#strewn to scum art

[mrstick-yaoi]

Official mockup reference of my Strewn to Scum!Sticks PLZ REBLOG>LIKE

[luxeacademyhqs]

TIME: 3:21 AM LOCATION: Every Cellular Device on Campus

At exactly 3:21 AM on Wednesday morning, November 10, 2021 every cell phone on campus began to blare a strange alarm- one which none of the students had ever used or set. The background of each phone screen turned black, and soon a message written in scrawling, bold, red letters began scrolling across the screens. The message read “ALERT! ALERT!” Once students began opening their phones the screens once again blacked out, the alarm stopping abruptly to give way to a silence so eerie, more that one student questioned whether or not their phones had simply perished. Without warning the screens lit up one more, this time bearing a new message in the same lettering. The message read:

“We warned you. We warned you all. You had a choice to make, and you chose wrong. The halls of Luxe Academy are the most elite in the world, and such a title must be upheld and respected, not tarnished with scholarship scum. Following our warning, several of you thought it wise to speak out against us. To threaten us with unmasking. To minimize our cause and trivialize our message. Now, it is you who will be unmasked.”

Following the completion of the message, a new film begins. This time, however, everyone sees the same one. The film is more of a slideshow. To open, a student’s name appears on the screen, stating the student’s name, mark, and status. Behind their name, another image appears. All the images are different, and overall cryptic, but mean something to each individual who’s name appeared before it. After ten seconds on an image, the words “We Know.” Appear before disappearing again. Students are unable to end, exit, or pause the video until it has finished entirely.

OOC: This is a drop that will effect most everyone. Please remember that while things may not be spelled out, it will be obvious to the intended recipients of each message. Characters should know immediately that what is being shown is a manifestation of a secret each person featured holds dear to them. You may have your character(s) react in any way you see fit, though please do try to keep it realistic. Below is a list of what each specific student was given. As always, anyone with questions is encouraged to let me know! 

-Yuri Katsuki, Scholarship, Dominant- A collage containing a video of Yuri skating during for last year’s Figure Skating Grand Prix Finals, a picture of alcohol bottles, both empty and half-drunk, and a picture of what appears to be Yuri himself shirtless and asleep in a bed, clothes strewn across the floor. @powerfullygentle

-Rukia Kuchiki, Elite, Dominant- A collage containing pictures of Rukia’s family and a video of Rukia in one of Luxe’s Art Studios, painting. @mistressofsnowandice

-Atem Amir, Elite, Switch- A video of Atem’s tutor, speaking with Atem’s father, side-by-side with a video of the news story regarding Atem’s father’s death. @akingormore

-Kara Danvers, Scholarship, Submissive- A picture of the Russian flag, next to a photo her biological parents, atop a photo of Kara and her adoptive parents. @compassionateheart

-Stolas Prince, Elite, Submissive- What appear to be surveillance videos of Stolas interacting with the man he cheated on his wife with, alongside photos of him and Brady around campus, all atop a singular picture of Stolas’ daughter, Octavia. @the-0wl-prince

-Derek Hale, Elite, Submissive- The news story regarding his family’s deaths, next to a photograph of the older female Derek was with. @hale-to-the-king

-Raven Roth, Elite, Dominant- A collage of photos of her with her father, pictures of various activities secretly taken of his cult, and photos of Raven participating in rituals prior to running away. @quoth-0-the-0-raven

-Kate Kane, Elite, Switch- Various photographs of their loved ones, along with a variety of candid photos of them during their time in Military School and during various tactical exercises. @switchkaterkane

-Isla King, Scholarship, Switch- A photograph of the person she was in love with. @switchislaking

-Max Whittfield, Elite, Dominant- A copy of one of their pregnancy ultrasounds. @dommaxw

-Nicole Kim, Elite, Submissive- Photographs of her mother and her mother’s company building/logos, with large red ‘X’s over them. @subnicolekim

-Lilian Ortiz, Scholarship, Submissive- Photographs of her and her ex-girlfriend, atop photographs of her (now) ex cheating on her with a man. @luxelilianortiz

-Blake Turner, Elite, Dominant- Photographs of pills and pill bottles, both strewn about and empty, alongside a photograph of Blake passed out, face sallow and body thin. @luxeblaketurner

-Ellory Hammond, Elite, Submissive- A photograph of her and her twin brother, then a photograph of the fliers posted around her hometown declaring him missing. @luxeelliehammond

-Xander Carson, Elite, Dominant- Videos of him and his bandmates, along with specific videos of him and his best friend/former drummer, as well as photographs of him with his best friend’s claimed submissive and soulmate. @luxexandercarson

-Liam Sterling, Elite, Submissive- A video of the news story regarding/surrounding his father’s arrest, as well as photographs of court documents naming Liam as they key witness against his father. @liamatluxe

-Blaine Anderson- Elite, Submissive- Photographs of his best friend/first ‘boyfriend’/first date after the Sadie Hawkins Dance at which they were attacked. @blaineatluxe

-Brady Davin, Elite, Dominant- Photographs and videos of him and his one and only ex in their relationship, during the time they were together, atop photographs of his ex with his mother. @bradyatluxe

-Mark Petrie, Scholarship, Dominant- News stories covering the events and killings that happened in his hometown, noting him as one of the only survivors. @markatluxe

-Nakia Pierce, Scholarship, Dominant- Photographs of court documents listing her elder sister as the sole and primary guardian for Nakia herself as well as her siblings, as well as documents listing her mother as unfit. @nakiaatluxe

-Margaret Balthasar, Scholarship, Submissive- Photographs of Margaret purchasing obviously illegal and illicit substances, as well as photographs of her passed out at parties and one in an unfamiliar outside location. @bxlthxsxr-mxrgxret

-Dylan Wentworth, Scholarship, Dominant- Videos of him watching Lucas from afar, photographs and videos of the two of them together in secret. @dylanwentworth

-Cassie Ainsworth, Elite, Submissive- Photographs of food atop photographs of Cassie over a year. @lovelycassieainsworth

-Patrick Blanco Commerford, Elite, Submissive- Videos of Patrick partying, dancing and flirting with various men, as well as taking unknown yet obviously illicit substances. @itspatrickcommerford

-Kurt Hummel, Scholarship, Switch- Photographs/Screenshots of what is obviously an OnlyFans page, featuring risque and erotic photographs and content. @transkurtonista

-Teddy Duchamp, Scholarship, Submissive- Photographs and news headlines of his father, and the story of how Teddy had been hidden away due to his father’s break with reality, not allowed to attend school and never taught how to truly live. @subteddyatluxe

-Delaney O’Neil, Elite, Dominant- Photographs of Delaney in risque and compromising positions, those which make her look almost submissive, and engaged in acts with an unknown male. @dommedelaney

-Carter Millhouse, Elite, Dominant- Videos of Carter making shady deals with others, and engaging in acts of violence (muggings) on the streets. @domcarterm

-Lucas Parker, Scholarship, Submissive- Photographs of Lucas with his ex, as well as a photograph of a positive pregnancy test and an ultrasound photo. @sublucasparker

-Isabel Evans, Elite, Dominant- Videos and photographs of her with her ex-boyfriend Alex Whitman, along with messages and photos of her rejecting and being unkind to him, atop a photograph of his death certificate. 

-Blair McCain, Scholarship, Submissive- Photographs of a supposedly sealed juvenile record, citing several arrests for breaking and entering, theft, and evading arrest. @submissivelyblair

-Cameron Adams, Scholarship, Submissive- Videos and photographs of his father, spending time with his second family, taking expensive vacations and wearing the best clothing, set atop photographs of him and his mother outside their clearly run-down house. @subcameronadams

-Franco del Rio, Scholarship, Submissive- Photographs of various forms of money and currency, surrounding a picture of a bank statement showing a balance of nearly zero, with Franco’s name printed at the top. @photodelrioluxe

[brokutosan]

Title. We Are Your First, Last, & Only Line of Defense Against This World of Scum

Pairing. Seijoh 3rd Years x Platonic!Reader

Summary. In which growing up is hard, but it’s a lot less harder if you’re doing it with the bestest friends you could ever ask for in the world (and Oikawa Toruu). Or; a journey through the friendship of the third years of Seijoh’s volleyball club.

Warnings. Manga spoilers up to chapter 395. Lots of cursings and mentions of anxieties about growing up. Kind of incoherent and mostly ramblings + not much dialogue, but I’ve been enjoying writing these types of things. Full disclosure: this is completely based on that official art of them at a karaoke bar. Title is from Men in Black by Will Smith.

Oikawa Toruu was 6 years old when he was crying about some kid stealing his pudding cup. And Iwaizumi Hajime was 6 years old when he dreamt of becoming a cop once he grew up, so he sought to bring justice for Oikawa’s pudding cup. L/N Y/N, also 6 years old, had declared that she would marry Hajime once she was old enough to, so she thought it was her job as his future bride to be his partner in solving this crime. (Oikawa Toruu could care less, he just wanted his pudding cup back).

Long story short, Iwaizumi Hajime ended up scuffling with said kid after he called him “stupid porcupine head” and Y/N jumped in the fray to save her future groom, while Oikawa jumped in to reclaim his pudding cup. And that was just the start of their long series of getting into trouble together.

When Oikawa Toruu was 14 years old and in his last year of junior high, the ugly green monster had reared its head and caused hostility between him and a certain kouhai. Y/N, always the kind one, had called him out on his bullshit and told him to get his act together. Oikawa fired back and called her out on her “pathetic crush on Iwa-chan,” effectively setting off the cold war between them that lasted all of summer. Iwaizume recalls having to go back and forth between the two because they refused to be in the same room together.

By the time they were 15 years old and entering highschool, the two ended up being in the same class. Oikawa pretended not to know her and hung out with “Makki” from his volleyball team. Y/N tried branching out and making friends with the other girls in her class for once, but she was shunned out for being close to the Oikawa Toruu back in middle school.

Their three months of silent treatment ended on the second week of the new school year, when Oikawa was enraged by the nasty rumors spreading about his childhood friend. Some guy Y/N rejected during the third day of school had spread rumors that she was involved in a reverse harem with Oikawa and Iwaizumi and that he didn’t bother going out with her because she was “too easy.”

Oikawa, 15 years old, threw the first punch. Iwaizumi, also 15 years old, held back his friend until Oikawa shouted out, “This bastard’s running around calling Y/N-chan a whor-” Oikawa didn’t need to finish because by then Iwaizumi had thrown the second punch. Matsukawa Issei and Hanamaki Takahiro, both 15 years old, tried holding back their two new volleyball teammates.

And that’s how Y/N and Oikawa tearfully made up, and the two, “Mattsun” and “Makki”, as Oikawa affectionately named them, joined their little friend group. Y/N ended up joining the volleyball club as a manager per Oikawa’s request (command) and finally everything was back to normal, with everyone forgetting about the “cold war” between Oikawa and Y/N.

It didn’t take long for Hanamaki and Matsukawa to fit into the group because anyone that could tolerate Oikawa deserves a reward (and that reward is the friendship they’ve built over the years, but none of them actually liked to get sappy).

By the time the five friends were 16 year olds in their second year of highschool, Oikawa has made a name for himself as the great setter of the Seijoh volleyball team. The other three were close behind in terms of popularity, but none were quite as open with it as Oikawa was. Y/N, on the other hand, did not get to enjoy the joys of the glory brought by the four players. She made heads turn, but the sight of four glowering boys right behind her made them turn back.

But there were a few exceptions.

Y/N was 16 years old and in second year of highschool when she got her first boyfriend. It wasn’t Oikawa, or Iwaizumi, or Hanamaki, or Matsukawa, no, it was a fellow second year in the same class as her (she was lucky enough not to be put in the same class as any of her idiot friends that year).

All five of them have forgotten his name now, but when they do talk about him every now and then, he was given the affectionate nickname, “Pighead.” Because two months into their relationship, Pighead had the nerve to demand Y/N to completely cut off her four friends.

Because she was young and naive and under the illusion of puppy love, Y/N was thrown into a dilemma. She mulled over it for weeks, lost sleep over whether or not she should comply, until Iwaizumi snapped her out of it and made her spill what was bothering her.

Once the four boys found out they offered to wipe Pighead off the face of Earth, but Y/N just cried and apologized for even just thinking about cutting off her amazing friends. They had a sleepover that night and Y/N still remembers it as one of her best childhood memories.

(Because of that one incident Y/N had decided to completely cut off immature boys from her highschool days).

Come their third year of highschool the five were as close as ever (and Oikawa, regrettably, much more annoying). They’ve built up seemingly unbreakable bonds that would last a lifetime, and Y/N was glad that she was able to take part in it. Having the four boys throughout her teenage years certainly was enjoyable, and she wouldn’t trade the memories and years of friendship they’ve attained for anything in the world. As long as she had the four of them (even Oikawa), she believed she could face off anything and anyone in the world.

When Y/N began worrying about college and growing up, they were there to help cheer her up. When the boys lost to Karasuno in the Prefectural Qualifiers, Y/N was there to cheer them up. She still remembers the tearful afternoon spent in the gym they’d spent three years of their lives in. And despite not being as hurt as the boys were after losing, Y/N had found herself shedding a few tears of her own. As they closed the gym doors one final time, they’ve also closed the doors to their childhood.

Teenage years go by, and as quick as they’ve entered highschool they found themselves graduating. Growing up. Taking the next step into adulthood. The four boys she came to love as her found family were now four men, and they’ve done well growing up.

And just like that tearful goodbye at the Seijoh volleyball club gym, Y/N finds herself preparing for another one. All five of them are adults now. Iwaizumi is going off to California to study in an American university, Oikawa’s going to Argentina to play volleyball, and Hanamaki and Matsukawa are moving to Tokyo together to study in a university. For once in her life, Y/N finds that she’ll be all alone in Miyagi, while her friends take the next few steps to growing up.

The five of them find themselves in Hanamaki’s childhood bedroom, for one last weekend sleepover before everything changes. They’ve strewn out blankets and pillow on the floor, and are laying down in a circular formation. They’ve been in this bedroom hundreds of times, in this same exact position, but now it’s completely different.

All his posters of celebrities are taken down and wrapped neatly on a pile sitting on his desk. His clutter of figurines and plushies collected over the years are in boxes, ready to move with their owner. His closet is empty, the clothes inside stuffed into their own labeled boxes. And his volleyball jersey that’s usually hung by the door is no longer there, no doubt already packed somewhere safe. Y/N tries not to dwell on the somberness of it all, and instead forces a laugh when Matsukawa makes a joke.

Y/N realizes she messed up when four pairs of eyes turn to look at her. “I know I’m a riot, but that joke wasn’t even that funny. I’ll admit to that.” Matsukawa speaks up.

“What’s on your mind?” Iwaizumi finally asks. His arms are behind his head and he’s staring up at the ceiling, no doubt lost in his own train of thoughts.

Y/N contemplates if she should ruin the peaceful vibes surrounding their group. They’ve already cried tons after losing to Karasuno, so do they even have any tears left for a goodbye? Y/N looks to her left and realizes all their attention focused on her, waiting for her to answer Iwaizumi’s question.

“Nothing. Just that maybe this’ll be our last weekend together.” She sighs, letting her emotions get the best of her. “We’re all going our own separate ways, who knows what could happen, y’know?”

It’s Oikawa that reacts first, but that’s no surprise since he’s Oikawa. “Y/N-chan! Are you trying to say you’re gonna miss me?” He asks with comical tears in his eyes. Y/N immediately regrets speaking up.

“I think I might miss you the least.” Oikawa feigns hurt at the comment, but he knows his friend better than anybody. ‘I’ll miss you more than you could even imagine.’ Is what she’s trying to say.

“Oi. No more crying.” Hanamaki finally says something. He can see the tears forming at Oikawa’s eyes, and a few that already shed from Y/N’s, before he feels the familiar burning sensation in his throat. “Damn it.”

“Nothing’s gonna change. We’ll all keep in touch, plain and simple.” Matsukawa announces, almost as if he was sure of it. “And if anyone,” Iwaizumi adds, looking directly at Oikawa, “decides to be a dick and try to cut us off, we’ll all personally fly out to South America to kick his ass.” A chorus of ‘yes’ sounded out as Oikawa gasps at his friends’ reactions.

“Why does it always get violent with you, Iwa-chan?!” He whines like a child, causing an outburst of laughter from the other four.

Hanamaki notices Y/N staring off into space again before he sighs, placing an affectationate hand on her head. “Relax, loser. It’s not like we’re gonna totally forget Miyagi. If anything me and Issei are gonna come back home more than you think. You’ll get tired of us eventually.”

Y/N wipes a few stray tears and nods, finally showing a genuine smile. “I’ll kill all of you if you even try to forget about Miyagi.”

“Impossible.” Iwaizumi says with a gentle smile on his lips.

-

The next morning the five friends make their way to Narita Airport, where Oikawa’s flying off to Argentina to become a better player. Their eyes are bloodshot red from staying up all night crying and reminiscing old memories together.

The walk from the parking lot to the boarding gate is quiet, until Oikawa breaks the awkward air between them. “When I get back, I’ll wipe the court with Tobio-chan.”

“You’re still not over that? Grow up.” Y/N glares, suddenly remembering their childish fight during their last year of junior high. Hanamaki laughs first, followed by Matsukawa, and finally Iwaizumi. The people around them stare strangely as five teens laugh with tears streaming down their eyes.

“Try not to miss me too much, ‘k, Y/N-chan?” Oikawa winks, just barely dodging the fist swung at him. A boarding call for Oikawa’s flight fills the airport, and they finally remember why they’re there in the first place.

“I’ll miss you guys.” He finally says seriously, tears freely falling down his face. Y/N cracks first, flinging herself to his awaiting arms and cries as she realizes this is his goodbye. Hanamaki, Matsukawa, and Iwaizumi follow, forming a group hug in the middle of Narita Airport.

Oikawa pulls away, dragging a sleeve to wipe away his tears. He opens his mouth to say one final goodbye, but is interrupted by a plethora of voices overlapping each other,

“Try not to make your teammates hate you too much. Make some friends.”

“Don’t even think about calling me at midnight about your stupid problems.”

“If you come crying to me about your knee, I’m just gonna say I told you so.”

“Once you get back, I’ll be sure to give you hell.”

“Oi, what kind of curse are you all placing on me?!” Oikawa whines, the somber atmosphere replaced by their usual energetic one.

With one last ‘goodbye,’ Oikawa strides towards the airport gates, and away from the ones he’s grown to love over the years. He looks over his shoulders, taking a mental picture of all four of his closest friends waving and giving him nods of encouragement so that he’d never forget what he’ll always have back home.

The world can throw anything it wants at them, but as long as they had each other, nothing’s ever too scary or too tough.

A/N. Thank you for reading this totally self-indulgent fic with my fav third years! A Miya twins version of this fic is in the works! Also, I’m thinking of making a mini series off of this oneshot where you chose a route with one of the boys (romantically). Let me know if you guys would also be interested in that. - chuu

[scribblindown]

Gladio cheats on his S/O | Part 1

Tagging all of the lovely people who commented last time! @little-mini-me-world @chocobruh-art @sweetchocobae @thirsty-angst-lord @schmelscorner  @mistressoli @blossattic

Intro: Here

Part 1: You are here

Part 2: Here

Part 3: W I P 

The second your phone dropped, the sound of shattering glass and the reverberating metals and plastic colliding with the stone steps brought you back to reality. You looked down at your cracked screen when it suddenly chimed from an incoming message. 

You looked up to give that red-headed man another piece of your mind, but your eyes had only found empty air and [e/c] irises widened. Your panic spiked up and you instantly whirled around. Left, right, behind, maybe even above, but nothing. It was as if he had never existed. 

As if he didn’t just give you the scare of your life. 

You shook your head and wondered for a second that everything was just a bad dream, but as your fingers ran across the broken glass of your screen, you knew something was up. 

You pressed your home screen and your mobile lit up. Your heart dropped to your stomach with disappointment when you saw Iris’ name instead of Gladio’s.

Anger and frustration only spurred you further when you saw what she had sent you. 

[Name]...

I’m sorry. 

That’s not you with Gladdy right now, is it?

You stopped reading then and stood up to chuck your phone as far as you could off the railings.

Maybe he did go into this willingly. 

While having a cute little girlfriend to go back to, Gladiolus truly became the scum of the earth when he fell back on his old womanizing ways. With a few drinks here and there, the proposal that the beautiful lady from the across the bar was giving him seemed to be a splendid one.  

Besides, you would never know, and what you don’t know wouldn’t hurt you. 

But once he started to bed her, his temporary carnal hunger went out like a candle. The image of you, face tear-streaked or eyes clouded with anger and disgust at him made it difficult to breathe. 

Even as she straddled his hips with long, smooth legs, filling his vision with soft, supple skin that stretched from her flat stomach to the valley of her breasts, Gladio felt the guilt sink into him. 

“Hey, come on, I change my mind...I have a girlfriend.” 

But this mystery vixen wouldn’t hear it, and willingly or not, Gladio went along with the ride. 

It was official, he had cheated on you. 

When Gladio woke up the next morning he was all alone. The sunlight filtered through his sheer white curtains and warmed up the bare skin that stretched across the pane of his toned stomach. After laying there for what seemed to be an eternity of thinking, Gladio finally pulled himself out of his bed and prepared for another day in the Citadel. 

As he started his trek to the large and foreboding building, his couldn’t bring himself away from what he had done. His legs felt like lead, and they became heavier and slower with every step up the stairs. 

His throat was constricted, and his heart felt like it was being gripped with an iron fist. Just as he imagined you greeting him this morning, his breath was a burning, painful fire. Bitter regret, guilt, and anger was directed at himself for doing this to you. 

He had worked so hard for you to finally give him a chance, the cute little Kingsglaive member that always rejected his advances. When you finally gave up trying to dodge the behemoth of a man, he believed that he genuinely liked you. Maybe he even had a thought of talking seriously about marriage with you, but it seemed to all be shattered now. Gladio had messed up, he was a cheater and he was worthless. 

He knew this, but he knew that if he was going to see you today he would never tell you the truth. Never telling him the truth had gotten him this far, with him and his list of mistresses, girlfriends, and one-night stands, why not once more? Even as he thought this, he felt even worse than before, and the guilt ate away at him until he was hallow inside. 

But his resolve was strong. He wouldn’t be able to stand your heartbroken face, your tear-filled eyes if he had told you the truth. Gladio’s would feel like the lowest man on earth if Eos if you would tell him that you hated him, if you tried to run away from him and cut all ties. No, he doesn’t think that he could let you go even if you yelled at him, screamed at him, or worse, begged him. 

For the first time in his life, Gladiolus realized that he might lose something that he can’t replace. 

Even with this thought in mind, he took visible breathing exercises to calm himself down. He fixed the emotions on his face into something that hopefully resembled his everyday look, and prepared himself to see you again.

But ten, fifteen, twenty minutes of standing and stalling outside of the Kingsglaive locker rooms, not a hide nor hair of you was seen. Multiple of your coworkers passed him, giving him questioning glances or knowing looks to one another. Their strange reaction to him made his eyebrow climb up his forehead, and just as Titus Drautos exited the locker rooms to give everyone their schedules for the day, Gladiolus pulled him aside. 

“Gladiolus,” the middle-aged man said, “how may I help you?” Rough, muddy green eyes bore into him, and already hopped up on nerves, Gladio had to clear his throat and straighten up. 

“Is [Name] in?” 

“So even you don’t know,” the older man drawled, instantly pulling a pencil out of his pocket and writing a little note to himself. 

A “Huh?” fell out of Gladio’s lips and he looked questionably at the captain. 

“[Name] didn’t check in today,” he explained without his eyes leaving the small notepad he carried with him. “I thought that she was running late, but if she didn’t even tell you, something must be up.” He didn’t notice, or didn’t care about Gladio’s surprised look, and instead thanked the Shield for giving him this information and walked away to continue his day. 

Gladio took off down the hall, millions of questions running through his head. Did you just oversleep? Was your alarm clock not working? He pulled out his phone and quickly pulled your name out of the speed dial. He lifted it up to his ear, and only walked faster in impatience when the robotic voice on the other side said that this number was currently unavailable. He nearly crushed the mobile then and there. 

He left the Citadel, taking the stairs two at a time and ran towards your apartment. He bolted up the stairs and made a beeline for your door. All thought of his betrayal took a backseat in favor of the panic that set in his skin. A panic that only amplified when he realized that your door was unlocked and ajar. 

He nearly knocked the door down, and eyes of warm honey instantly scanned his surroundings. 

“[Name]?!” he called out. Multiple horrific scenarios ran through his mind, and just as he was looking for your would-be attacker, he found nothing. Literally nothing. 

He frantically looked around. No jackets strewn around, no cabinets filled with food, no clothes in the closet, no signs of struggle, and no sign of your existence. 

It was as if you had never even existed. 

In a split second, he made his decision and dashed home. 

He burst through the doors of the Amicitia mansion, crossing the foyer in two quick seconds that he almost didn’t even notice Iris. 

She tucked her hands behind her back, she had her legs together, and her eyes downcast, staring at her shoes. It was as if she was trying to make herself as small as possible. 

“Gladdy...” she whispered, almost too quiet for him to hear. 

“Not now, Iris,” Gladio said, trying to take off his jacket. “[Name]’s not answering her phone, she’s not at work, her apartment is empty—”

“Gladdy,” Iris tried again, a little exasperated. 

“A grown woman doesn’t just disappear,” Gladio continued, ignoring her for the worry that he had sinking into his mind. 

“Gladdy!” Iris finally said, looking at her brother. 

“What?” he snapped. He turned to look at her. 

“Gladdy...” Iris shrunk again, like she wanted to make herself as small as possible under the gaze of her older brother. It was a tactic that worked when she was a kid, when she did something she knew her brother would be unhappy about. Gladio’s expression softened. 

“Iris, what—?” 

“Gladdy, I love you,” she said, her voice a mere whisper, but then she looked up and into his eyes, her own amber ones clashing with his own. A spark of anger was lit underneath that guilt she felt. “But [Name] is my friend too.” 

Gladio’s blood ran cold at what she said next. 

“I told her about what you did.”   

[moonwaif]

Latte (H)Art: Ch. 2/?

AO3

“Boss From Hell”: Hinami really likes working at Aogiri Tree Cafe. Not.

Fic Summary: Traumatized after being rejected by Kirishima Ayato, her first love, a teenaged Hinami vows that she will never fall in love again. Four years later, Hinami is a young woman trying to get by in life. Her painful past is behind her - at least, until she gets a job at Aogiri Tree Café, where she runs into a few familiar faces...AyaHina human!AU

Not many things shocked Hinami anymore. She'd learned how to distance her emotions. It was like staring through the wrong end of a telescope. Nothing could catch her off guard when it all looked so tiny, so far away.

So why was it that just one glimpse of Kirishima Ayato was enough to send a thousand sirens blaring through her brain?

He'd changed since they'd last met. His hair was longer, his appearance neater. She deftly noted the bulging sinews in his shoulders and arms. But the dark eyes and flawless jawline were undeniably his, even if the look of surprise and uncertainty on his face wasn't.

Takizawa cut in before either of them had a chance to react.

"This is Fueguchi-san," he said. "She went to high school with us. You remember, right? Have fun catching up."

He tossed them a malicious smirk before slinking off into the café. 'Bastard,' Hinami thought. What was his problem? Surely he still couldn't hold a grudge over losing that secretary position, could he? No one could be that petty…

Ayato coughed lightly. With great reluctance Hinami tore her gaze away from the door and turned to face the last person she'd ever hoped to see again. She expected to see the haughty expression he'd always worn in high school, or maybe even a smirk similar to Takizawa's. She was very mistaken. His look of surprise had melded into an open glare. His eyes burned, as if her very presence was a personal offense. Before she could even react he pushed past her, pausing only to bark at her over his shoulder.

"Follow me."

Hinami stared at his retreating back, seething. What the hell? What was with his attitude?! Sure, he'd always been kind of rude in high school, maybe even a little bit of a jackass, but he'd never so unreasonably hateful.

'Maybe he's just having a bad day,' she thought with a frown, studying his movements as he led her through the kitchen. They were quick and decisive, different from the relaxed arrogance he'd comported himself with in the past. He'd always made a deliberate show of his strength in those days. Why, or for whose benefit, she wasn't sure. But there were no more theatrics now. He didn't need them. Capability pervaded his every stride.

It made him far more intimidating than he ever had been.

'I wonder if he even remembers that confession after all,' she thought, watching as he paused to rifle through some boxes. 'Like I even need to ask. I was nothing to him in those days. Nothing...'

"Here." He tossed her a bundle. "Your uniform. Put this on."

Hinami glanced down at the navy blue polo shirt. It smelled vaguely of cheese, and there was a suspicious green stain on the khaki apron. Whatever. She’d worn worse. However, as she changed in the bathroom, she couldn’t help but feel like she was wearing a parachute. The shirt was at least two sizes too large. It fit like a dress. The loose, bulky apron didn’t make the ensemble any more flattering.

A smirk danced briefly across Ayato’s face as she returned to the kitchen. It was a familiar expression, the kind he’d made back in high school when he snickered at those that were beneath him. Hinami clenched her fists in the pockets of her apron.

“Okay,” she said quietly. “What now?”

Ayato began showing her around the kitchen. The equipment was new, and everything was relatively tidy. As they reached the espresso machine he suddenly reached over her, leaning in close for a demonstration. He smelled like coffee, cinnamon, and some kind of warm, masculine scent that made Hinami want to bury her nose in his soft cotton shirt.

"I already know how!" she cut in, more sharply than she'd intended. Ayato raised his brow.. Hinami looked away, arranging her features into an indifferent expression as she fought for composure.

"I've worked at cafés before," she explained more coolly. "So you don't have to demonstrate everything so minutely."

Ayato's face twitched. Behind him, Takizawa - who must have crept in at some point during the tour - giggled.

"What's so fucking funny?" Ayato snapped, whirling around. "Shouldn't you be getting started on that bread? Or should I let Eto know what a useless piece of shit you are?"

'Eto?' Hinami thought, remaining expressionless. Whoever 'Eto' was, the name seemed to mean something to Takizawa. His smile vanished, replaced by a sour look. He shuffled toward the pantry, shooting them both a glare. When he was out of sight, Ayato whirled back around.

"And you, since you're so 'experienced,' why don't you get started on those?"

He cocked his thumb at the mountain of dirty dishes stacked in the sink.

"Oh, and we need someone to take inventory. Normally Takizawa does it, but since I finally have an 'experienced' employee, you can take care of it. You can at least do that much, right?"

He crossed his arms with a sneer. 'Arrogant prick,' Hinami thought.

"Yes," she muttered reluctantly.

"We open in five. I need you out on tables. So get to it."

And with that he was strutting out of the kitchen, wearing that same insufferably smug look he'd worn the day he'd crushed her heart on the classroom floor.

(space)

That night Hinami collapsed into bed in a pool of coffee residue and sweat. She pulled the blanket over her head, Saiko's soft snores buzzing in the background.

"I hate him," she whispered into her pillow.

She'd spent the last eleven hours busting ass at Aogiri Tree under Ayato's constant surveillance. Thanks to him she'd barely gotten a fifteen minute break, and even then she'd only managed that by hiding behind the dumpster until Takizawa ratted her out. Despite the fact that they seemed to be having a relatively slow day, Ayato never ran out of tasks to delegate.

"Done with dishes? Scrub the toilets."

"The table legs haven't been wiped down in a while."

"Why are you just standing there? Don't you see those napkins need arranging?"

"If you're not doing anything, here - go stand outside with this promotional sign."

This last assignment squashed whatever little bit of amorous feelings Hinami's heart may still have been harboring. Sure, he was gorgeous - even more gorgeous than he'd been as a scraggly, pubescent rebel; and the crooked smile he gave female customers as they forked over their cash may have raised the ghost of a blush to her cheeks. But standing under the beating sun on a street corner, car fumes wafting in her face for three hours, cured her of the madness completely.

Kirishima Ayato was the scum of the universe, and the reason humanity couldn't have nice things.

She'd resume her job search tomorrow. For now, she'd just have to suffer through it until her first paycheck came through.

(space)

When Hinami got to work the next morning she was surprised to see the lights off and the front door closed.

'Maybe we're closed today,' she thought. 'Maybe Takizawa went on strike. Or maybe Ayato got hit by a car and had to call into work.'

Her hopes were dashed when the front door pulled open easily. The jingle of the bell was lost in the metallic crash of drums and squealing guitars. Hinami glanced around the shop, searching for the source of the music. She followed the sound through the kitchen and to a door beside the pantry. She remembered passing it more than once yesterday. It'd been shut tight, and she'd never had any reason to go through it. This morning it stood partially open. Through the crack she could see a darkened flight of stairs.

"Hello?" she called, but the music drowned out her voice. She gave one last apprehensive glance over her shoulder before opening the door further. Music poured into the kitchen, along with a dull, quietly monotonous pounding sound - like someone repeatedly dropping a bag of flour onto the floor. Cautiously, Hinami began to descend the stairs.

The walls of the basement were brick, the floors unfinished. Light filtered dimly through small rectangular windows on the left side of the room. However, she could make out enough to see a bed and a small dresser. Clothes, shoes and comics were strewn about the floor. A punching bag hung from the ceiling. It swung wildly as a man drove his fists into it with a power and deliberateness that left Hinami breathless. His feet were light, his movements confident. A tattoo of a black rabbit grinned up at her from his right shoulder blade, its monstrous body rippling with each flex of the man's bare, tightly muscled back.

Hinami was so enthralled that she didn't notice the audio cord stretching from the speakers on the wall. It caught against her foot, yanking out the cord with a loud squeal. Shivers shot up Hinami's spine as the man spun on his heel. Then there was silence.

Ayato's chest heaved as he faced her. The punching bag swung uselessly. His eyes were as round and guileless as they'd been when she'd first arrived at the cafe. Embarrassed, Hinami averted her gaze only to lock sight on his naked chest. Her gaze continued down defined abs, stopping only at the first promise of a happy trail just above the band of his joggers.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, snapping her back to her senses. "We start late on Sundays."

"S-sorry, the door was open, so I -"

"Get out."

The words were quiet, but their force hit Hinami square in the chest. She flinched, her feet rooted to the spot.

"Can't you hear me," he said, voice frigid, "or are you just stupid? Get. Out."

The sheer loathing in his voice sparked something in Hinami. It was the same hot, nauseating humiliation she'd felt building in her gut all those years ago.

"Don't," she whispered.

"What?"

His voice was low, threatening. Hinami swallowed. It was too late to take words back now. She forced herself to make eye contact with him, clenching her fists and fighting to bring her features back to something resembling stoicism.

"Don't talk to me like that."

Ayato's head cocked, his glare softening. Her words had surprised him. Hinami sensed her advantage and decided to press forward.

"I'll scrub your toilets," she said quietly. "I'll empty your trashcans. I'll hold your promotional signs and if you ask me to I'll even sing and do cartwheels and tapdance. I'll do almost anything, so long as you hand me a paycheck at the end of the week. But -" her eyes flashed, and she could feel her body shaking with years and years of pent-up resentment - "I will not allow you to talk to me like that again. Ever."

She braced herself for shouting. For anger, or insults.

Ayato snorted. Loudly.

"Was that supposed to be like, intimidating, or something?" he asked. "Cute. Real cute."

He tore off his gloves, dropping them to the floor. Hinami struggled to keep herself from shaking as he approached her.

"Low-level employees like you are a dime a dozen," he said, bending forward until their eyes were level. "You think I give one rat's ass whether you like what you hear? Huh? Well, do you?"

Hinami stayed silent, glaring at him. A small, rational part of her brain whispered that he was right. 'Just stay calm,' it whispered. 'Don't say anything that will get you fired.'

Unfortunately, that voice was becoming increasingly harder to hear.

Ayato frowned at her persisting silence. "Typical,” he muttered.

Hinami’s eyes flashed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He rolled his eyes. "Don't play dumb with me, Fueguchi. You know exactly what I'm talking about. God, you're still just as annoying as you were back then."

Back then…? Was Ayato talking about their high school days? But...why?

"Sticking your nose where it didn't belong, then crying when your fee-fees got hurt," he rambled on, his tone mocking. "Do you have any idea the mess you left behind, the crap-ton of bullshit that the rest of us had to clean up for you? Then you waltz in here, into my café, and try to tell me what to do? Christ, Fueguchi. You must be really fucking stupid."

Ayato’s cheeks were reddening, his voice and gestures growing increasingly accusatory. Without registering, Hinami took a frustrated step towards him.

"The mess I left behind?" she interjected. “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about!”

“Then let me enlighten you,” he hissed, his voice suddenly low and venomous. “You. Fucked. Up. Everything.”

His proximity was intimidating, but Hinami stood her ground without even a flinch. “That so?” she retorted, forcing her voice to remain even and calm. “I guess you would know all about fucking things up, wouldn’t you?”

Her response sounded rather weak in her own ears. Ayato, however, seemed stricken. His eyes widened before narrowing dangerously. He opened his mouth to retaliate when the door to the basement suddenly banged open.

“Ayato-kun,” a voice whined, accompanied by plodding steps down the stairs. “Where’s my paycheck at? I’m starving and I wanna get breakfast, I could eat a-”

The voice stopped as a man came into view. Two round, dark eyes peered out at them from a babyish face. He ran a hand over his slick blond hair, glancing at Hinami sheepishly.

“Oi, who’s the girl?” he muttered, as if she couldn’t hear him.

Ayato tore a hand through his hair, scowling audibly. “Just - just get the fuck out, ok? Both of you. NOW!”

The man sulked back up the stairs, shooting Ayato furtive glares. Hinami followed, head held high as she felt Ayato’s gaze burn into her back.

(Space)

Hinami’s thoughts whirled as she entered the kitchen, trying to make sense of the morning’s mess. What the hell had Ayato been talking about? Her, causing problems? How dare he make any accusations when HE was the one that had ruined everything, the one who had made an already tragic episode in her life even more isolating and humiliating!

‘Oh well,’ she thought. ‘At least he’ll probably fire me now, and I’ll never have to see him again…’

Takizawa suddenly passed in front of her, drawing on a cigarette and blowing smoke in her face. “You two really shouldn’t go down there, you know.”

Hinami coughed. “T-takizawa?” she stammered. “Why are you here? Ayato said we start late on Sundays."

"Ayato starts late on Sundays," Takizawa clarified, sprinkling ash into the coffee grinder. "Everybody else hauls ass."

The other man heaved a sigh. “Yeah, I know...but I really need my paycheck! Just wanna grab some grub…”

His stomach emitted a pointed growl. The man patted it soothingly.

“If you’re really hungry, I have some snacks in my bag,” Hinami offered.

The man’s eyes lit up. “Really?”

She nodded. “Do you...uh...want some?”

Five minutes later they were standing around the counter, the man shoveling trail mix into his mouth like it was going out of style. Hinami wasn’t sure why she was being so generous, but the confrontation with Ayato had emboldened her. She suddenly felt like reaching out to someone.

The man swallowed thickly. “So, uh, who are you exactly? New employee or something?”

“Fueguchi Hinami. And...yes, I am.”

He chewed thoughtfully. “Mmm, I see. Name’s Naki. Thanks for the food.”

He dumped the rest of the small bag in his mouth, his cheeks bulging. Takizawa watched him with a mixture of fascination and disgust.

“So,” Naki continued, chewing noisily, “how ‘er you gettin’ along ‘ere so far? Ayato givin’ you much shit yet?”

Hinami didn’t answer. Naki smiled knowingly.

“‘S like that, huh?” He crumpled the empty bag in his hand with a sigh. “Let me guess, he probably ripped you a new one for interrupting his practice this morning, right? Don’t worry, he’s always like that before a match. Besides, he's probably just embarrassed that a girl saw him all gross and sweaty like that. Instead of looking 'cool.'"

Hinami ignored this last part. "Match? So he's a boxer?"

"Nah; cage fighter. I'm his manager," Naki said proudly.

"Maybe in your fantasies," Takizawa mumbled.

Hinami imagined Ayato locked in a cage, vehemently pounding his fists into a lifeless opponent as a bloodthirsty crowd cheered him on. After the way he'd looked that morning, it wasn't too difficult to conjure. He'd been the image of a perfect athlete: his torso firm, his arms and legs defined and chiseled. As she sifted through the memory her thoughts couldn't help but linger on his hair, all dark and tossled, one damp curl falling in his eyes…

Hinami shut her eyes, shaking her head furiously. Stop fantasizing about that jerk!

"I know; it's surprising, isn't it?" Takizawa drawled, misinterpreting the gesture. "He was always such a little pretty boy back in school. I guess he learned to fight in prison."

Hinami waited for the punchline of what she thought must be a tasteless joke, but nobody was laughing.

"Ayato...went to prison?" she repeated softly.

"Oops; did I say that outloud?" Takizawa shrugged nonchalantly. "Oh well. Now you know, I guess."

He sauntered over to the oven with a tray full of cookie dough, whistling gleefully. Hinami watched him without seeing. Ayato...in prison? He'd always been a troublemaker, but he'd been so driven and charismatic. She always thought he'd go into politics, or maybe sales. Had he really turned to a life of crime?

And just what sort of crime had he been locked up for?

Her thoughts were interrupted by Naki. He was stooping low, staring into her face like he was observing bacteria under a microscope. Hinami stepped back instinctively.

"Sorry," Naki said. "I'm just trying to figure out which one you are."

"...Excuse me?"

"You're not an ex-con."

Hinami shook her head slowly.

"Hmm," Naki said, stroking his chin. "Then that leaves only two options."

Hinami eyed him cautiously. "I'm not following..."

"Eto only hires three types of people: drug addicts, ex-cons, and dropouts," he explained, counting them off on his fingers. "So. Which one are you?"

Hinami gulped as she tried to digest this new information. Drug addicts...ex-cons…and dropouts? She could sense Takizawa waiting by the oven, listening attentively.

The basement door flew open, causing all of them to jump. Ayato stood in the frame. He was wearing more clothes than the last time Hinami had seen him - his Anteiku uniform, in fact. He seemed freshly showered; the crisp scent of body wash hung around him like an aura, and his bangs curled in damp ringlets.

Hinami bit the inside of her cheek. 'Don't you DARE think about him in the shower.'

"What're you all standing around for?" he grumbled, casting them a suspicious look as he entered the kitchen. "Get to work. We open in five."

Takizawa slunk off, but Naki lingered, his eyes locking with Ayato's for a few tense moments in a look that was anything but friendly. At last Naki broke away, muttering swear words under his breath as he swaggered out of the kitchen.

Leaving Ayato and Hinami alone.

She expected him to bark an order, but none came. Cautiously, she looked up at him. He was staring down at her, his face strained. It made Hinami uneasy. She was about to beat a hasty retreat and follow Naki into the shop when Ayato suddenly stopped her.

"About earlier," he said, taking a step towards her. He paused, scratching the back of his head with a scowl. "Just...don't go in the basement. It's off limits."

"All right," Hinami said, averting her eyes. Inside, her mind was reeling. Why? Ayato was obviously living down there. Was he really that private?

Or was there something there he didn't want anyone else to see?

(Space)

Hinami spent the morning trying to concentrate on work. Without Ayato pestering her every five minutes, it should have been much easier. However, his sudden distance confused her. Had he really been that impressed by her outburst in the basement?

'Doubtful,' Hinami thought. They'd just gotten through the first part of the morning rush, and she was wiping down the tables in preparation for the next wave. Ayato stood behind the cash register, staring dully out the window.

'As if I could ever be intimidating,' she thought. 'Especially to someone who...'

Hinami squeezed the rag tightly. No. She couldn't go there. She shouldn't judge, shouldn't speculate. What Ayato did in the past didn't affect her. Besides, she was already looking for another job. All she had to do was last at Aogiri Tree for another couple weeks. Then she'd never have to worry about Kirishima Ayato again. Unfortunately, this consolation didn't completely stop the thought from seeping through the crevices of her mind:

'I could be working for a murderer.'

The bell over the door jingled. Ayato gave Hinami a meaningful glance. She swallowed thickly, ignoring the rush of nerves his look sent roiling through her stomach. Straightening her apron, she approached the customers.

"Welcome to Aogiri Tree. Would you like to be -"

The words died on her lips. An attractive young man and an equally attractive woman stared down at her. They were clad in business clothes, and each carried a sleek briefcase. They fit the image of an up-and-coming professional couple so well that they could have walked off the cover of a business magazine. Well, except for the man’s eyebrows. They probably could have used a little trimming.

"-seated?" the man finished, when it became apparent that Hinami was not going to do so. He frowned. "Yes, we would like that, please."

Hinami, however, made no move to assist them. She was too busy staring at the woman. Blonde and sleek, neck arched like a cat, the woman stared back, her smile growing ever more stiff.

"Fueguchi-san," she said at last, her words steel. "How many years has it been now?"

"You...know this girl, Mado-san?"

The woman nodded slowly, deliberately. Hinami's blood ran cold.

"Of course I do, Amon-san. She's the reason my parents are dead."

(TBC…)

[trippinglynet]

Dispatch from Media Scum Camp | Art, Fantasy Ignite Burning Man | Burning Man 1997 | MSNBC

Journalists descend on Burning Man

By Sharon McKenna

HUALAPAI PLAYA, Nev. — MSNBC has set up camp at the Burning Man festival. Get your daily desert dispatch from the “Media Scum” camp, located deep in Black Rock.

A deal with the devil and authority Art, fantasy ignite Burning Man Larry Harvey: The light behind Burning Man’s fire Burning Man: Underground fete catches fire Burning Man checklist for travelers

The separate groups share an intense energy, and a sense of something to come.

DESCENDING UPON THE BURNING Man site earlier than most is like being placed squarely in the center of another planet, one that is being newly colonized: groups of immigrants arrive from all directions to a barren and seemingly inhospitable place, bearing their unique cultural imprint.

They stake out a claim, greet their new neighbors and begin to build things: shelters, artwork, towers, roads, shrines. They are focused on their individual tasks and at the same time, these separate groups share an intense energy and a sense of something to come.

One thing’s for sure, what’s coming is not the media, because they are already here in droves. An event that was all but ignored two years ago is now the sweetheart of sound bites, and the skepticism amongst the settlers grows with each passing video cam.

Representatives from the most mainstream media have come to wander among the masses and, in between eating plenty of desert dust and swigging bottled water, try to figure it all out.

Our crew of digital journalists, photographers, paramotorists, igloo builders and Burning Man veterans and virgins alike have, in an appropriate act of self-deprecation, decided to name our site Media Scum Camp. You simply can’t experience Burning Man and not indulge in a little irreverence, even if you choose to make a parody of yourself.

Still, despite the legions of press, the move to a new site, bigger crowds, a new “security force” and legions of walkie-talkied, rule-spouting Burning Man workers, this event exudes a uniquely relaxed air, one that truly invites you to do or be (just about) anything you like.

On an afternoon stroll around the still sparsely populated site I spotted a tattooed man in fishnet stockings, young women carefully molding a mud statue of a very well-endowed male fertility icon, a Burning Man ranger discussing the upcoming lecture series on the history of the Black Rock region, a field strewn with large animal bones, and an elaborate series of linked doors leading into one another, located, appropriately, at the Mystery Spot.

Further on, drumbeats pulled people like magnets toward the Man, where he stood alone on the Playa, watching us all. A swirling crowd of drummers, dancers and onlookers moved as one while a large shimmering metal circle was ceremoniously paraded from the Man to the center of the festival site. The drums beat louder and faster as a costumed man held a paper torch near the circle, actually a concave reflective dish, which captured the sun, centered it on the paper torch and set it aflame, to frenzied cheers, and perhaps, a frown or two of confusion.

But it didn’t take long to understand that the ceremony officially ignited the Burning Man festival. That same fire will be stoked and fueled until Sunday night, when it will be used to light the Man. In the meantime, the story of this celebration will continue to unfold, not as a media event, but as an exercise in instant community, albeit one that is currently in a very big spotlight.

Art, Fantasy Ignite Burning Man

How to unleash your alter ego (without getting arrested)

By Sharon McKenna

For those attending Burning Man, home is where the art is. And the art this year will include a giant Etch-A-Sketch, a walk-through womb and, as always, the art you make yourself.

Theme camps serve as both a temporary residence for those at the event as well as a medium for creative expression.

YOU HAVE YOUR CHANCE this weekend, in the barren expanse of the northern Nevada desert, to bring your wildest fantasy to life. At Burning Man, art doesn’t imitate life so much as dictate it.

The fervent community spirit of the event has spawned villages, theme camps and art salons … it literally pulses with music, various performances and plenty of other stuff that denies categorization.

Theme camps serve as both a temporary residence for those at the event as well as a medium for creative expression. While the Man itself is a prearranged constant of the event, theme camps have evolved organically. And while many of these camps have evolved into well-organized “small neighborhoods” within “cities” (Burning Man villages) some of the most inventive creations are spontaneously produced. Which brings us to you and your fantasy.

If you are heading to the festival and want to build a theme camp, consider these tips: Theme camps should feel inclusive. Create an environment where everyone feels welcome; Burning Man team members suggest you and your group become another animal, vegetable, mineral, character, period, or concept. The overall event theme this year is fertility, so many theme camps will in some way or other reflect that, but nothing is mandatory.

A sampling of this year’s theme camps include: the Lawn Games Camp, sponsored by The Harpo Marx Memorial Croquet Society; Frequency Publica, an interactive radio station where participants can “beam their poetry, spoken word or music into the receptive ears of the Burning Man masses,” Sketch City, home of the world’s largest Etch-A-Sketch; and Womb with a View, where you can discover the stages of fetal development as you walk though a 74-foot long replica of a pregnant female. In short, when it comes to theme camps, anything goes.

From the Laughing Scorpion puppet theater to a scrap-metal sculpture entitled “The Agony of Man,” Burning Man is hopping with art, music, performances and plenty of other stuff that denies categorization. This year promises more art installations than ever before, perhaps even too much to see over the weekend. Check out the Burning Man Web site for highlights of what’s in the works and learn how to register your art, performance or event with Burning Man. Burning Man is an event that, above all else, values community. Becoming part of a village offers an opportunity for more interaction with others outside your own theme camp, with an emphasis on community and sharing. Villages may sponsor their own social events, build a communal kitchen and participate as a group in the Burning Pageant on Sunday night.

[analogscum]

SCUM IN THE AISLES #2 (House by the Cemetery)

Sometimes, in order to seek out the weirdest discarded slices of celluloid trash that cinema has to offer, one must leave the confines of their crappy apartment, and go to an actual movie theater. This is a column recounting my excursions into the b-movie wilds. This is Scum in the Aisles!

“Wow, you guys don’t look like Lucio Fulci fans at all.”

This is how programmer and film writer David Savage sarcastically sized up the nearly sold out crowd this past Tuesday night at the Drafthouse. It was Terror Tuesday, and the witching hour of 9:30pm was upon us. We had assembled on this evening to catch a 35mm screening of Fulci’s 1981 classic, House by the Cemetery. Our minds were steeled for the mind-bending, stylized gory supernatural chicanery we were about to witness, but we couldn’t help but laugh at Savage’s astute joke. Fulci’s films tend to attract, shall we say, a certain type: long hair, t-shirts emblazoned with either classic heavy metal or horror artwork, denim jackets or vests adorned with buttons and patches, skateboard sneakers. Needless to say, we fit the type, myself included.

Odds are, if you’re reading this website regularly, you already know who Lucio Fulci is. But just in case, here are the bare essentials: Fulci was an Italian filmmaker who spent the first decade of his career as an art critic before moving on to screenwriting and finally directing. His early efforts were mainly bawdy comedies and pulpy action thrillers, along with the occasional Spaghetti western. In 1969, he made his first giallo picture, A Lizard in a Woman’s Skin. Giallo, the subgenre kicked off by Mario Bava’s 1964 film Blood and Black Lace, combined elements of murder mysteries, slashers, and supernatural horror, presenting them with sumptuous visuals, swanky metropolitan settings, and a heaping helping of sex and gore. Fulci would make his name as a filmmaker with his work in this genre, beginning with his Italian breakthrough, 1972’s Don’t Torture a Duckling, and culminating in his international breakthrough, 1979’s Zombi 2. If you’ve ever seen the clip of an underwater zombie engaging in slow-mo fisticuffs with a shark, that was Fulci’s doing. The next year, Fulci set off to make his most ambitious work yet, the Gates of Hell Trilogy, which was comprised of 1980’s City of the Living Dead, 1981’s The Beyond, and today’s subject, 1981’s House by the Cemetery. Though they all have different plots and share no recurring characters, these films are united by the fact that they are the most probing look into Fulci’s obsessions: gothic horror, weird fiction, Grand Guignol violence, anti-Catholic sentiments, and the general malaise of knowing that life is governed by chaos, and evil wins the day much more often than good does.

Savage did an excellent job of setting up Fulci’s mindset as such before the film ran, and even though I had seen it multiple times before, this new appraisal allowed me to see the film with a whole new set of eyes. House by the Cemetery concerns a historian named Norman Boyle (Paolo Malco, who often played nebbish intellectual types in Fulci’s films) who moves from New York City to “Boston” (though the exterior house and town scenes were actually shot in upstate Massachusetts and Connecticut, while the interiors were filmed in Rome) alongside his wife Lucy (Katherine MacColl, another Fulci regular), and their young son, Bob (Giovanni Frezza), in order to finish a research project began by a colleague who went insane, killing his girlfriend and then himself. Jeez, the state of academics these days. The family resides in a spooky old Victorian mansion (you’ll never guess what’s nearby) that once belonged to a mad scientist named Doctor Freudstein (LULZ). Oh, and Bob keeps talking to the ghost of a little girl, Mae (Silvia Collatina), who warns him not to go to the house in the vaguest terms possible. Why are these omen spirits always so coy?

So from there we’re treated to the type of bloody otherworldly madness that Fulci fans know and love. We get the classic “stabbed in the back of the head so that the knife pokes through the mouth” trick, a mannequin decapitation, fireplace poker stabbings, various throat slittings, an amazing, super long sequence involving a bat that just refuses to die, and of course the climactic revelation that Doctor Freudstein (LULZ) is still alive, and using dead bodies strewn about the basement to prolong his life…somehow, despite the fact that he looks like a turkey drumstick stuffed into a Civil War uniform. That don’t much sound like living to me.

Fulci was never shy about borrowing from whatever mainstream film was popular at the time, and here we get plenty of influence from The Shining: a family relocating to a haunted location, a boy who communes with spirits, and an ending that involves good ol’ dad busting a door down with an axe. The main difference here is that we want little Danny Torrence to survive his ordeal at the Overlook Hotel, whereas Bob in this movie is an annoying little prick, and the audience laughed every time he spoke, because his voice is impossibly whiny. And while the main baddie (please don’t make me type his name again) is obviously an homage to a certain Mary Shelley classic, as Savage pointed out, the vibe of the film actually has much more in common with H.P. Lovecraft. Fulci was a diehard Lovecraft aficionado, and the film’s creepy New England setting, characters driven mad by unknown, unseen forces, and obsession with…re-animating…the dead (saaaaaay, there’s a boffo idea for a horror picture!) are all deeply Lovecraftian motifs.

Overall, House by the Cemetery is something of an outlier in the Gates of Hell trilogy. It is not as sprawling or otherworldly as City of the Living Dead or The Beyond, and it has a more somber, autumnal vibe to match its setting. Even the kills, while as bloody as anything else in Fulci’s cannon, somehow feel more restrained, at least when compared to the jaw-dropping set pieces in the previous two installments of the trilogy. Still, House by the Cemetery is an essential piece of the puzzle, a look back to a time when Fulci was at the height of his creative powers, and the only thing holding him back was the limits of his dark, twisted imagination. Kudos to the folks at the Drafthouse for seeing that his visions live on to this day.

[mostly-history]

Old London's East End was a maze of filthy, overcrowded tenements.  Its streets and myriad seamy back alleys were strewn with rotting garbage while the stench and sight of raw sewage in the gutters assaulted the senses. Its sombre huddled buildings wore the mourning black soot from a million chimneys that had, for decades, belched clods of smoke.  The busy River Thames, England's main artery to the world, flowed through it all, bringing trade, rats, disease and more stinking rubbish to its banks and docks, as well as thousands of immigrants from the Far and Middle East. These slums had supposedly been cleaned up during Queen Victoria's reign but they were still like an open cesspit, with fetid odours and disease-ridden air, a silent killer that stalked the streets.  This hellhole was home to London's poorest, but its people were proud and brave.  It had also become home to the scum of the earth. Death was a frequent visitor to almost every family.  They died from disease, starvation, murder or injury; the hopeless were often found floating in the murky waters of the river.  Crime was rampant, especially around the docklands; the streets were not safe to walk at night.  Little value was placed on the lives of London's poor, yet those who survived, by their wits and sheer determination, became, and still are, famous for their humour, creativity and ability to make do.  Consider the complexity of Cockney rhyming slang: it is a language unto itself, created as a secret code between the entrepreneurs of London's back streets.  You could buy or sell anything in London and might have been killed for it. Nevertheless, there existed another side to the darkness of this ghetto, the side that turned its international babel into a commercial common language.  Its misery became laughter; its infamy, fame; and its unrecorded stories evolved into song and literature.  That side of London's underbelly was to be found in its street markets, with their sharp-witted barrow boys; its pubs, with their poets and songsters; its music halls, with their comedians, musicians and actors.  Here lay the creativity and the fine art of survival that were the foundations of the East Ender's indomitable spirit. This was the London of my family history.  Into this history, I was born.  This is my proud heritage.

Iris Jones Simantel in “Far From the East End”

[mrstick-yaoi]

Misc Sticks, I'll get back on my burton sketching later tbh

[mrstick-yaoi]

Ooggvhhfbffbfb can't wait to publish this fic when I get home from work the earth will SHATTER INTO PIECES

[mrstick-yaoi]

I'm baldin' here!!!

[mrstick-yaoi]

Gosh such a steaaaal,