#Particular Conditions of Contract

[trainsinanime]

I've seen a number of people worried and concerned about this language on Ao3s current "agree to these terms of service" page. The short version is:

Don't worry. This isn't anything bad. Checking that box just means you forgive them for being US American.

Long version: This text makes perfect sense if you're familiar with the issues around GDPR and in particular the uncertainty about Privacy Shield and SCCs after Schrems II. But I suspect most people aren't, so let's get into it, with the caveat that this is a Eurocentric (and in particular EU centric) view of this.

The basic outline is that Europeans in the EU have a right to privacy under the EU's General Data Protection Regulation (GDPR), an EU directive (let's simplify things and call it an EU law) that regulates how various entities, including companies and the government, may acquire, store and process data about you.

The list of what counts as data about you is enormous. It includes things like your name and birthday, but also your email address, your computers IP address, user names, whatever. If an advertiser could want it, it's on the list.

The general rule is that they can't, unless you give explicit permission, or it's for one of a number of enumerated reasons (not all of which are as clear as would be desirable, but that's another topic). You have a right to request a copy of the data, you have a right to force them to delete their data and so on. It's not quite on the level of constitutional rights, but it is a pretty big deal.

In contrast, the US, home of most of the world's internet companies, has no such right at a federal level. If someone has your data, it is fundamentally theirs. American police, FBI, CIA and so on also have far more rights to request your data than the ones in Europe.

So how can an American website provide services to persons in the EU? Well… Honestly, there's an argument to be made that they can't.

US websites can promise in their terms and conditions that they will keep your data as safe as a European site would. In fact, they have to, unless they start specifically excluding Europeans. The EU even provides Standard Contract Clauses (SCCs) that they can use for this.

However, e.g. Facebook's T&Cs can't bind the US government. Facebook can't promise that it'll keep your data as secure as it is in the EU even if they wanted to (which they absolutely don't), because the US government can get to it easily, and EU citizens can't even sue the US government over it.

Despite the importance that US companies have in Europe, this is not a theoretical concern at all. There have been two successive international agreements between the US and the EU about this, and both were struck down by the EU court as being in violation of EU law, in the Schrems I and Schrems II decisions (named after Max Schrems, an Austrian privacy activist who sued in both cases).

A third international agreement is currently being prepared, and in the meantime the previous agreement (known as "Privacy Shield") remains tentatively in place. The problem is that the US government does not want to offer EU citizens equivalent protection as they have under EU law; they don't even want to offer US citizens these protections. They just love spying on foreigners too much. The previous agreements tried to hide that under flowery language, but couldn't actually solve it. It's unclear and in my opinion unlikely that they'll manage to get a version that survives judicial review this time. Max Schrems is waiting.

So what is a site like Ao3 to do? They're arguably not part of the problem, Max Schrems keeps suing Meta, not the OTW, but they are subject to the rules because they process stuff like your email address.

Their solution is this checkbox. You agree that they can process your data even though they're in the US, and they can't guarantee you that the US government won't spy on you in ways that would be illegal for the government of e.g. Belgium. Is that legal under EU law? …probably as legal as fan fiction in general, I suppose, which is to say let's hope nobody sues to try and find out.

But what's important is that nothing changed, just the language. Ao3 has always stored your user name and email address on servers in the US, subject to whatever the FBI, CIA, NSA and FRA may want to do it. They're just making it more clear now.

[gothicpaperback]

THE ART OF THE DEAL | harry castillo x you

{ part two: VALUATION ERRORS>>

wc: 6,7k | rating: 18+ for eventual smut | Harry Castillo x You | FALSE RELATIONSHIP

summary: you don’t believe in love. neither does he. that’s the only thing you agree on. after swearing off romance, you’ve built a quiet life in art preservation and avoiding anything resembling vulnerability. but when Harry Castillo, arrogant, infuriating, and stupidly rich, proposes you pretend to be his fiancée for the sake of getting his overbearing mother off his back, you’re thrown. but the money is good and with your detached views on romance and love, you make the perfect polished, commitment-free partner. It’s just a deal; cold, clean and temporary. but pretending to be in love with a man you can’t stand has a way of making you feel things you promised yourself you’d never feel again. especially when he starts looking at you like you're more than just a line item in a contract. And worst of all? You start looking back

the MC female character is YOU. she is not named and barely described physically aside from being able bodied and having hair long enough to grab.

tags/warnings: false relationship, mentions of materialists film, smut, enemies to lovers. i will add more tags as they become relevant.

THE ART OF THE DEAL | PART ONE | TERMS AND CONDITIONS

The restaurant is fairly quiet, the music playing in the back is dim. It's the kind of place that takes months to get into, but one mention of his name and his table for two is ready in an hour. It's a perfect setting for romance, for love 

Except Harry Castillo doesn't believe in love.

Not at his age. 

He couldn't, not after her.

Melissa. The girl he'd been slavishly devoted to his entire college experience. The one he overheard at a frat party months before graduation calling him pint-sized to a group of tittering girls. 

"But the sex is decent and he's loaded, so I'll put up with him." 

Put up with him. Like he was an annoying pet. He broke up with her that night, tears in his eyes, a hole in his heart and the engagement ring from his mother still in his pocket. 

When he told his younger brother the next morning over coffee at his apartment he'd just shrugged. 

"That's how it is for guys like us." 

And that was supposed to be a comfort? How? 

And as his date, a thirty year old art curator sits across from him now, rambling on about the things she'd seen recently at work, the people she'd talked to, the daily minutia of her life, Harry finds his attention drifting. 

Not to anyone in particular, that isn't his way of operating. He'd always been a one woman man his whole life. Relentlessly monogamous. But he's bored, the conversation manufactured as if she's reading from cue cards. 

His mind drifts to the kitchen with Lucy, the conversation, the admittance that he didn't think he was capable of love. 

"You will. It'll be easy," Lucy had said. 

This doesn't feel easy. But then again what did Lucy know? She didn't even know what she wanted. He shifts in his seat when he hears his name being gently cooed by the girl across from him. 

"Pardon?"

She fingers the stem of her wine glass anxiously. She's clearly worried she's doing something wrong. 

"I asked if you've been using Adore for long?" 

"I've never actually used a dating service before," Harry replies politely. "You're my first." 

Her cheeks tinge pink, eyes downcast, the very picture of demure supplication.  

"Hopefully your last," she says with a gentle smile. 

She's very soft. Everything from the fabric of her clothing to her voice is soft. 

He offers a low chuckle, a rich sound. He knows that he's a catch, a proclaimed "unicorn" from his matchmaker at Adore. He knows the looks he gets aren't just for looks, but for his sizeable bank account. 

And his mother has been very firm. She wants him to marry and he hates to disappoint her. 

"You're almost fifty, Harry. It's inappropriate to be single at this age." 

The woman across from him is traditionally beautiful, but what woman isn't at thirty? She has smooth unblemished skin, light voice. Botox at the forehead, lips plump from injections. 

It's all tastefully done but what remains is nothing of true interest, nothing that sets her apart from the millions of women he sees in New York every day. 

But she's smart, she's accomplished, she comes from money, she'd understand his world. 

"Would you like a second date?" He asks as he walks her to her front door later that night. 

His driver is idling at the curb, keeping the car warm against the New York autumn chill. 

She beams at him, eyes sparkling. 

"I would love that."

"He's perfect."

"No one is perfect, Gemma,” you remind her gently. Everything you do with Gemma is gentle because she's a gentle creature, long limbed, big dark blue eyes, auburn hair, like a doe come to life. "He's just a man." 

"A perfect man," she swoons, coming to stand opposite your desk. "Rich, six feet, amazing hair and body. Smart, kind." 

"And he's straight?"

"Ha ha." 

You smirk before going back to photographing the small miniature portrait in front of you on the desk. A new acquisition, a piece from the 1700's. A coup for the gallery. 

As the art preserver here at The Chapel Gallery you work in the back rooms of the gallery, in a part of the building the visitors never see. Back here the light is colder, whiter, and everything smells faintly of varnish, aging wood, and linen.

The floor is concrete, scuffed from decades of furniture being dragged across it. You’ve stopped noticing. There’s a tall window, but it’s been treated with a UV filter that dulls the sun to a diffused gray-blue haze. Still, it’s enough.

 You like the quiet of it. The way it catches in the dust floating over a stretched canvas. The hush. Your own breathing. The gentle hum of the fume extractor overhead.

Gemma is the exception. Bouncy, sweet, colorful. You like her in your space. Gemma showed up on her first day in heels too loud for the old gallery floors, holding a latte and a dozen questions about framing protocols, and you liked her immediately for admitting she could never do your job. There was respect in her voice when she said it. 

You'd bonded immediately over a love of Henry Ossawa Tanner and ethnical restoration. You moved quickly to lunches together, and then drinks after work and then a casual friendship that you appreciate in a city that feels cold. She loves to visit you in this space bringing coffee or baked goods, the two of you talking about everything from Rembrandt to The Real Housewives. 

And now she stands in front of you, phone in hand showing you a picture from what you can only assume is Google. 

"Isn't he handsome?" 

He looks like any other rich guy to you. They all start to blend into a mix of fancy watches and stiff hair after a while. 

"Sure." 

Your tools rest in their tray; scalpels in their tray, cotton swabs in jars, solvents labeled in your handwriting. Everything with its place. Everything under control. The paintings arrive with their wounds and histories, and you restore them with a loving hand. 

Gemma doesn’t interrupt, not exactly, but her presence changes the air. She’s lighter, glossier somehow. You hear the quick staccato of her heels before you see her. Always rehearsing the next exhibit, the next acquisition, the next donor she’ll have to charm.

 Her voice echoes through the storage corridor when she’s on a call, naming names you don’t recognize. Its collectors, old professors, gallery patrons who write checks large enough to get their opinions framed.

You prefer the paintings because they don’t perform. They don’t flatter. They don’t lie about what time has done to them.

Sometimes she asks what you think of a piece. You don’t always answer. When you do, she listens in that serious way of hers, her lips slightly parted, like she's memorizing the shape of your opinion even if she’s already decided on hers. It works, mostly. You restore. She sells and curates.

You move behind the canvas while she moves in front of it.

"What does he do?"

"Private equity." 

You hold in a groan. He's just like every other guy she's dated. All rich, all handsome, all in finance and all the most boring men on the planet. You can feel her eyes still on you and you know what she's going to say before she says it. You brace yourself. 

"When are you going to try dating again?"

"Never."

Your sweet, hopelessly optimistic co-worker leans on your work table, big eyes sad. "The divorce was six years ago. When are you going to try again?"

"When men stop being assholes so..." you put on a faux pondering look, "never?" 

She giggles, a bit nervous about her date, a bit tickled by your seriousness. "Don't you miss sex?"

You look over at her innocent face, amused. You're only a few years older than her but you feel like you've lived a lifetime in comparison. 

"I have sex, Gem. Sex isn't the issue. It's living with a man that doesn't appeal to me. And I'm not gay, though I wish I was, so romance isn't really an option anymore." 

You weren't always this way when it came to love. But it was a classic case of Boy meets girl. Girl falls for boy. Boy and girl get married. Boy cheats. Boy gets girl new pregnant. Girl moves on. 

You wish it wasn't such a fucking cliché. 

You think of you phone in your pocket. The message from earlier. You scowl. Gemma's phone beeps and she swipes to open the message, her face breaking into a beam. 

"He's here," she says, going on her tiptoes and bouncing. "He's coming down here to get me! You can see him!" 

She looks completely elated and there's a small, secret part of you that misses that. The excitement of a first date. Just then a gurgle sounds and she gets a strange look on her face, blanching before placing a palm over her stomach. 

"Oh fuck." 

Gemma has what she calls a reactive stomach. Which basically means that she has to aggressively empty her bowels when she gets anxious. 

"I'll tell him you're freshening up," you tell her, making a shooing motion. She casts you a thankful look before rushing off to the loo. 

You shake your head, mouth curled into a smile. She is ridiculous at times but you really do adore her. You go back to photographing the miniature portrait, excited to get to work on bringing the original color back from underneath all that grime.

The sound of footsteps grabs your attention. You glance up to see a tall man with dark wave hair that curls under his ears and large expressive eyes. He's dressed well and in one arm holds a large bouquet of pale yellow roses. 

"Hello." 

He smiles politely at you, plump lips curling under a perfectly manicured beard.

Harry Castillo. 

"Gemma just went to freshen up," you tell him with a motion to one of the desk chairs. "She'll be back any second."

"Great." 

He doesn't move to the chair. Instead he moves deeper into your workroom, eyes casting from one piece to the next. He places the bouquet onto one of the empty tables before surveying the exhibit you just finished restoring. 

He stops in front of a small, clay pot, clearly taken with it. Despite it being behind protected glass you wince when his face nears it.

"Do you mind stepping back from the artifacts? Everything here is incredibly delicate." 

Harry nods unbothered, hands behind his back. "Understood." 

He finds himself intrigued by what you're photographing with such focus. His legs carry him to the side of your desk. You're so invested in the task at hand you don't even hear him near. 

"Rosalba Carriera." 

You almost drop the camera. "What?"

"That's a Rosalba Carriera isn't it?" Harry looks puzzled. "I'm sure of it. My family owns several." 

You hold in a scoff of disgust. Of course his family would buy up art and keep it for themselves. You stare over your shoulder at him, your expression cold. Men like this make you want to scream. Money, looks, arrogance. He has it all in spades. 

"I love pastel painting," Harry continues, thrown off by your muted response.

He thought you'd warm to him and his art knowledge. He's been told he's charismatic, but the longer you derisively stare at him the more he's concerned he's been lied to all his life. You're like a cat; back arched, claws extended. Everything about you screams back off and so he does, eyes trained on yours. 

"Yes," you finally offer when he stands on the opposite side of your workspace. "It is a Rosalba Carriera. One of her earliest." 

Harry can see that the entire portrait is grimy with age. The edges torn in spots. He can't imagine taking something like that and making it beautiful again. 

"Restoration and preservation seems like such tedious work," Harry hums. 

He winces when he sees your jaw tic. He said the wrong thing. Fuck. Tedious wasn't the word he wanted to use. He'd meant labor intensive and exhausting with having so many hours spent over such detailed pieces. 

But he feels out of his element, trying to appear in control of the conversation. But the way your eyes dig into him has him feeling exposed. 

You don't even lower your camera when you reply. 

"No more tedious than telling rich people how to spend their money." 

That's an arrow to the gut. Despite being good at his job there is always the lingering thought that what he does is frivolous. That all the money in the world can't make him a good person. 

He can change his legs, his clothes, his home, but at the end of the day he's still that awkward boy overhearing his girlfriend saying she put up with him.

You put him back there, back to the party that smelled of stale beer and hairspray. The night his life changed, where he changed, where he saw the ugliness in perfection. 

And for that, he immediately dislikes you. 

He frowns, irritated by this serious woman behind the desk and the way she turns her attention back to the portrait, as if he's nothing, as if he's not even good enough to glance at. 

You want him gone. He wants to be gone. 

"I'm ready," Gemma announces with a flustered laugh, coming around the corner in her flouncy dress. You and Harry exhale in relief. 

"Great," Harry says extending an elbow. He can't wait to escape this suffocating space. 

He can't wait to be away from you

Your apartment is on the smaller side, but it does its job. You make decent money. Not enough for some penthouse at the top of a skyscraper but it's got a cozy vibe, something that makes you feel settled. It's a third floor walk up and by the end of the day you're usually exhausted. 

Above everything, you love that it's yours. You picked the paint, the decor, the pillows. Every part of this space is you. 

Not him.

You toss your bag onto the hook by the door and start the toaster oven. You worked late and you have a real craving for that shitty lasagna from the supermarket that you grew up on. 

You grab it from the freezer, Popping ventilation holes into the plastic and pop it into the oven. As you set the timer and heat you laugh to yourself when you realize how different your meal is from Gemma's this evening. She's probably throwing back lobster and farm to table veal. 

With Harry.

What a stupid fucking name. 

You can't help but be annoyed by his presence today, but if you're honest your bad mood started this morning at work after receiving a text from an old friend. Well, not a friend deal, more and emotional vulture. 

I hope you're doing okay. 

Huh? 

I saw the pregnancy announcement on J's timeline. I'm so sorry hun xx

You hadn't even bothered writing back. 

Harry had just been an additional irritant. Bad place bad time. Reminding you of the lifestyle Jarrod always aspired to.  

You used to own a nice place outside Manhattan with your ex-husband Jarrod. A place with quiet neighbours and tall ceilings. A place that he furnished saying that he had an eye for home design. 

He made decent money, but it was never enough. You both worked and he loved to live lavishly. When he found out about your secret account that has been the beginning of the end. 

And the irony is his new wife doesn't even work. But she's young and shiny and maybe that's what he really wanted all along, he just wasn't honest about it. 

But if you're honest you were checked out that last year of your marriage. How could you forgive him after his reaction to-

The ding of the oven catches your attention. You go to pull out the lasagna, hissing when the lip of the grill catches your wrist and the entire container goes toppling over onto the floor. 

Sauce pools over the mushed meal of cheese and pasta. You swear, throwing the pan into the sink with a frustrated cry. 

Today fucking sucks. 

Dinner is delicious. Better than the last time Harry was here with Lucy. Or the time before with Bianca. Or the time before that with Gretchen. It's his favorite steak house and he always rents the back room out when he dines here. It's quieter that way, the service more dedicated. 

Harry watches his date delicately eating her salad. But his mind is still back in that gallery basement, back on the woman who irritated him. 

What was her problem?

Harry dabs at the corner of his mouth with his napkin. He speaks lightly, eyes down as he adjusts his cuff. 

"I'm glad we could do this again." 

"Me too." 

Gemma stares at him with the practised air of a woman that was born beautiful, who went to an Ivy League, who comes from money and expects the best. 

She's a good match. And he's so tired of looking. 

"Tell me more about your job," he insists after another sip of wine. 

"It's not very glamorous," she replies sweetly. Again that picture of demure innocence that's starting to grate on him. "Not like your job." 

"I assure you private equity is pretty dull." 

"I suppose it's similar to your job in that we both act as bridges between consumer and creator. But I've taken on some curating as well. That's my real passion. I love it because it's shaping what people experience when they walk into a gallery or museum."

"That doesn't sound boring."

Gemma looks delighted by that response, her eyes sweeping across his forearm, watching the gold ring he wears tapping against the glass. 

"I guess not. Right now I’m working on curating a show on post-war artists who were overshadowed in their time, mostly women and artists of colour. It's the new piece my co-worker is photographing. She'll be busy pouring over that for the next few months." 

Harry nods, not particularly interested in hearing more about you. But Gemma is on a roll, comfortable with the topic of you since nothing else is coming to mind.

“I'm worked about the funding though,” she says, delicately spearing a piece of endive, “my co-worker says not to worry about it, but I can’t help it. I’m a worrier.”

Harry nods, smiling with practised warmth. The kind of smile reserved for clients and vaguely familiar faces at weddings. 

“Your co-worker seems…” he lets it drift, then adds almost idly, “focused.”

Gemma nods, chewing quietly. “She is. Especially when a new piece comes in. She’s been handling a lot lately. We lost funding for her assistant, so she’s doing everything herself.”

“That sounds unsustainable.”

“She doesn’t really complain,” Gemma says, smoothing her napkin. “But I think it’s been wearing on her. She hides it well.”

“She’s lucky to have you, then.”

Gemma smiles at that, pleased by the compliment, even if it’s only adjacent.

“She’d never say it, but I think she appreciates the support.”

Harry feigns a moment of thought, fingers absently trailing the stem of his wineglass. He can't agree. You seemed perfectly passionate enough to insult him the second after meeting him. 

“She was a bit aloof,” he murmurs. 

Gemma gives a small, quick laugh. “She’s not always like that. She’s very funny, very blunt. She just doesn’t warm up to people easily. Especially not people who act like...well....”

She catches herself and Harry lifts an eyebrow, amused. "Act like what?”

“Like they own the room.”

He smirks. “Guilty, I suppose.”

“No,” Gemma says quickly, almost apologetic. “Not you exactly. It's just, she’s careful with new people.”

Harry leans in slightly, voice low. “You two are close?”

Gemma lowers her eyes, just for a second. “We work well together. She’s so funny and so brilliant. And yeah, a little intense. But she makes the gallery better.”

He nods, slow and thoughtful. There’s something in the way Gemma speaks about you. Respect, yes, but also a sort of nervous admiration. He files that away.

“And she said not to worry?” he prompts gently, circling back.

“Mhm,” Gemma says, dabbing the corner of her mouth. “She always says that. About donors, pieces, my love life…” she trails off, laughing a little.

“Oh?”

“She doesn’t really believe in matchmaking,” Gemma adds. "Honestly, I don't think she believes in romance anymore full stop. But she told me that worrying will just make it worse and that I should enjoy the ride." 

That doesn't surprise Harry in the least. The scraps of information presented to him about you paint the picture of a woman invested in her work. He saw no wedding ring and judging by the late hour he came to retrieve Gemma and you working away, he can only surmise that you likely don't have a partner waiting at home. 

"But I worry about her sometimes. She hasn't dated anyone since her divorce and it's like she's given up." 

Harry lifts his glass, his voice flat. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Gemma says, gently setting hers down. “I worry that she doesn’t believe in love anymore. I mean she told me as much. Since her divorce, it’s all been very cynical.”

That catches. Just for a second. Something shifts behind Harry’s expression. It's something small, almost imperceptible. But Gemma, watching, mistakes it for amusement.

“She calls dating a mutual performance of delusion,’” she adds with a grin, hoping he’ll laugh.

He doesn’t. Not really. He smiles, but it’s distant. His fingers are lightly tapping the base of his wine glass. “She said that?”

“Mhm.”

“And what do you think?”

Gemma blinks, caught off-guard. “I think she’s been hurt. And when people get hurt badly enough, they try to feel superior to what they’ve lost.”

Harry nods, but he’s not really nodding. His mind’s moved. You’re in it again, your sharp voice, the disinterest that wasn’t just rudeness, but something colder. Something he recognizes in himself under all the pretense. 

“Interesting,” he murmurs.

Gemma brightens slightly, mistaking it for approval of her. “But I still believe in something lasting. I mean, why else go to all this trouble, right?”

He looks back at her, as though just now returning to the conversation.

“Right,” he says, softly.

As if just realizing they've devoted the last ten minutes of their date to talk about her co-worker, Gemma turns coy. 

"But enough about that. Tell me, what is your family like? You have a brother, any other siblings?"

Harry smiles again, this time slower. Something has become very clear to him and like anyone working in private equity he knows he needs to conduct a little due diligence before moving forward. 

"Everything was delicious, the most delicious steak I've ever eaten!" 

It’s three days later and Gemma is regaling you with her latest Harry saga and you're fighting to show even passive interest. The two of you are having coffee at the cafe across from the gallery, your favorite place to relax. 

"He kissed my hand. My hand! Like something out of a romance novel." 

"Cute." 

"And he was so sweet; he took me to Central Park and did the whole carriage ride thing." 

"Fun." 

"Didn't you think he was handsome?"

"Sure." 

You offer the odd word, knowing that she's barely even registered you're there. To her you're just a willing audience 

You barely registered the man if you're honest. He seemed haughty, walking around your workplace as if he owned it. 

"And he really knows his artwork," Gemma continues. "I didn't expect someone in finance to be so knowledgeable about more obscure artists."

"Mhm." 

You remember his tailored presence, the faint perfume of old money and self-assurance. The way he looked at you like not with interest, but a kind of calculation.

"He rented out the whole back of the restaurant. We had private servers, a special menu." She's practically floating. 

"So he's new money," you say acerbically. It comes out more bitter than anticipated. "Old money is quiet, new money is loud."

"For your information he is old money," she says giving you a pointed look. "His parents started the family firm."

"So he didn't even earn his money or position himself."

"Obviously there's no winning with you today. Why are you being so shitty about him?"Gemma asks, cheeks pinking in irritation. 

'I'm sorry," you answer, feeling embarrassed. "I've just never been really comfortable with people that have that kind of money. You are, you grew up like that and it's what you want in a partner."

Gemma is in a snit now. "So now I'm shallow?"

"Not at all," you insist truthfully. "If you were ugly, do you think Harry would have asked you for a second date?" 

She's quiet and blushing further. "No. I guess not." 

I nod. My point exactly. 

"You are just two people coming together who want something from the other. It's as pure and honest as any part of a functional relationship."

The two of you are quiet, fingers tracing the lip of the plate from the scone the two of you shared.

"Well, I hope we go out again," Gemma says with a bright look. "I mean, if I'm honest, I didn't feel a huge connection, but he's so good on paper. Handsome, rich, tall, charming." 

"But do you actually enjoy his company?"

Gemma looks at you as if you've sprouted a second head. "What does that have to do with anything?" 

"Gemma," you admonish, "you're always telling me about how you want to find love and be swept off your feet." 

"I do," she insists, "I just think we have a choice in who we love and my choice should take certain things like looks and money into account. I’m thirty, I want kids, and I want stability." 

You want to tell Gemma that she’s capable of having all of those things on her own if she really wants. But you know that it’s not just that. She wants the cache of a partner up the social ladder.

“Well, then I hope this works out for you,” you say sincerely. “And if not, trying to find someone who knows about art preservation.”

By the time you reach your apartment your stomach is rumbling. You skipped lunch to work on some of the finer detailing on the portrait.  You think of the all night deli across the corner and its beckoning croissant sandwiches and make your decision quickly. You throw your sketchbook into your bag. 

The night is chilly and you pull your jacket to your chin. In true New York fashion you don't smile at anyone, you keep your head down; you ignore the fact that you're still upset about the memory of Jarrod.  

You duck into the deli, cheeks and nose chilled. The place isn't busy, not at this hour. A few night owls linger at some of the tables, tapping away on their laptops, a tired man behind the counter raising a nod your way over their phone. 

"A number two and a coffee."

You take a number and a seat, bringing out your sketchbook as you wait. The music playing is rhythmic, quiet, but relaxing. You should thank the serious looking man behind the counter for his choice in tunes. 

The door opens behind you as you debate the menu. You've been curious to try the avocado turkey on rye. 

"Number two," you tell the man with confidence. "And a coke. Thanks." 

"That’ll be $8.66."

You reach into your pocket for your wallet but an arm has come around you to place a fifty on the counter. 

"I've got it." 

The man at the till takes it without question but you whip around, shocked at the random act of kindness. Familiar brown eyes swim into view and your surprise turns to irritation. 

"You."

Harry gives you a dimpled smile. "Good Evening.”

The man at the till tries to give Harry his change but he just shakes his head, a light lift of his hand and the man pockets his large tip. You know you're scowling at this pathetic display of charitable giving. It's easy to give away money when you have so much of it. 

"I can afford my own dinner."

"I know," Harry says.

You think about paying the amount you were going to, but the man at the till is heading over to another customer to answer a question. Harry continues standing there looking at you with interest. That same calculating look you've seen in him before. 

Fine. If this idiot wants to pay for your sandwich you'll let him, considering his appearance has now dampened your mood. 

"Thanks," you mutter his way, taking a table number and slinking away into a nearby booth.

You open your sketchbook, dutifully ignoring the annoying Harry still at the counter, speaking with the man behind the till.  

You're shocked when you hear the guy laugh, a low chuckle. You've been coming to this deli for months and you've never seen the guy crack a smile, let alone laugh. 

Probably hoping for another big tip. 

You hold in an eye roll and begin to sketch lightly. Your mind is driven to darkness today. Black spiky limbs reaching for the sky. 

A can of soda is placed on the table by your elbow, accompanied by a low voice.

"Forgot this."

Fuck. You sigh lightly before taking the can from him, murmuring your thanks. When he lingers, watching you pop the tab you attempt to be cordial. This is Gemma's potential boyfriend after all. 

"This doesn't really seem like your scene."

You're not looking at him when you speak. You're taking a sip of the fizzy drink, nose wrinkling a moment when the carbonation tickles your nose. 

Harry stands next to the booth like an awkward waiter, holding an espresso on a saucer. He's dressed in slacks and a charcoal sweater, a tweed jacket over top. He went to an effort, not that you’d know because you're still not looking at him. 

"I like sandwiches as much as the next guy." 

What he doesn't tell you is that his driver was pulling up to your apartment building when he saw you exit, looking agitated. When you walked into the deli he thought it was a perfect excuse. Much better than his original idea of just showing up at your home with a proposition. 

"Okay."

Harry looks amused, not offended by your cold reception. He was ready for it He watches you go back to your sketching, letting the moment stretch. You don't seem to be upset by his presence. 

The sandwiches arrive, both placed unceremoniously onto the perpetually stained tabletop. Harry motions to the chair opposite you at the table. 

"May I sit?"

You raise your head from your sketches, casting an eye around the fairly empty deli. "There are lots of open tables."

Harry looks amused, not offended by your cold reception. Almost like he was ready for it. "It's not a matter of space, more the company." 

He watches you wrestle with this before lifting one arm in a casual shrug.  

"Knock yourself out."

He suppresses a grin, sliding into the booth opposite you. He can't remember the last time - if ever - he was in a tiny eatery like this with its cheap menus and yellowed floors. 

He watches you take a bite of the sandwich in one hand, the other still furiously sketching away. He watches you for several moments and eventually you feel those big brown eyes on your face and you glance up to see his sandwich untouched. Why is he here?

Harry glances down at the greasy sandwich, hiding a sneer. He wouldn't feed this to his worst enemy. 

"Do you need something?"

You're looking at him with anticipation, as if you're scared of what he might say. 

"I wanted to know if you'd be interested in an exchange of services," he says coolly. "A barter." 

This is how he is in the boardroom; this is how he commands the people he works with. Blunt, forward, confident, charming when he needs to be, but ruthless he just as easily. 

The pencil stills on the page, your nose wrinkling. "With you?"

"Mhm."

He watches the way you blink at him, head tilting slightly. 

"I don't need financial advice and according to Gemma you could buy out the entire gallery, so I don't really get what you want from me."

You feel strangely trapped by him here in the booth. You could slide out and run but would you make it? As if sensing your unease, Harry shakes his head slowly. Fingers lifting from the table briefly.  "You don't have to say yes." 

"I probably won't."

He smothers a chuckle. Gemma was right, you are blunt and you are funny.

"My mother wants me to marry," Harry tells you. "The sooner the better."

"And you're a Mama's boy?" 

He smirks. "Maybe a little." 

"Gross." 

You lean back to take a sip of coffee, eyes peering at him over the rim. "I thought you had a matchmaker?"

He shifts in his chair. "I do." 

"So then why are you here talking to me?"

The eraser of your pencil taps on your sketchbook, tap tap tap. Harry shuffles, one arm over the back of his chair affecting casual interest. 

"Because I want to hire you. I want you to pretend to be my girlfriend for the next several months because I believe it would be mutually beneficial to us both." Harry takes a sip of his espresso now, secretly amused when you drop the pencil.

"Excuse me?" You blink rapidly, lashes fluttering. "What the fuck are you talking about? You're dating Gemma."

"I went on two dates with her."

"She likes you."

"She likes my status, not that I begrudge her for it. But after two dates it’s clear that she wants a husband who will cherish her, who’s every waking thought will be about her. That's not me."

You're quiet because you know he's right. As much as Gemma liked his money, the things she liked most about her dates with Harry was the places he took her, the romance. How he held her hand on the carriage ride, how he listened about her job. Little, beautiful moments. 

Harry takes advantage of your stunned response. "Gemma is a lovely girl, but not a good match for what I need."

"And you think I'm what you need? I don't even like you." 

You stare at this man with his expensive watch and clothes and haircut. He even smells expensive. 

"You're intelligent, confident, attractive," Harry lists these things not with the affection of a lover, but an appraiser at an auction. 

"So is Gemma."

"Yes, but she's also looking for a true relationship, for love. And I can't give that to her."

"Why not?"

"I don't think I'm capable of it." He regards you with a tilt of his head. "I'm selfish, I like my job, I enjoy my own company, I'm driven and I'm not very romantic."

"You're very honest," you say, almost impressed. Almost. 

"I find it saves time to be direct." 

He watches your eyes survey him, appraising him like you would a piece of artwork needing to be restored.  

"Gemma said you took her to dinner at Mastros. Then to central Park for a horse drawn carriage ride." 

"I did."

"And that didn't seem romantic to you?"

"I know it was romantic," he replies. 

"Then why do you say you're not romantic?"

Harry leans back in the booth, drink forgotten. He points at your open sketchbook. "You know how to draw. Are you DaVinci?"

"Obviously not. No." 

"No," Harry agrees with a nod. "But you know enough about art from study. You know proportions without thinking about it. If someone random asked you to draw them a cow you could do it."

"Sure."

"It would mean nothing to you, but it would look like a nice image of a cow at the end. The person would walk away happy with their picture. But you wouldn’t feel attached to the sketch nor the process. It’s no different than how I approach romance. I know what it looks like, I’m happy to give it.”

You fall quiet, arms crossing. You've never thought about romance like that. So route. 

"I've already spoken to Natalia at Adore," Harry continues. "She's setting Gemma up with two of my friends I talked into joining. They're younger and richer and hopeless romantics. Gemma will be just fine." 

You don't know how you feel about that, the way he speaks about it makes it feel like something akin to prostitution. 

"She wants romance and love along with status," Harry reminds you. "Both of those men fit the bill and either one of them would die to date a woman like her." 

"But not you." 

"No. Not me." 

The eraser of your pencil taps on your sketchbook, tap tap tap. "What's in it for me?" 

"You'd be paid very well." 

He sees the hesitation in you now. The way your eyes jerk to the side as you digest his offer. 

"How well?"

Harry takes a piece of paper folded from his pocket. He came prepared. He slides it across the table, biting back a grin when your eyes bulge open. 

"You're not serious." 

"I am." 

Anyone else would have used computer paper, but not Harry Castillo. He used heavy card stock; the amount written in thick black ink with what you're sure was a fountain pen.

"How long would this charade go on for?"

"Six months." 

"Six entire months?" You make a disgusted face. "No. No chance."

You go back to your sketching, the subject clearly closed for you. You toss the piece of paper towards him, forgotten so easily. Harry sucks in a sharp breath of air through his teeth. Rejection always stings. 

"I'll double it." 

Your eyes rise up to his. "What?"

"The amount on that paper. I'll double it." 

Harry watches the way your eyes round, lips parting. He can't deny he enjoys shocking you. He watches you slump into the booth, your eyes darting back and forth between the table and the amount on the page.

"There must be other women you could ask." 

"None that don't want love or commitment."' Harry takes another sip of his espresso before it clinks back into place on the small saucer. "Gemma told me your views on romance and that's when I knew this would work." 

You sit for several moments debating the exorbitant sum on the paper and the year of your life you won't get back. But this kind of money is life changing. 

You look at Harry, really looking at him. "Don't you want to find a girlfriend? A real one?"

"I thought I did," Harry shrugs. "I attempted it. But I don't think it's something I really need. And from what I gather, that isn't what you desire either." 

He's right. But still you hesitate, fingering the thick paper.This could be a lucrative venture couldn't it? A chance to erase debt and start a life you've only dreamt about? And it's only a year. A year could go by fast. 

But a year of secrecy, of false affection. 

"Are we... Are we allowed to find company outside the fake relationship?" 

He raises a brow. "Company?"

"Sex," you state flatly. "Unless you think this amount means I'll be your personal concubine?"

It's almost endearing watching his cheeks flush. "I don't need to pay for sex." 

"Just for a fake girlfriend." 

You watch the twitch at the corner of his mouth, a smirk. Touche. 

"Sex is not required, of course. I would only request that company outside our arrangement be as discreet as possible." 

"That seems fair." 

Harry raises a brow, intrigued. "So you're agreeing?"

"I'm thinking about it." 

Harry nods, standing and buttoning his dark blazer. You have a lot to think about and he doesn't want to rush you. He needs commitment not a lukewarm agreement. He slides over his business card. 

"My number is on the back. I'll wait for your decision, whatever it may be." 

He sticks his hand out like it's a business deal and you take it with a little smile, amused. You shake briefly and he stands the purpose of this meeting over. He gives you a dimpled smile.

 “I hope to hear from you soon.”

He knows he will.

[kiwriteswords]

Trope Tuesday marriage/relationship of convenience then actually catching feelings 😁

I guess you're just what I needed [Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader]

Ki2k Masterlist||MainMasterlist (not updated, sorry!)|| Ao3||Word Count: 3k|| AN: Oh my gosh, I am obsessed with how this turned out. I want to make this a series of one-shots! Let me know if anyone is interested in seeing more!!

Tags/Warnings: female reader, marriage of convenience, contracted marriage, canon-typical themes, flirty!reader, bold!reader, non-bau!reader, stressed!hotch

Summary: You're a high-profile political figure's daughter in immediate danger. The only solution is to place you in protective custody of the BAU. Your family's only catch? You have to marry the man who's at the head of it all: Aaron Hotchner.

Aaron Hotchner adjusted his tie as he approached Erin Strauss's office, a feeling of dread settling over him. It had been one of those weeks where everything seemed to pile on, and the last thing he needed was Strauss's particular brand of supervision. His mind was cluttered with the details of their latest case, not to mention the challenges of being a single father. Each step towards her office felt heavier than the last.

He knocked and entered without waiting for an invitation, finding not only Strauss but also the BAU Director and several serious-looking government officials seated around the conference table. The air was thick with tension, the kind that precedes a storm.

"Agent Hotchner, thank you for coming on such short notice," Strauss began, her tone more subdued than usual. "Please, have a seat."

Hotch's brow furrowed as he took in the array of faces. "What's this about?" he asked, his voice firm yet laced with fatigue.

The director spoke up, "A situation has developed that requires the BAU's unique expertise." He paused, glancing at a dossier before continuing, "A high-profile political figure’s daughter has been threatened by a radical group. The threats are credible and escalating. She needs to be put into protective custody immediately."

Hotch nodded, processing the information. "Understood. We can coordinate with the Protection Detail and provide a psychological profile on the threats. What specifics do we have on the group responsible?"

It was Strauss who replied, her expression unusually grave. "There's more, Aaron." She hesitated, her discomfort palpable. "The situation...it has an unusual stipulation."

Hotch's patience was waning. "What stipulation?"

The room felt colder, the tension thicker. "The terms of the protective custody dictate that she must be married to an agent from her protective detail. It’s a condition set by her family to ensure her security, given the cultural context and her status," Strauss disclosed, her eyes not quite meeting his.

"And you’re telling me that--" Hotch's voice trailed off, already piecing together the unsaid words.

"Yes," the director interjected. "The family has requested, specifically, that you be the agent to marry her. They trust your reputation and record. It’s non-negotiable if we want their cooperation."

Hotch sat back, his mind racing, yet outwardly composed. "You want me to marry someone as a part of her protective detail?" he clarified, his tone incredulous yet calm. The lawyer gears began turning in his head. He’d been divorced once to a woman, who, despite the love he had and would always have for her, caused him a bit of a legal headache and a pile of bills. The idea of marrying someone--marrying for the sake of protecting her? It seemed pretty absurd to him. 

Strauss nodded, "I know it sounds unprecedented, but given the political sensitivity and the potential international implications, we've been cornered into agreeing. You are, of course, our best negotiator and profiler. This isn’t about marriage in the traditional sense, but a strategic move to safeguard her life."

The weight of the room's gaze felt heavy on Hotch. He understood duty, the sacrifices it entailed, but this was beyond anything he'd anticipated. His thoughts flickered to Jack, to the remnants of a life he tried to keep normal.

"Give me 24 hours to think about it," Hotch finally said, standing up. The meeting concluded with nods of agreement, though the unspoken pressures lingered like a thick fog.

Aaron Hotchner had barely risen from his chair when the Director’s firm voice stopped him. “Agent Hotchner, I need to be clear--this isn’t a request. It’s an order, and we don’t have the luxury of 24 hours.”

Hotch paused, the chair’s back providing a brief physical support against the shock. “An order,” he echoed, his tone a blend of disbelief and resignation.

“Yes,” Strauss added, her voice softer, yet firm. “We understand the personal magnitude of this, but you are uniquely qualified for this role, Aaron. The political figure’s family has specifically asked for you by name, trusting your capabilities and integrity. This isn’t just about protection--it’s about ensuring an international alliance. They believe their daughter will only agree to the terms of protective custody if it involves someone of your stature and reliability.”

The government officials nodded in agreement, their faces etched with the severity of the situation. “Agent Hotchner, we wouldn’t impose this on you if there were any other way,” one of them added.

Hotch stood motionless, his mind racing through every protocol and moral guideline he had followed in his career. Marrying someone under these circumstances was unprecedented, yet the alternative might leave a young woman's life in peril.

“How long is this arrangement expected to last?” Hotch asked, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside.

“Until the threat is neutralized,” the BAU Director responded. “It could be weeks, possibly months. You will live together, and she will be integrated into your life as necessary to maintain the facade.”

“And my son?” Hotch’s voice finally betrayed a hint of personal concern.

“We’ll provide support,” Strauss assured quickly. “Jack’s well-being will be a priority, and we’ll make sure this impacts him as little as possible.”

The room was silent for a moment as Hotch processed the enormity of the commitment being forced upon him. Finally, he nodded slowly. “I’ll do it,” he said, the weight of his words heavy in the air. “I’ll need complete access to all information regarding the threats and constant updates. I’m doing this under protest, for the record. This is against my better judgment, but I won’t let her be harmed because we didn’t act.”

“Thank you, Aaron,” Strauss said, a hint of relief in her voice. “We’ll support you every step of the way.”

As he left the office, Aaron Hotchner felt the familiar surge of duty that always guided him. Yet, this time, it was mingled with an acute sense of stepping into the unknown, not just as a protector but as a man compelled into an extraordinary role that blurred the lines between his personal ethics and professional obligations. The challenge was immense, but so was the responsibility. With a deep breath, he prepared to meet the young woman who would soon be his wife in name, bound together in a pretense woven from necessity and strategy.

Hotch’s stride was more clipped than usual as he re-entered the bullpen of the BAU. The tension radiating from him was palpable, setting the team on edge as they watched their normally composed Unit Chief move with uncharacteristic urgency.

The team members were dispersed around the room, some by the coffee machine, others at their desks sifting through paperwork. However, the atmosphere shifted noticeably as they caught sight of Hotch’s stern expression.

“Conference room, now,” Hotch barked, louder and with more edge than intended. His voice cut through the usual hum of activity, leaving a trail of surprised and concerned looks among the team members.

They all knew the tone, and the look – something big was underway. As they gathered their materials, they exchanged glances, piecing together their questions and concerns.

Once in the conference room, Hotch stood at the head of the table, his hands pressed flat against the surface, his eyes scanning the room to ensure he had everyone's attention. The team settled quickly, their expressions a mix of curiosity and concern.

“I’ve just come from a meeting with Strauss and some very high-level officials. We’re being tasked with a highly sensitive and unusual case,” Hotch began, his voice steady but his underlying tension unmistakable.

He paused, considering his next words carefully. “A political figure’s daughter has been threatened by a radical group. The threats are serious and imminent. She’s been targeted, and we need to protect her.”

Murmurs of concern and nods of understanding passed around the room. It was the kind of scenario they were trained for, yet there was more.

“There’s a complication,” Hotch continued, his jaw tightening. “For reasons of her family’s cultural and political significance, she must be married to someone on her protective detail. They believe this will provide an additional layer of security and compliance.”

He let that sink in, watching the team digest the information. But the biggest shock was yet to come.

“And...” he hesitated, the next part harder to disclose, “they’ve designated that I will be the one to marry her.”

The room went still, the team staring in disbelief. Garcia’s mouth fell open, Rossi raised an eyebrow, and Prentiss frowned, her mind racing through the implications.

“This isn’t a request; it’s an order,” Hotch added quickly, anticipating their questions. “I need your support on this. We need to integrate her into our operations without disrupting our ongoing cases. She arrives tomorrow, and we need to be ready.”

Reid’s brow furrowed in thought. “How long is this arrangement expected to last?” he asked, the scientist in him seeking parameters.

“Until the threat is neutralized. It could be weeks, could be months. We don’t know yet,” Hotch replied, his tone final.

Morgan leaned back, his arms crossed. “Man, Hotch, this is... this is a lot. But we’ve got your back. We’ll make it work.”

Garcia finally spoke up, her voice a mixture of concern and determination. “Do we know anything about her, sir? Anything at all that could help us make this as smooth as possible?”

Hotch nodded, appreciating the team's quick rally to the cause. “I’m receiving her files now. We’ll go through everything together. We need to cover all angles--background, known associates, and potential threats. Every detail matters.”

As the team began to discuss logistics and roles, Hotch felt a slight easing of the weight on his shoulders. This was his team, his family in arms, and if anyone could pull off this unprecedented situation, it was them. Together, they would navigate the choppy waters of what was undoubtedly one of the most bizarre assignments of their careers.

In the days following the unusual directive, Hotch found himself delving deep into the complexities of his new assignment. Files and reports about the political figure's daughter filled his office--details about your life, your social circles, and the nature of the threats against you. The gravity of the situation was clear, and the added pressure of an arranged marriage only compounded the stress.

Explaining the situation to Jack was challenging. Hotch took care to frame the conversation in a way that his son could understand, emphasizing the importance of helping someone in need. "We're going to have a guest staying with us for a little while," he explained gently. "She's in a bit of trouble and needs friends to keep her safe." Jack, ever the understanding child, nodded and asked if you liked video games.

If only we could always be this simple. 

Meanwhile, the BAU team rallied around their leader, holding extensive debriefings to strategize the best way to integrate you into their operations without compromising their effectiveness on other cases. Garcia dug into digital backgrounds, Reid analyzed behavioral patterns, Morgan reviewed security protocols, and Prentiss coordinated with local law enforcement agencies. The team also made a point of checking in on Hotch frequently, offering both professional support and personal encouragement, understanding the emotional toll the situation might be taking on him.

Erin Strauss surprisingly became a pillar of support during this time. Her usual stern demeanor gave way to a more compassionate and cooperative approach. She facilitated necessary clearances and liaised with the government officials involved, smoothing over some of the bureaucratic hurdles that initially seemed insurmountable. 

Hotch knew this was out of Strauss’s hands. He knew that. He was rational enough not to blame her; there was nobody to blame here. 

However, the involvement of extra hands from various government bodies proved to be a double-edged sword. While it meant additional resources were at their disposal, it also led to bottlenecks. Decisions that should have been straightforward were bogged down by red tape and the conflicting agendas of different agencies. The BAU found themselves navigating not only the logistics of protective custody but also the complexities of inter-agency cooperation.

The decision was made for the BAU to continue taking cases as usual, with Hotch working remotely when necessary. This arrangement was meant to maintain normalcy and effectiveness in their ongoing investigations while also ensuring the safety and integration of his soon-to-arrive 'wife'. It was a balancing act that required meticulous planning and flexibility from the entire team.

As the day approached for you to arrive, the atmosphere at the BAU was one of cautious anticipation. Hotch, in particular, was a study in stoicism, his face giving away little of the internal conflict he felt about the impending marriage of convenience. Yet, he was determined to fulfill his duty, trusting his team to back him up every step of the way.

Penelope Garcia, ever the heart of the BAU team, approached Hotch’s office with her usual mix of exuberance and empathy. She had a file in hand, which was not unusual, but the gleam in her eye suggested she had more than just paperwork for Hotch. She knocked lightly on the open door, catching Hotch’s attention as he was buried in a pile of case files and paperwork.

He didn’t help but notice Penelope’s eyes drift to the marriage certificate sitting at the top of the files on his desk. The ink barely dry. 

“Hey, Hotch, got a minute?” Penelope asked, her voice carrying a hint of excitement.

Hotch looked up, managing a small nod. “What is it, Garcia?”

Penelope entered her colorful attire a stark contrast to the somber tones of Hotch’s office. She walked up to his desk with a slight bounce in her step. “I know you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders right now, and I’m not here to add to that. Actually, I hope this might lighten things up, even if just a smidge.”

She handed him a file, which was open to reveal a photograph. “I couldn’t help myself; I had to look her up. And, Hotch, she is beautiful.” Penelope pointed at the picture with a flourish.

Hotch took the photograph, his expression softening slightly as he looked at the image of the you, who would soon be playing a significant role in his life. In the photograph, you had a poised, elegant demeanor, your eyes reflecting intelligence and perhaps a hint of the burden you, too, must be feeling about their forthcoming arrangement.

He had thought so much about how much this would change his life. He couldn’t imagine a young woman like you, what you might be feeling. 

Penelope leaned over the desk, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. “At least when you’re pretending to be madly in love, it won’t be hard on the eyes, huh?”

Hotch couldn’t help but let out a small, rare chuckle. “Garcia, you always know how to make light of a situation.”

“I do my best,” Penelope replied with a grin. “But seriously, Hotch, we’ve got your back, and we’re going to make sure you two are as safe as houses. Plus, I’ll be just a call away if you need to vent or if you need a quick exit strategy from any awkward ‘married couple’ moments.”

“Thank you, Garcia,” Hotch said, his tone sincere. “That means a lot.”

Penelope nodded, her expression turning more serious. “We’re here for you, Hotch. All of us. This...situation is far from ideal, but if anyone can handle it, it’s you.”

With a reassuring pat on Hotch’s shoulder, Penelope left the office, leaving Hotch with the photograph still in his hands. He studied it for a moment longer, a myriad of thoughts crossing his mind about the surreal situation he was about to enter. Despite the oddity of it all, knowing he had the support of his team made it all seem just a little more manageable.

You arrived at the BAU under the weight of both expectation and apprehension. Despite the stress, your posture remained confident; your chin held high as you navigated the final steps toward a strange new chapter of your life. The officials accompanying you fussed over your every step, attempting to smooth your path, but you quickly tired of their coddling.

"Really, I can walk by myself," you snapped lightly, irritation lining your tone as you gently shrugged off an overly attentive hand from one of the aides. Your voice carried across the room, catching the attention of the BAU team assembled to meet you.

They watched with a mixture of curiosity and admiration as you handled the situation with a blend of authority and annoyance. When Erin Strauss stepped forward to formally make introductions, the tension in the air was palpable, but your presence brought a dynamic shift.

"And this is Agent Hotchner, your...husband," Strauss said, her voice tinged with a professionalism that didn’t quite mask her discomfort with the situation.

Hotch stepped forward, his usual stoic facade in place, but internally, he's taken aback by your beauty and the sharp wit he had just witnessed. He extended his hand for a handshake, the standard formal greeting he offerred everyone.

You smiled, a spark of mischief in your eyes, and instead of taking his hand, you stepped into a warm, embracing hug. "If he's going to be my husband, we better get used to this," you declared, your voice loud enough for the nearby team members to hear. Your words were bold, but your tone was light, trying to infuse warmth into the moment's awkwardness.

Hotch stiffened slightly, unaccustomed to such open displays of affection, especially under the watchful eyes of his team and superiors. Yet, he managed a small pat on your back, an awkward yet sincere gesture. "I suppose we should," he responded, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, appreciating your effort to lighten the mood.

The team observed this interaction with a mix of surprise and amusement. Garcia could barely contain a delighted giggle while Morgan raised an eyebrow to approve of your forthright manner. Reid studied you with interest, perhaps already trying to psychoanalyze your dynamics, and Prentiss offered a supportive nod, sensing the strength you'll need to navigate the coming days.

Strauss cleared her throat, concluding the conversation. "Well, I'll leave you to get acquainted. Agent Hotchner, perhaps you can give her a tour of the facility."

As you and Hotch walked away, your side slightly brushing against his, the team exchanged looks and whispers, their expressions a blend of shock and amusement. Hotch, for his part, was silently preparing himself for the challenging yet intriguing partnership that lay ahead. Your boldness and affectionate nature promised to make this arrangement anything but dull.

Through the labyrinthine halls of Quantico, away from the curious and watchful eyes of the team, the reality of your new life together began to sink in. Glancing sideways at him, you decide to cut through the impending awkwardness. "Let's skip the small talk until we're playing house, shall we?" you suggested, your tone light while edged with a hint of resolve.

Hotch smirked--a subtle, almost imperceptible upturn of his lips--acknowledging the practicality of your suggestion. "I suppose that makes sense," he agreed, appreciating your straightforwardness.

Emboldened by his reaction, you leaned in slightly, lowering your voice as if sharing a secret. "And for the record, I'm glad the rumors about your looks weren't exaggerated. You're quite the topic at political galas, you know," you added, a playful twinkle in your eye.

Hotch raised an eyebrow, a bit taken aback by your forwardness yet intrigued by your ability to disarm him. He quickly decided to steer the conversation towards more practical matters, perhaps to maintain some semblance of control over the rapidly evolving situation. "Well, if there’s anything specific you need to make your stay at my apartment more comfortable--especially since you’ll be living with Jack and me--please don’t hesitate to let me know."

You nodded, your demeanor reflecting both confidence and comfort with direct communication. "Oh, don’t worry, I’m not shy about voicing my needs. You’ll learn soon enough," you responded with a hint of humor and a certain look in your eyes, indicating that while you understood the gravity of the situation, you weren’t about to lose your own identity in it.

Hotch allowed himself a moment to study you--a partner not just in a protective detail but now in a life he never anticipated. Your assurance and clarity provide him with a strange sense of relief. It was clear you were not one to mince words, and in the peculiar, winding journey ahead, that was perhaps exactly what he needed.

[no-passaran]

Daniella Fodera got an unusually early morning call from her research adviser this month: The doctoral student’s fellowship at Columbia University had been suddenly terminated.

Fodera sobbed on phone calls with her parents. Between the fellowship application and scientific review process, she had spent a year of her life securing the funding, which helped pay for her study of the biomechanics of uterine fibroids — tissue growths that can cause severe pain, bleeding and even infertility. Uterine fibroids, an underresearched condition, impact up to 77 percent of women as they age.

“I’m afraid of what it means for women’s health,” Fodera said. “I’m just one puzzle piece in the larger scheme of what is happening. So me alone, canceling my funding will have a small impact — but canceling the funding of many will have a much larger impact. It will stall research that has been stalled for decades already. For me, that’s sad and an injustice.”

[...]

Researchers say threats to federal research funding and President Donald Trump’s promise to eliminate any policy promoting “diversity, equity and inclusion” are threatening a decades-long effort to improve how the nation studies the health of women and queer people, or improve treatments for the medical conditions that affect them. Agency employees have been warned not to approve grants that include words such as “women,” “trans” or “diversity.”

That could mean halting efforts to improve the nation’s understanding of conditions that predominantly affect women, including endometriosis, menopause, infectious diseases contracted in pregnancy and pregnancy-related death. It could also stall research meant to treat conditions such as asthma, heart disease, depression and substance abuse disorders, which have different health implications for women versus men, and also have outsized impacts on LGBTQ+ people and people of color — often underresearched patients. [...]

The United States already lagged in promoting scientific inquiry that considered how sex and gender can influence health — and has a recent history of focusing research on White men. Less than 50 years ago, the Food and Drug Administration (FDA) actively discouraged researchers from including women who could become pregnant in clinical trials for new medical products, leaving it often unclear if U.S.-based therapeutics were safe for them. It wasn’t until 1993 that clinical trials were legally required to include women and “individuals from disadvantaged backgrounds.” [...]

The report, requested by Congress, also found that researchers still struggled to understand the implications of common conditions such as endometriosis and uterine fibroids, the long-term implications of pregnancy, or gender gaps in mental health conditions — all areas where Black women in particular experience worse health outcomes or face heightened barriers to appropriate treatment. Investments had stalled in looking at how sex and gender interact with race or class in influencing people’s health outcomes.

[bruhstation]

I want to know more about Top Hat past before she became a member of the Star Fleet

alright it’s time to strap in because this is gonna be lengthy and heavy at certain points

cw: japanese colonialism, mentions of misogyny and toxic masculinity, internalized transphobia

hwang dong-ha hailed from keijō, which will eventually become seoul after korea gained its independence. at that time, korea was under the japanese colonial rule, and mass industrialization progressed at a rapid speed. dong-ha’s father worked as a laborer at a railroad construction site, and despite the hardships the family faced, dong-ha lived an uneventful childhood. that’s just how things are with other families, she thought. dong-ha had little interest in playing with other children and prefers accompanying her mother at home.

as the iron grip the japanese empire had on korea tightened, the hwang family’s living condition didn’t seem to get any better. in 1921, the hwang family moved to the states, looking for better job opportunities. at least dong-ha still has her parents. 

after dong-ha’s father’s contract as a plantation worker in hawaii expired, the hwang family decided to open their own business in san francisco, utilizing mrs. hwang’s specialty in sewing. a small tailor shop/boutique that specializes in western coats and suits, squeezed between a tight row of stores. things were going slow with the culture difference and all, but business picked up at a steady pace after the hwang family met other korean immigrants in the neighborhood.

due to her upbringing, young dong-ha held onto rather conservative beliefs regarding success. her father is stubborn about the way things have to be done and that rubs off on her. look, dong-ha. look at what we have now! see? if you work hard, you’ll make it in life. you’ll always be rewarded. you wouldn’t have imagined this kind of life when you were a kid!

those questionable words of encouragement didn’t permanently work on dong-ha, though. as she grew older, dong-ha questions more of her world – what will she be doing in the future? will life always be like this? where does her agency start and end? will her world only consist of her, mother, and father? and like every single teenager out there, dong-ha rebels.

the hwang parents noticed dong-ha sudden interest in how she presents herself. if she wasn’t taking enough interest in fashion already, she’s now dressed to the nines in glossy suits and thick coats (conveniently conceals her figure, definitely not some foreshadowing) and acting like some sort of elite socialite, much to her parents’... worry. dong-ha had always been obedient, but attempts at suppressing her just resulted in her pushing her parents away more. she was just having fun with self presentation, being raised during grueling times, and her parents were being annoying about it? fine. she’ll seek her own people.

dong-ha’s companions throughout her young adult years were sons from upper class backgrounds. although her family is not wealthy, dong-ha was friendly and said yes to everything. being invited to cabarets and bars for pool games has now become a regular occurrence to her. she even acquired her liking towards wine from these outings. she will be normal. she WILL fit and everyone WILL like her and her clothes. and her personality – speaking of which, dong-ha becomes more arrogant and self-absorbed as she spends more time with these people. she often lied when asked about her personal life, losing more of her humility. and after a particular incident that got mrs. hwang dragging dong-ha back home in front of her friends, her relationship with her parents deteriorated.

as time passed, dong-ha grew increasingly wary of the subjects her “friends” discussed. how their parents become rich not out of hard work, or how the working class aren’t working hard enough, or the way they talk about women, or the way they view marriage as something transactional, or children… it’s all disturbing to dong-ha. but she doesn’t have any other friends. these men were her only companions besides her parents, and she had to stick with them. that’s how men are supposed to be. this is what she had to do.

this poses another problem – dong-ha was supposed to be a proper “man”. not to mention that she’s the only “son” that her parents have. is this what it means to be a man, then? be crass and rude to assert their dominance? flaunt their physique? fall for women and have them for himself? dong-ha is disgusted, but they aren’t… as if it’s something natural. it doesn’t make sense, and when people can’t make sense of something, they get angry. a man is supposed to be masculine, dress the part, control those below him, woo a woman, then marry her. that’s how things are supposed to be, damnit. but she doesn’t like any of this. dong-ha felt like an outlier.

dong-ha admires women not in a way that’s supposed to fit how a man is expected to: not in an attraction, borderline domineering way, but as if they’re something… graceful. nigh unattainable. they’re resilient and beautiful. they’re beautiful not because she wants them for herself, but because they just are. she was disinterested in the idea of masculinity before, only performing it because that’s what is expected of her, and now she’s wholly appalled by it. looking back, she preferred the days when she was younger and helped her mother with sewing rather than mingling with loud, callous, and misogynistic men.

dong-ha’s friends noticed how dong-ha became less talkative, only drinking with a condescending glare directed at them. she averts her gaze when they were talking about annoying maids or girls, and the streisand effect gets into work. they’d poke fun at dong-ha and joke about how she probably had a bad night; “do you not like women? did a girl reject you or something? you’re being so weird, dong-ha.” and she still had to put on a facade. “they’re so annoying. but what if they aren’t, and the one who’s wrong is actually me? utter nonsense, dong-ha. have some self respect.”

so comes the turning point. after a late night out drinking her frustrations away, she came back home to think about reconciling with her parents and retreat back to her small world – consisting of just her, mother, and father. though she constantly goes back and forth between thinking she’s in the right and feeling guilt towards her parents, the latter of the two consciences won. she found mother and father in the living room that night, and a verbal fight quickly broke out. despite her attempts at apologizing, mother and father kept scolding dong-ha, and in reflex she came to her own defense. dong-ha’s father ended up making hurtful remarks about how she’s an ungrateful son who never appreciates what they have, instead distancing herself from her family to hang out with random wealthy strangers, and how he hated the way she always flaunts herself and other nitpicky things and that clearly cuts deep. because she has never seen her father this mad before. and her mother just stares at her, unmoving. not only is the world outside confusing, now her own world has been tainted.

she is furious. and prideful. and stubborn. wait, she is? she’s stubborn? no. it was them! they don’t understand her. nobody ever does. she’s the one who’s unlucky. the world doesn’t give her the answers even though she has asked so many of them. everyone’s just so incompetent! beneath her!

having given up in trying to make sense of the world outside her own, the disillusioned dong-ha moved to bigg city port while only leaving a single letter to her parents. she needed a new scenery to escape this contradicting world. no more family boutique, no more hangouts with the narrow-minded morons she used to call “friends”. she didn’t fit in with them, or anyone, really – is there really a place for her in this world? logically, there should be. dong-ha is prideful and stubborn. she believes she deserves much more than what she’s given as much as she feels sick at herself.

the boundless sea stretching beyond the docks and piers gained dong-ha’s interest. she asked for a job and some guy directed her to a certain captain archibald star. dong-ha landed a job in bigg city port as a helmsman for the star tug & marine. she was assigned the #4 railway tug “top hat”. captain star’s bouts of american patriotism often made top hat raise an eyebrow, but he was a pretty okay guy. as long as she views him as her employer and nothing else. still, she is quite vain, and due to a lot of dockside workers being men, top hat viewed everyone around her as beneath. doesn’t matter if you’re a star, or a zed, or the two idiots (her own words, not mine) from the railhead, there’s a high chance top hat has broken down your character and constructed several lists of thesaurus-sanctioned phrases personalized just for you inside her head.

though… dong-ha’s coworkers were far, FAR better than her “friends” from her youth. they actually have something meaningful to discuss during breaks besides objectifying women and money and other weird things. hercules is nice and pleasant to talk to, not to mention his open mindedness that earned top hat’s liking. warrior and big mac often gave her headaches, but they put up with her bouts of vanity with a wisecrack or two, much to her surprise. OJ was annoying at times, him being the wisest yet kind of old fashioned, but he’s still decent company. eddie and frank… they’re thing 1 and thing 2. (she likes them. nahhhh she doesn’t. that’s just how she is. actually she does like them. she’ll knock herself on the forehead before even smiling at frank and eddie.)

the stars (some of the zeds too, but you know how they are) also didn’t make any weird comments on how she likes to dress extravagantly even during hot weathers, and even if they did, said comments only go as far as mentioning how fitting it is with her character, nothing more. this is all pre-FBC, and she was still referred to with he/him pronouns. though top hat still hadn’t figured out that she’s a woman because she didn’t realize it’s an option for her (due to the morons she used to hang out with), she has thoughts about ditching the concept of being a “man” fully after reminiscing about how she’s often uncomfortable at being referred to as a “man” or anything that points out her lack of interest in anything masculine. her self discovery is further supported given the healthier environment she’s in, and the revelation that she wasn’t the only person who dealt/was dealing with gender issues (there’s hercules who broke the news for her, then she later met lillie, then ten cents, then sunshine, then boomer, then zip (THIS IS A WHOLE NOTHER CAN TO OPEN)) led to her embracing herself as a trans woman. fortezza bigg city is a tough story for the young’uns like ten cents and zip but things are much better on top hat’s side at this point 

of course, like how everything in this world follows a certain order, this is top hat’s world now. by the events of fortezza bigg city, at the age of 27, top hat is still her usual prideful self, but she’s working on being more compassionate towards people around her (lord stinker says hi). she’s sharp and quick-thinking and is quick to make stinging remarks just for the fun of it, but what’s top hat without a one-liner every five minutes? she’s no longer bitter and withdrawn. top hat’s having fun now <3

[pers1st]

let down - leah williamson x reader

pairing: barca!reader x leah williamson

warnings: barça being broke

In truth, you shouldn't be nervous.

This conversation had been going on for months - it was no secret that Barça had many financial problems, and paying you, Alexia and Aitana as their midfield would always have been difficult. You had had countless conversations like these before - negotiating your new contract, negotiating your new wage, which you knew would be significantly lower. It didn't bother you, though. You would've picked up a second job if it meant playing for your childhood club, even if they refused to pay you.

This setting, however, seemed a lot more official than it should've, in your opinion.

You were still dressed in your clothes from training, and so was Jona, but the rest of Barça's management was dressed properly - in suits and leather shoes. They shouldn't have even been there yet. This conversation was meant to simply verbalize your new contract, not to sign it yet. You were in no conditions to take the usual photos and sit in front of the camera for an interview after the contract extension. It confused you.

"Y/N, we are so sorry."

That was how Jona started, and in that particular moment, your heart stopped. No, this couldn't- they wouldn't dare-

"We can't renew your contract."

Silence followed. Then, your shaky voice. Barely above a whisper.

"What?"

This whole situation seemed too surreal to be true. Maybe in a few seconds, your eyes would open and you would find out that this was just a horrible dream. If it hadn't been for your manager's piercing gaze on you, you might've pinched yourself under the table.

"We don't have the financial means to pay you enough to stay. I know it's not what you want to hear, but-"

"No, Jona, we talked about this. You can cut my wage, I don't mind. I'll stay here, whatever it takes. Alexia said she would-"

But the man in front of you didn't let you finish.

"You are right, we talked about this. And I told you that you deserve more than what we can give you, and that you cannot let us undermine you. It's not fair to you, it's not fair to all the women who are-"

This time, you were the one to interrupt him.

"But this? This isn't fair to me!"

That was how the argument unfolded, and only after your voice was hoarse from crying and pleading, your cheeks stained with tears and your manager stained with guilt, did you leave the office to fall into Alexia's arms, who had been listening in from the other side of the door for God knew how long.

It was January currently, which meant that as soon as you silently agreed with them to sign you to whatever club payed the most, you were out.

Just like that, the chance to play in front of the Culers for one last time was ripped away from you. They received a half-hearted announcement via Instagram, you received twenty women in your apartment, ready to pack your things. In all honesty, you had wished for no one to see as you organized your life into moving boxes and shipped them over the sea for whoever from Arsenal to receive, mostly because it would've felt even less real. Mostly because then, the goodbye wouldn't have hit you as hard. Ona tried to offer you advice on how to get by in England, telling you all about her experience abroad. Mapi tried to lift the spirits by joking around. Ingrid held you as you allowed tears to fall, and Alexia made sure you didn't forget anything, offering to take care of the things you would leave behind in Barcelona.

It was only you and Alexia at the airport. Your best friend, since the day you had been selected to play for the senior team of Barcelona, had shared many angry words with the management, and at one point even threatened to leave if you really had to. But the papers were signed, and the boxes were packed, and there was nothing left to do for Alexia besides holding your shaky frame as tears clouded your vision for what felt like the millionth time.

"You'll be okay, bebita. You'll enjoy London, and then you'll come back. I promise, you'll come back."

The both of you knew that there was no way she could ever promise that - Barça's financial difficulties were far too severe to sign you back soon - the most expensive player in the world, currently. When, or if the smoke would clear up, neither of you could know. Still, her words soothed you the tiniest as you held onto the glimpse of hope your best friend gave you as if it was a lifeline.

"Enjoy London, okay?"

You nodded, although you knew that you wouldn't. What good was London compared to Barcelona? What good was the capital of England compared to your lifelong home?

"Vamos, carino", Alexia huffed as she let go of you, gently pushing you towards your gate.

"Call me, okay? ¡Te amo!", she yelled after you as you turned away from her, and the hurt in her voice made a new layer of tears stream down on your cheeks, but you knew that if you looked back at her now, you would never board that plane. If leaving to England was what it took for your club to keep functioning, you would. If playing for Arsenal meant that you would be back in blaugrana one day, you would wear that ugly red shirt and call yourself a Gunner. You wouldn't do it happily, though.

London looked ugly when you flew over it, and London looked ugly when you landed in Heathrow Airport. You had expected people from the club to be there to pick you up, wearing Arsenal clothes and a sign with your name on it. It was apparently standard procedure, as Alexia had told you, though neither of you could really know because neither of you had never left the country to play football if it wasn't with the Spanish national team. What you hadn't expected, however, was Laia waving at you excitedly from across the hall, with two women dressed in the same hoodie as her, one significantly smaller (you guessed she was Kim) and one Leah Williamson.

You had never followed English football much, likely why you hadn't recognized Kim when you'd first searched up your new team on the internet, but Leah was the kind of footballer everyone was just.. aware of.

Admittedly, she was even prettier in real life.

"¡Hola, guapa!", Laia shrieked as you strolled over to your new teammates (the word 'teammate' along with 'new' still left a bitter taste in your mouth), dragging your suitcase behind you tiredly. The plain ride had worn you out - in all honesty, the entire past week had worn you out. Ever since you'd been told that you would leave the club that you had bled for, you hadn't been able to close half an eye.

Still, Laia's excitement was unmatched as she pulled you into a tight hug, allowing your face to sag against her shoulder. You didn't allow yourself to cry anymore, and so you could see Leah and Kim smile at you softly from a few steps behind the other Spanish woman without tears clouding your vision.

Laia continued to speak in Spanish, asking you about the flight, about how the Barça girls were, about how excited she was that you were finally here and she wasn't the only Spaniard at the Arsenal.

If Kim and Leah thought it was rude that they were left out of the conversation entirely, they didn't say so. Still, you pushed Laia off gently, mustering the smallest of smiles you could.

"Hello."

Your English wasn't very good, but even you winced ever so slightly at the realization of how truly cold you sounded. You didn't want to be here, didn't want any of them to show you your new apartment, didn't want them to show you the club, to bring you to training, to give you a red jersey and call you a Gunner.

But you needed to suck it up. Life wasn't fair. And if Alexia's words held any truth, this would merely be a temporal situation.

"Hey", Kim smiled at you. Her English sounded funny, but her smile was more genuine than yours as she introduced herself and Leah. You hadn't needed her to, but it was a nice gesture anyways.

"It's good to have you here", Leah smiled as she gently lay her arm across your shoulder.

"Wanna see your new flat?", you nodded as Leah guided you out of the hall, your luggage left with Laia who strolled behind you alongside Kim.

Leah's confidence and her proximity to you, your side pressed against hers, was making your head spin ever so slightly. You had, admittedly, hoped that Leah, as co-captain and being about to return to the pitch, would understand how badly you didn't want to be at Arsenal, seeing as she bled for the club the way you did for Barcelona. Maybe she could grasp the idea of being forced out of her home, and sympathize with you in the slightest. And it seemed she did, as she pointed towards what you guessed was Kim's car, leaving you and Laia in the backseats as you drove through the city. London was different from Barcelona.

It was slightly less ugly now, with impressive buildings and a few bits of nature sprawled around as Kim maneuvered the car through the streets. It was cold, though, and as you were shivering slightly, Kim put the heat just a bit higher. It was grey, as well. Not a single ray of sunshine was able to break through the barrier of clouds in the sky, and it reminded you a lot of your current mood, though you were hesitant to show it.

Leah and Kim seemed genuine in their efforts to make this transition as easy for you as possible, given the fact that your apprehension to leave Barcelona was a very well known fact. You had dedicated an Instagram post with a very heartfelt caption to your departure, which made it very clear that you did not leave on your own accord.

Their dedication to welcome you, though, made you feel the tiniest bit of unfair. The women were genuinely trying, and they promised you during the car ride, when asking whether or not you were nervous, that the whole team was excited to meet you. Maybe you could try a little bit. Maybe you could enjoy this for the time being.

"Here we are."

You could see Kim's smile through the rearview mirror as she parked her car in front of an old building which you guessed was your new apartment complex. The car had left the central of London around twenty minutes ago, and at your confused expression, Laia had huffed that the club was in North London, not Central London.

"¿Es un poco feo, no?", (It's a bit ugly) you asked Laia as you stared at the shabby building. The walls were grey, and the parking lot was grey, and it seemed like everything in London was just.. grey. Plain.

"¡No, Y/N! Leah vida aquí también", (Leah lives here too) Laia huffed at your comment, shaking her head while chuckling at your statement. You shrugged, ignoring the way Leah and Kim furrowed their brows at your Spanish conversation while climbing out of your seat to retrieve your luggage.

You insisted on carrying your suitcase up the small flight of stairs as well, though Laia offered to do it for you. The two of you hadn't been super close when she'd still played at Barcelona, but you had been quite good friends, and having at least one familiar face soothed you.

"This is it", Leah smiled softly as the four of you stepped into the hallway, following your curious steps into the flat. It was plain as well, of course it was. For the first time since calming down on the plane, you had to fight tears again. The flat was nice, sure. The club had organized a quite spacious place, with lots of room and comfortable-looking furniture. But it was bare. You knew that shopping for furniture would be a hassle in the middle of the season, so you had rented it furnitured.

You missed your green couch, the thrifted, quite antique sideboard, the golden-framed mirror. You missed the framed shirts on your wall, the clothing rack with all of the shirts you had swapped with other players. All of those things were now packed away in a storage room somewhere in Barcelona. You missed Barcelona.

"Es pretty", you mumbled, dropping your keys on the white coffee table and turning around to look at Leah, who was still holding on to your large bag, the Barcelona badge imprinted on it. The look she gave you, eyebrows slightly raised, eyes looking somewhat defeated, told you that you hadn't been able to fool her.

Laia and Kim left quickly, with the excuse of having early training tomorrow and needing to run whatever errands, but Leah stayed.

"I live in the same building, so I could help you unpack if you want?"

In truth, you didn't want her to help. You didn't want her to swoop through your things, eyeing all of your personal belongings, all of the tokens of your previous home that you had left so promptly, but you didn't have the heart to tell her no. So, the two of you got to work, after a small tour through the whole unit, finding the bedroom, the bathroom and another room that you guessed you would use for storage. Your kitchen was small, after all, and it was filled with things you didn't know how to use.

"What's this?", you asked as you held up a scoop of some sort, that you had found while rummaging through your cupboards.

"It's a tea scoop, for making loose tea", Leah explained with a chuckle, taking the utensil from your hand to showcase how one scoops.

"I don't drink tea", you huffed, taking the scoop back and shoving it into the back of the cupboard before closing it a little harsher than you would have expected.

"You're in England now, you're gonna drink tea."

You decided to ignore her comment, instead opening the next drawer.

"I have a microwave", you pointed out, moving slightly to the side so that Leah could look. She was awfully close to you again, and it made you nervous.

"So you can make paellas", Leah snickered, nudging her hips against yours playfully. At that, you turned towards her, taking a shocked step back.

"Joder, you don't microwave paellas! What is wrong with you? Mujer loca", (crazy woman) you exclaimed, nudging her back playfully before diving into the next cupboard. Maybe London wouldn't be as horrible as you thought.

notes: this is baaaaad honestly but we move

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I read Trein's vignette and find it interesting about his background from the RSA, his daughters, and his pedagogy.

I was personally sort of disappointed with Trein's vignettes 😅 It was of course interesting seeing him in his element, but I feel like we barely learned anything new about him. The majority of the vignettes just expanded on things we already knew about him based on previous voice lines or behaviors. For example, part 1 focuses on him exercising to maintain his health with input + advice from Vargas (something which Trein already communicated to us via his Unified Exam voice lines). We also already knew that he was a strict teacher and allows Lucius to police students that are falling asleep in his lecture (shown in part 2 of the vignettes and in the manga), though now I guess we have more specifics on just how strict he can be and how much he values knowledge. He gets really upset with Grim for guessing on a difficult question and seeking praise for it, demanding that Grim not talk back and review the test from front to back, then take a new test and earn full marks on it. And, of course, we knew that he dotes on Lucius and his daughters, which is shown again to us in part 3.

The significant brand-new bits of lore we learned are the names of his daughters (Anna and Dolly Trein), Lucius's thoughts on his late wife and daughters (he loves them), and that Trein can hold a grudge + wished to work for RSA (even going so far as to apply to work there multiple times, even while already teaching at NRC). That last detail was a really interesting way of translating Lady Tremaine’s desire to have one of her daughters marry into royalty into Trein’s character.

I really felt there was a missed opportunity to expand more on Trein's family and how familiar contracts work in Twst. I wanted more about his relationships with his daughters and late wife. What are the conditions to forge a familiar contract? Can you only forge one if the creature is an infant at the time (Trein indicates he has had Lucius since he was a kitten)? How come Trein is the only mage we know of with a familiar in the first place, even at this super prestigious school? Is it not a common thing? What exactly separates a familiar from a regular animal you keep as a companion? I wanted answers to those questions.

I did find the new expressions and poses nice though! The little smirk and the adjusting his gloves combo is a particular favorite. The animation where he picks up Lucius is also very cute.

abildboiabdabofe And the chibis look so silly... I always get thrown off by how small Lucius looks compared to Trein and the other characters. It's alright when Trein is shown already holding Lucius in his arms, but Lucius looks even smaller when he's curled up and low to the ground... I worry someone might step on him by accident 💦

I love how he just... rests on the bristles of the broom in the animation... He's truly with Trein through thick and thin.

afueftiftevoaofeqeywpy POOR LUCIUS THOUGH, LOOK AT HOW PANICKED HE IS WHEN THEY'RE FLYING HIGH 😭😭😭 Definitely peak content.

[luckykiwiii101]

I saw the "dream part time job" manifestation and got inspired, so I manifested a job for myself. I'd been unemployed for months because no job was favourable to my conditions and it was really hard to find one that was.

Yesterday I got a DM from this woman I met ages ago (2020) -

we hang out for a week back then because, by chance, she'd heard from a friend that I played piano really well and she wanted some classes just so she could learn the basics, she'd paid me for the particular classes, that was literally it, I knew that woman for A WEEK.

- her family is absurdly rich and she has her own brand. She asked me to meet up with her for a "job opportunity" and I was already shocked cause I didn't expect it to come like that, but I was not about to reject it. So I went to the meeting.

I shit you not, she told me she's moving countries with her husband and she wants me to take care of her business here, fully take over because she needs someone "of trust" for that...

SOMEONE OF TRUST. SHE'D KNOWN ME FOR A WEEK 5 YEARS AGO.

I gotta work mostly from home and it's a job I know how to do, she even gave me a new computer to manage. I read the contracts, it's honestly crazy. So now the job is mine. She's giving me a few weeks of training before she moves away, I'm sure I won't need weeks, she just likes to be safe.

But yeah... holy shit.

SUCCESS STORY

So funny to see how things unfold when manifesting!! Enjoy your new job hun!!

[cosmousee]

🌺♥ Themes of June ♥🌺

Hey there lovelies! Hope y’all have been doing well! It was such a lovely day todayyy! I mean it rained so much I had to ask for work from home (I was not about to tackle Mumbai rains on my own dear GOD, anyway I have one more week left of internship and then I can go back!!)

Okay focus.

Half a year has passed ALREADY? Can you believe it? I can’t bro, so much has happened it feels like a year in itself lmao. I am gonna do monthly readings from now on, so I can try to stay consistent and not go MIA every other month ;-;

And I think(?) we’ve got some important transits in the month of June as well, so yay!

Okay reading time! Remember to take what resonates and pass on the rest🥰

(I've not proofread, I never do, and there might be manyyy errors okay so just pls bear w me thanks😭)

1>>2>>3

Ｐｉｌｅ １

Heya Pile 1, I feel like you’re examining a situation from very upclose. Like you’ve got the most powerful magnifying glass, the most powerful microscope and you’re all up in the business of whatever it is you’re focusing on.

It is giving me career related vibes. There might be a job offer that you see on the internet, and before you apply you’re just making sure that it’s not a fake one, you’re carefully checking the sources of the job offer, and just basically making sure it is very very legit before you apply for it.

For others, you might get the offer letter, or the job contract and you’re READING the fuck out of it. Like line after line, being very thorough, you are making sure that the contract is right and there’s no miscommunications or stuff in the contract which you do not know about.

I feel like your field is very competitive and filled with people who have the skills, the education, the qualifications, the work experience, and whatnot. That might make job opportunities harder to come back, as the candidate pool is too big (the HR in me is really thriving bro).

I feel the job you’ve scored might’ve been after trying so hard way too many times. However, you’re still not losing sight of yourself that “Whew offer letter came let’s just accept and see what happens”.

You’re very particular and you want to be sure that the terms and conditions are actually what y’all discussed. You won’t be willing to accept just anything and everything what the company is providing you.

You’ve got your standards set and you want the company to meet them and nothing less. Like it can’t be different AT ALL especially in a way which is below your standards.

The pedestal you’ve put yourself on is a very appropriate one and you aren’t asking for more than you deserve (although that’d be fun) but you are also very sharp and very rigid on what you SHOULD get.

Not only this, you’ve got your eyes peeled, like I feel you’ve got a 360॰ view at the moment. Your periphery vision is at its peak and you’re very vigilant of any movements which are happening around you.

I feel like, since this feels like a very career oriented pile, (this might be the main theme for you in June), you could be very into what are the current market trends, the stock market, what’s the big news regarding companies. You could just be on LinkedIn trying to figure out the big news about companies, any launches, any open positions etc etc. Or you know have any other site open to gather more information.

Like you feel like a spy to me and you’ve got eyes on everything.

This might be a very big perspective shift for you. You might not have realised that getting jobs is THIS hard (it is honey Im so sorry), and you’d be a little child in this giant oyster ass world and you’d be like “Heh, I’ve applied and I’ll get it”.

I— It’ll get better, I hope. I'm still on the naive little child side on these things so I cannot give better advice😭

Have a great June, however much you can~

That’s all I have for you today! Thank you so much for reading🎀🌻Please let me know what resonated I love hearing from y'all<3

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Ｐｉｌｅ ２

Heya pile 2! While shuffling your cards I was singing “Pretty little baby~” (I just watch too much reels) so might resonate with y’all.

Idky but I saw these, and I got very spring vibes. Why would I get spring vibes in peak summer I have 0 clue.

But okay I think I figured it out.

I feel like you’re clearing something, like some exam or I think you toiled a lot for something, you did so much hard work for the thing, like months, years kinda situation which is finally clearing out.

You might be getting the results, for college, entrances or something like that. I mean that was the first vibe I got. Why is your pile also giving career-ish. Damn maybe June IS a month for career.

Anywho, it just feels like a big win. It’s like you worked on a painting for so long and put your heart and soul into it and now you’re finally gonna get to see it in an art exhibition or like show it to people on a larger scale.

I feel like you’re gonna get a fan following, like you’ll have people who support you, a community of some sort. They’re cheering you on, they are there for your victory and they are also so so happy and appreciative of everything that has led you to this moment.

It can also be one to reflect on the past and your path that you chose while coming to this destination. It’s not telling you to see what other paths you could’ve taken, but just finally take in this one.

Absorb everything which happened, nurse yourself if the path took way too much of your energy and you couldn’t focus on it at the time as you had to complete your task.

Now that you’ve achieved your goal, sit, relax and take a breather. It’s gonna be a new start in your life I feel, since I got spring vibes and the flower. But before that you’ll have to replenish all your resources. You’ll have to make sure you are okay and recharged before starting the next journey.

Don’t start it right away, as it can cause extreme burnout. Taking a little time off won’t hinder you at all. Call your energy back to yourself, just sit with yourself. Feel the warm sun on your face as you sit near your window, sipping your coffee with your favorite music on.

Look back at all the sacrifices you made, to your energy, to your mental health to reach this stage. Thank all of that, thank yourself and celebrate yourself for making it so so far and be so proud of yourself.

June would be very relaxing for you I feel, you’ll be calm, you’ll be enjoying. You’ll feel the air you’re breathing is fresher, you might find the trees you look at everyday, look greener, more full of life.

You might have not had the time to appreciate the beauty around you. But now that the pressure is all off, you can wear your rose-tinted glasses (or really whatever colour glasses you prefer) and look at the world.

It’s been waiting for you, I feel like the world missed having you look at it and appreciate it because you went MIA for human being tasksTM.

Have a good June y’all!

That’s all I have for you today! Thank you so much for reading🎀🌻Please let me know what resonated I love hearing from y'all<3

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Ｐｉｌｅ ３

Hmm, Pile 3 I feel like, there’s a situation where you’re unable to see the full picture. When I tried meditating, all I could see was black. I feel like you maybe be blindfolded in this situation. Ofcourse metaphorically, I feel someone is not letting you see the whole picture, they might be hiding things from you, or just giving you only a few pieces of information.

I feel they might not have the best intent for you in mind when they are hiding so much from you. Page of cups was the last card that came out and after I laid them out, I accidentally flipped it over. I feel like that person is the one we’re talking about.

They are not revealing their true nature to you. Since it’s a page it feels like a person who’s quite young, inexperienced and they might be trying to sort of unethically steal your experiences. You get me?

Like one is, “Hi, I need some help, do you mind?” and one is acting like they're interested, so you just tell them things just because they're curious, not knowing what their intentions are, its kinda like that. I feel they are behind the opportunities you may provide them if they hang out with you enough, since you’re at a different position from them, a higher position I feel like.

This is not exactly giving me career vibes, like I got in the previous two piles. But I don’t know what it is, it’s very deceiving. Finally, I got the word.

Even they might show you something, or offer you something which you might need, or you know just be glad to have that and you would happily accept that offer without knowing where the offer is stemming from.

I’m not getting exactly what it is, but it feels like they’ve dressed up their offer so well that you’re so impressed that you’re just ready to accept. But you don’t know how many coats of paint they’ve applied to cover their mistakes, how many jewels were needed to cover up the gaps. It’s just shiny on the outside and pretty PRETTY broken from the inside, and it’ll actually be of no use to you, even if you feel that you can go and correct it yourself.

It’s giving evil mastermind to me I don’t know why. Its a very cunning and manipulative person, who’s very sweet to you on your face but is a completely different person behind the scenes.

Just be careful when you’re dealing with them. Always trust your gut. I’m not telling you to go and accuse that person left, right centre with no proof. But, just be wary for your own sake.

Pay attention to detail if they bring up something for you, a gift, a project or something, still can’t figure out what it IS.

See it’s concealed so well that I can’t even pick up on its energy. Okay and, just a disclaimer, it might not even be this serious IRL. It’s just what the cards are showing me ;-;

Pile 3, please I am TELLING you, you’ve got to come back to me and let me know if a situation like this turned out or not. I also felt very deja vu while writing this, have I written something like this before? I don’t remember it at all, it was also giving me the vibe that I was trying to explain more to y’all but someone just came and they were like “girl you gotta go!” and they snatched me away and this was all I could tell you in the moment.

Phew, that felt big.

That’s all I have for you today! Thank you so much for reading🎀🌻Please let me know what resonated I love hearing from y'all<3

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[thearchercore]

charles is a PR genius. and here's how he's trying to slowly rebrand his persona to strenghten his personal brand:

recently, especially after the triple header, you could notice charles had a period of time when he distanced himself from ferrari and clearly changed his public statements about his goals. he went from saying he wants to win with ferrari to saying that at his core, he just wants to win. and that he would leave ferrari if he didn't believe the project.

he also changed the way he communicated with fans, through social media. you can notice the change of wording in his post descriptions:

both posts are from the same year, but the wording is now different. he refused to use the ferrari branding and stopped using the typical ferrari-PR wording he was conditioned to use.

fast forward, he started interracting with ferrari by abu dhabi and seemed to be finally happy with the direction the team was taking. however, he still managed to build something from this anti-ferrari period -- the slow rebrand from being "charles, the ferrari driver" to "charles, the f1 driver".

charles is slowly, but surely working to increase the value of his personal brand to possibly gain more negotiating power, and other bonuses that come with having a strong personal brand not tied to any team in particular.

in general, the goal would be to outgrow the team so you are known as an individual athlete, not just someone who drives for the particular team and has their identity tied to the team only.

he also signed with WME for advertisement purposes, he started wearing his personal clothing brand CLACE again after ferrari banned him to do so. he clearly regained more confidence in what he can do as an athlete within the contract (that's usually very limiting from ferrari's pov).

how does he otherwise work on his personal brand? relatability. charles is a gen z child first and foremost, he knows parasocial relationships play a huge role on social media. he works on side personal projects like the LA vlog -- the vlog that had little to do with racing but still showed charles completely SUCK at basketball.

why would you include it, you may ask? it makes him relatable, it makes his personality more interersting. more fun.

his first public post from winter training then was him falling

why did he post that? well, a) he's a silly guy. but more importantly, b) he's not crafting up a perfect PR image, he's aiming for being relatable, showcasing more of his personality. he wants to stand out as an individual in the sea of other f1 drivers who posted more pre-planned content during their winter training.

in the LA vlog he also left in a little dig at carlos. why? because he can. he also used his twitter likes to like controversial things that ferrari wouldn't let him say. he very much knows how to navigate online spaces and how to create more boundaries between his personal brand and the ferrari brand.

additionally, he also now hangs out with people like max publicly even if they don't benefit the ferrari brand. max, in general, isn't liked by the tifosi or ferrari in general. but charles still makes sure to hang out with him on track and outside of it, once again, securing his personal brand and not pushing something that ferrari would prefer.

it's all very interesting to watch, seeing how carefully he's rebuilding his public image and how he communicates on social media with the world.

[berlioz-the-kitten]

Petri Dishes and Plastic Wrap

ACT ONE: CLEAN CUTS

Next

Brian Moser/Reader

Summary: Y/N was brought in for a psychological profile contract after the Ice Truck Killer case starts gaining momentum and the department begins to feel the pressure. She reviews old case files, offers insight, and quietly builds profiles. What no one knows? Y/N used to work at a private sanitarium in Georgia—one that got shut down after multiple patient abuse reports. She even kept a journal on a particular patient who had dissociative tendencies, surgical skill, and a fixation on reconstructing human bodies like art. The file? It got buried. Now in Miami, Y/N starts receiving odd notes—sketches of bodies in glass boxes, neatly preserved. No threats. Just… acknowledgments. And when she meets Rudy Cooper, the charming prosthetics specialist brought in to consult on a limb pattern, she gets the feeling she’s being studied.

TW: Psychological trauma references, Medical institutional abuse (implied), Body horror/gore (clinical context), Blood imagery, Stalking/psychological manipulation (emerging), Power imbalance/grooming dynamics (seeded), Emotional numbness/disassociation, Canon is a sandbox.

The elevator doors slid open with a sterile and pitching ping!, and Dr. Y/N Morrissey stepped out like she’d been summoned by order, not invitation. 

Miami Metro was cooler than expected—she’d braced for that signature Florida heat to press in around her like damp gauze, but the precinct’s air conditioning hummed a steady chill through the corridors. Still, the scent of too much coffee, simmering egos and overripe evidence rooms lingered beneath the sterile polish.

She walked with precision, heels soundless against the old tile. A folder rested neatly in the crook of her arm, her ID clipped in perfect alignment to her lapel. Her suit was slate grey, sharply tailored, a color too subdued for Miami. Her eyes were the only thing sharper—narrowed, not in judgment, but calculation. She was already dissecting the layout. Already filing away the badge-to-detective ratio, the postures, the voices, the tension.

She could feel it in the air. The fray at the seams.

The Ice Truck Killer case had everyone taut as piano wire. Hallway laughter died when she passed, and she caught the sidelong glances—the quiet assessments from men who didn’t know how to place her. She didn’t smile. Didn’t offer a handshake unless one was extended first. Dr. Morrissey didn’t believe in unnecessary contact. She believed in patterns. In pathology. In what the blood said when everything else lied.

She was escorted to the small office space they’d carved out for her. Temporary, windowless, unremarkable. Fine. She preferred her space like she preferred her subjects: quiet, clinical, and undisturbed.

Her first file was already waiting on the desk. She set her folder down beside it, unbuttoned her jacket, and sat.

The photo on the top page was a torso.

Just a torso.

Y/N exhaled slowly, her breath steady and unsentimental. Then she pulled a black pen from her breast pocket, flipped open her notebook, and began to write.

She didn’t flinch at the image. She didn’t recoil from the bloodless seams. She respected the work.

The files were a mess—coffee-stained in places, pages smudged with fingerprints that told their own story. Y/N laid them out like specimens across her desk, arranging them by date, by dismemberment pattern, by level of emotional detachment. She wore gloves, not out of squeamishness, but because she didn’t like leaving residue behind.

The photos were clinical—light-drenched and sharp—but the evidence spoke louder than the framing. Skin peeled like fruit. Limbs severed with an almost reverent precision. She took a slow breath, eyes scanning the incision sites, the angles. Not rushed. Not angry. There was care in the butchery.

She wrote in looping cursive—no shorthand, no dictation. She liked the weight of ink, the permanence of handwriting.

Subject demonstrates textbook detachment—no sexual motive, no frenzy. This is surgical. Possibly even aesthetic. The blood loss is almost incidental, more a symptom than a feature. In fact, he seems to hate mess.

A beat. She tilted her head, examining a photo of a hand—fingers spread, the skin pale and scrubbed. The nails were cleaned. Clipped.

This one’s not about death. It’s about presentation.

The blood, when it appeared in the files, was sparse. More like punctuation than language. But she didn’t mind it. She never had.

There’d been a time—before the licenses and the clean coats—when she’d sat in dark rooms and watched surgeries for the rhythm of it. The ritual. She remembered one in particular, a facial reconstruction after a car crash, the way the surgeon spoke softly to no one in particular as he moved the scalpel like a painter.

Y/N hadn't flinched then either. Just watched. Just listened. Just learned.

Now, years later, she traced that same calm into her reports. No reactions. No moral verdicts. Only precision.

If anything, it fascinated her—how someone could be so deeply methodical in their violence. Almost... respectful.

It wasn’t about the blood. It never had been.

She was always there early. That was the first thing Dexter noticed.

Dr. Morrissey arrived before most of the techs, before Batista’s morning café con leche, before Deb started stomping through the halls cursing at bureaucracy. She’d be at her desk already, flipping through crime scene photos with the same quiet concentration he reserved for microscope slides.

No music. No coffee. No wasted motion.

Dexter passed her door once and caught a glimpse of her posture—spine straight, shoulders still, hand steady as she annotated a victim photo. The body had been drained and arranged. Most people flinched. Most people grimaced. She… tilted her head.

He slowed in the hallway without meaning to. Watching her through the corner of his eye, the way you watch another predator circling unfamiliar territory. There was no revulsion in her expression. Not even curiosity. It was more like… reverence. Cold and meticulous. Like she understood that a kill could be clean. That it could mean something.

Dexter had met hundreds of professionals who claimed to “understand pathology.” But Dr. Y/N Morrissey felt it. He could sense it in the way she moved. The exactness of her margins. The way her eyes didn’t dart away from the photos like everyone else’s—they focused.

He made it a point to read one of her reports.

It was sterile, sure. But there were glimpses—lines that hummed with quiet insight, phrases that mirrored things Harry had taught him.

Subject exhibits pride in presentation. Murder, in this case, is not the objective—but rather, a means to an artistic end. The body is not defiled. It’s preserved.

Preserved. Dexter blinked at that. It wasn’t the word most people chose. But it was the word he might have.

From that moment on, he watched her more carefully. Slower movements. Softer steps. He didn’t want her to notice.

Because Dexter wasn’t sure if Y/N Morrissey was just a psychiatrist with a strong stomach—

—or if she was a scalpel herself. Sharp. Quiet. And meant for something specific.

It always came back to the red doors. That was how the memory started.

In her mind, the halls of Briarcliff Sanitarium were always too quiet. Too clean. The scent of industrial antiseptic coated the tongue like plastic wrap, and the lights flickered just enough to make you feel watched. Not haunted—observed. That was worse.

Patient #79 never screamed like the others. He was always polite. Always early to therapy sessions. He folded his hands in his lap like he was praying to some god of bone and sinew, and he smiled when he spoke about cartilage the way children spoke about dinosaurs—endlessly fascinated.

Y/N had been young. Too young. Just out of her residency. Eager. Curious. Controlled.

“Do you know,” Patient #79 said once, voice low and sweet, “that the human hand has 27 bones? But no one ever counts the tiny sesamoids near the thumb. They’re always forgotten.”

“Do you remember all your bones?” Y/N had asked him.

“Only the ones I’ve seen from the inside.”

She should’ve reported that. She did—technically. It got folded into the vague language of her early case notes. Obsessive behavior. Surgical fixation. Morbid fascinations. But as the weeks went on, her language changed. Became sharper. More focused. The lines blurred between analyst and archivist. Between observation and recording.

Her notebooks from that period were… precise. Too precise.

Subject shows increasing clarity in conceptual anatomy. Discussed desire to ‘see the hinge in a living jaw.’ Used the phrase ‘reconstruct the way God should have.’ Voice calm. No effective spikes.

Patient #79 never touched her. Never raised his voice. But he watched her while she wrote. Watched her pen stroke each word like it was being etched into stone. He’d grin softly when she turned pages.

“You write like it matters,” he said once. “Like someone will read it when I’m gone.”

Later—years later—when the reports of patient mistreatment came out, Briarcliff shuttered overnight. Records vanished. Doctor’s were either fired out of talks of misconduct. Nurses were just plain shitcanned without any prior warning. Wards were emptied in silence. Some patients were transferred. Some disappeared entirely.

Y/N packed her bags and didn’t look back.

Except—she kept one thing. One notebook. Labeled only with the number: #79.

Even now, in Miami, it sat buried in a box in her apartment closet. But some nights, when the casework made her fingers itch and the surgical photos mirrored old memories, she opened it.

And every time she did, she found something she didn’t remember writing.

A phrase. A sketch. A line marked in red ink instead of black.

And Patient #79’s voice, echoing low in her skull:

You were always meant to see me.

The first one came folded neatly into the pages of her latest case file.

At first, Y/N thought it was a misprint. The type of thing overworked interns slip in by mistake. But when she unfolded the page fully, the edges were smooth, the paper heavier than the department standard. Archival paper. Deliberate.

It was a sketch. Graphite, fine-lined, almost medical in its precision.

A human form—nude, hairless, arranged inside what appeared to be a glass box. Limbs slightly elevated with metal clasps. The lines were labeled meticulously: radius, clavicle, external oblique, orbicularis oculi.

The heart was still intact, she noted. Anatomically centered, outlined in red pencil.

No message. No name. Just an artist’s mark in the lower corner: a single 7 drawn through a 9.

She kept it. Not out of fear—out of... curiosity. It reminded her of something. Not exactly, but closely enough to make her chest ache in that old, quiet way she’d learned not to name.

Two days later, another one arrived.

This one was tucked beneath her windshield wiper after she finished lunch. Same style. Same paper. A male body this time. The skin had been rendered translucent to show muscle layers beneath. The ribs were numbered. The head was tilted up, mouth open as if mid-breath.

Still, no message. Still, no threat.

The third came by mail, addressed to her old university department. It was forwarded to her by a confused assistant who wrote, “Thought it was something anatomical you were expecting?”

It wasn’t. But it was. In its own way.

Each sketch grew more detailed. More intimate. The poses began to shift. One of them mirrored an old photograph she had of herself, taken during a seminar—head down, elbows resting on a table, fingers tented thoughtfully. The sketched figure’s body was opened from sternum to pelvis, as if that version of her had been dissected mid-thought.

Y/N stopped showing them to anyone. She stopped mentioning them altogether. Not because she was afraid.

But because the sketches were… beautiful.

Grotesque, yes. But deliberate. Thoughtful. Like someone had taken the time to know her—her mind, her observations, her exact lines of interest—and then made art for her to understand.

Every time she unfolded a new one, her breath hitched.

Every time, the same thought followed, unwelcome and slow:

He knows I’m watching. And he’s watching back.

The limb came in around noon.

Just the one—left arm, severed clean below the deltoid, preserved unnaturally well. No bloating, no insect activity. The skin was pale and drained, but the hand was positioned in what almost looked like a gesture. Not a struggle. Something else. Something closer to a pose.

Masuka cracked an inappropriate joke. Deb rolled her eyes and left the room. And then they called him in.

Rudy Cooper, Miami Metro’s favorite prosthetics specialist, stepped into the lab like he owned it—collared shirt rolled at the sleeves, tan from the sun, eyes crinkled at the corners in a way that made people relax before they realized they were doing it. He shook hands easily, joked about how “weird” his job was to people outside the field, and then leaned over the severed limb like it was an old friend.

Y/N had been reviewing preliminary notes from the corner, but the moment he spoke, she looked up.

Something about the cadence. The tone. Too calm. Too comfortable.

Rudy didn't acknowledge her at first. Just knelt beside the table, gloved up, and began a gentle rotation of the wrist with his fingers, noting out loud the unnatural preservation, the almost surgical cut.

“This wasn’t rage,” he said softly. “This was... pride.”

Y/N straightened slightly. That word again. Pride. She’d used it in her own analysis days ago. In private.

He turned his head toward her then, mid-thought, eyes catching hers with startling ease. "You must be Dr. Morrissey."

Her spine didn’t stiffen. She didn’t let it. But her fingers curled just slightly on the folder in her lap.

“I’ve heard about you,” he went on. “You're the one who sees patterns other people miss.”

There was nothing flirtatious in his voice. Nothing overt. Just a friendly interest, wrapped in warmth like a welcome mat. But his gaze lingered a half-second too long.

She held it.

“You work in reconstruction,” she replied, voice even. “It makes sense you’d recognize the effort in deconstruction.”

He smiled.

Not widely. Just enough.

“That’s what I like about dismemberment,” he said, eyes drifting back to the arm. “You learn more about the maker than the victim.”

Her pulse ticked once behind her ribs.

Too familiar.

She didn’t remember his face, not entirely. But something behind his voice dragged old hospital lighting and red doors into her peripheral vision.

He brushed a fingertip over the lifeless knuckle of the ring finger, delicate and careful, like a sculptor admiring the turn of marble.

And when he looked up again, he didn’t blink.

“People forget how much beauty there is in structure,” he said. “But I know you don’t.”

Y/N didn’t reply.

She just watched him work. Noted the way his hands moved. Silent. Precise. Almost… reverent.

She didn’t trust him.

But she couldn’t look away.

It was late—one of those nights where the city hummed under neon sweat and the precinct lights buzzed like insects against glass. Most of the department had cleared out. Y/N remained, as usual. Her desk was a neat kingdom of order: files sorted by victim, her notes stacked in clean columns, and a steaming cup of tea cooling beside a half-finished anatomical sketch.

She didn’t expect company.

The knock on the doorframe was light, too casual to be official. When she looked up, Rudy stood there with a sheepish smile and a takeaway container in hand.

“Thought you might forget to eat,” he said. “Figured I'd bribe you with dumplings.”

Y/N didn’t respond right away. She rarely did. But after a second, she gestured to the empty chair across from her. “One bribe. Then you go.”

He laughed like she was joking.

He didn’t leave.

They talked, loosely—about the latest body, about muscle tension in postmortem joints, about tendon slicing angles. It was easy, unsettlingly so. And just when the conversation began to settle into a lull, Rudy glanced at the sketch in front of her. A study of a dissected knee, incomplete.

“You always drew them like that at Briarcliff,” he said, almost offhand.

The pen in her hand paused mid-stroke.

Silence fell between them—not awkward, but sharp. Surgical.

She didn’t look up. Not right away. “Excuse me?”

Rudy leaned back slightly, his voice still smooth, still warm. “It was the same angle. Three-quarters turned. Ligament spread. Always the same. You sketched during sessions. They said it helped you focus.”

Her heart beat once, loud in her throat. She set the pen down with care.

He met her eyes then—really met them—and there was something behind his gaze that wasn’t there a moment ago. A depth. A knowing.

“They were good drawings,” he said gently. “Accurate. Clinical. But I liked them because they were... quiet. Like you were.”

Y/N's mouth felt dry. Her fingers curled slightly against the edge of the desk, a barely-there tremor tapping through her control.

He remembered.

Patient #79’s voice echoed like a blade pulled from sheath: You write like it matters.

“You were in group?” she asked, softly. Too softly.

“I wasn’t a patient,” Rudy said with a half-smile. “I was just... around.”

But they both knew that wasn’t the truth. Not really.

He rose, slow and graceful, collecting the empty container with a casual ease that felt rehearsed.

“Same eyes,” he murmured before leaving. “You haven’t changed them. That’s rare.”

And then he was gone.

Y/N didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Her tea had gone cold.

The drawing on her desk—she realized—wasn't of a knee anymore. Not really. Not anatomically.

It was of a man posed like he was about to kneel.

[distort-opia]

I keep pondering the nature of the Covenant in Nosferatu (2024), and here I think Eggers made a great choice in his use of Knock's character. His role is usually pretty simple-- he jumpstarts the chain of events by sending Thomas to Count Orlok's castle. And yet, in the original story of Dracula, there was no Covenant or Pact to speak of between them. Neither was there one in Nosferatu (1922). However, the very first thing we see in Eggers' version of the story is Ellen and Orlok forming a Vow: she swears to be his, ever-eternally. Then years later, this Covenant is broken; Orlok has to actively pursue Ellen in order to have her re-pledge it, as she is not within his sphere of influence anymore (not until the locket with her hair in it falls in his grasp). But what exactly broke their Vow? What does this Vow entail, and how does it work?

I think the most revealing are Knock's scenes, in this regard. Knock boasts while in the lunatic asylum, "‘Twas He that invoked me! ’Twas I that was chosen to serve Him, for I know what He covets." Which means that Orlok was the one to call upon Knock, simply because he was convenient. Knock's firm had contracted Thomas for business for approximately two years, and so it had power over where he went next. Orlok demanded that Knock deliver him Thomas, which Knock manages to do successfully... while he remained in Wisburg, "near the object of thy Contract."

Originally I thought that Knock meant Orlok's Contract with Ellen, but it's more logical that Knock is talking about his own Contract with Orlok, and that Ellen is the condition that it hinges upon. And if ultimately Knock delivered Ellen to Orlok... the Count would give him what, exactly? After Von Franz and Sievers rifle through Knock's papers, we find out the terms: "His thunder roars from clouds of carcasses, I feedeth on my shroud, and death avails me not. For I am his."

So it's immortality, obviously, like in all previous iterations of the story. Orlok made a Covenant with Knock, that he would turn him into a vampire like himself. But what's fascinating is the particularity of it-- immortality, but only if Knock belongs to Orlok. Later in Grunewald Manor after Orlok's arrival to Wisburg and Knock's escape, Knock is so eager to serve. He insists that he bring Ellen, "thy pretty possession", to Orlok.

But Orlok shocks him by betraying him. "The compact commands she must willingly re-pledge her Vow. She cannot be stolen." And that's when Knock realizes that Orlok never intended to make him his. That he had always wanted Ellen... though to be fair, it can't come as that much of a surprise, as Knock showed jealousy towards Ellen before. It's even likely that Knock left the means of destroying Nosferatu within his own possessions for the vampire hunters to find on purpose, as insurance. But at that moment he still says, desperately, "Yet my Lord, I beg thee." It's to no avail. Orlok strikes him and tells him to "crave nothing more of him", uncaring of his pleas. Later Knock is the one to die in Orlok's place-- a decoy within the Count's coffin, eager to be killed, heartbroken. Before he dies, he tells Von Franz, "I relinquished him my soul. I should have been the Prince of Rats – immortal… but he broke our covenant… for he cares only for his pretty bride." In doing so, he alerts Thomas to Orlok's real intentions, which arguably is one last shot at Orlok for his betrayal.

It's quite sad, in the end. It's also fascinating, because this means Orlok can bestow immortality... but the very foundation of the Covenant is made up by emotional belonging. It seems as if vampires can only make one other vampire, in Eggers' world-- mutually agreed upon and exclusive, like marriage vows. And if Orlok broke his Covenant with Knock by choosing Ellen, it means that Ellen broke her original Covenant with Orlok by choosing Thomas, and marrying him. A different type of Covenant, also steeped in belonging. Ultimately, Orlok had to trick Thomas into "signing Ellen away for a sack of gold", because she was bound to him, as per her own choice. And so, if Ellen hadn't kept Orlok with her after the third rooster crow, Orlok would have made her a vampire too.

It's just my personal interpretation, but I love this idea... vampires only being able to make one other. Being forced to respect the terms of a supernatural deal that works like marriage vows, which can be easily broken by infidelity-- you've got eternity and you can only find someone else to spend it with if that person wants it too. You cannot make another vampire if they are unwilling, which is why the others bitten by Orlok simply die, and don't turn. It must be something desired.

[mhevarujta]

I don't judge other people's interpretations and I accept that we all have different opinions. But on a personal level, I just can't get behind the idea of Ellen's union to Orlok symbolizing her liberation from the society that scrutinized her and condemned her sexuality and her appetite.

Orlok is not just some monstrous lover that represents her oppressed desires. Despite this being one part of his character, he is still too conditioned by his society. He is a dead Transylvanian nobleman and has been shaped by his privilege and his position. He tries to bind Ellen to him with an oath. When he sees that she can and actually does break her oath, he finds another way to bind her to himself.

He does not just ask her permission (even if we put aside the way he gives her the insentive to comply in a forceful and violent manner). No. He needs Thomas to sign an annulment and manipulates him into it. In a way, Ellen is treated like an object; like property that can be signed off to him. He needs a sort of 'contract' between him and Ellen too. A renewal of her pledge to him. When Ellen gives in to him she is wearing her wedding dress, which is a very particular choice and not just there for aesthetic reasons.

I have seen the ending being discussed as the fulfillment of Ellen's desires outside of marriage but it's not (that is, outside of marriage). It's the fulfillment of her appetite outside of love. She's still very much obliged to succumb to it within societal conventions.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Some Law-Related Vocabulary

for your poem/story (pt. 2/4)

Admiralty - of or relating to conduct on the sea

Alter ego - second self

Attractive nuisance - a thing or condition on one's property that poses a risk to children who may be attracted to it without realizing the risk by virtue of their youth

Bequest - an act of bequeathing

Bequeath - to give by will

Bona vacantia - goods that are unclaimed and without an apparent owner

Capricious - governed or characterized by impulse or whim (e.g., lacking a rational basis; likely to change suddenly); not supported by the weight of evidence or established rules of law—often used in the phrase "arbitrary and capricious"

Colorable - having an appearance of truth, validity, or right

Damnum absque injuria - a loss for which the law provides no means of recovery

Dying declaration - a statement that is made by a person who firmly believes that he or she is about to die and has no hope of recovery and that concerns the circumstances or cause of the presumed death

Eleemosynary - of, relating to, or supported by charity

En ventre sa mere - in the womb

Euthanasia - the act or practice of killing or permitting the death of hopelessly sick or injured persons in a relatively painless way for reasons of mercy; called also "mercy killing"

Exculpate - to clear from alleged fault or guilt

Filius nullius - an illegitimate child; bastard; called also "filius populi"

Finger - to accuse or identify as guilty

Fireman's rule - a doctrine holding that a property owner or occupant is not liable for unintentional injuries suffered by firefighters or police officers in responding to a problem on the property

First blush - initial view, appearance, or consideration—used especially in the phrase "at first blush"

First degree - the grade given to the most serious forms of crimes

Hereditament - inheritable property

Homestead - a home and surrounding land

Inchoate - not yet made complete, certain, or specific : not perfected

M'Naghten test - a standard under which a criminal defendant is considered to have been insane at the time of an act (as a killing) if he or she did not know right from wrong or did not understand the moral nature of the act because of a mental disease or defect; called also "M'Naghten rule"

Mulct - fine, penalty

Mysterious disappearance - the loss of property under unknown or puzzling circumstances which are difficult to explain or understand

Pierce - to see through the usually misleading or false appearance of

Poison pill - a financial tactic or provision used by a company to make an unwanted takeover prohibitively expensive or less desirable

Prior art - the processes, devices, and modes of achieving the end of an alleged invention that were known or knowable by due diligence before and at the date of the invention

Pur autre vie - for another's life

Shark repellent - any measure taken by a corporation to discourage a hostile takeover attempt

Silent record - a record of a criminal proceeding which does not show that the defendant acted with knowledge or understanding of his or her rights (as in entering a plea of guilty or waiving the right to counsel)

Sui generis - constituting a class alone; unique or particular to itself

Vexatious - lacking a sufficient ground and serving only to annoy or harass when viewed objectively

Wrongful birth - a malpractice claim brought by the parents of a child born with a birth defect against a physician or health-care provider whose alleged negligence (as in prenatal testing or diagnosis) effectively deprived the parents of the opportunity to make an informed decision whether to avoid or terminate the pregnancy

Yellow-dog contract - an illegal employment contract in which a worker disavows membership in and agrees not to join a labor union in order to get a job

More: Law-Related Words ⚜ Word Lists

[10thmusemoon]

Title for the ask game!

"Good Graces"

lmao prim why does this feel like I'm seeing beyonce at the grocery store??? i love your fics!

okay hm content warning for angst, major character death, bad end

Shenbros that grow up alongside YQY and that somehow makes everything worse.

YQY still makes the unforgivable mistake of saving Shi Wu, Shen Jiu still steps in, but now he has Shen Yuan attached to him too. The two get taken into the Qiu household, QJL still develops an obsession with torturing Shen Jiu but now uses Shen Yuan as collateral.. If he doesn't behave, if he isn't perfect, well then, QJL will just see how his little brother does instead. Throughout this all, the two grow even closer, SJ doesn't let the resentment fester because SY is the only thing he still has, the only thing that keeps his sane. SY bandages his wounds in the night, holds him close, brings him into QHT's circle of safety with clever words whenever possible. He is the only good thing in the world now that Qi-ge is gone. They just need to wait for him to come back, and things will be fine.

And surprisingly, he does! This universe smiles down on SJ for once and shows him mercy. YQY looks like a prince standing behind his shizun, regal in his fine robes, and handsome in the way that well fed nobles can be. SJ tries to focus on the negotiations, but his eyes keep drawing back him yqy's face, awe and hunger at war. It's because of this that he misses the way SY goes stiff, head swiveling between the cultivators in silently growing horror.

The negotiations are easier than SJ ever thought they would be, his and SY's lives are traded from one hand to another like any dirty coin. The only difference being now they are indentured servants, their contracts having an actual time limit, the conditions of which only require them to be CQMS disciples until YQY becomes the new peak lord.

Which is...fine. More than fine, even! SJ is convinced that if he really wanted to, he could convince YQY to runaway with them afterwards. When he tells this to SY he's shocked by his insistent refusal.

"No, we have to stay at CQMS. No matter what."

Whatever.

For 15 solid years, SJ's life is good. He stakes his claim on YQY as soon as he realizes there are people interested in him, shamelessly making himself at home by his side. SJ excels at QJP, determined to be the one YQY can rely on. If SY insists on staying at CQMS, then SY will just have to make it theirs.

(years down the line is experiences gleeful joy at seeing people's face twist when it's revealed he's yqy's spouse.)

SY in all of this, is living in crisis mode! His brother is the scum villain and is going to get qi-ge killed! Why the FUCK did Airplane never mention any of this!!??? No matter how badly he wants to fuck off to the beast peak, he doesn't! He stays firmly on QJP, taking on all the duties that deal with the new disciples to keep them as far as fuck as he can from Shen Jiu's clutches!! When YQY and SJ finally ascend as peak lords, naturally he continues handling any responsibilities of SJ's that deal with one-on-one contact with kids. And honestly? That's the ideal! SY's cultivation has never been as strong as SJ's, he's not the one meant to be the protagonists' narrative foil after all! He can coast by on teaching the fundamentals!

In SJ's eyes, SY continues to be his filial younger brother, taking on the burden of the tasks SJ hates. He spoils him, when possible, in the way only SY and YQY ever seem to understand. They are the only two good things that have been and always will be his. He doesn't need anyone else.

And then NYY arrives, and no one is more surprised than he is that he looks forward to teaching her the guqin, delights in how quickly she picks up the erhu. He doesn't understand why SY looms nervously whenever she's near, is irritated when he starts to suspect why. It's their first huge blow up.

And then the boy arrives.

He can't explain why this particular disciple is so repulsive. Why the dirt seems to stick to him, no matter how clean he is. Filthy fingerprints on grasping hands. Wretched thing has a certain look in his eye, a hunger SJ knows will be ruinous, insatiable. Just the way he trails after SY is enough to make him spit! And SY has always been a soft-hearted idiot, falling for the urchin's sob story! Just as obsessed! If they don't nip it in the bud now, they'll be rumors about them. The kind of things that pull righteous cultivators down from the heavens!

YQY listens to all of this indulgently, combing oil through SJ's hair and kissing his temple. As always, no matter how hard SJ tries to hold on, yqy always manages to pull him from his mood.

"What's wrong with having a favorite?" "It's not the same and you know it!" "He's just a child, if you let Liu-shidi back on QJP, it won't even be an issue."

Lots of grumbling about toads wanting swan's flesh. They both know the root of the issue is just that SJ can't let anything that's his slip out of his grasps. His love is all consuming, kept close to his chest in the fear that it will be stolen away.

LQG is not allowed on QJP, instead, SJ starts to teach more. Tries to test LBH relentlessly, waiting for him to fail so he can prove a point. This makes things worse between the brothers, more and more arguments come up until they resort to childhood tactics of wrestling across the floor of the Bamboo house and ripping out hair. SY breaks a hair pin he knows YQY gave him, SJ tears one of SY's manuscripts on abyssal fauna in half. The fallout is ugly enough that Binghe and NYY run all the way to QDP, breaking past the sect leader's chief of staff about the impending death of YQY's husband and/or brother in law.

Kneeling in front of an amused yqy, bruised and with bald spots, both brothers Shen explain their case, each threatening YQY not to show favoritism to the other. The proposed solution is to have LBH spend some time on Qiong Ding Peak, at least until he's qualified to go on night hunts on his own. SJ is fully convinced he's won, is ready to smugly denounce any comments about Qi-ge's blatant favoritism.

Neither expect SY's eyes go wide, for him to lean forward until he's crawling to yqy's side in excitement. Luo Binghe's praises fall from his mouth like honey. SY's running to his room for a brush and paper, outlining lesson plans and tasks LBH can take on to learn about all the good CQMS does for the realm. To SJ's revulsion, SY badgers YQY until he promises to include one on one lessons. QDP already has a head disciple, there's no harm in it, right?

In Shen Yuan's eyes, a light from the heaven's has shined down on him. Invisible to all, the system flashes an exclamation point above yqy's head, offering an alternative option to saving the sect.

[MISSION OBJECTIVE: SHIBOS GOOD GRACES]

[DO YOU WISH TO ACCEPT? Y/N ?]

It's perfect! No matter how much SQQ hates LBH, the combined forces of SY and YQY will stand united against him! The sect will be saved and SY will never see his white lotus darken! Maybe, and he's nearly salivating at this point, LBH might even consider staying at the sect and becoming the next QJP lord! It will take, of course, years to soften up SJ to that point. But really, when has he ever said no to SY when it truly mattered? He just needs to suck up and live in Shen Jiu's pocket for a little, it's fine! This will be easier than the time he accidentaly came back with several short haired monsters after a mission with LQG and needed a place to keep them! And now they farm them for brushes!

SY sleeps soundly for the first night in years, comforted in the knowledge that LBH's work ethic and stubborn tendencies will surely endear himself to YQY eventually. And then, one day, he knows with certainty, that if he's not there to protect LBH, YQY surely will.

The Immortal Alliance Conference is as disastrous as it was always going to be. There is a countdown floating ahead of Shen Yuan that only he can see. Sweat is pouring down his face as he fights his way after demons he once dreamed about. SY lost track of his brother ages ago, the two separating to different crisis points to save as many disciples as possible. At the three minute mark, bright blue laughing kaomoji offer their congratulations, informing him that the inmun requirements for SHIBOS GOOD GRACES have been met.

SY nearly collapses with relief, his steps slowing down a fraction, just enough to catch his breath. Fuck teaching the fundamentals to scholars nerds did not help him retain cardio! The times is in it's final seconds when he makes it into a clearing, eyes blinking rapidly in disbelief when he passes Xiu Ya embedded into the forehead of a Black Moon Rhinoceros Python's skull. Then, just further ahead, Shen Yuan's heart falls nearly out of his chest.

There are tears streaming down Luo Binghe's face as he tips backward off the cliff. The huadian beneath his messy hair shines a bright red, the soft glow reflecting off Yue Qingyuan's black pauldron. The sect leader, his da-ge, is slumped against Luo Binghe, arms in a tight embrace, an unfamiliar sword piercing him in the back as the two tumble towards an abyssal rift.

The wail of a dying beast pierces through SY's stupor, SJ stands with a blackened hand outstretched, only steps away from following the only man he's ever loved. Shen Yuan moves faster than he ever has before, half blinded by notifications he's never seen before. Something about heartbreak points, swords, and narrative foils. He doesn't care! He doesn't care! SJ is writhing in his hold screaming like a madman, over his shoulder Luo Binghe is getting smaller and smaller, Yue Qingyuan's robes fluttering around them like broken wings. Screams echo through the clearing long after the rifts have closed.

"I'M SORRY I'M SO--"

"QI-GE YOU BASTARD! YOU PROMISED YOU WOULDN'T LEAV-"

-

Five years later, Luo Binghe returns to Cang Qiong Mountain Sect, notably missing the great Xin Mo sword. The protagonist kowtows in the bamboo house, forehead touching the floor and arms extended out to present a mahogany box of bones and a long sword with a plain scabbard before an alter. Shen Yuan kneels next to him, chest shaking with labored breaths, he follows suit with is forehead pressed to the floor. From his peripheral, he can see the way Binghe's shoulders have started to shake, a puddle of tears collecting just beneath his face. A tally of points starts to flash above the boy, Shen Yuan closes his eyes, another useless apology passes through his mind.

"Gege was right, Qi-ge came home."

[spriteofmushrooms]

@wouldyoulikeacupofteadear More thoughts on chengyao, those tags on their dynamics/sex with my in customer mode and jc aiming to please and thinking my wanted big strong man and them having mediocre sex were great

"Thank you for answering my letter. It is delicate," Jin Guangyao said, shifting his teacup, "since it is believed that a young man changing the way his house is run within three years of his father's passing must be unfilial." Jin Guangyao allowed that statement to breathe, and Jiang Wanyin waited patiently with a slight frown between his eyebrows. "However, some matters require immediate redress."

From his sleeve, he pulled a scroll and placed it between them on the table.

Jiang Wanyin's gaze darted to it. The air grew thick, the heavy feeling of a storm approaching. Zidian lay quiescent, at least.

"Which aspects of the contract would you like to amend, Lianfang-zun?"

"Although you may not know, I was raised in Yunping. We rarely saw cultivators, but the few times our neighbors required help, it was given by YunmengJiang. Your father required very little payment from those who had little to give; and this, I believe, is a tradition you have honored him by continuing."

Jiang Wanyin held still. A clearly practiced posture even now, years into his leadership. "It's reasonable. Expecting poor people to pay you more than they make in half a year allows resentment to fester."

"Not every sect leader makes that choice."

"You've met them," Jiang Wanyin said drily. "You know how they make their choices."

Jin Guangyao smiled and refilled Jiang Wanyin's cup. "Just so. In that spirit, I would like to renegotiate our formal alliance, paying particular notice of certain clauses—especially the ones placing conditions on your access to Jin Ling."

Almond eyes wide, Jiang Wanyin said, "How?"

"By removing them."

With a gasp from Jiang Wanyin, the air cleared. He pulled his hands to his lap, but not before Jin Guangyao noticed them quaking.

Jin Guangyao continued, "Jin Ling is very fortunate to have a jiujiu like you. If it would be amenable to you, I think he would enjoy splitting his time between Jinlin Tai and Lianhua Wu. There are considerations, of course, such as his attendants needing accommodation."

"What do you want in return?" Jiang Wanyin asked neutrally.

"This contract is secret. Changing it will not alter the appearance of either of our sects. No one knows the pressures which were placed upon you; once those pressures end, outsiders will rightly attribute your sect's recovery to your own excellent management, which has been hampered all these years."

"I won't support all of your acts as xiandu," Jiang Wanyin said immediately. "No one can be right all of the time, and I won't pretend you are."

Jin Guangyao shook his head. "Oh my, I explained myself poorly. There are no conditions on this, implied or explicit. Even if nothing else about our alliance changes, that will change. My hope is not for you to become a sycophant, but to understand me better."

Jiang Wanyin raised an eyebrow. "You ended the war with a tyrant. You're the sworn brother of the two most powerful cultivators alive. You're the damn xiandu. Why would my opinion matter?"

"Jin Ling is a sweet, sensitive boy." Jin Guangyao straightened his robes, fingers fluttering over the embroidered garden of his sleeves. "It will be his sect someday. I don't want him to find this contract in ten years' time and discover things about his grandfather and shushu that would disappoint him."

Jiang Wanyin huffed. "Give him twenty years instead, for all our sakes. In ten, he'll still be the silliest boy alive."