#I have a job interview tomorrow for a job that if I get it will essentially be taking up my nights and weekends

[russellius]

F1 Racer George Russell Has Risky Hobbies Toto Wolff Doesn't Like

Published May 13, 2025 at 1:40 PM EDT

Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula 1 team driver George Russell isn't a controversial figure on the circuit; he has frequent podium finishes and infrequent, though not absent, clashes with other drivers. But his off-track activities are more eyebrow-raising, he told Newsweek in an interview after the qualifying round of the Miami Grand Prix.

England-born Russell said he used to have porridge for breakfast in his youth, but when he got to F1, and pulled six Gs in the car, the physical strain would affect his stomach. Now, he opts for healthier fare.

"We have 24 races, we go to 20 different countries, and trying to get healthy meals on airplanes, healthy meals in the hotels, consistent diet, consistent sleep... It's just not a thing," Russell said, reaching for a slice of watermelon from the basketball-sized bowl of fresh-cut fruit in front of him. "In the last three years, we reach out to every single hotel and we send them our recipes. I'm having the same food [every week]. It's a bit boring, but at least I know what I'm getting."

With race day on the horizon, Russell said that he would have spaghetti Bolognese for dinner, "to get the carbs in ahead of tomorrow," and during the race weekend have "a few salads" saying that his stomach has a hard time digesting more nutritionally complex meals when he's "strapped into the race car" and subject to the forces of physics.

When Russell is not on the track, he challenges himself elsewhere and can frequently be seen spending his off-time with girlfriend Carmen Montero Mundt and fellow racer Jamie Chadwick and her partner, British race car driver Struan Moore.

"I love the Mediterranean. So during summer, we've always sort of been in the Balearic Islands. I love the water as well. We try to stay on the water, because our life is so hectic, just being like quiet and just being with the people who I love is nice, rather than being in the midst of the craziness when you go to these big cities," Russell said.

While there, he does foil boarding and has recently taken up free diving, going down as far as 23 meters, about seven stories in depth. "When I got into last year, I did it for meditation purposes. You've got to focus so much on the job at hand. You've got to breathe. You've got to relax. When you're diving down, you're seeing over the sea life and it is just such a calming place to be," he said.

"I've yet to really push myself to my limit, because in freediving, you've got to be careful. If you're pushing yourself running, when you want to stop. If you stop freediving. If you push yourself [you begin to wonder when you're] going to be on the way up. It's a bit of a risky one bite."

Though a self-labeled "summer guy," Russell shared that this winter he upset his boss, Toto Wolff, team principal and CEO of the Mercedes-AMG Petronas F1 team, with his extracurricular activities: "I went skiing for the very first time last year, which Toto was not so happy about."

"He doesn't like me doing a lot of things, to be honest, but that's part of life," Russell said.

But, Russell stresses that his off-track adventures are what make him able to cope with the rigors of being one of the best on the circuit: "Regardless if you got a good result or bad result, the Monday morning is like an emotional hangover. If you've had a good result, you're on such a high on Sunday, but then Monday is a bit of a slap round face. And then if you had a bad weekend, Monday is also a slap on the face, because it's like you're disappointed with the weekend, right? So no matter which way Sunday has gone, Monday is always, psychologically, a really tough day, which is sort of my like, my lowest point. So, I always try and find ways to take my mind away."

[kyoshithewriter]

The Missing Piece. (Part one)

Summary: In which a nanny brings a family back together.

Warnings: There will be angst, family struggles, mentions of depression, smut (18+)

A/n: And we know I love a good cliche and I couldn’t pass up this opportunity to write about this absolute DILF loool. I don’t intend to make this a lengthy series but let’s see where this goes. Enjoy.

“Single divorced dad needs a nanny. Competitive salary. If interested, call the number below.

************”

Simple. Straight to the point. Niamh eyes the ad in the paper torn between suspicion and hopeful optimism. There’s finally an advertisement for a job that does not require a completed degree or at least five years of experience. But it just seems so sketchy; like a trap by a lonely, old man to chain some poor, desperate person in their basement. It wouldn’t hurt to at least call, right?’ Her eyes drift over to the “past due” sign that her landlord had hung on her front door in a petty attempt to publicly embarrass her. Niamh has been out of work for a little over two months now; the small coffee shop a few minutes away having to let her go regrettably due to how slow business was. Even with the job, it was a struggle to make ends meet; the meager salary barely covered rent, food and her university expenses. Some days she would have to be satisfied with only eating once and be grateful for it. But life has been showing her recently that things can always get worse. Niamh has hit lower than rock bottom. She’s close to being evicted and dropping out of school to roam the streets of Cheshire aimlessly. With that thought, she sucks in a deep breath then empties her lungs completely before dialing the number. Niamh stands to pace in her small, cramped apartment as the line keeps ringing.

A deep, honeyed voice cuts in on the fourth ring;

“Hello.”

Niamh runs into the small coffee table out of surprise. She squeezes her eyes shut, taking a deep breath so she doesn’t curse out loud.

“Um, hi. I um… I saw an ad for a nanny?” The words sound like they were squeezed from her body. She clears her throat to compose herself.

“Oh, yes!” The person on the other end sounds like a kid in a candy store.

“When can you come in for an interview?”

“I’m available on weekdays after 2 pm and free all weekend.”

“So 2:30 tomorrow is fine, right? Sorry if it’s rushed but we’re desperate.” The person admits almost bashfully.

“I understand and yes, 2:30 tomorrow works.” Niamh tries to squash the hope blossoming in her chest.

“Good! I’ll text you the address. I look forward to meeting you… what was your name again?”

“Niamh.” She quickly supplies.

“Niamh, I’m Ivy. I’ll text you that address now. Talk soon.”

The woman hangs up as soon as she mutters a shy goodbye. A notification comes in a minute later- a message with the address. Niamh’s breath hitches; she recognizes it as the wealthiest part of town. Only actual celebrities and CEOs can afford to live there. She tries to physically shake the intimidation that threatens to creep in. But as the evening progresses, her chest gets tighter, her breaths are faster and her legs become more restless.

************

The autumn wind picks up and Niamh fears she might actually pass out in the middle of the almost abandoned street. Anxiety is already rattling her to her very bones and the cold doesn’t help. Even just existing in a place like this feels odd. The huge gated community is filled with modern- looking mansions with a variety of luxury cars visible in the front yards or opened garage doors. She cuddles further into her knitted, yellow sweater, trying her best to keep her eyes forward in fear of raising suspicion. For all she knows she may still be walking into a trap; they could possibly lock her away in their basement or harvest her organs or something. ‘At least no one will miss you,’ the nagging voice that she fights hard to blot out whispers in her head. Niamh had put a face to her intrusive thoughts— she imagines it’s a shadow with blood, red slanted eyes and a sinister grin. Some days it’s easy to ignore the monster lurking in the deepest crevice of her mind, waiting for a moment of vulnerability to wreak havoc. On other days, like today with her anxiety already sky high, it wins just long enough to remind her that her entire existence feels pathetic: just an estranged family and no real friends; struggling financially, mentally and even socially. She needs a break. Staring at her phone, Niamh realizes she has apparently reached her destination. The house looks three stories high; the outside is made up of grey bricks with black accents around the roof and windows. The garage doors are also a cool, matte black. The lawn is well kept with a smattering of brown and orange leaves from the small tree out front. Niamh closes her gaping mouth to inhale a greedy breath before walking up to the porch. The door is swung open just as she raises a fist to knock. There stands an older woman, about 5”2, plump and dark skinned with thick locs piled high on top of her head inside a tye-dye head wrap. She beams up at Niamh’s 5”6 frame, showing off the small gap between her front teeth. Niamh has never met this woman, yet she already feels like she’d trust her with her life.

“You must be Niamh, I’m Ivy. Come on in, sweet child.”

Niamh returns her smile easily as she steps into the foyer of the grand house. The inside is painted a cool shade of white with wooden accents to match the floor and stairs.

“You have a beautiful home.” She doesn’t even attempt to hide that she’s awestruck.

“It is beautiful, but not mine, unfortunately. I’m just a cook here. Look…”

Ivy trails off. Niamh can physically see the wheels in her head turning as she stares past her shoulders. Contemplating.

“Let’s have a seat in the kitchen. I just baked the fudgiest brownie for the kids, I’ll slip you a piece while we talk.” Ivy grasps one of her hands gently and leads to her left down a short hallway until they enter the spacious, modern kitchen. The woman gestures toward one of the wooden stools around the island and Niamh obediently takes a seat.

“Look, this… job opportunity was borne out of an unfortunate situation. The… man of the house, he got divorced a few months ago. He’s a very wealthy, important man. An athlete. The separation was already heavy but it was easy for him to feign normalcy because he was still doing what he loves— playing football.” Ivy pauses to swallow as she dishes a thick slice of brownie on a small, white porcelain saucer. She walks back in her direction and carefully places it down in front of Niamh with a small fork. Ivy turns to the stainless steel, double door fridge to retrieve a bottle of water and places it before her too.

“Thank you.” She whispers gratefully— the tuna sandwich she had for breakfast already feeling like a distant memory.

“You’re welcome, dear.”

Ivy’s smile is content as she watches her eat; like the mere action brings her joy.

“Anyway, two months ago he got injured. A bad one; he tore his ACL and is set to be sidelined for almost a year. It has been… yea. He’s almost like a ghost in this house. He stays locked away in his room or office and only slips through the backdoor early in the mornings when he has to attend his rehabilitation sessions. He doesn’t even spend time with the children anymore.” Ivy sighs heavily and suddenly, Niamh is aware of every wrinkle on her face.

“I had to take up the responsibility of being their nanny and the cook recently. And he compensates me well, don’t get me wrong— but I also have grandchildren of my own who I solely care for because my daughter is studying abroad. I can’t spend all my time here when they need me. It’s too much. So I finally got him to agree to search for a nanny.”

Niamh licks at the chocolate on her lips as she processes the information. Whoever this man is, her heart aches for him and his children as well.

“So what about their mother? Is she just not in the picture anymore at all?”

“She is, but she moved back home to the Netherlands; they’re both Dutch. They thought it best to not just uproot the children from their lives here— they attend school, all their extracurricular activities, it’s all here. They do visit on breaks but they adore their father, they all wish to stay with him. It’s nothing short of heartbreaking to see them longing for him recently. They miss him and he’s… just upstairs.” The frown on the woman’s mouth deepens.

“Well I, I hope I can help— if I get the job of course!” Heat burns beneath the surface of her brown skin.

“Speaking of! I’m sure you brought your qualifications along, yes?”

“Uh, yea. Of course.” Niamh slides the large envelope that’s now a bit wrinkled from how tightly she was clutching it on her journey to the house.

Ivy reaches for it and begins scanning the papers quickly with her eyes.

“Third year nursing student with excellent grades, so you’ll know how to react in case of health emergencies and you can do CPR, correct?”

Niamh nods her head quickly. “That’s correct.”

“Experience working at the library and cafés. Do you have any experience with children?”

“I um-” Niamh hesitates, wondering if opening that can of worms is worth the job. One thought of her empty fridge in her soon to be ‘kicked out of apartment’ is enough to answer the question.

“I grew up in the foster system and I would always be tasked to take care of the younger ones. The last family that had me until I was 18 still calls me to babysit for them a few times. So yes, I have experience with taking care of children, especially ages 3-11.” Niamh wrings her hands in her lap.

Ivy rounds the island and hugs her into her ample bosom, patting at her big mass of black curls.

“You’re hired, you sweet little thing.”

Niamh swallows around the lump in her throat, urging herself to not cry as she melts in Ivy’s embrace.

“Thank you.”

Ivy takes a minute just to hold her and Niamh enjoys every second; she was never offered a lot of affection growing up.

The woman gingerly releases her hold on her and steps back a bit.

“Oh, um. A part of the job description will require you to sleep over three nights a week: Mondays, Thursdays and Fridays. Shelly, the eldest of the three, has really early swimming lessons on Tuesdays, Fridays and Saturdays so you’ll need to be up to help her get ready. I had to be waking up at 4:30am to get here on time and I’m old and need sleep. That won’t do.”

Niamh can’t help but laugh but she nods easily. Who wouldn’t want to sleep in a house like this?

“The kids: Shelly, Aurora and Mason are 9, 7 and 5 respectively. They’re usually dropped off by their driver at 4:30 pm in the afternoons. Shelly, on the days I told you she has synchronized swimming lessons, is picked up at 6 am sharp. On the other days it’s 7:30 am like the other two. I’ll give you the contact information of their driver later. They have no major food allergies, but Mason gets mild headaches after having dairy sometimes. I meal prep their breakfast in the evenings but you know how kids are; sometimes they’ll just want something else so you may have to make breakfast some mornings you’re here after sleeping over but I promise that’s all the cooking you’ll do here. We’re not looking to burden you.”

“It’s okay. I understand.”

“Your main duties will be helping with homework, getting them ready for school or any extracurricular activities, accompanying them to appointments, helping the younger ones with the bathroom if they aren’t feeling particularly independent on some days, reminding them to brush their teeth, do the girls’ hair, putting them to bed and just making them feel… cared for. They need it.”

Niamh’s heart feels a bit heavy but she nods.

“Good. Their bedtime is 8 pm sharp, and yes, that includes Shelly; no matter what she tries to tell you. On the days you aren’t sleeping over, after you‘ve put them to bed just give a firm knock on his bedroom door and yell that you’re on your way out. He’ll… handle the rest throughout the night. He has cameras everywhere, except the bathrooms and bedrooms— so he’s always quietly observing. He loves them and their safety is his number one priority. He's just… going through a lot right now.”

Ivy picks up the now empty plate and carries it over to the sink.

“Is he here now?” Niamh fights the urge to scan the room for cameras as she whispers the question to Ivy.

“No. I only know because his favourite car is missing from the garage. But on some days his driver takes him and you’ll be left wondering. You never really know.”

The few minutes of silence as Ivy washes up a few dishes in the sink gives her some time to think. This comes with a lot of responsibility; the children could be a handful, they could also simply not like her. What if even their father disapproves?

“Um, is it okay if I asked what his name is?” Niamh asks shyly.

“Oh yes. Virgil. Virgil van dijk. I don’t know how familiar you are with football but he’s very well known.”

And the name does sound familiar even though she really doesn’t follow the sport that closely. She can’t place a face to it though but that’s nothing a little google search can’t fix.

“I’ve heard the name before but I don’t follow the sport closely.” She admits bashfully.

“No worries, Niamh. Hopefully, he’ll start coming around again for you to properly meet him. He’s a lovely man.”

Niamh returns her small smile as she untwists the cap on the bottle.

“I should also stress the importance of privacy, Niamh. He valued his privacy even when things were going well. He doesn’t force his family into the spotlight and keeps a lot of himself hidden. Now, it’s even worse. I beg you don’t betray his trust and bring anything that happens under this roof to anyone outside. Not even your friends.” Ivy warns.

Niamh wants to assure the woman that she doesn’t even have friends, instead, she responds.

“I swear I won’t.” She hopes Ivy hears the sincerity and solemnity in her voice. The woman must be convinced because she nods and offers a small smile.

“Oh! In terms of salary; it’s five days a week, the starting rate is £1,000 a day, £1,500 for the days you spend the night. That may increase over time based on your performance and the children’s feelings toward you.”

Niamh chokes on the cool water sliding down her throat, sputtering all over herself and the kitchen island.

Ivy rushes to her side, soapy hands slapping at her back.

“Are you okay?!” The woman’s voice is a little panicked.

Niamh, teary eyed, offers the woman a nod as her brain takes it time to start functioning again.

“I just- never expec— a lot of money.” She finishes simply through her wheezing.

Ivy exhales a relieved breath before laughing softly.

“I said the salary was competitive in that ad, didn’t I? Makes me wonder why you were the only caller.” Ivy wonders with a frown.

“I mean, it did seem a little sketchy. Barely any details as well.”

“Hm. You’re right. Oh well, it led you here and I already have a good feeling about you. Come, let me give you a tour of the house.”

**********

The house has six bedrooms total— one Virgil had turned into his office. Each bedroom, except the ones belonging to the two younger kids, has an en-suite bathroom; the little ones both share the bathroom in the hallway across from them.

“Their schedules are printed out and hung in their rooms. Oh! And the house maid comes in on Sundays, Wednesdays and Fridays to clean and do laundry.”

Niamh nods, trying to soak up all the information like a sponge.

“Now this is the guest bedroom.” Ivy opens the first door on the east wing of the house. The inside is spacious and sparsely decorated; just a queen size bed with lavender sheets, a vanity and an empty walk in closet. She follows Ivy who steps further into the room and opens the door to their right to the clean en-suite bathroom.

“This house is lovely.” Niamh is sure she has said it at least twenty times already but she’s still mesmerized by it.

“It truly is.”

They both exit the room, but Ivy pauses in the hallway.

Two mahogany doors face each other on opposite sides of the hallway further down.

“And this is where your tour ends. Those doors are off limits.”

She immediately knows that they’re his bedroom and office space. ‘Why does an athlete need an office space, anyway?’ Niamh bites her lip to contain the question that’s burning at the tip of her tongue.

“You knock on the door to your left only for emergencies; so when you’re leaving work like we discussed or if something is terribly wrong with one of the kids. Though, he’d probably know by the time you got here.”

Right. The cameras. “Silently observing.”

A shiver races up her spine at the thought of always being under his scrutiny. Niamh stares at the doors that seem to be more intimidating than the many others in the house even though they all look the same.

“So, any questions?”

Ivy’s voice brings her focus back to the shorter woman who grins up at her.

“Um, not right now.”

“Good! I’m going to get started on dinner. Make yourself comfortable in the living room until the children get here. You’ll officially start tomorrow but it wouldn’t hurt to meet them.”

Niamh nods but her heart immediately starts racing as if she got shot up with a high dose of adrenaline. If for whatever reason they don’t like her, she can kiss this job that she so desperately needs goodbye. Niamh tries and fails to swallow around the fist- sized lump in her throat. Who knew that children could be intimidating?

[rio-ava]

In Her Arms - Agatha x Reader Fic

Hi!! I wrote this as a oneshot last night, and people seemed to love it so I am creating a series! This should be part one, and will go all the way tp Agatha and readers first meeting. I am in fact making this a sort of slowburn, because that’s all I know to do. I have to keep y'all on your feet. The oneshot I posted earlier will just be a little sneak peak into their dynamic, I guess! Once again, if you hate it, don’t tell me, if you love it, please tell me and share feedback!! Yay! - A

Warnings: Agatha being Agatha

Word Count: 3758

You’ve always had a certain way about you. Some people described you as a “spiritual battery”—when you walked into a room with your usual joy, everyone could feel it. It lifted them. Pulled people up to your level without you even trying. But with that same gift came a curse: when you were feeling low, it was contagious. You’d always been mindful of this phenomenon, doing everything in your power to bring a positive attitude to whatever you did. So far, it had never steered you wrong.

You were in your second year at Columbia Law School, studying to follow in your late dad’s footsteps—to work as a litigator in court. The law had always come naturally to you. It was structured, logical, and often predictable. It made sense in a world that didn’t always. Unlike many of your peers, you tackled the challenges of law school with optimism, meeting every standard you set for yourself with a steady smile. It worked for you. Honestly, you weren’t sure if you could even change that mindset, even if you wanted to.

Currently, you were juggling two jobs—one as a barista, and the other as part of Columbia’s late-night janitorial staff. Your mom had left the picture after your dad passed away, and he’d only left you with so much money. Which meant that it was entirely up to you to pick up the pieces and pay your own way through school.

One evening, while walking through the quiet hallways of Columbia, you spotted a flyer for an assistant job. But what really caught your eye—your breath, even—was the name on it.

Agatha Harkness. The Agatha Harkness. With a law degree from Harvard and two decades of courtroom dominance under her belt, Agatha wasn’t just respected in legal circles—she was legendary. Possibly getting to work under her while finishing your degree at Columbia was something pulled straight out of a dream journal. Her mentorship, while known to be intense, would give you firsthand experience beyond what most practicing attorneys twice your age could claim.

And truthfully? It would be nice to gain both experience and a paycheck at the same time. You couldn’t turn it down.

That same night, adrenaline still buzzing in your bloodstream, you sent in your resume, contacted every reference you had, and applied online.

Just a few days later, an email landed in your inbox—from Harkness herself.

Subject: Interview – Assistant Position To: y/n@gmail.com From: a.harkness@hklaw.com Date: 5/14/2025 Time: 5:42 AM

Ms. L/N, I reviewed your application. You’re either extremely competent or dangerously optimistic. I intend to find out which.

Interview scheduled for Wednesday at 9:00 AM at my office. Be early. If you are a minute late, I will not see you. Bring a printed resume and the ability to form a complete sentence under pressure.

—A.H.

You stared at the email for what felt like an hour. Her signature sat at the bottom like a final verdict. Something about the way she carried herself—even from behind a screen—sent a chill rippling down your spine. You could practically hear her voice just from her punctuation.

You spent the entire week preparing for the interview, running mock sessions with anyone who would help. Your roommate Wanda took the brunt of your stress.

After watching you pace in front of the TV for the sixth time in an hour, she finally sighed dramatically.

“Y/n, I get that your interview is tomorrow, but you’ve gotta chill. You’re blocking Arrested Development. Please.”

You stopped mid-step. “I’m sorry, but this is the biggest deal of my life. This has to go well. It will go well. Right? I can do this... right?”

Wanda arched a brow, then softened. “Look, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you run from a challenge—and I don’t think you’ll start now. You just have to get in there, show the lady what you’re made of, and hope for the best.”

She paused, then smirked. “And hey—flash her one of your famous smiles. No one can say no to that.”

You gave her a grateful grin before heading off to take a shower and turn in early. Tomorrow was going to be a big day.

You woke up the next morning to find Wanda eating cereal, scrolling through some flashy law gossip blog on her phone.

“Morning, sunshine,” she chirped. “I decided to do some digging on your lovely Agatha Harkness. And…I take back what I said last night. I’m kind of scared for you.”

You stopped in your tracks, still half-asleep and fully skeptical. “Really? You’re scared? For me? Why?”

“Well,” she began, not looking up, “turns out Agatha Harkness is more than just an intimidating lawyer. People say she can make a grown man cry with a look. Some even call her a witch.”

You scoffed. “A witch?”

Wanda finally looked up, serious. “I’m not joking. You should be ready for that.”

You rolled your eyes and continued with your morning routine. When the clock struck 8:15 AM, you knew it was time to head out. As you grabbed your bag and walked toward the door, Wanda called out from the couch.

“Try not to trip over your own sunshine. Or hers. Or her murder witch aura.”

You laughed under your breath, shaking your head as you stepped outside for the 20-minute walk to the office where Agatha Harkness was waiting.

The walk passed too quickly. At 8:50 AM sharp, you signed in at the receptionist’s desk and took a seat in the sleek marble-floored lobby alongside the other hopeful candidates. You were dressed in a crisp pink button-down and a fitted but professional skirt. In your hands, you clutched a strawberry-covered notebook—your go-to for notes, lists, and grounding your nerves.

You loved strawberries. Obsessed over them, even. Strawberry lemonade, strawberry candies, strawberry candles. You had been sipping a strawberry lemonade just last night while printing your final resume, and a shortcake-scented candle had flickered nearby. It was silly, maybe. But it was you. Completely, unapologetically you.

After what felt like an eternity, a blonde assistant with a sharp bob stepped out and called your name. Your heart stuttered. This was it.

You followed her down a long hallway lined with glass offices. Through the transparent walls, you caught sight of your destination—Agatha Harkness, seated at her desk, facing the sprawling skyline of New York City. Her back was turned, but even from behind, you could see the way her dark waves cascaded over her shoulders, her hands skimming paperwork with elegant precision.

Your legs suddenly felt like jelly.

The assistant led you in and quietly stepped away, leaving you standing alone inside the lion’s den. But even the lion, it seemed, was letting you make the first move.

Before you could spiral into panic, Agatha spun around in her chair.

And dear God, she might’ve been the most gorgeous human being you’d ever seen.

High cheekbones. Piercing blue eyes. Bubblegum pink lips curved into the faintest, calculating smirk. She didn’t speak. Just watched you, cool and silent, like a predator trying to decide whether or not to pounce.

You clutched your strawberry notebook like a life vest.

“Um. Good morning, Ms. Harkness. Thank you for—”

“Sit.”

One word. Crisp. Low. Like ice cracking in a glass.

You obeyed instantly, settling into the leather chair across from her desk, spine straight, knees together, notebook balanced on your lap like armor.

Still, she didn’t speak. Instead, she leaned back in her chair, one leg elegantly crossing over the other. You handed her your resume. She accepted it without a word, towering over you for a moment before resuming her seat, eyes slowly raking over you like she was assessing every inch of your existence.

You wondered if this was a test. If so, your palms were already sweating.

Finally, she hummed. “You’re nervous.”

“A little,” you admitted honestly.

“Good. If you weren’t, I’d think you were either arrogant or stupid. Possibly both.”

You smiled reflexively, not sure if that was meant to be comforting.

“I see you go to Columbia.”

“Yes. I’m in the dual-degree law program—”

“I read your résumé. I don’t need you to recite it.”

Her tone was flat, unimpressed.

“I want to know why you want to work for me. Specifically.”

You hesitated—just a second too long.

Agatha tilted her head. “Tick-tock.”

You straightened your posture. “Because you’re the best. You’ve built your reputation on precision, power, and winning. Everyone in law school knows who you are. Everyone either wants to be you or hopes they never have to face you in court.”

That seemed to earn you a flicker of amusement, though she didn’t confirm or deny it.

“And I want to learn from someone who doesn’t just play the game—but reshapes it around her.”

A pause.

“That was rehearsed,” she said.

“A little,” you admitted. “But it’s still true.”

Agatha leaned forward, her posture shifting just enough to pull all the air from the room.

“You’re very... bright.”

“Thank you?”

“I don’t mean intelligent. I mean bright. Optimistic. Energetic. Like a motivational mug with legs.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“I wouldn’t.”

Silence again. She opened your resume and flipped through it, page by page.

“Strawberry?”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Your resume. It smells faintly of strawberries. Perfume? Candle? Teenage optimism?”

“Probably the candle,” you muttered.

She looked up. “Fitting.”

Kindly or not—you had no clue.

Then she snapped the folder shut.

“Let’s get something clear. I don’t coddle. I don’t repeat myself. And I don’t tolerate incompetence, whining, or anyone who thinks that just because they’re clever, they’re useful.”

You nodded. “Understood.”

“I need someone who can handle long hours, my temper, and my coffee order without screwing it up.”

You opened your notebook. “Double espresso, splash of oat milk, no sugar?”

She raised her brows—barely.

“Just a guess,” you said.

“Hm.”

A long beat. Her lips twitch. The ghost of a smirk. Then, Agatha stands. The movement is fluid, calculated, like every motion she makes is for effect. She walks around the desk and perches against the front of it, arms folded.

“Okay. Let’s give you a test.” She looks down at you, and hands you a folder. “Walk me through how you'd organize this for litigation prep. You have ten minutes.”

You panic at first, before realizing that this is your specialty. You can do this. And you’ll do it with a smile. 

After reading through the file, and talking through it knowing Agatha is scrutinizing your every thought, you finally come to a conclusion. When you finally present your plan, Agatha stares at you, letting you simmer in the silence. 

Finally, she pushed off the desk, walks behind your chair, and nearly whispers right behind your ear,

“You’ve got a mind for chaos. That’s rare.”

She walked back around, facing you, and said, “You’re not the best candidate on paper. But, you aren’t absolutely insufferable.”

With that, she walks back to the desk, and motions for you to leave her office without even a goodbye.

As you make the walk through the office, down the elevator, and back through the lobby past the other possible employees, you hear your phone ding. 

From: Unknown Number

You start Monday. 8 AM sharp. Do not be late.

— A.H.

Wanda was still on the couch when you got home, halfway through a bowl of popcorn and watching some old sitcom with the sound off.

“Well?” she asked the moment she saw your face.

You collapsed dramatically beside her, hugging your strawberry notebook to your chest.

“She hired me.”

Wanda blinked. “You’re serious?”

“She said I wasn’t the best candidate but the least insufferable.”

Wanda raised her hands. “Hey, that’s basically a love confession. Congrats!”

You both laughed, the sound buoying the room.

But later that night, when you finally curled into bed, your mind drifted back to Agatha’s eyes. How sharp they were. How they seemed to see through you. How her voice, cool and cutting, had somehow left you craving more.

You told yourself it was admiration. Professional awe. Maybe fear.

But as you drifted to sleep, notebook still within arm’s reach on the nightstand, a single thought hummed quietly in the back of your mind:

You were in way over your head.

And you couldn’t wait to go back.

—------------------

Three weeks go by, and you're finally starting to fall into a rhythm. There’s a pattern now — one you can follow without second-guessing yourself every other step. Every chance you get, you throw a smile toward Ms. Harkness, hoping to get one back, usually to no avail. The only time even a ghost of a smile had graced her face was the morning you tripped on the curb outside the building, spilling her coffee all over your white blouse.

She had smirked — a small, cruel thing that flickered at the corner of her mouth. But when she realized it was her coffee that had spilled, the smirk didn’t last long.

You’d gotten into a routine with Agatha: you woke up at 6 a.m., got her coffee, went to the office, worked on whatever task she threw at you, went for lunch at 11, came back at 11:45, finished your assignments, left the office at 7 p.m., and then started on your online schoolwork — just to get up and do it all again.

It was relentless, but you didn’t let the pace or her impossibly high expectations get to you. You kept up with her every single day, a quiet determination behind the smile you wore. You were just happy to be there, learning from her. This was the opportunity of a lifetime, and you weren’t about to waste it.

One day, though, you were swamped. The workload had built up too fast, and skipping lunch felt like the only option. You didn’t think anyone would notice — least of all her — so you stayed glued to your cubicle, hunched over your laptop, eating the hours as they passed.

Until you heard a throat clear behind you.

You turned, startled, and found Ms. Harkness standing there with her arms crossed. She didn’t say a word, just flicked her fingers in a silent command: Come.

You stood immediately, following her with the quiet urgency of someone who never wanted to give her a reason to stop looking your way. Like a lost puppy, you trailed behind her as she led you into her office.

There, spread out on the couch, were takeout bags and two drinks.

“I saw you didn’t leave to eat,” she said as she sat down, casual like it wasn’t a surprise she’d noticed. “So I’ve taken matters into my own hands.”

She motioned for you to sit beside her.

As you did, your legs nearly brushed hers. The couch wasn’t large, not for two people, and the new proximity left you flustered. This was the closest you'd ever been to her, physically. And emotionally? That was harder to measure.

From the bags, she began to unpack a borderline absurd amount of food. Cups of ramen. Orange chicken. Fried rice. Egg rolls. It smelled incredible.

“Sorry, I didn’t know what you’d like, so I just bought a little of everything,” she said with a grin, subtle, almost imperceptible. But you noticed it, because you noticed everything about her. All of the time.

Then she handed you a drink. You took a sip without thinking, and the moment the flavor hit your tongue, a low sound escaped your throat, a satisfied groan you didn’t have the energy or presence of mind to stifle.

Your eyes lit up. “It’s my favorite! Strawberry lemonade? How did you know?”

She looked over at you with that same calm, unreadable expression, but a heated glance that you had never seen her hold. “Just a lucky guess.”

Something about the moment triggered déjà vu, but you shook it off, more focused on the food and her presence than anything else.

Conversation came easier than you expected. The tension that usually hovered around her seemed to ease, just enough to let a bit of warmth in. At one point, you even made her laugh, really laugh, and the sound of it lodged itself in your brain like a hook.

You didn’t realize it then, but you’d spend the rest of your life chasing the sound of Agatha Harkness’s laugh.

When the meal ended, she leaned back on the couch and said simply, “Go get your things. You’ll work in here the rest of the day.”

You obeyed without question.

That day marked the beginning of a new tradition.

Each morning you’d begin in your cubicle, until,  without warning,  Agatha would appear with new takeout in hand and a barely concealed flicker of amusement in her expression. You started brewing a special tea mix for her every morning, something earthy with just a hint of lavender, and brought it with you when she summoned you.

You sat across from each other on the same couch, legs criss crossed, ankles often brushing. It became its own kind of ritual. She brought the food. You brought the tea. And between bites and banter, the distance between boss and assistant kept shrinking.

After lunch, she would return to her desk. You would curl up on the couch with your laptop, finishing your work under her watchful eye.

It was comfortable. Predictable. But charged.

You started to notice things, like how her hand would linger on your arm when she handed you your tea, or how she’d stare at you when she thought you weren’t looking. You noticed the way she bit her lip whenever you made some sly, half-inappropriate comment about topics that probably shouldn’t come up between you and your boss.

But were these lunches really strictly professional anymore?

It wasn’t like Agatha Harkness could ever feel the same way. She was forty-four. You were in your twenties. She surely wasn’t married, no ring, no pictures on her desk,  but she was probably in some kind of relationship. And even if she weren’t, she must have seen you as too young. Too immature.

It was fine.

You told yourself it was fine.

But as the third week ended and you caught her staring again, her gaze slow, deliberate, thoughtful, the same thought bloomed in your mind for the hundredth time:

Agatha Harkness was going to be the death of you.

The days keep slipping by, soft and silent, like a tide creeping in unnoticed, until it’s already around your ankles.

You're still not sure when exactly it happened. Maybe it was the third time she brought you lunch and didn’t immediately retreat to her desk. Or maybe it was the way her fingers brushed yours just a second too long when she handed you a container of rice, pretending not to notice the way your breath hitched. But something had shifted. Just slightly. Like the first hairline crack in glass, barely visible, but impossible to ignore once seen.

Agatha hasn’t gotten any less terrifying. She still walks with that same sharp clip of her heels, still speaks like her words are blades meant to be carefully handled. Her critique of your work is just as relentless, her standards sky-high, and her moods unpredictable. But you’ve started to see through the cracks in her armor, however faint.

There are moments now, brief, rare, and precious, where her eyes soften when they land on you. Moments when the sarcasm in her voice slips into something bordering on fondness. Still, she catches herself quickly, snapping the wall back up so fast you wonder if you imagined it.

Today, she doesn’t come to get you for lunch. You glance at the time, 12:03. A small knot forms in your chest. Maybe she’s actually swamped with work. Maybe you misread everything. You try to ignore it, focus on your screen, but nothing sticks. Every sentence you type feels hollow.

At 12:14, the door to her office opens. You don’t even look up until you hear her voice.

“Didn’t think I’d forgotten about you, did you?”

She stands in the doorway, holding two containers in one hand and a bottle of your favorite lemonade in the other. Her hair is a little messier than usual, and she looks… tense. Not angry. Just a little frayed at the edges, like she’s been holding too tightly to something.

“No,” you say quickly, rising to follow her. “Of course not.”

You’re already halfway to the couch when she speaks again, quietly. “Good.”

This time, the couch feels smaller than ever. Maybe it's the way your knees keep knocking, or the way she keeps looking at you when she thinks you're not paying attention. The food sits forgotten in your lap as you try not to drown in the silence growing between you.

Finally, she speaks, her voice low, almost hesitant.

“You’re handling this job better than I expected.”

You blink at her, surprised. Praise from Agatha Harkness is rarer than snow in August.

“Thank you,” you say, the warmth in your chest spreading like wildfire. “That… means a lot.”

She doesn’t respond right away. Her gaze drops to her food, then to the space between your knees, where hers keep brushing against yours.

“It’s not just the work ethic,” she adds, more to herself than to you. “It’s the way you—” She cuts herself off, scoffing softly. “Never mind.”

You should let it go. You know you should. But your voice comes out before you can stop it.

“No, what?”

Her eyes meet yours, and for a moment, you wish she’d just look away. There’s too much in them. Frustration, conflict, longing—buried beneath her usual edge. It’s like watching a storm hold its breath.

“You’re distracting,” she says finally, her voice rough.

That word hangs in the air like smoke.

You open your mouth, but there’s nothing to say. Your heart is pounding too hard in your ears.

Then, just like that, she stands, brushing invisible lint off her skirt.

“I need to finish reading those drafts you sent me,” she says, her voice clipped, her back already turning toward her desk.

You stay on the couch, stunned, your food untouched and cooling in your lap.

She doesn’t say another word for the rest of the day.

And yet, that night, when you finally crawl into bed and close your eyes, all you can hear is her voice echoing in your head.

You're distracting.

[pedripics]

FC BARCELONA v REAL MADRID | may 11, 2025 - post-match interviews pt. 2

"Well, I imagined maybe a more comfortable match, with fewer goals, but well, in the end it happened like that. I think we started the game very badly and well, from there on we have had the ability to come back, like we did all season and today was no exception." "Yes, I think this season there are a lot of games that we've started 0-2 losing and in the end we turned it around. I think the team has improved a lot, in that mentality of turning the results around. And well, we believe in ourselves and that's how it is."

"Well, I have a very good relationship with Rapha. He deserves the MVP award as much as anyone else. He works a lot and today has shown what he has been doing all season, which is incredible. I am happy to have him and those words from him." "Yes, it was a hard blow for us [the UCL semi final], but well, after the loss, we spoke in the dressing room and said that today is a final for us, we had to win and maintain that distance and widen the gap and well, it's been like that and now we wait for the next game to finish the job." "I think we still have to do the work we need to do, but it's a big distance, with three games to go, and well, we will try and win it at Espanyol's ground." "Hansi told us that we have a day off tomorrow, and well, people started going a bit crazy, but we have to stay calm, we still have a game left." "Whenever you win an El Clásico, I think that you should celebrate it with your family, with your friends and above all, together. How we are on the pitch and off the pitch." Any promises if you win the title? - "No, not at the moment." You're not going to shave your hair, dye it, get a tattoo? - "No, tattoos definitely won't happen" (laughs) No, I don't have and won't have any, to be honest, there are things I like to see on others, but not on me."

[makowcy]

widow

[raineandsky]

#132

tw: knives, stabbing, death

Everything is, quite literally, on a knife’s edge. Everything the villain ever wanted, everything they didn’t, is right here, in this moment.

Victory, happiness, freedom, all a few seconds away. They need this. They need to act.

“I can’t,” the villain says.

The hero is under their blade like it’s where they belong. One little flick—that’s all it would take. One flick and the villain’s worries would be over.

“You’re strong,” the hero says plainly, and the villain isn’t sure how they mean it.

They’re strong? The hero must be joking. No, the villain isn’t strong. They’re faltering, they’re second guessing. What the hero must think is great self-restraint is nothing more than cowardice.

The villain knows that their knife is trembling traitorously in their grip but they can’t find it in themself to care. Why is this so hard? Why did it have to be the hero?

The hero smiles, the confident kind that all heroes seem to do, shifting slightly to pull themself closer to the villain. The edge of the blade brushes against their neck, and the villain flinches more than the hero.

“It’s okay, [Villain],” the hero says. Their tone is bland, like they spend most Sunday afternoons under the blade of someone who supposedly wants them dead. Well, no, not supposed—the villain hates them, they do. “You can stop now.”

The hero is everything the villain despises; the agency’s abhorrent nature personified. Too cool, too nonchalant, too easy to trip and kind of fall in love with.

All the villain can find to say is that same faint, “I can’t.”

The hero slips past the villain’s blade with that stupid smile still on their face. Maybe, the villain thinks, the hero is the affectionate kind. The type to pull a villain into a hug and warp their heart into abandoning their life as a criminal. The villain hates that they want that. They’d change the world for the hero.

Warmth blossoms in their chest as the hero gets close. Then the warmth turns hot. Pain pierces the feeling like glass is buried in their heart. The villain’s own blade, tight in the hero’s grip, is hilt-deep against their chest.

“I know you can’t,” the hero says in that usual flat voice, “but I can.”

It’s hard to breathe. The hero tears the knife out, giving the villain an idle push as they study the blade. The villain meets unforgiving concrete and the hero laughs.

“I think I’ll keep this, if you don’t mind,” they say brightly. “I doubt you’ll be using it any time soon.”

The hero turns on their heel and leaves without another word. As heroes do—the villain knows that well. They should’ve known this would happen. They did, really. Villains just have a habit of ignoring common sense and flying into danger head-first.

It’s colder than the villain remembers it being. They should’ve brought their coat. The breeze bites at their face as they watch the hero’s frame recede until they’re nothing more than a memory the villain is already forgetting.

[silentgrim]

went to a job interview and all the applicants were girls all cheering each other on and giving pointers and telling each other we’re beautiful. I love women

[ace-malarky]

:o gender appointment tomorrow!

[mulders-too-large-shirt]

s2 episode 24 "our town" thoughts

this episode was quite spooky. because cannibalism is real. but something about scully about to get her head chopped off and boiled seemed more outlandish than all the aliens and the guy that kills people with his shadow or even lizard man eugene tooms!

which is strange. because those things are pretty outlandish! maybe its because it was so much scarier than even evil lizard men.

let’s jump in:

so this is an episode involving more meat. did we need more meat, after the earlier meat processing content in s2 episode 10? many are saying no. but not chris carter!

we begin at a dirt road at night. in the state of arkansas. we have an older man and a younger woman named paula in a car, which is not suspicious at all! /s

oh and now the old man choking? is this natural or did she induce it with some poison. i mean maybe he deserved it, if she did. he takes some pills, so I’m guessing it is due to natural causes. now she beckons him out to the woods. 

into the woods. she says he has to catch her. is she luring him into a Bigfoot trap? we have yet to really see Bigfoot, and maybe he’s hungry. although Bigfoot is more Pacific Northwest than Arkansas, i think.

author's note: we tested negative for bigfoot in this episode :(

oh! this man tripped and is now surrounded by people with flashlights and very cool masks. get axe murdered, fucker.

back in DC! aforementioned fucker has been gone for 10 weeks and scully thinks the higher ups are sending them on a wild goose chase. “i’m not questioning the legitimacy of the case, just their motives in assigning it to us” <- damn, very well spoken by a rightfully suspicious woman

oh, but at the scene, someone saw a fire. and mulder says the fire is “supposed to be the spirits of massacred Indians” OH...

(mentally i was like, please do not be another scary Indigenous story episode. and we did in fact get that. sighs deeply. we can make things scary without making Indigenous people the scary ones! or using the trauma of genocide as a setting for spooky time! well, i'm sure you, dear reader, know that, so i shall not preach to the choir, but i will point out that these thoughts were going through my mind)

“these are only legends, mulder”, says a dismissive scully. and why is her hair looking excellent today. I mean not that it isn’t usually but damn. shoutout to the hair and makeup team.

the place on the side of the road where he went missing had a big fire! could be a bonfire, both parties thought. until mulder remembered a documentary he saw in college...

(hehehehe mulder spent college watching documentaries <3)

! MULDER LORE REVEAL ! wow it's been a while since i've gotten to format some text like that. he watched a documentary about an insane asylum in college and it gave him nightmares.

(and this may not be super relevant to his character, but to ME, it is, so i shall note it <3)

he's got the VHS from the doc all loaded up, and presses play on a guy rambling about a fire demon!! who was found in the same spot as the fire mark!!! dun dun dunnn 

(love the implication that he either purchased his own copy of the documentary that gave him nightmares in college, or had to go rent it from the video store. both are wonderful possibilities)

cut to arkansas. mulder is on the scene holding a plastic fork from the ground. wearing his silly sunglasses. lmaooo idk why they make me laugh. what a serious gentleman.

sheriff arrives at the scene. he says the witch’s peg to ward off spirits is normal there and also that the fire mark comes from illegal trash burning. and, as an American i am aware of how Americans love an illegal trash burn. but still. suspicious.

sheriff says the missing man george was chasing women out of town. lovely sounding fellow /s

wife questioning time!! he left her years ago. oh, but tea: the day before he went missing he was going to cite major health violations in the chicken plant! hmm... a cause for murder?

mulder gives the wife his phone number. also mulder is also looking very good today. but that is an evil voice in my head that ought to be silenced.

noooo, it's chicken plant time. no thank you ma’am, i would be out in the car <3

paula from the woods at work in the plant!!! taking mystery pills. seemingly in pain??

chicken cutting cam. oh, this is not for me! 

the agents chat with the manager, who says george was trying to shut them down. and while clocked in, paula is sweating. she just gasped in front of a whole bunch of chickens and some guy with very blue eyes. she sees a human head on the chicken stand and picks it up and throws it off. shoutout to this fake decapitated head and my best friends in the prop department for making such a funny creation.

(but of course, it was a hallucination, and she really just threw a poor chicken on the floor!!! his sacrifice was in vain... gone but not forgotten)

mulder is inspecting the chicken gutting operation and i've said it before and i'll say it again: he is braver than me. 

ohh, more chicken drama: george was filing a lawsuit about “line hypnosis” and it was dismissed before he vanished! he deserved to win. is there a meat processing union? there ought to be. but he was the only one citing bad health practices, the other 3 workers said it was fine... sooo what’s the truth…

“what’s that” asks mulder, who then gets shown the feed processor, and asks “chickens feed on chickens?” <- heartbreaking realization. many of us remember where we were when learning this information. i'm sure it will stick with him forever. and i'm frankly surprised he didn't know already.

NAURRR THE SLUDGE AND BLOOD nasty nasty evil

OH plot twist: paula is holding the manager with a knife to his throat… scully telling everyone to calm down. personally i would be not calm. she said “don’t get excited” but me? experiencing an active hostage situation at my place of work? i would be excited

NOOO the sheriff shot her and she fell into the feed conveyor belt processing… thing. sheriff i KNOW you are covering something up. you will not hide from me.

SHE GETS GULPED INTO THE FEED BELT THINGY GAGGG it’s giving the jungle by upton sinclair that caused many american 8th graders to confront the corruption of the meat industry

paula had gone to the doctor about headaches… like george!!! doctor had assumed the condition was stress induced. and they did have similar symptoms. 

treated them both with codine… ain’t that a bit strong?? this man doesn't seem to be a very good doctor, tbh. i mean i don't think the guy that works at the chicken plant to sew back on fingers needs to be an expert in everything but like. codine for headaches? umm girl.

mr. chaco of chaco’s chicken was paula’s grandfather… if i was a grandfather rich off of chicken money, my grandkids would not be working the processing line, let me tell u that much!

back to the agents: these two should not be looking as good as they do in a chicken processing plant. they had to really step it up today to compensate for the horrors of the set.

chicken man lives in a mansion. further evidence of corruption. paula, i would not have had you working in such conditions if i was your grandfather. there has been a deep wrong here, i can see already.

and he’s got a big hat and is feeding his chicken corn. not other chickens, like the feed he makes in his plant... seems he is aware of the ethical issues implied in his business. also, mulder with those weird ass glasses. 

cacho is going on about the subject of chickens. and how he built this town. he sure is taking an awful lot of credit for creating a town, pretty sure that's a team effort mr. chaco. he's also going on about how he thought george was trying to tear him down. 

AUTOPSY TIME!! rare degenerative disorder in da brain of paula. and scully has only seen it one other time back in med school because you can only really find it in an autopsy. nice work, doctor! <- i just typed “nice worm 🪱” so we'll let that stay for the added sense of whimsy it provides

but despite looking like a young girl fresh out of high school, paula was born in '48?! she was 47 years old. allegedly. this is not adding up. so they go on a quest to find her birth certificate and see what the truth is.

debrief in the car. so: odds are not great that she and george had the same very rare disease

during this discussion, our duo are run off the road by a chicken truck!!!! no! oh... he drove them into a river. mulder has shifted into rescue mode as the river is red with chicken gore. i feel someone might be distracting them and trying to get the body… (this was actually not the case i was just overly suspicious)

but more chicken drama: the driver had the same symptoms as george and paula! how can this be?!

“i just came up with a sick theory, mulder” (grabs her shoulder) “ooh, I’m listening” LMAOOOO this is sososo funny to me. yeah tell me ur sick theories scully you have my full attention.

GAG!! because it is both gross and shocking. her theory: what if someone put george’s body in the feed grinder, and then since it’s a prion disease, a chicken ate it, and someone ate a chicken, and it spread to the humans!!!! AHHHH! well that would be an epidemic, because they ship chickens out across the country… she glances knowingly, implying things could be very bad 

the river is filled with bird gore from the plant BLECH... who allows this??!! please say there are some modern regulations in place to prevent this being done irl.

mulder says he wants it dragged, thinking that maybe george is in there. and the sheriff is hesitant to do this. once again, i’m onto you, sheriff. i mean, a river full of chicken gore: it would be a good place to put a dead body.

and bam! a body is found. or rather. many many many bones. many bodies. and they are still going. damn.

so, we have a ton of bones. scully can put them into 9 distinct skeletons, one of which is in fact george. i love that she can do that, put the bones into distinct skeletons. she knows it's geroge from a pin in his femur!

“all of them share one, strange detail though” “well, they seem to have lost their heads” “… well, besides that” <- LMAOOOO idk why this was so funny to me... he really thought he picked up on something but he did Not.

here's the linking detail: all the bones are smooth and buffed like they have been polished. ??? who is polishing bones? it sure isn't me, i'll tell you that much. 

george’s wife is at the scene, learning her husband's body has been found, and she is sobbing. and the sheriff says “we’ll take care of you” now what does THAT mean? because it's not really sounding like the welcoming words of a man who is going to guide his neighbor through tragedy, and instead like there is something bigger at play here...

back at the plant, the doctor is mentioning another guy coming down “with the symptoms”…. omg. so this IS a known thing from the inside. mr. chaco knows but he isn’t doing anything about it!!!!! chicken dramaaaa goes crazy 

scully at the scene of all the bones, carrying a bucket of chicken. lmao. she is braver than me, for i would have gone vegan the first moment i set foot in chicken processing land.

mulder does some digging: 87 people have disappeared in the area in 50 years! that seems... a lot? and he thinks the same person or persons were responsible. he thinks they were EATEN!! boiled in a pot.

“they used similar evidence to prove cannibalism among on the Anasazi tribe of New Mexico” okay: 1. why do you know that 2. need to look into these allegations for myself and 3. Anasazi… that is the title of the next episode!!! what could this mean!! another cannibalism episode?!

scully is very sad to say that paula could have gotten sick from eating george :( girl I’m not convinced the chicken is clean put it down NOW 

cannibalism = eternal life? follow for more crazy mulder theories!

she puts aside the chicken……. good!

mr. chaco says “he’ll handle it” and george's wife doris arrives, saying she “can’t keep lying”… she says “she did it” (!!)

OH????? she... killed her husband? that is a bold thing to admit to.

“we’re gonna take good care of you”, says mr. chaco, which raises the question: are they a cannibal cult???? is that what he means when he mentions that he “built this town”???

now what the hell is going on. <- an interjection i stand by

mulder and scully are going to the courthouse to look at the papers and all the birth records are burnt!! doris calls mulder and says he’s afraid mr. chaco will kill her… they split up…. nooooo i hate splitting up!!! i watched so much scooby doo as a kid!

GASP! a guy in a mask like we saw at the very beginning of the episode is in doris' home!!! drumbeat playing while she screams…. overall, this is very not good, i wrote, referring to the use of Indigenous imagery for this murder, and also doris being murdered in the first place

scully at the scene of the murder ft. big ass flashlight. she gets in through the side door. gun: out. trench coat: open. looks: served. diagnosis: baby girl that could kill me, and i am respectful of the fact that she has this power yet refrains from using it on me.

mulder at mr. chaco’s house. mr. chaco has some… stuff in his home. including photos with Indigenous people and also bones. having human bones in your house, and especially on display, is not a good sign of ethics in play. and a skull. Oh! it says the skull is from a tribe in New Guinea... why tf does he have that. put it back???

at the back of chaco's parlor, we see a mysterious door. mulder is busting it open.

LORD ALMIGHTY, I DID NOT THINK THERE WOULD BE HEADS INSIDE??? HELLO???

so that must be where all of the heads that mulder noticed were missing have gone. they're sewn up sort of like shrunken heads. very spooky. once again, pour one out for the props department for such a creation.

noooo chaco is in the house with scully, who was investigating the call of doris. NOOOO HE KNOCKED HER OUT!!! this seriously needs to stop happening like i'm worried about the brain damage she is experiencing.

back to mulder cam. goodness. all of these heads. 

in a field now. doctor is serving some soup. to a bunch of people. who are eating around a big bonfire. do NOT tell me scully is in that meal....

she is not. YET! but he is bringing her over to be roasted. and they ate doris! chaco is yelling about turning on each other and how they were only supposed to eat outsiders. girl you shouldn't be eating anybody last time i checked. 

man in the mask shows up with an axe. and chaco is decapitated in front of scully. who is put into the decapitation thingy next. GIRL THIS IS FUCKED UP!!!

mulder on the scene, just in time. he shoots the dude in the mask.

“you alright?” he asks, brushing her hair back after lifting her out of the decapitation machine. my good friend, i would venture to guess that she is not quite alright at the moment!!! this will take an awful lot of unpacking!!!

sigh. but the tenderness of the near death experience. coming back to life in someone's arms. yeah i'll romanticize that.

TEA!!! the sheriff was the one under the mask!!!!!! i knew he was up to no good.

wrap up: chicken place shut down. unclear how many citizens of the town ate people. 27 have become ill with prion disease. chaco’s plane was shot down in 1947, and he spent 7 months with a cannibalistic tribe, and also he was born in 1902, so he was 93 at his death- so the cannibalism really WAS extending life. and we see some more feed being scooped to the chickens as scully says his remains have yet to be found. end scene.

HUH???? what in da hell. so what are we thinking kids…?

well, i'll tell you something: turns out i am afraid of cannibal cults, no matter how outlandish they seem! i guess when you get a villain or evil situation of the week show like this, you WILL learn exactly what kind of fear pushes your buttons. i can imagine almost nothing scarier than being led to the slaughter like scully was. seems a purposeful commentary on the meat industry, especially when taken in with the other meat episode this season.

so, if i were scully, i do think i would need to take a week or so off. but she is just built different than i am.

some things bugged me here. first of all, like i mentioned, you don't need to throw in Indigenous people to make a scary story. like is the thought of a bunch of arkansas cannibals not horrific enough? the scary was there!

second, i have not been doing a kidnapping count, but i feel that scully is getting the rough of the deal here. i believe in gender equality when it comes to characters being kidnapped. like, an even 1:1 ratio. why are we denying mulder his damsel in distress arc? does anyone think about how he would feel? how nice it would be to see scully burst in with a gun and shoot the fellow that was about to cannibalize him?

still, it is rare an episode actually spooks me, so i must give credit where it is due. even if it felt a little outlandish, your girl was frightened! scully needs a vacation now. i also thoroughly laughed at the sick theories line and his funny sunglasses.

it's funny to note, but i like the episodes that are either very silly and light hearted, or incredibly angsty the best. and that may seem contradictory, but you cannot tell me that one breath and humbug may be on opposite ends of the tone spectrum, but they are both objectively Perfect. i'll have to think more on why they are the best in my opinion, but i think honestly i would watch these two read the dictionary.

[manyblinkinglights]

I can walk up and down the hallway a little, finally, but I still can’t get up and down without the walker and I absolutely cannot sit. I think all the muscles in my back seized up to protect the injury, causing the majority of my problems, and they’ve finally mostly relaxed. But that just means whatever got physically busted up is now without protection :/ so I’m just lying around like an elephant seal on its phone for Another Day

[rawbin-hsr]

I JUST GOT A CALL BACK FROM THE JOB I APPLIED TO AAAAH I’M SO EXCITED !!!! THEY’RE GONNA PUT ME IN TOMORROW ALREADY I’M SO. HAPPY. OMG.

[hiimcanadia]

Oh real quick before I log off for the night. I had a dream last night where my mom wasn't able to pick me up from somewhere so instead she asked Gayle (the Chris Flemming character, who was apparently real and friends with my mother in this dream) to pick me up instead, and the entire care ride was just Gayle aggressively yelling really good life advice at me in between cat-calling old men. It's been like a year since I last watched Gayle so I have no idea why she showed up last night but it was great to see her

[seagull-scribbles]

Mr.United States Canada Mexico Panama

[alien-girl-21]

WAOOHHHH CONGRABULATIONS CYN THATS AWESOME!!!! WHAT WAS IT ON!!!!!

TY!!! It's a case study on evolution of errors wjen using English articles in one of my blorbos (käärijä) 💕

[artnerd1123]

hmmmmmaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-

[lesbianwithchainsaws]

Once I get a job and buy a Troy and Abed in the Morning mug, that's when I think my life will be complete