#¦ letters from the uniter ¦ inbox call

[danieyells]

Thank you for sharing the tdb affinity lines! I know I won't be naturally getting any of these for ten years (if the games even still around by then) lol.

I was wondering if you could share any interesting lines of Taiga's? No pressure tho! It's just after seeing some of his lines from other people, he seems to have a bigger role in the story and I'm curious if any of his lines give any more clues to the situation on hand. Also would be interesting to see if he genuinely starts caring for mc besides wanting to like. Eat her for lunch lol.

It's no problem! And yeah that's part of why I wanna share them--getting the units to high enough affinity is a pain and to even see any of the home screen dialogues you need an SR or SSR, which means good luck with the gacha buckaroo.

YES TAIGA MY BELOVED. he's my favorite behind maybe Towa. Chances are if you've seen the one line you've seen the only one referring to that, although there is one more that may be related? But it might be general. As for caring for the PC, this is a joseimuke so. The characters will always love you more and more with time. And Taiga most certainly does haha doesn't prevent the hunger from rising up though. friendly reminder to feed your Taiga!

Hello: (the first time the game is opened after that character is set as home screen NPC. Only happens once per day, unless the character is switched out and back.)

"...Who're you? Don't pop up out of nowhere like that.  Wouldn't want me to shoot you by mistake, would you?"

You've Got Mail: (whenever there's something in the inbox, usually Arena rewards)

"Huh? You got a letter. If it's for me just reply for me, yeah?"

Default: (requires no affinity, has no time constraints)

"What are you again? A middle school student? A transfer student? Got it, an honor student! Gyahaha! I'm never gonna remember that!"

"Heads or tails, even or odd, on or off... It's all so fucking tedious!"

"Playing with these morons is exhausting... Lulu gets all mad if I win too much..."

"Don't talk to me. I feel like shit."

"That smells amazing... Shit, where's it coming from?"

please feed your taiga.

Affinity 1: (between 5am and 11am)

"It's too early for your bleating. Shut your trap unless you wanna get abducted."

once again, welcome to sinostra's house of human trafficking--

Affinity 2: (between 11am and 4pm)

"That dealer sucks. He's been here the longest? Why should I give a shit? Fire him."

what the fuck is tenure?

Affinity 3: (between 4pm and 8pm)

"You wanna know what kinda meat this is? Anomaly meat. What else would it be? ...Who the fuck're you again?"

he recognizes you enough to ask 'again'! progress! also I guess he almost exclusively eats anomaly meat.

Affinity 4: (between 8pm and 5am)

"Oops. I lost all the money Lulu gave me. Better make a run for it before he notices."

Affinity 5: (between 8pm and 5am)

"I'm bored... Hey, you over there. Come play five finger filet with me. Gimme your left hand."

five finger fillet, also called the knife game, is when you put your hand on a table and stab the gaps between your fingers with a knife in a sequence! Of course, you can also play it with someone else's hand, as Taiga is suggesting. Obviously stabbing the hand being played with means you lose. Taiga's chibi plays it when he's idle!

Affinity 6: (between 4pm and 8pm)

"They nabbed one of ours? You guys aren't toddlers. Deal with it yourselves."

it's fascinating that there's such a faction divide within Sinostra that members of Taiga's side get abducted by Romeo's, and probably vice versa. And I bet Taiga doesn't care about any of this. Or at the very least it's not that serious to him.

Affinity 7: (between 11am and 4pm)

"Gambling and shoot-outs are pretty much the same thing. Morons who panic mess up and get dead. Gyahaha!"

Affinity 8: (between 4pm and 8pm)

"None of you morons have any flair for the table. Lulu needs to raise the minimum bet already."

isn't it your casino too. . .or even specifically it's in your name. . .can't you raise the minimum bet too. . . .

Affinity 9: (between 8pm and 5am)

"You're a real smooth talker, huh? Don't remember anything you said though. Ciao!"

your seduction attempt didn't fail because of a bad roll, it failed because taiga failed a perception check lmao. . . .

Affinity 10: (between 10pm and midnight)

"Can't sleep? Sit over there. I'll deal the cards."

He'll play with you until you fall asleep. . .or maybe he'll sit around making ASMR card shuffling noises until you doze off.

Affinity 11: (between 5am and 11am)

"...I'm not gonna play today. I'm sleeping. I don't care if the place is burning down— don't wake me up."

fun fact, he's making this face when he says this lol

Affinity 12: (between 11am and 4pm)

"What's that guy's name again? You know, the one who's gonna become a judge or a cop or something. ...Whatever, I'll just forget it again."

at least he was interested in knowing for a second! maybe he'll give him a nickname.

Affinity 13: (between 4pm and 8pm)

"I spy, with my little eye, a tasty-looking kitty-cat.... Come over here so I can pat you. ...Nah, changed my mind. Scram."

maybe it's just my interpretation but I like to think he's hungry and he saw you and he mindlessly tried to lure you closer because he wanted to eat you, then came to his senses and told you to go away so he wouldn't do something stupid like trying to eat a human. . . .

Affinity 14: (between 5am and 11am)

"I'm starving... You, get my usual. It's breakfast time."

i wonder what his usual is. what's a good breakfast anomaly? Dagravnen? Latte? Pompillar to keep the doctor away?

Affinity 15: (between 5am and 11am)

"How does Lulu always have so much energy this early in the morning? It it 'cause of all that expensive water he drinks?"

Affinity 16: (between 11am and 4pm)

"Stop talking. I don't care."

Affinity 17: (between 10pm and midnight)

"You going to bed already? Aren't you a good little kitty-cat. Whatever, do what you want."

he'd rather you stay up with him but he's not attached enough to try and make you stay up. . .yet.

Affinity 18: (between 8pm and 5am)

"You want a surefire way to win at the table? Doesn't exist. You just gotta keep playing."

Affinity 19: (between 10pm and midnight)

"Hey, go warm up my bed for me. What do you mean how? Get in there, dumbass."

either you're gonna get fucked or you're gonna get disappointed when he really just wanted a warm spot that smells nice to lie in and he makes you leave after he gets in bed. Or maybe he'll let you sleep in the bed with him and use you as a little body pillow!

I'd also like to add that he's using the "adult" expression so uh. leaning more towards you're gonna get fucked here.

Affinity 20: (between 5am and 11am)

"Where you going, kitty-cat? Class? You don't need to go there. I got something more fun in mind for us."

the expression used here is once again simply labelled "adult" so. . . . No going to class and no going to sleep.

Affinity 21: (between 11am and 4pm)

"That's it, kitty-cat. I feel like my luck'll change if you're around."

Affinity 22: (between 4pm and 8pm)

"I'm starving... This isn't enough... I want more... More..."

they've gotta stop letting him go so long without eating because he clearly loses his mind if he doesn't eat enough meat.

Affinity 23: (between 8pm and 5am)

"I'm the only one who sees how fucked we are. But he won't believe me. So just let it all burn down—I don't give a shit anymore."

if Taiga sees the future or knows the future because of timeline/loop shit, then that Taiga doesn't seem to actively care much about being Captain or doing his job makes sense. He knows that if nothing changes everything's going to fall apart anyway so there's no point in trying. We don't really know what his stigma does either--in fact, his "good luck" could be that he can see and react to future events, so he knows things like what cards will be drawn and such. But he's getting tired of everything always going so bad no mater what he does in response to what he sees. And Romeo(? it doesn't say who he's telling about how bad things are getting) isn't helping to make changes. . .so he's just giving up. But now you're here, maybe you're different somehow. Maybe somehow you're an outlier in this timeline. Maybe injuring you was on purpose to change something in the future he saw. Maybe that's why he's telling you about the spy. . . .of course this is all speculation. Until we learn what his stigma does or what he means by 'ditch this future' then. . .all speculation. But there is a wickhive post that someone can see the future. And the more I think about it the more I wonder if it's Taiga. (also because i'm sure someone will point this out, the wording 'let it all burn down' is specific to the English dialogue, so it's not a callback to the pre-prequel sequence where the school is on fire.)

Affinity 24: (between 10pm and midnight)

"If you don't like pain then quit flailing around. I'm getting a taste of you, so close your eyes and shut up."

welcome back to the torture chair! You're probably getting cut like a piece of good meat before he just sinks his teeth into you! Your hands and legs are bound and he's not going to let you get away without eating at least a little of your flesh, so suck it up. That or scream and hope somebody comes to rescue you. . .but the desire to eat the pc never goes away. Most likely because he just wants to eat fresh meat in general and the more he likes someone and the more they hang around him the more he wants to eat them. . .although I assume he unlearned it and now you're here and he just can't help himself. . .if they did consume demons to become ghouls, I bet you're the only thing short of maybe Romeo that'll taste anywhere near as good as that demon did.

Affinity 25(max): (no time constraints)

"You're not getting away from me, kitten. You're here till death do us part, whether you like it or not."

oh and also you're married. y'know in case you wanted to do that. or even if you didn't. you don't have a choice in the matter.

Spring: (March-May) (between 5am and 11am)

"(Yawn) Man, why am I so tired today... Someone spike my food?"

'hey did someone drug the anomaly they brought me to eat so that i would get sleepy if i ate it' baby the weather's just getting warm you're sleepy because spring is cozy

(between 11am and 4pm)

"What? Cherry blossoms? Is it that time of year already? Man, that snuck up on me."

(between 4pm and 8pm)

"Fuck it, I'm taking a nap. Come over here and be my pillow."

(between 8pm and 5am)

"What's with that vacant look on your face? You need more excitement in your life? Come over here, I'll play with you."

Summer: (June-August) (between 5am and 11am)

"Too hot... Hey, I want my breakfast on ice. They got tons of it over on Jin's turf, go nab some."

hey uh why do you remember Jin by name. like i know Jin's short enough of a name to not need a nickname but also you remember not only Jin but where he lives and how cold it is? Then again you started in the same year, maybe Taiga remembers all the third years since he's known them for two years?

(between 11am and 4pm)

"Why don't we make a giant pool in Sinostra? It's so hot here. I'll put up the cash... Wait no, I used it all yesterday."

YOU COULD HAVE A NICE POOL IF YOU WERE MORE RESPONSIBLE WITH YOUR MONEY.

(between 4pm and 8pm)

"Quiz time—where's Lulu going all dolled up on a stinking hot day like this? Answer— he's cheating on me! Gyahaha!"

THEY ARE FEEDING MY SHIP WHAT DO YOU MEAN TAIGA JOKES THAT THEY'RE DATING. they have such awful married couple who hate each other but also love each other energy.

(between 8pm and 5am)

"Shower? I don't wanna... Shut up and strip me already then."

man he has no fucks to give that you'd be taking his clothes off and seeing him naked huh. . . .

Autumn: (September-November) (between 5am and 11am)

"Good weather for sports? You get a lot more exercise fighting to the death. Gyahaha!"

how frequently do you think he fights to the death. . .probably a lot less than he used to. poor baby needs his deadly enrichment. Also the fact that he finds the idea of fighting to the death fun explains why he smiles when he takes damage in combat lol

(between 11am and 4pm)

"That looks tasty. Gimme a bite."

so given one of the most common autumn foods in japan is like sweet potatoes(and also the pc probably doesn't eat raw anomaly meat) I assume this means he does eat normal food, just prefers to eat raw meat especially from anomalies? Either way, i am once again remind you to feed your Taiga.

(between 4pm and 8pm)

"We're going out. I've been eating more lately and these guys are too slow. Gonna go stock up."

you've been eating more lately? because it's autumn? what are you, a bear about to go into hibernation?? also he's taking you grocery shopping i guess. or anomaly hunting. . . .

(between 8pm and 5am)

"Watch your back. Way easier to jump people when it gets dark so early. Gyahaha!"

i'd like to think he stuck his gun under your chin and snuck up behind you from in the dark here lol

Winter: (December-February) (between 5am and 11am)

"You trying to pull my covers off? Wanna die?"

my boy does NOT like being cold. Or getting up in the morning. So winter mornings? just leave him in bed.

(between 11am and 4pm)

"I wanna go nab some food from Harry's place, but it's too cold for that shit..."

(between 4pm and 8pm)

"Oh, I got an idea. I just gotta use someone as a punching bag to warm up. Hey you guys, stand over there."

Taiga beating the shit out of his own men because the exercise will keep him warm. . .why do people side with you again?

(between 8pm and 5am)

"I don't like the cold... Come on, come be my hot water bottle! Let me cuddle up to you!"

Getting all tangled up with Taiga under his blankets while he shivers because Sinostra is in a desert and deserts in the winter can be FUCKING COLD especially at night. It gets cold and he's just the whiniest little meow-meow. Until he gets hungry.

His birthday: (October 16th)

"Huh? Whose birthday? Mine? Gyahaha! Totally forgot about it! Grazie!"

it's okay Taiga, I forget my birthday too most of the time.

Your birthday:

"Is it your birthday today? That little twerp told me. Okay, you can take one thing from my room."

Ritsu fuckin doxed you? is that legal? Doesn't Taiga's room have like a pile of coins in it. . .is one coin 'one thing' or is 'the pile of coins' one thing. . .then again the background is AI generated so. not really sensible and doesn't say much about him sadly. considering taiga's described as spending his money wastefully I assume he buys a lot of random things he doesn't need or use--then again he probably spends most of it on gambling. But considering he's offering you anything out of his room, I assume there's a lot of nice stuff in there.

New Years: (January 1st)

"You gonna go skipping off to a shrine together just to get your fortune told? That's dumb. Here, let me guess what it'll say—you'll have an okay year."

the fact that he guesses your fortune is a tiny piece on the 'taiga can see the future' evidence pile but it's a piece nonetheless

Valentine's Day: (February 14th)

"Is that for me? Sure I'll take it, but it better be edible."

i was gonna say 'has he never gotten valentine's day chocolates before?' but i remembered that he probably doesn't really remember if he has so. this is probably his general reaction to gifts lol 'is it money and if not can i eat it'

White Day: (March 14th)

"What's that expectant look on your face? Lulu was harping on about mimosas or something before. That what you want?"

of course he doesn't know what white day is lol but he does remember that Romeo had something tasty!

April Fool's Day: (April 1st)

"I'm gonna die soon, you know? And I'm taking Lulu with me. ...Gotcha! Gyahaha!"

wait you didn't remember white day but you remembered april fool's day? maybe someone tried to prank him first lol remember guys, suicide is not an appropriate april fool's prank!

Halloween: (October 31st)

"Trick or treat. Where you gonna put your chips, kitty-cat?"

I think if you're trick or treating then they're supposed to decide if you get the trick or the treat. . .but it seems more like Taiga to give you something that could be a trick or a treat lolol russian roulette is a totally acceptable halloween party game right? of course!

Christmas: (December 25th)

"Come on Santa kitty, tie a ribbon 'round yourself and get over here. Gyahaha!"

at least he knows what gift he wants! unfortunately you don't know what for but based on his expression you may not get eaten. . .depending on your definition--

Idle: (about 20 seconds without interacting with the game) (below 13 affinity)

"...This is boring. I'm outta here."

(13 affinity and above)

"Are you done yet? I'm hungry over here."

Absent: (logging in for the first time in 2 or more days?)

"Long time no see! You decide to ditch this future too? Sorry I'm not dead yet."

AND HERE"S THE LINE THAT'S CAUSING SO MUCH SPECULATION. . .what does that even mean Taiga. . .what do you know, what have you seen. . .and can we fix this future instead of leaving it to rot--

UH. YEAH. I THINK I'VE SAID ENOUGH HAHA. . .everything Taiga says is so. . . ./gestures weakly) IT REALLY DOES SEEM LIKE MORE IS HAPPENING THAN YOU REALIZE RIGHT??? The game's still so early on we probably won't learn for a very long time lol. . . . But, yeah. Taiga definitely loves you--and lusts after you. As his affinity goes up, he asks "who are you" a lot less, did you notice? He starts to remember and just say "kitty cat" and "kitten", because that's who you are and he can remember that. So far the only people he remembers are Romeo, Hyde, and Jin it seems. And you.

[ssa-dado]

12 - Goodbyes & Partners

Aaron Hotchner x bau!fem!reader Genre: uuum you tell me Summary: The BAU team discovers that Hotch had a former partner, a brilliant female profiler who left the unit abruptly. Gideon reveals you were one of the best, sparking curiosity among the team. As they dig deeper, they uncover your impressive credentials, speculation grows about your close relationship with Hotch, with theories ranging from unspoken feelings to complicated personal dynamics. Warnings: none - or at least that's what I think - who would have thought. Word Count: 7.1k Dado's Corner: OKKKKK let's gooo! First time meeting Aaron's children the team, who's excited?! Peter canonically the most hated character of this fic. This chapter, like many others in this fic, has a sister chapter coming up in exactly 7 hours. After leaving you with your mouth dry yesterday, I figured it’s only fair to keep the anticipation going! Let me know what you think of the team! Also if you have ideas for this particular fic, my inbox is opened, feel free to leave as many suggestions as you would like!

previous chapter ; masterlist

No one at the BAU was ever good with goodbyes.

It was a team built on unspoken bonds and shared burdens, a group of people who had seen the darkest parts of the world and each other. For all the skills they had in reading human behavior, they were never quite able to express what it felt like to lose one of their own. Words often felt inadequate, insufficient to capture the weight of what they’d been through together: the late nights, the close calls, the quiet moments that held more significance than any case file.

Goodbyes were messy, uncomfortable, and often avoided altogether.

Rossi had been the first to leave, and even though Hotch knew he had been restless for months, it still came as a shock. One day, Rossi was there, with his dry humor and his endless stories, and the next, his office was empty, the walls bare, as if he had never really been there at all, if it weren’t for Gideon’s call, he would have never reached out. Only later he left behind a brief note, neatly folded on Hotch’s desk, with a few lines about “needing a change” and “time to start the next chapter.” It was classic Rossi: vague, detached, like he didn’t want to make a fuss. Hotch had read the note a multitude of times, hoping to find some hidden message, but there was nothing. No explanation, no real goodbye. Just Rossi, slipping away on his own terms, halfway to his next adventure before anyone had a chance to ask him to stay.

Then the most recent was Gideon’s. After Boston, after the case that had broken him in ways none of them had fully understood, Gideon’s silence was deafening. Hotch remembered the last time he’d seen him, sitting alone in his office, staring blankly at the case files scattered across his desk. Gideon hadn’t said a word, hadn’t offered any explanation or farewell. He just looked up, his eyes hollow and distant, and Hotch knew that whatever had been holding him together had finally snapped. By the next morning, Gideon was gone, his desk cleared out, his badge left behind like a discarded shell of who he once was. There were no letters, no phone calls, just the ghost of a man who had once been a legend in the field but was now too broken to even say goodbye.

Both of those men had left him with new responsibilities: Rossi’s departure had made him a lead profiler, and Gideon’s exit had eventually thrust him into the role of Unit Chief. Though Hotch had always been an ambitious person, the way he’d earned his promotions often felt like a double-edged sword, each step up tinged with a sense of loss. It was as if there was an unspoken rule that he could never fully enjoy his achievements without bearing the weight of the absences that had made them possible, leaving him to wonder if success always had to come at such a cost.

Hotch had never mastered the art of letting people go. The departures always felt like tearing pages out of a story that had been written together, each blank space a reminder of what had been lost.

But you, you were different.

You were the only one who was extraordinary at goodbyes.

It had been a few months after his wedding when you made your announcement. The BAU had just wrapped up a grueling case, the kind that left everyone drained and hollowed out, and Hotch had retreated to his desk, hoping for a moment of peace. You had come in, hesitant at first, fiddling with the bracelet on your wrist - a nervous habit he’d come to recognize over the years. You took a breath before speaking, your voice laced with the kind of excitement that only comes when you’re standing on the edge of something new and terrifying.

“I got an offer,” you said, your words tumbling out in a rush. “To teach. It’s a position I never even dreamed of. The first-ever Behavioral Sciences courses, all across Europe. They want me to lead them.”

Hotch remembered the way his heart sank when you first told him, though he tried his best to keep his expression neutral, hiding the ache beneath a composed facade. He had always known you were destined for more; your talent, insight, and your relentless passion for sharing knowledge had set you apart from the very beginning. You were the team’s quiet genius, not just in profiling but in connecting dots others couldn’t see, blending psychology, philosophy, and the art of communication into something extraordinary.

You laid out all the details with an excitement that was hard to contain: Rome, London, Paris - places you had only glimpsed on rare vacations now calling on you to bring your expertise to their prestigious institutions. It was a perfect fit, a job seemingly tailored just for you. Your fluency in multiple languages, from Italian and French to German and Swedish, made you uniquely qualified to teach across Europe, bridging cultural gaps with the ease of someone who had spent their life immersed in the subtleties of language and human behavior.

It was everything you had worked for, and everything you deserved. Hotch knew that it was fate, really - that someone with your knowledge, your intellect, and your gift for teaching would eventually end up in front of a classroom, shaping the next generation of minds. But knowing that didn’t make it any easier to swallow. You were finally getting the recognition you deserved, but for Hotch, it felt like the beginning of the end of something he hadn’t been ready to let go of.

Hotch had listened intently, though the tightness in his chest made it hard to breathe. He could see the flicker of conflict in your eyes, the way you glanced at him, searching for something: approval, reassurance, maybe even permission to take this leap.

You had always been strong, but this decision was monumental, and Hotch could sense your need for his support. As you spoke, your words came out in a rush, filled with excitement yet underlined with an uncertainty that made his heart ache. When you finally paused, breathless and hopeful, he forced a smile, pushing back the knot of emotions building inside him.

“You always told me I should find my happiness,” he said softly, echoing the words that had once helped pull him through some of his darkest times. “Maybe it’s time you did the same.”

He watched as your expression softened, the tension in your shoulders easing just a little. Hotch could feel you on the verge of saying something more, something that lingered just beneath the surface. But instead, you nodded, your smile bittersweet, tinged with an understanding that broke his heart just a little more.

“Thank you, Aaron,” you whispered, your voice so quiet, yet so full of sincerity it nearly undid him. “I needed to hear that.”

And he knew, in that instant, that his words had given you what you needed. But the cost of that comfort weighed heavily on him. This was it - this was the moment he had been dreading. The goodbye that followed was simple, yet it carried a depth of emotion that neither of you dared to fully express. There were no tears, no grand declarations, just the two of you standing in the bullpen, surrounded by the echoes of shared memories and silent understanding.

When you moved to hug him, Hotch felt the familiar warmth of your presence wrap around him. For a second, he held on tighter than he should have, his hands lingering at your back, memorizing the way you felt against him. He wasn’t sure how long he held you there, but it wasn’t long enough. It would never be long enough. The realization hit him hard, this might be the last time he’d feel the steady comfort of you by his side, the last time he could call you his partner in the same way.

“I’m going to miss you,” you said, your voice thick with the emotions you’d worked so hard to keep at bay. And though Hotch tried to respond, his throat tightened, and all he could do was nod, hoping that somehow you’d understand all the things he couldn’t find the words for.

“Don’t forget to write,” you had said, pulling back with a small, teasing smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. It was a half-joke, half-promise, but Hotch had clung to it.

When you finally pulled away, it felt like something inside him had shifted, like a piece of him had gone with you. He watched as you gave him one last, lingering look before walking out of the building, the door closing softly behind you. The silence that followed was suffocating. Hotch stood there for a long time, staring at the space where you had been, already feeling the weight of your absence settle deep in his bones.

You both knew phone calls wouldn’t work - the time zones were unforgiving, and your schedules were a mess of lectures, seminars, cases and travel. Trying to coordinate would only lead to missed calls and voicemails, the kind of slow drift that ends in silence. But letters, letters were something else. They were tangible, personal, a way of staying connected even when the rest of the world pulled you in different directions.

Your first letter arrived a few weeks after you left. Hotch had found it waiting on his desk one morning, nestled between case files and memos, and just seeing your name scrawled across the envelope made something in his chest tighten.

For Hotch, the idea of writing to you felt right. It reminded him of the hours you had spent together in the bullpen, sitting across from each other as you filed endless reports and bantered over cases. Your handwriting, always in blue ink - never black, because you said it felt too clinical - was something he had come to cherish. He still remembered the way you had teased him, claiming that black ink was for lawyers and pessimists, and he had laughed, knowing you were right.

He opened it carefully, unfolding the pages with the same kind of reverence he might have shown an old photograph. The letter was filled with details of your new life abroad: how strange it was to be teaching in a classroom instead of chasing down criminals, how the students were eager but occasionally overwhelmed by the intensity of your lessons. You wrote about your tiny apartment in Rome, the cobblestone streets that twisted like a labyrinth, and the late nights spent sipping espresso as you prepared your lectures.

But it wasn’t just the big moments you shared; it was the little things, too. The frustration of dealing with Italian bureaucracy, the odd comfort of hearing a student quote something you’d said in class, and the quiet evenings when you missed the familiar hum of the BAU. Every word was laced with your personality: your humor, your insight, the way you saw the world with a blend of sharp intellect and boundless curiosity. Hotch read that first letter at least a dozen times, absorbing every detail, and when he finally put it down, he felt closer to you than he had in weeks.

Writing back to you became a ritual for Hotch, a quiet refuge at the end of his long, exhausting days. Once the cases were filed, the team had gone home, and the dim glow of his office lamp was the only light left in the bullpen, he would settle at his desk, the silence his only company. The act of writing to you felt both familiar and soothing, a tether to a time when you sat just across from him, lost in your own thoughts yet always attuned to his.

Hotch’s letters were a blend of work updates, personal reflections, and glimpses into the ever-changing dynamics of the team. He would tell you about the latest cases they were working on, the challenges that kept him up at night, and the way the BAU had evolved in your absence. You were always keen to know how the team was adjusting, and Hotch made sure to keep you in the loop, filling you in on the new agents who had joined and the unique personalities that now made up the BAU.

He told you about Derek Morgan, the first agent to join after you left. A former Chicago police officer with years of experience in the bomb squad, Morgan brought a fierce determination and a protective instinct that quickly made him an invaluable asset. But there was also a softer side to Morgan, one that emerged when he talked about his past or reached out to support his teammates. In many ways, his drive and unwavering loyalty reminded Hotch of you, and he knew you would have liked him.

Next came Penelope Garcia, the flamboyant technical analyst whose quirky style and unmatched brilliance with computers brought a new energy to the team. She was a ray of light in the otherwise dark world of profiling, and Hotch often found himself amused by her unique way of looking at the world. Despite her unconventional approach, Garcia was a genius with technology, hacking into systems with ease and always finding the crucial piece of information that made the difference. Hotch thought of how you would have loved her spirit, her warmth, and her unfiltered way of connecting with others.

Then there was Jennifer “JJ” Jareau, the new media liaison who had quickly proven herself to be on of the most important resources in the team. JJ was calm under pressure, compassionate, and fiercely dedicated to the team’s mission. She was a bridge between the BAU and the outside world, handling the delicate task of managing public perception and dealing with victims’ families with grace and empathy. Hotch admired her poise and her quiet strength, qualities he often found himself describing to you, knowing you’d appreciate how she balanced the team’s intense work with her soft-spoken resilience.

And then there was Dr. Spencer Reid, a young genius with an IQ of 187. Gideon had brought him in, recognizing his potential - just as he did with you back then - even though Reid was still so green, fresh out of the academy with a mind that worked on an entirely different level. Hotch wrote about Reid’s unique brilliance, the way he could recite obscure facts at lightning speed, and notice patterns no one else could see. But he also told you about Reid’s vulnerabilities, when his intellect clashed with his emotional sensitivity. Reid’s innocence and earnestness were tempered by the heavy weight of the cases, and Hotch often found himself mentoring him.

Lastly, Hotch wrote about Emily Prentiss, the newest addition to the team, an experienced agent with a knack for languages and a drive that matched his own. Prentiss was smart, resourceful, and relentless in her pursuit of justice, and her multilingual skills often put her in the center of complex international cases. She was bold, unafraid to speak her mind, and determined to prove herself, even when the odds were against her. Hotch appreciated her dedication and saw echoes of your tenacity in her work ethic, her unyielding desire to understand every angle of a case.

As Hotch became Unit Chief, he had worked hard to build a cohesive team, one that felt more like a family than just a group of agents. He made it a priority to cultivate an environment where each member’s strengths could shine, creating an expanded, stable unit where everyone had their own area of expertise: Morgan with tactical support, Garcia with technical prowess, JJ with media relations, Reid with his unparalleled intellect, Prentiss with her international insight and Gideon – just being Gideon.

It was a dynamic mix, and though the team had grown and evolved, Hotch never stopped missing your presence among them. You were the missing piece, the partner who had helped lay the foundation for what the BAU had become.

But his letters were not just filled with work updates; they were laced with personal moments, too. Hotch shared glimpses of his life outside the office, the small joys that kept him grounded. He wrote about his son Jack, who was growing up faster than Hotch could keep up with. He also wrote about Haley, who had found solace in gardening, transforming their backyard into a small oasis of color and life.

The lines between work and personal life blurred in his letters, just as they always had with you. You were more than just a partner at work, you were the person who had been there through the highs and lows, his best friend who understood the burdens he carried without him having to say a word. And though you were an ocean away, your presence lingered in every word exchanged, each letter a lifeline that kept you connected despite the distance.

You never just sent letters, though. There were always little extras tucked inside: clippings from newspapers, photos of the places you were exploring, and, most often - to still honour your long lived tradition - books.

You had a way of choosing the perfect titles, each one reflecting the country you were living in or the experiences you were having. When you were teaching in Italy, you had sent him a cookbook called “Pizza, Pane e Focacce,” a whimsical collection of traditional recipes that made Hotch laugh out loud. He had imagined you in the tiniest Roman kitchen, trying your hand at kneading dough, and the thought was so charmingly incongruous that he couldn’t resist teasing you about it in his next letter.

“Italian pizza and philosophy, a natural combination,” he had written, the playful tone feeling both familiar and distant. “Let me know when you’re ready to challenge Rossi to a cook-off. I’ll bring the wine.”

But the most meaningful gift had come when Hotch had told you about Haley’s pregnancy. It was a vulnerable confession, written in the quiet hours of the night when he felt the weight of impending fatherhood pressing down on him.

He hadn’t expected anything in return, but a few weeks later, a package arrived, a book titled “Guide for New Dads.” It was in Swedish, a nod to one of the first books he’d ever given you about coin collecting, and this time to prove him you had long mastered that language, every page was carefully translated into English with sticky notes in your familiar blue ink.

You had filled the margins with little jokes and notes of encouragement, turning a practical guide into something deeply personal.

“This one’s actually useful, Hotch,” you had joked.

“I promise, the Scandinavians know their thing.” Or

“It’s not the easiest language,” you had written on one of the notes, “but then again, neither is parenthood. You’ve got this, partner.”

Those two words - “you’ve got this” - had stayed with him, becoming a quiet mantra in the moments when doubt threatened to creep in. You always seemed to know exactly what he needed, even from halfway across the world.

Today, Hotch was sending you something in return. After years of toying with the idea, he had finally co-written a book on crisis negotiation, a project that had taken countless late nights and long hours of reflection. It was something he was proud of, a culmination of his years in the field, and it felt only right that you should be one of the first to see it. He carefully packed the book, adding a handwritten note on the first page, a Hegel quote about partnership that he knew you would appreciate.

"Partnership, like friendship, is an expression of freedom that arises from the recognition of others as individuals, bound by a common ethical life." - (Philosophy of Right, unfortunately, not Hegel for Dummies)

“Hopefully, you’ll like this one in particular,” he had added in a playful scrawl, imagining the way you would roll your eyes at his attempt at humor. It was a small gesture, but it felt like a continuation of the conversation you had been having for years, the dialogue that never really ended.

Six years had passed, but some things never changed. You were still his partner, the person who understood him in ways no one else ever could. But now, your life had taken a different turn - you were engaged to Peter, your best friend since you were fifteen. Hotch knew Peter well, how he had been there when you needed a shoulder to cry on, when you were too stubborn to ask for help, and how, despite winning that date with you back at his welcome back party, you’d never really given him a fair chance.

Peter had always been that steady presence, always willing to wait, always there in the background, a constant in your life when everything else felt uncertain. And though you had resisted his quiet, unwavering affection for years, something in you had shifted: a desire for something safe, something dependable, something that felt like home.

In your letters, Hotch could feel the warmth and affection you had for Peter radiate from every line. You described him with such tenderness: the way he would surprise you with breakfast on mornings when you were buried in work as your usual, how he would wait up for you when your classes ran late, and how he would listen, truly listen, to every word you said, even when his own responsibilities at Interpol were just as demanding. There were little moments, too: the way his eyes would light up when he saw you walk into a room, and the quiet nights spent talking about everything and nothing.

Hotch could tell Peter cherished you in a way you deserved: patiently, deeply, without reservations. He could see that Peter was the one who was there to hold you through your doubts, the one who made you feel understood when the rest of the world seemed incomprehensible.

He remembered the letter you had sent announcing your engagement, how you described Peter’s proposal on a quiet evening in Vienna, the two of you standing on a bridge overlooking the Danube. You wrote about the gentle way he had asked, how it felt so natural, so right, that you hadn’t even needed to think twice before saying yes.

You were building something beautiful, and he was happy for you. Truly, he was. But there were moments, in the quiet solitude of his office or in the late hours of the night, when he couldn’t help but feel the weight of your absence like an old, familiar scar.

He sealed the package with the book and his note inside, pausing to add a small card with a few lines scribbled in his neat handwriting:

“To my partner, the only person who could ever make a philosopher out of an FBI agent. I hope this book finds you well. I’m proud of you, always. Don’t forget to write.”

He had kept your latest letter on his desk, re-reading it whenever the weight of the day became too much. You wrote about the small joys of your new life - the café near your apartment in Paris, where you and Peter would go on Sundays, the excitement of teaching your students about behavioral analysis, and the bittersweet feeling of missing the team. It was the kind of letter that made Hotch smile, filled with all the small details that made him feel like you were still just a phone call away.

But life at the BAU had moved on. Hotch was Unit Chief now, a position he had worked years to attain, and the team was evolving with new faces and new dynamics. Haley and Jack were thriving, and Hotch found solace in their little routines, the stability of home life that had once seemed impossible. But no matter how full his days were, there was always that quiet moment when he would think of you: wondering where you were, what you were doing, and if you ever missed him the way he missed you.

He hadn’t seen you in six years, hadn’t heard your voice except for in memories, and yet you were still so present, woven into the fabric of his everyday life in ways he hadn’t fully understood until you were gone.

.

Back in the bullpen, Emily Prentiss, still trying to find her rhythm with the BAU team, leaned against her desk, her eyes trailing toward Hotch’s office. She had been with the team for a few months now, and while she was learning the ropes and getting comfortable, Hotch remained somewhat of a mystery to her.

He was always calm, collected, and focused - a leader who kept a firm grip on everything around him. But when it came to his personal life, he was a locked vault. It intrigued her, in a way that felt almost frustrating. With a sly smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, she tossed out the question she’d been wondering for weeks. “Does Hotch even have friends? I mean, besides his endless pile of case files?”

The bullpen, which had been filled with the familiar hum of typing and low conversations, quieted as everyone processed the question. Morgan, sitting across from Prentiss, was the first to break the silence with a low snicker. He leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head, flashing his trademark grin. “Hotch? Friends? Nah, that man’s married to the job. Friends would require, you know - fun - and I don’t think he’s ever met the word.”

JJ, who had been sorting through a stack of papers at her desk, laughed softly. “Yeah, he definitely seems more like the ‘spend Saturday night in the office instead of watching a game with buddies’ type. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even have time for friends.”

Prentiss grinned at that, shaking her head in agreement. "Or maybe he has a secret club of workaholics where they get together and solve cold cases for fun."

Garcia, standing behind Morgan’s chair and draping her arms around his shoulders, gasped dramatically, her eyes widening with an over-the-top look of mock horror. She placed a hand theatrically over her heart, shaking her head in disbelief. “Oh, can you imagine Hotch at a dinner party?” she exclaimed, her voice dropping into a stiff, deadpan impression of him. “‘So, how do you feel about the rising murder rates in the Midwest?’”

She shivered dramatically, clutching Morgan a little tighter for effect. “Honestly, the worst small talk ever,” she declared, rolling her eyes with a playful shudder that sent the team into laughter.

Laughter rippled through the group, the shared image of Hotch awkwardly navigating social situations becoming a source of amusement. But as the laughter died down, Reid - who had been quietly sifting through old case files - looked up, his expression thoughtful, as if he had been contemplating the question more seriously than the rest.

“I don’t think it’s that he doesn’t want friends,” Reid mused, his tone thoughtful as he leaned back in his chair. He absentmindedly flipped through a stack of old case files in front of him, though it was clear his mind was elsewhere. “It’s more that he doesn’t *prioritize* them. His work-life balance is… well, skewed. I think he probably sees relationships outside of work as distractions. They pull him away from his responsibilities, and that’s something he can’t afford.”

Prentiss nodded slowly, taking in Reid’s assessment with a soft hum of agreement. She crossed her arms over her chest and shifted her weight, her gaze flicking toward Hotch’s office, where the blinds were half-drawn and the lights were on. “Yeah,” she said, drawing out the word, “I can see that. But still… doesn’t everyone need someone to talk to? I mean, even Hotch?”

Morgan, leaning back in his chair with a casual grin, was about to drop a classic sarcastic retort when something stopped him in his tracks. He noticed the subtle shift in the room - a presence just behind them, commanding yet silent. The playful banter faded as everyone instinctively glanced up.

There, standing quietly at the edge of their conversation, was Jason Gideon.

His mere presence had a way of quieting a room. Unlike Hotch, whose authority was overt and rooted in his leadership, Gideon’s was understated, more psychological. He didn’t need to bark orders at them; he simply had to be there, and everyone would fall silent. He looked between them, his eyes calm but sharp, assessing the scene with a quiet understanding.

Gideon had clearly overheard enough of the conversation to know what they were discussing. His expression was thoughtful, as though he was deciding just how much he wanted to reveal. Finally, in his familiar, measured voice, he broke the silence. “Yes, he does have friends.”

The simplicity of his statement landed like a bombshell in the middle of the room. All eyes snapped to Gideon, the weight of his words sending shockwaves through the group. The notion that Aaron Hotchner - stoic, ever-serious Hotch - had a social life outside the walls of the BAU was almost laughable.

Morgan was the first to react, leaning back with an incredulous grin as he raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?” He let out a disbelieving chuckle. “You’re telling me Hotch has friends? Like, real, actual friends? Not just old case files and unsolved murders?”

JJ, sitting a few desks away, blinked in surprise and lowered her papers, clearly caught off guard by the idea. “Friends?” she echoed. “I mean, I know Hotch is close to his team, but I didn’t think he really had time for anyone outside of work.”

Prentiss, her curiosity instantly piqued, leaned forward, her arms now resting on the back of a chair. “Wait, hold on. Hotch has a friend? Who?”

Gideon’s gaze swept the room, and the corners of his mouth tugged upward in a subtle smile, enjoying the ripple of disbelief he’d caused. He took a step closer, his hands casually tucked into his pockets. “She used to work here,” he said, his voice calm and deliberate, almost as if the information he was dropping wasn’t about to throw the entire team into a frenzy. “One of the best profilers we’ve ever had, Hotch and her were partners.”

The weight of that revelation hung in the air like a thick cloud of mystery, and the group fell silent again, processing what had just been said. A female profiler? Someone close to Hotch? Who had left the team without a single mention in all these years? The idea felt like a puzzle, one they couldn’t help but start piecing together.

Garcia, always the quickest to act when it came to uncovering mysteries, perked up immediately. Her fingers hovered eagerly over her keyboard, itching to dive into the archives. “Wait, wait, wait,” she said, her voice bubbling with excitement. “She? A female profiler? Who worked here? And Hotch’s partner?” Her eyes sparkled mischievously. “We need details, Gideon.”

JJ, her brow furrowing in confusion, leaned against her desk and glanced at the others. “Why didn’t Hotch ever mention her? I mean, if she was one of the best profilers we’ve had, wouldn’t we know about her?”

Morgan scoffed lightly, shaking his head in disbelief. “This has got to be a joke, right? Hotch had a female partner, one of the best profilers, and he never said a word? Not even in passing?”

Prentiss, now fully engrossed in the mystery, added, “And why did she leave? People that good don’t just walk away. Something had to have happened.”

But Gideon, ever enigmatic, simply shrugged as if he were tossing breadcrumbs to a group of hungry detectives. “She moved on to bigger things,” he said, almost wistfully. “She’s in Europe now. Teaching. Brilliant mind.” And just like that, before anyone could ask more questions, he gave a small nod of finality and turned to walk back to his office. He left the group standing there in stunned silence, their collective curiosity now burning hotter than ever.

JJ blinked rapidly, still trying to process what had just been revealed. “That’s… cryptic, even for Gideon.”

Morgan, arms crossed over his chest, glanced back at Hotch’s office, his brow furrowing deeper. The blinds were half-drawn, but he could still make out the familiar figure hunched over case files, as usual. “Hotch had a partner like that and never mentioned her once? Not even a hint? That’s not just weird, it’s suspicious.”

Prentiss raised an eyebrow, a sly smile playing on her lips as she shook her head. “If she was that good, why isn’t she still here? There has to be more to the story than Hotch is letting on. You know how he is with secrets.”

Garcia’s eyes were immediately already glowing with excitement. “Well, my darlings,” she said, leaning forward with an exaggerated conspiratorial whisper, “it seems we have ourselves a delightful little mystery to solve. And you know there’s nothing I love more than a good digital dig into the archives.” She clapped her hands together. “To the Batcave!”

Morgan chuckled, standing up and stretching. “Alright, alright, lead the way, baby girl. Let’s see what you’ve got on this mystery woman.”

With an excited flourish, Garcia waved them all into her colorful sanctuary, the tech-laden, light-filled Batcave that was her pride and joy. Stepping inside, it was like entering another universe, a world of colorful bobbleheads, blinking lights, and eclectic posters that shouted Garcia's unique personality. Her desk was lit up with the glow of multiple monitors, all showing scrolling lines of code and flashing icons.

She wiggled her fingers theatrically over the keyboard before diving into the search. “Prepare to be dazzled, my friends. You’re about to witness hacking magic.”

Prentiss leaned against the edge of Garcia’s desk, smirking. “Do we get popcorn for this?”

Garcia flashed her a grin. “Popcorn comes later, my dear. Right now, we’re after intel.”

The rest of the team gathered around Garcia’s chair, their curiosity piqued. Morgan leaned over her shoulder, watching as she quickly navigated through various secure databases, her fingers flying over the keyboard in rapid succession. The sound of keystrokes filled the air, the tension rising with each tap. After a few moments, Garcia’s face lit up, her fingers pausing as she let out a theatrical gasp. “Oh. Oh my God.” She spun around dramatically in her chair, eyes wide. “Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you… her.”

The monitors flickered, and suddenly, the screen filled with your personnel file. A younger version of you stared back at them from the photograph - a sharp, focused gaze beneath determined brows, your expression serious yet full of life. There was something magnetic in the way you carried yourself, even in a still image.

Morgan leaned in closer, his eyes narrowing as he studied the picture. “Well, damn,” he muttered under his breath, letting out a low whistle. “She’s exactly my type.”

Prentiss nudged him playfully, raising an eyebrow. “You say that about every woman who’s both breathing and talented, Morgan.”

Morgan grinned, flashing her a playful wink. “Yeah, but this one’s different. Hotch kept her under wraps. That’s like a glowing recommendation.”

Garcia, enjoying the banter, rolled her eyes affectionately. “Easy there, tiger,” she teased, spinning back to her computer. “I’ll share her with you, but only because I love you. Remember, I’ve called dibs.”

The team erupted in laughter, Garcia’s infectious energy cutting through the room. Even Reid, who had been quietly studying your file, let out a small smile, though his focus remained intensely on the details unfolding before them.

“She was hired here at 21,” Garcia read aloud, her voice laced with a mixture of awe and disbelief. “Straight out of university with degrees in philosophy, psychology, and linguistics. And - oh, my God - she spoke 16 languages fluently when she joined.” She paused dramatically. “Now they’re up to twenty-six, tewnty-six.”

Reid’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with shock. “Twenty-one? She was recruited younger than I was?” He blinked, his mind racing as he processed the information. “That’s… incredible.”

Morgan grinned and elbowed Reid playfully. “Looks like someone beat you to the genius profiler title, pretty Ricky.”

Reid shot Morgan a mock glare but couldn’t hide his amazement. “Twenty-six languages?” His voice was filled with admiration as he scrolled through your file. “I’ve read her work. She pioneered an entirely new method of geographical profiling, 3D models that incorporate topography. Elevation, terrain changes, natural barriers… it completely changed how we understand unsub movement patterns.” He leaned forward, growing more animated. “Traditional geographical profiling looks at a flat map, but she recognized that criminals don’t move across flat landscapes. She factored in hills, rivers, even forests,anything that could affect the unsub’s route or escape. She mapped out the terrain as the unsub would see it, considering how natural barriers influence decisions.”

Prentiss nodded, intrigued. “So, she wasn’t just tracking where they went, but how they moved through the landscape?”

“Exactly!” Reid’s excitement built. “She created a ‘criminal terrain map,’ layering traditional geographic data with topographical maps. She used it to predict choke points, places where terrain forces an unsub to make specific choices. She even factored in the psychological impact, organized offenders would avoid risky terrain, while disorganized ones might take dangerous paths without thinking. She didn’t just consider where they were going, she understood why they made those decisions, based on both the landscape and their psychology.”

Prentiss raised her eyebrows, clearly impressed. “So, basically, she was a legend?”

Garcia continued scrolling through your file, her fingers moving methodically as she scanned more of your achievements. “And she didn’t just stop there,” she said, excitement building in her voice. “After leaving the BAU, she went on to teach behavioral science and criminology all over Europe: Italy, France, Spain, Greece, Sweden – you name it – even Iceland. Lecturing in multiple languages, of course. She’s giving a guest lecture at Quantico today.”

Morgan let out a low whistle, leaning in closer as though he could learn more about you just by studying your photo. “Hotch’s friend is an international superstar. That’s why he didn’t tell us about her. He didn’t want us feeling inferior.”

JJ chuckled from the other side of the room, still processing the idea of Hotch keeping someone like you under wraps. “Of course, Hotch would keep someone like that close to the vest. It’s so like him to have a secret weapon tucked away.”

Prentiss, crossing her arms, seemed to grow more curious by the second. “If she’s this brilliant, why did she leave? And why didn’t he ever mention her?” She scanned the faces of her colleagues, clearly unsatisfied with the pieces of the puzzle they had so far. “There’s something else going on here. Hotch doesn’t just let people disappear.”

Morgan scratched his chin thoughtfully, glancing back toward Hotch’s office, which seemed to be shrouded in even more mystery now. “Yeah, something’s not adding up. She was that good, and then she just… vanished from the BAU? I bet there’s a whole story we’re missing. The question is, why did she leave?”

Garcia, never one to miss out on a juicy bit of gossip, spun around in her chair with a conspiratorial grin. “You know, now that I’m thinking about it… she left just a few months after Hotch’s wedding.” She wiggled her eyebrows dramatically, enjoying the shocked looks from the others. “Coincidence? Or was there something more going on?”

JJ’s eyes widened, and she laughed softly, shaking her head. “You think she and Hotch were… what? Secretly involved? No way. Hotch is way too straight-laced for that.”

Morgan leaned against Garcia’s desk, crossing his arms. “I don’t know… maybe. She leaves right after his wedding? That’s a pretty big red flag. Maybe she had feelings for him, and when he married Haley, it was too much. She couldn’t handle being around him anymore.”

Prentiss raised an eyebrow, half-amused but also intrigued by the theory. “Or… maybe Hotch had feelings for her, and she left to avoid a messy situation. I mean, Hotch isn’t exactly one to wear his heart on his sleeve. Maybe it was all too complicated.”

Reid, who had been silently absorbing the conversation, finally spoke up, ever the voice of reason. “Or,” he said, “it could just be a coincidence. People leave jobs all the time for personal reasons. She was clearly brilliant; maybe she just wanted to pursue teaching or research.”

Garcia grinned at him, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Come on, genius. Even you can’t deny that the timing is suspicious. She leaves only months after Hotch gets married? There’s gotta be more to that story.”

Morgan nodded, his expression serious but playful. “Yeah, kid, you don’t leave the BAU, the best profiling team in the country, unless something major goes down.”

Prentiss tilted her head, her curiosity still running wild. “What if they had some kind of falling out? Maybe they were super close, and after the wedding, things got awkward between them.”

JJ leaned against the wall, looking thoughtful. “It’s possible. People don’t usually leave a close partnership like that without a good reason. Especially someone like Hotch, he doesn’t form bonds easily, but when he does… it runs deep.”

Morgan grinned. “Whatever it is, I can’t wait to find out. If we’re lucky, we might get some answers when we meet her. Maybe she’ll drop some hints about what really went down.”

Garcia, her fingers flying across the keys again, pulled up more details about your guest lecture. “Well, lucky for us, she’s not going to be a mystery for much longer. Her lecture is in just a couple of hours at the Academy. How convenient for us to take a little field trip.”

Reid, his eyes lighting up, nodded eagerly. “I’d love to hear her lecture. I’ve read so much of her work - it would be fascinating to see how she applies her theories in person. Maybe we’ll even get some insight into her departure.”

Prentiss smirked, clearly enjoying the intrigue. “And I wouldn’t mind getting a sense of what she’s like. She sounds like a force to be reckoned with. Plus, if she was that close to Hotch, there’s gotta be some interesting history.”

Garcia swiveled around to face them, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Well, what are we waiting for? Field trip, anyone?”

JJ pushed away from the wall, smiling as she glanced around the room. “I’m in. Let’s go meet the legend.”

The team exchanged eager glances, the sense of excitement in the air palpable. There was more to this than just a lecture, they were about to meet someone who had not only shaped the field of profiling but had also left a deep, unspoken mark on their unit chief, Aaron Hotchner. They couldn’t help but feel like they were about to uncover a part of the team’s history that for some reason had been hidden for far too long.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Greg Owen at LGBTQ Nation:

On February 26, 2015, the California Attorney General’s Office stamped “received” on a cover letter from Huntington Beach attorney Matt McLaughlin, acknowledging receipt of a proposed initiative for the November ballot that would authorize the mass murder of gays and lesbians in the state. McLaughlin called his proposal the “Sodomite Suppression Act.” Kamala Harris was the state attorney general. Harris had just won reelection — overwhelmingly — in November, and three weeks before McLaughlin’s measure landed in her inbox, she had declared her intention to seek the U.S. Senate seat occupied by Barbara Boxer, who announced her retirement that January. Now Harris was confronted with a hateful proposal she had no choice but to deal with: under California state law, the attorney general has zero discretion to disregard a properly proposed initiative filing, no matter how intentionally provocative, discriminatory, or felonious.   The “Sodomite Suppression Act” was all three. And prophetic, too.

What came to be known as the “Shoot the Gays” initiative detailed several steps to eliminate the gay and lesbian population of California based on McLaughlin’s interpretation of Scripture. “The abominable crime against nature known as buggery, called also sodomy, is a monstrous evil that Almighty God, giver of freedom and liberty, commands us to suppress on pain of our utter destruction even as he overthrew Sodom and Gomorrha [sic],” McLaughlin wrote. “Seeing that it is better that offenders should die rather than that all of us should be killed by God’s just wrath against us for the folly of tolerating-wickedness in our midst, the People of California wisely command, in the fear of God, that any person who willingly touches another person of the same gender for purposes of sexual gratification be put to death by bullets to the head or by any other convenient method.” The proposed measure would outlaw “sodomistic propaganda directly or indirectly by any means to any person under the age of majority.” Violators would be fined “and/or imprisoned up to 10 years, and/or expelled from the boundaries of the state of California for up to life.”

[...] Harris wasn’t having it. “It is my sworn duty to uphold the California and United States Constitutions and to protect the rights of all Californians,” Harris said as a deadline for action loomed. “This proposal not only threatens public safety, it is patently unconstitutional, utterly reprehensible, and has no place in a civil society.” For the first time, a California attorney general sought relief from her sworn obligation and petitioned the state’s highest court to dismiss it. “If the court does not grant this relief,” she said, “my office will be forced to issue a title and summary for a proposal that seeks to legalize discrimination and vigilantism.” There was little-to-no chance McLaughlin would collect the 365,880 signatures of registered voters required to make the ballot, and even less that Californians would approve it or that it would survive the inevitable court challenges if it did pass.

In 2015, a few months before Donald Trump made the infamous escalator ride to announce his presidential run and SCOTUS’s Obergefell ruling, then-California AG Kamala Harris found a way to reject a bigoted referendum item from making it onto the ballot.

That ballot measure was called the “Sodomite Suppression Act.”

Portions of what was in the act later became standard GOP policy against LGBTQ+ Americans.

[haggishlyhagging]

“Women rise to [feminist] fame not because they are lauded as leaders by other feminists ... but because the mainstream media sees in them a marketable image a newsworthy persona upon whom can be projected all sorts of anxieties, hopes, and responsibilities,” wrote Rachel Fudge in a 2003 essay on the struggle to reconcile activism and renown. This is important, both as it relates to feminism's past and to its improbable embrace by mainstream American pop culture. On one hand, social movements need the diplomacy and charisma of people who can speak and agitate on behalf of them. On the other, the need to distill complex ideas and goals down to their most simple and quotable talking points has unquestionably done harm to those movements, feminism included. Mainstream attention has oversimplifed complex issues the wage gap, the beauty myth, the debate over decriminalizing sex work and misrepresented goals. It has attributed collective successes to one person and minimized the plurality of feminist movements themselves. And it has turned countless would-be colleagues and compatriots into foes scrapping over crumbs of access and affirmation.

Jo Freeman's Ms. article "Trashing: The Dark Side of Sisterhood" still regularly makes its way from inbox to inbox because the anguish with which it articulates the process of being sidelined, gaslighted, and shunned—all in the name of sisterhood—is still so relevant. Freeman defined trashing as something that often masquerades as critique but is wholly different: "a particularly vicious form of character assassination" that "is not done to expose disagreements or resolve differences" but "to disparage and destroy." After its publication in 1976, the piece garnered more letters than any previous piece in Ms.—"all but a few," notes the essay's current preface, "relating [the writers'] own experience of being trashed." Formerly a member of the Chicago branch of radical feminists, Freeman left the movement completely after her deflating experiences. But two of her essays, "Trashing" and "The Tyranny of Structurelessness"—the latter an outline of the idealistic, leaderless context in which trashing often occurs—still put words to ongoing phenomena.

Individual feminists are used to being insulted and bullied by people who bear an inventory of beefs with feminists in general, especially these days, and inevitably online. Trashing or its contemporary cousin, "calling out," is different and usually a lot more painful because it comes from fellow feminists. Thanks in part to social media, trashings have become more public and more frequent with participants, as feminist sociologist Katherine Cross put it, "hyper-vigilant against sin, great or small, past or present." It's possible for trashings to start out with a core of completely valid critique but spiral outward into chaos as more people pile on and context is diffused. Some are way pettier: I was once informed that I was being trashed on an online bulletin board because I hadn't posed an apparently crucial question to a screenwriter I'd profiled. Trashings might be focused on an ideal of ideological purity: "careerist," for instance, is a sneer aimed at feminists who have the temerity to want to be known (or at least paid) for their work. Other trashings might result from an opinion that's unforgivably at odds with current feminist orthodoxy.

The competitiveness that leads to trashing obviously isn't unique to feminist movements, but as many people have pointed out over the years, it's likely to thrive within them because so many women, across ages and races and classes, are socialized to see themselves as connectors and uniters rather than experts and leaders; it's even more likely to fester because of the unmended rifts of past feminist movements. The incendiary tone of trashing is also heightened because the line between one's activism and identity is often as substantive as a vapor trail; trashing someone's work becomes indistinguishable from trashing the person themselves.

-Andi Zeisler, We Were Feminists Once

[chasinghalebopp]

The Ellen White Cult: Chapter 9

Part IX :: Return to the United States

Sometimes there are things I look back on, and I can’t help but feel like an idiot when I put it all into perspective. I write about one of those occasions here. Upon our return to the United States, we did not hesitate to return to the Countryside Church. Of course, we had our “reasons” or “excuses.” My reasoning for going back to see family was that everyone was getting older and that we would regret not taking every chance to be with them. While there may be some truth in that, mixing family with a religion that is based on being perfect and fearing the end of the world is not something that brings any sort of lasting happiness or good memories to one’s life.

If there was ever a time to realize the damage that the messages preached by

Countryside were causing, now was when I saw it. One thing I knew and believed

strongly in was that “you can discern something by its fruits.” All I had to do was look at

the people and their lives as they continued to step foot into this church.

The two individuals that I looked at the most were Stephen and Freddy. The

reason for this was simple. I lived with Freddy, and I saw Stephen almost every day.

Living with Freddy during this period was a type of hell. No need to sugarcoat it. I would never wish it on my worst enemy. Freddy never liked me much due to my place as his son-in-law, but now there was something far more sinister eating at him. His religion was taking him back to a place of hatred and darkness. There was once a time when Freddy got some kind of enjoyment out of life, but that time had passed. Now he walked through the house like an angry drill sergeant, seeking out anything wrong in his eyes. He carried with him a deep anger at the fact that he was getting older. The hope of a paradise beyond the grave was crushed by a church that preached that we had to reach perfection before we died, or we would not win Heaven.

During the remainder of Freddy’s life, he would have to be content with idea that the Jesuits were trying to kill him. Population control measures were everywhere now. Everything the government did was looked at with scrutiny. Freddy’s inbox was full of letters from various pastors and end-times peddlers with information about the coming Sunday law and how the government was ushering it in quickly. Ellen White’s statements about the need to be perfect and how it was not worth praying for those who disregarded her rules were always on the tip of the pastor’s tongue. “Is it possible to be perfect?” one sermon asked. The answer was “yes!” Not only was it possible, but it was required. The effects of Christ’s death were for nothing, it seemed. Yet the words were not of Christ but of White. How God would not forgive certain transgressions. How it was futile to ask people to pray for those who ate unhealthy foods. “But how can the Lord work in their behalf when they are unwilling to do His will, when they refuse to

heed His instruction on health reform?” (CD 400.4). During a phone call to the in-laws, Albert laughed, letting Freddy and Darla in on the fact that he had a potato chip addiction and put potato chips on everything he ate. Of course, this was not mentioned in the hallowed halls of Countryside Fellowship.

Albert’s inability to turn away from potato chips provided another study in

cognitive dissonance. If a person truly believed that they had to be perfect to gain

Heaven, why would one put potato chips on everything they ate? I looked at the barrage of health seminars that took place in Countryside’s dining room and sanctuary hall, yet what was the point? It was similar to Ellen White’s insistence that it was not worth praying for those who ate meat or obeyed her health message. If God had sent an angel to tell her that eating meat was wrong, why did she eat meat for years? If vinegar and spicy foods were forbidden, and if she was told face to face by a higher being that they were not fit for food in the eyes of God, why did she continue to eat them? The cognitive dissonance spoke louder than any sermon ever could.

*Note: I strongly believe that Ellen White will have a lot to answer for when she arrives in front of the Lord on the great Judgment Day. While I am not her eternal judge, the more controversial statements that have been hidden or obscured by the SDA church and her estate make the fruit of her “ministry” speak for themselves. While, at this point, I still was a devout follower of Mrs. White, I was troubled by the things that were being said, and the absolute insistence on perfection for salvation. The idea that God would not hear our prayers or that He would not forgive those who asked was perplexing and troubling. It was more in line with Albert’s idea that God was not a God of love, but a slave driver. Later, I would snap out of my stupor, and come to the final conclusion that she was indeed a false prophet. Yet, let’s not get ahead of ourselves just yet.

What we imagined as a time of enjoyable visits and connecting with those who

we had been apart from for almost two years was a time filled with hearsay about the evils of the Jesuits and the mainstream Seventh-day Adventist church. It was now a time when Freddy would perch himself in front of the internet, spellbound by the information he was uncovering. He placed himself as a judge on everyone and everything that was against Albert’s sermons. In years past, he blasted his father for the way he had been judgmental and abusive, but with old age, Freddy had now become a mirror image of his old man!

Now, you may be thinking that I have something out against poor ol’ Freddy. It’s hard to not be bitter about this time in my life. Freddy was a BEAR to live with. There’s no doubt about that. And even as I type these words, much of the past is unresolved. Freddy still, to this day, believes in the message of pastor Albert. Yet, I understand that Freddy would have been far better off without Albert’s prodding, without the fear of the Jesuits, and without the anger brought about by a prophetess that insisted on perfection. In a very literal sense, Freddy had adopted a religion that was the religious equivalent of his own abusive father. Instead of his father constantly barraging him with messages about how he could never hope to live up to the high standard, Freddy now chose a religion that said the exact same thing. I remind myself that Freddy was once a child, abused and alone. A scared child, believing all he was told. The church had replaced his overbearing father. I don’t think Freddy will ever see it, nor will he ever

want to admit it. As Albert  continues to beat Freddy over the head with extreme

ideas and archaic useless rules for life, Freddy continues to internalize the idea that he is doomed to eternal damnation. As Albert  continues to rake in tithes and

offerings, filling his coffers, his members believe that they are a part of something

special. They are a part of a family, a unique club of people who have hope in Jesus coming back for them if they can just reach that level of self-loathing perfection that they are all desperately aiming for!

“There are people, now walking the earth, that are perfect,” Albert would tell them. Perfect people. Perfect in whose eyes? Yours? Ellen White’s? What makes a person perfect? They follow all of Ellen’s health rules. They don’t do anything to waste or taint the Sabbath day. They never, ever think an impure thought. They would never desire to swim on the Sabbath day, nor would they eat a potato chip. They are perfect. Little did Albert realize that the quote from Christ about "be ye therefore perfect" had to do with love and not with how one eats or if one listens to worldly music on the Sabbath.

Yet, for Albert, love was a topic that was completely off-limits at Countryside. In years past, Freddy had been busy, working outdoors and on his collection of

rusty old cars, but as he got older and more involved with the church and its

accompanying conspiracies, various fears of the world engulfed his mind. Pastor

Albert’s sermons had grown much more militant. Like a dog that returns to its vomit, we returned to Countryside Sabbath Fellowship.

I don’t desire to make anyone sound bad or unsavory, nor do I want it to look like I am attacking those who were going to this church, and that’s not the intent of this book. When I began to write my previous book, Disrupting Adventism, the goal was to let other people be aware of what is happening in extremist offshoots. I do strongly believe that when there is abuse present, one must make others aware of that abuse. I have since learned that the way abuse is dealt with is by bringing it into the light. I can honestly say that this church was engaged in abuse. My goal with this book remains the same as when I first began the work. People need to be warned of these so-called independent offshoot ministries as well as some of the ideas that have taken hold within the SDA church, as these ideas and beliefs are deeply damaging.

I also want to say that I am going to stop using the word church here, and start calling Countryside an offshoot or cult. An offshoot is something that begins as a part of something, or near something, and then splits or grows away and apart from it. In this case, Countryside had some of the parts of Adventism, such as the general beliefs and use of Ellen White, but had become so far removed by lashing out against the General Conference. In essence, the CountrysideOffshoot had made itself an offshoot by its own antagonistic message right from the very start. I also use the term cult because, looking at the B.I.T.E. Model of Authoritarian Control, Countryside (and many aspects of Adventism in general) check off almost every box.

The Bite Model and Countryside

Behavior Control:

•Dictates where, how, and with whom the member lives and associates or isolates;

•Control types of clothing and hairstyles;

•Regulate diet – food and drink, hunger and/or fasting;

•Restrict leisure, entertainment, vacation time;

•Major time spent with group indoctrination and rituals and/or self indoctrination

including the Internet;

•Discourage individualism, encourage group-think; Impose rigid rules and regulations. 

Information Control:

a. Deliberately withhold information,

b. Distort information to make it more acceptable

c. Systematically lie to the cult member;

•Minimize or discourage access to non-cult sources of information, including: a. Internet, TV, radio, books, articles, newspapers, magazines, media, b. Critical information, c.

•Former members,

d. Keep members busy so they don’t have time to think and investigate;

•Encourage spying on other members;

•Extensive use of cult-generated information and propaganda, including: a. Newsletters, magazines, journals, audiotapes, videotapes, YouTube, movies and other media, b.

•Misquoting statements or using them out of context from non-cult sources

Thought Control:

•Require members to internalize the group’s doctrine as truth:

a. Adopting the group’s ‘map of reality’ as reality,

b. Instill black and white thinking,

c. Decide between good vs. evil,

d. Organize people into us vs. them (insiders vs. outsiders);

•Use of loaded language and clichés which constrict knowledge, stop critical thoughts and reduce complexities into platitudinous buzz words;

•Encourage only ‘good and proper’ thoughts;

•Rejection of rational analysis, critical thinking, constructive criticism;

•Forbid critical questions about leader, doctrine, or policy allowed;

•Labeling alternative belief systems as illegitimate, evil, or not useful; Instill new “map of

reality”

Emotional Control:

•Manipulate and narrow the range of feelings – some emotions and/or needs are

deemed as evil, wrong or selfish;

•Make the person feel that problems are always their own fault, never the leader’s or the group’s fault;

•Promote feelings of guilt or unworthiness;

•Instill Fear; Extremes of emotional highs and lows – love bombing and praise one moment and then declaring you are horrible sinner;

•Phobia indoctrination: inculcating irrational fears about leaving the group or questioning the leader’s authority

a. No happiness or fulfillment possible outside of the group,

b. Terrible consequences if you leave: hell, demon possession, incurable diseases, accidents, suicide, insanity, 10,000 reincarnations, etc.;

•Shunning of those who leave; fear of being rejected by friends and family;

•Never a legitimate reason to leave; those who leave are weak, undisciplined,

unspiritual, worldly, brainwashed by family or counselor, or seduced by money, sex, or rock and roll.

“Some have called us an offshoot,” Albert proclaimed. “But we are truly the

remnant church. It is the General Conference that is the offshoot!”

I immediately noticed that the sermons had grown far more militant than before

we had gone to Egypt. Stephen now served as a deacon and recorded the sermons. They would be uploaded on YouTube and burned to DVDs that would be passed out to anyone who missed church or otherwise wanted a copy. He wore a scowl as he listened intently to how the Jesuits were busy destroying the world. Stephen that was so happy in the church was no more.

Bill Hughes made his appearance far more often now. A chunk of the money given for offerings was spent on flying Hughes out to Eastern Washington so he could preach about the poison of the Jesuits. The congregants loved it and assembled en masse each time Bill Hughes stepped onto Countryside’s property.

“We have this hope that burns within our hearts. Hope in the coming of the Lord” had always been this organization’s battle cry, and as the pianist pounded it out, we sang in unison. Pastor Albert stood up front, fumbling with his tie, as he prepared another sermon. His hands clenched his Bible as he stood erect, bellowing out “we believe the time is here, when the nations far and near, shall awake and shout and sing, Hallelujah, Christ is King!” The room seemed to shake at the power that the congregation sang this song.

We sat glued to our seats, as the congregation waited in rapt anticipation of the upcoming sermon. Pastor Albert shifting eyes peered out at his congregation. The numbers had slightly grown. It was autumn now, and soon the holiday season would come. The sermon would be about the Investigative Judgment. About how the General Conference refuses to preach the Three Angel’s message. How present truth is not something that the Deer Park church preaches. How FEMA camps and mass graves were found behind an old Wal-Mart in Nevada.

New visitors were always given a little gift for coming out and spending their day amongst the fiery little end-times group. Since we had been gone for so long, we would also get something special. Pastor Albert announced that a gift would be handed out and proceeded to hand something to a couple of his aged deacons. One of the deacons stumbled towards us, working to hold himself up. His legs buckled like he had little business walking. Soon he reached us and smiled. He handed both my wife and me a little yellow book. I could not help but glare at it. I had seen this book in my research of the esteemed Bill Hughes. This was his newest work: “Three Angels Over Africa.” I could not help but mumble, perhaps with a bit of irritation in my voice, “one is fine, we can share.”

“You can both have your own,” Stephen interjected. As if we each needed a separate copy of the little book. Later that day, I would lie on the bed and flip through the book. I was curious enough to know what it was about. Perhaps that’s how Bill Hughes snags so many people. They are curious. They open their mailbox and one of his little demon books is staring at them. They grab it and start flipping through it, thinking that it’s harmless. Before they know it, they are hooked. They are actually believing the words. Or they hate it, but someone else ends up with it. Out of a thousand people, I wonder how many who get his books actually believe the words therein. It must be enough to make sending these books to be worth it. Bill Hughes, after all, is no poor man. He has done well in his life. Like many of the Adventists at the top of the ladder, he commands a considerable empire and lives a comfortable life. It is the kind of life that is far removed from the kind that Ellen White suggests her often impoverished devotees be content with.

As I moved through the book, I could not help but notice a theme quickly

emerged. I was disgusted by how it was story after story of uplifting Bill Hughes’

benevolent work in Africa while tearing apart other churches, the Seventh-day Adventist church, and everyone else who did not agree with his special brand of conspiracy. Like his other books, this book discussed the Jesuit conspiracy and how the Jesuits were behind the ills of the world. My wife said, upon reading it, that it “made her sick.” 

I used to think that missionary stories were supposed to be uplifting and uplift Christ. This particular book was a blatant advertisement for Bill Hughes, with chapter after chapter singing his praises. One day, after the in-laws departed their countryside paradise, I lit a fire out back and threw the thing in it. My eyes lit up with a feeling of enduring happiness as fire wrapped around that small yellow book. It felt good to burn that thing. People in the church have told me that we need to stay away from certain kinds of music or food, but let me tell you,

nothing is as dark in my heart as the hateful madness that spews forth from the lips of those who preach the name of a risen Christ to lift themselves up to glory while using conspiracy and lies to hold their audience captive. Bill Hughes was instrumental in the slow demise of my in-laws. That book needed to die.

The church and the message seemed different now. It was far more serious. Issues such as chemtrails and government death camps were pretty much standard fare for most sermons, especially when Pastor Albert wrapped his hands around the corners of the pulpit. On the screen, we would see images of mass graves, poisoned food, chemtrails, and mass genocide. His own wife commented how she wished he did not spend so much time on YouTube, and from his materials, it was obvious that he was drawing his material from various conspiracy theorists such as Alex Jones.

“Sandy Hook is a hoax. It was the US government that did it.” This phrase was repeated by the in-laws.

“Where did you hear that?” my wife asked, shocked.

It was obvious. On the DVD player stood a stack of DVDs all with titles like “The Great Conspiracy,” “US Deceived,” “Beware of Fake Gospel & Fake Jesus” “The Source of Your Drinking Water,” “Al Qaeda, ISIS, CIA, and Papacy!”* and many more. There were well over a hundred, more than could easily be watched except for a person with an excess of idle time on their hands. Every once in a while, the in-laws would slide one in, to send some kind of message to us, to see if we were on the same page religiously. I acted like I was, but at this point, was very disturbed by what I was seeing. The conspiracy was far worse now, and I could see it reflected on the face of my father-in-law, who seemed tired, angry, and growing more ill. The weight of anger that now was beginning to consume him had changed him from who he had been years before. Granted, he had always been a very difficult and argumentative man to deal with, but now he was totally and completely consumed with conspiracy. His choice of a church, one with Albert at the helm, had brought the conspiracy front and center.

*Note: A search of Pastor Bill Hughes on YouTube will bring up a variety of these titles and many more for you to enjoy. His website and ministry, Truth Triumphant (or as I like to say, Lies Repugnant), is full of work that rivals Alex Jones (and much that is taken straight from Jones). The only difference is that Alex Jones's day of reckoning has

come, whereas the more obscure and less relevant Bill Hughes has flown under the radar for the time being.

Freddy had always been the type to believe in topics of conspiracy. I found that, in this part of the country, conspiracy theories flowed like butter on Thanksgiving day. From the beginning of our marriage, I would hear about things like chemtrails. Yet, it was only in passing and maybe came about once every year or two. Now there was someone constantly calling on the phone to talk about it. It’s no secret that Freddy enjoyed those calls. Rubbing elbows with a pastor put him in a different class. While Freddy lived in a state of deep poverty all his life, relegated as an outcast far out in the country, he now was sought after by a powerful pastor. There is no doubt that things that like can do something to a person’s psyche. When you grow up a poor, destitute person living on disability and then begin to feel that you are needed by someone of wealth and prestige, while at the same time you are becoming less relevant due to old age, the siren call is just too much to ignore. Albert had Freddy firmly in his clutches, and there

was no sign of him letting go.

From the phone to the church, the conspiracy dripped like sweet honey from a fat bee’s prize hive. Soon we would be dipping into that honey by preaching a sermon of our own at the front of this strange church. We had been invited to talk about our time in Egypt, and we nodded in agreement like two bimbos in a blonde joke. We figured that we might as well share what we did, so we could get a little of that extra holy spirit juice in our veins. The truth was, it would feel good to talk about it and feel like we did something. After all, most of the returning missionaries were probably preaching sermons about their triumphs in the land of Tut.

I didn’t really know what to say, but we decided to just talk about what had

happened. When it came to missionary work, I never really felt good advertising it, especially if there were no shiny crown stars to gloat over. Yet, we came up with something. It was enough to get us to invite some of the family members to partake in the glorified slide show. As we all gathered at the church and prepared to speak, we could not help but notice that something was playing on the screen up front when people walked in. I was horrified when I realized that it was a silent presentation on chemtrails and how they were poisoning the air in an effort to kill the elderly. I guess that they just had to get some of the classic messages in somewhere since it was unlikely we would preach it on this fine Sabbath day.

Such messages did no favors for Freddy and Darla, who hoped beyond all hope that their children would one day reintegrate within the church. For many who were not neck deep in it, it only worked to scare them further away. It seemed strange for a church to not spend time uplifting Jesus, but rather stoking the flames of fear. 

After the chemtrail introduction, we made our way to the stage to speak about our time in Egypt. Our talk was longer than it needed to be, and far longer than Albert could bear. Towards the middle of it, when we looked down, he was sawing logs.

We were given a $150 check for our time (which we never cashed) and thanked for the sermon. Many of the members seemed to enjoy our talk and told of their missionary dreams. While we mentioned how discouraging it had been at times, we tried to spin it in a positive light. Yet, without the mention of FEMA camps or GMOs, it was largely unrelatable to the sleepy pastor and his pack of board members and elites.

We had also mentioned how we aimed to “show God’s love,” and maybe that was a no-no. Throughout our time at Countryside, Albert was adamant about how preaching the love of God was a complete waste of time. “Sermons by other pastors lull

congregations to sleep with topics about the love of God.”

“People are sleeping because these phony pastors fill heads with messages about God’s love.”

“Some would rather hear about God’s love than present truth.”

“Deer Park preaches the Love of God. They don’t talk about present truth.”

Albert made it clear: You would not hear about God’s love at this church. No wonder Freddy enjoyed it. I never heard about how his father would say “I love you.” At Countryside, the idea of working hard for salvation and staying one step ahead of the Jesuits was a far better message. Pages and pages of Ellen White's strategies for the end of the world displayed during sermons strongly attested to that.

I kept hearing the term, “present truth.” I wondered what present truth was. It seemed like a buzzword for conspiracy theories. Some churches have sermons that uplift Jesus, proclaim the miracles that come from following Jesus or talk about real ways to improve one’s walk with God (without the guilt). To Albert and his ilk, present truth was anything that could be found while watching an Alex Jones YouTube video. “Bill Hughes is present truth,” I was told. Anything that makes you scared and fret for your salvation without any kind of hope for salvation is present truth. “Do not call conspiracy everything this people calls a conspiracy; do not fear what they fear and do not dread it.” Isaiah 8:12.

“We have this hope that burns within our hearts!” The battle song blasted. Pastor Albert, at the front, grinned as he gripped his remote tightly. Looking at his pack of congregants, he likely felt confident in commanding a growing religious empire. It was time for another sermon to fill the minds of his aging congregation. Freddy sat in the back, his Bible next to him, ready to take that slow poison in.

“They are lulling you to sleep with smooth words!” he shouted. “We are to be ready for the time of trouble! These other churches talk about the love of God. Empty sermons! We are approaching the time of trouble like none other!”*

*Note: Ellen White states with fervor that God can’t love disobedient children—and that those who question her should have never been born. Albert  proclaims that the love of God is not a subject fit for church. Yet, I say, and the Bible says that God is love. God loves every one of his creations. I will never follow anyone who says otherwise. If only Freddy or Stephen would have understood that fact. If only the women (except Ellen White, of course) were not instructed to keep silent. If only Darla would have spoken up at the beginning and said, “NO FREDDY!! No more conspiracy! No more getting caught up in this nonsense. THIS ENDS NOW!” If she had just taken the wheel of life and asserted some form of control, this would have likely never went this far. Wives, don’t blindly follow your husband’s religion. TAKE CHARGE! These actions can literally change the course of your entire life!

Out in the foyer, I combed through endless pamphlets that talked about the

various poisons of society, the dangers of false worship, and how vaccines were killing children. Behind me, I could hear all sorts of talk about various conspiracies. “They are spraying the chemtrails again,” a voice at one of the tables said. I shuddered. We often stayed late for the Bible study, as I felt that it was the only redeeming part of the day. At least it was taken straight out of the Bible (but peppered with White) The offshoot spent a lot of time talking about the “health message” or “being vegan,” and I later would come to realize that it was also due to the main idea of being saved by works. In fact, everything seemed to be about avoiding death and being saved by appeasing a works-obsessed god. However, working through the Ministry of Healing* was far more pleasurable than going back and dealing with Freddy’s angry tirades about whatever was bothering him in the world. He had become quite the bear at this point and I never knew when he would explode. At least this allowed us to be away from that madness.

*Note: Ministry of Healing is a book based on the combined work of various health reformers in the time that Ellen White lived. In typical White fashion, she took a lot of the beliefs of her day, some of which are not scientifically sound, and put them in a single book and slapped her name on it. It’s now considered the seminal tome of health within the church. The offshoots and cult-extremists lap it up like a thirsty farm hound.

Confusion was a key theme in this period of life. Many read this, myself included, and wonder how I could have stayed in it for so long. “Why did you keep going back?” some may ask. Little did I know that this was laying the foundation for my current religious beliefs. Yet, there was something I was seeking and hoping to find at this time. And I did not want to stir the pot by appearing to not believe in the commonalities that were shared with what I thought at the time was true. Although I write this now as a very agnostic Christian, I could not deny that many of the people at this organization were kind. They were, like many people in many churches, confused humans. I could see the humanity in their eyes when they spoke to me. I could see the love that was still there. I even questioned Albert, wondering if he truly and fully believed the things that he was

saying, or if he had some kind of dark motive. Even now I can’t say for sure. A part of me strongly believes he does this for wealth and fame. Perhaps the just end is that he is but a mind slave to his manufactured faith and a devout follower of Alex Jones. Maybe Countryside Sabbath Fellowship was just a way to fit the messages of Alex Jones into Adventism.

Confusion was compounded further by the members who seemed highly

intelligent. During the Bible studies, I would sit next to individuals who knew so much about the Bible. Some of them could quote the words and extract the history, connecting it with passages in other books, and weaving it together like a spider weaves its death trap. How could these same people believe in a government conspiracy to kill people or the idea that Jesuits were controlling a secret one-world government? Moreover, how could these saints believe that these topics were somehow a good choice for worshipping God?

I could not get past how there was such love at the potluck but such deep hate in the holy sanctuary. Hate for anything and everything different or even remotely similar boiled over in the words of Albert and many of those he invited to preach. Everyone and everything was a threat. It was Countryside versus the world. It was said to be “true Adventism” against the world. No wonder Freddy had found no joy in daily living. Everything was a mission, a walk towards death, to find out if one was “good enough” in the end. I wondered, did Freddy worry about the stars he had attained in his already long life?

With what little redeeming factor the Bible studies had, they were now taking place less often. Once a month the group would pile into their cars and make their way out into the big mean world to hand out literature. Spreading the message was seen as important, even in the insular church. How ironic that many of the people who were shopping at the Costco where the literature was being handed out would never be welcomed into the church. I wondered how shoppers took to receiving books like “The National Sunday Law” or Bill Hughes’ conspiracy rags. In my mind, I wondered how these books would attract Sabbath shoppers to Albert’s church. Was this just an exercise for the members to feel that they were more distant from the world that they were working to make themselves bigger outcasts in? Or was this a way to see that they were a holy people, with a knowledge that none other would accept? A way to prove that they were the modern-day Noahs, preaching to a wicked world that didn’t give a damn? Or maybe, just maybe, it was an outing to help Albert feel better about being less insular. In the judgment, maybe he could tell God that he did feed the hungry

books that they didn’t know they hungered for.

[bllsbailey]

Trump Suggests He’ll Release More Jeffrey Epstein Files If Re-elected, Maintains He Never Went To His Island

Former U.S. President and current Republican Presidential nominee Donald Trump speaks about the economy, inflation, and manufacturing during a campaign event at Alro Steel on August 29, 2024 in Potterville, Michigan. Michigan is considered a key battleground state in the upcoming November Presidential election.

In a recent interview, Donald Trump stated that if elected, he would have “no problem” disclosing additional documents pertaining to Jeffrey Epstein and his accomplices.

After Trump’s interview, podcast host Lex Fridman questioned him about why “so many smart, powerful people” let Epstein into their circles.

“He was a good salesman. He was a hailing, hearty type of guy,” Trump said. “He had some nice assets that he’d throw around like islands, but a lot of big people went to that island. But fortunately, I was not one of them,” he added.

Although Trump expressed interest in revisiting the topic if he wins in November, he still called it “very interesting” that the list of Epstein’s associates has been kept secret.

“I’d certainly take a look at it. Now, Kennedy’s interesting because it’s so many years ago. They do that for danger too, because it endangers certain people… So Kennedy is very different from the Epstein thing,” Trump said. “But I’d be inclined to do the Epstein. I’d have no problem with it.”

This follows Independent candidate Robert F. Kennedy Jr.’s claim last week that he allegedly knows what senior cabinet member urged Trump to not declassify the John F. Kennedy assassination files.

“RFK Jr. revealed that Trump-era Secretary of State Mike Pompeo was the one who persuaded Trump not to release the files,” DailyMail reported.

Meanwhile, Trump further discussed how he would have no problem releasing more Epstein information, which begs the question of whether many of the retracted names from the court filings would be released as well.

A 2020 book titled “The Grifter’s Club” also claims that Trump had banned Epstein, who painted himself as seemingly “innocent” but wealthy investor at the time, from his exclusive Mar-a-Lago club after hearing rumors that Epstein had flirted with the teenage daughter of another Mar-a-Lago member. 

“There has been no evidence of Trump engaging in any related wrongdoing,” Newsweek reported. 

Epstein died in 2019 after allegedly committing suicide in his prison cell. However, there has been much suspicion as to what really occurred, since the security footage taken of his cell was “accidentally deleted,” according to prosecutors.

“The footage contained on the preserved video was for the correct date and time, but captured a different tier than the one where Cell-1 was located”, according to a letter filed by Assistant U.S. Attorneys Jason Swergold and Maurene Comey.

Epstein was close with members of the Hollywood elite, former U.S. presidents, the Royal Family in the United Kingdom, top business executives, and he even had ties to intelligence agencies.

Epstein pleaded guilty in 2008 to separate sexual misconduct charges and he was arrested again in 2019 over leading a sex trafficking operation involving underage girls from 2002 to 2005, The Hill reported.

Documents that referenced prominent associates of Epstein and victims who had made public statements were revealed by a court in January. The records contained references to prominent figures who had previously been connected to Epstein, such as Prince Andrew and former U.S. President Bill Clinton, but they did not add any new material.

— Wired_In (@GetWired_In) September 3, 2024

Stay informed! Receive breaking news blasts directly to your inbox for free. Subscribe here. https://www.oann.com/alerts

[dynamicard007]

Ways Direct Mail Can Benefit your HVAC Business

When it comes to needing your heater or air conditioner worked on homeowners are scrambling to find someone to come work on their unit. Unless they have had their unit worked on numerous times, or recently bought a new unit, most homeowners don’t have an HVAC company on their speed dial. Sadly the HVAC business tends thrive when when homeowners are having issues with their units. So how do make sure homeowners are calling you when their unit goes out?  Well one successful tactic is through direct mail.

With direct mail you have the upper hand because you are technically already getting inside their home through plastic postcards, flyers, letters, or brochures. A home owner might keep your postcard handy for when a problem arises.

Let’s take a look the different print advertising ideas that help you get an edge over your competition and can enjoy the growth expected in the industry.

Statistics prove that one of the most effective HVAC marketing ideas in driving leads is the use of direct mail.

HVAC Branding: Direct Mail 

Direct Mail Plastic Cards involves a tangible hard copy piece of collateral sent directly to a customer or prospect via the mail.  With many HVAC businesses focused on digital, direct mail can offer a competitive advantage to savvy business owners.

·         81% of mail recipients read or scan their mail daily.

·         Recent neuroscience studies show that when you hold and read a physical piece of marketing material, you’re 70% more likely to recall the brand than when you only see a digital message.

·         Recipients open less than 20% of marketing emails.

·         Direct mail cuts through the clutter and gets into the hands of prospective clients. In addition, people are in a different psychological frame of mind when reading their physical mail than when they are reading emails which are often seen as an annoying interruption.

Just think of your reaction when you receive a personalized envelope with a letter inside compared to yet another email cluttering your inbox and distracting you from work.

So, with that in mind, let us take a look at four of the best ways to use direct mail in your HVAC marketing strategy.

HVAC Plastic Postcards

Plastic Postcards are a very effective HVAC advertising idea. Plastic postcards are durable and water-resistant, and will withstand the harsh sorting process the USPS puts marketing mail through. Plastic postcards will show up in the mail box looking just as nice as they did when they came off the press. As you know first impressions are everything, and plastic postcards will give you the best shot at making a great first impression.

Plastic postcards are ideal if you want to immediately stand out from your competitors. If you send paper mail, they can easily be tagged as junk. Plastic Postcard, however, are rigid and weigh more than regular paper mail so not only do they quickly catch the eye, they easily fall out of the recipient’s mail stack making sure your ad gets noticed first.

HVAC Flyers

Flyers are a more traditional advertising method. A simple yet visually appealing flyer can be produced for your customers to stick on their fridge (which is prime real estate in the household) or in a file for important contacts.

Wherever a person stores your flyer, it is a physical reminder of your services and offers more longevity than a one-off advertisement or digital email that is quickly deleted. In addition, it is a more permanent and tangible prompt for them to contact your HVAC business.

Flyers can be used as an introduction to your HVAC business, to launch special promotions or just a reminder of your services in advance of summer or winter.

HVAC Brochures

Sometimes your company needs more space to convey all of its services than what a flyer can offer. And that is when you can create HVAC brochures to use in a direct mail campaign.

HVAC Letters

The best HVAC sales tips we can give you all involve personalization. Marketing is about creating a connection with people who like to believe the message has been targeted directly to them. It is a reason why so many companies want to create HVAC letters.

Send your potential customer a personalized envelope and letter within days. The personal touch helps create a connection and is something that will set you apart from your HVAC competitors.

 Want to grow your HVAC Business? Contact us today.

[vukovich]

Chapter Forty-three

The bedroom curtains were open, and several Patronuses were pacing outside the windows: one of Ron’s terriers, and two of Robards’ oxen.  Harry stopped to watch them.  He’d never seen a duplicate Patronus from anyone.  But then, he’d never seen a window that served as a magical inbox.

He opened the window a crack, and one of the oxen charged in through the gap like bullheaded smoke.

“Potter,” it grumbled.  “Night patrol had two call-ins.  Get here as soon as you can.”

Harry’s gut sank.  Robards had sent the message hours and hours ago.

The next ox barged in.  “Nevermind,” it said.  “Weasley’s coming in.”

Harry let out a sigh.  Robards would still be angry at him for ignoring the first message, but when wasn’t he mad at Harry?

Ron’s terrier trotted through and paced a circle around Harry.  “Oy!  Loverboy!  Meet me for breakfast after shift change.  If you get there first, order me a fry up with double bacon.  Fuckin’ foot patrol.”

The terrier pranced back out the window and faded into the sunbeams.

“Shit.”

Ron was probably already waiting for him.  He’d be in the beat up booth by the window, in the shitty Muggle diner with the other night shift Aurors.  He’d order a carafe of coffee and two fry ups.

If Harry didn’t show up to claim his plate, would Ron tell the other Aurors he’d had a date with Draco?

“Shit,” Harry said again.  He couldn’t very well say he hadn’t gotten the Patronus.  And he didn’t have a great reason to beg off.  Except that the bed behind him beckoned him, even without Draco in it.

It would still smell like him.  Like both of them.  There might even still be scraps of warmth in the folds of the blankets, like icing on a cinnamon roll.

His stomach rumbled.

He toyed with the end of his chain.  Maybe he could slip out, have breakfast with Ron, and be back before Draco returned.

His stomach rumbled again.  That cold pizza had only whet his appetite.  He was fucking hungry.

He’d Apparate to the diner, wolf down a massive plate of food, then come back, strip naked, and sleep until Draco came back.

Minutes later, he was spelling his muddy clothes clean in the bathroom when he heard Draco’s voice.  He froze, listening.

Draco’s voice was a low rumble, followed by Tyler saying, “God, I heard you.  I’m going.”

A bright white light shone under the door, and then the doorknob turned.

“No, I haven’t read it yet,” Tyler snapped. “It’s fucking eight in the morning, you goddamn prick” he added in Parseltongue.

“Finish it before you go to the kennels,” said the glowing direwolf in the hall.

Harry only caught a glimpse of it before it disintegrated, ending the conversation before Tyler got a chance to complain.

“Oh,” Tyler said, swinging the door open.  “Hi.”

He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt with the letters U and K embossed in big blue print across the chest.  Whether it stood for University of Kentucky or United Kingdom, Harry didn’t know.  

“Uhm.  Hi,” Harry said, standing there in his socks, underpants, and mostly clean shirt.  His trousers were still caked with mud, and his shoes were probably a lost cause.

Tyler sighed and rolled his eyes.  “I owe you an apology,” he said, with the amount of disdain only a teenager could manage.  “Apparently.”

“Uhm.  All right.”

“I knew he was gay and everything, like, he told me.”  Tyler sighed again, but his posture softened this time, and he finally looked Harry in the eye.  “But I hadn’t seen… you know, actual gay stuff.”

Harry picked dried mud off his trouser cuffs and let it fall into the sink.  It hit the ring of water around the drain that Draco had left and dirtied it.

“So I’m sorry,” Tyler drawled.  It was as fake an apology as Draco would have made at that age.

Harry was supposed to say was something like, ‘It’s okay’ or ‘It happens’, but the truth was, sleeping with another man was so new to him that it didn’t yet feel real.

“Uhm, thanks,” Harry said, and spelled the rest of the mud from his trousers.

He put his trousers on, and Tyler watched him silently, then blurted, “I’m not a homophobe.”

“Okay,” Harry said, far more interested in getting out of the conversation than anything else.

“I’m not!  My dad was, and-” Tyler stopped and ran a hand through his curls.  “I mean, my mom’s husband.  I guess.  Not Lucius.”

His accent made it come out as ‘LOO-shuss’, which pulled an amused huff from Harry.

“Or maybe Lucius was, too,” Tyler said.  “Guess I wouldn’t know.  Anyway, sorry I was a dick.  I just- I dunno-  I’m not really used to meeting people.”

The best Harry could do about his shoes was spell them until most of the mud on the outside was gone, but the insoles were still wet.

Tyler just stood there in the doorway, watching him wield a series of household cleaning spells like he was memorising them.

Harry had a sudden realisation and said, “Wait, so Draco doesn’t have men spend the night?”

“No,” Tyler said, shaking his head emphatically, “never.  Or at least not since I’ve been here.”

“How long have you lived here?”

Harry expected a length of time measured in days or weeks.

“Since I was fourteen.  So like, two and a half years?”

Harry tried to hide his shock and failed.  “So you’re a Seventh Year?”

“A seventh year what?”

“Student.  At Hogwarts.”

Tyler gave him a condescending smirk.  “Ah, no.  Not exactly school material.  Plus, Hogwarts talks to the Ministry, the Ministry talks to INTERPOL, and my happy ass gets deported and Draco goes to Ash Cabin.”

Harry blinked at him.  “Azkaban?”

“Whatever.”  Tyler rolled his eyes.  “Fucking word police,” he added in a barely-there hiss.

Harry tugged one shoe on, then the other, but stopped before tying them.  “Wait.  Why would he go to Azkaban?”

“Fuck if I know,” Tyler said, then startled, as though he’d meant to keep the profanity to Parseltongue.  

“So he didn’t kidnap you?” Harry asked, as a joke.

“I mean…”  Tyler stopped to think.  “Legally…?  Maybe?”

Harry was bent over, tying his shoes, wishing he hadn’t asked, because as an Auror, he probably had a duty to report this.  Plus, in a few minutes, he’ be sitting across a fry up from Ron, and Ron was too damned perceptive for his own good sometimes.

“Look,” Tyler said, “when some dude covered in blood and wearing a suit shows up in your backyard, you gotta at least hear him out, right?”

“I suppose-”

“‘Cuz I thought he was a poacher ‘til I saw the suit.  Nobody hunts deer in a suit.”

“And you just went with him?”

Tyler shrugged.  “Said he’d buy me an Xbox.”

Harry’s abrupt laugh was mostly snort.  “And did he?”

“Nah, not once he found out what it was.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” Harry said.  He was fully dressed, ready to leave, but Tyler was in the bathroom doorway.

“You leavin’?” Tyler asked.  

Harry nodded, and Tyler waited for what Harry presumed was an invitation.  When it didn’t come, Tyler stepped out into the hallway.  

“That’s cool.”  He turned the opposite direction Harry was headed.  “I gotta go read some dusty books about dead wizards.  You gonna come back?”

They were further and further apart as they both slowly walked.

“Yeah,” Harry said.  “I’ll be back later.”

“Cool,” Tyler said over his shoulder.  “See you, Five-Oh.”

--

24K9

A daily(?) kinktober 2023 fic. Will post to AO3 on American Thanksgiving, 2023.

Harry is a K9 unit Auror. Draco is the Ministry Kennelmaster. How could that possibly lead to anything?

Tags: collaring, top Draco, sensual pet play, touch starved Harry, bathing, shaving, rescue dog feels, other tags TBA, maybe dark draco ending?, maybe werewolves?, definitely coming untouched though, just blasting rope man

--

Chapter One

“I assure you, Auror Potter,” drawled the Patronus, speaking even before it found its full form, “there is nothing wrong with your partner.”

Malfoy’s tone was patronising, as though he were telling Harry that the monsters under his bed weren’t real, and to go back to sleep.

Next to Harry’s desk, his ‘partner’ had managed to catch his tail and was currently gnawing on it with nothing short of ardour.  K9 Auror Wurst, aka RottWurst, clamped down on his fluffy tail so hard, Harry swore he heard a crunch.

The bright fog condensed into a direwolf the size of a modest pony.  It was the perfect symbol for Draco Malfoy.  A pale, leggy, sharp-toothed relic of another time.

“And I assure you,” Harry spat, “Kennelmaster Malfoy, that this mutt’s fucking touched in the head.”

The mutt in question was eighty-plus pounds of Rottweiler-poodle abomination.  He looked like a St Bernard had dug into an avalanche, missed the humans, and hit a thousand-volt power line instead.  The curly white fur on his belly was caked with mud, and his brown muzzle still had bits of grass clippings on it.  The rest of him was black, save his brown eyebrows and speckled ears.

“He keeps alerting to sex magic, not dark magic.  It’s fucking embarrassing.  Dragged me across Hyde Park.  I had to use a Confundus on him to get him back to the office.”

The direwolf was so still that Harry blinked twice to make sure the shape wasn’t burned into his retinas.  It was a bloody showboat of a Patronus.

It was so bright that it brought out the dinginess of Harry’s office.  The yellow carpet had a pale brown trail between the door and Harry’s desk chair.  The corners of the ceiling had cobwebs, and the baseboards held an unhealthy amount of dust.

The fresh dog piss on the floor didn’t help things.

“I mean, he’s not worthless,” Harry added.  “But Robards said he can’t reassign him to Vice.  That he doesn’t have that authority.  So it must be you who has to do it.”

It was a little risky to bypass Robards the way he had, contacting Malfoy directly.  He probably should have made an appointment with his assistant or something.

But he’d been angry, so he’d pulled an interdepartmental priority Howler out of his desk and sent it.

There was probably a DMLE protocol for contacting a member of the Wizengamot.  There was a DMLE protocol for everything but wiping his arse.  Actually, they probably had one for that, too.

Harry blinked again.  His eyes were dry.  He was on hour seven of a twelve-hour shift.  After this, he’d get another coffee.

The direwolf shifted its weight, then leaned back, hindquarters high, in a deep stretch.  Its paws spread out in front of it.

Harry wondered if Malfoy was actually stretching.  And what that might look like.

It’d been years since he’d seen Malfoy in person.  Just in the papers, and only in the background of Wizengamot photos.  He’d been called to his Wizengamot seat the day after his thirtieth birthday, having met the minimum age.  They hadn’t called Hermione to hers until she was thirty-two.  She’d die mad about that.

The direwolf laid down, then yawned.

Harry yawned.

Wurst yawned.  Then farted.

Harry thought to check the time.  2:30 AM, according to his wristwatch.  He’d been on the clock for fourteen hours.  Not seven.

“Shit,” Harry said.

He’d woken a member of the Wizengamot at 2:30 AM.  And an important one.  

The direwolf sighed and tucked its muzzle under its paw.  Harry held his breath.  Maybe Malfoy would fall asleep.

Maybe he’d doze off, and he’d think he dreamt he got a Howler in the middle of the night from a burnout beat cop at least six rungs below him.  Maybe.

The direwolf sighed again, then drifted away like will-o'-the-wisps on the wind.

Maybe Malfoy wouldn’t report this.

Maybe.

Maybe Robards wouldn’t kill him.

He drummed his fingers on his desk.  If he did get written up, it’d be his sixth this year.  Two of them were for failing to meet dress code, but the shaving regulations were stupid, and the hygiene one was just weird.

Still.  

Wurst looked at him.  He looked at Wurst.

Nothing would happen.  His talk with Malfoy had only lasted a few seconds.  He’d think it was a dream.

It would be fine.

“It’ll be fine,” Harry told Wurst, ignoring the sweat on his palms.

Wurst’s nostrils flared, and then an ivory envelope slid under the door.  It sat on the grimy carpet for a moment, then folded itself into a swan.  With a few wingbeats, it landed on Harry’s desk and unfolded itself.

Inside was a business card.

Draco L Malfoy Wizengamot Member, Kennelmaster Warminster BA13 4SH UK

“Shit,” Harry said.

He flipped the card over.  On the back was an appointment date and time.  Tomorrow.

“Fuck.”

Robards was going to kill him.

--

[empirelead-a]

Like for an inbox call.

I’ll go to your blog and send you an ask from one of the ask memes you’ve reblogged. And if you’re a multimuse blog, be specific on who you want the ask to be directed at or I’ll do the choosing.

[perpetuelledaydreaming]

Hiyaaa✨ R u accepting requests? I loev love love your writing so much!! If you are, I would like to request a Billy H imagine if that’s okay? The is latin and that has never bothered her in Indiana, people have called her mean names but never in school. She and billy are dating and Carol is obnoxious all the time but one day takes it too far by calling her a racial slur or like something that really insults her and is way out of line. Everyone notices and reader just fights it out, Billy tries to hold her back and you can decide whatever else! Hope it’s okay and hope you are taking requests!! Have a good day✨

so this request has been on my inbox forever and I wanted to thank the person who sent it because it has been one of my favorite works.

***

MALA SANTA

billy hargrove masterlist

words: 5.8k

summary: Billy is the best nurse someone could ask for and instead of telling him that violence is not the answer you should give him some classes. Honestly, he’s just surprised that you are as unhinged as he is, oh and racism is not tolerated here.

warnings: violence? but like deserved violence? although violence is never the answer. Oh and slurs.

“Go fuck yourself”, you spat as you finally turned to your left, arriving at your street in Hawkins, Indiana.

You spun quickly on your heels, hearing the laughs of the boys that had been harassing you for about five minutes getting farther and farther while they drove carelessly. You huffed and cursed them mentally as you walked through the nicest neighborhood that Hawkins had, silence settling in as you walked towards your house while you listened to your Walkman, you hadn’t really gotten used to the silence of the neighborhood, it seemed so far from what you usually knew.

It had been a couple of months since you had arrived in The States, yes, the United States, not America as many of the people liked to call it.

Your mom had decided to move to USA after there had been a great job offer for her over there and she didn’t even have to think about it. Your mom, your sister and you were the tightest family you knew, especially since you moved a lot because of her job. You were originally from Colombia but throughout your life, you had lived in Peru, Chile, Argentina, Uruguay, and even a few couples of months in Spain (which wasn’t Latin America, but the culture was rather similar)

And you loved it.

The rest of your extended family lived in Peru and Colombia, so you came back there always. Plus, you had friends all over the Latin countries, who still wrote to you and you manage to sneak a few calls everyone in a while to update them on your life, although letters were the main form of communication for you since international calls were rather expensive.

It was simple, the culture that you had grown up with was something else. The warmth of the people, the food, the laughs, the dances, the traditions, the parties. It was something that you were proud of, not many people were proud of being from Latin America and you sometimes you weren’t proud either with what was happening in your country at the moment, but there was so much more that people didn’t know about it, more than the problems.

But an opportunity was an opportunity, traveling was traveling, and your mom decided to take it.

After a couple of flights from Bogotá, to Miami, to Chicago, and then a car drive to Hawkins, you landed in a pretty big and spacious house in one of Hawkins’s most exclusive neighborhoods. It had been a whole shift in your life, you remember watching movies about High School here, “Pretty in Pink” or “Ferris Bueller” and it was nothing like you had known before. The environment was similar to what you usually watched in movies, but the bullying was bad. People in Colombia could be mean, but usually studying in an all-girls catholic school throughout your life didn’t mean a lot of hardcore bullying. On the contrary, there was pettiness, a general phenomenon of body dysmorphia (which sucked), and which girl was the one that knew the guys from the all-boys schools but other than that, it felt like there was somehow a sisterhood when you got older, which you appreciated.

Nonetheless, you had never seen the bullying as you had seen in Hawkins, the pettiness of catholic all-girls schools could never reach what you had seen over there, especially when it came to racism. You were fortunate, you hadn’t experienced any racism in your life but then you arrived at Hawkins.

“Can you call Pablo Escobar?” “I love me some narco chick” “Can you go clean up my house?” “You don’t understand me?” “Want me to talk slower?” “Go back to your country! Beaner!” “how much to sleep with the spicy Latina?” “do you actually live-in houses? Not the jungle?”

Things that you hadn’t even imagined.

You had tried to ignore them, to not let them upset you since part of you knew that it wasn’t worth it and that they were just ignorant and you wouldn’t want to waste a second with them. Another part of you knew that it was better for Billy’s sake.

When you came to Hawkins, you didn’t expect to fall in love with a small-town boy, not that Billy was since he came from California, but at the moment he fitted the stereotype. Your goal was to graduate, go to college in New York or in Europe, travel, meet new people, open-minded people, someone open-minded that liked to travel and learn like you.

But then, Billy crashed into your life and there was no going back.

Billy had seen you the first day you arrived at school as you climbed down from your car with your sister and he wasn’t able to take his eyes off from you. He had followed you relentlessly throughout the day, trying to introduce himself and see if he could get you to accept a date with his charms but you knew better. You were cautious and you simply spoke what you thought was necessary, your thoughts weren’t on dating but on getting out of school with good grades and a ticket to somewhere else. Billy wasn’t the type to get rejected or cut short by a girl, but there was something about you that simply enticed him, maybe the accent or the way you laughed in the hallways, or how you would be the first one to raise your hand if the teacher asked you something or when you would call out someone for shitty behavior, you seemed so different and there was warmth inside of you, a warmth that he didn’t know before and that made him feel safe. Therefore, Billy didn’t give up, he tried the next day, and the next week every day and he kept it up for a while until one day he walked into the school with a bouquet of flowers -something that everyone knew was unusual for him- and actually had asked you out in his Spanish, which wasn’t great but you had seen the effort he put into it. That night you went out with him to dinner and then drove around Hawkins listening to music, you showed him Miguel Bosé and he almost crashed when you started singing the soft songs in Spanish and at the end of the night, he asked for a kiss at the front of your door.

He seemed so genuine and small and kind after that whole night that you basically pulled him by the collar of his shirt and crashed your lips against him.

After that, there wasn’t much to do. Billy was unconditionally in love with you and you were in love with him. And the relationship went smoother than something ever could, Billy never indulged in the spicy Latina stereotype, he tried to be the perfect boy in front of your mother and your sister, who accepted him fully and treated him like part of the family. Although it was harder for his family, Max and Susan loved you instantly and loved how smart you were, Billy’s dad was apprehensive at first, especially with the different stereotypes he had in mind about Latin people but he seemed relieved when he knew that you were first of the class. Your relationship was everything that you had imagined in movies and more, none of your ex-boyfriends could compare to how lovely and caring Billy was with you, how much attention he put into everything regarding you, how he helped you every time you needed, how he would praise you on how smart you were and how such a good girl you were when he had you in bed, he was loving and perfect and both of you were happy.

But you still felt the annoyance at your relationship, most of the girls and even some boys at school felt like you had tamed the bad boy that everyone wanted or wanted to be. For boys, it was almost a homoerotic behavior that guys wanted to hook up with you almost to prove their buddies something, but when realized that you were confident and that you had Billy as a boyfriend, they felt insecure, and then they would start treating you like shit. For girls, it was mostly because everyone wanted to hook up with Billy and only a few had the chance, they fawned over him, and seeing him with someone new and for a real relationship made them jealous. You had become Queen of Hawkins without even trying and it anger some, especially Carol, Tina, and Tommy.

But you tried not to mind them, avoiding hanging with them while you were at school or parties, and making your own group of friends, including Steve Harrington who was one of your neighbors.

Nonetheless, the harassment and racism grew with time to the point that the confidence and strength that you had started to waver a little bit.

“What’s on your mind, baby?”

Billy’s voice snapped you out of your thoughts as you turned on your bed to face him. Billy liked to climbed into your bedroom at night, although your mom loved Billy and didn’t see anything wrong with his unbuttoned shirts, having your boyfriend sleep in your bed wasn’t very “de una niña bien”. So he usually sneaked in around eleven and go out at four in the morning back to his place, he didn’t mind that he didn’t get much sleep, it was worth it to feel you around while he wrapped you in his arms.

“Have you heard anything about me?” you asked Billy softly as you turned to face him, you almost felt like crying when you saw how pretty his electric blue eyes look with the light of the moon.

Billy frowned as he heard you. “Like what?”

You sighed, knowing that there was no way that Billy would remain peaceful if he knew how people were treating you at school and you preferred that, you preferred to be bullied rather than have Billy punching someone’s teeth out.

You’d been working with Billy to change his aggressive side; you had told him about your father and that you had sworn to yourself to never be like him or end up with someone violent or aggressive. You’d learned from your country that if you didn’t remember your story, you were condemned to repeat it. So, Billy promised to be better and he had, he had stopped being aggressive and violent with other guys at school, he never got into fights now, only to stop them. You were so proud of him and happy that he had made the changes, instead, he started channeling the anger into talking to Hopper, who had taken him in after a little incident he had at a party and after a little bit of convincing from you. He had made so much progress as he learned to handle his feelings, he seemed to be getting better and you’d become jealous at some point even because of how well he could let it out in a normal way while you still had a habit of being quiet with things and keeping them to yourself.

Like you were doing right at the moment.

“Nothing,” you shuddered as you looked down at Billy’s necklace and played with it against his naked chest.

“What happened?” Billy said standing up on his elbow while watching you intently, you could feel the concern in his eyes but you shushed him, and pulled him back to bed, giving him a soft peck on the lips. He melted at your touch with a sigh.

“I’m okay, I swear.” you lied between kisses while you smile as Billy deepened the kiss. Billy was always so rough with everyone but you, he was always so soft with you and loving, that you sometimes felt like your heart was going to burst out of your chest. He started to hover over you and you could feel the jolt of anticipation running through your spine when he chuckled for himself as he saw your shinny eyes with the light of the moon.

But he stopped for a moment, nudging his nose against yours.

“Are you sure that you are okay?” Billy asked one more time as he settled between your legs and locked his gaze with yours.

You knew that it would come out eventually and that you would have to tell him what had been happening at school but right now you didn’t want to ruin the moment or how well he had been doing with his past trauma. People picking you didn’t seem worthy enough reason to bother Billy, plus you hated to be a damsel in distress. You believed you were the opposite.

“Yeah,” you lied once more and connected your lips to him with a smile, he tasted like vanilla and root beer. “Now, if you’re thinking what I’m thinking, I’m going to need you to be very quiet”

Billy’s low chuckle against your lips almost made you whimper against him as you rolled your hips in anticipation. “I think that it’s a you problem baby, not mine, I’m just trying to do my work right,” he said as his eyes shined devilishly and he started to kiss his way down your body.

…

You were a little bit tired from the night before and the fact that Billy had woken you up in a hurry since your mom had decided to wake up at 5:00 a.m. and he hadn’t parked the Camaro in its usual spot, but rather close to your house which meant that your mom could see it and recognize it, and you knew that your mom -as accepting and open-minded she was- she had still had old-fashion quirks, such as: not sleeping with boys until you graduate. So, Billy naturally was in a hurry as he heard the steps on the hallway and had decided to bolt out of there as fast as he could. He had almost fallen on the floor as he put on his tight jeans and your heads had clashed as you tried to kiss him goodbye while he climbed down the window.

Therefore, you weren’t really in a good mood at the moment. You had tried to dress up nicely with a mini skirt with flower print and a tight sweater that revealed a bit of your abdomen, high knee socks and some converse had been the outfit. It was supposed to make you feel better and for a moment it did, but it didn’t shake off the tiredness that you were feeling or the anxiety that you had to run into your bullies again, or the way that you wished for a little release with Billy as soon as you could.

So, when you first got to school you had agreed with Billy to meet during lunchtime for a really needed make-out session in his Camaro and you were actually hoping for that. So, you tried to hurry as you quickly thanked Nancy for her notes and you made your way through the hallway to your locker, you were already late and you really needed Billy to take the edge off.

But then you heard the known nasally voice behind you.

“Hey y/n, what are you getting out of your locker?” Carol’s voice made all of the hair in your arm stand up but you tried not to mind as you tried to change books as fast as you possibly could to avoid her.

You decided not to answer, part of you understanding that to these kinds of people any attention is good attention, and none hurts them the most. It had been this way since the harassment had begun and today you didn’t need anything more on your plate.

But then you felt her hand on your shoulder and then her words hit you.

“Hey you little coke camel, I’m talking to you!” Carol screamed at you with a smug smirk drawn upon her face, laughing with Tina and Tommy behind her. A couple of kids in the back laughed too and some stared at the clear scene that she was making, but no one said anything.

And you saw red.

Before you knew it, you had slapped Carol as hard as you possibly could, she stumbled back from the sheer force of the slap and she placed both of her hands on the damaged cheek, it was red and you could tell that it might even bruise a little bit. Time seemed to slow down as everyone in the hallway stopped whatever they were doing to watch you and Carol intently, silence washing over the hallway while people were waiting for what would come next.

But you could only hear your breathing as you watched your hand and felt the tingly sensation on your palm from the slap, it was red as well from the force you had put on it. It somehow scared you how strong you had been and you were already thinking about how to say sorry and run to Billy’s car but before you knew it you felt a strong set of hands pushing you against the lockers.

Your body smashed against them and you hissed as you hit your back, probably knowing that it would bruise. You raised your head to see how Tommy was standing closer to you with a glare and how Carol took you by the shoulders and pushed you again against the lockers.

“Bitch!” she yelled at you, glaring deeply and red face. She looked crazy and even you flinched a bit but when you realized the situation that you were in, that this was past normal bullying and if you wanted to continue to be on top of the class, good girl with no problems you had to get out of there.

“Puta! ¡Fuck you!” you screamed at her and quickly pushed her away, making Carol fall on the floor, hard. Tommy and Tina went right then to help her as you closed your locker and grabbed your backpack, you knew that it would be better if you could simply leave now. You tried to give a step but before you knew it, someone pulled you from your backpack, making you almost fall but you turned around to see Carol, her dilated nostrils, heavy breathing, red face -almost as red as her hair- and almost bruised cheek.

“You fucking bitch! I’m going to send you back to fucking Mexico,” she screamed at you once more as she tried to push you to the floor but you didn’t budge.

It felt as if something had snapped in your mind. It seemed like the fear of getting in trouble washed away and you remember how in your family, you were always taught to stand in your ground, to not be afraid.

“I’m from fucking Colombia, ignorant slut and I would love to see you try,” you yelled back, and before Carol would react you had pushed her to the floor again and started to fight her.

Billy was, to put it as simply as possible, annoying as hell. He hadn’t slept much and almost fell down the second floor of your house when he was trying to sneak out, he almost missed first period since he didn’t hear the alarm and at the moment, he was craving you. He had managed to steal you for a minute as you changed classes, caging you between his arms against the lockers, he stole a kiss from you that left him breathless and both of you agree to meet in the parking lot at lunch. Billy was sure you said 12:15 pm on the Camaro but you were nowhere to be found and he was getting desperate with every second that passed.

And then, Billy saw Steve Harrington running towards him like a crazy man through the parking lot, people kept staring at Steve and how disheveled he was. Billy wasn’t a fan of Harrington but he knew that Steve was one of your closest friends, so when he saw the face of desperation on his face, Billy walked to meet him as close as he could.

“It’s y/n,” Steve breathed out, as he took Billy by the arms and started pulling him towards the school. “She’s…” Steve continued but had to stop to catch a breath. Billy was getting a little bit desperate so he shook Steve’s handoff.

“She? What Harrington, come on” Billy growled at Steve, he felt his heart going a mile per hour as well as his mind. Were you hurt? Have you failed a test? Did you faint because you didn’t have breakfast? Was a guy hitting on you? Billy tried to imagine any possible scenario that could cross his mind, not that he was right.

“She’s going at it; she has Carol on the floor,” Steve finally breathed out and Billy spun on his heels and started to run to the school.

Billy didn’t even know he could run as fast as he had done with those tight jeans. But as soon as he heard what Steve had said, he was more than worried. He knew that Carol wasn’t new to fights, Billy could see how her chest puffed out when she told stories about how she had kicked a girl’s ass when she had tried to flirt with Tommy and Billy, with how much effort you had put onto him being better and your story, thought that you weren’t ready to face Carol.

But as he pushed his way through the crowd that had gathered around you and Carol, and when he saw you, he realized that you weren’t exactly the one in trouble. In all honesty, Billy wanted to say that he was in shock when his eyes fell on the scene in front of him, he wanted even to say that he was a little bit turned on by what he was seeing but mostly he was scared and somehow pleasantly surprised by you.

Carol was down on the floor being pinned down by you as she screamed obscenities while people that surrounded you were chanting and screaming for someone to win. You were honestly hoping for her to get scared but she wasn’t backing off, even after you had tried to leave the fight multiple times. She had managed to scratch your arms and back, and even tried to scratch your face with her long nails, you were pretty sure she had scratched your cheek and you were bleeding a bit but after that, it seemed to be game over for her. You had effectively managed to keep her down, even kicking her in the stomach when she was trying to hover over you. Then a blow or two to her face, as you tried to make her feel a little bit groggy which would be enough for her to stop but she didn’t seem to give up as she tried to snatch your hair to pull you down. Therefore, when Billy found you, you had Carol pinned down, your white converse over one of her wrists while you were trying to control her other arm and pinned it down with your other knee. You finally managed to do it, while she was preparing to spit at you but before she could do it, you threw another punch that this time drew out blood from her nose and then you felt a tight grip on your waist and it lifted you quickly.

You felt confused as you fought against the tight hold on your waist, you thought it might’ve been a teacher but it was way too strong, your mind immediately went to Tommy who was there watching, panic invaded you as you screamed and tried to pull the arm away.

“Let go!” you shrieked and they finally let go and then you turned around. Those electric blue eyes were watching you in a way you’d never seen before. You felt your stomach turning inside of you and the guilt on your shoulders felt like too much, you wanted to run away or hide from Billy. You face down and then you watched your hands, they were covered in scratches and your knuckles were blody, they were already getting purple.

This was the last thing you wanted Billy to see you in, you’d been preaching to him about self-control and how rage and violence were not the answer but there you were, punching another girl square in the face in the middle of the school. Either way, Billy didn’t give you much time to react either. He quickly took a hold of your body and without much effort, he threw you over his shoulder. You squealed at the movement but felt a little bit at peace as Billy’s cologne surrounded you and held you by your legs.

People started to shout “boo” towards Billy and you as you left the circle, Billy quickly took your backpack and walked away. But as he turned, you could see Carol on the floor crying as Tommy and Tina started to help her. She was clearly in shock as she tried to avoid that the blood coming from her nose would taint her pink clothes, her face was in the worst shape with a couple of bruises and cuts, part of you thought that it was enough and another part of you thought that she deserved a reminder.

“Call me another fucking racial slur again and I’ll send you to the hospital, perra,” you shouted towards her while pointing your middle finger at the crowd, some cheered but you could feel Billy shaking his head against your legs.

Billy took you out of the school as quickly as he could towards the Camaro. You wished you could say something as he carried you but you felt so exhausted from the adrenaline that had been rushing through your body that you decided to stay silent as Billy finally placed you on the front seat of the Camaro and then closed the door as he turned and then entered the car on the driver seat. Silence washed over you, you felt like you weren’t able to look at Billy, but you shyly turned to him when you felt his piercing gaze on you.

When your gazes finally met, you couldn’t help it both of you burst into laughs, your stomach hurt as laughs filled the Camaro and you cover your face with embarrassment but you couldn’t keep the giggles down.

“I didn’t know you could fight!” Billy exclaimed between laughs as he watched you with wide eyes and a Cheshire cat smile.

You shook your head, feeling your cheeks getting read as you sated at his electric blue eyes. “Yeah, grow up with a little sister and a cousin who teaches you how to hit more effectively and that’s it,” you tried to say nonchalantly.

Suddenly the giggles started to die down as Billy’s gaze fell on your hands, only then as you followed his gaze did you realize that you were shaking. He quickly held them, lacing them with his bigger hands and you looked at him with almost tears in your eyes.

“I mean, you know that this isn’t the way right like you’ve told me that,” Billy muttered lovingly as you moved from your seat a bit and laid your head against his shoulder.

“Yeah. A million times,” you whispered back as you stared at the horizon, trying to brush off the guilt from your chest.

“So?” Billy asked but you didn’t answer. You stayed silent, you felt like you had no right of saying something about violence with Billy, not after what you had mentioned and you didn’t really want to get him upset with you about how you had been such a hypocrite. Billy understood and he simply laid one of his hands on your tight and then turned the Camaro on.

You didn’t listen to music on the way and you definitely didn’t say anything, you simply drove silently to Billy’s house as your mind started to run through what had happened and your body started to feel the whole deal that you had gone through. Your back started to ache and you were starting to feel the burning of the cut on your cheek and the scratches on most of your body.

When you arrived to Billy’s house you felt suddenly aware of your state, you must be disheveled and with bruises and blood all over your body. Billy turned off the Camaro and quickly got out, he opened the door for you and gave you his hand so you could walk out but you didn’t move.

“What about your dad?” you asked quietly, as you turned to Billy and stared at him intently but he simply shook his head.

“Out of town with Susan but I don’t know if Max’s in the house,” He answered softly and offered his hand one more time.

You finally gave in and took Billy’s hand as you walked out of the car and he closed the door behind you. You sighed as you stared at yourself in the windows of the Camaro, you were still bleeding a bit but now the blood on your hands had dried.

“Max is not going to say anything,” Billy said as he caught a glimpse of your expression on the window.

“It’s okay, I don’t care if she sees me like this,” you sighed as you walked towards the small house.

“I think she would love it,” Billy said as he closed the door behind you with a slight smirk, you walked into the house and automatically entered his bedroom as if you had been there all your life. You laid in Billy’s bed as you waited for him, he was in the bathroom searching for the first aid kit that Max and Susan had saved for him when he got into any fights with his father.

He entered the room swiftly after that and sat next to you on the bed as he opened the kit and started to get the alcohol and the bandages that he needed. He took your hand so softly that you almost wanted to cry, he was treating you as if you were made of glass and he lovingly started to heal you, it reminded you of the times that you had done it for him and you could understand how you ended up in bed after those.

Billy started meticulously putting some salve on your bruise knuckles while you remained silent as you watch him lovingly. You didn’t know if it was how he was taking care of you or just the fact that you were finally alone and you knew that even after what you had done Billy loved you without wavering.

“They’ve been calling me names,” you whispered to him and he raised his head with a frown.

“What?” Billy asked, his voice harsh and his brows bumped together.

“Your friends, out of the school,” you muttered as you tried to ignore the sting of the alcohol prep pad on a cut you hand on your wrist.

“They are not my friends,” Billy intervened sternly as he shook his head and continue to clean your cut.

“Well, these putos followers that chase you around all day have been calling me racists stuff,” you sighed in exasperation.

Billy stopped with the cleaning and he simply and delicately held your hand softly. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked seriously as he stared at you sternly.

“I just didn’t want to upset you and I don’t need you to fight my battles for me,” you answer back honestly, you’d never wanted to drag him into this even more after you had explained to him that he couldn’t or shouldn’t be violent.

“y/n, I’m your boyfriend. I’m here to help you in any way I can, always” he said, as he lifted your chin and gently dabbed at the cut on your cheek with a q-tip covered in salve. You stared at him contemplatively and you couldn’t help to feel how your heart beat faster with what he had said, always, ringed in your ear as you kept thinking of him and watching him taking care of you.

“Although you clearly don’t need any help,” he muttered with a devilish smile and you smiled back to him. He slowly dropped his hands from your face when he was done and you didn’t give him any time.

As soon as he tossed the used items in the trash can near his bed, you quickly attacked his lips with a hungry kiss, you wrapped your arms around his neck and Billy had no problem picking you up with his arms as you tangled your legs around his hip. You loved him, you truly loved him.

Billy leaned into you, his hands digging into your ass as you gasped and he nipped at your bottom lip. You couldn’t help yourself as you knotted your fingers in his curls and scrunched your shoulders up as you tried to get closer to him. Your lips were hot against his and puffy as you kissed him harder. He turned the two of you around and fell on the bed but as soon as you landed, you quickly pulled away as you felt the stinging from Carol’s scratches on your back.

“Ow,” you muttered.

“What?” Billy asked concerned as he examined your whole body as quickly as he could, he even placed his hands on your cheeks to see if he had made any damage to the patch-up cut on your cheek but you shook your head.

“I think she managed to scratch my back, she has long nails and it took me a second to immobilize her,” you grumbled as you sat up and placed yourself on Billy’s lap. It would take at least two days for you to feel comfortable again in any position that involved your back.

“Well I can’t relate with painful scratches since your nails are not that long but that mouth,” he said with a devilish smile as he sat up and started to snake his hands on your ass, “It really bites hard,” he growled lowly as he pushed your hips to grind on him and you had to bite down a moan.

“Ew, close the door,” Max’s voice snapped both of you from the moment as you turned around to the door where she was.

Suddenly, her scrunched-up nose and disgust on her eyes were replaced with widened eyes and her open mouth, clearly, she was surprised when she saw your injuries.

“Omg y/n, what the hell happened?” She asked as she dropped her bag in Billy's room and stood next to you as you climbed down Billy's lap and stood up before you gave her a small hug. “You look so cool,” She yelled with a laugh as she took a hold of your knuckles.

“She’s a badass,” Billy replied with a wink to you.

***

author's note: I'm, I just ... I'm obsessed with this one. Like I wrote this one like the first part about six months ago and decided to finish this week and I'm just like chefs kiss. I really hope you like it as much as I do.

please, as always, let me know if you liked this, your thoughts, etc. request are always open and any feedback is super appreciated!

thANK YOU!!

***

feedback is always welcomed!!

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also available on wattpad

***

[taexual]

SEVENTEEN (Vocal Unit) / They realize they are in love with you

WARNING: the softest fluff (also, these are long)

JEONGHAN

Jeonghan thought his flu had gotten so bad, he’d imagined the sound of the doorbell.

He’d just texted you – half an hour ago – telling you not to come over, no matter how sick he was, because it was pouring rain outside and he didn’t want you to get sick, too. And then he fell asleep, so now he wasn’t sure which sounds were real and which were—

There it was again. Someone was absolutely ringing the doorbell.

“Joshua!” he tried, bursting into a coughing fit as soon as the word left his lips. “Ah, crap—”

Sneezing immediately after he finished couhing, Jeonghan thought he could distinctly recall ordering the boys in the rooms nearby to evacuate as soon as he got a sore throat, afraid of infecting them, so that meant he was going to have to find a way to get to the door himself.

Halfway out of the door, sniffling and sturggling to properly open his eyes, Jeonghan heard a very familiar gasp. Blinking, he lifted his face to meet your surprised gaze.

“Why are you out of bed?” you demanded.

Too taken aback by your presence – perhaps he’d dreamed telling you not to come? – he stuttered, “the doorbell—”

“Seungcheol opened the door,” you explained, taking him by the arm and guiding him back to his room. “You’re not supposed to be walking.”

“Y-you’re not supposed to be here,” he retorted, shivering as soon as he felt your cold hand on his forehead when you checked for fever. You pulled your hand away after realizing that you were wet from the rain.

“You’re sick,” you countered as you helped him climb back into bed and passed him a tissue as soon as he sneezed again. “And Seungcheol told me you tried to kick everyone out of the house.”

“I just told them t-to—” he sneezed again, “to stay away from my room. I don’t want them to get sick. I don’t want you to get sick, either.”

“Well, I don’t want you to be alone when you’re not feeling well,” you replied, taking your coat and backpack off before sitting down on the edge of his bed and unpacking the provisions you’d brought. “I didn’t know how to make the kind of soup that you like but I hope that—”

“Thank you,” Jeonghan said. He watched the medicine, the themometers, the containers of food, and the nasal sprays that you’d brought, and felt something squeeze his chest – it wasn’t the flu. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, now lie down and—” you replied automatically and then froze, realizing that you’d never actually heard him say that to you before.

Somewhat bewildered, you turned to look at him but Jeonghan – still hovering between dream and reality and, therefore, not sure if he’d just confessed his love to you or if he just thought of doing it – was already lying in his pile of blankets and pillows, his eyes closed and lips parted, seemingly drifting off to sleep.

JOSHUA

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Joshua asked you as he tried to finish reading the last chapter of the book. The feeling of your warm gaze on him distracted him, and was more than enough to decorate his cheeks with the softest shade of pink.

Realizing that he’d caught you staring – but it wasn’t like you were trying very hard to be subtle – you chuckled and looked away. “Like what?”

“Like—I don’t know,” he laughed nervously, not quite sure why his heart had started to beat so quickly. “Like you’d never seen me before.”

You carried on what you were doing and looked back to your phone, explaining in a tone so simple, it seemed like your answer was obvious and it was ridiculous that he didn’t figure that out himself.

“Sometimes it feels like I haven’t,” you explained, “you looked so lost in the book, it felt like I was getting a glimpse into your mind by watching you read,” you paused to give him a look filled with sincerity, “sorry if that was—”

“No, um…” he stopped you, closing his book shut. He had exactly zero chances of getting back into the final chapter and actually understanding how the story resolved. “That’s okay. You just surprised me, I guess.”

“Why?” you asked, a hint of teasing in your voice now. “You’re nice to look at.”

Joshua felt himself inhale with a shudder so intense, he was worried you’d see him shaking from across the room. But, not meaning to make him even more uncomfortable, you’d looked away after you finished speaking, so he had nothing to be nervous about.

Except for the fact that he thought you were nice to look at, too. And the fact that he’d thought so for ages now, but you were friends and he wasn’t supposed to think that about a friend.

“Hey, um,” he started to say before he was aware of opening his mouth, “can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” you replied, too far from him to notice the wild terror in his eyes after he realized there was no going back from this.

“What—uh, h-how do you feel about going out to get food tonight?” he asked, caressing the spine of the book he was still holding in order to get some more courage to clarify the true purpose of his question.

“Okay, that sounds good,” you nodded. “Maybe we can try that all-you-can eat place that just opened a few blocks away?”

That wasn’t exactly the sort of candle-lit dinner he’d imagined, but, swallowing with great difficulty, Joshua nodded, “yeah. Okay. Anything you want.”

Baby steps, he decided. He’d have to figure out a way to make it clear that this was a date once you were already on it.

WOOZI

You had been too busy – too stressed – to see him – really, properly see him – for nearly a month now. All of your meetings consisted of a few minutes, meant to say hello and catch up, and then you were back to taking care of your own personal errands.

Before long, seeing you for two minutes a day didn’t seem enough for Jihoon anymore.

“I’m sorry,” you exhaled heavily, the fifth apology leaving your lips even though you and Jihoon had only been on the phone for about half a minute. “I should be done with this project in a few more weeks tops, and then this will all be over. Really, I am so—”

“No, don’t apologize,” Jihoon asked, feeling bad to be putting extra pressure on you with his insistent phone call. “I understand. I just… I don’t know, I haven’t seen you in so long.”

He wanted to say he missed you. He was going to say he missed you. But he stayed quiet, leaving the words hanging in the air awkwarly.

You bit your lip, not wanting to draw attention to the fact that you’d been hoping to relieve the frustration that’s been brought on by your heavy workload by doing something special for him. Something that he’d clearly not noticed.

“Have you, uh,” you started, having no other choice but to come clean, “checked your mailbox recently?”

“My inbox?” he repeated as his confused eyes darted to his computer where he’d always kept his email open.

“No, your mailbox,” you clarified and then explained, “your physical mailbox at your house.”

Jihoon looked almost alarmed. “No. I don’t think anyone checks that thing, we get our bills online and don’t care much for ads. S-should I, er—should I have checked it?”

“Yeah,” you said, nervous now. “Call me back after you do.”

He promised he would and leaped off his office chair. Nearly slipping on the wooden floors as he bolted through the door of his room and into the hallway outside of the apartment, Jihoon realized he’d left the key of the mailbox back inside.

Honestly, at that point, he was curious enough to physically pry the mailbox open but, groaning and huffing with irritation, he settled for the conventional way and returned inside to grab the key.

What he saw inside of the mailbox almost made him sit right down on the floor.

You’d mailed him a letter. Every single day. Actually, you didn’t mail it – the envelopes had no stamps on – you must have delivered the letters yourself, early in the morning before you had to go to work.

Jihoon wondered why you didn’t call him instead, but the answer was obvious: you knew how late he went to sleep the night before and you didn’t want to wake him.

Still not having caught his breath, Jihoon collected the envelopes and jogged back inside. He was going to call you first, then read them all; he wanted to do both at the same time but some things were more important than the others.

And the most important thing right now was him telling you how much he loved you.

DK

Seokmin didn’t really understand what was happening at first. One moment, he was sleeping – snoring peacefully and possibly even smiling in the dream – and then the next, he was suddenly awake and semi-aware of his surroundings, even if his eyes still felt too heavy to open.

“Hmmm,” mumbling in disorientation, he tried to turn to his side but felt something change in the atmosphere as soon as he did.

The room went quiet.

And, finally, Seokmin realized what’s happened: he’d been sleeping next to you – almost on top of you, at this point – and you’d been humming. Actually humming a quiet cheerful tune under your breath and, despite the comfort it brought his tired mind, he’d never heard you humming before. And that’s why he woke up.

“Sorry,” you whispered, putting down the book that you’d been reading while he slept. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“No, please,” he spoke, his voice groggy and laced with sleep. Throwing his arm around your waist as he absentmindedly nuzzled his face into your neck, he asked, “sing for me.”

You would have laughed if you didn’t feel so overwhelmed with his body warmth. “You’re asking me to sing for you?”

“Yes,” he said and sighed in content when one of your hands dropped above his head, your nervous fingertips gently touching his hair.

Seokmin had never felt so safe – so at home – before and he realized with frightening clarity that he never wanted to leave. So, tightening his grip around you, he settled firmly on one thing and one thing only: he was going to stay here forever.

“Sing me to sleep,” he asked again, bringing a smile to your lips with his ambiguous request, “but let me stay awake so I can listen.”

SEUNGKWAN

More than half of the time that Seungkwan spent with you, he was laughing. It was either at the jokes that you’d made, or at your shared ability to abandon all sensibility and behave like reckless idiots just for the fun of it. If someone had seen the two of you then, they would have probably thought you were both high on every drug imaginable.

And Seungkwan cherished moments like that – he cherished the pain in his cheeks, the hollowness of his lungs when he thought he’s suffocate from laughing so much, and the bruises on his thighs from clapping against them so hard each time you said something funny.

“God, I’m really going to die like this,” he said to you one time, wiping a tear from his eye.

Seungkwan almost started to laugh again as soon as he saw that you’d transcended the laughter state and were now in the “silent tremors” state where your body was shaking from how funny this was, but you were physically incapable of producing any sort of sound anymore.

“Stop!” he demanded, bringing his hand over your knee because you were too far for him to touch in a more forceful way. “I can’t breathe anymore!”

But you didn’t stop – you couldn’t – and soon enough, you were both almost literally on the floor, still laughing, even though neither of you could remember what was it that started this anymore. You’d slow down every now and then, the laughter dissipating, but then a memory – or the sight of each other’s faces, still framed in joy – would start it all up again.

“I c-can’t feel my stomach,” you spoke as you leaned against the wall, trying to get yourself together, but still giggling uncontrollably. “This is like exercise.”

Seungkwan had almost stopped but now he was laughing again – and, naturally, you were, too – and he had to cover his face with his hands because, dear God, this was never going to end!

“Exercise,” he said in-between fits of laughter, “is nowhere near as fun as this. Ah, I’m not sure I can stand up.”

Still laughing weakly, you managed to get back on your feet and extended a hand for him. “I blame you, by the way. You started it.”

“Did I?” he wasn’t sure.

“Of course! You always make me laugh.”

“You always make me laugh!” he countered as if this was a very serious accusation and, within a moment, you were both giggling again. “God, my face hurts so much. I love it. I love you.”

Even though he was still laughing as he said it – and you were, too – you couldn’t miss the sincerity in his voice and the emotion behind his words because, jokes and laughter aside, it matched the emotions inside of your own chest.

So, you laughed harder – forcing him to push your hand away because now he was laughing, too – because this was your way of telling him that you loved him, too.

[blackwoolncrown]

The defining feature of conversation is the expectation of a response. It would just be a monologue without one. In person, or on the phone, those responses come astoundingly quickly: After one person has spoken, the other replies in an average of just 200 milliseconds.

In recent decades, written communication has caught up—or at least come as close as it’s likely to get to mimicking the speed of regular conversation (until they implant thought-to-text microchips in our brains). It takes more than 200 milliseconds to compose a text, but it’s not called “instant” messaging for nothing: There is an understanding that any message you send can be replied to more or less immediately.

But there is also an understanding that you don’t have to reply to any message you receive immediately. As much as these communication tools are designed to be instant, they are also easily ignored. And ignore them we do. Texts go unanswered for hours or days, emails sit in inboxes for so long that “Sorry for the delayed response” has gone from earnest apology to punchline.

People don’t need fancy technology to ignore each other, of course: It takes just as little effort to avoid responding to a letter, or a voicemail, or not to answer the door when the Girl Scouts come knocking. As Naomi Baron, a linguist at American University who studies language and technology, puts it, “We’ve dissed people in lots of formats before.” But what’s different now, she says, is that “media that are in principle asynchronous increasingly function as if they are synchronous.”

The result is the sense that everyone could get back to you immediately, if they wanted to—and the anxiety that follows when they don’t. But the paradox of this age of communication is that this anxiety is the price of convenience. People are happy to make the trade to gain the ability to respond whenever they feel like it.

While you may know, rationally, that there are plenty of good reasons for someone not to respond to a text or an email—they’re busy, they haven’t seen the message yet, they’re thinking about what they want to say—it doesn’t always feel that way in a society where everyone seems to be on their smartphone all the time. A Pew survey found that 90 percent of cellphone owners “frequently” carry their phone with them, and 76 percent say they turn their phone off “rarely” or “never.” In one small 2015 study, young adults checked their phones an average of 85 times a day. Combine that with the increasing social acceptability of using your smartphone when you’re with other people, and it’s reasonable to expect that it probably doesn’t take that long for a recipient to see any given message.

“You create for people an environment where they feel as though they could be responded to instantaneously, and then people don’t do that. And that just has anxiety all over it,” says Sherry Turkle, the director of the Initiative on Technology and Self at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.

It’s anxiety-inducing because written communication is now designed to mimic conversation—but only when it comes to timing. It allows for a fast back-and-forth dialogue, but without any of the additional context of body language, facial expression, and intonation. It’s harder, for example, to tell that someone found your word choice off-putting, and thus to correct it in real-time, or try to explain yourself better. When someone’s in front of you, “you do get to see the shadow of your words across someone else’s face,” Turkle says.

In last month’s viral New Yorker short story “Cat Person,” a young woman embarks on a failed romantic relationship with a man she meets at the movie theater where she works. They only go on one date in the story; they get to know each other primarily over text. When the affair ends messily, it reveals not only how the bubble of romantic expectations can be popped by reality’s needle, but also how weak digital communication is as a scaffolding on which to build an understanding of another person.

In an interview, the story’s author, Kristen Roupenian, said the piece was inspired by “the strange and flimsy evidence we use to judge the contextless people we meet outside our existing social networks, whether online or off.” Indeed, even for the people we already know, we increasingly rely on contextless forms of communication. This puts an unusually large burden on the words themselves (and maybe some emojis) to convey what is meant. And each message, and each pause in between messages, takes on outsize importance.

“Text messages become marks on rocks to be analyzed and sweated over,” Turkle says.

It’s not always easy to figure out what someone meant to convey by using a certain emoji, or by waiting three days to text you back. Different people have different ideas about how long it’s appropriate to wait to respond. As Deborah Tannen, a linguist at Georgetown University, wrote in The Atlantic, the signals that are sent by how people communicate online—the “metamessages” that accompany the literal messages—can easily be misinterpreted:

Human beings are always in the business of making meaning and interpreting meaning. Because there are options to choose from when sending a message, like which platform to use and how to use it, we see meaning in the choice that was made. But because the technologies, and the conventions for using them, are so new and are changing so fast, even close friends and relatives have differing ideas about how they should be used. And because metamessages are implied rather than stated, they can be misinterpreted or missed entirely.

This metamessage opacity spawns thousands of other text messages a year, as people enlist their friends to help interpret exactly what their romantic interest meant by a certain turn of phrase, or whether a week-long radio silence means they’re being ghosted. (The New Yorker parodied this collaborative textual analysis in a video in which a group of women gather, war-room style, to answer the question “Was It a Date?”)

Features intended to add clarity—like read receipts or the little bubble with the ellipses in iMessage that tells you when someone is typing (which is apparently called the “typing awareness indicator”)—often just cause more anxiety, by offering definitive evidence for when someone is ignoring you or started to reply only to put it off longer.

* * *

But just because people know how stressful it can be to wait for a reply to what they thought would be an instant message doesn’t mean they won’t ignore others’ messages in turn.

Sometimes people don’t respond as a way of deliberately signaling they’re annoyed, or that they don’t want to continue a relationship. Turkle says sometimes taking a long time to write back is a way of establishing dominance in a relationship, by making yourself look simply too busy and important to reply.

But oftentimes, people are just trying to manage the quantity of messages and notifications they receive. In 2015, the average American was receiving 88 business emails per day, according to the market research firm Radicati, but only sending 34 business emails per day. Because—who has the time to respond to 88 emails a day? Maybe someone isn’t responding because they’ve realized the interruption of a notification negatively affects their productivity, so they’re ignoring their phone to get some work done.

I find myself ignoring or procrastinating even important messages, and ones I want and intend to respond to. I had to create a bright red “Needs Response” email label to battle my own “delayed response” problem. I regularly read texts, think “I’ll respond to that later,” and then completely forget about it.  Working memory—the brain’s mental to-do list—can only hold so much at once, and when notifications get crammed in with shopping lists and work tasks, sometimes it springs a leak.

“A lot of the time what’s happening is people have five conversations going on, and they just can’t really be intimate and present with five different people,” Turkle says. “So they kind of do a triage, they prioritize, they forget. Your brain is not a perfect instrument for processing texts. But it will be interpreted as though it really was a conversation, and so you can hurt people.”

* * *

Still, even though instant written communication can be overwhelming and anxiety-inducing, people prefer it. Americans spend more time texting than talking on the phone, and texting is the most frequent form of communication for Americans under 50.

While texting is popular worldwide, Baron, of American University, thinks that a strong preference for communication that can be easily ignored is a particularly American attitude. “Americans have far fewer manners in general in their communication than a lot of other societies,” she says. “The second issue is a real feeling of empowerment. I think we have become a version of power freaks, not just control freaks.”

In a survey Baron conducted in 2007 and 2008 of students in several countries including the United States, the things that people said they liked most about their phones were often related to control. One American woman said her favorite thing was “Constant communication when I want it (can also shut it off when I don’t).”

“What I have seen in this country, and I don’t know if it’s a national trait, is people wait until they think they have the perfect thing to say, as though relationships can be managed by writing the perfect thing,” Turkle says. “And I think that is something we pay a very high cost for.”

In Baron’s survey, people also mentioned feeling controlled by their phones—bemoaning how dependent they were on the devices, and how the constant connectivity made them feel obligated to respond.

But texts and emails don’t create as big of an obligation as phone calls, or a face-to-face conversation. When young adults are interviewed about why they don’t like making phone calls, they cite a distaste for how “invasive” they are, and a reluctance to place that burden on someone else. Written instant messages create a smokescreen of plausible deniability if someone doesn’t feel like responding, which can be relieving for the hider, and frustrating for the seeker.

More than anything, what the age of instant communication has enabled is the ability to deal with conversation on our own terms. We can respond right away, we can put it off for two days, or never get around to it at all. We can manage several different conversations at once. “Sorry, I was out with friends,” we might say, as an excuse for not texting someone back. Or, “Sorry, I just need to text this person back real quick,” we might say while out with friends.

As these things become normal, it creates an environment where we are only comfortable asking for slivers of people’s distracted time, lest they ever obligate us to give them our full and undivided attention.

[traumasurvivorshelpingsurvivors]

tw hospitals, suicide. Not a threat or a crisis. I do not have any plan to carry anything out and I am not a danger to myself. This is about voluntary hospitalization and kinda about therapy confidentiality. Thank you <33

hello! today I had a breakdown and feel like I can’t do this anymore. I want to tell my therapist and possibly get hospitalized.. bc I wanted to be away in a calmer safer environment where I can get help. however, I know my family will be very angry at me if I go to a hospital or say how I’m feeling, and I’m also afraid of the whole process of going to one, possibly my family rejecting the idea, and it being boring and uncomfortable there. I feel like they will use this against me and treat me badly if I go. but I just feel like I need some time away.. even if I have to come back to finish a bunch of school work.. I feel like maybe I could get real medicine and good help there… but I’m afraid and afraid of it being a bad experience. do u have any advice or experience with this? will my therapist hospitalize me/report me or anyone if I say way I said above and say I want to die and feel like i can’t live anymore and such? even without a plan to carry it out?

Hey there. I want to preface this ask by saying that I have been hospitalized in inpatient psych units 6 times (twice in a pediatric unit, once in an adolescent unit, and 3 times in adult units) so I understand what you are saying on a very personal level. If you have questions about the specifics of what any of that was like, please let me know and I would be happy to give you more details (I don't usually do this, but our inbox is currently closed, so my personal blog is @satanspersonal666 and anon is on there if you need assistance before the inbox here open back up)

That said, all of these concerns are very valid. There is so much stigma around going inpatient even if it is to help you. Most people who have not experienced a significant psychiatric issue don't understand what the purpose of a psychiatric hospital is.

If you think that going to the hospital is going to help you, then it is probably the right thing to do. People who don't need that level of care don't often think about how it could help. At the very minimum, it will keep you in a safe place for a little bit. It should also give you space to get on a good medication schedule and they also may be able to connect you with more outpatient support for when you are discharged. Sometimes the providers at the hospital can also talk to your family and explain things to them in a way they understand. They may also be more willing to listen because it is coming from a professional. That is not how it should be, but it is something to keep in mind.

As for telling your therapist that you want to die and what you said above, it really could lead to a few different outcomes.

If you are a minor, they may need to alert your parents if they feel that you are possibly in danger. Regardless of age, they may suggest going to the hospital and/or calling a mobile crisis team for an evaluation (which could also lead to hospitalization). They will also most likely want to create a safety plan with you to outline coping skills you can use and who to call if you do not feel safe.

Coming back to schoolwork is hard, but usually, schools will work with you to find a way to get the work handed in without penalizing you for being hospitalized. If you are in high school or below, you may need to have a meeting with the school and your parents to go over what those accommodations would look like and to see if there are other supports you need in school. Some schools and even some colleges may also require a letter from a psychiatric provider stating that you are able to return to school. Certain hospitals have a "school" program where your school can send work for you to do while you are admitted, but that varies from hospital to hospital.

A lot of what will happen will come down to what exactly you say, who you say it to, and what mental health intervention looks like where you are located for your age group.

I also want to mention that this link has good resources for crisis lines to call as well as coping skills to use. you can also always dial your location's emergency number if you are in danger.

Stay safe.

Mod Emmett

[visionsofus]

Hi! I hope I’m not bothering you but I was wondering if you’ve written Wanda’s first reaction to Vision’s human shimmer before?

hi! you'd never be bothering me! sorry this took a bit for me to get around to - my response ended up being a lot more long winded than I meant! thank you for reaching out with this, at the time I hadn't written anything like that but now I have ~ hope you enjoy 🥰

my inbox is open for anything and everything scarletvision

I just see you

synopsis: Vision hasn't seen Wanda in nearly a year, not since they both decided the danger was too great and they needed to go their separate ways. But he's still her emergency contact, so when Wanda ends up in hospital, Vision is the first to hear. Frantic, he travels to France, desperate to see her safe and harbouring hope that they might yet reconcile.

words: 4,140

read on AO3 here

There was a ringing coming from Vision’s bedroom.

It took a few shrill rings for him to realise that the noise wasn’t coming from inside his own head. Vision had been so wrapped up in his research that he hadn’t resurfaced for hours. It was a jarring thing to do all at once, to leave the carefully regulated interior of his mind and appear back in the physical world once more.

The ringing continued and Vision glanced around, his eyes adjusting quickly. Morning had quickly turned to evening and the pale walls of his room were lit up amber by the sunset.

The source of the sound was quickly discovered in the depths of his wardrobe, hidden within a pocket of a jacket he rarely wore. Vision fished the small flip phone out, anxiously. It had been a gift and the only person who knew its number hadn’t spoken to him in months.

Recalling that telephones only rang for a set time Vision hurriedly answered, lest it run through to the voicemail he’d never had cause to set up.

“Hello?” He said hesitantly, straining his ears to hear the person on the other line. The environment behind sounded busy, he could hear many voices piling on top of one another in chorus.

“Monsieur Maximoff?” The voice on the other side of the phone sounded stern, but unfamiliar. She was also speaking French. Vision did not know anyone who spoke French.

“I’m sorry, who am I speaking to?” Vision asked, fumbling for what to say and desperately grasping at the internet for a French translator. Mr Maximoff? He thought, who on earth was he talking to and how had they come across his number.

“Ah, Anglais.” The voice sounded more distant, as though she were talking to someone else. She returned, this time speaking in English with a heavy French accent. “Am I speaking to Mr Maximoff?”

Vision wasn’t sure what else he could say. “Yes, yes, you are. I’m so sorry, who is this?”

He was just about to trace the caller’s IMEI but the woman at the other end provided him with all the information he needed.

“Bonjour, Mr Maximoff. I am calling from the Toulouse University Hospital,” she said.

“Toulouse,” Vision repeated in astonishment. “Toulouse, France?”

“Yes, Monsieur,” she replied, sounding slightly vexed. “We had a patient brought in earlier tonight and you were listed as her emergency contact. Her condition is stable, but she had a hit to the head. We’ve observed her for a few hours, and she seems fine, but we wanted to advise you of the incident so you might pick her up.”

Vision breath caught in his throat as fear gripped his heart.

“To clarify,” Vision said shakily, “you are speaking of Wanda.”

“Yes.”

“Is she okay?”

He must have sounded rather strangled in his panic for when the woman spoke again her words were measuredly more soothing. “She is perfectly fine, Mr Maximoff. Just a bit shaken up with some light bruising and an abrasion on her forehead. We would like to monitor her overnight and if everything is okay, we can discharge her in the morning. Can you come to the hospital for then?”

“Of course!” Vision said frantically. “I can be there soon.”

She ended the call with a pleasantry in French that he didn’t recognise, but he was already on the move. He thought about leaving the phone behind, but decided it was better to have it near him in case the hospital called again.

Vision’s form blurred as he darted about the room grabbing at bits and pieces, he thought he might need. He wanted to travel light but also didn’t want to be caught unawares. He withdrew the travel bag he kept in his nightstand which contained any identification he needed to appear human. Vision had gotten his driver’s license once he had started making more solo trops and Tony had thought it useful. Vision obviously hadn’t taken the test itself; he was a better driver than any human and a test wasn’t needed to prove that.

He also retrieved his passport and the credit card he seldom needed to use. None of these listed his real identity, mind you. Instead, they displayed his human glamour with his pale skin and a head of sandy blond hair.

There was no way he could travel under his true identity without being clocked by the authorities as operating without the Accords’ instruction. Vision doubted that visiting your ex in hospital counted as noble activities that the United Nations would look favourably upon in the event he was caught. Especially when that ex happened to be an international fugitive.

With his ID secured and slipped safely into the pocket of his jacket, Vision made for the door. He was out of the compound before the building’s AI had the chance to trigger the system and notify Tony that someone had crossed the property line.

Vision had never had cause to test his super speed over such extensive distances. There had always been easier alternatives for travel.

Thankfully, progress went fast. Though it was frustrating having to stop at ever major border or airspace to disappear offline so he couldn’t be identified as a hostile flying object. When he did have secure connection, Vision kept an eye on the news in Toulouse, terrified that Wanda might be discovered. So far, the feed was quiet, and Vision had to rest on the assurance that the woman he had spoken with on the phone had said nothing to indicate she was suspicious of Wanda.

In the end, Vision managed to make it to France in just over two hours, having had to detour over the North Atlantic to avoid some nasty weather. Staying low to the ground and mostly hidden under the cover of night, he risked getting within two miles of the hospital before returning to the ground.

Vision ducked down an alley and took a moment to hide in the shadows. Taking a deep breath, he focused his energy on putting on the shimmer that made him appear human. It slipped into place easily. Straightening his jacket and running a hand through his hair, Vision ensured he looked relatively presentable before heading back out onto the streets of Toulouse.

It was an excruciatingly slow walk, but Vision knew he couldn’t risk drawing attention by walking any quicker than a human. Even in the early hours of the morning, Toulouse still had life to it. There were a few too many watchful eyes than he could be comfortable with. Even knowing that no one on this side of the world had seen his human form, it was still difficult to put the fear to rest.

Vision quickened his pace marginally as he reached the hospital’s entrance, figuring it might seem normal enough to hurry given where he was. In his head he reminded himself over and over that this was normal. He was here because he had received a call about his ‘partner’ who had been hospitalised. Vision felt sick even as he thought it.

Inside the brightly lit ground floor was a round desk with bright green letters hanging above that said la réception.Sitting behind the desk were three nurses. Vision caught the attention of the nearest and smiled politely.

“Bonjour,” Vision said, the language sounding strange in his mouth, “je suis ici pour Ms Maximoff.”

The nurse leant forward to catch Vision’s quiet tone. He was hesitant about using the last name ‘Maximoff’ and wondered why on earth Wanda hadn’t given them a false name.

“Ah,” the nurse’s eyes lit up in recognition and she turned to call over her shoulder, “Louise?”

Another nurse came around to the reception and as she rattled off something in French Vision recognised her as the stern woman who had spoken with him on the phone.

“Mr Maximoff?” She said with a welcoming smile.

“Yes,” Vision said hesitantly, “oui.”

“I though you would come by in the morning—”

Vision opened his mouth to provide reasoning for coming so quickly. He had forgotten how difficult it was, having to lie all the time when he was with Wanda.

“—but I understand you must have been very worried. If you would please follow me.”

Vision shut his mouth tightly, perhaps it was better to say less and let them assume more. The nurse turned away and walked down a long corridor to a set of lifts. She called one down and the doors opened with a chime, before gesturing for Vision to get in. As he stepped in, Vision let his hands brush against the control panel and shuddered slightly as he was absorbed into the hospital’s security system. It felt wrong, but it was better than risking someone having recognised Wanda already. Vision scrubbed through the security, uploaded a match of Wanda’s face and proceeded to edit all visual of her from the camera’s history. The system was too limited to even realise what was happening, let alone retaliate.

“Could you please explain what happened?” Vision asked politely as they reached the fourth floor and the elevator doors opened once more.

“I’m afraid I do not know much more than what I told you over the phone,” Louise said. “She was brought in about seven hours ago with a few other patients from a car accident. A vehicle lost control on the motorway and took out several other cars with it. A bit of a mess I am afraid.”

Lousie caught sight of Vision’s horrified face. “Not that Ms Maximoff was badly hurt,” she said hurriedly, “she is perfectly fine, and we will be able to let her out in the morning.”

Vision breathed out shakily as he was led down a brightly lit corridor. “Thank you.”

“Do not worry,” Louise gave Vision a comforting smile and stopped in front of a nondescript door. “You’re welcome to stay until morning though don’t tell anyone that I let you in out of visitor hours. There is a canteen on the ground floor, but it does not open until 7 I am afraid.”

“That’s alright, it won’t be a problem,” Vision said with a smile, eager to get inside the room and out of view of prying eyes. “Thank you for all your help.”

“D’accord,” Louise said her eyes crinkling in another smile and waving her hand, dismissing his thanks genially.

Vision managed to wait until she had retreated down the corridor before steeling himself and letting his human glamour fall. He did not want to see Wanda as anyone but himself.

As Vision erased himself from the corridor, he took the first step into Wanda’s cramped hospital room. The space smelt sterile, even to him and it was so wholly unwelcoming that Vision’s heart seized at the idea of Wanda spending hours here alone.

It seemed she wasn’t as troubled, instead lying sound asleep in the hospital bed. With the bed propped as it was, Wanda’s face was bathed in the light peeking through the blinds as car headlights flew past. Vision peered at her face intently, surveying the damage.

There was a graze across her forehead and a couple of stitches in her chin, but otherwise no other outwards injuries. There was a clipboard attached to the end of the hospital bed and Vision picked it up quietly to assess the doctor’s notes. It was in French, and shorthand at that, but he managed to decipher the words with the aid of his translator. MTBI. A mild traumatic brain injury, Vision thought. He knew it sounded much worse than it was and was comforted by the doctor’s following notes: no further cognitive symptoms, keep overnight, review in morning before discharge.

So there really was nothing else wrong. It was reassuring and he felt much better now that he was standing before Wanda’s sleeping form, her chest rising and falling steadily.

It was only then that Vision realised precisely how long it had been since he had last seen her. 8 months. Three seasons had passed since she had pushed him out of her life for good and he had let her. Wanda had sworn she didn’t want to see him again, and Vision had let it happen. He’d regretted the argument ever since it had happened

Now here he was, her unassuming emergency contact after a car accident. What if it had been something more final, what if that call had been made to deliver more devastating news, what would he have done?

Vision didn’t waste time pursuing such guilty thoughts further, instead going to Wanda’s side and sitting in the chair beside the bed. As he reached out for her hand, laying still atop the scratchy hospital blanket, he knew it was where he was supposed to be. As he took her hand her fingers twitched, registering the contact.

When Vision looked up, Wanda’s eyes were open, if slightly bleary. She blinked slowly in the darkness.

“Vis?” She whispered, her voice thick with sleep and exhaustion.

“Yes,” Vision replied, desperately wishing he could reach out and take her into his arms but knowing it was not his place to do so. Not unless she invited him to.

“It feels like you,” Wanda smiled and closed her eyes again, squeezing his hand. “I wish you were here.”

Vision frowned and wrapped both hands around hers. “I am here.”

Wanda stilled and Vision felt his hands grow warm and the familiar feeling of Wanda’s power. Perhaps just confirming it was him, or maybe it was a more involuntary reaction.

She sat up abruptly. “You shouldn’t be here!” The movement had apparently been too quick for her as Wanda winced and raised a hand to her forehead in pain. Vision jumped to his feet once more and helped her lie back down on her pillows.

“How did you get here?” Wanda asked, now wide awake and staring up at him.

“They called me,” Vision said slowly, trying his best not to distress her further. He thought about moving away from the bed to give her space, but she had grabbed a hold of his wrist and didn’t seem keen on releasing it. After so long without hearing her voice, Vision was content to stay as close as she would allow.

“The accident, was it bad?” He asked.

“Honestly,” Wanda said slowly, “I don’t really remember. It happened so quickly, nothing like a real fight. Just a flash of metal and I was lying on the curb. It barely touched me, but the paramedics insisted I come to the hospital.”

“As they should,” Vision said, unable to keep the distress from his voice. “What if something worse had happened? You really never know with head injuries…”

“Well, I feel fine now,” Wanda said relaxing somewhat amongst the cushions. “Did they tell you when I can leave?”

“In the morning,” Vision replied, “as long as the doctor checks you one last time before you leave.”

Wanda didn’t seem happy at the prospect of having to stay any longer than necessary but at least she didn’t push him to break her out of the hospital.

“I didn’t realise I was still your emergency contact,” Vision said quietly, looking intently at the mattress.

Wanda sighed quietly. “If you’re asking if there’s anyone else, there’s not.”

Vision stiffened. “I wasn’t prying.”

A few moments of silence passed by. “That doesn’t explain why I was listed as Vision Maximoff in your contacts.”

Wanda groaned and finally released his wrist, using her hand to instead cover her face in embarrassment. She sighed heavily and looked at the ceiling. “Let’s just say I was young, hopeful and in love.”

“That wasn’t that long ago,” Vision smiled, half-heartedly trying to joke past the growing discomfort in his chest. He hated that she used the past tense when talking about them.

“Yeah,” Wanda shrugged, “well a lot has changed. Being a fugitive changes things.”

Vision nodded, though he knew he’d never really understand what the last year had been for Wanda. “I hope it does not change everything.” He spoke slowly, afraid of saying something that might make her ask him to leave. “My feelings have not changed.”

Wanda bit her lip but seemed to be fighting off something like a smile. “Mine haven’t either.”

Hearing this made Vision breathe easily for what felt like the first time in months. Despite the circumstances, he was here beside her. Wanda was safe, light bruising aside, and through it all she somehow still loved him.

“I know things will always be complicated, but I hope you’ll think about letting me back into your life again,” Vision said softly, taking Wanda’s hand in his again. “It does not matter in what way or form, as long as I can be near you.”

“I’d like that,” Wanda said, her words barely above a whisper. Her chest shuddered as she yawned, wincing again as she shifted her head.

“You should rest. We can talk in the morning.”

Wanda nodded and let her eyes flutter close.

Vision stayed up for the last few hours of the night, a loyal shadow at Wanda’s side. All the while he counted down the minutes until they could leave and he could see Wanda safely to her house, wherever it was she was staying in Toulouse. It concerned him that Steve and the others probably hadn’t heard about Wanda’s accident, and he hoped they weren’t losing their minds with worry. There was another part of him that thought Wanda might be alone in France, she had always preferred staying in Europe when her small band of fugitives went their separate ways. But maybe that was just wishful thinking on his part.

It was foolish for Vision to hope, but he was starting to think the best way for this day to end was with him in Wanda’s bed. Of course, logically he knew they weren’t there yet. Even Wanda’s admission the night before to allow him back in her life felt like enough. But it was difficult to curb 8 months of longing.

As the clock ticked past 6am and the sky began to lighten behind the blinds Vision waited patiently, not wanting to disturb the rest Wanda so clearly needed. She had never been a quiet sleeper, always tossing and turning and mumbling in dreams. Vision was well accustomed with her habits, so it was unnerving to observe her stillness. But her breathing remained steady through until dawn. The only time Wanda had shifted was to roll onto her side, pulling their hands, which had found each other in the night, closer towards her.

Wanda finally woke around 7 and Vision busied himself by pretending to peer out the blinds and observe the street below.

“How are you feeling?” He asked over his shoulder, hearing the sheets rustle as Wanda sat up.

“Better now,” she mumbled. “But ready to get out of this place, I’d rather not risk it with the authorities in France again.”

Vision hated the way that Wanda said again. What had really happened in the months he hadn’t heard from her?

“No need to worry, I’ve removed you from security camera footage and before we leave, I’ll scrub us from the system again.”

Wanda rubbed at her eyes as she slipped out of the hospital bed. “Give me a chance to splash my face and change and we can get going.”

“No rush,” Vision murmured but it felt untrue. There was a rush. Even if he did remove them from the records there was no saying that a member of staff wouldn’t eventually recognise the name Maximoff and tell the authorities. Yes, the sooner they were out of the hospital, the better.

While Wanda was freshening up, Vision gathered her meagre belongings. Her necklaces, rings and phone had been left in a plastic tray on the bedside table. With everything safely in his pockets Vision slipped back into the hospital’s security system. From what he could tell, no alerts had been tripped but then again he didn’t know if the hospital had a specific code for ‘there’s an international fugitive on premises call the police’. Vision knew the hospital was nearly at capacity based on the records he had looked at, so the chances that their faces would stick out of everyone felt unlikely.

Nevertheless, it was better safe than sorry and there was no way they wouldn’t draw attention with him looking as he was. Once again, Vision closed his eyes and visualised his human shimmer, shivering as it fell into place. His skin tickled as his hair fell onto his forehead and Vision reached up to run a hand through it, a mannerism he had never had reason to practice but had seen others perform.

The bathroom door creaked as Wanda closed it behind her. It was a relief to see her out of the hospital gown and in something more Wanda.

“Vis how are you going to—” As she turned and caught sight of him, Wanda’s voice caught in her throat. She brought both hands to her mouth in astonishment.

Vision suddenly grew shy. Of course, Wanda had never seen him like this, of course it would be a shock. Did she even recognise him?

“It’s still me,” Vision said hurriedly, whether for her sake or his he couldn’t be sure. He rubbed awkwardly at the back of his neck as Wanda’s eyes continued to search his face in disbelief.

“I know,” she finally said, approaching him slowly. “I can tell it’s you.”

Just as she reached him the door to the hospital room slid open and a young woman entered.

“Bonjour,” Vision said hurriedly, taking a few steps back from Wanda and turning his attention to the doctor. Wanda’s eyes remained on Vision right up until the doctor approached her and asked her to do a few simply exercises. When she was sure that motor function was normal, they were told they were free to leave and to go down to the reception to begin the process of checking out. The doctor made Wanda promise to return to the hospital if she began experiencing anything like memory loss or migraines.

With the doctor gone once more, Wanda spun on Vision, getting far closer to him than she had yet. She reached up and placed a hand on his cheek, frowning.

“This is new.”

Vision nodded against her hand, relishing this one touch that he had spent months dreaming about. “I started working on this as soon as I left…”

He didn’t need to explain more and saw Wanda’s gaze grow shadowed as she presumably recalled their fight. It had been about their safety around each other, it always was. Wanda had been angry about Vision being put at risk around her, and he had been annoyed about the same thing for her. It had been so difficult to hide and meet up every few weeks back then, especially when Vision was so recognisable, and Wanda was being broadcasted around the globe. When Wanda had finally insisted on breaking things off, Vision had agreed. He’d returned to the compound and spent a week perfecting his new human mirage. It was all in the hopes that when she next called him things would be easier. But she hadn’t called.

“Do you have a—” Vision swallowed nervously, “—a preference?”

Wanda tilted her head curiously, “I don’t mind this new glamour, either way it’s you. But I prefer the you you.”

Vision tried to hide his relief as he raised his hand to Wanda’s which was still pressed to his cheek. Her thumb was running curiously circles over his skin. Carefully, cautiously, he took her hand and pressed his mouth to the back of her knuckles. The gesture’s effect was immediate, and Wanda closed her eyes.

“I miss being close to you,” she whispered, as they gravitated closer together. “I could imagine you; I could see you were safe on the news but nothings the same as having you here under my hands.”

Well, she’d had one more assurance than him at least.

It didn’t take much for Vision to pull her closer, hooking an arm around her waist and letting his human glamour fall. She sunk into his embrace, as he had imagined her doing for months and Vision wrapped his arms securely around her.

“Please don’t ask me to leave,” he said, strained.

“Alright,” Wanda said, her voice muffled as she pressed her head into the crook of his neck.

She drew back and took his face in her hands and kissed him. Vision’s legs nearly gave out from underneath him as her mouth moved softly against his own, something he hadn’t let himself dream of doing ever again.

Wanda smiled against his mouth. “We’re sticking together from now on.”

[writingquestionsanswered]

hello! I'm writing a fantasy fiction novel and i was wondering if there was a certain dialect or language I should use, or can I still use modern language and dialect?

Language in Fantasy Fiction

First, I want to establish one thing: no matter where a book is supposed to take place, and no matter what language the main characters are supposed to be speaking, books are written and published in whatever language the author speaks primarily and/or of the country where the writer is seeking publication. So, for example, if I write a story that takes place entirely in France featuring French characters, presumably they would be speaking French all the time. However, because I’m American and I would publish in the United States, I would write the book in English, meaning that most of the time my characters are speaking English even if it’s supposed to be French. I can remind the reader that they’re supposed to be speaking French in various ways. More on that in these two posts:

Using a Foreign Language in Your Story Character Speaking Another Language (Without Actually Writing It…) 

As for which language you should use in your fantasy story, there are a variety of things you can do. Here are a few popular methods:

1) Language Isn’t Addressed - Here the language in which the story is written is assumed to be the “common tongue” of your story’s world. In this case, you may still choose to include made up words for various things, or even use archaic words belonging to Old English or other ancient languages just because they sound fantasy-ish, but there aren’t any established languages outside of the “common tongue.”

2) Made Up Languages - In this method, you make up words to represent the different languages spoken in different locations/cultures in your story, and you pepper them in lightly to add “flavor” where necessary. The key is to make sure the words in each language you make up sound similar by choosing letters or sounds that are prominent in that language. For example, your elves might speak a language you decide to call Merkah, and the language has a lot of R, K, AH, and Y sounds. If you want to go really deep in creating a language, you can read more about “ConLang” (constructed languages) for fiction.

3) Real World Inspired Languages - If you’re basing locations or cultures in your story on real world locations or cultures, you might consider using those languages as inspiration to the languages in your story.  This is what Leigh Bardugo did in her Grishaverse stories. For example, Ravka is loosely based on Russia, so the Ravkan language includes a lot of real Russian words, words that are partly derived from Russian words, and words that sound like Russian though they’re made up.

Good luck with your story!

————————————————————————————————-

Have a question? My inbox is always open, but make sure to check my FAQ and post master lists first to see if I’ve already answered a similar question. :)

[hayjeon]

Union (ft. Taehyung) | part 2

→ arrangedmarriage!au between werewolf!taehyung and wolfhunter!reader → (2.4k) part 1 | 02 | tbd

a/n: changing this series’ name to union instead of Scream if you want to! 

during quarantine, i’ll do my best to update more often! this is from a request I got in my inbox, so feel free to remind me of some au’s i have in my masterlist that you enjoyed and would like to see more of! (pls fyi that some stories in my ml have been discontinued and have been marked as such, so pls don’t request those!) 

The next morning you wake up to an empty bed. The covers have been strewn off and there’s a clear dent in the mattress where he’d slept. Contrary to him, you’d spent the night tossing and turning, unable to sleep with the thought of spending eternity with him, and had only gotten a few hours when the sun begin to rise. 

You sigh, casting off the covers of yourself as you call for a maid and some proper clothing, this time. “And when I’m finished dressing, have the closets stocked with proper dresses and underskirts. Get rid of all those flimsy slips and lingerie.” 

Her eyes widen at that, but she doesn’t question you and nods. “Would you like me to pack some of them into your luggage however, Your Highness?” 

You turn and frown. “My luggage?” 

She nods, “Have you not read the letter I placed on your nightstand, Your Highness? The Emperor of the Nightlands is holding a wedding in a week. The Dowager King and Queen have arranged for you and the King to attend the wedding, and to make it promptly, both you and the King must leave tonight.” 

Of course. Your parents were too weak and old to make the trip on their own for a week. It was your duty to attend. You’d probably missed the envelope in the craze of the wedding details. You close your eyes as the tears of frustration threaten to come back up. 

“No, just pack my regular dresses and my essentials. I’ll do the rest myself.” 

“Yes, your highness.” She continues to help you do your hair. “You can just call me y/n,” you say, but she just gives you a smile and continues to work in silence.

“Does he know?” 

She meets your eyes in the mirror. “The King?” 

At your nod, she gives a tight-lipped smile, as she threads more pins into your hair. “Yes, your highness. He woke up in the early morning to prepare the horses and the details of the boat that will take you both to your destination. Isn’t that so sweet?” 

You don’t answer her. Sweet? You had to make sure to see the carriage and the boat for yourself. There was only one condition that you would board either of those two things. If he and you had separate quarters. 

“I thought I was clear that I wanted separate quarters,” you hiss at him so only he can hear. You place a hand on his arm to make it look like nice banter to the maids and other guards who were watching the both of you. 

He gives you a blank stare, leaning in to whisper in your ear. “I tried my best, your majesty, but this is the royal carriage that your parents had insisted on. Now laugh as if I said something funny.” 

You mutter, “as if,” but you still throw your head back and hide your fake smile behind a hand as you let out a giggle loud enough for your surrounding courts to hear. He matches the sentiment with a lop-sided grin that doesn’t match the dark look in his eyes. 

He holds a hand out to you. “Shall we, my queen?” 

You turn and wave to the court, the maids, the guards, and all the townspeople who’d gathered to see you both off onto your first event as their King and Queen. You turn back to Taehyung and place your hand in his, “Of course, my King.” 

He helps you up the steps into the waiting carriage, and you take a seat as Taehyung closes the doors behind you both and gives a final farewell to the crowd. He joins you in the carriage across from you, and you cross your arms, now in the privacy of the curtain-drawn carriage. 

“How long is this journey? Your Kingdom is closeby.”

He draws the curtains a bit and stares outside. “4 days by boat, and 3 days by carriage when we arrive.” 

Your eyes widen. “An entire week?!” 

He turns to you, the curtains flicking back closed. Crossing his arms and leaning back in his seat, he settles his gaze on you. “Why, princess, have you not traveled by boat for that long? Are you afraid?”

When you don’t respond, he leans forward with his elbows on his knees, crowding your space. “Are you scared of what lies beyond the borders of your perfect little country? Your hunters may have kept your lands nice and tidy until now, but beyond this place, lies the reality. Wolves, for instance. And vampires, witches, sirens, pirates,” he sneers, his lips twitching up mischievously at the look of horror on your face, “they all exist. And they hate hunters.” 

You press your lips together, trying not to stutter. “I have encountered a few of them in my training. Do you think my father would have appointed me as queen had I not been familiar with the other species that inhabit this world? I have read countless books and reports on these other species. I might know them better than you do.” 

Catching your bluff, he scoffs, leaning back again and cocking his head at you. The smile still remains, making you even more angry. “Do you think your books and tutors will save you when the sirens start ripping our boat to shreds? Or when the witches begin to tear you apart, piece by piece? Or when the vampires sneak into your bedroom at night to suck your blood until you’re dry? No,” he laughs, “experience, my dear princess, is what wins the battle.”

He stands, opening the carriage door and stepping out to join the coachman. He turns back, giving you a grin that reminds you of what he said last night. His voice dips low and drips with the double entendre of his words. “And I have plenty of it.” 

You shut the door in his face. 

The journey from your castle to your kingdom’s docks isn’t quick, as your kingdom had been built with your castle as its center, far away from any attack from sea or land. Thankfully, Taehyung continues to have a conversation with the coachman, and you’re able to catch up on the sleep that you’d missed the night before. 

You’re rudely awakened by the carriage coming to a complete stop, and you almost tumble out of your seat as you adjust your dress and peek out the curtain. You already see a crowd of people gathered at the dock, and a huge wooden boat awaiting you and the King. Gathering your wits, you take a deep breath, and step out of the carriage. 

Immediately, children run unabashedly up to you, jumping up and down at the opportunity to meet their Queen in person, and they hand you little trinkets and candy as they laugh and run around you. You see in the corner of your eye that Taehyung stands awkwardly off to the side, warily eyeing the villagers, and in turn, they give him suspicious glares. 

You sigh. You knew this would happen. People in the countryside were less happy about this merger between the hunters and the wolves, and were a bit old-fashioned in their ways of thinking. Of course they’d be less inclined to warm up to a wolf, much less the King. 

This was your duty. This was why you’d been married off. To unite the two species. You turn, plastering on a smile and holding out your hand to Taehyung. He meets your eyes confusedly, questioning your intentions. You just nod slightly and open your hand up to him, and he hesitantly takes a few steps towards you and the children, and places his larger hand in yours. 

When he approaches, some of the children warily step back, eyeing the Wolf King and his rugged looks. His features were sharp and intimidating, and most of your hunters weren’t used to that. You give your best smile and squat in front of one child who seems a bit scared, motioning for Taehyung to do the same. 

“Hello, whats your name?” You say smoothly, holding out your other hand to the child.

He’s tiny, probably no more than three or four years old. His cheeks are full, however, and his eyes are bright. It was probably his first time meeting anyone from royalty, and therefore anyone other than the hunter species. 

“I’m Jaehong!” He says excitedly, bouncing up and down. 

“Hello Jaehong, I’m y/n,” you say, and turning slightly to Taehyung, you say, “And this is Taehyung, my husband.” 

The little boy warily eyes Taehyung. He leans in to whisper loudly “My mommy says that wolves are scary creatures. Is that true?” 

You let out a little laugh, and you see how Taehyung shifts under the discomfort of not knowing what to do. It’s amusing, as the confident, cunning man becomes awkward and meek under the wary gazes of your townspeople and this three-year-old child. 

“No, Jaehong, that’s old-fashioned. Your mommy may have been told that by her parents a long time ago, but times have changed. This man is now the King, and he is a great person.” You take their hands, turning Taehyung’s large palm up and placing Jaehong’s little one in it. “See? He’s human, warm-blooded and soft like me.” 

Taehyung gives a small smile to the boy, and Jaehong carefully studies the way his hand fits in Taehyung’s before breaking out in to a wide smile. “Okay,” he says, “Nice wolf,” he steps forward and places his other hand on Taehyung’s cheek. 

The crowd gasps at the sight. Wolves were known to be aggressive and territorial in nature, and any wolf wouldn’t have taken it kindly to a hunter touching its face. But Taehyung just smiles, leaning into the touch and ruffles Jaehong’s hair. “Yes, I am a nice wolf,” he laughs, and the crowd visibly relaxes and murmurs break out. Some of the children re-emerge from behind their mothers and eye the two curiously, as you stand and wave to your townspeople. 

“Thank you, everyone, for coming. We will see you in a couple of weeks, as it takes one entire week to make the trip there alone. We wish you well!” 

The crowd waves and calls out their goodbyes as you and Taehyung board the ship. You notice that Taehyung gives Jaehong one last goofy smile and pat on the head before joining you onto the plank. He has an olive’s branch in his hair. 

The lack of separate quarters on the boat also gives you a headache, but you decide to not speak of it, and Taehyung seems to do the same. In fact, he seems a bit more quieter than usual, using his fork to push around the food on his plate as he stares at the olive branch that the boy had placed behind his ear. 

You glance at him. Was he upset over the interaction on the dock? That you’d forced him to be subjected to the touch of a hunter without his permission? You bit your lip, regretting what you did. You shouldn’t have touched him, shouldn’t have introduced him, and should have just let him deal with it on his own. Wolves were independent by nature, and only chose to depend on others when needed. 

Before you can say anything, Taehyung speaks up from across the table. 

“Thank you.” 

You gawk, almost choking on the spoonful of food you were chewing on. You gulp down some wine as Taehyung gives you a bored look.

“What?” You cough out, wincing at the scratch in your throat. 

“I said, thank you. For what happened back at the dock.” 

You frown at him. “Why?” You blurt out.

He just stares at his food. “I...didn’t know how to approach them. I can only imagine how they as your people feel about me. Their precious princess, married off to some wolf, the King of the species that had been known to terrorize and kill yours.” 

You soften. “You know that the feud between our species was a misunderstanding. There is no one to blame. Our people have also given your species reason to fear and hide. We are none the more innocent.”

He takes a sip of his wine, nodding thoughtfully. “Even then, I wouldn’t have been able to experience that without your help. I now see the merit behind this union.” 

“What do you mean? The reason for our marriage?” 

He nods, twirling the olive branch in his fingers. 

“I fought against it, you know. The merger. I did not think it would be possible, a union between our species. We were doomed to fight and wage war with each other from the beginning of time. I thought there would be no way to make this union work, much less convince our people to do the same, either.” 

He stops twirling the branch, and meets your gaze. “But seeing how you managed to get an entire town’s approval, it makes me think of the wisdom behind our father’s choices.” 

You set down your fork. “I believe that it is necessary.” 

He quirks a brow. “Necessary?” 

You nod, “It is our duty to unite our people. Our species would not survive if we did not unite. We’d continue hunting your species, and your species would continue killing us in retaliation. There would have been no end. Our father’s choices were diplomatic and wise, not thinking of themselves and the difficulties it would take to get there, but rather investing in a brighter future ahead of us. And we should be doing the same. It will always be our duty as King and Queen.” 

Taehyung’s gaze darkens at that a bit. “So this marriage is nothing but out of necessity, out of duty, for you? So that feat that you put on at the docks,” he stares down at his palm before bitterly staring back at you, “was all for show? For necessity and duty? How can you be so cold?” His voice turns icy at that, and you frown. 

“Is it not duty for you?” You snap back. “Don’t think that I am ignorant to what was going on in your Kingdom when you agreed to marry me. I know that in order to become King, you had to have some sort of advantage against your elder brother. Is that not the reason why you agreed to this? To marry a hunter, in order to take the throne? Don’t pretend like this is some selfless act of passion for you.” 

He stands, the chair scraping loudly. His jaw is set in an angry hardness, and you half expect for him to begin throwing insults or yelling at you, but he just gives you a hard glare before stalking off in the direction of your shared room. 

You curse when he slams the door. You’d planned to get there first, but now he’d ruined everything.