#in case you could not tell some of these tags are satirical

[boys-with-gunss]

I am a very angry person who hates everything and has a strong distaste for people, that is why you may never see me post anything but passive aggressive rants.

[satuguro]

*ೃ࿐ BLUE MONDAY

[ ACT II: UNWILLINGLY BOUND ]

ethan landry x reader

#SYNOPSIS— you fake moan to avoid suspicion, richie wants to be chivalrous, and you and ethan make a plan in a coffe shop

#CONTAINS— murder!, gore!!!!, satire (!!), familial issues, mentions of anxiety/ptsd, richie x reader (one sided), stalker behavior (later on), fake dating, richie (yes, he needs his own warning), suggestive content (will be in this part but it's not serious at all lmao)

#AUTHORSNOTE— tumblr pls be kind and let this show up in the tags! thanks

ACT I, ACT II, ACT III

your ring flashed as it flew over your knuckles. back and forth, increasing in speed with every passing minute.

his feet stepped over the hardwood floor of his room, socks shuffling across the wood.

back and forth. back and forth. just like your ring.

"we have to call the police," you told ethan.

back and forth. back and forth.

"we can't."

"are you fucking kidding me?" you hissed, narrowing your eyes at him as you gripped his comforters. but as he looked at you, you saw just how serious he was, just how frantic ethan was, almost restless as he stared at you. and yet, he was still pacing.

back and forth. back and forth.

"this happened before." ethan couldn't shake the feeling off of him, the evidence from the past all making sense, all connecting with bright red lines in his brain as he finally, finally put it all together.

their car moved slowly as they passed by the house just down the street from theirs, the once peaceful and dainty home now tainted by bright yellow crime scene tapes and flashing red and blue lights. the lawn, once taken care of so neatly, was trampled as policemen and their dogs walked all across the lawn; pushing away reporters, setting up a boundary between the hungry public and the grief stricken family.

"what happened?" ethan asked his sister, who could only stare as she drove slowly by their neighbor's house. "isn't that evelyn's house?"

quinn nodded wordlessly, watching numbly as she watched evelyn's mother sob hysterically as a detective spoke to her, her hands gripping her sides hard as she collapsed to her knees.

"this girl disappeared in our neighborhood. she was in quinn's grade," ethan breathed, eyes set on the floor as he walked. back and forth. back and forth. consistent enough to burn a line in the dark wood floor. "all they found was her body. no weapons, nothing."

three detectives stood in their doorway, and ethan could only stare blankly as he watched his father try and reason with his coworkers, talking to them as if his position as one of the detectives just mattered so much in this moment.

"you weren't on this case for a reason, wayne," the primary detective hissed, anger already evident on her face as her patience wore thin. "we have to question him. based off of our witnesses, he was the last one who saw her."

"her fingers," ethan seethed, jaw clenching hard as he dug his thumb's nail into his skin, "her fingers were sliced. the news used the word 'flayed off'. pointless, because they ended up finding her, but," he exhaled shakily, his pacing slowing ever so slightly, "what we saw in richie's room was exactly what happened 2 years ago. all the way down to the flayed fingernails."

"i don't see how this stops us from telling the police," you said, leaning forward and putting your elbows on your knees. eyes flashing quickly to the door and ears quickly listening for any other sign of life within the apartment except for you, ethan, and a passed out quinn, you made sure richie hadn't entered before looking back at ethan.

fingernails picked at his own skin repeatedly as ethan watched his father reluctantly stand aside, his mother's hand coming up to squeeze his shoulder gently. the policemen made themselves comfortable; some sat in the living room, others nodded at ethan and quinn in acknowledgement, and the primary detective stared at the family photos on the walls.

"you two his siblings?" the detective asked, already knowing their answer. the both of them nodded, making her hum as she peered at them in interest. "did any of you know evelyn campo?"

"well, she lived in that pretty house down the steret. and she was in my grade," quinn managed, her nervousness hidden well as she answered truthfully. "is she, uh," she began, swallowing thickly as she brushed some red hair away from her face hastily. "dead?"

your words made him stop pacing to look at you, worry ghosting over his face as he looked you up and down. the fact that he was still only a bit high from earlier didn't help ethan's pounding heart.

but seeing decapitated hands in a ziplock in his brothers room sobered him up considerably.

he was staring at you as though he had made a connection, and you only stared blankly back at him. ethan's hazel eyes had turned muddy from his turmoil, but regardless, you could see that he had a realization; one he wasn't telling you.

"hello? i asked how any of this information is stopping us from just telling the police?" you said, impatience laced in your tone. "he did the murder back then and he did the one now."

the door slammed shut behind the detectives as they left. evening had already fallen over the sky; they had been questioning him for nearly an hour now. and they were planning on bringing him into the station for more.

ethan and quinn made their way downstairs the second the police left, quinn making a beeline to their parents to try and get some type of information out of them, something that would just explain what was going on. but ethan didn't follow her. instead, he focused his attention too his older brother, who was relaxed as he sat at the dining table, sipping a glass as though he hadn't been questioned by the police.

"did you do it?" ethan found himself asking, his voice as accusatory as it was quiet.

"ethan," wayne scolded him, tone warning him to just back off, but ethan prevailed.

"did you, richie? did you kill her?"

richie turned to ethan with his usual charismatic smile, his head tilting slightly as he looked him up and down as though ethan was so beneath him that he couldn't believe he was speaking to him. "do you think i did?"

"it's because richie was questioned by the police for that murder," ethan hissed, eyes frantic as he walked closer to you. he needed you to understand just how dire of a situation you were both in. he needed you to understand just how dangerously intelligent his brother was, and how his charisma could easily make it seem as though the universe was constantly on his side.

ethan searched your face for any sign of worry, any sign of panic, only to find nothing of the sort. you'd think that after seeing everything you had both seen, you'd be more freaked out. but truthfully, you were compartmentalizing your feelings and disassociating to the point where you could only stare back at ethan's panicked face.

"y/n, richie was their number one suspect and they let him go. he got away."

the entrance door to the apartment slammed shut, which was quickly followed by richie's call of, "i'm home!" your eyes widened just as ethan's breath hitched, fear and panic running through his body as his heart beat loudly in his ears.

to have richie find out that you both had been in his room would be like having a serial killer dead set on killing the both of you. you made quick word of cleaning up after yourself after finding the hands; you hid your socks inside your small bag and wiped off the blood smears on the floor before leaving the hands and his bedroom door exactly how you found them. if you were lucky, then richie would assume his collection of body parts had fallen without anyone noticing.

but if he saw the both of you very much awake and a lot more sober than you once were, then he would suspect something.

maybe it was a good thing you were a quick thinker.

you grabbed ethan by the collar of his shirt, face close to his before you pushed him down onto his bed. "mm, fuck," you faux moaned, eyes wide and silently begging for ethan to follow your lead as you began to bounce on his bed, making it creak steadily.

richie's footsteps walked closer to the door, the floorboards creaking with every step.

"what the fuck are you doing?!" ethan whispered to you harshly as he tried to sit up, only for you to shove his shoulders back down onto the bed.

"more," you feigned a whine, making ethan's face burn red as he only stared at you, mouth slightly open as you moaned, "shit— need you t'fuck me, ethan."

you'd think that he'd get a hint by now. you fought the urge to groan as you motioned for him to add onto your moans, your hand coming down to pat his bed to signal for him to add onto your creaking.

cheeks still burning with the embarrassment of it all, ethan managed to feign a low groan that was loud enough for richie to hear from the doorway. "that's it," ethan managed out with a faux moan, making you send him a reassuring thumbs up (which paired great with the slight panic on your face). "ride me harder," he added, eyes turning to the door.

ethan could see him.

richie's feet were stopped right outside his bedroom, casting shadows on the thin slit of light at the bottom of his closed bedroom door. and he was shamelessly listening, unmoving, which made ethan send you a frantic look.

you forced out a loud moan, still steadily making the bed creak with ethan as you stared at the shadow richie's feet cast. managing whimpers while ethan forced out a fake groan of pleasure, your eyes narrowed as you noticed that richie wasn't planning on moving. richie wanted to hear you.

a sick feeling broiled in your stomach at the thought, and you turned to ethan, whose bottom lip was between his teeth as he managed a loud whimper. he seemed completely panicked, the fact that his brother was refusing to move from the door making him almost fear for his life as he stared at you.

"gonna cum— i wanna cum," you moaned out, making your voice an octave higher as you made yourself sound as though you were chasing your orgasm. you couldn't even look at ethan for more than a couple seconds, the awkwardness of it all making your cheeks heat up.

never in your life did you think you would be faking a sex scene with a boy you just met.

"that's right, baby. cum all over my cock." ethan felt the horrible urge to laugh out loud in the middle of everything, the desperation for richie to just fuck off evident in his voice (though, it made it sound like ethan was desperate for you instead). "oh, fuck," he moaned, just as you let out a fake whine of need.

this was a horrible situation. you had seen ethan's brother's bag of body parts in his room and now you were pretending to have sex with ethan while his brother was outside the door.

it was a horrible and dangerous situation. and yet, you found your lips tilting upwards as you looked at ethan's red face for only a few seconds.

and then he started smiling just like you did. the horror and terror of it all still very much prevalent in his brain, but all of that only contributed to the humor of it all.

"cumming— 'm cumming—" you cried out, voice high pitched as you reached your fake orgasm, following your babbles of pleasure with more fake moans. and just like you, ethan groaned as he pretended to reach his climax too.

the worst part? you were both looking directly at each other as you reached your shared fake orgasms, wild smiles on your face as you both fought the urge to laugh.

you had to cover your mouth as the creaking came to a slow halt, the urge to burst out in laughter far too strong as you fell down on the bed next to ethan, burying your face into his pillow. ethan followed you, biting back stifled laughs as he only prayed his brother didn't hear your shared laughter.

you both moved under ethan's comforter, backs to the door as you laid next to each other. and ever so slowly, richie's footsteps walked past the bedroom door.

"holy shit," you breathed, turning to ethan, whose smile was so contagious that you found yourself smiling back. "that was horrible."

ethan nodded quickly. "oh, yeah— by far the worst experience of my life."

"it sounded like i fucked you pretty good, though."

"the fact that it was fake was the part that was the worst part," ethan said with a nod, face reddening further at the realization of what he just said. "oh shit— i mean—"

"it's okay. i, uh," you cleared your throat quietly, "i agree." you stated, staring into his eyes and managing a small smile. a beat of silence passed. "does that mean i'm staying for breakfast?"

"you probably should," ethan murmured, "just to keep the act going." he watched you pull out your phone to text mindy of your whereabouts.

you: sleeping over at ethan's. made it home safe, be back tomorrow.

min: WHAT DO YOU MEAN SLEPT OVER AT ETHANS??? min: LIKE SLEPT WITH ETHAN OR SLEPT AT HIS APARTMENT OR IN HIS ROOM AFTER SLEEPING WITH HIM? min: HELLO??

you quickly silenced your phone.

"can i borrow your clothes? and uh, your bathroom," you murmured softly, standing up with your dried faux blood all over you and your pink dress. your crown was lopsided on your head as you stood up, making ethan's eyes widen as he nodded, sitting up on his bed.

"right," he said, making careful steps to his dresser and pulling out a spider-man shirt and some red plaid shorts (color coordinated, because he wasn't a monster). ethan turned to look at you, a hint of a smile on his face as he carefully gave you his clothes. "may i?" he asked softly, motioning to the crown on your head.

swallowing thickly, you nodded. "be my guest."

ever so carefully, ethan detangled the bloodied faux crown from your head before carefully placing it aside. breath gently fanning over your face, ethan went to remove all the bobby pins in your hair that had once served a purpose, removing them from your tresses.

all the while, your eyes were set on him, face still covered in faux blood, but eyes looking past heavy lashes to see just how focused ethan was in not hurting you. his tongue poked at the side of his cheek, his brows were slightly furrowed, and his hands were so light that it barely felt like they were atop your head in the first place. and when he was finally done, the tension rising so much that even he noticed, ethan sent you a sheepish smile before pulling away quickly.

"all done."

you blinked, face as unreadable as ever. "thanks," you said blankly, hands holding the clothes he offered you before turning around and heading to his bathroom.

a sudden wave of protectiveness fell over ethan as he watched you walk into the bathroom, a breath leaving his lips as turned away right as you shut and locked the door behind you. heart thumping in his ears, he let out a shaky breath as he listened to the water start running.

reaching into his dresser, ethan got dressed himself. he had discarded his costume a while ago in exchange for his regular long sleeve and jeans, but he wanted something comfier. he dressed himself in an old white shirt and some blue polar bear pajama pants (his favorite, but no one had to know that) before situating himself into his bed.

he was exhausted. ethan didn't realize that until he finally pulled the blanket over half of his body.

hand reaching for his phone, he looked over his notifications briefly, barely reading them until he noticed a text from his brother.

richie: are you done with her yet?

the text made ethan sick, and he found himself putting his phone on 'do not disturb.'

you walked out of his shower a few minutes later, hair only towel dry and dripping onto the clothes he offered you to wear. ethan found himself staring a little bit more than he wanted to, but he quickly averted his gaze before you noticed.

"thanks." you climbed into bed next to him, bringing your legs under his blanket and sighing at the warmth.

"y/n, you have to be careful," ethan said softly as you made yourself comfortable, laying down completely on his bed.

"i know."

"no, i mean," ethan breathed out steadily, trying to find his words, "with everything with richie.. he likes you, you know." he laid down on his bed as he spoke, relishing in the warmth of his comforter. you were both facing each other, hands under your cheeks as you laid face to face.

"i know that too." you frowned slightly at the mildly impressed look on ethan's face. "did you think he was being discreet? are you kidding?"

"i don't know!" ethan groaned, hiding his face in his pillow and mussing up his curls even more. "this is gonna sound mean—"

"now you have to say it," you said, amusement laced in your tone as you shifted on his bed. "i'm spending the night, so you won't be able to run away from the topic."

ethan peeked at you from the safety of his pillow before sighing reluctantly. "i thought you were too socially awkward to notice," he said quickly, stringing his words together. ethan expected you to be annoyed or to turn away from him and be silently offended.

but instead, you laughed softly.

and ethan realized that he liked that sound.

"i may not be great at the whole talking thing," you said, your smile still on your face, "but i'm not stupid."

ethan hid his face in his pillow again out of embarrassment, letting out a muffled, "i'm sorry i underestimated you," that made you snort in amusement.

"you better be. don't even worry about it." you turned away from ethan, closing your eyes as you murmured a small, "good night, e."

heart warming at the nickname, ethan turned away from you, his back to your back as he replied, "good night, y/n."

ethan woke up before you did.

at some point during your slumber, you had both turned around and faced each other in the bed, making ethan wake up with your sleeping face right in front of him. and rather than turn away or be mildly embarrassed that you were probably smelling his morning breath, he found himself staring.

your face was relaxed; far more relaxed than the usual indifferent that seemed to constantly be on your features. lips parted gently as little snores left your lips, your once wet hair now a mess on his pillow, ethan found himself admiring you.

until he remembered his brother most likely had a dismembered body underneath his bed. then his little movie daydream fell apart.

standing up slowly, careful not to wake you, ethan made his way out his door and to his bathroom. shutting and locking the door behind him, he stared at how he looked in the mirror; groggy, more pale than usual, and honestly kind of disgusting with the obvious stress that was written all over his face.

shedding his clothes, ethan turned on his shower and walked in, shutting his eyes as he simply let the hot water fall on him.

"you can't possibly believe he's innocent."

"ethan, he's our brother," quinn groaned, falling back on his bed and letting her red hair scatter on his white comforter. "it's like, basically our job to believe that he's innocent."

richie had been questioned for months now. virtually no suspects have been showing up besides him; evelyn was too good to people, too kind, and there seemed to be no one who seemed to have an out with her. none strong enough that would constitute murder, because honestly, evelyn was a wallflower. she knew people, and people knew her, but there was no one besides her best friend who was horribly close to her.

ethan shook his head, fingers flying over his keyboard as he typed out his essay furiously, simply blurting words onto the empty google doc just to have something to turn in. "there's something wrong with him."

quinn rolled her eyes. "well, obviously."

"no, i mean," ethan huffed in frustration, still focused on his screen, "there's something messed up about him. he's hiding something, quinn."

flashed of all the shit that had happened only a few years prior were projecting behind his closed eyes, and ethan found himself forcing his eyes open just to keep them away.

he washed himself up before stepping out and brushing his teeth, before doing his skin care routine (he had acne before and he was not going to have acne again) before stepping out of his bathroom with his towel around his waist.

you were still sound asleep on his bed, which made him sigh in relief as he grabbed some underwear and some new clothes before walking back into his bathroom to change.

hair only towel dry and dripping onto his black shirt, ethan walked out of his room, heart thrumming steadily as he carefully shut his bedroom door behind him. sock-clad feet shuffling across the floor, he carefully made his way to the kitchen.

his heart just about dropped to his ass when he saw richie leaning by the counter, a cup of tea (of course the arrogant asshole drank tea in the morning) in his hand as he sipped it. looking up at ethan, he did nothing to hide his sly smirk as he looked him up and down.

"morning," ethan managed out past the sudden urge to throw up, walking past richie to grab his usual mug before starting a pot of coffee. he refused to look his brother in the eyes, but he could feel richie's steely stare stabbing into the side of his head as he waited for his coffee to brew.

"good morning for you, huh?" richie chuckled, making ethan swallow thickly, ignoring the panic arising in his stomach as he only stared at the dripping coffee falling into the pot.

"how much did you hear?" ethan said, trying to play the light hearted card.

"just a bit," richie said, unaware that ethan knew he was completely lying, because richie stood right outside his door and listened to you fake fuck his brother. "sounded fun."

"fuck off."

"am i wrong?" richie rolled his eyes. "it's about time you got laid. always actin' like you have a stick up your ass," he snorted, sipping his tea again.

ethan's jaw clenched at his words, resisting the urge to punch his murdering brother in the face with the mug he had thrifted only a month ago. "where'd you go last night?" he forced out, trying to keep up the lie as he finally turned to him. "y/n and i had to bring quinn home without you."

"where do you think?" richie said with a wicked grin, placing his cup down next to him as he crossed his arms over his chest. "ended up fucking some girl upstairs."

"oh. congrats," ethan said dryly, unable to care any less than he did. but when richie's words fully sank in, a thought popped up into his mind.

was that girl still alive?

"thanks." richie didn't even ask about quinn, his carelessness for the whole situation evident as he watched his young brother intently, eyes snapping to his neck. "she didn't leave any marks on you."

ethan's breath hitched at that. "i told her not to."

"'course you didn't." richie clicked his tongue. silence followed, the only sound coming from the passing cars and the bubbling coffee that was falling into the pot. "are you done with her, though?"

"what the hell is that supposed to mean?" ethan snapped at him, unable to hide his annoyance as he poured his coffee into his mug. done with you? what were you, a toy?

"i mean," richie sighed, as though he had to spell it out for him, "if you're done messing around with her, i wanted to ask her out on an actual date." he smirked. "instead of just fucking her after a party."

ethan's hand clenched harder around his mug, the fact that richie was painting himself to be so chivalrous making even more sick than he already was. "i thought you weren't dating anymore after sam."

"changed my mind after i saw her," richie said casually, taking his mug and sipping from it again. his eyes followed ethan's like a hawk as he reached into their fridge and pulled out his hazelnut creamer, just to add a bunch to his coffee. "is that bothering you, ethan?"

richie wanted it to bother him. and the worst part was that it was, it really was bothering ethan.

"ah," richie tsked, forcing a charming smile as he saw you walk out of ethan's room, wiping the sleep from your eyes as you trudged into the kitchen. "speak of the devil."

you refused to look richie in the eye, instead walking up next to ethan and watching him stir his coffee. "morning," you murmured to him, making the brunette boy hum in response. "can you pour me some?" you asked him, voice rough due to the morning. ethan could only nod.

"g'morning, y/n," richie hummed, making you mumble a half-hearted 'morning' right back. "d'you want breakfast?" he asked, voice suddenly warm and demeanor suddenly caring, as though he wasn't talking about how ethan "fucked" you last night only minutes ago.

"sure," you replied, feigning interest as you stared into his eyes. there was truly nothing behind them, nothing but an eternal black abyss that stared back at you, and a chill went down your spine at the thought of richie's victims only seeing that before they died.

but you had woken up that morning with a plan. a plan you hadn't told ethan yet, but you were going to.

"what're you feeling? eggs, bacon, toast, bagel, cereal?" richie asked you, making you hum in thought as you sat down on the dining table.

"a bagel with some cream cheese would be great," you said, ignoring the confused look ethan sent to you. you had barely uttered more than a few words to richie before, and now you were willing to let him make you breakfast? what the fuck?

the tension was running high, though richie seemed to be oblivious (or just straight up indifferent) to it, as he nodded at you, getting the bagels and letting himself make your breakfast.

ethan sat next to you, two coffees in hand. he set one down in front of you, hazel eyes looking over your face for any kind of explanation as to why you were suddenly so kind to his murderous brother. but you only looked into his eyes calmly as you took the mug and brought it closer to you.

if only he knew that inside, you were practically panicking at your idea. but if ethan was so sure that richie would only get away from the police if you both told them, that meant that you had to bring matters into your own hands. you were somewhat qualified; a few college psychology and criminology lectures would help down the road. hopefully.

"quinn's still asleep?" you asked ethan, raising your mug to your lips and sipping the coffee.

"yeah. i'll make her breakfast when she gets up," ethan murmured, still looking at you as though you had subtly grown another limb. he needed an explanation. you were planning something. you had to be.

"how 'bout you go check on her?" richie said, his question sounding more like a statement rather than an option. "just to make sure she's okay," he added with a smile that was rottingly sweet, eyes practically ordering ethan to go.

"i'll follow after you, e," you said, eyes unreadable as you stared at ethan.

you had a plan. you had a plan.

ethan sent the both of you a glare as he nodded reluctantly, towel dried hair moving with him as he stood up. "fine." taking his coffee mug with him, he went to grab a glass of water for quinn before walking out of the kitchen.

only when richie heard quinn's door close did he start talking again.

"so," richie began, his back to you as he took out your bagels from the toaster. "are you both together?" he was completely unaware of the wide eyed look you had towards the back of his head.

your eyes were clouded over with rage as you stared at the back of your father's head. you felt like you were floating, as though you were just some puppet to be controlled by your consciousness flying high above the clouds. and as you watched his body move through the haze in your eyes, you began to move just as your consciousness told you to.

you grabbed the marble white statue next to you.

"no," you murmured, eyes glinting with something dangerous as you watched richie smear cream cheese over your toasted bagel. "just messing around." your eyes were still set on the back of richie's head, staring at the untouched skin, the mussed golden brown hair.

"right," richie said with a small laugh, shaking his head to himself. of course, he believed he was right. "so does that mean i still have a chance?"

he was so oblivious to your existence. as though you weren't his flesh and blood, as though you were nothing but a burden forced upon him and his wife, as though they hadn't forced your creation in the first place.

you were nothing to your father. nothing but a parasite living under his roof.

your chest was heaving steadily as you stared at the back of your father's head and at neck. untouched. unburdened by the pressure and horror he put you and your mother through every day. and you gripped the statue so hard that your knuckles hardened.

"are you flirting with me?" you asked, the question coming out monotone as you continued to stare at the back of his head. and just like all those years ago, you gripped the mug hard. hard enough that your knuckles pales. hard enough that the heat burned against the skin of your palm.

legs moved on their own as you finally broke away form the corner your father always forced you into. the statue felt like nothing in your hands— no longer was it a statue of ophelia, one that guests to your home gawked at and praised for how beautiful it was, for how untouchable and pure it was. it was only a weapon.

"maybe i am," richie said with a chuckle, carefully putting down the bagel onto your sage green plate. "would you be complaining if i was?"

you walked up behind your father, ignoring the yelling, ignoring the raw abuse that was happening right at that moment, and you swung the statue down upon the back of his head. and finally, finally, his unbruised skin bloomed red.

as he turned to you, you managed a smile, placing your chin in your hand as you leaned forward on the table. "no," you said softly, cunning eyes staring at richie as he finally turned around. "i wouldn't mind it," you lied, ignoring the harsh pounding of your heart, and blood rushing through your ears, the horrible sinking feeling in your stomach as you stared right into the eyes of a killer.

the red that decorated his skin matched him, you thought. it matched the red knuckles he always carried.

and so you did it again with a sickening splat. and oh, the satisfaction was so fucking good that you raised the statue as though it was nothing and slammed it down on to the back of your father's head again. relishing in the blood splattering on your cheek. watching as he twitched like a freshly caught salmon.

so you did it again.

"really?" richie sat down in front of you, pushing the plate towards you as he looked at you amusedly. it was almost offensive how much he was underestimating you, looking at you as though you were just some girl falling for his little tricks.

but you truthfully didn't mind being underestimated. not if you could use it to your advantage.

"thanks," you said with a small smile, taking one of the bagels and biting into it. you allowed yourself to chew and swallow it before sipping your coffee. the coffee ethan made you.

richie leaned forward, eyes traveling down your face, landing on your lips before looking back into your eyes. "so you wouldn't mind it," he said lowly, making you raise a brow at him in faux confusion (as though this wasn't part of your plan in the first place). "if i asked you out on a date? this saturday?"

ignoring the rushing blood in your ears and the sinking feeling in your stomach and the fact that all your thoughts were telling you to just punch him and leave, you merely smiled a tight-lipped smile form behind your mug. "i wouldn't mind that either."

"you said what?"

"i said yes." your ring ran over your knuckles yet again as you sat in front of ethan in a cafe. it was later in the day now, and after explaining to mindy that your fake fling with ethan was a one time thing, you had both agreed to meet up at a cafe to talk about it more.

ethan stammered at that, mixing his coffee with a soft clink clink sound as he stared at you, baffled out of his mind. "why would you do that? you know that saying yes is like walking— willingly, may i add —to your death?!"

you caught your ring before it could fly off of your hand, pulling it back onto your finger again. "this is the plan," you began, leaning forward in your chair and putting your arms on the coffee table. "i'm the bait—"

"you're the bait?" ethan echoed in disbelief, making you send him a glare.

"you said it yourself that he knows how to get away from police. so that means that we have to do things ourselves." you looked into his eyes intently. "i'm the bait. i date richie, get him close to me, and we," you swallowed thickly, jaw clenching out of slight nervousness, "we gather clues to get him caught. all the evidence we need."

ethan stayed quiet, clenching his jaw as he listened to you. "i had a thought last night, you know," he said, "if richie's attracted to you.. that means you," he exhaled shakily, worry flashing over his face as he grimaced in his chair, "you might be the next one he kills."

you managed a wicked smile. "perfect."

"perfect?" ethan gaped at you, lips slightly parted when he saw just how sure you were at the idea of putting yourself in danger. "jesus christ, maybe you are crazy," he muttered under your breath, making you roll your eyes."

"if what you're saying is true, then it'll be easier for us to gather evidence. a lot easier."

ethan's eyes were furrowed as he looked at you, his arms crossed over his chest as he turned the plan over and over in his head. "and if he finds us out?"

"he won't."

"if he does," ethan narrowed his eyes at you, "what'll we do then?"

you blinked.

"we kill him."

ACT III

#AUTHORSNOTE— i'm soso excited for this series i'm ngl. remember, feel free to ask to be on the taglist!

#TAGLIST— @cham9ions , @netey6m , @mskitkatbubbles , @onlyangel-444 , @cyueksims

[escort-quest]

Please gonch responsibly

(I haven't tagged this post as unreality since it's discussing Goncharov on a meta level.)

Make sure, as everyone has been saying, to tag posts like this as "unreality"

Don't vandalise official sources like Wikipedia and IMDB as though Goncharov was a real movie.

If someone asks you "is Goncharov actually real movie?" you tell them no. This is improv, not gaslighting.

Generally, I would avoid sending asks about Goncharov unless the user has already expressed interest in it.

Longer explanation of each point under the cut: please read the long version before you comment in case I answered your question / already clarified something!

Firstly, in case you're still struggling to get a straight answer from your mutuals: yes, Goncharov (1973) is a joke tumblr made up. It's not a real film, although people are now constructing content for it as though it was.

And since this thing is beginning to get out of hand now (which is only to be expected) I'd like to bring up some improv / alternate reality etiquette:

so those who might be triggered by it can avoid it.

Keep it to tumblr. If other sites want to report on this phenomenon, that's fine, but all the "in-character" (for lack of a better word) stuff should stay here. It's important that there are actually sources of truth out there for those who need them. (I know Wikipedia sometimes features incorrect, outdated or biased information, but actively lying on Wikipedia to deceive people is still a dick move.)

You can post as if it was real, you can talk about it as if it was real (that's the game!) but if someone explicitly asks you "is it real?" you say no. This game is only fun as long as it's an improv game: the fun part is suspending our disbelief together. It's not, actually, fun to lie to people until they question whether they're going insane. This is a co-op game, not PvP. I hope I don't have to explain to you why deliberately lying to someone, even about something harmless, when they trust you to give you the correct answer and came to you for help, is a dick move. (Same thing with satire, actually. The Onion doesn't have to tell you that it's satire because that would ruin the joke, but if someone genuinely asks you "did XYZ really happen??" and you lie to them, that's not satire. That's lying.)

This one is more of a politeness thing than the others, and obviously if the person is a friend that you know would enjoy the joke you can decide you know best here, but we've already made poor old Neil sick of it. If someone has made their own Goncharov post or reblogged some of it, it's fair to say they're interested in participating. It's unfair to get mad that Goncharov is everywhere right now: it's mostly people having fun! But it's also unfair to make it impossible for people to avoid it if they want to.

This isn't a Goncharov hate post- I love the whole thing, I think it's awesome, I'm absolutely delighted every time I see references to it. I think it's an incredible demonstration of human collaboration and I could make a whole post about that alone. This post was made in the interest of keeping it fun.

Obviously I'm not your mother and I can't make you do anything, this is just advice: please gonch responsibly! :) If you're already gonching responsibly then carry on!

[starryoak]

So, obviously, fiction affects reality in many ways, mostly because fiction reinforces and builds on existing culture, and authors do to some extent have a responsibility to consider what their works are saying… but one thing I find very interesting is entirely unforeseen ways fiction can affect reality, and what authors owe to those unforeseen circumstances. For example, how much responsibility does satire have is a hard question, given as one of my favorite tumblr posts phrases it; “you could name a movie Portrait of a delusional abuser ruining his own life in pursuit of a fictional standard of manhood and 89% of its fanbase will consider him a role model”, but an even harder one is… how much responsibility does fiction have to tell you it is fiction? 

After all, yes, we have unreality as a term that we can tag things as now, but how much responsibility does a TV show have, or a movie? I mean, I feel like it’d be pretty not fun if a movie or series constantly took the time out of their limited amount to go “HEY, REMINDER, EVERYTHING THAT HAPPENS IN THIS IS FICTION”… especially since I’m fairly certain a portion of the audience who could harbor problems distinguishing fiction and reality would see that as suspiciously specific denial.

I was thinking about this after looking at a Wikipedia article on The Truman Show delusion, a phenomenon that connects to how delusions are almost always affected by the sociopolitical climate of the day, and specifically to the movie ‘‘The Truman Show’, about a man who learns his life is actually all a TV show written and scripted by someone else, after which over a hundred cases of similar people becoming convinced that this is true of themselves as well.  So how much responsibility does a piece of fiction have to prevent that from happening? Can it? Does it have any? 

Does art have the responsibility to ruin its own premise/mystery for the safety of others and is it selfish to value that premise over those people’s mental health? How do you communicate it in visual or audio format without ruining the illusion? And furthermore, what of the series that do explicitly state they’re fiction and still receive delusional fans discussing them believing they are real, films that have behind the scenes and yet still have dedicated followers who believe the illusion?

What is the line and where does it stand?

[ahtsumu]

long shots ; miya osamu

pairing: miya osamu x f!reader

synopsis: miya osamu is the teacher’s assistant for food chemistry i. you can’t stop thinking about him.

tag(s): college!au, slow burn, TA!miya osamu, grad student!reader, fluff, reader is a go-getter!! ; warning(s): profanity, suggestive themes, talk of insecurities and imposter syndrome ; wc: 5.6k

a/n: happy birthday to @starrysamu​! i love u. pls excuse any errors. i’ll weed them out later! btw this fic is not a sugar daddy au LOL

HIS NAME IS Miya Osamu and he always looks like he has it all figured out. Comes in every class with his black hair perfectly tousled, the sleeves of his dark button-up rolled to his elbows, a cup of coffee in one hand and the strap of that black messenger bag in another.

“He drives a BMW, did ya know?” Isla says in your ear one morning. Your only friend in Food Chemistry I gives you a pointed look before sitting back in her chair in the lecture hall with a smirk on her face. “Saw it this morning. Bet he’s loaded.” The two of you watch the subject in question walk across the classroom and settle in his seat at the table in the corner.

“Shut up,” you whisper with wide eyes. A grin–– far from innocent–– makes its way onto your face. “Imagine being Miya Osamu’s sugar baby.”

“He’s not old enough to be a sugar daddy.” Isla looks at her nails disinterestedly. “And that’s too many AUs in one. He’s already the TA, for god’s sake. This isn’t some shitty Wattpad novel.”

A light giggle slips out of your lips. “I can see the title already. My Sugar Daddy is the TA?!”

Now, if anyone had been listening in on your conversation, they would’ve assumed many things about you. The first being that you’re both gold-diggers. This is untrue–– at least, in your case. Isla, you’re not so sure about, given how your friendship only goes back about one month. But she tags you in memes on Instagram so maybe it’s as real as real gets. Their second assumption would be that you have a big fat crush on your TA. That one’s complicated, mostly because it’s true, but only kinda. It all started in the second week of school when Isla caught you staring at Osamu and slipped you a post-it note with both your initials encircled in a heart. And, because you’re shameless with a good sense of humour, you made a show of kissing it while she was looking. And thus began your meaningless but incredibly entertaining, satirical, co-written fantasy about Miya Osamu.

It also didn’t help that on the first essay you got back, Isla’s paper had been marked up with “are you sure?”s and “this is a jump”s, while yours had “excellent reasoning” and “insightful analysis”. You’d even gotten a little comment at the bottom: y/n, fantastic work. you should speak up in class more often. –– OM

But Miya Osamu doesn’t play favourites because the next week you’d gotten another essay back, this time with another comment at the bottom: y/n, not your best work. you could’ve done better by connecting your first paragraph with the second using grant’s reading. conclusion lacked punch, too. all the best. –– OM

Every time you’d read the words scrawled in blue ink, you’d felt a pair of eyes on you. But you chalk it up to Osamu being a careful grader. A good TA. Someone who cares about his students.

Isla calls bullshit on that. You’re not really sure how to feel about her stance.

The classroom door opens and shuts again. You don’t have to look at your phone to know that it’s nine on the dot. Instead, you and Isla straighten your backs, pull out your notebooks, and focus. Your no-nonsense professor says “good morning” in her usual perky manner before jumping right into her keynote presentation.

“Did you all find the reading okay?” Professor Lee asks an hour into the lecture.

A chorus of “yes”s fill the air. You bite your lip, wondering if revealing that you didn’t understand shit will out you as the class idiot. Or maybe your silence is telling enough–– maybe the people in the seats beside you have noticed the grimace on your face and are having thoughts like ‘gee whiz, am I glad I’m not dumb like her’. Heat rushes to your cheeks. Sometimes you really wonder if you’re smart enough to be here. Occurrences like these do nothing to dispel your insecurities.

You vaguely hear her ask something like, “Any thoughts about the reading?” It’s not that you’re actually dumb. It’s just that this class is ridiculously hard for an introductory course, even for a graduate programme. From the start of the semester til now, fifteen people have dropped the class. There’s just twenty of you left. Guess a ridiculously hot TA can’t save a course’s drop-rate.

Before you can make your mind up on what to say, your professor moves on from her question.

As you look off to the side of the room for a break from your thoughts, you find a pair of blue-grey eyes pointed in your direction.

Everything about you, from the expression on your face to the way your muscles tense, makes you look like a deer caught in headlights–– even though he was the one caught staring in the first place. So maybe your shamelessness works on a scale.

Miya Osamu lifts one corner of his mouth.

And as if the exchange hadn’t happened at all, he looks back down at his laptop and continues typing.

The rest of the lecture goes through one ear and out the other.

“Everyone, I believe Osamu has something he wants to say,” Professor Lee says as everyone begins packing their bags.

The raven-haired TA slides out of his seat and sits on top of his desk. “Yeah.” Osamu clears his throat and crosses his arms over his chest. You notice how the muscles in his arms bulge from the movement.

“Whipped,” Isla mutters, grinning mischievously.

“Him for me,” you whisper back, though your eyes do travel back to his face where they should’ve been all along. Osamu catches your gaze and holds it. And then he looks away again.

“Now, I know you’re all Nobel prizewinners in the making,” he begins, garnering a round of snickers and giggles from your classmates. Most people say that cliques dissolve in college. That there’s no such thing as popularity amongst graduate students. That much, you agree with. But no one ever said anything about popular teacher’s assistants. Especially smart, attractive, witty teacher’s assistants like Miya Osamu. “But in case you didn’t understand the reading or would like to develop a deeper understanding of it, don’t hesitate to email me. I’ll try to host a review session all of us can attend.”

Professor Lee smiles appreciatively at Osamu, adding, “That’s a wonderful idea, Osamu. Guys, please take this opportunity if you struggled with the reading. I know eighty pages is a lot, but our next three classes are structured around the concepts in the reading and the mid-term next week will almost exclusively be about it, too.”

Well, shit.

To: m.osamu@hqu.edu

Hi Osamu,

I was wondering if I could get some help with the reading from last class. To be frank, I couldn’t make it past page 15 and I’m lost like a snot-faced five-year-old in a shopping mall on Black Friday. Sorry. Thanks in advance!

Regretfully,

Y/N

MS Candidate

College of Agriculture and Life Sciences

Haikyuu University

From: m.osamu@hqu.edu

no problem. is 5 pm tomorrow at jack’s okay? we start on the concepts from the reading next class so i want to get you up to speed asap. let me know. thanks.

OM

PhD Candidate

College of Agriculture and Life Sciences

Haikyuu University

It’s five minutes to five when you pull into the parking lot of Jack’s Diner. The shiny, retrofuturistic eatery is a university favourite but the empty parking lot tells you it’s completely deserted right now (and rightfully so–– who eats dinner before six?). The black BMW parked a few spots from your car, however, says that you’re not alone.

Osamu’s figure comes into view as you reach for the handle to the front door of Jack’s. The twenty-six-year-old sits by himself at one of the bright red tables in the back, typing away on his dark grey laptop.

His head lifts up at the sound of the opening door. Osamu calls out your name and waves you over.

“Hi,” you greet with a smile, sitting down across from him.

“Hey.”

You look around before leaning forward on the table. “Is anyone else coming?”

“No.” Osamu sits back in his seat. “I thought about hosting one big group, but then I realised that it’d probably be stressful for the staff here.” He nods his head in the direction of the kitchen. “And I had a hunch that everyone would have different questions. Forcing everyone to review concepts they already know is a waste of time.”

At first, you nod. That makes sense. But then you furrow your brows. “So how long have you been here?”

Osamu blinks. He hadn’t expected you to ask about him. “Hmm? Oh.” He taps his phone to check the time. “Just a while.”

Quirking a brow, you ask, “And how long is ‘a while’ to you?”

“Seven hours,” he admits, chuckling lightly when he sees your jaw drop. “A lot of people had questions. They just don’t act like they do. Anyway, time flies. Really, it does.” Quickly, he clears his throat and sits forward. “So, about your email.” He grins. “Not sure if you meant it to be funny, but it was.”

“I’m glad my distress was entertaining for you. Do you TA just to watch grad students suffer?”

“Perks of the job,” Osamu says. His grin widens when you giggle. He’s never heard you laugh before and he realises at that moment that it’s really nice. And then that same grin falters. Gracefully, of course, and imperceptibly to you. But not to him. Is it okay for him to be… thinking things like that? About a student? But you’re not really his student since he’s just the TA. Right? Osamu ignores the weird feeling that comes over him and clasps his hands together at the edge of his laptop. “Back to your email. Can ya tell me what you’re confused about?”

Three hours and two Impossible Burgers later, you suddenly understand everything about food molecules so well that you wonder why you’d even been confused in the first place. But besides that, you’ve also picked up things about Osamu. As a person and not an idea. Not that you’d been actively searching for fun facts about your TA. But they’d stuck to your brain like gum at the bottom of a desk. He likes to slip sarcastic quips into a conversation every now and then. Eats burgers upside down (“The right way,” as he’d said, smirking). Is friendlier than he looks.

“You’re really good at explaining things,” you comment as Osamu shuts his laptop closed.

“Well, I kinda have to be,” he says. And maybe it’s the mental fatigue catching up on him or the fact that he’s real fond of the reason why he can break big concepts down into morsels but suddenly, the rest of his thoughts spill out his mouth like wine. “I have a twin brother with potato salad for brains.”

“Oh?”

And before he can stop himself, he tells you about Miya Atsumu, the pro-athlete you’ve definitely heard of but never gave too much thought. And then you hold onto the fact that they were both on the volleyball team and you ask of which school, so then he tells you about Inarizaki, the high school he attended, and then his decision not to go pro to go to college, and then––

“Sorry,” he laughs, cheeks turning pink. “You probably didn’t need to hear all that.”

“No, it’s fine,” you say–– and you mean it. “Your life is interesting.”

Osamu leans back in his chair. “Well, I’m sure yours is, too.” He holds your gaze like it’s the key to your presence. It’s an invitation. The kind that comes from people who don’t really know if they want you around but also don’t want you gone.

You take it.

Osamu shouldn’t–– he really shouldn’t–– but he wonders about the things you didn’t tell him the entire drive home.

Isla laughs when you tell her about what happened at Jack’s. You lay in bed with your phone next to you on speaker, your face turned on your pillow so that you’re staring out the window at the city below.

“He wants you,” she sings.

“Or he was just being nice.”

“Methinks not!” Isla giggles. “He’s intrigued, girl! You’re like that cute little new mystery in his life and he just wants to get to know you.”

“I think he was just being polite.”

“Or he’s crushing on you!”

“In your dreams.”

“You mean yours? Boo, you’re no fun today. Usually, you go along with the jokes.” Isla’s tone is playful on the surface but full of implications.

A few silent seconds pass. Yeah, you think, agreeing. I do.

“Girl,” Isla drags out the word in a high pitch, saying it like a scientist says ‘eureka’. “You’re not playing along anymore because it’s real now. You're actually catching feelings!”

“Am not!” you laugh.

“The Y/N I knew would’ve said ‘nah, bitch, he’s catching feelings’ and I think that says all there is to say.”

“Okay, I think he’s cute but it’s not a crush,” you concede, grinning. “And he’s the TA, Isles. It’d never happen.”

“Not while he’s still a TA in a class you take.”

“Isla.”

“Ask him out once this semester ends! Unless you’re chicken.”

“I’m not asking him out.”

“Knew you were––”

“Have you seen me? He’s asking me out.”

Miya Osamu walks through the door at eight-fifty as usual that next morning, dressed in his usual button-up, holding his usual cup of coffee. But this time, as the rest of his tall frame passes through the doorway, Osamu’s eyes subtly scan the faces in the lecture hall, lingering for just a while over yours. The corners of your lips turn up. You hope he saw that.

“Bitch!” Isla whisper-screams. The students sitting around you turn around at the noise and grin at each other when they realise it’s just Isla being… well, Isla. She shoos them away jokingly.

“What?” you whisper back.

“Care to explain why our TA was literally eye-fucking you?”

“That was hardly eye-fucking,” you retort. “Maybe like an eye-handshake.”

“Yeah, a naked eye-handshake where his thang is handshaking your––”

He does it again the next class.

And the next.

And then he doesn’t. Miya Osamu walks through the door to Food Chemistry I at eight-fifty in the morning in a navy blue button-up with a cup of coffee in his hand and looks through the rows of seats in the lecture hall for your face, only to find it missing.

He debates pressing the matter.

To: m.osamu@hqu.edu

hey osamu,

i wasn’t in class today because i’ve been sick with the flu (no big deal, just feel like i’m dying). a classmate sent me pictures of the slides from today so i think i should be fine, but is it okay if i email you with any questions? thank you very much!

miserably,

Y/N

MS Candidate

College of Agriculture and Life Sciences

Haikyuu University

From: m.osamu@hqu.edu

y/n,

of course. sorry to hear that you’re sick. let me know if i can do anything to help you. the midterm is next week. get well soon.

OM

PhD Candidate

College of Agriculture and Life Sciences

Haikyuu University

“You writing that the midterm is next week did not offer me any peace of mind, by the way,” you say, spinning around in your chair as Miya Osamu enters your pod in the library.

He offers you a wry grin. “Hello to ya, too.”

“Was that an accent?” You thought you’d heard one at Jack’s, but you couldn’t be sure because it’d been so spotty.

Osamu slips into the seat beside yours and pulls out the laptop in his messenger bag. You catch a whiff of his cologne–– something spicy and woody, but clean. It suits him. “Nice catch. Yeah, I speak a regional dialect. Took me a while to smooth it over but it still resurfaces every now and then.”

“Why?”

“It just didn’t seem fitting for a PhD candidate, I guess,” Osamu explains, opening the slides from the class you missed. A day after your initial exchange, you’d emailed him again (with a much clearer mind) and asked if he could go over the slides with you in person.

i literally feel like i’ve been given the homework from russian lit, you’d written. except the russian has been translated to hieroglyphs and my task is to choreograph an interpretive dance based on the hieroglyphs.

Osamu had snickered when he saw your email. that doesn’t even make sense. must be the fever talking, he’d been tempted to write. But that strange feeling had come over him again, the one that’d screamed at him to keep it professional, goddamnit, so he’d played it safe instead and sent is eight pm at the main library okay? He hates that you’re getting a watered-down version of his personality. Osamu swears he’s a lot more interesting when he’s not, well, a TA.

“I think it’s fine,” you say, smiling. “I like it. It’s you.” And suddenly, you’re wondering if it’s okay to be complimenting your TA. If it’s okay to say that you like things about him, or if that crosses some grey, unclear line. Is it weird to treat your TAs like they’re your friends? It’s not like TAs are real teachers. Right?

A grin–– wide and genuine and almost excited–– grows on Osamu’s face. He rubs the back of his neck as his eyes flit over to the laptop screen. “Thanks. Really.”

You nod. But you feel like there’s more that he might want to say, so you wait.

“I got a lot of shit for it when I came here for my master’s, y’know. Not to my face, of course, but people would refer to me as ‘the guy with the accent’. A professor once said it made me seem crass. Said it’d hold me back in my career.”

“So you changed.”

“Adapted,” Osamu corrects. “It’s hard to admit but conforming is sometimes all you can do when you don’t have the power to change the system. Can’t really make everyone suddenly respect a dialect.”

“And after you’re finished with your PhD, you’ll go back to speaking in that dialect?”

Osamu looks out the window and smiles, probably imagining the plans he’s already made about the future. “Yeah.”

“What if you have to speak the standard language at your job? Like, your boss is all, ‘hey man, if you don’t speak––”’

“I’ll be the boss.”

“Oh?”

And with a little more prodding, Miya Osamu tells you about the restaurant chain he plans on opening after graduation, the slides about food additives left completely untouched.

The librarian knocks on your pod a few minutes before eleven to tell you they’re closing.

“Shit,” Osamu murmurs, running his hands through his hair. You’re still laughing about something he’d said before the librarian interrupted him–– one of his stories from high school–– and he thinks that you’ve completely forgotten that the reason you came to the library was to catch up on the material you were already behind on. And now you’re behind on that. But you look so carefree right now and, actually, you’re very pretty and you’ve got such a good heart and it’s a lot for him to process but he knows he just wants to see you happy a while longer. So Osamu just slumps back in his chair and laughs along with you.

He says your name as his chuckles grow softer. “It’s pretty late. How’re you getting home?”

“I’ve a bike,” you reply. It’s good for the environment and is a pretty solid form of exercise if you do say so yourself. Sometimes you just don’t feel like driving. 

Osamu presses his lips in a thin line. Would it be too much to offer you a ride? “I can drive you home. It’s really not safe for you to be alone outside, especially near midnight. You can get your bike tomorrow. Or I’ll get it for you.”

He drives fast. Not the unsafe fast that speed demons drive at, but the kind of fast where you know he’s got some edge to his character. You bring it up to him–– especially since it’s nighttime, for god’s sake, he could hit something–– and all he does is remind you how there are lamps as bright as the sun lining the entire road to your dorm. And the fact that you live in the least accessible dorm on campus.

“A twenty-minute drive?” he’d exclaimed when he saw the GPS monitor.

“A bunch of roads are closed for construction. It’s a ten-minute bike-ride because I can cut through campus.” And suddenly feeling a little burdensome, you’d added, “Sorry. I can still bike––”

“No.” He’d held his hand out in front of you, gesturing for you to stay in the passenger’s seat. “It’s not a bother at all.” Because it wasn’t. Osamu was… happy. Not that he’d admit that.

“So this BMW,” you start in a teasing tone.

Osamu smirks. “A gift.”

“Can I guess from who?”

“Sure.”

“Atsumu.”

His brows rise. “Colour me impressed.” He hadn’t expected you to remember anything he’d said about Atsumu. Or maybe he had but told himself otherwise to lower his hopes.

“I’m smart like that.”

He snorts. “Not if you keep distracting me and using your review time to…” hang out with me, get to know me, tell me things about you… “…goof off.”

You grimace. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

Osamu makes a turn down a familiar street. It dawns upon you that you're ten minutes away from your dorm and suddenly you wish he’d just make the wrong turn at the next intersection so that you could talk to him some more. It can even be about the health benefits of fish or the molecular makeup of kale–– you don’t mind. You just want to be around him longer.

“I think you’re really smart,” Osamu says quietly. “I think you’re not processing the readings because you’re distracted, or just not fully applying yourself. Obviously, last class’s slides are a different thing, since you were absent. But you really are smart. I’ve seen your papers.”

You bite your lip to hide your grin, feeling heat rush to your cheeks. “Thank you.” You look out the window, too jacked on dopamine to think straight. “I think I still need you, though.”

And that innocuous little sentence floats right out your mouth into the air, settling between you like a little wedge before either of you even realise it. Neither of you says anything. You marinate in the awkwardness before stuttering out a clarification. “To, um, to explain things. Y’know, since you’re, uh, so good at… explaining things.”

Osamu clears his throat and chuckles stiffly. There’s a slightly pink tinge to his cheeks. “Thanks,” he says, looking straight ahead. He can’t even look at you. Fuck. It’s so awkward. “I’ll try to keep… explaining things.” Fuck. What does that even mean?

A few uncomfortable minutes pass in silence. The night can’t end like this, you think. It can’t when everything else had gone so well. You still have to see him for a few more months. “Did you know,” you start, catching Osamu’s attention, “that Jack’s Diner has a location in Italy?”

“Oh?” he asks, making the final turn to the street where your dorm is. He actually hadn’t.

“Yeah. I asked the owner about the chain a while back. Have you ever been to Italy?”

Osamu shakes his head. “I’ve been to Paris, though. To see a friend. He’s a chocolatier.”

Now, if Osamu had been your friend, you would’ve said something like well, let’s go to Italy together, except he’s not. He’s your TA and you’ve been reminded that enough tonight. So instead, you say, “When you open that restaurant of yours in Italy, let me know.”

“That’s gonna take a while,” he laughs. He appreciates how you said ‘when’, though. And he tucks that little bit of confidence you have in him somewhere deep in his mind so that it doesn’t get lost.

“Isn’t that just seven hours?” you shrug, grinning. Osamu’s BMW pulls up outside your dorm and parks as he marvels at what you just said. You’re amazing. You unbuckle your seatbelt and turn to face your driver.

“Thank you for driving me,” you say, offering him a smile.

“Yeah,” he replies.

You stretch out your hand. With a puzzled look on his face, Osamu grabs it and shakes it. Firmly. You can’t help but notice how nice his hands are. Calloused for sure, but they feel nice.

“Goodnight, Osamu.”

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

He watches you jog into the building before driving away. And it’s like you’ve possessed his car or something because the smell of your shampoo and perfume is everywhere and it’s too much but it’s also not enough at the same time and he can feel your palm against his as he spins the steering wheel to make a turn and for the first time in his life he doesn’t turn on the radio to fill the silence in his car. Osamu replays everything you said in his head.

But he especially thinks about that part where you said you need him.

Weeks melt into months. You turn in essays after essays for Food Chemistry I, each coming back with detailed commentary in an all-too-familiar blue scrawl. All your other classes go well–– extremely well, actually. You might just end the semester with a 4.0 if Food Chem doesn’t fuck you over. Isla still tags you in memes on Instagram. You still tell her about everything that happens with Osamu.

Speaking of.

“That’s the wrong equation,” he says behind your ear as he settles in the seat beside you. The sound of his low voice so close to your ear sends a small shiver down your spine. “You gotta switch the hydrogens.” Osamu knocks on your skull lightly. “What’s goin’ on up in there? Ya got somethin’ on your mind?”

You laugh and elbow him in the side. “Shut up, ‘Samu.” He’d told you during one of his office hours that he’d gone by that nickname because he had a teammate with a foreign name in high school. It sounded so cool, he’d said, grinning.

I think Osamu sounds pretty cool already, you’d teased.

And he’d replied, Let’s trade. I like yours, you like mine, why not share?

You teeter on the line between friends and less-than-friends and, oddly enough, more-than-friends. Sometimes you still play it safe. Sometimes he pauses between texts and real-time conversations, no doubt to scrap an instinctive reply for something more “professional”. Sometimes you say things that make him look at you with the ghost of a smile at the corners of his lips. Sometimes he calls Atsumu to scream about you.

“S’not a no,” Osamu points out. He’s dressed in a black sweater and grey trousers today. You’re suddenly reminded of how the weather’s been getting colder when someone opens the door to the university café and lets in a gust of chilly autumn air.

“Okay,” you admit, setting down the pencil. “I just… don’t really feel prepared for this next test.”

Osamu frowns and looks down at your worksheet. “Your process is correct, though.”

“Right, but… I don’t know. I’ve just not been feeling great about myself lately,” you laugh, looking down at your feet. “Food Chem’s the toughest class I’ve ever taken. And remember how I completely embarrassed myself in that class discussion last week? It’s not really making me feel like I belong here.”

“Imposter syndrome,” Osamu remarks.

“Correct-o.”

He says your name softly and puts a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Maybe you’re not the smartest, but you’re definitely smart. And you belong here. I’ve seen your papers. They’re just as great as anyone else’s and I don’t hand out compliments for nothin’. You’re gonna do some great things but ya can’t improve if you ever give up.” Osamu searches your eyes for a sign of your understanding.

There’re a lot of things you want to say but you don’t know how to put them into words. “Can I hug you?” you finally ask.

Osamu doesn’t even think about it. “Of course.”

He feels you smile against his chest and wonders if you can feel his heart beat faster.

Isla camps out in your dorm as finals come around the corner.

“I don’t understand shit!” she wails, throwing her notebook into the air.

“Isles, it’s okay,” you laugh, slipping out of your chair and walking over to her nest in the corner. “You gotta chill, dude.”

“Not fair! I didn’t have a hunk holding my hand through this course all semester,” she retorts, humour glittering in her dark eyes. “I had the Organic Chemistry Tutor and his accent’s cute enough but, girl, you had Miya Fucking Osamu!”

“You’re literally the worst.” You giggle and sit down beside her. “Tell me what you’re confused about. I’ll try to explain it to you.” The way Osamu does.

You text him that you’d channelled his brains later that night.

His reply comes seconds later. all you, einstein.

From: osamu

good luck on the exam

you’re going to kill it

To: osamu

would u like to divulge any… information about it? 😏 😏 😏

From: osamu

bye

To: osamu

i was kidding :(

From: osamu

fine. tip #1: write your name

To: osamu

not very helpful. 0/10

From: osamu

keep running your mouth and 0/10 is what your score’s going to be

i’m kidding

you got this, y/n

“Holy fuck,” Isla groans as you cross the street to head to lunch at Jack’s. “If you don’t see me next semester it’s because I’ve gotten my grade back and decided to drop out.”

“What would you do?” you ask, amused.

“Maybe move to New Zealand. Raise some sheep. Marry a hot, blond shepherd and fuck off to a cliffside cottage.”

“Solid plan.”

“What about you?” she asks.

“What about me?”

“Remember that conversation we had at the start of the year? About your man?” The two of you reach another red light for pedestrians.

“We’re friends. He’s not my man,” you laugh. Though it pains you to. Something about being Miya Osamu’s friend doesn’t really sit right with you, but you don’t know how to not be his friend. You don’t know how to move out of the corner you’ve backed yourself into.

“But you wish he were! And now you can finally hit him with that ‘Hey, Osamu, I’ve been madly in love with you since the start of the semester, wanna fuck like rabbits and then open that store in Italy?’ and he’ll be all––”

A throat clears behind you. With wide eyes, the two of you turn around.

Holy fuck.

Miya Osamu stands behind you with his hands in his pockets and an enormous smirk on his face.

“He’ll be all what?” he asks, eyes fixed on you.

Isla murmurs an excuse and starts walking on her own to Jack’s.

“Um.” You swallow nervously and shrink in your coat. “You heard all of that, right?”

“Yep.” Osamu grins. He grins. He’s grinning. He’s smiling like he’s won the fucking lottery and you honestly don’t know what to do with that information.

“So, like,” you look down at the sidewalk and kick at a pebble, “what are your thoughts about that?” God, you could die. “‘Cause I know you’re a TA and it’d probably look pretty bad and I don’t want anything bad to happen to you because I like you and it’s cool if we just…”

Osamu interrupts you with a laugh. “My thoughts,” he says, “are that I want to kiss you.” His fingers lift your chin up. “What are your thoughts about that?”

Well, shit. “I think that’s pretty cool, yeah,” you breathe, eyelids fluttering shut as his face comes closer to yours.

He tastes like mint. And his lips move softly, slowly against yours like he’s savouring the moment. And then you feel his hands snake around your waist to pull you closer–– closer because you both are tired of forcing the distance between bodies that want to be near each other, closer because he’s thought about kissing you just like this for so long, closer because you remember the last time he’d touched you was three days ago and it was just a brush of his fingers against your arm and that feeling of wanting more haunted you for the entire night. But holy shit, Miya Osamu is kissing you. He’s kissing you.

And then he pulls away. His dark eyes flit over yours. “I,” he breathes, “I need your course load next semester.”

“What?” you ask, disbelief written all over your features, chest rising and falling as you try to steady your breathing. You just kissed, for God's sake, and he's––

“I need to know which courses not to apply to TA for,” he grins, cupping your face in his hands. “Can’t be teachin’ in a class with my girlfriend as a student.”

“So we’re official?” you ask, beaming.

“If you want,” Osamu replies with a smirk.

You grab the front of his coat and tug him down for another kiss. “Hell yeah, I want to be official.”

[barbasbodaciousbeard]

Accidental Feminist Icon

Between my own headcanon Barba becomes a very niche viral celebrity for being a mix of feminist icon giving one liners on the news and handsome/well dressed and the DJ Khaled post, this happened. 

“Counsellor, are you listening?” Olivia asked as Rafael Barba looked at his phone again. It had been months now since he started trying Manhattan SVU’s cases, and she hadn’t seen him this distracted before. 

“I just- why do I have rapid fire Twitter notifications? Over one hundred and fifty?”

“You have Twitter?” He rolled his eyes, not proud of the admission. But he liked to follow politics and music and satire. His colleagues would have discourse on legal proceedings and theory. But when he opened his notifications, the sea of professional headshots making up the icons in his notifications window were replaced by cartoon avatars and selfies. Handles like @Bradley_GreedADA were replaced with @feministkilljxy. 

What was happening?

Why were there GIFs of him now?

“Rafael?” He was snapped back to attention by Olivia’s hand passing over his phone screen, and he shook his head, holding the screen out to her. “What am I looking at?”

“Why have a couple hundred- are these all teenagers?”

“Are they following you? Or tagging you?”

“Both?” He scrolled through the mentions.

“Both.” A questioning look.

“Have I gone viral?” he asked herr, eyes wide and his tone disgusted. Twitter was where he posted law books, nice dinners out, homemade dinners in, and the nicer scotch he drank. Sometimes even pictures of himself; some of his friends enjoyed fashion as well, and their twitters all had a heavy thread of their suspenders and ties. Suddenly, he was having photos he’d posted to flaunt his ability to mix patterns retweeted in appreciation of something more than the color scheme.

“I think you have. What have you said now?”

“The girl whose tweet I keep getting tagged in mentioned Jocelyn Paley and the Adam Caine case.”

“That was seven months ago.”

“I’m very aware. I have to get to the office. I’ll get you that warrant.”

He continued to scroll as he walked, alarmed by the number of followers he was gaining and going to open a direct message from a friend to see a wall of messages from names he didn’t know. Once he was able to find Bradley’s message, he saw it was series of tweets with videos and GIFs of him on the courthouse steps. They were all from the same case, he assumed the Adam Caine case. He clicked the video of he and Rita Calhoun.

All I can say, today's Grand Jury indictment is the first step towards achieving justice for Jocelyn Paley. 

The DA's office is desperately trying to distract from their recent scandal with a high-profile case. 

Don't give me that--whether you're a john in the South Bronx or a $3-million-a-year talk show host, no means no. 

 He could remember the exchange now, and it had apparently been retweeted thousands of times. Cameras always made him determined to distract, determined to drive home a point. And now, he was seeing some group of teenagers had clung on to his words, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about becoming recognized enough by that demographic to warrant this rapidly increasing follower count. 

“Carmen, can I ask you something?”

“Of course, Mr. Barba. Need coffee?”

“No,” he said plainly, shaking his head and showing her his feed. “Is this normal?”

“They found you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Haven’t you seen the posts?”

“I don’t branch out on Twitter often.”

“I see it mostly, like, on Instagram with captions and people post clips of you on vine.”

“What’s vine?”

“A six second video app. Teenagers and young women post you. Vine is normally comedy. But people are obsessed with you. Niche, but sizable number. I think it’s mostly New York girls who see you on the news. But that means the vines went viral a couple months ago.”

“So now they’re all following me on Twitter?”

“You’re viral for being attractive, dressing well, and prosecuting rapists. Embrace it.”

“I can’t post my clothes anymore.”

“Just continue like usual. Don’t respond to DMs.”

He spent a few weeks terrified of this new following, but after three days, things calmed down. The number of followers he gained was weird and confusing to him, and he decided to listen to Carmen ultimately, keeping the profile the same and pretending nothing had happened. She did stop him one day, showing him that there had been people making fake accounts, yet another thing that was insane to him. She primarily told him because these accounts were attempting to take advantage of the fact young girls were the ones following him. He awkwardly slid the handles to Olivia, and Carmen filled out an application for Twitter verification that left him mortified. Even worse, it was approved. 

He was swept away in a case soon enough. Lindsay was assaulted by a whole fraternity at Hudson. They uncovered a previous victim in a hospital, a fraternity known for being a rape factory, and a dean helping create a culture that buried these attacks. It was becoming higher profile than he expected, and it wasn’t easy to try. He’d had to shut off his notifications on his phone during these cases. When Lindsay committed suicide, he accompanied Rollins when she went to arrest the dean. What he didn’t expect was for two of the women they saw to approach him, asking if they were here about Lindsay and thanking them when he said he couldn’t mention it. Then they asked for a selfie. Rafael was mortified but obliged. 

“We recognize you from Twitter.”

Well, now he knew he needn’t accompany the squad out anymore.

When he got tweets from the kind of scum that supported the fraternity, it took a concerted effort not to respond. That could jeopardized the case. He’d already had to tell the two girls they couldn’t post about him being there. He tweeted a disclaimer for if people saw him out, feeling like an asshole. Twitter was now becoming a liability, but he could balance it and refused to give up the feed. Slowly, the GIFs and stills of him on the news were collected, and he only got embarrassed again when mami’s students had discovered him and realized he was the guy in their principal’s pictures. Now Mami had a Twitter, and she followed people who praised him joyfully, though he’d managed to convince her not to interact in private messages or respond to people insulting him. 

The Jenna Miller case caused another leap in his follower count, and he had developed a little sense of pride instead of embarrassment when his followers jumped from people who mattered in New York to people who mattered elsewhere. A congresswoman from Ohio. Artists. Activists. He’d texted Olivia when Lady Gaga followed him. Plus that woman from True Blood. God, she was beautiful. Plus the hot boybander that had probably made him realize he was bisexual. It was weird, and he was unwilling to publicly acknowledge any of it. Unless they were on twitter, he certainly didn’t tell anyone he knew other than Olivia. Soon enough, someone had made a t-shirt on Etsy of the moment he’d turned on his heel. The media had called after Jenna, the olympian, and he’d told them no questions. Then the had the gall to bring up her sex work. He’d stopped on the steps, turning on his heel and announcing “Except for that one. Paid or not paid, no means no. Consent can be revoked at any time.” And now, Etsy users were profiting on it. This group was niche, but it ran deep. Luckily, he noticed the shop only had a few dozen sales.

Everything was fine until Rafael Barba lost his ability to maintain his composure. Up until now, he’d monitored his name, mentions, and a few hashtags people used with him. It was usually just the GIFs and stills and soundbites. He participated in some banter after the first couple of years, boundaries firm enough he felt he could. But he still didn’t bicker. Carmen said he got a following for being a good guy, and he thought it was gross openly condemning rape seemed to be all it took to be a good guy. But then through his lurking, Rafael Barba saw a tweet about DJ Khaled. He’d had to google who the hell that was, unsure who all of Twitter was piling onto, but he found the tweet objectionable enough to respond.

“Mr. Barba,” Carmen said, eyes sparkling with amusement as she came in to see her boss still scrolling through his phone. “You really decided this is the time to get involved on Twitter? You only ever respond to what people say to your stuff or your friends.”

He should’ve known she’d be on top of it. He’d given her access when notifications went through the roof the second time, and Carmen helped filter through DMs he didn’t want to see. But now, that meant her phone was vibrating like his in response to his first tweet in response to a stranger or someone who wasn’t in a thread under his own post.

“What? I’m supposed to endorse consent but not enjoyment?”

“You’re going to end up in a Buzzfeed article, sir.”

“If this is my legacy, so be it.”

“Your legacy? Taking it seriously now?”

“This is serious.”

Carmen’s phone buzzed in her hand, and she knew he’d sent another tweet. Her own account got notifications so she could monitor him. She sighed heavily, unlocking the phone and looking at it. 

“Mr. Barba, does your mom know you’re bi?”

“No, why?”

“She follows you, idiot.”

“Shit. Well, I suppose it’s time.”

“If you tweet Smash Mouth, I’m quitting. These kids are already thirst tweeting you. They must have tweet notifications on for you.”

“Who’s Smash Mouth?”

“How the hell are you culturally relevant?”

“According to Liv, I’m a feminist icon.”

“Don’t get arrogant sir. I help run this twitter.”

“I’ll change the password. I do all the posting.”

“I won’t tell you if Evan Rachel Wood slides in your DMs.”

“Why would I care?”

“I know why you watched True Blood.”

“Touche.” He paused. “Do you think she will?”

“Give me the phone. I’ll bring it when Liv calls.”

“Why would she call?”

“She made a Twitter, sir. Followed you last week.”

“Shit,” he said, eyes wide. “I posted pictures of my food. She saw me acting like a Twitter guy.”

“You are a Twitter guy.”

He rolled his eyes, ending with a retweet of his new favorite addition to the conversation. 

@mia-liz @chasingeverybreakingwave @thegirlwiththemaleficient-tattoo​ @teachingpanda​

[satrangee-ray]

Meet my MC: About the Present

Inara Hepburn (she/they)

More below the cut—

Career:

Inara has recently taken over as the Leader of the Diagnostics Team, Bloom Edenbrook, from the former DT head and current Chief of Medicine, Dr. Ethan Ramsey. Applications for the fourth open position has been received, (Landrat had applied, lol), and after a consultation with the Chief and the board, Dr. Aquino (immunologist), who had previously been considered for the same position has been recruited.

With Bloom's complete withdrawal of control from the functioning of any internal teams, Inara has brought back the voting procedure for selection of cases. So, unless there's any emergency in which the leader needs to make an immediate decision, all cases accepted shall now require the consent of majority members in the team. In case there's a 2-2 situation, the case which the leader sides with gets selected. 

On days when she gets lesser or easier cases, Inara makes time to visit Baz and Elijah in the research lab and enquire about their latest mind-blowing discoveries. Though she will never consider shifting to full time research, she had had too much fun interacting with the mice on her first time there, and she wants to know more in that department.

Inara is also working on a third book, their first non-fiction one, specifically a memoir to document their 3-year long rollercoaster ride of a residency. The book is called 'Hepburn's Stethoscope'.

They have a verified, monetized YouTube channel, and a Pictagram page, where they post assertive, informative, and satirical content regarding the healthcare industry, myths and loopholes, as well as the queer community, its current socio-economic-cultural standing, practical ways to deal with queerphobia, and allyship. The full sum of money obtained from these are donated to a Boston based queer charity Inara works closely with. 

Friends and family dynamics:

The only relatives in her bloodline, i.e. her aunt's family, occasionally converse with her virtually. Though she never goes into talking much about her feelings, they are more or less aware of her whereabouts.

Vaani and Ayan continue to remain thick as thieves with her. The three still obsessively share every single detail of their lives with each other in their group chat. 

Apart from their two closest friends and a personal diary, Inara had always found small talk worthless, and most other people unsuitable for a meaningful conversation, let alone deep personal bonds. But after Edenbrook, everything has changed. Now Inara has a whole gang of friends comprising themselves, Sienna, Jackie, Aurora, Elijah, Bryce, Rafael and Kyra. They are all like a set of long lost siblings, somehow united by medicine, destined to share the most wholesome bond for an entire lifetime.

Naveen is the cool grandpa Inara didn't know they needed, and over music and teasing Ethan, they both have grown quite close. At work, the trio is often called the 'three musketeers of Edenbrook' by their colleagues. They are known for conquering mysteries that conquer humankind through generations. 

Relationship with their LI:

There is no doubt that Inara's path to getting together with Ethan, or even initially forming an honest friendship, was rocky. There were too many walls built up around both of them, and disintegrating every single one took time. But by the end of Inara's second year, they both had managed to start officially dating. After a year now, they are in a committed relationship, co-parenting their pup Jenner. 

Ethan had popped the moving in question at the end of her residency, and Inara was initially hesitant, cause as much as she wanted to stay with her partner, she didn't want to reside in someone's house free of any monetary contribution from her side. After several discussions regarding this matter, the couple decided to let Inara fund most of the domestic groceries, and hence they moved into Ethan's condo together.

As individuals, Ethan and Inara are extremely similar in certain aspects, and vastly different in others. Their morals, principles, limited social energy, outlook on the medical industry, and political views could easily align with each other; to some extent even their part time pessimism when it comes to themselves. But their go-to drink orders, general music taste and tolerance level for interns might qualify as some things that two might differ on. They try to keep up with the best of both worlds, though! Inara accompanies Ethan on opera dates, Ethan reads and marvels at translated lyrics of Rabindra Sangeet. They tried swapping their patent cosmopolitan and scotch neat at the bar one evening, only to spit out the very first sip they took, and Inara had conducted a whole orientation for Ethan on why intern wrangling is essential, enriching, and to be conducted with grace.

The nicknames they have for each other are oddly time, place, and mood specific, so here we go–

1. Ethan @ Inara: Darling, Love (on a usual day); Nars (when he's just so done with them), Rookie (on special occasions, when he can't help but be overwhelmed by their sheer brilliance, or the magnitude of his unadulterated love for them).

2. Inara @ Ethan: E (all day every day), Ramsey (posing a challenge or threat purposes); Baby (teasing purposes); literally any and every ethyl group compound under the sun (purpose of expressing annoyance, greater the annoyance, longer and more complicated the compound).

It is no secret that both Ethan and Inara have had a pretty troubled past, and the hurdles along their relationship have only resurfaced the trauma. So, they have mutually decided to enter therapy, and they both believe that moving forward, it would help them build a future together based solely on love, trust, and honesty, devoid of any baggage from the past.

That was it! My entry for today... tell me how you liked it. I'm enjoying this moodboard making way to much for my own liking, watch me be obsessed ya'll. Good day <3.

Tagging: @openheartfanfics @adiehardfan @barbean

[msilwrites]

(A 3AM Update) A Confrontation ( Odd Women Series) - FOUR

A/N: I had this chapter in my draft for quite some time now. Sorry for the delay in publishing it. I was quite burned out with so many things. I even lost the will of doing the things I love. But hey, they always worm their way back into my heart. This is why I finished this and here I am now, posting it. Enjoy reading!!

Genre: Satire/Humor/ Comedy - Dramedy?

Ingrid Hawkes - is an original character

Click here to read the previous chapter.

And It’s Tagging time! : @uumeeee, @hallotom, @starlightofsolaria, @thinemineours, @just-the-hiddles, @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi​, @mymoonlitmusing​ (and to the others I have forgotten, please just tell me if you want to get tagged for the next update, I will gladly do so!)

FOUR

Tapping the sole of her ankle boots on the pavement, Ingrid looks up to the weekend morning sky and sighs, whilst waiting for Leena to arrive. Today was the dreaded day for her to go back to Surrey Hills and see Ashby Coldwell once again.  In fact, she even dressed for this day and tried to look as drab as possible. However, it seems that was not the case when she looked at her reflection on the glass windows of the buildings she passed by.

She looked ridiculously chic, despite the boring minimalist style and monotone colour she had chosen. It was too late to go back home and change to something more ‘plain’. But then again, Ingrid knew that if Ashby Coldwell wanted to spite Eve, he would still ‘flirt’ with others, no matter what they wear, or how they look, just to get on her nerves. So it was still useless whether she changes her clothes or not. Heck, one could probably put a skirt around a tree, and Coldwell would flirt with ‘it’.

She stops by the empty office for a short while to check on e-mails and do some minor housekeeping, whilst waiting for Leena. When her friend arrived, both of them had a quick brunch and quickly left London via trains.

Out of many people, Ingrid had chosen Leena to accompany her not only because they are friends, but the later was a better ‘negotiator’ and speaker. Because if Ingrid were to continue to speak to Coldwell, she might end up strangling him. In fact, Up till this day, it still made her wonder why Leena never requested to be transferred to the sales team despite her gift of gab.

When they arrived at the Manor, much to their surprise, they find their boss Tom Hiddleston waiting for them at the cobbled driveway.

Leena stood up straight and gulped in fear, whilst Ingrid raised a brow and wondered what was the CEO doing here in the early morning. It was a little surprising to find him wearing dark relaxed fit jeans, with the hems folded, showing his ankles, a dark blue coat paired with a light blue collared shirt and loafers. His face was also unshaven. A far cry from how she always saw him in the office wearing his sleek suits, with a sharp expression. Nonetheless, he still looks dapper. She deduced that even if she were to put him in rags, hell, he’d still look good.

“Good Morning, Mr Hiddleston, what brings you here today?” Ingrid greets, which made Tom scowl at how sickeningly jovial she sounded.

“I’m here to make sure you do your job...” he crosses his arms and looks at her with a peeved expression. “And repair the damage you have done...” he added, the terms and condition of the contract also needed to be renegotiated because of the incident. He then eyes Leena who stood behind Ingrid, as if she was hiding from Tom in fear.

“Leena is it?” he asked.

“Yes sir,” Leena replies warily.

“Well then, I suggest, take one for the team...”

**********

Their breakfast meeting was surprisingly well underway. In fact, the moment Ingrid’s group entered Coldwell’s office, the latter was surprised to not only find Ingrid but her boss and another colleague.

Much to Tom’s delight, the meeting went well. Whilst Tom and Leena did the talking, Ingrid did the note-taking and the counter checking of documents. Moreover, although Tom had done a lot of the talking, it was Leena that has Ashby Coldwell completely charmed.

Leena laughs at some story Coldwell just finished telling before he excuses himself to go to the loo. Whilst Tom takes a sip of his tea and watched both Leena and Ingrid talk.

Leena turns to Ingrid, with excitement dancing in her eyes. “I’m glad this is going well than expected...” she was relieved.

“Remember! You’re going to buy me dinner when you get promoted!” Ingrid teased, which earned her a playful smack on the shoulder from Leena.

Leena frowns and tilts her head to their boss’s direction who was observing the both of them.

“What?! I was only telling the truth, it won’t have gone well today if not for you...” Ingrid says in a soft voice.

“She’s right Leena, In fact, once we get back to London, I need to talk to you, you have the talents that will suit the sales team,” Tom interjected. If not for Leena’s contribution today, things wouldn’t have gone as smooth as they are now. It also made him wonder why a girl with such talent was not assigned to a department that would suit her. He made a mental note to talk with HR once Monday comes. It had been a long time since he had personally checked the employees' appraisals.

“ Where’s the last page?”  Tom asks as he flips through the contract. The most important page, which was the last one specifically for signature was missing. He looks up and narrows his eyes at Hawkes who raises her hands in defence.

“I think I might have left a copy in your car...” Ingrid admits, embarrassed for the small blunder she committed. She remembered Tom offered them to leave their belongings in his car, an offer which they took hesitantly.

Tom sighs, and waves her off, letting it go. It was a nice weekend morning, he didn’t want to scold anyone.

Ingrid quickly gets up, followed by Leena and left the office to go to the parking lot to take copies of the contract inside Tom’s car.

“Everything all right here?”

Coldwell enters back inside his office and sits down at his original spot. He watches the two women step out of his office and wondered why?

“Everything’s fine” Tom smiles and assures him.

Coldwell observes Tom for a moment and then says, “ I like what I’ve seen here today, Tom, your team is impressive,”

“Thank you, Ashby,” he replies, addressing Coldwell by his first name. In business, always use first names. It’s not disrespectful. In fact, it shows that they are equal and in the same league.

“And based on what you’ve shown me, I’m ready to give you the contract...”

Tom smiles as he leaned back, satisfied with the results of today’s negotiation. Despite Hawkes earlier blunder, everything went well, ” I am pleased to hear that. You can put your complete confidence in me and my team. We won’t let you down.

Coldwell grins as he took a sip of his tea. “Right. About that. Before I sign, I have only one contingency...”

“Alright... what is it?” Tom replies. Such things were normal in the business world. “ We’ll do our best to provide whatever you need,”

“I’m happy to hear that. So, why don’t you have that darling lass of yours- Leena- take care of the rest of the paperwork, and bring them by my place tonight, around midnight?”

Tom knew what Coldwell wanted and he suddenly felt sick inside upon hearing his requests. He didn’t run a brothel or an escort agency. He was, in a way, offended on behalf of his female employees. Now he knew where Hawkes was coming from and how she felt.

“I’m not sure I understand...” he replied, hoping that feigning ignorance can alleviate the situation.

“Oh, sure you do, Tom. You know how it is. When a man is working late and needs a little... comfort? A distraction?”

Tom’s knuckles tightened at the arm of the chair he was sitting on. He might have a reputation of being an international playboy and is emotionally unavailable but he always drew the line.

“And that lass of yours is one prime piece. My business will continue to bring your firm millions in revenues. And that’s not including the additional clients you’ll get once word gets around that I’m with your company. I’d say a little after-hours servicing is a small price to pay, wouldn’t you?”

Tom sighs and stares back at him with his cold glare. The way Coldwell said it, in a sick, perverted, registered-sex-offender kind of way, made Tom shudder. He stands up and says “ That’s not the kind of business my company is in. If that’s the sort of deal you’re looking for, I’m sure you can afford some high-class escort with the money that you have. I’m no pimp and my employees are certainly not whores. This meeting is over...”

Tom leaves the office and that’s when he sees his two employees walking back. The two women, seeing that their boss looked fuming mad, made them wonder the cause.

“Why don’t I go back in first?” Leena offers as she quickly goes back inside Coldwell’s office.

“Yeah...” Ingrid murmured. She was already used to facing Tom’s wrath, it wouldn’t make any difference if she were to be at the receiving end again today. But to her surprise, he just ignored her and continued walking away, as if there was no one around.

“Mr Hiddleston, wait! Mr Hiddleston!! Wait, wait, wait!!” she called as she chased after him. He was way taller than her, so it was no wonder why he walked so fast. “Mr Hiddleston...” she tried to catch her breath, as she finally grabbed hold of his elbow. “What’s Wrong?!”

**********

When Tom and Ingrid arrived back at Ashby's office, both froze as they witness Leena's smile turn into a frown. Her brow wrinkles slightly as she can't actually believe that Ashby was suggesting what he is. And then she's stiff and unsure. Whilst she sat there in mortification, Ashby takes his finger and trails slowly down on her bare arm.

And that was when both of them snap out of their stupor. Ingrid was ready to physically attack Coldwell, if not for Tom, grabbing hold of her small shoulders and pulling her back.

"Calm down... I'll take care of it," he says sternly, knowing the repercussions if Ingrid were to really physically harm Coldwell.

Tom quickly walks over and puts himself in front of Leena. " Touch her again, and you'll regret what I'm going to do to you" he warns.

Ashby chuckles. "Calm down, Tom..."

"You know I like you Tom... I need a man like you around. Someone who's not afraid to speak his mind. Though it seems my conditions won't be met, I'll still am going to sign with you and your firm anyway. What do you think of that?" he leans back against the chair, completely confident in the fact that Tom will disregard anything that Ashby has said and done for the chance of the agency to get their hands on his money.

"I'm going to say a big NO to that, Coldwell. See, we have this company policy; we don't deal with sex offenders who try to use their position to coerce women into bed. Go peddle your shite somewhere else. We're not buying..."

Their stares locked on one another like two wolves on the BBC Earth when he says. "Think carefully, Tom... you're making a mistake,"

"I think the only mistake I've made was wasting our time here with you. That's something we don't plan on doing a second longer. We're done here..."

Ingrid face turns into that mischievous smile of hers, and claps at Tom for standing up for them, earning her a glare from Coldwell.

"Both of you, Let's go!" he says to the women who quickly followed him out of the office.

A/N: HI GUYS!!!! I really want to apologize for the late update, I wasn’t really in good health the past few months, but I haven’t stopped writing. In fact, I have a lot of drafts waiting to be completed and published. What happened was more of a physical exhaustion which resulted in creative constipation and writer’s block, but I’m trying my best to write and tell my stories and I will try to update more often!

[loominggaia]

“Okay New York Anon here. I’m really sorry about this chapter and regret writing it, the way i did. Thinking about it post production I’m realizing I made it come off as transphobic and tasteless. Angry guy was supposed to be a parody of the stereotypical sjw you’d see in a cringe comp violently going off on people for accidentally being mis gendered. Sorry if this train wreak of a chapter offends anyone.”

Anon, I’m so honored that you would spend the time to write fanfiction about my series. Not everyone is a perfect writer (I’m sure not), and personally I don’t believe that every piece of writing has to “set a good example” when it comes to politics and morality. The Looming Gaia series is for ages 18+, not preschoolers. I think adults have the mental capacity to differentiate between right and wrong and form their own opinions when they’re reading something (at least I hope they do), so I’m going to go ahead and post your story.

But I also care about my followers’ well-beings, so I’m going to compromise and: 1) Put this chapter under a cut so they don’t have to see it if they don’t want to. 2) Put a content warning ahead of it so they can decide if it’s worth the risk.

If anyone proceeds from here and gets offended, that’s 100% their own fault. I care a lot about writing an inclusive series that doesn’t alienate anyone based on race, gender, sexuality, and so on. At the same time, I’m hugely against censorship, so I always welcome fan content even if it’s off-color or I don’t personally agree with what it’s trying to say (barring anything illegal or blatantly hateful towards any group; i.e. glorification of pedophilia or abuse, calls to real-world violence, supporting real-world hate groups, etc. I will never accept that kind of content. If anyone comes in here praising nazi ideaologies or calling for action against LGBT folks, they can fuck right off.)

Readers, you’ve been thoroughly warned.

You can read the other parts here.

CONTENT WARNINGS: This fan content contains scenes of captivity, mental hospitals, depictions of violence, off-color depiction of a transgender individual, and (censored) racial slurs. While reading this, I personally didn’t get the impression that Anon meant any harm. It comes off as goofy, edgy, over-the-top satire to me, like something you’d see in an episode of South Park. Use your best judgement and proceed at your own risk.

(content under cut)

The crew had squatted in an abandoned building on the outskirts of the city that night. They already knew that only humans existed in this world and the reaction that lady had to seeing Elska only compounded the need for stealth. Their only plan right now being find Evan and get back to Gaia. That morning the crew split up, Alaine and Lukus where to continue searching for Evan, Issac and Jeimos where to go shopping, Elska would search the outskirts out of sight and Zeffer would search at night.

Evan was not mad at doctors for keeping him hear. He knew they where just doing their jobs and where concerned for him, since magic, elves and werewolves where fictional to them he understood he looked like a crazy person to them. That didn’t take away from how annoying it was to be trapped here in this stupid hospital. Knowing his crew was out their somewhere he knew he needed to leave and contact them somehow, he needed a escape plan.

He had two plans so far, plan A was to butter up the therapist into letting him go. Behave himself, take his meds, admit Gaia’s not real and say he’s feeling better. Hoping that upon seeing this drastic improvement the therapist will approve his release and he can finally go out and find his friends. Plan B was in case plan A failed. He would bust himself out of here and go on the run. He really didn’t want to hurt anybody, just slip out unnoticed, but he had a feeling it wouldn’t be that easy.

Issac and Jeimos wandered around the city streets aimlessly in absolute awe of the sights and sounds all around them. Jeimos was getting more unnerved by not being capable of feeling any magic in their surroundings and was starting to wonder if it was just all the iron nearby or something more? Not being able to read any of the signs around them made trying to find a store to stock up on supplies difficult. Finding a food place with golden arch’s they go their as their first stop.

The pair enter this strange restaurant, the place smelling of grease and fry oil. Theirs quite the line so they just wait, taking a look around and absorbing the experience. They see a lot of interesting people and things from pictures of a clown holding a burger, groups of people on strange devices and messy families eating, an extremely obese man the two mistook for a troll horking down a massive pile of greasy food. Kids running in and out of a indoor jungle gym. This place had it all.

They waited their turn almost at the register, waiting behind a mother and her kids who kept changing her order every three seconds and trying to corral her kids. The cashier, a young man around issacs age but with a tired, dead look in his eyes that made him look as if he’s seen a war zone rang the lady up and ushers our pair to the register, asking in a flat, apathetic voice what they would like to order. Neither of them can read the electronic menu so using the numbers and pictures they order

The disgruntled cashier rang them up, totaling their order up to over $55! Him not being pleased by Jeimos’s constant questions and issac playfully asking for a kids toy. They try to pay, placing some gold coins on the counter. The cashier just looks at the coins then back to them, and, in an even more annoyed voice, told them they only take usd, not foreign currency. Telling them they can either pay in cash or card or just leave, the line was building up behind them and getting restless.

Jeimos trying to salvage this, nervously ask if theirs anything they can work out. Not wanting to have wasted their time. The cashier breaths deeply, saying he’ll get the manager, leaving the counter behind. The people in line are angrily starting at the two, Issac having a ball and Jeimos being highly uncomfortable with all the staring and swearing from them. The cashier returns with a fat, sleezy looking middle age man, presumably the manager. Him asking what’s going on here?

The cashier explains the situation in his most annoyed, apathetic tone with the manager glancing over the two. He repeats what the cashier told them, they only take usd and if they can’t pay then just leave, their clogging up the line. Jeimos try’s to explain this is all they have and is about to give up when Issac speaks up and tells them the coins are solid gold. That catch’s the managers attention, who in a greedy smile picks up the coins to check, seeing yes, their real gold!!!

His greedy smile grows wider and he tells them they can understand work something out! Snatching up the gold coins and apologizing for the inconvenience, talking about his no good employees and starts berating the cashier right in front of them for being “rude and unhelpful” to such fine paying customers! The cashier takes one look at his boss, takes off his hat and apron shoving them into his bosses hands and just says, completely monotone “I quit” and walks out without a second glance.

Meanwhile, Lukus and Alaine where walking down the streets through the massive crowds looking for any sign of Evan. Despite trying to keep a low profile they where gathering a lot of attention, walking through down town in medieval armor and brandishing weapons tends to do that. While walking outside a storefront Alaines eyes are caught by a beautiful blue dress, he being mesmerized by. “Nice cosplay” she hears suddenly from behind, Turing around to see a short, well dressed women behind her.

Alaine jut awkwardly thanks her for the compliment. The women also compliments Alaines scales, believing them to be a make up design for whatever cosplay she’s doing. The women introduces herself as Kimi and ask if she was looking at that dress in the window. Alaine answers yes and now both are both gawking at and gushing over the dresses beauty. Kimi complaining about the ludicrously high price tag but before their conversation can continue Lukus calls back to her, wondering where she is?

Alaine snaps back on into mission mode as Lukus returns. She apologizes to Kimi for leaving and tells her their looking for someone, asking if she’s seen a large blonde man with a metal leg. She says no but wishes them luck on trying to find their friend. The two head off once again search the city streets for Evan and once again have no luck, it didn’t help that a lot of people where stopping them, asking for photos of their “costumes” and asking what characters their dressed as?

After hours of searching and coming up empty handed both where rather hungry. Stopping at a cafe looking place to grab a quick bite. The place smelled of coffee and a sign outside had a picture of a twin tailed mermaid on a green background. As they where waiting in line observing all the weird people around them they saw a familiar face ahead of them, Kimi. She had a coffee in her hands and was thanking the barista but didn’t see them. Neither did she see the weird guy she bumped into.

The guy she bumped into looked ridiculous to Alaine and Lukus, having fluorescent pink cloths, big goofy glasses and a oversized beanie I’ve this colorful hair. The guy yelled at her to watch where she’s going, she apologized but then she said sir. The pair could already sense this guy would be trouble as the moment kimi said “sir” it looked as if the weird guys was about to explode. SIR!!! He screamed, grabbing everyone’s attention, his face beat red and eyes bulging in rage!

To say he exploded on Kimi would be an understatement, he started loudly screaming at her “ did you just misgender me”!!! The screaming got even louder as he started listing off a bunch of gibberish and loudly insulting her, calling her sexist, anti-lgbt, telling to kill herself and die in a hole. His screaming getting more incoherent and seemed to be literally frothing at the mouth. Kimi was just backing away, scared and trying to apologize but the guy just kept screaming over her plea’s.

(Feel like I need to put a trigger warning for this one so here it is. Trigger warning for Lukus and Alaine getting in a fight with ‘that kind’ of trans guy, the kind responsible for all the negative stereotypes about the trans community. And Issac being called a racial slur. You have been warned.)

Alaine and Lukus stepped in to stop this dude from hurting Kimi. He seriously looked like he was about ready to punch her. They stepped in and tried to diffuse the situation, putting themselves between kimi and the angry man. They try to explain to him that how could she have known he wasn’t cis, that’s it’s an honest mistake and to let it slide. That only seemed to pissed him off more as he threw a drink in Alaines face and shoved Lukus in anger, wrong move.

Just as Lukus was winding up a punch Alaine beat him to it, knocking the asshole clean to the floor in a single strike. He went down like a sack of potato’s and was laying out cold. The three just left, taking Kimi and leaving. Alaine was fuming but if she where calmer she would have noticed it was water he threw at her, and would have also noticed she didn’t flop to the floor in her aquatic form, she was too pissed off the notices.

Kimi thanks them for saving her from that crazy guy and try’s frantically to explains to them she’s pro-lgbt, always try’s to respect peoples pronouns and is actually a lesbian herself. They cut her off, she didn’t need to explain herself to them. On the flip side Jeimos and Issac are carrying back their huge bags of fast food back to the groups hideout waiting to hear any news. Issac see’s a downed old man and the street and rushed to help him.

Just as Issac was reaching out to help him the old man swats him away, screaming at him. “Keep your hands off me you filthy N@$$#r”! Heads turn and people stop dead in their tracks in pure shock at what they just heard. Issac and Jeimos had no idea what that weird word meant but it guessing by the crowds reaction, it was really bad. The old man gets himself up and goes off on a racist rant, accusing Issac of trying to steal from him, calling all his “kind” low-life scum and just screams at him.

*

First of all Anon, your depiction of working at a fast food place is a whole-ass mood and I felt it lol. I’m interested to see what role this character Kimi plays! Maybe she has ties to the hospital? Seeing the crew clash with real-world culture is very interesting. I’m enjoying their adventure so far. TO BE CONTINUED…?

[keelywolfe]

Drabble: Olly Olly Oxen Free (baon)

Summary: Spring is on the way and everyone is excited for it. Well, almost everyone, some people are still healing.But that doesn’t mean cheaters should be allowed to prosper.

Tags:  Spicyhoney, Established Relationship, Domestic Fluff,

Part of the ‘by any other name’ series.

~~*~~

Read it on AO3

or

Read it here!

It wouldn’t be accurate to call it spring yet, but the weather was improving. The snow was mostly gone, leaving the ground a sludgy mess that in only a few weeks would be ready to begin spring planting.

Edge was willing to wait for slightly warmer and less muddy days to enjoy the growing warmth; hopefully by then he would no longer need the walking cast. He was already planning a burning party for the damn thing that wasn’t entirely an excuse to show off the new kitchen he’d have by then.

Stretch, on the other hand, disappeared some hours ago, all but throwing himself outside into the cold sunshine. Honestly, Edge was fine with that. He loved Stretch dearly but enjoying a few hours on his own listening to his podcasts was hardly a measure of his affection. Once he was done with his TED talks and lunchtime was closer, Edge would attempt to track him down and spend an enjoyable hour listening to him chatter about whatever trouble he managed to find. It was something to look forward to.

A knock on the door came just as Edge was finishing dusting his action figure collection, making him frown. He paused the current podcast about why the free world needed satire and limped over to answer it. He was accustomed to looking down, Stretch and Asgore were rare exceptions, but in this case he was forced to look down, down, down, to see Toby, one of the neighborhood children, on his porch, looking up at him hopefully.

Edge crouched down to keep from towering over the boy. “Hello, Toby, what can I do for you?”

"Hello, Mister Edge Sir,” he said earnestly. “Can you help us?"

Edge frowned. "Of course, child, what's wrong?"

"We're playing hide and go seek with Stretch but he's cheating! He shortcuts away!" Toby’s scowl was filled with the pure, righteous indignation of a child whose sense of justice was being severely impugned.

With some effort, Edge kept his face straight. Solemnly, he said, "I see. That is cheating.”

Toby nodded firmly. “Can you help?”

“Hm,” Edge looked down at his foot, still firmly secured in a walking cast. “I’m afraid I won’t be much use chasing after him. However--”

He dug his phone out of his pocket, scrolling through the list of contacts until he found the one he was looking for. The phone barely rang once.

“Yes, good morning. I need a favor.”

~~*~~

Stretch’s clothes were muddy.

Not a little muddy, not ‘take your shoes off at the door to let them sit so you can clap away all the dried muck tomorrow’. Oh, no, he was the kind of muddy where he was spattered from his sneakers to his skull, the kind where Edge would take one look at him and tell him to teleport right into the bathtub so he could shower with his clothes on. Liberally decorated with a generous quantity of deep, dark springtime mud, still freezing cold from the ground it came from.

He loved it.

Spring was finally trying to sproing after what felt like an endless winter, and when the kiddos came to his door that morning to eagerly invite him to play hide and seek, Stretch was halfway out the door before he even had his shoes on.

The mud might be cold, there was still a chill in the air, but the sun was making a cautious appearance and if a person didn't mind the soppy ground, there were plenty of excellent places to hide.

And places to hightail it to when getting caught was imminent.

He’d been relaxing behind a nice gardening shed when he heard the pitter patter of little feet tromping their way towards him. Welp, that was his cue.

Yasmine howled as he broke cover, dashing away. He probably didn’t have the stamina to get all the way back to Designated Home Free, which was Oscar’s front porch, and he definitely couldn’t outrun Yasmine for long. She was an older kid and as a Bun, she was pretty light on her feet, but Stretch had a headstart and a shortcut up his sleeve.

“you wouldn’t have seen me if i wore my camouflage pants!” Stretch called back to her.

“Why didn’t you?” she panted. He could hear the grin in her voice. Best part about kids was they always appreciated a good joke.

“eh, i couldn’t find ‘em!” Stretch laughed and he heard her laughing through her groan, too close, she was gaining on him. “sorry, kid, time for me to step out, better hop to it next time!”

Or tried to, anyway. He got as far as, “Bett--urk!” when a cheery ting interrupted him. Stretch barely had a chance to see the bright blue light shine through the front of his sweatshirt before he was abruptly yanked to the ground. He yelped, struggling against gravity even as a small hand slapped him between the shoulder blades. "hey!"

Yasmine was already running away, giggling.

A pair of slender legs stepped up next to him wearing bright red converse high-tops, similar to his own. Unlike his, they were pristine, not a smudge of mud dared sully the canvas, and they were topped with long white socks pulled up to bony knees.

"My apologies!” Stretch managed to lift his head up to glare at Papyrus, who only beamed at him innocently. Yeah, right, like Stretch would be fooled by that? He’d never had Sans as part of his name in his life, Stretch damn well knew better. And it didn’t take two tries to guess who tattled on him to Papyrus, et tu Edge? Betrayed by his own husband, shameful.

Papyrus shook a long finger at him sternly. “It looked like you were about to shortcut which is certainly a violation of the strict rules of hide and seek. But I am sure I was wrong, you would never stoop so low as to cheat against children.”

“if using magic is cheating, then so are you!” Stretch pointed out, trying to hold back a grin.

“One good cheat deserves another!” Papyrus said brightly. “I will let you up if you promise not to teleport to achieve a state of olly olly oxen free!”

Hmph. He could wait for the timer on the spell to tick down, only as much as Stretch didn’t mind the mud, he hadn’t planned on wallowing in it. Plus, the damp ground was still pretty damn cold and he didn’t really want to turn this into a round of ‘who can turn the other person’s soul blue faster’. Wasn’t fair to the kiddos, it was only a two skeleton game.

“deal,” Stretch sighed. Sans would deny it to the sky and back, but when Papyrus had someone by the balls, he knew how to give ‘em a cheerful twist. It was obviously something the three of them had in common, ‘cause the moment the pressure on his soul eased, Stretch shortcutted over to Papyrus and slapped him firmly on the back. “tag! you’re it!”

Papyrus’s mouth dropped open in outrage, “YOU PROMISED!”

“you never said anything about being ‘it’, only about running away!” Stretch laughed, both hands held up as he backed away. “edge would tell you to work on your negotiation skills! hey, no touchbacks!”

Stretch turned and ran as Papyrus lunged towards him. Not that he was gonna win. Longer legs didn’t help much when the one chasing you sometimes flagrantly disobeyed the laws of physics. All around them the kids were laughing and cheering Papyrus on, the brats.

Nope, he was gonna get caught and he was gonna to catch someone else, and that was fine. He couldn't think of a better way to spend the morning than counting down to hiding and seeking on an almost-spring day.

Revenge against tattletales could wait until lunchtime.

-fin

[hazzabeeforlou]

11 questions

Yes I did this a bit ago but @helloamhere (thank you, ily, have fun bussing around Europe, did that once, had to follow apple maps to know where to get off ‘cause I speak ZERO German...) tagged me and I’m an anxious mess waiting for medical news today so WHY NOT! 

Rules: answer 11 questions then pose 11 of your own. 

1. What do you think fanfic does better than published fiction (if anything?) 

Okay obvious answer and not very high brow, but SMUT. You will not see me perusing the gay aisles of Barnes and Noble romance novels :) For various reasons :) 

2. What do you think it does worse

I think (maybe it’s just this fandom) overall it’s quite a bit more sanitary than novels, both in morality and subject matter. I hate to think what the purity police would say about some of the books I’ve read... especially the old ones? But then I usually come here looking for fluff and happiness too so perhaps that’s just the major draw of fanfic, idk. 

3. What’s something another fandom has or does that you wish your fandom had or did?

To be honest I’m not well versed in other fandoms, but I’m going to go with I wish this fandom didn’t have constant infighting. Seriously in all my born days I have never seen a group of people claim such a similar goal and yet devour each other so viciously. Hence I usually avoid anything incredibly explosive or triggering here; I deal with and confront radical people (religious extremists, right wing extremists) in my everyday life and I cannot bring myself to turn my escapism into that same vortex of endless arguing, though I appreciate and support those who fight the fight. I often have very sharp opinions and fall to one side or the other of the fault line, but I draw a personal boundary at a point. 

4. Do you consider yourself a “fandom” type of person in general, or committed to only one, and if so, tell me more about what this means to you.

I have been a HUGE fandom person my entire life, though this is the first time I’ve ever been in a community for it. Star Wars and Narnia consumed most of my adolescence, along with Lord of the Rings. I briefly dabbled in Dr. Who and Merlin (as one does) but because I didn't read HP until nearly the end of college, I kindof missed out on that one. Basically anything geeky or fantasy driven I have always loved, and I can’t really explain how I ended up here? But this is the only fandom I’m active in socially. The power of HL I guess... 

5. I’m trying to get through writing a first draft right now and it’s a slog. How do you stay motivated for long projects, writing or otherwise? 

Ah. A call out question! Like any good Aries, I love starting new things! And then letting them to languish unfinished. I have, however, trained in classical music, and thus I’ve programmed myself to just keep doing the thing because pieces take months and months and months to perfect and if you can’t stick with a project, you go nowhere. I also operate on a reward system, as in writing is the reward for practicing, then when I’m sick of words I go back to music, and so the turn tables. I have learned to ignore (I’m great at ostrich-ing) the crushing self doubt of creativity and just bulldoze ahead and do the thing, which results in very messy first drafts and often bad habits in my musical technique and a tendency to overplay, which wastes energy, but rehearsals wait for no one. I also thrive on last minute deadlines! 

6. Tell me about what you read as a kid. Favorite book? Or if you weren’t into reading then, favorite TV show, etc? 

I HAVE SO MANY. Narnia was my first love. I also adored George MacDonald (At The Back of the North Wind is a fucking masterpiece). My mom hardly let me read Redwall (see: hints of magic) but when she caved I devoured all of those. Anne of Green Gables. American Girl stuff (lots of it, yes Josefina and Kaya were my faves). I read far too many Star Wars expanded universe novels (New Jedi Order  shaped me as a person, esp Traitor). I remember reading all the Eragon series, though these were dubiously approved... and I read various classics, as one is supposed to. In high school I printed out the entire Beowulf in Old English, got a CD of a dude reading it, and proceeded to memorize the first several lines. I can still recite Anglo Saxon but I have no clue what it means (see: I’m a good mimic). Everything non-Christian-magic-related I read during or after college, sigh. 

7. Have your tastes changed?

This sounds bad but not really. I rarely read non fiction, oops. Biographies are a slog for me. I dislike historical fiction and I don’t have a good reason for that. I do love a good mystery, but usually not in book form (audio or visual Agatha Christie is my mana). I do adore socio-policial books, though (The Better Angels of our Nature a good example) or books doing a deep dive into a historical topic. These days I enjoy a good satire more than much else, and since I started on Terry Pratchett in 2016 I haven’t looked back. 

8. I’ll steal your question above--tell me about a fic that changed you, or became a “touchstone” fic that you go back to!!

I didn’t read fics period when I entered the fandom, and stubbornly maintained that for a while, but the fic that changed my mind was (Take Me Home) Country Roads by @a-writerwrites (Awriterwrites). I read it during a drive through the very parts of the USA it’s set in, and I couldn’t put it down, spotty internet be damned. From there @horsegirlharry birthed me into the gay 1D world, though I can’t for the life of me remember which of hers I first read! (Does it matter? They’re all so beautiful...) 

9. Tell me about a WIP, if applicable. How’s it going?? It sounds great. 

I’m plodding along on The Garden, it’s going well, but urgency isn’t a priority. It’s going to be one of those things that I finish and then go in and make matter because right now my ideas are half formed and I know I’ll eventually know where I’m going but it’s a case of blind trust in instinct at this point! 

10. What’s your favorite place to read and sitting position?

Like a true gay I cannot sit normally in a chair, coupled with my pain issues means I’m usually draped over the back of something with a cushy lumbar support, massive pillow, or propped sideways lying down. I love reading outside, but have a tendency to attract bugs, also I’m very light sensitive so my eyes hate the sun, especially if I’m reading from a screen. 

11. Do you feel like fic reading and writing is social for you? E.g. do you share with friends (in or outside of fandom), or are you a lone wolf seeking out your fics in the dead of night??

I LOVE the social aspect of fic reading and writing within fandom! I have shared PITS with only two real life friends though; I am very tight lipped about the fact that I write fic. People are cruel and musicians are judgmental arseholes and if I prefer to spend my days dreaming up love stories for my OTP instead of pouring over scores, that’s my fucking business. 

Alright, 11 from me (I wanted to include artists too so!!): 

1. Are you a start small-work larger type creator, or map everything out then attend to detail?

2. What style of art/writing has most influenced your creative choices? (Genre, time period, muse)

3. How long have you been writing/arting? Is this something you knew you’d do your whole life?

4. What is your favorite thing about creating for your fandom? (reception, excitement, newness, etc.) 

5. Have you met any recent creative goals that you’re really proud of? 

6. What is your creative baby; what work do you want stamped on your proverbial gravestone as I MADE THIS (or have you made it yet?)

7. Do outside forces (politics, culture, hegemonies) play into your creations? Do you intentionally or subconsciously subvert norms or explore ideas?

8. Your creative mind is a garden. Describe what kind it would be and what it would contain (i.e. rock garden, palace garden, wildflowers, rose... etc.) 

9. Do you believe that creative art has power and if so, how do you hope yours impacts others? 

10. I’m double stealing this question: what’s a fic or fan art that changed your life or was a touchstone for you?

11. If you could pick any hero of yours to read/look at your creations, who would it be and why?

TOTALLY only if you want to, but @13ways-of-looking @twopoppies @alienfuckeronmain @prettytruthsandlies @pattern-pals @newleafover @disgruntledkittenface @lesbianiconharrystyles @lululawrence

[ofguises]

The air was still, crossed by small shivers of electricity, almost from the moment she stepped inside. Undercover headquarters were different from the squad’s — not better, not even more furtive, at that; just something else. The location was still in walking range from most corners of the city, and yet it felt outer, remote. The building was hardly inconspicuous: all narrow windows, hemmed in stories, with electric scanners at every entrance on the leeway. But when it came to it, anything might’ve been hosted there, no one possibility more convincing than the next. An off-brand calling center, a minor, up-and-coming corporation, one of those private health centers that keep jutting out in Dublin like all its inhabitants woke up one morning with florid skin diseases to check up on the quiet. It was not easy to find, and that, Emilia supposed, was its main advantage. Once you were inside, it looked ten times more inhabited than from a distance. She wondered if it was because no one was supposed to work there, not on the clock; if it was just a place to moor your ship, discard the papers, drift off once more. She also wondered if Frank had taken the piss and left her taking the elevator in a derelict building.

On her way, she had picked up a spice and nutmeg swirl, the type of pastry that can make any room smell either like holidays or cheap car deodorant, take your pick. In the sweep of crosswalks and car fumes outside, where people brushed next to her seeping in their own artificial scents — body spray and Starbucks traces and windshield cleaner, the tangy, almost animal smell of business, rustling and crisp — it had been easy to conceal. Now that she was inside, and in such an antiseptic place, too, vacuumed to the last dust mote, it felt as if she walked straight out of a gingerbread house. A slight smile tugged at one corner, just the once. Emilia gave a half shrug, to nobody in particular, and reviewed the facts: the ones she could be sure of, the ones she still found pleasure in doubting, and those that confounded her to no end. She sat them down in wobbly piles in her mind: a tiny mound for the certainties, two large, looming towers for the doubts. She surmised them in triplicate.

For once, she was here to meet Frank Mackey, in what was possibly the first meeting that did not entail a scrambled-signal phone call or a rushed elbow-grab in a cafe. At head level, as if they were equals, she had been called to what could pass for his office. That was not nothing — but where he was concerned, who could tell where somethingness began, where the lines of it fitted into view? Second, unless her da’ had been trading AK-47 with Bulgarians instead of squandering his pension on petunias, on double-decked gardening sheds, there was nothing in her life Frank could want except one thing. One case, and it wasn’t even her most intractable. Marina Sandova, thirty-four if a day, who had blissfully gone and wedded the kind of man who brings down property values on a range of sixty miles. The kind of man, and she envisioned this happening, who squatted fruit flies with a flamethrower. This is the thing with DV: you’re never allowed to say What you see is what you get. Granted, her colleagues always did, especially those with twenty years under belt, who think they’ve earned the right — a penis and a clean job record can get you a long way, in terms of righteousness. Can get you all the ways. Her, not so much. She rarely felt tempted to. Emilia saw herself, fresh off Templemore’s benches (or, better yet, fresh off her third-year degree in Criminal Psych) falling for your average Joe who tricks on the dole and says he likes his girls exotic. She’d fancied her men rough, her. Some suppressed middle class inching she never had time to get into. She’d also fancied them vapors-smart, the kind that lifted off in waves, like steam, like ammonia. It was quite the long years ‘til she realized it only meant another kind of dumb. There but for the grace of God.

So, she never sighed. Never simpered. Never filled in that cause-and-effect chain, not even when the boyfriends she’d been called to report waited for her in the doorway, the woman peering out from behind his arm’s angle on the frame. People make so many mistakes, painstaking, surreptitiously, as if it was a blood-embedded art form. If doctors are allowed to treat you the minute after you pluck smokes from your handbag, if insurance can fill you in after they’ve seen your car, if the fellas up in the Murder squad can deal with whatever brain splatters the recession made of men, then she should be able to as well. But then Marina came her way. An angry, slap-sharp accent, a breathy phone call. A string of curses so intricate she’d almost wanted to jot them down. Plastic, they were. They stretched between them like the landline. And she had gone to meet her, in a tacky cupcake bistro that lived up to its tag, not selling anything under twenty quid or twenty inches of frosting. They talked, a patchy,  lopsided conversation that kept on keeping on. They talked until last cupcake call and then some more, on the bench in front. Tackled the world up and down. Made plans: incipient, in between two snorts, two bedchamber confessions, but they were there. A safehouse. A ticket somewhere, a chance at alimony. It was the smoothest anything had ever gone, with long-term victims (though that word, violence victim, jumbled next to Marina, looked like satire, a caricature of a caricature of her job). And then they parted, and the next morning Viktor had called, apologized for his wife, a snarling, animal smack of a laugh. A compliment towards Emilia’s accent, but. That was the thick of it.

They’d kept in touch, every now and then. For the better half of a year. Mostly texts, emails, Whatsapp, you know yourselves. She’d figured it was always going to be just this thing, like Murder has cold cases, like Vehicles has incinerated bits. A victim that slipped away in all the ways that mattered, yet still clung to the exit lane, to the proverbial fringe of light. But, so you have it, Frank Mackey started asking about it. About Marina and whoever handled her complaint, back when it was filed up — received the due answer, Emilia Shaw, two years with us to date. And he doesn’t just inquire, this Francis doesn’t. He sniffed around, foxhound style; went through all her paperwork as if he were blasted Internal Affairs. He never said come around, then. She never said yes, or no. Except: now, pastry bag in hand, crinkling under her cold fingertips, where gloves hadn’t reached, she was signing her name at the front office. No receptionist in sight, either. The whole main hallway was stripped bare, three-four doors on each side of it, locked by the look of them. When Emilia felt someone staring at the back of her neck, watching her watching herself, she didn’t stop to think whether she even wanted to be here. Whether she had any place to be. She inclined her head, one inch closer to seeing who stood behind her — to seeing Frank, in office drab and all, because of all the things on Earth she knew no one was enough of a drama queen to bet so much on the silence. “Ate all your workmates, have you?” // @fmackeys​

[lightkrets312]

impleiadic

replied to your post

“*inhales deeply* *ehxales slowly* hoo boy”

pour the tea G

Well grab a goddamn mug, cause I’m about to spill.

please note this is entirely my opinion and experience and there will be s a l t

(okay this is getting long so)

tl;dr: Good art doth not maketh a good person, a hard lesson I learned after years of mild fixation and just as long a time of observing repeated drama, callouts, and temper tantrums. Their attitude towards their fans is about as nice as the obsidian covering a pool of lava, too; dig any deeper than the surface and you’re bound to get burned.

On an entirely related note, if you want to know why I’m paranoid about talking to Big Name Artists in streams, asks, art, or in general? Read on.

Alright so back when the world was younger, FNAF was new and only had one game, and we were only around Purgatory instead of the 5th ring of Hell, there was an artist named Rebornica who ran a popular AU. They had comedic comics, amazing art, terrific tales to tell, and, alliteration aside, they seemed interesting.

And I, a baby tumblrist, fell head over heels into obsession and checked their blog once a day for years. ...wish I was kidding.

See, when I said they had great art? That’s not wrong at all. Allow me to demonstrate with some character art (read: two characters) I can pull from google images in the next five minutes.

FNAF 1′s night guard, Mike Schmidt. Swearboat, loves his gal (Doll), a little bit possessed.

Purple guy. Fucking nuts. Treated like a meme. Afraid of needles. Motherfucker in multiple senses, I’d bet (he’s dtf at least). (one (1) spooky image at the end please be aware)

don’t worry they died

anyways they do have comics but I’m not pulling those up, would take too long.

So from FNAF the first to FNAF the third, they acquired an appreciable following of people, and we all had a good time. Had some laughs, submitted some asks, had a lot of asks eaten, got to see plenty of dash drama between them and other people- wait what.

...

...yeah, this is where shit turns a bit towards the ‘#bad vibes’ tag I overuse.

Bones was great at art, and I emphasize this heavily because this was a lot of the draw for me. They told stories well. I loved it. I focused on the surface level. As a person, they weren’t super bad either, at least on the surface. Dig about three inches down and check the other side of most of the stories and...

...well shit. Turns out they have a lot of callout blogs. Wonder why.

But of course, I persevered and ignored it. Sure, they had a lot of bad events surrounding them, but they weren’t all bad...!

Hah. Haha. Ha. I’m a terrible liar.

After FNAF 3 rolled out and they had their kicks for a while, they got fed up with all the uncalled for drama (potential misinterpretation but they DO act like this), abandoned their AU to the wilds (read: gave ownership to someone else, said to everyone else they’re giving it away but don’t care anymore liar liar, then took the character concepts and jumped ship), then went off and made their own storyverse.

Pilot.

By the way, that art?

I

wasn’t

kidding

fam

it’s good shit

And for a time all was as usual in the world. Drama came and went, we had streams on Picarto for all to see, everyone had fun with it.

Then one day, as is the way with all things, they decided they were fed up with all the drama-

(READ AS: A group of people calmly and rationally asked for an audience with them on Discord, which they accepted. They all spoke in turns. Then Bones [Rebornica > Dapper Deoxys > Mx. Bones, they’re now the skeleton general or whatever] eventually lost their shit, felt attacked, and basically decided to follow their impulse drive)

-and deleted their blog after a last post announcing it and a week of silence.

The discussion wasn’t even irrational, either! They just wanted Bones to apologize for some of the harm they’d caused, and Bones took it as a personal attack on them.

I read all of this, and yet weeks later when their stream came online and they started drawing again? I watched with glee.

And I kept following their works.

...until.

We’re now in the BATIM era. They’ve gotten involved in an ask blog, and I, with what little shaken faith and adorement I still had, attended streams in silence out of a quiet and, surely, misguided fear of speaking out in a stream chat in case the opinion was wrong. (haha, here’s your sign)

I attended a stream in which they were drawing one of the ladies putting down one of the guy’s “childish attachments to a character”, and the stream chat became livid. As in, foaming at the mouth, expressing an intent to harm- and Bones did nothing. They kept drawing.

I spoke out. For once. “I gotta say something, this isn’t a good attitude right?”

So I put in the chat that maybe we were taking things too far?

Of course, Bones says something at this. Surely it’s gotta be rational, noticing the attitude of their fans at last, right?

“It’s satire, sweetie.”

..............

satire

(it wasn’t satire by the time the chat got a hold of it)

That... that was it. That was the final straw on the camel’s back. That was all it took for me. I stopped watching their streams (even though part of me missed them), I stopped following their content, I stopped peeking in their Discord, I was tired and done. Too much drama and paranoia, too much worry about fitting in or getting kicked out, too much worry that they would Disapprove Of Me, and,,,

...Well, maybe it’s silly that one sentence was all it took for me to Lose Faith Completely, but... I was done. I didn’t want any more part in it.

Trust me. This isn’t the worst of it. I was just one fan worried about appearances, on the outskirts of A God’s Attentions.

It could be worse.

It could always be worse.

[nonbinarysasquatch]

Josh’s Ex-Girlfriend is Crazy.

“So, what I am hearing is, it’s not really about Josh per se. Josh is more a symbol of effortless normalcy from which you’ve always felt excluded.”

Rebecca can’t you seeeeeee, Josh Chan is a metaaaphooorr.

Since the beginning the title of this show has never really been the focus of the actual content of the show. Mostly, it’s been a feminist deconstruction of romantic comedy tropes. The relationship with the word crazy has largely been through the lens of Rebecca’s discomfort with others saying it but a willingness to describe herself as crazy with self-loathing.

Something I’ve been disturbed by since becoming involved with the CXGF fandom on Tumblr is that… in the #Crazy Ex Girlfriend tag, you’ll see literal men linking to videos of their (allegedly) crazy ex-girlfriends, or people variously ranting about their crazy ex-girlfriends.

And those people? They are why this show exists. Perhaps, more than anything else this show is about the exploitation, degradation and dismissal of women, particularly women with mental illnesses. Of course, that’s not all this show is about, because it’s a complex, layered show that you can’t just take a cursory glance at and decide that you understand it.

And for the record: I think there’s totally room for critiques of this show. Have I ever seen any good ones from that didn’t come from people who weren’t fans? Nope. It’s always the same old thing where you can tell they aren’t willing to intellectually engage with the show.

All of the good critiques of the seen of the show and it’s plot have all come from fans and people willing to intellectually engage with the show.

Even while watching and enjoying seasons 1 and 2 the first time I had some issues and concerns. But I trusted that all the feminists who loved the show knew what they were talking about. And season 3 almost unilaterally eliminated all of my concerns.

Let’s go back and look at the season 1 title theme: Rebecca is called “the Crazy Ex-Girlfriend” by her own opening theme. She rejects it as a being a sexist term then explains that there’s a lot more nuance than that. And you know? She wasn’t wrong. There always has been a lot more nuance than that.

She did move across the country for Josh… but she wasn’t really aware that was the case. And to just dismiss her as a stalker is to dehumanize her and disregard her mental health.

Throughout the show we have explored why she is the way she is. I’m someone who generally believes the world needs more empathy and to do a lot less demonizing of people. So to that end, I choose to understand Rebecca and I have a lot of sympathy for her.

And still, she does terrible things. She manipulates people and her actions have consequences. There is a question of how much we should see Rebecca as a person who really exists or if we should see her as a symbol for what childhood abuse and the patriarchy can do to a woman.

If we view the show as feminist satire it looks a lot different than if we choose to simply take everything at face value (though how you can ignore the innate feminism behind literally everything on this show is beyond me.)

This certainly isn’t a show for people who are only interested in a black and white view of the world. And it’s not a show for anyone who doesn’t want to ever see people with mental illnesses being portrayed in a negative light, even if to never show people with mental illnesses in a negative light is a complete and utter lie (which I can say as someone with mental illnesses who has definitely done shit I’m not proud of that was influenced by mental health problems.)

For me, as someone with mental illnesses, I’ve never felt like anything spoke to me the way this show does. I’ve never felt represented in this way before. I’ll have a lot more to say about that as this season goes on…

This show is from Rebecca’s POV and even when she’s doing terrible things, we are given her perspective. It’s a narrative that is traditionally been used to make men into sympathetic heroes, even when those stories all have men who are actual garbage with no consideration for the feelings of the women in the stories.

So, in this episode, we tackle the most egregious of Crazy Ex-Girlfriend tropes: the sort of films where the woman is spurned into murderous revenge.

Of course, Rebecca isn’t really a murderer. She doesn’t want to hurt anyone. She just wants to feel like her feelings matter. Her actions in this episode are terrible but the emotions behind them aren’t wrong. Josh hasn’t even approached making amends with what he did. He doesn’t seem to even think he did anything wrong. Last episode he was more interested in literally telling everyone that Rebecca was crazy and that was BEFORE he realised that Rebecca was spreading lies about him.

The opening scene of this episode is perfectly constructed and so realistic it hurts. I’ve been in that room. Not as Rebecca but as all of her friends. Rachel Bloom’s acting here is exquisite as perfectly uses her anger and fear as a mask for her pain. Her pain after she takes Darryl’s down is just so real and just… so accurate.

The grief that all of her friends feel is also very real, particularly Paula and Valencia who in many ways are the characters that Rebecca has hurt the most. Even Nathaniel looks aggrieved, despite having taken it less hard from her and having the least at stake. A solid sign that he isn’t the cold-hearted person he initially seemed.

Of course, then, he brags TO HER FRIENDS about having sex with her and says he knows her better. Which, no, Nathaniel, shut your mouth, man. To say this isn’t appropriate is putting it mildly. In some ways, this is the most mad I’ve been at Nathaniel thus far. He’s developing feelings for Rebecca but “she’s zany but in a cute way.” Nope, Nathaniel. Much like Josh Chan, I’m going to judge you for not being respectful of Rebecca’s mental health, though it is fair to say that he doesn’t know her as well as Josh (should.)

Rebecca’s friends all love her, even after the cruel things she has said. The world at large would just say she’s crazy. And no one could fault any of her friends for choosing to cut ties and take their own health and safety into account. But this isn’t real life. And Rebecca is a symbol, to a certain degree.

To readdress the point I was making above about the problem of people (particularly) men complaining about crazy ex-girlfriends, I think this show is making one point that I don’t necessarily see acknowledged all that often: that even when someone is acting in these sorts of ways, that it still isn’t OK to call them crazy. Which, it should be noted, is not the same thing as talking about abuse and mistreatment. But all this bullshit of dudes posting videos of their ex-girlfriends acting out and mocking them for crazy is gross bullshit.

If this show does have a failing, it’s that weaving the threads of being a deconstruction of romantic comedies, a deconstruction of the crazy ex-girlfriend trope and being a serious show about mental health means that engaging with it is complicated. And it’s a musical comedy to boot.

I’ve said before that I don’t think this show is for everyone. But it is for more people than currently watch it. And goddamn, I wish some of the people who dismiss their girlfriends, or any women as being crazy would watch it and absorb the message.

So, Rebecca goes to stay in a hostel. Fun fact: there are no hostels in West Covina. As far as I can tell, most hostels in Los Angeles County are in Los Angeles. But hey, there’s also nothing on East Cameron in reality too…

At the hostel she meets Danish tourist, Jarl, who might be my favourite one off character the show has ever done. Jarl happens to know a thing or two about movies like Swimfan, Basic Instinct and Fatal Attraction. The only one of those I’ve ever seen is Swimfan (which I don’t recall enjoying.)

Rebecca decides she needs to reenact those films in order to force Josh to feel what she feels, telling Jarl that she’s 7 feet tall angry.

Meanwhile, her friends are looking for her. It’s easy to miss that Valencia has never understood the full scope of the scheming against her that Rebecca and Paula were doing back in season one.

Easy to miss that Valencia doesn’t realise the full depth of the scheming against her that was going on, and that was largely driven by Paula. We also acknowledge for the first time that Paula and Valencia are friends, a far cry from season one when Paula just saw Valencia as an obstacle for Josh and Rebecca’s love story.

Darryl and White Josh are being forced to address the issue of whether WhiJo wants to have a baby together, forcing Hector to bounce out before the awkward gets too bad.

We also get a follow up here on a tiny thread seeded last season of Heather perhaps having an interest in Hector. I always love how the show does a good job of putting characters together who haven’t interacted much and doing something interesting with them.

Rebecca goes to Josh’s house, trying to spook him and get under his skin. It clearly works… for whatever that is worth.

After going back to the hostel, Jarl points out that if Rebecca continues on this path, she’ll end up murdered at the end of the movie. Rebecca, of course, doesn’t buy it. Because to her this isn’t about revenge. She simply wants Josh to feel her pain. Though she’s phrasing it unhealthily, really, what she wants is empathy. Something that Josh has… pretty much never given her.

Jarl points out that if Rebecca was unhappy before she met Josh that perhaps this isn’t all his fault. And he says the line that I quoted at the top about effortless normalcy.

Back at Rebecca and Heather’s house, it turns out that Nathaniel is sleeping there along with George and the girl he’s dating, Penny. And, for the record, it’s not true that a person needs to be missing X number of hours before you can report it. I did research for a fanfic!

You can immediately report a person as missing. This doesn’t mean that law enforcement will take it seriously of course, but legally there’s nothing stopping you. And they should (and that’s a big should, obviously) take into account like whether there’s reason to worry about that person’s safety or the safety of other people and act accordingly.

Now, whether Nathaniel would be taken seriously is another issue but in theory at a minimum, Heather or Paula (as her best friend and her roommate) should’ve been able to file a report.

Josh goes back to his job at Aloha Tech and is promptly suspended because Rebecca stuffed his work locker full of remotes. And as has been pointed out, yes, this means that Alex opened the locker, found all the remotes then stuffed them back inside so he could make the dramatic reveal to Josh. What a nerd. He must be bored.

Rebecca has left Josh a note, leading to him going to the carnival where Rebecca is with his mother. When Josh can’t find Lourdes, he confronts Rebecca, unwittingly allowing Rebecca to back herself up to a dangerous pit while he tells her she’s crazy.

Did Rebecca want Josh to push her into the pit? Maybe not consciously but I think perhaps part of her felt she deserved it. Maybe she thought Jarl was right. Maybe she just wanted to see if Josh really hated her. Whatever the case, Josh doesn’t allow her to fall, saving her at the last moment.

Josh leaves, warning Rebecca that if she comes near him or his family again he’ll call the cops. Rebecca tries to smooth him over, admitting that she just wanted to get his attention and she wants to talk to him. But it’s too late for that.

Paula’s dream is painful. We, as the audience, want that moment to happen but it’s not honest. Instead, Paula calls Naomi, deciding that maybe Rebecca needs her actual mother.

Rebecca, meanwhile, stumbles into a bar that Greg frequented in season 1, even talking about him with the bartender. And then, as if fate, Rebecca gets butt-dialed by Greg. But Greg doesn’t know and he can’t hear her. And even if they did talk… what would he say? Nothing he could say could fix what she’s feeling.

And then there’s Greg’s dad, Marco. Rebecca rightly observes that Marco has never had a favourable view of her. But Marco instead tries to compliment her, perhaps recognising that she’s vulnerable. And Marco is the sort of guy who inappropriately hits on his female doctors, so I don’t really see this above him.

And so Rebecca goes home with Marco, sleeping with him. Does Marco fully understand the lowness of the place Rebecca is in? Probably not. But I also think he doesn’t care. He knows she’s pretty and vulnerable. That’s why he flirts with her in the first place.

I’ve seen some fans critique this from the perspective of Marco being such a good dad that he would never do that but… I think that erases a lot of Marco’s previously displayed shitty traits in favour of focusing on his good ones. He’s a good dad to a certain degree but… also kind of a gross asshole. Those things aren’t mutually exclusive.

And honestly, I’ve simply known too many dudes who seemed like stand up moral dudes who it turned out had done appalling things and used women. It’s honestly never shocking to portray a man like this. And let’s be real, if last year didn’t show everyone that men culturally have issues with consent then I’m not sure what will.

Rebecca has hit rock bottom as her movie comes to an end, realizing that life doesn’t make narrative sense. When her mom calls her, demanding that she come home she doesn’t even fight it. What else can she do?

The Songs:

Scary Scary Sexy Lady: One of the few “not my favourites” this season. A version of this was apparently considered to be the season 3 main title sequence but given what happens in the next few episodes, they realised that it wouldn’t make sense for the full season.

The End of the Movie: One of the best songs the show has ever done, sung by Josh Groban. This song is why there still isn’t a full season 3 soundtrack. Hopefully they’ll get that worked out at some point. This is damn good song.

Episode Rating: 10.0 out of 10.0.

And this still isn’t even my favourite episode this season.