If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:
"Gish Gallop" is the debating term for an opponent who makes so many claims that "it's impossible to address them in the time available" (it's named for Creationist Duane Gish, who was notorious for this tactic):
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gish_gallop
I think about the Gish Gallop whenever I'm asked to comment on AI.
Here's a recent example: last week, I had a pre-interview call with a radio producer who wanted me to come on a 13-minute segment to discusses "whether there's a problem with AI governance?"
I asked what the show meant by that: was it whether regulation of AI in commercial or public sector decision-making needed more oversight? Was it that the siting and provisioning of data-centers needed more democratic accountability? Was it that workers deserved more of a say in AI's impact on labor markets? Was it that customers and/or audiences should be able to opt out of AI customer service and AI slop? Was it about whether we needed some kind of system to prevent "runaway AI," in the event that we teach so many words to the word-guessing program that it wakes up, becomes God, and turns us all into paperclips?
"Oh," the producer said, "all of that."
In 13 minutes.
You see the problem, right? The AI industry has made so many claims about its past, present and future that it's almost impossible to have a reasonable critical conversation about it:
Shortly after I did the radio show, a newspaper editor who'd heard my segment got in touch to ask me if I'd write an 800-word op-ed about the subject, and also, could I address claims that "AI is the next Industrial Revolution?"
I keep finding myself on stages or panels where an AI-struck person says something like, "AI is the next industrial revolution. It will change everything we do. It will let anyone create important works of art. It will cure cancer. It will take us to space. It will solve the climate crisis."
Or sometimes it's an AI critic, but that person's criticism is really more "criti-hype," which is when you accept tech industry hype claims at face value, and then criticize them rather than questioning them:
AI criti-hype might ask what we'll do once AI takes all our jobs, or what we'll do when AI replaces the government or teachers or doctors, or what we'll do when AI can bypass our critical faculties and brainwash us or drive us all mad.
What do you say to that? I usually start by talking about whether there's any economic basis for keeping the AI servers running. AI is – by far – the money-losingest venture in human history, and it's practically impossible to overstate just how bad the AI business is. Not only does AI have terrible unit economics, those unit economics are getting worse over time:
AI's happiest customers cite cost-benefit calculations that depend on truly unimaginable subsidies from the AI companies, who are basically selling $100 bills for $5 apiece. It would be pretty amazing if you couldn't find people who'd extol the virtues of this arrangement. But when AI companies try to raise the price of those $100 bills to, say, $20 apiece, those ecstatic customers fly into a rage and start loudly proclaiming that AI is so inefficient that they will lose money on this arrangement:
Now, it shouldn't fall to me, a card-carrying member of the Democratic Socialists of America, to point out that capitalist enterprises require profits to be sustainable. You can't keep a business afloat by selling $100 bills for $5, nor for $20. You can't even make a profit selling $100 bills for $100 apiece! For a company to succeed, it needs to take in more than it expends.
AI is a money-furnace, and AI hustlers are clearly on the hunt for a way to force all of us to feed every dime we've got to it. Elon Musk's (now scuttled) gambit to make every pension saver in America bail out Grok (and Twitter, but at a mere $44b, the losses from Twitter are dwarfed by the titanic losses from Grok) was the most ambitious and shameless population-scale bag-holder scheme, but it's not the only one:
So before we ask about the capabilities AI will acquire in the future, we should at least give some consideration to the question of whether anyone will be willing to fund the development of those capabilities, and if so, where the money would come from? Likewise, before we ask whether AI can perform adequately in a job, we should at least consider the possibility that the company that sells that AI tool will be bankrupt in a year or two. When we fight about data-center buildout, we mostly talk about the (considerable) environmental downsides to them – but what about the question of what we will do with these data-centers after their owners go bankrupt, possibly even before they can be provisioned with electricity? How many laser-tag arenas do we actually need?
This is just one example of the questions that you could spend days unpacking, which make many of the other questions about AI a little silly. Like, even if you think there are limitless returns to scale for creating new AI capabilities, which means that if we keep the money-furnace burning it's only a matter of time until it powers a cure for cancer and the end of the climate emergency, how much money do we need to shovel into the furnace before that happens, and where will it come from? There are plenty of cancer researchers who have promising approaches they haven't been able to pursue due to funding shortfalls.
Unless there's some way to estimate how much money we have to give to AI companies before they cure cancer, we should at least consider the possibility that the true sum is "more money than exists now and that will ever exist." We should also consider that whatever benefits to cancer research that AI might deliver could come with a higher price-tag than the promising cancer research we're dropping because we can't find far more modest sums.
Likewise, it may be that the amount of CO2 that AI will generate atmosphere before it "solves climate change" will render Earth permanently unfit for humans, consuming the only habitable planet capable of sustaining human life in the known universe. I mean, I suppose that's one way to "solve" climate change, but it's a pretty drastic solution.
My next book (out later this month) is The Reverse Centaur's Guide to Life After AI. I wrote it because I was frustrated by other people demanding that I talk to them about AI, and then handing me 800 words or 13 minutes to address fifty nebulous, poorly supported claims about AI:
Now that I'm about to go out on the road with the book, I find myself frustrated anew by the need to try and pull together a compact way to address the broad, incoherent claims the industry uses to keep its bubble inflated and the money furnaces roaring. The series of essays I've developed here on Pluralistic are part of that effort:
But it occurred to me that this whole enterprise of making sense of AI needs to be framed in the context of the messiness of AI itself, and AI boosters' overwhelming, promiscuous and disjointed Gish Gallop.
something about ilia’s gf being a fashion design student (totally not me) and her designing and making his costumes, people asking him during press conferences or interviews about his costumes and him just turning into lover boy golden retriever bf and ranting abt his talented gf!
(bonus points if she does the thing where couples embroider their initials on gifts and him kissing his wrist where he has her initials before every program)
🎀 Written in Thread - Ilia Malinin
❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥
in which
he wears her initials as his lucky charm and turns into the softest golden retriever boyfriend whenever someone asks about his costume.
❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥
Her room had always been a mess, but that afternoon it was in truly disastrous condition. And yet she had noticed it, which just proved how much of a mess it was. You couldn’t even say it looked like a bomb had gone off, because the problem wasn’t a bomb. There were papers, sketches, pens, pencils, notes, photos, fabrics. Everywhere. Not a single wall was free; everything was covered in bulletin boards with pinned notes or shelves overloaded with disorganized materials.
When Ilia entered the room, she could barely see him, almost swallowed by the sheer amount of stuff crammed into that small space.
As usual, he teased her immediately, which was his way of showing affection. She had gotten used to it by now, and while she might have gotten frustrated before, she’d learned to let it slide, sometimes even laughing, despite her being the kind of person who was easily offended, one of her defining traits.
And she certainly didn’t hide that about herself either; she was proud to be who she was, knowing her own strengths, and hated being teased, especially about messes, because she knew herself well.
There was nothing she could do. She worked much better in chaos. Order didn’t spark her mind the way disorder did. Disorder made her think faster, more creatively.
She didn’t respond to his provocation but let out a small laugh anyway.
“Stop saying things about me and come over here! Move!” she practically shouted, holding a meter stick. “I told you, come over and help me. Okay? I’m working for you here, so be grateful and stop wandering around,” she continued.
Even though he could sense the sharpness in her tone, he let it slide, knowing she was only stressed from the mountain of work he had given her.
“So… are you moving or not?”
After the third prompt, he finally stepped away from the doorway, carefully avoiding the thousands of things scattered across the floor. Between small hops,which, fortunately, he was good at, thanks to his training, he made his way into the small empty space she’d cleared for him. Spreading his arms, he let her take measurements.
“How is it possible that every time I measure you, the numbers change? Every single time. You either twist a bit or the measurements just… change.”
She tried not to panic. But she was panicking, and he could tell, because he always could. So, for the umpteenth time, he counted, not to ten this time, but to twenty, and didn’t respond. He knew that when she got like this, completely absorbed in costumes and sketches, she shouldn’t be disturbed. So he stayed silent, like a wooden mannequin.
After a long afternoon filled with her shouting and his silent, condescending patience, they decided the day was over and it was time to order dinner. She was far too tired to cook. And he would never cook, both for his own sake and hers.
Ilia decided to order pizza because she loved it, and somehow he knew it would cheer her up a little.
She was a bundle of nerves, unable to sit still, muttering curses under her breath, whispering things like, what if this seam comes undone? What if the dress rips? What if… while you’re moving and doing those crazy jumps, you catch the pants on the blade and ruin all my work?
These were the nights before important competitions.
He was barely nervous anymore because she absorbed all the tension.
And he loved her for that.
After all, if she was the nervous one, he could relax and distract himself a little.
It was hilarious to watch her pacing back and forth with the pizza box in hand, shouting, whispering, kicking, waving her arms, making those funny expressions that always made him laugh.
Morning finally came, and it was time to hit the rink.
He stepped onto the rink and began his warm-up lap. While doing so, he kept a sweatshirt on, needing to acclimate to the cold air.
She didn’t greet him directly, as usual; she went up into the stands, following her habit of staying back. She knew that if she stood close, her nervous energy might affect him. So she went up, smiled at those who smiled at her, waved at those who waved at her, but never positioned herself like she was someone important. She was just a girl there to watch a skating competition. And if anyone recognized her and greeted her, she returned the smile politely. She never demanded front-row seats or special treatment; in fact, she often chose the farthest, most secluded spots because she already knew his choreography by heart.
She needed to know it in order to design his costumes.
By the time she settled into her spot, he had finished warming up and was waiting to be called for his program.
He finally removed the sweatshirt, and the first thing he looked for. The first thing he instinctively searched for, was a small detail on his wrist.
Her initials, of course.
She had written them there on every costume she had made for him over the years.
At first, she had done it boldly, almost to claim credit as the designer.
Over time, though, it had become a small ritual that brought them closer together.
Being a public couple was complicated. Every shared moment was observed by others. So they needed something private yet meaningful, something that was just theirs.
This little ritual was one of those things.
Both of them were superstitious in their own ways, and this was their shared superstition.
From the moment he realized those two letters brought him luck, she never stopped writing them.
That was why, the night before, he hadn’t complained when she fussed about his measurements changing constantly while preparing the costume. He knew that the measurements of his arm mattered to those two letters. She always wrote them the night before a competition. Was it a ritual? In a way, yes because those two letters meant she was with him, even as he glided in front of the judges.
Since he had learned to calculate the exact second the announcer would call his name, in that fraction of a second before being announced, so fast yet so precise, he kissed those two letters.
Those two letters, barely noticeable to anyone else, but carefully observed by his own eyes.
The detail was now subtle; the color had been muted compared to the bright, bold letters she used at first to show off her work.
Now, it was just slightly lighter than the sleeves’ color. She didn’t want it to be seen it was theirs. And it had to stay that way.
The competition went perfectly.
He stepped in proudly as always, did a lap, made eye contact with the judges, and did what he did best.
Only once he had finished, music ended, did she begin to descend the stands slowly, making her way toward the rink’s exit.
She never entered the space before his program.
No, she waited until it was completely over, superstitious to the last second. And when it ended, only then did she give her compliments.
Calm, quiet, composed.
But he was different.
No, he wasn’t one for controlled emotions, especially after an important performance.
He always launched himself at her, kissed her in front of everyone, giving the photographers exactly what they wanted, and there were always countless photos, every single time.
After the photos and celebrations, which passed in the blink of an eye. They were so used to these moments by now that they hardly even noticed them. It was time for Ilia to step in front of the journalists to give his usual statements.
Sponsors wanted it, and so did he; by now he had grown accustomed to being sought out by reporters, and maybe he even enjoyed it. He had learned to make it enjoyable, and it was just part of the job. You could say his ego was satisfied by all the attention.
But the only question they asked him wasn’t about the complexity of his work. It wasn’t about the competition. It was just about the outfit he was wearing.
Ilia was taken aback; he had expected much more technical questions.
Instead, the question was simple: “Is this costume always hers? We haven’t seen the initials on your wrist in a while. We don’t see that bright flash when you move. What happened?”
He burst out laughing.
The only sensible thing he could do in that moment was laugh.
He laughed, right there in front of the journalists, without a second thought.
“Do you really think that just because she stopped writing the initials, someone else is dressing me? No, no, you’re wrong. She decides how I dress, how I wear my hair, apparently even how I sleep, but that’s another story. She decides everything. She decides what I eat, how I do it. And, make no mistake, I’m not complaining. She’s perfect. She’s perfect for me. And it’s exactly that everyday routine that lets me do what I did today on the ice. Excuse me if I keep laughing while I talk, but… I can’t help it. It’s just too funny to me that you think anyone else could create a masterpiece like this. No, no, it’s always her. And it’s only her. Do you think I tried to find someone else? It’s maddening to be handled and put up with while she takes my measurements, but there’s no one else who can do it properly like she does. So, not only do I have to put up with her, I have to pay her, and I have to live with her. Can you imagine the disaster? So, no, I can’t help but laugh. I can’t believe you can’t see something so simple.”
Even as he finished speaking, he kept laughing, but at some point, he stopped and turned, because he knew she would be behind him, leaning against a wall, off to the side, as always. She always waited in the same spot during his interviews.
He turned, pointed at her in a fraction of a second, then looked straight back at the journalists.
“See her? That’s her. She does this magic, I don’t know how. And maybe the biggest magic of all is putting up with me, because as demanding as she can be about the measurements, you have no idea how demanding I am about the colors. You wouldn’t think so, huh? But every time… it’s like giving birth for her, poor woman. I see her, I see that she has to put up with me, just like I put up with her. So never doubt again that anyone else could have sewn anything I’m wearing.”
The reporters thanked him and let him return to her.
They left the rink as usual, him with an arm around her shoulders, and her waving her arms frantically, repeating over and over that he needed to be more careful with interviewers, that he couldn’t just laugh in their faces, that he had to behave, control his emotions.
He stopped, and she stopped too.
She looked at him; he looked at her.
“Stop doing that, okay? You’re amazing, and it annoys me when people assume you’re not. So please, just once, let your boyfriend give you some good publicity. Now, can we go eat? I’m starving. I just won a gold medal. I deserve a meal.”
She gave him a light slap on the shoulder, then kissed him as usual, and they left, got in the car, and finished the evening at a cozy, quiet, intimate restaurant.
And that was how every competition would go from then on.
In fact, in the end, she would even have a little keepsake of the initials for herself.
The engagement ring he would give her years later would be engraved with his initials, so she could always carry it with her, together with herself.
hey! I love your writing, could you do head cannons about ilia being obsessed with his girlfriend who's also a figure skater (sometimes they do couple routines and competitions because they've been skating for years together, think Tessa and scot type of vibe) and how he's completely obsessed with her? like always posting about her, talking about her in interviews and press conferences etc. Thank you so much!
Ilia Malinin being obsessed with his girlfriend
Summary: Ilia Malinin is the king of “I love my girlfriend”
Warnings: none
[a/n] kinda all over the place lmao but enjoy
- okay so most athletes try and keep their relationships a secret
- not Ilia
- you grew up training together from a really young age so you were always close
- you went on your first ever date as young teens (like 14/15)
- little 14 year old ilia, still in his skates, asking you out right after practice
- you went to a frozen yogurt shop and the rest is history
- even before you were officially public with your relationship everyone kinda knew
- I mean how couldn’t they
- after every program you guys would go to each other first
- at the kiss and cry you celebrate with each other before even celebrating with your coaches
- half of ilia’s instagram is just you
- never anything the couldn’t technically be friendly but just so much of you
- pictures of you guys hanging out or at dinner
- he’s constantly sharing your achievements and covering it up with him just being proud of his “best friend”
- he regularly posts you guys fucking around during training sessions
- okay but his hard launch
- his hard launch
- you guys had been together for years at this point, and tbh ilia just wanted to be able to brag about you being his
- so after a conversation with you about media reactions, fans, what it changes, blah blah blah
- he posts a massive photo dump of you guys
- it starts with an old photo of you guys after the first competition you guys ever competed in, just two little kids in their costumes
- and it continues with you guys throughout the years
- a picture of you he took on your first ever date
- you guys at school events like prom or homecoming
- you asleep in his bed with his cats
- baking cookies in his kitchen wearing his hoodie
- you guys at a concert together
- videos of you guys skating together or trying out some pairs lifts
- basically every soft intimate moment he wanted to share but couldn’t
- the last thing in the post is a video of you guys on the ice. Ilia trying to spin you around, you laughing, him kissing your temple.
- he’s very simple with the caption
- “just making it public”
- and he thinks he’s so funny for this
- he’s posting ALL the couple trends on TikTok now
- the comment section of every post you’re in is just “ilia malinin can you fight”
- there’s compilation videos on TikTok and YouTube of every time ilia says your name or “my girlfriend” during interviews
- it’s a lot
- “who’s your biggest skating inspiration?” “My girlfriend, [y/n]”
- team USA is tallying and has bets placed
- he watches you skate from the boards and is always the loudest person in the room
- he’s literally the king of “my girl my girl my girl”
- his entire family loves you
- sometimes ilia thinks they’d trade him for you
- Liza and you constantly ganging up on him
- he’s EXACTLY where he wants to be
- when you guys aren’t competing in your singles categories you do shows like stars on ice together
- and ilia is making sure you guys are doing a pairs skate
- he loves the ice and loves being on it with you
- people clip your pairs skates and post it with the caption “don’t settle when ilia malinin looks at [y/n] [l/n] like that”
- he loves you more than anything and he makes it the rest of the worlds problem
Crosscourt. ⟶trapped in different reality Azzi fudd x paige beuckers
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No one could tell anything was wrong. That was the worst part.
At UConn, Azzi Fudd was exactly who she was supposed to be: composed, elite, in love. She was Paige Bueckers’ girlfriend. UConn’s reliable sharpshooter. The face of the program next to the most beloved player in college basketball.
She hit her shots. She smiled in interviews. She laughed when Ice clowned her and let Caroline braid her hair while they watched film. She even kissed Paige back when she leaned over during stretches and whispered something dumb and sweet.
But none of it felt like hers.
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The first time Azzi let herself think about it, really think about it, was in the training room. The buzzy heat pads were on her quads, and she had ten minutes to sit there doing nothing. Paige was at treatment across campus. KK was in the locker room talking to Ice.
But some nights — when Paige was out with Ice or when Caroline was asleep across the hall — she pulled her laptop onto her bed, turned the brightness down, and typed with shaking fingers:
“UCLA women’s basketball 2025.”
“Pac-12 standings.”
“Kiki Hayes highlights.”
“Charisma Jackson postgame.”
She watched the same reel of Kiki hitting a dagger three and dancing back on defense about eight times. Not because it was amazing — though it kind of was — but because it felt like proof that the old world had existed.
@kikihayes_
Still there. Still at UCLA.
She hovered for a full minute before she tapped Follow. Then quickly locked her phone like it might explode.
She did the same with @charismaxjackson two days later. Just to see. Just to feel something real.
She didn’t expect either of them to notice. Or care.
But they did.
⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚
Two days later, it started.
@kikihayes_
“yo… you just followed me?? 👀”
“u good?”
Azzi nearly dropped her phone.
She sat there for a minute. Heart pounding. Then typed back, casual:
Azzi: lol yeah
Azzi: just saw a clip of you the other day
Azzi: still cooking huh 😭
Kiki: always lol
Kiki: wait fr tho didn’t think u even remembered me 😭
Kiki: we barely talked even back then
Azzi: i remember
Azzi: you were funny as hell
Azzi: and you cooked me once in practice and never shut up about it
Kiki: LMAOOO i did tho
Kiki: wait… u in cali rn?
Azzi: nah not rn
Azzi: just… miss the vibe i guess
Azzi: y’all always looked like y’all were having fun
Typing bubble.
Kiki: we got a party this weekend
Kiki: westwood house
Kiki: nothing crazy
Kiki: u should come if ur ever in LA 👀
Azzi stared at it.
She didn’t say yes. Not yet. But she screenshotted it and saved the address.
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The next day, Charisma DM’d her too.
@charismaxjackson
“you following me was not on my 2025 bingo card 😂”
“what’s up fudd”
Azzi: nothing just checking in on old enemies 😭
Azzi: congrats on that last game btw you ate
Charisma: wow i’m flattered
Charisma: didn’t think u remembered i existed
Azzi: i remember everything
Azzi paused. Deleted that last line.
Rewrote:
Azzi: nah you were always a problem on defense
Azzi: hard to forget
Charisma: good answer
Charisma: u ever come back to LA? 👀
Azzi: maybe soon
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Later That Night – UConn Dorm
The room was quiet. Paige was brushing her teeth. The purple one. Always Paige’s favorite.
Azzi sat at her desk, staring at her phone. Kiki’s invite. Charisma’s messages. The flyer from that Westwood party sitting deep in her saved folder.
Something in her cracked.
She grabbed her old UCLA duffel from the closet. The one no one ever asked about. Stuffed it with clean clothes. Her beat-up Bruins hoodie that still fit like home.
She left her phone unlocked, in case anyone texted. But no one did.
Before she walked out the door, she glanced once at the photo of her and Paige on the desk.
She didn’t feel anything.
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The Uber dropped her two blocks away.
Azzi’s hoodie was pulled tight over her braids, the strings clenched in her fists like a shield. Her breath fogged in the cool Westwood night. The beat of bass-heavy music rumbled in the distance, somewhere up the hill. She could hear laughter spilling out into the streets — girls yelling, bottles clinking, shoes hitting pavement.
For a moment, she hesitated on the sidewalk.
Was she really doing this?
This wasn’t her life anymore. These weren’t her teammates. But her legs moved anyway. Like they remembered something her brain wouldn’t let her name.
The house glowed in pink lights, the windows wide open with silhouettes dancing inside. Azzi took a breath. Then walked in.
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The music hit like a wave. There were bodies everywhere — in the kitchen, slouched on couches, dancing on hardwood floors. Someone handed her a cup without asking. She took it, grateful.
And then —
“Yo… no way.”
She turned.
Kiki.
Dressed in all-black, gold earrings catching the light. Her smile hit like sunlight — crooked, curious, just a little surprised.
“You actually came?” Kiki grinned, grabbing Azzi’s wrist. “What are you doing here?”
Azzi laughed, nerves cracking like glass. “Told you I might be around.”
“Bruh, you’re wild,” Kiki said, pulling her in for a hug. “Come meet the girls.”
She dragged her across the room, past spilled drinks and thumping speakers. The UCLA team was huddled in the back — couches, chairs, someone’s lap. Charisma looked up, wide-eyed.
“Okay hold up — Azzi Fudd??”
Azzi gave a small wave. “Hi.”
“Damn, you’re taller in person,” Charisma said, standing up and giving her a once-over. “Didn’t think you had a party bone in your body.”
“She’s mysterious like that,” Kiki teased, handing her a slice of lime from someone’s drink. “Wanna do a shot?”
Azzi blinked. “Uh—”
“Too late,” Kiki said, tipping it into her cup. “Welcome to Westwood.”
And for the first time in weeks, Azzi smiled for real.
She was laughing. Like full-on, doubled over, breathless laughing.
Charisma had just told a story about locking a coach out of the gym and blaming it on a freshman, and Azzi couldn’t breathe. The music had shifted into old-school R&B. People were dancing. She was swaying a little herself, cup in hand, curls loose around her face.
Kiki was next to her, arm slung casually around her waist. “You look relaxed,” she said, nudging Azzi’s ribs.
“I think I forgot how to feel this way,” Azzi admitted softly.
Kiki didn’t push. Just clinked their cups together. “Cheers to remembering.”
And then—
The front door slammed.
“AZZI!”
The whole room froze.
Standing at the doorway, jaw clenched and chest rising, was Paige.
Behind her: KK, eyes burning. Ice, arms folded tight. And Caroline, looking somewhere between confused and horrified.
Azzi’s stomach plummeted.
Paige’s eyes scanned the room — landed on Azzi, still holding her drink, Kiki’s hand still on her back.
“Oh,” Paige said. “So this is what you’ve been up to.”
Azzi set her cup down. Calmly. Quietly.
“Paige—”
“You lied to me.”
“I didn’t—”
“You left in the middle of the night and didn’t say a word!”
KK stepped forward, heat in her voice. “You dipped on your team.”
“You been sneaking around, texting people who don’t even know you like that?” KK barked. “Why the hell are you even here?”
Caroline stepped between them. “Okay, okay, can we all slow down?”
“She’s not supposed to be here,” Paige said, more to Azzi than anyone else. “You’re mine. We—this—none of it makes sense!”
Azzi’s hands were shaking now. But she didn’t back down.
“I’m not a possession, Paige.”
Paige blinked. The room stilled.
“I never said you were.”
“You just act like it,” Azzi said, voice steady. “Every time I try to breathe, you’re watching. Every time I try to feel something that’s not UConn-approved, you freak out.”
KK rolled her eyes. “It’s not about that. It’s about loyalty.”
“I’m loyal,” Azzi snapped. “I show up to practice. I kill myself in the gym. I do the interviews. I smile, I hold her hand under the table, smile like I mean it, and pretend we’re just two teammates who are close — even when I feel like I’m disappearing into someone I don’t recognize.”
Kiki and Charisma shared a quiet glance.
“And y’all are mad,” Azzi continued, “because I wanted one night to be around people who don’t look at me like I owe them something.”
The silence buzzed.
Caroline finally stepped forward. “Azzi,” she said gently. “What’s going on?”
Azzi looked at her. And she almost said it.
Almost.
But instead, she just said: “Nothing. I just wanted to feel like myself for a second.”
Paige’s voice was raw now. “And I don’t make you feel that way?”
Azzi met her eyes. And didn’t answer.
Kiki’s arm was still lightly resting around Azzi’s waist, but now her touch was more defensive. Protective.
Charisma shifted next to her, one brow raised, lips pressed in a thin line.
Paige’s eyes didn’t move. Her voice, when it came, was low — too calm.
“You ghosted me.”
“I didn’t—”
“You left. Without saying a word. I left the bathroom and you weren’t there.”
Azzi swallowed. Her voice came out softer than she wanted.
“I needed some space.”
“Space?” Paige repeated, like the word offended her. “You mean you needed to lie?”
KK cut in, voice sharp and unrelenting.
“You’re out here partying with people who don’t even know you? While we’re at home trying to figure out if you’re okay?”
Azzi’s shoulders tensed. “I didn’t ask you to follow me.”
“Oh, so now it’s our fault for caring?” KK snapped. “You think you’re too good for us now? Too good for UConn?”
“I didn’t say that—”
“But that’s what you meant,” KK barked. “You’re chasing people who don’t know you. Don’t even like you like that.”
Kiki’s voice sliced through the tension.
“First off,” she said slowly, “maybe don’t speak for us.”
The room felt like it shifted. Paige’s jaw tightened. KK looked ready to pop.
Azzi felt her pulse racing under her skin. Too fast. Too much.
Kiki looked down at her, voice low, firm. “You okay?”
Azzi nodded once, but her hands were shaking.
Paige finally broke the silence again.
“What is this?” Her voice cracked — not angry, but something deeper. “Why are you doing this to me?”
Azzi’s throat caught.
“I’m not doing anything to you.”
“You disappeared,” Paige said, stepping closer. “You changed. You’ve been quiet, distant, always in your head. You started following people you never talked about before. KK saw it. Ice saw it. I saw it.”
“And instead of asking me,” Azzi said, voice shaking now, “you pulled up with backup. Like I’m your enemy.”
Paige flinched. “You’re not my enemy.”
“Then stop treating me like one.”
KK let out a sharp exhale, stepping in. “You know what? Maybe we’re just done playing around. You’re either with us, or you’re not.”
Caroline finally spoke up, stepping in between everyone.
“Okay, wait—hold on. This is not helping.”
“No,” KK snapped. “She’s acting brand new and no one’s saying it.”
“She’s allowed to feel weird!” Caroline said, voice rising. “Maybe she’s just figuring stuff out!”
“While lying to us?” KK shot back.
Caroline turned to Azzi, voice gentler. “Can you just tell us what’s going on? Please?”
Azzi looked at her. At all of them.
She wanted to scream: I don’t belong here.
She wanted to cry: I woke up in a world that doesn’t remember me.
She wanted to explain how she used to run Westwood. How Kiki was her training partner. How she and Charisma once got matching haircuts after an Elite Eight win. How she could still feel the ghosts of locker rooms that didn’t exist anymore.
Instead, she just said:
“I needed to remember who I was before everything got so… tangled.”
KK rolled her eyes.
“And who are you now? A UCLA fangirl?”
Kiki stepped in front of Azzi now, all chill gone.
“She’s more welcome here than y’all are.”
“Back off,” Paige snapped.
Kiki smirked. “Or what?”
Paige’s eyes burned. “Don’t touch her.”
“I’m not touching her,” Kiki said. “I’m holding her down. There’s a difference.”
Charisma nodded, arms still crossed. “You roll in here like she belongs to you. Maybe that’s your problem.”
The air cracked.
Azzi felt something shift in Paige — a wound ripping open. Something breaking.
Paige’s voice dropped again.
“We’re supposed to be a team.”
“We are,” Azzi said quietly. “But that doesn’t mean I stop being a person.”
Everyone froze.
The music, now off, left a hum in their ears. Just breath. Just eyes. Just weight.
Finally, Caroline spoke again. Soft. But firm.
“We should go.”
Paige stared at Azzi. “Are you coming with us?”
Azzi didn’t answer.
Paige’s voice cracked again. “Azzi.”
Still, nothing.
KK grabbed her jacket. “Let’s go.”
Ice was already halfway out the door.
Caroline hesitated, looking at Azzi one last time. “Text me if you need anything, okay?”
Azzi nodded. “Thanks.”
The door closed.
Silence.
Kiki turned to her. “You good?”
Azzi didn’t speak
Azzi didn’t speak for most of the flight back.
She sat in her window seat, forehead resting against the plastic, headphones on with no music playing. She stared at the clouds, the dark outline of the land beneath them, the shrinking distance between who she wanted to be and who she had to pretend to be.
No one sat beside her.
The UConn girls took up the row behind her, whispering in bursts, snickering once, loudly unwrapping gum. KK’s laugh rang out like a dare. Paige hadn’t spoken to her since the door slammed shut in Westwood.
When they landed, Paige reached for Azzi’s bag out of habit — like she always did — but Azzi grabbed it first and didn’t look at her.
That was the first unspoken blow.
There would be more.
⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚
The next practice hit hard.
KK threw elbow screens like she was trying to break someone’s ribs.
Paige’s passes were too fast, too sharp. Ice didn’t say a word to anyone.
Azzi bit her cheek through all of it.
Caroline was the only one who made eye contact. And when she did, there was pity behind it. Like she didn’t know how to help, and was afraid of getting burned trying.
After a brutal scrimmage, Coach blew the whistle.
“Take five!”
Azzi collapsed onto the bench, grabbing a towel. She could feel the sweat sliding down her back, her lungs begging for air.
KK walked past her, loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Funny how you got all this energy now. Bet that party really filled your tank.”
Azzi didn’t flinch.
Paige looked over from the other bench, her face unreadable. But when she met Azzi’s eyes, something flickered: a warning. A dare.
Caroline muttered, “KK, drop it.”
KK turned on her. “Why? We all just supposed to pretend she didn’t vanish to go flirt with West Coast nobodies?”
Azzi stood up. Calmly. Towel still around her neck.
“You done?”
KK laughed, fake and sharp. “Oh, so now you have a voice again.”
“Yeah,” Azzi said, stepping forward. “And I’m using it to say: I don’t care what you think.”
KK’s brows raised.
“Oh, she bold now.”
“I’ve always been bold,” Azzi said. “Just been too polite to show it.”
Coach blew the whistle again, yelling something about focus. But it didn’t matter — the air was already ruined.
Paige stood up. Crossed the gym. Her voice was soft. But too soft.
“We need to talk.”
“Then talk,” Azzi said.
“Alone.”
Azzi followed. Not because she wanted to. Because she knew Paige wouldn’t let it go otherwise.
⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚
The door shut. The silence was colder than the tile walls.
“You embarrassed me,” Paige said finally.
Azzi blinked. “That’s what this is about?”
“You left,” Paige said. “You didn’t tell me where you were going. You made me look like a fool in front of my teammates. My friends.”
“Your friends,” Azzi repeated.
“You let them touch you,” Paige said, voice shaking. “That girl — Kiki or whatever? She had her hands all over you.”
“I didn’t let her do anything,” Azzi snapped. “I was just… there. I was with people who let me exist.”
“I let you exist,” Paige said, stepping closer. “I love you.”
Azzi froze.
The words hit differently now. Too sharp. Too heavy.
“Do you?” Azzi asked, voice tight. “Or do you love the version of me you’ve built around yourself?”
Paige stepped closer, chest rising and falling. “Azzi, I’ve known you since we were fifteen. Since USA camp. You remember that? I’ve been with you through more than anyone else.”
Azzi swallowed hard.
“You didn’t even like me back then,” she said, half under her breath.
Paige’s laugh was bitter, short. “Yeah, well, you didn’t like anyone. But I always saw you. I always knew you’d be… you. And I stuck around anyway.”
Azzi looked away.
Paige’s voice dropped, lower now, the cracks more obvious. “You think this—us—is something I just made up? Like I dragged you into it? Like this wasn’t real?”
Azzi’s throat tightened. “I never said that.”
“You’re acting like it,” Paige snapped. “Like this whole thing is some illusion I forced on you. You think I don’t see the way you flinch when I touch you now? Or how quiet you’ve gotten? The way you’re pulling away from everything we built—together?”
Azzi was quiet for too long. Paige took a step back, like that silence burned.
“I’m not trying to control you, Azzi. I’m trying to hold on. Because this—” she gestured between them “—has been the one constant in my life since we were teenagers. And it wasn’t perfect, but it was real. And you’re acting like it’s disposable.”
Azzi met her eyes now, finally. And her voice was calm, but firm.
“No. I’m not saying it was fake. But… maybe it wasn’t mine the way it was yours.”
Paige blinked.
“What the hell does that mean?”
Paige’s voice rang through the quiet locker room, raw and unraveling. But Azzi didn’t answer.
She just stood there, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the floor — like the words were there, written in the cracks between tiles, if she stared hard enough.
But she said nothing.
Paige waited. One second. Two. Ten. Long enough for the silence to feel permanent.
Her breath caught in her throat.
“Say something,” she tried again, softer this time. Pleading. “Anything.”
Still, Azzi said nothing.
She couldn’t.
Not without breaking everything.
Paige nodded slowly, lips pressed into a hard line. The kind of nod people give when they finally stop hoping.
“Right,” she said. Her voice was brittle, like glass under pressure. She stepped back.
Her eyes burned, but her spine stayed straight. Barely.
“Tell me when you’ve figured it out,” she said quietly. “Because I’m done being the only one hurting in this.”
Azzi finally looked up — too late.
Paige was already walking away, her footsteps echoing across the tile like the sound of a door closing.
And Azzi stayed frozen where she stood.
Not chasing.
Not explaining.
Just listening to the sound of someone giving up on her.
Okay hear me out on this request - enemies to lovers kind of thing but we are still on the enemies part… (just so there is a bit more then hate lol)
So I’m thinking reader is also a figure skater, a pretty good one, or kinda one of the best in the women’s field, and people usually compare the two’s skating, technically and artistry for example, (maybe reader thinks like ilia is just overrated and have to much ego (he dont though)and ISU golden boy, idk why ilia hates her though🤔🤔) and they both won the competition they currently at(u can pick which competition🙂↕️) aaaand they want reader and ilia to do a pair number tg on the exhibition gala (like they one program individually and one tg, isn’t really relevant) So it starts with maybe reader finding out about this trough her coach and she is NOT happy and tries to talk back, then Ilia and reader obv need to train on ts program tg, (it’s not fun😔) Ilia is kind of a bitch and reader just wants to leave (earth) and then final - the exhibition gala (the crowd loooves them)
This could be to much to ask for but a girl can dream, I’m sorry if this isn’t understandable English isn’t my first language… I would appreciate it🙏🏼🙏🏼🙏🏼
They go way back…too far back, actually. And oh boy do they push each other’s buttons and “can’t stand each other.” is an understatement.
Not in the casual, competitive way people liked to romanticize in interviews. Not in the playful, teasing rivalry fans ate up online. No, this was years of sharp glances across rinks, tight smiles on red carpets, and interviews where they refused to say each other’s names unless absolutely necessary.
She had watched Ilia rise the way meteors did…fast, bright, unavoidable. And she hated how everyone spoke about him like he was untouchable. Like the sport had already decided he was its future.
“ISU’s golden boy,” she’d mutter more times than she could count.
And Ilia?
Ilia thought she was impossible.
Too cold. Too blunt. Too quick to cut someone down with a look or a comment that left no room for softness. And worst of all, he hated the comparisons.
‘Her artistry vs his technique.’
‘Her interpretation vs his jumps.’
‘Her control vs his risk.’
Like they were two halves of something that should never be whole.
She found out in the worst way possible.
“Absolutely not.”
Her coach didn’t even blink. “You don’t have a choice.”
She paced the small lounge area like a caged animal, still in her Team USA jacket, hair half falling out of its competition bun after the long night. “You’re telling me…after Worlds, after I just skated clean…that I have to go out there and, what…?hold hands with him?”
“Decided by who?” she snapped. “People who don’t have to deal with him?”
Her coach sighed, clearly having expected this. “The organizers. The ISU. The crowd wants it.”
“I don’t care what the crowd wants!”
“You will do it.”
Thirty minutes.
Thirty minutes of arguing, pacing, throwing her hands in the air, listing every possible reason why this was a terrible idea.
Thirty minutes of getting absolutely nowhere.
By the end, she was glaring at the floor like it had personally betrayed her.
“Fine,” she bit out. “But I’m not enjoying it.”
The first practice was exactly as miserable as she expected.
“Late,” she said flatly the moment Ilia stepped onto the ice.
He blinked once, unbothered. “We weren’t given a time.”
“You were given a window. You’re at the end of it.”
“Good thing I showed up, then.”
She scoffed, pushing off into a slow glide, not even looking at him. “Bare minimum. Impressive.”
Ilia exhaled sharply, already annoyed. “You’re like this all the time, or just with me?”
She stopped, turning to face him. “You bring it out of me.”
“Yeah?” His head tilted slightly. “Funny. You think I’m the problem.”
“You are the problem.”
“Because I land jumps you can’t?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Because you think that’s all skating is.”
There it was.
The usual argument. That was usually spoken through sharp glances and eyes. But now words behind it. The same one that had been circling them for years, never fully spoken but always there.
He shook his head, skating past her. “You don’t know anything about how I think.”
“And you don’t know anything about skating beyond rotations.”
“Wow.” He let out a humorless laugh. “You really believe that.”
“I know that.”
They stood there for a moment, the tension thick enough to cut.
Then the choreographer clapped from the boards. “Or? you could both stop acting like children and try the opening sequence.”
It was not fun.
At all.
She missed grips on purpose the first few times.
He didn’t adjust fast enough out of spite.
They collided once, hard enough that she nearly lost her balance.
“Watch it,” she snapped.
“You let go early.”
“You pulled wrong.”
“You didn’t follow through.”
“Oh my…” she threw her hands up. “This is a disaster.”
Ilia rubbed the back of his neck, clearly restraining himself. “Then maybe stop fighting everything.”
“I’m not fighting!”
“You are,” he cut in, more serious now. “You’re anticipating everything I do like it’s wrong before it even happens.”
She stared at him, taken aback…not by what he said, but how he said it.
Not defensive.
Not cocky.
Just… honest.
“You do the same thing,” she shot back, but there was less bite in it.
He shrugged slightly. “Yeah. Because I expect you to be difficult.”
“I am not…”
He raised an eyebrow.
She huffed. “Okay. Maybe a little.”
A pause.
Then, unexpectedly…he smirked.
And something about it made her irritation shift into something else. Not softer. Just… less sharp.
“Try again,” he said, pushing off. “This time don’t assume I’m screwing it up.”
She hesitated… then followed.
It didn’t magically fix everything.
But it got… better.
Less arguing. More correcting.
Less snapping. More actual communication.
She noticed things she hadn’t let herself notice before. how precise his edges were, how controlled his landings felt even up close. Not just big jumps, but details.
And Ilia?
He noticed how intentional she was with everything. Every movement placed, every transition meaningful. Nothing wasted.
It was… annoying.
Because it made the comparisons make sense.
By the time the exhibition gala came around, they weren’t friends.
Not even close.
But they weren’t trying to sabotage each other anymore.
Which, honestly, felt like progress.
The arena was packed.
World champions always drew a crowd but this? This was something else.
The announcer hyped them up like it was a main event.
She rolled her eyes as she stepped onto the ice.
“Don’t mess this up,” she muttered under her breath.
He took her hand…she looked up at him…
Ilia smirked beside her. “You first.”
The music started…. “I’d let the world burn…”
And everything else… disappeared.
No interviews. No comparisons. No years of irritation.
Just skating.
They moved in sync in a way that surprised even them. timing sharp, transitions smooth, energy building with every pass. The crowd felt it, the way they leaned forward, the way the noise grew louder with every lift, every step sequence.
By the final section, they weren’t thinking anymore.
Just reacting.
Moving.
Trusting.
And when they hit the last pose, closer than they’d ever been…there was a split second where the world held its breath.
Then…
He turned his head and kissed her cheek.
Right there. Center ice.
The arena exploded.
Backstage, the noise still echoed faintly through the walls.
She grabbed his arm the second they stepped off.
“What was that?”
Ilia blinked, like he hadn’t expected the question.
“The kiss.”
“Oh.” He shrugged lightly. “Heat of the moment is all.”
She stared at him for a second longer, trying to read something deeper and failing.
“Sure,” she said, pulling her arm back. “Sure, whatever you say, Malinin.”
She turned smirking and started walking off.
A beat.
Then, behind her…
“I’m still better than you.”
She paused, just slightly, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth despite herself.
i feel like some su fans don't realize Pearl isn't keeping a promise when she covers her mouth, she literally cannot speak of it because Rose made it a command, not a suggestion/request.
picture from end of an era
we know from an interview (cant find it) that Pearl's compulsion to obey the command is unique to Pearl - that no, Garnet wasn't forced by Rose to never ask questions. Pearl is uniquely programmed to obey a direct command like that because she was designed for Pink. this is a horrifying little bit of worldbuilding lol, thanks crewniverse - but it definitely makes Rose's act go from manipulative to outright egregious
what Rose does here to Pearl (by gagging her), is what the diamonds do to all gems. it's a highly institutionalized violation of agency that robs every gem, especially those of lower caste, of freedom, individuality, and autonomy. quantifiably, the gag order doesn't rob Pearl of much (there's only one thing she can't do after all), but for Rose to silence Pearl at all, to take away her voice, has enormous implications thematically and for Rose's character. Rose knows Pearl isn't able to resist the command, she gives it with the intention of taking advantage of her innate programming (designed by, and representative of, a system they both hate!) to forcibly prevent disobedience. this is WHILE she's trying to establish equality between them! if i were Pearl, i know id struggle with understanding where i stand. the signals are mixed as hell.
and we know Pearl wasn't sure she was equal, even after Rose's death. one example being - "who am i now in this world without her? petty and dull with the nerve to doubt her." i think occasionally members of the fandom fail to recognize or overlook that especially in her worst moments, Pearl STILL felt less than Rose, not only hierarchically but just fundamentally worth *less.* it's a struggle she eventually overcomes, yet during the run of the show, she's still fighting that battle. we also know from ep 2 of future (wherein steven tries to give all the gems non-homeworld-purpose related tasks), we know gems tend toward their original designed purpose.
but this isn't a Rose hate post and i wouldn't be caught dead writing one.
so what was happening when she gave the gag order? we know from the episode "bismuth," rose told bismuth she could be anything she wanted to be, that gems could choose for themselves. rose fought a whole war to free any gem who wanted to be free and to protect humanity. she told garnet (practically) to make her own identity and create her own purpose. how is this the same person who abused her power over pearl to make her keep a secret?
in end of an era, rebecca says: "[rose] makes sense once you know she is her own worst enemy. she dreams, achingly, that she could become compassionate, because she's sure she is incapable of compassion. her lack of respect for herself makes it impossible for her to respect everyone closest to her."
and that therein is the tragic heart of the problem. Rose hates herself. she wants to change, she wants to be good, but even when she IS good - she can't see it for what it is, past her own shame and self-disgust. it makes it "impossible to respect everyone closest to her" - including, and most damagingly (becuz of her purpose on homeworld and accompanying trauma), to Pearl. Blue and Yellow planted the seeds of self-hate, and developing her own value system on earth and learning to despise the diamonds' for the system they upheld reinforced that she, by just being a diamond at all, MUST be bad. she longed to be good but could conceive of no pathway to do so, except hiding her "villainy" permanently behind a "hero" mask and running away.
Rose couldn't even tolerate the slightest chance Pearl might say something, that's how deep the fear and shame ran, that she felt the need to do an absolutely horrible thing to a gem she very dearly loved in order to make sure her worst fear could never come true. people who need control need it to feel safe. it's kinda like that. the irony is that in trying desperately to hide that she's a diamond, she makes the fatal mistake of doing what a diamond does - controlling those beneath them in the hierarchy and reducing them down to their designed purpose. she tried hard not to be pearl's owner and not to treat pearl like her slave, but in this moment of finally escaping those roles, she embodies them briefly - with lasting consequences. it's an ego-dystonic betrayal of her own values impelled by self-hate and fear. it's heartbreaking for both of them.
Pearlrose's issues were varied but miscommunication was a big one. now they can't ever talk about it. what a difference it would have made if Rose hadn't done what she did. i wonder how often she wished she didn't (thought to herself, "pearl doesn't deserve that, how could i do that?"), then felt that fear creep back up, and maybe even wondered whether pearl's love was even genuine, or if it was totally hollow. in greg the babysitter she says, "When a gem is made, it's for a reason, they burst out of the ground already knowing what they're supposed to be, and then.. that's what they are. Forever." She says it almost sadly. like she's not sure she's anything but what she's always been, maybe even unsure pearl's anything but what she's always been. how can you trust someone to keep the deepest, most shameful secret of your life, if you're not even sure this person loves you sincerely?
we know Rose is tragically wrong here. she could grow and change. the gems are entirely capable of growth. every central character grows over the show- including Rose, we just watch it backwards! but she can't see herself for who she is and it's what doomed her.
isn't that the essential symptom of shame? Rose's self-loathing hurt not only herself, but Pearl (and Bismuth, Sapphire and Ruby, etc.) and she spent thousands of years healing from it. by hiding and hurting ourselves, we hurt others inevitably.
Summary: Moving to a new city can be difficult. Finding like-minded people even harder. What happens when you find an intriguing, domineering woman in a BDSM club? What will your relationship turn into? And will it always feel this good?
Pairing: Emily Prentiss x Reader; Emily Prentiss x Y/N
Is this really worth it? you asked yourself as you walked into the club. The night was just beginning and already the strap on your heels was chafing your ankles. Nerves flooded your stomach as you looked around the club. Dark, warm, intimate. You had never been in a place like this before. What did one say to find a Domme? How did one socialize in a place like this? You nearly turned and walked right back out.
You glanced around, the dim lights making it harder to see. On velvet couches, women sat in men's laps, whispering in ears, tongues sneaking out in teasing flicks. In another corner, two men were wrapped in an intimate embrace, lips furiously attacking the other's while a third watched, a predatory glint in his eyes. You weren't sure what you had been expecting when a friend mentioned a club to meet fellow kinksters, but you knew you weren't expecting something so banal. Where were the chains? Where were the St. Andrew's crosses? Where were the walls of instruments for whipping and flogging? Disappointment and more nerves settled in the pit of your stomach.
You sat at the bar, unsuccessfully tugging at the hem of your too-short and too-tight dress. You ordered a glass of red and looked around again. You were too socially awkward for this, too out of practice. It had been years since you had a Domme, and now you couldn't even remember how you had agreed to begin that relationship anyway. You hung your head low, letting your hair fall over your eyes a bit. Anything to hide your embarrassment at thinking you could do this in a new city knowing next to no one.
As you sipped on your wine you thought to the changes upcoming for you. New city, new job, new apartment. You had moved from LA to DC because the market for fixers was larger. Damn near every politician in this city needed a fixer. You idly wondered why they didn't just behave, but then again, if they did, you'd be out of a job. Well-behaved people had no need of a fixer. You had contemplated moving back to Hollywood, but then you remembered why you had left in the first place. Hollywood's problems seemed to revolve around two things: drugs and sex. It was tiresome, played out.
You had grown tired of the vapid women always stabbing each other in the back. You were sick of the sex-crazed men looking for their next fix. You had left LA not realizing that everyone's problems were the same in DC, they were just far more underhanded about everything. Politicians had a slippery way about them. Something sinister seemed to brew just beneath the surface of this city.
After a few months of fixing in DC, you decided it wasn't for you anymore. It had been a whirlwind chain of events, but after a rigorous interview process and training program, you had been hired as the Behavior Analysis Unit's media liaison. The unit chief believed your experience as a fixer was going to revolutionize how they spun cases in the media. He also mentioned having a quick judge of character on the team would be invaluable; your time as a fixer had allowed you to develop a sixth sense for when someone was lying to you.
You were anxious to get started, to meet the team, but the FBI wouldn't let you start until you got your marksmanship up to par. Ruefully, you grimaced thinking how you had sworn to yourself that you would never own a gun. And now here you were, training for weeks on how to shoot a gun so you could have the job.
You swirled the wine in your glass, thinking it a direct mirror of how your thoughts felt in your head. Again you wondered, is this really worth it?
"I haven't seen you around here," a smooth voice interrupted the maelstrom in your head.
Turning your head slightly, already forgetting your purpose here, your breath caught in your throat. You took in the sharp jaw line, the strong, angled nose, and the raven hair so silky you thought surely it had been spun from the gods. Desperate to play it cool, you begged your voice to stay even. "I just moved here a few months ago," you responded. Deep, espresso eyes framed by impossibly long lashes bored into yours. Something shifted inside you, and warmth spread through your stomach.
"Who brought you?" the woman asked, referencing the club's requirement to be escorted by an established member.
You wondered if you should lie. While the friend who had told you about this place was a member, she wasn't here with you tonight. "I came with Ellie," you said offhandedly.
"Ahh," she said in false understanding, turning back to face the bartender. "I won't keep you from her." You watched as she turned on a stiletto heel, her obviously expensive, tailored suit doing her ass major favors.
"No," you quickly corrected, drawing her back. "I came with her, but I'm not with her." You looked into her eyes, willing her to understand that you were here seeking something that wasn't Ellie. Ellie was a good friend, but that's all she'd ever be. "I'm actually here to find…" you trailed off, embarrassed.
She quirked a brow, the expression so sexy you thought you might pass out. "To find…?" she prompted as she slid back onto the barstool next to you.
You. "Um," you stammered, "Just to find community in a new city," you lied.
She stared at you a beat longer, as if she also had a sixth sense to know when people were lying to her. But luckily, she didn't call you on it. "Can I buy you a drink?"
"Okay." You swallowed the last bit of your wine and asked for another. You hoped you had been coy enough to capture her attention. You weren't sure what the woman was doing here. Hope bloomed in your chest that she may be looking for something similar; she was alone, after all.
"I didn't catch your name," you said sticking your hand out to her formally. "I'm Y/N."
"Natalia," she crooned, slipping her impossibly soft hand into yours.
"Have you been a member here long?" you asked, hoping to get more information about her interests.
"A few years," she responded casually. "What about you? Did you go to clubs like this where you used to live?"
"No," you answered honestly. "I haven't got a clue what to do here." She looked at you with interest. "That's not to say I'm not part of the community," you amended. Warmth blazed across your cheeks. "I've just, uh," your fingers twisted your wine glass, anxious to channel some of this nervous energy. "I've just never sought out a club like this before."
Maddeningly, she didn't say anything. She just continued to scrutinize you, those hypnotizing eyes refusing to break your gaze. "And what do you think so far?" Her voice was low, gravelly. Sexy.
"It's not quite what I expected," you admitted.
Flashing large, perfect, white teeth, she chuckled knowingly. "Dungeons with chains and whips everywhere?" You flushed under her amusement, feeling naive. "Were you expecting to see couples playing out in the open?"
Embarrassed, you simply drank your wine, refusing to answer. She continued her teasing, "And still you came." You looked into her eyes, curious at the change in her voice. "Believing you'd see something so lewd, still you came."
Her eyes penetrated yours, digging for some insight you refused to give her verbally. "But you're a good girl," she guessed. "You wouldn't participate in something so public." You stayed silent, in awe that she could nail you down so quickly. The way she was looking at you, as if she were looking through you, coiled something inside you.
"It scares you," she surmised. It wasn't a question; she seemingly had figured you out and needed no confirmation from you. Still you declined to affirm for her that she was reading you so well. "But you're curious anyway. And so you thought you'd come to Ellie's favorite club?"
Surprise washed over you that she knew Ellie well enough to know this place was her favorite. "You know her?"
"I know everyone here." Jackpot you thought. Natalia was well-connected here. She would be able to tell you who was involved and who was looking for a sub. You hoped DC had a bigger LGBT community. Maybe Natalia could at least point you to the direction of a different club if that wasn't here.
Buck up buttercup, you chided yourself. It was time to make something happen.
"Look," you said matter-of-factly, "Can I be completely honest?"
"Of course," she said, interest piqued.
"I don't typically do casual sex. What I'm really interested in is finding a Domme."
Natalia smirked as if she already knew that was what you were here for. Her thumb rubbed up and down the side of her rocks glass arrogantly. Caressing sensuously, your eyes tracked the lines of her hands up and down. "I bet I can help you with that…" You shivered at the tone of her voice, something in it changing, dropping. You wondered if she had a sub. You hoped she'd be able to at least introduce you to someone. "Would you like to go to a private booth to discuss this?"
You shivered again at the way she was looking at you. Electricity buzzed just beneath your skin. "Discuss what?" you asked a bit breathlessly.
She stepped off her barstool, holding her hand out for you to take. Without hesitation, you took her hand and let her tug you to her. "To see if you're suited for my needs." You nearly moaned, her confidence exactly what you needed.
Natalia dragged you to a room you didn't know existed near the back of the building. It was lined with private booths, more enclosed for better privacy and lined with soft fabric to create that intimacy you noticed as soon as you walked in this club. She found an empty one and pulled you to sit closer to her. Feeling bold, hoping to entice Natalia, you draped your legs over hers, increasing the intimacy of the moment.
Her hand immediately gripped your calf, her fingers tracing patterns into your skin. Goosebumps raised over your skin at the touch. "Shall we start easy?" she asked. "Do you have a safeword?"
"I use the stoplight system. Is that okay?" you asked nervously.
Her eyes softened and she murmured a simple, "Of course. No others?"
"Just green, yellow, red."
Natalia was a pro at this. She was skilled at easing your nerves and getting you to openly communicate about your limits and preferences. You had been worried that since it had been so long since having a conversation like this that it might have been awkward. And maybe with anyone else it would have been. But not with her.
"Any pet names I should avoid? Or ones you prefer?" she asked, her hand continuing to stroke your leg. As the conversation progressed, she grew bolder and inched higher up your leg.
"None to avoid. I'm really fine with any of them. Same question for you: which honorifics do you prefer?"
"Ma'am, or Mommy." Your pupils dilated a bit at the thought, the reality of what you were doing sinking in. As she stared down at you, desire coursed through you. You tamped it down, understanding the need to discuss boundaries before starting anything.
And as if Natalia had a checklist memorized, she one-by-one recited common kinks, asking which you were okay with. And again you noticed that with anyone else it would feel clinical. But with her, it was exciting. With her, you couldn't wait to start playing.
"Any concerns for you?" she asked, wrapping up her interrogation on hard limits.
You leaned closer, hoping soon she'd kiss you. "Just one thing," you stated.
"Go on then," she prompted.
"This is just a trial run tonight? No hard feelings if it doesn't work out?" Though you hoped fervently it would work out. Natalia was the sexiest woman you'd ever seen, and you couldn't wait to uncover how she was in the bedroom. She nodded in response to your question. "I'd just like to know now if you aren't open to something more long-term."
"I haven't had a sub in a while," she admitted, eyes cast down. "It isn't that I don't want one – I do," she insisted. One finger tentatively moved under the hemline of your dress, teasing. "But I work a lot. And every time I've had a sub, they get tired of me not being around."
You couldn't believe your luck. Being a fixer required long, strange hours. You never knew when a client would find themselves in a sticky situation. You often received calls in the middle of the night requesting your services with promises of large checks. And when you finally got your clearance at the BAU, your hours would probably be just as unreliable. "Even better," you affirmed. "That shouldn't be a problem."
"Come here, angel," she commanded, her other hand tilting your chin up. The air shifted between you, the electricity sparking back to life. The hand on your thigh slid over your hip and squeezed as her lips descended on yours. You lost yourself in her kiss, smoky from her whiskey. Fire swelled in the pit of your stomach as her hands continued to massage your hips and ass.
You deepened the kiss, moaning into her mouth as her tongue caressed yours. You shifted to straddle her. And with practiced hands, as if you had been doing this dance for years, Natalia's hands pulled you, settling you on her lap. As your legs straddled her thighs, you wished there was something to rub against, the ache between your legs building. You bucked into nothing, desperation increasing as Natalia sucked the spot behind your ear.
"Fuck," you whispered, gripping her shoulders tightly.
She licked back up your neck, nuzzling underneath your jaw, her hands roaming your thighs freely. You only wished she'd slip her fingers underneath your thong and take whatever she wanted. "Come home with me," she ordered. You didn't need to be told twice.
A/n: leave me a comment! Tell me how you like it :)
Minesweeper is an iconic game, a puzzle game, a free game, and an interesting game. It presents you (and by you I obviously mean me and I’m suggesting you think the same way) with a fairly simple, standard set of rules and requirements and the practiced mind can immediately set to work on them, identifying areas that are easier or harder. It is a problem that offers itself for the solving, and it’s less unfair than it seems, but it is still unfair. Despite its seeming simplicity and small number of rules, it has enormous emergent complexity, since you can use Minesweeper games to create logic gates, and therefore, a whole computer, and the base game of minesweeper is one of those games that secretly hides the P=NP conundrum deep in its bowels. I think it’s the simplicity of the base game that makes it so attractive to coders as as a programming exercise.
Minsweeper’s great!
I come not to bury Minesweeper, but to uplift it. I am pretty much done with Minesweeper myself, because I have hit the limits of where skill and time investment run into one another. I could get better but by how much and in exchange for how much time? Some games are great for their investment of time, and Minesweeper asks more time of me.
Still, I like the style of game and I like what it represents, so I’d like to bring to your attention this wonderful game that I discovered thanks to the Loading Ready Run Subathon, Dragonsweeper.
Dragonsweeper is a free Minesweeper varioant game made by Daniel Benmergui, an Argentinian game developer and experimental designer who presents at GDC regularly and gets interviewed for being, broadly speaking, pretty clever about games. I didn’t know that going in on this one, I just saw a novel variant on Minesweeper and gave it a shot.
I don’t know if the gameplay footage is a great idea here, but I can’t imagine an alternative idea that’s better, right? This is a game where the action inhabits, mostly, my head; there’s tension in whether I click the right spot, if I do it right, but it’s not quite the same thing as tension that you can participate in per se. Much like Minesweeper this is a game where you’re doing math to solve a problem in front of you with partial information that’s meant to work in an increasingly clear but increasingly dangerous landscape of potential danger.
In Minesweeper you’re trying to find all the safe places to stand; there’s a strict binary between whether you’re going to die or not on any given square. In Dragonsweeper, your character, the mighty and heroic Jorge, is here to conquer the Dragon, and he has to do that by levelling up. Starting at 5 health, every encounter Jorge claims a number of health, and gives an equal amount of XP. Every time he fills his XP bar, he can gain a level, refilling his health and getting an extra half-heart for the next round. There are a few places in the dungeon where you can restore your health with magical scrolls, and any empty square gives you information about the total XP value of all the tiles around it.
Under Minesweeper rules, you don’t want to click on squares with anything in them, but in Dragonsweeper you’re trying to find the squares that have exactly the right amount in them, and, because the math of the game is finely tuned to make it hard, you don’t have a lot of room to catch up if you fall behind the difficulty curve. There are points by which you have to find a new health pickup, and you have to start taking risks reaching out from your starting position. The ideal level is one where you opened as many tiles as possible, and taken exactly your health in damage, but that requires a level of precision the game deliberately makes impossible. You start treating low-value monsters whose locations you’re confident in as little juice boxes to run to, to top out a level.
There are patterns in the levels that you learn over time. You can discover them on your own, but as you learn the way they work, you’ll get excited to see them. The game documentation is deliberately very limited, which is why I have such terms in my head as ‘gnome-hunting’ and ‘slime wizard’ but I can’t say for sure if that’s what they’re actually called.
There’s also so many little details in the game I wasn’t expecting. Particularly, if you have a Minotaur revealed, and you open a chest nearby that reveals gold, the minotaur will turn and look at it, with a little surprised emote. If the Rat King dies, all the rats sit down. Then, I found there are even achievements in the game; you get different reward screens depending on your ending score, but also there are rewards for keeping some monsters alive.
Particularly, I thought, for a challenge run alone, I’d try and finish this game once, without ever killing a rat. This is because I think rats are cute, and I know my partner, Fox, would be happy with that – she had a pet rat when she was younger and regularly points out how strange it is that fantasy media treats rats as if they’re tiny generic monsters, as if natural animals that want to avoid conflicts are actually roaming threats. This meant that I had to try and maximise my level and XP without ever touching a 1-value square, but also never killing a rat by accident. This is genuinely tricky, since the game has just enough XP to get over the curve at some points, and does require getting lucky a little in the early game. Suddenly, all those squares you can work out have a value of 1 are not easy places to clear space, but they’re just as much landmines as the – well, the land mines.
When I did it, I wasn’t expecting to get a little stamp at the end of the game showing me cute art of a rat with a little love heart, recognising my achievement.
Dragonsweeper is free, it’s clever, and you might find it a welcome puzzle in a month of highly stressful engagements.
