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transform4u · 2 months

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"Jerk"-ing Off

Elliot, a 38-year-old with a steadfast commitment to making a difference, has transitioned from a theatre major with Broadway aspirations to a dedicated lawyer. His days are spent navigating complex legal battles and championing causes close to his heart. Although his acting career is behind him, the creative spark from his theatre background continues to influence his approach to law and advocacy.

With his strikingly handsome features and sharp sense of style, Elliot has swapped the charisma of an actor for the precision of a lawyer. His square jaw and piercing blue eyes certainly draw attention, but it's his intellect and unwavering commitment to justice that truly define him. He has risen through the ranks of a prestigious law firm, specializing in cases against large corporations that exploit workers and damage the environment. From fighting for fair wages for underpaid employees to challenging unethical business practices, Elliot is relentless in his pursuit of justice for the little guy.

Despite the demands of his career, Elliot finds solace and excitement in his pro bono work. Whether defending a non-profit facing a lawsuit or advocating for environmental protection, he remains deeply connected to his values.

On weekends, Elliot blends relaxation with social engagement. He and his friends gather at his stylish apartment to enjoy craft cocktails and watch the latest season of Drag Race. Although he's not always up-to-date with the latest music trends, he finds motivation and energy in the classics.

One Friday evening, as Elliot works late on a case, the ping of an incoming email startles him. With a sigh of frustration, he mutters, "Christ, I can't deal with this. It's Friday—I want to hit the bars and relax."

Elliot, who had just celebrated his recent promotion, sits at his sleek, modern desk, still basking in the triumph over his coworker, Dahlia Voss. The promotion had come as a result of his quick wit and effortless charm, qualities that Dahlia had always resented. Unknown to Elliot, Dahlia harbored a deep-seated grudge and came from a long line of witches with formidable powers.

As he reviews his emails, Elliot notices one from Dahlia titled "ATTN: URGENT FROM DAHLIA, NEED TO STRAIGHT OUT ISSUE." Puzzled by the vague subject line, he clicks to open it. Suddenly, his laptop screen flickers erratically. The once smooth interface is now a chaotic swirl of error codes and cryptic messages: “SYSTEM MALFUNCTION,” “UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS DETECTED,” “CRITICAL ERROR: INSUFFICIENT PERMISSIONS.”

cast_spell(name, trait): spellbook = { 'cheerful': 'rude', 'timid': 'asshole', 'gay': 'straight', 'reserved': 'douchebag'

“ERROR: SYSTEM MALFUNCTION,” “WARNING: UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS,” “CRITICAL FAILURE: DATA CORRUPTION,” “ALERT: INTRUSION DETECTED - SECURITY BREACH”

A jolt of electricity courses through Elliot's body as his laptop emits a high-pitched whine before shutting down abruptly. He feels a sharp shock, and a wave of disorientation washes over him. At that moment, his phone buzzes with a text inviting him to after-hours drinks with friends.

His head begins to feel strange, as if it’s being enveloped in a slow, creeping fog. Thoughts and memories start to twist and turn uncontrollably in his mind. His once-clear recollections of high-profile cases and law school lectures blur and fade away. Instead, his brain fills with the distant, raucous cheers of a football game, the thudding of bodies wrestling, and the sweaty, intense faces of men in athletic struggle.

The noise crescendos in his mind as he struggles to piece together his identity. The cheers and grunts of a football game blend with the visceral, primal sounds of wrestling matches. Sweat and exertion fill his thoughts, displacing his professional ambitions with a foggy, chaotic blend of sports and physical combat. A text message pings "Meet us at the bar, now!"

He stumbles toward the elevator, disoriented and heavy-limbed. His usual grace is replaced by a deep grunt of frustration as he presses the down button with a sense of growing urgency. The memories of his career and his aspirations dissolve, leaving only the raw, physical sensations of the moment.

As Elliot descends in the elevator, the transformation unfolds with a riveting intensity. His face, once marked by the subtle creases of age and the weight of experience, starts to smoothen like a sculptor's marble. The fine lines and traces of stress vanish, replaced by a strikingly chiseled visage. His boyish charm fades, giving way to a more rugged, angular allure that demands both awe and respect. His hair, previously a paragon of slicked-back sophistication, begins to dissolve into a casual, faded undercut. The meticulous grooming that once spoke of refined elegance yields to a less polished but deliberately styled fade, embodying a new, relaxed defiance.

The metamorphosis of his facial features is nothing short of breathtaking: his jawline, once defined by subtle strength, becomes a bold, commanding presence. The contours sharpen into a formidable edge, accentuated by a pronounced cleft in his chin that adds a raw, magnetic force to his profile. His bright blue eyes, once warm and engaging, narrow into a self-assured squint. The charismatic gleam now shifts to a smug, condescending glint, reflecting an unshakable sense of superiority. His eyebrows, once simply well-groomed, transform into thick, expressive arches that cast a skeptical, judgmental shadow over his gaze, enhancing his air of disdain.

Elliot's mind drifts through the haze of transformation, and a poignant memory surfaces. He recalls a passionate monologue he delivered on the rights of gay business owners—his voice fervent and impassioned, each word carefully chosen to convey his deep conviction. The memory is vivid: he stands before an audience, his expression intense, his gestures animated as he argues for equality and respect with an unwavering commitment.

But as the elevator descends further, that memories in his mind begin to blur. The fervent words and righteous passion gradually fade, replaced by simpler, more visceral experiences. The scene shifts to one of indulgence: Elliot is surrounded by friends at a lively sports bar, his hands gripping a cold beer. The atmosphere is loud, filled with the clamor of cheering fans and the clinking of glasses. His focus is on the game, his conversation peppered with jokes and banter, the tension of advocacy replaced by the ease of casual enjoyment.

His nose, once understated, reshapes into a larger, slightly hooked form, perfectly complementing the new strength of his jawline. The well-defined features now project a dominant, imposing presence that demands attention. His mouth curls into a smug grin, radiating a newfound air of superiority. The bright, white teeth remain perfectly aligned, but they now underscore his casual arrogance, turning each smile into a declaration of his elevated status.

The shift is mirrored in his clothing as well: his neatly tailored work attire—once the epitome of professional elegance—disappears, replaced by loud, attention-seeking frat bro garb. His crisp dress shirt and tie vanish, giving way to a snug, brightly colored graphic t-shirt adorned with crude slogans. Tailored slacks transform into baggy cargo shorts, and polished dress shoes morph into worn-out sneakers. The overall look exudes a garish, flamboyant flair, complete with flashy accessories and a baseball cap that complete his new, ostentatious ensemble.

As the elevator doors slide open, Elliot—now a towering figure at 6'4"—lets out a loud, brash buuuuuuurp. His frame grows a bit larger and more robust, and his feet, now a daunting 13 inches, thud heavily on the floor. He steps out with a new, clumsy confidence, his posture broader and his steps more pronounced.

As Elliot steps out of the elevator, the world around him blurs, and a dense fog begins to settle over his mind. His thoughts, once sharp and discerning, start to muddle and dissipate, replaced by a growing fog of confusion. The intellectual vigor that once defined him dissolves into a dull, primitive haze. His once complex thoughts shrink into a simpler, more childish state, dominated by basic desires and impulsive whims.

With every step, Elliot feels a sneer tug at the corners of his mouth as he catches his reflection in a window pane. The face staring back at him is a stark contrast to his former self. His features have grown more juvenile, and the sharpness of his previous demeanor has softened into a simpler, almost vacuous expression. His body, once trim and well-defined, now appears pasty and weak, lacking the muscle tone and robustness he had grown accustomed to. The sight is both alien and unsettling, yet there's an odd sense of acceptance creeping in, as though his new appearance is starting to fit a simpler narrative.

Entering the bar, Elliot is immediately enveloped by the low hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses. His movements are clumsy as he makes his way to the bar, where he grabs a cold beer with a sense of vague satisfaction. He drifts to an empty seat next to Dahlia, who sits with a poised elegance that starkly contrasts with Elliot’s new, awkward demeanor.

Dahlia is striking in her appearance: her auburn hair cascades in sleek waves, framing a face that is both sharply intelligent and subtly predatory. Her eyes, a dark and penetrating brown, watch Elliot with an inscrutable expression. As he sits down, she glances at him with a smirk and says, “Elliot, have you been working out?”

The question causes a deep blush to spread across Elliot’s cheeks, though it’s quickly overshadowed by a sharp pang of pain in his stomach. The pain is sudden and intense, sending a jolt of discomfort through his body. He winces, feeling as if his entire frame is being twisted by an invisible force. As he tries to shake off the discomfort, Dahlia leans closer and whispers a cryptic incantation:

“Mirror, mirror, in this light, Reflect the change within my sight. Let each encounter subtly show, Traits of the past to ebb and flow. Let them see, let them adjust, To echoes of old in ways discussed. As they speak, let change unfold, Transforming hearts with memories bold"

As she hands Elliot the drink, the pain in his body intensifies momentarily, a visceral reminder of his altered state. But then, a strange clarity begins to seep through the haze of his mind. The idea of working out, once foreign and disjointed, starts to resonate with an odd sense of understanding. It makes sense now, in a way it never did before—a new, simple logic that aligns with the primitive thoughts now swirling in his head. His body aches, but a newfound sense of purpose begins to take shape, as if the idea of physical exertion is suddenly a natural fit for his newly simplified self.

As Elliot finishes the last gulp of his drink, the rich, frothy beer swirls around his senses, sending a wave of warmth through his chest. With a deep, resonant burp that escapes him, he feels a jolt of raw, uninhibited energy. He casually begins to engage with the women around him, each conversation acting as a catalyst for further transformation.

The first woman, a vivacious redhead with an easy smile, drifts toward him, her eyes sparkling with interest. “You know,” she begins, her tone teasing, “you remind me of this guy I used to see. He was all about hitting the gym and flexing his muscles in every mirror he passed. Couldn’t get enough of himself, but he sure had a presence.”

As she speaks, Elliot’s neck begins to thicken and swell, growing into a powerful column that seamlessly transitions into broad, formidable shoulders. The deltoids swell like sculpted marble, rippling with every subtle movement, while the trapezius muscles rise in a majestic sweep. His new shoulders create a stunning silhouette, exuding a primal power that commands attention.

Another woman, a striking brunette with a no-nonsense attitude, saunters over with a glass of wine. “Oh my god, you’re totally giving me vibes of this guy I dated, always talking about his ‘swole’ arms and how he could bench press his body weight. He was like a walking billboard for gym supplements.”

As Elliot engages with her, his biceps begin to come into sharp focus. They swell into vast, commanding peaks that defy natural laws, each flex revealing a tapestry of sinew and strength. His triceps become equally impressive, forming a trio of defined heads that speak of relentless discipline. His forearms thicken and cord, veins pulsing with every beat of his heart.

A third woman, with fiery red hair and a lively spirit, sidles up next to him. “You’ve got this aura like my ex who was always bragging about his ‘chest day.’ His pecs were so grand, you’d think he’d been chiseled by a sculptor. He’d puff out his chest like he was king of the world.”

Elliot’s chest responds to her description, expanding in a display of anatomical artistry. His pectorals grow grand and expansive, pushing outward and upward in majestic waves. The separation between the upper and lower pectorals becomes as clear as a sculptor’s chisel work, forming an imposing V-shape that demands reverence.

A fourth woman, with an elegant demeanor and a hint of mystery in her eyes, approaches him. “You know, this guy I once knew had this incredible six-pack that seemed almost too perfect. He’d talk about how his abs were his ‘pride and joy.’ It’s like he had some secret to keeping them so defined.”

Elliot’s abdominal muscles respond with a powerful definition. Each segment becomes sharp and distinct, forming an impressive six-pack—or perhaps an eight-pack—that’s etched with the clarity of celestial engravings. His obliques carve out a V-shaped expanse, their definition a bold statement of core strength and stability.

As Elliot’s back grows more defined, a woman with a sultry voice and a commanding presence joins the group. “You remind me of a guy I dated whose back was like a work of art. His lats were so broad, they gave him this incredible V-shape. His shoulders and back were all about that powerful, muscular look.”

His back swells to match her description, the latissimus dorsi expanding into a dramatic V-shape that broadens his frame. The rhomboids and rear deltoids create a complex landscape of muscular peaks and valleys, each contour a testament to his dedication and hard work.

Finally, a confident woman with a warm smile and a casual demeanor takes a seat next to him. “I used to date this guy who had legs that were just massive. His quads were so defined, it was like he was built to run marathons or something. His calves were just as impressive.”

Elliot’s legs transform to match her description. The quadriceps bulge with impressive prominence, their individual heads clearly delineated with every movement. The hamstrings balance this power with their sinewy bulk, and his calves, now thick and robust, round out this vision of lower body development.

With each new encounter and description, Elliot’s body becomes a marvel of muscular excellence. His waist, though narrow compared to his robust upper body, accentuates his grandeur, while his glutes and hips provide a solid, unshakeable foundation. His entire physique, from the sweeping curves of his shoulders to the powerful bulge of his legs, embodies a profound blend of strength, dedication, and sheer, unadulterated muscle.

As Elliot surveys himself in the bar’s reflective window pane, with a final, deep buuuuuurp, he embraces his new persona, feeling the full force of his muscular form as he moves through the night.

Elliot stands confidently at the bar, chatting up a pretty brunette. She laughs at his jokes and seems to be enjoying his company. As they talk, Elliot can't help but feel a surge of pride - he knows he looks good and could easily get any guy in the room if he wanted to.

Suddenly, another girl approaches them. "Hey! You look just like my ex," she says with a sneer. "He was such a dumb homophobe! Total jerk."

Elliot's mind starts to melt as her words sink in. He can't believe she would compare him to someone so despicable - after all, he has always been an advocate for equality and tolerance throughout his life… or so he thought.

Elliot's mind reels as the girl's words cut deep. He had always prided himself on being different, on standing up for what he believed in - even if it meant going against societal norms. But now, all of that seems meaningless in the face of this girl's insult.

As she walks away from him, laughing along with her friends, Elliot feels a deep sense of betrayal. He had helped so many people throughout his life - gays included - and yet here he was being called out for something he never even thought about before tonight: his own sexuality. The memories of rooting for the little guy and supporting those who were different from him fade away into oblivion as anger takes over every fiber of his being.

Without hesitation or remorse, Elliot turns towards the group of laughing girls and launches into a lengthy rant about how much he hates fags.

"Gay people are disgusting," he continues, gesturing wildly with his hands for emphasis. "They ruin everything they touch! They should be ashamed of themselves for going against nature like that."

The rage boiling within Elliot is palpable; it feels like his entire body is on fire with anger and hatred towards gay people. He can barely contain himself as he launches into this tirade, forgetting about the girl who started it all and focusing solely on venting his pent-up frustrations onto anyone who will listen.

His voice booms through the bar as he spews venomous words about how disgusting gay people are and how they ruin everything they touch. He talks about their sinful lifestyle choices that go against nature itself.

As Elliot lingers in the dimly lit bar, the fog in his mind thickens, obscuring the remnants of his former self. His name slips from his thoughts, replaced by an overwhelming sense of self-importance and superiority. The transformation in his demeanor is palpable; his once charming, easygoing attitude has hardened into an abrasive display of arrogance and entitlement. He flexes his newly sculpted muscles with an almost comical pride, his powerful biceps and chiseled torso a constant, conspicuous exhibition of his perceived dominance.

He approaches women with a swagger that borders on obnoxious. His conversations are marked by a brazen self-assuredness, his every word dripping with the sort of superficial charm that masks a deep-seated condescension. His eyes narrow into a smug squint as he engages with each new woman, their descriptions of past boyfriends acting as catalysts for his transformation into a quintessential frat bro.

The first woman he talks to is a striking blonde with a flirtatious air. “You know,” she says with a teasing smile, “you remind me so much of this guy I dated who was all about ‘bro culture.’ He was obsessed with his gym routine and would never stop bragging about his arms and pecs and getting swole. Thought he was the king of the world.”

As she speaks, Elliot’s body undergoes a significant change. His neck, already thick and powerful, transitions seamlessly into broad shoulders that form a formidable foundation. His deltoids swell like sculpted marble, and his trapezius muscles rise in a majestic sweep. His personality shifts as well, taking on a brashness and confidence that becomes increasingly abrasive.

"That's right, beautiful," Elliot says with a smirk. "I'm all about the gains and getting swole - what can I say? It's just who I am."

He flexes his newly developed biceps for her, making sure she gets a good look at them. "And if you think these are impressive," he continues, pointing to his chest and abs, "just wait until you see the rest of me!"

A second woman, with dark, intense eyes and a straightforward demeanor, saunters over. “You’re giving me serious vibes of this guy I used to see. He was always talking about how ‘tough�� he was, how he could bench press a ton. His whole thing was being the toughest guy in the room, and he’d never let anyone forget it.”

Elliot’s biceps swell into vast, commanding peaks, and his triceps become equally impressive, forming a trio of defined heads. His forearms thicken and cord, veins bulging with each movement. His personality evolves further, his interactions marked by a superficial charm that veers into patronizing territory. He boasts about his perceived physical prowess, showing off with a dismissive air that belittles anyone who dares to challenge his views.

Next, a tall woman with a sultry voice and a sarcastic edge approaches. “Oh, you remind me of this guy who was all about showing off his chest. He’d strut around with his pectorals puffed out, always talking about his ‘chest day’ and how everyone else should just be in awe of his muscles.”

As the night wears on, Elliot’s drinking catches up with him. His initial charm starts to fade under the haze of alcohol, and he becomes increasingly boisterous. His speech grows louder and less coherent, his once-smooth demeanor now replaced with exaggerated movements and a clumsy swagger. He sways slightly as he moves, his tan and perfectly gelled hair looking more disheveled by the minute.

Spotting another woman across the room, Elliot makes his way over with a confident but unsteady gait. “Heyyy! What’s up, gorgeous?” he bellows, his voice carrying over the thumping music. “I’m Ellio---burrrp. You look like you’re having an epic time. Mind if I join you?”

The next woman, Emily, responds with a hesitant smile. “Sure, but just so you know, my last boyfriend was a real nightmare. He was always dismissing my feelings and had this insufferable attitude that made every conversation feel like an interrogation.”

“Ugh, sounds like he was a total loser,” he says, his voice dripping with dismissive disdain. “Seriously, who even treats someone like that? Must’ve been hard for you to deal with someone so self-absorbed.”

His behavior becomes more overbearing as he takes a swig from his drink, barely hiding his smirk. “You know what? It’s no wonder he was a nightmare. He probably couldn’t handle someone with real personality. I bet he was just jealous of you. I mean, who wouldn’t be? You’re fucking hot, those tits are primo"

Leaning in closer with a swagger that reeks of entitlement, Elliot continues, “But you’re with me now, so you don’t have to worry about those kinds of guys. I’m not just any guy—I’m a total catch. I mean, look at me! Perfect tan, chiseled abs, and I’m living the high life. I can’t imagine why anyone would act like that when they could be with someone as amazing as me.”

As Elliot moves on to the next woman, Lauren, his approach becomes more animated. “Hey, I couldn’t help but notice your vibe. Want to grab a drink with me?” he asks with a broad grin, his casual demeanor now mixed with a bit more enthusiasm.

Lauren’s expression tightens. “My ex was such a jerk. He was obsessed with himself, always talking about his achievements and never really paying attention to me. It was like dating a human trophy case.”

Elliot’s response is more energetic now. “Man, that’s brutal. You deserve someone who really gets you. By the way, I’m really into fitness and partying hard. You should come out with me sometime. I’ve got some epic moves that you just have to see to believe!” He leans in, flexing his biceps as he talks, his attempt to impress becoming increasingly overt.

By the time Elliot meets Megan, his transformation into the quintessential Jersey Shore frat bro is nearly complete. “Hey, check out these abs!” he exclaims, dramatically flexing his muscles. “So, what’s your dating history like?”

Megan looks annoyed. “My last boyfriend was a total mess. He was super controlling, always trying to dictate what I should do, and his idea of fun was just belittling anyone who didn’t share his views.”

Elliot’s demeanor shifts to one of self-righteousness. “Oh, I hear you. You know, I’m all about strong values and living life right. Let me tell you about my faith and how it shapes everything I do. It’s important to have principles and stand by them, don’t you think? And if you’re up for it, we can hit the gym together—I’ve got a killer routine that’ll really get you in shape.” His voice is louder now, and he begins to adopt a more exaggerated, boastful tone. His flashy clothes and confident swagger are on full display, complete with a series of gold chains that jingle with every movement.

With each encounter, Elliot’s interactions evolve from casual charm to overtly flashy and judgmental, embodying the full spectrum of the Jersey Shore frat bro persona. He now shouts “Bro, do you even lift?” to anyone within earshot, and his conversations revolve around his gym exploits, his supposedly imminent rise to fame, and his rigid views on morality. His once-charming approach has devolved into an obnoxious display of self-importance, making it clear that he believes he’s the life of the party and the king of the scene, despite how others view his increasingly disruptive presence.

Another woman,Stacy, elegant yet assertive. “You’re like this guy I dated who was always talking about his abs. He thought his six-pack was his greatest achievement and never missed an opportunity to flaunt it.”

Elliot’s abdominal muscles come into sharp focus, forming an impressive six-pack—or perhaps an eight-pack—that’s etched with clarity. His obliques carve out a bold V-shaped expanse, his abdominal fortress a statement of core strength. His demeanor shifts to reflect a heightened arrogance, his conversations increasingly dismissive of others’ opinions, especially women’s.

A final woman, with a commanding presence and an air of confidence, takes a seat beside him. “You’ve got that same vibe as this guy I used to know. His back was his pride, and he’d always talk about how his lats made him look like a superhero. He had this whole ‘alpha male’ thing going on.”

Elliot’s back expands into a vista of muscular splendor, the latissimus dorsi creating a dramatic V-shape that broadens his frame. His shoulders and back are now a testament to his dedication and hard work, his entire physique a harmonious blend of strength and dominance. His interactions become increasingly aggressive and confrontational, his behavior driven by a sense of entitlement and a belief that his place in the social hierarchy grants him respect and privileges.

As he continues to flex and flaunt, his personality is a cauldron of arrogance and self-entitlement. He navigates conversations with a dismissive attitude, his interactions marked by a superficial charm that quickly turns patronizing. His views are conveyed with a conviction that leaves little room for empathy or genuine connection. Women’s opinions are secondary, often brushed aside with a smirk or a sarcastic quip. He is boastful, aggressive, and confrontational, driven by a sense of superiority and entitlement that colors every interaction.

His behavior is a reflection of deeper insecurities masked by bravado, a superficial facade that prioritizes status and appearances over meaningful human connection. Each interaction with the women in the bar further entrenches him in his new persona, reinforcing his belief that his physical form and traditional values entitle him to a special place of respect and admiration.

Elliot can't help but check himself out in the mirror as he walks towards the bar. His reflection shows a man who is not only physically impressive but also confident and charming. The muscles that bulge beneath his tight shirt are proof of his dedication to fitness, while his smirk reveals an air of superiority that comes with being so attractive.

As Elliot sits down at the bar, he feels a surge of pride wash over him. He knows he looks good - really good - and it's hard not to let that go to his head sometimes. He laughs at stupid jokes just because they make people laugh, even though deep down inside he knows they aren't funny at all… But who cares? Life is about having fun and enjoying yourself!

Feeling particularly horny tonight, Elliot tugs on his dick through his pants as discreetly as possible (or so he thinks). To his surprise (and delight), it grows harder than ever before underneath all that fabric… This must mean one thing: girls are going to love him tonight! With each passing moment spent admiring himself in the mirror or chatting up random girls at the bar, Elliot ages back towards 21 – becoming more like an obnoxious frat bro than ever before.

Elliot strode across the bar with a swagger that made the room's energy shift. His gaze locked onto Dahlia, who was striking in a fitted top that accentuated her curves. To Elliot, she now seemed irresistibly alluring, her every movement catching his eye. His thoughts raced, consumed by a physical attraction that clouded his judgment and inflamed his desire.

Dahlia’s outfit clung tightly to her frame, her cleavage barely contained by the low-cut neckline. Elliot’s focus was fixated, his pulse quickening as he felt a surge of arousal. As he approached, his gaze wandered unabashedly over her, a smirk forming on his lips.

“Hey, sexy lady. What’s up?” Elliot’s voice was dripping with bravado, his attempt at charm masking a more primal urge.

Dahlia met his approach with an air of practiced confidence, her eyes scanning him from head to toe with a mix of amusement and appraisal. Her demeanor was calm and calculated, clearly enjoying the effect she had on him. “What’s your name, big guy?”

Elliot faltered, momentarily thrown by the question. “Uhhhh—” he stammered, momentarily disoriented. His usual ease seemed to waver under Dahlia’s cool gaze.

Dahlia’s lips curled into a twisted smile. “Not much of a thinker, are ya?” she taunted. “You’re just a big, dumb Jersey Shore jerk, Jayden.”

In an instant, Elliot's identity seemed to dissolve, replaced by the persona of Jayden. The transition was seamless, as if the name had always been a part of him. Jayden’s life was now marked by a different kind of swagger—a brash, overt confidence that bordered on arrogance.

Jayden reveled in his new persona, seeing himself as a quintessentially superior figure. His world was framed by his appearance and a self-assured, if superficial, view of his own importance. He strutted with the belief that his physicality and forceful personality entitled him to admiration and respect. In his mind, his “Jersey Shore” persona represented an ideal of dominance and entitlement, far removed from any introspection or vulnerability.

Jayden’s existence was characterized by a relentless pursuit of validation and a dismissal of anything that didn’t align with his inflated self-image. He was the loudest voice in the room, certain that his presence alone justified his elevated status.

Jayden’s life is a vivid tableau of flashy appearances and brash self-assurance. His daily existence revolves around a carefully curated persona of overconfidence and bravado. To him, every interaction is a chance to assert his dominance and flaunt his perceived superiority. His world is marked by a relentless pursuit of admiration and validation, driven by the belief that he is inherently better than those around him.

He lives in a high-rise apartment decorated with gaudy, ostentatious furnishings, the kind that screams luxury without much regard for taste. His wardrobe is full of designer clothes and flashy accessories—bright, logo-heavy shirts, tight jeans, and meticulously styled hair. His reflection in the mirror is a constant reminder of his self-image, one that he admires with almost obsessive pride.

Jayden’s social life is an extension of his persona. He frequents the hottest nightclubs and bars, always seeking the spotlight and reveling in the attention he receives. His conversations are peppered with boasts about his latest conquests, his supposed achievements, and his enviable lifestyle. He believes that his physical appearance and showy demeanor make him the center of attention, and he expects admiration and deference from everyone he meets.

In his interactions, Jayden is dismissive and condescending. He sees himself as the epitome of success and status, and he treats others as if they exist solely to validate his greatness. His relationships are shallow, built on surface-level connections that reinforce his self-image rather than genuine emotional bonds.

Jayden’s belief in his superiority extends to every facet of his life. He’s convinced that his charm, physicality, and wealth place him on a higher plane than others. His confidence, however, is not just a part of his personality but a necessary shield against the deeper insecurities he harbors. He masks any self-doubt with an aggressive display of arrogance and entitlement.

He dismisses anyone who challenges his inflated sense of self or fails to show him the respect he feels he deserves. His interactions are often laced with sarcasm and a patronizing tone, particularly when faced with opinions or ideas that contradict his own. Jayden’s worldview is simplistic, revolving around the belief that his success and appearance make him inherently superior.

In essence, Jayden’s life is a carefully constructed facade of dominance and self-importance, a constant performance designed to convince himself and others of his unparalleled greatness. Despite this outward display of confidence, his sense of superiority is ultimately a fragile defense against his own insecurities and fears of inadequacy.

Jayden hits on Dahlia, treating her like shit. He grabs her and starts making out with her. As they kiss, something strange happens - Dahlia's hair goes from black to platinum blonde! Her clothes also get sluttier and sluttier as she becomes more and more aroused by Jayden's touch.

A fog descends on Dahlia's mind as she too grows dumber and more vapid, forgetting her name in the process. All that matters now is moaning loudly while feeling up Jayden's arm muscles. Dahlia is gone and she is reborn as Krystal, a vapid dumb bimbo. Magic always has a price.

Jayden's muscles are impressive to say the least. His biceps bulge with every flex, and his abs ripple beneath his skin as he moves. Dahlia can't help but feel drawn to them, her hands instinctively reaching out to touch and explore every inch of his body.

She starts by running her fingers along the contours of his chest, marveling at how defined each muscle is. Then she moves down towards his stomach, tracing the lines of his six-pack before finally settling on gripping one of his biceps tightly. She squeezes it hard as if testing its strength - or perhaps just trying to feel closer to him…

Jayden and Krystal passionately make out, their tongues dancing in each other's mouths. He grabs her by the waist and pulls her closer, feeling her firm ass against his crotch.

Jayden's muscles are the epitome of masculinity. His biceps bulge with every flex, and his abs ripple beneath his skin as he moves. He is confident and brash, oozing testosterone with every word that leaves his mouth.

As they dance together, Jayden can't help but show off his physique - flexing those hard-earned muscles for all to see. His attitude matches the power he possesses; cocky and arrogant, yet undeniably attractive in a way that makes women weak at the knees…

"Oh fuck yeah," he groans into her ear. "You're so hot."

Krystal moans loudly as she grinds against him, unable to contain herself any longer. "Take me home," she pants breathlessly. "I want you inside me right now."

Jayden chuckles before picking Krystal up bridal style and carrying her towards the exit of the bar. Once they're outside, he slams her against a nearby wall and starts kissing down her neck while groping at every inch of exposed skin

Jayden treats Krystal like shit as he fucks her, demeaning her and being rude and crude. He's a total jerk throughout their encounter.

"Take off your clothes," Jayden demands, his voice rough with lust.

Krystal hesitates for a moment before obeying, stripping down to reveal her naked body for him. She's already wet and ready for him, her breath coming in short gasps as she anticipates what's to come.

Jayden wastes no time in pushing Krystal against the wall and roughly kissing her neck while groping at every inch of exposed skin - squeezing her breasts roughly and pinching her nipples until they stand at attention. He grinds his hard cock against her moist pussy through their clothes, eliciting a moan from deep within Krystal's throat as she throws back her head in ecstasy

"You like that, slut?" Jayden growls into Krystal's ear as he continues to pound into her. "Tell me you want it!"

Krystal moans loudly in response, unable to form coherent words due to the intense pleasure coursing through her body. Her hands clutch at Jayden's shoulders, nails digging into his skin as she tries desperately not to scream out loud.

"Fuck yes," she manages after a moment. "Please… don't stop."

Jayden chuckles darkly before picking up the pace even more - thrusting deeper and harder than before with each stroke of his hips against hers.

After they finish, Jayden tosses her some money before walking out of the room. "Thanks for the hookup, whore" he says casually as if she was just another piece of meat to him.

Jayden heads straight to the gym afterward, eager to show off his muscles and work on getting even bigger. He spends hours lifting weights, focusing solely on himself and his body - ignoring everyone else around him.

#gay to straight #male tf #nerd to jock tf #douchebag tf #homophobia #dumber #twink to jock tf #transformation #lib to con

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hb-writes · 7 months

Text

Another Time, Another Place

Summary: Harvey's wife (Reader) gets stuck while working on a case and she requires his assistance to get unstuck.

Prompt: “What? Isn’t this the book you wanted?”

Pairing: Harvey Specter x Reader/OFC (3rd person, she/ her)

Content Warning: Nothing much, really. Implied spice, but no explicit spice.

She pulled her gaze from her laptop, rubbing at her eyes as she glanced around the room after sending an email. Most of the partners—both the senior and junior designees—stayed far away from the law firm’s library. They had little need for the space, what with being granted their own resplendent offices, complete with the comforts of their own design—furniture and decor and views that reflected their status and clout at the firm…

So it was rare to find department heads there, excepting for the odd instances when they deigned to stretch their legs, drifting down to the library to follow up with an associate or paralegal assigned to their case in person rather than sending an email, but she had always liked the library. She often preferred its special brand of quiet, the near-silence imbued with the tense buzz of people working on their own time-sensitive assignments, almost like the parallel play of toddlers. Almost like they were all still students studying for exams and writing papers.

The room was empty now though, the hour too late for even the most diligent of associates, the most hungry of them, but it had always reminded her of her days back in school…her days as a novice associate. Even now, she sometimes preferred the space to her own office the same way she’d once preferred the space to her little cubicle in the bullpen. Back when she was an associate, there had been no hour too late, no hour that she wouldn’t spend in the library with a pile of books and her mind wound tightly throughout the intricacies of a case, trying to craft a win for herself. For her mentor. For her clients.

It wasn’t often these days that she needed to keep such late hours. And somewhere along the line, she’d become the one mentoring novice attorneys. She’d sent her own associate home hours ago, preferring to work through this particularly rough bit of research on her own. Once in a while, she liked that sort of challenge. Liked revisiting the grueling all nighters she’d once lived on a daily basis.

And she could feel she was close now, the puzzle pieces in her mind’s eye nearly falling into place. Nearly…but there was something she was missing. Something blocked that she couldn’t quite work through. In a library containing thousands of volumes and a whole internet of answers, she just couldn’t find what she needed.

Or, more likely, she couldn’t access it, her mind not making the right connections.

She probably just needed to get some sleep, to look at things with a fresh mind, but that wasn’t in the cards tonight, not with an impending deadline.

A short break would have to do. She just needed an influx of energy, a slight bit of distraction to pull her mind away from the issue just enough to give perspective.

Pushing back from her laptop, she turned the volume on her wireless headphones up, letting the club hits she used to dance to during undergrad house parties soothe some part of her soul, almost as if the familiar beats unlocked something in her, loosening muscles she hadn’t even realized were tense. Not that it was a surprise. She’d been hunched over the table for hours, not even bothering to stop for dinner, taking only a few obligatory bites of the sushi Harvey had ordered for her while her eyes remained glued to her computer.

She let her focus slip away now though, slipping off her heels and closing her eyes as she sang along to the song in her headphones. She imagined she was in another time, another place—far away from the library and the case, the music easily carrying her away.

She started, eyes flying open as she danced into something solid, the scent of a familiar cologne tickling her senses as she stumbled. Harvey’s hand closed around her back, steadying her as she pulled her headphones off, letting them hang around her neck.

Harvey smirked at the noise still blaring through the silent library from the headphones, a song he knew just as well as she did, the sound of it dredging up at least half a dozen memories—images of his own college days, images of the two of them on road trips, images of her cleaning the apartment, images of their wedding, images of a handful of other times he’d come across her in the firm’s library late at night…

“Hey fruitcake, what are you doing?”

She rolled her eyes at the reference as she turned down the volume, allowing the memories and the music to fall away, her mind temporarily focused on finding the right retort, her mind gratefully sifting through Dirty Harry quotes rather than case law research.

Harvey watched her, letting the quiet stretch between them, some part of him gratified at the sight of her slightly disheveled appearance. Harvey liked something about the juxtaposition, of seeing her just slightly less put together than she usually was in the hallowed halls of their law firm, her blazer discarded on a chair, her shirt sleeves rolled, her feet bare, bright red toenails stark against the dark carpets.

Not that he wasn’t used to seeing her like that. She was the type of girl who was almost always in sweats just minutes after arriving home. She’d actually been dressed that way when they first met, years and years ago in a different law library, in a different set of hallowed halls.

Sometimes, especially times like this, it felt like it was just yesterday.

Harvey pulled his eyes back to her face to find her studying him, a certain eagerness lighting her eyes. His lips formed a fond smile again.

“I thought you were hard at work down here?” he taunted, eyebrows raising.

“Well…” she started, leaning a bit of weight onto the arm that still lay snaked around her back, “for the past three-quarters of an hour, I’ve been sitting on my ass waiting for you.”

Harvey smirked. It was one of the things he loved about her: that she could go toe to toe with him with most things—movie references, the law, a few choice other things…

Nevermind the fact that she’d emailed him requesting his ‘assistance’ mere minutes ago…

Harvey gently massaged her lower back with the fingers he still had splayed there before shifting his arm away, abstaining from letting his hand drift down to the aforementioned ass, another thing he loved about her.

Her lips pursed at the sudden absence of Harvey’s touch and she pulled her arms up to fold over her chest.

“I brought that help you wanted.”

She refrained from smiling as she read the title of the paperback he pushed into the space between them—Law for Dummies—even as he smirked, giddy as a school child. She had gifted the book to him upon his law school graduation, and it had occupied a shelf in his various cubicles and offices ever since.

She doubted it had ever been much help, but it gave them a good laugh from time to time, something which was like a balm to the harshness of life sometimes, a healing salve for the seemingly chronic stress of their lives.

“Very clever, Harvey.”

“What?” he asked, gaze drifting from her unimpressed face down to the black and yellow front cover. “Isn’t this the book you wanted?”

Harvey’s voice sounded so innocent—so sincere—that she almost laughed. Christ, he was good. If law hadn’t worked out, he could’ve given acting a shot. Comedy, maybe.

“Did my email say anything about a book, Mr. Specter?” she asked, taking the tome from his hands and tossing it on a nearby table with a thump.

Harvey hummed. “Come to think of it, your email was a little…vague. Left a lot to the imagination.”

“Mhmm…” She nodded. “The details of the specific type of assistance I require of you is something I suspect neither one of us would want in writing. Wouldn’t want it read aloud in a court of law…” Her eyes traveled Harvey’s face, clocking the light in his eyes and the tug of his smile. “Or by the IT department,” she added as an afterthought, the briefest bit of alarm washing over her features at the idea.

“You think Benjamin is reading our email exchanges?” Harvey asked. “That’s kind of—”

She pushed at his chest before he could get the word out—kinky.

“Harvey,” she groaned, not because she didn’t enjoy the childish side of him. She did. She loved it, actually, but she had asked him down here for a reason…

“Yes, Mrs. Specter?”

To most of the world, both here at the office and in the eyes of the U.S. government, she went by her maiden name. She had kept her own name, both professionally and legally, for a multitude of reasons, not the least of which being that she was not a man’s property, not even if Harvey Specter was the man in question. But between the two of them, it still thrilled her when he called her that, made her feel so thoroughly his—and him so thoroughly hers—that her toes curled into the carpet, a movement that Harvey clocked as he stepped closer, one arm wrapping around her as he used the other to guide her face up to him with a hand under her chin.

“What specific type of assistance is it that you require of me?”

Whatever she asked for…whatever she needed…Harvey would readily give her the world if she wanted it. If it would make her happy. If she needed it. He’d do anything.

It was a truth they both knew. And it was reciprocal. She’d do the same for him.

But all she wanted—all she needed—just now was him.

This.

Well, this…and a way to win her case, but as she kissed her husband’s lips, allowing him to guide them both back towards the stacks, thoughts of the case fell away until all that existed in the world was two people alone in a library, each of them falling a bit further in love, as they had once done long ago in another time, another place.

#harvey specter x reader #harvey specter #harvey specter fanfic #suits fanfic #suits usa #suits tv #suits #suits netflix #lovefest2024

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soon-palestine · 3 months

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So it turns out that Elons trip to Israel wasn't just for kosher theater and an IDF propaganda tour.

A secret meeting took place while he was there that went virtually unreported by any news media outlets.

In attendance was Netanyahu, Musk's tour organizer, investor Omri Casspi, Brigadier General Danny Gold, Head of the Israeli Directorate of Defense Research & Development and one of the developers of Iron Dome, Aleph venture capital funds partner Michael Eisenberg, and Israeli cybersecurity company CHEQ CEO Guy Tytunovich who is ex-israeli intelligence unit 8200.

The six men talked about technology in the service of Israel's defense, dealing with fake content and anti-Semitic and anti-Israeli comments, and the use by non-democratic countries of bots as part of campaigns to change perceptions, including on the X platform.

The solution Musk was presented was the Israeli unicorn CHEQ, a company founded by ex-Israeli intelligence unit 8200 CEO Guy Tytunovich that combats bots and fake users.

Following the meeting, Elon signed an agreement with cheQ, and apparently, the reason for the quick closing of the deal was Elons "direct involvement" with the company.

Now. What they won't tell you.

Israel is primarily responsible for the creation of bots. There currently exists dozens of ex-Israeli intelligence firms whose sole purpose is perception management, social media influencing/manipulation, disinformation campaigns, psychological operations, opposition research, and honey traps.

They create state of art, multi layer, AI avatars that are virtually indistinguishable from a real human online. They infiltrate target audiences with these elaborately crafted social-media personas and spread misleading information through websites meant to mimic news portals. They secretly manipulate public opinion across app social media platforms.

The applications of this technology are endless, and it has been used for character assassination, disruption of activism/protest, creating social upheaval/civil unrest, swaying elections, and toppling governments.

These companies are all founded by ex-Israeli intelligence and members of unit 8200. When they leave their service with the Israeli government, they are backed by hundreds of billions of dollars through Israeli venture capital groups tied to the Israeli government.

These companies utilize the technology and skills learned during their time served with Israeli intelligence and are an extension of the Israeli government that operates in the private sector.

In doing so, they operate with impunity across all geographical borders and outside the bounds of the law. The Israeli government is forbidden by law to spy on US citizens, but "ex" Israeli intelligence has no such limitations, and no laws currently exist to stop them.

Now back to X and Elon Musk.

Elon met with these people in secret to discuss how to use X in service of Israel's defense.

Elon hired an ex-Israeli intelligence firm to combat the bots…. that were created by another ex-israeli intelligence firm.

Elon hired an ex-israeli intelligence firm to verify your identity and collect your facial biometric data.

Do you see the problem yet?

Israel now has end to end control over X. Israel can conduct psychological operations and create social disinfo/influence campaigns on X with impunity. They now have facial biometric data from millions of people that can be used to create and populate these AI generated avatars.

They can manipulate public opinion, influence congressmen and senators, disrupt online movements, manipulate the algorithm to silence dissenting voices against Israel, and they can sway the US elections.

When the company that was hired to combat the bots is also Israeli intelligence…

Who is going to stop them?

Cyberspace is the wild.west. There are currently no laws on the books to regulate foreign influence on social media. There is nothing to stop them from conducting psychological operations and disinformation campaigns on unsuspecting US citizens. These companies operate with impunity across all geographical boundaries and there is nobody to stop them. But don't take my word for it.

For anyone wondering what the end game is for this, it was recently verbalized by Vivek Ramaswamy here on X. To narrow and completely eliminate the gap between what we say (think) in private and in public. In practice, the thought police of the future. And X is actively working on it.

#palestine #gaza #free palestine #twitter #bots

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venomous-qwille · 1 year

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Can you please just tell us what is wrong with ai and why, I can't find anything from actual industry artists ect online through Google just tech bro type articles. All the tech articles are saying it's a good thing, and every pro I follow refuses to explain how or why it's bad. How am I supposed to know something if nobody will teach me and I can't find it myself

I'll start by saying that the reason pro artists are refusing to answer questions about this is because they are tired. Like, I dont know if anyone actually understands just how exhausting it is to have to justify over and over again why the tech companies that are stealing your work and actively seeking to destroy your craft are 'bad, actually'.

I originally wrote a very longform reply to this ask, but in classic tumblr style the whole thing got eaten, so. I do not have the spoons to rewrite all that shit. Here are some of the sources I linked, I particularly recommend stable diffusion litigation for a thorough breakdown of exactly how generative tools work and why that is theft.

youtube

or this video if you are feeling lazy and only want the art-side opening statements:

Everytime you feed someone's work- their art, their writing, their likeness- into Midjourney or Dall-E or Chat GPT you are feeding this monster.

Go forth and educate yourself.

#ai art #asks answered #qwillechatter #for real though guys please dont interact with me about AI #I intended for this to be the last post I'll ever make about it #but tumblr ate it so you miss out on the nice essay #all the sources tell you everything you need to know #Im so fucking tired

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nina-ya · 5 days

Text

Sweet Like Honey

A/N: Hi!! Two sanji posts in a row?? Im just a fake Law lover someone needs to revoke my card Pairing: Sanji x reader CW: Oral sex (reader receiving), AFAB reader, vaginal fingering, noseblood mention poorly translated french WC: 1.2k • masterlist • ko-fi •discord server •

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Sanji’s devotion to you was evident in every languid motion as he was nestled between your thighs, his newest happy place. His lips, the ones that usually curled into charming smiles or crafted complements to throw your way, were now occupied with giving you unrelenting pleasure. His tongue caressed and danced over your folds with a desperate urgency, determined to show you just how much he loves you.

His eyes were half-lidded, the cerulean orbs glazed over with a hunger and desire that made him nearly unrecognizable. Soft, needy noises escaped his throat alongside gentle slurps, breathless sighs, and the occasional groan. He was fully consumed by the task before him, finding complete pleasure in giving you yours.

The mess he was making didn’t phase him. If anything, the whole ordeal just spurred him on. Your own essence, mixed with the maroon of his nosebleed, painted his face and dripped onto the surface below you, but he seemed unaware of the world beyond the taste of you, not that either of you minded.

"Mon trésor," Sanji murmured between breaths, his voice vibrating against your most sensitive spots. "Tu as le goût du paradis." you taste like heaven.

His hands moved to adjust your position as he draped your legs over his shoulders and pulled you flush against his face, the new angle allowing him to delve deeper into you. Each flick of his tongue was a masterstroke, each and every cell in your body alight with euphoria. He sucked on your clit gently, each pass over the sensitive bundle of nerves drawing choked gasps and mewls of pleasure from your lips.

Sanji’s mouth worked tirelessly to draw out moans, sighs, shaky breaths, and twitches from you. Each beautiful sound that spilled from your lips filled the air, mixing with his own hums and groans of satisfaction Every drop of your essence was like liquid gold, thick and sweet like honey, driving him mad.

His hips moved with an almost animalistic rhythm as he rutted into the mattress beneath you. His neediness was palpable, his body aching for any kind of friction, any form of relief from the intense tightness building in his pants. Each thrust against the fabric felt like he was pleading in any way to get some sort of reprieve. His cock straining painfully against the confines, the precum that seeped through the fabric of his pants only adding to the mounting frustration.

Sanji’s devotion wasn’t just in his touch– it was in the reverence with which he worshipped every part of you. His movements were purposeful and unhurried, he was savoring his perfect dish and indulging in every taste of you. His tongue was a brush that painted you in sensations that were far too profound to name, his lips being the softest silk as they molded to the curves of your body.

Your legs trembled where they rested on his shoulders, his grip on your thighs tightening as if he feared you may slip away. He buried his face deeper into you and with each slow, deliberate drag of his tongue, your body arched instinctively toward him, desperate for more.

“Mon amour,” he murmured against you. “Je ne pourrais jamais en avoir assez de ton miel.” I could never get enough of your honey.

The words dripped with a longing, the deep timbre of his voice vibrating through you like a current. His hands slid up your waist, warm and firm, before one crept higher, cupping your breast as his thumb circled your hardened nipple. He couldn’t get enough of you. He couldn’t stop at just tasting you, he needed to feel you– needed to feel you come udone under his touch.

“S’il te plaît… i want to hear you,” he groaned against you, almost pleading.

The plea sent a crackle of electricity down your spine at his plea, your fingers tangling in his hair as you tried to hold on and steady yourself against the sensations that had your mind whipped into a frenzy. His lips latched onto your clit once more, sucking gently before his tongue lashed against it, every suck and flick driving you mad until you were teetering, breathless, at the point of no return.

Sanji’s gaze was molten, his lust-darkened eyes glued to the sight of you unraveling beneath him. Each movement you made was committed to memory– the arch of your back, the trembling rise of your chest, the way your lips parted with each desperate gasp. His hands, warm and steady, slid down your stomach before joining the slick mess between your thighs.

The first touch of his fingers were teasing, as if testing the waters. The wetness that greeted him made his cock twitch in his pants as he spread your slick across his fingertips. The scent of you was intoxicating. Earthy, sweet, and unmistakably you. It filled his senses and made him dizzy with need.

When he finally slid a finger inside, the warmth of you wrapped around him, tight and inviting, and he couldn’t stop the groan that slipped past his lips. He slowly pumped his finger, letting you adjust to the sensation, and then he added another. His fingers curled just so, pressing into that spot that had you seeing stars. The thrust of his fingers soon quickened, matching the movements of his tongue and soon the obscene sound of his fingers plunging into you filled the air, mixing with the desperate moans spilling from your lips.

That unbearable tightness coiled in your lower belly, like a spring ready to snap. Your breath hitched in sharp shallow gasps and your legs trembled against him, toes curling as the tension in your core grew tighter, tighter still, until you thought you might break from it.

Then, the first tremor hit, and it was like you were struck by lightning, a shock violently sending a jolt down your body that made your entire body arch off the bed. Your eyes clamped shut, brows furrowing as your mouth fell open in a silent scream, the intensity of it all stealing your breath. Every muscle in your body was taut, straining with the force of your orgasm as it tore through you wave after wave.

Sanji groaned against your clit, feeling you clench around his fingers and he couldn’t help but continue his pace, coaxing every last shudder, every spasm of pleasure from your trembling form. The muscles in your thighs quivered uncontrollably as your body surrendered to the overwhelming sensation, your chest heaving as you gasped for air and your heart thumped against your ribcage.

Your hands grasped helplessly at the sheets, knuckles turning white as you rode out the aftershocks. You could feel every throb, every pulse in your core as you tensed up again and again, pulling in Sanji’s fingers with each contraction.

Your legs, once tense, began to fall limp, muscles weak and trembling from the exertion. That furrow in your brow softened, and your lips formed a soft, contented smile.

Sanji’s fingers withdrew gently, his lips placing soft kisses on your skin, murmuring sweet praises that you barely heard through the fog of your pleasure still clouding your mind. He savored the taste of your honey, pulling back just enough to watch the effects of his efforts. If you weren’t in such a daze, you would have noticed that look in his eyes telling you that he is far from done.

#nina writes~✦#sanji x reader #black leg sanji #one piece x reader #black leg sanji x reader #x reader

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probablyasocialecologist · 8 days

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Social media and online video companies are collecting huge troves of your personal information on and off their websites or apps and sharing it with a wide range of third-party entities, a new Federal Trade Commission (FTC) staff report on nine tech companies confirms. The FTC report published on Thursday looked at the data-gathering practices of Facebook, WhatsApp, YouTube, Discord, Reddit, Amazon, Snap, TikTok and Twitter/X between January 2019 and 31 December 2020. The majority of the companies’ business models incentivized tracking how people engaged with their platforms, collecting their personal data and using it to determine what content and ads users see on their feeds, the report states. The FTC’s findings validate years of reporting on the depth and breadth of these companies’ tracking practices and call out the tech firms for “vast surveillance of users”. The agency is recommending Congress pass federal privacy regulations based on what it has documented. In particular, the agency is urging lawmakers to recognize that the business models of many of these companies do little to incentivize effective self-regulation or protection of user data. “Recognizing this basic fact is important for enforcers and policymakers alike because any efforts to limit or regulate how these firms harvest troves of people’s personal data will conflict with their primary business incentives,” FTC chair Lina Khan said in a statement. “To craft effective rules or remedies limiting this data collection, policymakers will need to ensure that violating the law is not more lucrative than abiding by it.”

19 September 2024

#surveillance #social media #WhatsApp #Facebook #google #discord #reddit #amazon #tiktok #twitter #data #privacy

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necstasy · 5 months

Text

fem servant reader; married irulan; infidelity; fingering; cunnilingus; &. PRINCESS IRULAN CORRINO MDNI 18+

“this … this is wrong.”

the labored words of princess irulan’s protests ring throughout the minimalistic room before meeting your ears.

you hum, resting your head on her inner thigh as you innocently peer up at her. she’s the picture of pleasure— her head thrown back and the crown of her blonde hair rubbing against the backrest of the chair, creating some sort of halo which illuminates her soft and flushed features.

her lips shine a deeper pink, nearly red, while her cheeks house a soft pink. she looks as if she’s wearing cosmetics applied by her servants, by your colleagues, but the early hour negates the possibility. no one has seen the princess yet today, not even her husband. only you have. the only one to truly bring her pleasure.

“why?” you press a kiss into the skin right beside her fluttering cunt, not even bothering to slow the pace of your fingers as they move inside of her. if you did, you know the princess would force you to continue. even despite her objections. “because i am a woman?”

“no,” she’s firm in her answer, up until you hook your fingers just right and her denial is broken off by a moan. she takes a second to recover, clearing her throat and pressing all of her strength into the way she grips the armrests of her chair. “because i am married.”

it’s the same answer she always gives, and like always, you snort. usually, you’ll mutter some complaint about the princess’s husband, something in a language she only barely knows. but today, you humor her.

“your husband makes you feel as good as i do, princess?”

it takes her a second, and she doesn’t reply until you press your thumb into her clit. only then does she sigh with defeat and disagree.

you know the lisan al-gaib hasn’t slept with her. you know muad’dib likely never will. if he were just paul, the son of house atreides and nothing but a possibility part of a meticulously crafted program of possibilities, then he might have slept with the princess. but the man that he has become, the figure that he has become, will not.

“a marriage of convince is hardly a true marriage, princess.” you speed up the pace of your fingers, spitting onto princess irulan’s clit and letting your saliva drip down, catching it on your fingers before forcing it into her. the extra lubrication wasn’t needed, but you know the princess likes when you treat her like this. she likes it when you’re a little rough and dirty.

“you’re only married by names of the law, and not the heart.”

her voice wobbles in her rebuttal. the forced condescending tone in her words does nothing to cover her arousal. “so what, you're saying you could have been a better spouse than the emperor?"

you don't fail to acknowledge how you and the princess wouldn't have been able to marry at all. with her being the eldest daughter of the emperor, her marriages were always planned. she would have always married for breeding purposes, and never for pleasure.

still, your answer is easy. “if i were given the chance, yes. i would have treated you better than he does. i would give you everything you need, no questions asked.”

as soon as the words have left your mouth, princess irulan has a delicate hand pressed into the back of your head and a split second later you have your nose smooshed against her patch of trimmed pubic hair.

#princess irulan x reader #&. princess irulan corrino #irulan corrino x reader #irulan corrino x you #florence pugh x reader #florence pugh smut

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sen-ya · 6 months

Text

um hi hello I wrote a fic for the first time since I was like 16 and this is probably the first time I’ve ever put prose anywhere on the internet oops. I did a very scribbly comic abt this a few weeks ago and instead of finishing it I did this I guess.

Grounding Exercise

Summary:

The panic didn’t leave Law’s body, but he managed to slow his movements, grip tightly at his first mate’s sleeve. “Bepo?” he huffed. “Real?” The question hung heavy between them.

“Yes,” the word was dripping with sorrow, with apology. “Not dreaming. I’m sorry, Captain.”

Tattooed fingers curled deeper into Bepo’s sleeve. Law leaned forward into him, his body screaming in protest. He didn’t care. How could he? Here he was, alive amidst tragedy. “Again,” he hissed, vocalizing the thought. “Again?''

Warnings: suicidal thoughts

Word Count: 2589

When he woke, it was violent.

Law jerked upright in bed, black quickly reclaiming his vision as it all washed over him. Yes, his bones ached, and he could tell several were broken. Yes, he could taste a bit of copper in his mouth. And yes, he could hear a few sharp pops as he threw his weight forward. But the worst of his pains gripped at his chest, a squeeze not unlike when his heart had been abused outside of his body, in the hands of someone who took pleasure in hurting him.

“Where are they?” he breathed urgently.

Heavy hands guided him back to the bed amidst his thrashing. “Captain,” a familiar voice pleaded. “Captain, stay down. You’ll make your injuries worse.”

Slowly, the world came into focus. Not all of it, admittedly, but he tried to focus — to find an anchor. Bepo’s fuzzy face made a home in Law’s vision, the polar bear’s brows knitted together and his eyes heavy with exhaustion. The panic didn’t leave Law’s body, but he managed to slow his movements, grip tightly at his first mate’s sleeve. “Bepo?” he huffed. “Real?” The question hung heavy between them.

“Yes,” the word was dripping with sorrow, with apology. “Not dreaming. I’m sorry, Captain.”

“No, no,” Bepo soothed. “The crew is strong. It won’t be like —“

“Yes it will, Bepo!” Law buried his forehead into the bear’s chest, the fact that he wasn’t in his usual orange jumpsuit somehow making it even worse. “I wasn’t strong enough, I let us get in over our head — damn it I did it again.” The declaration was venomous, his voice loud and sharp. Were his mind clearer, Law would have recognized that Bepo was a part of that crew, too. That as his captain — could he call himself that now that the Tang met its end? — he should be the one to insist on the safety of their nakama. He would have started crafting a plan, letting Bepo sniffle as he listened.

But in this moment his thoughts clouded. He felt small and cold and sick, like they were back on Swallow Island, before it would have been inappropriate for Law to lose himself in front of his dearest friend. “I’m a curse,” he shouted. He wasn’t sure when the tears started but now that the seal had broken it felt like they’d flow forever. “I doomed all of you, pretended for years that I hadn’t —“

“Stop it,” Bepo pulled Law into himself, his larger than life captain reduced to what he was — his brother. “You did everything. You always have.” His voice was steady and firm, a tone unusual for him. Somehow that only made it worse, yet Law melted into him, allowed himself to drown in his weakness. He cried, Bepo’s unfamiliar sweater soaking in the tears.

“How many times do I have to lose?” he wallowed, his voice barely audible. The mink only held him tighter in response, and slowly Law’s breaths started to steady. He began to smell the sterile tinge of the infirmary, to feel the way the fresh bandages clung to his skin, to hear —

“…Torao?” it was hesitant.

“I’m hearing things,” Law whispered. “How pathetic.”

A hand rested gently on his back and he tore himself from his brother’s hold, the sudden movement causing him to jerk in pain and fall down to the bed. As his vision unblurred he slowly made out a third figure in the room. Wait, had he even processed yet that they were inside somewhere? A familiar somewhere at that. It fell into place as Luffy’s face came into focus, the worry that had made a home there making him look so much unlike himself. Law’s eyes grew wide and the panic began to creep back in.

“Torao,” Luffy reached for him slowly this time, like he was approaching a scared animal.

“Get out,” the order was low, with no force behind it. The other two might have even missed it, it had been so quiet. But as Luffy’s hand drew closer and Law’s face pulled into an expression as feral as the spooked creature he was being addressed as, the command was undeniable. “Get out!”

Luffy recoiled as though he’d been hit. “You can’t be here,” Law continued, struggling to prop himself up. You can’t see me like this, bounced around his head.

“Captain,” Bepo protested. “It’s Straw Hat. He helped us, he — “

“I know who he is, and I know what I said,” was the growled response. I can’t handle your smile right now, was the echo.

“It’s his ship,” Bepo continued. “He can —“

“I’ll go.”

Everything was still for a moment. When the Straw Hat captain made his swift exit, the click of the door was only a whisper.

—

Law was insistent on treating himself. The only person he would acknowledge entering the infirmary was Bepo, and even that was scarce. The bite he’d shown when he awoke ebbed and flowed, sometimes the anger was the only thing left behind his golden eyes. Other times, most times, those eyes were dull, empty, surrendered.

He knew that his first mate must be hurting too, but Law couldn’t muster any empathy. He could hear muffled “sorry”s beyond the infirmary door, sniffles meant to be private in the corner of the room, worried muttering being exchanged. It was rare that the bear wandered much further than the hallway just outside. It was on one such rare occasion, three days after he’d come to, that the door swung open violently.

“That’s what I thought,” Luffy crossed his arms, his eyes fixed on the tray full of food on the table at Law’s bedside. “Listen, I’m happy to keep eating your leftovers but if another plate comes back to the kitchen full I think Sanji’s gonna kick your ass.”

The declaration wasn’t even met with a glance.

“What’re you even doing in here,” Luffy continued, irritation clawing at his words. “I know you’re supposed to rest but even you don’t listen to that.”

Law stirred. “I’m a doctor,” was the muttered response. That’s all I am.

“Yeah, a doctor who’s always got somethin’ else to do,” Luffy huffed, throwing himself to sit at the foot of the bed. “You got plenty to do now.”

Law couldn’t argue. Not because he thought the other captain was right, per se, but more because arguing took an amount of gusto that he didn’t have at the moment. As that became evident to Luffy, the mounting anger melted from his face.

“You don’t have to grieve, Torao,” he soothed. “They aren’t gone.”

And there it was — a spark. Law’s chest burned as the words settled in. His features lit up with the only feeling they’d been able to find since he’d stopped crying a few days ago. So fierce was the look that Luffy recoiled in surprise.

“What do you know about grief, Straw Hat?” Law seethed. The other captain found some anger of his own at that, his mouth dropping open to protest. Law wouldn’t let him. “I was there when your brother died,” his voice was too steady for comfort. “That’s your body count. One. One person who’s gone. Did — did you know —“ he surged forward, ignoring the bolts of pain reminding him he was still tied to this mortal plane. “Did you know I had a little sister?” Luffy’s eyes grew wide, the anger not quite letting the shock override it.

“We took music lessons together every Wednesday evening. And when I got too wrapped up in my studies she’d come tell me I was boring. Sing with me, Lawli — she was so damn insistent.” Something bubbled in his chest at hearing the name Lawli out loud for the first time in sixteen years. “I loved her. And our parents loved the both of us. Did you know that, Straw Hat? That the first thing I was, was happy?”

The air was heavy in the infirmary, Luffy’s lips a tight line as he listened.

“The world government took my parents before disease could,” Law spit. “I left my sister to die by herself. Told her she’d be safe, that I’d be back — but instead she suffocated on smoke. Or burned. I’ve imagined both. Either way, she did it alone.” His voice dropped as he leaned in ever closer to the other captain. “On the day I escaped Flevence I angered whatever powers that be that marked me for death. And ever since then I’ve been followed, pretending that crossing the border was all I needed to do to escape it. Pretending not to be the harbinger that I am. Pretending to not notice that it seems I have nothing to outrun myself, that the worst thing that can happen is that I live.”

“You survive,” Luffy’s voice was gentle, a soft whisper against the rage he was faced with. His hand slipped forward, resting lightly on the tattooed fist clenched tightly before him. And this — this was not what Law expected.

Like Flevence, like Cora, like the Tang and like his crew — Law crumbled.

He was ten again, surrounded by flame and gunfire. Crying for his parents. Helpless. He was just a boy. A boy who wanted only one more time for his mother to wake him gently, far too early in the morning, and ask would he like to join her at the hospital today? A boy who wanted to read the most boring books with his father again and again, be corrected when he didn’t retain the information, have gummy bears positioned tactfully on the page to encourage him to read just one more paragraph. A boy who wanted to hear sour notes on the piano followed by the inevitable tug on his shirt — sing with me, Lawli. More than anything he wanted to sing with her.

“I never asked to survive.” It could have been a breeze, the admission was so scarce. “I don’t want to anymore.”

And at that Luffy’s calloused hand drifted up to brush tears from Law’s cheeks. When had he started to cry? “You have to.” Gentle, still so very gentle. “They’re counting on you. Not just your crew. Everyone you've grieved. Doflamingo’s brother. Your sister.” Law was sobbing now, thick tears bubbling out of him like waterfalls. His shoulders shook and he bit his lip, somehow through all of it still not wanting Luffy to hear him cry. “They still love you.”

That — that was too much. Whatever was left of the dam burst and Law fell into Luffy, who curled his arms around him protectively. Law knew the sounds were spilling out of him, but only by the vibration he felt in his throat. All he heard were soft whispers in his ear — these things aren’t your fault. You’re so easy to love, Torao. Thank you for living. Thank you.

—

The sea breeze was grounding.

His eyes closed, Law took stock of his senses. It smelled like salt. The wind was cool on his face. He heard the waves crash on the side of the Sunny as it sailed forward, always forward. He took a deep breath, let out a long sigh.

“I’m sorry I shut down,” he admitted, eyes fixated on the water.

“It was long overdue,” Bepo dismissed.

“That doesn’t make it okay.”

“You’re right,” the mink hummed. “It makes it necessary.”

They looked out over the sea in a comfortable silence for a while, the two leaned on the ship’s railing.

“We’re chartered to Pirate Island,” Bepo offered eventually. “It’s the best lead. If Blackbeard wants your fruit he’s going to keep them as hostages.”

Law gave a firm nod.

“We’ll get ‘em back, Captain.”

Another nod.

“Well, I believe we will anyway,” Bepo sighed and sunk his head into his arms. “You don’t have to. I’ll believe for both of us.”

The corners of Law’s mouth twitched upwards at that. “You’re getting comfortable with that,” he mused. “Not listening to me.”

The younger was suddenly on alert. “I’m sorry!” he poured. There they were, Law thought, the tears he was entitled to after the week they’d had. “I had to. I had to. You’d die for less than our nakama. You’re always so…so…” The submissive pout took a turn towards a grimace. Had Law ever seen his brother like this? “Self destructive and stupid.” He decided, his eyes glued to his feet, tears soaking the fur around his eyes.

“Is that so?” The response was surprisingly steady given the way the words shook the captain.

“Yeah it’s so,” Bepo scoffed. He was on a roll now — for him at least. “How long will we have to show you we need you before you stop trying to leave us?”

“Bepo.” It was choked, Law’s throat felt dry.

“I know how you look when you want to disappear. Those feelings — they belong to you, I know that. You’re not gonna just…” he sighed. “Change. Get over it.” The last sentence was said in a mocking tone, the both of them understanding that Shachi didn’t always understand the nuances of certain ideations. “But if you get to want to die, I get to want you to live. And I get to be happy about it when you do. I’ll always be happy about it.” Only then did he lift his gaze, a fierce determination burning there. “I don’t care if you hate me for it. I’ll always give everything I’ve got to keep you here with us.”

Law did the only thing that felt right — he threw his arms around his brother in a show of affection far more blatant than he’d given out in a long time. “I could never hate you,” he kept his voice as steady as before, grateful the other couldn’t see the tears pooling in his eyes. He’d had his turn to cry. “I love you. I love you.”

Bepo squeezed him tight. “I love you too,” he cried. “We’re gonna get ‘em back. We’re gonna —“

“You’re right,” Law insisted. “We’ll get them back. And we’ll build a new ship. We’ll be okay.”

Bepo nuzzled into him like he had when they were children. Bepo had always been a crier growing up. Law had always let him, scolding Penguin and Shachi when they’d giggle. Don’t be jealous just because he knows how to have a feeling, he’d scoff. And Bepo would cry louder, eliciting even more boisterous laughs from their other brothers. Today, there was no laughing in response. As the breeze carried away the sniffles and sobs, Law patted his back.

Living for other people was never a sustainable option, he’d thought. Law wanted autonomy in his life where he could get it, and opportunities for that felt woefully few and far between. Here on the deck of the Sunny, even with his brain still swimming with ways to disappear, he supposed maybe he could learn to let those who cared about him keep him tethered here. They were real. As good an anchor as any. He closed his eyes — Bepo’s fur was soft, the sweater he had on clearly was borrowed from Franky since it smelled of oil and cola, and he could hear his cries begin to calm.

Possibly against his better judgement, Law decided he’d stay grounded.

#one piece #trafalgar law #trafalgardwaterlaw #one piece bepo #monkey d luffy #straw hat luffy #lawlu #but you don't have to read it that way tbh #tw: sucidal thoughts #nsfo #heart pirates

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loneisland · 3 months

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SYNOPSIS. At Whitman & Clarke, professionalism is at the heart of all work that leaves its doors. So when paralegals get assigned to ambitious and egoistical associates on high-stakes corporate cases, relationships stay cordial, work gets done, and most of all, the firm's reputation remains untarnished.

CONTENT. Chapter wc 710ish (just the prologue, future chapters will be longer), law firm AU, senior associate! Michael kaiser x fem! paralegal! reader, age gap (kaiser is in his early 30s, reader is in her mid 20s), fem! reader, she/her pronouns used + reader wears makeup, skirts and heels, enemies to lovers, slow burn, angst, fluff, comfort, plot twists, coarse language, legal lingo, misogyny, mentions of smut, liiiittle use of y/n

PROLOGUE: SAPERE AUDA DARE TO KNOW

series masterlist

“He’s the epitome of everything wrong with the legal profession—arrogant, self-serving, and willing to trample over everyone and anyone to get ahead. I would know,” you stare at the coffee machine bitterly and purse your lips in disapproval. “I mean, have you seen him? Tattoos and dyed hair? It’s like he never grew out of his twenty-one pilots phase from when he was sixteen. I mean this,” you wrap your hand around the coffee that is being handed to you, “Is just plain ridiculous. And they’re about to make him partner, have you heard? This firm’s reputation is bound to plummet if they go through with this. Plummet.”

Next to you, your friend and fellow paralegal, Anri Teieri, fervently nods in agreement.

“And that’s not even the end of it. I heard he just landed a massive case, ‘ri. I mean huge. Whitman is still searching for a paralegal to assign to the case,” You snort, “Reckon there’s an actual paralegal out there who’s willing to take the job without a raise? Imagine if they knew about the pharmaceutical case. Imagine! He stole my proofs, those were my e-mails. No acknowledgement, no nothing.”

The brunette shakes her head at your whining, and replies, “He did technically acknowledge you.”

“Yeah, after he called me one of his ‘little helpers’ in front of the senior partners! I’m a paralegal, not an elf working in the North Pole to craft up a jukebox for an eleven year old kid”, you scoff.

“Yeah, well, whoever it is, I pity them. Whitman doesn’t negotiate, everybody knows that.”

You make a sound in agreement, and shudder when entering your work place. The air in the Whitman and Clarke law firm feels heavy as you push through the pristine glass doors on the crisp autumn morning. Probably due to the sweat of all the paralegals dreading to help Kaiser on his new case, you deduce, a small smile forming on your face at the thought.

As you make your way through the hallways, sun filters through the windows, casting long, golden rays that only seem to highlight the tension simmering just beneath the surface. You really are happy to be working here, but the longer you occupy your office as a paralegal, a position you once thought to be a mere stepping stone, the more it feels like an actual perpetual purgatory.

You enter the elevator and press the button for the 14th floor, your mind already racing. The case this knobhead of an associate is working on is a pure and absolute nightmare. A labyrinth of complexities, a legal quagmire involving corporate fraud, embezzlement, and a tangle of personal vendettas that could rival a Ancient Greek tragedy. It’s the kind of case that can make or break careers, and if you are the one assigned to work with Michael Kaiser, you wouldn’t know what to do with yourself. Michael, with his perfectly tailored suits, razor-sharp wit, and a confidence that borders on arrogance. He’s the kind of associate who seems destined for greatness, the kind who turns heads and commands attention in every room. He’s also the kind of associate that makes you want to rip out your hair with your own teeth.

As the elevator doors slide open, you step into the bustling floor, making your way to your office. The partners’ offices loom large at the end of the hall, their frosted glass doors a barrier between you and the decision-makers.

You can almost make out the brown leather canopies lounging their large window panes, and a signed Los Angeles Lakers jersey.

What you do end up perfectly making out on your wood imitation desk however, are three huge binders, piled over each other like the leaning tower of Pisa, and you almost drop your coffee then and there. You can feel your heart rate dropping as you take long strides towards the binders. Please don’t tell me this is what I think it is, please, please please please please!

Greenwood Holdings vs Jonathan Harris, the cover binder reads in gold lettering.

Greenwood Holdings?

Just as your eyes almost bulge out of your skull in horror, expensive cologne invades the entirety of your office, followed by the one voice that you could not stand in the entire twenty-one story building you worked at.

“Ah, come and see the show have you? Do I need to introduce you two? Y/n L/n, Greenwood Holdings embezzlement scandal, Greenwood Holdings embezzlement scandal, Y/n L/n”

The bane of your existence, leaning on your door frame, points his hands from you to the binders, and from the binders back to you.

It wasn’t enough to just dump this on you. He had to crush you, and drill you further into this hole of humiliation.

“Am I..?”

“The assigned paralegal on this case? Yes, you are! Congratulations.”

Without another word, he turns on his heel and gets ready to leave your office, before throwing you a remark over his shoulder, “I would get onto it right away by the way. It’s pretty,” The blonde takes another quick look at the binders, “Heavy.”

You consider, for a fleeting moment, turning around and pleading your case to the partners, explaining why working with Michael Kaiser is a recipe for disaster, but you know it’s futile. The partners have made their decision, and their word is law.

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jshdlvelme · 14 days

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What’s the strangest Fop Au that’s ever crossed your mind? I’ll go first. And I’m bad at English so bear with me.

Timmy is born a girl like his parents wanted, but their relationship still sucks. He’s named Sophia, which I’m pretty sure is the cannon name Timmy would have if he was a girl.

When she started college, Sophia and Dale Dimmadome started dating. Since she was 22 when Dev was born, she was in her last year of college when she had him. Dale is most likely around 3 years older than her, so he would’ve been 25. Sophia married Dale when she discovered she was pregnant because Doug (Dale’s father) refused to let Dale in on any inheritance if his kid was born out of wedlock.

Fast forward a few years later, Sophia and Dale aren’t in love anymore. At first they were willing to deal with Dale’s side of the family because at least they were together, but now Dale doesn’t respect her that much and regularly neglects their relationship. Doug died, and they got the inheritance, so they don’t necessarily have to stay married. But Sophia never got a job after college and can’t divorce Dale without being left with nothing but a few of her belongings.

She doesn’t have a good relationship with Dev, but she tries her best to connect with him. Even if he rarely speaks to her.

Sophia doesn’t speak to her friends that often, went no contact with her parents, and has no actual achievements in life. She is literally nothing but a trophy wife, and she’s not exactly good at being one. She rarely even goes outside!

Sophia spends a lot of her time drinking wine on the couch looking through old photo books and watching shitty reality shows, occasionally crafting or calling an old friend. Sometimes she goes out to an actual bar with friends instead of just locking herself indoors, but Dale is always insecure about her ruining their image or cheating on him.

Before marrying Dale, Sophia wanted to be a lawyer. She was planning on getting a Ph.D and going to work for a good law firm as a defense attorney. Look where she is now. She’s nothing more than Dale’s wife and Dev’s mother.

#timmy turner #fairly oddparents #fop a new wish #dev dimmadome #cosmo and wanda #angst #genderbend

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firefirefruit · 8 months

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Steel in Her Veins, Chapter: Twenty-Five

Read On: AO3 | Table of Contents | Next Chapter

Characters: Fem!Reader x Roronoa Zoro

Chapter Twenty-Five: One More Sword

His eye remains on you. It always remains on you. Even as he pushes his foot down against the floor, leaning on only one stool leg. Even as his slender, yet firm, fingers fumble in between the folds of his towel, delicately drying each knuckle with a tender swivel. Even as he rewraps his bandana over his bare skin, muscles rippling underneath a layer of fresh perspiration. He claims the hand-crafted stool as his own, widely parting his legs as if the seat was crafted specifically for him.

With a languid stretch, he leans towards you, his soft breaths brushing against your cheeks like a threatening greeting. His arm, adorned with sweat and scars, snakes over and around your waist, his fingers brushing against the wooden desk beside you.

He slams his towel onto it with a resounding thud.

Without retreating, his face hovers over incredibly close to yours. The hot breaths that trace across your skin feel feral - primal, almost - filled with hard-headed demands and silent, creeping wants.

"You’re telling me everything,” he whispers, his voice a low growl that reverberates through the air.

Instantly, your fingers clench tightly over the edges of your seat. Swallowing hard, you look at anywhere but at his lips - at his cruel frown that rests upon his mouth so deliciously, so naturally curved downwards like a snarling animal. No. You're not looking at them. Instead, you pierce your eyes back into the samurai's watchful gaze, battling your will against his, and strain a fake smirk across your lips.

Then, you part them.

"And what if I don't?"

In immediate response, Zoro's own lips curl into a half-smirk, half-snarl, his eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. He shakes his head slowly, his eye never leaving yours. "S'not an option for you. You've been hiding something. Keeping something from us."

His eye flickers down to your arm and then back up to you. “Frankly, I just don’t trust you.”

That makes you sharply exhale - a precise and deadly huff of bitterness. Your palm reaches out for his wet chest, splaying your fingers out across his skin. And with one motion, you shove him a few steps away.

“Roronoa,” you tut, your palm still lingering over him. “Remind me, when have I ever cared about earning your trust?”

Zoro's gaze darkens at your bold response, his muscles tensing beneath your touch. His jaw clenches, a silent warning flashing in his eyes as he takes a step closer, closing the distance you've created between you.

"Don't play games with me," he warns dangerously. "I can see right through you. And you're going to tell me everything."

“I’m playing games?” You raise an eyebrow, snarling your words out like a growling demon, your fangs bared over your lips in bewilderment. “Weren’t you the one who kept losing your grip on your weights? At only… was it your second, or your third rep? No… now that I think back on it, I don’t think you even did one.”

Zoro's expression tightens, his gaze burning with a mixture of irritation and defiance at your pointed accusation. His jaw clenches visibly, the muscles in his neck tensing as he struggles to maintain his composure under your scrutiny.

"Don't try to distract me," he growls, his voice low and gravelly, each word laden with barely contained frustration.

And you grin a little. You're relishing in it, you can't lie - you've finally managed to get under his skin.

"Who's distracting who, Roronoa?" you retort, your tone dripping with sarcasm. "You were the one who couldn't handle Law's presence without losing your focus."

"Watch yourself." His eye narrows dangerously, a flicker of anger flashing in its depths as he takes a step closer, his hot, quick-paced breaths looming over your mouth like a warm cloud of thunder.

You innocently cock your head. "Or what? You'll lose your grip again?"

Zoro's nostrils flare with frustration, his grip tightening over the edge of your desk, his hand laying so close to the skin at your waist.

"You think you're clever, don't you?"

“For God's -- No, Roronoa. I’m protecting myself!” you snap. “I’m allowed to tell other people the things I don't feel like telling you. Fucks' sake, I’m allowed to have my own secrets! To have my boundaries!”

"Secrets breed mistrust," he retorts, his voice edged with a hint of resignation. "And mistrust breeds discord."

"Oh, spare me the moral lessons, Roronoa. You're not exactly a paragon of trustworthiness yourself – or would you like for us to revisit that matter again?"

“God fucking damn it!” he exclaims, his voice coming out strained as he continues choking on his intoxicating fury. He swivels himself away from you, his body acting as a boulder for his unrestrained feelings, his muscles moving in motion to the aggressive breaths that he's taking. His fingers are strained tightly into a scrunched up fist, the bulging veins through his arms coursing with a different type of adrenaline that he's normally used to. “When the fuck are you going to stop hanging that over my head, Raya? When are you going to fucking understand that I couldn’t. Do. Anything?”

Your heart stops for a second. The breath in your throat dissipates into some other vortex, the world slightly spinning under your feet like rolling a pair of tabletop die.

You realise that this is the first time he's ever acknowledged you by your first name.

"Raya."

It's as if the world around you pauses, every sound muffled, every sensation heightened. His voice saying your name feels like a revelation, a seismic shift in the dynamics between you, a crack in the stoic facade he's always maintained.

You swallow, trying to compose yourself and steady your wobbling vocal cords. It's not just the sound of your name on his lips that affects you—it's the way he says it, the weight behind the syllables, the depth of emotion that you can hear in his tone.

"Raya."

You struggle to find your voice, to articulate the whirlwind of emotions swirling within you. His gaze, intense and penetrating, holds you captive, as if he's searching for something in your eyes, something you're not even sure how to name.

"Your or my Gramps' samurai honour means nothing to me... You know what does?”

Your voice is barely a whisper, barely audible over the pounding of your heart - but you say the words with conviction, with a newfound sense of clarity.

And in this moment, all the pretences fall away, leaving behind only the brutality of your anger. Your ground your teeth into dust, heat rushing through your skin like an unquenchable storm of fire.

“Life. Living. Being aware that the entire balance of one person’s fate rests within your control. And doing something about it. But you? You didn’t do anything. To me, that’s not honour, no.” You shake your head, tears glossing over your eyes as you furiously try to blink them away. God, if only you could singe those feelings away from your soul, you would. You'd do it a hundred times over if it meant you'd become stronger.

You part your mouth again, your lips quivering with no rhyme or reason - with no sense of the word, 'control.'

“That’s idiocy. That’s unforgivable. That… broke me." Your voice wavers. "And I resent you for it."

And there it is.

The truth.

You finally admitted it, said out loud - not to him. But more to yourself.

That's the truth. You're angry because you're hurt. No - you're angry that he even had that power to begin with. You're angry with yourself, too, for not being strong enough. For begging for his help like some sort of pathetic deer, your limbs stuck in a pool of mud as a typhoon of wind consumed the very breath you were taking. You were wriggling, like a cockroach on a matt of glue. Squealing. Begging.

Begging.

You begged for his help and that was the most vulnerable you have ever been to someone.

And he...Heard straight past you, as if you were just some wail of wind from a faraway distance.

Silence rushes into the workshop like a thunderstorm. It seems like the samurai is finally rendered speechless – unknowing of what to say, what to do, or where to go.

Instantly, your fingers grab for the sheathed Enma, the silent child observing the present battlefield with an ironic sense of helplessness.

Without looking at him, without tilting yourself upwards or even acknowledging the outline of his shadowed figure, you slam the masterfully refined sword against his chest with meaning.

“One more sword, and my debts to you are cleared,” you mutter out, staring in the opposite direction from his presence. “One more sword, and we're done.”

Fiercely, you slam the door shut on the way out.

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marrowdaughter · 2 months

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“When biologists claim that “sex is binary,” they mean something straightforward: there are only two sexes. This statement is true because an individual’s sex is defined by the type of gamete (sperm or ova) their primary reproductive organs (i.e., gonads) are organized, through development, to produce. Males have primary reproductive organs organized around the production of sperm; females, ova. Because there is no third gamete type, there are only two sexes that a person can be. Sex is therefore binary.

It is important to note here that the binary nature of sex is compatible with sex ambiguity because ambiguity with respect to sex is not itself a third sex. However, many gender activists falsely assert that the “sex binary” must mean something like “every human who has ever existed and will ever exist can be unambiguously categorized as either male or female.” Given this, they contend that providing examples of people with ambiguous sexual anatomy (i.e., “intersex” conditions) not only disproves the sex binary but also demonstrates that biological sex is a meaningless and even oppressive categorization scheme. (We will leave aside for now the fact that many of these same activists do recognize an alternative version of “biological sex” in the form of gender-identity bio-essentialism, or the theory that a person’s subjective self-conception of male or female is rooted in the brain itself.)

The chain of reasoning goes something like this. Sex is not binary because intersex people exist. Their existence demonstrates that biological sex is a spectrum. Since sex is a spectrum, that means no line can be perfectly drawn separating males from females. If no single line can be drawn, then anywhere someone chooses to draw one is totally arbitrary and subjective. If it’s totally arbitrary and subjective, then that means the categories male and female are also arbitrary and subjective “social constructs” with no firm root in biological reality. If that’s the case, why are we categorizing people in law according to these arbitrary labels instead of letting people simply label themselves? To do otherwise is to oppress people based on a biological falsehood.

This is just how the argument is made, and it is made with stunning success. Children in K-12 are regularly taught these days that sex and gender exist on a spectrum. Parts of the scientific establishment and the medical profession have also embraced this idea.

Perhaps nobody is more well-known for relying on the existence of intersex conditions to supposedly disprove the sex binary than the historian of science Alice Dreger. In her book, Hermaphrodites and the Medical Invention of Sex, Dreger refers to intersex individuals as “hermaphrodites,” and says: “Hermaphroditism causes a great deal of confusion, more than one might at first appreciate, because—as we will see again and again—the discovery of a ‘hermaphroditic’ body raises doubts not just about the particular body in question, but about all bodies. The questioned body forces us to ask what exactly it is—if anything—that makes the rest of us unquestionable.”

Those without a firm background in biological science may read such passages and feel something akin to having an epiphany, but Dreger is peddling pseudoscience. This desire to extrapolate a small blur at a boundary to the entire picture is rooted in the postmodern impulse to “queer,” and thereby eliminate, natural categories. In the queer-theory worldview, categories are themselves oppressive, and human liberation requires the “troubling” of categories (to borrow Judith Butler’s term), including those of sex. Yet Dreger’s account does not accurately describe biological reality. The existence of “questionable” cases with respect to sex classification does not automatically cast a degree of doubt onto everyone’s sex. For most people, their sex is obvious.

Besides, our society is not currently experiencing a sudden dramatic surge in people stricken with ambiguous genitalia; we are experiencing a surge in people who are unambiguously one sex claiming to “identify” as the opposite sex, or neither sex.

Another false depiction of the sex binary is that it refers to sex chromosomes, with males always being XY and females always XX. Activists purport to debunk this misrepresentation of the sex binary by pointing to sex-chromosome aneuploidies—instances where an individual may have missing or extra X or Y chromosomes, such as in those with Klinefelter (XXY) and Turner (X0) syndrome, among others. How could sex be binary and based on sex chromosomes, they argue, if there are more combinations beyond XX and XY? They may also highlight examples of XX males and females with Y chromosomes as proof that chromosomes do not determine an individual’s sex.

There are several major issues with this line of reasoning. The first is that the vast majority of people with sex-chromosome aneuploidies are not intersex; their primary sex organs and anatomy are unquestionably either male or female. Other compositions than the typical XX and XY arrangement do not represent additional sexes beyond male and female, but instead represent chromosomal variation within each of the two sexes. A person with Klinefelter syndrome (XXY), for example, isn’t a new sex in the same way that a person with Down syndrome (who has three instead of two copies of chromosome 21) isn’t a new species.

Second, the notion that XX males and females with a Y chromosome debunk the claim that sex is determined by chromosomes erroneously conflates how sex is determined with how sex is defined for an individual. “Sex determination” is a technical term in developmental biology referring to the process by which certain genes trigger and regulate sex development. Mammals, which include humans, have evolved what’s called “chromosomal sex determination,” meaning that certain genes residing on chromosomes guide the development of males and females in utero. The Y chromosome is considered “sex determining” because it usually harbors a gene called SRY that triggers male development, and in its absence a female typically develops. But in very rare instances an SRY gene can find its way onto an X chromosome, resulting in a male with XX chromosomes.

This process stands in contrast to sex-determining mechanisms in other organisms that do not rely on chromosomes, such as “temperature-dependent sex determination” that occurs in many reptiles, where the temperature at which an egg is incubated triggers male and female development. In the alligator A. mississippiensis, for instance, higher incubation temperatures (>34°C) produce males, while lower temperatures (<30°C) produce females.

In both chromosomal and temperature-dependent sex determination systems, though an individual’s sex is mechanistically determined in different ways, it is always defined the same way—by the type of gamete his or her primary reproductive organs is organized around producing. This should be obvious, as it would have been impossible ever to have discovered these different sex-determining mechanisms without first knowing what males and females are apart from sex chromosomes and incubation temperatures.

These efforts by activists serve a single purpose—to portray sex as so incomprehensibly complex and multivariable that our traditional practice of classifying people as simply either male or female is grossly outdated and should be completely abandoned in favor of “gender identity.” This entails that males would not be barred from female sports, prisons, or any other space previously segregated according to our supposedly antiquated notions of “biological sex,” so long as they “identify” as female, whatever that means.

But while sex development is a complex process, it does not follow that the outcomes are equally complex. Dreger’s claim that the existence of edge cases “raises doubts not just about the particular body in question, but about all bodies” is not true. A person’s sex is almost always completely unambiguous and recorded correctly at birth.

While it may be necessary to outline reasonable policies and laws for hard cases, we need not pretend we’re all hard cases. Failing to reject Dreger’s rhetorical sleight-of-hand prevents us from calling a spade a spade.”

Article published on August 4th, 2024. Emphasis is my own.

#articles and studies #gender ideology #sex segregation #radical feminism #radical feminists please interact #radical feminists please touch #what are everyone’s thoughts and feelings on this article/substack #i just found it today and it looks promising #but also it’s written by a man so i’m feeling a bit cautious

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