I hate when you go looking for object insert and it's all just dildos and fisting. Like, no?? That's not at all what I want. I want the weird shit, the really fucking nasty things.
Shove spare change in my cunt like I'm the fucking washing machine. Make me chug a glass bottle of coke and then fuck me with it. Put as many of those dollar store squishy toys in me as I can take. Stick a wiimote in me and have me try to beat you at Cooking Mama, I don't fucking know.
Of being restrained under a desk, with my wrists and ankles bound, bent in half with just my ass and cunt up in the air... and while someone sits at the desk, instead of fucking me or rubbing my throbbing clit, they just... use me as a pen holder.
Just sticking their pens, markers, whatever into my waiting holes. Treating me more like furniture than a person.
Sometimes I'll moan or whine when they shove a pen back inside my pussy a little too roughly, but I'm not allowed to beg. I'm just set dressing. I'm there for a purpose. I can cum, but it doesn't grant any relief. I'm just an office tool.
Thinking bout how neat it would be to wake up strapped down to a tattoo parlor chair, gagged, and informed that I’ll be getting my nipples and clit pierced whether I want it or not
Just thinking about how instead of Pepper Potts politely telling Christine to leave in the beginning of Iron Man 1 it’s Tony Starks sarcastic teenage daughter instead.
I laughed as JARVIS yelled at her for trying to mess with the tech in the living room. “That my dear, is Jarvis. He runs the house.” I took a few steps forward looking at the tramp wearing nothing but my dad’s button up shirt. “Ms Potts hung up your clothes in the closet, she had them dry cleaned and pressed.” I pursed my lips. “She got you a car too, if I had it my way I’d just kick your ass out, not sure why she even bothered but here we are.”
She smiled at me and my mouth soured. “You must be Tony’s infamous daughter.” She walked towards me.
“Famous daughter, actually.” I corrected
“Oh well, excuse my ignorance.” She feigned politeness. “I didn’t realize I was in the presence of so…much.” She gestured vaguely towards me.
“And I didn’t realize I was in the presence of so….little.” I shot back level toned, a sly smile on my face.
Her smile tightened, as brittle as glass. “I can see where Tony gets it.”
“Yeah.” I shrugged folding my arms, “The charms genetic, so is the ego unfortunately.”
JARVIS cleared his throat politely over the speakers, “Miss Stark your father has requested that no verbal altercation escalate to physical ones before noon.”
“See?” I titled my head towards the ceiling, “Even the house thinks you should leave.”
Christine scoffed, eyes flicking around the room like she was suddenly aware of how small she was in it. “You’re just a child playing guard dog.”
“And you’re a guest who overstayed.” I shot back. “Big difference.”
She rolled her eyes and scoffed again.
God does this woman need a throat lozenge or something?
“I don’t need this. Or your attitude.”
“No.” I agreed. “You need pants.”
She fell silent.
Before she could respond, footsteps echoed down the stairs lazy, unhurried, unmistakably him. Tony appeared, sunglasses on indoors like a crime against nature, coffee in hand.
“What’d I miss?” he asked, glancing between us. “Because I’m sensing… hostility. And not the fun kind.”
Christine straightened instantly. “Tony, I—”
“—was just leaving,” I finished sweetly.
Tony paused, looked at me over the rim of his glasses, then back at her. A beat. Then a sigh. “She’s not wrong.”
Christine’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”
Tony took a sip of his coffee. “Pepper already handled logistics. Car’s outside. Clothes are packed. And my daughter?” He gestured vaguely toward me. “Has a terrifyingly accurate read on people.”
I smirked.
Christine’s eyes flicked to me one last time, sharp, and humiliated before she spun on her heel and marched out.
The door closed. Silence settled.
Tony looked at me. I looked at him.
“…You were kind of mean,” he said finally.
“You raised me,” I replied.
He smiled, tired but proud. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I did.”
Girls with C cups or above have no right to hide their tits. If a man wants to yank your shirt down and show you off, let him! You gave up your right to say no when you grew tits that big.
Girls with C cups or above have no right to hide their tits. If a man wants to yank your shirt down and show you off, let him! You gave up your right to say no when you grew tits that big.
Genuinely furious about what generative AI has done to creative spaces and I don't think it gets talked about enough in the right way.
Not the slop itself. The atmosphere. The fact that readers are now scared and defensive and running everything through a mental checklist of "does this seem AI." The fact that writers have to screenshot their drafts and document their process just to prove they're a real person who made a real thing. The fact that improving at your craft, getting more precise, more intentional, more layered, now registers as suspicious to some people because that's exactly what the generators are copyinf.
It has poisoned the default trust between creators and audiences and that trust was not theirs to take.
And the people paying for it are not the companies. It's the writers who almost didn't post. The artists who did post and got accused anyway. The people who spent years getting genuinely good at something and are now having that thrown back at them as evidence of wrongdoing. The people who are so tired of defending themselves that they're starting to wonder if it's even worth making anything at all.
That's the damage. That's what's actually been done here. And the people responsible for it don't care and will never care and that makes me so angry I don't quite have the words for it.
We didn't ask for this. We didn't deserve it. And we're allowed to be furious about it.
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