#like organizing school/office supplies

[linipik]

Putting out there my Good Omens fanart collection as a  pwyw PDF full of my Ineffable Husbands fanart and perfect for getting ready for season 2!

>>> GET IT HERE <<<

[milo-is-rambling]

Thinking about my job that I don’t even officially have yet like ough daydreaming about a boring job in the printer section of an Office Depot 🥰

[mack-devereaux]

Hiii i wanna ask if ya can write something with Vince? Maybe him getting into a fight (so hot i love it) and hin hurting his wrist are something? And reader taking care of him afterwards. Plleeaassee

Vince Dunn

Omg this is my first request!! I’m so sorry it took so long! Also check out my other fic about Vince. I think they have a similar vibe. But This has no relation to that one. I had so much fun writing this. Just a reminder this is a work of fiction and my imagination, this is not based on true events. Thank you to the anon who requested!

Picture is from Pinterest, no triggers except for cursing and mentions of blood. I think that’s it! Enjoy!

When Vince first moved to Seattle he was excited. This was a brand new team and he had more opportunities to make a name for himself as one of the more aggressive defensemen in the NHL. He had always had a temper on the ice, even in his early days in high school and in the OHL, and he was good at running his mouth. He was always respectful to the medical training staff and the coaching staff, he never took his anger or frustration out on the people who helped him get back on the ice.

Did he cause the fights on purpose? Maybe.

Was he mad about being hauled into the cute medical trainers office to get patched up? Absolutely not. He enjoyed talking with y/n and getting to know her a bit better.

Did he cause fights just to see her? No, he truly has a passion for the sport, he just sometimes got a little too involved with the banter sometimes. However a perk to all this was those few minutes alone with y/n. Although she never really spoke to him much outside of work and was always very quiet he knew how passionate she was about her job. No matter what she was always so attentive to the injury and informative about what she was doing to help said injured player.

Y/n loved the energy of the home games, she typically didn’t get to travel very much with the team, only to close games, but something about the atmosphere of home games had her just buzzing with energy. Most of the time she got to watch the game from the tunnels, it was the perfect spot to see most of the game and it was easy to drag injured players back to the locker room to tend to the injuries. Tonight’s game was a home game against the Colorado Avalanche again, a team known to get the Kraken a little riled up. Just the week prior Vince had gotten himself into quite the scrum and ended up with a cut on his nose while playing against the Avalanche.

*flashback to a week prior*

Y/n was sitting in the medical room at Ball Arena, going through the medical kits organizing some of the supplies. She had heard the roar of the crowd and immediately knew there was a fight that happened. Shortly after that, the third period had ended. Hearing the players stomping down the tunnel shouting and cheering she already knew who was headed her direction.

“Vince..” y/n sighed pulling all her medical supplies back out.

“Don’t act like you aren’t happy to see me” Vince chirped at the girl.

“You’re gonna have some serious damage to your nose if you don’t stop” y/n said as she was washing her hands and throwing her gloves on “I’m surprised you don’t have a permanent scar from how many times I’ve seen it busted”.

“That just means you are doing a great job babe. I’ve got you to thank for keeping me looking good” Vince smiles.

Y/n rolled her eyes and turned around trying to hide her blush. Knowing this was the exact reason as to why she fell for him. He was just so charming. He knew exactly what to say and that’s why she could never date him. That and the fact that she technically worked for the same organization as him. Were they coworkers? No, but surely it was still frowned upon. At least that’s what she told herself anyway. As she was cleaning off the blood from his nose she caught herself admiring him. He truly was one of the most beautiful people she’s ever laid eyes on. Once the bleeding stopped she checked for other injuries, and sent him to be with the rest of the team.

“Promise me you’ll keep out of trouble for at least the next week” she called to him as he walked away.

“For you? Never.” He added with a wink.

*present*

Five minutes left in the third period and y/n had gotten to watch maybe 10 minutes total of the game. Partially because she didn’t like seeing Vince fight much, and because the players definitely kept her busy. This was probably the most bloody noses and knuckles she had tended to in her entire career. Normally the crowd goes crazy and encourages fights, and she definitely enjoyed that. But for some reason she couldn’t stomach seeing Vince getting hurt. I guess she had Cupids arrow to thank for that. After a few more minutes gloves went flying, curse words were being yelled and the crowd went wild. Reluctantly she looked over in front of the players bench and Vince had thrown a Colorado player on his back.

“Oh for fucks sake Vince” she muttered under her breath.

“You got him or do you want me to take care of him this time” the head medical trainer asked y/n chuckling and shaking his head.

Y/n looked across the ice as Vince and the Avalanche player got tossed in their respective sin bins, she sees that Vince has his helmet off and is holding his wrist.

“I think he hurt his wrist, do you see him messing with it?” y/n points to Vince.

“I’ll take a look when we get back there but I’m sure he’s fine. I think you can handle it after that” the trainer says as they walk back to the locker room.

After the game y/n was in her office waiting for Vince, it had been nearly 40 minutes since the game ended. What was taking him so long? She knew Coach had told him to stop by after their after game meetings and interviews. While she was waiting she decided to tidy up and clean a bit. As she was cleaning her desk she found the puck that Vince had signed and gave to her earlier that year.

*flashback to late last season*

Y/n was standing behind the players bench. It was the last home game for the season, then they were headed into playoffs. Looking onto the ice she watched the players warm up and interact with fans. Vince was watching y/n as he was skating in circles, getting a boost of confidence he picked up a puck and signed it with a note. Smirking he passed by and shouted “hey y/n! Catch!”

Panicking y/n shot both of her hands in front of her face as the head medical trainer caught the puck before it smacked her in the face.

“Really Dunn?!” Y/n shouted.

Vince grinned and skated off, shaking her head she looked at the puck she noticed it said “hey pretty girl” with his signature. Blushing she shoved it in her pocket before she could get scolded.

“Oh he’s so got it bad for you” the trainer said.

“Leave the chirping to the players would you” y/n muttered “besides it’s not like I can date him anyway.”

“Technically…”

“Don’t tempt me” y/n sighed “my heart can’t handle the heartbreak that comes with that one.” She continued to watch him skate around and talk to his teammates with a huge smile on his face.

*back to present*

Y/n smiled at the memory. Not knowing she wasn’t alone, because of course Vince would walk in at that very moment. Leaning up against the doorframe Vince coughed snapping her back to reality.

“My God Vince, now you choose to be quiet? You scared me” y/n shoved the puck back into the drawer.

“I’ll make sure to knock next time” he softly smiled. He totally saw that she still had the puck and it definitely boosted his ego.

“Let me see your wrist” y/n said.

“It’s fine” he muttered.

“If it’s fine let me double check then” y/n challenged.

Vince walked over and sat down on the bench in her office, while reluctantly holding his wrist out. He watched her face as she examined his wrist.

“I think if we wrap it for tonight and tomorrow you should be fine, but the swelling needs to go down significantly before you play again. I’ll clear you for practice but you have to be easy on your arm for the next few days” y/n said as she was grabbing the necessary supplies.

“Thank you for taking care of me y/n, I’m sorry for fighting” Vince whispered.

She smiled at him as she sat down and started wrapping his wrist. Knowing full well that he was watching her face closely the entire time.

“I’ll walk you to your car” Vince said.

“I’d appreciate that, thank you” y/n said as she turned back to him after putting the supplies away. With yet another boost of confidence Vince grabbed her by the waist and pulled her face to his and kissed her, she immediately kissed him back. The kiss was short and sweet. Electricity shot through her body and she felt as if she was on fire. After pulling away y/n whispered “we should go.” Neither of them saying anything as they left the arena. Vince was feeling defeated for the first time in a long time, why hadn’t she said anything? Did he over step? Did he make her uncomfortable? A million more discouraging thoughts ran through his head. Him not knowing she was in shock and on cloud nine all at once. Y/n unlocked her car and opened the door. Before she got in she turned to Vince and pulled his face to hers and slammed her lips onto his. Vince cockily smiled into he kiss and pulled her into him as he slipped his tongue into her mouth. After a few minutes they both pulled away, breathing heavy and trying to get as close as possible to each other.

“Thank you for walking me to my car Vince.”

“Let me know when you get home so I know you’re safe.”

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

[dilatorywriting]

Heroes vs. Villains : The Staff [Part 3]

Platonic GN!Reader x NRC Staff vs. RSA Staff Word Count: 2.3k

Summary: Woe to the Ramshackle Prefect, being caught up in the drama between the Disney Villains and their respective heroes. NRC Staff Version (Part 3)

ie. Detention begins, and the topic of Winter Break plans comes into question.

[PART 1] [PART 2] [PART 3] [PART 4]

The first detention went about as well as you could have hoped.

You sorted paperwork, mindlessly graded the very same pop quizzes that had nearly given Deuce an aneurism just that morning, and shined all the stupid glassware that was needed to make all the stupid potions. It was grueling. And to think—you’d been doing this shit for fun not a month ago. What had been wrong with you?

“Maybe it was the Stockholm Syndrome,” you muttered irritably under your breath.

“What?”

“Nothing, sir,” you grumbled, and went back to organizing all of your tormentor’s seemingly endless collection of bits and bobs.

Professor Crewel looked over at you, his face twisted up like he wanted to say something. But after a moment of awkward silence, he just ducked his head back down to his paperwork and carried on without saying a thing.

The next afternoon didn’t look like it was shaping up to be much better. You shined, he scribbled, and you wished for nothing more than the sweet release of death. The quiet was disconcerting. Say what you will about all the time you’d spent holed up in this office before The Incident, but ‘silence’ had never been an issue. Even Crewel’s snide little barbs would be better than this—this nothingness.

‘You’re not even worth insulting anymore,’ your brain supplied helpfully. ‘Wow. Isn’t that a trip?’

“Are you almost finished?”

You startled a bit. It was the first full sentence he’d spoken to you all day. You glanced pointedly from him, to the walls upon walls of vials, and then back.

“No, sir.”

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, like this entire situation was just all sorts of unpleasant for him. And not like, you know, he’d been the one to lock you into the school equivalent of prison labor for the next four weeks.

He closed the ledger he was working on with a pointed snap and stood from his chair with a grand swirl of his fur coat.

“You can be finished for the day,” he said, leaning forward to rifle around in the top drawer of his desk. “It’s already late, and you should start making your way back to your dorm before it gets too dark.”

You fought and won against the intense to desire to roll your eyes. The path back to Ramshackle was no easier to traverse in the black of night than it was in the bright light of the afternoon. And besides, it’s not like you were particularly worried about anything happening to you out there. The monsters at this school prowled its halls no matter the time of day. If anything, nighttime meant less potentially murderous magicians out on the loose. No one but you was stupid enough to try and go toe-to-toe with a wandering Tsunotarou.

“And take these with you.”

You startled once more as something was pressed into your hands. It was a familiar box—sleek and artfully colored with matte backgrounds and swirls of golden lettering etched across its face. These were the fancy cookies.

Thankfully, the spite in your belly was enough to gobble up whatever lingering love you had for the treats. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself when you passed them back to Professor Crewel with a tight smile.

“Thank you,” you said, pointedly reaching into your own backpack to procure a nearly wrapped pouch of Annie’s homemade pastries. “But I’m all set.”

His dark eyes lingered on your stash of chocolate chip cookies in a way that made you think he was going to demand you throw them away, and maybe start ranting hypocritically about the dangers of bringing food of any kind into an alchemical lab. His jaw ticked and you had the distinct impression that he was grinding his teeth.

Instead, Professor Crewel just sighed and returned the treats to his desk drawer.

“Of course,” he huffed, looking a bit dejected, and collapsed back into his chair without his usual elegance. Huh. Maybe you’d just foiled his plans to try and poison you or something. “Good evening, Prefect.”

The next afternoon, he did not mention the cookies. However, on your way out the door at the end of the night, you noticed that he’d placed the box near the coatrack—not quite on top of your belongings, but close enough.  

And then it was there again the night after that.

And then again, and again.

.

.

“How’s the internment going?”

You heard a dull thwack and some angry shushing. Mister Rogerson’s laughter was muffled through the phone’s speaker, and you had a feeling that Annie had just tried to beat him with her shoe.

“It’s alright,” you snickered into your hand. “Prison is prison.”

“You know,” Mister Rogerson huffed. “I still say all of this is horribly unfair.”

You shrugged, and then remembered he couldn’t very well see that through a phone call, and sighed. “It could be worse.”

“Could it?” he asked, a clear frown in his voice.

You dutifully did not mention anything about Overblots and just sighed again. “I mean, probably.”

There was a bit of a scuffle on the other end and you heard little snippets of Annie’s kind trill. There was more laughter. It sounded warm—cozy. You glanced around at the grey, soot-stained walls of Ramshackle and tried not to feel sorry for yourself. Grim rolled over in his sleep and burrowed into your hip with a contented little mewl, which did help a bit.

“Annie wants to know if you got her care package,” Mister Rogerson said after a moment, sounding a bit like he’d gotten the wind knocked out of him. “And if you’ve thought at all about our offer to host you over the winter holidays.”

“I did, thank you,” you smiled. “It was all delicious.”

“And the break?” he asked after a moment.

“Crowley sent me some angry letter about taking care of the fairies that live in the kitchen stoves,” you said. “So I’ll have to see about that.”

“Just keep it in mind,” Mister Rogerson pressed, a bit of concern slipping into his otherwise laidback drawl. “Please?”

“Okay,” you smiled, feeling like you’d managed to steal a bit of that bubbly glow of theirs and tuck it away tight enough that even the chilly shadows of your new home wouldn’t be able to taint it. “I will.”

.

.

“Take care of the fairies in the boiler?”

“Yes,” said Crowley, with deadpan sincerity.

The other members of the staff looked on in silence—a lovely range of ‘fed up’ to ‘outright contempt’ twisting their faces.

“Well I thought it was an excellent idea,” he huffed, crossing his arms petulantly over his chest.

“No wonder this child hates you,” Trein hissed under his breath and worked his fingers into his temples like maybe if he drilled hard enough he could kill the Crowley-Induced-Migraine before it began.

The Old Crow gasped.

“How dare you—”

“And you,” Trein interrupted, turning on Crewel with a sneer. “What exactly are you trying to accomplish with any of this, Divus? An entire month’s worth of disciplinary action for one infarction? I thought you were better than, well,” a pointed glower at the raving Headmaster who was nearly collapsed in tears before them, “that.”

Crewel’s lips curled into a bitter snarl, but the aging historian before him was far from cowed.

“That’s none of your concern,” he snapped. “This is a matter between the Prefect and I, and their willful disobedience when it comes to following the rules of this institution.”

“Is that so,” Trein hummed, arching a brow in obvious skepticism. “But then again, what would I know anything about raising unruly children? I only have two lovely, successful, daughters of my own. Remind me, when was the last time you allotted even an ounce of affection to anything that wasn’t one of your purebred mongrels? Or your own ego?”

Crewel stepped forward with a scowl that was more a restrained baring of teeth.

“That has nothing to do with anything,” he sneered.

“Say what you will,” Mozus Trein tutted, and glared down his nose at the pair of them—Crewel with his poorly cloaked rage and Crowley who still refused to stop wailing about the injustices of it all. “But both of my children will be coming home for the holidays. Voluntarily.”

“Oooh,” Sam trilled, uncurling himself from the shadows for the first time all afternoon. “Get ‘em, Mozus.”

.

.

You ended up staying at Ramshackle over the break, if only because you couldn’t tell at this point if ‘oven fairies’ were a real thing, and if they were and they did starve, you’d feel absolutely terrible. Your rap sheet in this word was already a mile long—you didn’t need to add homicide to the list.

And then, of course, you ended up being kidnapped by Jamil and his smooth-talking self not a day in, so your act of goodwill really was all for naught.

You paced around your luxurious little guestroom cell, phone in hand. There wasn’t a lot of charge left on it, but you definitely had enough to make a call or two. Mister Rogerson would come help you, you knew he would. But… the problem was that you were kind of becoming a Blot expert at this point, and from the looks of things, Jamil Viper was about to go apeshit and melt into Enraged Ink Monster Number Four. Sure, the guy may have kidnapped you. But he also made great curry, and really didn’t seem that bad underneath it all. Just... quiet. And fed up with living a life of forced servitude and mediocrity. Which, y’know, totally fair.

You paced and paced.

“They have to be reported to the proper authorities,” Mister Rogerson had said. “And dealt with accordingly.”

“They’d be taken away?” you’d whispered.

“I know it sounds scary, kiddo. But that’s what we have to do to keep everyone as safe as we can.”

You grit your teeth and called Ace and Deuce instead.

They were immediately no help at all and Jamil ended up Overblotting anyways.

“Y’know,” Grim grouched, shivering into your side after Evil Jamil had yeeted you off into The Unknown and Freezing Corners of Sandy Hell. “You really should start charging for these things. We could probably make a lot of money or something.”

“That’s a great idea,” Azul nodded along, and you wanted to beat the shit out of them both.

In the end, you saved the day. As usual.

Jamil was de-inked. He was still a miserable wad of repressed hatred, but at least he was being open about it now. Everyone was alive. Azul promised to only bill you his usual rate for assistance rather than the holiday upcharge. Kalim held a feast, as per usual. And Ace and Deuce showed up at the tail end of it all, which was incredibly sweet of them and also on track with their usual brand of stupidity.

Everything had turned out great!

Except…

“How was your break?” Mister Rogerson asked. “We missed you over here!”

“It was great,” you lied, images of black tar running from narrowed eyes and the suffocating sensation of dark magic flooding your throat. “It was great.”

.

.

You walked into detention on Monday afternoon feeling like shit warmed over. And looking like it too, you would guess, seeing the way Crewel’s eyebrows shot all the way up his forehead.

You stayed silent throughout the whole thing, quietly sorting bottles and blends, and trying to keep your mind off the fact that you had very nearly died. Again. You could feel Crewel’s eyes on you throughout the entire ordeal, tracking you in a way that reminded you of someone watching a car crash that they just couldn’t quite force themselves to look away from.

“Prefect,” he called as your were half-way through shrugging on your coat at the end of the evening.

“Yes, sir?” you sighed, not even bothering to look up from the floor.

He was silent for one moment, two, three.

“…Get some rest tonight,” he ordered. It sounded like a cop out—like he’d wanted to say something else but hadn’t had the words for it.

You sighed again, bone deep and weary. “Yes, sir.”

.

.

You did not, in fact, rest that night. A horrible cocktail of nightmares tugged at your brain from dusk ‘til dawn, and you woke up feeling worse than you had when you’d gone to sleep.

You barely forced yourself to go to detention, and only because you knew it would only get worse if you tried to skip out. However, when the door to Crewel’s office creaked open, you were not met by a head of neatly dyed black-and-white hair, but a yowling mass of flying fur and limbs that immediately sent you sprawling to the floor.

Jasper and Badun yelped and cried in the ways that all excited dogs cry, and laved your face with so many kisses you couldn’t have counted them even if you tried. Your hands went into their soft scruffs on instinct, and you had to fight valiantly not to burst into tears.

There was a hand at your back then, urging you towards the comfy, plush, chair that you’d once called yours. You plopped gracelessly against the opulent cushions, and the pair of delighted dogs quickly bounded up to join you—squishing their too-large bodies into your lap and across the armrests. The duo buried their noses into your shoulder, your hip, any nook and cranny they could reach. And you felt warm for the first time since the holidays.

When you woke up later (hours? Days? You couldn’t tell), you and Jasper and Badun were all still bundled together in that chair—the three of you tucked in gently beneath the soft furs of a very familiar black and white coat.

.

.

TAG LIST [CLOSED]

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[goldfades]

MANAGERS OFFICE: (I want to hear your individual headcannons on this so plz anyone feel free to add on)

First off, girly has snacks EVERYWHERE, so many cabinets and drawers and secret spaces with snacks in it. Something tells me the manager likes gummy and sour candies so there's lots of those.

Pr packages from brands, at one point her office was overflowing with boxes

She has one of those type writer keyboards and the girls will just be in her office chilling and relaxing/falling asleep to the keyboard clacks

Manager has a keyboard collection on the wall with different keyboards and keycaps.

Diffuserssss everywhere, the moment you walk into her office you're just hit with a wave of calm.

Baby also has candles lit and things like plants and eucalyptus.

Fluffy blankets!!!!

Comfiest couch and bean bags.

Big TV facing her desk (the girls 100% hooked up their consoles to it)

Manager also has a wii so they'll play wii sports, wii sports resorts, mario kart, and any just dance game

(Of course they're getting competitive at the basketball game on wii sports resorts)

Extra clothes for both her and the team, sometimes she just doesn't feel like going home to change, or she has a late night.

Organized as HELL, nothing is out of place and if something is she's gonna lose it. She literally needs to be organized she's the manager, assistant coach, photographer, & the media manager. If she's not organized she's not gonna have a good time.

She's an artist so she has some of her paintings/drawings, clay figures, origami just everywhere around her office. She also has the art things that old students have made her as well.

PICTURE WALL, it gets more and more full by the day.

Bookshelf that she has both hers and books for the girls

Adding onto that, next to Paige, Ice, KK, & Nika. Azzi is in her office the most just relaxing or reading. Manager always gets new books for Azzi to read or books Azzi has been talking about. They just sit in comfortable silence.

Manager's office is placed where she can see the sunset and sunrise sooo

The SKY PICTURES

OH OMG and the GOLDEN HOUR PICTURES????? I'm gonna die

I can go on and on about her office pictures alone, girly can POSE!... PHOTOSHOOT! POSE POSE

The tiktoks tooo....... don't get me started

Speaking of the windowww

Rainy days in her office must be heavnly.

The rain hitting the window (the girls watching the raindrops race <3), the candles and diffuser doing their thing, tea brewing, lofi playing in the background.

She has a fluffy ass carpet that the girls lay on.

manager has appliances in her office backroom, tea kettle, air fryer, microwave, yeah-

Let's say manager takes her pet to school (it's either take your pet to work day or she has a service animal) baby is laying on that carpet and sunbathing

Fidget toys

Manager has that big ass Snorlax beanbag

The girls always getting her new candles and essential oils <3

She has a mini fridge that she fills with drinks.

The backroom has an even bigger fridge.

Manager collects minifigures from a series and puts them on a shelf

She has suncatchers everywhere

https://i.pinimg.com/564x/4e/8a/17/4e8a1738f067a8f4d18147cf08e45aae.jpg

^ like that :b

Led lights (either the strips or the lamps)

Bomb ass computer set up, I think she has multiple computers and a big ass desk

Perfume shelf with her favorite scents

She's always going to office supply stores cuz she's always running out

Manager journals and has a shit ton of stationary items for it like pens, stickers, washi tape, etc.

She keeps her space C L E A N, and WILL scold anyone who fucks it up

Something tells me she's one of those people that hate shoes in her office, like she has slippers she makes people put on or they take off their shoes, keep their socks on and put them next to the door before they enter.

All the pain medication, go to her for it, it's in her drawer.

All of the teams comfort snacks and items are in her office in case they're overstimulated/ need a break.

Makeup drawer with a little mirror incase she needs a touch up.

Her lunches are amaaazing, she kinda had to start bringing extra cuz the team

Manager has little art projects sometimes, like those DIY wisteria flowers you hand from the ceiling or that cloud LED light thing where you put cotton over the led light strips and it looks like electricity.

But they buy her fast food so she doesn't mind,,,,,too much

"KK get the FUCK OUTTA MY PASTA GIRL!"

Since manager sucks with her phone, especially when she's locked in. The girls got her a LoveNote box where the heart spins everytime she gets a message, and they're just reminders from the girls or other silly messages.

The most common one being "You better be home in 15 minutes or we're gonna drag you out."

To be honest, if I were the manager, I wouldn't want to leave my office either, working or not.

-🐹

this is. a damn masterpiece CAUSE YES

baby girl is soooo damn organized and the whole food thing is so real, they're eating her lunch and she's just like... "but my pasta..." and they're like WE NEED THE CARBS!!!!!!!!!

if i was manager i'd never wanna leave either CAUSE IT SOUNDS... AMAZING HOLY COW

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

It ain't over 'til the Old Crow sings.

This is the concluding story to go along with the Two Ravens at the Writing Desk blog event! Please note, I was not able to respond to all interaction requests, as many were submitted after the period of acceptance and/or disregarded other event rules.)

Does Two of us make a Murder of Crows? … Or an Unkindness of Ravens?

The Newspaper Club's office was a hub of activity. When its door was cracked open, the smell of fresh paper and ink would greet visitors. The murmurs of concentration and furious keyboard clacking of its members, the organization's calling card.

Raven was fond of it.

She tended to skitter on the outskirts of the club, observing as students drifted in and out, sometimes lugging supplies or equipment with them. Too shy to ask if she could pitch in, too scandalized at the thought of the boys staring at her if she entered.

And so she remained, watching.

Raven peered around her secretive corner. Today, there was a cluster of club members outside the office, caught up in a heated debate. One of them--the leader?--had a thick packet in hand and a frown on his face.

"We can't print this," he was saying, waving the papers around.

"If we don't, he'll be on our asses," protested another member. "Let's just suck it up and send it into the printing press."

"Where's your journalistic integrity, man?!" a third demanded.

"We've put out crappier stuff before," a fourth shrugged. "Remember that article about the seven greatest unsolved mysteries on NRC campus? As if most of us don't already know."

"It's not the same thing," the leader shot back. "That was one piece. This is an entire issue. You really want to flush down our rep?!"

Oh dear, it looks like they've run into some sort of trouble. I wonder what's wrong...? Raven leaned a little closer, cupping an ear.

"What are we going to do" The club leader worriedly paced around. "We don't have much time before the deadline comes up on us... Oh, hmm?"

He cocked his head, noticing a flicker of movement around the corner. "Is that...?"

Raven startled. I've been spotted!

"Excuse me!" To her horror, the club leader approached and called out to her. "You are... the headmaster's something-or-other, right? Someone who can speak to him on our behalf."

"Er, yes. I-I suppose that's true." She tried to control her nerves by smoothing out her skirt, but found herself anxiously wringing the hem of it.

"Great! See, the headmaster proposed running a special edition in the campuswide newspaper. In honor of NRC's founding month, he said," the club leader explained. "Front to back, the whole works. The only problem is... well, see for yourself."

He offered his packet. It was about the width of a modest novel and bulged with additional sticky notes and photographs shoved inside of the stack.

One glimpse at the cover page, and Raven instantly understood what was happening.

Oh, Uncle. You just can't stay out of trouble, can you?

"You wanted the school newspaper to have a Crowley-themed edition for March... Have you gone mad?!"

"I thought it would be an earnest and approachable way for the student body to get to know their headmaster," Crowley faintly defended himself. "And you did tell me to pen some writing by my own hand. Does it not make sense to publish those works in a publicly accessible source?"

Raven held her head in her hands. A migraine was coming on, steady but piercing.

"Please do not impose your agenda on a student-run organization. It is meant to be a forum that promotes freedom of expression, not for personal vanity projects!!

"There are other avenues you could use for publications if you want an 'earnest and approachable' image. For example..." She produced her phone, pulling up Magicam via an app. Personal blogs, social media accounts... There are many other places.

"Oh." Crowley cupped his chin. "I was not aware."

"Many students are on Magicam, so if you want to be relatable this may be a good starting point. Perhaps it's not the best for posting written works, but surely you could take pictures of your daily activities and briefly caption them."

"Well, why didn't you say so sooner? Nothing could be simpler, my dear niece!" The headmaster beamed, displaying his pointed, pearly canines.

“I wish you’d explored these options first,” she sighed. “Then we could have avoided this almost-disaster altogether.”

Her guardian was already preoccupied with his own phone now. Typing in information, fishing up the most photogenic pictures from his album to slap on. A few minutes into setting up his account, Crowley paused. He eyed his child the same way a hawk might eye a scurrying field mouse.

“… What is it now?” Raven asked, dreading the worst.

“Oh, I was just thinking about what my first post should be. Something that says a lot about me and where my values lie. I know exactly what to use: a family photo!"

She raised a brow.

Crowley shoved the rejected proposal packet back into his niece's hands. He then shuffled next to her, holding his phone out--the camera, flipped--and made a peace sign with the other.

A bolt of panicked realization raced through her. "Uncle... you don't mean--"

"Fufufu. Say 'cheese', Raven-kun!"

CLICK!

The headmaster's first post would go up around midnight. Under the picture of a jovial crow and a befuddled raven was a very telling statement.

So glad to have such bright young minds steering the way to the future~ Proud to be the headmaster of NRC 🐦‍⬛

[ltwharfy]

"The Amazing Rudy" and the Evolution of Rudy and Louise's Friendship (Long Post)

Rewatching "The Amazing Rudy" last night made me feel like I finally want to write a little (using the term loosely) analysis about why I love the final act of that story so much. (I thought about doing this during Roudise Week but was too busy with fics.) I think the ending of that story is so wonderful not just because it is sweet in itself but because it reflects one of the things that I love about Rudy and Louise's friendship- that it has grown and evolved over the course of the show.

A lot of stories begin with characters who are always friends, the origins of the friendships are unexplored or pretty simple ("they grew up next door to each other" etc.). Or you get stories where the characters go through one adventure together and are suddenly BFFs. Rudy and Louise's friendship isn't like either of those.

It seems pretty clear that the events of "Carpe Museum" are the first time they've interacted much- but they don't immediately become besties after it. In Rudy's next two speaking appearances ("The Unnatural" and "Bob and Deliver") he doesn't interact with Louise at all. And when the Belchers enter the juice caboose in "The Kids Rob A Train", Rudy introduces them to Beanbag by saying he knows them from school- not that they are his friends. And there are some moments in that episode that I think are really important for their friendship- in particular, the moment when Rudy tries to get Louise to give him the bag full of candy through the train window and she's convinced he'll take it and ditch her, and the moment at the end with Rudy's fake severe allergic reaction- and Louise's panicked response.

But I'm not interested in going through every moment in their friendship. (I mean, I am. Absolutely. But not in this particular post.) What I think is really interesting about Act 3 of "The Amazing Rudy" is looking at in relation to the two episodes where conflict between Louise and Rudy plays a big role- "House of 1,000 Bounces" and "Bridge Over Troubled Rudy". Looking at those episodes, you can see Louise learning how to better read and respond to her friend's emotions.

In "House of 1,000 Bounces", Louise leads the rest of the party guests in stealing the bounce house from Dahlia. Rudy mentions twice that he'd be happy just to do the spoon puppets, but nobody listens to him. And then he blows up at them in Ranger Jail. (And, I think it is interesting to note that he is not just mad at Louise, but at all his friends- "I didn't want to steal that bounce house, but none of you would listen!") Louise tries to make things right by organizing the play with office supplies- and Rudy thanks her for that. But she never apologizes to him for not listening to him earlier- and it seems like maybe she never even noticed he was unhappy until he blew up at her.

At the beginning of "Bridge Over Troubled Rudy", Rudy communicates pretty clearly to Louise that he's feeling stressed because he isn't going to be able to return to his dad's for two weeks; Louise acknowledges that, but then gets caught up in her excitement over the Blaster Bridge, leading to Rudy getting upset, her calling him a weenie, and him asking her to leave. It's pretty clear that Louise recognizes right off the bat that she screwed up- she's taken aback when he asks her to leave, and then there's the whole bit while walking back with Tina and Gene where she decides she can fix things (not that she can yet acknowledge that things need fixing) by moving the bridge. At the end of the episode when they are blowing up the bridge, Louise finally says the thing that she couldn't say earlier in the episode or in "House of 1,000 Bounces": "Yeah, well, I'm sorry I kept pushing you when you were stressed out. And I'm sorry I called you a weenie...And I'm sorry, I didn't just say sorry right away. I'm not great at that, maybe. And I'm glad we're friends." Admitting that she is not great at apologizing right away- or generally acknowledging others' feelings and when she's hurt them- is a big step for Louise.

I know some fans are kind of tired of "Louise learns a lesson" stories, of which "Bridge Over Troubled Rudy" is certainly one, but I don't mind them, if they are actually entertaining and if the lesson stays learned. After all, if a show is going to be on the air for over a decade, why not let the characters have some growth and development?

Act 3 of "The Amazing Rudy" shows that Louise did learn a lesson from "House of 1,000 Bounces" and "Bridge Over Troubled Rudy". In "The Amazing Rudy", without Rudy saying anything specific directly to her, Louise alone among the Belchers realizes just how stressed out Rudy is and why. There is some really great, subtle writing, voice acting, and especially animation, that shows that Louise understands that something is troubling Rudy more than he is willing to admit. After he slips up and talks about the food he ordered, you can hear her suspicion and concern when she asks: "What you ordered?" Then, in Act 3, when Bob is getting ready to drive Rudy back to the restaurant, you can see that Louise is paying attention to Rudy, keeping her eyes on him the whole time, while not saying anything until she proposes her idea about walking back to the restaurant with him. She is the only one of the Belchers to recognize what is truly bothering Rudy- which he may not even have been able to articulate himself: that he feels lonely.

Bob and Linda are clearly (and reasonably) looking at Rudy's situation from a concerned parent's perspective: everything will be okay if Rudy is back with his parents who are worried about him. in Act 3, Tina seems to be very much sitting at the adults' table (metaphorically)- worrying about Vicki's pants and if Bob has his keys. Gene's focus is primarily on getting back to his baked potato lasagna. None of this is to understate how kind the other Belchers are to Rudy in the episode- but at that moment, none of them are as focused on him as Louise is.

In "The Amazing Rudy" neither Rudy, nor any other character, says that he feels lonely or isolated- but its clear from the episode that that is one of his real sources of sadness in that story. He is a kid surrounded by adults who are kind of focused on their own stuff- the scene where they are waiting for their table is the best visual illustration of this but their are others- for example, the multiple conversations where he is in the backseat and his dad is in the front. And then when his parents and their partners are literally on the same level as him- when they are all sitting down for dinner, he feels that he has to be center of attention to make the situation less awkward. He has to perform as The Amazing Rudy (or Rudy the Illusionary Visionary).

What Rudy really needs throughout the story is a friend- and Louise recognizes this without him having to say it. And she not only recognizes the cause of his pain- she comes up with a way to address it, by going back to the restaurant with him.

From "House of 1,000 Bounces" to "The Amazing Rudy", Louise goes from ignoring-and perhaps not even noticing- that Rudy is upset because she took over his birthday party with her bounce house scheme to recognizing and coming up with a plan to address a pain Rudy is feeling that he does not (perhaps cannot) even articulate. And, to me, this doesn't seem unrealistic or out of the blue. Rather, it seems like a logical growth of their friendship, building on "Bridge Over Troubled Rudy", as well as other episodes, with plots or subplots about their friendship that I haven't really talked about ("The Hawkening"; "Bob Actually", among others) and other non-Rudy-focused episodes that show how Louise is developing to be a more emotionally aware person ("Flu-ouise", "Thelma and Louise Except Thelma is Linda", "Prank You For Being A Friend". etc.).

Rudy and Louise's friendship is not the focus of "Bob's Burgers". Not even close. I did the math once, and I think Rudy's in just over 10% of the show's episodes. But I still think that, with Rudy and Louise, the show has done one of the best jobs of developing a friendship on television- from classmates who didn't really know each other, to friends who are still learning about each other and figuring out how to communicate, to friends who can pickup on each other's nonverbal cues and know just the right thing to do.

And I love that.

(P.S.: Someday, I will be able to think about this episode without tearing up. That day is not today.)

[merakiui]

[vii.] ᵏⁱˢᵐᵉᵗ ᵏⁱˢˢ

serial killer!jade leech x female!reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, brief mentions of death/murder chapter vi│chapter vii (you are here)│chapter viii

Today’s Schedule: Breakfast at 8. Supply shopping from 9 until 10. Read the next two chapters in Criminal Law and Logistics from 11 until 12. Take notes. Lunch at half past 12. (At some point, organize materials for school within the next hour. Arrange a story regarding the internship before calling Mother. Free time between the hours of 1 to 5 (possible outing with (Name)?). Begin dinner at a quarter past 6. Bathe by 7 and prepare for bed by 9 (10 at the latest). 

Riddle peers at the white notebook in his lap with a disappointed frown. It’s a simple life planner with vermillion carnations stenciled on the front like floral bloodstains. Inside, the pristine, cream-colored pages are blotted with black ink. He’s crossed out and corrected a few lines, adding notes when necessary—keep empty parcels for Rosa’s maze or forward that new recipe to Trey—and for all of the unsuspecting fastballs life hurls at him he has never once strayed too far from his carefully crafted schedules. Never once…until today, that is. 

“Two hours,” he mumbles, his blank stare fixed on the police station sitting beyond the confines of his car.

With the sun positioned so high in the pastel sky, nearly at its peak with midday summer heat, he concludes that he has already wasted his morning away, foregoing shopping and studying in favor of talking to the authorities.

And for good reason, he reminds himself, a balm intended to soothe the irritating sting brought on by the disturbance. This is important. It’s worth the interruption.

He could fret over it, huff and puff like a dragon readying to spew wicked flames, but doing so will get him nowhere. It will not return the hours he’s lost, nor will it bring him any closer to a fraction of the truth regarding your sudden, untimely disappearance. He resolves, while chewing restlessly on his pen cap, that it’s best to remain composed in situations like the one he’s found himself in. 

Calm and objective, he thinks, scribbling over the time slots he had marked at the beginning of the week, so certain nothing would interfere with his schedule. There are far greater things at stake than missing a day’s worth of plans. 

He leans back in his seat, humming thoughtfully. The past two hours must have gone by in a blur, for he feels weightlessly detached, as if surfing upon a smooth wave, led along by some other force that is not his own internal compass. It’s been a while since he’s felt this way. Often, when his mother would lecture him about the many high expectations she had for him, he would retreat into the corners of his mind, safely content with tuning out her howls of hatred. This response came naturally with each passing year, a necessary safety net that caught him before he could fall. Using this method, everything else that came with her also became easier to stomach. Like the bland, too-healthy meals he’d learned to choke down as if they were not-so-fine wines matured with delusion. An acquired taste, some might say, but even with that optimistic outlook Riddle would never wish flavorless foods on his worst enemy. 

The officer who interviewed him was the same officer who met him at the beach the night he stumbled upon the body with you. In fact, he recognized Riddle as soon as he stepped into the room, a notebook in hand and a water bottle in the other. He’d set it on the desk, offered his hand to him (he’d taken it hastily, and for some reason he wondered if his nerves would make him look guilty), and then the officer pulled his chair towards Riddle, situated away from the desk that separated them like a cavernous pit. Riddle knew it was goodwill—to put his fears to rest and build rapport like it was a glass house, perfectly transparent so that it would display every crystalline truth. 

“Back again,” he said after introducing himself as Officer Rayne. Briefly, Riddle pondered how one might spell that surname—R-A-I-N or R-A-Y-N-E? Perhaps even R-E-I-G-N or R-E-I-N? “Any more visits and you might become one of us.” 

He didn’t understand the joke—was it intended to be humorous, or was it meant to lessen the tension that blanketed the atmosphere?—so he didn’t laugh. But he did produce an awkward smile, shrugging dumbly. Sitting before an officer in uniform, not restrained or reprimanded in any way, felt eerily forbidden. Every infraction Riddle had ever committed weighed heavy in his chest like a pile of stones, each one gradually sinking into the trenches of his stomach, and he was nearly on the verge of admitting every misdeed in a messy tangle of a rant. He swallowed thoughts of his most recent and longest crime to date and, still feeling like a timid boy who knew nothing of the real world, looked at Officer Rayne. 

He was going to say something—have you found any information regarding (Name)’s whereabouts?—but the question felt foolish. They wouldn’t know when they haven’t even begun looking. Instead, he clamped his mouth shut with a sigh, soothed with the knowledge that they would begin a proper investigation soon.

Luckily, Officer Rayne filled the awkward silence. “I hope it was okay for me to catch ya while you were making your report. Been meaning to ask a little more about the body, but I suspect that’s not why you came here today.” 

‘Catch ya’ and ‘suspect.’ Using those words while I’m completely innocent… Now that was a little funny, morbidly so, and he almost smiled at the irony. 

Riddle nodded and, his apprehensions at a low simmer, asked, “Did you…learn more about the body?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” 

He’s doing that thing, he thought, unimpressed. Being intentionally vague. Does he think I’m untrustworthy? 

“Well, you’re correct. I wasn’t here for the body and I’ve already told you everything I know, so I can’t answer any more questions regarding that matter.” He allowed the previous topic to roll off his back like water, feigning nonchalance—but asking that question made it seem otherwise—and felt himself slip over the edge of consciousness, words coming far too easy this time. “It’s been more than twenty-four hours since I’ve heard from my friend. Today marks the fourth day of no contact. I’m worried something’s happened.”

Officer Rayne clicked his pen, put it to paper, and said, “I take it you’re willing to fill me in on the details, then?”

“More than willing.” 

As if the thread of sentience had reached its fraying point, it snapped and with it Riddle fell into that empty void he’d cherished so much in his youth, his body entirely there, but his mind and soul elsewhere. Vacant and distant. Packaged in a neat box and ready to be unwrapped at the slightest shove into an environment that was far more comfortable and colorful than the dull, dismal interview room.

When he’d passed the lady at the desk—the one he’d given such a hard time before and the one who’d sat through the filing process—she nodded her farewell. Only then, when Riddle stepped into the blinding bright of the outdoors, did he return to his body.

He stares at the list he’s created in his agenda, surfacing from the momentary rumination, his bottom lip between his teeth. 

Important Information to Consider

(Name) and her temperament leading up to the disappearance.

(Name)’s history with disappearances. (Did she run away again? Spontaneous vacation?)

Our connection as friends.

Why I moved to the city. 

How long I’ve been in the city. 

What I was doing the day of (Name)’s disappearance.

What (Name) was doing the day of the disappearance.

The last time I talked to her. (phone call on Tuesday morning)

The body under the boardwalk.

The Devil’s Delight. 

Other connections (Cater, neighbor, glasses-wearing fellow/potential partner, other coworkers from previous and current jobs, friends from university?)

What the above were doing the day of the disappearance.

????

I should’ve paid closer attention, he thinks woefully. I shouldn’t have shut off like that. 

The tip of his pen waltzes circles around the question marks. “Focus,” he whispers, glaring at the page as if doing so will cause a helpful clue to materialize.

I remember telling him her phone is still on because every time I’ve called it rings and rings before going to voicemail. It’s possible they can trace it…or something tech-related like that.

Riddle sets the pen down to run a hand through crimson locks, heaving an exhausted groan. This is, by far, the worst puzzle he has ever had the displeasure of piecing together. It would be tolerable if the image he’s trying to assemble wasn’t so uncertain and frightening, shrouded in a gloom that may spiral to depths he hasn’t even considered. This puzzle doesn’t even come with a box, so he can’t possibly follow along with the portrait either. He’s working from scratch.

It’s not a complex landscape puzzle. Don’t treat it like one, he thinks, shaking his head, strands of hair falling between his fingers. Although if it was, I’d know exactly where everything goes and in what order it should be arranged. But this has all sorts of weird pieces. A mutilated corpse missing vital organs. A murder investigation. Whatever information Cater’s withholding. The incident reports. A missing person. What am I not seeing?

He skims his list once more until he reaches the sixth bullet point. At the time, he had only called to find solace in your voice, as you were the only one who could sympathize with the horrors that had swiftly descended the night prior. It did a world of good to talk as if nothing had ever dissolved your friendship—as if all that had transpired in the Rose Kingdom long ago never drove that troublesome wedge between the both of you.

But he’s matured a considerable amount since then, and so have you. Adults can be civil (most of the time). He can be civil (usually). And if it weren’t for that tell-tale edge in his voice he would have seemed flawlessly unruffled and he could have conversed naturally—or as naturally as one possibly could after being kept awake with spine-chilling dreams of a dead man. Saturday was supposed to be the day in which you would show him around the city, get him acquainted with your favorite haunts, and bake a strawberry tart in the comforts of your apartment together.

Together. As old friends. 

Today is that day, but you aren’t sitting beside him in the passenger seat, rattling off locations and directions while he agonizes over which way to go: “Is it left or right, (Name)? Stop laughing and be clear!” he’d gripe, his hands curled on the steering wheel, and everything would be normal. Instead, he sits alone in an empty vehicle, his planner in his lap, pen at his lips, and is left to sift through what were once mundane, unimportant recollections. Everything, even the slightest shift in mannerism, matters now that the circumstances have changed. 

I should’ve just agreed to come over that day. Then none of this would have ever happened. If I wasn’t so stubborn… If I wasn’t so scared… He shakes his head. No, that’s not it. Regardless of what I could’ve done then, it might not have had a significant impact. (Name) was already busy, so we would’ve had to part ways eventually. She had something to do when I called… A run. Right, she invited me to go on a run because she exercises.

He’s halfway through writing this fact when his hand halts, pen poised on the page.

“The run,” he whispers, as if it’s some terrible revelation. “Great Seven… The run!”

It occurs to him in a flash. You suggested he accompany you and he had declined as politely as he could, and then you offered he could walk as an alternative because, in your exact words, “Azul does that sometimes.”

Riddle hastily adds something else to the list in his agenda, perfect cursive unraveling with the frantic, jerky motions of his hand. 

I wasn’t the last one to talk to her and neither was Cater. He even said she had gone on a dinner date the night prior to her disappearance, and he was gratingly evasive when I pried for more details. Following that logic, if she didn’t voluntarily disappear, the one she met for dinner would be my top suspect. Either them, or her running friend. This Azul fellow…

There’s only one Azul he knows.

Riddle fumbles with his phone, hands trembling as theories swell like a rising tide.

He wouldn’t, he thinks, but then he hesitates. Would he?

It’s been ages since he’s communicated with most of his peers from Night Raven College. In fact, he’s really only kept in touch with Trey and Cater over the years. Deuce often sends him a message every month or so to check in or to discuss and exchange career advice, but other than that everyone else has gone their separate ways, linked only by the sticky, near-invisible strands of social media. Riddle doesn’t use his. Ever. It still has the posts he made to mend Cater’s abysmal studying regimen, and if it was capable of accumulating physical age it would certainly have its fair share of dust and cobwebs by now. As he scrolls through the accounts of those he’s following, grey eyes roving usernames and profile pictures, he considers the best and the worst of this situation. 

On one hand, he’s entirely wrong and the Azul you mentioned is not the Azul he knows. On the other hand, he’s entirely right and the Azul he knows is connected to you in some strange, unsettling way. He’s really hoping it’s a third possibility: He’s merely overthinking the matter and everything he’s considered up until this point is a jumble of false complications. 

His search yields nothing fruitful. Unfortunately, Azul’s account is not amongst the few he’s following. Riddle may not know Azul as well as he knows his closest friends, but he’s certain Azul wouldn’t abandon social media when it has so much potential for plentiful business connections. Either that, or he just never followed him when they were classmates. The latter seems more likely. Riddle has never been able to wrap his head around the intricacies of social media etiquette and he certainly has no need for it.

Cater had once instructed him in the art of many trending things—the art of the selfie, the art of the filter, the art of the block button—and so Riddle knows a few things about the online world. Very basic things, and most are rules and social protocol regarding a phenomenon he’ll never be able to grasp. Apparently, if you’re stalking someone’s page, you never like a post that’s dated by years. Apparently, you’re intended to file the facts you glean from invasive observation for later use. The mere concept sends a shiver of repulsion up his spine. He’s not a stalker or a cyber-stalker or a Magicam fanatic like Cater, but he is a novice sleuth (as of now) and that sits much better on the tongue than any of the previous titles. 

Riddle finds Cater’s profile, clicks on his list of followers, and types Azul Ashengrotto into the search bar. And, miraculously, Azul is there, but his account is private and Riddle finds himself at a digital roadblock. 

“Private,” he mutters; it comes out hateful, a nasty word. “Of course you are.”

Despite that, he still makes note of the username in his agenda. He writes, Possible personal account? Multiple accounts? in perfect, slanted cursive. And then, just to be thorough, he writes the number of posts made and the follower and following counts beside the theories. 

“How in the world would you know her?” he questions Azul’s profile picture—a generic photo of an ocean sunset. “And, more importantly, why?”

Perhaps he’s the one who took you on that dinner date, that cursed voice in the back of his skull pipes up. Riddle musses his hair and heaves another sigh, but as much as that supposition stabs him through with a horrible ache he has to take it into consideration. A date… If Azul truly does play some role in this and was potentially the last person to meet with (Name) before her disappearance, that would make him a prime suspect.

Potential Suspects

Azul (supposing it’s Azul Ashengrotto and not someone of the same first name)

Cater (on account of suspicious behavior)

(Name)? (supposing this is intentional? Voluntary?)

He’s in the process of writing the Leech twins’ names when his hand stills. They aren’t always glued to Azul, and they aren’t being forced to stick around like loyal sentinels. The last he heard of them, they resolved to return to the Coral Sea after graduation on account of familial obligations. Riddle had always heard the shudder-worthy rumors that they came from a ruthless crime family, but in spite of all of that the twins had always acted more like clever nuisances or intimidating bullies rather than callous criminals. Of course it was a different story if you found yourself at their feet when you broke contract terms, but even then they kept within socially acceptable boundaries. Most of the time. As loath as Riddle is to admit it, it’s admirable that they’re able to break things silently. After all, if your jaw is too shattered, you’re sworn to secrecy until it’s repaired. 

With great certainty, the pen strikes through the words.

Potential Suspects

Azul (supposing it’s Azul Ashengrotto and not someone of the same first name)

Cater (on account of suspicious behavior)

(Name)? (supposing this is intentional? Voluntary?)

Floyd Leech (on account of connection to Azul)

Jade Leech (on account of connection to Azul)

“Ah. Well, maybe it’s too early to rule anyone out…” His pen is at his mouth, tapping out a steady rhythm. “But, really, what business would those three have with (Name)?”

Unable to pluck a reasonable answer from thin air, he slouches in his seat and then, realizing his horrid posture, straightens at once. Riddle drags a hand over his face, exhales slowly, and lowers his hand after a minute of quiet reflection. The police station looms ahead and he glances between the familiar brick-walled building and the notes in his agenda. Logically, he should walk right back inside and share what he’s written to aid in the investigation.

“It’s important you keep a clear head during all of this,” Officer Rayne had told him as the interview had reached its conclusion. “We appreciate any and all info you’ve got, so don’t be shy to give us a ring.”

Riddle thinks he might have protested then. Something about how it felt wrong to sit around and do nothing. Something about feeling like he owed you. Something about wanting to disprove those reports. Something about building a better profile for you. Something about…something. 

“You’re doing plenty.” Officer Rayne smiled and indicated the notepad, which detailed all of the information from the hours-long conversation. “This situation’s out of your hands, and we wouldn’t recommend you do our work for us. Best let us handle the rest.”

Again, he opened his mouth. A grievance must have come tumbling out. 

“By filing a report and talking to me today, you’ve done a great deal of service. Don’t blame yourself for being unable to do more. What else could you have done? These things are unpredictable.”

Things, Riddle thought with a frown. What a casual way to refer to a disappearance.

He stood from his seat and Riddle followed his lead. At the doorway, he extended his hand and Riddle took it, shaking it firmly. “If your friend contacts you, let us know right away.”

Riddle nodded and stepped out of the room.

“And don’t let it get you down. We’ll find your friend.”

One way or another, he expected to hear, but he was already walking away. 

In the few minutes he spends ruminating, he manages to assemble a new list. Riddle peers at it, unsure of when he started writing and when he stopped thinking. 

Priorities

Get in touch with Azul.

Question Cater more thoroughly. 

Return to (Name)’s apartment and ask neighbors for any information. 

Continue transcribing any and all findings. 

Look for clues that might point in the direction of where (Name) went.

Create a timeline up until the disappearance and keep track of the number of days missing. 

Transfer the above and all new information into a notebook.

Again, his eyes fall upon the police station. He wonders if there’s a rule that forbids normal citizens from doing investigations of their own. It can’t hurt to want to gather some proof for himself, right? He won’t cross any laws so long as everything’s within legal bounds, and if more than one person is working on the case it might even speed up the process. After all, aren’t two brains better than one? 

And if there is a rule, he thinks as he reverses out of his parking spot, I certainly didn’t hear about it.

Turning onto the busy road, Riddle drives further from the station towards a far-off horizon spotted with wispy strands of cloud.

His first objective: Find Azul. 

Microphone in hand, Cater stands in the center of a soundproofed room and announces in an energetic tone, “My dearest, most loyal besties, a big TY for coming! As a newly formed band, our first order of business is to celebrate with cute snacks, cute drinks, and even cuter company!” He punctuates that last part with a playful whistle and a wink. 

In response, the two men sitting in the neon pink booth raise their glasses high. Both are filled with a sparkling substance, one so vermillion it’s nearly blood itself and the other a vivid orange. Lilia has ordered a Crimson Whisper—a delightful strawberry and raspberry margarita accompanied with a lime wedge and a skewer of sliced fruits. Kosher salt lines the rim, and under the dimmed lights it twinkles like pinpricks of diamond. Kalim’s beverage is known as the Tropical Tryst Twist, and it’s a fizzy tangerine and lemon cocktail decorated with a blue paper umbrella. A few ruby-red cherries are nestled amidst the ice. 

Cater makes it a mission to familiarize himself with his favorite karaoke bar’s menu, but despite every food and drink combination he’s come across (some photographed and strung up on his social media and others admired from afar) he cannot stomach the sweetness. So for tonight—like most nights—he chooses something that is, as his sisters would often say, “so not cute.” Beer is his go-to, even if his carefully curated Magicam feed is adorned with photos of pastries and sugary drinks galore. Peel back the pretty wallpaper and you'll find the dollhouse is not what it seems. But festering in rot is so not cute, and so for this reason he plasters the bitter with beauty.

Fortunately, tonight is not a bitter night, and unlike the boring drink in his hand he still raises it to toast with the others. Their glasses join with a resounding clink. 

Kalim pulls his drink away first, bringing it to his lips for a long sip. “This is exciting!” He sets it down on a coaster and beams, radiating raw joy. “I’ve never been in a real band before! Oh, we should publicize it, right? I can get my dad to help with that. He’ll be our first fan!”

Cater chuckles awkwardly. “Loving the enthusiasm, Kalim. Super-duper cute! But we need songs before we can start putting ourselves out there.”

Lilia hums his agreement. “I suppose what we’ve produced thus far wouldn’t exactly qualify as a true song.”

“At least it’s something… Oh! What if we took one of our short clips and extended it? Maybe add a few other instruments and beats so it feels like music you’d want to stop everything you’re doing and dance your troubles away to! Something summery and sweet!”

“Ooh, brilliant idea, Kalim. I wouldn’t mind giving it a shot. You never know until you try.” 

“Right? Right?! Everyone likes to dance, and you need fun music to create fun energy! We could definitely do it.”

Their eyes flit to him now. Cater twirls the microphone in his hand, humming as he considers it. It’s a lot of work to produce music, and they often fooled around during club hours when they were in school. But they’ve done it before. Granted, thirty-second previews of sound can’t quite make it to trending if they aren’t captivating enough. Things like that aren’t anything to write home about, or so he often thinks when he browses the list of unnamed tracks cluttering his laptop’s home screen. 

Cater’s grip on the microphone tightens. He smiles, slackens his shoulders, and flashes a cheerful thumbs-up. “Cay Cay’s got a plan!”

“Oh my.” Lilia’s eyes sharpen with curiosity. “If I were to hazard a guess, I’d say you’ve gathered us here for the sake of this very plan.”

“Discerning as ever, Lils! That’s right. I was actually hit with some crazy inspiration recently. And because of that…” He lowers his voice conspiratorially. “A drum roll, if you would be so kind.”

Kalim laughs and slaps his hands upon the table. Lilia follows suit until they’re both pounding on it, the force rattling the macaron pyramid they ordered earlier. Cater, invigorated by their support, swipes his phone from off the table, flicks it on, and scrolls through his song drafts. He turns his screen towards Lilia and Kalim with a dramatic flourish.

“Behold—my soon-to-be magnum opus!”

They peer at it, and then a duet of awestruck oohs fills the room. 

“This is shaping up to be very exciting.”

“Wow!” Kalim whistles, impressed. “I can’t believe I’m looking at lyrics for a potential song! Aha, you’re so cool, Cater!”

“Aren’t I?” he boasts, lowering into the booth across from them, a picture-perfect portrait of nonchalance. “I call it ‘Kismet Kiss,’ and it’s a song about fun feelings! It sounds kinda pop idol, but hear me out! We can find some way to work punk-rock into it, or we could hit everyone with an idol song and then ease into rock.”

“Like a sound buffet!” Kalim plucks a macaron from the tower and pops it in his mouth. “I think that’s a great idea. I’m down if you are, Lilia.”

“I wonder if we’d be able to handle so many genres at once.” He takes a slow, contemplative sip from his drink, a smile spreading on his lips. “I certainly look forward to experimenting. Is that not what youth is all about?”

“Well, don’t keep us in the dark! Let us hear your lyrics!”

“It’ll sound really yikes if I sing without any music, so give ‘em a read and lemme know what ya think! The Cater Inbox is open for criticisms! Constructive only, please and thank you.”

Cater passes his phone to Kalim, who takes it in his hands and sidles closer to Lilia so both can read simultaneously. While they peruse the lyrics, Cater taps out an anxious rhythm against his half-empty pint glass.

Kismet Kiss! - Cicada City Lyrics

I could never tell you 

Of the feelings locked in my heart

For they’re twisted and thorny, but a special work of art! 

It must be fate or destiny

Maybe even cosmic chemistry

Look only at me, me, me, me, me! 

And soon you’ll begin to see… 

Why is it that you gaze at me with such sincerity?

It’s kinda weird

Because suddenly everything’s so sparkly 

Brightness blinds me eternally 

You take my hand in yours and lead me astray

Hey~ 

Won’t you turn my way and promise you’ll stay?

Woohoo!

We share a bittersweet kismet kiss 

Under a silver moon, where all is heavenly bliss

A cutely curated kismet kiss 

Trapped in the confines of a moon-mired abyss! 

It's as if the tarot has foretold,

That I’ll follow you wherever you go 

No matter what, it’s a clingy kismet kiss

And now the skies have darkened with mist 

The fortune says it’ll rain

I wonder if it’s a reflection of all this pain

Since everything has become so very

Otherworldly and strange

What are the secrets you keep,

When you think I am asleep? 

Leaning in to lo-lo-lo-love you! 

Forevermore, it’s brand new! 

All these moods

You match my fake attitudes

Astral planes,

They rise and fall

You’re a jellyfish witch who knows how to enthrall

A sculpture of elegance in a crumbling hall

Oh dear, you’ve gone and collared me

And I can no longer say I feel free 

Hey… 

Whatever happened to the sugar strains in your veins?

Woohoo! 

We share a bittersweet kismet kiss 

Under a silver moon, where all is heavenly bliss

A cutely curated kismet kiss 

Trapped in the confines of a moon-mired abyss! 

Our very own kismet kiss

Painted in hazy constellations you’ll miss

If you can’t open up your eyes

And confront your star-spotted demise!

There’s an uncomfortable silence that thickens in the air, and Cater counts the seconds it takes before it’s disturbed by Kalim’s gasp. Eleven seconds.

“You wrote this?”

Cater curls his fingers into a tight, self-assuring fist, nails pricking his palms. “Sure did. Penned by yours truly and everything! It’s still not finished, though. I’m always going back to edit, but so far that’s the most coherent draft I have. So whatcha think? It’s totally cute, yeah?”

“It’s very telling,” Lilia praises with a cryptic grin. Cater doesn’t like the wisdom discreetly woven into his next words. “You can learn a lot from the speaker in the song. Some truths are best expressed in writing, after all. When we put pen to paper, left alone with but our wrist and brain, we’re usually very honest with the page.”

As always, you’re a mystery, Cater thinks with a thin smile. Maybe I shouldn’t have shared it so confidently.

“It’s a masterpiece! Seriously, this is poetry and art and everything else! I love it! Oh! Did you write it with anyone in mind? You said you had some inspiration, right? I’m always getting inspired when I see the sun or clouds shaped like animals or even when I’m eating sweets! But what about your inspiration?”

Cater uncurls his fist to take his phone from Lilia’s outstretched hand. “Riddle said a really cool line a few days ago and it kinda stuck with me.”

It’s not a total lie. 

“Ah, that’s right. You’ve mentioned before that he took up a position at your workplace,” Lilia muses, flicking his wrist to swipe three macarons from the tower with magic. They float over lazily and he opens his mouth to receive each one with a delighted hum. “How is he faring?”

“He became Mr. Manager in under two weeks.”

Kalim laughs. “It was also like that at NRC, wasn’t it? Sounds just like Riddle to go for the top spot!”

Cater waves his hand through the air dismissively, suddenly disinterested in the subject of this conversation. “DD’s become Heartslabyul: The Sequel ever since he joined.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s not not a bad thing?” He slumps in the booth. “I mean, it’s cool to work with an old friend, but Riddle’s so…Riddle. He just never eases up, you know?”

“I think it’s fun! Maybe I should work there, too! Ooh, wouldn’t that be cool? We could all work with Cater. It’ll be like club meetings all over again!”

“That sounds super-duper sweet, but I don’t think we’d get any work done if that were the case.”

Kalim deflates with a nervous chuckle. “Ah, yeah… You make a fair point.”

“I surmise Riddle wouldn’t be very keen to work with all three of us. That boy has always been too diligent.”

Cater gazes at him from over the rim of his glass. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” 

Lilia quirks a sly smile, amused to have his own words pointed right back at his throat. “It’s unhealthy to have too much of anything. After all, excessive diligence leads to perfectionism taken to extremes.”

“Isn’t that just the cutest description for our ridiculous Riddle?”

“I dunno,” Kalim says, shrugging. “It’s kinda admirable, don’tcha think?”

“Perhaps.” Lilia commands another macaron with ease. He bites half of it this time, the other half suspended in the air. “Even the most debilitating obsessions stem from some unique form of admiration.”

“Oh? Is that experience talking, Lils?”

Cater’s eyes are sharper than a sword when they pierce through the faerie sitting across from him. A fanged smile is the only response he receives just as Lilia closes his mouth around the remaining macaron half. Crumbs flutter to the floor. And just before he can pry a little further—dig into him with a verbal knife and fork—his mobile phone chirps out a happy ringtone, thus disturbing the tension stretching taut between them. Cater holds Lilia’s gaze a moment longer before surrendering and peering at his phone. He doesn’t have the forethought to stifle his annoyed groan. 

“You totes jinxed it!” He flips his phone towards them to show Riddle’s icon on the caller ID.

Kalim lets out a hearty chortle. “We really did! Hey, why don’t we invite Riddle since he’s calling? We have enough macarons for him, and if we run out I’ll just order more. Does he drink, Cater? We can order something before he gets here!” 

“Oh, you’re way too nice! Although Riddle’s a pretty busy guy… I don’t think he’d wanna intrude. Maybe next time?” 

“But he’s always welcome! The more the merrier.”

“I could ask, but I’d hate to bother him if he’s already busy. That’s never cute.”

Drop it, Kalim. I don’t want Riddle here.

“Oh?” Lilia cocks his head to the side just as Cater’s phone rings a second time. He watches him hurry to switch it off. “If it’s important, don’t let us get in your way.”

“It’s fine.” It comes out harsher than he intended, so he laughs and plucks a macaron from the tray. The sweet remains in his palm. “I mean, come on! I see enough of Riddle already. He can just tell me what he wants the next time we’re on shift, or he can text me. Calling is so old school nowadays.”

“But if he’s calling you more than once…” Kalim’s lips curl into a concerned pout. “If it’s a secret, I’ll cover my ears.”

“No, no. Really, it’s A-okay! He’s just been a little cray ever since (Name) disappeared.”

The oxygen in the room seems to slither away and suddenly he can’t breathe. Or, more realistically, he’s forgotten to take a breath when Kalim and Lilia fix him with stern looks. 

“Oh my.”

“(Name) disappeared? That’s not good!”

“It’s not a big deal. She’s always getting lost and found, so she’ll come around eventually.”

“You don’t seem very worried,” Lilia notes, brows furrowed. 

“Should I be?” Realizing how frigid that sounds, he chuckles airily. “I mean, it’s normal for her to go ghost for a few days. She’s been like this for years now. It’s nothing new.”

“Still, isn’t that scary? Aren’t you afraid she might’ve gotten into trouble or worse?” Kalim insists, nodding in agreement with Lilia’s earlier observation. 

Cater blinks, allowing their words to seep into the very pores on his skin. “Um, well, I guess it’d be concerning to people who don’t know anything… But trust me on this. I know (Name). She’s probs living it up with her pseudo-boyfriend.”

“Well, if you say so.” Lilia shrugs, but those carmine hues remain centered on his phone as if awaiting another call. 

“Shouldn’t you file a missing report? What if she isn’t with her boyfriend? Or, uh, her not-boyfriend?”

“Guys, I promise she’s finer than wine!” To prove it, he pulls up your Magicam profile, scrolls through the feed, and clicks on an older post. The photograph in question is a view of the expansive ocean from a cruise ship’s deck, glossy wood railing displaying two half-empty drinks: a mojito and a daiquiri. “She cut all contact with me for, like, a few days, and I went to file a report because I thought something had happened. But then she posts this just as I’m leaving the station, and so I had to go back in there and let ‘em know it was a false alarm. It totally harshed my vibes! I looked like I was crying wolf and that is so not the mood!”

Kalim peers at the photo. “Looks fun, but why didn’t she tell you where she was going?”

“She never does.” Cater shrugs and pockets the device just as another call comes in. Thankfully, it goes right to his voicemail. “That’s just how she is.”

“Does that upset you?”

Cater raises a brow. “I’m not her babysitter, Lils. Besides, besties don’t have to tell each other everything. It’s not part of some bestie code or anything. We’re not sworn to each other in some blood pact either. She lives her life and I live mine. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.”

“Aw. But sharing secrets makes a friendship so much stronger,” Kalim says, slouching in the booth. “Jamil knows some of my secrets! Like that time I accidentally swapped the salt and sugar. He’s the only one I’ve ever told. Ah, wait! I’ve just told you and Lilia… Pretend you didn’t hear that, okay?”

Cater pantomimes locking his lips and tossing an invisible key. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Not that it’s anything criminal.

“It follows me to the grave! Swapping the salt and sugar is an offense punishable by death, after all.” Lilia chuckles, though Cater suspects his amusement stems from another place. He’s definitely guilty of that exact mishap. 

“If I’m being honest,” he starts, and that first part is already a lie, “I don’t think (Name) wants me to know about her life. Or, more specifically, her super-secret not-boyfriend.”

“Why? Are you curious?” Kalim cocks his head to the side.

“Obviously! Dude’s, like, megarich! Of course I’d be curious. Who wouldn’t?” Cater taps a painted fingernail against the macaron in his palm. “Every time we talk about him, she keeps it real vague. Sometimes I think this guy’s just fiction. TBH, if I had rich arm candy, I’d flaunt them all the time. No offense, Kalim.”

“Huh? Why?” He blinks in confusion. “Isn’t it good to feel proud of someone you like?”

“Well, this situation is slightly different, isn’t it?” Lilia asks, looking to Cater for confirmation.

“Based on the data I’ve acquired,” he says, raising a finger and putting on a professional voice that earns him laughter from Kalim and a grin from Lilia, “I can confidently theorize that there’s more to their little game of give and take. Because, really, how much loveless sex can you possibly have before the feels start seeping through?”

“But she never claimed to harbor feelings, or am I assuming incorrectly?”

“It was the opposite, actually. She told me she was breaking up with him because he couldn’t hit the right spots.” 

Lilia raises his hand to his mouth, shielding a razored smile. “Dear me. That’s no good.”

“Or maybe,” Kalim posits, “it has nothing to do with sex. Maybe he can’t hit the spots in her heart.”

Cater stares, realizes he’s staring approximately ten seconds later, and forces himself to laugh in disbelief. “(Name) in love? Please, Kalim! She’d never.”

“How do you know? If there’s a connection, but it isn’t reciprocated…” Kalim shrugs and stuffs a macaron in his mouth, continuing his next words with a muffle: “I’m just guessing. Actually, I just thought it felt right, you know? I don’t know your friend—but I’d like to one day—so I can’t say that’s why she did what she did, but not everyone has the same spots. Maybe she wanted more from him, but he couldn’t give it to her.”

“Kalim, you know I appreciate you and your pure heart, but good dick and love are two separate things. You can love good dick, but good dick can’t give you love if the relationship isn’t built on it to begin with.” Lilia cackles at the phrasing, but Cater adds in a clipped tone, “I know (Name). It had nothing to do with love. It’s just convenience.”

Kalim pouts. “Then, if she really didn’t love him, what if he loved her?”

“Oh? Is this a sudden twist in the suspicious soap opera? I’m on the edge of my seat.” Lilia interjects, eyes wide, hands spread like he’s a magician who’s just performed a magnificent trick worthy of applause. “The youths of today are so creative. Back in my day, you could pierce your lover with Cupid’s arrow if you sang a love song, wrote flowery poetry, or defeated a rival in a bloody battle for the heart!”

“Lils, that’s so medieval…”

“Far from it! Even today, love songs and poems are still quite popular. Sometimes the battle part applies. Or am I a century behind?”

“That’s funny! You’re so silly, Lilia!” 

I don’t think he’s joking, Kalim…

Lilia tilts his head, blinking owlishly, a smile spreading on his face. “I’m happy to entertain.”

“Listen, if he loved her, I wish him the best of luck. (Name) makes herself hard to love. I should know. I’m her bestie, after all. Maybe that’s why she’s ghosting us. Things got too lovey-dovey and she had to set sail. She’ll be back in a day or two once she’s returned from her boring little island of loneliness.”

“I suppose patterns are easier to predict once you’ve fallen into them…”

“Right? You get it, Lils. She’ll be fine. Everyone will be fine! (Name) just needs her space, Riddle needs a chill pill, and we need to get back on track. So! ‘Kismet Kiss,’ yeah? It’s a good debut song, right?”

“What if he didn’t give her a choice?” Kalim blurts, and both heads turn in his direction. He fidgets, his fingers curling into his jacket. “I guess… Well, it’s scary to admit, but what if she really did disappear and Riddle’s worries are totally valid?”

“You think she got kidnapped?”

“Um… I’m not saying that…”

“He’s saying it, but it’s at a frequency we just can’t understand. Like subliminal messaging.”

“Lilia!” Kalim squeezes his eyes shut with a groan. “You’re gonna jinx it!”

“That’s what Riddle thinks happened. I keep telling him it’s nothing like that, but you know how he gets. Once his mind is made up, it’s hard to change it.” 

“Riddle’s not wrong in thinking the worst.”

“Yeah! Riddle’s always been so sensible, so I trust his judgment. Your gut never lies, after all.”

“But he’s wrong this time, okay?”

“How can you know for sure?”

What is this, an interview? Give me a break.

“I just know.” Green eyes sparkle under neon lights, no longer pits of gloom set into his skull. “Her pattern’s easy to follow, Lils. And I used to burden myself with the worst of the worst, but that’s so not cute! I’d rather chalk it up to her usual behavior than think she’s lying in some dark ditch, hacked to pieces.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say, Cater…”

“I’ll admit it does paint a rather grisly image.”

“You think?” 

Kalim stares, his mouth foolishly agape. 

He shakes his head, tutting, and holds his finger up to his lips. With a wink, he says, “The worst becomes ten times cuter when it’s absurd! There’s no way she’s in a ditch. We’re in the city. Where is anyone gonna find the nearest ditch when everything’s all concrete and steel?”

Lilia hums, but Cater surmises he isn’t buying the cheery assurances. In fact, the more he tells himself these things, the less he believes them. “If you say so. I shan't push it further.” He lifts his glass with magic and brings it to his lips to finish what’s left. “The worst lies are often, as you usually phrase it, ‘addictively adorable,’ so perhaps you aren’t entirely wrong either.” Blood-red liquid tilts towards waiting lips. “Your friend may not be in a ditch, but she might be enshrouded in a gilded falsehood.”

Cater opens his mouth to reply and is promptly interrupted by the ringing of a timer.

Kalim gasps and scrambles to silence it. “Has it already been two hours? No way! We haven’t even had a chance to sing yet!”

“I suppose old habits die hard.”

“Aah, this really is like club meetings all over again…” He smiles fondly, his eyes glazing with reminiscence. “I guess it can’t be helped. We always have things to talk about when we meet up!”

Lilia grins and bumps shoulders with him. “You’ll never be short of conversation topics with me.”

“I believe it!”

They glance at Cater. He blinks back at them. 

“Then should we call it a night? Jamil’s probably wondering why I haven’t gotten back to him yet… Oh, right. I forgot to tell him we were hanging out tonight. Haha! Oops!”

How can you be so carefree? I’d like to know your secret. 

“As much of a night owl as I am, we’ve long overstayed our welcome. Perhaps we’ll meet again tomorrow? We can discuss your song and goals for the band then. Travel is not a challenge for me, though I assume you might be a little busy, Kalim?”

“It’s complicated, but I can definitely make time for you guys! You’re my friends and I wanna hang out! Next time, we definitely have to invite Riddle and I’ll bring Jamil, too!”

No, it’s not being carefree. You’re just careless.

Cater flashes them a smile that’s just as empty as his eyes, yet it seems to do the trick. Either that, or Lilia just doesn’t wish to verbalize his observations. “Totally! We’ll get to it when we get to it.”

“I look forward to it. I think Cicada City is shaping up to be quite the shining star with a promising future.”

“Ooh, shining stars! I love it! We gotta talk about outfits, too.” Kalim pops up from the booth. “Ah! But before that, you should talk to your friend, Cater. Make sure she’s okay. I hope she’s safe.”

“As do I. Better to be safe than sorry, as they often say.”

Cater nods. “Yep, yep! You can count on Detective Cay Cay! I’ll get to the bottom of this mystery in no time.”

The macaron in his hand is subjected to a brutal crushing.

This is so not sweet. I completely forgot to take pictures for Magicam.

[dr-demi-bee]

Writing Interview Tag Game!

Thanks for the tag @lastlight-inn! 🥰

When did you start writing?

TBH, that's hard to pin down! I was drawing clumsy comics with story lines as early as 4th grade (so like 9 or 10ish?) - and I've always had a thing for telling stories. I don't think I started earnestly writing until maybe 12. But I know for sure I was writing in middle school, and was well and truly into it in high school. There was a brief once-upon-a-time I thought about going that way for a career (but I also considered being an artist or musician ha).

Are there different themes or genres you enjoy reading than what you write?

So, I find I often write a lot darker than I read. Broadly speaking, I read a lot of fantasy, sci-fi, and some non-fiction. But I write predominantly fantasy. I've dabbled in sci-fi, but I find it a lot harder (perhaps because I'm quite picky about science accuracy).

But thematically, I much prefer to read romances and lighter hearted drama. I think my writing might lean a bit darker than I typically consume (more focus on harsh/traumatic topics).

Is there a writer you want to emulate or get compared to often?

Ahhh this is so hard to answer. I've not had anyone really compare my work to others (at least not by name). I don't try to copy anyone's style, but I definitely am influenced by many.

If I have to pick some - Oliver Sacks, Tolkien, and GRRM.

Can you tell me a bit about your writing space?

Well! I have several!

My main office is in an open loft in the second floor of my house - past the railings are large picture windows that look out into my woods and let in a lot of natural light. I've got an L shaped desk stocked with supplies/notebooks/snacks. It looks like the kind of organized chaos one expects with ADHD.

On the left hand is an easel for painting/drawing, and on the right hand is my dual monitor set up (slightly lofted). My space is covered in cute knickknacks and things my husband has made for me. He's a wood worker, so there's lots of cute little things - including a little ghost and a miniature zen garden. I also have an owl skull and spine. My keyboard/mouse/mat and wrist pads are all space themed, as is the desktop (not that you can ever see it.) Beside my desk is my behemoth, very colorful PC tower I built myself (named Eureka).

I also have a yoga laptop that doubles as my writing on the go platform and drawing tablet (named Epiphany). I'll take it downstairs to write on my armchair, or into one of the bedrooms for some more quiet and soft surfaces. And I also take it with me on trips. Had a nice period on vacation at the beach where I got to write in a rocking chair on the porch looking out at the ocean. Ahh... (take me back :sob:)

Very occasionally I will write on my phone. But this is mostly just for notes and short form RP sort of writing.

What's your most effective way to muster up a muse?

So aside from becoming obsessed with something (e.g. media or my own imagined world) usually I get my ideas via listening to music or taking a shower.

Or, inevitably, whenever I'm doing something else that doesn't give me time to write. I wrote several chapters of my novel while writing my dissertation... procrasti-writing.

Are there any recurring themes in your writing? Do they surprise you?

On the positive side: found family, loving through pain, helping each other to heal, platonic love.

On the less positive side: the effects of trauma, the way danger and stress hurts our bodies and our minds. Fighting through adversity and oppression. Chronic pain/conditions.

I'm not super surprised by either of these, really - they're all a big part my scientific life too. Before I left clinical practice I primarily helped individuals recover from trauma and addiction - and that involved a lot of working on finding self worth. My research was all devoted to studying stress and cognition - and I tried to pioneer new work on intrusive cognitions. I think this probably comes out heavily in my writing for fun, too.

What is your reason for writing?

Fun, mostly. Catharsis. And a bit of dissociating, I suppose. I've always just kind of had the urge to spew stories out into the world, even if it's just for me. I also write to connect with others.

Is there any specific comment or type of comment you find particularly motivating?

Ohhhh, any comment makes me incredibly happy. If someone says they like something specific I am over the moon. I'm especially thrilled to hear anyone connecting with or caring about my OC characters.

When another writer I really admire or respect gives me a comment or praise (like @alpydk or @sorceresssundries) my little heart feels ready to burst! Recently had the absolute delight of having friends read and react in real time to some of my work and gooood grief is that ever motivating. (@crimson-and-lavender and @lastlight-inn I'm looking at you lol)

How do you want to be thought about by your readers?

I want to be approachable and interesting as a person. I hope people want to read my work or even collab.

I want my writing to be novel, engaging, and exciting. I want to subvert their expectations, but also tell them a story that's approachable and will resonate with them.

Mostly I want my writing to make others feel (good).

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

The longer I've been writing things - honestly, I think it's patience. Being willing to change ideas, move them around, or even abandon them if need be. It took a long time to be okay with those things.

How do you feel about your own writing?

Oh, we have a love hate relationship. I know I can be a bit...verbose. But I also find my own writing pretty fun and interesting. I know I've done a pretty good job if I enjoy re-reading it.

Tagging some lovely mooots with affectionate no-pressure boops: @abysskeeper, @feedthepheasants, and an open tag for any other lovelies that want to!

[creepyscritches]

My mom's bestie is a retired 2nd grade teacher and I was able to send all my donate yarn to one of her teacher friends for school crafts last week. I even was able to send the bagged yarn scraps and remnant yarn balls too small for my remaining projects! :)

Since she's friends w so many elementary school teachers, I was also able to send all those built up octopus plushies + a baby velvet seal (all w washing instructions + separated by polyester vs acrylic for allergies). SO much room opened up in my supply organization and I can finally put away other fibers.

Next time I build up donate supplies, I think I'll reach out to the assisted living facility on my street. I have a bunch of ergonomic crochet hooks that I have replaced w clover amour hooks, so it'd be nice to know that they're getting used + helping crafters w hands like mine. Just. Trying to figure out how to show up as an adult goth and not frighten the liddle old ladies. Man. Maybe I'll deliver them in my old femme office clothes.

[violetsixx1981]

Kevin, We Need to Talk. Part 8

Sorry this took so long

Your dad and Kevin's mom help you tell the school

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7

When the time came for you to tell the school, your dad and Kevin’s mom came with you.

“We will do everything we can to make sure Y/N has all the accommodations she needs,” said Principal Hastings. “We very much appreciate it,” said Eva. “She will, of course, be excused from gym, I’m sure we can find something for her to do to make up the credit. How far along is she at the current moment,” asked the principal. “She’ll be 20 weeks on Tuesday,” your father responded. “Alright, I’ll put that in her file, and I will let her teachers know. Thank you for coming to speak to me, Mrs. Khatchadourian and Mr. Y/L/N. Kevin, Y/N, and their unborn baby will be in good hands here,” Principal Hastings said as he walked them out of his office.

You felt a mix of relief and apprehension as you stepped into the hallway. The support from the school was reassuring, but the reality of your situation was ever-present.

Eva and your dad exchanged a few more words with the principal before turning back to you and Kevin. “I think that went well,” Eva said, giving you a reassuring smile.

“Yeah,” you nodded, though the weight of the months ahead still loomed large in your mind. “Thanks for being here, both of you.”

“Of course, sweetheart,” your dad said. “We’re in this together.”

Kevin squeezed your hand. “Ready to get back to class?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” you replied.

As you walked down the hallway, a few classmates cast curious glances your way, but you held your head high. Kevin stayed close, his presence a comforting anchor. When you reached your classroom, you took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

Mr. Thompson looked up from his desk and smiled. “Welcome back, Y/N. We’re just discussing the themes in ‘To Kill a Mockingbird.'’”

You took your seat, feeling a sense of normalcy as you opened your notebook. Kevin sat beside you, and the class resumed its discussion. You tried to focus, but your mind kept drifting to the future.

After class, Kevin walked you to your next period. “You did great,” he said. “One step at a time, right?”

“Right,” you agreed, feeling a bit more confident.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. When the final bell rang, you met Kevin outside.

That evening, after finishing your homework, you lay in bed, placing a hand on your growing belly. “We’re going to be okay,” you whispered, feeling a sense of calm wash over you.

The next few weeks flew by in a blur of schoolwork and preparations. You and Kevin attended your doctor’s appointments, and the baby’s development was on track.

One afternoon, as you and Kevin were studying at your house, your dad came in with a thoughtful expression. “I’ve been thinking,” he said, sitting down. “We need to start getting the nursery ready.”

“Really?” you asked, feeling a mix of excitement and anxiety.

“Absolutely. We need to be prepared. Kevin, do you have any ideas?”

Kevin smiled. “I think we should go with a neutral theme. We won’t know the baby’s gender until the gender reveal party/baby shower.”

Your dad nodded. “That sounds like a good plan. Let’s make a list of what we’ll need.”

The three of you spent the next hour brainstorming and making plans. As you wrote down items like a crib, changing table, and baby clothes, you felt a growing sense of anticipation.

Over the next few weekends, you and Kevin, with help from your dad and Eva, began transforming the spare room into a cozy nursery. Painting the walls, a soft, calming color, assembling furniture, and organizing baby supplies became a family effort.

With each passing day, you felt more prepared and less anxious. The support from your family and Kevin made all the difference, and you started to believe that everything would work out.

One evening, you and Kevin sat in the newly finished nursery, it was decorated in shades of yellow and had giraffes and elephants on the walls. “We’re really doing this,” you said, looking around the room.

“Yeah, we are,” Kevin agreed, taking your hand. “And we’re going to be great parents.”

You smiled, feeling a deep sense of contentment. The journey ahead was daunting, but you knew you could face it with Kevin by your side and the unwavering support of your family.

[me-and-the-m00n]

I am a junior at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, where for the past four days, there has been an encampment set up at Library Mall in protest of the ongoing genocide of Palestinian people in Gaza. I wasn’t one of the campers but I showed up to support for a few hours each day Monday-Wednesday. We are relatively late to the game compared to other American colleges, but we had hundreds of people show up the first few days to show their support for Palestine.

The protest has been peaceful, up until 7 a.m. Wednesday morning when state patrol and Madison police officers showed up while protesters were asleep and raided the encampment. They were called by Chancellor Mnookin. I wasn’t there, but they dismantled tents, destroyed food and supplies, and assaulted students, faculty, staff, and community members. Over 30 people were violently arrested, at least 2 of them being professors. The two professors that I know were arrested were people of color. The camp was re-established at 11 a.m. that morning thanks to the protesters. As of right now, organizers have met with Chancellor Mnookin and she agreed to have no further police action at the encampment until their next meeting, but has yet to say anything about the protesters’ demands.

I honestly don’t know if anyone will see this but I have been seeing so much misinformation being spread and I want to clarify some things. The pro-Palestinian protest at UW-Madison has not included any violent or anti-semitic actions towards Jewish people. There was an article being spread that stated that protesters were chanting “Heil Hitler” which is NOT TRUE. Furthermore, calling for a free Palestine does not mean we want to eradicate Jewish people. It means we condemn Israel’s actions, which include the illegal occupation of Palestinian land and the genocide of Palestinian men, women, and children, among other things. Many people seem to conflate Zionism with Judaism and therefore take these protests as a personal attack. Our protest calls for UW-Madison to divest from companies that fund Israel’s genocide; we DO NOT want to harm our fellow Jewish students or any Jewish people, for that matter.

Being pro-Palestine does not make you anti-Jew. I, personally, condemn anti-semitism and simultaneously believe Palestinian people deserve to be free. This fight is not about Jewish people, it’s about Palestinian lives. There are many Jewish people on our campus that recognize this and show up to fight for Palestine. There have been instances at other universities of people being anti-semitic, but the majority of protesters have been largely focused on divestment and calling for a free Palestine.

I’m sure many of you have seen the violent police response at universities like Columbia, UT Austin, and UCLA. I just want to say that if you think that the violence inflicted upon students, staff, faculty, and community members of universities by police is justified, you are sick in the head. I don’t give a fuck what those students were doing, they do NOT deserve to to be treated that way by state sanctioned police officers. And if you’re one of the people whining about protests not being peaceful, you’re part of the problem. For the most part, they have been peaceful UNTIL police and/or counter protesters showed up and escalated things. We had Israel-supporters show up at our protest and yell at the protesters standing around and protecting the people praying, and try to incite violence. Protesters knew not to engage.

Another point I wanted to make was how insane the police presence was on UW-Madison’s campus yesterday. When there were literal neo-Nazis marching down State Street in November not a single thing was done about it. My roommate called the non-emergency help line and the lady on the phone said that hate speech isn’t illegal so they can’t do anything about it, which is fucking ridiculous. Also, there was an active shooter at a middle school west of Madison yesterday but Chancellor Mnookin thought it was best that the police spend their time assaulting students that are protesting genocide.

I made the mistake of looking at Twitter threads and saw people wishing us dead. Or wishing for our arrests or expulsions and calling us terrorists simply because we want a say in where our tuition dollars go to. We have a right to protest. And we will not stop until our demands are answered.

I just wanted to come on here to say how insanely proud I am of my generation for standing up and fighting against this genocide. Keep protesting. Do not back down. Within our lifetime, we will see a free Palestine.

DISCLOSE! DIVEST! WE WILL NOT STOP, WE WILL NOT REST!

[mydemonsdrivealimo]

Halloween (chapter 3)

Book: Open Heart

Chapter: 3/7

Character(s): Jensen Valentine

Rating: Teen

Words: 947

Chapter Summary: A glimpse at Jensen's med school graduation

A/N: sorry

Lyrics:

I'm leavin' this town and I'm changin' my address I know that you'll come if you want It's not Halloween, but the ghost you dressed up as Sure knows how to haunt, yes, it knows how to haunt

The loud sound of the tape ripping from the roll echoed across his apartment. He flattened it to the box, flipping it around and setting the tape to the side. In went yet another pile of clothes, perfectly folded and flattened to fit. He taped up the other side just as fast, grabbing the marker from the floor which was buried under a pile of bubble wrap and film from his bass, and quickly labeled the top and sides of the box.

Kicking it over with the others, he grabbed his glass off the table, half empty with some shitty, cheap whiskey and ginger ale. He continued to shove all the packing supplies into one corner. His former roommate was already gone, and he had to be out in two days, but keeping it clean was still easier than having to clean before his flight.

Everything he owned was packed away into a box besides one side-table’s worth of shit. He had space left in his suitcase for all of it, and the rest of the boxes would be dropped at the post office tomorrow. He only had a handful of them, namely filled with clothes and the few hobby-related items he kept, but any furniture or large items were sold.

It meant the apartment was mostly empty. There was that one side table that he was going to leave, and his bed was just a mattress in the middle of the floor now. Not that it was bad. Especially in comparison to some of his other living situations.

The only other thing in his room was his suitcase, which he rolled out to the open space that used to be the living room and kitchen. Stepping into the latter, he poured the rest of the soda and whiskey into his glass, mixing them around with one of the plastic butter knives left at the bottom of the former silverware drawer. 

There had been a number of parties and events he was invited to for the night but turned them down. He had a one-way flight to Boston in two days, and had to ship all his belongings in one.

His phone had been blowing up with graduation pictures, family dinners, after parties, and announcements all night. Picking up his diploma from the table, nestled on top of his cap and gown, he carefully tucked it inside his suitcase. He used a few shirts to cushion it before zipping it up once again.

Only a couple hours ago he had received it. He waited through all the other announcements until he was finally free to leave, and he practically had to fight through the crowds to get there. There were so many parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, cousins of cousins, and more clustered in groups around the large arena. 

He might’ve had some friends that would’ve been willing to go out with him to celebrate, but it was easier to go home and finish packing. 

It was easier to say his isolation was necessary rather than involuntary.

Just like it had been four years ago, undergrad graduation, when he sent an invite over text that got ignored

Just like it had been eight years ago, high school graduation, when he was told, to his face, that she’d be there, and then he never saw her again.

And maybe she was part of the reason why he thought it was so easy to be alone. She’d given plenty of practice—plenty of fucking disappointments. Maybe he should’ve invited her, but he didn’t want to set himself up again.

Every fucking picture on his feed made him want to vomit. Or scream. Or maybe just forget it was happening at all. All his peers celebrating with their families, out for dinners and probably home for the weekend, too.

What a thought: home for the weekend. Did they get homesick? Did they miss the people waiting for them? Or did they not have a place to be homesick for? Did they even have people waiting at all?

Home for the fucking weekend. Maybe it wouldn’t sound so foreign if she had bothered to tell him where she moved to after taking off the minute he was out of her hands.

He had narrowed it down to somewhere on the west coast, given sporadic posts about family vacations—fucking family vacations.

She traded him out for a new set of kids and a husband that lived in some beach house mansion even though she never took him to the beach because she hated it. 

But, you know, maybe it was just him, given how fast she ran away.

He put the phone down—maybe threw it—after blocking her account. Not for her sake, of course, but for his. For once, it was for him.

Standing up from the floor, he used the bottom of his shirt to wipe his nose and eyes. Not that he had really cried in over ten years, but anything close felt like some sort of success. Some sort of way to beat the “boys don’t cry” notion out of himself.

He would bet money that she never thought of him. Probably too worried about her new kids and her new perfect life and forgetting everything she left him with. Years of therapy, several failed medications, a sealed record, a public trial, the worst mental break of his life, a failed career as a musician, a high school graduation, bachelors, doctorate, accepted residency position, and a fucking partridge in a pear tree.

Maybe it was better like that, though. Finally letting the fuck go, finally acknowledging that some parasocial relationship stalking her Instagram posts wasn’t normal. Maybe it’d be easier.

tagging: @jerzwriter @cariantha @kyra75 @gutsfics @inlocusmads @choicesficwriterscreations

[according2thelore]

hello,

i read house song and i loved it. i love the fucked up relationship that sam and dean have that is so adoring and soft and warm and possesive and so them. your fic house song just adds the cherry on top with powers sam, which is my favorite trope. and the dean killing john? the chocolate drizzle. like im sooooooo satisfied. (also, i gave like 0 shits about the abo verse until i read ur smith/wesson fic. u converted me).

i do have a question about house song. like in the beginning sam has a binder. so i thought he was trans. but then he has a hard on and has sex with dean? like is sam intersex or smthng in the fic? or trans? im sorry. this was just a tiny thing i saw. the porn. as usual. was on point.

you can ignore this of course

hello!!!!

THANK YOU SO MUCH!!!!! OMG!!!!!!! your ask fixed my week! sam's powers and dean taking his ownership of sam to the extreme is my favourite, and i'm so glad you liked my take on them! i am such a sucker for soft and possessive samdean so EEE!!! THANK YOU!!!! this is such a compliment you have no idea. i will be lovingly rereading this for weeks to come.

as for the a/b/o...i am so honoured to have been your gateway! a wincest fic was actually one of my first a/b/o fics and i was like oh! okay yeah wait this fucks! and i'm so glad you liked mine! i actually have a little sequel in the works for the swesson, so keep an eye out for that...

as for the binder, i actually meant a three ring binder, as opposed to a chest binder! three ring binders are office supplies that school-aged folks and office persons use to organize homework/documents! these puppies:

i am so sorry for any confusion! i ADORE trans sam!!!!!! i LOVE transmasc AND transfem sam fics and headcanons! nary a miss! sam experiencing gender euphoria sustains me.

but sam as i wrote him in house song is cisgender, as you're right--he's rocking specific equipment during the sex scene and uses he/him pronouns. he's doing his homework at the table in the scene mentioning the binder in house song, and asks dean to pass him one of his school supplies (the binder).

i was projecting because i used and still use these religiously to organize my documents. i bought my own three ring hole punch so i could file every piece of paper handed to me, lol.

again, i'm sorry for confusion! but omg i'm so glad you liked the porn, i live to serve. 🫡

thank so you much for this ask!!! i hope this helps to clear up confusion about it! and thank you so much for the lovely compliment!!!! my heart is all warm and fuzzy! i am kissing you on both cheeks!

-lizzy

(you can read house song here!)

[thebluestbluewords]

the leaders of tomorrow (could be canon fodder of today)

“Auradon Preparatory Academy is a boarding school focused on building the leaders of tomorrow,” Evie reads off one of the glossy brochures they’d snagged from the lobby. “Explore our rigorous academic programs, competitive athletics department, and much more.” 

“Guess we’re the ‘more’,” Mal snarks, lifting her hands into the most sarcastic air quotes she can muster. “Villain kids aren’t exactly brochure material.” 

“Maybe you’re not brochure material, babe,” Evie says, flipping her hair over her shoulder in a sweet-smelling swoosh. “But I’m the most beautiful one on this campus, and I think it’s a travesty that they haven’t reprinted all their brochures to feature exclusively me.” 

“And me.” Jay adds, leaning over to snag the pamphlet out of Evie’s hands. 

Mal grins. “I could probably do that. Magic can do a lot of cool shit now that we’re not locked away. You want me to find and replace every stupid prep kid in this thing with your face?” 

Evie laughs, and the sound is so sweet that it makes Mal want to hit something. In a good way. “That feels like a waste of magic, babe. We probably have better things to do with our time.” 

“Yeah we do,” Carlos interrupts. He’s got the brochure now, and is flipping through it faster than Mal can follow. “Look. Dive into science with our state of the art chemistry lab, where students blah blah blah, nobody cares about teacher-student ratios, but look.”

Mal looks. 

“A science lab.” 

Carlos makes a gloriously disdainful noise at her. “It’s a state of the fucking art science lab. This is the best science lab money can buy. And we have student access.” 

Great. 

“So that means,” Mal starts, waving a hand. “We have what? Chemical weapons? Kingdom secrets?” 

She could go for a good chemical weapon. They used to throw colored smoke bombs at each other for fun, but if they can get their hands on better supplies, that means better smoke bombs, better fireworks, and potentially better weapons they can stockpile for when her mother inevitably tries to have them all killed again. 

Carlos shrugs. He’s a talented liar, but after so long spent in each other’s pockets, Mal knows his tells too well for him to get outright bullshit past her. He’s excited about something in the lab, no matter how cool he’s trying to play it off, “We could have chemical weapons, sure.” 

Mal narrows her eyes into a poisonous green glare. “Or?” 

“We could synthesize a chemical to melt through steel. Or get actual organic material for making melt away stitches that aren’t shit. Or explosives, if we want to blow the whole isle to hell.” 

His eyes are fucking lit up with the potential, and Mal doesn’t have the heart or the willpower to tell him that they’re not going to blow up the isle. 

Probably. 

“I wouldn’t mind blowing up my dad,” Jay says slowly, leaning over to peer at the picture of the science lab. “Like, we should probably follow through with the original plan, and get our parents through the barrier before we plant explosives around their beds, but I’m down for some chaos.” 

“Chaos sounds great!” Evie says brightly. “I was thinking that we should steal enough chemicals to glue Fairy Godmother’s office door shut so we never have to go to that ridiculous goodness class again, but I’m down for murder if that’s what everybody else is feeling!” 

[dragoneyes618]

The dank, claustrophobic basement of a derelict building in east London was the setting for an unusual exhibition last week. Organized by the 7/10 Human Chain Project, a grassroots group formed in the wake of Hamas’s October 7 blitzkrieg on Israel, the installation, titled “Voice from the Tunnels,” sought to bring to life the experience of Israeli hostages held underground in Gaza for more than 100 days.

The exhibition was open for five days to members of Parliament, celebrities, leaders of faiths and communities, senior CEOs of large corporations, journalists, social media influencers, and anyone else with a platform to highlight the plight of the remaining captives. The disturbing displays recreate the settings of the Hamas tunnels under Gaza, estimated to be at least 350 miles long — far exceeding the length of the London Underground railway system at 250 miles.

“It’s based on IDF evidence, it’s based on footage that was found, it’s based on interviewing the Hostages and Missing Families Forum,” says exhibit co-creator Orit Eyal-Fibeesh. “It’s really an attempt to portray, as accurately as we possibly can, some of those stories.”

The 7/10 Human Chain Project came from a nucleus of people who began putting up posters of hostages to publicize the October 7 kidnappings. The small group watched pro-Hamas activists tear down their posters and became more determined.

The group began holding demonstrations outside Parliament Square, Downing Street, and the London offices of the Red Cross and United Nations Women. It took the name 7/10 Human Chain Project after gathering enough people to form a human chain at one protest.

The group would remind passersby that hostage Emily Hand had turned nine years old in Hamas captivity. Little Emily has since been released, but her father, Thomas, has said in interviews that his daughter still cries uncontrollably, does not wish to be comforted by anyone, and only speaks in a low whisper. Emily, like the other children and women already released, left the tunnels traumatized, hungry, and alone.

Utter Overwhelm

On January 14, marking the hostages’ 100 days in captivity, the 7/10 Human Chain Project organized a rally in support of Israel that drew more than 25,000 people to London’s Trafalgar Square. The next day, the group opened the “Voice from the Tunnels” exhibition, an effort for which planning had been underway for many weeks.

The project came about after one of the organizers, who identifies himself only as David, decided to create a display of Hamas atrocities. David has a business that supplies mannequins to stores and theatres, and saw an opportunity to put his trade to use to help the hostages.

The display he developed, using mannequins that are human-like but essentially faceless, created a haunting impression that David wanted to capture. By that time, some of the hostages had been released, and horrific stories began to emerge.

The organizers spoke to doctors who had treated released hostages, as well as their family members, and also made use of video footage discovered in the tunnels that was released by the IDF. Everything in the group’s reconstruction of the Gaza tunnels was then verified and cross-checked with the Hostages and Missing Families Forum.

The exhibit, made accessible last week to members of the media, took the form of a tour that begins in a makeshift hospital environment. Beds are lined up in a large ward at ground-floor level, and at first glance resemble the setting in any other hospital. But as the tour makes clear, many of Hamas’s tunnels have been discovered underneath hospitals, schools, kindergartens, mosques, and even United Nations buildings. It is a reminder of the security cam footage discovered by the IDF that showed Hamas terrorists bringing hostages to a Gaza hospital on October 7.

As the tour heads below ground, project co-creator Orit Eyal-Fibeesh, serving in the role of tour guide (she is also a former IDF officer), informs guests that the actual Gaza tunnels are some 50 to 60 meters (170 to 200 feet) underground, running to five or six levels. The complex could only have been constructed with a mind-boggling quantity of concrete — not to mention engineering expertise.

The gut-wrenching part of the tour starts in earnest when it reaches a display of prone mannequins covered in a bloody white sheet, meant to recreate what the IDF discovered upon entering one of the tunnels in their quest for hostages. Apart from one female soldier, the rest of the hostages discovered on that day had been murdered.

The tour moves on to an introductory room, where TV screens display various media loops covering the unfolding events of October 7, followed by news coverage in subsequent days and weeks.

Little Kfir Bibas, kidnapped when he was just under nine months old (his birthday was on January 18), is mentioned in the coverage, along with his four-year-old brother Ariel. The oldest person still in captivity is 85.

At this point, two women appear next to Orit. They seem to have joined the tour, but Orit explains that they have just watched a 43-minute compilation of footage from Hamas body cameras retrieved by the IDF, along with video from kibbutz and police security cameras and that taken by soldiers.

The two women are both in total shock, so overwhelmed that they cannot speak, and they begin to cry. Orit starts sobbing herself, as she is familiar with the film. The two women cannot continue and need to leave.

Careful Preparations

Throughout the tour in the cold, damp, filthy tunnels, screams of “Allahu Akbar” repeat on a recorded loop taken from October 7. There are also recordings of the sound of bombing in the distance, believed to be from IDF bombs and shells.

Freed Israeli hostages have told doctors and family members that the shouts of “Allahu Akbar,” which echoed in the tunnels when terrorists came in pumped up with adrenalin, will not leave their heads. Hostages being held underground did not know if it was night or day. Their captors constantly told them, “No one is looking for you and no one knows you are here.”

On the tour, the screams of “Allahu Akbar” and the booms of nearby IDF bombing only last about 45 minutes — leaving it to tour participants to imagine what it would be like to be trapped there for more than 115 days with little or no food, no medication, no room to move, no showers, limited access to toilets, and terrorists brandishing automatic weapons.

Orit leads the tour into another tunnel, the floors of which are strewn with children’s pajamas, shoes, and clothes, baby bottles, diapers, and pacifiers. The IDF discovered such tunnels, proving that Hamas was preparing for this “operation” for a long time.

The IDF also determined that Hamas assembled detailed records of who was living in each house, their ages, nationalities, and more. The next room recreates a scene in which Hamas commanders, with their detailed paperwork, are giving instructions to the terrorists already in the kibbutzim as to who lives where.

The next room recreates Hamas’s crude operating theatre, where the hostages Maya and her brother Itai are highlighted. Maya was shot in the foot while she was taken hostage and has described how she was forced to walk on the wound more than two miles in the tunnels. Her brother Itai was also shot.

None of the Arab doctors wanted to operate on Jews, so a veterinarian was brought in to perform the complicated operation on Maya. In what has been well documented, Maya’s foot was sown up the wrong way, while Itai was operated on without any anesthetic.

Next is the Hamas command center, where operatives prepare to fire more rockets into Israel. There is a Koran and a prayer mat. In another room, a young boy is depicted sitting on the ground in front of a TV screen. This is Eitan Yahalomi, aged 12, who was kidnapped with his mother and sister on two separate motorbikes.

The mother and sister managed to escape when one of the bikes hit a tank. Eitan was on his own, and once he was in Gaza, he was made to watch some of the footage of Hamas’s barbaric atrocities. If Eitan started to cry, they threatened him with pain and death. He spoke fluent Arabic when he was released from Gaza after 50 days.

The stories of the elderly hostages are just as horrific. Emma was released more than two months ago, but remains in the hospital. She was taking medication to manage a health problem before being taken hostage. Since being released, Emma’s organs have failed because of the conditions in which she was held.

Many of the tunnels did not have high ceilings and the elderly had to walk crouched over for miles in the damp, dark, and wet tunnels. The older people were forced to sleep on the floor. They had to wait 12 hours before using the toilet.

Forced into Hiding

Noam Sagi, a son of a 74-year-old hostage from Kibbutz Nir Oz who was released, visited the London tunnels last week and attested that it was an accurate depiction. His mother turned 75 in captivity. She was one of the lucky ones; she was sold by Hamas to Islamic Jihad and then taken above ground and held in a family home.

Ada, another hostage, was also sold to Islamic Jihad and held above ground. Before October 7, she lived on the border and spoke fluent Arabic, as she was an Arabic teacher, and she believed in peace with her neighbors. She refuses to speak to the media today, but a family member says she will eventually write about her captivity.

Orit Eyal-Fibeesh says many of the hostages suffered from chemical burns because they were not allowed to shower even once, the entire time. Doctors discovered they were drugged, probably with Ketamine, which is used to induce a state of sedation and immobility.

The exhibition is a collection of images that cannot be unseen. The fact that the event was essentially forced into hiding — open only to politicians and journalists at a secret location in London — testifies loud and clear about the violent anti-Semitism that has taken hold in the UK.

As Hamas’s supporters dominate the streets of central London in weekly marches, any reminder of Jewish humanitarian suffering in Hamas’s torture tunnels has essentially been driven underground.