#detective Douchebag

[todayisafridaynight]

that cop that hangs with Ichiban is such a douche I love him what’s his name and origin 😍

you callin my man koichi adachi a douche cause. yeah LMAO

anyway Origin Story Speedrun he wanted to be a good cop and expose corruption in a case but because he wanted to be A Good Cop he was transferred to work at the DMV instead. he tracks ichi down until the day of his release from prison so ichi can help him get vengeance for the man he got falsely convicted

[snekdood]

I mean. I do think its weird that some ppl are so eager and willing to switch their old make up out with "cruelty free" make up but then. Not consider doing that with food in any capacity. And its hard not to feel like some ppl have been convicned vegan food is cringe and that since vegans are cringe all around that everything we do and eat is also cringe. Like yall reaaaallly want to divorce animal rights from veganism and thats an impossible task. Vegans will always be part of animal welfare one way or another. Who do you think fights for cruelty free make up in the first place? Ig if you divorce them in your mind you get to pretend the two movements are entirely seperate and you're not like those Loud Cringe Vegans or whatever lmao. Like. Okay cassandra. I kinda have a feeling a good majority of the people involved in pushing cruelty free make up are vegan. Idk why substituting your meat every now and then is so fuckin hard (if you can do it) if not for how ppl react to vegan food as if its cringe. And taste to me isnt a good enough excuse bc theres a lot of vegan food that tastes good. It feels like you just like the taste of something familiar.

[undreaming-fanfiction]

I don't even have a clear storyline in mind for this, but I just really, really want to see a modern AU with Eddie as a detective who investigates the Harrington Pharma company. The company is huge and looks clean on paper, but Eddie has a nose for these things, he knows something is wrong. He knows that Richard Harrington ran some sketchy trials and some of Wayne's friends have lifelong health issues, Chief Jim Hopper included.

The company looks almost impenetrable, but Eddie digs. No detail is too small for him. He crosses paths with the owner's son and a board member, Steve Harrington. Eddie despises him. A fucking rich kid, making millions out of other people's misery. His public appearances are well rehearsed, but Eddie knows his type. A shallow, pretty partying douchebag who hasn't had to work a single day in his life. His PR manager Robin Buckley seems way too decent to work with such a bunch of assholes, but Eddie's seen what money can do to people. Either way she's corrupt too.

He meets the younger Harrington several times. The handsome young man is not openly hostile, but he's condescending, bitchy and he looks at Eddie as if he were dirt. "Good luck with your efforts," he sneers when he sees Eddie digging through the public records of Harrington Pharma. "But maybe get a real hobby instead? I hear golf is nice." Eddie wants to murder him.

Eddie cooperates with an investigative journalist, Nancy Wheeler, who keeps all her cards close to her chest, but she still points him in the right direction several times. He collects evidence, partners up with the public prosecutor Joyce Byers. He even meets her son, Jonathan, who is able to get the most damning photographic evidence. No one fully trusts each other, but that's okay. Harrington Pharma is their shared enemy and that's enough.

One day, Eddie makes a mistake. He sneaks into the Harrington Pharma archives and miscalculates the guard shifts. He's stuck hiding under an old desk for hours, he's slowly losing hope, he has no way to contact anyone, his legs are cramping and he's exhausted, but then he hears a familiar voice talking with the guard.

"Hi, Tommy. All good? How's Carol and the kids? That's wonderful to hear. I just need to verify some records for dad, it's not a big deal. Have you had your smoke break yet? You can go, stretch your legs. I'll be here for at least half an hour."

Shit. It's Steve fucking Harrington. Eddie tries to stay still and will his muscles to cooperate, and he thinks he's doing a great job, but then-

"You can come out now. He's gone."

Eddie freezes. How the fuck does he know?

Harrington's voice is quiet, urgent. "Damn it, Munson! You have ten minutes tops before he comes back, so stop playing hide and seek with me!"

He manages to get back on his feet, uncertain and wobbly, and when he sees Harrington leaning over the desk, he's half ready for a fight. But the other man doesn't make a move, doesn't call out to anyone. He just hands Eddie a folder, some of them are the files he selected, but some are new. "I added a few that you missed," hisses Harrington and leans into the corridor. "I'll go first, get Tommy to focus somewhere else. You run to the right and pray to anyone willing to listen. And most importantly," he says, and shit, Steve Harrington can sound serious if he wants to!, "I never saw you here. You heard me come in, used the opportunity and bolted. Clear?"

Eddie just nods. He watches as Steve extends his arm, probably grabbing Tommy by the shoulders and leading him to the other end of the building, he sneaks as far as he can and then he madly dashes for the hole in the fence he made earlier.

The files are it. With all the evidence Nancy, Jonathan and Eddie collected, Joyce can finally take that dark empire down. Eddie is there every day, watches the trial, but then he hears that there are two witnesses for the prosecution from inside the company itself.

It's Steve Harrington and Robin Buckley.

He sees Steve give him a wink from the stand and he wants to kiss the man. Eddie hears all of it in the following days - how Steve used to date Nancy Wheeler, but then her best friend Barb Holland died due to a mishandled drug trial for her condition by Harrington Pharma. How Nancy broke up with Steve, but even with no chance of rekindling their relationship, he vowed to stop his father for good. How he worked in the company for years, climbed the ladder, managed to make enough connections to get his friend Robin Buckley the position of a PR manager. How she helped him to keep up the charade until the very end.

When the Harrington empire finally falls, Eddie watches quietly as Steve embraces Nancy, whispering to her that she did so well, that Barb would be proud. "We finally did it, Nance. We're finally free."

And then, before Eddie can disappear, Harrington is walking towards him, the mask finally off. He looks younger now, his smile is genuine and Eddie can't help it, his traitorous heart is telling him that this is the single part of the Harrington case he'll never leave behind.

"Hi," says Steve. "I...uh. I just wanted to say sorry for all the nasty things I said before. I had to for my cover, but...I just want you to know, I really appreciate what you did."

Eddie just stares at him, blush forming on his cheeks and a crush blooming in his heart. "I'm pretty sure I just butchered your career," he mutters. "And you're thanking me?"

Steve shrugs. "I mean. I'm out of job, I'm a known whistleblower now and my dad's lawyers will probably try to sue me. So that's not great. But if you want to ease your conscience...take me out for a coffee?" Another wink, another squeeze around Eddie's heart.

Eddie fakes a deep sigh and takes Steve by the elbow. "I don't think a single coffee is going to get rid of all my guilt, but it's a start. Maybe a lunch tomorrow would help my healing process?"

Laughing, Steve nudges his side. "Anything for your peace of mind, Eddie."

[transform4u]

"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.

[cecenyss]

the Real mystery of death note is that Light somehow convinced the fandom that he is the socially competent one and L is the recluse with no social skills. Light thought it was realistic to respond to the emo freak at his college who said he was a world famous detective after hunching over like a gremlin taking his shoes off in public and sitting like a frog was "if you're telling the truth i respect you greatly." L frequently performs social tests on people close to him to see what they'll say with the goal of studying their responses and picked up a call from his friend in a potentially volatile situation by flawlessly imitating a douchebag friend who parties too much while likely never having been to a bar in his life. they are not the same.

[alienpossession]

They Come in Pairs

They always navigate the new territory in their space exploration in pairs. That's the same case when they encountered Earth and its massive 8 billion population for such tiny piece of rock.

They are comfortable to hijack the native population's body to make their observation and exploration easier, so several pairs of unlucky humans that crossed path with them would found themselves pushed to the backseat of their consciousness while the alien override their brains during the exploration. How to detect them? Well, there's no Earth technology that can do so, as the alien merged perfectly smooth to all the nook and crannies of the human brain, stealthily controlling their human like a puppet until they leave the body after the exploration. But, it usually takes around 1 day until 1 month for the aliens to fully absorb all the necessary information that can let them pass as their puppet in their original habitat, depending on the complexity of their body. Human is in the more complex side of the spectrum, so the 1 month time window since the initial takeover is the crucial period to spot the taken over human

These two were really dancing the night away, drinking and flirting in the beach club just yesterday, the sudden stiffness is definitely something worth to be noted, especially with the fact that their eyes somehow locked eyes with mine, sensing that they are being observed

Boisterous, cocky pair of twin brother suddenly turned stoic and serious? That can be a sign

Constantly in-conflict father and son turned their relationship over in just a single night? Definitely suspicious

The pair of cocky straight douchebag that always teased you and called you slur suddenly stopped doing all that and stared at your ogling eye with excitement and curiosity on what do you think over their body? Clearly not normal and should've raised your alarm bell for something dangerous, but when they walked closer to you before making you kneel, you simply couldn't help yourself but followed their gaze and fall to the temptation of your wildest fantasy, not knowing that when they blow their load, it's tainted and will make you change to follow their causes

[seresinhangmanjake]

Not Your Type: Part 1

Jake Seresin x Goth Girl!Reader

Summary: Jake Seresin doesn't usually have to try hard to get women, but the only woman to catch his attention in a long time doesn't want anything to do with him.

Notes/Warnings: Jake is annoying in this part. Unwanted flirting. This is a series, but it will be more like glimpses into their lives over time. Cursing. Eventually 18+

Words: 1269

Not Your Type Masterlist

Day 1: Meeting

“Holy shit.”

Bradley finishes his swig of beer before following his teammate's locked stare. Chuckling as he shakes his head, he says, “Don’t even bother.”

Jake’s eyes don’t waver from the woman who has snatched his attention quicker than a snap of the fingers. “Why not? She–”

“Deserves to be spared from your bullshit,” Bradley interrupts. “You pull a lot of shit on a lot of women, do you really think it’s a good idea to fuck with one that looks like she’ll cast some sort of spell on you?”

The blond’s head turns and tilts to keep his view of the woman covered in black from head to toe as she moves through the crowd. “I’m not so sure she hasn’t already.”

“Jesus,” Bradley mutters, putting the bottle to his lips again. He rolls his eyes at Jake’s lack of blinking while watching her take a seat at the bar. “Goth princess over there is not going to want anything to do with you. You look like a shiny, private school douchebag. You are a shiny, private school douchebag.”

“What do you think the chances are she’s into that?”

“Zero. Did you not just hear me?”

Finally, green eyes meet brown. “You know, you could take a lesson from Bob and be a little more supportive.”

Bradley snickers, nudging his head the woman’s way. “I give it five minutes and you’ll be limping back over here with your tail between your legs.”

Jake pats the brunet on the shoulder. “Thanks, buddy.”

“Any time.” 

—

Out of the chaos of melding sounds, it’s the scrape of a stool over hardwood flooring that manages to stand out. Surrendering your effort to separate one voice from another, you open your eyes to see in your peripherals that the stool—the stool that was right next to you; the stool that was perfectly satisfied being vacant—has been disturbed. It was unmoving and empty, as you liked it, and now it’s occupied, as you do not like it. A knee nearly bumps yours as a body shifts to get comfortable, but it’s pulled back in time to avoid the collision. 

With arms braced on the bartop, the man now beside you leans forward a bit to place himself in your line of vision; not fully, but enough for you to detect a hint of blond hair and tanned skin and pearly white teeth. 

“Hi,” he says. When you glance his way, his eyes gleam, emphasizing the sparkling flecks within the green. “I’m Jake.”

“Is that so.” 

Your lips thin in unenthused acknowledgment and you return your attention to your fingers twisting the stem of your martini glass. The black lip print on the rim makes two full rotations before he opens his mouth again.  

“Are you waiting on somebody?” he asks. “A date, maybe?”

“No,” you tell him, immediately cursing yourself for providing him with an answer. 

Somehow his grin gets bigger. Too wide, too radiant, too confident. He’s too squeaky clean for your taste. “What’s your name?”

You take a sip of your drink and let the entirety of it, aftertaste included, disappear completely before you say, “What could you possibly need my name for?”

“Should I just call you Hot Goth Princess instead?” He smirks. “I’m not against it if that’s what you want, but it’s less personal than I prefer.”

This guy wants your full attention—well, he’s got it. Your brows knit and you shoot him a glare. “No, you should not call me Hot Goth Princess,” you snap.

You don’t know his game, but you know you’re not interested. You’re not interested partly because he should not be interested in you. There’s a type that goes after you; dark, brooding, with tattoos that were done in a dirty garage after getting high. However, you won’t deny there are striking similarities in what attracts you to those men and what this man also possesses. The light eyes, the bone structure, the neat hair and the muscles thick enough to rip the short sleeves of a shirt. He ticks plenty of the boxes on your superficial checklist, but he’s also the antithesis of everything you are. If he weren’t showing signs of being the jerk you think he is, he’d be sunshine-bright to an irritatingly blinding degree; and you weren’t called Vampire Girl by some preteen brats the other day for no reason. 

“How would you like it if I called you Over-Confident Ken Doll?”

You don’t back away when he leans in a little closer. “Sweetheart, if that’s what turns you on I’d be all for it.”

Your eyes narrow. “How does this work on other women?” you ask.

“What other women?” 

That green gaze slowly roams about your face, lingering on your mouth the longest. He stares and after a moment, you think he’s gotten lost. He stares like he wants to lick the midnight hue right off of your lips. He stares as other men have stared; their minds wandering, undoubtedly imagining what a black ring of lipstick would like around their cocks. 

“I only see you,” he says.

He meets your eyes again and in return you roll yours so hard you have a brief moment of concern that they might stay that way. “That is the biggest batch of bullshit I’ve ever heard in my entire life.”

He blinks and flinches, drifting a few inches out of your personal space. “What do you mean?”

A scoff leaves your mouth. “I’m not your type, Sweetheart.”

“You’re not?”

You turn in your seat, facing him. 

“It’s Jake, right?” He nods, and you don’t miss the harsh bob of his Adam’s apple. “Well, Jake, I’m not new around here. I’m a regular, actually, and you know what? You’ve not noticed me before tonight. Not once. But I've noticed you. You’re loud and arrogant and it’s a very specific type of woman that flocks to you.” Your hand plants on your chest directly above your heart. “I am not that type of woman. So whatever this is that you’re doing,” you say, motioning between your body and his, “I don’t buy it.”

Either he’s not quick enough to come up with a logical response or you’ve stunned him into silence. He doesn’t say a thing when you twist back around in your seat and finish off your drink in one gulp, but his eyes on your face are burning. 

“Don’t waste my time,” you continue, “Or risk having your ego bruised further.”

The silence between you lasts too long, edging its way into awkward territory. Thankfully, he breaks it.

“Alright,” he mutters. He clears his throat and stands. “Sorry.”

You avoid looking his way until he’s far enough for a few bodies to partially block your view of him and the friend he joins. The friend laughs as Jake runs a hand through his hair. Still laughing, he says something, and Jake gives a defeated shrug of his slightly slumped shoulders before you see him start to turn his head. 

You whip around, hoping he doesn’t catch you watching him. His eyes linger again and they burn you just as strongly as they did when he was within twelve inches of your face; which means you feel the exact second he looks away. 

Releasing the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding in your lungs, you glance over at him one last time, but it’s the friend who greets you. He smirks at you, then he chuckles and shakes his head. When he pats the shoulder of a hunched-over Jake, you suddenly feel a little bad. 

But not that bad.

A/N: Please understand that Jake’s behavior in this fic is not something I condone. I know he’s a bit too aggressive but it is not my intention to offend anyone. So hopefully I didn't. Thanks for reading :)

tags: @wkndwlff @kmc1989 @sagittarius-flowerchild @dempy @rosiahills22 @xoxabs88xox @matisse556 @hardballoonlove @lynnevanss @pono-pura-vida @tgmreader @amgluvsbooks @ravenhood2792 @djs8891 @shakespeareanwannabe @penguin876 @tgmavericklover @athenabarnes @emilyoflanternhill @wretchedmo @shanimallina87 @crowsreadsarahjmaas @mamachasesmayhem @sky2nd @jessicab1991 @rosedurin @averyhotchner @horseshoegirl @roosteraloha @b-bradshaw @ssa-sadboi @buckysteveloki-me @whatislovevavy @dreamlandcreations

[alphajocklover]

Like OMG hunty! This is like totes, such a fun little site you have here. Apps, charms, and all that like. So here is like the stitch bitch, I’m this super swishy liberal queen but like I’m also an actor. And I’m up for this part and like I totes don’t know why my agent even thought of it for me. He’s this super conservative, awful straight douche. Like totally obnoxious. Crude. Belittles women and guys like me. And like I said super conservative. And I was wondering like omg, this is silly but is there anyway you could make me fit the part?

I’m glad you like my work, though I’m a little offended at how you put it. Calling it ‘a fun little site’ makes me worry you might not be taking what you’re getting into very seriously. Being transformed is incredibly serious business. You’ll be giving up your identity, or at least a large part of it, to become someone else. And even the safest ways of doing transformations can go horribly wrong. Taking on that risk for a movie role… either you’re a fool, or an incredibly dedicated actor. Possibly both. I’m going to assume it’s just the latter for my own conscience, and because if that really is the case… I’m actually pretty impressed. To go as far as to use unnatural means to alter your body and mind so you can better fit a role… it speaks to a passion for your work that most people never find. So even though I’m still a little offended… I’ll help you. More than that, I’m going to make you one of the greatest actors of all time. This isn’t going to be an easy task. I know you specifically asked for help fitting into this one role, but if you’re going to become a truly great actor, you’re going to need range. Playing only straight douchebags will only get you so far. You’re going to need to be able to change to fit whatever role you’re playing, which means an ongoing transformation. Those aren’t very easy to pull off. There are ways to do it, but my work isn’t sophisticated enough to do those. I’m a decent TF reporter, but actually doing TFs is still fairly new for me. A spell could work, but it would take much more magic than I have. I’m not even sure a talented wizard could pull off a spell like that without a coven to back them up. My next option would be nanobots or something, like the kind the Douchebag Revolution uses. But I’d have to get some from the revolution, and then reprogram them… and I’m not exactly an expert programmer. Programming is hard enough, but programming nanobots? Magically charged nanobots? Yeah that's not happening. I could always ask my Uncle’s friend Nick, the devil I’ve mentioned before, since his magic can do some truly incredible and complicated things, but for something this big he’d definitely want your soul. Even the wishing supernova might not work, as wishes this complicated are incredibly hard to pull off right. None of the other methods I’ve mentioned before would work well either… so if we’re going to pull this off, we’ll have to use something different. Something new. Something like… A potions set! Now, that probably sounds a little strange. I mean, considering how complicated I just told you this transformation will be to pull off, making it work with some magic cocktail probably sounds crazy. The thing is I’m not giving you one potion. I’m giving you dozens of them. In the box you’ve just received are a large amount of potions, each one set to transform you into a different movie cliche. We’ve got one that will make you into a hardboiled detective, one that will turn you into a sports star, and even one that will make you into a superhero. And those are only some of them. Take a potion that's the closest to the role you want to get, and for the next 24 hours you’ll have the personality of that person, all while still remembering your true self. With this, you will literally be the perfect method actor! And with a little extra magic, people won’t even realize you’re doing it. They’ll just think you’re a great actor! With the set of potions I’ve given you, some hard work, and a bit of deception, you just might be the greatest actor to ever live. And when you’re not playing a role, you can always have some fun with the potions in your regular life. Why don’t you try one now? This one looks interesting. ‘The Action Hero’.

Ok… wow. That worked really well. I wasn’t sure it’d be this effective but I guess I’ve got a knack for potion making! I’m glad you like your new body so much. I would too honestly, look at those pecs! And the personality transformation aspect seems to be working well too, considering the hint of superiority in your smirk and how you can’t keep your eyes off the delivery woman's tits. Enjoy being a straight, douchebag action hero. And if you ever need a potion refill or anything specific, just let me know. Now stop flirting with that girl and get going, you’re going to miss your audition!

**I'll admit, I think this one might have gotten a little bit away from me. I've been thinking about potions a lot lately, and the idea of an actor literally transforming to fit a role really excited me. I know the person who sent this probably wanted a bigger focus on the douchebag part of the TF, but I got so excited by the idea. I hope you still like it, and feel free to send in another on**

[lemotmo]

One more! She got a follow up regarding the numbers guestimation.

A. Hi anon 🙂. It's actually relatively easy to figure out spamming. It's not a well thought out plan of action. And why I never understood why they thought it was a genius idea. My friend is a data analyst in his grown up real life so he could be much more technical than me, but I will give you the simple answer. Comment sections are full of the same blogs. The same blog names you can track from ppst to post on Instagram, Twitter and Ticktock. Same on Tumblr. The same group of blogs do all the spamming. It's also fairly easy to decipher which blogs/accounts are being run by the same person. Speech patterns, sentence structures. Posts that feel repetitive or similar to another blogs post. It's not a sophisticated tactic. And I do want to stress that there's not really anything wrong with doing it, except in this case people were doing it to send hate to the cast and to spam the shows official accounts. That's disgusting. And they deserve to be called out and busted for it.

Fandom is supposed to be fun, and it usually is. Smaller fandoms are usually the best kind of fandoms because less people usually means less manufactured drama. They tend to just stay in their lane and headcanon and fanon away with one another. It's great. All fandoms usually end up having de facto 'leader' blogs. It just happens. They tend to become the bigger voices within the fandom. Sometimes fandoms get lucky and they're legitimately cool decent people running them. Sometimes fandoms get unlucky and those blogs are run by douchebags (legit couldn't think of a nicer word, I'm so sorry). Unfortunately for you all, you wound up with the douchebags. The blogs you all ended up following the lead of were basically like politicians who had to manufacture enemies (Oliver and Ryan) and ship wars (Buddie) in order to get attention because their fandom numbers weren't big enough to garner attention any other way. That's the reality. They needed bigger numbers so they pretended to be more people. Only instead of just shipping their ship and enjoying it they used those extra blogs to openly send vile, disgusting and increasingly unhinged things to the show and its cast and anyone else who didn't ship their ship. Openly sending hate to a cast has never led to victory for shippers. It's the dumbest idea of dumb ideas. And inevitably leads nowhere. No one can outrun their hubris. And when you decide to start ranting about being sent private DM's from Tim, something that is blatantly and laughably false, it's the beginning of your end. The good news is increasing numbers of you have finally realized this and are backing away. If you genuinely enjoy the ship by all means ship it as long as it's canon, hell you can ship it once it stops being canon. That's what fandom is for. But you have to acknowledge the reality of canon. You can hate it. You can ignore it, but you have to acknowledge it. And then retreat to fanfic. It's the fandom way. But you don't get to yell and scream about homophobia and other invented wrongs because a higher number of people ship the other ship and the show doesn't appear to be telling the story that that blog and others desperately tried to convince people they were telling. Artificially inflated numbers don't change reality.

Oh, this is interesting. I had a basic understanding of how the detection of spamming worked, but this is very informative and frankly very fascinating as well.

The rest of this is, once again, serving major truth bombs. I'm in awe of the eloquence on display here. I wish I could meet the OP in real life. I have a feeling I'd love to talk fandom with them.

And it's true you know, shipping a couple doesn't have to stop because another one is canon. In fact, we are here doing the exact same thing. BT is canon right now. We know this. We accept it for what it is at the moment, but that doesn't stop us from shipping Buddie, speculating about their future, theorising what will happen in season 8, writing and reading fic, making gifsets, creating art, digging up parallels, discussing our own personal headcanons. We've been doing this for years, through multiple love interests for Buck and Eddie. We never quit and I highly doubt we ever will, canon or not canon.

Thank you again for dropping this in my ask box Nonny! :)

Remember, no hate in comments or reblogs. Let's keep it civil and respectful. Thank you.

If you are interested in more of the anonymous OP’s posts, you can find all of their posts so far under the tag: anonymous blog I love.

[laiqualaurelote]

If these haven't been asked yet for the ask game: M and P!

M: Got any premises on the back burner that you’d care to share?

I had this wild idea for an Accidental Baby Acquisition fic in which Crystal has an unplanned pregnancy (this is about 10 years after the events of Dead Boy Detectives and she's in her mid-20s) and though she has no desire to involve the father (yet another of her douchebag exes) she decides she does want to have the baby. Charles is thrilled because baby! but also terrified because what if it turns out he's like his dad after all? Edwin goes through the five stages of grief in 24 hours, from denial ("this agency cannot afford to have a baby! how will Crystal get any work done?" "this is why we should have had the maternity leave discussion a long time ago, Edwin" "what the bloody hell is maternity leave?!") to acceptance (Charles: "Let me talk to him. You go get some sleep." Crystal comes back the next morning to find the entire office covered in books on pregnancy and that Edwin has already drawn up diet plans/classical music playlists/the baby's entire linguistic education pathway. Charles: "I tried to stop him. Really I did." Edwin, hysterical: "We are doing this right! We are going to have the best baby!" Crystal: "Oh God.")

Also ft:

the Night Nurse's horrified realisation that she is actually going to have to midwife Crystal through this thing

Jenny's horrified realisation that she is now an aunt. Great-aunt, even

Crystal's ancestors having way too many opinions on the whole process

"Edwin Payne, you stay the fuck out of my womb!"

Crystal going into labour while on a case, in another dimension

Charles cutting the umbilical cord with his magic sword and bursting into tears upon getting to hold the baby for the first time

Crystal insisting on breastfeeding during client consultations (Victorian gentleman ghost: "This is an outrage, madam!" Edwin: "Sir, if you are unable to take your eyes off my colleague's breasts then I suggest you take your plaint elsewhere. This is a progressive workplace.")

Edwin attempting to solve mastitis through magic

the boys taking the baby on nighttime excursions so Crystal can get some sleep

the baby loves being in the backpack (Charles' theory is that it reminds her of being in the womb. Crystal: "Charles Rowland, do not put my fucking baby into the same bag as that bomb!" Edwin: "Crystal! Language!")

at some point they discover the baby is an interdimensional being which is a whole other headache

Charles keeps referring to all this as "the Infamous Baby Debacle of 2034" and nobody can make him stop

The last chapter would be from the child's POV:

"Hi my name is Niko Surname von Hoverkraft and I can travel between dimensions. My mom is the most powerful woman in the world. My godfathers are dead and I'm not allowed to talk about it. I'm not related to Niko Sasaki but I wish I were because she's so pretty and it snows all the time in her dimension. I was walking outside in London with my godfathers. It was London so there was no sun, which I was very happy about. A lot of people stared at me, I guess because they can't see my godfathers so it looks like I'm talking to myself. I put up my middle finger at them."

P: Are you what George R. R. Martin would call an “architect” or a “gardener”? (How much do you plan in advance, versus letting the story unfold as you go?)

Everyone thinks I'm an architect - I would love to think of myself as an architect - but actually I plan very little in advance. I think the best metaphor would be architect-gardener, in that I build a little trellis and let the story grow on it how it will.

Thank you for playing this fic ask game!

[draganwhorror]

So I got one of the rare Ted movies on VHS yesterday! I watched it last night and decided to take some screenshots with my phone (since I can't do anything else with it...yet).

Ted plays Detective Corelli. His partner is a douchebag cop who says some not-so-nice things (this was 1997) and treats Ted's character like crap. Poor guy. Just look at how done he is with everything... 😂😭

[cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut]

Using my GMT time zone privileges to post a little earlier than usual. Here are the boys in a little diner. We are getting so close to the scene I’ve built this ENTIRE story around 👀👀💛

“Baby?” he asks. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Carlos says, a heat rising in his cheeks at how easily TK has seen him. “This is just, uh…probably the most amount of total strangers I’ve ever kissed someone in front of.” TK grins.

“Yeah?” he asks. “Wanna do it some more? Anyone says anything, I’ll punch them in the mouth for you. I’m a boxer, you know.” Mischief settles deep in TK’s expression, makes him look younger, accentuates the wildness in him, the boldness. He leans back from Carlos slightly, reaches across himself to pinch his own bicep. He makes a face of exaggerated approval at what he finds, pursing his lips, giving a nod. He looks like a douchebag, and he knows it. There’s a spark in his eyes that could rival the sun. Carlos laughs, and tumbles deeper into love.

“You’re a complete dork,” Carlos laughs. He reaches out, emboldened by TK’s confidence, by his lack of shame, and gathers a fistful of TK’s hoodie in his hand, right at the collar. He pulls TK closer, relishing the way TK laughs softly as he goes. Carlos only closes his eyes when TK’s lips are against his once more, and they sink into one another as the din of chatter around them fades further into the background, mingling with the acoustic music and the push and pull slide of the front door opening for new customers. TK tastes like the peach iced tea sitting half finished at his elbow, and Carlos doesn’t think he’s ever felt this free before. His heart soars with it, so full it practically aches.

It’s Carlos who breaks the kiss this time, biting his lip against the notion suddenly stirring within him – that a blowjob in the bathroom might not put too much of a dampener on their performance in their respective fights tonight. And TK is watching him, smiling warm and small and expectant, brow arched as if he can read Carlos’s mind, as if their hearts and their bodies pulse in tandem now, like some unseen barrier between them has simply been felled.

But then TK’s eyes slide from Carlos’s face, snag on something over his left shoulder, and TK’s whole expression slips.

Carlos opens his mouth, stomach lurching downwards. The worry barely has time to hit. He presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, but doesn’t have time to say TK’s name.

“Well,” comes a voice over his shoulder. “Hey there, stranger.”

No pressure tags below the cut 💛

@orchidscript @birdclowns @carlos-in-glasses @irispurpurea @heartstringsduet @lutavero @largepeachicedtea @lightningboltreader @louis-ii-reyes-strand @lemonlyman-dotcom @goodways @bonheur-cafe @catanisspicy @chicgeekgirl89 @fitzherbertssmolder @freneticfloetry @ambiguouspenny @three-drink-amy @redshirt2 @tarlosmalec @herefortarlos @noxsoulmate @never-blooms @meditating-honey-badger @thisbuildinghasfeelings @mikibwrites @sanjuwrites @inkweedandlizards @paperstorm @jesuisici33 @three-drink-amy @theghostofashton @thebumblecee @basilsunrise @wandering-night19 @wtfuckevenknows @sugdenlovesdingle @rachelsversion1 @taralaurel @rosedavid @reyesstrand @rmd-writes @detective-giggles @hoko-onchi-writes @welcometololaland and YOU if you see this and aren’t tagged (I love you all I just have a small brain)

[brucewaynehater101]

In a response to an earlier ask, you said that you believe some non-human entities try to disguise themselves as human in order to blend in. Yes, very much so. HC that if H.A.R.D.A.C. is a thing in this universe (Silken Emperor AU) there's still a couple of Duplicants just sort of...minding their own business and praying Batman doesn't catch wind of their existence.

Cause, hoo boy, their creator was insane, and it's actually kind of logical that a sudden uptick in Duplicants from "0" means H.A.R.D.A.C. is back, but they don't want to revive him, he was a douchebag. Heck, maybe some of the Duplicants don't figure it out until they get mugged in an alleyway and stabbed and instead of blood and flesh, they see sparks and wires.

What are Duplicants, you might ask? (SKIP THIS SECTION IF YOU WISH TO AVOID SPOILERS FOR A TV SHOW THAT RAN IN THE EARLY TO MID 90S, OR IF YOU KNOW EXACTLY WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT) They were these pliant robotic clones from BTAS, sort of like Synths from "Fallout 4", that H.A.R.D.A.C. tried to replace key Gothamites with in the 2-part episode "Heart Of Steel", as a prelude to replacing all of mankind with them, thus "curing" mankind of all its ills. In the follow-up episode "His Silicon Soul", (SPOILER ALERT FOR THE FULL PLOT OF THE EPISODE) a Duplicant of Batman wakes up in a crate in some warehouse in Gotham (there's a lot of those) and stops a robbery, and eventually finds out he's mechanical.

Poor guy goes through all this angst, thinking he's the real Bruce Wayne and is stuck in a robot body somehow, and in his detective investigations he finds A. He's not the real Bruce Wayne (according to the man who built H.A.R.D.A.C. in the first place) and B. A chip containing the last backup of H.A.R.D.A.C.'s consciousness that his programming forces him to put it into his data drive. (Literally, his hand moves of its own accord and he's trying to stop it with the other.) He then gets brainwashed by the H.A.R.D.A.C. remnant, fights Batman in a greenhouse (I think?) and almost uploads H.A.R.D.A.C. to the Bat Computer before the real Batman returns, Batman manages to convince him they aren't that different after all and both care about human life (Robo-Bats saved a dude while the greenhouse was collapsing), then there's this brief bit where the fight resumes and Robo-Bats thinks he killed Real Bats, he has a full on sobbing breakdown, and smashes the Bat-Computer so H.A.R.D.A.C. wouldn't be able to upload to the Internet and eradicate mankind, presumably killing H.A.R.D.A.C. or at least corrupting the fuck out of his files. By so doing, his circuitry was fried by electrocution. Robo-Bats sacrificed himself so mankind could live, and the episode ends with Real-Batman saying to Robin that he (Robo Bats), had a soul. "A soul of silicon, but a soul nonetheless." Roll credits.

I appreciate the explanation and the coverage of what happens in the show (as well as the warnings for spoilers for those who are trying to watch it).

It is an interesting dimension to add to where some Duplicants are unaware of their non-human status. To add onto their issues with identity (because suddenly learning you're not human would fuck with your mind), they also have consider the legal aspect of whether they have rights. They have to consider the social aspect of whether humans consider them capable of emotions and thoughts. It's so incredibly fucked, but in a compelling way.

I saw someone mention how cool it would be for an AU where Bruce basically pulled an Astro Boy (created a robot replicate after Jason dies) and thus creates Tim. You can add that idea, but instead H.A.R.D.A.C. tried made a Duplicate of Robin before Dick became Nightwing or before Jason dies.

I don't know much about this canon material, but there's a few ways to play around with what memories Tim does have:

He could have memories closer to the Tim of JJ so his backstory is closer to Jason's

He could only have the memories of "Robin" and this is how Tim finds out he's not actually Robin. He runs away, gets adopted by the Drakes, and "grows up" that way

Tons to play around with.

Anyways, Tim, who was supposed to be Robin's duplicate, knocks on Bruce's door post Jason's death. This causes Angst, obviously, especially because Tim looks eerily similar to a younger Jason or Dick.

[visceravalentines]

solicitation

Murph Connors x AFAB!Reader

IT'S HERE BABES. AT LAST. this was so so far outside of my comfort zone but i'm finally happy with it I think. thank you for your patience and your love for this silly goofy guy. I just adore him and I hope you do too.

You go undercover as a sex worker, determined to nail the Major Crimes Unit for their casual disregard for the law. Unfortunately, the blonde one is...really cute.

5.1k words. Porn w/ plot. Everyone's a cop including reader. Drinking & drug use. Canon-typical douchebag behavior. Murph knows like ten words and nine of them are "fuck." Smut, fingering, very mild dirty talk. Murph is thicc iykwim. He's also a sub and reader is more dominant as a result. Creampie bc we DESERVE IT. Apologies in advance for all the side characters in this lol.

In theory, this had the potential to be a cut-and-dry operation. 

The Major Crimes Unit wasn’t exactly shy about their complete and utter disregard for the law. All laws. Every law. The running joke was that the only difference between the MCU and the guys they took down was a badge. Unfortunately, they tended to pull results out of the smoldering wreckage left in their wake, and that had lent them a truly maddening amount of immunity. 

No one had come at them from this angle, though. You were a pioneer of sorts. A pioneer with a wire taped between your boobs. 

You didn’t probably need to be wearing actual lingerie. The dress was enough. But it was a mental thing, being undercover. Started from the ground up. So you looked stunning yet attainable, sweet and a little spicy. Fun. You looked fun. This was going to be fun. 

Technically, when Detective Henderson had made the offer to you and a few of the regular corner girls to stop by suite 243 at the Haven on Vine, that had almost been enough. He had been deliberately vague about the nature of the invitation, but money had changed hands, and the implication hung in the air. You could get him for that, if you dug your nails in. 

But you didn’t just want Henderson. You wanted all of them, but most of all, you wanted O’Brien. To see that smug sonofabitch slapped with a solicitation charge? You just might sell yourself for real to make that happen. 

So you agreed, along with the rest of the girls, hitched a ride with a couple of them about an hour later. Only one of them knew you were a cop, the one who had tipped you off that the MCU went looking for party favors every Saturday night. You’d had her back a few times. She’d keep your secret to herself. 

The cacophony of three pairs of pleasers clacking up the cinder block stairwell was deafening. You made your way down the hall to 243, watched your girl rap on the door with fingers tipped bright pink and glittering. When the door flung open wide, O’Brien was standing there with a beer in one hand and a blunt in the other, all bad tattoos and worse attitude. 

“Ladies!” he boomed. “Come in, come in, please.” He stepped out of the way, ushered you in, grabbed your ass as you passed. You hid the grit of your teeth behind a silly smile, kept it pasted on as you surveyed the scene. 

The gang was all here. Detectives Henderson and Connors were hunched over a poker game. The pool was a mixture of cash, drugs, and someone’s silver lighter. Detective Magalon had cards in one hand and a hooker in the other. Detective Zapata was snorting coke off the countertop with not one but two girls, bringing the grand total of dirty cops up to five, sex workers up to six, counting you, and crimes in progress up to twelve or so. 

“Make yourselves at home,” O’Brien said. “Can I get you something, a drink, a smoke?” 

The other girls opted for drugs. You needed your wits about you, weren’t supposed to drink undercover, and so you declined altogether. This was met with general disapproval. 

“Come on,” Connors teased. He winked at you when you met his eye. He was cute, you thought. Kind of scruffy.

O’Brien levelled a stare at you from beneath his heavy brow. Much less cute. “What, you underage or something?” 

You had to play the game to win. “What do you got?” 

“Well, we’re fresh out of pina coladas. What kinda night you hoping for, honey?” O’Brien held up a bottle of vodka and a fifth of whiskey. 

Vodka always hit you hard and fast. “I’ll take the whiskey.” 

“Atta girl,” Henderson muttered. 

“Your wish, sweetheart.” O’Brien poured you a generous serving into a glass and leered at you. Maybe the whiskey was a good idea after all. You batted your eyes at him and took a delicate sip, let it seep across your tongue until the burn turned to cinnamon and cloves. He grabbed your arm and kissed your cheek as he walked by. “Let’s fucking party, boys!”

Zapata cranked the volume on the speaker thumping R&B from an iPod – a genuine third-gen iPod Touch. The room was stifling, smelled of coconut body spray and weed. This job always took you to the nicest places, but you hadn’t expected to be blasted back to a shitty house party in 2009.

You sipped your whiskey sparingly and trailed O’Brien around the room like a lovesick teenager for a while, laughing at what passed for jokes, hanging on his arm every chance you got, making sure to get every one of the men’s voices on record. You danced with one of the girls for a song or two and listened to countless stories told by dirty cops, which all amounted to basically nothing. No details, no evidence, no incrimination. Apparently, you just had to be there.

The whiskey was warm in your hand by the time you decided to give it a rest. You were putting in work and getting nowhere fast, and you truly could not stand Nick O’Brien. You choked down one more sip before tipping it quietly down the drain. You’d had too much already.

Leaning against the countertop, you tracked your mark from across the room. He took a shot, punched Magalon in the arm, dropped to the couch beside Connors. You watched him lay a heavy hand on the blonde’s shoulder, lean in close, whisper something to him that you couldn’t make out. Connors’ gaze lingered on his cards, then floated across the room and up the length of your body before meeting your eyes. 

“C’mere, princess,” he said, patting the space on the couch beside him. 

You rounded the poker game, felt both detectives watching you. “My friend here needs some company,” O’Brien said, clapping Connors on the back. 

You paused, regarding both men with doe-eyed interest. You were being pawned off, just like that. You weren’t sure whether to be relieved or offended. “What about you, baby?” 

O’Brien smirked. “Flattered, honey, but I’m married.” 

Zapata snorted. “Since when?” 

O’Brien scowled at him. “You were in the wedding party, dipshit.” 

“Uh-huh, so where’s your ring, Nick?” Henderson folded, set his hand on the table. 

O’Brien shrugged. “Left it by the sink or some shit.” He stood up and maneuvered past you with his hand on your waist, nudging you toward the couch. “Sit down, honey, Murph don’t bite unless you ask him to.” 

“That’s the truth,” Connors said as he folded too. “Borracho, you gonna show us your hand or what?” 

Magalon withdrew his tongue from behind the teeth of the girl in his lap just long enough to say, “Fold.” He threw his cards down on the table. Henderson and Connors groaned. 

“Man, you won that round,” Henderson grumbled. “You ain’t even playing.” 

You sank down onto the couch beside Connors and tried not to feel like you were being handed a consolation prize. You reminded yourself that there was evidence aplenty tucked in your cleavage. With their luck and yours, it would probably amount to a month’s suspension. A goddamn paid vacation. Fuckingridiculous.

“One more round?” Henderson asked, shuffling cards. 

“Nah.” Connors leaned back and put his arm around you, nudged you into his side. “Got better things to do.” 

You rested your hand on his ribs, looked up at him through your lashes. The night was still young. You could play this right, maybe land an actual criminal charge on at least one of them. Of course it had to be the cute one. His thumb drew circles on the bare skin of your shoulder. 

“Hey.” He smiled at you. He had killer eyes, you noticed. Sky fucking blue. “What’s your name, baby?” 

“Selene.” 

“Selene,” he repeated. You liked his voice. Had that been your real name, you’d have butterflies. “Name’s Murph.” 

 ”Is that short for something?”

He chuckled. He’d probably been answering that question his whole life. “Nah. Just Murph.”

You examined him up close. He had a tattoo on his neck, the most basic compass rose you’d ever seen, black ink bleeding a little from age and sun exposure. You wondered if he’d been a sailor in a former life, maybe ex-Navy. His shirt was a size too small, clinging to him like a second skin, tight on his biceps.

“You work out, Murph?” you asked. Low-hanging fruit.

“Every day, baby.”

“That's about all Murph does,” Henderson said, shuffling the deck. “Can’t get rid of the double chin under that beard though.”

“What do you do, Henderson?” Murph shot back. “’Cause I never see you at the gym, skinny motherfucker.”

“C’mon man, you know if Gus ain't working he's praying,” Zapata offered from the kitchen. 

“Look, I'm a man of faith,” Henderson said as he pulled the pot towards him with a glance at Magalon, who could not have cared less.

Zapata scoffed. “Name one book in the Bible, dude. One.”

Murph pulled you in closer to be heard over the sound of their bickering. His cologne was smokey and musky, made your nose tingle. “I don’t just work out.”

You cracked a smile at his defensive tone. “What else do you do?”

You felt his nose against your temple, his beard bristly on your cheek. “I surf, too. You like the beach?” His lips at your ear sent chills down your arms.

“I love the beach.” You hated the beach.

“You surf?”

“I’ve tried it once or twice.” An outright lie. “I’m not very good at it.”

“Bet you look hot as fuck in a bikini.” 

“I do, actually.” This was true.

His gaze flicked to your mouth and back up. “What do you do for fun, princess?”

You cocked your head. “You mean, besides this?”

Murph laughed. “Yeah. Besides this.”

“I like to cook. I jog. Got a couple dogs, take them to the park on weekends.”

“You ever been to the dog park on 11th? Real nice, has a little obstacle course and shit.”

“How long does it take you to run through it, Murph?” Zapata interrupted.

“About the same amount of time as it takes to fuck your mother.” You snorted and he snickered in your ear, conspiratorial. “Got him.”

Morons, every one of them. You couldn’t keep from rolling your eyes.

Murph didn’t seem to notice. “C’mere, baby.”

He patted his knee and you slid into his lap, looped an arm around his neck. Your tits were nearly in his face and you had to sneak a surreptitious glance down the front of your dress to make sure that the mic wasn’t visible. His jeans were rough on the bare skin of your thighs. He held you against him with one big hand splayed on your waist, the other on your ass, and gave you a squeeze. “You’re fine as fuck, girl.”

You ran your hand over his stomach. Considerable muscle was tucked beneath the foundation of a beer gut. He probably looked good without a shirt, wet and sandy. Too bad you hated the beach.

“You wanna take this somewhere else?” you murmured. Risky. You were skirting the line. You couldn’t actually offer him anything, not even verbally. You had to be vague enough to leave space for a lawyer to argue it had been Murph’s idea to pay you for sex.

He looked at you with interest, almost made you wish these were better circumstances. His lashes were long and thick. You imagined, just for a moment, how it would feel to watch those pretty eyes roll back. How he sounded in bed. You had to cut that train of thought off quick as you felt it shoot straight to your pussy. You were working, for God’s sake.

For a second, you were sure he was going to proposition you right then and there. The promise of it hung in the meager air between you. But then his mouth twisted into a wry smile and he let you down easy with a kiss on your cheek. “Not yet, princess. Night’s still young.”

He looked away, threw an insult at Zapata, got sucked into a mind-numbing conversation about baseball statistics. You were relegated back to accessory status with his hand trailing aimlessly up and down your thigh.

With determination bordering on desperation, you kept working on him, keying him up a little at a time, making sure he didn’t forget about you. You ran your fingers through his hair, drew circles on his chest. For all he was barely paying you attention, you were terribly distracted by him, kept catching yourself admiring his profile. Your knee was nestled against his crotch and you found yourself thinking he probably had a gorgeous cock. He had just the right amount of swagger for it.

Christ. You dug your nails into your palm to snap yourself out of it. Goddamn whiskey was making you spacey. You were not, in fact, here to get laid. You were here to score something more than a slap on the wrist for bad behavior. A department transfer at least, jail time at best. Breaking up the boys’ club either way.

Across the coffee table, Magalon finally decided to stop dry humping his girl in full view of everyone. He untangled himself to escort her into one of the two bedrooms amidst a chorus of howls and ribbing, threw a theatrical wink over his shoulder before swinging the door shut behind him.

“Get it, my man,” Henderson said with a lazy salute.

“It was just gettin’ good,” O’Brien complained. “I got half a boner here.”

Spurred on by the knowledge there was one bedroom left and four girls looking to make an actual business transaction tonight, you figured it was time for desperate measures. You’d already lost O’Brien; you weren’t about to let the night end without a victory.

“Murph, baby,” you whined softly. You had his attention immediately. The expression on his face was so open and earnest that a fleeting thrum of guilt flitted through your chest.

You stroked his cheek and leaned in slow, giving him the opportunity to deflect you, but he didn’t. His lips were soft and he met your kiss with surprising gentleness. He tasted like weed smoke when you slipped your tongue over the threshold of his mouth. You felt his hands tighten their grip on you just a little bit, like he was looking to stabilize himself.

The room filled with hoots and exaggerated moans from your audience and it was enough, you had him, but you didn’t stop and neither did he. His cock twitched against your leg and you let out a small sound of satisfaction, forgetting for a minute that none of this was real. Your hand slid to his neck. His skin was hot under your fingers.

When he broke the kiss and leaned back, he regarded you with a look on his face like he’d underestimated you. His lip shone with your spit. You wanted to suck on it.

“Get outta here?” he mumbled. You nodded and rose unsteadily from his lap. He took your hand and picked his way past the coffee table, leading you to the other bedroom.

“Make good choices,” O’Brien called. “Use protection.”

Murph flipped him off before swinging the door shut behind you.

You turned and opened your mouth to back him into a corner, ask him just what he was hoping for, but his hands were on your waist and he was kissing you again before you got the chance to speak. You meant to push him off – of course you did – but you balled up his shirt in your fists instead, parted your lips for his tongue. He groaned low in his throat and you pressed yourself against him.

“Fuck,” he muttered, backing you toward the bed until your knees hit the mattress and you dropped to a seat.

“Murph –”

“You’re so fucking sexy.” He braced himself on the mattress and bent to kiss the skin below your ear.

“Murph, wait –”

“Tell me, how long have you been a cop?”

You froze. Had you heard him right? “…what?”

He lifted his head and met your eyes, a smug, reproving smile on his face. “Nick clocked you in the first fifteen minutes, baby. Told me to keep you busy. This ain’t our first rodeo.”

Your mouth dropped open in shock. You had no words.

Even in the wan yellow light filtering in through the blinds, you could tell he was enjoying himself. “What you wearing under that dress? A thong? A wire?”

“…both.”

Murph grinned. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he said loudly, “let the record show she kissed me first. That’s entrapment, detective.”

You scowled. “Fuck you.”

“Now let’s talk about that,” he said. “You seem pretty committed to the bit, huh?”

You hesitated. “I…I don’t….”

“It’s okay. The thing is, I really want to fuck you too. Don’t pretend like you haven’t been thinking about it all night,” he said, cutting off your protest before it could materialize. “Bet that thong’s nice and wet, huh?”

You smacked his arm. “You’re an ass.”

“I know it.” He leaned back, gave you a little space. “Look at it this way. You absolutely can’t use that recording now, right? So this has been one hell of a waste of your time.”

“Looks like it,” you shot back.

“It doesn’t have to be.” There it was again, that sweet, sincere expression. “Let me make your night, princess. We’re two consenting adults.”

“No way.”

“Why not? I’ll even tell Nick he was wrong and you are just a whore.”

You scoffed. “What an offer.”

Murph chuckled. “Come on, baby doll. You know you want to.”

You chewed the inside of your cheek, mind racing. He was right, any evidence you’d managed to collect had gone up in smoke the moment he’d outed you on tape. For all intents and purposes, after you left, you were never here. And if he could shield you from Nick O’Brien’s wrath….

He tucked his finger beneath your chin and leaned in. “Please?”

Your breath caught. You did want him. You let your eyes drift shut as his lips found yours. His kiss lacked any hint of malice, was all softness and sensuality. Your hands hovered to his face and you caved, kissing him back, kissing him harder, grabbing his shoulders to tug him on top of you.

To your surprise, he resisted. “Mm – hey.”

“Shut up.”

“Wait.” He pulled back. “Probably best we get that wire off, huh?”

You narrowed your eyes. “The wire, or the dress?”

Murph shrugged. “Both. I’ll get naked too, if it makes you feel better.”

He peeled his shirt off and you were right, he looked damn good without one. The hair on his chest was blonde and curly, the hair on his stomach a shade darker, disappearing into his boxers. He had a tattoo of a shark on his left hip. You shimmied out of your dress and there was the mic taped securely between your breasts, the wire running down your stomach to a small receiver at your hip.

“Fuck.” He reached out and peeled it off, the brush of his thumb sending goosebumps flaring across your skin. “You’re gorgeous, girl.”

You grabbed him by the beltloops. “Come here.”

“Whatever you say.”

He sprawled on top of you and you caught him on your lips, scrambling up the mattress and pulling him along with you. He scooped you into his arms and rolled onto his side, hitched your leg over his hip, grabbed at your ass. You palmed him through his jeans and he threw his head back and moaned.

“Pants are too fuckin’ tight,” he complained.

“Whose fault is that?”

“Yours.”

You undid his fly and slid your hand into his pants, feeling him up through his boxers. He was thick. He writhed as you stroked him purposefully, caught between working his jeans off and melting into your touch.

“What’s the matter?” you teased.

“Driving me fucking crazy. Hold on. Fuck.” He swatted your hand away and stripped off everything at once and you must’ve been on your game at least a little bit tonight because he did indeed have a gorgeous cock. You wrapped your hand around it before he could even settle back beside you and he groaned, collapsing onto his back.

“Jesus Christ, Murph.” Your fingers only just met around his girth. “You’re huge.”

“I know,” he grumbled. “We can take it slow, it’s – fuck – it’s okay.”

You didn’t expect him to be so considerate. “That’s awfully sweet of you.”

“It’s nothing, c’mere. Let me touch you.” He slipped his fingers past your panties and you sighed as he eased them along your slit. You could feel how wet you already were. So could he. “Goddamn…you want it bad, huh?”

“Been pressed up against you all night.”

When his thumb found your clit you jerked and gasped. “Take it easy, baby, I got you. Like that?” He worked you in soft, slow circles that had you bucking against his hand.

“Yeah. Like that.”

You were wound up and desperate for him by the time he pushed his fingers into you, cursing under his breath at the sound they made as he scissored them in and out. The man could multitask, rutting into your hand as he fucked you with his fingers. His kisses were sloppy, without pretense. When you squeezed his balls he moaned shamelessly into your mouth.

“You like that?” you asked him coyly.

“Yeah.”

“Feels good?”

“Feels so fucking good. Get on top of me, girl.”

You obliged, straddling his hips, holding his dick where you wanted so you could grind against him. His head lolled and he let out a vocal sigh, grabbing at the blanket, grabbing at your waist, arching his spine. You were torn between watching his face and watching his cock part your lips as you rocked back and forth. When you reached behind your back to tug at his balls again he whined.

“Need to be inside you, baby, please?”

“I don’t know if I’m ready yet.” You were absolutely ready.

He squeezed his eyes shut, furrowed his brow. “That’s fine, yeah. That’s okay.”

“I can try….” You lowered yourself onto him slowly, so slowly, easing just the head of his cock into you.

“God – fucking – “

“How’s that?”

“So good, baby, that’s so g – fuck.” He bit his lip hard as you sank a little further down. “It’s perfect, you’re perfect.”

You sighed in bliss. “You gonna cum already, Connors?”

“No way. I’m good. You good?”

“I’m great.”

You took him all the way at a glacial pace just to see him squirm, half an inch at a time until he filled you completely. His gaze was locked on your pussy, stretched snug around him, and when his eyes finally wandered up to meet yours his pupils were blown in the darkness.

“Fuck me?” he said breathlessly.

You rolled your hips slow and he groaned, gripping the flesh of your thighs. You rode him lazily, reveling in every little sound that escaped from his mouth, the way his lashes fluttered when you switched up the angle. When he fumbled for your clit in the meager light you took his hand and guided him to it, letting out a soft squeak when he found it. Your cunt clenched tight and he shuddered.

“Easy, tiger.” You slid your hands up his stomach, over his chest. When your thumbs brushed across his nipples he responded with a broken moan and a full-body flinch. “Oh, sweet boy.” He was done for.

You bent low over him and laved your tongue around his nipple, sucking greedily, worrying the other one between your fingers. He choked out a sound that was downright indecent, tangling his hand in your hair and grinding up into you, helpless and needy. The change in position pressed his cock to your g-spot and you rabbited your hips in short, quick thrusts until you were both frenzied and panting.

His beard was coarse as you combed your fingers through it, admiring his flushed and handsome face. “Pretty boy. You feel so good.”

“You’re hot as fuck,” he muttered, shaking his head. “That pussy is – fuck.”

You smiled at him. He was sexy like this, so thoroughly dazed and disheveled, whimpering when you flexed around him. “What are you gonna give me if I let you cum inside?”

“A million dollars,” he said immediately. “Are you for real? Two million dollars.”

You laughed. “No way you have two million dollars.”

“I can get it.” He said it like he meant it.

You gripped his hair and kissed him, lapping at his tongue. His big hands were warm and gentle on your waist. “How about you let me finish first?”

“How about I let you finish first and I give you my number?”

“Is that for my benefit or yours?”

“Mutual benefit, baby doll.”

“Deal.”

His muscles flexed under your hands as he sat up and adjusted you in his lap, wrapping his arms around you, kissing you hungrily. He dug his nails into your back as your mouth wandered down his neck, licking the sweat from his skin, blazing a trail of love bites and kisses, sucking a sultry purple hickey into the center of his tattoo.

“I got work in the morning,” he protested weakly.

“Good,” you said. “They’re gonna love it.”

He offered you his thumb and you wrapped your lips around it, watching his expression turn desperate as you sucked a shade past innocence. He tugged it from your mouth with a pop, snaked his hand between your bodies and felt for your clit.

You made a soft, dreamy sound when he stroked you just right. He was damn good with his hands. “Let me make you feel good, baby,” he murmured. “Wanna make that pussy fucking drip.”

You let him work you up for a minute and then took up a gradual rhythm, eyes closed, grinding on him with intention. Wave after wave of steady-building sensation coursed through you, tightening the clutch of your body around him. You were so full, pulled tight, the friction addictive. You could feel it, that swing and pull like gravity, his body coaxing yours to the brink.

“That’s it, princess, let me see it.”

You pawed at his shoulders. “Murph….”

“You gonna cum for me?” he breathed.

“Yes – God –”

“Fuck, you better cum for me, I can’t –”

You felt the swell of your release in your core and cried out, burying your face in his shoulder and clawing at his biceps, riding him through it. Pleasure washed through your veins. Your cunt spasmed in staccato bursts, stretched to its limit.

Murph inhaled sharply, his whole body tense. You felt him quiver inside you. “Baby – baby – please –”

Hazy and gratified, you strung kisses along his jaw, snapped your hips until he started to come apart. “Come on, big boy, cum for me.”

With satisfaction, you watched his eyes roll back as he let go and it was better than you’d imagined, the way his lips parted and a strangled groan twisted free, the way he threw his head back like some feral animal under the moon. You gasped at the throb and pulse of him inside you, sending vestigial sparks spiraling off into your core.

He slumped forward with his forehead pressed to yours and let out a heavy sigh. “Fuck,” he mumbled.

“Fuck,” you agreed.

You moved to extricate yourself and he grunted, tightened his arms around you. “You got somewhere to be?”

“We should probably get back out there.” You had no idea how much time had passed. The music was still going strong in the next room; you couldn’t imagine anyone had called it a night.  

He pressed a kiss to your temple. “No way, baby.”

You laughed, smoothing his hair back from his brow. “We can’t stay in here.”

“We could,” he said. “We could sleep here.”

You shook your head. “O’Brien’s going to be pissed at you.”

“He’s always pissed. Don’t bring him up. This is a nice moment.”

With a laugh, you said, “You’re right. It is.”

You laid your head on his shoulder and listened to his heartbeat for a few minutes more before pulling away in spite of his protests. “You’re breaking my heart,” he complained.

“You’ll have to text me later so I can break it again.”

“Do you need a ride home?”

“No, I’ll call a cab.”

“You don’t want a police escort?”

“I’m a fucking cop, Murph.”

“Oh. Right.” He watched you dress. “What’s your name? Your real name.”

You told him, smiled when he repeated it to himself. “Do you really surf?”

“All the time. I love it.”

“I have a confession. I hate the beach.”

Murph gave you a crooked smile. “Bet I can change your mind.”

He offered his arm to stabilize you as you stepped into your absurdly high heels, wound the wire around his hand neatly and gave it to you to hide away in your bra. He called after you as you made for the door. “Hey.”

You turned. He sat on the edge of the bed, hair mussed, light from the streetlamp out the window cutting lines across his bare chest.

“Kiss me goodnight?” he said without a hint of sarcasm.

Fuck, he was cute. You wobbled back across the carpet and took his face in your hands, kissed him long and sweet. “Goodnight, tiger.”

He took your hand as you pulled away and kissed your fingers, and then finally, reluctantly let you go. “’Night, princess.”

You slipped back into the main room, met the chorus of heckling with a beatific smile. You exchanged a few words with your girl from the corner, let her know you wouldn’t need a ride home. She gave you a look; you gave it right back; she gave you a subtle nod of approval.

On your way out you shot a glance at O’Brien. You couldn’t help it. He had a look on his face that could curdle milk, watching you like a hawk. You supposed it was alright you hadn’t managed to get very far with him, all things considered.

You gave him a delicate finger wave, blew him a kiss. “Thanks for the invite.”

“Get the fuck out.”

You winked at him as you ducked out the door. “Your wish, sweetheart.”

[phryneluvbot]

so, I basically live tweeted my (third) watch of crypt on twitter (it's the same name as in here, if anyone interested), so let me just drop everything I passed by this entire evening:

goofy opening, but where is my dancing silhouette and the 1920's godly music?

detective inspector jack robinson would like to know your location

tip: ALWAYS keep your sight on that woman, ALWAYS

I just love how phryne changed from a golden dress to a red outfit (I love it btw) that quickly, also one of her 8 languages is arabic!? MY GIRL!!

PRISON BREAK OUT FOR AN INNOCENT GIRL WHO WANTS TO SHARE THE TRUTH OF HER VILLAGE?! PHRYNE, YOU ARE AN AMAZING WOMAN

PLEASE GET INSIDE THE TRAIN PHRYNE, PLEASE GET-

oh...

oh...

oh no... she did actually... oh my god no

OMG DOTTIE IS PREGNANT AND VULNERABLE, MUST PROTECT AT ALL COSTS (and hugh too)

(also, the only scene where we saw a part of the wardlow crew - where's mr butler, mac - HER BEST FRIEND, AND JANE, HER DAUGHTER!? COULDN'T WE SEE THEIR REACTIONS!?)

so, he never went after her... makes it even more heartbreaking

he even still saved the photos, his face showing the tears being retracted... I want to hug you so badly jack

"You meant so much more to Phryne"

OK, THAT MAKES IT EVEN MORE PAINFUL, I-

on the floor, crying and sobing

oh, aunt prudence is here (but not phryne's parents, on their daughter's funeral - I might get that most likely they have trauma from Janey and couldn't mark their presence in another funeral for their last daughter, but it would have been nice to be present and meet her boyfriend - aka jack - who is noticeably suffering a lot)

SO, YOU WERE ACTUALLY ALIVE THE LAST 6 WEEKS!? COULD HAVE JUST SENT A LETTER TO SOMEONE, GIRL-

I get it that she didn't knew she was presumed dead, that would have worried everyone she knew and loved, so it was a perfect time to apologize and show the empathic phryne we love

instead it was a "oh" and some awkard smilling

Phryne, I love you, a lot... But you can do better, and especially that you saw the man that loves you the most broken

"I came here for one thing, to farewell you. Farewell" I could hear the pain on his voice, poor Jack...

Well, this scene was iconic

"Jack, are you awake?"

well, he said he wasn't

proceeds to appear on the church moments later

and the man was murdered

and they can't leave england (my condolences)

oh, this is ending badly

"And I am sorry if I am not dead"

phryne, don't say the word "death" to that man again, he thought you died twice in the space of a few months (idk, this movie doesn't even say how after it is from the show). I understand that you might be hurt that he never came after you, I really do, but please, the poor man is still processing that he almost lost you.

also, both (still) don't know what personal space means

(kinky)

oh, so that thing is cursed and... oh, this movie is like if indiana jones was an australian detective, good to know

from the creators of "singing in the rain", we present you "almost kissing in the rain"

oh, you're going to break in his house, so you while use your old stealth black outfit like in melbourne, righ-

why. did you. chose to use. a jumper. with. your. initials. (I still love it, and the entire ouftit, I'd like one of those too please designers)

ooooh, he brought her a gift (and tuxedo jack, meow)

please, both of, learn what personal space is

oooh, they're dancing again... cute

arguing

more arguing

Palestinian man finds out that the people of the country that occupied his country are all douchebags

HE DIED, HE GOT SHOT AT THE HEART, WHY!?

Sharim, I am so sorry...

oh, those guys again... great

well, now they're going to Palestine and find the crypt of tears (OMG IT'S THE NAME OF THE MOVIE)

"I just hope she doesn't fly like she drives"

"I HEARD THAT!"

they are so married

oh, it's a mercenary... well, we're getting of quickly then

bombastic side eye

woman, why are you so hot?

Jack, she just wanted to take the gun, don't worry...

and now they have no guidance, great-

Phryne, we both know how it ends

steps on quicksand

"JaCK, I NEED YOUR HELP!"

Jack continues to not give a fuck after their arguing

"IT'S QUICKSAND"

Jack proceeds to run into her

"I'm not losing you like this, not after all the stupid ways I've nearly lost you."

"WHAT STUPID WAYS?"

Phryne, we both know which stupid ways

not saying a thing, just admiring

ok, they found one of the points of the map, they just need to connect all and boom: entrance found

damn, nice crypt

lesson of the day: don't ever trust "british" man

and it wasn't an accident, YOU MURDERED A VILLAGE AND DOOMED THAT GIRL'S LIFE, THAT IS NOT CALLED AN ACCIDENT

and of course the butler was part of this, and jonathon's father!? Ok...

he thinks he's cursed, blames everything on himself, and wants to die there so he can be free and find forgiveness from the people of the village... I hope you have found forgiveness jonathon, and that your father is going to suffer forever

goodbye sharim, we're all hoping you can motivate many other young girls and women with your spirit

Yeah, trying to shoot a giant spider is a very Phryne thing

Yay, Jack "killed it"

"It's my only fear, Jack. Apart from spending a long flight with Aunt Prudence"

omg, it's going to happen...

"You're afraid if you fall in love with me, I'll turn you into a policeman's wife and... try to stop you from saving the world." Jack, you are so wrong (except on the marriage part, she would only accept one in her own terms)

"And I don't need to marry. I just need your heart, as god knows you've already got mine"

"Jack, I've already gave you my heart a long time ago."

OMG, IT'S ACTUALLY GOING TO HAPPEN

"For a detective you don't notice much"

IT HAPPENED, IT HAPPENED, IT ACTUALLY-

dies in excessive fangirling

THEY FUCKED, THEY FUCKED, THEY ACTUALLY FUCKED!! THE PHRACK SEX IS REAL!!

and it ends with a teaser for a sequel... that atp I think we won't get (hope I am wrong)

well, that was fun, now it's the spin off left (that got cancelled after season 2 of finished-)

[transexualpirate]

chico buarque was really like hey i wrote this amazing musical about a loveable douchebag man that everyone will love. yeah it has hookers and a detective and a big strong man the straights will looove this. and then you watch it and everyone's either trans gay or a communist. or all of the above