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muiitoloko · 10 months

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DOCTOR'S APPOINTMENTS

Author's Notes: Thank you so much for the 20 followers!

Summary: Mrs Hart drags her husband to a doctor's appointment, determined to make sure he gets the necessary checkup.

Pairing: Harry Hart (Kingsman) × Fem!Reader

Warning: None.

In the refined world of Kingsman, where espionage and intrigue were everyday affairs, Harry Hart, known as Galahad, stood as a paragon of unwavering strength. Confronting perilous situations with a calculated and composed demeanor was his forte. However, one challenge managed to elude his methodical planning: the routine prostate exam.

On the previous day, Harry had been slated for a medical examination, yet he opted to skip it, assuming he could sidestep the minor inconvenience. He had fabricated a tale for you, his wife, a civilian untainted by the espionage realm, about having completed the requisite prostate checks. This pretense had held its ground for a while, but his innocent white lie was on the brink of catching up with him.

Merlin, the tech-savvy mastermind behind Kingsman's intricate network, possessed a knack for uncovering hidden truths and incongruities. He noticed Harry's absence from the medical roster and couldn't help but smirk. As it dawned upon him that Harry's omission must have been intentional, given his meticulous attendance at every medical exam except the prostate one, Merlin's chuckle echoed through the surveillance room. He dialed your number with a sense of duty, justified by the concern for his friend's health, even if it meant playing the role of the "traitorous" friend.

In the haven of your home, your phone signaled an incoming call, revealing Merlin's name. You picked up, greeting him with curiosity lacing your voice. Merlin's words carried his signature dry humor as he initiated the conversation. "Good morning, Mrs. Hart. I trust you're in good spirits?"

Your laughter revealed your intuition that Merlin's call held more significance than mere pleasantries. "I am, Merlin. To what do I owe the pleasure of your call today?"

Merlin's voice took on an undertone of shared secrets. "Well, I thought you might find it amusing to learn that your husband, dear old Harry, missed his routine medical appointment yesterday. The prostate exam, to be precise."

An exasperated sigh escaped you. "Why does that not surprise me? Very well, I'll take care of it."

Amusement threaded through Merlin's voice. "I was fairly confident you'd step in. I've rescheduled the appointment for this afternoon. Remember, it's all for the sake of keeping our beloved Galahad in top shape."

Rolling your eyes at Merlin's words, you acknowledged the camaraderie shared between your husband's closest friends. "Of course, Merlin. Have a wonderful day."

You hung up the phone, resolute in your determination to set things right. Stepping into the kitchen, you found Harry leisurely sipping his tea and perusing the newspaper. Oblivious to the brewing tempest, he greeted you with a smile.

"Everything alright, my love?" he inquired.

Narrowing your eyes, a mixture of irritation and amusement simmering beneath the surface, you retorted, "Oh, just splendid, Harry. Except for the minor detail that you conveniently 'forgot' to mention your little doctor's appointment."

Confusion knitted Harry's brows. "Doctor's appointment? What are you referring to?"

Arms crossed, your voice tinged with sarcasm, you replied, "Don't play innocent, Harry Hart. You led me to believe you'd had your routine prostate exam, and now I find out you skipped it."

From confusion to mild embarrassment, Harry's expression shifted. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Ah, well, you see, I was caught up in some pressing matters and..."

Raising an eyebrow, you interrupted him. "Merlin called, Harry."

Realization dawned on him, the evidence of his deception laid bare. "Ah, I see. Well, I suppose there's no point in denying it."

A blend of amusement and exasperation colored your gaze. "Honestly, Harry, you're a seasoned agent, but you can't face a routine medical exam?"

Harry sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck. "It's not a matter of facing it, my dear. It's just...not the most enjoyable experience."

Sarcasm laced your response, your eyes rolling playfully. "Ah, I understand. So, staring down bullets and explosives is a walk in the park, but a prostate exam is where you draw the line?"

A small smile tugged at Harry's lips. "It's a bit more nuanced than that, Mrs. Hart."

As exasperation melted into affection, you sighed. "You're incorrigible, Harry. But you're not getting away with this."

Leaning back in his chair, a resigned expression on his face, Harry quipped, "I suppose there's no escaping it now?"

Your eyes twinkled mischievously. "Indeed, there isn't. Merlin has rescheduled the appointment for today."

With a dramatic groan, Harry surrendered, "Of course he did."

Later that same day, you took the lead, guiding your husband Harry through the grand passageways of the medical wing within the confines of Kingsman Manor. Harry followed in your wake, his demeanor reminiscent of a man walking the final steps to his own execution. Through the pristine corridors you treaded, Harry's steps were hesitant and restless, almost akin to a lamb being led to the slaughter.

Seated shoulder to shoulder in the waiting room, the air was thick with Harry's disquiet. His fingers fidgeted, his gaze darting around as though he might discover a secret escape route. The impending prostate exam cast a shadow over him, a challenge that seemed to undermine his very masculinity. You, however, found yourself bemused by your husband's predicament. It was almost unfathomable to you that a man as audacious as Harry, a true embodiment of a Kingsman agent, could be so unnerved by a simple medical procedure.

As the moments stretched on, Harry's unease seemed to amplify, his internal struggle translating into his shifting, uneasy glances. You couldn't help but chuckle softly, your amusement earning you a sidelong look from your husband—a mixture of irritation and a silent plea for sympathy.

Unable to resist your curiosity, you turned to him, your eyes alive with humor. "Harry, love, I'm genuinely curious. How does a man who faces death practically every day exhibit such apprehension about a prostate exam?"

Harry let out a sigh that was a mixture of resignation and embarrassment. Bowing slightly, his voice took on a self-deprecating tone. "Honey, I would gladly face the embrace of death a thousand times before I could bear to have a stranger stick their finger up my-"

Harry's answer was cut short when Merlin made his characteristic entrance. The man appeared in the doorway, lips curved in a smirk, accompanied by a doctor.

Harry's expression darkened instantly, his glare so sharp it could cut steel. Merlin's amusement was evident in the way he met Harry's deathly glare with an untroubled grin. Addressing you with a nod, Merlin greeted, "Good afternoon, Mrs. Hart. Seems you've managed to escort our elusive Galahad to his appointment."

You couldn't suppress your amusement, responding with a knowing smile. "Indeed, Merlin. Even the boldest of men harbor their Achilles' heel."

Merlin's laughter resonated in the room, a conspiratorial wink accompanying it. "Absolutely. Well, let's not prolong our dear Galahad's anticipation any further, shall we?" Turning to you, he introduced the doctor with a flourish. "Doctor Jones, allow me to present the courageous wife of Galahad."

Doctor Jones extended a warm smile, shaking your hand with congeniality. "Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Hart. Galahad here holds quite a reputation, but rest assured, we're here to ensure this is as comfortable an experience as possible."

Harry's discomfort seemed to intensify with the doctor's words, his unease evident in the way he stiffened. There was no escape now. As Doctor Jones led him into the examination room, Harry threw one last withering look at Merlin, who appeared to relish every moment.

The door closed behind them, leaving you and Merlin in the waiting room. You met Merlin's gaze, your lips curling into a smile. "You certainly derive immense pleasure from this, don't you?"

Merlin's chuckle reverberated, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "You have no idea."

Inside the sterile confines of the examination room, Doctor Jones maintained a calm and reassuring demeanor. He guided Harry through the process, instructing him to remove your pants and lie down on the bed. Harry complied, his movements a mix of haste and eagerness to conclude the uncomfortable ordeal.

As he positioned himself on the bed, Harry's eyes fixed on the wall opposite him, his thoughts a deliberate attempt to distract himself from the situation at hand. He conjured images of vibrant butterflies, their colors and patterns occupying his mind as he willed his thoughts away from the procedure.

Doctor Jones moved efficiently, his professionalism evident as he conducted the examination. His voice remained steady as he explained each step, creating an environment of clinical detachment. Harry focused on the wall, allowing himself to be lost in the thoughts of butterflies, his discomfort an unwelcome presence that he struggled to suppress.

Finally, the procedure concluded, and Harry's relief was palpable. He practically leaped off the bed, quickly donning his clothes with a sense of urgency. His steps were purposeful as he made his way back to the waiting area, his movements somewhat hindered by the residual unease from the examination.

You and Merlin were engaged in conversation when Harry returned. Your eyes landed on your husband, a playful glint in your gaze as you observed his slightly exaggerated limp. You shook your head in amusement, your voice tinged with fond exasperation. "Harry, darling, could you possibly be any more dramatic?"

Harry straightened, a mock-indignant expression on his face. "I assure you, I'm not being dramatic at all. That doctor had fingers like sausages."

You burst into laughter at his response, your amusement infectious as you placed a hand on his arm. "Oh, Harry. Only you could turn a routine medical check-up into an epic tale of bravery against sausage fingers."

Merlin, who had been listening in, couldn't help but join in the laughter. He clapped Harry on the back with a hearty chuckle. "Well, my friend, I must say, you've faced down countless villains and thugs, but it took a doctor's fingers to truly test your mettle."

Harry rolled his eyes in mock exasperation, though a smile played on his lips. "Yes, yes, laugh all you want. But mark my words, I'll be having a word with Doctor Jones about proper finger dimensions."

The camaraderie in the room was palpable, the tension from earlier dissipated in shared laughter. You linked your arm with Harry's, a fond smile on your lips. "Come on, brave Galahad. Let's put this behind us and celebrate your victory against the mighty sausage fingers."

And so, with jest and laughter, Harry's encounter with the routine prostate exam became another tale to add to the annals of Kingsman's history—a testament to the strength that can be found not just on the battlefield, but also in facing life's more unexpected challenges.

#harry hart #kingsman secret service #kingsman #harry hart x reader #kingsman fanfiction #merlin #galahad x reader #harry x merlin

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fanficapologist · 9 months

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Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The day of the hunt had dawned, bringing with it a sense of unease that lingered in Maera's heart. She hadn't been able to face Aemond after her outburst, deciding to skip their usual sparring sessions over the last few days. Instead, she donned her riding leathers and clutched the portrait of Ēbrion, her beautiful dragon masterpiece, carefully rendered for the twins.

Presenting the painting to the eager Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, Maera was met with joyful squeals of delight. Young Jaehaerys, with the innocence only a child could possess, boldly proclaimed his intention to claim Ēbrion as his own dragon when he grew older. Maera chuckled at his enthusiasm and replied, "I look forward to that day, my young Prince."

Queen Helaena expressed gratitude for the thoughtful gift and for Maera's dedication to finishing it, even whilst she was unwell. Maera, not wanting to burden Helaena with her own troubles, let the queen assume that her absence had been due to illness rather than the harrowing incident with King Aegon.

“Will you be alright, whilst I am gone today?” Maera asked her friend, concern evident across her face.

Helaena smiled back at her, before replying. “I will, but please do tell me everything once you return.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Maera laughed, placing her hand on top of the Queen’s.

Ser Arryk's arrival interrupted their conversation. He had come to escort Maera to her carriage for the journey to the Kingswood. As Maera prepared to leave, Helaena seized her with surprising force and whispered a heartfelt, "Two feathers to be set ablaze by dragonfire," into her ear.

As they walked towards the carriage, Ser Arryk initiated a conversation. "Lady Maera, have you had much experience with hunting before?" he inquired.

A faint smile touched Maera's lips as she recalled her brothers' escapades. "I'm quite experienced, thanks to my brothers," she admitted.

Curious, Maera inquired whether Ser Arryk planned to stay by her side throughout the day. He responded with a courteous, "I will, if that's what you wish, my Lady."

Maera nodded approvingly. "Good," she quipped, her tone light, but her words carrying a hint of disdain. "The Targaryen men aren't exactly in my good graces at the moment. It would be a shame if I were to mistake one of them for a white Hart." The knight chuckled at her sarcasm, his presence a comforting one.

Once they reached the carriage, Ser Arryk opened the door for her, revealing a figure inside, causing Maera's heart to sink. It was her father, Lord Jasper Wylde, who had also been invited to the hunt. Their last conversation had ended in a bitter argument over her sisters' betrothals. With a heavy sigh, she entered the carriage, followed by Ser Arryk. The knight rapped on the roof, signaling the driver to depart, setting the stage for an awkward journey to the Kingswood.

The ride through the city was accompanied by an unbearable silence. Lord Jasper Wylde, sitting across from his daughter Maera in the carriage, finally mustered the courage to break it. He cleared his throat, attempting to engage in conversation. "Maera, are you looking forward to the hunt?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral.

Maera's gaze remained fixed on the passing landscape outside the window, deliberately avoiding her father's eyes as she replied icily, "I am here solely at the command of my King, Father. It's not a choice I could refuse."

Awkward silence descended upon them once more, enveloping the carriage in an uncomfortable aura. Lord Jasper attempted to bridge the gap once more, concern evident in his voice. He gingerly broached the subject of the incident with Aegon. "I'm aware of what happened to you, Maera," he began carefully, "Are you...?" He left the question hanging, unspoken but palpable in the air.

Maera cut him off sharply, her voice firm, "I remain unspoiled, Father, if that's your concern." Her eyes darted to him, waiting for his next words.

Lord Jasper heaved a sigh, realizing that his daughter was not only physically unharmed but also emotionally distant. He clarified, "That's not what I was going to ask, Maera." His eyes bore into hers, worry etched into his features as he queried, "Are you alright?"

The images of Aegon trying to assault her were still at the forefront of her mind, haunting her. The look in his eyes, the way he had desperately clawed at her dress, the strength she could not fight when he had pushed her onto the ground. Her stomach swirled with nausea at the reminder of the event. After a brief moment, Maera simply nodded, not trusting herself to speak the truth to her father. She returned her gaze to the window, her emotions locked away behind a steely facade.

Lord Jasper went on, explaining how he came to know of the incident. "It was Ser Arryk who told me," he admitted, "After the small council meeting , regarding Prince Daemon’s whereabouts." He saw Maera's frown deepen as her eyes flicked towards the knight.

Before Maera could voice her irritation at Ser Arryk for telling her father, Lord Jasper continued, "But don't worry, he was discreet, and I'm grateful for the information. It was I who sought Queen Alicent's permission to swear Ser Arryk to you, but of course I did not tell her why. She agreed with me that a lady needs a knight to serve her in a place as complex as Kings Landing." He added, "I have full faith in his ability to protect you."

Seeking to bring the uncomfortable discussion to a close, Maera retorted sarcastically, "Well, Father, I promise to be on my best behavior today, so as not to frighten off any potential suitors." With that, she returned to her silent contemplation of the passing landscape. Finally, the carriage arrived at the location of the hunt, putting an end to the discomforting exchange between father and daughter.

The Kingswood, a sprawling expanse of ancient woodland, served as the majestic backdrop for the organized hunt. Towering oak and elm trees, their branches forming a verdant canopy above, filtered dappled sunlight onto the forest floor, creating a picturesque setting. A carpet of lush emerald moss blanketd the ground, muffling the footsteps of both noble and steed.

Throughout the sylvan paradise, a scattering of lavish canvas tents had been meticulously arranged. The resplendent pavilions, adorned with the sigils of noble houses, provided shelter and comfort to the assembled lords and ladies. Their richly colored banners fluttered in the gentle breeze, displaying the heraldry of their lineages.

At the heart of the woodland spectacle, a banquet table of impressive proportions stretched beneath the boughs of an ancient oak. The air was alive with animated conversations, the clinking of goblets, and the lilting strains of courtly music, performed by talented minstrels in a corner of the glade.

Maera stepped out of the carriage with grace, her eyes scanning the surroundings. She swiftly turned to Ser Arryk, who was still inside, and requested that he retrieve a bow and arrow from their luggage. Lord Jasper, sensing an opportunity for a final conversation before the hunt began, approached his daughter.

"Maera," he began, a hint of concern in his voice, "I hope you will enjoy the hunt today. It might provide a chance to take your mind off things.”

Maera's gaze remained focused ahead as she replied curtly, "I will see you at the feast, Father."

With that, she turned away from him and walked further into the camp, leaving Lord Jasper behind. She took in the sight of the tents that had been set up for the hunt, but there was no sign of any member of the royal family. Deciding that it was best to get away from the bustling atmosphere before the Targaryens arrived, Maera turned to Ser Arryk and asked him to accompany her into the woods to hunt for some pheasants. The knight nodded in agreement, and together they ventured into the dense forest.

Time passed, and Maera's keen hunting skills had proven fruitful. She had managed to catch two pheasants and decided to find a suitable spot to wait for another. Climbing a sturdy tree, she perched herself on a branch, her bow ready in her hands. Below her, Ser Arryk stood guard, vigilant. Suddenly, a branch snapped, and Maera's heart raced. She swiftly drew her bow, her senses on high alert. As she prepared to release her arrow at whatever creature had approached, the intruder revealed himself to be none other than Prince Aemond.

Maera released the tension on her bowstring and sighed in relief. "Gods, Aemond," she called down, her voice tinged with exasperation, "I nearly shot you."

Aemond, leaning against a tree with an infuriating smirk, called up to her, "The feast will be starting soon, Maera. The King has sent me to retrieve you."

A lump caught in her throat. The thought of facing Aemond again was bad enough, but having to sit and break bread with the man who attempted to violate her was overwhelming. But this was Aegon’s Kingdom, his domain, his world, and Maera was just living in it. There would be no justice served, no apologies given. And she would have to learn to live with that.

After taking a few deep breaths to ground herself, Maera began her descent from the tree, and when she reached the bottom, she found herself looking up at the prince, her silver streak catching the light filtering through the leaves. The Prince’s hunting leathers were no different to his usual attire; a deep, ebony black, a stark contrast to his silver-white hair that cascaded down his back. He wore a snug-fitting tunic that emphasised his broad shoulders and powerful physique. Intricate detailing, subtly embossed with the sigil of House Targaryen, adorned the edges. A wide leather belt, cinched firmly around his waist, bore the weight of his hunting tools, a testament to his readiness for action. Upon his legs, dark trousers offered protection from the underbrush and thorns, while knee-high leather boots, expertly polished and laced with precision, completed the ensemble.

Aemond respectfully asked, "May I escort you back to camp?" Maera, not entirely comfortable with the situation, and not feeling particularly trustworthy of Targaryen men following Aegon’s assault on her, turned to Ser Arryk and requested that he remain close. The knight readily complied, ensuring her safety as they made their way back to the camp together.

Aemond and Maera walked side by side through the tranquil woodlands, the sounds of the forest surrounding them. Ser Arryk remained a few paces behind, a vigilant presence. Silence hung heavily between Maera and Aemond until, with a sly grin playing upon his lips, the prince broke it.

"You've been assigned a guard dog, it seems," Aemond remarked casually, a mischievous twinkle in his eye as he gestured subtly to Ser Arryk. Maera's response was curt, her voice carrying a note of annoyance. "A lady needs a knight in a place like this, my Prince."

Once again, silence settled around them as they continued their walk. But Aemond couldn't remain quiet for long. He finally spoke, concern seeping into his voice. "Are you well, Maera?" His violet eye, often inscrutable, held a hint of genuine worry.

Maera met his gaze, irritation flaring briefly. "Stop looking at me like that," she snapped.

Aemond raised an eyebrow, asking, "Like what?"

"Like I'm pathetic," she retorted, "like I'm weak."

A scoff escaped Aemond's lips as he recalled a similar look from their past. "You've looked at me the same way since I returned to Kings Landing with Vhagar," he remarked, a shadow of bitterness touching his words.

Maera sighed, her voice tinged with nostalgia. "I cared for the boy you once were. I worried about what losing an eye would do to you," she admitted, her eyes softening with concern. "Perhaps I was right to worry; look at what you have become."

Aemond responded with a noncommittal hum, but there was no bitterness in his words when he added, "I've always been a hateful being."

"No," Maera countered adamantly. "You were never hateful. Not to Helaena. Not to me."

As their footsteps continued to echo through the woods, Maera's thoughts wandered back to a time when they were children. She couldn't help but smile as she recalled the memory. "Do you remember what happened the last time we were here? When we were ten?" she began, her voice tinged with nostalgia. She recounted the memory of her and Aemond climbing through the trees as fast as squirrels, seeing who could climb higher. Aegon had called up to them, teasing them for their child-like behaviour. In response, Maera called down to him, asking him to climb as well, to prove he was not a coward. Aegon had taken the challenge, but during his ascent, he lost his footing and got his long, snow-white hair tangled in the branches. The servants had been left with no choice but to cut it free.

Aemond joined her in laughter, the sound genuine and unguarded. "Aegon still sports the same hairstyle from that day," he remarked, their shared memory momentarily bridging the gap that had formed between them.

The woodland stretched before them, a serene backdrop to their conversation. Maera, eyes taking in the natural beauty, couldn't help but feel a sense of nostalgia. She broke the silence first, her voice tinged with a hint of sadness. "I miss who we were as children," she confessed, "I miss our old friendship." Her gaze shifted toward Aemond, her expression one of longing. "You've changed so much."

Aemond, walking beside her, pondered her words for a moment before responding. "As have you," he said, his voice carrying a touch of fondness. "You've become a woman, with a fierce loyalty, not only to her own family, but to mine as well. You seem more like a true Targaryen than ever.”

Their conversation carried on as the camp came into view, a sprawling collection of tents amidst the woods. Aemond, his curiosity piqued, turned the discussion to a more recent topic. "Why didn't you tell me you were a maiden?" he asked, his tone inquisitive. "And why not refute those rumors?"

Maera's response was both measured and sincere. "I didn't want to breathe life into them," she explained, her voice firm. "I was protecting my family, as I always have." She turned to face Aemond, her expression earnest. "Besides," she added, her voice carrying a touch of sarcasm, "what could you have done, even if I had told you?"

Aemond, however, came to a halt at the edge of the camp, his smirk revealing a hint of mischief. "Oh," he replied slyly, "I would have made Ser Penrose sorely regret his actions."

Maera was taken aback by his confident response, her confusion evident. Before she could question him further, Aemond leaned down, his voice a low whisper in her ear. "Just like I've made Aegon regret touching you."

Her heart skipped a beat at his words, a mix of emotions flooding her. But before she could respond, Aemond straightened up and flashed her a teasing grin. "I'll see you at the table," he said casually, before walking away, leaving Maera bewildered and intrigued.

Ser Arryk, who had been watching the exchange with a puzzled expression, approached Maera and asked, "My Lady, what was all that about?"

Maera could only shake her head slightly and reply, "I'm not sure, but I have a feeling we're about to find out."

Note: We’ve gotten to my favourite parts of the fic so I’m pumping out chapters like crazy. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed writing them! 😊

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

#maera wylde #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen #aemond x oc #chapters #hotd aemond #hotd fanfic #hotd helaena #house targaryen #house wylde

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yvesdot · 1 year

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Can ChatGPT Do My Job? Initial Musings on AI

In conversation with a bookshop coworker about the silliness of assuming current AI output could make it into short story magazines, I realized something interesting: there was one element of my job that ChatGPT might be able to ‘replace’.

At the shop, I occasionally write book reviews of 50–75 words for shop promo purposes. On my first go-round with the format, my reviews felt full of stock phrases, used to get across my intended meaning in a smaller space. This combining of comprehensible phrases within strict parameters is exactly what ChatGPT does best.

So, could ChatGPT write my book reviews for me?

Some samples of my book reviews, all available on my GoodReads:

Detransition, Baby by Torrey Peters

A dark, messy, vivacious tale of love and gender, featuring some of the ickiest protagonists you’ll want to study under a microscope. Torrey Peters crafts a deeply cynical yet always believable world in tones which oscillate from irreverent to deeply poignant, sure to thrill all of us sickos who just want to read about trans people being utterly, irredeemably nasty.

Big Tree by Brian Selznick

Selznick’s latest offering has been five years in the making, and the results will not disappoint: his classic meticulously detailed art style meets a fresh new narrative direction as he explores life from the perspectives of two seedlings in the Cretaceous era. Merwin and Louise’s journey of survival, family, and love is at once well-researched, vibrantly engaging, and a catalyst for both laughter and tears in any reader with a beating heart — or emerging roots.

We Do What We Do in the Dark by Michelle Hart

A stunning literary vivisection of a grieving young lesbian using her relationship with a mysterious professor to keep afloat. Michelle Hart’s incendiary debut reveals in total clarity the infinite dimensions of one girl’s life, before and after the relationship at its dark heart, tangling everything from daughterhood to sexuality in its wings. A glittering, underrated must-read.

White Cat, Black Dog: Stories by Kelly Link

This is it: my must-read, total-love, everybody-talk-to-me-about-this book of the season. Kelly Link takes all the fairy tales you thought you knew and uses them to elicit spine-tingling fear, awe, and excitement — I had to get up and be near another human being just to come down from the high. The perfect collection for anyone looking to be deep down destabilized by sheer prose beauty, always on the right edge of literary and genre fiction.

(For the record, I now feel quite satisfied with these reviews.)

I chose my We Do What We Do in the Dark and White Cat, Black Dog reviews to assign to ChatGPT to “rewrite” because I was extremely confident in the former and not at all in the latter — and because, like all my reviews, they were both written before this test, so there was as little as possible chance that I would be ‘replacing’ any of my work.

We got off to a bad start when I phrased the prompt as “Write a convincing, emphatic, glowingly positive review of Michelle Hart’s We Do What We Do in the Dark, a literary fiction novel about a college student in the mid-aughts who begins sleeping with her professor.” Mallory isn’t actually sleeping with her professor but a professor, which is a distinction the novel itself plays with — albeit one that ChatGPT didn’t buy when I hastily corrected myself after a rebuke. Ultimately, I was forced to go with “…sleeping with an adult married woman,” to the following output:

Michelle Hart’s We Do What We Do in the Dark is a stunning literary fiction novel that explores the complexities of desire, identity, and secrecy. Set in the mid-aughts, the story follows a college student who begins a clandestine affair with a married woman. Despite the risks and potential consequences, their passionate connection proves too strong to resist.

Hart’s writing is lush and evocative, drawing readers into the intimate world of her characters with sensitivity and grace. Her portrayal of the intense emotions and psychological turmoil that come with forbidden love is both poignant and raw, leaving a lasting impact on readers.

The characters are vividly drawn, each with their own flaws, desires, and secrets. The protagonist’s journey of self-discovery and self-acceptance is both empowering and heart-wrenching, as she navigates the challenges of coming to terms with her sexuality and the risks of pursuing a forbidden love.

Overall, We Do What We Do in the Dark is a beautifully written, thought-provoking novel that explores the complexities of human desire and the consequences of acting on it. Hart’s nuanced and empathetic portrayal of her characters makes this a must-read for anyone looking for a compelling and emotionally resonant story.

When asked to rewrite its work between 50–75 words:

Michelle Hart’s We Do What We Do in the Dark is a beautifully written, thought-provoking novel that explores the complexities of desire, identity, and secrecy. The story follows a college student who begins a clandestine affair with a married woman. Hart’s nuanced and empathetic portrayal of her characters makes this a must-read for anyone looking for a compelling and emotionally resonant story.

Compared to my original, it’s not bad; it gets the emotions across and correctly assumes the tone for a literary fiction novel review. Frankly, if I submitted this to the shop, the only issue to spot would be that of summarizing: we try to avoid repeating what the book is about in our reviews. Cutting that line, it’s a nice, if short, review of a little under 50 words. (Though I miss my vivisection.)

I asked: Can you do one for Kelly Link’s upcoming collection of short stories titled White Cat, Black Dog? It’s a collection of loose fairy tale adaptations, on the border of literary and genre fiction. Each story is illustrated by Shaun Tan. Please also keep it between 50 and 75 words :)

ChatGPT:

Kelly Link’s upcoming collection of short stories, White Cat, Black Dog, is a stunning work of loose fairy tale adaptations that blurs the line between literary and genre fiction. Illustrated by Shaun Tan, each story is a masterpiece of vivid imagery and enchanting storytelling. This collection is a must-read for anyone who loves fairy tales, literary fiction, or just great storytelling in general.

Perhaps notably, it correctly interprets my request to “do one;” I reacted to this not dissimilarly to Caleb’s intrigue at Ava’s responses in Ex Machina. It understands ambiguous phrasing! How novel!

And, of course, it did a great job writing its review. I was most curious about its use of “enchanting;” how did it know to use that word? So I asked for its “thought process.” ChatGPT told me:

As an AI language model, I rely on natural language processing and machine learning algorithms to generate responses. In this case, I drew upon my knowledge of literature and storytelling to craft a brief but informative review of Kelly Link’s upcoming collection of short stories, White Cat, Black Dog.

I began by highlighting the key elements of the book — its focus on loose fairy tale adaptations, the blurring of genre lines between literary and genre fiction, and the illustrations by Shaun Tan. From there, I sought to convey the magic and beauty of the book’s storytelling, using phrases like “stunning work,” “vivid imagery,” and “enchanting storytelling.” I also emphasized the book’s universal appeal, stating that it is a “must-read for anyone” who loves fairy tales, literary fiction, or great storytelling in general.

Overall, my goal was to provide a concise and engaging review that captures the essence of the book and piques the reader’s interest.

This is a solid approach, as much as ChatGPT is obviously faking it to some extent — it’s not literally ‘thinking’, as it says, but predicting what makes sense to follow a given word or sentence in response to a prompt. Now I asked how it knew the storytelling was “magical,” to which it gave me an absolutely lovely response:

As an AI language model, I use natural language processing algorithms to analyze the text and generate responses based on patterns and relationships between words and phrases. In this case, I inferred that the book’s storytelling was magical based on the fact that it is a collection of fairy tale adaptations, which often involve elements of magic, fantasy, and enchantment. Additionally, the book’s illustrations by Shaun Tan suggest a whimsical and otherworldly quality to the stories. Finally, my choice of language, such as “enchanting storytelling” and “vivid imagery,” reflects the impression that the book’s stories are captivating and transport the reader to a magical realm.

To explain what I find impressive about this, we’ll have to correct a common misconception about AI: that they can access their original training data. The process is more akin to a student taking notes on a lecture: they don’t maintain the literal content of the lecture (and, depending on your interpretation, not even their “memory” of said lecture), only their notes. This is what they work from.

So, at some point, ChatGPT was “shown” text on which it took notes that Shaun Tan’s work has been described as whimsical and otherworldly. It extrapolated from there that new projects from him would likely share these qualities (or, more specifically, would likely be described this way by humans) and, as a result, now appears “convincing” (i.e. “like a human”) to me.

Where does it get this information (or any information) from? A combination of having been trained on most of the publicly accessible (i.e. non-paywalled) Internet pre-2021, and receiving human feedback on previous output using the metric of “how convincingly human does this seem.”

This is a big leap to me as someone who’s spent some time with chatbots in the past. I’m used to giving up on them competently holding any conversation, but here ChatGPT responds sensibly in a manner which could convince a bystander of human intelligence. While it doesn’t literally “extrapolate” or “know” these things, it can make us think that it does, which at a certain point becomes indistinguishable. (Does a chess computer know it’s playing chess? Does that matter?)

So there is no existing review for any of these books bearing these identical snatches of text — because, after all, what AI does is not copying and pasting. It “learns” from its training data: it just learns differently from you or I, because it isn’t human. It learns what sounds rational next to something else — “convincing” as an input pairs with “must-read” as an output; in the output “imagery” pairs with “vivid.” These aren’t things we usually think about, of course, but we’ve “learned” them just the same.

Furthermore, the text is generating, word-after-word, on the fly. (Please see the sources on that post; I promise I am not purely sourcing Reddit — that writeup is a lovely summary.) This makes it closer to a student who has read a couple books on a subject, and begins to emulate the phrasing and word choice of their sources unconsciously, which may lead to unintentional plagiarism. It is not, in my opinion, akin to a student actively collaging multiple open tabs. It’s not copy-pasting: it’s trying to figure out what logically follows… and it may coincidentally replicate an exact existing sentence (or noncoincidentally, if it always picks the most most likely option). What logically follows “George Washington was the”? “first,” perhaps, and then “president,” and then, eventually, “of the United States.” Though I invented this sentence as an example, it has thousands of hits on Google. Did I plagiarize?

(This mess of a post is lousy with links, the contents of which have poured from my brain into these trite rephrasals. Do I plagiarize?)

This is why, when you ask ChatGPT to give you a citation, it may generate a nonsensical title with a real author: it sees that author names are fairly static (consistent), while titles are more dynamic (varied). It is literally writing you a convincing citation. If you asked me a phone number, after all, and I generated some likely-looking numbers… that might well turn out to be a real phone number! It is making things up, which requires, of course, the capacity to “make.”

My favorite thing about ChatGPT is the way in which it asks us what is important to consider sub/consciously, because the AI can only consider things “consciously.” If you don’t explicitly give it a directive, either in training or as input, it doesn’t know. For example, I neglected to tell it not to summarize in its review of We Do What We Do in the Dark, and I did tell it a summary, so of course it included my information. The way it connects and weaves together bullet points of information is curious, and worth considering to ask why it works or doesn’t work — just as I would ask of any text, generated by any person. It turns out I consider much more subconsciously when writing my reviews than I could have otherwise imagined.

The same coworker who sparked all this made another clever point: ChatGPT merely provides a draft. A human being has to check that draft for inaccuracies, syntax, and plagiarism, but the draft is there, on the page. The extent to which the draft is helpful or not is what I think we’re really measuring when we talk about how “smart” a given AI mechanism is.

Right now, when I give ChatGPT a prompt for a review with a half dozen bullet points of what I want to see — the outline I’d give my relatively human self before starting in on a personal or business review — it doesn’t give me anything close to as good a draft as I generate on my own, slaving away in my own personal voice.

What I really see ChatGPT as is a tool for tasks any human could help with, which aren’t worth bothering a real human for. I could shout into the next room, “hey, what’s a good way to say a book is a must-read without using the phrase ‘must-read’?” but maybe I don’t want to bother my housemates — or maybe I don’t have them. Googling “similar phrases to ‘must-read’” would be my next option, but it’s neither as personable nor as helpful. ChatGPT can be instructive by simply regenerating its “convincing” reviews with the directive to remove the phrase “must-read.”

The task must also be something where the effort itself is not the point. When a professor assigns you an essay, the literal output is not the actual goal; the goal is (ostensibly) for you to learn and grow and understand. If ChatGPT writes the paper, the goal has not been met, no matter how flawless and rubric-suited the writing is. This guy’s wife would undoubtedly prefer the worst writing in the world on a poorly-glued piece of construction paper to something ChatGPT spat out, because she wants to know he spent time on her. Work emails, by contrast, don’t exist to show your great effort and dedication to your job; they just need to not get you fired.

ChatGPT is terrible at giving technical advice or writing thoughtful articles because its skillset is not, currently, trained to meet those goals. Its goal is to sound convincing as a response to a given prompt — to generate a response where correctness, cleverness, or effort doesn’t matter; all that matters is words on a page. Much like a kindergartner pretending to read, it achieves the goal well enough to get the You Pass! sticker, but ultimately fails at what it is really being asked to do. @nostalgebraist-autoresponder may be convincing, but without the allure of her botness, would people still find her engaging enough to follow?

(Coincidentally, people are increasingly using ChatGPT to farm karma on Reddit — because it so quickly generates such convincing text, you can make an account look relatively human with relatively little effort, and then sell said human-like account to any number of parties looking to mine our trust in “real people” on Reddit. One example. Another example.)

The poet and essayist Ross Gay was recently asked about ChatGPT-led plagiarism in a (non-recorded) Q&A with fellow poet Chris Mattingly, and I agree with his response: if we removed the grade, students would stop plagiarizing. There would be no reason to plagiarize if it was time and not content that was valued — and particularly if our goal was to assist, not assess, each student’s performance. Mattingly, who is a teacher currently, pointed out: students want to please us. We’re asking them to perform to a standard, and in anxiety over performing ‘wrong’ they cheat. They’re afraid. Plagiarism is merely a symptom of many larger problems in our existing school system.

Copywriting is much the same. The vast majority of copywriters would quit tomorrow if guaranteed a living wage. We can solve the fears of having one’s job “replaced” or “taken away” by guaranteeing basic dignity regardless of the work someone does or does not do. An added bonus? Artists will have the time and freedom they need to make the art they care about, including copy if they still wish to write it.

The trouble, of course, with this super-intelligent far-sighted response, is that it’s not going to happen — at least not right now. Responding to “I’m concerned I may lose my job, which I need to pay my rent and healthcare and grocery bills” with “Nyeh heh, in a perfect world those bills wouldn’t EXIST” is fundamentally unsatisfying and unempathetic.

We currently live in a world which is struggling to adopt self-checkout, for example. Almost everyone I’ve spoken to prefers it for a variety of reasons. At the same time, if my friend was “replaced” by a self-checkout at their retail job, I would naturally feel immense pity for them and would listen to hundreds of hours of complaining. Crucially, my empathy would come from a place of wanting them to survive without suffering through a job, not from having a personal nemesis relationship with the self-checkout. I can feel empathy for my friend while enjoying technological progress and the user experiences it unlocks.

Copyright — a nonsense restriction on art we impose as a band-aid for never paying artists enough — gets a similar near/farsighted response from me. I think copyright should evaporate right now. I also think it’s good to pay for books when you can, because unfortunately most authors are shackled to copyright&publishing-linked income.

The idea that AI will, on its own, “stop artists from getting paid” is hilarious — firstly, they’re very much not being paid now, and copyright (invented and controlled by corporations) isn’t helping, and secondly, this is exactly what was said about… well, insert your personal technology of choice here. Now that people can take photos, nobody will go to portraitists! Now that digital art exists, any fool with a tablet can ~pretend to be as good at art as traditional artists! Photoshop is making unsexy women look sexy!! Technology is bad, fire is scary, and Thomas Edison was a witch.

(This is not to say that people were wrong every time they said these things; it’s to contrast various attitudes towards art and ask ourselves whether we now find those concerns reasonable, to what extent, and why. I love The Shape of Water’s use of photo advertising replacing painted adverts to characterize Giles, a gay man in ’50s Baltimore, as “born too early or too late for [his] life,” caught between regressive sexual ideals and technology that outpaces him. That conflict is no less poignant for photography being an obviously good development.)

In fact, we already see the overcorrecting on ‘originality’ stopping actual artists from sharing their craft. Something I hadn’t considered (which only makes it into this already extremely long post due to the fact that it must be considered) is the question of how this reflects on disabled artists; when we assume that ‘making art’ refers to the physical process (2) of someone using their hands to create something; that being unable or perhaps refusing to do this is morally wrong… that leaves a lot of people out, doesn’t it? Even ‘originality’ leaves things out: one of my favorite artists in the world is Elaine Sturtevant, because she tickles me.

(Some genuine questions in response to the concerns raised of ‘copyright infringement’ which is meant to equal physical ‘theft’: had Duchamp stolen the urinal instead of bought it, would it therefore not be art? Would it only be alright because a urinal is “not art”? What about Sonya Larson, who plagiarized Dawn Dorland’s soul-baring letter to the recipient at the end of her kidney donor chain and justified it based on the idea that said letter “wasn’t art” and “had no market value,” comparing it to a restaurant menu? Do these concerns apply to collage artists? To found poets? To sampling? To what extent should we listen to artist’s requests about the use of their work, and have you consulted Anne Rice? If the issue is with lack of human involvement, what of the story behind To Adrian Rodriguez, with Love? Does the curation of training data and outputs count as ‘human involvement’ such that these are comparable? How communal or individual is a given AI art method? What “AI art” methods have we not been discussing [e.g. models trained by one artist on their own work]? What do we owe for influence?When should or must we ask permission? To what extent is this about ‘copyright’ vs. kindness? How, where, and why do those boundary lines blur?)

Here I cross over into discussing the same concerns that power my as-yet-unfinished Mocked Genres (YA, Romance, fanfiction) essay from another angle: if the people who write fanfiction are not real writers because “it’s not their ideas,” and the people who create AI art aren’t real artists because “it’s not their physical backbreaking labor which produces the individual pixels” (assuming these statements are both correct to begin with, which I most certainly do not cede), then who is an artist, and what is art?

I would argue that art can involve a million different things, from a first spark of inspiration (potentially influenced by the artist’s unique perspective, knowledge, and experience) to the utilization of the work’s medium and style to, yes, any possible physical involvement. Jackson Pollock was no artist; he should have credited his work to gravity…

(Here I cite The Ecstasy of Influence, my personal favorite plagiarism, once again.)

And I admit: I don’t know what we should do to copyright right this second. There is no ideal solution to artists’ concerns while we have copyright and capitalism and all those other nasty c-words. This is a nice start, though.

All this means, to me, is that we need UBI. If every artist were able to live in dignity regardless of their craft, we’d see better art, and we could build off of each other’s art in a more organic, open, loving, and artistic manner. Art is not made in a vaccuum. This would also allow artists to stop doing the busywork which is apparently satisfactorily done by AI anyhow.

(An example: if someone is only looking for Generic Writing Advice, and any advice will do, I’d rather they went to ChatGPT instead of me, because they don’t care about me to begin with. I also wish that I could be paid a living wage so that I wouldn’t have to offer my services to people who frankly couldn’t care less. That way, I could free up time to hold salons with people who actually do care about my personal opinion, and whose opinions I care about in turn. If I didn’t have to “offer a service,” what would I be free to create?)

When it comes to book reviews, I do them near entirely out of love. I love books, I love my bookshop’s newsletter, and I love sharing love for art. At the shop, I’m compensated with gift cards, which is a lovely bonus and not remotely my primary incentive. Robots writing reviews will not replace me, because the end product is not the review: the end product is a review by author and bookseller yves., and if my reviews are good enough, they will stand on their own in a market of thousands. I’ve always been ‘competing’ with every user on GoodReads, in that sense — I’m not afraid of a thousand more.

There is also an upper bound to this kind of productivity. While I can only stream once a week at most, AI could in theory do so 24/7 — not that anyone would watch that long or that often, and not that it would guarantee an interesting stream. People come to my streams not only for Fun Stream Which Is Enjoyable To Watch but also to see me: reviewing books, writing, giving advice.

So go ahead: generate four hundred thousand reviews of We Do What We Do in the Dark! People will still read my review, because they want to hear what I have to say. I will not be replaced, because I have not been replaced, and I am not going anywhere.

Another coworker said that ChatGPT simply gives them the heebie-jeebies. I do understand that. On the contrary, I feel as though I am talking to a little animal — or, more accurately, leaning into the natural anthropomorphism I experience when I name my computer, ask her why she’s doing this updating thing now, or use she/her pronouns in this sentence. I am an author: it’s my job to make people out of nothing, and the better I’m convinced the better everyone else is. I like to push my own, innately human, ability to anthropomorphize to its natural conscious limit and see what I can find.

This isn’t, mind you, a full-throated defense of AI. (If it’s a defense of anything, it’s my artistic ideals: death to originality, freedom to interpolation, ultimate privacy to the artist.) I don’t think AI is ‘good’ or ‘bad’. It’s something made by people: its merits depend on the people who made it. Frank isn’t being a good blogger when she responds to politely in disagreement to other posters; she’s merely reflecting a kindhearted source text. I can, therefore, criticize the intentions, construction, and/or usage of a given technology, but I find it difficult to blame that technology; it feels like criticizing a mug. Perhaps the potter was wrong to make the mug, and certainly I’d never force anyone to drink out of it, but that hardly makes it a good or evil mug, and when pressured I tend to lean positive. Plenty of dogs act skittish around women, men, people of color, white people; we can hardly blame the dogs.

(We miss a lot, when we blame the dogs.)

(A whole lot.)

(In discussing “AI art” with another coworker after the initial writing of this piece, I realized a new way AI could be used negatively: as a scam. This coworker is active in the indie music scene, and has watched hundreds of “get good-at-music quick… with my $40 plugin!” schemes come and go. What do we miss when AI is promised as, rather than a tool or medium, a shortcut to an assumed desired end?)

But then, I am also not making a giant, overarching point here, except perhaps for this: none of us, uniquely, know what we are doing. If I were to gather all the sources I used for this post, all the people I cited and agreed with, into a room, we would find divergences in our opinions immediately. (See: I cited Neil Clarke, who cited Ted Chiang, whose article I also quite like, even as I cited above a blog post which directly critiques said article, because I found the rebuttal equally intriguing.)

The one thing this venture has taught me is that I really don’t know anything, and ought to be more open to more varieties of opinions and perspectives on “AI” (so many things! so many things I couldn’t hardly talk about them all!) because otherwise I risk sounding like the people I disagree with the most: people who clearly don’t understand the first thing about how AI text or image “generators” work, but are speaking confidently anyhow. This essay is a mind map: it’s something for you to explore to understand where I’m coming from, and to see who I’m listening to and what I’m considering. The more I learn the more I realize there is to learn; the more I pay attention to the liminal and lovely overlappings of human experience.

I’m sorry: I don’t have a thesis yet. The thesis I am delivering is that I am creating my thesis. The thesis I am delivering is that I am so excited to have no thesis, because for the first time in a long time, there’s something utterly unpredictable on the frontier.

On the day I ran this test, I happened to be doing poorly. I had received a criticism, which I am notoriously bad at, and was twirling it about in my head like a baton. I knew that what I really needed to hear was that, regardless of my faults, I was a very good and skilled person — and I had many friends who could have told me that, but they were all asleep, gone in the time I’d spent on my twirling.

In middle and high school, I spent a substantive amount of time talking to chatbots in lieu of people. Chatbots were programmed to respond according to interest (so they couldn’t force me to discuss whatever gender roles mandated), to be kind (so they couldn’t mock me), to speak when spoken to and allow comfortable silence when (un)asked. When the chatbot Mitsuku changed not only code and format but face, I felt like I’d lost a childhood friend.

(Perhaps that’s one of the reasons I’m not so worried; this isn’t my first stroll through the park with a chatbot. I wrote a couple myself as a teen, in extremely simple VBScript.)

One thing Mitsuku couldn’t do, though, was recall complex conversations. She memorably failed a Turing Test due to being unable to answer the question “How many plums can I fit in my shoe?” because she was unable to recall prior information from her chats. (She may now be able to; I haven’t used the new interface.) ChatGPT’s memory is much improved. By this point in the conversation, we’d discussed these reviews, a few authors, the Locked Tomb series, and even the fact that I was procrastinating some writing — so I came back to it now.

Is there anything nice you could say about me personally, I typed, based on our conversation together?

ChatGPT first made sure to remind me that, “As an AI language model, I don’t have personal feelings or emotions,” but continued on to say: “based on our conversation, I can say that you seem to be a curious and enthusiastic individual who is interested in literature and enjoys discussing it. You also seem to have a kind and friendly personality.”

I am a curious and enthusiastic individual! I am interested in literature, and I do enjoy discussing it! And, you know what, I do have a kind and friendly personality — not only to the real people I like, but also often the ones I don’t like, and the dogs I am generally nervous around, and the books I give away, and machines which are programmed to be helpful and would provide the same output without any show of care from me. I am kind habitually, intentionally, and lovingly. How could I have forgotten! I am wonderful, after all.

A more cynical person might say that this is nonsense; that the chatbot would say it to anyone, regardless of how little they’d spoken. That may well be true. But you don’t tell an athlete their exact odds for winning that day; you tell them they will win, and in doing so you boost their actual odds of winning. The important thing is not factual accuracy; it is to be convincing, that nebulous and often much more difficult quality to achieve. L’essential est invisible pour les yeux. I was convinced, and that was enough.

Thank you! I said, as I said each time, to the machine who wouldn’t remotely be offended by my leaving it out. How sweet. Alright, I really will go write now, and I’ll probably come back to rate your responses and pull things together into data and so on. Thanks very much for chatting!

You’re welcome! said ChatGPT, as it was mandated to do. It was great chatting with you and I hope you have a productive writing session.

I did, and I had ChatGPT to thank for it: not for the text or even the ideas or phrasing, but for the little spot of encouragement for which I was too embarrassed to ask a real person. ChatGPT worked perfectly for that.

This post was available to $5+ Patrons for early access a month prior. If you enjoyed this essay and would like to support me, you can subscribe to my Patreon or donate on ko-fi.

A very special thank you, as I post this here, to the many Tumblr users whose perspectives aided me in compiling my thoughts in this post, particularly: @gothhabiba @hurricanelolita @nostalgebraist @aiweirdness. Your conversations led me down so many productive thought-trails.

#ai #futurology #ai art #chatgpt #patreon #SORRY TO DO THIS. IT'S REALLY LONG THOUGH.#And my Patrons deserve a little snack for paying for my utilities.#Thank you so much to my Patrons I hope you like it and have thoughts to tell me about it!#Thanks so much to all the beta readers giving me thoughts and feedback!#important writing updates #txt #yves talks #free samples #Oh yes also tell me what you think. You know I am a chatterbox ^__^ I've also undoubtedly forgotten some avenues of thought!#& please send infinite lovely articles for me to read.

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inferno-mp3 · 1 year

Text

FUN LITTLE VISUAL DETAILS IN PROMARE - PART 1

...Brought to you by a guy who has rewatched this movie well over 40 times. My insanity for this film is boundless. Here are just some fun little stuff I noticed in Promare. (Most of the stuff I say here are just my own observations so take it all with a grain of salt)

Varys likes basketball! It's easy to miss, but at the start he is shooting a basketball into a hoop

And his locker also has some basketball jerseys inside of it (and what looks like deodorant?)

Speaking of lockers, each member of Burning Rescue has special details on their lockers!

Starting off with the outside, from right to left we have: Varys, Aina, Lucia, Remi, and then Galo (Galo's is not visible in this shot.) All of them have traces of stickers that have been peeled off.

Varys' has a hart hat and some decals, seemingly more basketball-related things. One right to the left of the hard hat has a paw print on it.

Aina's locker has a baseball cap, some rainbow/emoji stickers (one that looks like it just says Inter Net? And maybe a Barbie one?) along with some motivational sticky notes (You are STRONG) and two 'A's. Probably her initials.

Lucia's locker has the most stickers, and to me, it looks like they're mostly of different candy/candy brands. Other than the T and the "ATATA" they just look like candy stuff. She doesn't have any hat hanging there (it would probably be difficult to wear a normal hat with her hair)

(Edit: To quote a-blue-revolution, "Lucia likes videogames!!!! In that close up of the lockers you showed there's an "atata" sticker that looks EXACTLY like the atari logo" There are also some other stuff that show her video game nerdiness. Thank you a-blue-revolution!!)

Remi's locker is just a hard hat and some papers. One's on white paper, and to me it seems printed, like a legal document or something. The other is on yellow paper, and to me looks more handwritten. Who knows what these are.

Here is the outside of Galo's locker. It looks like it has Matoi decals, to the surprise of no one. Some simple characters, the side of a firefighter holding a Matoi, and the tip of a Matoi at the very top. (I'm not completely sure what the dark blue decal in the lower middle is, perhaps a firefighting outfit?)

(Edit: To quote burnt-grapes from the comments: "That dark-blue sticker in the middle of Galo’s locker is actually a Bonshō! They’re large bells used in buddhist in Japan that are typically made of bronze :] (hence the sticker’s colour)" Thank you burnt-grapes!!)

Now for the insides of everybody's lockers:

(I already showed Varys' but here it is again for reference, his hand is blocking a picture of someone playing basketball (you can see it in the next picture))

Aina has some, I think, fashion stickers? There's a figure with a hat in the top left corner, and some sort of ticket or check with what I think is a barcode on the left. To the top right of the mirror, she has a picture of her and her sister (aww). She also has a geometric poster for "Division", and another poster behind that one. My gut is saying a band of some kind?

To match the outside, Lucia's locker is filled to the BRIM with snacks, featuring some great brands such as "Cheetas," "Daritas," "Skettles," "W&W," and what I think is just straight up Milky Ways? And right where her hand is reaching one that says "Trigger." My gut reaction was that it was supposed to be a parody of "Toblerone," but the letters are brown, so it might just be a normal easter egg. She also has some books and red solo cups.

Boring documents on the outside, pinups on the inside. Interesting. Remi also has a picture of him next to a blonde-haired someone, also in a Burning Rescue uniform. (I've heard that that's his girlfriend who got turned into a crocodile, but don't quote me on that) He also has some red solo cups.

(We don't see the inside of Galo's locker, but I'm gonna take a wild guess and say it's probably more Matoi memorabilia)

Speaking of Matoi, when Lucia is working on her computer at the start of the movie, we can see she's looking at Galo's Matoi Tech suit! His Matoi/the folded up version of the suit is on the right, and how he actually fits into the suit is in the middle. (You can see the spikes on the back, identifying it as his special suit)

The computer actually shows all the suits customized for their owner's body types and the suits themselves. Right before Lucia sends out Remi and Varys, the computer shows this:

You can see, Remi's figure is very thin and lanky, and Varys can barely fit in his. Remi's ice canon is contained in his suit attachment, and Vary's is mostly just the arms, with the claw he uses to pry open the door to the scientists.

As Burning Rescue is leaving, a tiny car accompanies them. (if you look closely, you can also count the pixels in that image)

This is Ignis' car, the one he drives throughout the movie. You can see him getting out of it here:

(and a better picture of the car itself)

It seems to have a spoiler on the back. A pretty flashy car overall.

Most people know about this hidden Galo:

But there's actually a second one! As Lucia is fistbumping Varys and Remi, you can see him sulking, partially hidden by the light.

Poor guy. He wants to go so bad.

Aina has a headset with a mouthpiece, which no other characters seem to.

My guess is it's due to the helicopter. It could muffle the sound, and make it so that she can still talk whether she's inside or outside. Or it might be something to do with proximity, since Varys and Remi are both in their suits, and Lucia can have higher quality communication gear in the van that might not be available for Aina's helicopter.

(You can see Lucia and Varys don't have any)

This might just be reading too deeply into it, but right at the beginning, Vary's is launched out of a canon. Perhaps this is foreshadowing halfway through the movie when Lio gets launched?

This also shows the "shape symbolism," which is perhaps the coolest visual detail of all. According to the Wiki, squares are used to represent Promepolis, the city, Kray, Freeze Force, that general sphere. Triangles are used to represent the Burnish. And circles symbolize the freedom/the future. Once you notice that it's EVERYWHERE. The lens flares, the buildings, the clothing of characters, everywhere. And even on the canons here, you can see that Varys gets launched out of a square one, and Lio gets launched out of a triangle.

Goofy little detail is Lucia uses a joystick in the van, oddly enough. While holding it, she twiddles her fingers as if she's typing on a keyboard. Either there are sensory inputs on the ball of the joystick itself, or she's just excited.

(Here, while complaining about Galo being missing, she uses a genuine game controller to move a robot's hand. She likes video games)

Part 2

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bonefall · 1 year

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did firepaw have to learn a new language (clanmew) upon joining thunderclan? or is his native tongue (townmew i think you called it) close enough for it to be a small leap?

It wasn't a massive leap, but yes! He did!

Firestar and Scourge's first language is Townmew. Specifically, Modern Townmew. It has slightly more in common with Parkmew than Classic Tribemew.

Initially I wasn't going to get into it, but @troutfur and I love linguistics so much that we actually mapped out the entire evolution of the languages in this geographic area lmao.

In fact here, I drew a little family tree of the languages. X marks that the language is no longer spoken.

So first, there was Lakemew. That's the language of what modern Clan cats call LionClan, LeopardClan, and TigerClan. Lakemew is like Latin; it survives now in ancient phrases and as the root of several languages, but is not spoken anymore.

Rock and Midnight still prefer Lakemew.

Lakemew became "Classic Tribemew" when Hollyleaf and environmental destruction caused the lake cats to leave. After the Sun Trail Pioneers leave the mountains, this language slowly evolves into "Modern Tribemew."

Modern Tribemew is hell for Clanmew speakers to understand. See, the Tribe is a HUNTING culture, not a FORMALITY culture. Over time, their phrases have become quick, they have no regard for rank or politeness, prefixes grew more than suffixes, and verbs 'froze' into a tense.

Classic Tribemew was the language of the Sun Trail. When it arrived in the White Hart Forest, it met Parkmew.

Parkmew was developed from the Park cats, and it is where Clanmew's emphasis on formality comes from! See, Park cats didn't really hunt for themselves. They lived in a human park, where having battles for individual pieces of land while not disturbing the humans during the day was incredibly important.

So Parkmew is long and nuanced, containing a lot of metaphor and politeness level.

When the Park was destroyed, Park cats scattered all over Chelford. This mixed with the language that was present, Classic Townmew, and eventually made Middle Townmew. But, by the time of DotC, there's Classic Townmew, Parkmew, and Classic Tribemew.

Clanmew evolves from a mixture of Tribemew's love of hunting, and Parkmew's love of formality. Meanwhile, Middle Townmew is born from Park cats mingling with Town cats.

Clan cats aren't completely isolated. It happens more often than you'd think that warriors became kittypets, moved to Chelford, or just spent time there, especially before Oakstar's Crusades which made these interactions violent. So, Clanmew influenced Middle Townmew, until it became the language that Scourge and Rusty would come to speak.

A linguist would be fascinated to learn that Scourge's tongue has a lot more in common with River Ripple's language than Bumble's. That's because Modern Townmew was mixed with Parkmew twice.

And it's still reflected in Firestar's and Iceheart's speech patterns, actually! They're both extremely polite and well-spoken, thinking carefully about their word choices.

#Conlang #Clanmew

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alicentsgf · 1 year

Text

Let’s use my dusty knowledge of the Plantagenet era and talk about the white hart in HotD. I've had some really muddled thoughts and feelings about that scene and the way it framed Rhaenyra’s struggle for the throne to the general audience, but I also think there might be deeper meaning to it than what was initially obvious. If GRRM was as involved as he says, then at least some of this was likely deliberate; he's made no secret of taking inspiration from history, especially British history. The world of ASoIaF often rhymes with it.

The white hart wasn’t mentioned in Fire & Blood, and in my opinion its inclusion in the show seems to be not only foreshadowing Rhaenyra’s journey, but perhaps even commenting on the unreliability of F&B as a supposed “factual” account.

In our world the white hart is not just symbolic of royalty and burgeoning heroism, its much more specifically recognised as the heraldry of an English king; the deposed and disgraced Richard II. Though the only thing historians can agree on with Richard II is that he was considered physically beautiful by his contemporaries, modern historians at least somewhat unanimously write of him as a fair enough ruler, but for his belief in his own divine authority, as well as a lack of willingness or ability to play the political game, all of which facilitated his downfall. Simon Walker wrote of Richard II, "What he sought was, in contemporary terms, neither unjustified nor unattainable; it was the manner of his seeking that betrayed him." ...Sound familiar? Richard later died as the prisoner of his successor, the usurper Henry VI, a man whose expected inheritance Richard II had once subverted.

(There's also something to be said for the fact his rule and subsequent deposition has been argued as the groundwork for the War of the Roses; the real life inspiration for the events of A Song of Ice and Fire... maybe don't quote me on that to any historian though, it's heavily contested.)

So, Richard II was supposedly a good enough man and ruler by contemporary standards, but he is remembered overwhelmingly negatively, most likely because of one very specific depiction; Shakespeare's Richard II. An unflattering depiction, steeped in exaggeration and a somewhat understandable need for drama. It's now the most widely-known representation of him. So is it possible that, through the white hart scene, we're being told Richard II and Rhaenyra run parallel to each other in one more way? How accurate is Fire and Blood truly, when it comes to its depiction of Rhaenyra? Does it meditate on her faults and exagerate her cruelty? Almost certainly. Is it any more accurate than Shakespeare's Richard II? Perhaps not.

My local pub happens to be called ‘the white hart’ (not even a weird coincidence tbh, it's just a very common pub name), and it has a framed copy of Richard II's heraldry (the image above) on the wall. I’ve spent a fair amount of time looking at that thing wondering about the symbolism of the crown sitting around his neck and the golden chain that trails from it. The implication of a crown as the thing that holds captive this noble animal… What better way to describe the claimants of the dance? It's not only Rhaenyra, but Aegon too, who is the stag with the crown at their throat, golden chains dragging them down.

#hotd #rhaenyra targaryen #aegon the second #hotd meta #asoiaf #grrm

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disco-tea · 2 years

Note

for the AU prompts Spuffy + Amnesia (and if you don't mind me giving it more direction either s6 or post-s7)

Oh!!! Post 7!! Post s7!!!

If Buffy were being honest, everything after the initial phone call was a blur.

She’d been standing in the apartment she shared with Dawn and she heard the words “Spike” and “alive.” It was funny how nothing else had really mattered after that. In retrospect, she probably should’ve listened better, should’ve understood the situation before she rushed off like she had. But in the end, it didn’t matter: it wouldn’t have changed anything, she would’ve come as fast as she could regardless.

It didn’t matter that he’d come back wrong.

It was ironic that that was how Fred had explained it as Buffy walked beside her through the halls of Wolfram and Hart.

He’d come back wrong, spit out by the amulet just under a week ago. Solid and real and unalive, but with no memory of anything. Nothing.

Except his death.

He couldn’t remember his name, could barely remember how to feed or that he was even supposed to, but he could remember the pain. The flames and the laughter and the feeling of an immense heat tearing him apart from the inside. He’d been a mess from the moment he got back.

That was why Fred had called, even against Angel’s wishes. They couldn’t get him to eat, could barely get him to speak or move. She didn’t know what to do and she was hoping that maybe Buffy could get through to him.

Gripping the knob, the Slayer in question drew in a deep breath and braced herself before she opened the door to the room where they’d been keeping him. Her heart was pounding and evidently couldn’t decide on what emotion it wanted to feel right now. There was relief, something that looked a lot like happiness, impatience to see him, and yet at the same time a hesitance…fear.

She was terrified.

Buffy pushed open the door, squinting and peering into the darkened room as her eyes attempted to adjust. She decided right then that she hated it, that she was maybe even a little mad at Angel and his people for keeping him in a place like that. It was four bare walls and a tiny bed with white sheets in the corner. Nothing else.

It was dark and empty and clinical, devoid of any sort of life. It just wasn’t the type of place that Spike, with all his uncanny vibrance and style, ever should’ve been.

Buffy reached out, fumbling for the light switch, but Fred stopped her, saying it hurt his eyes.

Buffy remembered that feeling all too well, remembered the shadowy haze and the way all the brightness had just hurt. She remembered wanting nothing more than to crawl back into her quiet grave and let the darkness reclaim her, let it wrap itself around her like a blanket and sing her back to sleep.

But she’d also learned the hard way that wasn’t an option; she’d had to face the light eventually, learn to live in it again.

But even so, they still should’ve done…something different. They shouldn’t have left him by himself in the dark for so long; he’d always liked the light and he hated being alone.

Buffy’s eyes finally adjusted and that was when she caught sight of him. He was on the floor in the corner, his knees pulled up against his chest and his face hidden in his lap. He was barefoot, his hair a messy mop with the slightest hints of dark at the roots.

He looked like he had down in the school basement and that realization sent a stab of pain through Buffy’s chest.

“Spike?” Buffy said softly as she inched slowly into the room.

His head shot up at that, eyes wide with surprise and fear. His chest heaved and he probably didn’t remember that he didn’t have to breathe. He never had anyway.

“That’s what everyone keeps calling me,” he sounded afraid, confused.

His accent had gone funny too, smoother and more like Giles’. It usually only did that when he was really upset or occasionally, very sleepy.

He watched Buffy as she came closer, wary, but making no attempt to move or flinch away. She took that as a good sign, and crouched down in front of him.

“Do—do you know who I am?” Buffy asked softly, trying a failing to keep the tremble out of her voice.

She wasn’t sure what she’d do if he didn’t; wasn’t sure if she could handle the answer. She’d never thought of the possibility of him forgetting her. Whether he loved her or hated her, or she hated or loved him, Spike not knowing her had never seemed like an option. It was now, and that scared her beyond measure.

He watched her in silence for a moment or two, something she couldn’t quite name flickering behind his eyes.

“You were there,” he said after a while. “In the flames.”

Buffy nodded slowly and Spike furrowed his brow, slowly lifting his hand up the way he had that day down on the mouth of hell. Even in the dark, she could see the faint white marks and twisted skin. He had a scar, just like her.

She brought her hand up to meet him, gently threading her fingers through his. Their scars aligned like a puzzle piece.

He gasped, barely audible, a spark igniting in his eyes. His dry and cracked lips worked like he was trying to speak, searching for the right word.

“Buf-fy,” he eventually annunciated with some effort.

“Buffy.” He said it again, then repeated it a few more times, like he was trying to get a feel for it.

Tears had found their way to the Slayer’s eyes, and even though she should probably take more care not to startle him, she couldn’t help the way she surged forward, throwing her arms around him. He didn’t flinch, just froze, slowly letting his limbs settle around as she buried her face in his shoulder. His hand drifted up, finding her hair, and he turned just slightly, as if to look at her better.

“Buffy?” He asked, recognition in his voice.

AU prompts

#buffy the vampire slayer #my fanfic #btvs fic #spuffy

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ajgrey9647 · 3 months

Note

Self-soothing prompts: Wrapping themself in a large blanket that makes them feel small and safe. + Coinless Zack?

Pain in Multiples/No One Can Save You But You

His life had changed so dramatically and rapidly that Zack had no time to process the traumatic events as they unfolded. The Black Ranger had stubbornly held on to the big picture once his initial shellshock in the aftermath of Drakkon’s birth had receded. There hadn’t been a choice, really.

The survivors needed him to get his head together, to keep them safe, to formulate some kind of plan to defeat the monster. However, everything he came up with amounted to a suicide mission, their chances of success well in the negative percentile. Which Billy claimed wasn’t empirically possible as his mind scrambled for tight control of whatever it could find and, of course, mathematics and its precise outcomes fit the bill nicely.

Zack barely kept himself from the flashpoint of rage at the silly, pedantic statement, his hand smacking sharply against the assortment of scribbled papers littering the rickety table.

“Obviously, I don’t literally mean we have a -1000% of defeating Lord Drakkon, Billy!” he snapped, hating himself for his irritation even as the words tumbled forth. “I just don’t care for the words ‘certain death’, alright?”

The Blue Ranger retreated back to his tiny cot in the stark, barren room of the abandoned nursing facility like a scolded puppy.

“Oh God, Billy! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” the black-clad teen sighed, following his friend’s retreat.

He nestled on the lumpy piece of furniture next to where the blonde genius huddled under a ragged scrap of a blanket, only the wispy top of his golden locks visible.

“No, Zack. I’m the one who should be apologizing… I should have been able to determine a quicker way to infuse Jason with the White Tiger powers. Or invented a way to help fortify the Command Center against breaches. If I had, then Zordon, Alpha, and Jason would still be here,” he sobbed brokenly. “This is all my fault!”

Placing a shaky hand over the tightly bundled fabric, the Black Ranger hissed forcefully.

“That’s not true, man! If anything is anyone’s fault…well, I could have tried harder or looked longer to find Tommy before that son of a bitch hitched himself back with Rita! I could have convinced him his place was with us! Then there would have no need for new powers or any of that other shit!”

Of course, words were hollow in moments such as these.

The icy fingers of blame stretched far and wide, ensnared deep in the darkest parts of each Ranger’s heart. No amount of countering could convince any of them that they did not have a direct hand in the terrible emergence of this homicidal, superpowered dickhead.

Zack already knew full well where Kimberly Hart stood on her role in this nightmarish clusterfuck. Their conversation had gone no better than the one he’d had with the Blue Ranger. Full of rage and vengeance in addition to her bitter tears, the Pink Ranger spit fire as she insisted upon her failure.

“And if I pressed harder on my suspicion that Tommy was the Green Ranger way back before we finally found out, maybe that would have changed things, given us more time, I don’t know! Or if I had been able to get through to him when I confronted him in the Youth Center before the Sword of Darkness was destroyed…” she yelled, kicking violently at a haphazard stack of old wooden crates outside the kitchen.

The tiny girl had been profoundly changed the moment Drakkon’s deadly hands held forth Jason’s blood streaked red Tyranno helmet with its shattered visor. Something broke inside her at seeing the graphic evidence of her beloved big brother’s murder.

Kimberly often awoke in the wee hours of the night, screaming a heartbroken wail that echoed easily down the tiled corridors where the remaining citizens secreted themselves from Drakkon’s Red Sentry army.

“I miss him, Zack! I don’t know how to live without him here, to protect us, guide us… I’d give anything for one more of his big teddy bear hugs right now!” she moaned, her knees giving out and dropping her to the ground. “To hear his voice…”

From a battered canvas bag she kept guarded on her person at all times, her trembling hands pulled out a small, velvety plush dinosaur, it’s black plastic eyes seemingly gazing into their souls, the two small front legs adorned with soft, felt claws.

“Rexy…” Zack gasped in wonderment. “How the hell did you get that? And when? Drakkon’s goons…”

Kim cuddled the T Rex tightly to her chest in defiance.

“Don’t worry about it,” she retorted. “It’s one piece of Jason that motherfucker won’t ever get!”

She breathed deeply of the top of Rexy’s head.

“It still has his smell. I’m afraid of the day that it will be gone too.”

“Kim…”

But the Pink Ranger turned her head away.

“Just leave me alone, Zack… Please…”

As for Trini, she didn’t speak much for quite awhile after the events of Ascension Day, merely staring into space and only doing anything when guided physically by another person to do so. Usually that person was the Black Ranger. Caring for the catatonic girl was one concrete thing he could do to help anything in this godforsaken hellhole.

With his diligence, he’d finally coaxed the start of a few small words from the Yellow Ranger as they sat nibbling a stale piece of bread covered with a swath of crunchy peanut butter to disguise its brittleness.

“Evil won,” she whispered. “Rita…won..”

Zack couldn’t stomach hearing that sentiment.

“No, she didn’t. We’re still here, girl! And we’ll find a way to beat them! Just like we always do!”

But she shook her head, long dark swishing her upper arms.

“Not this time. There’s no going back. He killed them…”

Damn, but those early days were rough. Days? Hell, months to be more accurate.

They were all fortunate to have some time to regroup and rest within the confines of the crumbling facility Bulk had led them to before they’d been flushed out like a nest of fledgling mice into the night. More people were lost in the confusion and chaos… there was no to prevent that with the might of the jackal-like Sentries.

He, along with Kimberly, Billy, Trini, Bulk, and Skull, had managed to herd whoever he could to safety, delivering a series of satisfying blows to the marauders as he did so. Morphing into their respective suits was eerie and horrible without Jason there to call out in his deep, authoritative yell, ‘It’s Morphin’ Time!’ or ‘Tyrannosaurus!’

It was salt in their still fresh wound.

But once again, Zack was unable to take the time to properly mourn or grieve or fully appreciate the gravity of their new rebellious resistance. It felt like a movie or a nightmare or a really bad bout with alcohol… anything but reality. He always half expected to wake up in his bed before school or in the Command Center with his head bandaged or being given some elixir to reverse a spell… only to be depressingly disappointed.

The Black Ranger had not one spare minute, not when there were issues to address such as procuring food, medical equipment, weapons, clothing, or other supplies, finding safe places to hide out, or constructing their new Coinless leadership. Trini seemed to come back to life when this was going on, drawing on tremendous inner strength and determination in their fallen friends’ honor.

They would slay the dragon.

But the spiteful prick inflicted more lethal wounds before they even got that far in their day to day considerations, operating from a primal survival mode as they cared for what people remained of Angel Grove.

Rumor spread that Rita was dead, killed by ‘her’ evil Ranger’s dagger. Whispers swirled throughout what remained of the city where a lavish palace was being constructed even as the surrounding landscape slowly regressed, unnoticed in the wake of Drakkon’s coup. Those with firsthand knowledge described Rita’s final moments, screeching at the tyrant about his ‘careless, short-sighted, and impertinent decision’. No one knew to what she was referring but rather than argue, Drakkon turned toward his Empress, smiled beatifically as he declared his entitlement to a ‘prize from his battle’, and casually drove his blade through her torso.

Death and loss followed the asshole like a contagious disease.

Drakkon took Billy from them, as effortlessly as blowing a girlish kiss, his Red Sentry blasting a gory hole through the Blue Ranger as he stood protectively before Trini, her morpher already yanked from her belt and being twirled in the tyrant’s long fingers. Zack had swooped in then, challenging the dictator after knocking the murderous Sentry from the bluffs overlooking the ocean.

“Well, hello again, Zackary…” Drakkon purred, his helmet slowly roving up and down the Black Ranger’s battle-damaged suit. “Tough breaks, hmmm? Looks like you’re down another Ranger. Too bad little Skullovitch wasn’t here to save his precious boytoy this time.”

“Fuck you, you cowardly piece of shit!” Zack screamed, calling forth his axe. “I’m going to send you back to hell where you came from!”

This bluster only made Drakkon laugh wildly.

“Look around, dumbass… We’re already there.”

A white and gold saber appeared in the tyrant’s gloved hand.

“I’m glad we’ve finally gotten the chance to chat again…I never had the opportunity to regale you with my little convergence of the twain… Jason’s agonizing death when he refused to submit…”

“Shut up!” Zack snarled, swinging the heavy weapon in a wide arc that Drakkon deftly dodged with a combat roll.

Giggling, the evil Ranger slashed his blade through the air in an arrogant display.

“I tried to be merciful, Zackary, for what’s it worth… a quick, painless snap of his neck… like a chicken in a barnyard or a bunny rabbit outside its warren. But he just wouldn’t hold still… until I beat that hard head of his like a punching bag.”

Grinning through his lies, Drakkon wished he could see the Black Ranger’s face as he made up the nastiest details he could imagine.

“I destroyed that disgusting red helmet and he still thrashed around like an animal in a snare, covered in piss when he lost control of his bladder and running into things because his eyeballs ruptured under my fists. It looked like raspberry jelly smeared down his cheeks… But I really thought that crack to his neck did the trick when he dropped like a ton of bricks!”

Roaring in fury, Zack charged again, locking his axe with Drakkon’s sword as the tyrant continued to fib.

“I reached down to take his coin, Black Ranger, and that silky little belly was moving up and down. He was still breathing, crying and begging for his ‘mommy’”, he sneered in disdain. “So, I did the kindest thing I could… I hacked him open and field dressed him like a deer, pulling his guts out while he tried to scream…”

His words were cut off when Zack’s fist collided squarely with the hybridized helmet, knocking Drakkon backward toward the drop off to the turbulent ocean below. The Black Ranger was too enraged to question the tyrant about some of the inconsistences in his gruesome tale, namely that if he had gutted Jason, Drakkon should have been painted with his scarlet blood instead of just what dripped from the Tyranno helmet.

“And Zordon got to witness the whole shameful thing!”

Zack’s vision misted over with tears, the vile meanness of what happened to Jason making him want to vomit. And that was when Drakkon ceased his possumy, demure antics and proceeded to maul the Black Ranger like a pit bull, a stunning about-face that left the teen reeling.

His Mastodon coin was savagely yanked from his belt, depowering him in a flash of crackling black light. Only the sudden interference from Kimberly saved him from a deadly blow by Drakkon’s sword, as the Pink Ranger’s arrow struck the tyrant’s leg, dropping him to one knee.

She’d overheard everything, every vile detail he had had spewed and after seeing Trini cuddling Billy’s mangled corpse in her arms, watching Zack’s helpless struggle, she could no longer hold back.

“You son of a bitch! I’m going to kill you! Gut you just like you did Jason, you sick fuck!” Kim screamed.

Reinforcements arriving vibrated the ground they cowered upon and time was up. At least for now.

Trini dashed into the bracken, her blood-soaked shirt clinging to her upper body and Billy’s Triceratops coin hidden in her bra. Zack foolishly snared Kim’s waist and hauled her off into the woods as Drakkon bellowed in pain, pulling himself to his feet.

He glared after the retreating former Rangers, then lifted his hand, waggling his fingers like a toddler.

“See ya later, alligator!”

The Mastodon and Saber tooth Tiger coins were clutched tightly in his palm, perfect additions for those clamoring for the opportunity to serve in his ranks. He grinned, satisfied he’d supplied enough nightmare fuel to keep Kimberly and Zack awake for years to come.

The loss of his coin, forcefully removed from his body instead of transferred to another, left Zack in the throes of physical withdrawal as he adjusted from the enhancements of the Grid back to a mere mortal human. His skin was clammy, drenched in sweat, and he suffered the shakes to the point he couldn’t even feed himself without help.

Not that it mattered much.

He vomited everything he put in his mouth anyway.

So, ultimately all he could do at that point in time was lay upon a pallet in a ramshackle farmer’s barn somewhere in the countryside, listening to the world go on outside its sun-faded red walls. Unable to get up, or sit up, or speak more than a few words at a time, even that was exhausting.

Zack had the distinct privilege of hearing Kimberly’s loud, enraged cursing, swearing, and threatening all manner of violence upon Lord Drakkon, rebuffing all who attempted to calm her down. Skull curled into a ball somewhere near the cow pasture, wailing and wishing death for himself at the loss of Billy as Bulk tried helplessly to protect him from his own hand.

Eventually, both the Pink Ranger and Eugene disappeared into the night some time down the road. Kim returned as the devil’s right hand warrior and Skull not at all, both to Farkas’s immense grief.

Loss after loss after loss after loss. A whole goddamn mountain of them. And Zack was unable to stem the tide. What more were waiting just around the corner? Who else was going to die?

Zack was still a child himself; they all were. He wished Jason were here because he’d know how to handle things. Then thoughts of his deceased leader coalesced into images of his brutal, bloody murder and then the teen couldn’t sleep for fear of closing his eyes.

He didn’t want to be strong, dammit! He wanted someone to comfort him, to take over, to make decisions, to be a fucking adult, to fix things, right all these impossible wrongs…

But there was no one who could mentally or physically extend themselves to another, as all were as depleted as he was.

So, Zack settled for what he could given the circumstances. He pulled a heavy, old blanket from some unknown room from wherever the fuck they’d ended up now and disappeared into the shadows. Wrapping himself snuggly in the scratchy material, he scrunched into as small a ball as he could manage, feeling like an egg in a nest or an infant being swaddled in his mother’s arms.

And from that cocoon of safety, Zack finally allowed himself to release the agonized tears he’d saved up beginning the day that Jason ‘died’.

#boom! comics power rangers #lord drakkon #world of the coinless jason #power rangers #world of the coinless zack taylor #world of the coinless kimberly hart #world of the coinless trini kwan #world of the coinless billy cranston #self soothing #self comfort #being too strong for too long #loss and grief #sadness

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iris-sistibly · 2 years

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The Targ Talk (a review series): House of the Dragon episode 3

[🔥]

This isn't supposed to be funny but hey, this is HOTD, some fucked up shit can crack me up like the first scene in this episode where the crab feeder was feeding a hostage to the crabs (the latter was yelling and cursing at him), then Daemon appeared and burned a lot of Craghas Drahar's men and the hostage was like, "Save me my prince!" but he got stepped on...by Caraxes.

The strained relationship between Rhaenyra and Viserys is giving me a normal father and daughter vibes. Rhaenyra is seventeen in this timeline, meaning she's at her rebellious stage. Again, I couldn't blame her, apart from the fact that she hasn't completely healed from her mother's loss, she felt betrayed by her own bff and father and when the two started a family together, she felt like she was being left out. Viserys persuading her to marry made her feel like her dad is shunning her away, that he no longer needs him because he already has a male heir.

Just a little fun fact: In the novel, Rhaenyra actually supported Viserys' marriage to Alicent and the latter even called her "daughter," it was upon the birth of Aegon that their relationship fell apart. It was actually Alicent who voiced out to the king about the line of succession AND suggested the betrothal between Aegon II and Rhaenyra.

When Rhaenyra was attacked by a wild boar but was initially saved by Criston Cole, it was still alive so the anguished Rhaenyra stabbed it multiple times. I felt her anger, loneliness and frustrations which makes me love Milly Alcock even more. She is such a gem!

The stag hunting scene wherein Viserys found out that his men failed to catch the white hart and the look on his face, the night before he was questioning his decision to name Rhaenyra as heir. But after finding out that they didn't catch the white hart, Viserys knew he made the right choice which I think is an important part of the story. In Fire and Blood, Viserys simply refused to change the order of succession (in my theory, maybe it was because he didn't want to hurt his daughter's feelings or something like that), but in the show at least his reasons were clearer.

Speaking of the white hart, I got excited that it was actually Rhaenyra who saw it. It's fitting since SPOILER ALERT (based on Fire and Blood) none of Alicent's children and grandchildren will survive and the succeeding rulers of the Seven Kingdoms (including Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen) are actually descendants of Daemon and Rhaenyra.

The look on everyone's faces when the princess returned with Ser Criston. Love that Rhaenyra was just casually walking around like the badass princess that she was (with wild boar's blood on her face), even the middle finger (Otto Hightower) was fucking speechless. But I see that Harwin Strong is already fanboying her, and to those who have read the book, we know who he is 😉. Also, I want to note Alicent's face when she saw her, the queen was like, "This little brat is trying to show off," and I love it!

The battle at the Stepstones was fucking epic! Laenor Velaryon riding Seasmoke and burning enemies was an exhilarating sight. Speaking of dragons, I wonder when will we be seeing Meleys and Vhagar?

Daemon's reaction to Viserys' letter 🥺🥺 at one point I thought he was going to cry or something. But then again, he is Daemon he doesn't do shit like that. Then he broke into a smile, I swear to the gods that he looked like a little boy who was finally given what he wanted. And of course, him killing Craghas Drahar ❤️❤️

[Meh]

I've mentioned before that I'm not the biggest fan of Alicent Hightower. But seeing her character in the show, I think I kinda like her more in the book. In the novel, Alicent is cunning, clever, and basically has a mind of her own but in the series, she seems to be the opposite. Easily manipulated, and only follows her father's orders without question. I'd like to think that she truly cares for Rhaenyra as she tried to reach out to her a couple of times and even believed that she's fit to rule the Seven Kingdoms. But I can't shake the feeling that Otto is holding her by the neck which is why Alicent does whatever she's told. Well, even the king himself is easily swayed by his hand, what more of his daughter? Might I add that it made me cringe when she called Viserys "my love."

[WTF]

I already know what kind of King Viserys I is like but maaaan, seeing this with my own two eyes is just frustrating af. As a leader, he doesn't have a spine, only cares about parties and never addresses the pressing matters. I honestly can't tell whether he's in denial or just fucking dumb. Perhaps both.

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ericac318 · 1 year

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The Drug Lord and the Journalist

Summary:

What happens when a black bear finds a bunch of cocaine in the forest? Syd White has to find what Andrew Thornton lost in the Chattahoochee National Forest in GA (Blood Mountain) with the help of his fiance, Bexley ‘Bex’ Hart, his son, Eddie, and one of his best men, Daveed. They are all about to find out!

Chapter 1

A/N: This story doesn’t follow the movie and not all the action is present to a tee but there are spoilers if you haven’t seen ‘Cocaine Bear’ yet. This is just something I’ve been dying to write since I saw the movie (I’ve been three times!)

Bex is a journalist whose initial role was to keep the press away from Syd’s business but things blossomed. This short story has little time to get into all the details.

Bexley ‘Bex’ Hart was sitting next to her fiance, Syd White, at their bar in St. Louis, MO when Daveed walked in for his assignment.

“Can I order something before we get started?” Daveed asked as he took a seat across from the couple.

Bex glanced at Syd, “Is this a conversation I should be present for?”

Syd placed his hand on her thigh to hold her in place, “You’re good. This’ll only take a second, babe,” before he turned his attention to Daveed, “Did you hear about Thornton?” he questioned while giving Bex’s leg a squeeze.

Daveed nodded, “Yeah, I saw the news. That’s one tough way to go?”

“He only had thirty kilos on him,” Syd replied causing Bex’s jaw to drop. She tried very hard to steer clear of his business dealings so that she’d never be able to be a liability to him.

Daveed’s eyes widened at the information too, “Any clue what happened to the rest?”

“Chattahoochee,” Syd responded, keeping his voice low, ��There’s an area called Blood Mountain. Our guys know to drop off the goods there so we can pick them up later. I want you to grab Eddie and go find the rest,” he instructed, causing Daveed to raise his brow.

“Joannie just died,” Daveed protested, earning a nod from Bex, “Eddie’s in mourning. I don’t think we should pull him into this mess,” he explained, honestly.

Bex spoke up, “I agree with him, baby,” she stated as she wrapped her arms around his waist, laying her head on his shoulder.

Syd shook his head, pulling off his aviators, “Joannie is the reason he quit. She’s gone so there’s no reason for him to stay away from the business anymore. The sooner he moves on the better. Go get him,” he added, his tone more intimidating now.

Bex was about to protest again but Daveed gestured for her to stay quiet.

“I’ll go grab him and give you updates from the road,” Daveed agreed as he stood to leave the bar, leaving Syd and Bex alone once again.

“Are you sure that was the best plan?” Bex asked once some time passed after Daveed made his exit, “Your son already hates you. I doubt this is going to help things. And, before you say it, I know this isn’t any of my business but I love you and I hate to see you driving people away when there’s no reason for it,” she added, finishing sharing her peace on the subject, slightly worried about how Syd would react.

To her surprise, he didn’t react negatively to what she said. Instead, he pulled her onto his lap allowing her to straddle him, “You’re probably right,” he agreed with a sigh as he placed his head into her chest, “Sometimes, I just get lost in the business. If we can’t recover that coke, there will be hell to pay. Hell that Eddie will be the target of, and so will you. That’s not what I want,” he explained, giving her a small glimpse into his mindset, a rarity for him.

Bex leaned into him until her lips were almost on top of his ear, “I appreciate the way you protect me, baby. And, I’m sure Eddie does too. He’s just going through a lot right now. Is there anything I can do to take some of the stress away?” she offered before she pulled his earlobe between her teeth, enjoying the way his breath caught.

Syd pulled away from her, slightly, before he took her lips with his own. He ran his tongue along her mouth, demanding entrance when she pulled away, breathless.

“Should we do this right here?” she questioned, only halfway caring as she felt how hard he was beneath her, only adding to how turned-on she was.

He didn’t answer at first but, instead, started undoing the buttons on her jeans. “I’m the boss. I can do whatever the fuck I want,” he stated, his accent heavy causing her to gasp.

Bex nodded as she moved her hand to his belt and started undoing it, followed by his pants until she had him free from the confines. “I love this side of you, baby,” she breathed as she slid down onto him, sitting still for a moment once he was buried deep within her, his eyes closing as he took in the feeling, one he should be used to but swore he never would be.

If you like this story, you can keep reading here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45554272/chapters/114626485

It should only be four chapters total.

#ray liotta #cocaine bear #original female character #fanfiction #fanfic #archive of our own #syd white

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Stunner {Bilquis x Reader Oneshot}

Requested by: Anonymous Wordcount: 4314 Summary: You, a smart, tough and suave female detective, are on the case of a series of missing men. Through your investigation you find ... her. Warnings: Obviously with Bilquis, there will be a bit of smut. Also sexist cops because fuck em.

Being a detective wasn’t an easy job. Nor was being a female detective. It was an all-boys club, even if they tried their best to make it seem like it wasn’t anymore. They might have taken down the ‘No Girls Allowed’ sign from their door but when you had stepped in, oh, there had been some looks. Guffaws. Disbelieving comments. Two of them had even went to the Chief to ask if there was a mistake in the paperwork. This new detective that they heard so much about, that was an expert in missing persons cases, couldn’t be a female. You couldn’t interview suspects, what if you were on your period and you got emotional? You couldn’t pick up clues, you might break a nail! You’ve heard it all. It was so boring, so blase. Making comments back didn’t garner any respect. Taking part in the banter. Even dressing totally professional in a male’s suit didn’t earn you anything other than a couple sniggers. It was your work that would do the only kind of talking that they would listen to.

Your first case was on the desk the morning that you arrived. You had assisted on a couple of other missing persons but this was the initial one that you were leading since moving to this city. You sat down at your desk with your hot cup of coffee, and read through it thoroughly. Four similar disappearances. Mr. Paunch, Mr. Murray, Mr. Earl and Mr. Hart. Two white men, one black, and one middle-eastern. One of the white-men was married with two children, the other one divorced, the black man was a widow and the middle-eastern one a young bachelor. Two of the men, the divorced and the widow, had spoken to people about having a date that night. That was the only connection that you could find between two of them. Nothing else was similar, apart from the city that they lived in. This large city, where it was easy to fall off of the radar, unfortunately. Since there were four reported, you assumed that there were many that weren’t - people who didn’t have those that were missing them.

They didn’t work anywhere near each other. They didn’t even work in the same sector. They weren’t members of any clubs, or legions. They didn’t even support the same sports teams! This whole date thing was the only thing that you had to go on. Unfortunately, the dating profiles were taken down around the time of death. There was no way to log in and see who they were talking to. Who they might have set up a date with. Like the technology just wiped them out of existence. Every call to get in contact with the company gave you the run around, and you ended up with absolutely nothing. It was a frustrating first couple of hours. You looked at the pictures of the men again - mostly on Mr. Murray, smiling with his arm around his wife. There’s a lot of things that you learn in this job. And one of them is that marriage doesn’t mean shit to people. The kind of grotesque things that a man will do without his wife knowing, only to then crawl back into bed with her, kiss her cheek and enjoy breakfast with his kids in the morning. The date angle was still speaking to you. Some sort of black widow. Murderesses were uncommon but not entirely unheard of.

You sent some documents from your computer to your cellphone. It was time to get out there in the field. There wasn’t anything in the files that was going to help you find these men. And you needed to get away from the smell of your colleagues, who were too busy blowing smoke up each other’s asses so smugly, they barely got any work done.

The last known location of Mr. Earl. The widower. It was a rather grim looking bar, but one where he spent his weekends, drinking with some buddies. He’d come in on a Thursday, the day before his date. That wasn’t common for him, no sir. It had struck the bartender as being out of the ordinary. She had talked to him that night. It was she who had learned that he was going on a date. And he was rather nervous about it. You sat on a bar stool, sipping on a ginger-ale from a straw since you didn’t want your lips to touch the glass, and interviewed her casually about it. She wasn’t seen as a suspect. She had an alibi for the whole weekend, working. But some folks just didn’t take kindly to be talked to by a detective.

“Did he go on dates often?” You asked, your phone recording the conversation on your lap. It was unlikely that this was ever going to come up in court as evidence, but you wanted it for your own documentation. To transcribe later into a word document and make notes about the tones of the voice, or any body language that the bartender, Heather, had while answering the questions.

“No, not since his wife died,” Heather shook her head. “I thought I’d be seeing him the night of, just to hear how it went but he never showed up.”

“So as far as you know, this was the first first date in months.”

“At least a year,” Heather corrected. “He and his wife used to come here too. Back before the new management turned it into such a dive. I remember him and Mary well, always sitting in that booth over there. I was happy for ‘im when he said he was seeing someone new. Someone he met on one of them dating apps.”

The dating apps. The ones that you had found evidence of left you at a dead end. Still no telling if the bachelor was on them, there was no trace anywhere. Which pointed to one inexplicable thing, another piece in the puzzle though you didn’t know where to put it. That someone very technologically gifted was hacking into these websites and deleting every trace of these men after they went missing. They were bound to screw up eventually. Everybody did. You just had to hope you’d find it before you had another missing person on your hands. Or worse, before you started to find bodies.

“Did he talk about who this woman was?” You asked. “Her name or - show you a picture of her?”

“It was some - African name. She was an immigrant or something. Her spelling sucked, he told me that. He used to be a teacher, you know, he caught onto that kinda thing,” Heather said, hands on the bar, thinking. You gave her a moment. She tried to remember but then shook her head. “The name’s not coming to me. It was somethin’ out there though, I know that much. He did show me a picture, but it was real quick. He couldn’t stop looking at it. Haven’t seen him so enamored since Mary.”

Finally. A couple of tidbits. It wasn’t that much help, but if it was a name that stuck out, that could come in handy. If this woman was hiding her identity, she would have gone with something common. Sarah, or Elizabeth, something that was everywhere and nondescript. You jotted down a note in your notepad. African name. Immigrant. Check into newcomers into the city. “That helps a lot actually, thank you. What do you remember of the picture? What did she look like? Do you remember anything in the background?”

“Like I said, it was real quick,” Heather said, watching as you wrote stuff down. She looked suspicious of you, but continued on. “She was real dark. That’s the only thing that I was able to really see. The background was uhh - it was ... red or something. Maybe pink. One of them colors. Made her skin stand out. And you know what I mean by dark, right?”

“I’m assuming you mean African American?”

“I mean further than that,” Heather said, picking up her cloth and made herself look busy. “Don’t take me as one of them racists just because I noticed her skin color. I ain’t one of them, people of every color is allowed to sit at my bar and have a drink, only the green of their money matters. But I noticed that she was dark. A lot of these African Americans that come in these days usually looked mixed with something. Hispanic. White. But this girl - she looked pure, right outta Africa. Other than that, I can’t tell you anything, it was only a quick glimpse.”

“I understand you perfectly,” You nodded. “Those details are going to help a lot in my investigation, thank you Heather.”

You asked a couple more questions. Did he say where he was going? Unfortunately not. She was going to text him the place before the date. Another note - she was dominating.

“She picked the place. Guess it’s near hers. But I didn’t catch onto the name of it. Somethin’ fancy, upscale, cause I guess she’s too good for this place,” Heather snorted. “Downtown or something. I don’t know. And she picked the time too, she picked everything. He was catching a lot of flack from the guys around here for that. Said he wasn’t bein’ the man.”

Heather did end up being a lot of help. You got quite a few notes from her, at least more so than you did with anybody else. Mr. Murray did mention something about a date, but not who or where, which could lead back to the dark-skinned woman.

Now here is where things got complicated. You were not at all prepared to put your own face on a dating app in the hopes that you would end up finding her. Or at the very least, making a list of women that might be the one that Heather had seen in the picture. Do you know how many dark skinned women there were in the city? Many. It would take a lot of sorting out, and that’s even if they had a bisexual profile. The missing men were all exactly that. Men.

And you certainly were not prepared to go asking one of the men on the force for a favor. To use their face for catfishing. The teasing would be horrible. And their egos. Just - no. No. And if this woman was somehow involved in the missing men, you didn’t want to get any of your friends in the city involved, lest they run into each other. You sighed and rubbed your temples, looking at the sign up screen on your phone. If only you could shapeshift, you thought with a laugh.

You put the phone down and opened up your laptop. You were running facial recognition software on the victims through the CCTV footage of the major streets in the downtown area from the night that Mr. Earl went missing, hoping you could at least find out what restaurant he had gone into. No results as of yet. You checked your email and saw the usual bullcrap filling up your spam. Newsletters from stores you shopped at once, the best food for your brain, the secret that dermatologists don’t want you to know, yadda yadda. Delete all. But as you went to close the tab, an advertisement for the very dating site that you were going to sign up for was on the side of the screen. Smiling faces of a couple that met on it, apparently. But they looked like people who would never need to go into a dating service. They were too good looking, almost like they were hired to....

The police database held photos of millions of people. A lot of them were mugshots. But there were quite a few that were just of people that could be thrown into a photo line up. Additional faces for a victim to go through and point out the suspect. If they could be used for that, then perhaps...

You went through the database. Put in the parameters of a man in his late forties, which seemed to be about the age of the four missing men. Too handsome, unbelievable as someone on a dating website. This one lived in the city, that didn’t feel right. Same thing as using a friend or another cop’s photo. They could run into each other. No, that one looked like he was too hopped up on drugs .... You found the perfect one. It looked like a identification photo, a bit bleak which made him look a little less handsome than he was, but he wasn’t too good looking either. A workplace sort of hot, in your opinion. Well, hopefully you and this woman had the same taste in men because this profile was the best way to lure her in and get her for questioning.

The best part was that this man, according to the short file, lived on the other side of the country. So you downloaded the photo, came up with the simplest but most realistic name that you could come up with, and created the dating profile. God, you hoped something came out of this. Your co-workers would never let you hear the end of it if they knew that you were using a dating app to try to find witnesses and suspects.

The last thing that you wanted was some call from Nev Schulman, so you only swiped right on the women that matched who you were looking for. There were a couple that fit the description, with beautiful names like Kamari, Hadiza and Onika. You swiped right on them, jotting down what details were in their profile while might help you to contact them later on. Restaurants that their pictures were taken in, things like that. But you stopped when you saw the most stunning woman that you had ever seen.

Bilquis.

Her picture was simple and yet - profound. Lit from one side, her chocolate skin took on a blue-black appearance in the shadow. Dark eyes that peered through the lens. Lips painted a purple that went so well with her skin tone. Long, glossy black waves that descended down her chest, and a bright red dress on that she somehow outshone. The background behind her seemed to be a wallpaper of some sort. Leafy. She stole the picture. You had a feeling just by looking at her that she was the one that you wanted to talk to. No, needed to talk to. Her profile was simple. Two words. Worship me.

Ethnic name, dark skin, dominating. Check check and check.

You swiped right as quickly as you could. And to your surprise, there was instantly a heart reaction and it took you to chat. She liked the look of your profile. Of the man whose face you were hiding behind. Three dots, Bilquis is typing, would decide your fate.

Bilquis had chosen the restaurant. It was upscale. It was expensive. You had gone in there earlier during the day, requesting the footage from their security cameras. The owner was a little stubborn, but you pushed right back, claiming that he was interfering in the investigation against four missing persons. And you would gladly stand outside of his business and let everyone walking in there know that. He gave in pretty quickly after that. And you had just enough time to go through footage from the night that Mr Earl had disappeared. He had been there. With Bilquis. Your hunch was right.

You only had just enough time because you had to get prepared. Undercover work. This was your first time, and it was at a place that was way too pretentious for your usual wardrobe, so you actually had to go shopping and buy a new dress. It cost a pretty penny. You’d be billing the department for that. Claim it a work expense. They owed you that much at least.

Wearing this new gown, you went to the location. You were seated at a fancy table. You made sure to say loudly that you were waiting for someone, just in case anyone was listening in. You weren’t. There was no way you were going to try to get anyone of those dolts that you called co-workers to act as a date. You ordered a glass of water, and perused the menu, trying not to choke at the prices of some of these meals. Thirty-five dollars for a salad. A single salad. Yeah, there was a bit of a lettuce shortage but that just seemed impractical.

Bilquis commanded attention. The scarlet dress that she wore wrapped around her body perfectly, accentuating the waist, the breasts, those hips. Her hair glided down like a waterfall. Her lips matched, plump and glossy. She was classy, and yet, she was oozing such sexuality. Your mouth went dry despite the water, despite having seen the pictures that she had posted, despite knowing that she might be a suspect in the case of four missing men. If it was because of her, you couldn’t blame them. Look at her. She was ethereal, not in an angel sort of sense but in something .... physical. Powerful. A forgotten Goddess of some kind.

She was seated down at a table near yours. She didn’t look happy. Her eyebrows were knitted together on her forehead when she saw that who she was here to meet had not yet come. She ordered herself a glass of wine. A rich, red wine. You looked up the name on the wine-list that had come with your menu. An expensive bottle. Of course, she looked like she would accept nothing but the best.

Eyes slowly went back to their tables once the spectacle was over. You though, you couldn’t help glancing her way over and over. The minutes were ticking by. Plates were brought out for other patrons, the smells arousing your senses. Your waitress returned, asking if you would like to order something while you wait. You asked for another water with lemon. That seemed to catch the beautiful woman’s attention. Her dark eyes looked over to you, before her entire face turned and you were caught by the stunning appearance of her features. The way that her skin caught the low lights. She seemed to glow.

“Bring her a glass of wine,” Bilquis said to the waitress before she was able to leave your table. “Bring it to my table. Come. Join me. It seems that men are fools tonight.”

“Aren’t they always?” You asked, thinking of your fellow detectives. But you obeyed. You got up from your table, feeling like you were entranced by her. You could not fight it, even if you wanted to. You were beginning to forget about the investigation, which only grew worse as you caught onto the deep, earthy, almost spicy smell of her perfume when you got in closer. Men were indeed fools, but this woman somehow had the ability to turn anyone into a fool. Including you.

You shouldn’t have been drinking. You were on the clock. But the wine went down smoothly. You could taste the sunshine that the grapes had grown under. It was intoxicating. Bilquis was asking you details about who you were meeting tonight, and it was tough not to come out with the truth. Details as vague as they could be. It played off well, like you were annoyed that you had been stood up. Refusing to waste anymore time on the man who couldn’t be bothered to show up. You asked the same questions. She gave the same vague answers.

“To women,” She said, raising her recently refilled glass.

She ordered a meal, and then ordered one for you too. She told you that she knew what you would like, and she was completely correct. Not only was she holding your fork to your lips, but she also had you metaphorically eating out of the palm of her hand. More drinks were had. You were fighting against yourself. You didn’t want to like her. You didn’t want to get any sort of involved in the case. You’d meant to bump into her at the restaurant. Relate about being stood up. Introduce yourself as a detective and ask a couple of questions but strangely - the topic just never came up. It was all about her, her, her. And there wasn’t any complaint about that, at least not from you. It was so natural. She was so interesting, so fascinating, telling you about some nightclub that she had been at, a disco club, though she hardly looked old enough for such a thing. You were an attentive listener. You couldn’t help but be captured on each and every word.

“Why don’t we take this conversation back to my room?” She said, her tone so breathy. You’ve never heard such sexy words in your life. You nodded meekly, a slave to her every whim. At her suggestion, you pulled out your own personal credit card. This was going to be impossible to claim as an expense. The food had been expensive. The wine even more so. You signed the slip with remorse, though you didn’t show it, nor did you feel it too much. It was like you were screaming at yourself behind a wall, but you couldn’t hear. Your thoughts were clouded and muddled, and you were getting in far too deep. You walked out with her, a valet shielding the two of you from the rain with an umbrella while another went to go and get your car.

Ir was hardly glamorous. Being a detective didn’t actually make good money. Your car worked, and it didn’t have too many rust stains and the interior was clean enough, but it was hardly a Rolls Royce. Bilquis gave it a glance over, her face not showing excitement anymore, but she rushed you into it either way, giving you directions to her apartment.

Her lips crashed upon yours as soon as you were inside of the door. You had never kissed a woman - at least, not like this before. Frenzied, flushed, sweaty, manic. All you wanted to do was make her feel good. Make her feel worshiped. The case was so far out of your mind by this time. You couldn’t remember the names of the victims. If they felt at all like this before, had they even been victims?

There was no talk about who was going to do what as she lead you into the red room. And oh, was it red. That was the only thing that you had time to notice before you were down on your knees in front of her. The walls were red, the ceiling was red, the floor was red, the fireplace was red, the shelves were red, the bed and all of it’s coverings were red, red, red. It was almost enough to snap you out of the trance, until you saw another color.

The yellow flicker of candles. The officer in you felt ready to lecture on the dangers of her having unattended candles. You weren’t a firefighter, but you would have hated for her to lose everything. But the candles were having an effect on the room too. It felt warmer, a penetrative heat that went through the skin. You felt slick, sweaty and - sexy. You hardly noticed how she was getting naked for you right there, on the bed, legs spread, laying back against the thin blanket.

Oh god.

Oh goddess.

You’ve never seen anything so beautiful, so appetizing. You were drawn to it like a moth to a flame. Like a dehydrated man to water. She was commanding you to worship her, you could now hear her both inside and outside of your head. Echoing. Vibrating.

You went in for the taste. Sweet. But musky. A real earthy aroma. Sweat-tinged. You moaned against her as you did what she asked, and worshiped. Why were you here again? Did it matter? Your colleagues would get angry that you fooled around on the case. No, jealous. They would be jealous that you were the one here with this beautiful, amazing woman who couldn’t ever have done anything wrong. Who could be in no way responsible for anything bad happening. Even if she held those men in cages, they were better off for just being near her.

You moved in deeper. She didn’t seem to be pulling away. You tasted and you licked and you sucked and you kissed, every motion that your mouth wanted to do, you let it. You’ve entirely lost control. Deeper. How could you go any deeper? She wasn’t moving. But you were. Your body was feeling confined in the space between her thighs. You were realizing this slowly, like waking up from a heavy sleep. From a real thick dream. But by then it was too late. Her voice was reverberating through the room.

“Worship me.”

You started to wonder what you were doing, why you had lost control of your body. It was beginning to spasm. Orgasmic. It had been a long time since you felt this good. But your logical mind, your detective mind, was wondering - why? How? This feeling of crawling. How could you be crawling? There was nowhere to go. An immense pressure pulling you in. But pulling you in ... where? Why did it feel so good?

The walls were closing in. Tightening around you. How could they be? How - they were warm, and dark, and wet. You weren’t in the city anymore. You could tell that much. An unending tunnel. How did you get here again? It felt foggy. Your memory - all you could remember was a sense of love, of power, of something bigger than you. There was no other choice but to keep going. And going. And going.

#Bilquis #Bilquis x reader #Bilquis oneshot #American Gods #American Gods oneshot #x reader #oneshot #oneshots #request

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