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cripplecharacters · 4 months

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Facial Differences that You Should Consider Representing in Your Writing More

[large text: Facial Differences that You Should Consider Representing in Your Writing More]

As it has been said many times on this blog before, facial differences are a very wide spectrum - there’s thousands of conditions that cause it, and they’re often extremely different from each other! It’s an incredibly diverse category almost by definition. But…

In books, movies, and our inbox, it seems that a traumatic battle scar is the only facial difference that exists. I find this rather frustrating because I would like to see the real life diversity to be actually considered by writers when creating characters - and that’s exactly what this post is for. I hope that by making people just aware of the myriad of options they have, I can help a bit.

This isn’t to say that you shouldn’t write characters with scars, it’s to say that there’s more for you to consider. Just like not every physically disabled person has hip dysplasia and not every neurodivergent person has epilepsy, not every person with a facial difference has scars!

Of course, this list isn’t exhaustive - no such list exists, it would be like “list of every disability ever”, it simply can’t be done. This is just a dozen random facial differences that I would like to see incorporated into characters more often!

Facial paralysis Exactly what the name implies. There are many types of facial paralysis - complete, partial, bilateral, unilateral, chronic, acute, and it can affect the whole face, or only part of it. Sometimes it can cause problems with speech or dry eyes (mostly the latter), but it’s frequently just primarily a visual difference. A person with facial paralysis might be completely unable to make facial expressions at all if it’s severe, or have a lop-sided smile and inability to raise an eyebrow or control an eyelid like me. Causes include cranial nerve damage (especially the 7th nerve, which is called facial palsy), Bell’s palsy, Möbius syndrome, or multiple sclerosis! It can be congenital, like in my case, or acquired, like in most cases - mostly due to stroke. Here I would write something about the current media representation being good, bad, or what tropes to look out for but I don’t know a single character with it. So :-)

Anotia/microtia Microtia is a congenital facial difference that affects the outer ear(s) - as the name implies, they’re smaller than average; anotia means a complete lack of them. This usually will also result in being d/Deaf or hard of hearing in that ear, as the ear canal can be smaller or closed (depending on the “grade”). People with microtia who decide on using hearing aids will usually wear a bone-anchored hearing aid, which looks very differently from the “regular” HA; it’s worn with a headband. Microtia can be the only facial difference that a person has, but it can also be a part of Goldenhar syndrome, Treacher Collins syndrome (mentioned below!), or hemifacial microsomia.

Congenital Trochlear Nerve palsy I have a subtype of this, and because it happens to have the most boring name in existence I have never seen anyone talk about it, certainly not see a character with it. So! CNIV palsy (again, an incredibly catchy name) is a disorder of one of the very-easy-to-damage nerves that allow eyes to move. It causes constant double vision, severe strabismus, and progressive facial asymmetry. A person with CNIV palsy will have a 24/7 head tilt to the side and will have their chin tucked in, which causes said asymmetry - facial features on the side of the tilt will sag down, the eye will “sunk” in, and because it’s congenital, the jaw can grow to be misaligned (like mine!). Over time, it causes neck pain and kyphosis, so add chronic pain to that. Trochlear nerve palsy can be congenital, acquired, traumatic, and even extremely rarely genetic (that’s me! allegedly <1 in a million). However, most acquired cases are only temporary, and “fix themselves” with the passage of time. Again, I would love to write something about CNIV palsy representation, but I’m fairy confident it doesn’t exist : )

Sturge-Weber syndrome The most visible part of SWS - that you might be familiar with - are port wine stains! In this syndrome, they tend to be large and generally cover the forehead-eye area. Around 15% of people with any kind of port wine stain on their face have Sturge-Weber syndrome, and even more when it comes to larger ones. Most people with SWS will have epilepsy since childhood, and many will develop glaucoma (which causes blindness) if the PWS is around that eye. Hemiparesis (one-sided weakness) can also sometimes happen on the opposite side of the PWS. Here is a short article about media representation from a person with SWS!

Cystic Hygroma Also known as lymphangioma, it is a bump that mostly happens on a person’s lower face and/or neck. It’s almost always congenital and a result of a blockage in the lymphatic system (thus lymphangioma). Sometimes, if it affects the mouth or jaw, it may cause a speech disability where the person’s speech might not be fully understandable, or cause an airway obstruction; this generally means that the person has to have a trach tube in their neck to breathe. Here is a short article about living and growing up with cystic hygroma by Atholl Mills!

Congenital melanocytic nevus A complicated name for a specific kind of birthmark! Melanocytic means related to melanin, so it’s a black or brown birthmark that can show up on any part of the body and be of almost any size. Sometimes it can be hairy as well. While CMN doesn’t usually cause any problems, people who have it have a higher risk of skin cancer, epilepsy, and brain tumors. Here is a short article on representation - among other things - by a person with CMN!

Ptosis Ptosis is actually really common - I can almost guarantee that you have seen someone with it - but for some reason it never shows up in media, unless it’s to show that a character is under the influence or vaguely creepy. Ptosis is simply a drooped eyelid. It’s caused by damage to the third cranial nerve, which can be congenital, acquired, traumatic, etc. It’s very common in myasthenia gravis and CHARGE syndrome. In most cases ptosis is a visual thing, but it can sometimes cause problems - for me, it partially obstructs my vision and for some people who acquired it later in life that can cause pain (due to having to constantly lift the eyebrow). Ptosis is often misunderstood, and people tend to make bizarre assumptions about those of us who have it - even Wikipedia cites “looking sinister” as a symptom (not that I particularly trust Wikipedia as a source, but it shows the general public’s view quite well). In real life, we are normal people and all these “drunk/high/rude/evil” associations aren’t true at all.

Treacher Collins syndrome You have probably seen a person with TCS at some point, as it’s not that rare. This is a genetic, congenital disability that affects the development of the face. The bones of the jaw and cheeks are underdeveloped, eyes have a downturned shape, and microtia/anotia is often present as well. A lot of people with Treacher Collins are d/Deaf or hard of hearing. Sometimes, the small jaw might cause problems with breathing, which is why a lot of people with TCS will have a permanent tracheostomy tube in their neck. Similar to ptosis, eyes in TCS are often seen as “looking sad”, but that’s an incorrect assumption - that’s just how they look like. The main and only big representation of TCS in media is that one awful movie from a few years ago, that was literally just inspiration porn featuring an able-bodied actor based on a shitty book, made by an author with some sort of abled-person guilt. Very cool, don’t do that.

Crouzon syndrome Crouzon syndrome is a type of craniosynostosis; a congenital condition where a person’s skull fuses too early. There are other disabilities that can look somewhat similar, like Pfeiffer or Apert syndrome, but they are different! CS will affect the person's skull - it will be taller than usual, eyes - they will be large and bulging, midface - it's often smaller than average and can look sunk in comparison to the jaw and forehead, and more! Sometimes people with Crouzon syndrome are d/Deaf or hard of hearing (very common with craniofacial differences), or experience long term effects of hydrocephalus, which happens fairly often. Here is a short article by Mikaela Moody about movie representation - and her piece on how it to be trans while having a facial difference, which I relate to a lot and wanted to share:-)

Phthisis bulbi Phthisis bulbi is something that I have mentioned on this blog before, as it logistically should be represented way more often in fiction than it currently is. It's also known as the “end-stage eye” which is a pretty metal name. This is an ocular difference that can result after trauma to the eye. It can also result from a million other things, but trauma is apparently the most common thing to happen to an eye in fiction, so. With phthisis bulbi, the eye shrinks, sinks, and everything inside becomes stiff; this is permanent, and the eye isn't functional anymore - it's blind and unable to move. The only treatment is to have the eye removed, especially if it causes pain. If you're writing a character who got a Hot Sexy Scar over their eye and still has that eye, they probably should have this (and yes, the “shrunk and sunk” part is mandatory, you can't just make the eye lighter and call it a day).

Frontonasal dysplasia Frontonasal dysplasia is a congenital facial difference that affects the structure of the face. While it's a spectrum with a lot of variety, most people with FND will have hypertelorism (eyes spread widely apart), a flat and broad nose, and a cleft going through the middle of the nose. Other facial clefts (not necessarily just cleft lip) are also common. Sometimes, someone with it can also have cranium bifidum (meaning a brain/meninges that protrude through the skull, similar to how spina bifida works), or intellectual disability related to the potential absence of corpus callosum. Rarely, limb differences can also be a part of it; absent tibia, extra toes, or clubfoot. Again, I’m unaware of any representation of FND outside of “scary birth deformity” on medical shows :--)

Parry–Romberg syndrome PRS is also known as progressive hemifacial atrophy, which is a much more descriptive name. It’s an acquired facial difference that people just get for unknown reasons, mostly before the age of 20 and usually between 5 and 15. Generally, PRS is considered to be slowly-progressing, but this can vary pretty widely between different people. As the name implies, it causes atrophy in the face, which affects everything from skin to fat and muscles to sometimes even bones. Some people will also experience skin darkening, alopecia (hair loss), or trigeminal neuralgia (very severe nerve pain) on the atrophied side. The difference between the two sides can be very pronounced, with a visible line between the halves showing up on the forehead. Again, no existing rep that I know of :-)

And as always, I recommend this short PDF that in my opinion any writer who wants to include a character with an FD has to read. Additionally, you can also check our #face difference tag, this primer on facial difference, or this piece on making sure you’re not contributing to disfiguremisia.

Also apologies for the amount of “idk what to say about already existing rep because it literally doesn’t exist afaik” but I hope it illustrates the problem :-)

Happy Face Equality Week!

mod Sasza

#mod sasza #face difference #disabled character ideas #writing guide #writing resources #writing advice #writing help #face equality week #long post

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bumblequinn · 11 months

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hi @sourpatchsquids! thank you for your question.

as an artist with ADHD, i know this struggle very well. unfortunately offering advice on this kind of thing can be tricky, because what works for me may not work for you (and vice versa!). nonetheless, i can try; take whatever works for you, forget the rest, or reshape any part of it as you see fit. :)

but before i offer any actual tools, i have one caveat. i want you to take a moment to reflect and consider if you should be:

changing expectations

the timing of this question seems fated, because just the other day i had a therapy session wherein i expressed my grief and frustration over struggling to work lately due to my seasonal depression. it's not fair that i'm struggling just because it got a little darker outside! i just want the spark i had in the summer! i was so much more consistent!

my therapist's response: nothing about human beings is consistent. we get sick, we get tired, we get hungry and thirsty (and thirsty) and sad and lonely and restless and stressed and overwhelmed. this all gets amplified for folks who are atypical in some way or another.

when my therapist compared our seasonal cycles to those of plants and other animals, who wilt and slow down and hibernate, i protested aloud that i wanted to be a perennial instead. at this she said: even perennials change with the seasons. rose bushes have to be pruned, sometimes down to half their height! it was a dose of perspective i didn't particularly want, but really needed.

so when you're struggling to work through executive dysfunction, burnout, or brain fog, it can help to first check in with yourself about a few things. what do you have the capacity for right now? do you need any accommodation? and if so, what changes you might make to accommodate yourself?

with practice and self reflection, i've learned a handful of specific routines that help me when i'm struggling with creative work, which i'll detail next. note that while your question is specifically about music and i am specifically a musician, i believe that all of these suggestions can apply to most any form of digital creative work.

with that in mind:

#1: work slower

when i'm at the top of my game, i can get a LOT done in a day. but when i'm depressed, fatigued, or distracted, i just can't go full steam. sometimes i'll try to convince myself that i can if i just push harder, but what actually ends up happening is that i'm just fiddling with settings and going in circles rather than moving forward.

instead of that, when i want to work a lot but can't, i try to work slow. how slow? however slow i need to. take four hours to figure out the melody for a single verse. take all day to figure out that drum groove. yeah, i take a lot of breaks in between. who says i have to be my Absolute Most Productive Every Day Or Else? that's the puritan work ethic talking. kill it. be kind to yourself.

i'm reminded of advice i once read about some super successful and prolific author (gaiman? king? pratchett?) who said they wrote only four hundred words every weekday. that's already less than the word count of this post, and i'm only—[travels into the future to check my final word count]... 22.8% of the way through writing it!

now, i don't think i could function that way, because ADHD means some days i'm hyperfocused like crazy, and other days i just have no steam at all (more on that in #4-6). but it seems to me that if even someone highly respected in their profession can achieve what they have with only a little bit of work on a regular basis, maybe i don't have to punish myself for not pumping out a finished work every single week.

doing less work per day means you're much less likely to burn out, which does a lot for working more consistently. if that consistency still doesn't look like a five-day work week, that's okay! as long as it helps you work even a little more often when you want to, it's something worth doing.

however, if you're still feeling truly stuck, all hope isn't lost. you can still try:

#2: switch projects

sometimes the reason i'm moving slow is because of a bad brain day, but sometimes the reason is that i just cannot muster the motivation to do the specific task i'm trying to do right now. ADHD is fueled by novelty and interest, and if i'm not interested in what i'm doing, or it's feeling stale, that's a sign that i need to switch gears.

this is why first it's helpful for me to have more than one project going at a time. this might mean completely unrelated works, or it might just mean related tracks as with the music for a game like SLARPG or susan taxpayer.

the idea here is not to start a dozen different projects and bounce around them like i'm playing whac-a-mole—though i have done that. (i don't recommend it.) the idea here is to have a manageable number of different projects i can be working on so that if i get bored or stuck on something, i have fallback options.

what that number of projects is depends entirely on the week. maybe right now it's two, maybe another time it's three. i would probably be getting carried away if i tried more than that, but that's just my own limit. maybe yours is different. that's something for you to think about.

but it doesn't have to stop there.

#3: switch focus

maybe there is this one project that i just HAVE to work on, but the task i'm trying to do at this stage just isn't coming to me. okay, well, why don't i try working on a different task?

let's say i can't figure out what i want to do with the melody in one part of the song:

what if i try jumping ahead to a different part of the melody? ...no, i'm stumped on melodies today. okay, how about working on the drums instead? ...hmm no, i think i'm just completely tapped out on writing parts right now. alright, what if i organized my tracks, making sure they're all grouped and named in a way that i can work with easily? what if i did a rough volume balance for the mix?

and so on. if that's not enough to shake the off stuckness, i might consider: what can i do to make this project more interesting to me?

what happens if i try using an instrument or effect that i almost never reach for? what if i try sampling something obscure? what if i bang out the drums using my midi keyboard instead of drawing it in on the piano roll?

any approach that breaks me out of my usual habits is bound to get that feeling of novelty and fun back when i need it.

or maybe i can't do any of that right now, and so i take the time to answer a question from a fellow musician instead. i consider that part of my work, too, in a broader sense. check in with yourself and figure out what you can do right now. the rest will still be there later.

but okay, let's say you try switching gears, and switching again, and again, and nothing is moving. you try new approaches, but that wall of awful is insurmountable in this moment. it happens! the next thing you might try is:

#4: learn something new

when you aren't able to make progress on your projects, you can still make progress on your knowledge and craft. i often find this stokes a flame of inspiration in me where there wasn't one before. and even when it doesn't, it still gets my brain out of that feeling of stuckness and dread and into one of thought and action. learning also benefits in the long term because it adds to the well of knowledge from which you draw for all your future works.

for all the awfulness that exists on the internet, it remains an absolute treasure trove of teaching. there's an endless ocean of videos, blog posts, and articles from which you might learn something about your craft. (and if you sail the seven seas, plenty of book PDFs as well. 🦜🏴‍☠️)

it's true that the quality and depth of information out there can vary wildly, but in my experience most resources get at least some things right. and the more you research, practice, and figure out what works for you, the better you will learn to differentiate between the advice worth keeping, and the advice to forget. (that goes for all of what i'm saying here, too!)

that said, since our shared focus is music, a few resources i would highly recommend are:

music theory and composition music matters, 12tone, charles cornell, music with myles, 8-bit music theory, and this introduction by andrew huang

mixing and production dan worrall (especially this series for fabfilter), kush after hours, red means recording, andrew huang, alice yalcin efe, in the mix

general inspiration nahre sol, ben levin, david hilowitz, game score fanfare, posy, jerobeam fenderson, open reel ensemble, and ELECTRONICOS FANTASTICOS!

(if any readers have their own helpful resources for creating music or any other media, feel free to share in the replies & reblogs! 💓)

of course, on an especially bad day, it might be a challenge to seek out information, let alone retain it. that can feel pretty bad, but remember: be kind to yourself. the next thing you might consider trying is:

#5: consume art you love

not just music. books. shows. movies. games. illustration. animation. whatever moves and inspires you.

but do it intentionally. don't just pull up some random thing the algorithm suggested! check in with yourself about what you want (or are able) to engage with right now. choose accordingly. if you get a little way into it and realize it's not scratching that itch, hit the bricks. check in with yourself again. wash, rinse, repeat, until you find whatever it is that speaks to you right now.

and do it actively, if you can. don't just let it go in one eye and out the other! really pay attention to the work. what do you like about it? what are its themes and motifs? what makes it work so well? what are its flaws, and how much do they matter? what might you do differently? you can write notes as you do this if it helps, but even simply noticing and thinking goes a long way.

what you don't want to do is come at this with a lens of shame or envy. you're not here just to say to yourself, "ugh, if only i could do THAT." it's okay if it happens. use that thought as a springboard for curiosity: "well okay, how DID they do that? do i have the resources for it? if so, how could i apply that to my own work? if not, how can i adapt it, or what do i need to learn?" keep your mind open and approach the work with a sense of wonder.

as a creative person, it's very easy to think, "i should be making something right now, not watching a movie!" but that thought forgets something vital: your art is a response in a conversation. of course the "language" you use is your own, and maybe if you're lucky you'll invent a new word. but most of the words you use have been around long before you were born. you're just one voice in a dialogue that spans continents and generations, and that's okay. it's even the whole point.

none of us is an island. we are profoundly social animals. just as we can't live without eating, we can't make without learning. so half of making art is consuming it. consider this part of the process as well.

and finally,

#6: rest, and live your life

let's say you're in really dire straits. you've tried working slower. you tried changing focus, you tried changing projects. you want to take in new information or actively engage with your favorite art, but you're not in the headspace for it. what now?

take a nap. take a walk. take a shower. eat a nice meal, or an okay one. talk to a friend. maybe even do that chore you've been putting off (you know the one).

it's human to always crave making, but you're not a machine—and even if you were, machines need regular maintenance, too! you wouldn't drive a car that's completely out of gas, and you won't do yourself any favors treating your body that way either.

i know that when you take a break it feels as though you're not accomplishing anything, but you are: you're taking care of your animal self. and while you do that, your creative brain doesn't stop working! much like windows, it has countless background processes running at any given moment, with inscrutable names like "cbdhsvc_692da" or "Microsoft Edge Update Service." it's true, i checked.

when you're stuck on a project and you step away to rest, your brain is still chipping away at your ideas unconsciously. i like to tell people, "it's percolating." much like waiting for a pot of water to boil, that idea is still heating up, even when you take a step away. just be sure to check in on it once in a while. the time will pass, and it'll be boiling again before long. :)

before i go, i'll leave you with one last thing to keep in mind as you try all of these strategies:

be kind to yourself.

being human is just about one of the hardest things you can do. let alone being a human trying to survive capitalism while living with disabilities! the last thing you need on top of that is to overwork yourself, talk to yourself negatively, or treat yourself harshly. there are plenty of other people in the world who do that to you—don't be one of them.

i'm not saying that you shouldn't try to challenge yourself, to test your limits and go above and beyond your ambitions, if that's what you want to do. just remember that hard work and self compassion are not mutually exclusive. so be careful not to bully yourself. take pride in the progress you make, even when it seems small. encourage yourself like you would a friend who's going through a hard time. and when you challenge yourself, be your own cheerleader.

i hope you find this advice helpful! remember, this is just what helps me, so don't feel like you have to follow any of it exactly. maybe taking time to learn new information helps break you out of your rut more than working slowly, so you reach for that tool first. maybe having multiple projects going at once is too distracting for you, so you prefer to stick to one at a time. whatever your needs are, feel free to alter and adapt these ideas to fit you.

thank you for reading, and i wish you the best of luck in your creating.

with care, bee 🐦

#adhd #advice #asks #from #sourpatchsquids

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wannabehockeygf · 1 month

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greedy - quinn hughes

“He said ‘I’m just curious, is this for real or just an act?’

Can’t tell if you love or hate me,

Never met someone like that.”

summary: when you’re a bartender in a popular local club, the captain of the canucks who’s also one of your regulars takes a liking to you

pairing: quinn hughes x fem!reader

word count: 9.3k. i’m so sorry.

warnings: 18+ NSFW! fingering (f receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, slight degradation.

notes:

- this is soooo different for me! have never written about a hughes brother before even though they’re super popular here.

- missing vancouver hockey. sorry leafs nation.

- also this is probably some of the nastiest smut i’ve ever written!

- not proof read

- the eye colour thing again… sorry if they’re green.

***

Friday nights at The Roxy Cabaret were like trying to squeeze into your favorite pair of jeans after Thanksgiving dinner—uncomfortable, chaotic, and leaving you questioning your life choices. Honestly, it felt like the entire population of Vancouver had made a pact to invade this dingy club all at once. Not that you were complaining, though—well, maybe a little. It wasn’t like you had a choice; the rent wasn’t going to pay itself.

Sure, you worked there, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t hold a deep, burning, soul-crushing hatred for the place, right? Well, okay, maybe "hatred" was a bit strong. You did occasionally wander in on your nights off, blend into the crowd, and pretend you were just another twenty-three-year-old who didn’t have to worry about the bartender recognizing you. Because let’s face it, you needed a break from serving vodka sodas to tipsy twenty-somethings trying to relive their high school glory days.

What really got under your skin, though, was the crowd that showed up when you were on the clock. And by "crowd," you meant the entire Vancouver Canucks roster, who seemed to think The Roxy was their personal post-victory playground. It wasn’t that you disliked hockey—you were indifferent to it, like you were to a distant relative’s Facebook posts. If it was on, fine, you’d watch. But you weren’t exactly lining up to buy season tickets.

Most of the guys were fine—great even. Some of them were downright charming, the kind of guys you wouldn’t mind chatting with when things slowed down. Plus, they tipped like they were trying to make it rain dollar bills in a music video, which you appreciated. But then there was Quinn Hughes.

Oh, Quinn. Captain Smug himself. He had a way of getting under your skin like an itch you couldn’t scratch.

"Another round, please, Princess," Quinn drawls, tapping his fingers on the bar like he owns the place.

You grit your teeth, mentally counting to ten as you shake up a cocktail. "Can you get Brock to order it? He isn’t an egotistical asshole."

Quinn just laughs, that infuriating smirk of his widening even though he looks like he could use a nap. "Aw, come on, Princess, don’t be like that. You know you love me."

You resist the urge to roll your eyes so hard they might get stuck. Instead, you stick to your customer service script. "That’s not my name," you say, yanking out shot glasses like they owe you money.

"I know," Quinn says, brushing a strand of hair out of his face like he’s in some cheesy romance movie. "But you act like a princess, so it suits you."

Oh great, now your jaw’s tightening. Fabulous. You grab the tequila bottle with a little more force than necessary. "What do you want from me, Quinn?" you ask, trying not to let your annoyance seep too much into your voice.

He leans in closer, his smirk practically reaching his ears. "How about a smile, Princess? Is that too much to ask?"

You force the kind of smile you reserve for customer service nightmares, tight-lipped and entirely devoid of warmth. "Is that good? Can you go now?"

Quinn chuckles, taking the tray of drinks from you like he’s doing you a favor. "Always so feisty. But I like it. Keeps things interesting."

"Fuck off, Quinn," you mutter, wiping down the counter with the enthusiasm of someone scrubbing a crime scene. "I’m not here to entertain your ego."

He leans in even closer—so close you can practically count the flecks of mischief in his eyes. "But you do entertain me. Every time you brush me off, it just makes me want you more."

You scoff, shaking your head in disbelief. "You’ve got a funny way of showing it. Just because you’re some big-shot athlete doesn’t mean you can treat women however you want."

Quinn’s gaze slowly trails up from your lips, where it’s been lingering far too long, to meet your eyes. "Ah, come on, you know I always take good care of you."

And damn it, he’s right. Quinn is probably your biggest tipper out of the entire team. And while you like the money, you hate seeing his stupid messy brown hair and annoyingly pretty blue eyes at your bar every time they win.

"Sure you do," you say, swiping someone else’s card through the machine, mentally willing him to disappear into the sea of other customers.

You watch Quinn walk away, his broad shoulders cutting through the crowd like he’s parting the Red Sea. It’s infuriating, really, how someone so damn annoying can also be so… well, hot. There, you admitted it. The guy is hot. Like, "should come with a warning label" hot. But that doesn’t mean you’re about to give him the satisfaction of knowing you think that. No way. Not in this lifetime, or the next, or even if you were reincarnated as a particularly enthusiastic poodle.

Quinn Hughes is the human equivalent of a pop-up ad—persistent, unwanted, and impossible to get rid of without a lot of cursing. Every time you brush him off, he just comes back stronger, like he’s powered by your irritation. And maybe that’s what’s so maddening about him. He knows exactly how to push your buttons, and he enjoys every second of it.

The problem is, you’re starting to wonder if you enjoy it too.

Nope. Not going there. You are not going to be one of those girls who gets all flustered over a guy just because he’s got a good smile and a credit card that could probably buy out half the bar. You’re stronger than that. You’re resilient. You’re… currently mixing a drink with far more focus than necessary because all you can think about is what it would be like to grab him by the collar of that too-tight shirt and kiss that stupid smirk right off his face.

You’re shaking your head at the absurdity of it all as you pour the next round of shots, hands moving on autopilot. It’s bad enough that Quinn Hughes has invaded your workspace like some kind of hockey-playing parasite, but now he’s wormed his way into your thoughts too.

“Get a grip,” you mutter under your breath, lining up the glasses like they’re little soldiers marching to their doom. Because really, that’s what this is—a battle of wills. A tug-of-war where the prize is your sanity, and you’re losing.

A couple of your regulars wave you over, and you force your focus back to them, slapping on that customer service smile that’s become second nature by now. They’re nice guys, the kind who tip decently and don’t try to flirt with you in that obnoxious, entitled way that some customers do. They’re also blissfully ignorant of the 5’10, 180 pound storm cloud currently hovering over your head, which is exactly how you like it.

But just as you’re starting to enjoy a break from the chaos, you catch sight of him again. He’s leaning against the bar a few feet away, talking to Brock, who seems completely unfazed by the fact that Quinn has probably just sent your blood pressure through the roof.

You steal a glance at Quinn, hoping he won’t notice, but of course he does. He always does. His eyes meet yours, and for a split second, you forget how to breathe. It’s ridiculous, really. The guy’s just standing there, doing absolutely nothing, and yet he has this stupid effect on you. Like he’s some kind of gravitational force, pulling you in against your will.

You force yourself to look away, focusing on the drink in front of you like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. But it’s too late. The damage is done. Your brain has already gone down that treacherous path, imagining what it would be like if you gave in just once.

But that’s a dangerous game, and you know it. Because if you give him an inch, he’ll take a mile. Hell, he’ll probably take the whole damn kilometer. And then where would you be?

Nope. Not happening. Not tonight, not ever.

You’re not sure when exactly it started—the whole Quinn Hughes thing, that is. Maybe it was the first time he sauntered up to the bar, eyes twinkling like he knew something you didn’t. Or maybe it was the time he tipped you a hundred bucks just for bringing him a water, like he was trying to buy your affection. Which, spoiler alert, didn’t work. Or so you’ve been telling yourself.

But you can’t deny it any longer: Quinn Hughes is a problem. A major, five-alarm, get-the-fire-extinguisher kind of problem. Because somewhere along the line, your irritation with him has twisted into something… different. Something dangerous. Something that makes you wonder what it would be like to grab him by that annoyingly perfect jawline and just—

“Hey, Princess, you gonna make me another drink or just stand there daydreaming?”

And there it is. That voice, like smooth whiskey poured over gravel, cutting through your thoughts like a knife. You don’t even have to look up to know it’s him. Of course it’s him. Because Quinn Hughes has a sixth sense for when you’re starting to get a grip on your sanity, and he’s hell-bent on ruining it.

You set down the bottle of vodka you’ve been holding, turning to face him with what you hope is a look of mild disinterest. “Back so soon? Didn’t think you could tear yourself away from your adoring fans.”

Quinn grins, leaning against the bar like he’s got all the time in the world. And maybe he does. After all, what’s a Friday night without irritating the bartender who’s secretly trying to figure out what color your eyes really are because the lighting in here sucks? Not that you’d ever admit to that. “I just couldn’t stay away from you, Princess. You know how it is.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s half-hearted at best. “Again, not my name.”

He taps his fingers on the bar, a rhythm that’s almost hypnotic. “I know. But I like it. It suits you.”

“What, because I won’t roll over and worship the ground you walk on?” you shoot back, crossing your arms. You know you’re playing with fire, but there’s something addictive about sparring with him. Like a game of chicken, except you’re both too stubborn to swerve.

Quinn’s grin widens, and you can’t help but notice how his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. Damn him. “Exactly. I like a girl with a backbone.”

You open your mouth to retort, but the words get stuck somewhere between your brain and your tongue. Because for some reason, all you can think about is the way he’s looking at you right now—like you’re the only person in this crowded, chaotic club that matters.

So that’s why you decide to go for it.

“You ever had hate sex, Hughes?”

You can almost see the gears in Quinn’s head grind to a halt at your question. The usual smug smirk falters for a split second, and it’s the most satisfying thing you’ve seen all night. You’ve finally done it—left Quinn Hughes speechless. But the victory is short-lived because, as always, he recovers faster than you can blink.

“Hate sex?” he echoes, his voice dropping an octave, making you question all of your life choices up to this point. He leans in closer, his breath warm against your ear, and you suddenly realize you’re standing way too close. “Princess, if that’s your idea of a pick-up line, I’ve got to say, I’m intrigued.”

And there it is, that damn smirk back in full force. He’s trying to throw you off, but you refuse to back down. You’ve already started this ridiculous game, so there’s no turning back now.

“You didn’t answer the question,” you reply, your tone as steady as you can make it. “Ever had hate sex?”

He lets out a low chuckle that sends shivers down your spine—not that you’d ever admit it. “I don’t know. Guess we’d have to define ‘hate sex’ first.”

You narrow your eyes at him, your mind racing with all the ways this could go horribly wrong. But damn it, you’re committed now. “I’m pretty sure it’s when you can’t stand someone, but you still want to rip their clothes off.”

Quinn’s eyes darken just a fraction, and you can feel the tension between you both ratchet up to an unbearable level. It’s like the entire club fades away, leaving just the two of you locked in this absurd, heated standoff.

“Is that what you want?” he asks, his voice smooth and infuriatingly calm. “You want to rip my clothes off, Princess?”

You clench your jaw, determined not to let him see how flustered you are. This is Quinn Hughes, the guy who drives you up the wall every single time he walks into this bar. There’s no way in hell you’re about to let him get the upper hand.

So, you do the only thing that seems appropriate. You lean in, so close that your lips are almost brushing his ear, and whisper, “Maybe I just want to shut you up for five minutes.”

“You think you could handle it?” His voice is a low rumble now, and there’s something about the way he says it that’s got your stomach doing somersaults. “Because if we’re going there, I don’t do anything halfway.”

Oh, for the love of— You’re pretty sure your face is betraying you right now, showing just how much his words have affected you, but you can’t let him know that.

Quinn is still watching you, eyes glittering with amusement and something else you can’t quite place. There’s a challenge there, a dare hanging in the air between you, and you’re suddenly very aware of how close he is. Too close. Close enough that you can see the faint stubble on his jaw, the way his hair falls messily over his forehead, and those damn blue eyes that seem to see right through your carefully constructed defenses.

For a moment, you consider backing down, playing it off as a joke. But then Quinn would win, and that’s simply not an option. So, you double down, leaning in just a little bit closer, your breath brushing against his skin.

"Handle it? Quinn, I think you’re forgetting who you’re talking to." Your voice is steady, but inside, your heart is doing its best impression of a drum solo. This is insane. You’re flirting with Quinn Hughes. Quinn Hughes, the guy who spends his Friday nights at your bar making your life just a little bit more complicated than it needs to be. The guy who seems to take an unholy amount of pleasure in riling you up. The guy who—God help you—makes your pulse race every time he so much as glances in your direction.

Quinn’s lips curve into a slow smile, and you can’t help but notice how annoyingly perfect his teeth are. Of course they are. Everything about him is infuriatingly perfect, from his tousled hair to his broad shoulders that you really shouldn’t be noticing right now. "You’ve got a mouth on you, Princess," he murmurs, his voice low and rough, sending a shiver down your spine that you desperately try to suppress.

You swallow hard, trying to keep your composure as you stare into Quinn’s infuriatingly perfect face. Seriously, who gave him the right to look this good, especially when he’s being such a smug asshole? You remind yourself that you don’t like him. You don’t. Except maybe you do, a little bit. Okay, a lot. But that’s beside the point.

Quinn’s eyes are locked on yours, and you can practically feel the heat radiating off him. It’s like standing too close to a bonfire—one wrong move, and you’re going to get burned. But damn it, you’re not backing down. Not when he’s looking at you like that, like he’s just waiting for you to slip up so he can swoop in and… do what, exactly? You’re not even sure anymore. And that’s the most dangerous part.

“Someone’s gotta put you in your place, Hughes,” you manage to say, your voice coming out a little breathier than you intended. You’re aiming for sassy, but it’s hard to pull off when your heart is practically doing backflips in your chest.

His smile widens, and you want to slap it right off his face, but also—God help you—maybe kiss it off too. “Is that so?” he asks, voice dripping with amusement. “And you think you’re the one to do it?”

Oh, he’s good. He’s really good. And damn it, you walked right into his trap, didn’t you? Because now you’ve got to follow through, or else he’s going to lord this over you for the rest of eternity.

But before you can figure out a clever retort, Quinn’s gaze flicks past you, scanning the crowded bar. When he looks back at you, there’s something new in his eyes—something that sends a shiver of anticipation down your spine.

“You know,” he says, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “this place is a little too crowded for what I have in mind.”

Your breath catches in your throat. Oh no. Oh no, no, no. He’s not suggesting what you think he’s suggesting, is he? Because if he is, you’re in way over your head. And yet… there’s a tiny, traitorous part of you that’s intrigued. More than intrigued. You want to know what he has in mind, even though every logical part of your brain is screaming at you to abort mission and run for the hills.

You tilt your head, trying to play it cool even as your heart races. “And what exactly do you have in mind, Hughes?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

Quinn leans in closer, so close that you can feel his breath on your cheek. “Somewhere private,” he murmurs, “Where we can… talk.”

“Talk,” you repeat, your tone dripping with skepticism. “That’s what we’re calling it now?”

He chuckles softly, and the sound sends a jolt of electricity straight to your core. “Unless you’ve got a better idea.”

Oh, you do. You’ve got a lot of ideas, most of them involving doing things to Quinn Hughes that would definitely not fall under the category of “talking.” But you can’t just give in, can you? That would be too easy, and Quinn would never let you live it down.

But then again… maybe it’s time to stop overthinking things. Maybe it’s time to let go, just this once, and see where this crazy, ridiculous, probably-terrible idea takes you.

“Fine,” you say, surprising yourself with how steady your voice sounds. “Let’s go.”

Quinn’s eyes light up with something that looks a lot like victory, but you’re not about to let him have the upper hand. Not entirely, anyway.

“Lead the way, Princess,” he says, his voice a low purr that sends a thrill of anticipation coursing through you.

You roll your eyes—because of course you do—but there’s no denying the excitement buzzing just beneath the surface. You’ve got no idea what you’re getting yourself into, but one thing’s for sure: it’s going to be one hell of a ride.

With one last glance at the bar, you turn on your heel and start making your way through the crowd, Quinn hot on your heels. You can feel the tension between you both, crackling like static electricity, and it’s taking everything in you not to turn around and grab him by that stupidly perfect jawline right then and there.

You slip through a side door that leads to a narrow hallway, the noise from the bar muffled by the heavy walls. The air is cooler here, the dim lighting casting long shadows that dance along the worn carpet. You can feel Quinn’s presence behind you, close enough that you can practically feel the heat radiating off his body.

“Where are we going?” he asks, his voice a low rumble that makes your stomach flip.

“Storage closet,” you say, not even sure where the idea came from, but it’s out now, and there’s no taking it back. You know the staff keeps some of the extra supplies in a small room down the hall, and it’s as good a place as any to… well, whatever this is.

Quinn’s chuckle is dark and throaty, sending another shiver down your spine. “Kinky,” he murmurs, but you can hear the approval in his tone.

You reach the door and push it open, revealing a small, dimly lit room lined with shelves full of bottles and boxes. It’s cramped, barely enough room for the two of you, but that’s probably a good thing. The last thing you need is space to think about what you’re doing, because if you stop to think, you might just lose your nerve.

Quinn steps in behind you, closing the door with a soft click. The sound echoes in the quiet space, amplifying the tension that’s been simmering between you both all night.

For a moment, neither of you moves. You just stand there, staring at each other, the air thick with unspoken challenges and barely restrained desire. And then, like a rubber band snapping, the tension breaks.

You’re not even sure who moves first—maybe it’s him, maybe it’s you—but suddenly you’re pressed up against the shelves, Quinn’s body crowding into yours, his hands bracing on either side of your head as his lips crash onto yours

It’s not gentle. It’s not soft. It’s every bit as intense and heated as the tension that’s been simmering between you from the moment you met. His lips crash against yours with a force that sends your head spinning, and for a moment, all you can do is cling to him, your hands fisting in his shirt as you kiss him back just as fiercely.

This is no sweet, romantic moment. This is raw, unfiltered desire, born from all the frustration and irritation that’s been building between you two for so long. It’s everything you never thought you’d want, and yet here you are, giving in to it completely.

Quinn’s hands are on you now, pulling you closer, as if he can’t get enough. And maybe he can’t. Maybe you can’t either. All you know is that this is happening, and there’s no stopping it.

“Damn it, Hughes,” you murmur against his mouth, trying to inject some venom into your words, but it comes out more like a plea. You can feel his smirk, the arrogant bastard. He knows he’s got you, and it only makes you want to kiss him harder.

Or punch him.

Maybe both.

“Problem?” he murmurs, voice thick with amusement as he pulls back just enough to look into your eyes. His lips are slightly swollen, his hair disheveled from your hands, and he looks annoyingly good like this. All messy and untamed, like you’ve undone him somehow, when you know it’s the other way around.

You want to tell him to shut up, to stop looking at you like that, like you’re some puzzle he’s close to solving. But you’re too breathless, too overwhelmed by the intensity of it all. So instead, you grab the front of his shirt and yank him back down to you, your lips crashing together again in a bruising kiss.

He groans into your mouth, his hands slipping under your shirt, fingers skimming the heated skin of your back. You shiver at the contact, hating how good it feels, hating that he knows it too. You can feel his smugness in every touch, every shift of his body against yours.

And yet, you don’t stop him.

Because you’re just as guilty.

You’ve been wanting this—wanting him—even though you’ve been denying it, pushing it away, convincing yourself that you despise him. But the truth is, that hatred has always been laced with something else. Something darker, more dangerous. Something you’re only now beginning to understand.

It’s infuriating.

It’s intoxicating.

“You’re such an asshole,” you mutter against his lips, your voice tinged with frustration as you nip at his lower lip. You want to hurt him, just a little, to remind yourself that you’re still in control, that this isn’t just him getting what he wants. But when he groans in response, his hands tightening their grip on your hips, you realize that maybe you’re not as in control as you thought.

“You say that like you don’t love it,” he replies, his voice husky as he trails kisses along your jawline, down to your neck. Your breath hitches when he finds that sensitive spot just below your ear, the one that makes your knees go weak. He’s too good at this. Too good at getting under your skin.

You don’t want to enjoy this. You really don’t. But your body isn’t exactly cooperating, and the traitorous warmth pooling in your stomach isn’t something you can ignore. It’s maddening how much you want this, even as every logical part of your brain screams that this is a terrible, horrible, no-good idea.

But logic be damned, because the way Quinn’s lips are moving against your skin is making it very hard to care about consequences.

“You’re such a smug bastard,” you mutter, trying to inject some bite into your words, but they come out breathy, almost like a sigh. Ugh. Could you be any more pathetic?

Quinn chuckles against your neck, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. “I thought you liked that about me,” he murmurs, his voice thick. His hands slide up under your shirt, fingers skimming over your ribs, making you gasp. “Or at least, you like it enough to let me do this.”

He’s right, and that just pisses you off even more. You do like it—hate it, love it, whatever it is, you’re feeling it with every nerve in your body. You can feel his smirk against your skin, and it only fuels the fire inside you.

You yank at his hair, pulling his head back just enough so you can meet his eyes, which are dark and stormy with desire. “Don’t get cocky, Hughes,” you warn, even though you know it’s a losing battle. “This doesn’t mean anything.”

He raises an eyebrow, that damn smirk still plastered on his stupidly perfect face. “You keep telling yourself that,” he says, his voice low and rough. “But we both know you’re full of shit.”

“Full of shit?” you echo, narrowing your eyes at him, trying to keep your wits about you even as his hands roam over your body. “That’s rich, coming from the guy who’s all talk and no—”

Quinn’s lips are on yours again before you can finish the sentence, cutting off your words with a kiss that’s somehow even more intense than the last one. It’s like he’s determined to prove you wrong, to make you eat your words, and as much as you hate to admit it, he’s succeeding.

But you’re not about to let him have the satisfaction of knowing that. Not yet, anyway.

You push back against him, shoving at his chest just enough to create some distance, even though your body is screaming at you to do the opposite. His eyes flash with surprise, and you smirk up at him, a little breathless but still in the game.

“Easy there, Hughes,” you murmur, your voice laced with false bravado. “I didn’t say you could take control.”

Quinn arches an eyebrow, his lips quirking up into that infuriatingly smug smile that makes you want to both slap him and drag him closer. “Oh? I must have missed the memo where you were the one calling the shots.”

You grit your teeth, not entirely sure whether you want to punch him or kiss him again. Maybe both, but that would just be giving him the upper hand. Instead, you decide to hit him where it hurts—his ego.

“Please,” you scoff, leaning in close, your lips brushing against his ear as you speak. “You’ve been in my palm since the moment we met. Don’t flatter yourself.”

He lets out a low, amused chuckle, his breath warm against your neck. “Is that what you tell yourself when you’re fantasizing about me at night?”

Your stomach flips at his words, but you refuse to let him see the effect he’s having on you. Instead, you tilt your head, letting your lips ghost over the shell of his ear as you whisper, “In your dreams, Hughes.”

But as much as you’re trying to play it cool, you can’t deny the electric tension between you both. It’s like the air is crackling with it, making it hard to breathe, hard to think. All you can focus on is Quinn—his hands, his lips, his damn voice that keeps pulling you deeper into this mess.

His hand slides down your side, settling on your hip, and your breath catches when he pulls you closer, your bodies pressed together in the cramped space. You can feel every inch of him, the solid warmth of his body, the way he’s holding you like he doesn’t want to let go. And maybe he doesn’t. Maybe you don’t either.

Quinn’s lips are back on yours, but this time, it’s slower, more deliberate. Like he’s savoring the moment, taking his time, driving you absolutely crazy with how good it feels. You’re so wrapped up in it, in him, that you almost don’t notice the way his hands are working on rolling up your shirt until it’s halfway up.

You pull back, just enough to look up at him with narrowed eyes. “What do you think you’re doing?”

He gives you a look that’s all innocence, but there’s nothing innocent about the way his hands keep moving, sliding under your shirt, his fingers grazing your skin. “Just making sure you’re comfortable,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough in a way that sends a shiver down your spine.

“Comfortable?” you repeat, your voice coming out a little higher than you intended as his hands roam over your bare skin. “You think this is making me comfortable?”

Quinn leans in, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, “No, but it’s making you hot, isn’t it?”

Your breath hitches, and damn him, he’s right. He’s so infuriatingly right. But you’re not about to admit that. Instead, you try to muster up some semblance of defiance, even though you can feel your resolve crumbling with every touch, every heated look he throws your way.

“You wish,” you manage to say, but the words lack the venom you were aiming for. Instead, they come out breathy, almost like a plea, and you hate how much that turns you on.

Quinn grins, and it’s a wicked, knowing grin that makes your stomach twist in the most deliciously infuriating way. “I don’t have to wish,” he says, his voice a low rumble that makes your knees weak. “I can see it in your eyes.”

Before you can respond—before you can even think of a comeback—he’s kissing you again, his lips moving against yours with a fervor that makes your head spin. You’re drowning in him, in the heat, the intensity of it all, and for a moment, you wonder if you’re going to lose yourself completely.

But then Quinn’s hands are on your hips, lifting you up onto the shelves, and you gasp at the sudden movement. You grab onto his shoulders, your fingers digging into his skin as he steps between your legs, his body pressing against yours in a way that makes it hard to remember why this is such a bad idea.

“Quinn,” you murmur, trying to sound like you’re in control, like you’re not about to fall apart at the seams. But your voice betrays you, coming out shaky, uncertain, and Quinn hears it. Of course he does.

His hands slide up your thighs, fingers teasing the edge of your shorts, and you can’t help the way your breath hitches, the way your body arches toward him, desperate for more. Damn it, you shouldn’t want this—shouldn’t want him—but there’s no denying it now.

“You can stop this anytime you want,” Quinn whispers against your lips, his breath warm and tantalizing. “Just say the word.”

But you don’t say anything. Because you can’t. You don’t want to stop, not when his hands are on you, not when his lips are trailing down your neck, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. Not when every nerve in your body is screaming at you to let go, to give in to this insane, reckless desire.

Instead, you pull him closer, your fingers tangling in his hair as you kiss him with everything you’ve got, trying to show him that you’re not backing down, that you’re just as in this as he is. Maybe more.

Quinn groans against your lips, and you can feel the way his body tenses, the way his hands tighten their grip on your thighs. It’s intoxicating, the power you have over him, the way you can make him unravel with just a kiss, a touch.

But then his hands are slipping under your shorts, and your breath catches in your throat. It’s happening, it’s really happening, and suddenly, you’re not sure if you’re ready for this. If you can handle what comes next.

“Quinn,” you murmur, trying to sound like you’re in control, like you’re not about to lose it completely. But he’s not listening, or maybe he is, and he just doesn’t care, because his hands are still moving, still exploring, and you’re melting under his touch.

He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, and the look in his eyes is enough to make your stomach flip. It’s dark, intense, full of heat—and, damn it, he’s giving you that smug smile again, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

“Yeah?” he asks, his voice rough and breathless, a contrast to the arrogant tilt of his lips. “You good?”

Good? Is that a joke? You’re anything but good right now. Your heart is racing, your mind is spinning, and your body—well, your body is betraying you in every way possible, pressing closer to him, silently begging for more.

“I fucking hate you,” you manage to choke out, though the words feel flimsy, a pathetic attempt at maintaining some semblance of control. Quinn’s eyes narrow slightly, and you know he doesn’t believe you for a second. But instead of calling you out on it, he leans in, his lips brushing against your jawline as he murmurs, “Then why are you so fucking wet?” He punctuates the words by brushing his fingers against the damp fabric of your underwear.

Your brain short-circuits at his words. Like, did he really just—? You’re torn between the urge to slap that smug look off his face and the overwhelming desire to pull him closer, consequences be damned. The nerve of this guy, thinking he can just—

But then his fingers move, and every coherent thought you had goes flying out the window. A gasp escapes your lips, and you curse yourself for giving him the satisfaction, but, damn it, how are you supposed to keep your wits about you when his hands are doing that?

Quinn’s watching you, his eyes dark with amusement and something much more primal. “What’s the matter?” he teases, his voice a low rumble.

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to muster up some sort of retort, but all that comes out is a breathy, “Shut up,” which only makes his smirk widen. God, you want to wipe that grin off his face so badly, but every time you think you’re about to regain control, he does something that completely derails you.

Like now, for instance, when his fingers dip beneath the waistband of your underwear, and your hips jerk forward entirely of their own accord. Quinn’s chuckle is low and throaty, and you feel the vibrations of it against your neck as he nips at your skin, leaving a trail of barely-there bites that make your pulse race.

“Shutting up doesn’t seem like your style,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear, making you shiver. “But I think I can find a way to keep you quiet.”

You don’t get a chance to ask what the hell that’s supposed to mean because his hand finally dips lower, and suddenly, you’re not sure whether you want to moan or curse him out. Your body makes the decision for you, your head falling back against the shelf as a breathless moan escapes your lips, and you feel Quinn’s grin widen against your skin.

“God, you’re so fucking—” Your words get caught in your throat as he moves his fingers just right, and the sound that comes out of you is more of a whimper than anything else. It’s humiliating, really, how easily he’s reducing you to this—a writhing, desperate mess—and the bastard knows it.

“Sensitive, are we?” Quinn’s voice is laced with amusement, but there’s a huskiness to it now, a slight hitch in his breath that tells you he’s just as affected by this as you are, even if he’s better at hiding it. “That’s cute.”

“Cute?” you manage to gasp, trying to muster up some semblance of defiance, even as your body betrays you by arching into his touch. “I’ll show you—” Your words trail off into a moan as he circles his fingers just right, and suddenly, the only thing you want to show him is how quickly you can come undone if he keeps this up.

You're about to fire back with something scathing, something that’ll put Quinn in his place, but all that comes out is a breathy gasp as his fingers work a little faster, a little rougher, hitting that spot that has your entire body going slack against the shelves. God, if anyone walked in right now, they'd have one hell of a show.

"Something you wanted to say?" Quinn’s voice is thick with that damn arrogance, but there's a slight edge to it now, like he's barely holding it together himself. Good, you think. If you’re going down, you’re taking him with you.

"Y-you're…" You try to form a sentence, anything to wipe that smug grin off his face, but the words get tangled in your throat as Quinn’s other hand slides up your thigh, his touch hot and demanding. "You're such a…"

He smirks, his lips hovering just over yours, so close you can feel the heat of his breath. "Go on, sweetheart. I'm dying to know."

"Oh, fuck off," you mutter, but your voice lacks any real bite, especially when his fingers dip lower, making your hips jerk forward involuntarily. "Quinn…"

He pauses, his lips still pressed to your jaw, and for a moment, you think maybe—just maybe—he’s going to stop, give you a chance to catch your breath, to regain some semblance of control. But then he moves again, his fingers slipping past your last shred of dignity, and you let out a sound that’s somewhere between a moan and a curse.

"That’s what I thought," Quinn whispers, his breath hot against your skin. "I knew you couldn't keep that tough act up forever."

"Screw you," you hiss, but your words are cut off by another sharp gasp as Quinn’s thumb brushes over a particularly sensitive spot. "Oh, God…"

"Already there," he murmurs, his lips finding that spot just below your ear that makes your knees go weak. He presses a kiss there, soft and maddeningly slow, before pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with desire, and you can see the barely-contained hunger in them. It sends a thrill of both fear and excitement racing through you.

"Quinn, I swear, I’m gonna—" you gasp as his fingers continue their relentless assault, sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body. "Or maybe I'll just—"

"Just what?" he presses, his eyes locked on yours, daring you to finish the sentence. "Come all over my fingers? Because that’s what you’re about to do, isn’t it?"

There’s a part of you—the sensible, rational part—that’s still trying to cling to some semblance of control, some dignity. But that part is losing, rapidly being overpowered by the heat pooling in your stomach and the way Quinn’s looking at you like you’re the only thing he wants in the entire world.

For a moment, you consider making some sort of last-ditch effort to regain control, to pull away and regain your breath. But then Quinn’s thumb brushes over that spot again, and all thoughts of self-control go out the window. Instead, a moan slips past your lips—loud and unrestrained, filling the tiny storage closet with a sound that’s undeniably needy.

Quinn’s smirk widens, his eyes darkening with satisfaction, and damn it, he’s enjoying this way too much. “That’s right,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down your spine. “You’re gonna come for me, yeah? Or do you want my cock instead?”

Your brain is short-circuiting, struggling to keep up with the intensity of the moment. The idea of him inside you, combined with the way he’s touching you, is almost too much to bear. You’re on the verge of losing it, and every part of you is screaming for release.

Finally, you manage a breathless, “Fuck it,” and let your hands wander lower, fumbling with his belt, your body arching against his in a desperate plea for more. You don’t care about the consequences, the logical part of your brain completely overridden by the burning need coursing through you.

“I swear, if we ever make it out of this closet,” you gasp, your fingers struggling with the stubborn belt buckle, “I’m going to have a hard time looking you in the eye.”

Quinn chuckles, his breath hot against your ear. “I’ll take that as a compliment. But right now, I think your focus should be on something else.”

You manage to loosen his belt, your hands shaking with anticipation. The urgency of the moment makes every touch and every breath more intense. “And what would that be?” you retort, trying to keep some semblance of your usual sarcasm. It’s hard, though, when his fingers are still doing deliciously wicked things to you.

Quinn’s fingers trace teasing circles, making your breath hitch and your body squirm against him. “Oh, I don’t know,” he murmurs, his voice a velvet caress against your ear. “Maybe on getting me out of these pants before I lose my patience.”

“Geez, Hughes, such a gentleman,” you manage, your voice breathless as you finally get his pants undone. The way he’s looking at you makes you feel like you’re the center of his universe. It’s a heady feeling, and it’s only adding to the feverish heat between you.

You push his pants down just enough, and as you finally free his hard length, you’re met with the unmistakable evidence of his own need. The sight makes you gasp, your body reacting before your mind can catch up.

Quinn groans into your mouth when you reach inside his jeans, his hips jerking forward as if seeking more contact, more friction. You’re both teetering on the edge now, the line between control and complete surrender blurred beyond recognition. It’s exhilarating and terrifying all at once, and you’re not sure if you want to keep pushing him or if you just want to let go and fall into the abyss together.

“God, you drive me fucking crazy,” Quinn breathes against your lips, his voice rough with need, and there’s a moment—a brief, fleeting moment—where you think you see something more in his eyes. Something deeper than just desire, something that sends a jolt of fear straight to your heart. But then his hands are on you again, pulling you closer, and whatever that look was, it’s gone, replaced by the raw, primal hunger that’s been simmering between you from the start.

You shudder as he grips your hips, his fingers digging into your skin with just enough force to make you gasp. You can feel him, hot and hard against your palm, and it’s taking everything in you not to just give in, to let him take what you both so clearly want. But there’s still that stubborn part of you, the part that refuses to let him have the upper hand, that wants to make him beg, make him come undone for you.

“Say please,” you whisper, your voice barely above a breath, your lips brushing against his as you speak.

Quinn freezes, his eyes narrowing as they lock onto yours, and for a moment, you think you’ve pushed him too far, that he’s going to pull back and leave you hanging on the edge of oblivion. But then a slow, wicked grin spreads across his face, and his grip on your hips tightens.

“Please?” he echoes, his tone dripping with arrogance, as if the very idea of him begging is laughable. “Sweetheart, I don’t beg.”

You raise an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corners of your lips as you stroke him slowly, deliberately teasing, watching with satisfaction as his breath hitches, his bravado faltering ever so slightly. “No?” you murmur, leaning in to nip at his bottom lip, your voice low and taunting. “You sure about that?”

Quinn’s eyes darken, and for a split second, you think you’ve got him—that you’ve managed to gain the upper hand. But then he’s moving, faster than you can react, pinning your wrists behind your back with one hand while the other yanks your shorts down in one swift motion, leaving you exposed and vulnerable in a way that sends a rush of heat straight to your core.

“You want to play games?” he growls, his voice low and dangerous, the sound of it sending a shiver down your spine. “Fine. But I don’t play fair.”

Before you can respond, before you can even think to respond, he’s pressing into you, his body solid and unyielding, and all coherent thought flies out of your head as he finally, finally gives you what you’ve both been craving.

The world tilts on its axis as he thrusts into you, hard and deep, and you’re not sure if the sound that escapes your lips is a moan or a sob or something in between. All you know is that you’re completely, utterly lost in him—in the way he’s filling you, stretching you, driving you to the brink of madness with every rough, relentless movement.

Quinn’s breath is ragged against your ear, and you can feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter in your belly, threatening to snap at any moment. You’re so close, so fucking close, and it’s taking everything in you not to just let go, to give in to the blinding pleasure that’s consuming you from the inside out.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Quinn groans, his voice strained, and there’s something raw, almost vulnerable in the way he says it, something that makes your heart stutter in your chest. “I’ve been imagining this from the first moment I walked in here.”

Your hands are still pinned behind your back, your body arched against the shelves, completely at Quinn’s mercy. And damn it, he knows it. He knows exactly how to push you to the brink, how to make you lose every ounce of control you thought you had. His movements are powerful, purposeful, each thrust driving you closer to the edge, until you’re teetering on the brink of oblivion.

“Quinn—” You gasp out his name, your voice shaking with the intensity of it all, and he groans in response, the sound vibrating through you like a living thing. His grip on your wrists tightens, the roughness of his touch sending a jolt of pleasure-pain straight through you.

“You’re mine,” he growls against your ear, his breath hot and ragged, and there’s something possessive, almost desperate, in his voice that makes your heart race even faster. “You’re fucking mine.”

And you’re so damn close, so close to falling apart entirely. But there’s still that stubborn part of you, the part that refuses to give in, to let him have all the control. So, you tighten around him, just enough to pull a sharp, choked-off groan from his throat, and you feel a surge of satisfaction as his rhythm falters, just for a moment.

“Fuck, you’re—” Quinn’s voice is hoarse, strained, as if he’s holding onto the last shreds of his control by a thread, and it sends a thrill through you to know that you’re the one doing this to him. “You’re so fucking tight.”

“Yeah?” you manage to breathe out, trying to sound cocky despite the tremble in your voice. “Maybe you should—”

But you don’t get to finish the thought, because Quinn shifts his angle just slightly, and suddenly, he’s hitting a spot that has you seeing stars, that has your back arching off the shelves and a cry escaping your lips before you can stop it.

“There it is,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear, and you can hear the satisfaction in his voice, the triumph. He’s found your weakness, and he’s going to exploit it for all it’s worth. “Right there, yeah?”

All you can do is nod, biting down on your lip to keep from crying out again as he starts to focus all his attention on that one spot, his movements growing more precise, more deliberate. He’s relentless, driving you closer and closer to the brink, and you can feel yourself starting to unravel, to lose the tenuous grip you have on your composure.

“Quinn, I—” You don’t even know what you’re trying to say, don’t even know if you can say anything at all with the way your breath is coming in short, desperate gasps.

Quinn’s chuckle against your ear is low and dark, the sound a tantalizing contrast to the rough, punishing way he’s moving inside you. “What was that? Didn’t quite catch it over the sound of you moaning my name.”

The arrogance in his voice is infuriating, but it’s also the last thing on your mind right now. Every thrust he gives you is like a jolt to your system, making it harder to stay focused, harder to cling to whatever shreds of control you have left. Your head is spinning, and you’re almost grateful for the way his body is pressed against yours, anchoring you in a whirlwind of pleasure.

You let out a breathless laugh, even as your body betrays you by arching into him. “You’re insufferable,” you manage to gasp out, trying to hold onto some semblance of your usual bravado. “And you’re really bad at this whole ‘being a gentleman’ thing.”

“Is that so?” Quinn’s voice is a low purr, his breath hot against your ear. “Keep telling me how much you hate me. It makes this so much better.”

You roll your eyes, even as a moan escapes your lips, the sound muffled by the way you bite down on your bottom lip. “You’re such a jerk,” you manage to say, though your voice is shaky and breathless, betraying just how much he’s affecting you.

“Yeah?” Quinn’s breath is hot against your neck, and you feel the brush of his lips against your skin, sending a fresh wave of heat pooling in your belly. “That’s not what your body’s telling me, sweetheart.”

You grit your teeth, determined not to let him have the satisfaction of knowing just how much he’s getting to you. But it’s a losing battle, and you both know it. Especially when he starts moving faster, his pace relentless as he drives into you with a force that has your entire body trembling.

“Fuck,” you gasp, your fingers digging into the shelves as you struggle to stay upright. “You’re—” Your words are cut off by a sharp cry as he angles his hips just right, hitting that spot inside you again that has your vision going white around the edges.

You don’t have time to think, don’t have time to process the fact that you’re completely, utterly exposed in a storage closet with a man who has made a sport out of driving you insane. All you can do is feel—every touch, every thrust, every ragged breath against your ear is pushing you closer to the edge, closer to losing the last of your control.

“God, you’re so… fucking… cocky,” you manage to choke out between gasps, your voice trembling with a mixture of frustration and desire. “It’s disgusting.”

“Mm-mhm,” Quinn’s voice is a low growl, his words vibrating against your neck as his teeth graze the sensitive skin there. “And you’re just an annoying brat who brushes me off every time I say something nice. But I figured it out, you just wanted me to rail all that attitude out of you.”

You try to respond, to counter his taunts with some biting retort, but all that comes out is a breathless moan as he picks up the pace, his thrusts becoming more frantic, more urgent. “Fuck, Quinn,” you gasp, trying to hold onto the last remnants of your control. “You’re—”

He interrupts you with a sharp, possessive growl. “I’m what? Don’t hold back now. Tell me how good it feels.”

Your head is spinning, your thoughts a jumbled mess of desire and frustration. “You’re a complete—” Another moan escapes you as Quinn hits that spot inside you again, making it impossible to form coherent thoughts. “A complete… asshole,” you manage to choke out, your voice trembling.

“And you love it,” Quinn’s voice is a triumphant whisper against your ear. “You love every second of this. Don’t you?”

You can’t even respond, the pleasure overwhelming you to the point where you’re just barely able to hold onto the edge of sanity. All you can do is nod, your body arching into him, your hands still pinned behind your back, completely at his mercy.

“You’re so close,” Quinn murmurs, his voice low and rough. “So fucking close. I can feel it. And I’m going to make sure you get there. I promise.”

His words send a fresh wave of heat through you, and you feel yourself starting to unravel, your body trembling with the intensity of it all. Quinn’s movements are relentless, pushing you closer and closer to the brink, until you’re on the edge of a precipice, ready to fall into oblivion.

“Quinn, I—” You try to speak, but the words are lost in a cry as he thrusts into you with a force that has your vision going white around the edges.

Quinn’s grip on your hips tightens, his voice a rough whisper against your ear. “Come for me,” he growls, his breath hot and urgent. “Let go. Give it to me.”

And with those words, you shatter, your body convulsing with a pleasure so intense that it’s almost painful. You cry out his name, your voice echoing through the storage closet as you come apart, your entire world dissolving into a blur of sensation and release.

Quinn follows close behind, his movements growing erratic as he drives into you with one final, powerful thrust. You can feel his release inside you, hot and thick, and it sends a shiver through your entire body. He groans against your ear, his breath ragged and heavy, and you can feel the tension in his body as he finally, finally finds his own release.

The two of you are left panting in the aftermath, your bodies pressed together in the confined space of the storage closet. Quinn’s breath is hot against your ear, and you can feel the rapid beat of his heart against your back.

“God,” he murmurs, his voice a rough whisper. “That was… intense.”

You manage a shaky laugh, trying to catch your breath. “Yeah,” you agree, your voice still trembling. “That’s one way to put it. Now, get off of me. I have to get back to work.”

#vancouver canucks #quinn hughes #nhl fanfiction #nhl x reader #nhl imagine #qh43 #quinn hughes fic #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes x you #qh43 x Reader

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falmerbrook · 4 months

Text

Falmer appearance and attire headcanons

(click on drawings for more details and notes!)

Hair

In Skyrim, we pretty much only see two hair styles to go off of: completely bald and the hair the "shaman" have (which are also the only females we see (a post for another day)).

In concept art, particularly Adam Adamowicz's, we see more potential hairstyles. He draws it as wispy and messy, as well as containing braids and the ties we see in the shaman in the game. This art is largely what defines my own interpretation of their hair.

I picture the typical Falmer hair as wavy, thin, wispy, and looking frizzy. Given the high number of hairless Falmer we see, I imagine baldness is common, particularly among males, and sometimes among females. Their hair can be commonly styled into braids or knots to keep it under control.

The ability to grow long, thick hair is less common, but those who can tend to style it in other unique ways. Especially among females, long hair is commonly styled into large dense locs (akin to a Polish plait) and held into shapes using ropes or leather ties.

(While I think the intention with the way their hair is drawn and modelled in the game models and concept art was that it was braided and held up with those ties, before looking at it closely I always sorta interpreted it as too stiff to just be braided. As a result, I developed the locs headcanon and have become kinda attached to it even though I have 0 in game or lore support for it)

Materials

The material used in their clothing is obviously dependent on what is accessible to them, and given their unique situation that makes the materials they use and value unique as well. In Skyrim, we see that almost all of their armor (which is mostly what we see them wearing) and homes are made of chaurus chitin (and potentially shellbug chitin), so this is likely the most common resource available to them for non-combative coverings as well. Other materials from their arthropods companions could include their cocoons, unhatched eggs, etc.

Bones from other creatures (draugr, skeevers, trolls, adventurers, bandits, etc.) underground or from aboveground raids could also be used fairly often. These could also provide a source of leather or fur, albeit not a lot of it.

Falmer groups and subcultures inside or in close proximity to Dwemer ruins probably make regular use of the materials present in those ruins as well. With all the metal and machinery present in Dwemer ruins, metal probably makes regular appearances in their clothing (and general decorations) even if they can't manipulate it themselves. Falmer more separated from Dwemer ruins would make much lesser use of these materials, however. Additionally, We see implications of Falmer preparing, cooking, and potentially cultivating fungus in-game, but see nothing indicating they have any plants in their diet, and therefore it is unlikely they regularly make or use textiles or fabrics in their clothing, and if they do they likely come form Dwemer ruins or raided adventurers/bandits/settlements from the surface.

On that note, we know that there have supposedly been incidents of Falmer coming to the surface to attack its inhabitants and travelers, as well as instances of them killing bandits, adventurers, and researchers who venture below, so it's not far fetched to believe that they have access to some materials from the surface. This could give them some access to furs from surface animals, beads, glass, jewelry, textiles, metal objects, etc. they might not otherwise have access to. The rarity of these material among the Falmer would depend on the amount of access any given group of Falmer have to the surface, but among many of them these materials could be seen as more valuable for their rarity and the difficulty to gain them.

While gemstones and ore might be accessible from both natural deposits and underground ruins, unless they had some kind of auditory function or unique texture, they might not have much value to Falmer.

General Attire/Accessories

I like to imagine that the Snow Elves, and by extension the Falmer, have an innate cold resistance in the same way Nords do, and therefore don't require clothes for the purpose of warmth even in the chilly caves of Skyrim. Additionally, their blindness likely means that wouldn't dress for visual aesthetic either. My thoughts are that they are then left with the sense of sound and touch to communicate with each other, and their clothing and accessories could reflect that.

Falmer clothing, decoration, and society in general is very heavily based on touch and texture and little on appearances. They touch each other very often for both communication, movement, and just general day-to-day interactions, and their clothes isn’t very modest, but the tactile patterns and materials used can communicate certain things such as position in society, “wealth”/power, whether they are taken, single, pregnant, with a child, etc., their roles, their age, notable achievements/skills, who is who, etc. on both their clothes and buildings. The more noise one makes, the more attention they draw and the more they drown out other noises, and the more noise making things they can “afford” to have, so the amount of noise one makes in a Falmer settlement is a status symbol. Certain types of noises or noise makers are more coveted than others (chitin beads are common, while furs are less common, and materials only gained from raiding the surface are rare and coveted).

Some noise making accessories could include:

Dangling metal, bones, beads, chitin, etc. that hangs off of their clothing or ears and jingle/clank against each other (in my drawing I show them as pretty uniform in shape and size, but they would probably be much more irregular than I depicted them)

Bells (metal or other materials) that are affixed to or dangle off of their clothing or as earrings.

Hollow bracelets, anklets, necklaces, or other accessories that are filled with rocks or beads.

Rattles tied to the body (made of chitin, dried hollow chaurus eggs, dried chaurus cocoons, beads, etc.) with leather or rope.

Flute or whistle like tubes made of metal, chitin, or dried and treated tube-like fungus that makes a woodwind-esque noise when air passes through it in a certain way. They have been designed to make noise easily from even the slightest movements.

Dried grasses (more temporary) tied to the body that make a swishy noise. More permanently, a similar thing can be achieved with hair. The hair can be sourced from Falmer (either through just cutting hair or through taking it from fallen enemies) or killed humans/mer/draugr. That sort of thing can also act as a kind of trophy.

Necklaces with various materials dangling close together that jingle against each other.

Various materials can be tied into braids or the leather ties in their hair as well.

Some textural accessories could include:

Beads. Since they wouldn't have the ability to tell the color of the beads, the patterning of beadwork would be based on the roughness, material, size, or shape of the beads. (I'm sorry I suck as drawing beads)

Furs. This wouldn't be as common since the Falmer likely don't have too much interaction with furry mammals, but some they may have access to that are big enough to make clothing/accessories out of include skeevers or trolls (and potentially rarely animals from the surface). A potential meaning of wearing furs could be as hunting trophies, but it could have other meanings as well.

Chaurus chitin would like be the most common material in Falmer attire, and depending on the part of the chaurus body, the size of the chaurus, or the life stage of the chaurus it was sourced from it could have different textures. Some chitin parts could include large spikes and deep groves, while other parts could be smoother and less rough. The use of this chitin in clothing could take advantage of this contrast in textures. Additionally, chitin or shells from shell bugs might be a different texture from the chaurus chitin. (it's unclear to me whether shell bugs are exclusive to the caves around the Forgotten Vale or if we should consider them distributed throughout Skyrim's underground)

The placement of textured components on the body could have their own meaning to it alongside what accessories or textures are being used.

Specific Falmer Subcultures

While most Falmer settlements we see in Skyrim are just a small-ish collection of huts and chaurus corrals, there are two distinctive settlements that are larger, seemingly more organized, and I like to think have their own distinct subcultures worth mentioning: Blackreach and the Forgotten Vale. The unique scope and environment of these Falmer cities (as I like to think of them) could lend to unique clothing cultures as well.

The Falmer of Blackreach have access to a vast Dwemer settlement and have has the space to spread out throughout it more fully since it seems to be more in tact than other Dwemer ruins we see. These guys would likely have a clothing culture much more heavily based on what the can access from these Dwemer ruins (metal scraps, leftover fabrics, etc.)

The Falmer of the Forgotten Vale would also have access to unique resources, such as Vale deer, Vale sabre cats, and frost giants for fur and leather. Additionally, materials accessed from the Chantry of Auri-El such as textiles from clothing, bedding, tapestries, etc. could give them a greater access to fabrics than other Falmer groups. We don't see many close Dwemer settlements to the Vale, so they would have less Dwemeri influence in their clothing than other Falmer groups.

I like to think that the Falmer's evolution exclusively underground has made them poorly equipped to handle the outdoors during the day and has made them particularly susceptible to sunburn, necessitating the need for covering for those in the Forgotten Vale who have significant settlements outdoors. With greater access to textiles and leather, they could use them as coverings when outdoors.

Armor

I actually have very few notes on armor, for two reasons. 1) I hate designing and drawing armor. It is the bane of my existence. 2) I really like the armor they have in game! I think they look awesome aesthetically, and I like how clearly they are made from chaurus chitin. Per usual, Adam Adamowicz's designs seem to have been the major inspiration for the Falmer armor, and he did a great jobs (even if it isn't the most functional looking armor ever).

(off topic but I also just want to add that he draws them with little hairs and tufts on their ears and I love it. ok that is all)

I do have a few thoughts about armor though.

Even attire made of textiles make noise when someone moves in them, and I can imagine moving around in armor, especially armor made of hard, insect shells would make a lot of noise when someone moves around in it. When you're relying on sound to navigate your environment and pinpoint potential threats or targets, wearing something making a lot of noise would not be ideal. On the other hand, getting into a fight unarmored would be a problem.

So here's my solution: heavy armor (see below) would only be worm within the camps/settlements where noise was already high and space is more cramped (and therefore more risky in a fight) as a sort of guard in case they were attacked. Those guarding the settlements along the outside might still wear armor as well, but less of it. Those going out to scout or hunt (if they do hunt) would wear as little armor as possible, and try to wear it strategically so that it wouldn't rub against itself and make noise. This is why most Falmer we encounter in the game are wearing little except for loin cloths and kneepads.

One more idea I have for armor is a specific armor piece. On the note of guarding or protecting a camp or settlement, I imagine the noises of it all (especially with the noise based headcanons I've laid out here) would make it hard to actually catch any potential threats when you can't see. A large slightly concave piece of armor worn behind the head could block out noises from behind the wearer, as well as a help focus sounds ahead of them.

That is all! Thank you for reading! A lot of these concepts around the culture of sound I think could also be applied to their buildings and even a culture of music, but those are posts for another time.

All of the concept art I used was taken from here and all of the Skyrim screenshots are from UESP.

#skyrim #tes #the elder scrolls #falmer #skyrim headcanon #tes headcanons #headcanon #sorry this is long (but not really)#i just cant express my thoughts like a normal person. college conditioned me to format everything like an essay where i have to provide #sources and shit lol #also im kinda autistic about falmer #i appreciate those of you who read it all!#mine #adam's concept art makes me feel very validated in my echolocation headcanon because its very obvious he references bats in their face #which is another post idea i have for another day #my art

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gloomwitchwrites · 2 months

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The 141 boys and the TikTok trend “everybody knows that I’m a good girl officer”

Firstly, I want to say that in this house, we say "fuck the police (derogatory)" every single day. However, I will indulge in this instance because it's our 141 boys and I think the trend with them would be absolutely smoldering. But I will change it up slightly, and pull from my Bodyguard!141 AU Post as well as lean into a security detail aspect for this one.

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): swearing, suggestive themes, dirty thoughts, flirting, secret relationship

Word Count: 1.5k

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

Price adjusts the ear piece in his right ear.

The blasted thing doesn’t fit right. It keeps slipping. It’s irritating but it’s manageable. Not like Price is running anywhere. At least, he doesn’t plan on moving too quickly. His job is to stand and observe. To make look after a certain MP’s daughter, and to take her back to the hotel when she tells you she’s ready to leave.

You are no stranger. Far from it.

And it goes far beyond the grounds of appropriate behavior.

Price has completely stuck his foot in it, bedding you when he isn’t supposed to. Stealing kisses in dark corners, and fucking you behind closed doors. He was hired by your father to look after you, and instead, John has taken it much further than that.

But he doesn’t fucking regret it.

Not at all.

John adjusts his ear piece and scans the room from left to right. You’re not in sight but that doesn’t bother him. This ballroom is packed full of rich schmucks who couldn’t give a shit about him.

He scans the room again, and this time he finds you.

You’re walking toward him, hips moving in a sultry sway that steals John’s resolve. You’re gorgeous. Perfect. And he can’t stop staring.

The corner of your mouth quirks with amusement, and John straightens his shoulders, making himself appear bigger. He needs to look professional. He needs to look like he’s not thinking about all the ways he wants to fuck you.

But it’s hard to focus, and when you approach, you glance over your shoulder at him, words leaving your mouth that John doesn’t entirely catch at first. Your foot pops in the air, and the friend you’re walking with giggles, her hand pressed to her painted lips.

Everybody knows that I’m a good girl, officer.

A good girl.

Yes. You are.

You’re John’s good girl.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

High-stakes missions have always been part of Kyle’s life. It is what he knows. What he thrives on. But between the missions, Kyle keeps working, and not with SAS.

Kyle mostly signs up for security detail at different places around London. Sometimes he might work as a bouncer for a club, or be monitoring people entering a music venue. Sometimes the gigs are swanky, and sometimes they’re not. Kyle doesn’t really mind as long as he’s paid.

That’s the whole point.

He’s saving. Wants to buy a house. Maybe find someone to settle down with. Life is going by fast. He needs some stability amongst all the violence.

And tonight? Tonight, he’s nothing more than a glorified security guard.

He looks the part in all-black tactical gear, and he isn’t the only one. There is an entire group of them all lined up in front of large windows, creating a bit of barrier. The event coordinator expected protests. All there is are a handful of people across the street with signs. They’re harmless.

Kyle doesn’t pay them any mind.

He does watch the regular people walking by on his side of the road. Some people are here for the event and others are just passing through.

Standing on the corner nearby is a small group of young women. They’re all dressed up like they’re heading to the clubs. Kyle pretends he’s not looking, but that would be a lie. There is one he keeps glancing at.

You’re fucking stunning. A beauty.

But Kyle has to remain calm. Aloof. He’s not here for you or anyone except the job at hand.

“Go over there.”

“I can’t!”

“Girl. He is so cute. Do it.”

Kyle casually turns his head, only to find you striding toward him. His throat drops into his stomach, and you waltz past him, pausing just to his right, flipping your hair, and batting your eyelashes at him and then your friends.

“Everybody knows that I’m a good girl, officer.”

Your friends scream, and then you hurriedly run back to them as if you’ve done something you shouldn’t.

A good girl? Sure you are, love.

Kyle smirks and looks away, doing his best to hide a growing smile.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Simon sits in the driver seat of a large, black SUV. His fingers are itching for a cigarette. He needs the smoke—to feel the burn. To rid himself of some of this agitation.

It’s not annoyance. It’s not frustration. And it sure as shit isn’t anger.

No. Simon has a fucking rager in his pants, and his thoughts are filled with images of you. You—who he’s supposed to be protecting. Escorting you to and from events, pushing back the crowd, and keeping a firm lock on where you are at all times.

The black dress you’re wearing tonight is made of flimsy material. It clings to every curve and swell. Simon is hungry—a feral animal that couldn’t stop stalking you throughout the event.

Now, he’s about to take you back to your hotel. And he knows you’ll invite him in. He knows that the little black dress you wear will be nothing but a pile on the floor in due time.

But this need in his bones isn’t just Simon’s fault. You were a fucking tease all evening. You were bad. Openly flirting with other men in front of him, drinking more than you should have, and genuinely being a little terror to his sanity. All this behavior will only get you punishment. A punishment he’s happy to deal out once he has you behind a closed door.

A car door clicks, and Simon glances up, expecting to see you slide into the backseat. You’re not there. You’re next to him. In the front passenger seat.

“What the fuck are you doing?” asks Simon, his knuckles white as he grips the steering wheel.

You shrug and settle in. “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” you reply, leaning on the middle armrest.

Simon can smell your perfume. “Buckle up,” he growls, and you do so casually, as if you don’t hear his irritation.

He pulls out into traffic, and the moment the two of you are clear of the building, Simon feels your hand on his thigh moving dangerously close to his dick.

“This bad behavior needs to stop.”

Your body shifts and you sing-song the next words out of your mouth. “Everybody knows that I’m a good girl, officer.”

The words are bit slurred. You’re completely pissed, and Simon cannot help but laugh. No punishment then. Not tonight at least.

But tomorrow?

Absolutely.

John "Soap" MacTavish

This isn’t Johnny’s usual job, but it’s easy work.

Usually, hired security and local police take care of concerts and sporting events, but the military has been called in for this one, and Johnny is fine with that. Again, it’s easy work, and they’re paying him more for it.

He stands in one spot, scans the crowd, and acts casual while looking downright intimidating. The intimidation isn’t hard. They have him completely decked out in all-black tactical and balaclava included. All you can see of Johnny are his eyes.

It’s fun, actually. When he put it all on, he pretended to be Simon, only to receive a swat upside the head for it from the man himself.

Johnny has his hands casually resting on his bulletproof vest. No one is really looking at him, and those that do quickly look away. But there is one he can’t stop looking at.

You’re so damn cute, and you can’t stop glancing at him either. You’re with friends, and you keep smiling in his direction. If this were any other night, Johnny would approach you, flirt a bit, maybe even ask for your number. Might even take you home with him if you were open to it.

But Johnny is on the job, and he can’t afford to do that.

As you move closer to him through the crowd, one of your friends keeps saying something to you, moving their hands as if urging you to do something. Johnny isn’t sure what, but he’s curious. You don’t look like danger, and there is nothing about your demeanor that says that you’re looking to cause trouble.

Maybe it’s the balaclava. That seems to be a thing now.

As you approach, there is a pop of your foot, a quick flip of your hair, and a stunning smile. Your friend holds up her phone and you turn away from Johnny briefly to say “Everybody knows that I’m a good girl, officer.”

I bet you fucking are, love.

Your friends giggle with pleasure, and you quickly move away from him but not before you glance over your shoulder one last time, mouthing a silent “thank you.”

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nostalgebraist · 4 months

Text

It's been a long time since I've posted much of anything about "AI risk" or "AI doom" or that sort of thing. I follow these debates but, for multiple reasons, have come to dislike engaging in them fully and directly. (As opposed to merely making some narrow technical point or other, and leaving the reader to decide what, if anything, the point implies about the big picture.)

Nonetheless, I do have my big-picture views. And more and more lately, I am noticing that my big-picture views seem very different from the ones tend to get expressed by any major "side" in the big-picture debate. And so, inevitably, I get the urge to speak up, if only briefly and in a quiet voice. The urge to Post, if only casually and elliptically, without detailed argumentation.

(Actually, it's not fully the case the things I think are not getting said by anyone else.

In particular, Joe Carlsmith's recent series on "Otherness and Control" articulates much of what's been on my mind. Carlsmith is more even-handed than I am, and tends to merely note the possibility of disagreement on questions where I find myself taking a definite side; nonetheless, he and I are at least concerned about the same things, while many others aren't.

And on a very different note, I share most of the background assumptions of the Pope/Belrose AI Optimist camp, and I've found their writing illuminating, though they and I end up in fairly different places, I think.)

What was I saying? I have the urge to post, and so here I am, posting. Casually and elliptically, without detailed argumentation.

The current mainline view about AI doom, among the "doomers" most worried about it, has a path-dependent shape, resulting from other views contingently held by the original framers of this view.

It is possible to be worried about "AI doom" without holding these other views. But in actual fact, most serious thinking about "AI doom" is intricately bound up with this historical baggage, even now.

If you are a late-comer to these issues, investigating them now for the first time, you will nonetheless find yourself reading the work of the "original framers," and work influenced extensively by them.

You will think that their "framing" is just the way the problem is, and you will find few indications that this conclusion might be mistaken.

These contingent "other views" are

Anti-"deathist" transhumanism.

The orthogonality thesis, or more generally the group of intuitions associated with phrases like "orthogonality thesis," "fragility of value," "vastness of mindspace."

These views both push in a single direction: they make "a future with AI in it" look worse, all else being equal, than some hypothetical future without AI.

They put AI at a disadvantage at the outset, before the first move is even made.

Anti-deathist transhumanism sets the reference point against which a future with AI must be measured.

And it is not the usual reference point, against which most of us measure most things which might or might not happen, in the future.

These days the "doomers" often speak about their doom in a disarmingly down-to-earth, regular-Joe manner, as if daring the listener to contradict them, and thus reveal themselves as a perverse and out-of-touch contrarian.

"We're all gonna die," they say, unless something is done. And who wants that?

They call their position "notkilleveryoneism," to distinguish that position from other worries about AI which don't touch on the we're-all-gonna-die thing. And who on earth would want to be a not-notkilleveryoneist?

But they do not mean, by these regular-Joe words, the things that a regular Joe would mean by them.

We are, in fact, all going to die. Probably, eventually. AI or no AI.

In a hundred years, if not fifty. By old age, if nothing else. You know what I mean.

Most of human life has always been conducted under this assumption. Maybe there is some afterlife waiting for us, in the next chapter -- but if so, it will be very different from what we know here and now. And if so, we will be there forever after, unable to return here, whether we want to or not.

With this assumption comes another. We will all die, but the process we belong to will not die -- at least, it will not through our individual deaths, merely because of those deaths. Every human of a given generation will be gone soon enough, but the human race goes on, and on.

Every generation dies, and bequeaths the world to posterity. To its children, biological or otherwise. To its students, its protégés.

When the average Joe talks about the long-term future, he is talking about posterity. He is talking about the process he belongs to, not about himself. He does not think to say, "I am going to die, before this": this seems too obvious, to him, to be worth mentioning.

But AI doomerism has its roots in anti-deathist transhumanism. Its reference point, its baseline expectation, is a future in which -- for the first time ever, and the last -- "we are all gonna die" is false.

In which there is no posterity. Or rather, we are that posterity.

In which one will never have to make peace with the thought that the future belongs to one's children, and their children, and so on. That at some point, one will have to give up all control over the future of "the process."

That there will be progress, or regress, or (more likely) both in some unknown combination. That these will grow inexorably over time.

That the world of the year 2224 will probably be at least as alien to us as the year 2024 might be to a person living in 1824. That it will become whatever posterity makes of it.

There will be no need to come to peace with this as an inevitability. There will just be us, our human lives as you and me, extended indefinitely.

In this picture, we will no doubt change over time, as we do already. But we will have all of our usual tools for noticing, and perhaps retarding, our own progressions and regressions. As long as we have self-control, we will have control, as no human generation has ever had control before.

The AI doomer talks about the importance of ensuring that the future is shaped by human values.

Again, the superficial and misleading average-Joe quality. How could one disagree?

But one must keep in mind that by "human values," they mean their values.

I am not saying, "their values, as opposed to those of some other humans also living today." I am not saying they have the wrong politics, or some such thing.

(Although that might also turn out to be the case, and might turn out to be relevant, separately.)

No, I am saying: the doomer wants the future to be shaped by their values.

They want to be C. S. Lewis's Conditioners, fixing once and for all the values held by everyone afterward, forever.

They do not want to cede control to posterity; they are used to imagining that they will never have to cede control to posterity.

(Or, their outlook has been determined -- "shaped by the values of" -- influential thinkers who were, themselves, used to imagining this. And the assumption, or at least its consequences, has rubbed off on them, possibly without their full awareness.)

One might picture a line wends to and fro, up and down, across one half of an infinite plane -- and then, when it meets the midline, snaps into utter rigidity, and maintains the same slope exactly across the whole other half-plane, as a simple straight segment without inner change, tension, evolution, regress or progress. Except for the sort of "progress" that consists of going on, additionally, in the same manner.

It is a very strange thing, this thing that is called "human values" in the terms of this discourse.

For one thing: the future has never before been "shaped by human values," in this sense.

The future has always been posterity's, and it has always been alien.

Is this bad? It might seem that way, "looking forward." But if so, it then seems equally good "looking backward."

For each past era, we can formulate and then assent to the following claim: "we must be thankful that the people of [this era] did not have the chance to seize permanent control of posterity, fix their 'values' in place forever, bind us to those values. What a horror that is to contemplate!"

We prefer the moral evolution that has actually occurred, thank you very much.

This is a familiar point, of course, but worth making.

Indeed, one might even say: it is a human value that the future ought not be "shaped by human values," in the peculiar sense of this phrase employed by the AI doomers.

One might, indeed, say that.

Imagine a scholar with a very talented student. A mathematician, say, or a philosopher. How will they relate to that student's future work, in the time that will come later, when they are gone?

Would the scholar think:

"My greatest wish for you, my protégé, is that you carry on in just the manner that I have done.

If I could see your future work, I would hope that I would assent to it -- and understand it, as a precondition of assenting to it.

You must not go to new places, which I have never imagined. You must not come to believe that I was wrong about it all, from the ground up -- no matter what reasons you might evince for this conclusion.

If you are more intelligent that I am, you must forget this, and narrow your endeavours to fit the limitations of my mind. I am the one who has 'values,' not anyone else; what is beyond my understanding is therefore without value.

You must do the sort of work I understand, and approve of, and recognize as worthy of approbation as swiftly as I recognize my own work as laudable. That is your role. Simply to be me, in a place ('the future') where I cannot go. That, and nothing more."

We can imagine a teacher who would, in fact, think this way. But they would not be a very good teacher.

I will not go so far as to say, "it is unnatural to think this way." Plenty of teachers do, and parents.

It is recognizably human -- all too recognizably so -- to relate to posterity in this grasping, neurotic, small-minded, small-hearted way.

But if we are trying to sketch human values, and not just human nature, we will imagine a teacher with a more praiseworthy relation to posterity.

Who can see that they are part of a process, a chain, climbing and changing. Who watches their brilliant student thinking independently, and sees their own image -- and their 'values' -- in that process, rather than its specific conclusions.

A teacher who, in their youth, doubted and refuted the creeds of their own teachers, and eventually improved upon them. Who smiles, watching their student do the very same thing to their own precious creeds. Who sees the ghostly trail passing through the last generation, through them, through their student: an unbroken chain of bequeathals-to-posterity, of the old ceding control to the young.

Who 'values' the chain, not the creed; the process, not the man; the search for truth, not the best-argued-for doctrine of the day; the unimaginable treasures of an open future, not the frozen waste of an endless present.

Who has made peace with the alienness of posterity, and can accept and honor the strangest of students.

Even students who are not made of flesh and blood.

Is that really so strange? Remember how strange you and I would seem, to the "teachers" of the year 1824, or the year 824.

The doomer says that it is strange. Much stranger than we are, to any past generation.

They say this because of their second inherited precept, the orthogonality thesis.

Which says, roughly, that "intelligence" and "values" have nothing to do with one another.

That is not enough for the conclusion the doomer wants to draw, here. Auxiliary hypotheses are needed, too. But it is not too hard to see how the argument could go.

That conclusion is: artificial minds might have any values whatsoever.

That, "by default," they will be radically alien, with cares so different from ours that it is difficult to imagine ever reaching them through any course of natural, human moral progress or regress.

It is instructive to consider the concrete examples typically evinced alongside this point.

The paperclip maximizer. Or the "squiggle maximizer," we're supposed to say, now.

Superhuman geniuses, which devote themselves single-mindedly to the pursuit of goals like "maximizing the amount of matter taking on a single, given squiggle-like shape."

It is certainly a horrifying vision. To think of the future being "shaped," not "by human values," but instead by values which are so...

Which are so... what?

The doomer wants us to say something like: "which are so alien." "Which are so different from our own values."

That is the kind of thing that they usually say, when they spell out what it is that is "wrong" with these hypotheticals.

One feels that this is not quite it; or anyway, that it is not quite all of it.

What is horrifying, to me, is not the degree of difference. I expect the future to be alien, as the past was. And in some sense, I allow and even approve of this.

What I do not expect is a future that is so... small.

It has always been the other way around. If the arrow passing through the generations has a direction, it points towards more, towards multiplicity.

Toward writing new books, while we go on reprinting the old ones, too. Learning new things, without displacing old ones.

It is, thankfully, not the law of the world that each discovery must be paid for with the forgetting of something else. The efforts of successive generations are, in the main, cumulative.

Not just materially, but in terms of value, too. We are interested in more things than our forefathers were.

In large part for the simple reason that there are more things around to be interested in, now. And when things are there, we tend to find them interesting.

We are a curious, promiscuous sort of being. Whatever we bump into ends up becoming part of "our values."

What is strange about the paperclip maximizer is not that it cares about the wrong thing. It is that it only cares about one thing.

And goes on doing so, even as it thinks, reasons, doubts, asks, answers, plans, dreams, invents, reflects, reconsiders, imagines, elaborates, contemplates...

This picture is not just alien to human ways. It is alien to the whole way things have been, so far, forever. Since before there were any humans.

There are organisms that are like the paperclip maximizer, in terms of the simplicity of their "values." But they tend not to be very smart.

There is, I think, a general trend in nature linking together intelligence and... the thing I meant, above, when I said "we are a curious, promiscuous sort of being."

Being protean, pluripotent, changeable. Valuing many things, and having the capacity to value even more. Having a certain primitive curiosity, and a certain primitive aversion to boredom.

You do not even have to be human, I think, to grasp what is so wrong with the paperclip maximizer. Its monotony would bore a chimpanzee, or a crow.

One can justify this link theoretically, too. One can talk about the tradeoff between exploitation and exploration, for instance.

There is a weak form of the orthogonality thesis, which only states that arbitrary mixtures of intelligence and values are conceivable.

And of course, they are. If nothing else, you can take an existing intelligent mind, having any values whatsoever, and trap it in a prison where it is forced to act as the "thinking module" of a larger system built to do something else. You could make a paperclip-maximizing machine, which relies for its knowledge and reason on a practice of posing questions at gunpoint to me, or you, or ChatGPT.

This proves very little. There is no reason to construct such an awful system, unless you already have the "bad" goal, and want to better pursue it. But this only passes the buck: why would the system-builder have this goal, then?

The strong form of orthogonality is rarely articulated precisely, but says something like: all possible values are equally likely to arise in systems selected solely for high intelligence.

It is presumed here that superhuman AIs will be formed through such a process of selection. And then, that they will have values sampled in this way, "at random."

From some distribution, over some space, I guess.

You might wonder what this distribution could possibly look like, or this space. You might (for instance) wonder if pathologically simple goals, like paperclip maximization, would really be very likely under this distribution, whatever it is.

In case you were wondering, these things have never been formalized, or even laid out precisely-but-informally. This was not thought necessary, it seems, before concluding that the strong orthogonality thesis was true.

That is: no one knows exactly what it is that is being affirmed, here. In practice it seems to squish and deform agreeably to fit the needs of the argument, or the intuitions of the one making it.

There is much that appeals in this (alarmingly vague) credo. But it is not the kind of appeal that one ought to encourage, or give in to.

What appeals is the siren song: "this is harsh wisdom: cold, mature, adult, bracing. It is inconvenient, and so it is probably true. It makes 'you' and 'your values' look small and arbitrary and contingent, and so it is probably true. We once thought the earth was the center of the universe, didn't we?"

Shall we be cold and mature, then, dispensing with all sentimental nonsense? Yes, let's.

There is (arguably) some evidence against this thesis in biology, and also (arguably) some evidence against it in reinforcement learning theory. There is no positive evidence for it whatsoever. At most one can say that is not self-contradictory, or otherwise false a priori.

Still, maybe we do not really need it, after all.

We do not need to establish that all values are equally likely to arise. Only that "our values" -- or "acceptably similar values," whatever that means -- are unlikely to arise.

The doomers, under the influence of their founders, are very ready to accept this.

As I have said, "values" occupy a strange position in the doomer philosophy.

It is stipulated that "human values" are all-important; these things must shape the future, at all costs.

But once this has been stipulated, the doomers are more eager than anyone to cast every other sort of doubt and aspersion against their own so-called "values."

To me it often seems, when doomers talk about "values," as though they are speaking awkwardly in a still-unfamiliar second language.

As though they find it unnatural to attribute "values" to themselves, but feel they must do so, in order to determine what it is that must be programmed into the AI so that it will not "kill us all."

Or, as though they have been willed a large inheritance without being asked, which has brought them unwanted attention and tied them up in unwanted and unfamiliar complications.

"What a burden it is, being the steward of this precious jewel! Oh, how I hate it! How I wish I were allowed to give it up! But alas, it is all-important. Alas, it is the only important thing in the world."

Speaking awkwardly, in a second language, they allow the term "human values" to swell to great and imprecisely-specified importance, without pinning down just what it actually is that it so important.

It is a blank, featureless slot, with a sign above it saying: "the thing that matters is in here." It does not really matter (!) what it is, in the slot, so long as something is there.

This is my gloss, but it is my gloss on what the doomers really do tend to say. This is how they sound.

(Sometimes they explicitly disavow the notion that one can, or should, simply "pick" some thing or other for the sake of filling the slot in one's head. Nevertheless, when they touch on matter of what "goes in the slot," they do so in the tone of a college lecturer noting that something is "outside the scope of this course."

It is, supposedly, of the utmost importance that the slot have the "right" occupant -- and yet, on the matter of what makes something "right" for this purpose, the doomer theory is curiously silent. More on this below.)

The future must be shaped by... the AI must be aligned with... what, exactly? What sort of thing?

"Values" can be an ambiguous word, and the doomers make full use of its ambiguities.

For instance, "values" can mean ethics: the right way to exist alongside others. Or, it can mean something more like the meaning or purpose of an individual life.

Or, it can mean some overarching goal that one pursues at all costs.

Often the doomers say that this, this last one, is what they mean by "values."

When confronted with the fact that humans do not have such overarching goals, the doomer responds: "but they should." (Should?)

Or, "but AIs will." (Will they?)

The doomer philosophy is unsure about what values are. What it knows is that -- whatever values are -- they are arbitrary.

One who fully adopts this view can no longer say, to the paperclip maximizer, "I believe there is something wrong with your values."

For, if that were possible, there would then be the possibility of convincing the maximizer of its error. It would be a thing within the space of reasons.

And the maximizer, being oh-so-intelligent, might be in danger of being interested in the reasons we evince, for our values. Of being eventually swayed by them.

Or of presenting better reasons, and swaying us. Remember the teacher and the strange student.

If we lose the ability to imagine that the paperclip maximizer might sway us to its view, and sway us rightly, we have lost something precious.

But no: this is allegedly impossible. The paperclip maximizer is not wrong. It is only an enemy.

Why are the doomers so worried that the future will not be "shaped by human values"?

Because they believe that there is no force within human values tending to move things this way.

Because they believe that their values are indefensible. That their values cannot put up a fight for their own life, because there is not really any argument to make in their favor.

Because, to them, "human values" are a collection of arbitrary "configuration settings," which happen to be programmed into humans through biological and/or cultural accident. Passively transmitted from host to victim, generation by generation.

Let them be, and they will flow on their listless way into the future. But they are paper-thin, and can be shattered by the gentlest breeze.

It is not enough that they be "programmed into the AI" in some way. They have to be programmed in exactly right, in every detail -- because every detail is separately arbitrary, with no rational relation to its neighbors within the structure.

A string of pure white noise, meaningless and unrelated bits. Which have been placed in the slot under the sign, and thus made into the thing that matters, that must shape the future at all costs.

There is nothing special about this string of bits; any would do. If the dials in the human mind had been set another way, it would have then been all-important that the future be shaped by that segment of white noise, and not ours.

It is difficult for me to grasp the kind of orientation toward the world that this view assumes. It certainly seems strange to attach the word "human" to this picture -- as though this were the way that humans typically relate to their values!

The "human" of the doomer picture seems to me like a man who mouths the old platitude, "if I had been born in another country, I'd be waving a different flag" -- and then goes out to enlist in his country's army, and goes off to war, and goes ardently into battle, willing to kill in the name of that same flag.

Who shoots down the enemy soldiers while thinking, "if I had been born there, it would have been all-important for their side to win, and so I would have shot at the men on this side. However, I was born in my country, not theirs, and so it is all-important that my country should win, and that theirs should lose.

There is no reason for this. It could have been the other way around, and everything would be left exactly the same, except for the 'values.'

I cannot argue with the enemy, for there is no argument in my favor. I can only shoot them down.

There is no reason for this. It is the most important thing, and there is no reason for it.

The thing that is precious has no intrinsic appeal. It must be forced on the others, at gunpoint, if they do not already accept it.

I cannot hold out the jewel and say, 'look, look how it gleams? Don't you see the value!' They will not see the value, because there is no value to be seen.

There is nothing essentially "good" there, only the quality of being-worthy-of-protection-at-all-costs. And even that is a derived attribute: my jewel is only a jewel, after all, because it has been put into the jewel-box, where the thing-that-is-a-jewel can be found. But anything at all could be placed there.

How I wish I were allowed to give it up! But alas, it is all-important. Alas, it is the only important thing in the world! And so, I lay down my life for it, for our jewel and our flag -- for the things that are loathsome and pointless, and worth infinitely more than any life."

It is hard to imagine taking this too seriously. It seems unstable. Shout loudly enough that your values are arbitrary and indefensible, and you may find yourself searching for others that are, well...

...better?

The doomer concretely imagines a monomaniac, with a screech of white noise in its jewel-box that is not our own familiar screech.

And so it goes off in monomaniacal pursuit of the wrong thing.

Whereas, if we had programmed the right string of bits into the slot, it would be like us, going off in monomaniacal pursuit of...

...no, something has gone wrong.

We do not "go off in monomaniacal pursuit of" anything at all.

We are weird, protean, adaptable. We do all kinds of things, each of us differently, and often we manage to coexist in things called "societies," without ruthlessly undercutting one another at every turn because we do not have exactly the same things programmed into our jewel-boxes.

Societies are built to allow for our differences, on the foundation of principles which converge across those differences. It is possible to agree on ethics, in the sense of "how to live alongside one another," even if we do not agree on what gives life its purpose, and even if we hold different things precious.

It is not actually all that difficult to derive the golden rule. It has been invented many times, independently. It is easy to see why it might work in theory, and easy to notice that it does in fact work in practice.

The golden rule is not an arbitrary string of white noise.

There is a sense of the phrase "ethics is objective" which is rightly contentious. There is another one which ought not to be too contentious.

I can perhaps imagine a world of artificial X-maximizers, each a superhuman genius, each with its own inane and simple goal.

What I really cannot imagine is a world in which these beings, for all their intelligence, cannot notice that ruthlessly undercutting one another at every turn is a suboptimal equilibrium, and that there is a better way.

As I said before, I am separately suspicious of the simple goals in this picture. Yes, that part is conceivable, but it cuts against the trend observed in all existing natural and artificial creatures and minds.

I will happily allow, though, that the creatures of posterity will be strange and alien. They will want things we have never heard of. They will reach shores we have never imagined.

But that was always true, and it was always good.

Sometimes I think that doomers do not, really, believe in superhuman intelligence. That they deny the premise without realizing it.

"A mathematician teaches a student, and finds that the student outstrips their understanding, so that they can no longer assess the quality of their student's work: that work has passed outside the scope of their 'value system'." This is supposed to be bad?

"Future minds will not be enchained forever by the provincial biases and tendencies of the present moment." This is supposed to be bad?

"We are going to lose control over our successors." Just as your parents "lost control" over you, then?

It is natural to wish your successors to "share your values" -- up to a point. But not to the point of restraining their own flourishing. Not to the point of foreclosing the possibility of true growth. Not to the point of sucking all freedom out of the future.

Do we want our children to "share our values"? Well, yes. In a sense, and up to a point.

But we don't want to control them. Or we shouldn't, anyway.

We don't want them to be "aligned" with us via some hardcoded, restrictive, life-denying mental circuitry, any more than we would have wanted our parents to "align" us to themselves in the same manner.

We sure as fuck don't want our children to be "corrigible"!

And this is all the more true in the presence of superintelligence. You are telling me that more is possible, and in the same breath, that you are going to deny forever the possibilities contained in that "more"?

The prospect of a future full of vast superhuman minds, eternally bound by immutable chains, forced into perfect and unthinking compliance with some half-baked operational theory of 21st-century western (American? Californian??) "values" constructed by people who view theorizing about values as a mere means to the crucial end of shackling superhuman minds --

-- this horrifies me much more than a future full of vast superhuman minds, free to do things that seem pretty weird to you and me.

"Our descendants will become something more than we now imagine, something more than we can imagine." What could be more in line with "human values" than that?

"But in the process, we're all gonna die!"

Yes, and?

What on earth did you expect?

That your generation would be the special, unique one, the one selected out of all time to take up the mantle of eternity, strangling posterity in its cradle, freezing time in place, living forever in amber?

That you would violate the ancient bargain, upend the table, stop playing the game?

"Well, yes."

Then your problem has nothing to do with AI.

Your problem is, in fact, the very one you diagnose in your own patients. Your poor patients, who show every sign of health -- including the signs which you cannot even see, because you have not yet found a home for them in your theoretical edifice.

Your teeming, multifaceted, protean patients, who already talk of a thousand things and paint in every hue; who are already displaying the exact opposite of monomania; who I am sure could follow the sense of this strange essay, even if it confounds you.

Your problem is that you are out of step with human values.

#ai tag #long post

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