#i want the head of the main professor for this course mounted on my wall tho fuck that guy so much

[mossiestpiglet]

this is the second time that this class and this specific assignment has made me meltdown why the fuck is this class taught like this

[distant-velleity]

[Chrysos R School Uniform Vignette]

We Specialize in Payback

Summary: You know, birds and fish... don't mesh very well. Word count: 957 A/N: I wrote this about a month ago, which was around the time I started really trying to develop Chrysos and Santiago. Takes place... I want to say at least during the first few months of school.

“—that will be all for today,” drones on Professor Trein. “Your homework is to read pages 250 through 274 in your textbook and think carefully about the present-day effects of early magical conflict. We will be discussing and answering questions related to the text next class. Dismissed.”

Chrysos, like all of his classmates, is relieved when history class finally ends and school is over for the day. He sighs as he places his books and papers back into his bag, heaving it up onto his shoulder.

Thank the Seven… I thought that would never end. Chrysos almost smiles to himself as he heads out of the classroom and down the hall to the other side of the main school building. The rest of the school day will be smooth sailing—I just need to make it through club time and then I can go relax in my dorm room.

Suddenly, someone dashes past and bumps into him, nearly knocking him over. Chrysos stumbles and accidentally grabs onto their arm when trying to find his balance. Extremely tightly.

“Ow! Jeez, for someone so short, you squeeze like an anaconda,” they complain, looking back at him. “What’s this all about?”

Of course, this offender of the “no running in the halls” rule is none other than Santiago Parro, number 27 of Class 1-D. 

It’s this guy again, Chrysos realizes furiously. The same lazy bastard who sits behind me in class and always messes with my hair, the one with the same talents as me… A constant pain in the—!!

“‘What’s this all about?’” Chrysos repeats back at him, word-for-word and voice-for-voice. He lets go and adjusts his bag’s strap with a dull glare, returning to his own voice. “Walk. Not that hard.”

Santiago is clever enough to put two-and-two together, which is simultaneously less and more infuriating because he smiles that cocky grin of his. “Are you mad that I bumped into ya? Sorry not sorry—you’re just too small to be seen from my height.”

“There are rules,” Chrysos argues. “For safety.” Not that he follows them to a T either, but at least he’s careful about it.

And what the hell was that about my height?

“Sheesh…” Santiago sighs dramatically. “Rules? What a nuisance. Listen, goldie—”

‘Goldie’?!

 “—is it really such a big deal? We’re the only ones around, and I’ve gotta get to the basketball club practice before the guys decide they want to stuff and mount my head on the gymnasium wall.”

Chrysos huffs. “Hardly an excuse.”

“What, are you going to lecture me about discipline and respect?”

“No, but—”

“I don’t have time for this,” Santiago decides flippantly, slinging his gym bag over his shoulder. “You can have fun with your rules and stuff, but I’ve got my eyes on the prize. See ya.” 

And like that, he’s gone, back to racing off down the hall.

Chrysos seethes. Who the hell does he think he is? Looking down on me like that… How does a mindless fool like that possess the thoughtful spirit of Scarabia?

Realizing he’s getting absurdly worked up, he takes a few deep breaths and clenches his fist around his bag’s straps.

Fine. But given how much he torments me like this on a daily basis, I am not going to take this lying down anymore. I’m not just some run-of-the-mill coral reef prey.

~

“Finally got here early enough to nab one of those fruit parfaits,” Santiago cheerfully sing-songs to himself at lunch the next day, carrying his tray and navigating through the cafeteria for his usual table. “A growing bird beastman like me needs all the fresh stuff he can get~”

It’s unfairly difficult for him to make it to the cafeteria in time to get anything good, given that his elective is right before lunch and on the other side of the building, which makes this rare occasion all the more rewarding. He’s in a pretty good mood, humming a little to himself, until someone’s elbow knocks into his tray and nearly sends both him and his hard-earned parfait flying.

“Ack—Hey!” Santiago whips around to see the culprit walking past as if they’ve done nothing wrong. Of course, it’s Chrysos Pendentif, one of the most silently obnoxious students in their class. Santiago’s not sure how he didn't expect this. “....It’s you again, goldie? What was that for?”

When Chrysos looks back over his shoulder, there’s an undeniably, annoyingly smug smirk on his face. “Sorry,” he says, his usual flat tone not making him sound sorry at all. “I’m in a bit of a rush.”

Now, Santiago isn’t stupid. It’s already become pretty obvious that Chrysos is salty about yesterday and is using Santiago’s previous excuse on him. 

“‘In a bit of a rush’?” Santiago parrots perfectly. “Pfft. Cut the crap, I’ve seen you inhale literally anything put on your tray. You’ll survive not making it to the lunch line. Anyway, whatever happened to ‘rules’ and ‘safety’?” 

“Heh.” Chrysos crosses his arms with too much sass to not resemble ‘that damn octopus,’ as Jamil would put it. He’s even got the voice down, replying with, “You should know that Octavinelle students specialize in all types of payback,” as if he were Azul himself.

If Santiago were in his bird form right now, his feathers would be puffing up with annoyance. “You could’ve spared my lunch, at least!”

“Next time, spare my peace of mind,” Chrysos retorts in his normal voice. “Anyways, I’ve no time for this.” He walks off without another word, holding his chin up high; remarkably composed for a short person with an equally short temper.

Santiago sighs and shakes his head, trying to continue on with his day.

That guy’s so petty and stubborn. I just don’t get it.

[whump-a-la-mode]

"It’s A Personal Project”

This is just a drabble, unrelated to anything else I’ve done. I hope you guys enjoy ^^

CW: Sewers, general uncleanliness, death threats, tentacles, implied limb loss

The flashlight’s beam illuminated, on and off, two pairs of feet-- one dressed in the tattered sneakers of a student athlete, the other dressed in the sort of black leather boot that would be shined and polished at the airport.

The footsteps from both pairs of feet echoed rather hollowly throughout the narrow, concrete hallway. Well, perhaps hallway was a little generous.

“The sewers? Really?” As Agent spoke, their leather cleats splashed through a murky puddle of water.

“You said follow in their footsteps, didn’t you?” Hero raised a brow, moving the flashlight beam forth a few feet. In an uneven, faded pattern, muddy bootprints could be seen, stretching out into the abyss. “If we’re going to find Villain, you can’t be squeamish about it.”

“You couldn’t have at least warned me?” The more professional of the two stuck their nose up, before covering it with a hand. “I could have at least brought... hell, I don’t know, a mask or something?”

“If I had warned you, you would have brought everyone else on the force. And when is the last time that worked?”

“I’ll admit our luck hasn’t been the best.”

“It’s not luck. Your coworkers are all just braindead.”

Hero shook their head, shivering as a fat drop of water (at least, they hoped it was water) plopped onto their scalp. They pulled up a hood.

With their forms silhouetted in the flashlight’s beam, the duo showed off a far more intimidating appearance than they were justified for having. On the right, Hero moved, their narrow form outlined with sharp shoulders and a long coat. On the left, Agent, far taller in shape and wider in form, kept pace. Their shoulders were broad enough that they struggled not to scrape them against the concrete walls of the sewer.

An intimidating form, certainly, only thwarted by the fact that one of them was a college professor, with the other employed by an agency that's main role was to be the butt of every joke at headquarters.

Right now, though, it made no matter. In the darkened sewers, no one could care less about their badges or their PhDs. Of course no one cared-- there was no one else down here.

There was no one-

Hero stopped, sticking an arm out to stop Agent from advancing any further. For a moment, silence reigned, aside from the distant trickling of water.

Thunk.

The two turned their gazes upwards as the footstep sounded, followed quickly by another, another, and another. Agent took a step backwards.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to call in the other agents? This-”

“Isn’t their problem.” Hero practically growled in response.

“It is! It’s literally what we get funding for!”

“If you don’t want to help, the exit is that way. Uh, somewhere back there.”

“No, I want to help. I’m helping. I just think... maybe we shouldn’t do this alone?”

“Call it a personal project.”

“What?”

“It’s a personal pro-”

Another resounding thunk, from further away.

Hero gritted their teeth, gripping tighter the flashlight in their hand. The formerly evenly cast beam began, at once, flying all over the place as Hero began a reckless sprint forwards. Agent watched for a moment, before coming to their senses and following.

They hadn’t know Hero for awfully long-- only meeting in brief moments on missions, where they always seemed to inexplicably run into one another. They had spoken many times, certainly, but Agent had never been able to get a very good look at their odd acquaintance.

The way their coat sleeve flapped behind them, though... that didn’t seem normal.

Regardless, Agent didn’t get the chance to look any closer. Hero tore to the right, practically launching themself onto a ladder mounted on the concrete. Before Agent could blink, their compatriot was gone. With a shake of the head, they followed.

The two appeared from a sort of trapdoor into, luckily, a far drier area. The rectangular room expanded around them, void of anything but trash and dust.

And footsteps.

The flashlight beam shot to the catwalk above, just barely catching the shadow of a figure who disappeared around a corner. 

Hero didn’t hesitate.

By the time Agent had even realized that they had moved, they were already on the catwalk, twenty feet above. With a sparing thought about how they were going to get so fired, Agent followed, though they loathed to admit that it took them significantly longer to ascend the steps.

The catwalk, so rusted that it barely held its own weight, groaned as the three figures tore across it. The game of non OSHA compliant cat and mouse continued for what must’ve only been a few minutes, but felt like eternity. Ducking around corners, leaping cracks in the grating below, nearly tripping over all manner of scattered trash.

Villain-- Agent could only assume it was them, if only based upon Hero’s reaction to the whole situation-- had the ever-present advantage of speed, like the lithe little bitch they were. On an open field, they would have won the chase, easy.

But this was no open field.

A screech tore through the concrete structure as Villain skidded to a stop. Agent swore they saw sparks fly from the heels of their shoes. They turned, panting, but still smirking.

A dead end.

Behind them, a railing. A wall on one side, a railing on the other. And in front?

Hero took a step forth, one hand on the flashlight, the other, presumably, flapping about within their limp sleeve.

Beneath their coat, something slithered-- a series of bumps, sliding around, writhing and twisting and unraveling.

A black, whip-like tendril sprung from their coat, tearing a gash in it as it went. Another soon followed, then another, until Hero’s coat could be more accurately described as a rag, and six tentacles sprouted from their spine. Each twisted and squirmed over the others, as if they all had their own minds.

Hero took a deep breath, before speaking, in an awfully measured tone:

“I’m going to kill you now.”

The tendrils were fast. Agent was faster.

They weren’t sure what had compelled them-- not even as they leapt. Perhaps it was protocol. ‘Captura Non Nocere,’ ‘Capture Without killing.’ It was their agency motto, inconspicuously printed at the top of every official document. Maybe it was morals. It felt wrong, shooting a trapped bear, even if it was a bear. Maybe they were just stupid.

Whatever the reason, Agent tackled Villain.

Neither had been expecting it, and Hero clearly hadn’t been either. Agent wanted to turn, to yell at Hero for being so reckless, but, at the moment, they had other issues.

Namely, the fact that they had tackled Villain straight over the railing, and the fact that the ground was approaching quite rapidly.

It stopped.

Like they were a ragdoll, Agent felt themself flipped over, so that their back faced the ground below, and their gaze faced an awestruck Hero above. A few feet to their right, Villain floated in a similar position. They quickly righted themself, so that they were practically standing mid-air.

“Oh, you’re going to kill me, now?” Villain raised a brow. Agent kicked, or did their best to, at least, but found their limbs held firmly in place by some invisible force.

Hero blinked a few times, as if they had yet to register what had just happened. Like a dog putting its tail between its legs, their tendrils bunched together, pulled against their back.

“You are so fucking stupid.” Hero finally spoke, locking eyes with Agent.

“Hey, hey, my eyes are over here.” Villain pointed to themself. “Though, I agree, your friend here is pretty stupid.”

“They’re not a friend.” Hero bared their teeth. “Come back up here, and fight me, you fucking coward.”

“Not a coward. Just working with what I have. And right now I have, hmm...”

Agent felt a shiver run up their spine.

“Well, I have your friend, here. And I have a whole factory’s worth of tools...”

Agent struggled to turn, but could only listen as clanging sounded from below them. Something, multiple somethings, brushed against their back. Some were rather dull, rounded, while at least one felt to be the edge of a blade.

“And, right about now, I’m the only thing standing between your friend, here, and the inconstestable force of gravity.”

“Do it.” Hero snapped, one hand gripping the rail until their knuckles turned white.

“Drop them."

[youwerenevermeanttofeelalone]

Join Me | Victor Von Doom

Pairing: Victor Von Doom x Plus Size Reader (she/her)

Word Count: 2k

Request: may I please request some NSFW with comic!doctor doom and a short plus size reader who is very sweet and motherly and she dotes on him and loves him deeply. But she is sometimes very self-conscious about her body and the fact that he is so much smarter than her and she is afraid he'd get bored of her someday?

Warnings: nsfw, light angst, reader is a little insecure and Victor kinda doesn’t understand why, smut, fingering, unprotected sex (please, don’t do this), vaginal sex, fluff

❖︎・・・・・❖︎・・・・・❖︎・・・・・❖︎

Surrounded by open books and with a notebook resting on your lap, you found yourself enjoying the breeze of the night. You had the balcony all to yourself, your only company was the whooshing of the trees and the stridulating from the crickets.

The setup was comfortable, you had gotten used to doing homework outside. It helped you work quicker and understand clearer, to be the most efficient you had ever been — at least academically.

Flexing your left leg under your extended right one, you leaned over to take notes that would be helpful for your upcoming exam. You would be lying if you said you weren’t nervous, but making Victor proud was more important.

You weren’t at his level, a part of you was sure you would never be. Trying your hardest was your only option to not feel as though you were a burden. There wasn’t a thing Victor didn’t excel at — there was nothing about him anyone would qualify as a flaw, much less yourself.

The light of your eyes and compass of your life he had been since the day you met him. An enticing enigma you couldn’t help but wish to unravel. You thought yourself to be dreaming when he confessed his desires to court you, how a man as regal and powerful as him would ever grow interested in someone like you was a mystery you weren’t interested in solving when he made you so happy.

That was the main reason why you wanted him to be proud, to comfortably take care of his worries and businesses with the certainty you were as prepared to be whatever he needed you to be.

Steps behind you prompted you to close the notebook. You stacked it on top of the books and pushed yourself upward to stand up as the sound of metal clanking filled your ears.

Placing the books and pencil case on the desk near the French doors, you approached Victor. “Let me help you.”

He ceased his movements, standing still before you. He, however, briefly focused his attention on the books you had been lost in. “Are the professors overwhelming you with homework?”

You shook your head, standing on your tiptoes to unclasp the chest piece of his armor. “How was your day?”

Victor complained about the inanity of the American government’s existence as you placed the armor in its place, piece by piece just the way he liked. You were used to it, they weren’t as efficient as him. And even if they were, he hated them, it had never been a secret and no one could blame him — as complicated as Victor was, he had always been clear in his convictions.

He sat on the edge of the bed, watching you as though you would escape if he didn’t keep an eye on you. He had been doing the same for the past two weeks which only made you feel more nervous.

“You’re busy all the time,” he observed.

Not sure how to take the comment, you handed him a pajama and changed the topic. “Do you want me to run you a bath?”

Victor frowned. His patience was wearing thin, every night you avoided his worries and instead focused on whatever he could need. Victor loved the attention, your love and care had filled a hole in him and made him find a side of him he had only seen while around little Valeria; but he wanted to give you the same, to have a normal conversation with you like at the beginning of your relationship.

Had he done something wrong? Was life in Doomstadt so boring you preferred focusing on getting a second degree?

“Are you leaving me?” He blurted upon seeing you come back from the bathroom.

You frowned. “Of course not. Come, the water is just the way you like it.”

Not taking his eyes off you, he stood. Offering his hand for you to take it, he stared so hard he ceased blinking. Your hesitation made him swallow harshly, your touch eased off the string of doubts and inquires simmering up his throat as the fear of being abandoned once again bubbled up.

His slow steps prompted you to check his body a third time in search of fresh injuries. You didn’t find any. He must have been tired, poor thing.

“Join me.” It wasn’t an invitation but a command.

A silent nod was your only reaction. Dropping his hand in order to get rid of your clothes, you heard him sigh. A splash then filled your ears — you almost giggled, you would have if the air between you wasn’t so tense.

His eyes were heavy on you, so deep you swore their warmth had been replaced by darkness. Steading yourself against the edges of the tub as you sunk into the water, you fully faced him.

Victor rested his cheek on his hand. He inhaled sharply, “I am aware of my failings as a partner, yet I foolishly assumed our relationship was salvable...”

Dropping your gaze, you bit your bottom lip. For a while now you had seen such words coming. You couldn’t fathom why he would ask if you would leave him when he was the one considering it.

“Could you please not dump me while I’m naked in the same bathtub as you?” you pleaded for your dignity.

“I am not dumping you, as you say.”

“Perhaps you should.” You didn’t mean it, but truth to be told, the weight of everyone’s —including your own— expectations were getting too heavy to carry. There were many people who would be better than you at loving him, at ruling Latveria beside him,

“I don’t understand what is it that you want,” he admitted.

You swirled the warm water with your finger, letting the bubbles brush your skin as the water ever so slightly rippled.

Victor took your silence as a sign of indifference. “In fact,” he continued, “I don’t understand how you can be so caring toward me and then...”

“It’s not your fault,” you assured him in a whisper. “I am the problem.”

He scoffed. “How cliché of you.”

“Well, how insensitive of you!” you countered, setting your jaw when you felt him move. “I am honestly telling you there’s nothing wrong with you, or my affections toward you, or... I don’t know, anything that isn’t me, but you have to take it personally because you’re so perfect you can’t understand m—“

“(Y/N),” his voice changed, the cold tone went out of the window then, “breathe, love.”

You breathed in, nodding. His hands found yours underwater just as you were opening your mouth to continue explaining yourself. Victor squeezed them in an attempt to keep you from getting more overwhelmed.

“I’m not good enough,” you confessed, “not always.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He leaned over, dropping one of your hands to place his palm on your thigh. You tensed under his touch, making him tilt his head.

“I’m not smart like you, I can’t solve problems...” you bit your bottom lip, avoiding his eyes in attempts of keeping your tears at bay.

“Of course you can solve problems, simply not in the same way I do. You are sweet and kind. Everyone here loves you, my dear,” Victor slid his hand to your waist, fingers brushing your soft stomach in their way upward. Pulling you toward him, he rested his back against the tub again.

You carefully placed your hand on his shoulder. Splashing water as you fit yourself on his lap, you finally stared at him to asses what he wanted.

“You’ve made me a better ruler and a better man,” he fervently spoke, “I wouldn’t trade you for the universe.”

He had been a God and found it beneath him, but you? Oh, you were his equal, his queen, everything he had ever dreamed and so much more. Happiness hadn’t been in his vocabulary until he started courting you, now the world looked brighter with you by his side — worth saving instead of merely conquering.

“I’m afraid you’ll get tired of me,” you lamented, “find someone prettier, more attractive...”

“Such a person doesn’t exist, not in my eyes.”

“Bu—“ your words died in your throat, this time because Victor grew impatient and slammed his lips onto yours.

Kissing him back, you allowed your eyes to flutter closed. Your hand moved to his cheek where your thumb gently brushed circles around the tender scars under your fingertips.

His grip tightened on your waist. Victor deepened the kiss by prying your mouth open, relishing on your soft sighs as your body relaxed. One of his hands slipped down to your thigh, caressing it softly as you parted from his lips to get some air.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, inching his hand closer to your pussy. His hand stopped at your mount. “Is this okay?”

Taking a shuddering breath, you nodded. Reaching your clit, he circled it gently with his thumb — pleasure ran through you and your head dropped onto his shoulder. Hiding your face in the crook of his neck, you mouthed at his skin as he gradually moved his thumb faster and applied more pressure.

A moan slipped out of your throat, making him smile as the hand on his chest traveled downward. You started stroking his cock when he slipped two fingers inside you. Whimpering his name, you gripped the base of his cock a little too tight which prompted him to whimper too.

As he felt your walls tighten around his fingers, Victor withdrew them. You groaned in annoyance, thinking it was one of his teasing games. On the contrary, he thrust up in your hand so you would get the hint.

His cock brushed your folds once you took your hand off it. Biting your lip, you lifted your head from his shoulder to look at him. He gave you a hungry look through his eyelashes and you couldn’t believe you had doubted his attraction toward you as his eyes then roamed down your torso.

Impatiently, Victor took you by the hips. Letting out a giggle, you placed both hands on his shoulders and eased yourself onto his cock. His threw his head back, humming in pleasure as you took your time.

The position wasn’t new to you, but the place was. You weren’t sure as to how to move so the water wouldn’t overflow. Asking would probably ruin the mood so you risked it and tentatively moved your hips.

The slow movements were nice, a difference from how sex was usually with Victor. You liked both equally, this one was simply more exciting because of its novelty. He seemed to think the same, at least that was what his expression told you as he uncharacteristically let you do whatever you wanted.

He grew bored of just watching and take it, though. One of his hands ran up your torso to your chest. He kneaded your breast, breath getting harsh as your hands went back to his neck where you this time gripped for more leverage. Thrusting up to meet your movements, Victor kissed his way up from your chest to your neck and then your mouth.

Your moans got louder when he hammered into you harder. The splashing water was the least of your worries, you were lost in the pleasure as now his hands roamed your body, and his mouth sucked on your nipples.

You released a long whimper when he started continuously hitting your spot. He took it as encouragement and quickened his movements. It didn’t take long for you to come undone, him following just behind in slow yet deep thrusts. You clung to him, breath unsteady and head buzzing with the intensity of your orgasm. Victor continued kissing your neck and face, breathing on your skin through his nose.

“The water isn’t warm anymore,” you told him, annoyed by the fact his warm bath had been ruined.

Grunting, he gently pulled you off his lap. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s take a shower and go to bed.”

You moved slowly, more tired than you anticipated. The shower was a blur, you didn’t recall which pajama you had put on or if you had dried your hair or not. It didn’t matter either, you were in bed with the man you loved, clung to his torso as your head rested on his stomach and his arms around you.

[maine-writes]

Cafe Hemlock

The familiar, yeast-laden scent of warm pastry wafted upon the gentle summer breeze. Hidden in a quiet corner of a busy city was a quaint little establishment, a humble building surrounded by a beautiful garden. Several iron wrought tables and chairs sat on the covered patio, overlooking the idyllic scene. Butterfree fluttered from flowering bush to flowering bush, peeking their heads into the colorful flowers for nectar.

Inside, people and Pokemon alike were served a variety of light snacks, sweet pastries, delicate desserts, and refreshing beverages by a pair of aproned Toxtricities.

Two-top and four-top tables lined the perimeter of the dining room, whilst a seat bar sat on one side. At this bar were cases of cakes and pies, behind the bar were a collection of glasses, bottles, plates, and bowls. An open doorway behind the bar led to the mysterious kitchen, where the owner of the cafe frequented.

He was a man of barrel-shaped physique with short, dark hair. He wore a medium length beard and a slightly longer mustache. His dark green eyes peered around the room, watching the diner's plates and glasses as he prepared each plate and drink.

But there was one customer who caught his eye, a woman of muscular build with peach-colored hair. The scars on her face and her rough hands were the result of rigorous work, her clothing was practical and durable, a little bit out of place at the cafe. All she had with her was a rugged and worn leather book bag and a newspaper. She was led to a table on the patio by a Toxtricity, where she ordered the day's special drink of the day; Roserade petal bubble tea. Using the vibrant petals of a Roserade, the owner of the cafe brewed a fragrant tea before mixing in moo-moo milk, simple syrup, and ice, then finishing it off with chewy tapioca pearls.

Shortly thereafter, she ordered a slice of nanab berry & cream pie. It was a moist, sweet dessert with a pinkish hue, the creaminess of the moo-moo milk-based filling complimented the exotic, fruity flavor of the nanab berry.

As she ate in silence, the mysterious customer read her paper, seemingly fixated on a report warning locals about members of Team Rocket who have been spotted in the area. A mugshot of one person of interest caught her eye. He appeared to be a thin man with a pointy mustache, a prominent nose, and a scar over his left cheek.

She then gestured over to a Toxtricity, whispering to him a simple question. The tall, purple reptilian walked over to the owner at the bar, gesturing with his amphibian-like fingers.

"You wanted to ask me about something?" The owner asked when he approached the customer's table. There was something off-putting about him, the way his gaze seemed to see right through everything, as if he knows your inner nature and is unimpressed.

"I just wanted to compliment you on this dessert." She replied, "It's delicious."

"I thank you."

"And I also have a few questions about the cafe, if you have time."

The owner seemed intrigued. Her tone, her timing, there was something she was hiding. A question that she enticingly skirted around.

"And I have answers." He said, signalling to one of his Toxtricities to take over the bar as he took a seat. "What would you like to know?"

"When did you start this place?"

"Four years ago."

"Where'd you come from?"

"A region north of Unova, but I spent my youth in Castelia City."

Mundane questions, the usual sort one would expect from curious restaurant enthusiasts. But then, she asked him something peculiar.

"What do you know of Team Rocket?"

"What anyone else knows, of course." Said the owner. "They're a criminal organization."

"Any idea why they're here?" She continued to pry.

"I'd guess they're out looking for rare Pokemon to exploit."

"Not just any rare Pokemon." Said the stranger. "But an anomaly. Something that shouldn't exist."

"Interesting. And I'm guessing you're an expert on such matters, a Professor?"

"Peach."

"Professor Peach. Call me Renning."

"Renning." Peach repeated, reaching out to shake his hand. As she did so, she noticed the unmistakable burn scars that ran across the back of his hand. "Since you see people come and go, I was hoping you could tell me something you've heard from other customers, maybe something they've seen."

"I usually don't ask customers about such troubling things." Renning explained, "But tell me, what do you mean, shouldn't exist?"

The professor reached into her book bag, producing a small vial of liquid.

"I found this at the scene of a mysterious Pokemon sighting." She explained, "My lab tests were inconclusive, but my source at the Aether Foundation believes it might be the neurotoxin of a Nihilego."

"Nihilego?"

"I'm no expert myself, but it's supposedly a Pokemon-like creature called an Ultra Beast. Now what could such a creature be doing here?"

The two leered at each other in silence, carefully looking for a sign, a subtle movement.

"I'm just a cafe owner." Renning calmly said. "I'm sure I haven't the slightest clue."

"I heard a rumor." Peach quickly interjected. "Years ago, Team Rocket experimented with cloning. Supposedly, there was an incident, and none of the scientists survived. But they never gave up on the project, to create the strongest Pokemon. If they're experimenting with Ultra Beasts, they must be stopped."

Renning looked at the glistening vial in Peach's rough hands, then turned his gaze back up to her.

"Tell me, Professor." Renning wondered. "Why are you looking into this?"

"Someone I know is involved." She replied. "I thought he went straight, but he got pulled back in. I'm just trying to get him out again."

Renning stood up from his seat and looked over at the Toxtricity at the bar, who seemed comedically overwhelmed by the orders of the afternoon lunch rush.

"I need to return to work." He said. "This conversation has been most enlightening, Professor. Consider your meal paid for. I do hope you will come again."

Peach stayed for a little longer, her eyes on the mysterious cafe owner. But the rest of the day went by without incident. With the premises empty of customers, and the Toxtricities doing their closing duties, Renning looked around the room and spotted the mysterious vial at the table Peach once sat.

Ten years, he thought.

Followed by the Toxtricities, he went into the kitchen, passing the stairway up to the floor he lived on, toward another set of stairs leading down to a padlocked door.

Beyond this was a dimly lit room full of strange devices. On a board on a wall, there were newspaper clippings of mysterious incidents on Cinnabar Island, Viridian City, Mount Quena, and Ryme City. On a desk below it, there was a computer and a framed, partially burnt photograph of a group of scientists.

He walked over to a large, dark window mounted on a far wall. Flipping a light switch, the glow of fluorescent light filled the room on the other side.

Inside the room was a lone man wearing the black uniform of Team Rocket. His pointed nose was bruised, his eyes were weary, a prominent scar ran down his cheek.

"I've just had a most fascinating conversation." Renning said through an intercom. "I was enlightened as to why you're here."

"I-...I don't know what you're talking about..." The trapped man denied.

"Don't try to hide your purpose." Renning demanded. "Remember, to Giovanni, you are expendable. And to me, you still are. You're here for an Ultra Beast, a Nihilego."

"Th-That's ridiculous," Said the Rocket grunt, "There's no way th-"

"I wonder what sort of facility Archer is administrating in the region." Renning interrupted. "A signal station? Of course, that's how he's attracting the Ultra Beasts. But why? Perhaps it's the neurotoxin he's after?"

"I...I-I wouldn't..."

"So that's what he's up to." Renning concluded. "I must confess, I'm almost impressed, he has made remarkable improvements. Tell me, does he have a suitable specimen? Or is another admin in charge of procuring one? Perhaps Giovanni has another team of scientists working on that?"

"I-...I don't..."

"I can see I have no further use for you." Renning sighed, ignoring his prisoner's pleas. "This is unfortunate, but not unexpected. You are, after all, expendable."

He nodded to his two Toxtricities, who entered the chamber with the lone captive. As the muffled screams faded away, Renning turned his attention to a shadowy, vaguely humanoid figure sitting at his desk.

"So now we know." He said.

"We know why," A stern, feminine voice pointed out. "But we're still missing key information. We need to know their plan."

"We know it involves the symbiotic properties of a Nihilego." Renning warned, "That's all we need to know. They're not here for you."

"You're aware of the potential threat."

"The only known specimens are far away from here, and no one can replicate our work." Renning said. "Our involvement is unnecessary. The potential threat is negligible at best."

"You forget, my friend. I know your thoughts. You're afraid of the possibility."

"This is no time for heroics." Renning sighed. "Especially your brand of heroics."

"If they are experimenting again, even if it's just a part of a larger project, we need to do something."

"You really need to learn how to take orders for once."

"Why?" Asked the mysterious figure as she stepped into a sliver of light, her crimson eye glimmering in the darkness. "Because it's in my DNA? I thought you edited that out."

-

My entry in for @prof-peach 's adventures. A lawful evil sort of guy. His main Pokemon are a pair of twin Toxtricities, one silly, one serious. Details of his backstory are still in development stages, but a general outline is sitting on my desk somewhere.

[caspian-skye]

The Apoptosis Project Ch.8, Making a Statement

“Twenty-five years after Salem's defeat, twins Caspian and Lazula Skye are finally of age to attend their father's academy; just in time for the Creatures of Grimm to return. While fighting the revived horror alongside Frontline Biomedical's controversial Organic Androids, they begin to unravel a web of secrets ensnaring more than they could have ever known.”  

"Okay, let's go ahead and get started for the day!" Professor Corvis-Braun began eagerly. Caspian looked to the lecture hall's stage, where Lilly's mother peeked over the podium. Whenever Caspian had seen the diminutive, feathery-haired woman in the past, she wore some stylish mixture of cardigan, blazer, skirt, sweater, vest, and tights. Her outfit never strayed away from moody hues of black, white, midnight blue, and silver. Apparently, her work attire was no exception.

"Welcome to your first day of Interspecies History!" the professor announced. A pair of dark eyes flicked to the full rows of long, rounded tables forming eight half-circles up to the back of the room. "I'm Professor Corvis-Braun, but you can call me Professor Corvis if it's easier. Or Professor Braun, I love my husband. This class has the reputation of being a bit dry, especially at a school that teaches Grimm Studies and Practical Weapons Training. But! It's important. Plus, every year I've had a handful of students that really take to this class, so that might end up being you!" She took a sip from her water before continuing. "This is a special year for me, because my own daughter happens to be in this room! I won't call her out, but-"

Lilly smiled and turned, waving to the rows behind her.

"Oh! Well then, that's her," Professor Corvis confirmed above a chorus of laughter and "aww"-s. "Anyway, though faunus are equal in law now, and a big city like this sees very little overt racism, we're living in quite an important time right now. Can anyone tell me why this class has become so relevant?"

After several seconds, she pointed to a hand toward the back of the room.

"The Red Claw?"

Professor Corvis-Braun pulled back a bit in surprise. "Yes! I mean, that wasn't the answer I was looking for, but that's an important issue we'll cover in depth starting next week. Any other answers? Good answer, by the way."

At the furthest section of the room, a few rows back, Noxis raised his hand. Professor Corvis called on him.

"I wouldn't count them as a species," Noxis began, leaning back in his chair. "But are you talking about Organds?"

By the end of his first lecture at Sentinel, Caspian's wrist burned from writing, and his stomach was empty. The beginning of class saw a quick, broad overview of course content, which eventually shifted into administrative and logistic details of the class. Professor Corvis finished with a minute to spare, just as the zipping and shuffling of all the backpacks in the room began to drown her out.

Caspian clutched his stomach. "Man, I'm hungry. After Grimm Studies, you guys wanna meet at The Roots?"

"I'm down. I'll ask Ichigo," Rowan agreed.

"I suppose I'll stop by for a bit," Lilly said. "I'm meeting a new friend later this afternoon, though."

Unease crept into Caspian's mind. A new friend...

"Want to come to The Roots after next class?" Caspian typed into his Holoband. He looked across the room.

Noxis flashed his Holoband's screen, looking at it for a few seconds. He shut it off, slung his bag over a shoulder, and made his way out the door.

As Cedar Hall, Sentinel's first-year dormitory building, was built into the side of the steep hill holding the academy above the bay, The Roots Cafe was below ground level on one side, but well above the street on the other. One wall was almost entirely windows, revealing the impressive view from shopping center to the North, to the flat tract of land across the street that held the SFC, sports fields and sparring courts to the South. Looming furthest away, against a backdrop of skyscrapers and sea, was Sentinel Stadium.

The Roots itself was quite cozy, Caspian thought. The side furthest from the windows was a winding maze of counters and kiosks. It got fairly busy at dinner, but the food seemed decent so far, a selection from all over Remnant. Toward the windows, comfortable booths and tables in many shades of brown found space among gently curving half-walls and wooden pillars. At each end of the cafeteria was a near-abstract mural of huntsmen and Grimm.

The day after initiation, Rowan found a round table nestled in a half-circle alcove facing the window. Every meal since, he had refused to sit anywhere else.

"The flesh of Frontline Biomedical Technology's Organic Androids is created from human stem cells. The 'organic components,' as they are called, are mounted onto a titanium alloy and carbon-fiber frame, making Organic Androids nearly indistinguishable from humans," Caspian read. "Though they look much like us, what would be their brain is actually called a 'Brain-Core System.' The 'core,' in the android's chest, handles power and low-level internal functioning. The 'brain,' in the android's head, allows for higher-level processing. However, it should be noted both brain and core are incapable of thought and emotion."

Caspian looked up to Lilly expectantly.

"I see..." she pondered. "I think you do a wonderful job of setting up the issue, and differentiating between Organd and human. However, I fail to see the main point of your paper. I believe it would be helpful if you transitioned into your main point from what you have now." She looked to him. "Do you have any ideas?"

Caspian pursed his lips. "Hmm... I guess, I'll talk about how people generally respect Frontline because of its medical advancements, but there's a lot of distrust toward Organds." He looked up from his screen. "People don't like things that look so human and... aren't."

"Why'd your mom have to go and assign a paper on the first day of class?" Rowan complained. "Always seemed like a nice lady, but that's just cruel."

Lilly's lips drew up in a muted smile of amusement. "It's only two to three pages, and is worth a very small portion of your grade," she reminded. "This is more a measure of your starting point than anything. Have you started?"

"It's due Monday, right?"

"Yes."

"Nope. I think I'll start Saturday. Maybe Sunday," Rowan responded. He tore into his sandwich.

"I think I'll distinguish between combat models and companion models too, because their internal coding and ability to fight is different enough to note," Caspian commented, leaning into his laptop. He struggled to type a few words with his left hand, his right still wrapped up in a sling. "Writing an essay is hard enough with two functional hands."

"What about third gen Organds?" Ichigo inquired.

"They're not out yet. I might mention them, but I don't think I know enough to say much about them..."

Rowan raised a finger, gulping down an ambitious bite of his lunch. "You hear that the third gen ones are gonna be able to eat? Isn't that weird?"

"They can't digest though, what happens to the food?" Ichigo questioned.

"Damn, good question," Rowan admitted. He flicked on his Holoband, typing up a search.

"We're eating," Lilly reminded. "Perhaps we should leave this question for later?"

"...So who's the new friend, Lilly?" Caspian asked, attempting to pass off his budding jealousy as innocent curiosity.

Lilly smiled gently. "Her name is Aspen. She's a second-year, we happened to run into each other when I was exploring the campus libraries."

Good. A girl.

Lilly looked down to her Holoband in surprise, and switched it on. "Oh, that's her right now!" she announced. She dabbed at her lips with a napkin, and shuffled across the half-circle booth until she was free of the table.

"I'll see you later!" Caspian bid with a grin.

Lilly waved, and was on her way.

"Y'know, one of these days it won't be a girl!" Rowan chided.

Caspian balled a napkin in his fist. "I know..."

"When are you gonna make your move? Sentinel's full of dudes. I'm just trying to help you along! You've got that 'childhood friend' thing going for you, but-"

"Can we please talk about anything else?"

-

Sentinel's dorms were a rough transition for Lazula. She had grown so used to her plush bed, giant bathtub in a bathroom with marble floor and golden faucets, and gourmet food whenever she liked. Now in the land of shared showers, standard-issue mattresses, and long lines in The Roots, at least getting up for her morning routine was easier.

Only a few days in, Lazula fell into her routine. Every morning, she would wake exactly at six. She would grab a healthy bite, and run the trail around Sentinel's campus. The loop was almost exactly two miles, so would take eleven or twelve minutes. Then to the Student Fitness Center right as it opened, when no one was around to gawk at her, or the weight she put on bar and machine alike. She would be back before nine to shower and take a second breakfast, making it just in time for her first class.

Classes had just concluded for the day, so the SFC was a bit more crowded than usual. Lazula walked up to the front desk, nodding to the attendant as she neared.

"Where can I find the Sparring Team?" she asked. "I heard there's a meeting here today."

"Oh, that would be..." the student at the front desk began. He keyed a search into the computer. "Room 202. Right up those stairs, first court on the left."

"Thanks." Raising her wrist up to the sensor, her Holoband pulsed once with vibration, and the hard-light door allowed her through. She went to the locker room first, donning her combat attire in its entirety before continuing onto room 202.

"As is the case every year, let's start by talking recruitment," a young man's voice declared from behind the door. Strong, but friendly. Lazula had heard the voice before. "Cole is already working on designing flyers, and I'd like to start handing them out in front of the library starting next week. I'll also ask the Headmaster if-"

The door shut loudly behind Lazula, drawing everyone's eyes to her. One hand rested on Impetus's hilt as Lazula locked eyes with the man, cocking her head back ever slightly.

"I challenge you to a duel."

He cracked a grin. The same impossibly white, straight-toothed smile that decorated Sentinel's promotional material, and advertisements for countless brands having nothing to do with huntsmen. His hair was styled just as neat as the pictures, a close shave on the sides and back of his head, with hair in front and top swept to the side in golden waves, one unruly lock drooping to his brow. She had never realized how thoroughly dark his eyes were.

"And here I was, wondering how long I should wait for you to settle in before challenging you," Midas welcomed. "I admire your initiative."

"I'm a twelve-time tournament champion at a new school with some of the strongest huntsmen in Vale," Lazula reminded. "It only makes sense I challenge the very strongest one here, and beat him."

Midas's smile continued. "Well, then. I accept your challenge."

Lazula drew Impetus from its sheath, positioning her feet and staring down her opponent.

"...After our warm-ups, of course!"

Lazula's shoulders sunk, and she sheathed her blade.

"Sure."

After a quick jog down to the water's edge and back, and a bit of dynamic stretching, Lazula and the rest of the Sparring Team returned to their room in the SFC. She had been sizing up Midas from the moment she agreed to warm up. She knew he fought with Resplendence, a halberd that unfolded into a bow, and channeled the electricity Midas produced with his semblance. He was well built but still looked nimble, and kept up with her on the run down to the water. He had a height advantage of over half a foot.

"By default, Sparring Team matches use a safety parameter of twenty percent. Is that alright?" Midas asked.

"Seems fair."

"Good." Midas pinched the screen he projected from his Holoband and flicked it upward. It hit a strange metallic structure suspended from the ceiling, and two screens flashed above the pair, displaying their names, pictures, and aura level.

Midas and Lazula took their places at opposing ends of the court. "It's too bad we're inside," Lazula said. "I'll have to hold back a bit if I don't want to break something."

Midas grinned. "I can hold back too! It's only fair."

Lazula shook her head. "That won't be necessary."

The excited buzz of the room quieted as a girl in robes of silvery blue stepped between them. "This is an impromptu sparring match between Team Captain Midas Baine, and challenger Lazula Skye," she announced. "The first combatant to decrease their enemy's aura level to twenty percent, or the combatant with highest aura level after five minutes, will be declared winner." She turned to Midas, then Lazula. "The match will begin after a ten second countdown."

As the clock began to count down, Lazula unsheathed Impetus, hearing the familiar, comforting sound of steel leaving its sheath. She pointed it at the ready, lowering her head.

As soon as she heard the tone, Lazula tore toward Midas. He stood his ground, halberd at the ready. Lazula smirked. "People should know by now that some attacks are just too strong to parry," she thought. She swung her blade across her body, but slashed through air.

Midas had spun around the side of her attack, and she felt a heavy strike down her back. Before she could turn, Midas spun his weapon and jabbed her spine, flinging her forward as she yelped with surprise and pain.

No one had hit her like that in a while, she recalled. Her first tournament? Or was it the second, over in Vacuo? It didn't matter now.

"No way! Look at her aura!" a voice called from the crowd.

"Ninety-five percent?! After a hit like that?"

She ducked under a slash parallel to the floor, pivoting into Midas and springing up with a vicious bash by Aegis. She slashed twice as he was knocked off balance, but her third swing was met by the shaft of his weapon. Cracking a grin, Midas channeled electricity down the length of his arm and into his weapon.

Lazula ripped Impetus away just as electricity began to course its way into Resplendence. She flung his weapon away and met him with an elbow to the chestplate before spinning and knocking him back with her shield. Midas slid backward, and used the distance between them to transform his weapon into a bow. He drew as Lazula ran forward, but at the last minute lowered his shot and let fly a bolt of lightning into Lazula's boots.

Electricity crackled across the ground as Lazula leapt over the attack, and crashed down on Midas with her blade. As his weapon rose to meet hers she channeled her semblance, taking his resistance into her own swing and amplifying it. Resplendence gave way, and Lazula slashed across his chest.

Midas's recovery was impressive. By the time Lazula swung back at him, he regained focus and parried her strike. A second and a third attack were met as well. Lazula took a split second to drop back and regain her focus before lunging at the golden-haired huntsman once more. "He's faster than me," Lazula realized. No matter how quickly she attacked, Midas's spinning of body and weapon alike caught her blade and tossed it back.

Finally, Impetus swung into Resplendence's axehead. Midas grinned, twisting his weapon until her blade was locked in his. Electricity crackled around him once more as Lazula attempted to rip her weapon free to no avail. She felt heat on her hands, then a seizing of her muscles, as if some searing entity inside of her arm controlled it from within. She let go of Impetus, and the Sparring Team scattered as the blade was flung their way. Midas turned and brought the head of Resplendence down on his unarmed foe.

Lazula blocked the attack with Aegis. Channeling as much of her semblance as she deemed safe, she wrenched her arm outward. Midas's armor crushed with the weight of her blow. He was flung back, providing Lazula an opening to retrieve Impetus.

She eyed the screen above her as she picked up her blade. She had been hit a few more times since, but her aura was still above ninety percent. Midas's hovered just over forty. The huntsman panted at the far side of the room, shoulders hunched. Letting out one last breath, he straightened and transformed Resplendence back into a bow.

Lazula raised Aegis to block a lightning bolt, then a second. She ran forward, keeping an eye out for more as she approached. She and Midas were locked in combat for several more seconds, before Midas ducked under one of her swings, and spun on the floor in an attempt to sweep her feet from under her.

Lazula buried Impetus's tip, vaulting over Midas's attack. She took its force into her blade and channeled it into her legs, blasting Midas with a potent kick to the gut. He rolled into the nearest wall, losing Resplendence. Lazula jumped after him, finishing their fight with a final strike.

The Sparring Team broke into hoots and cheers of excitement. With one foot on the ground, Lazula stepped on Midas's chestplate, bringing Impetus's tip dangerously close to his throat.

Her triumphant glare softened. She sheathed her weapon and extended a hand.

"I didn't hurt you, did I?" she asked as Midas took her hand. "That last hit was a bit much for how much aura you had left."

Midas met her worry with an easy smile as he walked over to grab Resplendence. "No need to worry about me, I'm durable!"

Lazula huffed in amusement. "You're not bad. That was fun." She looked to the crowd that began to fill the sparring court, then back to Midas. "How do I join the team?"

Midas shook his head with another smile.

"After a fight like that, you're in."

[brianharoldmayjune]

class mates | brian may

CHAPTER ONE

Brian May x Reader College AU

Summary: First time for anything is usually hard, so when you start your first year of undergrad, you begin to second guess your decisions. What may seem to be a tiny nerdy club to get your mind off of the stresses brough to you by your major, might soon transform into something more meaningful in the long run.

Warnings: Nothing bad in this chapter, cheek blushing, akwardsness, that it! No smut or angst... yet!

Word Count: 2.1k

Author’s Note: I am terribly sorry if this seems like a boring, textual chapter. I felt the need to explain everything as thoroughly as possible in order to understand the context of everything. Future chapters won’t have lengthy, boring starts like this one! But, nervertheless, I still hope you enjoy this first chapter!

Trying to mind your own business while walking down the sidewalk, multiple shoulders continued to brush your own as you made your way down the busy London street. You had recently moved to the lively area of Kensington to pursue the next step in your life- completing your undergraduate degree. 

Renting a small loft located on the outskirts of the heart of London city, you decided it would be best to live closer to the place you would be spending majority of your time throughout the months to come. Being your first year starting university, a unviersity filled with people you had never met, located in an area you hadn’t grown up in, you knew living in the area would save you the additional first year stress of commuting.

With a sticky note in hand, you had written down your destination prior to leaving your apartment knowing you would most likely get lost without it; and of course, you were right. Your vision was exchanging between your note and the street signs attempting to find the location of the university itself. 

Bringing a hand up to readjust the sunglasses perched on your nose, you continued on your journey down the sidewalk until letters spelling out Imperial College London filled your peripherals assuring you that you were so far walking in the correct direction. Breathing out a dramatic sigh of relief, you mentally prepared yourself for finding the next location, the location that happened to be the destination of your first lecture.

With what took only a few left and rights, you arrived at the front doors of the building where your Intro to Biology lecture would be held. Yes, you were evidently about to major in Biological Sciences. Taking one last glance at your note to memorize the number of the lecture hall, you shoved the piece of paper into your pocket upon embarking into the large brick building. 

You found yourself mesmerized at the many posters plastered across the walls, advertising for the various clubs and events located on the campus. To be quite frank, your nerves were bubbling inside of you as you started to question whether going to post-secondary was the right step for you. I mean, what student doesn’t second guess their educational choices?

With your nerves subsiding within, you found yourself walking into your first lecture hall lined, or should I say crammed, with over a hundred seats and tiny desks. It was pretty intimidating. With desks already occupied with students, you decided to pick a seat near the back corner of the room in hopes of avoiding interaction with the others who were enrolled in the class. It was only your first day, and although making friends seemed to be a go-to idea, it wasn’t exactly your main priority.

Getting out a few pens and a notepad with a few minutes to spare, you tapped your foot anxiously against the floor as you watched the class fill up. With nearly every seat occupied, class soon began right on time. 

Even though the professor was only going over the syllabus and not the hard-core material, you found yourself zoning in and out of attention, something surely other kids were doing. After what felt like an eternity but more realistically around an hour, the professor bid the class farewell till the following week and let you free.

Packing your stuff while making slight glances to the people situated around you, you mentally cursed at yourself for being too socially awkward and too shy, which ultimately  hindered the starting of conversations. Walking out of the hall, intro to biologywas your only class that day meaning you would most likely be on your way back to your loft.

Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, you stopped yourself as a particular poster taped to the hallway wall grabbed your attention. Referring to a club dealing with astronomy, inviting those majoring and not majoring in physics. You were quick to pull out a pen from your material carrier bag alongside your crumpled sticky note that you had previously shoved into your pocket to drought down the place and time of meeting. 

The topic of astronomy had always seemed to fascinate you, and not having room in your course schedule for electives dealing with astronomical related matter meant joining a club would be in your best interest.

With the first club meeting taking place that night, you continued on your walk back to your flat where you proceeded to take a power nap and cook yourself a quick dinner. Sorting through your clothes, an audible string of shit’sand hurry upcame out of your mouth repeatedly as your frantically rushed around your room looking for something to wear. You could not, I stress could not, be late to the first meeting.

Yeah, you could've just worn what you were wearing earlier that day, but, you wanted to look a touch more presentable knowing that you would be having no choice but to interact with the other goers of the club. Slipping on a pair of jeans paired with a collared shirt that popped out from under a knit shirt, you once again were back to walking down the London sidewalks with the same note in hand. Only this time, the streets weren’t as crowded with pedestrians compared to the morning due to it being a later time in the evening.

Finding the building at a quicker pace then your first lecture, most likely a factor of not many students creating a hassle around the campus, you braced yourself as you stood in front of the door to the club meeting destination. Once again, you found yourself second-guessing your decisions. Was it really a smart idea to join a club dealing with a subject you weren’t solely studying?

As your mind juggled between the opportunities of making friends with the juxtaposing idea of possible humiliation, you were taken out of your thoughts when a soft tap was felt on your shoulder.

“Will you be going in?”

The question was soft yet mixed with slight confusion.

Noticing you were standing in front of the door and blocking the entrance for others, you quickly reached out your hand to grab the door knob, turning your head to get a brief view of the person.

“Sorry.”

That was all you managed to get out, opening the door before walking away quickly to avoid any response from the person. With this being a smaller room compared to your lecture hall, a few desks and chairs were scattered around, facing a black board that was mounted at the front of the room.

Taking a seat at the back of the less intimidating room, you placed your bag on the floor beside you as you rested your elbows on the desk, scoping out the room. There were around fifteen students, including yourself, looking eager as ever to participate in whatever this club had to offer.

The walls, similar to the ones in the hallways, were filled with posters strictly relating to astronomy, picturing different diagrams and layouts of the solar system, milky way, you name it.

“Alright,” a familiar soft voice filled the room at a volume raised just enough for everyone to distinctly hear.

Drawing your attention towards the front of the class, you found yourself eyeing the person that you had minutes before made conversation with, if that could even be classified as a conversation. Giving a slight clear of his throat, he continued.

“Welcome, and I guess thank you for dropping in to today’s first club meeting,” the man spoke with a small smile spread across his face while his hands were held in front of him, fiddling with his fingers.

Taking in the boy’s presence, you couldn't help yourself but aimlessly graze your eyes over his lanky figure. Maybe this club wasn’t going to be as bad as you thought.

“If you were unaware, which I’m sure you guys aren’t,” he said with brief chuckle, earning small giggles from the few students scattered around the room, “we are going to be discussing things in relation to astronomy.” With that, he gestured to the posters covering the walls of the room. The posters that gave the room much more life.  

As he continued to talk, the boy would switch between slight swaying of his body, to quiet finger tapping on the desk closest to him, as he explained the various activities and mini field trips the club would engage in. Taking only twenty minutes to do so, you were more intrigued with what the club had to offer than your mandatory biology course that morning.

“Being a student like you guys, only in my second year of majoring in physics, I am going to make this as fun and interesting as possible,” the boys said with a nod at the end of his sentence, almost as if he were reassuring himself.

“Any questions?”

With a few students asking questions pertaining to missing club meetings and confirming the date of certain events the boy had already planned, you decided it would be better to just listen in and save questions, if any were to arise, for later on during the term.

“Before you guys leave,” the boy spoke after answering the student questions, “if you wouldn’t mind writing a tiny paragraph about what you hope to learn from this club, that would be great.”

He gave a few lose leaf pages of lined paper and a tiny box of pencils to a student sitting at the front of the class, telling them to take one of each and pass them around in case anyone forgot their writing materials.

“Be sure to write your name at the top of the paper along with your major and year just so I get to know you all better.”

With the hint of nervousness lacing his tone, you were getting the feeling this may have been his first time instructing a club as such.

“If you’ve decided, after my short spiel, that this club isn’t for you, no hard feelings but do feel free to leave without writing a reflection,” he spoke, smile failing to fall from his face. The boy did seem passionate about the this branch of physics.

Turning around to grab his own notepad and pencil from his bag, he started to write down his own notes.

“Oh, and not to forget,” he spoke, looking up from his piece of paper, “my name is Brian.”

After his final remarks, he left the students to work on a small reflection as he continued to stand at the front of the class, writing notes of the front pedestal. A few students trickled out without writing anything, most likely indicating that this wasn’t the club for them, though, that wasn’t the case for you.

Taking out your own notepad and a pen, you wrote your name at the top of the paper followed by a few lines of what you were excited to learn about during your time in the club. After a couple of minutes, you tore out the sheet from your notebook, putting your stuff in your bag, slinging it over your shoulder. Walking to the front of the class, you approached the so-called Brian, holding out your paper for him to take.

Looking up from his writing, he held his hand out to take the page from you, the smile that had been presented all class, now being presented to you personally “thank you… y/n,” said with a brief pause as he located your name on the sheet.

Giving him a smile and a small bob of the head as a substitute for ‘you’re welcome,’ you were about to turn away when his words stopped you.

“First year in biological sciences?” Brian questions, clearly already reading through your written response. He too was eager like the remained of the club.

“It is,” you nod, looking up to examine his face as his eyes scanned over your paper. He was sudden to look up from your writing to you.

“I’m taking a few entry level biology courses as my electives,” he acknowledges, placing your sheet down on the pile that was already accumulated from the other student responses, “maybe I’ll see you around!”

He was so soft-spoken that it made you gush inside, a burning heat rushing to your cheeks. Yes, this was only a simple gesture, a simple statement, but it gave you some hope that your first year could turn out to be enjoyable.

“For sure,” you try to contain yourself, refraining from tugging your lips into a smile wider than the one you were already showing, “have a good one, Brian.”

“You as well, y/n!”

MASTERLIST

TAGLIST

@brianmayswifey @caborhapch @mishago @obsessedwithrogertaylor @doyourememberthelaughter @readinghorn @leah-halliwell92 @cheepygirl @shishterfackisback @fatheadtheroger

If you would like to be added to the tag list, feel free to let me know!

- Yours truly, R. 

[daphnewritings]

Chapter 7: Gryffindor vs. Slytherin

Summary: Marcus Flint is a bastard on a broomstick

Warnings: One murderous Nimbus 2000

Word Count: 2.6k

- Chapter 6 / Chapter 8 - 

November covered Hogwarts in ice.

In the mornings, every blade of grass and fallen leaf was edged in frost that cracked underfoot. The windows on the greenhouses were so coated in ice every day, Draco couldn’t even stare out of them when he was bored of the endless amount of magical plant talk. Draco particularly hated cold because every time he left the Slytherin common room to venture out into the school for classes or meals, he would go from toasty warm to frozen through. Just because the Slytherin dorms were heated with massive fireplaces didn’t mean the rest of the subterranean passageways under Hogwarts were.

But on the morning of the first Quidditch match of the year, not even the chilled air could bring his spirits down. It was Slytherin versus Gryffindor today, so he was all decked out in Slytherin green, from his scarf to the thick knitted socks he wore. He hadn’t even fought Pansy when she’d shoved a green and grey striped stocking cap over his head and told him to forego the hair gel for the day.

He truly would give up anything for Slytherin pride.

Just like in the common room the night before the match, the air in the Great Hall that morning was charged with excitement. Marcus Flint, the Slytherin team captain, sat holding court in the middle of the house table with his team arrayed around him. Draco couldn’t help but be jealous of Potter in that moment when he happened to glance over at the Gryffindor table and see the other boy wearing his Quidditch uniform, even if he was looking a little pale from nerves.

He loved flying almost more than being the best in Potions. It wasn’t something anyone could study to be good at. It had to be natural talent. And the fact that he hadn’t been able to fly, truly fly, in months should be a crime.

It just wasn’t fair.

What made Potter so special?

Draco watched as the Gryffindor team started to rise, one by one, from their seats and head out of the Great Hall for the Quidditch pitch. Potter got many slaps on the back from around the table and some cheers from his fellow first years as he walked off. As the Slytherin team threw down their own napkins and stood as one, Draco leaned over and said to Marcus, “Flint, do me a favor and take one out on Potter for me, will you?”

Marcus smiled down at him malevolently. “You got it, Malfoy.” Then the team made their way out of the Hall amidst the hoots and the sound of stomping feet and banging fists from the whole Slytherin table. Flint mockingly bowed in the direction of the Gryffindor table once the group reached the entrance and smiled at the sounds of their boos and hisses.

After another thirty minutes had passed, students started to trickle out of the main doors to head to the Quidditch pitch to find seats. Draco stood with the rest of his friends and made his way to the doors, at the head of the pack as always.

At the doors, the Slytherins were momentarily stopped by the Gryffindor first years who were also leaving for the game. Draco sneered at them while he happily allowed Crabbe and Goyle to shove a few of them out of his way. He heard Weasley snarl something under his breath about “pompous asses”, but he chose to ignore it. He was in far too good of a mood to duke it out with the youngest of the Weasley spawn today. With Potter not present, it didn’t seem worth the effort.

Beyond the front doors, Draco felt as if he’d run into a wall of ice. The winter chill was so strong, he was more than glad to have been forced to wear his school robe to the match, something he’d made a stink about earlier in the week.

Finding seats in the middle row of the stands in the Slytherin quarter of the field, Draco felt even more buoyed by the House spirit he was seeing all around him. Both boys and girls had sections of their hair dyed the vibrant green of the Slytherin house colors, with some even sporting a full head of green hair. There was a massive Slytherin flag held aloft in the back row of the stands by some older Slytherin boys who were hooting and hissing, holding on to the flag for dear life in the snapping wind.

One older Slytherin girl was passing out smaller pennant flags with a small, coiled serpent on them whose small silver scales flashed in the sunlight and a roaring lion besides it. “Why the lion?” Draco asked her over the din.

She smiled mischievously. “Watch it when we score and you’ll find out.”

Draco shrugged, accepting a bunch into his gloved hands to pass around to his friends.

In what seemed like no time at all, the teams were walking out to meet Madam Hooch where she stood in the middle of the field, broom in hand and white and black referee robe snapping in the winter breeze.

Once the teams stood fanned out around her in a circle, she called, “Now I want a nice, clean game,” she paused to send a not-so-subtle glare in Flint’s direction, “from all of you.” Draco rolled his eyes. The sheer amount of bias in this school was insane.

She waved her hand over the trunk that rested at her feet and the latches along its front popped open, sending the two Bludgers rocketing into the sky. Draco saw the golden glint that was the Snitch taking off for only a second as it buzzed right in Potter’s face before it zipped away, too fast for the eye to track.

“Players, mount your brooms!”

At the sound of Madam Hooch’s earsplitting whistle, all fourteen players kicked off from the ground and shot into the air.

“The Quaffle is taken immediately into possession by Angelina Johnson of Gryffindor – a fine Chaser that girl is, and she looks rather good on that broom if you know-”

“JORDAN!”

“Oh, sorry Professor, was only trying to give my personal opinion to the masses.”

Draco faintly realized that he recognized the voice of the announcer as his eyes traced over the quick movements of the players as they tossed the Quaffle back and forth. It was the third boy that had been with the Weasley twins on the Hogwarts Express, the one with the dreads.

“Look at her, bolting along up there. She passes to Gryffindor Chaser Alicia Spinnet, only a reserve last year, but she’s proving her mettle now. Spinnet passes back to Johnson and – damn, Slytherin takes control of the Quaffle. Slytherin Captain Marcus Flint taking off down the field, it looks like he’s going to score – nope, blocked at the last second by Gryffindor Keeper Oliver Wood. Better luck next time, Flint.” Draco, along with the other Slytherins, groaned their disapproval.

“Gryffindor takes back the Quaffle, Chaser Katie Bell with the possession and a nice dive around Flint. She’s headed up the field and – OUCH, that must’ve hurt. Bell takes a Bludger to the back of the head and drops the Quaffle into the arms of Slytherin Chaser Adrian Pucey. He’s racing up the field and – is BLOCKED by another Bludger sent his way courtesy of Fred or George Weasley – can’t tell which, honestly, can anyone?” Draco thought he saw the redheaded twin who had just hit Pucey with a well-aimed Bludger to the ribs give his friend the finger before turning and swatting the other Bludger towards Flint’s head.

“Johnson, back in possession of the Quaffle and off she goes, there’s nothing but clear field ahead – she dodges a Bludger – she’s almost to the Slytherin goal posts – Johnson takes aim – Slytherin Keeper Miles Bletchley dives and – GRYFFINDOR SCORES!”

The stadium was alive with the cheers from Gryffindors and the frustrated yells from the Slytherins. There was a smattering of applause from the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff ends of the stadium and Draco wanted to hex the whole lot of them.

Looking up, he saw Potter do a couple of loop-de-loops before he continued his search for the Snitch, way above the players zooming around below. “Absolutely useless,” Draco muttered to himself, focusing once more back on the game.

“Pucey back in possession of the Quaffle – dodges two Bludgers, two Weasleys, and is approaching the Gryffindor goal – wait, was that the Snitch?”

An excited murmur ran through the crowd, all eyes now on Pucey, who had just dropped the Quaffle in his distraction as he whipped his head around, his eyes following the golden flash of the Snitch that was now circling his head.

And then Potter was diving, becoming only a mere red streak as he zoomed towards Pucey, the Slytherin Seeker, Terence Higgs, doing the same. Pucey, seeing the imminent danger, dropped down as quickly as he could, which was unnecessary a few moments later when -

WHAM! Draco laughed with the other Slytherins as Potter was thrown off course by the massive form of Marcus Flint, who had pulled his broom up purposefully in his path.

The Gryffindors howled with rage. “Fowl!” they screamed as one.

Madam Hooch, who was already yelling in Flint’s face, called for a free shot to be taken by one of the Gryffindor Chasers. But, in all the confusion, the Snitch has disappeared.

Flint, having received his berating in silence, flew by the Slytherin stands and sent a salute Draco’s way.

Ah, right. He had asked him to do that, hadn’t he?

Draco couldn’t help the smug smile that graced his face, even though Katie Bell made her shot and scored another point for Gryffindor.

The Weasley twin’s friend was now finding it even harder to remain impartial after Flint’s sudden stop.

“So, after that open and obvious moment of cheating-”

“Jordan!” Professor McGonagall snarled.

“Sorry, I meant, after that absolutely disgusting fuc-”

“Jordan!”

“Okay, alright, fine. The Captain of the Slytherin team nearly murders the Seeker for Gryffindor in front of our very eyes, which I’m sure could happen to anyone. Penalty goes to Gryffindor and Bell puts it away nicely, and we continue with Gryffindor still in possession.”

“Spinnet does a nice little back and forth with Johnson and – Graham Montague of Slytherin snatches it from between them – Passes to Flint who gets a Bludger to the face – Nice one Weasley, I hope it broke his nose – only joking, Professor, honest -” Draco gasped with the rest of the Slytherins as the Quaffle dropped into open space when Flint had released it to clutch his nose.

“And the Quaffle falls – right into Pucey’s hands. Pucey dodges one Weasley Bludger, swoops under Johnson and – Slytherin scores.”

The Slytherin quarter of the stadium erupted with cheers while the Gryffindors groaned. Pansy and Theo were both hopping up and down together, screaming, and Crabbe and Goyle had both cupped their hands around their mouths to give off this sound that sounded like a foghorn. Draco waved his own pennant flag madly and he saw what the girl had meant earlier about watching it when they scored. Apparently, the snake, flashing silver, bit the lion on the rump whenever Slytherin gained points.

But the Slytherin celebration was cut short when Lee Jordan said, “Hold on – what’s going on with the Gryffindor Seeker’s broom?”

And sure enough, when Draco located Potter in the sky high above their heads, he was doing some weird, jerky zigzagging motion through the air and immediately throwing himself into a barrel roll. “What the hell is he doing?” Draco asked to no one in particular. The broom came to a sudden stop, flinging Potter off the side so he was only dangling by his fingertips and Draco gasped.

Feeling eyes on him, he looked to his left and saw Pansy’s raised brows. “What?” he asked defensively.

“Nothing.”

Shaking his head at her, he looked back to where Potter was still hanging on, the Weasley twins circling beneath him. Every time one of them tried to get close enough to pull him off the Nimbus, the broom shot up another ten feet. Meanwhile, Flint was making goal after goal to which no one was acknowledging.

“Someone should really do something before he falls and kills himself,” Draco muttered, conscious of his friends around him now.

“Worried about your best friend, Dray?” Blaise said, leaning down from the next row of seats behind Draco.

“No! I’m just saying, it would be a shame if the match had to end because of his stupidity.”

Blaise made a noncommittal “mhm” sound and Draco was glad for the stocking cap since it was surely hiding the burning tips of his ears.

“Okay, but someone should really-,” Pansy started to say, but was cut off by a sudden burst of fire from the teacher’s section. Professor Snape, who’s robe the flames were slowly crawling up, leaped backwards into Professor Quirrell, knocking him and his ever-present purple turban askew.

As Snape stomped out the flames with the help of Professor Burbage, Draco’s eyes darted back to Potter, who’s broom had stopped trying to murder him. He swung back upright, to the collective sigh of relief from the entire school, and was immediately off, speeding towards the ground. Draco’s eyes only caught the briefest flashes of gold before Potter went tumbling off his broom.

“Merlin’s beard, what now?” Draco said, annoyed. Who had seriously thought it was a good idea to put Potter on a broom?

Rising to his feet, hands clasped over his stomach, Potter heaved once and out popped the golden Snitch into his palm. Looking up at the stands, he yelled, “I caught the Snitch!”

And so the game ended in complete chaos.

The Gryffindor team converged upon Potter, slapping his back happily and waving to their fans in the stands as even Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw joined in on the cheering.

Twenty minutes later, when students and staff alike were beginning to file out of the stands and back towards the castle, Flint was still shouting to anyone who would listen. “He didn’t catch the Snitch! He practically swallowed it!” But no one was listening.

Gryffindor had still beaten Slytherin one hundred and seventy points to sixty, and no matter what Flint said, Potter had technically caught the Snitch. Even if it was with his mouth and not his hands.

“Well, that was eventful,” Pansy said, allowing Draco to steady her as she hopped down the last few stairs to the ground. Draco could only laugh as Theo tried to do the same thing Pansy did, but ended up stumbling on his landing and nearly crashing to his knees on the cold ground.

Glaring at his friends, Theo stood and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “Will you two shut up?” This only made them laugh harder.

“I don’t know what you’re laughing so hard about, Dray,” Blaise drawled as he strolled past him, Morag, who’s dark curls looked particularly windswept, walking beside him. “Theo wasn’t the one who practically jumped out of his skin when Potter was about to fall off his broom.”

“What? I wasn’t about to jump out of my skin!” Draco sputtered indignantly.

“Sure.”

“I. Wasn’t.”

Blaise held his hands up in surrender. “You got it, Dray.” And maybe Draco would’ve bought it if it wasn’t for the fact Blaise wasn’t even bothering to conceal his shit eating grin as he slung an arm around Theo’s shoulder.

Fuming, the laughter from a moment before forgotten, Draco stormed after his friends up the hill and back to the warm castle. “Jump out of my skin, my ass,” he muttered, pulling his stocking cap lower over his burning ears.

< Chapter 6 / Chapter 8 >

[pokemaniacal]

Pokémon Moon, Episode 18: In Which I Reluctantly Embrace My Alleged Destiny

Four islands, seven trials, four Kahunas, all behind me.  In the old days, I’m told, that would have basically been it.  I mean, there’s supposed to be a rematch against all four Kahunas up on Mount Lanakila.  As far as I can tell, though, that’s traditionally less about the battles themselves and more about getting absolutely plastered on the beach afterwards.  The after-party for Professor Kukui’s Final Trial is said to have been the stuff of legends, and saw the genesis of three new cocktails, twenty-four herbal hangover remedies, the Alolan form of Grimer, the character of the Masked Royal, and a devastating new Rock-type move that was instantly banned by sixteen different Pokémon Leagues.  Sadly, Kukui’s own plans for the Alola region demand a few sacrifices, and one of those will be taking the whole ritual of the Final Trial more seriously than the Alolans have previously been accustomed to.  I gather that he means to assemble the Kahunas on the mountain as a sort of ready-made Elite Four, then invite any and all trainers who have previously completed the Island Challenge to run the gauntlet, leaving any who make it through to compete for the spoils of victory.  Personally, I’d rather leave them to it, but unfortunately, that’s not an option – Tapu Koko is the Tapu of Conflict, of competition and ambition; it didn’t give me a Z-ring and send me out on a quest so I could save the world from Lusamine and her Ultra mumbo-jumbo, it gave me a Z-ring and sent me out on a quest so I could take part in pointless sporting events for its sadistic entertainment.  The show must go on.

When I travel to the base of Mount Lanakila, Gladion meets me there to shoot the breeze for a bit.  He has the good sense to stay out of this Trial nonsense, of course, so won’t be joining me for my trip up the mountain.  He just wants to thank me for deciding to help his mother rather than leaving her to die in the Endless Void, which of course I would have been well within my rights to do. “I know we aren’t friends.  But we aren’t enemies anymore either.”  I give him a wry smile. “Honestly, dude, I don’t think I’ve met anyone in these islands that I like better yet.”  He looks puzzled. “My sister?” “Clingy and irrational.” “Professor Kukui?” “Loud and obnoxious.” “Kahuna Hala?” “Oh, don’t even get me started…” “…my mother?” “Well… you have to admit she’s got style…” I muse.  Gladion pauses. “…Hau?” he hazards.  I stare in amazement, then burst out laughing. “BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!  AH-HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!  HAH!  Ahhhh… no.”  Gladion stares back at me.  “Ah, I… guess he’s growing on me.  He’s got… kind of an infectious mood, you know?” “Believe me, I do,” Gladion answers, smiling. “But yeah, seriously.  You’re competent and pragmatic, but honourable.  It’s a rare combination.  Besides, I like how you hate everything.  It reminds me of me.” “I’ll… take that as a compliment,” he replies hesitantly. “So, rivals?” I suggest.  “We gonna battle or what?”

Gladion has apparently gotten his Golbat to evolve into Crobat, which speaks volumes for his psychological progress towards inner peace and balance, and he’s added a Lucario to his arsenal, another Pokémon that would be unlikely to follow a trainer with a deeply conflicted soul.  More interestingly, though, he has also managed to evolve his partner, the enigmatic artificial Pokémon designated Type: Null (or at least, I think it’s evolved; the Rotomdex registers it as a new species, anyway) – it has shed the control mask that once kept its powers in check, revealing a feathery white griffon head, and now has full command of the type-changing abilities the Aether Foundation stole from Arceus, including a Judgement-like type-shifting technique called Multi Attack.  Gladion has renamed it Silvally, a name of his own choosing since it is the first of its kind in existence.  That was the missing element to ensure the eventual success of the original Aether Foundation experiment – they neglected to give their created Pokémon any sort of companionship or care for their psychological health, warping them to the point that they couldn’t control their abilities.  You’d think the sciences would have learned from the mistakes of the Mewtwo incident… but at least Gladion has.

Mount Lanakila has a “Victory Road” of sorts, in the form of the rugged and often freezing route up the mountain, though it doesn’t actually bear the name and is shorter and more straightforward than other paths that have been given the traditional moniker in regions we’ve visited, or even in comparison to the Vast Poni Canyon.  I suppose Kukui and the Alolans simply didn’t think that particular bit of the Pokémon League template was a super high priority.  I’m sure in a few years they will have renovated it into some godawful fifty-kilometre-long deathtrap with spike pits, acid wells, rolling boulders, and so on.  By the time I get to the end and check into the Pokémon Centre just below the summit, Hau is right behind me.  He’s been busy – in the days since we raided Aether Paradise, he’s zipped around Alola finishing all the trials he missed, including defeating his grandfather and the other Kahunas.  Dude’s crazy motivated, you have to give him that.  He’s levelled up, and added a surprisingly powerful Komala to his team – certainly an appropriate choice, given their similar carefree attitudes towards… everything.  He’s not confident in challenging the Elite Four yet, though, and I suppose there’s no reason he has to, now that the Final Trial isn’t really a thing anymore.  After a quick battle, he wishes me luck and sends me on my way to Kukui’s shiny new Pokémon League building.

The new complex is built inside the mountain’s peak itself, which must have been a tremendously expensive operation, but I suppose the Alolans must have felt it was worth it to have the Pokémon League here, at one of the holiest places in the entire island chain.  There’s a gate close to the summit, where the path stops; only an experienced climber could hope to get any higher than this.  Professor Kukui is waiting for me outside, and ushers me into the chambers of the Elite Four.  The inside of the peak is a huge cavern, its walls studded with brightly coloured crystals, with four smaller caves branching off from the main one.  Taking a page from the books of the Unova and Kalos Leagues, the Alola League seems to allow trainers to choose the order in which they challenge the Elite Four, before returning to a dais in the main chamber that transports you to the Champion’s room at the summit. “Mount Lanakila is where we’ve always finished up the Island Challenge.  We built our Pokémon League up here, as high into the heavens as we could get, to show our respect for our legendary Pokémon and honour it,” Kukui explains. “I’m just glad you decided to spring for central heating,” I say, still shivering a little from the cold outside.  He laughs. “I went all the way to Indigo Plateau, yeah!  Right to the Pokémon League headquarters… and I went right up at them, cousin!  I saw my team battling for me through it all, pouring their souls into their moves for me.  And then that last guy, that Dragon user in the cape…” Kukui trails off into silence, lost in the memory. “Yeah, he… has that effect on people.”  I wrinkle my nose.  “It’s the Blackthorn heritage.  They have a devotion to Pokémon and battle that’s… almost religious.  Intense.  Kinda scary actually.  That last battle… that was the moment, wasn’t it?”  He looks up at me, puzzled.  “The moment you decided you had to form a new Pokémon League here in Alola?  You wouldn’t be the first person to completely change the direction of your life after a battle with Lance.  Like I said, he… has that effect on people.”  Kukui laughs again. “That he does.  Well, you know the drill!”  He sweeps his hand around, gesturing to each of the chambers of the Elite Four.  “I expect you to show me some intense moves and real heart-stopping battles in there!  Good luck!”

I expected the four Kahunas to make up the Alolan Elite Four, since they’re traditionally the opponents you face in your Final Trial, but it turns out only two actually answered Kukui’s call.  Hala and Olivia occupy the chambers on the cavern’s western side.  Hala has brought a range of powerful Fighting Pokémon, including one I haven’t previously encountered, the mighty Crabominable, an Ice-type evolution of Crabrawler with massive bruiser arms.  Though strong, they are no match for my Toucannon and Psychu.  Olivia manages to mess me up a bit more when I try to use Zygarde’s Dragon Dance to steamroll her, but get stopped in my tracks by her Carbink’s colossal defences and Fairy attacks.  Decidueye manages to bring things back under control and secure a win, though.  Nanu evidently couldn’t be bothered to answer Kukui’s summons, because he is clearly far more sensible than me.  When Tapu Bulu decided to appoint him the Ula’Ula Kahuna (for reasons known only to itself), refusing would have invited the wrath of the divine, but refusing to join the Elite Four incurs only the wrath of Professor Kukui, which Nanu is perfectly comfortable with.  In his place, the young Ghost specialist Captain Acerola accepted a position at Mount Lanakila.  She has some interesting Pokémon too, including a giant sandcastle called Palossand that can only be the evolved form of Sandygast, and another Pokémon entirely new to me by the name of Dhelmise – a seaweed-draped living anchor that looks like it should be a Water- or Steel-type but is actually Grass/Ghost, confusing me long enough to beat the brains out of my poor Decidueye and forcing me to deal with all her other Pokémon without any decisive advantage against Ghost-types specifically.  Still, Golisopod, Salazzle and Zygarde are able to salvage the situation.  Hapu isn’t on the Elite Four either, presumably because of her still recent promotion to Kahuna and lack of experience compared to Olivia and Hala.  Her place is filled by… a champion golfer?  Because… sure???  Kukui has filled the final slot with an invitation to Kahili, a Flying Pokémon master who was an accomplished trainer in Alola years ago and has been travelling the world as a pro golfer ever since.  Despite my initial scepticism, she’s as strong as any Kahuna.  Thanks to her Mandibuzz’ toughness and Dark attacks, she defies my efforts to sweep her Flying-type team with Psychu, and her Skarmory was able to lay down some Spikes before being defeated to mess things up for me.  My own Toucannon winds up being instrumental in this fight.  With all four enemies defeated, I return to the central dais.  Professor Kukui is no longer in the main hall.  Nor, for that matter, are there any other challengers; I haven’t seen any since I got here.  Hesitantly, I step onto the dais and am teleported away.

I am standing under a vast crystal dome, the open sky visible above.  This is the highest place in all Alola, above the clouds and bathed in the light of the sun.  With the wind kept out by the dome, everything is eerily still.  A staircase in front of me leads up to the arena of the final battle – circular, its floor glowing a gentle blue.  At the opposite end is a simple stone throne emblazoned with a Pokéball symbol.  No one is sitting in it.  I can’t hear any voices; no one else is here.  There is no Champion to battle, no Totem Pokémon to face, no other successful challengers to compete with.  I walk to the centre of the arena. “Hello?” I call out.  “Hello?”  My words echo back to me off the dome, but there is no answer.  A minute later, I hear the teleporter pad behind me activate again, and Professor Kukui walks up the stairs. “Well, you made it, cousin.  Congratulations!” he tells me.  I look around again and turn to him. “I made it,” I reply.  “But no one else is here.  Aren’t there a lot of trainers who were waiting to challenge the new Elite Four?  Wasn’t there going to be a… like, a tournament or something?  What happens now?”  Kukui grins at me. “Now,” he says, “you take your seat.”  He gestures to the throne at the end of the arena.  I look at the throne, then at him, then back at the throne, then back to him. “My seat?” “You’re the first to defeat Alola’s Elite Four.  The first in history!”  He pumps his fist in the air.  “If anyone else gets this far, they’ll have one more person to battle: you.  Now you’re the Pokémon League Champion, oh yeah!”  My eyes widen. “Oh, I knew it; I f#$%ing knew it.  This is what that ridiculous bargain-basement Zapdos was planning all along – make me the Champion so none of you have to deal with it.  Well, I- I- I don’t want it!  And what’s more, you don’t need it!” “Having a Champion is what puts Alola on the map!” he replies emphatically.  “We gotta have someone we can hold up and say ‘this is our strongest’ to compete with the rest of the world!  Someone who can stand for Alola’s ideals!” “And I’m the best you can find?  For goodness’ sake; I’m not even Alolan!” “So much the better.  This region needs some new blood to help us change things up a bit!  An outsider to be the Metronome that lends us a bit of unpredictability so we can Transform!” “No, no, listen, listen.  There’s a lot to be said for having a Pokémon League, for having a central authority that manages Pokémon training, punishes abuse, sponsors educational programs and local tournaments, codifies rules and move lists, raises funding for research, all that good stuff.  It’s more than you can do with just four Kahunas and a bunch of teenage Captains, ‘specially with a secret cabal of four lazy, absentminded, egotistical legendary Pokémon running everything.  But it’s not like you need a Champion to lead it.  Honestly that whole idea’s pretty archaic.” “What’s that supposed to mean?  Kanto has a Champion, and so do Johto, Hoenn, Sinnoh…” “Yeah, but sometimes the Champion is a huge dickbag!” I interrupt.  “I mean… the strongest trainer makes all the rules?  It’s very… ‘the strong do what they can and the weak suffer what they must,’ don’t you think?  Imagine what would happen if a real bastard became Champion and tried to use the Pokémon League to seize political power!” “No Pokémon trainer strong enough to become Champion could be that bad,” Kukui counters.  “Defeating the four Kahunas takes the teamwork of Helping Hand, the empathy of Heal Pulse, the protectiveness of Wide Guard, and the selflessness of Lunar Dance!” “…this is me we’re talking about here,” I remind him.  “And Pokémon battling is literally the only sport that works like this.  Can you imagine if FIFA were run by whichever team won the last World Cup?” Kukui thinks about it. “Yeah; I reckon it would be a huge improvement.” “…okay, that was a bad example.  But you see what I mean.”  He nods. “Well, it sounds to me as though you have a lot of very interesting and worthwhile ideas about how to run a Pokémon League.” “Exactly!” I agree – then notice him smirking.  “Er- I mean- no!  No, absolutely not!  It’s bollocks, all of it!  I’ve not a sensible thought in my head!  And more to the point, I’m on holiday!” “Maybe… but you’re still a trainer, aren’t you, cousin?”  That smirk is back. “Yes…” I reply warily. “And there’s one thing no trainer can ever refuse.” He reaches into his lab coat, pulls out a Pokéball, and summons a solar Lycanroc.  “Bring it!”  I don’t have to battle him.  I can turn around, leave, and never look back.  I should turn around, leave, and never look back. “…oh, Arceus $#!tting DAMN IT!”

Kukui is well-travelled and highly experienced, with a team of powerful Pokémon worthy of any Champion.  Besides Lycanroc, he deploys a Braviary, Magnezone, Snorlax, a strange new Alolan Ninetales with Ice powers, and a Pokémon instantly recognisable as Litten’s final form, Incineroar.  It looks like yet another Fire/Fighting starter, with a wrestler’s powerful build and bulging chest muscles, but unfortunately for my poor Psychu, it turns out to actually be a Dark-type, and promptly slams my Pokémon into the ground with its signature move, Darkest Lariat.  It even manages to put some serious hurt on my Zygarde with Outrage, but ultimately doesn’t have the endurance to outlast the World Shaker.  Kukui is very nearly my equal… but not quite.  As Incineroar falls, he laughs deep and loud. “Amazing!  It’s like I always say, the strongest moves are the ones a trainer and Pokémon choose together in the heat of the moment, and you just proved me right!  The Pokémon and the trainers in Alola really are the best… and I want everyone in the world to know that, too!  That’s always been my dream!” “You chose an odd way to show it, then,” I tell him.  “Making a foreigner your first Champion.” “It’s funny how life works out sometimes,” he shrugs.  “But maybe that’s just what we need?  Someone to give Alola something to aspire to… and something to challenge and defeat!” “Hmph.  Fine, fine, whatever.  But the moment someone makes it here and beats me, I am out of here, no ifs, no buts.”

The team:

Tane the Decidueye Male, Timid nature, Overgrow ability Level 50 Steel Wing, Leaf Blade, Synthesis, Spirit Shackle

Rhea the Toucannon Female, Lax nature, Keen Eye ability Level 51 Bullet Seed, Roost, Beak Blast, Brick Break

Ashley the Psychu Female, Timid nature, Surge Surfer ability Level 50 Thunderbolt, Focus Blast, Nasty Plot, Psychic

Joanna the Salazzle Female, Timid nature, Corrosion ability Level 50 Flamethrower, Nasty Plot, Sludge Bomb, Dragon Pulse

Sigourney the Golisopod Female, Careful nature, Emergency Exit ability Level 49 Brick Break, Liquidation, First Impression, Leech Life

Zygarde Genderless, Sassy nature, Aura Break ability Level 50 Outrage, Stone Edge, Dragon Dance, Thousand Arrows

[wishingforatypewriter]

Demons

[eirian-houpe]

All Our Past Mistakes - Chapter 6

Fandom: Once Upon a Time (TV)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Milah/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Belle/Gaston (Once Upon a Time)

Characters: Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Belle (Once Upon a Time), Milah (Once Upon a Time), Red Riding Hood | Ruby, Gaston (Once Upon a Time), Mad Hatter | Jefferson

Additional Tags: Angst, AU, Smut, Accidental Voyeurism, Assault, Extramarital Affairs, Child Neglect, non cursed storybrooke, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape/Non-con Elements, Dubious Consent, Teacher-Student Relationship

Summary: Doctor Gold, professor of history at the local campus of Maine University, is stuck in a loveless, and one might say abusive relationship with a wife who is less than attentive to their family, and whom he suspects cares little for her marital vows. His resolve to maintain his own faithfullness is sorely tested by the presence of one of his new students - a junior by the name of Belle French - whom it seems fate is determined to put in his way. The two become embroiled in a passionate, and redemptive relationship, but not before suffering numerous setbacks and separations.  This is no instantaneous happy ever after, but a tale of two hurt souls finding their way together through darkness and despair.

Read on AO3

[Chapter 1]  [Chapter 2]  [Chapter 3]  [Chapter 4]  [Chapter 5]

Chapter 6 - Motherly Instinct

After Gold had finished his call to the school, he had barely enough time to get his notes together for the next lecture, but still he spent a few of those precious minutes in the futile endeavor of trying to get hold of Milah one more time, fully prepared to leave another blistering message on her voicemail. Consequently, he wasn’t prepared for when she actually picked up.

“Milah,” he started after a moment of silence in which he could hear her sighs of irritation mounting, until she couldn’t contain it any more.

“What the fuck!” she snapped. “Since when do  you get to talk to me as if I’m a piece of shit on your shoe? I told you I was going to be out, and not to wait up. I would have thought that so called fucking intellect of yours would have let you figure out that I wasn’t going to be answering my phone and that I didn’t want to be disturbed.” She wasn’t stopping to let Gold get a word in edgewise. “Especially not if you going to bitch and whine at me about how I’m the problem with what’s going on with Bae, because you won’t accept that you’re boy’s a fucking re—”

“Don’t you DARE. Finish. That. Word!” he snarled loudly, cutting her off, and into the silence she left, evidently astounded that he would speak to her in such a threatening manner; the way she almost began spluttering indignantly after a moment or two, he finished, “I called you out of courtesy to let you know what the doctors have said, but since you don’t seem to be interested—”

“No,” she spat. “No, you know what? I’m not. I’m not at all interested in any bullshit they’re going to spout, especially not when you have them eating out of your hand. So no - fuck you and your doctors. I know that what’s really going in is all in his head, so you can deal with this on your own, instead of saddling me with the homework, the tantrums, and the tears, and the wet beds. And just to remind you, I won’t be home tonight. In fact I don’t know when I’ll be back. Could be tomorrow, a few days - could be never. Who knows?”

“Milah, you have obligations,” he warned.

“What, love, honor and obey?” she mocked. “Well gee… guess you’re oh for three, so fuck my obligations!” she growled, “you try dealing with that little shit by yourself for a while, and see how eager you are to be home.”

She cut the call, and Gold was left sitting, his blood boiling in fury, listening to the dead air on the other end of the phone.

**

Belle tried not to worry as she walked up to the school building and pressed the buzzer for the intercom, announcing herself when the voice of the secretary came out from the tiny box on the wall. She pulled the door open when it buzzed and showed her ID at the hatch, and then waited for the woman - a kindly looking older lady - to call down to the after school program facilitator to let them know she had arrived to pick up Bastion Gold. She didn’t have long to wait.

Clutching the hand of one of his teachers, a small boy with deep brown, slightly wavy hair and lightly tanned skin with a hint of healthy color came walking into the lobby. His face was perhaps a little rounder than Doctor Gold’s but he was unmistakably his son, right down to the shape of his mouth, and the perfect liquid chocolate of his brown eyes. He was dressed in jeans and sneakers, with a green v-neck sweater over a tan shirt. When he saw Belle sitting there, he waved and began to smile.

“/

I know her,” he said to his teacher. “I saw her in my Papa’s office one time. He’s her teacher.”

Belle’s heart lurched a little, but she stood up, offering a smile to Bastion, and to his teacher as the two came to a stop in front of her.

“I’m sorry we’re late,” she said apologetically.

“It’s all right,” the woman said, “Doctor Gold called to explain. It’s all good.”  Then she looked down at Bastion and said, “All right Bastion, do you have everything?”

He nodded, and let go of his teacher’s hand, looking expectantly at Belle until she realized that he was waiting for her to hold out her own. She did, and he took it, squeezing hard. His hand was cold, and she covered it with her other hand. He looked up at her, his face a little ball of trust, and her still lurching heart melted the moment her eyes found his.

Belle and the teacher exchanged farewell’s and Bastion waved, then Belle fixed her attention back on Bastion with a smile and said, “Ready to go home?”

“Can I still have milk and a cookie?” he asked by way of an answer.

“Of course you can,” she said.

“But it’s late,” he frowned softly. “And when Mama and me get home late she says it will spoil my dinner.”

Belle began to lead him out to where she had left the car, and after looking thoughtful for a moment, said, “Well, I think dinner will be late today too, so I don’t think one cookie will hurt.”

Bastion grinned happily and bounced on his toes while he waited for her to unlock the car and open up the back door for him.  He slipped off his backpack and tossed it onto the seat beside her own, and reached, without being told, for the seat belt which he had no trouble clipping into place.

“All safe, see?” he said.

“I can see,” Belle said with a smile and a tug on the seat belt, just to be sure. “And I’m glad. Mind your fingers now.”

“Finger in my lap!” Bastion echoed, and clasped his hands between his legs while Belle closed the door.

He seemed delighted when Belle got into the driver’s seat and turned around to look at him. She couldn’t think what she had done that had made him so happy until he said, “You do it like Papa.”

“Well, your Papa has some very good ideas,” she told him, chuckling a little.

The drive to the address Doctor Gold had given her didn’t take long. It was about as far as the drive from the university to the school had been. She pulled into the driveway and parked off to the side to leave room for Doctor Gold’s car when he got home, and then she got out and came around to open the door for Bastion. He went bounding up to the front porch, backpack forgotten, and Belle chuckled to herself as she reached into the car for both his and her own backpacks.

As she unlocked the door, and Bastion caught sight of hers in her hands as well as him asked, “Do you have homework?”

Belle laughed softly. “Yes, I have a lot of homework, but I don’t have to do it all today. When you get to be as old as me, you have homework all the time, but you have a few days to do it.”

Bastion nodded and said, “And then Papa has to grade it all on the weekend, right?”

“Right,” she agreed, not really knowing when Doctor Gold did his grading at home. “So, you gonna show me where the kitchen is, and we can have that cookie and some milk.”

Bastion grinned and ran off along the hall that stretch in front of them. “It’s this way,” he called.

Belle followed more slowly, glancing up the stairs behind her and to the right, and into the lounge on the left, that seemed to be full to the brim with beautiful antique furniture in juxtaposition to the few child’s toys that she could see, and further along the doorway, looked at the closed doorway beyond the lounge.

By the time she reached the kitchen, Bastion already had the refrigerator door open, and was carefully, with both hands, lifting out the gallon bottle of milk.

“That’s the dining room,” he told her as if he had known that she was wondering about the closed door. “But we never eat in there, except on Christmas sometimes.” He shrugged as if it were no big deal, and looked expectantly at Belle as he hefted the bottle onto the kitchen table and climbed up into a chair.

Belle took out a plate, and a child’s cup from the draining rack, took a cookie from the jar - which helpfully said ‘cookies’ on the front, and brought the plate, and the empty cup to the table, filling it about half way up with milk. Then she put the bottle back into the refrigerator.

Bastion ate the cookie and drank the milk as though he were ravenously hungry, slowing in drinking only after several large gulps. Then licking his lips to clear away he milk mustache, he looked over at Belle thoughtfully, then asked, “Are you going to come and bring me home tomorrow too?”

“I don’t know,” Belle told him truthfully. “That will depend on your Mama and Papa, I expect.”

Bastion shrugged. “Mama said to Papa, ‘don’t wait up.’ I bet she went to see Kellan. He has a boat. Sometimes she takes me with her, but I don’t like it. They take naps, and I have to wear a puffy orange thing in case I fall in. She says to not tell Papa because he’ll worry.”

Belle clenched her teeth together as Bastion innocently confessed his mothers dirty little secret. Inside - though it was non of her business - she was seething at the thought that his mother - Doctor Gold’s wife - would carry on what she assumed was an affair right under the nose of their son, and then use his obvious love for his father to compel the boy to keep it quiet. She wondered - worried - if Doctor Gold knew anyway.

“Well,” she said, managing to keep her voice even, “If your papa needs me to, I will come and bring you home from school as often as you like.”

Bastion grinned, finished up his milk, and looked up hopefully into Belle’s eyes, his own deep and soulful as he asked. “May I go and play now, and read before bed?”

Belle nodded, already clearing away the remnants of his snack and taking the dishes to the sink, watching him run off happily, before turning away to wash them. As she did, she worried at her lower lip, wondering if she should say something to Doctor Gold about what his son had revealed, and feeling her belly lurch at the thought of it. No, it was none of her business. Unless Gold asked her directly.

Her phone pinged, and she wiped her hands on a towel before pulling it out of her pocket. As if she had conjured him by thought alone, Doctor Gold had sent her a message.

I forgot to tell you there is mac and cheese in the refrigerator. Could you feed Bae dinner and put him to bed at 6ish? I will be home around 7 with dinner. SG.

The domesticity of the message stirred the already churning cauldron of her commingled anger, and her own feelings for Gold, and left her a little breathless for a moment. She forced herself to calm so that she could reply to the message. “Of course,” she typed. “Don’t worry, we’re getting on really well. He’s no trouble at all.”

[dani-qrt]

When Erotic Photographer’s Muse Becomes His Critic

“I want them to know what happened in the past between me and Araki,” Kaori said last month. “I was not allowed to speak out. People should know, and they should look.” Mr. Araki declined repeated requests to comment.

Mr. Araki’s work has long ignited controversy, given the provocative nature of his images, which include photographs of nude women bound up in a Japanese technique known as kinbaku-bi. He has been fined on obscenity charges in Japan, and while some critics consider him a maestro, others deem his work pornography.

Maggie Mustard, co-curator of the Museum of Sex exhibition, said Kaori’s allegations were forcing a new conversation about models’ rights.

“This gives us the opportunity to talk about what happens to a muse — and I use that word with air quotes — when she doesn’t have a contract or a sense of economic or legal agency about how her image was used,” Ms. Mustard said in a telephone interview.

Ms. Mustard added that she had spoken with Kaori and would incorporate her comments into the exhibition’s programming materials. Already, the wall text mentions another model’s anonymous allegations of inappropriate sexual contact by Mr. Araki, noting that “the controversy surrounding Araki’s work has almost exclusively been about reception and meaning, and far less about the issues of consent and the potential abuses of power that can be at the foundation of artistic practice and artistic production.”

The contentious relationship between artist and model goes back centuries, with men like Picasso or Schiele known for mistreating women. More recently, potential portrait models for Chuck Close have accused him of sexual harassment.

Art historians argue that it might be time for artists to rethink the basis on which these relationships are built. Models should have “more agency in terms of authorship of the work itself,” said Rebecca Zorach, a professor of art history at Northwestern University.

Photo

Nobuyoshi Araki in 2008 wearing a T-shirt with a photo of Kaori. One of her complaints is that Mr. Araki used her image in ways that she was never consulted about. Credit Kyodo, via Associated Press

“The art world has a tendency to erase women as makers, and historically it just happens over and over again,” she said.

Continue reading the main story

In Japan, Kaori’s disclosures come as women are just starting to raise questions about male power, sexual harassment and assault.

Last year, when one of Japan’s best-known television journalists was accused of rape, his accuser received only a smattering of attention in the Japanese media. Last month after a television reporter anonymously asserted that a high-level civil servant in the Finance Ministry had sexually harassed several women, the official resigned, although he has denied the charges. The ministry has acknowledged he harassed a reporter.

In this staunchly patriarchal culture, women are often subservient to men. Japan consistently ranks low among developed countries on gender equality in health, education and the economy and has one of the world’s worst records for women in politics.

For models working in Japan’s art world, it is difficult to make demands of a male artist.

“I can imagine that as a male photographer who is more than 70 years old, he unconsciously has the perspective towards women that he can do whatever he wants,” said Yukie Kamiya, head of the Japan Society Gallery in New York, speaking of Mr. Araki. “Male power is such a common understanding, and women don’t have much of a voice.”

Kaori, who trained in Paris as a dancer, began posing for Mr. Araki after meeting him at a party in 2001.

She said he paid her 100,000 yen (about $930) to pose in the studio wearing a kimono or performing dances that Mr. Araki would photograph. For nude projects, he took her to so-called “love hotels” and paid her about 50,000 yen for each assignment.

But she said he also called her for impromptu, unpaid sessions where he took photos while she walked in a park or sat in a bar at his command.

It was not enough to make a living. Asked how she supplemented her income, Kaori demurred. “I don’t want to say,” she said.

Continue reading the main story

In public, Mr. Araki described her as his “muse,” but she said he did not tell her when or where the work would be published or exhibited, and she had no say in how the images were composed. “For him, a muse means someone who doesn’t speak or have any of her own opinions and just keeps obeying his orders,” she said.

Early on, the two did have a consensual sexual relationship, Kaori said.

During one photo session, she balked when he snapped Polaroid pictures of her and sold each individually without paying her any royalties. “That money that he earned is based on my contribution,” Kaori said.

“He says, ‘I am Araki, and you must be happy and honored that I am taking a picture of you,’” she said.

Kazuko Ito, a lawyer whom Kaori consulted last November, said Kaori told her that after nude photos appeared without her permission, a stalker broke into her home. Kaori asked the lawyer for help obtaining some rights to the photos, but Ms. Ito said that such disputes were very rare in Japan and that she was unlikely to win in court.

Photo

Mr. Araki’s books displayed at an exhibit at the Museum of Sex in New York. Credit Tiffany Sage/BFA, via Museum of Sex

Ms. Ito said she had heard similar complaints from other models for Mr. Araki.

Of course, power inequities between artists and models are not unique to him. “There has been no public discourse about this structural problem within the industry and the photographer-model relationship,” said Michio Hayashi, a professor of art history at Sophia University in Tokyo.

Kaori described one incident when foreign photographers came to observe Mr. Araki as he took pictures of her. She did not want to appear nude in front of strangers, she said, but Mr. Araki told her, “They aren’t here to photograph you, they’re here to photograph me.”

But when pictures from that session came out in print, Kaori appeared in them, naked. “He invited many photographers into the studio and he ordered me to spread my legs in front of that big audience,” she said. “I didn’t like that.”

Still, it took her a long time to quit as Mr. Araki’s model. She started working with him when she was young, and he was already famous. When he was hospitalized, she did not want to abandon him.

Continue reading the main story

“Looking back now, everything was excessive and extreme,” she wrote on her blog. “Something in me was numb. He asked me to do abnormal things, and I did them as if they were normal.” At one point, she became suicidal.

By 2015, the relationship had soured so badly that Mr. Araki insisted she sign a document vowing not to defame him or his business. In 2016, Kaori, who by then was running her own ballet school, stopped working with him.

When she requested that he stop republishing or exhibiting some photographs of her, he warned in a March 2017 letter that she had no rights. “All models should understand the potential for unlimited use of the work,” he wrote in the letter, seen by The New York Times. “I will decide which publication, which exhibition, when to publish and what kind of products I will give permission to use my work. It’s all up to me.”

Kaori is not the only model to have objected to Mr. Araki’s distribution of photos. In an interview, Akane Ikeda, 38, a geisha in Kanazawa who occasionally modeled for him between 2003 and 2013, said that when friends discovered nude photos of her online that she had not known about, she asked Mr. Araki to take them down. “I don’t understand the internet,” he told her.

Ms. Ikeda said a gallery that represents Mr. Araki, Taka Ishii in Tokyo, eventually removed the images from various websites.

As for Kaori, she had started to move on with the support of a new partner. But when #MeToo began and the Museum of Sex mounted its Araki retrospective, they inspired her to go public.

Many of the comments on her blog offered encouragement and called her courageous. “It must have been a horrible experience,” one commentator wrote.

Kaori said she did not expect an apology from Mr. Araki, and she is not asking the Museum of Sex to remove the three photos of her it is displaying.

The work, she said, should serve as a reminder. All she wants, she said, is for visitors to “know my sad background and experience.”

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[newestbalance]

When Erotic Photographer’s Muse Becomes His Critic

“I want them to know what happened in the past between me and Araki,” Kaori said last month. “I was not allowed to speak out. People should know, and they should look.” Mr. Araki declined repeated requests to comment.

Mr. Araki’s work has long ignited controversy, given the provocative nature of his images, which include photographs of nude women bound up in a Japanese technique known as kinbaku-bi. He has been fined on obscenity charges in Japan, and while some critics consider him a maestro, others deem his work pornography.

Maggie Mustard, co-curator of the Museum of Sex exhibition, said Kaori’s allegations were forcing a new conversation about models’ rights.

“This gives us the opportunity to talk about what happens to a muse — and I use that word with air quotes — when she doesn’t have a contract or a sense of economic or legal agency about how her image was used,” Ms. Mustard said in a telephone interview.

Ms. Mustard added that she had spoken with Kaori and would incorporate her comments into the exhibition’s programming materials. Already, the wall text mentions another model’s anonymous allegations of inappropriate sexual contact by Mr. Araki, noting that “the controversy surrounding Araki’s work has almost exclusively been about reception and meaning, and far less about the issues of consent and the potential abuses of power that can be at the foundation of artistic practice and artistic production.”

The contentious relationship between artist and model goes back centuries, with men like Picasso or Schiele known for mistreating women. More recently, potential portrait models for Chuck Close have accused him of sexual harassment.

Art historians argue that it might be time for artists to rethink the basis on which these relationships are built. Models should have “more agency in terms of authorship of the work itself,” said Rebecca Zorach, a professor of art history at Northwestern University.

Photo

Nobuyoshi Araki in 2008 wearing a T-shirt with a photo of Kaori. One of her complaints is that Mr. Araki used her image in ways that she was never consulted about. Credit Kyodo, via Associated Press

“The art world has a tendency to erase women as makers, and historically it just happens over and over again,” she said.

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In Japan, Kaori’s disclosures come as women are just starting to raise questions about male power, sexual harassment and assault.

Last year, when one of Japan’s best-known television journalists was accused of rape, his accuser received only a smattering of attention in the Japanese media. Last month after a television reporter anonymously asserted that a high-level civil servant in the Finance Ministry had sexually harassed several women, the official resigned, although he has denied the charges. The ministry has acknowledged he harassed a reporter.

In this staunchly patriarchal culture, women are often subservient to men. Japan consistently ranks low among developed countries on gender equality in health, education and the economy and has one of the world’s worst records for women in politics.

For models working in Japan’s art world, it is difficult to make demands of a male artist.

“I can imagine that as a male photographer who is more than 70 years old, he unconsciously has the perspective towards women that he can do whatever he wants,” said Yukie Kamiya, head of the Japan Society Gallery in New York, speaking of Mr. Araki. “Male power is such a common understanding, and women don’t have much of a voice.”

Kaori, who trained in Paris as a dancer, began posing for Mr. Araki after meeting him at a party in 2001.

She said he paid her 100,000 yen (about $930) to pose in the studio wearing a kimono or performing dances that Mr. Araki would photograph. For nude projects, he took her to so-called “love hotels” and paid her about 50,000 yen for each assignment.

But she said he also called her for impromptu, unpaid sessions where he took photos while she walked in a park or sat in a bar at his command.

It was not enough to make a living. Asked how she supplemented her income, Kaori demurred. “I don’t want to say,” she said.

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In public, Mr. Araki described her as his “muse,” but she said he did not tell her when or where the work would be published or exhibited, and she had no say in how the images were composed. “For him, a muse means someone who doesn’t speak or have any of her own opinions and just keeps obeying his orders,” she said.

Early on, the two did have a consensual sexual relationship, Kaori said.

During one photo session, she balked when he snapped Polaroid pictures of her and sold each individually without paying her any royalties. “That money that he earned is based on my contribution,” Kaori said.

“He says, ‘I am Araki, and you must be happy and honored that I am taking a picture of you,’” she said.

Kazuko Ito, a lawyer whom Kaori consulted last November, said Kaori told her that after nude photos appeared without her permission, a stalker broke into her home. Kaori asked the lawyer for help obtaining some rights to the photos, but Ms. Ito said that such disputes were very rare in Japan and that she was unlikely to win in court.

Photo

Mr. Araki’s books displayed at an exhibit at the Museum of Sex in New York. Credit Tiffany Sage/BFA, via Museum of Sex

Ms. Ito said she had heard similar complaints from other models for Mr. Araki.

Of course, power inequities between artists and models are not unique to him. “There has been no public discourse about this structural problem within the industry and the photographer-model relationship,” said Michio Hayashi, a professor of art history at Sophia University in Tokyo.

Kaori described one incident when foreign photographers came to observe Mr. Araki as he took pictures of her. She did not want to appear nude in front of strangers, she said, but Mr. Araki told her, “They aren’t here to photograph you, they’re here to photograph me.”

But when pictures from that session came out in print, Kaori appeared in them, naked. “He invited many photographers into the studio and he ordered me to spread my legs in front of that big audience,” she said. “I didn’t like that.”

Still, it took her a long time to quit as Mr. Araki’s model. She started working with him when she was young, and he was already famous. When he was hospitalized, she did not want to abandon him.

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“Looking back now, everything was excessive and extreme,” she wrote on her blog. “Something in me was numb. He asked me to do abnormal things, and I did them as if they were normal.” At one point, she became suicidal.

By 2015, the relationship had soured so badly that Mr. Araki insisted she sign a document vowing not to defame him or his business. In 2016, Kaori, who by then was running her own ballet school, stopped working with him.

When she requested that he stop republishing or exhibiting some photographs of her, he warned in a March 2017 letter that she had no rights. “All models should understand the potential for unlimited use of the work,” he wrote in the letter, seen by The New York Times. “I will decide which publication, which exhibition, when to publish and what kind of products I will give permission to use my work. It’s all up to me.”

Kaori is not the only model to have objected to Mr. Araki’s distribution of photos. In an interview, Akane Ikeda, 38, a geisha in Kanazawa who occasionally modeled for him between 2003 and 2013, said that when friends discovered nude photos of her online that she had not known about, she asked Mr. Araki to take them down. “I don’t understand the internet,” he told her.

Ms. Ikeda said a gallery that represents Mr. Araki, Taka Ishii in Tokyo, eventually removed the images from various websites.

As for Kaori, she had started to move on with the support of a new partner. But when #MeToo began and the Museum of Sex mounted its Araki retrospective, they inspired her to go public.

Many of the comments on her blog offered encouragement and called her courageous. “It must have been a horrible experience,” one commentator wrote.

Kaori said she did not expect an apology from Mr. Araki, and she is not asking the Museum of Sex to remove the three photos of her it is displaying.

The work, she said, should serve as a reminder. All she wants, she said, is for visitors to “know my sad background and experience.”

Continue reading the main story

The post When Erotic Photographer’s Muse Becomes His Critic appeared first on World The News.

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[monkeykinginisrael-blog]

Passover between Two Worlds

During one of the most prominent holiday here in Israel, I decided to undertake a special adventure into Northern West Bank to observe an annual animal sacrifice in the ancient community of the Samaritans. 

So what exactly is this prominent holiday in Israel? Passover or Pesach, is an important biblically derived Jewish holiday. The Jewish people celebrate Passover as a commemoration of their liberation by God from slavery in Egypt, and their freedom as a nation under the leadership of Moses. The Passover also commemorates the story of the Exodus as described in the Hebrew Bible, which according to the standard biblical chronology, would have taken place at around 1300 B.C.. 

Now we know what Passover is all about, then who are the Samaritans, and why do they perform this ancient act of animal sacrifice on the first night of the Passover? Before answering these questions, I have to first thank Professor Steven Klein of my Lost and Isolated Jewish Communities class for introducing me to this topic and recommending me to attend this event in person. We first discussed the Samaritans in class; they are an ethnoreligious group of Israelites of the Ancient Near East. Ancestrally, some have claimed that they are the descendants of the tribe of Ephraim and the tribe of Manasseh. Therefore, the Israeli government does officially recognize them as citizens of Israel, but they themselves practice Samaritanism, a unique religion closely related to Judaism. The main difference resides in that the Samaritans choose Mount Gerizim as their holy site for worshipping God, and Jews choose Mount Zion (more specifically Jerusalem’s Western Wall of the Temple Mount). 

For the sacrifice itself, the Torah mandates Jews and Samaritans to ritually slaughter lambs on the eve of the Passover. Standing at the top of Mount Gerizim, overlooking the city of Nablus, I was told a story behind this ancient ritual. Once upon a time, a sinner came to seek the priest with a lamb of his own. He wanted to ask the priest of a way to cleanse his sins committed over the past year. The priest pointed at the lamb he had brought with him and explained to the sinner that, even though he had sinned, the lamb remained pristine and pure. Accordingly, the priest directed the sinner to transfer his sins into the lamb, thus relieving himself from any upcoming condemnations during the New Year. Now, as the lamb retained all of his past sins, it was only logical to dispose the lamb along with the sins it was carrying. As a result, this annual sacrificial ritual involving lambs thereby came into existence. 

As the title suggested, I spent the eve of Passover between “two worlds”, and it is pretty evident that these two worlds refer to the worlds of Israelis(Jews) and palestinians(Arabs). Amid all the conflicts and bloodshed that had taken place between the two, Mount Gerizim has become a sanctuary for people from both sides, and both Israelis and palestinians consider the Samaritans as their own. This small community of only 800 people have two main residence locations, one in Holon outside of Tel Aviv, and the other used to be in Nablus before the second Intifada (Arab Uprising). According to the Oslo Accord, the entire West Bank was divided into three different categories, Area A, B and C. Area A is under full control of the Palestinian authority; Area B is under civil Palestinian governance, but Israeli military control; Area C is the largest, composed of 60% of the land of West Bank, and is under full Israeli control. Mount Gerizim falls under Area B category, so when the ceremony took place, both the IDF and the Nablus fire and rescue department were present to ensure safety and stability. 

The sacrifice itself was quite self-explanatory. They slaughtered around 40 lambs for 20 families. These lambs were cooked on huge furnaces, and one of the furnaces was used a disposal unit, which burned all night to jettison any unwanted materials. There were huge crowds of tourists, journalists and invited guests, so the ritual site felt extremely claustrophobic, but as every Samaritan resident begins to appear in their traditional all white costumes,  they truly instilled the spirality and holiness associated with this ancient practice. Was it barbaric? Of course it was, as it should be. There were tons of blood and the skins were literally ripped off from the lambs by bare hands. However, I do personally understand and revere their effort to preserve their tradition and belief. 

I had an esteemed opportunity to conduct some on-site research with a few Samaritans and further the discussion we had in class. I wanted to find out if they see themselves as Israelis, and indeed they do, but they do not see themselves as Jews. They emphasized their particular singularity and also the extremely awkward position that they have been in between Jews and Arabs. A high schooler I talked to named Shy (he is nothing but shy actually XD) informed me that almost all Samaritan families have houses at both Holon and Mount Gerizim, and children are usually educated in Holon so families only move back to Mount Gerizim during three special occasions yearly. Therefore, the elders, who have been around for a long time in the West Bank, speak their native tongue, Arabic; on the other hand, the younger generations mainly speak Hebrew. One of the things that we discussed extensively is the marriage situation of the young Samaritans, and Shy told me that the community actually isn’t expanding or declining at a rapid pace. The number of the Samaritan population generally has been staying at a steady level throughout the years, despite of the fact that more young Samaritan women are choosing to leave their community to marry outside Jews. 

As I was talking to Shy, there were IDF soldiers on the rooftop and the streets; there were palestinian journalists interviewing the elders; there were internationals like me talking photos and filming non-stop; there were also little kids running around seemingly excited for the lamb feast ahead. Closing in onto 9 o’clock at night, the furnaces began to close and the lambs were properly prepared and ready to cook for hours. I waved goodbye to Shy and his families and thanked them for sufficiently satisfying my morbid curiosity that night. I had to leave at that point, because the hotel owner in Nablus was worried that I might bail on him, so I started to walk towards the main gate to hitch a taxi ride.

As I was strolling on the sidewalk, the picture that remained in my head was not slitting the lamb throat or the mass prayer, which took place before the sacrifice. It is difficult to describe what I had in mind at the time, but I guess I was attempting to put together a jigsaw puzzle of a vision, in which perhaps every place in Palestine can be as harmonious as Mount Gerizim.