âI donât care if it takes all night, you will submit.â And Jimmy please â€ïž
His chains are the first thing you feelâcool metal kissing your chest, clinking when he pushes you down onto the mattress. The weight of them makes it feel less like jewelry and more like a shackle, like youâve already been claimed and catalogued. Jimmy looms above you, tangled hair falling like a greasy galo around his face, that crooked grin curling wider when you try to twist away.
âI donât care if it takes all night,â he growls, voice carrying like a sermon in an empty chapel, âye will submit.â
He doesnât wait for an answer. His hand fists in your jaw, forcing your mouth open as he slides down your body, teeth scraping against your ribs, tongue filthy and wet when he buries his face between your thighs. He eats you like heâs starving, sucking at your clit until your legs kick against his shoulders. The cross around his neck swings and smacks your stomach with every thrust of his tongue, and when you try to close your thighs, he digs his rings into your skin until you yelp.
âDonât fight it. Open up. Give it ta me,â he mutters against you, words muffled, soaked in your slick, but the conviction is still there, unshakable. When you come the first time, itâs with your back arched, his laugh rumbling against your cunt as he licks you through it, like he always knew your body would betray you first.
By the time heâs hauling you up and flipping you onto your stomach, youâre already shaking, sweat sticking to the sheets. He doesnât bother with prepâheâs already hard, already leaking, grinding the weeping crown of his cock against your dripping folds until you sob into the pillow. Then he thrusts in, brutal, stretching you to the hilt with one savage push.
âThaâs it,â he hisses, one hand pressing the back of your neck down while the other yanks your hips back against him. The chains clatter with every slam of his hips, like a soundtrack to your undoing. âListen ta thaââwee cunt chokinâ on me. Ye were made for this, aye?â
Every thrust is a punishment, every slap of his hips a demand. He pounds you until the headboard rattles, until youâre crying into the sheets. And JimmyâJimmy only gets louder, preaching filth in that rasping voice like heâs got a crowd to impress.
âThink yeâve got will? Think ye can hold out against me? Pathetic. Yer mine now. Every inch, every soundâmine.â
You come again with a broken scream, clenching down around him so hard he curses, rutting through it, chasing his own release. He pulls out at the last second, fist pumping his cock as he drags you onto your back. His eyes gleam wild in the dim light, mouth wet, chest heaving.
âOpen up,â he orders, thumb smearing your spit across your cheek when you hesitate. He strokes faster, groaning through gritted teeth until he spills hot across your lips, your chin, the gold cross lying heavy against your throat.
Jimmy drags the smeared chain through the mess, pressing it down into your skin as if to mark you, eyes burning into yours.
âThere. Now ye look like ye belong tae me.â He grins, filthy and triumphant, panting over you as his cock twitches in his fist. âTold ye. All night, if thaâs what it takes. Anâ this?â He wipes the last drops across your tongue with his thumb, forcing your jaw open so you taste him. âThis is just the beginninâ.â
I found out my dad went to highschool with Shawn Hatosy's sister
I have been trying to get my parents to watch the Pitt for MONTHS, I finally got my mom to start it tonight. And just as we get to the 1st rooftop scene with Jack Abbot, my dad just comes walking by and says "oh I know him" and drops that little factoid. Like still fb friends and everything.
My dad then starts telling stories about their highschool days while I'm sitting there trying not to lose my mind đ
NOW SHOWING đ„ THE PRINCESS DIARIESÂ
                                starring, remmick
Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â đ§Ÿ TICKET STUB
attendee : @m4lluÂ
showing : au lord!remmick x princess!readerÂ
screening type : midnight matinee (rated R)Â
snack of choice : cherry slushie Â
genre : enemies to lovers
directors notes AAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!! yes yes yes yes. i've been needed this. i was playing w a au!royalty!remmick one-shot in my head for awhile and this just. ugh. hit the spot. i changed it around just a lil that they're arranged to marry from the beginning just to make it even more tension-filled. also guys, just abt done with a few other RQs as the celebration is coming to an end soon! had way too much fun writing this, thank u mallu for ur love and i hope i did this one justice, lov you <33333
                       đŹ SYNOPSIS
When duty forces you into an arranged marriage with the infuriatingly smug Lord Remmick, every ballroom waltz and royal decree becomes a battle of wills.
âDEAR DIARY, if Iâm provoked, I am going to kill this manâŠâ
The devil himself stood across the ballroom, draped in ceremonial black and gold, the crest of his house stitched over his heart like a challenge no one dared answer. Candlelight slid over the sharp lines of his jaw, catching on that smirk â the exact shade of trouble that sent noble ladies fluttering and made you long to empty your wine glass straight into his infuriatingly handsome face.
Your future husband. Lord Remmick.
Ever disdainful. Ever smug. And, regrettably, yours to suffer.
If someone had told you, five years ago, fresh off the dizzying revelation that you were the Princess of Genovia, that you would one day be forced into marrying the most disdainful man in the entire continent, you would have tripped over your own feet laughing. Not the polite, court-appropriate kind of laugh, but the unladylike, snorting kind that earned you a scolding from your etiquette tutor.
Back then, your life had been a whirlwind of tiaras, state dinners, and learning which fork was for salad â all wrapped in the blissful belief that fairy tales ended with charming suitors and dances under starlit balconies. You had not factored in political alliances, scheming councils, or the fact that your so-called prince would be a smug, sharp-tongued viper of a man whose smirk could curdle milk.
And yet, here you were â gown fitted, crown straight, patience worn to threads â about to pledge your life to Lord Remmick.Â
A man whose only real intention was the crown â and who, despite a perfectly aimed stiletto to his Valentino-covered toe, still managed to plaster on a charming smile for your grandmother. That was all it took for him. One evening of calculated charm and he was in the game.
You, on the other hand, had the meltdown of the century. Doors slammed, tiaras nearly thrown, an entire security detail pretending not to hear your creative vocabulary. But all it took to silence you was a sharp, ice-cold reminder: the deadline was closing in, and if you didnât act, the crown â your crown â would be handed over to his family.
So out of pure spite â and a truly obscene amount of bribery â you closed in. Months after your proposal, the battle lines hadnât blurred, but the public still demanded their fairy tale. Appearances had to be kept before you were to be wedded, crowns polished, and photographers fed their happily-ever-after illusion.
So instead of your well-timed curtsies and that bright, regal smile your grandmother adored, you gave them the bare minimum. You took appearances seriously, and just appeared. Present, breathing, adorned in satin and jewels â but nothing more. No warmth. No pretense.
The ride to his familyâs Winter Gala had been a masterclass in mutual loathing. A long stretch of silence punctuated only by the occasional, precisely delivered insult, each of you aiming for the jugular without wrinkling your perfectly tailored clothes.
When you arrived, the palace ballroom glittered with crystal chandeliers and watching eyes. The music swelled, couples spun, and you made a point of finding the farthest corner from him.
Which is why you nearly choked on your champagne when a shadow fell over you and a familiar voice drawled, low and maddeningly polite,
âYour Highness,â he drawled, voice low and edged with amusement, âmay I remind you that we are to be wed before the month is out? It would look rather suspicious if you refused me a dance.â
He didnât wait for an answer. Just extended a gloved hand, smirk tugging at his mouth, like he already knew youâd hate every second of saying yes.
You placed your hand in his because not doing so would have been a public scandal, and you refused to give the gossips a feast. His palm was warm against yours, his fingers curling just enough to make it clear who was leading, even before you reached the center of the floor.
The orchestra shifted into a slow, regal waltz. All eyes turned toward you.
âSmile, darling,â Remmick murmured as his arm slid around your waist, firm and deliberate, pulling you closer than was strictly necessary for the steps. âYou look like youâre attending your own funeral.â
You tilted your head just enough for your crown to catch the light, meeting his gaze with a sugar-sweet smile. âAnd you look like the corpse they dressed up for the occasion.â
His mouth twitched â not quite a laugh, but dangerously close. âCareful, your sharp tongue is showing.â
âAnd you should be careful, your true intentions are showing,â you replied, letting your heel graze his boot in something that could have been an accident⊠if you wanted it to be.
The spin he led you into was sharper than necessary, bringing you back flush against him, his breath warm against your ear. âYou keep digging for the worst in me, and one day youâll find it.â
You swallowed, keeping your face neutral for the watching crowd. âIf you think youâre frightening me, Remmick, youâre going to have to try harder.â
âOh, princess,â he said, the words curling off his tongue with a low, knowing smirk that could have been mistaken for reverence by anyone not close enough to see the glint of mockery in his eyes. His hand pressed a fraction lower on your back, fingers deliberate, the pressure guiding you through the turn with an infuriating ease â as if the two of you were not enemies but perfectly matched partners. âThatâs not the reaction Iâm after.â
Your pulse betrayed you, thundering against your ribs. You loathed the way his gloved palm could feel the faintest shift in your breathing, the way he seemed to catalogue every flutter, every involuntary tremor. He was too close, his cologne a subtle mix of cedar and something darker, something entirely his. It filled your head, muddling your focus, threatening to turn each step into a stumble you refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing.
âStill hate me?â he asked softly, lips barely moving.
âEvery inch,â you said, voice steady even as his thumb brushed the edge of your ribs through the silk.
âGood,â he murmured, spinning you again â slower this time, lingering â âbecause you dance better when youâre furious.â
The music swelled to its final note, and he dipped you low enough that your breath caught, his smirk hovering just above your lips before he pulled you upright and let you go.
The applause crashed over you in waves, a polite roar from the glittering crowd. But it was nothing compared to the deafening pulse in your chest â or the far more dangerous heat coiling low in your stomach, dark and insistent, pooling between your thighs like a secret you refused to name.
â...Although hate-fucking him isnât entirely off the table."
Days blurred into weeks, each one slipping by faster than you could brace for, and the wedding date loomed over you like an executionerâs shadow. The palace staff moved with an undercurrent of frantic purpose, every corridor humming with florists, tailors, and political advisors.
And thenâhe was here again.
Remmick, in all his infuriating glory, sweeping into the palace with his entire irritating procession: five impeccably dressed maids, thirty trunks of what you assumed were just variations of his already overindulgent wardrobe, three hulking bodyguards who looked like theyâd swallowed pikes for breakfast, and an entire foyerâs worth of press eager to capture a fairytale portrait of the happy couple.
A happy couple you were not.
Your grandmother was already on the steps, smiling for the cameras. Remmick, of course, played along â the perfect groom-to-be, bowing, smirking, answering every question with a charming precision that made you want to scream.
You had managed exactly three minutes in his presence before it started. The thinly veiled jabs. The too-smooth comments about âyour Highnessâs preparationsâ and how you âmust be so overwhelmed.â By the time he delivered the last one with that slow, deliberate smirk, youâd felt the heat rising in your chest â and not the good kind.
So you vanished.
Past the bustle of the main corridors, down a disused servantsâ stair, you retreated into the farthest wing of the palace â a place only you knew well enough to navigate without getting lost. Your sanctuary.
The hidden library was quiet, tucked behind a false panel in an unused study. No one ever came here, not even the archivists. The air smelled faintly of leather and old paper, dust motes swirling lazily in the shafts of light from the high, arched windows. Here, the world â and Remmick â couldnât reach you.
You closed the panel behind you and leaned against it, exhaling slowly, letting the silence settle around you like armor. You had just sunk into the deep velvet armchair in the far corner, skirts spilling over the side, when you heard it â the faint, deliberate click of the hidden panel shifting open.
You froze.
Of course, only one person in the palace would ignore locked doors and social boundaries with such confidence.
âClever,â Remmickâs voice slid into the room before he did, low and amused. âI wondered where you slithered off to.â
You didnât bother standing. âGo away. Surely the press is starving for another charming soundbite.â
He stepped inside, shutting the panel with a soft thunk that echoed far too loudly in the hush of the library. âTheyâve had their fill for the day,â he said, walking between the tall shelves as if inspecting them. âIâm more interested in my bride-to-be hiding in a dusty room like a runaway schoolgirl.â
âBetter that than parading around like a peacock,â you shot back.
His gaze flicked to you, sharp and dark, before he closed the distance in three long strides. âDo you know what theyâll say if the press finds out youâve been sulking alone?â he asked, leaning forward until you had to tilt your head back to meet his eyes.
âLet them talk,â you said, steady, even though your pulse betrayed you.
His smirk curved slow. âYou like to pretend youâre in control here. But the second I walk inâŠâ His eyes traced your face, lingering just long enough to make your breath hitch. ââŠyou start breathing like that.â
You stood, refusing to be cornered â only to find yourself stepping straight into the heat of him.
âYouâre insufferable,â you said, low and sharp.
âAnd you,â he murmured, his voice dropping like velvet over steel, âare lying to yourself about how much you enjoy this.â
You could feel his breath when he spoke. It was infuriating â the way he always managed to blur the line between taunting you and⊠something else entirely. Something you hated yourself for wanting.
âCareful, Remmick,â you warned, even as your gaze flickered to his mouth for half a second too long.
âAlways, princess,â he said with mock formality, though the roughness in his tone betrayed something hungrier.
Neither of you moved away. For a moment, the only sound in the library was the pounding in your chest.
He didnât step back. His cologne invaded your senses, smelling faintly of saltwater and cedar, like heâd stepped straight out of a painting meant to tempt you.
âTell me something,â he said quietly, eyes locked on yours, his tone too even to be casual. âWhy do you hate me so much?â
The question landed heavy between you, deliberate, as if heâd been saving it for just the right moment to corner you with it.
You gave a short, incredulous scoff and stepped sideways, but he moved with you, one hand catching the armrest of the chair, caging you in. âDo you want the short list,â you asked, voice dripping with false sweetness, âor the full dissertation?â
âI want the truth,â he replied, low enough that the words tangled in your breath. âBecause every time you look at me, I canât tell if youâre ready to kill me⊠orââ His gaze flickered down to your mouth for a heartbeat, then back up. ââsomething else entirely.â
Your stomach knotted, heat licking up your spine in a way you refused to acknowledge. âPlease. You couldnât handle me if you tried. And letâs be honest â youâre arrogant, manipulative, and you donât give a damn about me. You only care about the crown. Thatâs why.â
âLiar.â
The word was soft, but it cracked through the space between you like a whip.
Your eyes narrowed. âExcuse me?â
He stepped impossibly closer, closing the scant inches left, his knuckles grazing the back of the chair as his other hand braced beside you. The warmth radiating from him was almost suffocating, his cologne sharper in the quiet. âIf all it was, was the crown,â he murmured, âyou wouldnât be breathing like this right now. And you wouldnât look at me like youâre daring me to cross the line.â
You swallowed hard, stubbornly holding your glare despite your pulse thrumming loud in your ears. âYou actually think Iâd ever want you?â
His smirk sharpened, slow and dangerous, as though he were savoring the taste of your defiance. âNo,â he murmured, leaning in until his breath brushed warm against your cheek, âI think you already do⊠and thatâs why you hate me. And as for handling you, Your Highnessââ his voice dipped lower, silk edged with steel ââI could manage you just fine. In fact, I could teach you a thing or two about decorum.â
Then his tongue clicked softly, and that infuriating note of mock disappointment slid into his voice. âYâknow⊠leaving an entire crowd out there waiting for their blushing bride-to-be. For our wedding.â
Your pulse was a war drum, every nerve pulled taut with the knowledge that you should shove him back, carve him open with something cutting and final â but instead, you tilted your head, meeting his gaze with a smile far too sweet to be sincere. âBetter they wait now,â you said lightly, âthan watch me trip over my train running from the altar.â
The jab landed â you saw it in the faint narrowing of his eyes, the subtle shift of his jaw. âCareful, my queen,â he murmured, voice a shade lower to mock your incoming title, almost dangerous. âYou keep talking like that and Iâll have to give them a different kind of show.â
âOh, bite me,â you scoffed, the words sharp enough to cut.
It didnât matter â didnât even land â because Remmickâs attention had already drifted, zeroing in on the subtle shift of your thighs as they pressed together beneath the layers of silk. A flicker of something unreadable passed over his face, dangerous in its quiet focus. His gaze lingered a beat too long, tracking the movement like he was cataloguing it, filing it away for later, and when his eyes met yours again, there was a heat there that made the air between you feel suddenly, unbearably thin.
âYou really want to give me ideas?â he murmured.
You rolled your eyes, but the heat crawling up your neck betrayed you. âYou couldnât keep up.â
His smirk widened â slow, dangerous. âI could run you into the ground before you even caught your breath.â
âYouâre all talk,â you shot back, your hand hit his chest as you stepped forward, unwilling to be caged in any longer.
âTry me,â he said, and before you could muster another insult, his mouth was on yours.
It wasnât gentle. It wasnât courtly. It was a collision â teeth clashing, hands grabbing, both of you shoving for dominance. His hand found the small of your back, hauling you flush against him, while yours gripped the front of his half-undone shirt, twisting in the fabric like you were trying to pull him closer and push him away at the same time.
âYouââ kiss ââareââ kiss ââimpossible,â you managed between gasps.
âAnd youââ he broke to nip at your bottom lip ââdonât know when to shut up.â
You were ready with a retort, but it dissolved into a gasp when he backed you into the armchair and pressed you down into it. His mouth trailed from your lips to your jaw, then lower, following the frantic rhythm of your breathing.
âW-what are youââ
âMaking you quiet,â he muttered against the swell of your thigh as he knelt.
Your heart lurched, but before you could summon a single cutting word, his hands were already on you â greedy, deliberate â gathering your skirts in rough fistfuls until the cool air kissed bare skin. Then he was there, sinking lower, shoulders wedged between your knees, head dipping into the space that made your pulse roar in your ears.
âGodâŠâ his voice was low, reverent in a way that made it worse, âso damn pretty under all this, arenât you? No wonder youâre so mouthyâyouâve been walking around like this.â
Heat flooded your cheeks, your face burning the same deep shade as the velvet armchair he had you sprawled across, skirts bunched high and dignity in tatters. You open your mouth to retort, but heâs already closing in on where you want him most, caging your legs over his shoulders.
âYou son of a-âÂ
âShut up,â he says, low and mean, dragging his mouth over the inside of your thigh. âYou talk too much.â
Your breath catchesâtraitorous, humiliatingâand before you can fire off the insult bubbling on your tongue, his teeth are scraping over your lower stomach, sharp enough to make your skin prickle. He doesnât just pull your panties down; he drags them off, slow, deliberate, the damp fabric caught between his teeth until the elastic snaps free of your hips. He keeps his eyes on you the whole time, mouth curling around a smirk as he lets the panties drop to the floor. âLook at thatâŠâ he murmurs, almost sweet, and it makes you want to slap him and ride his face in the same breath.
âItâs not even for you,â you snap, though it comes out thinner than youâd like, all breath and bravado. He proves just how pathetic the attempt is by sinking his teeth into the tender flesh of your inner thigh, hard enough to make you yelp. The sting blooms hot, and you can feel his smirk against your skin when he pulls back.
âSweetheart, thatâs a lie we both know you canât hold onto.â His tongue drags over you in one slow, wet strokeâobscene, deliberateâfrom the slick heat of your entrance all the way up to your clit. The sound he makes is low and guttural, like youâve just given him oxygen after years without it. âFuck,â he breathes, pulling back just far enough for you to see the way his lips shine with you. âLook at you.â
Your grip on the chair arms tightens until your knuckles ache. âYouâre unbearable.â
He just grins against you, hot breath ghosting over your cunt until you can feel it in your spine. âAnd you taste better than I imaginedââ his voice dips to something darker, hungrier, ââand believe me, Iâve imagined.â
You bite down hard on your lip, but itâs no useâheâs already spitting on you, a slow, deliberate drop that lands warm and wet right over your clit. It mixes with your slick, spreading in lazy rivulets, and his thumb smears it in with maddening slowness.
âNow youâre messy,â he says, almost fond, before his mouth seals around you again. His tongue flicks in ruthless, steady bursts, and when you try to twist away from the overstimulation, his arms band around your thighs like steel. âNo more running, sweetheart. Not until you cum all over my face.â
That cocky tone does itâyou shove at his shoulders, forcing him back onto the carpeted floor, and then youâre climbing over him, bracing your knees against the sides of his head. His head tips back just enough to look up at you through half-lidded eyes, a slow grin breaking over his face.
âGonna use me, sweetheart?â
âShut up,â you breathe, grinding down onto his mouth. The moan he gives you is filthy, hungry, vibrating against your clit until your head tips back. He grips your hips in bruising hands when your own tug at his hair, dragging you over his mouth in a rhythm that makes you shake. Every flick of his tongue is deliberate, every suck meant to wring another sound out of you.
âFuckâRemmickââ
He doesnât stop, doesnât even ease up when your thighs start trembling around his head. He just growls into you, and the vibration punches the air out of your lungs. You chase the high shamelessly now, riding his face until you break apart with a strangled cry.
You slump forward, your hands catching yourself, causing your skirt to slip down to drape over his face, trapping the heat of his breath against your bare skin. His panting is muffled beneath the fabric, hot and uneven, and you can feel the curve of his grin even without seeing it. Slowly, you shift back, settling onto his lapâonly to gasp softly when you feel the thick, unyielding press of him beneath you and remember youâre bare.
Your eyes dart instinctively to the floor in search of your panties, but you donât get the chance. He moves firstâreaching down, snagging the scrap of fabric from where itâs crumpled near his boot, and tucking it into his back pocket with an infuriatingly casual flick of his wrist.
You blink at him. âYou canât be serious.â
âDead serious,â he drawls, sitting up slightly on his forearms. His eyes sweep over you in slow possession, and then his mouth twists into something darker. âGonna keep âem there all night. Maybe pull âem out later when Iâm thinking about that pretty little pussy dripping on my face.â
Your breath stutters, your thighs clenching involuntarily, and he smirks like heâs caught you in the act. âSouvenir,â he repeats, voice low and smug, âand a promise.â
The sharp rap of a knock interrupts the charged air between you, followed by a muffled, âPrincess? Your grandmother demands your presenceâŠâ
You glare at him, straightening your skirt. âThis isnât over.â
âNot even close.â
Minutes later, the two of you are stepping out into the bright, punishing glare of the press. Cameras flash like lightning, the hum of voices swelling as they catch sight of you both. Youâve slipped seamlessly into your public faceâchin high, smile poisedâbut you can feel him behind you, a dark, smug shadow who knows youâre bare under the silk.
You stop just short of the velvet rope, eyes glittering, and glance up at him with mock sweetness. âOh, silly, you have something on your face.â
The crowd laughs, charmed by the teasing, and the photographers surge forward for a better shot. You reach up, fingertips brushing along the sharp edge of his jaw, and theatrically wipe at the corner of his mouthâthe very spot where you know your cum had been minutes ago.
The onlookers eat it up, snapping furiously as he tilts his head down to meet your touch. To them, itâs a playful, harmless moment. To you, itâs victory. To him, itâs revenge.
"...judging by the way heâs still smirking for the cameras with my panties in his pocket, that provocation is coming sooner than I thought."
YOUR SEAT'S STILL WARM. THE CREDITS ARE ROLLING. BUT THE NIGHT ISN'T OVER. PICK YOUR NEXT FEATURE â NOW IN THEATERS : 700 FOLLOWERS CELEBRATION â JACK O'CONNELL MLIST
I've seen a few comments now like "but without chatGPT I don't know what to make for dinner" or "but character.ai is vital to my mental health" and those are not arguments for genAI. They're signs that you need to sort yourself out.
An adult human being should be able to decide what to have for dinner. Yes, some days it's rough and you don't wanna, but the point is, you can do it. And if you can't, you can learn. Hell, make post-it notes with dinner options, stick them on a dart board, and on days when you really can't decide, throw a dart.
You'd really rather put these decisions in the hands of an AI? As in, a company? And you don't see the issues with that? You don't see how easy that makes it for companies to manipulate you, influence your choices and your spending and your entire life?
And if your mental health relies on talking to a robot about your issues "because it listens and cares" - no, it doesn't. It can't listen. It can't care. It's lying to you. It's parroting phrases said by other people in similar contexts. It's an elaborate predictive text machine.
And again, you're just giving all of this information about yourself to a company. A company that wants to make money and likely has no compunctions about selling your data. You're trusting a software run by a company. And you don't think that'll be used to manipulate you? I've got a bridge to sell you.
What you need is actual human connection with other humans. And if you don't know how to connect with other humans then it's time to learn. Start by caring about other people. Take a genuine interest in them. Listen to them. That's how you connect. Not by treating others as entities to dump all your issues on or monologue at about your boring life. Sure, character.ai will put up with that and humour you, but there's literally nothing genuine about it and you will never ever learn to make actual friends.
Relying on genAI for any of this means you'll never learn, in fact you'll get worse, and if genAI ever goes away or you find yourself without access to a computer/phone/internet or the people running chatGPT or character.ai take down the website or put it behind a paywall, you'll be completely adrift. You are handing control of your life over to a piece of software run by a business. Instead of developing skills and independence you're just handing control over to someone else, someone who by the way does not care about you, someone who's only here to make money.
"But some people need--" to stop infantilising themselves, to start taking responsibility and control of their own life, to realise that they have agency and power, to learn that agency and control are not the same as blame and guilt and that someone trying to help them reclaim control is not trying to blame them for their situation.
People, yes even people with your exact diagnosis or background or medical history, were living and making decisions and dealing with their issues and going to therapy and learning and coping for millennia prior to 2022. As in, before genAI was even an option. You can do it. Trust me.
Need you guys to know I am soooo anti generative AI. In case that wasn't clear. It's bad for the environment, unethical, theft, and will never be as freaky as me. It is inferior in every way
old enough to remember when smut was called âlemonsâ but young enough that i had absolutely no business knowing that smut was called âlemonsâ at the timeÂ