#he's the elitest of the elite

[swagging-back-to]

was trying to find out how many kills qualifies a scout for elite status and i---

2 BILLION.... yall eren has big dick energy from here to PLUTO for fucking reallll

how tf yall out here calling levi badass for a MEASELY 150. even zeke killed more than levi.

[dabiralovesfun]

In My Shadows. 1

ATEEZ FANFICTION.

To be honest, Tua wasn't really sure what the fuck was going on. One second, she was with her family running a small convenience store, next minute, she was being driven to some fancy school in the capital.

Aurora Academy - since 1876.

She had heard so much about Aurora, the fact that it was set up for only the elitest of the elite, the fact that it had huge chandeliers everywhere and that the floors were made of gold and the door knobs were just huge diamonds. (Maybe the last part was a lie, she didn't know. But she'll find out soon enough).

Whatever the case, Aurora was a myth for people like her. She didn't belong there, her father wasn't a big shot politician, her mum wasn't some ancient money heiress, she didn't have billions in her trust fund, she didn't even have a trust fund!

It was 3 weeks ago when she got the letter. 100% all expenses paid scholarship to Aurora. The paper was so fancy she almost believed the diamond door knob theory. The letter had said it was because of her outstanding performance in her state speech competition and artistic prowess. She called bullshit. She was sure there were other students with more credentials than her that were able to pay the exuberant fees.

Tua knew she was there to make Aurora look good, probably cover up for something. But what? She was the first scholarship student since the school opened its fancy doors, and she knew it wasn't kindness.

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

4 months ago.

To be honest, Yeosang wasn't sure what the fuck was going on. The dorms were eerily quiet, and the BOY'S DORMITORY WAS NEVER QUIET. It was in the morning, and everyone should have been getting ready for the last day of school. There should have been loud and joyful with laughter and pranks in the air... But there was nothing. He slowly walked out of his room and went to knock on Wooyoung's door.

Aurora dorms did not lack luxury, each dorm had a tastefully furnished living space with a smart TV and two study desks, refrigerator, chandelier (of course), two standard sized ensuit bedrooms that the student could customise however as long as it fit the schools regulations, to top it off, each dorm had access to a small balcony overlooking the golf course.

5:00am

There was no way that Wooyoung was awake, he was the boy's personal alarm clock, and yet when he opened the door, the room was empty. What the hell. His bed was messy, clothes scattered, phone on the floor... It looked like he left in a hurry. OK, now, Yeosang was worried. He grabbed his phone and called Jongho. No answer. WTF. San. No answer. God! Hongjoong. No answer. No real surprise there tbh. Seonghwa. NO ANSWER. OK, maybe there was an alien invasion and everyone had been abducted.

Yeosang rushed out of his dorm to find empty halls. "GUYS!" The silence that greeted him was deafening. He dialed a number again. Mingi..... It rang and rang, and Yeosang was getting ready to hear the automated voice that told him the caller was on available.

"Yeo? Are you OK? Where are you!"

He thought he was dreaming, he almost couldn't talk.

"I-In the dormitory, where did everyone go?"

"How could you have slept past the noise, come out to the woods."

Yeosang walked to the woods at the back of the dorm, if he turned right and kept walking he would arrive at the golf course, but if he continued straight down, it would be nothing but forests. This part of the school was mainly avoided, it gave Yeosang the creeps. He found Wooyoung, San and Mingi at the entrance.

They both looked dishevelled.

Yeosang had so many questions, Wooyoung didn't let him ask. Yeosang didn't think he'd ever seen Wooyoung this serious before. No humor at all behind his eyes, he felt a chill run down his spine.

"Dojun, Sanhwa, Kenji and Mark were found dead in the woods, they had been stabbed repeatedly."

Yeosang felt his ears ring, he hadn't been close to any of the boys, but he knew Dojun was student body president and was pleasant enough, he was supposed to graduate today. What the hell?

"W-Who would do something like that?"

"Someone who really really hated them"

Yeosang looked at Seonghwa, Yunho, Jongho and Hongjoong approaching.

"What do we do?"

"Forget it ever happened and try to leave this freakshow alive." Everyone turned to Mingi.

"How the fuck are we supposed to forget something like this?" Wooyoung seethed.

Mingi shrugged, "It's not like this is the first time, the school is going to cover it up somehow and they'll say it was a drug induced fight or something."

He was right.

Aurora was not a stranger to violent murders. The last one had happened 20 years ago.

And somehow, somehow, their parents still insisted on Aurora.

Yeosang called Bullshit. There was something very wrong with this place.

Thank you for reading, I'm sorry if it was a bit rough.... I didn't really proofread. I promise it would get better tho. Love you all😍

[atdawnweryd]

S2E5/S2E6 confrontation parallels

(please ignore how freakin ugly and un-uniform these gifs are it was taking foreverrrrrr and I gave up *sob)

So, I feel like there are massive similarities between Simon and Wille's confrontation in the music room in episode 5 and Simon and Marcus' confrontation in episode 6, and I simply cannot continue to ignore them. They proceed like so:

Start off with an incredulous rhetorical question from party 1 followed by a lackluster attempt at defense by party 2. Sarcastic rebuttal from party 1 ensues (the eye before the storm), and then they go OFF, calling out party 2 on their (perceived) hypocrisy, essentially reaming them out for treating them poorly out of selfishness. Party 2 has no come back, party 1 drops mic and leaves.

The really interesting part here, is that Simon is the accuser in the first scene, but takes on the opposite role in the second scene. It's like the show is turning all the things he yelled at Wille in on their heads and giving him a taste of his own medicine. I don't know if this was intentional or I am off in delusional fan-land or what (come on in ya'll, the water's finee!!).

These two scenes together are (for me) a really effective way to emphasize the morally gray area all these characters are kind of residing in this season. It feels super harsh when Simon is yelling at Wille because he is not privy to everything that's been going on with Wille, he doesn't have all of the information. But at the same time, he's not totally wrong either. Wille did make an executive decision to keep Simon in the dark which was pretty shitty.

Likewise, although no one here is really sympathetic to Marcus, mans may have made a point or two. Does Marcus suck? Um, yes. But actually Simon doesn't think that Marcus sucks. Simon quite likes Marcus but is basically unable to get anywhere with him because of his feelings for Wille. Meanwhile though, he still allowed him to think that they were together, and then ditched him at the ball to makeout with his ex, which is kindaaa sketch (objectively. subjectively, it was awesome). However, Marcus also doesn't have all the information about Simon's motives. He doesn't understand how deep this thing between Simon and Wille runs, so from his perspective Simon is just messing him around with the prince of sweden, the elitest godamn elite of all the godamn elites at this goddamn elitist-ass boarding school. And, as a respectable flannel-gay, we all know how Marcus hates those elites.

So all of this really drives home the point that no one here is completely in the right or wrong. It's a messy situation all around, and everyone's suffering for it.

The other thing that I reallllly love about these parallel compositions, is that the argument with Marcus places Simon in Wille's previous position, where he gets similarly hit with accusations that demonstrated a lack of understanding of the full picture. In my opinion, this allows Simon to view his and Wille's confrontation from a different perspective - maybe he was being a little unfair, a little harsh, because he was hurt. But maybe he wasn't seeing the full picture either.

Of course at this point, Wille and Simon have already come to understand one another much better (hey thanks Karen Boye!), and hooked up in the bedroom. But nothing about their situation has truly been resolved, and recall that Simon is still undecided about what to choose re Wille while he is talking to Ayub later in the episode. And when he finally tells Wille he wants to be with him, his condition is "no more secrets between us", referring back to their fight.

I like to think that this experience was just one of several moments that allowed Simon to empathize better with Wille, and to finally allow himself to be open to giving their relationship another chance :)))))

[queermarzipan]

guys. guys. the ritz is the elitest of elite restaurants. a character who has that kind of disposable income is VERY FUCKING RICH. nobody with a Normal Income is seeing the ritz as anything but a pipe dream. the ineffables can go there in canon bc they can MANIPULATE REALITY. i am about to scream

a crowley who lives with his friends and sees his job in terms of shifts absolutely unequivocally cannot afford the ritz. he is not thinking about the ritz. he is not considering the ritz as a viable destination. at literally any notion of him going to the ritz his first instinct would be Laughter Oh My God U Think I'm A Millionaire. do you understand me. please i can't live like this

[wallacejwriting]

Starside [Starmont meets Farside]

A sort of rundown to what I'm thinking and working on

Jules Locke is a 15 year old kid living on a Fringe farm to the south of the city of Tairkyda, constantly in the shadow of the massive Wall that cuts off the other side - the Blighted side - of the island from the inhabited half.

Less than a week before the new year at Starmont College begins, Jules Awakens magic they shouldn't have when they find and bond a dragon egg that falls from a passing ship in the sky.

The witches of Tairkyda have ways of knowing when a new with Awakens, via the witchglasses at the centre of the innermost ring of Tairkyda's city proper. Because of this, Jules has no way of hiding.

Now a sproutling witch, Jules must attend Starmont to learn to control their magic, and their bond with their new dragon, or else risk losing their dragon egg, their freedom, and any chance of ever going home again.

But the innermost ring of Tairkyda is an elitest bunch. Prejudices run deep amidst the rich and powerful. And the mystery of how Jules has magic when they shouldn't - when no one outside the elite should - leaves Jules scrutinized at every opportunity.

Not that they're the only non-highborn witch. In fact, the other two are also dragon riders - Gwyn Vaughan, commander of the dragonguard; and Cináed, a fourth year student and Dustwitch. Both are underborn, meaning they are from Underside.

Rakesh, a professor at the school, is assigned to help Jules get ready for Starmont by the headmistress. When he brings Jules to Starmont early, at her request, Jules learns that the pirate noticed the egg is missing and wants their money.

Jules has no money, so the school pays for the egg, whose price has been inflated greatly due to being already bonded and unable to separate from Jules without conflict and consequence. Jules is assigned to work in the school and pay off the price of the egg while they are a student, and told they must pay off the full price to own their dragon as other witches do.

Less money. More problems. Always money problems.

Cináed also works in the school, as they were a servant before they were a witch, and this is a big part of how they bond.

Jules also meets and is roommates with Wren Hashimoto and Sabine Bellerose. And Jules quickly realizes that there's something going on with Sabine - she's hexed. Cursed. Hurting. And the more Jules learns about how and why - and about the kind of man her father, the one who did this, is - the more they realize they have to save Sabine. Her freedom is gone. Her voice, taken. Her life put on a timer. And if Jules stands aside and lets someone die when they could help?

Well, how the hell can they call themself a friend? Let alone a future dragon rider?

But things are far from easy. All the other sproutlings have several years of practice on Jules, as well as years of training and immersion in witchery and witch culture as a result of their upbringing. Not to mention, being able to draw perfect circles is considered the first skill a witch should learn.

And Jules hasn't. Not by a long shot.

But there's some stuff that comes easy to them, and that combination entangles them with Wren as they help each other with classes, with homework, and with learning more about each other and where they come from.

Drawing circles is still hard though.

And so is dealing with plenty of bigoted teachers, prejudiced students, and social norms that seem out to get them. And Jules has never been good with people, or social norms, to begin with. Learning an entire new set will be impossible without instructions.

And this isn't even getting into the fact that part of the island is Blighted, which means infected with a fungus that is stopped only by stone and fire. This creates monsters, freaky infected plants, and a lot lot more.

Anyway yeah. That's what I got so far. That's what I've been doing while not here. Combining worlds.

[roachliquid]

Reading manhwa centered around video game mechanics (only occasionally involving actual video games) hasn't taught me much about Korean gaming, but it's taught me an awful lot about what the average manhwa writer thinks gaming is like, and hoo buddy. These folks are full of shit.

It's not that these stories are inaccurate in the usual way that you've probably come to expect of writers - with beeps and boops playing over games with advanced graphics, kids angrily yelling "DIE! DIE! DIE!" at their screens, or an insistence that first-person shooters or shmups are the only genre in existence. (Although some of the misconceptions feel fueled by a similar philosophy - an adherence to the idea that video games are an inherently violent and hostile platform.)

Many of these writers seem utterly incognizant of the fact that gaming - particularly when it comes to MMORPGs - is a social activity. They treat everything as if it's hypercompetitive, a stage where only the elitest of players matter, and the remaining majority consists of useless, generic pseudo-NPCs who will never make it to the higher levels. The average game world is a brutal, war-driven dark fantasy, an unholy mashup of World of Warcraft and Dark Souls where this absurd hierarchy is not only considered right, but perfectly natural, because despite this being a cooperation-driven game, only the most gifted individuals could have what it takes to make it to the top.

The absurdity of this is that the story's protagonist is frequently someone that this system has failed - but rather than address the inherent inequality, the authors simply award him a special cheat power that allows him to game the system for his own sake, then send him along on his meteoric ascension to greatness. And in practice, many of these protagonists are just as bad as the jerks that were already in power, treating fellow players as useless if not downright disposable because they lack the blessing of author fiat that promoted the protagonist to Main Character status. Occasionally they might condescend to show kindness, but only inasmuch as it doesn't prevent them from being a Rugged Loner or Genius Strategist (the latter of which typically understands the value of sacrificing those who aren't immediately useful more than that of forming a strong community).

Rather than saying anything in particular about video games, these stories seem to reflect a kind of toxic underbelly to South Korean culture - an undercurrent of belief that while capitalism and poverty are harmful, they are somehow inescapably fair, and that if you resent the wealthy and elite for their smug privilege, you should focus your energy on joining their ranks. When it happens to come up, the idea of changing the system is almost inevitably limited to the removal of a few cartoonishly exploitative individuals - who, unlike the elites, tend to be framed as cowards or as sickly parasites whose biggest crime, rather than exploiting others, is seizing power they didn't earn.

("But Roach," I hear you say, "how can you be sure that doesn't reflect the state of South Korean gaming?" And the answer is, I know a guy. A guy with South Korean gamer friends. Don't even worry about it.)

And what of building a community based on mutual cooperation that can withstand the harms inflicted by this system? Well, if the author deigns to consider it in the first place, this idea is typically dismissed as a lesser strategy - a form of coping for those who aren't "good enough" to simply Make It by themselves. In some cases, cooperation is outright decried as a tactic that keeps people weak, as if guaranteeing their basic needs is depriving them of the fundamental learning experience of going it alone - the same tactic that the hero employs not because he suddenly had an epiphany about the power of single-player gaming, but because he was granted a boon by the author that literally no one else shares.

The end result, I would say, is not a story that doesn't appeal to gamers. Instead, it's something much worse: a story that will only appeal to the worst, most toxic types of gamer out there. The ones who view video games as a crucial form of self-betterment that one must suffer through in order to build their character. "Hard times make hard men", except hard games make hard men, and anyone who succeeds through means other than the most masochistic, individualist approach available is robbing themselves of the possibility of true greatness.

You know. Morons.

[corsairoriginal]

Rowan “Rebis” Menser

In the distant future, two hundred years after the massive solar flare that nearly wiped out the industrialized world in 2006, Rowan “Rebis” Menser has gotten sick of the game. The systems they were once a part of, the same ones that stripped everything from them the second they stopped conforming to gender, are the target of Rowan’s spite. But they can’t deny they were a part of the machine, forcing themselves to live inauthentically to benefit from privilege and wealth. They were Maverick “Rick” Menser back then, and they stayed in line, even when the machine threatened to swallow them whole.

TW: Body dysphoria, gender dysphoria, dubious consent, dubcon, nsfw

Being written from the perspective of that time, Rowan calls themselves Rick, and still uses he/him. 

Rick Menser neared his fourth year with the Wayland Moniker Group. Hospitality never crossed Rick’s mind while studying for advertising and marketing in college, but the cross section of opportunities that landed him in Wayland Moniker were an unexpected boon. With Rick’s extensive network of contacts from his family and university, corporate management took notice and allowed him to rapidly navigate the lower echelons and pedestrian campaign drudgery, directly upwards into corporate event planning. 

Wayland Moniker’s most lucrative business was in providing the spaces for the elitest of the elite, the kind of money that Rick’s in-laws spoke of as though making them paupers by comparison. Finding ways to impress the terminally-unimpressed was no small task—providing elegant spaces for designer-narcotic-fueled orgies, the most threadbare of expectations. Wayland Moniker resorts, retreats, and venue spaces wove sensory experiences and subtle chances for debauchery expertly, and kept guests returning and recommending year after year.

The level of exceptional hospitality Wayland Moniker provided pulled their reputation even above the open secret of their real expertise: recording the preferences and favorite vices of their clientele. Never cataloged on video or audio, but known, organized, and cataloged nonetheless. When the lobbyists needed lobbying, when aristocratic squabbling needed diffusion, when politicians needed bribing, and crime lords needed a foot in the door with “legitimate” corporate powers, the Wayland Moniker Group was there. What settings relaxed the hottest tempers, what palette of foods loosened the tightest lips, and just what flavor of escort appealed to the staunchest of monogamists—the Group’s encyclopedic knowledge and extensive resources meant that the gamut of power spectrums trusted Wayland Moniker to provide the most artfully-set stages where world-altering human connections happened.

And Rick Menser took personal pride at standing in the epicenter of that controlled storm of fantasy, wealth, power, and leisure. So no, not the kind of marketing he studied, but it was so much more intellectually thrilling.

Rick looked over the readouts displayed on his AR lenses, subtly brushing windows aside as he scanned the messages of the various teams he coordinated, both at headquarters in New Kingston, and his current location at the resort between LAXI and Delta City. 

By pure habit, Rick idly rubbed his jaw and chin, though it was absent any beard to straighten. The corporate retreats the Silver Dunes Resort currently hosted were a New Century City-based advertising/media conglomerate, and a Japanese-owned construction development firm. Through repeated dealings with east Asian capitalists, Rick caught on quickly that standards of professional appearance changed little over the last four hundred years, and facial hair was both a rarity, and potentially soured the perceptions of the more rigid conservatives. He always struggled with how his face looked without a beard, but occupational concerns came first.

As Rick finished making note of any pressing messages he would need to pay attention to later, he brought his focus back to walking past the dining areas currently wrapping up the breakfast service. While there were no strict hours for meal times at these sorts of retreats, eleven a.m. marked when the kitchens would switch to light lunch options. His dress shoes made the lightest tap on the matte, sandstone tiles of the seating areas, and he paused to watch a wait staff member arranging both a coffee press and tea service at a table of guests. He nodded approvingly as the young woman briefly made eye contact with him, a subtle congratulations on how expertly she arranged the tea in perfect Japanese etiquette. 

 Rick turned to make his way toward an employee door, but stopped when he heard a voice call out his name. He immediately turned to address the guest speaking to him, and gave a relaxed smile to the woman his age of twenty-eight, half-jogging from the dining area’s door to the patio. Her immaculate, brunette locks bounced in the late-morning sunlight as she approached him, her dark-rose lips shining in an elated grin, and a designer skirt fluttering with her steps. 

“I knew it!” the guest said with a giggle, craning her arms out for a hug as she reached Rick. “I can’t believe I didn’t catch you until now, I’ve been looking for you all weekend.”

Returning her hug with a gentle pat to her shoulder (careful not to jostle the Long Island iced tea in her hand), Rick allowed a chuckle. “I thought I saw your name on the guest list.”

“And how could I not realize who that baby-faced nerd in the welcome package was?” Patti Lenton said, allowing the hug to linger. “You look absolutely fabulous, Ricki.”

After Patti finally leaned back, Rick’s smile grew unconsciously. “Not as good as you. That’s a perma-shade, isn’t it?”

“You better believe it’s Chanel,” Patti affirmed with a nod, pressing her lips together twice. The gestures caused her lips to change colors, from a vibrant flame to a subtle nude. “And look at you in a suit. Your hands look naked with only a wedding band.”

The jab caused a reflexive scoff from Rick, and he adjusted his tie, as though his hands couldn’t resist bringing attention to his pressed collar—rather than strings of beads or v-neck or spaghetti-strapped shirts of his dormitory days. “Sure, college was my brazen slut era, but come on. It was everyone’s.”

Patti let out a surprised laugh, and rested a hand on Rick’s arm. “Oh, holy shit, there’s the Ricki I remember! And nothing makes me sadder than to hear marriage ended your slut era. Absolute war crime. It’s not like mine ever went away,” Patti said, giving him a wink. She then tugged at his jacket’s sleeve. “Come meet my friends. I insist. I’ve been telling everyone about you all weekend.”

While Patti urged him forward, Rick subtly pulled up a window to his on-site manager on his glasses’ interface. Mentally, he informed Brian Jackson that one of the guests insisted on diverting Rick’s time for a while, a text forming with the command. Jackson responded he’d let the rest of the staff managers know to handle their own affairs as long as needed—after all, harmless requests from platinum-level clientele would never be refused.

Patti led Rick outside, and the gentle air from the Oregon coast brushed against them as they entered the covered patio. As the two approached a currently unlit, stone fire pit, Rick removed his glasses and slipped them in the inside pocket of his suit coat—a visible announcement to the seated guests that anything said or done around him had no risk of leaving the seating area. He inwardly jotted down which pairs of eyes relaxed as he did so.

“I’m sure all of you remember our host,” Patti announced as she elegantly cradled Rick’s hand, presenting him flamboyantly. “But Mr. Menser is a good friend of mine from college!”

“You went to Duke?” one of the guests, an older woman in a diaphanous sundress, asked.

Rick nodded with a genial smile, slipping his hands in his pants pockets. “That’s right. The sorority was co-ed.”

“Alpha Psi Lamda was so much more laid-back than any of the others,” Patti said with an exhausted sigh. 

“You never mentioned you were Alpha Psi Lamda!” another woman chimed in, her tan face brightening. 

Patti gasped, and Rick’s eyebrows unconsciously raised. “No, you’re joking,” Patti said breathlessly, trotting to the woman’s side and flopping to a seat beside her.

“Columbia!” the woman replied with an eager smile. 

“We’ve been at the same board meetings for the last three years and—Get over here, Ricki!” Patti insisted, waving him over. “Sisters and misters!”

The exuberance from the two women clearly made several of the Japanese investors in the seated group tense up in disapproval, so Rick kept a calm exterior as he joined them. His manner settled the women’s squealing quickly, and with honed skill, Rick engaged his sorority siblings while simultaneously drawing in other guests into relaxed conversation. Several of the more at ease international guests, ones with barely-noticeable accents and a marked familiarity with US culture (perhaps even time spent living in the States), were easy targets for Rick to aim for in blending the topics of conversation. Not a one of them seemed to notice his direction of the conversations, and a soothing ebb and flow took hold, swathing all present in a comfortable tide. 

As hours passed, the group dropped or gained new members, changed locations, but no shifts brought any discomfort. Rick trusted the Silver Dune’s staff to handle preparations for dinner, and he found himself and Patti’s entourage in one of the lounges. He had long ago opened his suit coat to relax as best he could, and comfortably reclined on the low sofas facing the last dregs of sunset fading from the expanse of the former national park. Many of the other circle of guests switched out since that morning, most of the older guests from the Takauji Conglomerate retiring to prepare for their morning flights. Several still remained, including a few men around Patti and Rick’s ages, ones who projected significantly-lowered restraints around the Westerners.

Patti polished off her latest martini in the long, uninterrupted chain of beverages she indulged in since breakfast, and rested the side of her head against a hand propped on the back of her seat. For the first time in a few hours, she laid her brown eyes directly on Rick. “Did anyone ever prove that petty brat outted you?”

The question was so off-topic, several of the others gathered immediately leveled their eyes on Rick. His chest fell from an exasperated sigh, perhaps the most unguarded reaction he allowed himself all weekend, and he gestured for a server to attend them. “Of course not,” he said after calling for a new round of drinks (himself included, this time). “Beaggie Bindel couldn’t get me fired, but nobody could pin it on her, either.”

“Oh, God, Bitty Beaggie Bindel!” Patti said with a cackle, kicking her legs as she sank in her chair. “I just had a war flashback from that.”

“Someone outted you?” one of the foreign guests, a man in a button-up shirt (rolled up in a way that barely hid the edges of sleeve tattoos), asked with a suddenly-hard expression.

“Oh, and it wasn’t just some slip of a tongue. It was disgusting,” Patti seethed, struggling to sit straight. “Posted revenge porn in a bunch of business servers. It made it to my office, even. Like, a bunch of people with professional contacts with him got spammed.”

A violent blush overtook Rick’s face, his jaw slacking and mirroring the stunned expressions of the others gathered.

She just. Said that. Patti just spelled out what happened to Rick in front of her business associates so casually. She just…said that.

The wound being so callously reopened caused a surge of white-hot shame and rage to fill Rick’s chest, the tightening of his lips barely hiding his resentment. Now he remembered why he hadn’t kept up with so many of his Alpha Psi Lamda “sisters.”

“It was scrubbed so fast,” Patti assured the circle, waving a hand dismissively. “And honestly, who cares if a man likes to suck dick anymo—”

“Patricia!” an older man snapped, his brow tight. “Jesus Christ, a friend of mine once had that happen to her. You don’t just dredge that up. You’re his friend, but we’re clients.”

Clearly embarrassed, Patti sank back into her seat, mumbling something about martinis.

Rick didn’t glance at the man who scolded her, but his face softened, grateful for the intervention. 

 “You can’t prove who did it?” the foreign guest asked, earning a cold glare from his fellows in similar silk shirts and tieless suits. 

Attempting to diffuse the thick smog of unease, Rick shook his head and gently smiled. “It doesn’t matter,” he lied. “Patti’s right, the Wayland Moniker Group, and I and my wife’s family, supported me and handled any technical and legal matters. My exes assured me they don’t know how any of it got into the wrong hands, and I believe them. It’s water under the bridge.”

The Japanese guest, one Rick recalled being named Sumiyoshi, scoffed audibly and sneered. “If anyone where we’re from tried to make any of us lose that kind of face, they wouldn’t be able to disappear. Not unless we wanted ‘em to.”

One of the other foreign guests let out a sharp hissing sound, a noise making it clear his companion should allow the subject to be dropped.

As the server arrived with the drinks, Rick took the moment to stand and rebutton his coat. “I deeply, sincerely apologize for any awkwardness.” He whispered to the server to just set his drink on the table in front of the group and allow someone else to take it. “If any of you need any form of extra care, please don’t hesitate to let me know. Anything. No questions.”

“Absolutely not,” the man who chided Patti said firmly. “I won’t allow it. Wayland Moniker was right to fight for a host like you, and I’ll make sure your seniors know it.”

Several of the Japanese guests bowed their heads to show their agreement. “Thank you for your service, Mr. Menser,” one of the older ones said, head remaining lowered. “Your diligence has been exemplary.”

In response to this, Patti let out a high-pitched, audible sob, and leapt from her seat to scurry out of the lounge, her face covered by a hand.

“Pardon me,” Rick said to the group, moving to follow Patti (and assure her that her gross negligence of his privacy wasn’t anything she needed to be ashamed of…no matter how much of a crock of shit that was). 

One of Patti’s friends immediately rose and placed a hand in front of Rick. “No, no, Rick. I can handle that. You get back to your job, we have stolen you long enough. Thank you for such a wonderful time.”

Relieved, Rick gave a short nod to her. “Thank you. I appreciate it. Excuse me.”

Rick parted ways with the guests, and made eye contact with absolutely no one before escaping through an employee door. In the quiet of the back halls, he sighed and slumped against a wall for a few moments. He could only hope the other guests were serious about praising him in front of the rest of management, because Rick had few hopes about Patti’s clownery not actually coming back to bite him in the ass. 

***

As the night went on (between the slow trickle of a few guests having to check out before morning and missing the entertainment of the retreat’s final night) Rick felt his anxiety wane as indeed, several guests sent glowing compliments to Dunes’ management. He wrapped up his duties for the night, and trudged his way to his room on site, this singular day and night siphoning more of his energy than the rest of the weekend combined.

Just before he took off his glasses, however, a notification popped up from a name he didn’t recognize—it being written in kanji. Rick paused before removing his tie, and opened it. A window filled his vision, Sumiyoshi’s face greeting him. Rick half-expected to see one of the many rooms offering diversions for the guests behind him, but Sumiyoshi appeared to be in his suite. 

“Sumiyoshi…Rin, correct?” Rick began, bringing up the guest list by pure memory.

A half-grin formed on the man’s chiseled face, and he nodded. “Yeah,” he replied in his perfectly-acclimated mastery of American English. “Rin is fine, by the way. And I just found out your name is Maverick?”

By reflex, Rick replied, “Please, Rick, I insist. Is there anything I can do for you?” He wasn’t entirely sure what digging Rin did since they parted ways hours ago…Rick had his full name on approximately zero of his professional links.

Pausing a moment, Sumiyoshi ran a hand through his cropped, black hair. “Yeah, if you could. You know…my associates and I were really impressed with how you handled yourself earlier.”

Self-consciously, Rick gave a nod of appreciation to Rin. “If anything, I can’t apologize enough. We do our best to keep that kind of unpleasantness out of guest sight.”

Laughing once, in a way that made Rick suddenly wonder if Rin wasn’t actually US-born, Rin shook his head. “No, no, I mean it. More than that, this is the first time some of them have been to a Wayland Moniker thing.”

Thing, Rick noted, another more native word choice. “I hope we met all expectations.”

“They fuckin’ loved it,” Rin replied. “They want to set somethin’ up in Kyoto, and they’re dead set on you being there.”

Taken aback by the sudden offer (and the rapid loosening of Rin’s speech), a smile overtook Rick’s face. “We don’t have an extensive presence in the area, but I would be honored to tailor some packages for you.”

“How long?” Rin asked.

“How long would it take me to design an experience?” Rick asked to clarify for himself. “I could have a few suggestions waiting for you by the time you make landfall at home.”

Smirking, his full lips pursed, Rin cocked an eyebrow. “Or…you could come up to my room and we can make some suggestions tonight?”

A professional meeting so spur of the moment wasn’t unheard of, not by any means. It was well-past time for Rick to be winding down to sleep, but this kind of opportunity with the Takauji Conglomerate wouldn’t happen twice.  “Let me grab my deck, and I can be there in twenty.”

“Alright,” Rin affirmed. “I know you know which number.” He then disconnected.

Taking in a deep breath, Rick allowed himself only a moment before mustering his thoughts. Dipping in the bathroom, Rick rinsed his mouth and face to give some impression he was more refreshed than possible after as long as a day as he just went through. Changing out suit coats, he simultaneously ran through what Wayland Moniker connections existed on mainland Japan, information scrolling over his glasses at rapid-fire rate. He also did a quick swap of ties, deliberate in his choice of one in the same gold as the Sumiyoshi-kai’s primary color. 

Every detail mattered during informal courtship.

His business deck in hand, Rick strode through the main halls of the resort as he made his way to the presidential suites. Excitement roiled in his chest, eager to give good news to his bosses in the morning. He arrived at Sumiyoshi Rin’s room and rolled his shoulders out once before reconstructing a calm smile and knocking.

Rather than answering directly, the lock indicator simply changed from red to green. Rick opened the door and stepped in, allowing it to clack closed behind as he eased himself into the suite’s main seating area. “Sumiyoshi-san?” he said loudly. From Rin’s call, Rick expected other Takauji members to already be present, but the empty sofas and chairs around the low central table said otherwise. The lamps around the spacious seating and bar era were lit, but only enough for Rick to see the shape of his reflection in the wall to ceiling windows—sharp in contrast to the black night over the dunes.

“Just one sec,” a voice called from the door to the bedroom and bath. 

“I’ll just take a seat,” Rick replied, sitting and opening his deck on the table. He adjusted his glasses and started bringing up what little information he’d started gathering over his digital workspace.   

A noticeable shift in the room’s humidity brought Rick’s attention to the bedroom door, and Rin stepped through. Rick froze, stunned to see steam wafting off of Rin’s wide, bare shoulders, and water dotted over his round pecs as he lifted a hand to slick back his wet hair. Wearing only a towel, Rick soaked in an unobstructed view of Rin’s toned, firm body, and the striking yakuza tattoos that covered his upper arms, wrapping around his back and hugging his upper chest. Vibrant carp swam through coils of waves on his right side, shifting and transforming into dragons that wound around his left.

Easing to a stop beside the table, a hand resting on the folded towel around his waist, a smirk tugged at Rin’s lips. “You…gonna keep recording or…?”

Turning red, Rick quickly yanked off his AR glasses and fumbled to slip them into his inside pocket. “Sorry! S-Sorry. I wasn’t in recording mode, I was just…”

“Staring?”

Rick tried to cover his embarrassment with a pained chuckle, and he locked his eyes onto the deck’s screen. “My b—Excuse me. However relaxed you want to be for a discussion is fine.” 

No matter how well (or poorly) Rick could cover being flustered, he couldn’t suppress his sharp awareness that nothing about this situation was business as usual. From what Rick knew, the Japanese might have fewer inhibitions when in spa or onsen settings, but no meeting, no matter how informal, was this informal. Especially not with a foreigner. 

And if Rin was as American as Rick suspected, then Rin’s behavior was clearly a power move. Rin knew about Rick’s bisexuality, Rin even pressed about it when in the lounge that evening. But Rick could keep himself together. He wouldn’t duck out just because he couldn’t handle being near an (extremely) attractive man. It wasn’t a big deal. It wasn’t a big deal. It had been almost three years since Rick and Angelica had a man together (what wealthy couple was strictly monogamous, after all?), but it wasn’t a big deal. 

Watching Rick collect himself, Rin chuckled. “Uh huh. None of that ‘san’ shit on this side of the Pacific, ‘kay?”

“My apologies,” Rick said. “I shouldn’t assume, but you are fairly-high ranking in Sumiyoshi-kai…?” 

Flopping onto the sofa beside Rick (the towel concealing precious little as it waved with the movement), Rin draped an arm on the sofa back and stretched out his neck. “Mm. That would be a leap if you didn’t actually know. Is that some of that Wayland Moniker confidentiality?”

 “Your family have been regular clients for over a hundred years—unrelated to the Takauji Conglomerate,” Rick replied coolly, bringing up project templates on his deck.

“And you just bring up those numbers without lookin’ at ‘em,” Rin noted, a color of amusement in his voice.

Allowing his own smirk, Rick continued to keep his eyes away from Rin and focused on his prep work. “Does that intimidate you?”

A laugh tumbled out of Rin, warm and genuine. “Your sense of humor is what got you married, isn’t it?”

Rick paused, and his gaze briefly landed on his wedding band, but he ignored the question. “If no one else is showing up, I can at least give you a run down of the resorts Wayland Moniker has joint ownership of in Japan. But honestly, we can make anything happen. If there’s experiences you and your partners have in mind, I know we can…” His voice dried in his throat as Rin took hold of Rick’s left hand and lifted it up to study the wedding band, his rough digits tracing across Rick’s own.

“You had every chance to leave the second you knew I didn’t call you in for this. What are you trying to prove, Maverick?”

The sound of his birth name was the only thing that could knock Rick out of his momentary trance. “R-Rick…” he mumbled, his eyes drifting to Rin’s, and the visible embers radiating from their dark depths.

Lids half-open, Rin ran his gaze over Rick’s hand, then gradually brought it toward his lips. Rick felt the man’s heat waft over his skin. Then, as Rin slipped the ring finger into his mouth, Rick’s breath shuddered sharply. Smoothly, Rin’s tongue caressed his finger, then stroked the web between his ring and middle fingers. Easing them out, Rin then rested the captive hand on the towel draped between his legs. “Mav,” he whispered.  

His breath shaky, Rick made no effort to reclaim his hand, instead feeling the unmistakable, rigid shape under the plush cloth. Not long, but wide and solid, throbbing hungrily. “I…c…”

Rin abruptly turned in the sofa to lean closer to Rick and rested his fingertips near his lips. “You about to say you can’t? When I’m watching you wanting it?”

Rick was rapidly losing himself, a tremble taking over his entire frame. He couldn’t think straight. This wasn’t what Angelica would want, and it wasn’t what Wayland Moniker expected of him. He couldn’t even decide if he wanted Rin as much as his stubborn disregard of all warnings suggested—but a fire was rising, and quickly overcoming Rick’s senses. “I sho—”

With a nudge of his hips, Rin’s erection pressed harder into Rick’s hand. Rin’s fingers drew a line from his lips and rested on Rick’s jaw, then a brief, faint whirr signaled a shift under Rin’s skin. Directly inside Rick’s ear (through a vibration from Rin’s fingers), a sound played—a familiar one that caused Rick to tense and his breathing to seize. The voice moaning in pleasure was his own, an unrestrained, higher pitch that would tumble from Rick unconsciously when in the throes of deepest ecstasy. This was a very specific recording of that sound, the images that accompanied the college-age footage immediately overtaking Rick’s mind.

Mortified, Rick jolted back from Rin’s touch and his stomach lurched violently. “Oh God, how could you possibly have found th—?”

Following Rick’s movement and straddling over him, Rin held Rick’s wrist in a vise, the other gripped his tie. The towel slid off Rin’s waist from the jostling, and he smiled down at Rick’s wide-eyed stare. “Doesn’t matter. All that matters is I want that. Right now the only fantasy I want is you.”

Panting, Rick’s eyes locked onto Rin, unable to swivel his gaze to see more than his savage expression. “F-Fantas…?”

“Don’t pretend this isn’t getting you hard,” Rin murmured, his grip on Rick’s wrist tightening. “Ain’t no damn way little wifey can fuck you the way you want to be fucked. Yeah?” Helpless under the shorter man’s superior strength, Rick made no resistance as Rin pulled on the tie and brought their faces close. His breath heavy and wanting, Rin whispered, “Whimper for me like you did in that video, Mav. Give it to me. I want it.”

No matter how many conflicting thoughts battled through his head, he melted under Rin’s scorching touch. He wanted to be this desired, and something about being called “Mav” only made that desire all the more intense. His eyes fluttering closed, Rick surrendered to the demand, and a soft sound fell from his parted lips. 

Rin’s chest rumbled from a purr of approval. “That’s it.”

“F-Fuck me,” Rick whispered desperately.

Rin pressed their lips together, and Rick fell into a daze as their tongues sought each other. Savage growls from Rin brought out eager pants from Rick, the octaves already starting to climb in a way he normally fought to suppress. Rick was this man’s fantasy, he said, a bestial hunger Rin couldn’t deny. Rick’s head rolled back and he moaned as he felt Rin’s hands move to yank open his suit coat and wrap his strong arms around his chest, gripping and clawing at Rick’s back through his expensive shirt’s fabric. 

Rin’s tongue slid across the column of Rick’s neck as Rick wiggled his shoulders to slide his coat off. “L-Let me get my shirt off,” Rick said breathily, writhing under the brushes of Rin’s teeth against the quivering skin of his throat. 

Unintelligible Japanese rolled out of Rin’s mouth, and, on his knees, he leaned back from Rick—though he still held firmly to Rick’s tie like a silk lead. From the distance allowed, Rick squirmed and shifted to get his shirt and collar unbuttoned in a rush. As he fought with his shirt, his eyes darted between Rin biting his lip in lust, and Rin’s exposed lower half. The faintest line beside Rin’s raised cock suggested he had work done, and as it gradually expanded past its prior length, Rick’s assumptions were proven correct. Few things were sexier than a cybered-up dick.

With a final jerk, the shirt whipped out from under the tie, and Rick threw it aside. Grinning, Rin yanked on Rick’s collar, and slapped his other hand on the top of Rick’s head to shove it into his crotch.. Without hesitation, Rick’s tongue dragged over and circled the head of Rin’s cock, sighing as Rin moaned gratefully. Taking a breath, Rick brought his mouth over it, and Rin hissed loudly in pleasure as Rick took in every last inch.  

“Shit—!” 

A muffled giggle came from Rick, then he shifted it to a gentle hum as he slid his tensed lips up and down the length of Rin’s member. The fierce hold on Rick’s hair gradually eased into sensual strokes as Rin settled into the sofa. While Rin’s leathered fingers wove through Rick’s hair, he wished he had more of it for Rin to play with—the soothing, encouraging sensation was such a drastic difference from Rin’s previous domination. Rick continued to taste Rin, moving one hand to firmly hold the base, while the other reached to massage his balls. At this, Rin’s head lolled back and he exhaled in appreciation. 

“Fuck, you’re good at that…” Rin said in a low murmur. His hand idly dropped the tie, and he brought up both hands to rub his face. “Hold on for a sec.”

Slowly, very deliberately, Rick raised his head and released Rin’s dick, inwardly reveling at the arch of Rin’s back as they parted. “I should finish getting undressed…” The statement was also a question, a need for assurance that Rin wasn’t going to simply get sucked off and kick his whore out as soon as he was satisfied. 

(And fuck, the thought of being called a whore just got Rick hotter.)

To Rick’s relief, Rin nodded and shook out his still-damp hair. He stood and lazily motioned for Rick to do the same. Their half a head in height difference was striking when Rick reluctantly brought himself to his feet, making him feel gangly and strangely exposed, despite being half-dressed. Rin made no indication of Rick towering over him being any deterrent, his upward gaze into Rick’s face smoldering and formidable. 

Instead of helping Rick out of his clothes, Rin’s eyes drifted over Rick’s bare skin, and gently raised his hands to his chest. “Go on,” he said, his neutral tone belying the power in the demand. 

Shyly, Rick undid his tie and let it fall from his neck, then unbuckled his belt as he stepped out of his shoes. Rin continued to give no assistance, just watching intensely as Rick unbuttoned his pants and slid the zipper down—taking it in like a personal performance. Rin’s hands rested around Rick’s ribcage, then the thumbs brushed over his nipples. Rick moaned by reflex, his back shifting while Rin played with them, repeatedly stroking the raised flesh and sending electric shocks down Rick’s back.

“Oh, you like that?” Rin said with a grin, just before lowering his face to start sucking on one of Rick’s nipples. In between licking one, then the other, Rin added, “Don’t stop. Lemme see that cock.” 

With a sharp gasp, Rick drunkenly closed his eyes and moaned. He wrangled the band of his gray briefs away from his hips, and both they and his pants fell down his legs. The instant he felt his erection meet the air, Rin’s hand wrapped around it and made Rick’s back straighten sharply. “Rin…!”

Stroking him, Rin leaned closer and dragged his tongue over Rick’s collarbone. He then chuckled. “You have no idea how fuckin’ hot I think those garter things are.”

Suddenly taken from the moment, Rick threw a self-conscious glance at the garters holding his socks above his calves and physically winced. “They’re not even thigh highs, please don’t make me fuck in socks.”

Both Rin’s smile and eyes widened, and his hands wrapped around Rick to fiercely slap them into a grip on his ass—sending a startled cry out of Rick. That kind of hold might leave souvenirs…!

“Stop me,” Rin said with a half-growl. He then pushed another shocked exclamation out of Rick as he bodily slung the taller man over his shoulder. 

“Oh, fuck…!” Rick blurted dumbly, too shocked to do more than steady himself across Rin as he was bodily carried into the bedroom. While Rin certainly looked built enough to pull it off, Rick couldn’t help but wonder if the cybernetics he showed off in his hand before indicated more in the arms. Laughing in delight, Rick allowed himself to be tossed carelessly onto the blanketed ocean of a bed, his shoulders shaking from his excitement. Gazing up at Rin, he said, “No one’s done that before.”

Throwing his square-shouldered shadow over Rick, Rin tilted his head. “Fine,” he purred. “I’ll be the first to treat you like the whore you are.”

Rick’s eyes grew larger, a twinge of shame tugging at him for how thrilled being called that did actually make him. “Yes…Yes, I am…I am such a bitch.”

“That’s what I thought.” Kneeling forward, Rin ran his hands along the sides of Rick’s legs, cradling his hips as he hovered his mouth over his abdomen. In anticipation, Rick rolled his shoulders and murmured eagerly, soaking in each kiss that trailed down his midsection, stopping at the base of his member. 

“Rin…Oh, oh, please…!” Rick cried out in pleasure as Rin wrapped his mouth over his cock. Rubbing his hands on Rin’s shoulders, Rick repeatedly moaned and gasped as Rin sucked on him expertly. He bobbed his head, grunting with each thrust of Rick’s cock further into him, and pushed on by Rick’s subtle writhing. 

“Oh, oh, fuck…!”

At last, Rin parted his mouth and took a loud lungful of air as he straightened. Trembling, Rick pinched his own nipples as he hotly gazed up at Rin. Rin watched Rick tug and flick at his nipples eagerly, fondling his chest into a passable cleavage. 

A smile spread over Rin’s face as Rick bit his lip and silently begged for more. He rested a hand on his cock and began stroking it, squeezing its base in a curious way. “What do you want?” A viscous fluid seeped out of the tip of Rin’s cock. Rick’s jaw went slack as he realized Rin had some very nice modifications as Rin coated what was undeniably lube over his length. 

An unconscious whimper came out of Rick, and he began to back himself further across the bed. He rolled onto his belly, and threw a lustful look over his shoulder as he spread his legs apart.

Propping himself behind Rick, Rin reached a hand and rubbed his thumb around the rim of his hole. Rick could hear himself implore, his voice pitching to a feminine whine while Rin pressed around the skin and repeatedly circled, but didn’t penetrate. Rin brought out such ridiculous desires from him, pulled reactions from the deepest, most embarrassing corners of Rick’s sex-addled brain. But Rick’s metaphorical transformations didn’t stop Rin. Rin didn’t recoil, didn’t insult, didn’t laugh, he instead slapped a hand across Rick’s ass and hissed as Rick screamed in delight. Taking hold of Rick’s hip, he steadied his heaving, glistening cock, and then firmly pushed into him.

Rick howled in pleasure, his head snapping back from the sensation of being so utterly filled. His hands went from clasping at the blankets, to bundling them under his chest to help prop himself as fevered thrusts shook his entire frame. Rin’s powerful hands clamped on Rick’s hips, he heaved and panted as he pounded, the slapping of their bodies unable to be drowned out by Rick’s passionate cries. 

“That’s it,” Rin snarled. “That’s what I wanna hear…!”

“Oh, Christ!” Rick wailed, lost as his eyes rolled back.  He repeatedly gasped Rin’s name, like a punctuation to each retreat and return of his ravenous body. Then Rick’s eyes blearily drifted to the bedroom’s window, and the reflection of the two of them in their tangle of muscle, skin, and sweat. The way that the blankets bundled beneath Rick made his masculine silhouette blur, and Rin mounted him like he was satisfying a desperate female in heat. 

His eyes widening, Rick clutched the blankets harder. “R-Rin! Rin! Touch me, I wanna cum like this…!”

“Fuck yeah,” Rin seethed, gasping as he slid a hand reach Rick’s member. He gripped him, stroking to match the motion of Rin’s cock in and out. “You want me to make you cum.”

   “Yes!” Rick pleaded hotly, rocking his hips with each impact of their bodies, and crying out in ecstasy. The pressure and heat blended and intensified with Rin’s touch, and Rick’s face contorted as he watched that feminine double in the window being both furiously railed and yanked. “Oh, that’s it…that’s it…!”

Gritting his teeth, Rin violently shook droplets of sweat from his hair. “You want it, Mav, fucking cum. Fucking cum.”

“I want it…!” Then abruptly, a fire overtook Rick’s entire body, and the genderless thing in the window parted their lips in a violent scream of pure rapture. While still trapped in the throes of orgasm, Rick felt Rin’s hand flee from his cock to replant itself back on his other hip. His strength and senses leaving him, Rick was unable to protest the sudden and exponential rise in the ferocity of Rin’s pounding. Little more than a panting, powerless toy, Rick bit his lip and struggled against his body’s pleas for Rin to be done with it and release him. He half-hoped that being Rin’s plaything would last hours…

Abruptly, Rin’s entire frame seized, and he moaned out deeply, curling against Rick’s back as he tensed. Heaving out groans into Rick’s ear, he slowly let his grip relax, and sank against him fully, pulling out of Rick’s body as he did.

The two panted in a post-orgasm fog, and gradually Rin dragged himself to flop beside Rick. They did nothing more than catch their breaths for a bit, Rick staring up at the ceiling dumbly. Rin grunted out something in Japanese, petting the top of Rick’s head momentarily before groggily sitting up. He stretched out his neck and back, and left Rick to stagger into the bathroom and close the door behind him.

 Stunned, Rick’s senses began to settle by degrees, brought to reality by the sensation of lying alone in a puddle of sex. He replayed the visions that invaded his mind during their passion, and he swallowed uncomfortably. He hadn’t acted like that in a long time, well into dating Angelica. Rick didn’t like it when he lost control of himself, rolling around and moaning like a revolting caricature of a porn star. A femme porn star, at that. What the hell was wrong with him, that he felt the need to giggle and squeal like a freak? He hadn’t done that in years, it was cartoonish, and Rin should have mocked him for it.

Like others did…

The flush of the toilet preceded the flinging open of the door, and without a word, Rin lumbered back into the suite’s entertaining area.

Rick watched him disappear, the shapes of his ominous tattoos lingering in Rick’s vision like an after-image. All of this was a mistake. Rick knew that the second he saw Rin walk out in a towel, but he couldn’t imagine what else he could have done. Refused a client? A member of the yakuza? Gotten indignant like an insulted straight man? Run out like a terrified victim?

Rick chose the only real option, and at least got some bombastic sex out of it. Angelica would never find out. Who knew? She’d probably agree with Rick’s choice. He brought himself to his knees, and idly pulled the blanket over his chest. He didn’t dare look at his reflection, but his eyes lingered over the shape of him covering himself, vulnerable in a tangle of post-coital thoughts and anxieties.  

His attention suddenly snapped to Rin, who stood in the bedroom’s door, leaning an arm on the frame. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Rick replied, blushing as he brushed his hair away from his forehead.

Rin grinned smugly. “All-inclusive retreat, right?”

Uncomfortably, Rick forced himself to chuckle. “I hope the service was acceptable.”

Meaningfully, Rin titled his head and thinned his eyes. “Best service the whole weekend. When do you wrap up and head back to Kingston?” 

Unconsciously, Rick’s hand gripped the blanket tighter, suddenly anxious under Rin’s steely gaze. “Everyone not paying for extra days with the resort checks out by one p.m. That’s when it’s officially over. My flight is at four.”

Rin tossed something, causing Rick to flinch as it landed on the blanket beside him. 

“No, it’s not,” Rin said casually. “You don’t leave tomorrow, you leave Wednesday. Call your wife. Tell her.”

Dumbly, Rick’s eyes landed on his phone, now laying beside him, then back up at Rin. “I…what?” he murmured lamely.

Strolling beside the bed, Rin pointed at the phone he’d taken from Rick’s discarded clothes. “The phone. Use it. Call her and tell her you’re not coming back until Wednesday. Late Wednesday.”

Wincing, Rick picked up his phone, and turned to crawl off the bed. “You know, I’m sorry, I can’t. This was great, but—”

A stony hand landed on Rick’s shoulder, then shoved him back on the bed. His breath pushed out of him, Rick blinked up at Rin. “R-Rin?” he mumbled, in shock. “I’m not saying it can’t happen again, I want it to!” he blurted, acutely small under Rin’s unreadable stare. “Hell, we’ll be meeting in Kyoto, right? We’ll make it a date. Ride your—cock in a kimono?” he stammered. His eyes widened as Rin firmly took hold of the wrist holding the phone.

“Be a good girl and call your wife,” Rin said, his voice cool. “Tell her you’ll be back on Wednesday.”

A cold sweat breaking out over him, Rick wirelessly connected his phone to his network implants, and mechanically made a call. After several rings, Angelica’s voice greeted him, directly in his head. 

“Hey, Ricki,” Angelica said brightly. “I didn’t expect to hear from you until tomorrow. How are you?”

“Great,” Rick said with perfect control. His gaze settled firmly on Rin’s dick as he knelt on the edge of the bed and stroked it silently. “You know I miss you.”

“Always,” she replied with a light laugh. “But you wouldn’t need to call me unless something came up.”

Rick swallowed once, the effort of keeping his breath even herculean. “Yeah,” he said with a performative tinge of disappointment. “Something came up. Nothing about the retreat itself, just some networking I can’t miss out on.”

“Of course you can’t!” Angelica immediately agreed. “I love to hear it. When will you be back? Is this gonna be a big hunt, or what?”

Forcing a chuckle, Rick swallowed as Rin draped next to him, his rock-hard cock level with Rick’s face and open mouth. “Don’t get too excited, hon, I don’t know what you’re expecting. Should be l-late Wednesday—at the latest.”

“Thanks for letting me know, hon,” Angelica said gently. “Go get ‘em.”

“Sure thing,” Rick whispered. “I—I love you, babe.”

“I love you too. Hear from you soon. Call me tomorrow night, if you can.”

“I hope I can,” he replied. “G’night.”

Angelica allowed a kiss sound to serve as her goodbye, and Rick went completely numb as the call disconnected. 

Rin’s hand petted the side of Rick’s face, moving between affectionate caresses across his cheeks to moving aside strands of his brunette hair. Rin then gently turned his head to bring Rick’s lips to his awaiting erection. Without argument, Rick’s mouth accepted him, and his eyes closed as started moving his head. 

“That’s it…” Rin cooed softly. “Fuck, you’re amazing. And now I can’t stop thinkin’ about you bucking in my lap in a kimono. That is getting me so hot, we are gonna make that happen. A woman’s kimono,” he said in between soft sighs and short moans. “Blue…naw, pink, with sakura print. You’re gonna look so sexy with the shoulders slipping off, Mav. I know people that tailor ‘em custom for men…Wifey won’t even know what she’s missing.”

 No, she wouldn’t. Never. Rick could never let her know just how easily he was reduced to…whatever the hell he was right then. All he knew was Rin treating him like some kind of concubine made it too easy to go along with whatever he demanded. So long as Rin kept calling him Mav, maybe he’d never break free. 

…Maybe he’d never want to. Rick wasn’t sure. Or Mav? Mav…________________________________________________________________

Rowan trembled as they closed the door to the apartment, a rising tide of anxiety swelling in their gut—the stress aches in their shoulders reminding them that forty was much closer than they liked to accept. 

Thirty-seven, a year divorced, and a wealth of all zero options for a single person to also appreciate Rowan’s extensive body work. It was easy to say the changes were only for Rowan when they started transitioning, a lot harder to feel like they’d ever be loved again when in an empty apartment.

In a daze, their feet dug alleys into the plush carpet as they dragged themselves past the still-unpacked boxes that formed a backdrop behind the office furniture serving as their kitchen table—one of the few pieces Rowan pried away from their ex-wife’s clutches. The chairs didn’t remotely match the table, just four bought from a budget homeware store that were vaguely in the same color.

Rowan sank into a chair, sighing as they fit poorly into the rigid, reconstructed wood. They tossed the newest set of papers served to them into the pile. This made the fifth credit card out of seven suing them since they lost their job as a high-level marketing manager at Wixel Media. 

Rowan wasn’t entirely sure their lawyer knew why exactly so many cards defaulted simultaneously, or that the new job in vacation sales didn’t remotely come close to paying their bills. Not the creditors, and definitely not a lawyer. With how abysmal Rowan’s performance numbers were, they doubted this latest job was going to last long. 

They were trying. They were trying so hard. They just needed a chance to bounce back. Rowan hadn’t been below upper management since their early twenties. They could still do that kind of work! Someone just…someone had to give them the chance…

Breaking down, Rowan folded their arms and wept. At least accepting not being a man meant they didn’t feel the need to swallow down tears anymore. If only Rowan could just make it one goddamn day without crying, that’d be a step up.

A notification momentarily interrupted Rowan’s newest downward spiral. Wiping their face with their hands, they sniffled noisily and picked up their phone. Someone with a protected number sent Rowan a text: I can make it go away.

Blinking away moisture, Rowan stared at it curiously. This was a new phone under their new legal name…what kind of spam was that?

A new one: Just let me make it go away. 

Mav.

Audibly, Rowan gasped, the phone slipping from their fingers. In a mad dash, Rowan grabbed their shoes and coat, shoving the phone in their pocket as they ran for the door. They had to get to their carrier and end the account. No question. No blocking this protected number, just drop the carrier and get a new number with a new company. One of Rowan’s credit cards was still good. They even had just enough to swap to an entirely new phone. Who cared how many accounts and contacts were attached to this number? 

Done. Gone. Bye.

Rowan was never going to be Mav again. They were Rowan. Rowan.

Rowan…

[toastling]

Sometimes I fantasize about being a TV car critic and making a career off of shitting all over Ferrari for being pretentious and having terrible business practices

No matter how rich and successful I get you couldn't catch me dead in a Ferrari. Now Lamborghini? That's another story. My cause of death would likely *be* the Lamborghini, but those guys. They know how to have fun

And considering they're currently earned by Germans that's actually all-the-more impressive

[rhysand-vs-fenrys]

Do the same thing for Heaven Official's Blessing (use Maas characters to tell the story)!

Heaven Official’s Blessing // TGCF told using ACOTAR characters (Obviously there will be spoilers, read at your own risk)

TGCF is told in a non-linear form, with Books 1, 3, and 5 taking place in the present, and Books 2 and 4 acting as flashbacks. I will be telling the story in a pure linear format.

** I’m going to have to ask people to ignore shipping stuff for the sake of this. I matched characters based on their personalities, so things became kind of scrambled.

THIS WAS VERY VERY HARD TO WRITE OKAY

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful Crown Princess named Elain. She was completely beloved by her people not only for her looks, but for her kindness, warmth, and incredible talents. Whatever she put her mind to, Princess Elain would easily accomplish, and those who read fortunes often said she was born on an auspicious day and was blessed with unparalleled good fortune. 

Princess Elain’s father was fairly elitest and tended to ignore the common folk, but Princess Elain made it her mission in life to protect them and ease everyone’s burdens.

When Princess Elain was 17, the royal capitol held a parade to the king of the heavens, Helion. In this parade, an elite warrior dressed as the Divine Hero would actually spar with another elite warrior dressed as a Demonic Beast. The parade would circle the capitol as the two warriors fought, only ending when their stamina ran out and they were too tired to carry on. The more laps the procession completed before this happened, the more good fortune it would invite and the more honor to the god Helion. Generally the goal was around 15-20 laps.

On the third lap, as people clamored to see clearly the Hero and Beast battle, there was a horrible accident. A deformed child in the crowd, barely 8 years old at MOST, was knocked from his perch on a high wall and fell to his death.

As he fell, the Divine Hero abandoned their battle and leapt high into the air to  catch the poor child. Picture like wire work when I say “leapt high”, it counts more as minor flight.

In the rescue, the Divine Hero’s mask comes off and it is revealed to be none other than Princess Elain herself! The Divine Beast was Elain’s bodyguard, Cassian.

While the common people go FERAL for this beautiful Princess who saved a wretched orphan’s life, the royal priests are angered. They warn Elain that her actions are an insult to Helion, and she must repent to avoid his wrath.

Elain famously and simply replies that if a god would begrudge her saving a child’s life, then they are not worthy of becoming a god.

And in spite of the priest’s words, the heavens agree with Princess Elain.

The child Elain saved has half his head heavily wrapped in bandages, but Elain is not afraid of him. She cradles him in her arms and he is mesmerized by her face. Still, after someone tries to move the bandage to see his face, the child runs away and vanishes.

This child was Azriel.

Tamlin is Elain’s cousin. His mother was a royal lady who had a baby with an abusive brute, and she ended up dying in disgrace after being abandoned by him. Tamlin was therefore raised by Elain’s mother, and he is disturbingly obsessed with the glory of his Princess Cousin. He is also dangerously unhinged and violent.

Just a few days after the ruined parade, Tamlin is racing through the city streets in his carriage, whipping his horses raw and yelling that if he runs over anyone it is their own fault. He has no cares for anyones lives, and Princess Elain considers him a thorn in her side.

Princess Elain is out with her bodyguard, Cassian, and her personal servant, Lucien. They see Tamlin coming and no only is he driving dangerously, there is a bloody sack tied to the back of the chariot.

Elain and Cassian leap onto the carriage to stop Tamlin, while Lucien breaks the rope on the sack. Elain and Cassian take Tamlin into custody, knocking him out, and Elain is ready for Tamlin to be thrown into prison for his behavior.

She opens the bloody sack, and inside finds Azriel. Tamlin was so incensed that the royal priests were angry with Princess Elain that he decided to kill Azriel to “avenge” his cousin!

Elain brings Azriel to the royal palace to be healed by the physicians within. He has broken bones and cuts all over his body, but again he strikes out if someone tries to move the bandages on his face. For his part- Tamlin is locked in his rooms and his carriage is destroyed, he is banned from leaving the palace.

But once again, Azriel slips out and runs away.

A few months later, black clouds swirl over the Royal Palace, and in a massive thunderclap, Elain ascends to the heavens as a newborn Warrior Goddess. Though by the laws of the heavens she cannot enter her kingdom for one thousand generations (to make sure she doesn’t give favors to the families of old friends), her father and his people build 10,000 temples in her name, several with massive statues of pure gold.

Goddess Elain brings Lucien and Cassian to the heavens with her, to help her in her duties as a god. She must intercede when appropriate (if there are demons or ghosts attacking people) and answer prayers. Despite the ban, she likes to sit on the altars of her temples, invisible, and listen to the prayers of her followers.

Elain doesn’t like the wealth and splendor of her temples, she wishes people would not bow, and just wants things to be simpler. 

After a few years as a goddess, while wandering her city, she notices a crummy old shrine tucked into a forgotten alley. It is roughly made, with only a flower and a bun on the offerings table.

She watches this little but clearly loved shrine for a long time, and notices that it is tended by an 11 year old boy. He is homeless, cold, malnourished, and had bandages wrapped around half his face. Rather than eat what food he manages to get, he puts it on the offerings table to Elain, only taking a few rotten fruits or moldy buns for himself.

Elain hates to see this- the boy is so desperately starving and yet he leaves food for a goddess who has no need for it. Bullies come and destroy the boy’s shrine. He is beaten by them, but when it is over he only fixes her shrine back up, and curls in a ball beneath it to sleep.

Elain feels that this boy is more sincere in his devotion than those who leave gaudy offerings at her temples, so she leaves the boy some food, a blanket, a straw mat, and some food. When he wakes he knows it was the goddess who heard his prayers, and he is delighted.

She does not realize that this boy is Azriel.

Elain’s country becomes embroiled in a civil war. Elain breaks the rules of the heavens outright and tries to end it before it begins by helping refugees of a horrible drought. She is kind to one refugee, taking on mortal form and helping him bury his son’s body, which he brought to the capitol to show the king of how severe the people’s suffering is. Her father didn’t care, and would not see the poor man.

Elain’s attempts to stop the refugee situation from becoming a civil war as the capitol refuses to send aid go nowhere, and in the end the war begins. She feels she has no choice but to openly step out as a Goddess of War and take the side of the capitol, where her parents still rule. Her heart aches at fighting the common folk, and she is still trying to end the drought in their homeland, but war is inevitable.

During the war, Elain meets a young soldier of only around 15. He is brave and good with a sword- though she advises a saber would suit him better. Though he is too young to really fight, she keeps him by her side. Together they witness the desperation of the refugees, whose leader- the man who she helped bury his son- summons a horrible demon.

Amarantha- a monster who always wears a mask that is half crying, half laughing.

Amarantha calls forth a plague that rips through the capitol. Elain realizes that the only ones who aren’t becoming infected with this plague are the soldiers and criminals- anyone who has taken a life. She realizes if others figure it out, the whole world will be consumed in blood as everyone tries to kill one another for immunity.

Elain’s favorite soldier is removed from the army by Lucien’s command, outing the boy as too young. Azriel is once again thrown aside- not that Elain realized it was him.

Meanwhile Elain, heartbroken at the suffering of her people, makes the ultimate decision: she saves her parents, but leaves the capitol to die and fall. If the refugees- now rebel army- kill everyone inside the capitol then the disease won’t spread (since soldiers would do the killing), and no one would ever know what the cure was. One city to save the world.

Helion knows the Goddess Elain’s heart was in the right place, but her intercession not only failed to stop the war, she made it worse. He is forced to put a Cursed Collar on her, stripping her of all her powers as a goddess. However, instead of her becoming mortal again, Helion gives her an immortal body.

Elain, after all, was only seventeen when she ascended and now could be counted in her twenties. Young by any standard. She is a good person, so Helion grants her the immortal body believing that some experience in the world will help her learn. With time and dedication, she can ascend once again to be a goddess, and he will remove the Cursed Collar.

Lucien and Cassian descend with her.

But her confidence has been shattered. To keep the royal family hidden, they are forced to perform tricks on the streets for meager coins, do manual labor (including on monuments insulting and demeaning the Goddess Elain), and are constantly on the run from members of the new government’s army who are hunting the King and Queen mercilessly.

Eventually, Lucien tells Elain and Cassian that it is simply too much, he’s sick the struggles, and leaves to take care of his own mother. Cassian and Lucien always hated one another and bickered nonstop, but this is the ultimate betrayal. If Cassian could kill Lucien with his bare hands, he would.

Elain becomes paranoid and terrified that Cassian will leave her too. She has no possessions of worth- they’ve all been pawned- but she has a single golden belt left. The mark of a heavenly official. A reminder of what she was and what she must work towards becoming again. She gives it to Cassian, for its value is very high, as a way to beg him to stay.

Soon after, Elain finds a shady merchant selling lanterns she realizes are lit not by fire, but by little flame spirits- remnants of souls that should have been allowed to rest in peace. These spirits were taken from the battlefields around the royal capitol, her soldiers. Elain manages to use a few meager coins to buy them, and goes about releasing the spirits.

One small flame spirit will not leave. It tells Elain that it cannot move on, because its beloved is suffering and it must watch over them always so they will not be alone. Idealistic and lovely, but Elain is too disheartened to feel anything by cynicism towards such words. 

She leaves the little spirit- Azriel, who had snuck back onto the battlefields after being removed from the army and was cut down.

And then the king falls ill.

Elain is desperate for coin to help make things easier for Cassian (who is earning most of the money now) and to buy medicine for her father. Everything she tries fails, and, utterly at her wits end, she is forced to try her hand at robbing.

Though Elain is too horrified to actually rob a man, she chases after him and runs afoul of several junior heavenly officials who recognize her. She begs them not to tell anyone, and flees. They swear they won’t say a word. 

Elain returns home, and she’s terrified of what she almost did for money. She decides to leave, going to find a mountain with good spiritual energy to meditate and hopefully make progress back towards gaining the merits to become a goddess again.

As soon as she arrives thirty-three heavenly officials come to train on the mountain, as such a thing can even help gods advance among their own ranks. They bully Elain, and eventually mock her for trying to rob the man (those junior gods were assholes and didn’t keep their word). 

What’s worse- Lucien is among them. He didn’t go back to care for his mother, he abandoned Elain to become a god once again, a junior in the service of another (not a path Elain can take since she was once a full goddess). He helps chase Elain away.

That little flame spirit- Azriel- is there to witness the humiliation.

Elain flees in tears, running down the mountain until she collapses, sobbing. When she is left staring at the ground, a hand appears to help her up- Lucien. Elain slaps his hand away and screams at him, and leaves.

When she arrives home, Lucien is there with sacks of food and medicine for the King. He tries to explain that he only left to return to the heavens- betraying one master to go to a new one- because he knew he could use the position to get food and such for Elain, Cassian, and the King and Queen. 

Elain screams at Lucien to go, throwing the sacks of food at him. Cassian takes Elain’s side, and Lucien lets slip that Elain tried to rob for money. He doesn’t know Cassian didn’t know, and Elain is thrown even further into despair.

More time passes, once again the money and food and medicine run out. Elain starts seeing figures around her where there is nothing- the figure of Amarantha all in white with that horrible mask. Her own robes are sometimes replaced with Amarantha’s, and she is slowly driven mad.

At the absolute edge of sanity, Elain feels a summons drawing her into the woods. She follows it, even when ghostly flames try to block her path and stop her from advancing, and ends up in a ruined temple. A ruined temple that was once hers. The divine statue has been destroyed.

Elain sits on the altar and waits, knowing Amarantha will show up to claim her.

Over hours, people trickle into the temple, and lured by a mysterious summons even they don’t consciously remember following. When there are 100 people inside, wild howls come from around them and crazed figures appear, all infected with the plague that destroyed Elain’s kingdom.

They fall back into the temple and Elain seals the door. She is grabbed by Amarantha, bound, and Amarantha holds her up on the altar by her skull. Amarantha tells the people what Elain was so scared of anyone finding out:: that the plague can be cured if the person is a murderer. Amarantha helpfully explains that Elain cannot die, but if they land a blow on her that would be fatal on another, it counts. To demonstrate, Elain is run through.

The pain is horrible, and when the next person picks up the sword and stabs her, she screams. A white flame spirit enters the building, the one who tried to stop Elain from coming in the first place. Amarantha captures it to play with (torment) as the villagers line up.

No matter how much Elain screams, they stab her. Some slash her throat, so that she can no longer make a sound. She is trapped in her body as it is mutilated and wrecked, staring up at that flame spirit and imagining she can hear it screaming at what is being done to her.

People stab her two or three times, just to be sure they landed a would-be-fatal hit and unable to tell what they are stabbing as she ceases to look even human anymore. Just a pile of ruined flesh spilled across her own altar. Even her face is destroyed.

That flame spirit- Azriel- screams out with every stab, until he can’t take it anymore and loses his sanity. He explodes in a wall of flame that turns all the humans inside the temple- and the infected outside- into ash. Above the skies roil, marking the birth of a particularly dangerous spirit.

Elain lays in agony as her body slowly knits back together. She is dazed as she stumbles away from the ruined temple. Traumatized beyond the brink of insanity. What was done to her horrifies her, and she feels only rage and grief. She was a Goddess, and now not only is she living in squalor and humiliation and degradation, she was attacked by humans for no reason other than personal gain. Not an ounce of kindness shown to her as they hacked at her body.

Elain sees Amarantha, who wants to take her as a disciple and raise her to wreak vengeance against the world. Elain flees.

When she gets home, two weeks (or months, the translation is inconsistent) have passed. Cassian has kept the king alive and the queen has been beside herself. She swears she will never chide Elain again, just please don’t leave.

None of them know what happened to her body. None of them can understand. Elain is sick and tired and broken. And she knows the worst will pass sooner or later- Cassian will abandon her just like Lucien did. Leave her in disgust. She can’t bear thinking about his friendship turning to hate, so she attacks him. She rips him apart with the worst words she can muster, until he leaves in disgust.

You can’t fear something that already happened.

Elain locks herself in her rooms and ignores even her mother’s pleading to come out.

When she wakes, she bathes. She has to go and try to find coin again, but cannot find the bandage she uses to cover half her face and hide her identity (since, you know, as a disgraced goddess her face is everywhere). The house is too quiet, and when Elain opens the doors to her parents room, she finds out why:

With the king’s health failing, and the humiliation of being deposed and on the run, living in squalor, he has lost all hope. Her mother won’t be left behind, and she knows her life is a burden on Elain’s as the fallen goddess tries to care for them.

So the king and queen have hung themselves. Elain carefully takes down their bodies and tries to hang too, but of course this immortal body- a gift from Helion himself- cannot die.

The hangman’s noose has absorbed two lives, and was used in incredible grief by a goddess herself. It is imbued with the love Elain’s parents felt for her and their tragic desire to die as a way to help them. The cloth comes to life, sort of like a snake meets a puppy, but when not in use, it wraps around Elain’s wrist as if her arm were injured.

At the king and queen’s deaths, whatever is left of Elain shatters.

She goes to the battlefields outside the dead royal capitol, her home, and wakes the souls of her people. Millions, all killed in battle or in the plague. She screams to them all, demanding to know if they hate. On her face is the white mask of Amarantha- half crying, half smiling.

And thus, the White Clothed Calamity is born. A twin to the White No-Faced demon (Amarantha).

The souls appear as black smoke that floods into Elain’s blade- the one that was used to mutilate her body. All that hatred condensing.

And in front of Elain appears the form of a soldier. Also wearing a mask. A particularly powerful resentful spirit on his way to becoming a demon.

Not that Elain would recognize Azriel even if she could see, so consumed is she by her hatred and wrath.

Elain takes those souls to the new royal capitol to kill the leader of the rebellion- that man whose child she helped bury. The man who rained hell down on all.

But he’s dead. Killed by the plague. She can’t even take her revenge right.

So Elain goes next to the lands ravaged by that drought, the whole reason for the civil war in the first place. The very city she tried to save as a goddess to stop the war from starting. She drops from the sky, impaled by the black sword. She has given herself three days.

Three days for a single soul to show her an ounce of kindness. If none do, she will unleash those souls and the plague will begin again as the hateful spirits infect body after body until the world runs red with blood.

No one helps her. Not until the third day, when a man trips over her body, cusses her out, and then feels bad for losing his temper. Right as the sun sets on the third day, he takes off his bamboo hat and offers it to her, to protect her from the rain.

A single act of kindness.

But it’s too late. The souls trapped in the sword explode into the sky.

Elain tries to tell the gathering crowd to pick up her sword and just stab her. She’s resigned to being hacked to death again and again if it will save even a single person from what she unleashed in her wrath and grief.

But no one is willing to hurt her. Not even to save themselves, and not even when she is begging them to. Unlike the group in the temple, who attacked her for themselves even when she begged them to stop.

So Elain does something painful and horrible- she raises the sword and draws all those hate-filled spirits into herself. It could very well destroy her, and the pain is worse even than being stabbed, but she will do it. If she can even save one person to undo her own mistake, she’ll do it.

But that second soldier appears again, the one who stood across from her on the battlefield.

He takes the souls into himself. Elain absorbs 300. He takes a million. It destroys him utterly- that kind brave man giving his soul, extinguishing himself forever- just to help her right a wrong.

But Azriel didn’t die. He was blown apart by the power, and re-formed bit by bit later on to become a Wrath-level (tier 3) ghost.

Helion descends from the heavens to meet Elain. Yes, she nearly did something unforgivable, but she was willing to destroy herself to right the wrong. For this- and all her suffering- Helion wishes to bring Elain up to the heavens once again as a goddess.

Her wrath extinguished, her spirit broken, Elain refuses his offer. That poor man’s soul was destroyed (seemingly) because of her. Someone suffered for what she did. She wants to atone, and atone for those one million souls she roused rather than helping them lay at rest in peace.

Elain asks Helion to put a new Cursed Shackle on her. This time not one that banishes her spiritual powers. Once upon a time she met a small boy she saved from falling. She was told she had infinite fortune, well above a normal person’s, but that child’s fate was endlessly dark and wretched.

Elain asks for a shackle that destroys her luck. That takes all of her good fortune and shatters it. Fortune is something that ebbs and flows through the world, by removing all of hers, that luck will be redistributed, and could bring good to the lives of others.

But an offer to return to heaven was granted, so Helion and Elain come up with a little show to explain away the new curse shackle without Helion appearing to punish a goddess who has done no wrong:

Elain ascends, as offered, and storms through heaven, hacking at the bodies of gods and challenging Helion himself. It becomes known famously as her Second Ascension, which lasts all of 10 minutes before she is fitted with a new cursed shackle and hurled form the heavens.

Elain’s life will be wretched, luck-less, and full of strife. Nothing she ever tries will go right. it is a life that would shatter the spirit of anyone. But for Elain, every misfortune means someone else has better luck than they should have. Every harm she suffers means someone else is blessed. She is atoning for what she did, and that makes her happy. She still mourns the soul of that boy who was destroyed, still lives in repentance of that, but she is atoning for her crimes.

During this time, that boy- now a Wrath Level Demon- finds he cannot loose. All the good fortune lost by Elain is funneled into him, and it is impossible for him to not get what he wants. He enters the Demonic Kiln and is re-forged as a Supreme (highest level) Demonic King. His weapons are the Silver Wrath Butterflies- a form he grants to those million souls he swallowed to help Elain.

He wears around his finger a red string, one of the ones that had bound him to that ghost lantern as a little flame spirit, a red string of fate that promises he will find his way back to Elain one day.

Azriel walks into the heavens and challenges thirty-five gods-- those who humiliated Elain on the mountaintop plus Cassian and Lucien, her hateful servants who abandoned her.

Cassian and Lucien refuse the challenge, but thirty-three gods take Azriel’s challenge--- 

He kills them all.

Not only does he humiliate them in front of their worshippers, he destroys 10,000 of their temples in a single night. One temple for every one of Elain’s that was destroyed when she fell as a goddess. Without worshippers or temples, the gods fade from existence.

Until, 800 years later, the heavens explode. Godly palaces are destroyed (including those of Cassian and Lucien, who are now full gods), the infrastructure shatters, and when the smoke clears there is Elain. A goddess once again. Except instead of being a goddess of war, she is a goddess of misfortune and junk.

To atone for accidentally ruining so many palaces (though she had no power over the size of the boom when she ascended, it corresponds with power), she goes to the mortal realm to solve a mysterious haunting.

The moment she arrives, she finds a silver butterfly following her and is enchanted by it. The butterfly vanishes, and as soon as she steps into the haunted forest a man in red appears, takes her hand, and gently leads her through a blood-rain, destroys barriers that would have kept her contained, and delivers her safely to the lair of the creature she is hunting.

From then on, Azriel is never far from her side. He has hunted for Elain for 800 years. The beautiful princess he fell in love with as a child, and met time and time again without her realizing it. After their second adventure together, Azriel gives Elain a diamond ring to wear around her neck.

If a ghost’s ashes are destroyed or scattered, they die. Elain doesn’t want this to happen to Azriel, who has made himself an enemy of heaven. Azriel only tells her that his ashes are safe, and if their hiding place is ever destroyed or if they are cast away, he has no will to exist any more anyways.

His ashes are contained within that diamond ring, imbued in the stone itself. 

Elain doesn’t know why the gods hate Azriel so much, he is warm and kind to her (though admittedly cold to others). Azriel accompanies Elain obediently on many adventures, though every mystery they solve they run afoul of one heavenly official after another.

Elain starts to realize there is a rot in the heavens. So many gods with so many horrible secrets. 

Elain and Azriel invade the home of a particularly evil ghost- the Green Demon. Tamlin. After Elain’s fall from grace he went mad, his obsessive feelings towards her turning from admiration to hatred. It was Tamlin who commissioned all those statues of Elain in humiliating and degrading positions. Tamlin is a cannibalistic evil ghost, though lower than Azriel in power.

He quickly takes possession of the body of a man with a small child and refuses to leave, so Azriel cannot even kill him without Elain being angry. 

Realizing something is rotten in the heavens, Elain makes her base a rundown cabin barely standing. She lives there with Tamlin as her prisoner and Azriel as her constant companion. That child becomes a noose around Tamlin’s throat- endlessly obedient and loving towards his “father” (whose body Tamlin cannot leave or else Az will kill him). Bit by bit, Tamlin’s cruelty starts to fade (though he’s never really nice per-se, it’s just that he likes the kid).

On her journey she is joined by Nuala and Cerridwen- two low level gods in the service of Lucien and Cassian, who hate one another as much as their masters do. Their masters also hate Elain with a burning passion, so Nuala and Cerridwen help her in secret.

Out of courtesy, Elain pretends that she doesn’t know Nuala and Cerridwen are only Cassian and Lucien in another form, trying to atone themselves for abandoning her so long ago.

As Elain, Azriel, Cassian, and Lucien go on adventure after adventure the crimes of the heavens are unearthed one after another- from a god who killed humans to hide his own crimes to another who worked black magics to steal the good fortune of a man about to ascend to a god and attached it to his unwitting brother, leaving the man’s family to be raped and murdered while his brother enjoyed the divinity that should never have been his, to another god who tortured a mortal to death just for fun.

They start to realize too that Amarantha- who vanished from the world when Elain refused to release her curse- has been close by all along. 

For the Demonic Kiln that forges Ghost Kings- that imbued Azriel with so much power- was born of a horrific tragedy 2,000 years ago in which Amarantha’s entire kingdom fell around her.

A tragedy which Amarantha turned into an opportunity- she raided the heavens, slaughtered all of her fellow gods and changed her form.

And as new gods rose, she placed herself upon the throne with this new face--

as Helion.

Elain, Azriel, Cassian, Lucien, and all of their new friends must work together to destroy Helion, find the true King of Heaven, and restore balance to the world before Amarantha plunges it all into chaos and destroys everything Elain loves.

The only one powerful enough to stop Amarantha is Elain, but with her luck sealed away and her powers still stifled by the Cursed Collar, it is up to the Demonic Realm to save the Heavens above before the mortal world is destroyed.

Azriel already died for Elain once. To see her smile freely once again, he’d die a million deaths more. No matter the hardships, this boy who has followed his princess for 800 years will follow her to the ends of the earth and beyond.

And their growing love might just be enough to tip the tides of war in their favor. King Azriel will always find a way to his Elain. Not even a two thousand year old Demonic-King of Heaven can stand in their way.

[piecedbytheear]

Gooseman crusty, musty cracked lipped whore came for Princess Cayetana ?

He told Caye to go pick up a mop???

You see this is why I never trusted him 😴 You think because he fell for some poor Muslim girl that was all it took for him to “change”... Still a republican but y’all believe otherwise because Nadia let him try some virginal Muslim pussy like Lu bet he would 😴

Polo needs to resurrect and trophy that ashy cracked lipped elitest Gooseman Nunier 😁

Cayetana did not save s2 of Elite for her to continue to be disrespected smh 😤 !

[harryandmolly]

Complicit // Introduction

summary: Shawn is under more pressure than he’s ever known. He craves release and comfort, the simplicity of sex. He gets more than he bargained for.

warnings: language, allusion to sexual content, perhaps the Most Extra OC I’ve written to date

WC: 2.2k

----------

Penny closes one eye and scrunches up her face, digging through her S/S 2018 monogrammed Louis Vuitton tote for her work phone. It buzzes hard, rattling against her Oliver Peoples sunglasses, until she can fling some chestnut hair from her face and answer it.

“Caught me just before we’re leaving for the airport,” she says breezily, squinting out the bay window of the whitewashed St. Lucia suite looking over the lapis ocean, “What’s up?”

“I have such a treat for you,” chuckles Silver.

A familiar thrill shoots down Penny’s spine. She swallows and casts a glance around the room for her vacation companion. He’s nowhere to be seen.

“Who is it?”

Silver, being Silver, pauses for dramatic effect.

“It’s Shawn Mendes.”

A pause. Penny’s well kept brow furrows.

“Who?”

+

Niall first realized something was really wrong when Shawn didn’t want to go to 40 Love. In fact, he didn’t want to go anywhere. Niall had to go to him, to his house in Beachwood Canyon, just to see his old friend.

He eyes him warily, watching Shawn stare out the window overlooking the Hills. He’s got a guitar pick in the pocket of his sweats. His fingers fumble with it while he thinks.

“So… things are bad,” Niall guesses.

Shawn takes too long to shrug and angle his head back at Niall. “Not… bad. Just weird.”

Niall leans forward, propping his elbows up on his knees and holding his beer bottle aloft, examining the shedding label.

“I get it. It’s a weird situation. Honestly, I… I was pretty surprised.”

Shawn bobs his head and feels his jaw tighten against his will. “I think a lot of people are.”

Niall is quiet for almost a full minute. He shakes a hand through his coarse brown hair. “I get it, though. I mean, you know I do, mate. Going from teenager to adult in this business is somethin’ most people don’t even get to do. But doin’ it… it’s hard. So I get it, why this thing makes sense for ya.”

Shawn is silent, fidgeting in front of the window.

Niall lifts a shoulder, looking to lighten the mood. “Least she’s not a nightmare.”

It gets a short, rough chuckle from Shawn, which Niall considers progress. Shawn finally turns looking worse for wear as he shuffles to sit in the armchair across from the couch, shoulders hunched, legs spread.

“I don’t think I would’ve agreed to a publicity stunt relationship with someone I hate,” He pauses and chews on the inside of his lip, “I dunno, maybe I would’ve at this point.”

Niall lowers his gaze. He recognizes the old, faded remnants of Catholic guilt in his gut and does what he can to tamp them down. His progression from teen heartthrob of One Direction fame to singer-songwriter hasn’t been easy in comparison to Shawn’s. Hell, he’ll always be one of the 1D boys -- there’s really no changing that. He’s made his peace with it.

His young friend, 21 now and in the industry since he was 15, has to do the same. Niall’s been paying attention. Shawn Mendes has been stratospheric for a while. His third album was a massive success. He sold out arenas on a world tour that even One Direction’s *cough* ambitious management wouldn’t sniff at. But the Armani smart watch ads and even the Calvin Klein campaign haven’t saved him from being a “prince of pop.”

It’s not the worst thing you can be called, Shawn and Niall both know. But it’s diminutive, it’s a little condescending, it’s sweet. Shawn has always been sweet. He is the ultimate nice Canadian boy, the antidote to Bieber’s downfall.

But he’s growing the fuck up and the rest of it -- the music, the tours, the image -- it has to grow, too.

It was Shawn and Bex’s shared publicist who first mentioned the idea. Bex, single name, like Madonna, is an old friend. She’s a Nickelodeon star-turned-pop singer who came up around the same time Shawn was sitting in a computer chair posting to Vine and YouTube. He likes Bex, she’s cool. They’ve written together and yeah, they’ve fucked a couple times when they were drunk and needed distractions from their own lives for various reasons. But he doesn’t get that feeling about Bex. He knows the feeling is out there. But that’s not what this thing with her is for.

“It’s a proven effective way to age you up in the public’s eyes,” Emily advised him, doing that thing where she dips her chin a little toward her chest and widens her eyes, the ‘you really should listen to me’ face, “And aging you up is the only way to get you where you really want to go. The teenage girls can get you places. Fuck, they can even make you a legend. But they can’t get you the world’s respect.”

Shawn thought it was insane at first. Lie about a relationship? Isn’t that kind of seedy? Won’t people see right through it?

He shifts uncomfortably in the chair. He still wonders these things sometimes. But the righteous indignation he felt last year when it came up is an ancient memory. He picks moodily at his own beer bottle sitting on the arm of the chair.

“You see someone, right? Like a therapist?” Niall verifies. Shawn nods absently.

Niall goes silent again for longer than usual. Shawn looks up to see his friend pensive.

“What?”

Niall shrugs and lifts his eyes to Shawn’s carefully. “Not the only thing you could be doing to manage this. The stress, ya know? And anxiety.”

Shawn bristles the way he does whenever someone suggests he’s not doing enough of something. Before he can open his mouth, Niall steps on his own words.

“I mean, ya know, there’s someone else ya can be seein’.”

Shawn’s face is blank. Niall’s going to have to explain the idea as painfully and awkwardly as it was explained to him by a friend a couple years ago.

“I’ve been seein’ a girl on and off for three years. Not always the same one, I mean. For stress relief.”

Shawn, as sweet and doe-eyed as he doesn’t want to be, isn’t picking up what Niall’s putting down.

“What, like a chiropractor?” Shawn guesses, his brow creasing.

Niall slugs back the last slurp of his beer. “No, like a domme.”

+

Penny waits until she’s back in her three bedroom Studio City home, quiet and removed in the hills just like she likes, to call Silver back.

Gus, her favorite agency driver, picked her up from the Santa Monica airport after she kissed one of her favorite clients, Victor Calhoun, goodbye and hauled in all her luggage from a week in St. Lucia. For barely needing to be dressed at all for a week, she brought a ton of shit with her. She makes a mental note to rethink that for next time, but she also thinks Victor likes that she’s high maintenance. Or seemingly high maintenance, she thinks with a smile as she pads barefoot around her cottage in panties and an old t-shirt, bag of popcorn in hand.

She drops onto her couch while the phone rings on speaker in her lap. She stretches out her slender legs, admiring her robust tan.

“Hey, bitch.”

“Hi, sweetheart,” Penny laughs, dropping some popped kernels into her mouth, “Been holding down the fort ok?”

“Yes, believe it or not, I survived a week without you. How was St. Lucia? Was Victor a very good boy?”

Penny smirks. “Always. So good, in fact, I’ve been taking low doses of muscle relaxants for three days to keep myself from getting lockjaw.”

Silver snorts. “That man loves a blow job.”

Penny sifts through some burnt kernels, locating an extra buttery looking piece toward the bottom of the bag and eyeing it like treasure.

“So,” she begins, crunching indelicately into the phone, “Tell me about Shawn Mendes. Who referred him?”

“Niall Horan.”

“Oh, he’s been seeing Karina, right?”

“Yep, she keeps him very much in line. He’s quiet about La Splendeur -- he’s not the guy telling all his friends about how much he’s paying to get dommed by a call girl. He’s selective with his referrals.”

Penny lifts an eyebrow and shrugs. “Those are usually our favorite kind of clients, I guess.”

Silver snorts. “Less messy, certainly. Anyway, Karina adores him, so that bodes well.”

“Who, Shawn?”

“No, actually, as far as I can tell, he’s new. None of my contacts have a history of him seeing anyone.”

Now Penny is really intrigued. It’s not that often she gets a client that has never seen a call girl before. Being a courtesan, the elitest of the elite escorts, clients generally work their way up the food chain to her.

But he’s new. Fresh, untouched, curious. Silver’s right. This is a special treat.

“Well, I downloaded his music, so I’ll have a listen. I recognize a few of the tracks. Anything else I should know?”

“Well, babe, no client history means you start from scratch, research-wise. I’d say be prepared for anything. He seems like your usual sweet, pretty boy, which as you know, can mean anything goes.”

Penny bobs her head thoughtfully, already mentally scanning wardrobe options and toys.

“When?”

“Thursday at 8, Chateau. Give you some time to recover from your potential lockjaw.”

Penny’s laugh is loud and sizzling, one she rarely uses in front of clients, but she and Silver have known each other a long time.

“Good. Plus, I like a few days of anticipation for new guys. Gets ‘em all worked up before I even get in the door.”

“And that is why you’re worth every Penny.”

Penny rolls her eyes and hangs up on the millionth time Silver has made that same adorably stupid joke.

+

Penny’s always liked the Chateau Marmont. It was the site of her first appointment. She remembers being nauseous with nerves walking through the doors that night, sure she’d be arrested just for stepping foot inside. She felt like she had the word “NEFARIOUS” stamped across her pretty forehead.

But she held her head high and focused on the rhythm of her Jimmy Choos, purchased especially for the occasion, on the fine marble floor. As instructed, she didn’t even spare a glance for the front desk. She strode in, not too fast, not too slow, and headed straight for the elevators. The concierge would recognize her from a picture passed along by her madam, Silver, and let her by without a problem. That’s one of Silver’s treasured trade secrets -- most working girls choose lower key locations for dates. Hiding in plain sight, especially at tourist attractions, heavily reduces suspicion, hence why Silver struck up a deal with the Chateau’s concierge years ago. Her girls get a pass, he gets a cut.

The booking is made under the name of the driver who arrives early to check in and drop off Penny’s suitcase while she window shops nearby or grabs a glass of wine at the bar. When the client arrives and is OK’d by the driver for security reasons, Penny gets a text and makes her entrance. Before the driver excuses himself to the car, he checks in with Silver to make sure the client’s wire transfer is complete. Once those initial checkpoints are crossed, the night is Penny’s.

Tonight is no different, really, Penny tells herself as she steps out of the Bentley, offered a hand by the Chateau’s valet. She sneaks him a sultry smile just because getting men squirming for her before she even meets her client feels like a good way to hype up.

But it feels different, somehow. The Hollywood evening’s breeze is especially pleasant, the hotel is especially quiet, and the night especially charged as she heads inside hugged in tastefully cut black satin and wearing her favorite black Roger Viviers. She ignores the way the hair on the back of her smooth olive neck stands on end when the elevator dings upon arrival to the specified floor.

Gus, standing outside the door in a dark suit with his arms crossed, gives her a nod, indicating all is set and well. She rises on her toes to plant a kiss on his cheek. She knows by now she can’t make Gus squirm, so she doesn’t try. He stands aside and opens the door.

He’s sitting on the couch, facing the windows on the opposite wall. His posture is hunched and she can see his shoulders are broad. She tries not to lick her lips.

He turns slightly, looking over his shoulder. His profile catches the orange lamplight. It’s even more magnificent in person. Penny feels a jolt from her squished toes up her very straight spine. She smiles.

He stands, one hand limp by his side, the other clutching a sweating glass of bourbon. Penny can’t wait to taste it on his pretty lips.

Facing her, his jaw tightens, muscles flexing, and his eyes darken just a shade, or maybe she imagines it because she bets hers do the same.

“Penny?”

His voice is a croak. He notices -- he goes magenta moments later. The familiar animal that lives in her stirs, stretching, limbering up.

“Hi, Shawn.”

-------

Ooooh it’s that time again! Ya girl has a new solo series to sink her teeth into. If you’re happy and you know it, buy me a Ko-fi (link on main page)!

Taglist: @smallerinfinities @the-claire-bitch-project @achinglyshawn @infiniteshawn @mendesoft @singanddreamanyway @alone-in-madness @abigfatmess @shawnitsmutual @awkwardfangirl2014 @september-lace @grittyisaho @sinplisticshawn @rollingxstone @yslsaint @randi-eve @fallmoreinlove @heyits-claire @itrocksmysocks @parkerspicedlatte @simpledomain @abeautiful-and-cloudy-day @thecurlsofgod

[mitchmarner]

ALEX OVECHKIN GETS HIS 50TH AGAINST THE BOLTS. HE IS THE ELITEST OF ELITE.

[beyond-inertia]

I kind of want to reflect and this seems an ok setting for it. I dont know if I just feel pensive or if there’s some provisional thoughts worth giving shape to, but I figure a stream of consciousness might help me find out.

A lot of my ethics and outlook are about working towards being someone who can look back and know that he was better than the previous version of himself. I dont have really any meaningful long term goals, I just want to open doors, and like the person who steps through them. And generally I think I’m doing an ok job of that. Reflecting on myself from a couple years ago is hard because the dull edges of my memory mean I have to try to compare a present tense amorphous abstract to a past tense blurry amorphous abstract. A couple of years ago I had just finished a masters degree and had just started work. I had just adopted punctuality as a trait, I was pushing hard at learning to do my job well, I was about 4 to 6 months single and content with that state of affairs. I think usually a lot of my comparisons to myself aim further back, towards my uni self, I think I still celebrate the move to openness and honesty from the closed off damaged spider I was, clutching threads in a web made of lies of omission. That kid meant well, but when I dealt with my mental health stuff and overcame a masters and then started being a functional adult, that kid was kind of already gone. I’ve done housekeeping since then, I’ve unpacked all of the dangerous strands of that web, I’ve let friendships go and I’ve made new ones, but I’m much more akin to myself two years ago than the me that came two years prior to that. 

I think it’s becoming harder to understand what doors I want to open. I’ve spent a year waiting to start the next chapter, about 5 months actively applying to work further afield because emotionally I’m ready for this chapter to end. It’s weird trying to juggle the want to do new and exciting adventures, whilst waiting for one big adventure which will interupt any small ventures, in an unknown space of time. It’s weird that making active effort to change my environment fundamentally is an obstacle to changing my environment at a smaller level.

That in mind I guess I want to think about both, changes from the past two years which are less striking than the bigger changes aforementioned, and changes worth heading towards.

The first that comes to mind, is, I think I’m quieter now. That’s a real odd one because there’s not much of a moral worth to quiet. I dont think I’m less confident, in big or small social environments, and there are still settings where I’ll wade into the center and involve myself, the quiet doesnt reflect a movement towards any sort of introversion, nor a reversion to the long dead shyness of my teen self, it seems to be more... contemplative? I think I’m more inclined to listen and observe than I used to be. Maybe it’s Ana and Michel’s influence, where I feel comfortable just being present rather than having to be involved. Maybe it’s the movement towards wine nights and civilised bars painting a backdrop where a more refined outlook can develop. I’m honestly not sure. More pressingly, I’m yet to decide if I like it. I’m in pretty unchartered waters with the moral saint I’m trying to create and embody (philosophy term, I’m not being conceited) but I dont hate it.

I think I’m a different kind of tolerant now. I have a (earned) reputation for being somewhat elitest due to a lot of bullshitty throwaway jokes, which have in part lead to people not knowing precisely the line between character and humour... Yet I think this is perhaps the most accepting version of myself. My elitism is a preference for intelligent and well balanced friends, but there’s no vitriol for anyone who doesnt fit into that mold. Furthermore, I’m more sympathetic to people’s beliefs whether or not I believe in them, be they religious or political or somewhere in between. Different strokes for different folks, and I think I’ve gotten quite good at calmly suspending my criticial reflection re opinions that I fully dont, wouldnt, or cannot believe in. I am more able to seek to learn about people’s beliefs, without needing to challenge them. I’m actively avoiding examples which has made explaining this feel messy and long winded.

I’m better dressed now, ha. 

Rolemodels are so important and I kind of feel like I do poorly on that front, I dont really have traits which I emulate, perhaps I should seek some out. What do I want to improve at?

I think I’d like to be more focused. In work or in life I dont like feeling unapplied. But then, this will likely change quite naturally if I change job, which as I mention, I’m actively looking to do. I’d like to find a better hobby/social balance, but I’m not doing a terrible job at this, I just would like to improve further.  Sigh. All things seem to circle back to wanting to move. 

My want to move is motivated by what first and foremost, I wonder? A want to redefine myself, new playingfield and see which values make the cut. New challenges to overcome. New people to meet and new interests to pick up. New places to discover and explore. I just want to shake the box. Maybe it’s a quarter life crisis as was recently suggested but I’ve outgrown this small town. So how can I make meaningful plans which make this time worthwhile. I’m not sure. Until I work that out I guess I just keep trying to be kind, and active... best foot forward.  An unsatisfying end to a thought run but I find myself out of steam without having reached a conclusion. Maybe a list?

1)  Be kind 2)  Have small adventures, though keep costs down a little, you’re not made of money 3)  Do some things by yourself. Enjoy your own company. It’s the best company you have. Eg, recently saw Jojo Rabbit in the cinema on my own one evening which was uplifting and worth. 4)  Soon the sun will return.

[drawsshits-inactive]

continuing the ank!au

So Anders lives in Darktown, being one of the lowest caste. He’s one of the few that live there that actually got some education and has gotten medical training somewhere (usually, doctors are from Lowtown, and even there, they are pretty rare as the ones that get medical attention first will always be the hightowners). He’s pretty popular and well loved in Darktown because he’s the only one there that takes cares of the sick.

Because Anders knows how to read and actually has some education, there is also a rumor going around that he used to be some Hightown noble’s pet when he was younger and prettier and softer, which makes him a target for some of the more unsavory criminals- though they might be considered lowest of the low, they are very proud people and they look down on Darktown and Lowtowners that throw themselves at the Hightown Nobles.

So Anders sometimes gets creeps coming to his clinic but he can definitely handle himself and Karl, his love, is always there is put a stop to things.

While Anders usually tries to stay out of any overt criminal activities, Karl has so such qualms- usually sweet, mild mannered, and considerate, Karl actually is a leader of a local gang that targets any Lowtowners that might wonder into Darktown and also smuggling and anything else that might need get doing.

Anders is very well aware that people that live in Darktown has no way to make money legally and he worries for Karl and his friends. 

It’s a hard life but Anders gets by.

Then one day, a shiny black car (a incredible luxury that not even some of the High Towners have) pulls up to Darktown which has everyone on edge because it means someone very important has come and that usually means Bad News for everyone.

It causes a huge commotion and Anders goes out to see what’s up and it turns out that The Hawkes step out of the car, the elitest of the elites, the ones that run the city, the ones that stay up in the ivory tower at the highest point of Kirkwall, looking down on everyone else. Just seeing one in Hightown of all the places would be a rare occurance, but two of them, both with jet black hair and neatly pressed, clean suits, standing in the middle of muddy and dusty Darktown, puts everyone to a standstill. 

[genoshaisforlovers]

I have been labeled elitest for speaking out against racism, ableism and LGBT+phobia. And it's just... how...why? Minority groups are the least likely in western cultures to be rich or reach high levels of academics due to the same attitudes I speak against? Also I am a broke high-school drop out struggling to get gainful employment myself? How is wanting to tear down the barriers that keep the rich in power and the poor in the gutter elitist?

Hold on

I realize I don't actually know what that word means. I know what it means, but who are the elite we are referring to?

So the definition is "a select part of a group that is superior to the rest in terms of ability or qualities" and an elitist is someone who believes that they should be in charge of whatever the subject matter is.

That actually sounds really good. It's something a lot of us actually want.

Let's say there is this able-bodied neurologically typical cis white straight man but actively tries to work on his conditioning for bigotry and ally with marginalized groups. That would probably be a nice guy but if he was the type of guy who thinks that allies should have a say about what a different group need or deserve. The nice guy would be an elitist, he (in this scenario) would be the guy that understands that legislation on reproductive health needs to be decided by people abortion laws really affect, not cis men. They are the elite on the subject of their own civil rights, they have the ability to say what they need if people would listen and the way we can make sure other people are heard is by using whatever privilege we have to begin elitist and get those we can influence to shut up and listen.

An elitist sounds like a great thing in this context. I thought I was an elitist before but I definitely am now.