinner and im ordering a vodka soda and thinking of you. miss u already, ily!

Roman’s heart flipped and fluttered in a way that made his cheeks tinge with pink, while a smile fought to curl on his lips. As he quickly typed out a reply, a little voice in the back of his head told him that maybe Peter was right, maybe he was whipped. 

drink slow, baby, remember what happened in ibiza when you had to many lol

And immediately after

i love you too, keep me posted

When he pocketed his phone once more, Roman pondered. Flicking the ash off of the end of his cigarette, he decided that there were worse things in life than being in love with a woman, and being devoted to her. If that made him whipped, then so be it. Though, he would never admit that to anyone but his consciousness (even a bit painfully at that).  

The sheets were warm with body heat and Roman had lost the cool side of his pillow hours ago. He tossed and turned. He shucked off the blankets, just to retrieve them moments later. His limbs danced under the sheets in search of comfort and a portion of the bed that wasn’t sticky with his sweat and a high temperature. His hips hurt from laying on his sides and his shoulders hurt when he rolled on his back. He was crawling out of his skin with discomfort and soreness as the moon illuminated the bedroom. Around 1AM, he had tried to close the blinds, but they only ever budged for your magic touch, and Roman had only mangled them into an unrelenting slope. 

Roman had checked his phone every ten minutes since he got under the covers. He had texted you a succinct good night around eleven and had received a jumbled good night in response. He had typed out a text that had bordered on passive aggressive, asking about how your night had been going and how much you had had to drink, but deleted it before he hit send. He was doing his best to avoid playing into the overbearing, resentful boyfriend role that he felt he was in. You deserved to let loose, he just wished he was by your side as you did (and not thousands of miles away).

He had typed another text out just after midnight, then another after the blinds incident, but deleted those as well. Part of his pouting was pretending that you didn’t want to be bothered by his messages, so he would just lock his phone and return it to the night stand each time. But, that was before the irritation had set in on his bones and just the thought of trying to fall asleep made his skin waver and blister. 

But he still didn’t text you. 

Because this time he called. 

He shuffled around as he listened to the phone ring in his ear, squirming under the covers as the top sheet seemed to be holding his ankle hostage. He felt an overwhelming urge to snap and strip the bed of its clothes and throw them all out on the lawn, when he heard you begin to pick up.

“Ro?” you shouted into the receiver, the loud blare of club music accompanying your voice. 

“Hey, you’re still out?” he asked, twisting his leg around erratically until his ankle was free. 

“I can’t hear you! Hold on,” you said loudly again, followed by muffled shuffles as you moved through the crowd.   

“Wait! Hold on! Roman! Wait!” he heard your far away voice say as you exited the club. 

The music grew further away and the static shuffle ended, Roman could finally hear your voice and only it. 

“Sorry ‘bout that,” you giggled.

“Having fun?” Roman asked, trying to mask his interest. 

“Yeah,” he could hear your shrug, “dancing is lots of fun.”

“You sound like you’re having fun.” 

“Well, I can be lots of fun after a few Moscow Mules,” you chuckled at your own joke. 

“Switched from vodka sodas?”

“Yeah, the other girls were drinking them so I thought, ‘Hey! Why not?’”

Roman could hear the sound of your high heels echoing on the pavement. 

“How are you getting along with them? No bad blood?” 

There was a beat of pause on your end before you sighed, “It’s hard to make new friends, Rome.”

“Did something happen?” Roman felt a flare of anger in his chest. 

“No, no,” you replied, “they’re nice girls, I think I’m just in my head about it.” 

“Are you sure, baby?” 

“Yeah, everything's fine, really. I am having a lot of fun.” you reassured. 

“You sure?” 

“I mean, they’re nice. They are… but they’ve all been friends for years, and I’m just this new girl coming in and trying to fit in with them. That’s the only bad part; feeling like I have to prove myself or something… I don’t know. Girls are weird,” you peeled away at the skin on your lip as you spoke. 

“They’re excluding you? The fuck is wrong with those fucking women? Who the fuck do they think they are?” Roman’s heart beat began to accelerate and suddenly sleep was the last thing on his mind. 

“No, of course they aren’t excluding me. Destiny wouldn’t let that happen and you know it,” you said, “it’s just… they all have inside jokes and years of history together and y’know, here I come, Destiny’s new friend whose main bond with her is weird vargulf trauma.”

“I swear to God, baby, if I hear anything about them bullying you, no one will ever find the bodies. I’ll drain those snotty bitches for you,” he swore. 

You replied with a light hearted giggle, “I highly doubt that will be necessary. But is there something very wrong with me, that you threatening homicide for me, sorta turns me on?” 

Your comment was the pin to burst the anger that had begun to balloon in his chest. 

Roman snickered, “No, at least not to me. I think that’s what makes us work together.” 

You made a noise in thoughtful agreement.

“Roman? Can I ask you something?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Why aren’t you asleep? You came home from the club hours ago.” 

Roman let a beat of silence come over the receiver as he collected his thoughts. He was slightly embarrassed by the reason, and while he had come to the conclusion there were worse things in the world than being whipped, he didn’t want you to know how whipped he was for you. 

“Jus’ hard to sleep alone,” Roman mumbled into his phone, picking at a loose thread on the duvet. 

He heard you snort a laugh and twinge of shame flared in his belly. 

“Ro, you sleep without me all the time! I’m the needy one who can never sleep without you, remember? We go over this everytime you go out of town.”

“What? So, I’m some frigid monster without feelings? I can’t miss you? I can’t possibly not be able to sleep without you because I’m such an unfeeling asshole?” Roman carped defensively. 

“Mm, baby, I love when you put words in my mouth,” you were happily drunk, so while this could have been said with malice and venom during a fight, you said it with warmth and giggles now. 

“I never said that you are unfeeling or cold or an asshole. You are sometimes, but that’s beside the point,” Roman grumbled bitterly as you continued, “You’ve just never brought up not bein’ able to sleep when you’re away, is all. You go to Tokyo quarterly and it’s never come up when you get home.”

A jumbled, muffled response came from Roman’s end as his cheeks burned red. 

“What? Ro, I can’t hear you?” 

“I said, I… Jesus, fine. I said that I always refill my sleeping pills when I leave, ok? I pop an Ambien or two and that’s how I can sleep away from you,” he confessed, “and I don’t know, I guess I forgot to refill them before you left. So, yeah, whatever.” 

You didn’t immediately reply to Roman’s admission and his stomach began to churn with hot worry. Rationally, he knew that you wouldn’t ridicule him or tease him for his attachment to you and his acknowledgement of it. But the irrational side, the side that grew up with Olivia Godfrey as his mother, who would dull out affection only as a form of manipulation, made him feel sick. 

“Oh, Rome,” you cooed, your voice tender and comforting, “I never knew that… I, that’s actually really sweet.” 

Roman’s shoulders dropped, “Yeah?” 

“Yes! I think it’s very sweet. We can’t sleep without each other. I think it’s cute. I think that means something.” 

“Something good?” 

“I’d say so.”

Intense warmth flooded under Roman’s skin and filled his body with loose relaxation. He could hear the smile in your voice, and he could see you swaying in your heels, propping yourself up on a brick wall that bordered the building, and he knew you were wishing it was him. He wished it was him, too. He had never felt such a perverse envy of brick in his life, because it got to feel your soft skin and caress your flowing hair while Roman was a million miles away, craving the taste of you. 

Roman wished he could curl up inside your voice, that he could let your syllables embrace and pet him, let your sentences of sweeter things and kind compliments rock him to sleep and help him forget how far away you truly were.

After a few silent moments of simmering in each other’s long distance affection, Roman reluctantly spoke.

“You gotta go back in soon?” 

“Probably,” you gave a heaving sigh, “I don’t want them to worry or anything.” 

“Or have them give you shit for being whipped,” Roman said with a forced chuckle. 

He knew that this showed another chink in his armour, that his vulnerability glowed from underneath his comment. Sleep deprivation and loneliness was taking a toll on his filtering ability. 

“Pft,” you blew out the sound from your lips, “they already know that I’m whipped, Rome. I’m not much of a secret keeper.” 

You disclosed this without any stuttered worry or fear. You told Roman of your love and devotion to him without having to grit your teeth or wipe your clammy hands on your pants. It helped him feel comfortable in admitting his affections for you, but it was still much harder for him than it was for you. He knew that he needed to continue to work on divulging to you often and regularly of his love, because whenever you did, it filled Roman with the most remarkable and indescribable feeling. The feeling of stability and trust and happiness and the giddy feeling of knowing that the person you love most reciprocates. And Roman wanted most in life for you to feel that same way. 

“I miss you, Rome. I love you so much, but I gotta go,” you said, breaking through his thoughts. 

“Yeah, yeah, of course. I miss you, too. I love you,” Roman hoped you could hear his sincerity through the phone and your drunken haze. 

When you hummed contently, he knew you had. 

“Bye, baby,” 

“Make sure to text me when you’re back at the hotel, ok?” Roman interjected quickly before you hung up. 

“‘Course, honey. I love you!” and with that, the line went dead. 

Roman still tossed and turned and ached for your presence in his arms, but your short conversation had helped him eventually lull himself to sleep. His dreams were filled with short vignettes of you, sparks and flickers of your face. 

Just after mid-morning on Sunday, you gently stuck your key into the lock of your home’s door. You had texted Roman after you had boarded the plane home and when you landed in Pennsylvania, but you had yet to get a response. You were hopeful it was because your high strung boyfriend was still asleep, something you knew he needed.

After your over the phone heart to heart in the early hours of Saturday morning, Roman still only got fitful rest. Saturday night was much of the same, as he sent you a litany of text messages, ranging from attempts to sext to requests for Netflix show recommendations. You were beginning to feel slightly guilty for the sleep you were able to get on your hotel queen, but you mainly accredited your ability to fall into the grip of slumber from the copious amounts of alcohol you had consumed over the weekend. Even now, the effects of the alcohol still had you in a clutches. With sunglasses perched high on your nose and four Tylenol simmering in your stomach, all you wanted to do was finally be back in Roman’s arms and kiss him wherever your lethargic lips could reach. 

Once you had opened the door, you heaved your suitcases over the threshold and set your keys in the crystal dish that held Roman’s as well. You stretched your arms over your head with a squeaky moan, and inhaled deeply the smell of your home. There was something so comforting about coming home, no matter the extent of time away, and smelling the scent that your living space held. The smell that your senses accommodated to, the smell that you didn’t notice every day. Your and Roman’s shared home smelt like warm fabric softened linen and Roman’s favorite pine candle he had a stockpile of. It smelled like a hint of lemon from Anna’s disinfectant and a tad like cigarette smoke that lingered on Roman’s clothes. It smelled like Roman’s wafting cologne that made your knees buckle and your stomach flutter, and you swore you could smell your own in the air somewhere too. Maybe Roman had sprayed it in the air to comfort himself? You wouldn’t ask him if it was true, but it made you smile anyhow. 

You made your way deeper into the house, headed for the kitchen in search of a Gardorade and a granola bar before you went up to join Roman in your bedroom. Though as you rounded the corner to look into the living room, you were surprised to find Roman splayed out on the couch. Folded underneath his head was his pillow from upstairs, and draped over his lanky limbs was the thick duvet from the guest bedroom. The excess fabric pooled on the floor next to him, most of it having slipped off his body. 

Your heart thudded in your chest as you looked at him. His plump lips were spread and his jaw was lax. One of his arms was thrown over his head and the other over the back of the couch, while one of his legs had fallen off the cushions, causing his foot to lay flat on the floor. He must have been running on fumes for him to be so deep under while laying on the stiff designer couch so loosely. 

After a few more moments of admiring him, you decided to obtain your food before you went to wake him. Of course you had the option to leave him be, but you knew when he woke he would be angry if you came home and didn’t. That, and you wanted to be in his attention, even if it was just two and half days, you had missed him. 

With a few bites of your granola bar chased down by Gatorade, you walked over to Roman. You set your items down on the coffee table as you knelt next to his head. His nose scarcely scrunched and his eyelids twitched. You placed a gentle kiss to all three and he started to stir. 

“Roman? C’mon, wake up,” you whispered, brushing back a curled piece of his hair that had fallen on his forehead, “I’m home.” 

He let out a throaty groan as his eyes fought to flutter open. His adams apple bobbed and he pursed his lips before his beautiful emerald green eyes were revealed to you between languide blinks.

“Hey,” you grinned, finger combing his hair, “you finally get some sleep?” 

“(Y/N)? How long have you been home?” he asked, voice graveled from slumber. 

“Not even five minutes.”

“And you didn’t wake me?” 

“I’m waking you now,” you smiled, gripping his hair playfully. 

“Mmm,” he hummed, his arms that had been flung behind his head coming to grip you waist, “come here. C’mere, c’mere, c’mere.” 

You giggled as Roman grappled you with sleep soaked limbs to pull you on top of him. When he did, he brought his other arm down to snake around you, keeping you firmly to his body. You moved your hands up to cup his jaw, kissing him listlessly on his cheeks. 

“I missed you. Oh, I missed you,” you uttered and Roman’s arms tightening. 

“Fuck, God fuck, I missed you. I missed you so much,” Roman keened sleepily. 

You were sure he was being more candid because of how tired he was, but you didn’t care. 

“You’re never leaving again, ok? Never leavin’ my side again. Taking you everywhere with me from now on,” his hand skirted underneath the hem of your sweatshirt, his finger eagerly exploring your missed skin, “never letting you leave my sight.” 

“I’m ok with that,” you purred in his ear, kissing him with finality on his lips, “I don’t want to be anywhere you’re not.” 

Roman gave you a heavy lidded expression of pure bliss, “You make me happy.” 

“You make me happy, too.” 

You smiled down at him and propted yourself onto your elbows to get a better look at him, “Let’s go upstairs, baby. Our bed is better than this couch.” 

“Nah,” he groused, pushing you back down to his chest with a huff, “just here, just like this. Too tired to move.” 

“You sure?” 

“Yeah, things are better now anyway.” 

Your cheeks ached from smiling as you nuzzled your nose to the column of his neck and Roman’s chest rumbled with happiness. 

Roman’s fingertips pressed into your back with comforting pressure and his other hand moved down to slip into the back of the waistband of your pants to feel the skin of your ass. 

He felt such a flood of contentment, he wondered just how he had survived at all these past few days without his fix of your skin, your smell, your kisses and you. He buried his face into your hair and ignored the way some of it found its way into his nose as he inhaled. He ignored the kink in his neck and the pain in his shoulders and the fact that he had accidentally ripped down the blinds in the bedroom the night before. Because now, nothing else mattered except you. Roman wished he could tell you just how he felt, all about this feeling. He wished he could tell you how he loved you with the entirety of his being and that you truly made him happier than anything else in the world. He hoped he figured it out soon, but for now, he knew this was enough. 

i hope you enjoyed! if so, i would love to hear your feedback (-:  and i know i am overloading you on fluff, but a very angsty story is in the works!

[hankwritten]

The Weight of Other People’s Thoughts

Demoman/Soldier, 2k

Request for @lilythedragon05, Scotland

It was a bad idea to follow that tugging cord at the center of his being, the one that called him to Ullapool, and he never would have dared to entertain it if he knew it would have brought him here.

Jane sat by the ocean, stone’s throw from the town, but his distasteful frown kept his eyes locked firmly ahead instead of gazing dubiously at it. What had he been thinking? Coming to Ullapool had only make him feel worse, not better, a smirch against Tavish’s memory if there ever was one. Rubbing in Tavish’s face that he’d never go home again—and here Jane was, free to frolic across the whole damn planet, even if it took him to stupid countries ending in ‘land’.

He leaned further over his knees, barely feeling the sea breeze as he thought about his dead friend.

His murdered friend, he reminded himself. Murdered by someone who he thought he could trust, who now had to carry that guilt with him for the rest of his life.

Everywhere Jane looked it reminded him of Tavish. Maybe that’s why he’d come: self-flagellation. Appropriate punishment. Or maybe he was so desperate not to forget, he’d take the pain that came with remembering. Torturing himself truly, since he could look on the hills and surrounding coast that he had once only known through enthusiastic descriptions, see for himself the places where a young Tavish had played with dummy-grenades. He could imagine him talking to the local shopkeeps. He could practically see him walking up this very path, groceries in one hand, a newspaper filled with fried fish in the other as he took a large bite out of it-

Wait.

Tavish stopped dead, his face enveloped in utter shock. Still mid-chew, he said, “Jdra-ne?”

Jane leapt to his feet. “Apparition!” He pointed an accusing finger at the offending spirit. “Do not think for a second I will be cowed into repentance by the spectral manifestation of my guilt!”

Tavish nearly choked as he tried to swallow his bite of fish. “I…what?”

“Ghosts serve no purpose on my journey to recovery,” Jane continued. “Not even ones that look like my dead friend! Be gone creature of the other world!”

“What I- I’m not bloody dead.”

Jane squinted at him. He definitely didn’t look dead, totally opaque, no fettered chains representing his sins in life and his guilt over failing to help his fellow Man.

“…Are you sure?” Jane pressed.

“You’d think someone would know if they were dead,” Tavish grumbled poignantly, now glaring at Jane for some reason.

“I killed you though. It was-” -pickaxe right through the sternum, crushing, all the red bits coming out when they should have been in- “That was definitely fatal.”

“Aye, was, but I managed to limp my was back into Respawn range. Took a better part of an hour, but I made it.”

There was something odd to Tavish’s voice, something he wasn’t saying, but the realization that he might actually-seriously-really be alive was starting to set in and Jane was too afraid to believe it.

He took a step closer, past the bench he’d been enjoying his solitude at and completing a full circle around the Demoman. Tavish’s head followed him all the while, up until Jane came to a stop in front of him. “…Promise you are not a ghost?”

“I’m not a ghost,” Tavish said, as convincingly honest as he’d always been. Not that his acting skills hadn’t covered for his mendacity before-

-no, no that was a trick, it all turned out to be a lie a damn lie-

“Fine then. You’re not.” Though Jane would keep his eyes peeled for phantasmal anyway. “What the hell are you doing here then?”

“I live here,” Tavish huffed. “Gravel Wars are over, wasn’t going to spend the rest of my years in some blighted desert. Better question is what are you doing here, yank?”

Crap. Well, maybe a half-truth would suffice. “You always talked so much about Scotland I thought…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”

Tavish stood there, one hand still clasped around his groceries. The moment dragged on, vast seas of unsaid things between them, of regrets still festering, to which he ended with, “would you like me to show you around?”

Jane looked down, trying not to stare at his shoes but instead at the foreign soil around them. “…Sure. Why not.”

“Everything is incredibly vertical,” Jane complained as they climbed up yet another hill Tavish insisted was part of the journey.

“Aye, that’s why they call it the Highlands, BLU.”

Jane hated how fucking smug he sounded. Hated, and missed it all the same, missed how this bastard could set a fire in his gut just with one of his damn smiles.

“And there she is,” the Demoman said proudly as the crested the final ridge.

“Damn. Really went to crap in the last couple centuries.”

“Oi, don’t point fingers at me! I’ve only been around for forty of those.”

DeGroot Keep was shriveled and hunchbacked since Jane had last seen it, folding under its own legacy as ages had eaten the tallest spires first and chewed its way down to the cob. Still, he could just make out the choke points, the parapets, the places he used to go charging into with his mêlée weapon held high—all sanded down by the years, the vaguest memories of control points where a portal in time had briefly allowed Jane to witness their existence.

“So what,” he asked, following Tavish into the slight dip in the Highlands where the Keep nestled, “you live in here like some sort of anti-Italian?”

“An anti- what now?”

“Anti-Italians! Despises sun, allergic to garlic, doesn’t show up in mirrors, no sex life. Basic literary reference, RED.”

Tavish rolled his eye. “No, I’m not squatting in the dilapidated castle. Got a perfectly nice home down in the village, I just happen to have inherited this along with…all the other crap.” He waved his hand. “I’ve considered shelling out to having it restored but…dunno. Seeing it go from its heyday to this makes me think that in another couple hundred years it’ll just fall apart again.”

He sat on a piece of tumbled rock, one that used to hang over the Keep’s gate, a bright and shining keystone now used as a stool. Jane joined him.

“Don’t get much of this at home, do you? Old crap. Yer country’s still a wee babe you know, nothing’s even falling apart yet.”

“Incorrect!” Jane amended. “There are plenty of old things in America!”

“For last time lad, Thomas Edison wasn’t immortal, and he didn’t be build a second Shangri-La under Pennsylvania Avenue.”

“Your statements reveal both your ignorance and your compunction, but I was actually talking about mounds.”

“Mounds,” Tavish repeated dubiously.

“Yes! Mounds! Fourteen hundred years ago Americans were building ceremonial mounds in order to track celestial events! They look like animals from the top, lynx, bears, fish, all that crap. I used to walk next to this bird one every day on the way to school.”

Tavish blinked at him, tilting his head. “No offense Jane, but including Native people usually isn’t in your worldview. Where’d you even learn all ‘o that?”

“My mother taught me, so think insinuating more cyclops—lest you show disrespect against her memory and I am forced to take out your other socket!”

Tavish raised his hands defensively, but there was a smile creeping at the corner. “Alright, alright, I get ye. A Mum’s honor is a serious thing.”

“Hm. Good.” Jane glanced ahead, suddenly afraid of lapsing back into silence, as though Tavish would start to slip away from him if they did. “How is your mother?”

“Ah…she passed some years back.”

“…I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s alright.” Tavish paused. “I still see her sometimes.”

“Metaphorically or…?”

Tavish glanced at him, but then away just a quickly, as though frightened of what he might see. “I’d rather not talk about it, if that’s alright with you.” Instead, he stared ahead, the sun setting between its cradle within the mountains. “Heh. At least there’s something that’s the same no matter where you go. Always a sunset.”

“Guess so.”

Still, Jane found he liked this one better than the ones back home. At least, better than all the ones he’d seen before he’d met Tavish.

The next day was spent in the village, and Jane couldn’t help but yearn for more of Tavish’s time, more of his attention. His friend. His friend who was still alive. Tavish had a kind word for every person they passed, all of whom didn’t seem to notice Jane at all, simply starting up a conversation with their fellow local and submitting to the rhythm of the morning. Breakfast was some sort of potato scone, but Jane wasn’t hungry, so he just walked beside Tavish as the other man ate. They found themselves at the same bench where they’d first run into each other.

“So,” Tavish asked. “Ullapool everything you thought it would be?”

“Hm. It’s…nice. It is obviously not perfect for geographical reasons entirely outside of its control, but. I understand how it made you the man you are.”

“Me? Nah.” Tavish wiped off his mouth with his sleeve. “I made myself like this.”

Again, he wouldn’t look at Jane, wouldn’t say what they were both thinking. That things had gone wrong, that they had both fucked up. One of them more than the other, but Jane had found him again, and maybe they could still figure something out, still have time to unearth all that they had deemed too dangerous and buried in the sand.

Jane reached forward, and put his hand over where Tavish’s was resting on the bench.

And watched it pass straight through.

Jane sprang away. “I knew it! I knew you were a ghost!”

Likewise, Tavish stood up sharply. “I am not. I bloody told you I was’t.”

“Liar! I will not be swayed by any more perjury from your ethereal mouth!”

“I’m not lying!” Tavish snarled at him, his eye dark and narrowed, burning hotter than the words would imply. “I never lied. I never wanted any of-”

“Blasphemy!”

“Would you just listen for-!”

“You cannot guilt me apparition! For I know that-”

“Shut up! Just fucking shut up!” Tavish’s fist closed around the neck of his scrumpy bottle, half drained before noon, and threw it full force at Jane’s head.

Jane raised an arm to block the incoming blow, but the impact never arrived. A second ticked by, then two, then three, and slowly he lowered his forearm to reveal the panting Demoman behind it, shoulders heaving and an inscrutable expression tearing across his features.

“How’s that for the truth you bleeding idiot,” he said.

Jane looked to Tavish, then rotated his neck slowly, staring at the bottle that had landed in the grass behind him. He blinked, willing what he was looking at to make sense, to suddenly disappear and go back to where things were a second ago. To believe he hadn’t seen that bottle connected with his own nose.

There was something he didn’t want to do, but he did it anyway, turning his gaze forward inch by agonizing inch, staring down at his own hands. Fully taking how translucent they were.

The moment shattered, Tavish tore his eye away. “Fuck. Fuck I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve…”

Jane was still looking at his hands. There was panic, deep and overwhelming rising within him, but there was no raised pulse to accompany it, no sweat on the back of his neck.

He lifted his chin to Tavish. “What? I don’t…”

“I didn’t die,” Tavish said thickly. “You did. I killed you and I walked off and you just bled out for who knows how long and-”

-the pickaxe but also a sword, just as deadly buried two feet into his chest and the man above him trying to shove it in a few extra inches, strangled screaming as it pushed deeper-

Jane hadn’t been paying attention to the last half of Tavish’s muttered confession. The Demoman was crying now, pawing furiously at his one lone eye as stared out valley below them, looking anywhere but at Jane as his sclera turned red.

“I’m sorry,” he sputtered. “Christ Jane I’m so fucking sorry. If you came to haunt me or whatever I just- I just want you to know that you can’t hate me more than I hate myself. That it’s been killing me every day since.”

He collapsed on the bench, curling away from Jane as he buried his face in his hands.

It could have been some sort of trick. A ghost bottle or…no Jane wouldn’t even try. He attempted to remember what flight he had come in on but couldn’t. He grasped for how many years since the Gravel Wars had ended, and couldn’t find the answer.

Jane was a ghost, yet everything still hurt as much as it had when he had lived. Immaterial, and he still so badly wanted to touch Tavish’s hand.

He sat on the bench next to him. “I didn’t come to make you feel bad, Tavish.”

“Then why did you come?” It sounded like it was meant to be venomous, but instead it only sounded empty—empty and wet with tears, like a plastic bag trampled into a puddle.

Jane looked down at his hands. His useless, ghost hands that he could still knit together. “I…I wanted to see you,” he said truthfully. “I missed you.”

Tavish looked at him, bleary-eyed. He whispered, “I missed you too. So damn much.”

“Whatever I was doing before, I missed you enough to come here. To someplace I thought you would be.”

A panicked jolt crossed Tavish’s face. “You’re not leaving, are you?” The same man who a moment ago thought Jane had come to smother him with guilt was despondent at the idea that Jane might go after all, that he wouldn’t get a chance to hurt himself with his own regret anymore.

“No, no not yet,” Jane said. He tried his best to wrap and arm around Tavish’s shoulder. The mortal shivered where their skin met.

“Okay,” Tavish said quietly. “Okay. Good. Thank you. I don’t think I can…When I saw you sitting up here I couldn’t believe it could be fore something good. That the only reason you’d want to haunt me would be because you hated me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

It was true. Even though he remembered now, remember lying there, thinking how they’d killed each other, Jane had only ever hated the man who’d believed the TV’s lies.

“I really did come because I was thinking of you. Missing you.” Jane paused. “Today was fun. I’m sure you have a lot of other places to show me, right private?”

“…Sure. Sure whatever you want.” Tavish wiped at his nose. “I’m sorry Jane.”

“It’s alright Tavish.” He held his head in the crook of Tavish’s neck. “I’m sorry too.”

[lils-writes-stuff]

Heathridge Manor

spencer reid x reader

Best years part eight | part seven | part six | part five | part four | part three |part two |part one

Summary: Oregon and mystery has the reader and spencer growing closer in a case.   

warnings: normal criminal minds things,

A/N: based on season 7 episode 19; this is one of my fav episodes 

 “You know, Y/N, you should join me for one of my hand-on-hand combat classes,” Derek spoke walking up to stand between Y/N and Spencer who were walking out of the elevator.

 “And why’s that, Derek?” She asked, her head dramatically turning to the side to look at him. 

 “Well you got shot, you need to add some combat to go along to your scars,” he said laughing. 

 Y/N rolled her eyes at the man, knowing he meant no harm, and he genuinely wanted her to come to one of his classes. 

 “Morgan, I am a very good hand-on-hand fighter, remember I was top of the class at the academy,” she said, opening the door to the bullpen.

 “She was, and when she was scared by her neighbor the other morning she--”

 “Hey! Look Hotch texted we have a case let’s go,” Y/N interrupted Spencer before he could finish the embarrassing story. 

 “Alright wonder woman, whatever you say.” Derek laughed as he ruffled Y/N’s her walking towards the round table room, her and Spencer following closely behind.

 The round table room was filled with the others as they sat down. Penelope being the only one missing from the room. 

 “Oh my gosh, I am so sorry for the delay,” Penelope said, swiftly walking into the room as she carried her laptop in her hands. “The system was down. We overwork her. And I had to go into the belly of the beast, who I affectionately nicknamed Persephone, and do some machine whispering, oh-” she stopped, grabbing her remote from Derek as he handed it to her- “thank you. Which is good because this one is a doozy.” 

 “It will never cease to amaze me how much she can get out in one breath,” Y/N said leaning over to Rossi next to her. 

 “Oh yeah,” he agreed.

 “Emma Baker, thirty-eight, math teacher from Medford, Oregon. She went missing seventeen days ago, and her body was found yesterday afternoon at St. Baldwin’s, St. Baldwin’s is a now-defunct psychiatric hospital for the criminally insane. Now that is in Salem, Oregon, which is 270 miles away from Medford and we’ve been called in for the bizarre nature of the case.” Penelope then pulled up a picture of the body that was found. 

 The victim laid on a bed, hands folded across her stomach, and dressed in a dress from the sixteenth century.

 “Wow, look at that dress,” JJ said as she looked at the picture. 

 “Was she going to a renaissance fair?” Emily asked. 

 “Not with her feet bound,” Y/N said as she looked at the victim’s feet. 

 “And the missing persons report says she was in jeans and a t-shirt,” Penelope added. 

 “Look at how she’s laid out, it’s almost like it’s a ceremony and she’s the sacrifice,” Derek said, flipping through the pictures in his hand. 

 “There’s obvious staging going on,” Rossi said. 

 “Could it be a ritualistic killing?” JJ asked. 

 “And the cause of death is still unclear, the M.E. report shows no sign of sexual assault or mutilation except mangled and missing fingernails,” Hotch explained.

 “You know, there were rumors of satanic rites being performed at a Byberry Hospital in Pennsylvania, which is also an abandoned asylum,” Spencer said. 

 “Judging by all the graffiti, this place isn’t exactly locked down,” Derek observed. 

 “Uh, yeah, local P.D. said that vandals and vagrants have been breaking in,” Penelope added on to Derek. 

 “Which means she could have been killed elsewhere and placed here,” Y/N said. 

 “She had limestone under her fingernails, but limestone wouldn’t have been used when this asylum was built, so she was obviously held somewhere else,” Spencer said, looking over to Y/N. 

 “Well, the bottom line is, the unsub transported her hundreds of miles from her hometown for a reason,” Emily said. 

 “We just need to find out what that reason is, wheels up in 30,” Hotch said, dismissing everyone. 

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

 “Emma Baker was a divorced math teacher, no children,” Rossi said as they began going over victimology. 

 “She has a boyfriend, though, who’s a drummer in a goth band. Her Facebook has pictures of them at the Bram Stoker Vampire festival and Slayerama, which celebrates all things gothic,” Penelope explained. 

 “Hm, a teacher by day, Elvira by night,” JJ said with a posing smirk on her face. 

 “Well, clearly this is a woman with two different sides to her personality,” Derek said, taking a sip of coffee from his mug. 

 “Yeah, the boyfriend’s band pours fake blood all over themselves on stage,” Spencer said, looking at a page in the manila folder. 

 “Ah, reminds me of high school,” Y/N said as her eyes locked on the file in her lap. 

 The eyes of everyone on the team turned to her in question at her statement. She looked up, realizing what she had said didn’t make sense to them. 

 “Don’t ask.”  

 “Okay, so if these two were Satanists, it wouldn’t be a stretch,” Emily said, going back to the topic of victimology.

 “Garcia, has the boyfriend been questioned by local P.D.?” Hotch asked.

 “He has, by phone. He’s got an airtight alibi, he and his band have been on tour in Asia for the last month,” Penelope answered. 

 “If it’s not the boyfriend, the unsub could be someone in their circle,” Y/N said. 

 “Emily, you asked earlier if she was going to a renaissance fair, there’s something to that,” Rossi said, looking at Emily next to him. 

 “Based on the dress, there could be more of a connection to history then the occult,” Emily spoke. 

 “Renaissance fairs typically replicate sixteenth-century England,” Spencer began. “They surged in popularity since they began in the 1960s.” 

 “And it’s not just a bunch of nerds in customs eating turkey legs, you guys,” Penelope added. 

 Y/N hummed in agreement, memories of her and her high school friends going to the fairs coming to mind. 

 “A different time is somehow very important to this unsub,” Hotch said. 

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

 Y/N stood with Spencer and JJ as they waited for the tailor in the shop to come back. They had just gotten a call from Derek telling them that she died from nicotine poisoning through the garments of the dress she was sown into.   

 “This unsubs’, not the first to do this, poisoned garments actually have an incredibly long history, going all the way back to the shirt of Nessus, which killed Hercules,” Spencer explained, Y/N listening intently. 

 A door chimed as the tailor entered the room, bringing the attention of the three to him.

 “Okay, so, I double-checked, and this fabric-” the tailor pointed to the fabric in the evidence bag- “is not manufactured for commercial sale,” he explained. 

 “Is it possibly something from the past that was maybe discontinued?” Spencer asked. 

 “No,” the tailor responded. “I can tell you one thing though, the fabric is a double-layer brocade. It was probably custom-made for someone, and is very pricey.” 

 “What about the dress, was there anything that stood out?” Y/N asked the man. 

 “Well, it’s homemade for one,” he responded. 

 “Okay, how do you know that?” JJ asked. 

 “Well, the seams are uneven. Whoever the seamstress is, she isn’t very skilled,” the tailor explained. 

 “What makes you so sure it’s a woman?” Spencer asked. 

 “Well, there’s some detail to the work in here that would require small hands,” the tailor explained. 

 Y/N looked up to Spencer, seeing how he also had the same questioning look on his face as her. 

 “Oh and this is interesting,” the tailor said to bring their attention to the picture of the dress. “See, now, the stitching on this hem, it’s narrow in some places and wider in others.”

 “Small hands, easily distracted,” Spencer said, picking up on what the tailor was showing in the picture. “Let me ask you this, how old do you think someone could be and still effectively sew this?” 

 “Well, a pattern of this complexity, they’d have to be a teenager,” the tailor said, handing Spencer the items as he turned around and saw some fabrics being brought in. 

 “Okay, thanks,” Y/N said to the man as he walked away. She walked over to Spencer and looked at the pictures of the dress again. 

 “Based on the size of the victim’s body, I think only an adult male would be able to lift her and move a hospital bed,” JJ said, putting together all the information she had been told. 

 “So, what’re we looking for a team?” Y/N asked looking between JJ and Spencer. 

 “Or an unsub with a young accomplice who’s been coerced,” Spencer elaborated. 

 JJ and Y/N looked at each other both nodding as they silently agreed with what Spencer was saying. The three left the building and headed to the car parked outside the door. 

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

 Y/N walked into the room of the next victim with Emily and Rossi. The body adorning another renaissance style dress was laying in the middle of the room. 

 “Alice Pritchard was 22, a senior at Portland College, she went missing five days ago, a realtor found her body here this morning,” The detective explained as they walked up to the body. 

 “I don’t see any physical similarities to our first victim, she’s a lot smaller than Emma, different coloring, different age,” Emily pointed out as she observed the victim.  

 “So that means these women aren’t surrogates for anyone,” Y/N said. 

 “But he did lay her out the same way,” Emily added. 

 “She’s displayed in the center of the room just like the other victim in the asylum,” Rossi said.

 “It’s almost like she’s being presented,” Y/N said, tucking her hands into her navy coat pockets as she walked to the end of the body. 

 Emily crouched down next to the body and inspected the dress. “There is so much attention paid to detail, this is also satisfying some internal desire of the unsub,” she explained. 

 “So, why leave bodies in an empty storefront and the asylum?” The detective asked.

 “Good question,” Rossi said, turning around to look out the window. Y/N followed behind him to see what was out of the window also. “There should be a connection between the two.”

 “Or maybe it’s not about the storefront at all, look,” Y/N said, pointing to a theater across the street.

 “A theater company performing Shakespeare,” Emily said, reading the sign above the doorway. 

 The three turned back to look at the body. 

 “The dress, the white makeup, this victim could literally be wearing a costume,” Emily said as she looked between Rossi and Y/N. 

 “What if this was the closest to the theater that the unsub could get…” Rossi trailed off. 

 “Without being caught,” Y/N finished. 

----------  

 Y/N stood next to Spencer as him and Hotch worked on what the numbers from the writing on the wall could be. 

 “Alice’s sorority sisters say she wanted to be a nurse and she was active in a Christian youth group,” Derek said as he approached the three. 

 “So the opposite of our last victim,” Y/N said as she let out a huff, sitting down in one of the seats around the table.

 “Yeah, and if she was into anything dark, her best friends sure didn’t know anything about it,” JJ continued. 

 “She was in Portland collecting donations for an orphanage when she disappeared. The unsub could have approached her on the street,” Derek said, looking at Hotch. 

 Y/N looked over to Spencer, his eyes darting back and forth from the folder in his hands to the numbers written on the clear board. 

 “Hey, baby girl, you’re on speaker, give me the lowdown,” Derek said answering the phone. 

 “Chocolate thunder, you can have the whole kit and caboodle just say the word,” Penelope flirted. “Oh, and I cross-referenced the names you found on the wall with missing women in Oregon and I came up with some matches. Christine Torres is a forty-year-old homemaker from Eugene, Oregon. She went missing over a month ago after she dropped her kids off at school.” 

 “Any other women named Emma missing?” JJ asked.

 “Uh-uh, just the one whose body we found, same thing with Alice,” Penelope answered. 

 “Garcia, what was the exact date Christine was reported missing?” Spencer asked as he backed away from the board.

 “February 28th, Emma went missing on March 19th, and Alice on the 22nd,” Penelope answered. 

 Spencer walked back over to the board and looked at the numbers. Y/N stood up from her chair to stand next to him, wondering what it was he was seeing.

 “What is it, Spence?” She asked him.

 “Look at this.” Spencer grabbed her hand gently and pulled her behind the clear board. “I think these numbers are dates if you reverse them and chop off the eleven at the beginning and end--”

 “That’s two days after each woman went missing,” Hotch interrupted.

 “It’s more than that though look,” Spencer said coming back around to the front of the board, pointing to the first number. “March 1st is Sain Eichatadt day, March 21st is the Spring Equinox, and the 24th is the Feast of the Beast.”

 “Those are all important holidays in the satanic calendar for sacrifices,” Y/N said coming to the same realization Spencer was. Their minds clicked together and now they both had the same thoughts running through.

 “What about the eleven on the end?” Derek asked. 

 “To many of occultists, the eleven is symbolic of Lucifer,” Spencer explained. 

 “Okay, I thought we were moving away from satanic killings,” JJ said. 

 “Apparently we need to reconsider it.” Hotch’s eyes were trained on the file with the victims in them. 

 “There’s gotta be some sort of connection to the devil here,” Spencer said, which had Y/N nodding her head in agreement. 

 “Reid, what other upcoming dates are significant to Satanists?” Hotch asked.

 “Good Friday, then Easter Eve, and then preparations begin in mid-April for the most important night of all--” 

 “Walpurgis night on April 30th,” Y/N said, turning to Spencer. He looked at her surprised, having no idea she knew so much about this stuff. 

 “Good Friday’s in two days, that means he’s hunting for his next victim today.” Derek’s concern in his voice was evident as he spoke. 

 “We need to give the profile soon,” Hotch said, agreeing with Derek’s concern. 

They nodded, going their separate ways to do their work. As normal, Spencer and Y/N stayed by the boards to work, as they both found it was the easiest place to focus. 

 “Since when did you know all about these things?” Spencer’s back was turned to Y/N as he looked at the boards. 

 “Hm?” She questioned, not knowing what he meant. 

 “About these Satanic things, should I be concerned?” He joked with her, which she returned with a small laugh. 

 “There’s a lot of things you still don’t know about me, Dr. Reid.” Y/N winked at the boy wonder, making a beating red blush form on his face. 

 His mouth opened to speak, but truly he was too flustered to do so. The simple act of the wink making his knees go weak. 

 “No, in high school I had to write a paper on the Salem Witch Trials. I dabbled into some of the Satanic stuff to build my thesis more and give some context,” she said, shrugging as she turned back to her work.

 Spencer nodded as if silently saying ‘cool’, his own attention now being divided back to the board. 

 As the two worked, they gave silent glances to each other. Unbeknownst to the other, these were the simple acts that formed their love for each other inside. While they had been dating for a while now, both of them falling in love each moment they spent together, they never voiced the feelings for each other. 

 Spencer not doing so because of his small fear of rejection. Thoughts that said, what if she doesn’t say it back? or does she not feel the same way?, were ones that vacated his thoughts. But when he looked at her smile, he couldn’t help but feel a fire burn in his heart, her presence being the very thing that started and fueled it. When he held her in his arms, her scent vacating his senses, he could feel all his anxiety leave him. The only thing mattering in those moments was her, and how she felt and smelled. How when she touched him he’d go weak and want nothing more than to just lay with her all day. The thoughts of their future would play like a movie in his head as he held her, and he couldn’t wait for him to act it out. 

 Now Y/N, she never voiced it because of her constant fear he would be taken away from her. Her fear being that the moment she said it, the next day he would be gone. Her tormentor taking him away and hurting the one she was beginning to love the most. She wasn’t afraid of love per se, but the thought of her having to say it aloud like she had to in front of Caroline to her friends, it only made her want to crawl away and hide. Y/N knew, she knew this feeling that Spencer was it for her, was true. Her heart could tell her it faster than her brain could even have time to think about it. When he held her or when she kissed him, the butterflies were everywhere in her. They fluttered in her stomach and they clouded all rational thought. And the one thing that gave her the most anxiety, was the fear of her great love being taken away. 

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

 “Based on the dresses and makeup the victims were found in, we’re looking for an unsub who is living in an elaborate fantasy world.” The crowd of officers listened intently as Emily began the profile. 

 “Be believes he’s special, as though he could be acting on behalf of the devil,” Y/N continued. 

 “This unsub tortured his victims by submerging them in water for days before killing them,” JJ said. 

 “Which means he’s deliberate and patient,” Y/N embellished on what JJ said. 

 “This guy has a vivid imagination,” Derek began. “The costumes and makeup suggest that he’s a history buff or he may be a fan of Shakespeare.” 

 “Using nicotine as poison is highly unusual, so he’s either very well-read or under the guidance of another,” Spencer spoke with his hands as he explained. 

 “His interests and delusions have caused him to become isolated socially,” Emily said. 

 “He can’t appear normal to his potential targets, and his crimes are not driven by sex or greed, but instead by his delusional belief system,” Rossi added. 

 “Although the bodies of only two victims have been recovered, there’s likely a third. Specifically, Christine Torres, who disappeared in February,” Hotch said. 

 “This unsubs exact age is difficult to determine, but he’s probably in his 20s to 30s,” Derek explained. 

 “The fact that he travels so far to abduct his victims indicates he has very specific selection criteria,” Y/N said, then turning to Spencer who began to speak. 

 “This unsub has a female or underage accomplice who sewed the dresses the victims were found in, but she may not be a partner in the traditional sense. It’s quite possible she was coerced into helping and may actually be a victim herself, ” Spencer said. 

 “Most importantly, this unsub is working according to a specific timetable,” Hotch explained. 

 “This timetable is corresponding with the Satanic calendar and his plans are to kidnap another victim of today,” Y/N said. 

 “Thank you.” Hotch’s words dismissed everyone. 

----------  

 The room bustled as people were working on the case and other things. Y/N’s eyelids were heavy from the long day as the aimless chatter in the background made her sleepy. She reached over to her coffee cup, taking a large gulp of the warm liquid, praying that the caffeine would give her a boost of energy. 

 She looked at the photos Spencer held, her chair sliding closer to his so she could observe them closer, Spencer and the photos. The heat from his body radiating onto hers as she got close and she was able to be filled with his warm scent. Her eyes panned up to look at Spencer’s face, his brows furrowed in concentration as he looked at the white makeup on the faces of the victims. 

 “What’s got your wheels turning?” She asked him. 

 Spencer’s head turned to look at the woman next to him. He stuttered a bit as he formed his words,  not realizing she was this close to him. “I’m not sure, something about it--” he cut himself short as both his and Y/N’s attention turned to Rossi as he spoke to them. 

 “So, Garcia checked out everyone associated with that theater production of The Merry Wives of Windsor, they’re all in the clear.” 

 “The gowns have to be connected to the theater somehow, it can’t just be a coincidence,” JJ said. 

 “There’s something else that’s been bothering me, why is he putting white face makeup on his victims after they’re dead?” Spencer said, voicing his question to the group he almost said to Y/N a minute before. 

 “Isn’t that what they wore in the Elizabethan era?” Rossi asked. 

 “Yes, but only upper-class women wore white face makeup, it was a symbol of virginity and purity,” Spencer explained to the group. 

 “But he’s dressing them like characters in The Merry Wives of Windsor,” Y/N said as she followed Spencer’s train of thought. 

 “And that’s one of Shakespeare’s rare plays about the middle class,” Spencer added.

 “So, it’s inconsistent.” JJ looked at Spencer as she waited for confirmation on her statement. 

 “The makeup could mean that he believes death is purifying them,” Hotch spoke. 

 “What if this is like the Salem Witch trials, where they’d test the girls by trying to drown them? Y/N said something to me earlier about how she had to write a paper on them, and it got me thinking,” Spencer said. 

 “If they died, it meant they were innocent, and if they somehow survived, they were considered witches and then hanged,” Y/N elaborated on what Spencer was saying. 

 “Wonderful, a lose-lose situation,” Rossi said.

 “But the unsub didn’t submerge the victims in water to torture them, it was some sort of test?” JJ asked, looking over to Spencer. 

 “With death being the only possible outcome,” Spencer answered. 

 “Well, if he believes he’s killing witches, he probably thinks that he’s a vigilante or a protector against evil of some sort,” Hotch said. 

 “Laying the victims out the way he did could be a message to the devil,” JJ added. 

 “A symbol of victory and a warning, like putting a head on a spike.” Rossi looked down from his standing position to Y/N and Spencer who sat next to each other. Y/N then looked at Spencer, her mind thinking the same thing as him as Rossi’s word’s made him pause. 

 “He’s not worshipping the devil,” Y/N said with realization. 

 “He’s trying to fight him.” Spencer looked over to Y/N as he finished what she was saying.

 “So we have an unsub who’s challenging the devil, this could not get any more strange,” Y/n said. 

-----------

 “Missing woman is Sarah Gammon, she’s a 27-year-old graphic artist, to pick her up for her weekly breakfast together, she wasn’t there,” the detective said, walking into the room. 

 It was the next morning, the team only getting a couple of hours of sleep after the long night they had before. 

 “Where was she last seen?” Rossi asked. 

 “At a nightclub in Portland, the, uh, Mirage Room.” The detective stuttered as he tried to remember the name. “She went with a girlfriend who had to leave early. 

 “Morgan and I will check it out,” Rossi said as he exited the room. 

 As Rossi left the room, Hotch’s phone rang. 

 “Okay, so I did some varsity-level sleuthing,” Penelope said as soon as Hotch answered the phone. “And it turns out the costumes were donated to the theater by a young actress named Cate Harris. She was in their production of The Merry Wives of Windsor 16 years ago, which was the only other time that the play was produced there.” 

 “Where is she now?” Y/N asked. 

 “Oh, I was hoping you would ask because I have the answer,” Penelope spoke with excitement. “She died in 1998 in the fire at St. Baldwins psychiatric hospital.” 

 “I revoke my statement from last night on this getting weirder,” Y/N whispered to herself. 

 “Was she a patient there?” JJ asked. 

 “Oh, most definitely. And some say that she set the fire.”

 “Garcia, can you get her medical records?” Hotch asked the woman. 

 “Yeah, I tried to do that, but it turns out that the new director of St. Baldwin's was a technophobe hyper-Luddite like our Dr. Reid, and he only wanted the psych records to be on paper to protect confidentiality,” Penelope explained. 

 “Okay.” Hotch picked up his phone and hung it up, then pocketing it. “Detective, we need you to get a copy of those records.”

 “You got it,” the detective said, turning to walk out of the room. 

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

 The navy jacket was wrapped tightly around Y/N’s torso as her, Emily and JJ walked to the storage unit of St. Baldwins that lay beneath the asylum. They were stopped outside the unit as the caretaker unlocked it. 

 “Apparently, the state would have to pay for a new storage facility if they moved the records,” the detective explained as to why the unit stayed here. “Someone decided, why bother if the old place works?” 

 The three women nodded their heads as they heard the clanking of the lock coming off of the door. The caretaker opened the door, the creaking sound giving an eerie feeling to the air.

 “Ladies.” The detective motioned his hands in a welcome motion as the three walked closer to the unit. 

 “No electricity, I take it,” Emily said as she noticed the absence of light. 

 “You would be correct,” the detective said from behind the three. 

 Y/N and Emily sighed, both of them pulling flashlights from their pockets as the entered the room. As Y/N walked through the room, her eyes followed the flashlight’s glow as she pointed it at all the different shelves. The creepy feel from the room made her on edge as she looked for the files they were looking for.  

 “Hey, I think I found it.” Y/N jumped slightly, not expecting to hear a voice jump in the quiet room. 

 She made her way over to Emily, JJ and the detective joining her as they looked over the report in Emily’s hand.

 “Yeah, oh- first of all, Cate Harris was a stage name for Catherine Heathridge, a textile heiress. Her family kept the pseudonym for her medical admission to protect their privacy,” Emily explained as she read through the file. 

 Y/N picked up another file from the stack that was labeled ‘Cate Harris’. “According to the intake report,” she said as she began to read the file. “Catherine was an aspiring actress who went off her psychiatric medications when she was pregnant with her daughter. She had a minor part in The Merry Wives of Windsor 16 years ago when she became floridly psychotic. She was convinced the other actresses were the devil’s wives, so she stabbed one of them.”

 “Is that when she was admitted here?” JJ asked. 

 “No, not yet,” Emily said as she looked at the report over Y/N’s shoulder. 

 “It looks like she had a son and a daughter. After she fled the theater--” Y/N gasped as her eyes gazed over the next line, handing the file to Emily as she wasn’t able to say what the woman did out loud. “You can finish it.”

 “After fleeing the theater, she chopped off the left arm of her infant daughter,” Emily finished as she took the file from Y/N’s hand. 

 “Why would she do that?” The detective asked, voice stoic. 

 “To make the childless appealing to the devil,” Y/N said as she looked up to JJ and Emily. Her head previously resting in her hand. 

 “She believed that killing the devil’s wives was her mission on earth, which is what our unsub is doing now,” Emily explained.

 “But she died in the asylum fire,” the detective stated. 

 “Someone else must be carrying out her mission,” JJ said.

 “And I bet you it’s the son,” Y/N said, the gut feeling being present as she said her words to the others. 

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

  Y/N sat at the table while she told Spencer, Hotch, and Rossi about what they had discovered at the asylum. Her head resting on her hand as she looked up at the three men. 

 “If someone’s carrying on in Catherine’s mission, then it’s quite possible they both suffered from folie a deux, a shared psychotic disorder between two people who are extremely close and that would mean it’s most likely a family member,” Spencer explained after Y/N had told them all they found. 

 “It’s the son.” Y/N’s voice spoke in a sing-song tone under her breath. 

 “Maybe one or both of her kids,” Rossi stated. 

 “Garcia, I need you to find everything you can on the Heathridge family, specifically Catherine’s son and daughter,” Hotch ordered Penelope when she picked up her phone. 

 “Okay, finding it as we speak…” she trailed off as she began to look for what Hotch was asking. “Bingo, Catherine, a wealthy textile heiress, had a son: James, now twenty-six and a daughter Lara, now sixteen. Father died in a speedboat accident right before Lara was born. They were raised by their grandfather in a mansion outside Portland after their mom was committed.” 

 “Is the grandfather still alive?” Hotch asked. 

 “No, he died last year,” Penelope answered. 

 “That could have been the stressor,” Spencer thought aloud. 

 “Penelope, where are the kids living now?” Y/N asked.

 “James was kicked out of a seminary in Colorado three years ago, but that’s still his listed address. Lara dropped out of school six weeks ago, coincidentally on her birthday and the family home is her listed address, and I’m sending you pictures...now.”

 Photos of the house and kids appeared on the tablet screen. Y/N stood up and walked over next to Rossi as he clicked on the picture of the son. 

 “That could be him, the man at the night club who left with Sarah Gammon,” Rossi said as he inspected the picture.

 “All right, contact the seminary,” Hotch said, looking at Spencer and Rossi. “Garcia, I’m gonna need an address, Y/N let’s go.” Hotch nodded for Y/N to follow him as he began to walk out of the room. 

 “Yes, sir,” she responded and followed him. 

 “Be safe.” Spencer’s words made Y/N turn back and give him a reassuring smile that said, I always am. 

 “Whipped,” Rossi said, covering it up with a cough as he walked away to grab his phone. Spencer just looked at the man confused, but simply went back to his work. 

---------

 The cars pulled up to the manor. Sirens turned off so that they still maintained the element of surprise. They piled out of the vehicles, JJ, Emily, and Derek joining Hotch and Y/N back at the station. 

 “Morgan, you and JJ take the back, we’ll take the front,” Hotch said. 

 JJ and Derek nodded and made their way around back, while Y/N, Hotch, and Emily stayed upfront. 

 Y/N examined the front of the house. It wasn’t a manor in the traditional sense, it had more of a woodsy feel to its exterior. 

 “You see that?” Emily asked Hotch and Y/N. 

 Y/N looked back up at the house, finally noticing what Emily was talking about. “There’s a girl in the window.” 

 “All right, you check up there-” Hotch nodded to Emily. “Me and Y/N will look for James.” 

 Emily nodded as they took off into the house, Y/N and Hotch separating from Emily as she headed up the stairs.

 Hotch pushed the door to the kitchen open, turning quickly to his right and Y/N to the left. The darkrooms they entered were only lit by the flashlights. They walked through the rooms slowly, only separating for a second to go into two different sides of the room. 

 Y/N walked down the steps to the basement first, Hotch now behind her as he followed closely. The basement was cold, damp, and slightly lit through the windows by the moonlight. Y/N’s heart pounded in her ears, one foot in front of the other as she moved down the steps. Her light shined as she saw the body of the missing girl on the ground by what appeared to be well.  

 Y/N felt a sharp pain hit her hip. She groaned as she fell to the ground, her hand clutching her hip as she felt the bruise already forming. 

 Hotch also let out a groan as he was hit in the legs, his gun, and flashlight sliding across the ground. 

 Y/N looked up to see James get tackled by Hotch and shoved into a wall. James head-butted Hotch giving him a second to go over and try to hit Y/N while Hotch stumbled back. 

 James brought a fire-poker around from his left side, but before he could hit Y/N with it, she kicked it out of his hand. She pushed herself up onto her feet and got a quick, hard punch in to throw him off. This allowed Hotch to grab him and shove him back to a wall. The two threw punches back and forth before Hotch pulled him away and tried to push him into the ground. 

 Hotch had him off his guard and he began to push him towards the well. When James fought back and punched Hotch, Y/N came over and gave a hard kick to James’ chest.

  James stumbled back, the kick was just enough to send him falling onto the edge of the well. When he came back up and lurched for Hotch again, clearly being his focus, Hotch was quick to throw him back, having him fall into the well this time. 

 Y/N stood next to Hotch as they looked down into the deep well, James’ body laying at the bottom. 

 “Teamwork.” Y/N huffed the word as she looked at Hotch who just shook his head and the two made their way out of the basement. 

 “You’re bleeding, better get that looked at,” Hotch said, pointing to Y/N eyebrow that was in fact bleeding from when she hit the ground. 

 When they reached outside, Hotch told the paramedics where James was and made Y/N get looked at after her many protests.

 “I’m fine, seriously.” Her protests did not make him change his mind. 

 “That’s an order.”

  Y/N now stood with Derek as a paramedic put some butterfly bandages on the cut after accessing it was only a superficial cut. 

 “You good wonder woman?” Derek asked, the nickname from the previous day sticking. 

 “Oh yeah, you should see the other guy.” Her joke, cliche as it was, made Derek chuckle anyway as he turned to Emily as she approached. 

 “So, Lara is gonna be okay,” Emily said, walking over to the rest of them. “She confirmed that the bodies were left out as messages to the devil.” 

 “Well, her brother’s dead, so what happens to her now?” Derek asked. 

 “There’s always foster care,” the detective answered. 

 “For an heiress?” Y/N said the paramedic finished with her face and had moved on to the ambulance.  

 “Yeah, I don’t think so,” JJ agreed. 

 “There will be guardians and trustees coming out of the woodworks before she gets put into foster care,” Y/N said, making her teammates chuckle. 

 “So she’ll end up back here, in a house that breeds delusions,” the detective said, looking back to the house. 

 “Hopefully not,” Hotch spoke.

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

“Okay, okay, what is the best book you have ever read?” The question made Spencer ponder. 

 Y/N and Spencer sat in a booth at a diner in D.C., the table holding breakfast foods for the late-night date. The warm glow that surrounded the two made all their worries vanish, their attention only on the other.

 “That’s a hard one, I’ve read so many.” His thumb and pointer finger lined his jaw as he placed his head between the two. “I mean, I guess fiction might have to be one of Dickens works.”  

 Y/N nodded her head, her legs pulled up in the seat and she sat with her back to the wall. Spencer began going on about Oliver Twist and Y/N was listening intently to every word he spoke. Watching how his lips would move faster as he began to get excited about something he was saying, or the way his voice would go an octave higher when his hands moved as he spoke. A smile played on her lips as she listened to him as he went on.

 She was so engrossed in her own mind of watching him that she didn’t even notice he asked her a question until his lips stopped moving. 

 “Sorry, what?” 

 “I said, do you have a favorite work by Dickens?” He repeated his question with a laugh. 

 “Oh, probably Great Expectations, but I’m more of a fan of Poe, more than anything,” she answered. Her legs moved under the table as she sat facing Spencer in the both. 

 “For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams, of the beautiful Annabel Lee,” Spencer quoted the poem, Anabel Lee. A smile formed on his as he watched a bashful blush on Y/N’s cheeks.

 The simple poem about a tormented, beautiful young love never failed to have Y/N swoon. In high school, Anabel Lee was the poem she would read repeatedly in her textbook. The words she could quote by heart only sounded so sweeter coming from Spencer’s lips.  

 “I’ve always been a fan of dark romanticism,” she spoke. “This case we just had, reminded of something out of a book though if I’m being honest.” She brought her milkshake straw up to her lips, taking a sip of the creamy liquid. 

 “It was an odd one,” Spencer agreed. 

 Y/M hummed, her lips still wrapped around the straw. She pulled her eyes off Spencer to look out the window. She watched as people walked by, couples holding hands, men getting home from their offices late, but one stood out to her. 

 From a distance, about fifty yards across the street, a dark-haired man stood, staring at Y/N and Spencer out the window. She had no idea who this man was, but it made her stomach drop as she got a bad feeling. 

 “Spencer I think we should go home now,” she spoke calmly. 

 He furrowed his brows in confusion. “Okay, any reason why?” 

 “Because there is a man out there who has been staring at us for I don’t know how long, and I don’t want to deal with it anymore.” She stood up from her seat in the booth, wrapping her navy jacket around her body. 

 Spencer did the same as he stood up and walked next to her out of the building. “Do you think it has anything to do with--”

 “I have no clue--”

 “Could it?”

 “I don’t know, let's just go back to your place, it’s closer.” So, that’s what they did. Spencer grabbed Y/N’s hand protectively and led her down the street while she kept her head down. The man’s face still in her thoughts, no expressions, just stoic and unsettling. His face was almost calm, seemingly normal to an untrained eye, but she knew. She could only hope this had nothing to do with Caroline and she was simply overreacting.   

Tag List (let me know if you want to be added!!):

@throughparisallthroughrome​ @word-scribbless​ @nintendumbfuck​ @confused-and-really-hungry​ @justine-en​ @andiebeaword​ @itsarayofsunshine​ @baby-i-am-fireproof​ @abitofeverythinggg​ @nanocoool​ @marceline-is-my-spirit-animal​ @fancyfaucet​ @im-a-raging-gay​ @atletino @mo-whore​

[gravelyhumerus]

Criminal Minds College AU - Chapter 6

Title: “I may just take your breath away”

Relationship: Jemily

Summary:

The team takes on trivia. Emily strips in front of JJ. It's quite an evening for all.

Slow-burn Jemily college AU where they live across the hall and despite all odds, the universe pushes them together. AKA they’re silly gay babies who pine after each other for months.

Read it on AO3

Tumblr:  One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen, (bonus scene), Seventeen, Eighteen, Nineteen, Twenty, Epilogue

“Come on, Jayje,” Penelope whined. “It’ll be good for you to go out.” 

“I’m sick,” JJ said, fake coughing. “And I need to get a head start on my project for my new media course. It’s worth forty percent.”

“Bullshit.” Penelope said, “I know for a fact that that isn’t due for two weeks. Tonight is NOT the make or break point in that assignment for you.” 

JJ sighed. 

“You need to get out. See the world. Do more than just play soccer, work out and do homework. You’ve been hiding since your break up. It’s not healthy.”

She had told herself she would stop avoiding Emily after she had figured out what her feelings were. Despite JJ’s realization that it was a genuine crush, that JJ truly liked Emily, JJ needed to also be sure that she wasn’t simply rebounding onto someone nearby. 

Someone pretty and smart and kind and who lived right across the hall.

“It’s trivia night JJ,” Penelope said, “and we have Spencer on our team it’ll be fun.” 

JJ sighed, looked up from where she lay on her bed. 

“Fine.”

“Make yourself pretty, you know who will be there,” Penelope replied, turning back to her make-up mirror to finish applying her purple lipstick. 

“Yeah thanks for that,” JJ said sarcastically, “I saw what you did there.”

“Who, me?” she feigned innocence. 

JJ changed from a plain t-shirt to a tighter, low cut long sleeved blue shirt. She then took her hair out of a ponytail, brushing it out before tucking it carefully behind her ears. On principle, she huffed the entire time, so that Penelope would know that she wasn’t happy about the situation, despite the butterflies in her stomach at the idea of seeing Emily again. 

She took care to apply some eyeshadow, some blush and a pink lip gloss that tastes like strawberries. There was something intimidating about Emily. She looked so… put together. With Will, he never really noticed, or cared, if she wore makeup, but Emily definitely would. 

God. This was stressful. Is this what liking girls was like? If it was, JJ was not sure she was cut out for it. 

At least she was going to be on home territory, as trivia was their thing, something that Penelope and JJ had been doing since their floor was forced into going back in first year.  

JJ was working hard at learning to relax a bit. Between maintaining her grades, soccer, and her new job editing press releases for the student government, she was already being pulled in multiple directions. A night out would be fun, she reminded herself. 

She tried to quell her nerves at going out with Emily. It wasn’t a date or anything. Just friends hanging out. JJ’s friends and Emily’s friends. Penelope’s meddling was further tying her to the girl across the hall by blending their friend groups. 

While half of her mind wanted this to happen, wanted to see Emily all the time and have an excuse to see her, smell her, hear her laugh…. JJ frowned as she realized that her crush complicated everything. Emily was already across the hall, and if she admitted her feelings, and they weren’t reciprocated, she would run into her all the time. Now, with Derek Morgan befriending Penelope and Spencer, and all of them going out together, JJ’s silly crush could send ripples across more than just her own life. 

JJ ran her hands through her hair, worrying about the possible ways she could fuck this up. She did not entertain the possibility that Emily could possibly like her back. First of all, she had no idea if she was straight or not. JJ didn’t even know how to tell. 

JJ glanced over to Penelope, who was finishing up her makeup sitting at her desk, looking into a small mirror on the desk. JJ knew Penelope was queer, as her roommate was not shy about it whatsoever. In her mug full of pens was a pride flag from last year’s pride parade. It was in June, so JJ had been back in Pennsylvania then, but she remembered seeing the joy on Penelope’s face in the photos she posted on Instagram. Penelope wasn’t the person she knew that identified as queer. In fact, Spence had recently told them that he was bi. It wasn’t like JJ was not aware of the community, she thought she was just supporting LGBT+ issues on principal, and for her friends. 

She hadn’t considered that when, in her politics class in high school, she was viciously debating on gay marriage for someone like herself. The topics always felt distant. Like something that affected someone else. She was so certain in her heterosexuality that she had joked about it to Penelope earlier in their friendship. 

The token straight friend, she had said. So much for that. 

“Pen,” JJ said, trying to force a neutral tone to her voice, and failing. “How did you know you weren’t straight?”

Penelope turned and simply stared at her for a long moment before giggling and saying: “Are you finally realizing you have a crush on Emily Prentiss?” 

JJ sat up in her chair. 

“What?” 

“Aw darlin’,” Penelope said to her, tilting her head, ”You barely talked about your break up. You were too busy literally running from your feelings for her ever since you ran into her at the library. I had to finally ask her out for you.”

“I–” JJ stuttered. “I talked about my break up.”

“So to answer your question,” Penelope said, matter-of-factly, “I realized when I had my first crush on a girl, just like you’re doing now. Don’t worry about it too much, you’ll drive yourself crazy.”

JJ’s jaw had dropped. 

“Babe, you came home one night babbling about how she taught you French,” Penelope giggled, “You might as well have held up a sign.”

JJ buried her face in her hands. 

“Oh god,” JJ said. “Am I gay? What am I?”

Penelope walked over and tossed her arm around JJ’s shoulders, pulling her into a hug. 

“Aww baby’s first girl crush,” she cooed, “So happy to witness it first hand. You might be gay! Or bi, or something else. Don’t worry too much about the terminology right now.”

Unfortunately, JJ was worrying too much. About not just the terminology. 

Even if Emily was gay, or bi or whatever, she wouldn’t like someone like JJ. She was always a bit of a tomboy, barely knowing how to do make up and dressing like she was going to practise most days. JJ always felt a bit awkward when she dressed up, feeling most at home in joggers and a hoodie. 

Emily, on the other hand, was all elegant with her pretty black hair, her perfect eyeliner and the way she always looked out together when she went out. Moreover, Emily was cool. She listened to music on vinyl and her bookshelf was filled with classic novels and smoked cigarettes. She lived in multiple countries, spoke more languages than JJ hoped to ever learn.

Emily’s mom was an ambassador. She had a nanny growing up. She had a single room and was paying out-of-state tuition. Well, her mom was probably paying her tuition. 

JJ could only afford to be here because she was on a soccer scholarship, and barely had enough money to cover her caffeine addiction. The surprise small stipend from her new student government job was probably the thing keeping JJ from applying for a job off campus. 

Emily would never like someone like JJ, she thought. 

After checking herself in the mirror one final time, she looked at the time. 6:54. Emily and her friends would be there soon, and if JJ knew Spencer well, he would be showing up in just under a minute. 

There was a knock at the door. She was right. 

“Hi guys!” He said, entering their dorm room and taking his customary seat on the very edge of JJ’s bed. “Am I dressed properly? I wasn’t sure what to wear to a bar.”

He was wearing a button up, with a beige sweater vest over top, with slacks and converse to complete the outfit. 

“Aw Spence,” JJ said. “You look great, I promise.”

“Remind me to take you to the mall to get some party clothes,” Penelope quipped. 

“Those were two contradicting statements,” he complained. 

Once Penelope had finished adding rhinestones to her makeup look, they opened the door to find Emily flanked by two boys, waiting in the hall. 

Derek Morgan, JJ recognized, but the other one JJ hadn’t met before. 

“Hello all!” Penelope called out from inside their room. 

“Hi Derek, Emily,” JJ said politely, “I’m not sure we’ve met–“

She reached her hand out to shake the new boy’s hand. He was tall, with a shock of black hair and a serious expression on his face. 

“I’m Jennifer, but my friends call me JJ.”

“Nice to meet you,” the boy said with a small—almost non-existent—smile, shaking her hand with a firm, confident grip. “I’m Aaron Hotchner.”

“His friends call him Hotch,” Derek piped up punching his shoulder in a friendly way. 

“He’s pre-law,” Emily informed her, “we have a bunch of classes together.”

“I do not have that much experience with trivia,” Aaron admits, rubbing his shoulder and feigning injury. 

“No need!” Penelope says, rounding up on the group, “Spencer here is basically a genius. You’re just a warm body.”

“I just have an eidetic memory!” He said, piping up from in the room. 

With introductions complete, they headed to the small pub just off campus. It was a squat brick building tucked between a restaurant and an old book store. It had a nice back patio in the warmer months, and each Monday was trivia night. 

Just inside, the bouncer drew big xs on their hands to indicate that they were underage, which were all promptly wiped off once they were inside and found a table. The atmosphere inside was relaxed, the staff not really caring if people were drinking underage on a Monday night if they didn’t cause trouble.

JJ loved this bar. It was old, with exposed brick walls and large wooden rafters over their heads. The ceilings were low and the bar was packed and loud, making the place feel cozy, yet not quite claustrophobic. On weekdays, it was mostly locals or upper year students, as their peers were more likely to try to drink underage on the weekends. The crowd was quite a few younger adults, with the occasional older couple or group of middle aged women having a girls night. 

They found a table big enough for their group by just to the right of the bar, tucked out of sight, far from the bouncers. The six of them squeezing tight onto the rustic booth and shrugging off their coats.  

Trivia started at 7:30 pm, so they still had time to get settled and acquire some drinks. JJ was squished between Penelope and Emily’s friend Aaron, who was explaining that he played forward on the men’s hockey team. JJ knew he seemed familiar, realizing that she and he had probably crossed paths at athletics functions. 

“Did you guys rub the marker off your hand?” Spencer asked, too loudly, receiving a chorus of shushing in response.

“Dude,” Derek laughed, “Not so loud you’re gonna get us kicked out!”

“What do you mean?” He asked, the classic Reid obliviousness shining through. 

Emily tossed a casual arm around his shoulders. 

“You see,” she said, “we would like to drink this thing called alcohol tonight. If we have an x on our hands, we don’t get served.”

She pointed to the x on his hand. 

“Speaking of which,” Aaron said, standing up, “I’m grabbing a beer, who’s with me?” 

“Me!” Emily jumped up, with Derek on her heels, “What are you guys drinking? This rounds on me!”

JJ balked, drinks here were expensive. Did Emily actually want to buy them drinks? Or was she simply being nice. JJ should say no. 

“Vodka cran, por favour!” Penelope responded before JJ could politely decline. “JJ drinks beer, and Reid will take a soda.”

“What kind of beer?”

“Whatever’s on tap,” JJ said sheepishly, feeling guilty about someone spending money on her. At the same time, with JJ’s baby face, there was little chance the bartender would buy that she was already 21.

“Root beer please!” Spencer called out after her, though Emily had already turned around, following the boys over to lean against the bar. 

The bartender, a gorgeous young woman with shoulder length brown hair was serving Emily, leaning over the bar. Her eyes were rapt with attention as Emily ordered, even giving her a once over before she left to make their drinks. 

Emily seemed to flirt back, but JJ could not hear what she said, the two women going back and forth for a few moments, their attention hardly broken by the other patrons. 

JJ felt jealousy flare in her stomach. 

As Emily’s fingers grasped the glass, the other girl’s hands lingered, and JJ watched the bartender wink at Emily before turning towards the other patrons. Emily had a cropped tank top, with a plaid shirt on top. Her tight jeans gripped her long legs, and her heeled boots gave an extra inch or so to her already impressive height. She looked hot. The bartender clearly saw it too.

She tried to push back that jealousy. She had no right to be possessive, Emily and she weren’t dating, or anything, they were friends. New friends.   

“Your girlfriend is so good to us!” Penelope cooed, breaking JJ out of her thoughts. 

JJ felt a blush spread across her face. 

“She’s not my girlfriend,” she sputtered. 

“Have you told her you like her yet?” Spencer asked. 

“Guys,” JJ exclaimed, “this is not the time. She’s right there.”

“She has not,” Penelope replied. “Even though it’s so obvious that Emily likes her back.”

“Pen!” JJ said as she buried her face in her hands. 

“Spencer you wouldn’t believe it!” she continued, unheeded, “Emily brought her cookies to the game!”

“She was just being nice!” JJ said, peeking out from between her fingers. 

“She didn’t give me any cookies,” Spencer pointed out. “And we spent almost three hours in class together.”

As he said that, Derek, Aaron and Emily returned with not only alcohol, but also nachos and fries for the table. JJ, too polite to protest when being offered food, and who had the appetite of an athlete, dug in. She took a guilty sip of her beer, and felt Emily’s eyes on her. 

Did Emily like her back? That couldn’t be true. JJ was just… Jennifer. JJ. No one special. Not like Emily. JJ decided not to linger on that thought, it wasn’t like JJ would risk their friendship by admitting she had feelings anyways. 

“You know,” Spencer said between mouthfuls, “I’ve never done trivia before, but I’ve been told I’d be good at it.

“No shit, kid,” Derek replied, talking through a mouthful of nachos, “You talk like a textbook.”

Spencer looked like he was unsure whether or not to take that as a compliment. 

“What are the topics?” Emily asked. 

“They don’t tell you until you get here,” Penelope replied, “Someone should be by with papers and pencils. 

As if summoned, a tall girl with short black hair came by, dropping off a pencil and a paper, split into four quadrants with ten blanks on each page. 

“Who wants to write?” JJ asked, looking around the table. 

Hotch was busy scanning the page for the topics: science, television, sports and music, and he didn’t realize the activity going on around him. Everyone, including Reid somehow, (Derek helped him) had stuck their finger to the tip of their nose, the official sign for ‘not it.’

He looked up, seeing the fingers and without comment he grabed the pencil.

“It’s for the best,” Emily said, “My handwriting is illegible.”

“Can vouch for that,” Derek laughed, “It’s like half cursive half something inhuman.”

Emily punched his shoulder and took another drink. 

“So how does this normally work?” Hotch asked, gesturing towards her paper with the pencil.

“Question, two minutes to write down your answer, no phones,” Penelope replied, “Then we swap with a nearby team to mark it! And so on for four rounds.”

“There’s prizes,” JJ added. “Whoever gets the most right in the end wins, we hand in the sheets to the MC to enter.”

“Sweet,” Derek said. 

“We need a name,” JJ said, looking up. 

“The twinkies,” Emily blurted. 

“The… twinkies?” Hotch repeated, incredulously. 

“I don’t know,” Emily muttered, “I panicked.”

The group burst into laughter, which Emily laughed along with. She was a good sport. 

“Let’s get Quizzical,” Penelope offered. 

“I don’t get it,” Spencer said. 

“Quiz me, daddy,” Penelope tried again, winking at Derek. 

“Settle down now, little lady,” Derek said, laughing. 

“We’re not doing that,” JJ laughed. 

She wasn’t sure who looked more horrified at the idea, Spencer or Hotch. 

“Counter intelligence,” Derek proposed instead, it has a nice ring to it and works with the trivia premise. 

“That’s funny,” Penelope said. “And seems ok for the prudish ones amongst us.”

Hotch wrote that down on their page. 

“Hello everyone,” the MC said through a microphone as the music quieted, a hush fell over the bar, with everyone listening to the women speak. “My name is Tara and I’ll be your MC tonight.”

Tara was beautiful, with curled hair tucked behind her ears and a friendly smile, she was tall, wearing high heels making her stand tall over the seated audience. JJ thought she might be a student, as she looked a bit familiar. 

“Hi Tara!” Someone yelled out from the other side of the bar. 

Tara chucked, “Hello Dave. Welcome all to Trivia Night at O’Keefe’s, we have brand-new questions and prizes for you. Are you excited?”

The audience whooped, Hotch pulled the paper close to him and readied his writing hand, taking a quick swig of his beer to prepare himself. 

“We’re going to start off with some science questions,” the MC said.

The group looked expectantly at Spencer, who looked slightly nervous. 

“First question,” Tara announced, “We’ll start by looking outside of our planet, at the others in our solar system. Scientists have long been able to calculate the masses of most planets, including Earth. It has taken longer to measure the masses of Venus and Mercury, primarily because these two planets lack what?”

“Moons, obviously,” Spencer said, too loudly. Other groups clearly overheard, writing the answer down on their cards.

“Reid,” Penelope scolded, “You’re on our team. Whisper please.”

“Sorry,” he murmured, taking a sip of his soda through a small straw. 

“Question two: of what material is a rhinoceros horn made?”

“Bone?” Derek whispered to them, “They look boney.”

“That’s actually a common misconception,” Reid replied, “They’re actually composed of keratin, which is essentially hair.”

“Huh,” Derek tilted his beer in acknowledgement. Hotch wrote that down. 

“How many hearts do octopuses have?”

“Three!” Emily hisses, before Spencer has the chance.

“Nice one,” Hotch murmured back to her.

“I like cephalopods,” Emily said, as explanation. 

JJ desperately wanted to comment on that, but the game moved too quickly. 

The next few questions were rapid fire, covering everything from the speed of a sneeze, to the surface area of the lungs, to the oxygen in the atmosphere, to which letters from the alphabet were missing from the periodic table (the answer was J and Q.)

JJ perked up when she heard the last question: “What are people who study or collect butterflies called?”

“Lepidopterists!” She said, triumphantly before the MC even listed the options.

Everyone looked at her, surprised about her beating even Reid to the punch.

“I- uh,” JJ stammered, “I collected butterflies as a kid.”

JJ caught Emily smiling at that. She looked away, embarrassed. 

Next was music, which, between Hotch and his impressive understanding of dad rock and Penelope’s encyclopedic knowledge of current pop music, and Derek’s well-rounded passion for all genres, they did fine. Reid pouted, as his eidetic memory doesn’t quite work for things he hasn’t read. 

JJ, unfortunately, was not any help. JJ liked music, but she did not bother memorizing facts about writers or sampling or anything like that. She just liked listening to it. 

After that was sports, and that topic went by quickly with JJ, Derek and Hotch answering the questions with a high degree of confidence. 

Hotch, who was already writing aggressively and getting into it, wrote more and more excitedly, and on the second to last sports question—about the composition of a baseball—he snapped the lead off the pencil right off. 

This caused sheer chaos. 

With no writing utensil, one more answer to write down, they scrambled. JJ shrugged helplessly, typically known as the mom friend in her group, she felt bad that she had nothing to offer. After a moment, Penelope discovered a fluffy pink gel pen she found at the bottom of her purse. 

“Is the ink pink, too?” Hotch asked, raising an eyebrow. 

He tried writing. The ink was pink and sparkly. 

“Yes, sir,” Penelope replied. 

“Did you just call me ‘sir’?”

“I don’t know what came over me.”

During the brief intermission between Sports and Television, somehow the Salem witch trials came up in conversation. (It was actually because Penelope had mentioned the Blair Witch Project and Spencer misheard, but that’s neither here nor there). 

“She was four?” JJ demanded, “That doesn’t seem right.”

“Oh I read about this,” Penelope said, “Dorothy something, she was accused of witchcraft alongside her mother.”

“Dorothy Good, also referred to as Dorcas Good, was only four years old when she was arrested in 1692. According to her accusers, she had allegedly bitten them on their arms. She was actually placed in jail and interrogated by Salem officials where they took the fact that she had a pet snake as proof that she was a witch, as the snake would serve the role of her animal familiar.”

“She was a child,” JJ said, horrified.

“Yup,” Spencer replied, unfazed. JJ frowned but continued writing. 

The last one was television, which was very clearly Penelope’s favourite. 

“Friends ended in May 2004 after how many seasons?”

“Oh I know that one,” Hotch said, “Seven.”

Hotch wrote that down in pink ink, the fuzzy pom-pom danced as he wrote.  

“Amy Poehler, Rob Lowe and Chris Pratt worked together on which US comedy series?”

“Parks and Rec,” Penelope said, “Parks and Recreation, God, I should rewatch that. Such amazing girl-power vibes in that one.”

“What were the names of the two government agents played by David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson in the 1993-2002 series X-Files?”

“Special Agent Fox Mulder and Dr. Dana Scully,” Emily said with a smile. 

“Wait, you too Prentiss?” Derek said. “Nerding out with Reid tonight.”

“Guilty as charged,” Emily said, “What can I say, I’m a sucker for Gillian Anderson.”

JJ’s mind stuck on that comment. Was she simply a fan of the acting? Or was she implying some sort of attraction to the actress. JJ did not ask. Her mind was wandering for too long, all while looking at Emily, that she missed the next question. 

Whatever it was, Hotch was informing her that the answer was ‘72 survivors’. 

Questions about Saturday Night Live, The Office, Scooby-Doo and a few old-timey shows that they didn’t recognize followed. 

“The last question for the night!” Tara announced, “It’s been lovely being your MC for tonight. I hope you all had as much fun as I did. You ready?”

The crowd cheered.

“Ok this one’s for all the nerds out there: what sci-fi series premiered in 1966?”

“Star Trek: The Original Series,” Reid hissed, struggling to keep his voice down. “Which was the beginning of a franchise that has now lasted over fifty years, spanning nine television series, thirteen films and assorted shorts, video games and novels.”

“Ok Mr. Spock,” Emily laughed, “Thank you for your brain.”

“Spock’s Brain is actually one of the best episodes in the Original Series,” he replied, JJ couldn’t tell if he had made a joke or was simply spouting another fact. 

As trivia wrapped up, and the scores were being tallied, the bar roared back to life, with music booming and the attendees milling about near the bar, back at the darts and grouping around the tables.

She found herself chatting with Hotch and Penelope, about some question they were unsure about, but her eyes were fixed on Emily and Derek. Derek had a hand in the small of Emily’s back, guiding her past the crowd near the bar. 

JJ wondered if there was really something more there, despite Penelope’s encouragement of her crush on Emily. Maybe she was already into Derek? He was very affectionate with all of his friends, especially Penelope, so maybe it was nothing. But still, Emily seemed to be reciprocating. 

But the hand didn’t leave, it held her close, almost protectively, something a boyfriend would do. 

JJ turned away, pushing the thoughts away and slamming the last of her third beer, scanning for where Spencer had run off to after the game wrapped up. He was seated with two other people at a table near the back, talking excitedly at them while they looked at him with rapt attention. Out of curiosity, she wandered over.

Maybe she can hang out with Spence as she banished the strange feelings of jealousy burning in her chest.  

“Return to tomorrow?” the girl asked Spencer, leaning over the table in excitement.  

“Return to tomorrow, season two, production number fifty-one,” Reid replied, “An alien named Sargon takes over Kirk’s body while two others take over Spock and Dr. Mulhall.”

JJ frowned, she had no idea what he was talking about, but recognized that it seemed like the plot of an episode of Star Trek.

“Alien races appearing?”

“Trick question, a race is never identified. Sargon is a disembodied mind?”

“Dr. McCoy quote?”

He looked stumped for a moment. 

“Five, four, three, two-”

“I will not peddle flesh, I’m a physician!” He concludes enthusiastically. 

This all appeared to be an extension of his trivia game. JJ was happy that he was making friends, despite him worrying that he wouldn’t fit in at a bar, he seemed to have found his people. 

JJ gave him an affectionate pat on his shoulder before passing, on her way to the dart board. With Reid occupied, Derek and Emily flirting at the bar and Hotch and Penelope hitting it off, JJ decided to show some random boys up.

It would make her feel better.

There was a pair already at the board, tossing the darts fairly inaccurately. JJ asked if she could join, batting her eyelashes in a way she knew would grab their attention quickly. 

They immediately welcomed her in, handing her some darts. She hit the nineteen, twenty and dead centre in quick succession. The rush of the game kept away her earlier feelings of jealousy, centering her in the moment and her goal.

The boys were floored. JJ was good at darts. 

She played three rounds, slamming them each time easily. Amateurs. They were drunk, aggressive with their throwing, all force no finesse. Typical men.

After the third round, they left for the bar, offering to grab her a drink to celebrate her win, she followed close by, knowing better than to leave a drink unattended, but also not passing up the opportunity to drink for free when it was a silly boy paying. 

Maybe she should rebound after her break up and sleep with a random man. She looked at the man in front of her, he was tall, with dark hair and hazel eyes, wearing a tight fitting white shirt. His companion had sandy brown hair and dark eyes, but neither of them were stirring anything in JJ’s heart. Both were objectively attractive, but neither were the beautiful brunette that lived across the hall. 

JJ accepted her drink graciously, knowing she had to fill another few minutes of small talk before it was appropriate for her to rejoin her friends. 

The one boy was telling her about darts, in detail, despite the fact that she had informed him that she did know how to play, and had just beat him at the game. 

“Can I steal JJ from you guys for a sec?” She felt a hand on her bicep and Emily’s sweet voice in her ear.

JJ turned and the taller girl was next to her, her hand resting lightly on her bare arm, feeling electricity where their skin touched. 

“Uh, yeah,” the brown haired boy said, JJ didn’t remember his name, “Of course.”

JJ smiled apologetically before allowing herself to be led away.

“Thought you could use an out,” Emily whispered in her ear, “You looked bored.”

“Thank you,” JJ replied. “I was.”

They stopped further down the bar, standing close, with Emily looking down at her, their hips brushing each other. JJ could smell her perfume over the ambient smell of alcohol, bar food and the old building. 

“Men,” Emily laughed, “Am I right?”

They laughed. JJ wasn’t sure exactly what she meant but she thought she got the gist. JJ gulped down a sip of her drink, a vodka soda that the boy had chosen for her. 

“Speaking of, are you and Derek, uh,” JJ asked, nervously, “A thing?”

Emily’s eyes widened, and her lips tugged into a smile, she began to laugh. 

“Derek Morgan?” She guffawed, “Absolutely not, that boy is like my brother. Oh my god, JJ you thought we were together?”

JJ felt herself sigh a breath of relief, hoping that it was not visible on her face.

“I just saw how he was at the bar,” JJ explained, “I just assumed.”

“Oh that,” Emily smiled, “I asked him to basically pretend to be my boyfriend, a beard if you will. Keeps guys hands from wandering.”

JJ frowned, that she could empathize with. 

“But no, we’re very much just friends.”

JJ looked over to their table: Derek, Hotch and Penelope were currently playing a game that seemed to consist of tossing coins into Reid’s empty soda can. 

There was a comfortable silence for a moment, both girls listened to the music, standing closely, closer than they needed to. 

Emily ordered them another round, and by that point JJ had given up protesting, realizing that this is just what Emily did. 

Grabbing their drinks, Emily handed JJ’s to her. They smiled and raised their glasses in cheers. 

“To new and old friends,” Emily said, “and to us winning at trivia!”

“I can drink to that!” 

Both accidentally raised their arms too enthusiastically, their glasses crashed together. Emily’s grip slipped and the glass went tumbling out of her hand, right onto JJ. She was suddenly damp and sticky, the liquid soaking through JJ’s thin shirt. 

“Oh my god,” Emily gasped, “I’m so sorry.” 

“Shit,” JJ gasped, putting her own drink down onto the bar and stepping back. “It’s ok, it was both of our faults.” 

“Let’s get you to the bathroom,” Emily said, with a hand pressed to the small of her back, leading her away from the bar. As an afterthought, Emily grabbed JJ’s drink and carried it with them.

A few people gave her concerned glances, one patron offering her a small napkin that did basically nothing. JJ wasn’t mad, it was fully an accident, but now she was just desperate to dry off. 

Now, JJ was acutely aware of Emily’s hand on her lower back. Warm and firm, it guided her into the bathroom. 

As soon as the door shut, the silence made JJ’s ears ring. Emily had turned to the paper towel dispenser, yanking probably four feet of it off and bunching it up before handing it to JJ.

It was a small bathroom basically just the room, one sink and no hand dryer, much to JJ’s sadness.

JJ hoisted herself up onto the counter, taking the paper towel from Emily, patting her shirt hopelessly. The alcohol soaking into the cotton and leaving the shirt a noticeably darker blue. JJ sighed. 

“I’m such a klutz,” Emily said apologetically. “My mom always was on my case for it.”

“It’s not your fault, Em,” JJ said, “it was an accident.”

Emily grabbed more paper towels, moving closer and helping her, patting on the shirt, over her stomach. 

JJ held her breath, realizing that Emily was so close. JJ could look up, see Emily’s face, looking concentrated, with her perfect red lips right there. Her strong hands were carefully dabbing at her shirt, fussing over JJ in a way that made her heart skip a beat. Emily’s collarbones led down to her chest, visible with her low cut chest. JJ felt herself blush, looking up to the ceiling, feeling embarrassed at these thoughts. 

JJ’s top hadn’t changed much, besides it feeling a bit less damp, it still showed the liquid clear as day. 

“This is doing just about nothing,” JJ sighed, clearing her throat. “Maybe I should just go home. It’s getting late anyways.”

“Nonsense,” Emily said. “You can wear this.”

JJ’s jaw dropped as Emily shrugged her plaid shirt off her shoulders, revealing her tank top underneath and handed it to her. JJ took it, dumbly, closing her mouth but saying nothing. 

Emily turned around, clicking the lock on the door, and leaning her shoulder against it, just in case. She took a sip out of JJ’s glass, casually, as if JJ was not about to take her shirt off behind her. 

Emily’s back was to her, but JJ sat, frozen, holding this new shirt in her hand. JJ pulled her wet shirt off, very aware of being naked in front of Emily. Well, shirtless, with her white bra visible, but still feeling incredibly naked. 

She quickly buttoned up the plaid shirt, it was oversized and a warm grey with hints of green and navy, feeling very incredibly soft. 

Warm and dry, JJ felt the shirt envelop her in what felt like a hug. A hug from Emily. 

JJ hopped off the counter and smoothed out her new shirt, Emily’s shirt. JJ folded up her wet shirt and held it in her left hand. The other girl turned and looked JJ up and down, with an unreadable expression on her face. 

“You look good,” Emily commented. 

“Thank you,” JJ managed. 

They stared at each other, for a moment, the room filling with a tension that made her shiver. The music thumped from the other room, but JJ’s heartbeat was deafening. She had accidentally stripped a layer off of Emily, and desperately wanted to take more off of her. Emily’s black tank was riding up, revealing a small strip of her stomach above her high waisted jeans. Emily’s face was flushed from the alcohol, her pale skin becoming pink on her cheeks and nose. JJ thought back to that morning when she had caught Emily in her PJs, of what she knew was under her shirt. This too hugged her curves, revealing hints about what lay beneath. 

“We better get back,” JJ found herself whispering. 

The bathroom was small, so the two of them were packed together in the tiny space. Emily suddenly leaned forward, closing the distance between them, reaching her hands out towards JJ. 

JJ’s heart raced, unsure what to expect. Was Emily going to kiss her? No. Why would she? Oh my god what if she was? 

Emily’s hand carefully fixed her collar, tugging on it slightly. 

“There,” Emily whispered, “you’re perfect.”  

JJ closed her eyes at the feeling of Emily’s hands on her. Sighing slightly. 

She chastised herself for being silly. Emily was just fixing her collar. Being a good friend. 

“Let’s get back,” JJ said. 

“If we have to,” Emily replied. JJ tried not to read into that too much.  

They returned to their table, squeezing back in tightly with their overcrowded group of friends. They were in a heated debate about the Zodiac killer. Neither girl knew how the conversation got there, but Emily immediately joined the conversation. 

After a few minutes, and after quite a few sly looks from Penelope, the MC tapped on the mic, gaining the audience's attention. 

“We officially have a winner!” Tara announced, “With 36 points, it’s Counter Intelligence!”

Their table erupted in cheers. They had won! There were a flurry of high fives, hugs and fist bumps in their celebration. 

Tara, the MC came over to their table to congratulate them. She told them that they had beat out the second place by one point. 

“Impressive work everyone,” Tara said, “that’s close to a high score, and these were hard questions.”

“We have a great team,” Penelope said with a grin. 

“I can tell,” Tara replied. “Are you all going to come back next week? It’s Halloween themed!”

They looked at each other, then nodded at her. It was a plan. 

“See you then!” Tara said. 

She gave them their prizes, which were mugs with the bars logo printed in white on the green mugs. She would treasure it. 

JJ finds herself yawning, catching the eye of Emily, who said: “we better get JJ to bed, looks like she’s fading.”

Please, JJ thought sleepily, resting her drunk head on her hand, take me to bed.

Sitting down, JJ’s five or so drinks had hit her hard, and she dreaded standing up and risking stumbling. She was drunk. JJ wasn’t a light weight, but over their time at the bar, she had gotten quite a bit of alcohol into her system. 

“Come on, sweetheart,” JJ could feel Penelope grab her arm and hoist her up. JJ leaned on her, feeling a warm affection for her friend in the moment. 

Together, they walked home in the cold night air. Laughing, chatting and walking together amicably, all holding their prizes in hand. JJ leaned into Penelope’s side, feeling warm despite the chill of the air. Something felt incredibly right about that moment, those people. 

She didn’t want it to end. 

They went their separate ways from Hotch once they got to campus, bidding him farewell, not before Penelope added him to a group chat titled “The Team 🕺” in reference to their trivia playing. Hotch promised he’d join them all again next week. 

Once they climbed the stairs to their floor, Reid continued up to his room and the four of them found themselves trying to quietly return to their rooms without getting caught by the RA. 

Despite being served for the entire night, if they got caught drinking underage they would get in a lot of shit, especially Derek and JJ on their athletic scholarships. 

Muffled whispers and giggling filled the air as they walked through the common room.

Derek hugged them all goodbye—he seemed to be a hugger JJ surmised—and went to his room down the hall. 

“Oh!” JJ said, spinning to face Emily in the hall. Penelope had already entered their dorm, with the door closing behind her. “I can give your shirt back tomorrow! I can… er… wash it for you. It probably smells like beer now.”

Emily gazed at her, from over her shoulder as she unlocked her door, looking JJ up and down.

“Keep it,” she said. “It looks good on you.”

JJ would swear she saw Emily wink at her, but couldn’t be sure. 

Emily disappeared into her dorm room, and JJ went into hers. 

She slept with the shirt folded neatly next to her pillow, the smell of Emily’s perfume filling her senses as she dreamt. 

[paths-of-my-childhood-candid]

OH, TAYLOR! Taylor Swift On Side-Stepping Into Acting, Owning What You Make & Loving The “Weirdness” Of Cats

On a grey London afternoon in late September, Taylor Swift slips quietly through the doors of a north London recording studio. It is an auspicious moment: the queen of confessional pop has come to meet Andrew Lloyd Webber, the king of musical theatre. Together, Swift, who turns 30 this month, and Lloyd Webber, 71, have written “Beautiful Ghosts”, a new song for the soon-to-be-released film adaptation of Cats – Webber’s 1981 extravaganza, which ran in the West End and on Broadway for a combined total of almost 40 years. In it, Swift plays Bombalurina, and like her co-stars – Idris Elba, Judi Dench, Francesca Hayward, Ian McKellen, Jennifer Hudson, Rebel Wilson – appears in full, furry CGI glory. Track finished, these two titans of the music industry sit down to talk… 

Andrew Lloyd Webber: Well, the first thing we have to clear up is that we both love cats. Taylor Swift: [Laughs] We do! One of the first things you said to me when we met was that you’re president of the Turkish Van Cat Club.  ALW: Professionally, there is nowhere I can go to top this, as you can completely understand. TS: I have three cats. How many do you have now?  ALW: I have three, too – they are all Turkish Vans. And you’ve got a Scottish Fold I believe. TS: I have two Scottish Folds, we think the third is a Ragdoll mix. ALW: You’re probably never going to talk to me again, but you know I’ve got a puppy? He’s called Mojito.  TS: I heard about this! How does he get along in the hierarchy?  ALW: Well, he believes he’s a little bear actually. He’s a Havanese dog, which I got because Glenn Close has one. TS: I’ve met that dog, he’s really good. ALW: You come from Pennsylvania. TS: I do. People seem to think I was raised in the south, but I’m from the north – grew up on a Christmas tree farm, then moved to Nashville when I was 14. ALW: And you wanted to move to Nashville for the songwriting or the singing? Or both? TS: Both – I was just obsessed with Shania Twain, Faith Hill, Dixie Chicks, and the thing they had in common was that they had gotten discovered in Nashville. So I had it in my head that this is a magical place where discoveries are made and people are able to do music as a living. ALW: Was it the storytelling side of country songs that you liked? Absolutely. It reminded me of the ’90s, when you had these amazing female singer-songwriters like Alanis Morissette and Sarah McLachlan; incredible female writers like Melissa Etheridge, Shawn Colvin; and these types of Lilith Fair women. Then you started to hit the 2000s and the only place I could find real confessional storytelling was country music. ALW: Did you know anybody when you got to Nashville? TS: No, we didn’t really. I’d been going there on vacation with my family, and my mom, my little brother and I would stay in a hotel and try to meet people. Eventually, after several trips, I got a development deal – it’s a non-committal record deal, like, “We’ll watch you develop for a year and then we’ll decide if we sign you.” That was grounds enough to move the family. ALW: Presumably you were in school in Nashville as well? TS: Yes, I was going to high school during the day and doing my songwriting sessions at night. It was a double life. I’d be writing notes in class, and my teachers never knew if they were notes for my class or if I’d gotten an idea for a song. ALW: How many songs would you write in a day? TS: Usually, never more than one. I had these sessions every day, and if I didn’t come in with a good idea, I’d get stared at. You’re not inspired every day, as you know, but you have to show up and treat it like a job. That’s where I learned the craft of songwriting. ALW: I’ve never worked like that, because I’m so story driven. What interests me, though, is how Nashville works. How did you get your foot on the performing ladder? TS: It was really writing first. At the same time, I was singing the national anthem every time I could – at festivals and fairs and bars, anywhere I could get up on stage. I was trying to hone both sides of what I was doing, but I’m very well aware that I would not have a career if I hadn’t been a writer. I wouldn’t have just been a singer, it wouldn’t have worked. ALW: I guess that, today, very few people have a major career unless they write. TS: Yeah, I agree. I think it’s really important – also from the side of ownership over what you do and make. Even if you aren’t a natural writer, you should try to involve yourself in the messages you’re sending. ALW: How does a young country artist get their first break? TS: I worked as hard as I could, reached out to as many people as I could to make sure I got meetings with publishing companies and labels. They didn’t come about very easily, but once I got in the room I’d just get out my guitar and play for them. ALW: Do you have to sing in a certain club to get to the next stage? TS: Everyone does it a different way, but the Bluebird Cafe is a place where everyone was discovered – from Garth Brooks to Faith Hill to, arguably, me. I remember being at your house after we’d written a song, and you telling me you’d bought it when you were 24 or something, that’s when I realised just how young you were when you had a vision to be doing this at such a high level. ALW: I was writing for the theatre when I was eight-years-old. I had a little toy theatre and did dreadful musicals on terrible subjects. Then, when I was about 13, I met a boy who wanted to write lyrics, and we did a couple of musicals at school. TS: So from the beginning you would pair up with a lyricist? ALW: One of the things I worked out very early was Lloyd Webber and lyrics are not a good idea. TS: Wow. It is a good alliteration, though. ALW: You were 19, weren’t you, when you had your first big hit? TS: I was about 18 when “Love Story”, a song I’d written alone, was a worldwide hit. I was lucky enough to work my way up in country music, for new artists nowadays, it feels like the trajectory of their career is like being shot out of a canon into a stratosphere they could in no way be prepared for. I got to sort of acclimate to every step of the path I was on, and by the time I had a massive hit I’d been working since I was 14. Moving from country music to pop was a crazy adjustment for me. ALW: And now we’ve written “Beautiful Ghosts” together for Cats. TS: I remember the moment. I went over to your apartment to rehearse “Macavity” and you sat down at the piano and started to play this haunting, beautiful melody, and I think I just started singing to it right away. ALW: You wrote the lyrics more or less then and there – it was fantastic. TS: It’s a different perspective on the song “Memory”, too, and the character of Grizabella [played by Jennifer Hudson], who used to have majestic, glamorous times and doesn’t anymore. On the other side of it, you have this little white cat [Victoria, played by Francesca Hayward] who’s been abandoned – she’s afraid she’ll never have a chance to have beautiful memories. So that’s where she’s singing “Beautiful Ghosts” from, to counter Grizabella’s idea of tragedy. ALW: I’d like to come back to something I thought when I heard your album, Lover – which is really absolutely brilliant. Am I right in thinking you approached its recording just as though you were giving live performances? TS: I did. I was really singing a lot at that point – I’d just come from a stadium tour, and then did Cats, which was all based on live performances – so a lot of that album is nearly whole takes. When you perform live, you’re narrating and you’re getting into the story and you’re making faces that are ugly and you’re putting a different meaning on a song every time you perform it. ALW: That’s the point isn’t it. TS: Yeah. ALW: Does that ever make you feel you want to be an actress? TS: I have no idea. When I was younger, I used to get questions like, “Where do you see yourself in 10 years?” I’d try to answer. As I get older, I’m learning that wisdom is learning how dumb you are compared to how much you are going to know. I really had an amazing time with Cats. I think I loved the weirdness of it. I loved how I felt I’d never get another opportunity to be like this in my life. ALW: It’s weird, what I’ve seen of the movie. TS: It’s decidedly weird [they laugh]. ALW: I think Tom [Hooper, the film’s director] has really tried to make something original. And I agree, I think as you get older you do become less sure of yourself and start to question what you can do. Would you consider doing a musical? TS: A musical? Absolutely, absolutely. ALW: Or writing your own? TS: That is way up there on my list of dreams. ALW: You should. TS: Was it really wonderful for you when you got the news that Judi Dench had accepted the role of Old Deuteronomy? ALW: Judi was in the original version in 1981 but she snapped her Achilles tendon and had to withdraw. Then I had this idea, which I ran past Tom, that we could make Old Deuteronomy a woman. Seeing her perform this time was quite an emotional thing for me, because it was a very, very sad day when she had to leave the original show. TS: She’s lovely. I remember being on set, and there is one scene that Idris [Elba, who plays Macavity] and I do with Judi, and someone walked up to me with this kind of gummy candy and I was like, “Oh, I’ve never had this before, this must be British candy, this is amazing.” I was raving about this candy so much, and Judi must have overheard me, because the next day I got to my dressing room and there was a signed photo from Judi and, like, six bags of it [they laugh]. Andrew, we both started young. What do we have in common from our experiences? What do you think was hard about it? And what was great? ALW: I suppose what was hard for me was that I was a fish out of the mainstream water. In the 1960s, to love musicals was as uncool as you could possibly be, and kids in my class at school would laugh at me. TS: I was the same. I loved country music and, where I was in school, the kids were just completely perplexed by that. It’s gotten more mainstream, but when I was a 13-year-old in Pennsylvania, I got similar reactions. Do you feel like you’re glad you were really young when you started? ALW: Yeah, are you? TS: I’m really glad, even though there are challenges to it – like you’re not allowed to make the same mistakes as everyone else because your mistakes are a commodity. ALW: And your mistakes are made in public. But we share something in common, in which we are extremely lucky. We both knew at an early age what we wanted to do, and most people in life don’t have a clue. TS: That’s very true. I think, also, a lot of the time when people see a career that they want it can be results-based. Rather than wanting to write musicals, they want to be a person who has written musicals. But when I see you work, I see you consistently creating and being curious about the next idea. You relish in the process even more than the rewards, which is the advice I would give anyone who wanted to do anything remotely close to this job. It cannot be about the results. ALW: It’s the process isn’t it? TS: It has to be. It’s supposed to be fun!

MEET & GREET: Introducing the faces behind this month’s issue

When it came to interviewing Taylor Swift about her musical-movie debut in Cats, there was only one man for the job: Andrew Lloyd Webber, composer of the original West End and Broadway mega hit. The two colossi of songwriting had plenty to discuss at a recording studio in north London – art, ambition and authenticity, plus what we can expect from the soon-to-be-released film.

Vogue: What was it like to work with Taylor? Andrew Lloyd Webber: She’s supremely professional and very charming with it. In my view, she could go far. Vogue: What was your first impression of her? ALW: She’s a lot taller than me, and a lot more attractive. Vogue: What’s your favourite Swift hit? ALW: “Blank Space” from the album 1989. It’s a great pop song with great lyrics.

[helppotutor]

Seek Academic Opportunities Beyond the Classroom

If I could travel back in time to visit my young high school self (who would be studying, studying, studying, often all night long, to do well in her AP classes), I would tell her that college preparation requires more than studying.

As important as understanding derivatives in calculus or the logic behind the periodic table of elements is, there is more to preparing for an American college than studying. In fact, at most top American schools, there are more applicants with very high SAT scores (say, above 1450) than there are spaces available for them.

This is something my own parents didn’t understand—they thought, “If you are the best, best, best student, why should anything else matter to a good university?” The problem is that there are already many best, best, best students out there.

So, how can you differentiate yourself from all the other dedicated applicants? Although test scores and grades are important—they are one way that colleges can determine if you are a serious student—colleges are not looking for the best test-takers.

Why? Because the best test-takers are not necessarily the people who will make the most difference in the world. And colleges are looking for those people, the students whose work (both in the classroom and outside it) will make a positive impact on the world.

What Top American Colleges Want

By the time a student graduates from Yale, Yale will not look back and say, “Oh yes, she got all 5’s on her AP exams.” Rather, Yale wants to assemble a college class of creative, mature, and intellectually curious individuals who will make Yale a better place. (And the same is true of NYU, MIT, Northwestern, Harvard, Duke, Berkeley, and all the other top universities.)

To that end, American colleges seek creative thinkers whose achievements go beyond the classroom. Originality and creativity go a long way toward making you an attractive candidate. And there are many ways that you can demonstrate that you are an inventive, interesting candidate.

For example, you might consider joining activities that show initiative and interest in improving your community. Think “outside the box”—that is, think from a new and unconventional perspective. When I was a high school junior, my astronomy teacher told our class about a contest for students sponsored by NASA—the National Aeronautics and Space Administration—where students had to design an experiment that could feasibly be performed in space.

This certainly required a lot of creative thinking:

Why would my experiment need to be performed in space, rather than on Earth?

What materials would be needed?

How would zero gravity affect the experiment?

What did I believe the outcome would be, and why?

What were the limitations of the experiment?

Since I was also interested in microbiology, I developed an experiment that would explore how certain magnetotactic bacteria (that is, bacteria that orient themselves according to the Earth’s magnetic field) would be affected, and whether the lack of gravity in space would disorient them and thus disrupt their ability to detect magnetic field lines.

My teacher told everyone in our class about this contest—but only half of us applied. (So right there, half of my classmates disqualified themselves from this unusual opportunity.) My own experiment proved to be good enough to be chosen among the top 50 entrants from high school students all over the country, and NASA brought me and the other 49 students to Washington, D.C., so we could present our experiments to the NASA judges. It was a wonderful experience, and I got to meet a lot of other science students from around the country.

And no, I did not win the contest. Someone else (whose name I completely forget) was the winner. But that’s OK. Taking a chance on entering such a difficult contest, and developing an interesting experiment that could feasibly be performed, helped to make me an attractive student at Johns Hopkins, Cornell, and the University of Pennsylvania (all of which I was accepted by).

They cared that I was willing to take a risk, and that I worked hard to make that risk successful. They didn’t care that I didn’t win. (And if you are interested in science, being a scientist is all about taking feasible risks—many important experiments do not succeed, but they are still useful to human knowledge.)

Your own teachers may not announce such contests to your classes—this was the only such project any teacher ever announced to us—so don’t hesitate to do some research on your own to find out what other opportunities exist. They don’t even have to be competitions.

There may be national, Hong Kong–specific, or even local school district-wide projects that you may find. Consider the subjects that fascinate you the most. (Are you a poet? Start a poetry group in your neighborhood. Start a poetry group that helps underprivileged children!)

You Don’t Have to Be a Genius

Why not ask your teachers whether such local or national opportunities exist in your own best subject areas? Years after graduating from high school, I learned that a teacher recommended a classmate who was a particularly good mathematics student for a citywide scholarship, and the student ended up winning it.

(These are the sorts of things that can look good on university applications.) But even if you are not the best calculus student at your school, if you take the initiative to show that you are interested in outside opportunities, and then do you what you can to grab those opportunities, this is something that you can highlight in your own college applications.

Other options include innovative school projects that you may already be working on. Even projects you are working on within your own school with a team of classmates may become useful when you apply to American colleges.

Does your project have larger ramifications, beyond the scope of “my senior year project”? Is your own project something you can take to a higher level, outside the boundaries of your own school? For example, can you propose it to organizations outside your school? This too can show initiative and intellectual curiosity on your applications.

So: definitely study hard. Get the best grades you can. Take the hardest classes you can (without driving yourself crazy). But also consider the ways that you can distinguish yourself as an innovative thinker who will add something to the academic communities of the colleges to which you apply.

Visit Helppo for more information and consultation.

[sstrongstyle]

𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 𝐛𝐲 𝐚 𝐦𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Adam Cole x OC, mentions of Seth Rollins x OC 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: After nearly a decade of being the golden girl of WWE, Adaline Marin wants out. Their ring was no longer home, haunted by her first love and upon reaching her thirties, the face behind "Aspen Glory" wonders if the passion she once had was still ablaze. Instead, she gets sent down to NXT to join the Undisputed Era. The next three hundred and sixty-five days, all captured by cameras for the history books, become a year of revival, reinvention, and realization with her legacy at stake and a new flame from the past emerging. 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: All characters are referred to by their real life names (for the most part) 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: I love feedback! Please send some my way! <3 Very background heavy chapter, no real fun, but more to come. If you’re interested in being added to a tag list, let me know!

CHAPTER THREE.

June 8th, 2019

Adaline couldn't believe that she didn't just agree to this, but agreed for it to be done for an entire year. It wasn't like she cared about being in management's good graces and volunteered to do it, but she somehow got hoodwinked into agreeing to a 365 special on herself. She was the last person in the world to enjoy having cameras on her when she was out of the ring and no longer Aspen Glory. Doing interviews out of character for Adaline felt like pulling teeth. She avoided Total Divas at all costs. Even appearing on stuff like Ride Along and UpUpDownDown was difficult for her.

"Just call me the modern day Undertaker," Adaline rolled her eyes, but she smiled a bit, as she sat down for the camera.

She liked her privacy as much as any other wrestler that had cameras constantly on them, but especially since fans liked to pay extra attention to her life for whatever reason. Adaline attributed it to her once long term relationship with Colby, highly publicized at several points because of whatever dirt sheet rumours and private leaks that were thrown their way. She was quiet at all times, her Wikipedia page only covering her wrestling career, as she had been as vague about her childhood as possible in the past.

Raising an eyebrow at the producer, Craig, a few feet away, Adaline wasn't sure where to begin. "I can just talk about anything?"

Anything but the few things on the "no mention" list. Most were contributed by WWE, but a lot of other things were provided by Adaline. This included her past relationship with Colby outside of kayfabe and especially anything to do with Nikki Bella.

"Start with talking about your career so far. You can name drop companies and non-contracted performers, but only because we'll be editing whatever we don't want aired, anyway."

"Right," she shifted slightly, unsurprised. "Well, I'm turning thirty-two this fall, so this will be into my sixteenth year of doing this thing."

She wasn't exactly sure why the Network executives wanted to give her a 365 special. As far as she knew, most of the episodes were focused on wrestlers overcoming serious injuries or taking the next great step in their careers. Was this what NXT was supposed to be for her?

Craig's expression remained blank, as he pushed his semi rimless glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. "You started at sixteen years old?" His eyes never left the clipboard in front of him, where she assumed was a list of prompts to ask.

"Yeah, I dropped out of high school in the tenth grade and I worked retail and other random part time jobs for two years while training and working local shows in Toronto. Bingo halls, high school gyms, random parking lots, you know," Adaline explained further, still trying to loosen up her tense shoulders. "When I turned eighteen, I dropped everything and moved to the United States because I knew I was limited, wrestling where I was wrestling. I was an illegal alien with no plan and just a few hundred dollars—the dumb indie wrestler dream."

It'd been so long since she looked back at that time in her life. Once embarrassed by her roots, Adaline felt a warm, fuzzy feeling at the pit of her stomach and couldn't ignore the swelling of pride in her heart. She'd come far.

The look on Craig's face induced Adaline to continue, so she took a deep breath. "My early work happened in Pennsylvania, where I fought my way into gyms and I mean fought. It was really hard at that time for a woman to be taken seriously. It was guys like Drew Gulak and Jon—" Although Craig said that she was allowed to name drop non-contracted performers, she was positive that uttering the former Dean Ambrose's name wasn't worth it. "—um, who helped me learn the ropes and culture in that area. Chikara's Wrestling Factory really helped me out and I did stuff for them and other places like CZW. Drew was the head trainer at the CZW at the time and was one of the first mentor figures I had."

If Adaline had to put her money on it, she would have said that Craig was bored out of his damn mind, but then again, he had the same expression on his face ever since he walked into the room. "Did you just stay in the northeast for that portion of your career?"

"I ventured a bit more west as time went by. Definitely lingered around Illinois for a while, since it's where the top independent women's promotions were at the time. Funnily enough, I ended up living in Chicago for about ten years after that." To be with her boyfriend, but she didn't mention that. "I did some time on the west coast, not as much as I wish I did, but I definitely had some fun doing stuff in California and for a split second, Mexico. Three years into working in the States and I somehow, by a miracle, land myself in the locker room of Florida Championship Wrestling."

To this day, Adaline wasn't exactly sure how she got in. The tape that she sent the developmental recruits was god-awful and her tryout promo was more than cringy. However, looking at other people in her recruitment class, it was clear that officials and scouts looked at potential over everything—how well could they be molded into the WWE standard, the ceiling of their entertainment value. She wasn't sure if she should feel flattered that they saw that in her or not or if they simply saw that she could be easily manipulated.

"It was definitely a time down there. Difficult, yes, but I learned so much." Adaline could recall nights crying into her pillow out of frustration for where her training was going and how she was treated by the other talent. Girls often claimed how hard they were judged for being models and dancers before coming to FCW, but it was just as hard being an "arrogant indie schmuck." There weren't many women from back then who could relate to the garbage that she went through.

Craig asked, "Do you think performers then had a harder time in FCW than the recruits down in the PC and NXT today?"

She paused, taking the question in. "Not a harder time, per say, but the process is much smoother now, while being more of a burden. We have the state of the art Performance Center now, compared to that warehouse we used to train in. NXT gets so much more exposure now that it's harder to reinvent yourself at your own pace." Adaline said. "In a way, because NXT is now its own brand, I would say that talent from the FCW era were much more catty in the sense of starting drama and wanting to move up to get on the road with the main roster talent. The divas division back then was a very different culture to the women's locker room here at Full Sail, which is now very welcoming. Everyone wants to help each other, not drag them down."

There was nothing Adaline wanted to do more than expose certain names, but she held herself back. The catty environment, the hazing, the drama and sabotage, was too much for her. She was just glad that she move on from there quickly, as her memories in developmental hurt her as much as they did help her.

"And after FCW?"

Adaline grinned. "Oh, come on. Everyone knows what happened after that."

For the first few years, she was afraid that the only reason she got lumped in with The Shield was because she was Colby's long term girlfriend and that they assumed he would be most comfortable with her as their valet. After all, Adaline wasn't exactly progressing as a character in FCW. She was scared of that, and only being considered as eye candy and a side item for the boys. It took years of understanding from other people and seeing the product in the eye of the executives that they truly must have seen potential in her.

And if all of the above were true anyway, then Adaline made damn sure to prove herself to be otherwise in the past few years.

"My time with The Shield was everything I could ask for and more. I'm glad I spent that portion of my career with those guys, I don't think I could have found my way around without them. We were all definitely kind of lost, but we had each other, and we were really family." She wanted to say are family, but things were different these days.

Adaline talked to Joe the most, at least up until her move to the yellow and black brand. He texted and checked up on her often while she was off TV. Jon came here and there, but things were different. She only kept up with him through Renee, since the man clearly had yet to discover how to reply to a text.

Then, there was Colby.

Things were good the first couple months after the big finale. As fine as they could be, really. They were on different brands leading up to Wrestlemania, which contributed tremendously to the smooth sailing. After the Royal Rumble, though, things got. . . weird and of course, she hadn't known it yet, but it was around the time he started seeing Becky.

"Hey, Becks, some of the girls are going back to my hotel room after the show," Adaline had tapped Becky on the shoulder after catching her outside of the trainer's room during the later hours of Elimination Chamber. "You gonna come and kick my ass in Mario Kart?"

For whatever reason, Becky's expression dropped. "Oh, uh, actually, I'm just gonna head back to mine. Call it in early, y'know?" Tripping over her words, the fluster in her voice was a tad suspicious to Adaline, but she brushed it off.

She'd proceeded with her plans with Pamela and Leah, playing video games into the early morning. Adaline didn't even think of Becky and her obvious excuse until Leah mentioned that she ran into Becky on her way back to her own room.

"It was written all over her face! Someone definitely got lucky that night," Leah mused at the makeup table, two days later at Smackdown. "Who do you think the guy is? She's definitely not one for random hookups."

Adaline knew that she wasn't owed an explanation to Colby's new love life, but she was a little disappointed that she figured it out on her own. The little things, the rumours she heard backstage, all pieced together for her to realize what was going on between the two of them. Maybe Adaline wouldn't have felt so ruffled about it if it wasn't made to be so weird and secretive. She didn't tell anyone what she found out, keeping it to herself until they announced it themselves.

"Stop making excuses for him, I know why he's late." She didn't even look up from her phone, as she waited in the passenger's seat of the group's rental car. "He's with her, right?"

This was at the tail end of The Shield's farewell era in February earlier that year. Though, Adaline was not heavily involved in the storyline as some expected her to be—the escalation to her own Wrestlemania feud had been going on and she had duties to fulfill on the Smackdown brand. She wasn't there for the buildup throughout the month on Raw, but she was able to join the reunion at Fastlane. It was the group's last match together and the group begged personnel to let her be apart of at least the final moments.

Joe and Jon simply exchanged looks with each other in response. They clearly knew about the couple and probably found out from Colby himself. While nobody said anything to Adaline about it, deep down, they all knew that nobody needed to. She knew Colby more than possibly any other person in the world and the two weren't surprised that she figured it all out.

"Right." Jon was the one who chose to break the awkward silence. "Well, he can meet us there. Let's get this show on the road, we got some beautiful people waiting to see my beautiful face at that bar." It felt a little wrong to not wait for Colby on their way to the roster's "Goodbye Shield" party at a local watering hole, but even Joe was sick of waiting and started the engine.

"We had the time of our lives in that initial run. There's just too memories that I'll cherish forever, you know. But, my memory of all time is surprising the fans at Fastlane, when I showed up to accompany the boys to the ring one last time and having that farewell embrace as the show went off air." Adaline quickly blinked back the tears, as sensitive as ever, but she didn't like showing that side of her to the camera. "I swear to god, time seemed to just completely stop for those few minutes. It was out of this world, nothing like it."

The most magical part of wrestling was the crowd, there's no denying that. On the eve of Fastlane, Adaline felt mountains of love and excitement from the fans, knowing that they were witnessing the end of an era. All four of them knew it was the end of an era, in many ways more than one. Adaline and Colby, who were always known as a collective, rather than individually, were now apart and were now moving on from each other. Mox chose to chase his dreams elsewhere, away from the three that became his family. Joe's legacy in the industry was building and building, year by year. They were no longer the people they were in 2012, having finally gotten a taste of wealth and glory after early years of struggle when the four used to share a single hotel room to save costs.

She'll always be grateful for her run with The Shield. At the beginning, she was just happy to be in a main roster storyline. She was just happy to be able to maximize her time with Colby. Beyond that, Jon and Joe became her family. Bickering over who's turn it was to drive after long house shows, getting to know Joe's kids, playing video games in the locker rooms and every hotel room, and nobody leaving the trainer's room until everybody was clear. No one got left behind.

Back then, it was like that. Now? Adaline can't help but feel like she's come to that point, without any of the three by her side for the first time in a decade.

Craig sighed a little too loudly, rolling up his sleeve and glancing at the shiny watch on his wrist. "We're running out of time. We'll touch on your time with The Authority and everything since then for our next interview day, maybe also dig a little deeper into your new alliance with Undisputed Era." Adaline tried not to breathe a sigh of relief, already worn out from the questions. "Last thing. What are your expectations going into NXT, considering all that you've gone through in sixteen years?"

A question that she didn't know the answer to.

"It's good catching up with you. You have your locker number?" Coach Bloom stood up from his chair from across the desk, extending his hand for Adaline to shake.

She nodded, taking his hand. "Yes, sir. I'll be on my way, then."

Being called into the head trainer's office was similar to the feeling of being called into the principal's office and she had more fear in her body than someone who had just arrived should have had. That was the feeling that Bloom gave off to all NXT residents, but she knew that there was always care behind his tough demeanour. He simply wanted to welcome her properly to the PC on her first official day.

Meanwhile, Serena had been sitting to the side of the two of them and she couldn't confine the grin stretching across her face. When they had shook hands, she instead pulled her old friend into a tight embrace.

"I'm so happy you're here," she whispered into her ear, not caring that Bloom was rolling his eyes at them, mumbling about something for the two women to take it outside of his office.

They had only reunited so few times since Serena signed on as a coach for the Centre a year ago and it only made the moment feel so much sweeter. At the very beginning of Adaline's career, Serena had served as such a helpful mentor figure, even going into their short lived time in the FCW women's locker room together. To have their paths intersect once again, at yet another pivotal part in Adaline's life, seemed poetic in a sense.

Adaline walked out of the office, in tow with Serena. "I guess I'll be responding to your drills again, huh?"

"And you better do it damn well," she raised an eyebrow at the younger woman. "I'm still in shock that you're here. They really didn't want you going anywhere else, huh?"

Shrugging in response, the Canadian sighed. "I'm in shock, too—considering that NXT wasn't apart of the plan." Adaline was getting tired complaining about how the wool was pulled over her eyes during her contract negotiations, but it was starting to fully settle in. Meeting the guys in Hunter's office softened the blow. It was time to shut up and accept the facts.

"People everywhere watched what you did all over the world during those two years that you were gone. You don't need this company to be a star, they need you," Serena said. "Have you maybe considered that you're here because you did all you could do on RAW and Smackdown?"

Those words echoed in Adaline's head, as she trudged into the women's locker room.

It had almost ten years since she started this journey in this company and it seemed like almost everybody that started with her had already grown tired of it. Her first road wives, April and Celeste, were long gone. Danielle decided that she was worn out and was gone. Trinity had recently taken time off and wasn't sure when she was coming back to the ring. Saraya, someone who Adaline thought would be wrestling in her sixties, was retired. Even the goddamn Bellas weren't around anymore. Ninety percent of the division from a decade ago was gone. Wasn't she exhausted, too?

She envied women like Becky and Pamela, who were still hungry for more. There were others who had just made the main roster and some down with her in NXT now, who suffered through the struggles of the indies and were still ready to claw up to the top. Adaline wondered where that drive was for her.

Every locker was labelled by ring name, some with more long-standing plates—mainstays like Io Shirai and Bianca Belair. Meanwhile, others simply had a laminated piece of paper slapped on top of the metal. These were the recruits who had yet to prove themselves, the names that Adaline couldn't recognize.

A shiny, new plate shone on the locker that sat at the corner of the room. Aspen Glory, it read, in all of its permanent lustre.

She slammed her gym bag onto the bench, the impact echoing throughout the empty room. The process felt foreign, making a locker home when Adaline spent so many years travelling to probably hundreds of different arenas and treating each space and moment as temporary. She wasn't sure where to begin, as she unlocked the door and was met with a clean, baby blue interior.

There were some basic things that she brought, like extra socks, a water bottle, and shower shoes. Adaline quickly filled the locker up with these contents and it still appeared so barren to her. What the hell else was she supposed to put in it? She shrugged, not thinking too much about it. Then, she heard the door creak open.

Somewhat hidden away from the front of the locker room, Adaline could hear a distinct voice that seemed to be talking to someone over the phone and a smile formed, hoping it was who she thought it was.

"Yeah, that sounds good for dinner. I just got into the PC, I think Cheree's already waiting for me. You know how she is, she's always early. Alright, bye, Johnny, I love you. See you."

A flash of blonde hair only confirmed Adaline's suspicions. It was Candice LeRae, who hummed the melody of a 90s pop song and chewed bubblegum, as she strolled over without noticing the other female in the room. She easily unlocked her name plated locker, which was across from Adaline's, and nearly everything spilled out from it being too full.

She groaned. "Oh, crap," Candice said, trying to chase a bottle of dry shampoo that had begun rolling across the floor, only to be met with Adaline's bemused expression.

"Hi."

"Hey," Candice replied with a grin, a little perplexed.

Almost instantaneously, they pulled each other into a hug. Knowing that she would be diving head first into the unknown, Adaline was aware that she couldn't navigate all on her own. The two Breezango idiots were too busy figuring their own things out and she couldn't voice her anxiety to her new stable mates, wanting to give off a confident face. There were only so many people that Adaline could turn to outside of them, so she gave Candice a heads up that she was now reporting to the Performance Centre.

Adaline bent down and reached out for the lavender can for her shorter friend, passing it to her. "Your shit's a mess, girl."

"Yours will be, too. Give it a month," she rolled her eyes and peeked over her shoulder at Adaline's belongings on the bench. "You're moving in today?! I honestly did not expect to see you here so soon."

"I told you that I landed a few days ago, didn't I? I've been in meetings all weekend," Adaline replied with a groan. She had only been in Orlando for such a short amount of time and the amount of work and settling she had to do was taxing. The NXT tapings hadn't even begun, yet.

Candice said, "Yeah, it doesn't really slow down for another week or so. You'll love it here, I promise." As everyone else had promised Adaline, who clearly wasn't convinced.

The blonde turned around and put the can back into its place—if it even had one, in that mess of a locker—and began rummaging through her personal possessions. Candice let a out a soft a-ha! when she found what she was looking for at the back of the space, a Minnie Mouse hairbrush. Adaline chuckled softly at the sight and turned around, closing her own locker.

"Are you off to go workout?"

"Yeah, Cheree's wanted to get some cardio in. Any more meetings today?" Candice replied.

Adaline shook her head. "No, just moving in." She gestured to her gym bag and locker.

"Well, while you're here, the taping schedule is posted up by the west wing double doors, you know, the ones to the main gym. We can check it out together. Actually, would your name even be on there?" Candice thought to herself, considering that she was one of the few people who were made aware of Adaline's presence. The taping schedule wasn't usually subject to the change unless there was an injury, but producers were known edited the cards last minute to accommodate random returns and debuts before, at least once the talent found out.

The woman in question just shrugged in response. "Beats me. It doesn't hurt to look, right?"

"Then, we can check out the travel schedule. Ooh, I hope you're coming with us to the midwest loop at the end of the month!" Candice became giddy. "We'll hit the road together, no men! I wish we got to do that more often when you were in Cali."

Adaline didn't get the opportunity to do so often, but she loved wrestling in The Golden State and especially in PWG. When she worked with them in the past, she always travelled and hung out with Candice.

"I don't think so, but probably the next one?" she shrugged.

The two began chatting more for the next few minutes, mostly about Adaline settling in and her new house. Always the lazy type, she'd been procrastinating and the boxes in her home were left untouched, despite her promising herself that she would get it all out. The small talk about something other than wrestling for once settled the restlessness in Adaline, a small distract of sorts.

It wasn't like she disliked talking about wrestling, rather it was all that seemed to be on her mind for the past while since Wrestlemania. Somehow, it was the first time Adaline really took notice of that, considering she lived, breathed, and ate wrestling for the past sixteen years of her life. A part of her felt worrisome for the sudden awareness of it, wondering it had any relation to her other career concerns.

Unfortunately, the brief, sweet wrestling-free moment was cut short when the locker room door slammed open.

Everyone knew who Shayna Baszler was, or at least, every woman in the company did. After all, the current NXT Women's Champion was probably next in line to overtake your spot in the animal kingdom. Management wanted to push her to lead the division once she would inevitably leave NXT and become a box office draw for all of the big pay-per-views and tours and media.

Some said that Shayna was one of, if not, the most intimidating women on the NXT roster and bore a vicious gaze. Even upon entering the locker room that was nearly empty, her presence demanded attention. All eyes drew to her so naturally and so quickly as they tore away from her out of fear.

"Out of my way," was all she had to say to Adaline, not even flinching at the sight of the veteran and former women's champion.

Adaline zoned out for a moment, completely baffled by the attitude that she was just given. She couldn't help but scoff, trying to process the disrespect that was being shown to her.

She narrowed her eyes at Shayna. "The hell did you just say to me?"

In between them, Candice just sighed. It seemed like that she wanted to end what was going to be an ugly dispute early, but something held her back. Adaline hoped it wasn't out of intimidation by the former mixed martial artist.

Shayna stared back at the woman in front of her. "You think you can just waltz in here and act like you got this brand on lock? They get tired of you on the main roster and Japan couldn't offer you enough money, so you come down here to fuck around?"

Adaline wanted to find out how Shayna found out that she was going to be here, but that wasn't the main concern of hers. Her jaw nearly dropped to the ground, hearing Shayna's words. Clearly, she didn't like her or some rumours already began to float around backstage. Regardless, Adaline was already on the bad side of the de facto locker room leader.

With the fury running through her body, though, she didn't give a damn.

"I'm going to say this once, so you better listen up," Shayna began, "I think you're entitled. I think that you've ridden on the coattails of your ex-boyfriend for your entire career. So, I don't like you. Plain and simple."

"You think you know me?" Adaline's voice began to rise, but Shayna held up a hand and didn't let her finish.

She said, "Maybe for you, being here is like a little vacation before someone like Ashley Flair gets injured and creative will need another spoiled brat to bury their women's division with on Smackdown. For some of us, NXT is our entire lives. Don't mess that up for us."

With that, Shayna bumped Adaline's shoulder when she walked away to the other side of the room and behind a wall to another area of lockers. All she could hear after was the stomping of boots and the slamming of a metal door open. Meanwhile, she was in complete shock of the conversation that just happened, wondering if she just imagined it.

Looking at Candice's sheepish expression, though, it confirmed that Shayna Baszler did indeed strut right up to Adaline and cussed out one of the scariest warnings that the latter had ever heard in her life.

"Honestly, she gives that talk to every new girl," Candice said in a low voice, as she ushered Adaline out of the locker room.

"You can't be serious," Adaline shot back, still worked up over what happened. It took all the will in her body to not barge right back in and swing at Shayna's smug face.

The target was now on her back and she had yet to even step into the yellow brand's ring. If she was being honest, it was definitely a wake up call to where she was now and the expectations weighing down on her shoulders. She didn't know what she was supposed to do. She didn't even want to be here. Adaline wouldn't admit it out loud, but she was terrified for the first time in years.

[thelightxwithin]

@pomeqraniqht | closed starter | Lily x Sheridan

It was over 8 years ago since she had last seen Sheridan. Lily did not have many friends in high school, but she did have one. One she felt safe with, one she had fun with and one she went back to whenever there was trouble. Trouble back in the day hardly meant anything. Boy stuff, hook-ups, break-ups, you name it. And then in senior year, things grew particularly dark. For some reason, and Lily was not telling her friend, she pulled back completely. She skipped classes, disappeared with the 'wrong' crowd and senselessly hooked up with different boys. She completely ghosted Sheridan, started using drugs and then went missing, making her a topic in the school for months.

Since then her life had been a train and ironically, she ended up at this point in her life. Her fingers were curled around an envelope as she sat on the edge of a roof on a tall building in the middle of New York City, gazing at the city. Her other hand holding a picture and a name: Sheridan Clarke. Miles and miles away from Pennsylvania, she pulled a hit card on her former best friend. The chances of this happening were close to none, and yet here she was, catching wind on top of a building, being nothing. She had to figure out how to go about this.

It took her the night to read in on everything before she packed her stuff to visit another state. How in the hell this woman still lived in that same stupid old town in Pennsylvania was something Lily could not wrap her head around. A shit ton of money and still stuck. Well, she should not say anything, because she was just as stuck. And as she arrived in that crappy town she had tried to forget about, she went straight up to Sheridan's place and tried not to think about her parents that lived around the corner.

Dressed in a black hoodie and dark skinny jeans with a 9mm gun strapped to the back them, she looked the part as she picked the lock of Sheridan's home. She stepped in quietly, but stopped movement when she laid eyes on the blonde woman. Her stomach turned and a nauseating feeling ran through her. She was there, she could easily do it, but anyone knowing her could already safely assume she was not here to kill Sheridan. She was an incredible sniper and for that, this woman was not a hard target. She would not be roaming around a crime scene if she didn't have to. Nope, she had chosen something out of character. "Sheridan" Lily turned the corner, her hoody down, revealing her messy red hair. Both hands were held up in the air, trying to show she was not a direct harm (even though she broke in and was presumed dead, ah well). "We need to talk"