#elite contact lenses

[bellalense]

Should You Replace Your Contact Lenses Regularly?

Millions of individuals all around the globe use contact lenses for vision correction or just to modify the normal look because they are comfortable and convenient. However, a correct prescription alone won't guarantee the duration of your eye health. One important tip that many contact lens users forget is to replace your elite contact lenses on a regular basis. The significance of routinely changing your contact lenses is discussed below.

[ellesthots]

Fateful Beginnings

IV. “unmasked”

parts: previous / next

plot: set on a new (and flashy) candidate for your paper, you end up getting more than you bargained for.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, blackmail, sexual harassment (sleazy Oz), uneasy tension

words: 2.9k

It was as if you'd told her pigs could fly.

"Did you get prior authorization from Wayne Enterprises?"

Ah, shit. You knew she would balk at the idea if she knew you hadn't made contact with him yet, so you lied. "He agreed to it just this afternoon." Feeling a tad guilty but trying to shake it off, you ended the call shortly after when she told you she'd meet you outside the venue with the needed supplies for entry. Thankfully she was more knowledgeable about the goings of the city than you were, as she knew the start time: six. You had about an hour to shower, change, and do whatever hair and makeup you could manage.

And do that you did. The shower felt manic, scrubbing so hard and quick that the nearly-healed scabs on the palms of your hands reopened, burning and raw. You did your best to ignore the pains as you blow-dried your strands and brushed your teeth. You groaned when you realized the only 'formal' outfit you had was the dress you'd worn the night of the shooting. It had some snags which the sequins lightly concealed, and you had to take a spare toothbrush to your matching heels to rid of the caked mud. Your hair was cooperating, much to your amazement, and you decided to put it back in a slick, middle-part pony for your dark locks. Rummaging through your desk you found a pair of cubic zirconia stud earrings, hastily fixing them to your ears with one hand while your other smeared some foundation on.

5:45 rolled around and you had narrowly made it to your cab after hyperfixating on your makeup in the mirror. You left with only your phone and keys, pre-paying for a cab to and from so you didn't have to worry about losing your new wallet... again. You grew increasingly anxious the closer you got to the event, knowing full-well you would likely have to turn in a paper three days from now that was not an interview with the elusive billionaire. Consequences would have to be dealt with later, however, and you knew you could probably make up another lie to cover your first one, that he had simply stood you up. In fact, you had so little hope for him accepting the interview you hadn't bothered to think up a single question.

City hall was dramatically busier than anticipated. Swaths of both citizens and paparazzi huddled around the entrance, forcing your courage to shrink. Maybe it was a terrible, terrible idea. Maybe you'd make a fool of yourself. But that didn't matter—you'd be out of Gotham before the month was out. You thanked the driver, keeping your head on a swivel for the professor.

"Ms. Y/L/N!" Dr. Vry greeted you with unexpected warmth, embracing you in a hug before handing you a voice recorder and press badge. The glimmer in her eyes was intimidating, knowing that you had effectively lied for it to occur. "I await your paper with bated breath. So excited to read his first interview."

Gulping back guilt you had thanked her and wobbled your way up the stairs in your heels. The concrete slapped the soles which didn't help your baseline unsteadiness. The reality of the choice was setting in as you surveyed the entryway, full of Gotham's elite. You didn't get much of a good look before you tripped on the final stair, throwing your arms out to catch your fall.

Bruce got out of his car and handed his key to the valet, hiding a wince from the many photographers frantically screaming his name. His night-oriented eyes narrowed to protect from the harsh flashes of light reflecting not only off their lenses but the many puddles littering the caves in Gotham pavement. He focused on a dark strip of tar as he navigated toward the front steps, tucking his hands in either side of his rough wool overcoat.

Hordes of Gotham's elite climbed the stairs ahead of him, and he intentionally avoided eye contact with anyone who seemed like a Bruce Wayne superfan. He wasn't in the mood to be in public today, but it was a local government mixer; in other words, an excuse for the socialites to get drunk on wine the general public couldn't afford one bottle of while still keeping up appearances. As a Wayne, his attendance was nearly mandatory. In the past he had ignored Alfred's pushes to mingle and faced backlash. After a few scathing think-pieces in the Gotham Gazette, a mediating member reached out due to waning finances. More money than he knew what to do with, he'd signed on for a generous recurring donation which had apparently caused a mass amnesiac event. Shocking. Only cost a few million to be back in good graces.

The foyer smelled musty, the muddy puddles dragging in the scent of dirt and chemical rain by way of red-bottoms and kitten heels. Bruce refrained from reacting, his eyes moving him about the room with stealth. Wine tables. Servers. His gaze lingered toward the entrance where a group of men were eyeing women as they walked in. Before he could intercept, a sharp elbow slid across his lower back and someone grabbed his knee, a cell phone bouncing across the ground toward the refreshments. He buckled as his knee was pushed forward, falling swiftly onto his ass. You hadn't realized who it was, embarrassment tinging your cheeks as you immediately began to apologize, shocked at how quickly you'd made an ass out of yourself.

You pushed yourself up to a crouch and forced yourself to make eye contact with the stranger. You didn't particularly want to face a rich guy in Gotham you'd just pummeled into the ground, but it would have been worse to simply run off into the night. The man had dark brown hair that was now obscuring his face, and pale skin. You couldn't make out much more before you'd locked eyes with the Batman.

Oh fuck.

You began to apologize and his body became tense at the sound of your voice. That familiar guttural tightness consumed him as he looked forward and once again met those big, bright eyes. It was you. You stared back at him with your mouth slightly open and he froze, forgetting to fix his face for just a moment. It was an expression he'd only seen once previously when he had come to Alfred after his first try-on of the suit. His chest felt as if knives were sharpening themselves on the lining of his lungs, slicing his esophagus to asphyxiate him. No. No. NO.

Your teeth went cold as shock washed through you, snagging at your chest and skipping your heartbeat. It registered like a narration, too big to neatly conceptualize or shelve away. What do you do when you realize the country's most eligible bachelor is also the country's most infamous vigilante?

He couldn't read you beyond your initial surprise, and it panicked him. The sound of blood pulsing in his ears deadened the sound of the crowded room, yet he was still highly aware of being surrounded by the last people he'd ever want to find out. He begged his thoughts for an answer on why you'd shown up right here, right now.

His fear disarmed you, rendering you unsteady. You needed to gather yourself, you were starting to sweat under his piercing gaze. Head spinning. World-shifting. You spun around and instead went to pick up your phone, the throngs of people already back to their own conversations. The celebrities of Gotham weren't too interested in the wellbeing of anyone besides their own... and even then they never went out of their way to help another. You noticed your phone alight in the corner by the snacks and made a beeline for it, careful to lift your feet with every step so as to not have another incident.

Thank god, you thought to yourself as you knelt down to pick up your phone. As you began to examine the screen for any dents or scratches (there were none) you stood up to someone tapping your shoulder. You had half a mind to think it was Batman—Bruce. He wasn’t in the suit. Fuck, he’s really the Batman?

"Ay, what's a pretty girl like yourself doing in a city like this, eh?" You turned to see a taller, thicker man with rough skin and a heavy accent staring back at you. He had on a checkered suit with a white shirt tucked underneath, and smelled strongly of tobacco. The bow tie caught you a bit off-guard, as did his demeanor. He looked you over as he licked his lips, making you turn your nose up. The man didn't even notice. "Sweetheart, with a body like that you'd make a killing at my lounge." His black eyes moved from staring at your chest to your face, a devilish grin plastered to his mouth.

You cleared your throat, tightening your hand around the phone. You gave as professional a smile as you could manage and nodded at him. "I'm actually here to get an interview," the absolutely terrible vibes of the man made you forget about your realization and as you walked past, he put a firm hand on your shoulder.

"C'mon," he egged, positioning himself closer. His voice was rough and jagged, every neuron in your body telling yourself to get away from the stranger. He continued without shame. "You can audition for me in the room next door, huh?" His firm pressing on your shoulder pushed you forward toward a side door. Anxiety churned your stomach. "Sir," you scrambled. "I really have to get this—"

"Miss? Excuse me, Miss?"

Your wide, nervous eyes snapped back to face Mr. Wayne, and you heard the stranger chortle. It was a nauseating sound. "Ah, Bruce Wayne!"

He wasn't looking at him, instead at you with a fervent gaze. He'd decided he would assume you knew, assume his interpretation of your gaze was correct. Otherwise, how would he have known about this interview? You'd only told him as Batman. "I was told to meet you here for the interview."

Relief poured over you like sinking into a freshly filled pool in thick August heat. You opened your mouth to speak, but whoever the person was interrupted, yet again. "With all due respect, Mister, we're in the middle of business."

Lacking so much hesitation as to nearly cut him off altogether, Mr. Wayne responded shortly. "I don't have much time so I'd like to start it now." Even if you were going to expose him, you didn't deserve to be groped in a closet by the city sleaze.

He held out his arm for you to take and you did so without reservation. You would've run into a lion's den if it meant escaping him. As you linked your arm around his, you couldn't help but notice the dense muscle hidden beneath the dusty wool and the steadiness with which he guided you through the crowd. If you had any hesitation to trust your realization of his double life, it had melted away. No person was this densely packed with pure fight other than Batman.

A part of you was excited. You'd felt so lost with everyone navigating the city so seamlessly but finally, finally you had been given a secret. You knew something no one else knew. Then, fear. What if he tried to get rid of you? What if he was leading to a private area where there were no witnesses? You knew he was viewed as a protector in the public eye, but as far as you knew no one had ever deduced what you'd noticed immediately. The fear in his face had been palpable and —

He dropped your arm right at the door as soon as he remembered where he was and who he was. He wasn't in the suit, he was Bruce Wayne, and he had a woman on his arm. If Alfred saw any rumors of romance he'd have to deal with his delighted smile and repeat questioning. If the paparazzi noticed, you'd be more at risk. Noticing he wasn't in the suit stunted his courage and kept him sheepish. He'd been a dick to you in the alleyway, leaving you hanging alone in the alleys of the city. He hadn't left, he reminded himself. He'd simply gone out of view and then followed you as you wandered through the city back to your apartment, to make sure you got home safely. But you didn't know that. He needed to be curt, but kind enough to ensure you didn't make a scene when he declined this interview for a second and final time. Don't look at her. Not even for a moment.

"You should go." His voice was gruff, but only slightly reminiscent of Batman's. He did a good job separating his two identities... to everyone besides you, you wondered.

"The interview—"

He let out a strained chuckle. "That's not happening." You were really going to barge in and assume he would bow to you? Give his first interview to a student journalist? A stranger that had stalked him until he could be cornered in public? He had to laugh at your audacity. His laughter, however, unsettled you and lit a fire in your abdomen. Who was he to be laughing? A soft rage boiled up to your throat, and you thought about blackmailing him. I know who you are, you'd say. I could tell everyone right now about your double life. But you knew that was just your desperation and ego talking. Plus... you were a bit scared of him and what his body was capable of.

Instead you turned on your heel and walked back through the foyer. Rather, you tried to... but your heel caught on the lip of the entry mat and you lurched forward, Mr. Wayne catching you by your elbow. Frustrated, he snapped at you. "Would you at least try to stop tripping over everything?"

Shame tinged your cheeks pink and cast your eyes to the floor. You could count on one hand all the times you'd worn heels, and you only bought a pair to try and fit in with the Gotham scene. You were intimately reminded of how much you didn't fit in, and a flood of emotion cascaded through you. Tears stung at your eyes and threatened to spill over as you yanked your arm away from his grip. Through your periphery you noticed his face soften, his brows lightly knit in a v with what seemed like genuine concern.

He opened his mouth but before he could speak you rushed down a side hallway in search of a restroom. Him being concerned somehow made the tears come even faster. Don't cry in public. Don't cry in public. You threw yourself into a stall and put your back against the door as tears streamed down your face. Your body wracked with sobs; you missed home. The city was so dirty, crime was so high, and you just wanted to be back in your hometown where people were safe and kind. Even Mar was having a good time—you just weren't right for this place. It was too hard, too bad, too mean. Unyielding. As you thought about the failed interview attempt that rage burned inside you yet again. You had a secret that you could wield. Everyone else in the city would use it against him in a second. He thought he could be an ass to you and not get any recourse? He had another thing coming.

You stomped out of the bathroom after patting away the tear streaks in your makeup. To your surprise, Mr. Wayne was waiting in the hallway outside the bathroom. With narrowed eyes and clenched fists you sauntered over to him. "I could tell everyone in this room who you are." You crossed your arms and let your weight rest back in your right hip. His brows raised in shock. He was going to apologize, but certainly not now. His voice was low and menacing. "You wouldn't dare."

You ignored the rumble of fear that puttered around your stomach. "Do the interview or I write an exposé." You surprised yourself as it came out. It was true; either way you would be able to fill the pages. Whether or not you actually would write the second option... he didn't need to know. He rolled his eyes and shook his head. "I can't believe this."

"Which one is it? Hmm? I don't have all day." You didn't need to tack on that last part, but you thought it might get under his skin. It did. He wondered whatsoever could be so important that you would need to hurry him. "I actually have an event right now, if it weren't obvious—"

"It's your funeral." You hoped he wouldn't call your bluff and stormed halfway down the hallway before he called after you. "Fine." A pause. "But you only get ten minutes."

"Twenty." You countered, and he let out a groan of annoyance. He strode past you visibly angry, muttering, his mind a mess of so many emotions he couldn't pin down a single thought. "Get around back, then meet me at Wayne Tower. Let's get this over with."

[ms-scarletwings]

Irken senses, and other ponderings

You know, every time I start to wonder if I’ve finally run out of things to coherently say on the whole “speculating about irken biology” matter, a whole something more is induced to hatch out of the dehydrated floam inside my skull. Between you and me, I think the eggs are triggered by ironic timing.

Anywho, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the world hypothetically through Irken eyes, and other sensory organs. Think I’ll go down them piece by piece, and to follow the pattern I’ve kept through my other Irken brain dumps, I will be drawing a huge amount of inspiration from real life arthropods. Yes, I’m very aware that realistically, any resemblance to earth insects would be coincidental from an alien species, and there’s plenty of room to make up whatever somewhat plausible explanation you can for any faucet of their anatomy. Personally, I like to run from the convergent evolution angle, since I find it no less grounded, full of potential connections the show itself all but begs me to draw, and just plain fun. Let’s get into it.

Also like towards the end there’s a whole section on the hypothetical edibility of Irkens because why not

Prelude: If you want to hear a little more behind my theory about the Irken diet revolving around sugar and a small portion of minerals, you can zip onto this analysis I did, in which I touch on some ideas of mine regarding the composition of Irken skin, their reaction to meat, etc. that works from the assumption that Irkens evolved out of an arthropod-like ancestor. Not necessary to get the gist of this one, but it is background context behind my thought process.

Sight

The Irken oculus is perhaps the most striking feature of the species, very much resembling those tiny crawling things they have been inspired by; however, it’s tougher to say exactly how far the similarity of their insides go. The eyes of most arthropods are in fact along the more simple branches of the evolutionary tree. We know that Irkens are not likely to possess compound eyes, like those found in flies and most other insects, because compound eyes are specialized for wide FOV ranges at the sacrifice of visual resolution quality. Instead, I see a much closer match to a fascinating exception or two found in Earth’s arachnids.

While most of them have utterly piss-poor vision, the hunting styles of jumping spiders necessitated a great deal of further specialization of the organs for depth perception, color differentiation, and sharp images. These are the purpose of those two huge shiners at the front (the other 6 boosting their range for detecting blurry peripheral movement and threats), and these are what bring their effective vision on a level much closer to that of familiar binocular mammals than their own six legged prey. Now I really think we are working with the base of what Irken peepers likely developed out of. One of the ways they have really diverged off is in the fact that while jumping spiders can only move their retinas, irkens seem as though they are able to move the lens of the eye themselves- or at the very least, Zim does, else the false pupils in his disguise contacts would not behave quite so convincingly. To speak about the lenses themselves, their eyes are not dry and exposed like most arthropods, speaking to a vulnerable sensitivity. They clearly have blinking eyelids, shed tears, and Zim even complains about the “scratchy” feeling of getting used to that part of his kid disguise.

(Funny sidenote: I’m like 90% sure that Zim did not have those contact lenses designed correctly for himself. Usually, if contacts feel that uncomfortable and keep falling off of the eye as easily as his do, it’s a sign of them being poorly fitted. This could be another symptom of his outdated/lower quality invader tech.)

Not only do Irkens have an assumed base vision resolution that seems more or less on par with human beings, but Invader elites are fitted with ocular implants that grant them a significantly greater advantage in this realm. We don’t know to a certainty how well improved an Irken soldier’s vision is, but Zim was confidently able, within seconds and under pressure, to pick out the area of town he lived in from what was miles away under night hours.

On the topic of night vision, I have a hunch that even without the cybernetics, these guys are adapted to see much better than we in dim to dark environments as well. Most of the early part of their life cycle is lived out in subterranean crèches. On the surface, daytime Irk is cast in a sunset red atmosphere. Oddly, a massive portion of their fashion and architectural aesthetics show a preference for these dark, warmer tones. Ruby is far and away the most common eye color in their kind. All of these facts suggest that warm-spectrum hues and pigments were incredibly common in the homeworld’s history, to point of indicating something about a cultural attraction to them- kind of like how humans put the color blue all over so much corporate branding and elsewhere. Zim’s favorite color has also been revealed to be purple. Most of all, given what I’ve seen of Irk’s, Blorch’s, and Devastis’s surface skies, AND Zim’s reaction to staring directly at the sun for more than a few seconds, I’m assuming that most Irkens are wholly unfamiliar with living in an environment as brightly lit as midday Earth.

I do think Irken eyes “glow” in the dark, but not in the emitting sense. Just more in the reflective one. This they would owe to a well developed tapetum lucidum, as seen in cats and deer and pretty much any animal to give off an eerie eye shine under the right lighting. To point back to arachnids, wolf spiders are speedy nocturnal murder machines with highly developed tapetum lucida, in their secondary eyes, at least. What I love the most about that is it makes it very easy to tell if you’re looking at a mother spider because her babies will give off the same eyeshine if you take a pic of one with the flash on.

Additionally, I won’t forget that sleep is no longer a necessity for our alien subjects. This alone gives them a major edge over any dinural race such as humanity. While Zim has his appearances to keep up during the day, the nighttime on Earth is actually when he is allowed the most free rein to work on his endeavors uninterrupted.

Sound

Ah, so this is the part where I rattle off the common theories we’ve collectively formed about Irken antennae as the replacement for an external ear, eh? Yes, but actually no…. jokes aside, it’s just no. I’ll get to the deal with antennae, but as you might imagine, hearing ability also varies all over the place in the insect world.

It is true that antennae play a large role in the hearing of some critters, such as mosquitoes, whose males use them to pick out the high frequency wing beats of nearby females in a swarm. Crickets, on the other hand, use sensory organs on their legs tuned to much lower sound ranges. There’s no one way to evolutionarily put together a sort-of ear, as well proven by the sheer amount of times it convergently happened in bugs and in how many creative ways.

They literally be designing themselves like me playing around in spore. If we’re not talking about that mosquito or honeybee example, then what we are referring to as an ear and most hearing insects is going to be an external tympanic organ. Most people who have passed high school biology would be able to recognize a visible tympanum in frogs- that circular thing right behind the eyes in most species, and understand it as their version of an ear drum. Many bugs’ tympanums are likewise thin chitinous membranes situated… potentially just about anywhere on the body (again, see above). This is what I think Irkens use as a primary hearing organ, in his case, probably situated on their heads in addition to the feelers. The latter organs I think would also be sensitive to general vibrations and subtler environmental cues, like wind direction and pressure changes, but the bulk of their hearing would be owed to the tympanum.

As far as the quality of their hearing, well, there’s not any sign it differs much from the human experience. Like us, they communicate through verbal language, and the existence of the “Dancing Arcade Game (but for aliens)” confirms at least a similar cultural propensity for music as an entertainment form. Zim is an outlier for the fact that he seems genuinely a little hard of hearing next to his kin, screaming as naturally as he talks and repeatedly mishearing (if hearing at all) people who are speaking directly at him. It’s clear something’s up with his hearing, but there’s no clear answer what and why. At first I was tempted to suggest something about sound passing much differently through the medium of earth’s atmosphere (kind of like how noise on Mars would sound muffled to us), but neither Tak nor Skoodge seemed to pick up the problem when they arrived. It really could be as simple as some kind of birth defect, or even glitches in how his corrupted PAK is processing the inputs it receives. Like many others, I want to imagine that his wig could be interfering too, since it covers the whole top portion of his head; as well, I noticed he has more of those incidents with it on than not.

Smell

Alrighty, NOW we can round back to focusing on the antennae, because this is actually the main thing our insects fine tuned theirs for. And when I say fine tuned- I mean fine tuned. Blood suckers that find their prey through the CO2 of their breath, flies that can pick up on potential food sources from miles away; In the land of the little, scent is everything. Beyond it being their main tool for exploring the environment for what to eat and what to avoid, chemical messages are the backbone of bug-to-bug communication. Pheromones are the divining rod of lonely spiders looking for a mate. They are the bugle of yellow jackets when rallying the nest to attack a threat, and they are the signals that govern about every single action an ant takes from adulthood until death. Obviously, Irkens are much more sight & hearing dependent than these comparisons, but they still have much more bodily specialization dedicated to this sense than we can relate to. For one, they are fastidiously hygienic. Like, “the care-bots from that really creepy episode of the Buzz lightyear cartoon” hygienic. We have yet to see any livable surface of Irk that is not sky to underground terraformed over in all-consuming metal infrastructure. There’s less than no sign of visible life besides the Irkens; ffs, there’s not even soil in sight. Not on Devastis, either. The Organic Sweep sounds like such a nice and pretty euphemism in the face of the actual horror of Blorch’s fate, and all to spare the boots of their military from touching even a speck of “unsavory alien filth”. They live in such a controlled and purified environment that I can’t even imagine the absolute assault on the senses Zim’s every day on our barbaric ball of dirt is. Over and over again he gives off the impression that the constant stink of this place is in fact his chief complaint about living among us. The majority of insults he throws toward humans relate to how they smell or the fact that he finds them “filthy”. We’re flat out nasty to him and I don’t blame him. Even relative to other animals, humans are especially RANK due to the combination of sweat, oils, and bacteria that coat our skin.

And believe it or not, I do think Irkens are in a position to talk shit in this regard. Zim is a really sweaty boi; however, I posed an idea back in that write up about Irken skin before- to summarize- that his kind maintain remarkably sterile cuticles due to the presence of a toxic chemical in their skin. This, I said then, could have been the key to Zim’s lice repelling trait, but I wasn’t so specific at the time about more than that. I got the idea from a group of millipedes that, when disturbed, can secrete hydrogen cyanide as a deterrent to predators. I like to imagine that Irkens can do a similar thing via sweating, not to thermoregulate like us, but as a stress response. It would at least explain why Zim seems like a very nervous sweater. Fun fact if you didn’t know, cyanide’s smell is similar to almonds.

I’m deadass telling you I think Irkens just smell like almond extract. Do with that what you will.

Touch

So, in writing this whole whatever it be, this part was the trickiest to come up with any productive analysis on. I’ve already guessed at what I think Irken skin feels most like (spoiler: hairless caterpillars) in the analysis I referenced up top. Zim being able to pass himself off as a human under the examination of the Skool nurse points to an average body temperature somewhere around our own. What I did find interesting while rewatching the series though was the sheer amount of pain tolerance on these invaders, except in one way. Can I extrapolate this fortitude to Irkens universally? Probably not! Zim is a member of the most elite of the most highly trained members of Irk’s military. I wouldn’t take what a seasoned veteran can handle and assume that’s the human floor in a nutshell, but our invaders CAN tell us quite a bit about their ceiling… starting with the fact that these bastards are ridiculously heat resistant. Irkens are a durable race broadly, but their reactions to extreme temperatures strike me as jaw-droppingly underwhelming, if anything.

Irkens DON’T like being engulfed in flames. It’s still a painful experience to them, but seemingly the kind they can pretty much walk off as soon as it’s over. Through explosions and fire we have seen Zim (and Skoodge) survive in one piece. We’ve seen The Massive take a whole dip into a burning star with no ill effects to the crew within. Most amazing to me was the time in Battle of the Planets when Zim willingly piloted Mars into grazing by the Sun at close range while trying to evade Dib. Totally exposed driver’s seat and he was no worse for wear after this.

Further in the comics we see this touched on in the Zimvoid arc. Zib’s favorite method of torturing the Zims under his training program was to torch them at random for sadistic amusement. Quite interestingly, though, Number 2 implies that their bodies do actually adapt to this treatment over time! Theoretically, Zims further along in the program have become all but invulnerable to fire entirely.

On the other hand, one of the truly most painful things Zim has been shown to experience is to have his skin chemically burned. It’s a strange sort of irony that Earth’s water would prove to be an incapacitating force to them in place of any inferno. He’ll smash his skull into the Voot’s windshield with enough force to pop out an eyeball and it’s whatever. Plenty of other things hurt, but he can power through. You turn a shaken can of soda or a bottle of bbq sauce on him and he’s just left screaming on the ground or screaming and running away. Whatever brutal sort of training he had to go through off world, it didn’t prepare him for this.

Taste

The perceptive side of this I think may not be too hard to figure out. Irken food, as alien as its actual composition could be, has been shown to be heavily analogous to human junk food. I hesitate to call what Irkens are scarfing down “meals” in the proper sense, because I’ve noticed that neither Zim nor his kin intrinsically understand the concept. When he’s trying to blend in as a human being, he puts a LOT of bizarre effort into convincing us that he, just like you inferior creatures, TOTALLY eats “food” on a regular basis like a normal person. When Irkens eat their own products, it’s all and only “snacks”. What follows is the conclusion that their eating habits are not structured into any schedule and that Irkens instead graze throughout the day as they please- and even possibly that eating altogether is more a recreation to them, instead of a necessary function to sustain life. Some fans have speculated that the PAK could provide an Irken with all of the necessary energy to survive absent of nutrition. I kind of want to contest this, given that caloric energy is only one purpose of taking in food… but it’s definitely the most immediate one. Nonetheless, they still eat constantly on screen and it all has to be going somewhere. Whether they need it or not, they still readily digest snacks (and presumably use those chemical building blocks to regenerate tissue damage) with a terrifying metabolic efficiency. Assuming that the resemblance of their snack foods and our leisure treats are not purely coincidental, one gathers that sweetness is the largest dimension of Irken cuisine. They are drawn most enthusiastically to carb-dense synthetic, plant, and possibly fungal matter in the same way that the human brain lights up at the prospect of fat and sugar-loaded meals. The flexible tongues of Irkens to me also resemble the nectar catching, segmented mouthparts of some bees. I would be willing to bet that they can taste salt, but jury’s out if it is something they crave, like us, or are repulsed by, like ants. That would have to come down to the scarcity (or not) of the resource on their home planet and whether or not desiccation was a serious threat in their natural history. In other regards, Zim shows strong negative reactions to most Earth foods, if not physically, than in his expressions. They definitely have powerful vulnerabilities to many human ingredients, and so are very sensitive to the presence of these toxins. I can’t imagine acidic or bitter substances are at all pleasant to them.

Now comes the much more interesting question I’ve thought way too long and hard about in the shower a time or two. Knowing that Irkens are likely a herbivorous breed, ergo, thankfully would have no interest in the consumption of the human race… what about the vise versa??? I don’t just want to know what they taste, but what would they taste like?

So, you’ve decided to mix it up for the thanksgiving dinner and forgo the same boring old bird for an Irken you have vanquished (via what I can only imagine was a freaking miracle of luck). What should you come to expect? Most importantly and I must emphasize this, the secret to preparing their meat is the same as Tolkien dwarves, you have to skin them before anything else. The separation of edible tissues from the cuticle is necessary to avoid ingesting the defensive toxins it contains. Even if the concentration is not enough to provide a danger to you, it could end up contributing an unpleasant, bitter flavor to the final product.

That done, discard the head and digestive organs. True as it may be that Irkens are wholly free of parasites, with a chance that the viscera could be edible, it’s not likely to taste that great and besides, do you really want to take chances with exposing yourself to an entirely foreign gut biome you have no immune adaptations to? And don’t even think about the brain- I don’t care how rare the infection rates are, alien prions are a big no. If you happen to run into any cybernetic implants during the cleaning, however, set them aside! They could be worth a small fortune in the right circles. But, for the purpose of eating we’re really concerned with the muscle tissues, a delicate white meat with a texture similar to fresh crab. The bones need not be wasted, and are fine to leave in, or can be boiled on their own to make a flavorful stock which can be added to soups or a delightful gravy. A surprisingly practical use of Irken bone could also be in the compost bin, being rich in chitosan and other powerful garden fertilizers. The flesh can do well fried, or roasted to a crispy exterior. The oven rule is the same as chicken, low and slow, to prevent drying out. Don’t be afraid to experiment with the gravy idea or marinades. The flavor profile of the meat itself would be utterly unique from what most of us are used to, comparable to a nutty crayfish. Savory, a bit of a sweetness, and a mineral hint that pairs quite well with mushrooms or rice.

I can’t recommend serving this to any guests with shellfish allergies in good conscience. If they insist, do so in caution and with knowledge of the risk of cross reactivity.

And there you have …. certainly a thing I did write and queue up for y’all!

[swappetf11]

Agent Nate

For his next assignment, Agent Nathanial Ford is tasked with infiltrating a powerful political faction in Jakarta, Indonesia. This mission is aimed at uncovering potential espionage activities and alliances that could threaten regional stability.

Character Development: Nathanial's new identity for this mission is Lukas Santoso, a wealthy Indonesian businessman with deep ties in both the political and corporate landscapes of Southeast Asia. His background as an influential entrepreneur gives him the perfect cover to interact with key political figures and high-ranking officials.

Physical Transformation:

Facial Hair: Lukas is known for his clean-shaven appearance, a stark contrast to Nathanial's previous personas. This requires Nathanial to maintain a meticulous grooming regimen to ensure that his face remains smooth and free of stubble.

Hair: To blend into the local demographic, Nathanial alters his hair texture and color. He adopts a sleek, black hairstyle, commonly seen among Indonesian businessmen, adding subtle gray highlights to reflect Lukas's age and supposed stress levels from business dealings.

Skin Tone: Nathanial uses a slightly darker foundation to match the common skin tone in Indonesia, ensuring it is waterproof and sweat-resistant to cope with Jakarta’s humid climate.

Dialect and Language: Beyond fluent Bahasa Indonesia, Nathanial perfects a specific Jakarta accent, with a smooth, confident tone suggesting a well-educated and influential individual.

Clothing and Accessories:

Lukas is always seen in high-end, tailored suits, reflecting his status. Nathanial selects a wardrobe of custom suits, fine watches, and designer glasses, which not only enhance his disguise but also enable him to carry hidden devices and documents.

Walk and Posture: Nathanial adopts a poised and assertive walk, characteristic of a confident leader. He takes lessons in local etiquette and body language to ensure his gestures and public interactions are impeccable.

Teeth and Prosthetics:

A slight dental adjustment gives Nathanial a small gap between his front teeth, a memorable trait of Lukas that makes him recognizable and also authentic in personal interactions.

Technological Aids:

He uses modified contact lenses that not only change the appearance of his eyes but also provide augmented reality overlays to assist with facial recognition and on-the-spot language translations.

Nathanial’s integration into Jakarta's elite circles is critical, and he must navigate complex social hierarchies and political intrigue with precision. As always, his preparation is exhaustive, reflecting his commitment to mission success and his adaptability in the face of high-stakes espionage.

[richincolor]

3 YA Black Horror Books for Spooky Season

Now that spooky season is in full swing all around me, it's time to turn to some spinechilling reads. It's been an amazing year for Black horror in YA, from an anthology (out October 17th!) to exciting new books that will keep you up all night long. Here are 3 YA horror books with Black protagonists for you to check out!

I Feed Her to the Beast and the Beast Is Me by Jamison Shea

There will be blood. Ace of Spades meets House of Hollow in this villain origin story. Laure Mesny is a perfectionist with an axe to grind. Despite being constantly overlooked in the elite and cutthroat world of the Parisian ballet, she will do anything to prove that a Black girl can take center stage.

To level the playing field, Laure ventures deep into the depths of the Catacombs and strikes a deal with a pulsating river of blood. The primordial power Laure gains promises influence and adoration, everything she’s dreamed of and worked toward. With retribution on her mind, she surpasses her bitter and privileged peers, leaving broken bodies behind her on her climb to stardom.

But even as undeniable as she is, Laure is not the only monster around. And her vicious desires make her a perfect target for slaughter. As she descends into madness and the mystifying underworld beneath her, she is faced with the ultimate choice: continue to break herself for scraps of validation or succumb to the darkness that wants her exactly as she is—monstrous heart and all. That is, if the god-killer doesn’t catch her first.

From debut author Jamison Shea comes I Feed Her to the Beast and the Beast Is Me, a slow-burn horror that lifts a veil on the institutions that profit on exclusion and the toll of giving everything to a world that will never love you back.

You're Not Supposed to Die Tonight by Kalynn Bayron

At Camp Mirror Lake, terror is the name of the game . . . but can you survive the night? This heart-pounding slasher by New York Times bestselling author Kalynn Bayron is perfect for fans of Fear Street.

Charity Curtis has the summer job of her dreams, playing the “final girl” at Camp Mirror Lake. Guests pay to be scared in this full-contact terror game, as Charity and her summer crew recreate scenes from a classic slasher film, Curse of Camp Mirror Lake. The more realistic the fear, the better for business.

But the last weekend of the season, Charity's co-workers begin disappearing. And when one ends up dead, Charity's role as the final girl suddenly becomes all too real. If Charity and her girlfriend Bezi hope to survive the night, they'll need figure out what this killer is after. Is there is more to the story of Mirror Lake and its dangerous past than Charity ever suspected?

All These Sunken Souls: A Black Horror Anthology by Circe Moskowitz (Anthology editor) -- Out on October 17th!

Welcome to the Dark. We are all familiar with tropes of the horror genre: slasher and victims, demon and the possessed. Bloody screams, haunted visions, and the peddler of wares we aren’t sure we can trust. In this young adult horror anthology, fans of Jordan Peele, Lovecraft Country, and Horror Noire will get a little bit of everything they love—and a lot of what they fear—through a twisted blend of horror lenses, from the thoughtful to the terrifying.

From haunted, hungry Victorian mansions, temporal monster–infested asylums, and ravaging zombie apocalypses, to southern gothic hoodoo practitioners and cursed patriarchs in search of Black Excellence, All These Sunken Souls features the chilling creations of acclaimed bestsellers and hot new talents, with stories from Kalynn Bayron, Donyae Coles, Ryan Douglass, Sami Ellis, Brent Lambert, Ashia Monet, Circe Moskowitz, Joel Rochester, Liselle Sambury, and Joelle Wellington.

[lighthousenewsnetwork]

LAUSANNE, SWITZERLAND — In a groundbreaking announcement that's already causing dramatic sighs across the athletic community, the International Olympic Committee (IOC) revealed Thursday that "Professional Eye-Rolling" will debut as an official sport at the 2028 Los Angeles Olympics, following the overwhelming success of athletes' medal ceremony reactions. The decision came after an extensive review of thousands of hours of footage showing silver medalists perfecting their craft during various Olympic ceremonies. "We've been ignoring this incredible display of athletic prowess for far too long," said IOC President Thomas Bach, while demonstrating an impressive 270-degree eye roll. "Some of these athletes have been training their whole lives to show their disappointment in second place. It's time we recognized their talents." The new sport will feature three distinct categories: Individual, Team, and Mixed Doubles Eye-Rolling, with scoring based on sass level, rotation degree, and emotional impact. Athletes can earn bonus points for complementary sighs and subtle head shakes, while maintaining crucial eye contact with judges. "Finally, my true talent is being recognized," said former silver medalist Sarah Johnson, who famously rolled her eyes so hard at the 2020 Tokyo Olympics that medical professionals were concerned she might have sprained her optical muscles. "I've spent years perfecting my technique of looking simultaneously disappointed and superior. Now I can put those skills to good use." The announcement has sparked a global rush to develop elite training facilities. The Swiss Eye-Rolling Academy, the first of its kind, has already begun recruiting former teenage champions as coaches. "Nobody rolls eyes better than a 15-year-old who's just been told they can't go to the mall," explained head coach Marcus Weber. "Their natural ability is unmatched." Technical aspects of the sport will be monitored using advanced eye-tracking technology and slow-motion replay capabilities. The IOC has also introduced a revolutionary "sass coefficient" to ensure fair scoring across all events. However, controversy has already emerged over the use of performance-enhancing contact lenses, with some athletes claiming they provide unfair advantages in achieving maximum rotation. The medical community has expressed concerns about potential health risks. Dr. Elena Rodriguez, a leading sports optometrist, warns about the dangers of competitive eye strain. "We're seeing a concerning rise in what we call 'attitude-induced astigmatism,'" she noted. "Athletes need to remember to warm up their orbital muscles properly before attempting any advanced maneuvers." The qualifying rounds will begin next year, with athletes required to demonstrate their eye-rolling capabilities in increasingly challenging scenarios, such as receiving participation trophies and hearing their competitors thank their parents in victory speeches. "We're witnessing the evolution of passive-aggressive athletics," said sports scientist Dr. James Morton, wiping away a tear. "It's beautiful." In a related development, the IOC is already considering additional events for the 2032 Olympics, including Synchronized Shoulder Shrugging and Competitive Side-Eye. Athletes interested in pursuing these emerging sports are encouraged to start training their facial muscles immediately and to maintain a healthy diet of daily disappointments. For more information about getting involved in professional eye-rolling, the IOC has set up a dedicated hotline. However, callers report that the operators just keep sighing and asking if they really need to explain everything again. At press time, several silver medalists were seen practicing their routines while reading this article, reportedly achieving new personal bests in orbital rotation.

[daychanelyt]

Small combine born doodles. Nothing more I swear

Barney entered the room and pulled up the line on which he can contact Kleiner. He waited for a while before saying.

" Hey? Are you there Doc? " Nothing. He sighed as he once again couldn't catch Kleiner at his computer. This is becoming a BIG problem. But with this the doors swung open letting light into the room as Kleiner finally noticed and said. " Coming right over Barney! " But it was the most unfortunate time. Barney looked behind himself seeing a combine elite soldier. He had the normal white clothes but instead of Blue or red lenses they had green. He was looking at Barney as if expecting something as Kleiner appeared on the screen. " Barney you fool. Why didn't you end the feed? " Klient quickly ended the call himself as Barney looked at the solider.

" You don't want to do this. " Barney announced as he reaches for his gun. The green glass shined light onto him before the combine soldier seemed to walk into the room closing the door behind him. The only light in the room was the faint green glow of the goggles and the blue light shining on Barney's back.

" Put on your helmet. " The Solider said with their distorted by the mask voice. Barney carefully pulled out his gun and pointed it at the soldier before being quickly disarmed and forced to put on the helmet. A few seconds later another combine elite walked in this time with red visor seeing an elite standing there and Barney fiddling with his mask. The Elite walked out as Barney looked at the first Elite. " Who are you? Why did you help me? " As far as Barney knows he is the only one undercover in City 17.

" Orders from the command. " The Elite said before removing their helmet. " Besides, Mossman would be mad that I Iet a rebel die. " He seemed kinda familiar to Barney. He couldn't put a finger on it before realizing. " You look like the soldiers of the past. But how? The military got whipped out. " Barney stepped back not having a good time right now. The Elite then put their helmet back on before saying " Let's say that Breen is not the only one dealing with the devil. "

Anyway Expect Combine Sheppard to come soon.

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[avatarofhehunt]

The Last Avatar

Leilani Cheng

Birth date:

April, 17, 5010000600

Occupation:

Commanding Agent for the Star Glider Strikeforce

The World The Day The Sun Died

Leilani Cheng was the final Avatar in the reincarnation cycle. She grew up in a time when the planet and galaxy was burning up. Their sun, the very lifeline for their planet, was going supernova. Leaving the world gripped with terror as they faced extinction.

The meaning of the word "Avatar" to the world, was nothing more than a fable from ancient primitive times; billions of years old steeped in myth and fairytale. All people had access to "bending" multiple elements. Technology and medicine bridged the gap that once was limited to their ancestors genetics. Color changing elements, new and hybrid elemental extensions such as blood, metal, lightning, sound, and much more were at the worlds' fingertips. It was as easily accessed as color changing tattoos and color changing contact lenses.

However, it wasn't real bending. The history and culture that came with elemental bending had faded into ancestors past as time and technology marched forward. The Avatar faded from the world as quickly as sky scrapers and flying vehicles enveloped the world.

By the time Leilani Cheng joined the Fire Republic Airforce, the Avatar never crossed her mind, and was barely a footnote in her childhood history lessons. While she was born to the Fire Republic and was a natural fire bender, she was given a vaccine at birth to block the gene from advancing.

For many parents in years past, true bending was too volatile and dangerous for children. In that era, teachers of the craft were long gone. Vaccines were created to block bending and over a hundred years later, it was routine. Nobody even knew what these vaccines were, only that the children needed them at birth. To society, technology made elemental bending "easy and safe." rather than having people born with the ability, struggle to master it. The risk of harm to oneself and others, outweighed the discipline and teachings that their ancestors went through.

Leilani's generation had little to no knowledge of bending. She relied on her technology to move elements and manipulate the natural world. Her ambitions were focused on the Fire Republic's Airforce. She dreamed of flying. The Fire Republic Airforce was an elite force to get into. Only the strongest and brightest got chosen, and that was after years of studying for their entrance exams into the academy. It was no guarantee one would be enlisted into the ranks.

Leilani

Leilani is a warm and charismatic woman in her mid 20's. Her upbringing was secure and loving. She had a few close friends, but not many.

She always dreamed of flying, and wanted to serve her nation by joining the Fire Republic Airforce. Leilani didn't have the grades for it, school was a struggle for her. It didn't challenge her in the right ways. Her grades suffered for it. She loved to get her hands dirty. If Leilani wasn't working on her gadgets and new inventions, she was sculpting.

As civil unrest grew between the nations, the Fire Nation developed a new intelligence force. The Star Gliders was a special taskforce that worked outside the government. Because of this they had their own enlistment requirements. Women were offered priority to enlist with full compensation and training. This helped to build a broader range of fighters. Enlistments had declined at an alarming rate over the past century, with more priority given to women, this increased the rate of enlistment and gave the Star Gliders the support and manpower needed.

Leilani was among the group to join the Star Gliders Strikeforce. She loved it and felt she was making a difference in the declining world.

Over the next 15 years, Leilani and Meiying would grow close as teammates. Leilani would move up in rank until she became Meiying's second in command.

The Star Gliders.

Meiying was the captain of an all female tactical strike force. The Star Gliders, as she called them, went behind enemy lines to eliminate high profile threats.

Meiying carved her legacy in the stars. She lead several successful missions alongside Leilana and her crew of fighters.

Star Bound

When the sun went Supernova, Meiying and Leilani were tasked to take two Star Glider fleets to find a new planet to take refuge on.

Meiying and Leilani were separated for the first time since her recruitment. They were deployed to opposite sides of the galaxy and would not see each other again for several years. They were however, in constant communication. Relaying intel to each other, they discovered planets in their immediate safe range were uninhabitable. Their mission was a failure. Further travel wasn't viable. The climate change from the sun, created famine globally. There wasn't enough ships, man power, or resources to go into space. Especially with no prospects of a new planet to colonize.

Leilani, Meiying, and the world now had to face reality. They were all going die. No amount of technology and grit could change the tides of time.

Upon heading back to their rendezvous point, Meiying received a distress signal from Leilani's ship. The engine failed, leaving her crew stranded in what was known as a dead zone.

The dead zone was a phenomenon where the gravitational forces between two nearby planets, pulled space debris and asteroids into a tight vortex.

With Meiying's fleet out of reach, her team feared they'd lose their friends.

As Leilani's ship was being struck by asteroids, Leilani slipped into the avatar state. Having connected with her ancestors for the first time, she was able to redirect the asteroids, giving her crew the chance to flee the dead zone.

However, what her crew witnessed was inexplicable and aweing. Leilani, vaguely recalled the events but it left her with more questions than answers.

The Avatar was a being of ancient mythology, deemed a fairytale. It wasn't until she was reunited with Meiying, back on their planet, that she began to study the stories of old.

Art made with Nightcafe ai.

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[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…

[elcwestles]

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[undercurrent-ink]

Cyber 9 (Anti-Agent AU)

She made her choice where it'll be her end itself. To side with those who hurt her, right? She honestly doesn't believe herself. It was all a hellish nightmare blurring past leaving lost time.

The quiet room. A place where new memories bleed into each other along with the loud room. These rooms where one way to break anyone through deprivation of sound to sudden shock of sounds amplified, taking sleep away. This place was one she knew too well. They're always in those nightmares just like her unheard cries. The taste of blue copper mixing in purple.

Even though she was free her mind was enslaved. Cyber sat in darkness with deafening silence. All was quiet.

Light shined into the dark when an Elite Octoling opened up her Cyber's prison.

"Enter and shut the door."

Cyber heard the door shut, the darkness flooding back.

"Cyber's I'm wondering about what to do. Do I leave or stay for Crimson's sake?"

"Jaden dear, you do whatever you wish. 65 is of course their for you and Crimson."

"If I leave then-"

"I'll take the fall. You both will have me covering you. It's both your choice."

"But-"

"I have nothing to lose. I'll be alright."

Cyber looked at the door to see it open again.

"900. It's time to head out."

Cyber looked at Jaden nodding. Jaden followed Cyber's lead outside of this damp cell of unseen horror. No matter how many times she goes in Jaden fails to shake her feelings of fear, only kept them inside herself till she leaves.

She wondered how Cyber could return to such killing silence.

Cyber got into her costume of metal. She had anything significant covered up in SFX cosmetics, fake scars, and her iconic set of metal jaws pairing with her cybernetic arm and leg.

"This show is going to be like the others. Fun for all. I still can't believe I made it Jaden, everyone here is very excited about what I do."

"Yeah..."

Cyber looked at Jaden through the mirror, "Do you wish to leave? I can make it happen."

"Really!?"

"Yes, I told you I'll cover you and Crimson."

Jaden looked at Cyber before hugging her, "Thank you."

Cyber smiled having a her arms tightly around Jaden. As she an friend? An enemy? Both?

"You don't have to thank me." They broken the platonic embrace, "I'll meet you where we discussed."

"Of course." Jaden left the dressing room, the door creaking shut.

Now Cyber was alone to do one last thing. She opened a droor full of oddities she moved all of them away to lift out the bottom exposing a vile full of a multicolored substance and several unused needles. She knew once it wore off it would leave her weak in exchange for strength to hide her infliction.

Cyber got the vile along with a sterile needle in its packaging. Might as well get this over with so she won't have to worry about it longer.

"900."

Cyber mentally cursed, "Yes ma'am?"

"Be sure you use the proper dose."

Of course she'll be here.

"Noted." Cyber continued to get the needle out, fill it with the substance, then injected the substance into her neck where dark purple patches from constant infections grew agitated.

She tossed the needle in the trash bin with it covered so no one will be poked or end up hurt. She shoved a disk into each of her gills, covering her neck with a metal neck guard, before adding one last touch. Two contact lenses on her eyes.

"Now I'm done." Cyber went out of her dressing room with time to spare. Par for her course when dealing with a large show with an equally longer time to entertain.

One thing is for sure, everything is coming to close in on her. Oh well. She'll handle them when the time comes to allow her.

----------------------[Tags]----------------------

@laylayeh @splatoon-square-ocs and anyone else who wants to join.

[highqueenofelfhame]

idk if this is good i just wrote it and didn’t edit it IDK MAN IDK WHAT THIS IS i hope you enjoy it tho xo

rowaelin // 1820 words

It wasn’t the first time Aelin had cursed her socialite lifestyle, and she knew it wouldn’t be the last, but she really hated that a full camera crew was filming every second of Aedion and Lysandra’s wedding tonight. 

Not because she didn’t want the event well documented. This footage would immortalize their love for each other in a beautiful way and there wasn’t a doubt in her mind that she would never be able to watch it back and not shed a healthy amount of tears. If anything, she was grateful for that aspect of how chaotic their lives tended to be. What she wasn’t looking forward to seeing was Rowan Whitethorn’s face sneaking in and out of frame while he enjoyed the party. 

Aelin could deal with everything this night threw at her, but she hated that she kept catching glimpses of the top of his silver head over everyone else’s, or that he looked unfairly delicious in a dark, forest green tuxedo that fit his frame perfectly. She hated the feeling of his gaze on her when she wasn’t looking, and she especially hated when they made eye contact from opposite sides of the dance floor. 

The option to disappear completely wasn’t on the table. As maid of honor, she had duties to fulfill and knew there would be a million and one rumors about her having a falling out with Lys or Aedion. Though they laughed about all that outrageously ridiculous gossip, she refused to have that trump the day that was solely about them. 

So instead of trying to make herself blend into the background or hiding in the bathroom, she had taken to being keenly aware of where Rowan was at all times so that she could easily avoid bumping into him and having to talk to him at all. So far, through the ceremony and the first leg of the reception, it was a success. Her shitty relationship drama wasn’t going to muddy up the wedding, especially when Rowan and Aedion had only recently began to speak after two years of radio silence on Aedion’s part. 

Their breakup had been very public. More than one episode of the reality show that followed the scandalous lives of Orynth’s elite had featured her crying over everything she and Rowan had lost. Though she never watched the show unless she was feeling sentimental, she especially avoided the clips from that part of her life. It was a chapter she had slammed shut, and she refused to look back on any of it. Not yet, anyway. 

Truthfully, Aelin didn’t like thinking about it because she always tried to look back on it with rose colored lenses. There were many nights that she lay awake, watching her ceiling fan spin in spirals while  trying to avoid a mental one of her own. 

It wasn’t that anything truly terrible had been the reason for their breakup. Rowan’s career simply took off and, in the process of a blooming music career, their relationship had taken the backseat. He got too busy, long distance was hard, and they had grown apart. 

Except she didn’t feel like she was the one that drifted away. Even with oceans between them, she made her best efforts to show up when it mattered to him, to talk to him as much as she could despite a busy schedule of her own. And then one night while they lay in bed on a rare weekend he had free to visit her in Orynth, she’d whispered the words that shattered her heart and crushed her soul: I can’t do this anymore. 

It was all too hard, too much. It felt as though they had gone from being madly in love and bordering on obsessed with each other to struggling to hold a conversation. Rowan was often exhausted from long days of travel, rehearsals, or shows. Aelin worked hard, long days between filming the show and working on her designs for the next season. 

Rowan had tried to fight her on the breakup, insisting that things would get better, but neither of them could figure out the when and the how. He had begged, made promises that she knew he couldn’t keep, and swore up and down, left and right, that he would be better and more present. But after months of drifting, she couldn’t see the shore anymore. By the time she said it out loud, there was nothing he could say or do that would fix it. Aelin had made up her mind and waited until she couldn’t handle it anymore. And then she just… shut down.

It had caused a big falling out with their friend group. A few had been on his side, a few on hers. Aedion was blindly loyal to Aelin and cut ties with Rowan almost immediately after watching her slowly crumble from heartbreak. It had only been three months ago when he’d tentatively asked her how she would feel if Rowan was at the wedding. 

“Aedion, it’s not about me. You used to be best friends. If you want him there, then he should be there,” she told him, squeezing his hands as she spoke. Aelin had even told him early on he should invite Rowan, something he had shot down at the time. But as time went on Aelin could see it was bothering him. That getting married without his best friend since he could walk at least in the room would leave a single piece of happiness missing on the best day of his life. Of course she had insisted he be invited. It wasn’t about her, that was the truth.

But seeing him had been more painful than she had anticipated, even five years later, and she was tired of knowing where he was in the room at any given millisecond. As she had the thought, their eyes locked across the dancefloor and she quickly turned to find anything else to do than be caught in a staring contest with the love of her life. Instead of walking away, though, she slammed into the hard body of her cousin.

“Where are you off to in such a hurry?” He teased, steadying her with his hands on her shoulders. Aelin conjured up one of her infamous mischievous smirks as she gestured toward the open bar.

“Where else?” 

“The dance floor. You owe me a dance.” At those words, her heart softened and she patted his cheek, taking his arm and allowing him to pull her into the center of their dancing friends. A slow song that sounded vaguely familiar drifted through the speakers as they fell into a relaxed carriage, Aedion leading them in slow circles. 

“Our mothers are probably weeping over this,” she joked, eyes scanning the crowd once more to where Evalin and Aerin stood arm and arm with their husbands. The matriarchs had their phones already pointed to the cousins and deep laughter rumbled from Aedion’s chest. Aelin stuck her tongue out toward the two women, her mother shooting her a flat look over the top of her phone before she let herself be swept back into the moment with the man who was so much like a brother to her. “I’m really proud of you, you know.”

“I think you’re going to take that back in about ten seconds.” As Aelin’s brows wrinkled in confusion, Aedion spun her around and– let go of her hand that was quickly caught by someone else. 

The easy, relaxed posture she had with Aedion disappeared almost immediately as she scowled at him over her shoulder. He mouthed an apology, one that she mentally flushed down the toilet, and turned around to stare at the bowtie tied around Rowan’s neck.

There was no need to look up to know it was him. Aelin knew the callouses that scarred his fingers and palms, knew his warm smell of pine and snow. Her entire body was rigid while he led her in a slow dance as the song played on. Everyone around them had definitely clocked the encounter, and Aelin caught Lys smacking Aedion’s shoulder while he held his hands up defensively. 

The worst part about the entire thing was how badly she wanted to relax into his body, his touch. She wanted the hand that rested on her side to slip to her exposed lower back and hold her closer. It made her want to cry, but she exhaled slowly and willed her emotions to simmer instead of breaking the dam she had so carefully built around anything that had to do with Rowan. 

“I’m sorry for ambushing you,” he finally said, his thumb soothingly stroking soft circles over the bare skin of her ribs. 

“I doubt that,” she replied, finally lifting her eyes to meet his. Rowan’s lips twitched like he was fighting a smile. Aelin frowned. 

“I’m a little sorry,” he amended, eyes sparkling in the low, twinkling lights that surrounded them. Aelin didn’t say anything, shifting her eyes to the dark green fabric of his suit instead of the piercing green of his eyes. It maybe made her a shitty dance partner, but she couldn’t get her body to relax. Every muscle was stiff, even her fingers where they rest on his arm. Her nails were pressed into the skin of his hand where he held it, but it didn’t seem enough to push him away. “You look beautiful tonight.”

“Maybe you should have told me that more often before,” she quipped, unable to keep her mouth shut. Typical.

“I should have.” Surprise must have flashed on her face, because he nodded, letting out a sigh. “I should have done a lot of things that I didn’t do, that I stopped doing. I should have tried harder.”

“I don’t want to rehash our old bullshit at Aedion’s wedding,” she said tightly, jaw clenching over every word he said. “Time and place, Rowan. I know you were never good at that, but–”

“I’m sorry.” Aelin stilled at his words, something about hearing them now threatening to break down every wall she had built where he was concerned. “For all of it, Fireheart. You deserved better than what I gave you that last year. You deserve more than that. I was young and stupid, and I’m sorry. I never meant–”

“It’s a little late for all of that, Rowan.” Aelin pulled her hand from his and stumbled out of his arms, catching the bicep of a college friend of her cousin’s to steady herself. She wouldn’t fall, not with the way Rowan had immediately caught her hips to keep that from happening. 

“Ace–” He started, but she shoved his hands off of her and held up her hand to stop him. 

Without another glance over her shoulder, Aelin gathered the bottom of her gown in her fist and disappeared from the dance floor with a burning hole in her heart.