#The Burning Train Remake

[beeclops]

[ms-demeanor]

Why reblog machine-generated art?

When I was ten years old I took a photography class where we developed black and white photos by projecting light on papers bathed in chemicals. If we wanted to change something in the image, we had to go through a gradual, arduous process called dodging and burning.

When I was fifteen years old I used photoshop for the first time, and I remember clicking on the clone tool or the blur tool and feeling like I was cheating.

When I was twenty eight I got my first smartphone. The phone could edit photos. A few taps with my thumb were enough to apply filters and change contrast and even spot correct. I was holding in my hand something more powerful than the huge light machines I'd first used to edit images.

When I was thirty six, just a few weeks ago, I took a photo class that used Lightroom Classic and again, it felt like cheating. It made me really understand how much the color profiles of popular web images I'd been seeing for years had been pumped and tweaked and layered with local edits to make something that, to my eyes, didn't much resemble photography. To me, photography is light on paper. It's what you capture in the lens. It's not automatic skin smoothing and a local filter to boost the sky. This reminded me a lot more of the photomanipulations my friend used to make on deviantart; layered things with unnatural colors that put wings on buildings or turned an eye into a swimming pool. It didn't remake the images to that extent, obviously, but it tipped into the uncanny valley. More real than real, more saturated more sharp and more present than the actual world my lens saw. And that was before I found the AI assisted filters and the tool that would identify the whole sky for you, picking pieces of it out from between leaves.

You know, it's funny, when people talk about artists who might lose their jobs to AI they don't talk about the people who have already had to move on from their photo editing work because of technology. You used to be able to get paid for basic photo manipulation, you know? If you were quick with a lasso or skilled with masks you could get a pretty decent chunk of change by pulling subjects out of backgrounds for family holiday cards or isolating the pies on the menu for a mom and pop. Not a lot, but enough to help. But, of course, you can just do that on your phone now. There's no need to pay a human for it, even if they might do a better job or be more considerate toward the aesthetic of an image.

And they certainly don't talk about all the development labs that went away, or the way that you could have trained to be a studio photographer if you wanted to take good photos of your family to hang on the walls and that digital photography allowed in a parade of amateurs who can make dozens of iterations of the same bad photo until they hit on a good one by sheer volume and luck; if you want to be a good photographer everyone can do that why didn't you train for it and spend a long time taking photos on film and being okay with bad photography don't you know that digital photography drove thousands of people out of their jobs.

My dad told me that he plays with AI the other day. He hosts a movie podcast and he puts up thumbnails for the downloads. In the past, he'd just take a screengrab from the film. Now he tells the Bing AI to make him little vignettes. A cowboy running away from a rhino, a dragon arm-wrestling a teddy bear. That kind of thing. Usually based on a joke that was made on the show, or about the subject of the film and an interest of the guest.

People talk about "well AI art doesn't allow people to create things, people were already able to create things, if they wanted to create things they should learn to create things." Not everyone wants to make good art that's creative. Even fewer people want to put the effort into making bad art for something that they aren't passionate about. Some people want filler to go on the cover of their youtube video. My dad isn't going to learn to draw, and as the person who he used to ask to photoshop him as Ant-Man because he certainly couldn't pay anyone for that kind of thing, I think this is a great use case for AI art. This senior citizen isn't going to start cartooning and at two recordings a week with a one-day editing turnaround he doesn't even really have the time for something like a Fiverr commission. This is a great use of AI art, actually.

I also know an artist who is going Hog Fucking Wild creating AI art of their blorbos. They're genuinely an incredibly talented artist who happens to want to see their niche interest represented visually without having to draw it all themself. They're posting the funny and good results to a small circle of mutuals on socials with clear information about the source of the images; they aren't trying to sell any of the images, they're basically using them as inserts for custom memes. Who is harmed by this person saying "i would like to see my blorbo lasciviously eating an ice cream cone in the is this a pigeon meme"?

The way I use machine-generated art, as an artist, is to proof things. Can I get an explosion to look like this. What would a wall of dead computer monitors look like. Would a ballerina leaping over the grand canyon look cool? Sometimes I use AI art to generate copyright free objects that I can snip for a collage. A lot of the time I use it to generate ideas. I start naming random things and seeing what it shows me and I start getting inspired. I can ask CrAIon for pose reference, I can ask it to show me the interior of spaces from a specific angle.

I profoundly dislike the antipathy that tumblr has for AI art. I understand if people don't want their art used in training pools. I understand if people don't want AI trained on their art to mimic their style. You should absolutely use those tools that poison datasets if you don't want your art included in AI training. I think that's an incredibly appropriate action to take as an artist who doesn't want AI learning from your work.

However I'm pretty fucking aggressively opposed to copyright and most of the "solid" arguments against AI art come down to "the AIs viewed and learned from people's copyrighted artwork and therefore AI is theft rather than fair use" and that's a losing argument for me. In. Like. A lot of ways. Primarily because it is saying that not only is copying someone's art theft, it is saying that looking at and learning from someone's art can be defined as theft rather than fair use.

Also because it's just patently untrue.

But that doesn't really answer your question. Why reblog machine-generated art? Because I liked that piece of art.

It was made by a machine that had looked at billions of images - some copyrighted, some not, some new, some old, some interesting, many boring - and guided by a human and I liked it. It was pretty. It communicated something to me. I looked at an image a machine made - an artificial picture, a total construct, something with no intrinsic meaning - and I felt a sense of quiet and loss and nostalgia. I looked at a collection of automatically arranged pixels and tasted salt and smelled the humidity in the air.

I liked it.

I don't think that all AI art is ugly. I don't think that AI art is all soulless (i actually think that 'having soul' is a bizarre descriptor for art and that lacking soul is an equally bizarre criticism). I don't think that AI art is bad for artists. I think the problem that people have with AI art is capitalism and I don't think that's a problem that can really be laid at the feet of people curating an aesthetic AI art blog on tumblr.

Machine learning isn't the fucking problem the problem is massive corporations have been trying hard not to pay artists for as long as massive corporations have existed (isn't that a b-plot in the shape of water? the neighbor who draws ads gets pushed out of his job by product photography? did you know that as recently as ten years ago NewEgg had in-house photographers who would take pictures of the products so users wouldn't have to rely on the manufacturer photos? I want you to guess what killed that job and I'll give you a hint: it wasn't AI)

Am I putting a human out of a job because I reblogged an AI-generated "photo" of curtains waving in the pale green waters of an imaginary beach? Who would have taken this photo of a place that doesn't exist? Who would have painted this hypersurrealistic image? What meaning would it have had if they had painted it or would it have just been for the aesthetic? Would someone have paid for it or would it be like so many of the things that artists on this site have spent dozens of hours on only to get no attention or value for their work?

My worst ratio of hours to notes is an 8-page hand-drawn detailed ink comic about getting assaulted at a concert and the complicated feelings that evoked that took me weeks of daily drawing after work with something like 54 notes after 8 years; should I be offended if something generated from a prompt has more notes than me? What does that actually get the blogger? Clout? I believe someone said that popularity on tumblr gets you one thing and that is yelled at.

What do you get out of this? Are you helping artists right now? You're helping me, and I'm an artist. I've wanted to unload this opinion for a while because I'm sick of the argument that all Real Artists think AI is bullshit. I'm a Real Artist. I've been paid for Real Art. I've been commissioned as an artist.

And I find a hell of a lot of AI art a lot more interesting than I find human-generated corporate art or Thomas Kincaid (but then, I repeat myself).

There are plenty of people who don't like AI art and don't want to interact with it. I am not one of those people. I thought the gay sex cats were funny and looked good and that shitposting is the ideal use of a machine image generation: to make uncopyrightable images to laugh at.

I think that tumblr has decided to take a principled stand against something that most people making the argument don't understand. I think tumblr's loathing for AI has, generally speaking, thrown weight behind a bunch of ideas that I think are going to be incredibly harmful *to artists specifically* in the long run.

Anyway. If you hate AI art and you don't want to interact with people who interact with it, block me.

[the-one-and-only-duckduckgo]

I (finally) finished Season one during my 7 hour long train ride, and since nobody asked, here's a new summary.

The Magnus Archives but I've finished season one (and that didn't help with the confusion)

There's Jon. He's an Archivist, and he got that anxiety rizz™

He also sounds like his life would crumbie in pieces if he doesn't have a seventh cup of coffee before the sun rises.

I can relate.

One of the causes of his anxiety seems to be his least favourite colleague, Martin.

Martin is described as unqualified, suspected to be a ghost and sent into various deadly situations.

He also sleeps in Jalapeño's bed.

I FUCKING LOVE GERARD KEAY

Everyone works in a modern remake of the Library of Alexandria, which would be very cool if there weren't a lot of murderous creatures.

(there are a lot of murderous creatures)

And worms. Would we still love them if they were human? Probably not.

Everything is ruled by a guy named Elias Bouchard. Everyone told me that he's nice.

In what world is a guy named fucking Bouchard nice?

Jane Prentiss is spreading the worm agenda.

SHE DESERVED MORE THAN THAT HELP IS THERE A CHARITY WHERE I CAN GIVE HER A VIRTUAL HUG???

Michael the eldritch horror is very lovely.

OH AND I DIDN'T TELL YOU BUT JALAPEÑO USES THE TAPE RECORDER CAUSE THE STATEMENTS DON'T WORK ON COMPUTER. THERE'S A REASON BEHIND ALL THAT.

That also means that there are statements that can be recorded on the computer and that we therefore don't see. I want to know what they're about.

#JusticeForSasha2k24

I am still lost in the English names.

Gerard Keay still burns books.

But that's ok, cause they're evil books from BLOODY JÜRGEN LEITNER I HATE JÜRGEN LEITNER DON'T GET ME STARTED ON THIS USELESS PIECE OF SHITTY OLD PARCHMENT WHEN HE WAS BORN HIS MOTHER CRIED AND SHOULD HAVE STRANGLED HIM I WISH HE GOES TO HELL ALTHOUGH NO HE WOULD RUIN THE GAY PARTY HAPPENING THERE I WISH HE DISAPPEARED IN THE COFFIN WE SEE AT THE BEGINNING AND WENT ON A CRUISE IN PETER LUKAS' BOAT GOD I HAVE SO MANY THINGS TO SAY ABOUT THIS LITERARY DISHONOUR. Fuck you, Leitner.

Hmm, yeah. Sorry. Where was I?

Season one's over, still no trace of the queer rep I was teased with.

Although, that may be a good thing, given the fact that as soon as a gay appears, they get killed/ replaced/ vanished by by some antique object.

Does that mean antique objects are homophobes?

Although these antiques come from Salesa's shop. Perhaps Salesa's the real straight supremacist here.

Selling dangerous items seems like a rentable activity tho. I should do the same.

Starting from now. Does anyone want a totally-not-illegal coffin? Antique dolls? You get your money back if they kill you.

So...uh...yeah. Good show. Amazing sound effects. Watch it. Wahoo.

[kennedybaby]

TIPSY ~ LEON S. KENNEDY

Summary: Fucking a bartender in the back seat of his car was the last thing Leon had in mind after successfully retrieving Ashley back to safety.

Word count: 4.495k / Warning: Mild dubcon because Leon is tipsy. Anything is just pure filth.

Pairing: Post Re4 Remake! Leon S. Kennedy X Fem! Bartender! Reader.

Author note: got horny and accidentally vomit out 4k words of leon fucking you. sorry, it's just the girl tendencies in me. read the tags to know what to expect!!! 🤍

mature contents below the cut. mdni.

Leon needed some sort of a quick stress reliever.

His knuckles gradually turned white as he tightly gripped his steering wheel. His chin leaning on his other hand, the faint buzzing noise from the radio accompanied by his soft breathing was the only company he had. Leon had debated with himself, a part of him missed his bed like crazy, all he wanted to do was bury his body between the soft cushions and dozed off into a long, serene slumber. But a part of him itches for something. He needed a drink, anything to get that surge of dopamine in his body. Need the familiar bile taste to settle in his mouth as he chugs it down his throat, letting it burn his chest.

Leon Scott Kennedy needs some alcohol in his system. Desperately.

Running his gloved fingers thru his damp hair, Leon let out a soft chuckle upon seeing a bar from afar, almost as if his desperate plea was answered by God himself. Its neon sign flashing OPEN 24/7 in bright red LED lights, he could see a few drunkards already passing out on the sidewalk, holding onto their beer bottles before he parked his car around the corner. Putting his car keys in his pocket, Leon budged open the door of the bar, greeted by the sound of the bell atop the door chimes. The heavy scent of tobacco, hard liquor and sweat was evident as it clings to the air— not to mention the odour of sex grows stronger and pungent as he goes even deeper into the crowds to reach the counter.

Leon finds himself a seat on one of the stools, an exasperated sigh leaving his lips before the feeling of someone standing over him crept onto him. He lifted his face, sparing a small, tired smile at you as you returned with a polite one.

‘Cute,’ He thought.

“You look tired, want me to fix you up with something?” You raised your voice a little, making sure he can hear you amid the blasting music as you leaned closer to him, Leon got a slight whiff of your refreshing, floral perfume. It was pleasant, a stark contrast from the stench that the bar seemed to be festering with. You were pretty, clad in a black blouse with your sleeves rolled to your elbow, a beige apron wrapping around your waist as you pressed your hands on the counter with a bright smile on your face.

“Just a shot of Vodka, please,” Leon replied, his eyes remaining trained on your face. You give his request a firm nod, turning your back to Leon as he watches you step on a stool before reaching for the bottle of Vodka on the top shelf.

“Need some help there?” Leon teased, a soft chuckle emitted from him as you rolled your eyes teasingly. “Thanks, but no thanks.” You replied to him, getting off the stool before you turned to face him again.

Putting the shot glass in front of him before you pour the Vodka in, making sure not to overflow the shot glass. “Thank you, pretty girl.” He whispered, his voice dropping an octave lower before you flash him a grin, your cheeks heating up before you remain your composure.

“Anytime, handsome.”

Sure, you’ve been flirted by your customers before. Mostly by married older men who're too drunk to even form a proper sentence, easing you into coming back home with them and they’ll show you a great time. You wouldn’t be too phased with it, assuming it was just the liquor talking— but this? This was different.

Somehow hearing this attractive man you have never seen before calling you a pretty girl sent heat coursing up your cheeks. Maybe it’s his looks or his voice, or the fact that you hadn’t been able to fuck for weeks since you were too busy with bartending and college classes hence you being fairly sexually frustrated but you paid extra attention to him.

Not that he’s complaining, Leon’s not the type to turn a lady’s attention away from him.

“You’re new here?” You strike up a conversation with him which is something you would normally avoid to do so. Leon smirked at you, chugging down the Vodka shot in one go before he let out a sharp breath. His eyes met back to yours before he cocked his head to the side, “Yeah, just wanted to find somewhere to rest, past weeks have been crazy.” He replied, his eyes shifted to the empty shot. “I might be here for a while, mind keeping a tab for me?” Leon poured himself another shot, his finger grazing around the rim of the shot glass before looking up into your eyes.

“Aren’t you too young to be bartending?"

“What are you a cop or something?” You raised your eyebrow with a teasing smile on your lips, jotting down his tab before pushing it to the side. A chuckle left his lips before Leon speaks again, “Eh, kind of. So how old are you?"

“21. No breaking laws here, officer.” Slightly raising both of your hands in the air jokingly, Leon grinned at your antics, chugging his second shot of Vodka.

“No worries, pretty girl. But why here, though? Why work in a bar?”

“It pays me well plus I needed some quick cash. My dad isn’t too keen on giving me some money so here I am.” You said, pouring him his third shot of Vodka as he smiled at you.

“How come?”

“Let’s just say he's not the nicest.” You shrugged, watching as his adam apple's bobs every time he chugged the Vodka shot down his throat. His pale cheeks already began to redden up a little, adoring his porcelain skin with a pink tint. Leon extended his hand to you and you happily accepted it, giving him a firm handshake before you exchanged introductions with each other.

“Leon Kennedy. And you are?”

“[Y/N] [L/N].”

The two of you converse for hours, pouring him shot after shot and with every shot he takes, Leon would flirt with you. He’s still pretty sober despite the high intake of Vodka shots, he seems pretty calm in his seat— occasionally winking at you when you’re serving other customers and throwing cheesy pick-up lines between the conversation.

Leon can’t lie but finds himself attracted to you, ordering more and more drinks in hopes of keeping your attention on him. He loves the way you blushed at the slightest contact of his hands or the way you would look at him back with a twinge of desire circling behind those eyes of yours. Fuck, you’re too hot for him to be this tipsy.

Once in a while when you were talking, his eyes would shift down to your lips, cock straining against his pants as you licked your lips and looked up to him with that evident obliviousness plastered all over your pretty face to his impure thoughts.

“Your total is 200 dollars. Cash or card?” You smiled at him, handing him the tab you had for him with a card reader in your other hand. Leon ran his card swiftly on the card reader before he put them back into his wallet and stuffed them back into his pocket. Shifting your eyes to the clock, a hint of disappointment could be seen on your face before you quickly muster a small smile for Leon.

“It’s already twelve? Well, it’s been nice talking to you, Leon." Untying the beige apron around your waist, you placed it on the lower counter. Leon was quick to wrap his fingers around your wrist to stop you in your tracks.

“I can give you a ride back home if you want.”

You can definitely say this was a different type of a ride back home.

“Your lips taste so fucking sweet."

Straddling his hips with your thighs wrapped around his waist at the backseat, Leon has his arm around your waist. His other hand cupped the right side of your face, circling his thumb on your cheek as you intertwined your lips with him. His tongue goes past your slick lips as his hand guides your head to tilt a little to deepen the heated kiss. Leon breaks away from the kiss, leaning his head back on the car seat as you look at him with a dazed smile.

“Shit, this is insane.” He muttered, his fingers running thru his dirty blonde hair. “What’s so insane about this?” You softly replied, your lips finding their way back to him as he happily reciprocated, kissing you back with his tongue swirling with yours. His hand on your cheek moved to the back of your head, keeping your lips locked with his as you moaned into the kiss. Pulling away from the kiss for air, Leon strokes your hair as he runs his fingers thru your locks.

“Never really made out with a girl prior after knowing her for a couple of hours." Leon chuckled, his head slightly tilted as he looked back into your eyes with a half-lidded stare. He can feel the heat radiating from your cunt and God knows how much of the effect you had on him. “Well, I don’t usually accept a ride back home from a stranger but here we are.”

“It’s a first for the two of us then.” He grinned, a devilish smirk playing on his lips before his hand removed his hand from the back of your head. Unwrapping his arm around your waist, Leon moved both of his hands and settled them on your hips. His thumb makes a circular motion on the surface of your stomach as hummed with satisfaction. “You can do more than that, can you, officer?"

Right. You don't even know what he actually works as. That’s how little you two know of each other and yet his bodies and yours slotted perfectly like two pieces of puzzles. As if the two of you had known each other forever. Leon preferred the anonymity between the two of them.

“You’re going to make me lose control if you keep calling me that," Leon chuckled, the sound of his husky voice ringing in your ears. You noticed how your lipgloss was all over his lips, the beautiful pink sheen smeared on his lips down to his chin. “What should I call you then? Daddy?”

Leon let out a groan, his smile widening at the way your voice sounded when you rolled the word daddy off the tip of your tongue smoothly— you’re can’t be teasing him when he’s this horny and tipsy. He can't even think properly, too fixated on the positions he can put you in at the back seat of his car, clouding his mind with endless indecent imagination. He swallowed thickly, looking back at your eyes as you bit your lower lip back at him and flashed him a playful smile. “Say it again.”

“Daddy.” You breathed out, eyes shooting wide when his fingers brushed against your collarbone as he pried your blouse open, sending the buttons of your blouse to fly everywhere. Your body tensed up from the sudden action, his warm breath hitting against your skin as he kissed your collarbone and stopped between your chest. “Yeah, call me that.”

“Gladly.” Pulling away from your chest, he leaned in closer to your face, pulling your face into his as he smashed his lips on yours— engaging you into a messy, sloppy kiss. His tongue forcefully parted your pursed lips, exploring every corner of your mouth as you let out a pathetic whine when he pulled away. “God, you’re so needy. My needy little girl,” You can feel the ache between your thighs building up when he called you a little girl. Your cunt throbbed against the thin fabric of your cotton panties as he slipped his hand down your pencil skirt, his index finger teasing the pulsing little clit thru the fabric of your panties in a circular motion as he softly chuckled when you began to squirm in his grasp.

“You're already so wet. You’re excited for daddy to fuck you stupid?” He whispered into your ear, shooting shivers down your spine as you nodded at his question. “Let me hear your voice, pretty girl.” Leon landed a firm spank on your ass, sending your back straight as your fingers cling to his black T-Shirt. “I-I am excited...”

“There's my good girl. Open your mouth for me.” You obeyed him, parting your lips before he stuck the same index and middle finger he teased your clit earlier. “Get it nice and wet for your pussy, baby.” Leon smiled, occasionally letting out a grunt as the warmth of your mouth and your hot tongue wrapped around his digits.

All Leon could do is wish it was his cock you were sucking, taking every inch of his shaft down your throat. He wanted to see the outline of his cock on your throat, fucking your mouth while his balls slapped against your chin as he leaves you breathless. But for now, he’d settle with fingering your pretty pussy open.

“You’re so cute sucking my fingers like that,” He breathed out, pulling his fingers out from your mouth as it let out a small pop. “Thank you, daddy.” You shyly muttered, cheeks heating up upon feeling his cock twitching in his pants and grazing against your clothed sex.

“Spread your legs up a little for daddy, baby.” Your knees dug into the cushion of his car seat as you leaned your body on his front seat. His hands helped you roll your skirt up to your pelvis. Your fingers reach down to push your panties aside, spreading the lips apart as his breath hitches. Leon mumbled a curse, his pants getting tighter and tighter by each time as he salivates over the sight of your sopping cunt.

“All this pretty pussy just for me?” You nodded at his question in which he slipped back his hand between your thighs. Leon removed the gloves from his hands before throwing them to the front seat.

“S’all for you,” Your words were slurred from fixating on the ache between your legs so much. He grinned upon hearing your answer, inserting two digits past the tight muscles as your body shuddered in pleasure. His thumb makes its way to your clit, rubbing them at a slow pace and in a circular motion. Arching your body into his touch, Leon let out a chuckle— his other hand pushing your bra up your breast before the rough surface of his palm quickly fondled your tits.

“F-Fuck... Just like that...” You moaned out, throwing your head back from pure ecstasy as his hand massaged your tit while his fingers were pumping in and out of your pussy. Apart from the sound of your wanton moans, the squelches of your cunt sucking in his fingers and the low buzz coming from the radio filled the limited space of his car. “You like that? You like getting fingered by a stranger? God, I bet you did this to all of your customers, don’t you?”

You should’ve found that disrespectful, should’ve snapped back at him for thinking that way but somehow it made you wetter. His voice was soothing and had the right amount of hoarseness that you can’t help but get off from him shaming you. Either way, you shook your head in the heat of your bliss, looking back at him with misty eyes. “No, just you, Leon... You’re the only one that I-I let you do this...”

“Good. That's what I wanted to hear from you.” He smiled before he picked up the pace of his fingers, rubbing your clit in a rougher and sloppier manner. Lips parting slightly, you gasped for air, seemingly taken aback by the sudden change of pace as your nails dug deep into his shoulder blades, gripping him tightly with the familiar knot in your lower stomach threatened to break. He loves the feeling of your spongy walls wrapped around his digits, pulsing and sucking his fingers deeper and deeper until his fingers brushed against your sweet spot.

“Oh, you love that, don’t you? Filthy whore.” The name-calling made your pussy clings onto his digits tighter as a sly smirk painted all over his lips. “Such a slut for getting off to me calling you a filthy whore, huh?” You weakly nodded, feeling yourself nearer to your limit as a whine left your lips when his fingers were pumping deep inside of you, abusing your sweet spot to its limits. Your teeth bite back your lower lip when he spits on your clit, smearing his saliva all over the bundle of nerves with his thumb.

“You’re so fucking hot, I can’t wait to have you crying on my cock.” He said in a whisper, making sure you heard him despite the overwhelming pleasure you were feeling at the moment. “L-Leon, I'm... Fuck!... C-Cummin’” You cried, not caring if anyone that walked past his car would notice how your bare body is played by Leon like a piece of instrument. God, being seen nude by people now was the least concern you had, the only thing you could think about now is finishing on his fingers.

But what’s the fun in letting his little girl have everything her way?

“No, no, I’m not letting you cum, yet.” Leon pulled out his fingers out of your sensitive cunt, wrapping his tongue around his digits as he cleaned your juices off his pruney fingers. You pouted at his words, a frustrated sigh left your lips as you leaned your head on the window. “Why not?” You asked with your eyebrows furrowed into a small frown, it was clear you weren’t happy with him suddenly edging you. His eyes on you softened before he wrapped his arms around your body, his lips pressed on your bruised lips before he gave it a little lick.

“You don’t want to cum all over daddy’s dick?” Leon asked, once again, his thumb rubbing the bone of your hip in a circular motion. His eyes looked back at yours as he put his finger under your chin, lifting your face up to make you look up at him.

“It's going to feel nicer, princess. Don't you want that?”

He was right. God, why does he always know what to say to you? He arranged words in a way that weakened your knees and sent the same aching mess rushing back between your legs.

“I do, I do want it...” You weakly replied to him. Leon doesn't think you know how pretty you are now, looking up at him with those dew eyes, the clear desperation painted across your face and the way you already began to rub your thighs together. Getting you off his lap, he opened the right door of his car. You couldn’t help but stared at his erection, straining against his black jeans as Leon unbuckled his brown, leather belt. “Come here, princess.” He gestured for you to be closer as you listened to him, inching closer to him as the cold air from the outside hits your skin. His hand reached down to tease your hardened nipples, letting a glob of his spit fall down to your chest as he lathered your nipples with his saliva and pre cum using the tip of his cock.

“It's cold, isn’t it? Don’t worry, I’d heat you up just in a sec. Ass up, face down, pretty girl.” You nodded, turning your back to him before bringing your hips higher as the leather of his car seat sticks to the sweat on your face. His cold fingers removed your panties, letting them hang just above your knees as his eyes stared at your dripping cunt with hungry eyes. A small gasp emits out of you when he tapped his cock on your slit several times, teasing your swollen clit with the head of his dick as you bite your lips back.

“Keep quiet, okay? I need you to take every inch of me like a good girl. Just let me know if it hurts.” A grunt left his lips when he pushed the tip past your lips, his other hand holding onto the doorframe of his car while the other settled around your waist. Leon wanted nothing but to push his cock and filled every corner of your tight cunt but he controlled himself from doing so. After all, the last thing he wanted to do is to hurt you after how sweet you are for him this whole night. “The head’s in... I’m going to start pushing more and more, okay?”

“O-Okay...” You whine, breathing heavily as your chest heaves up and down in an erratic pattern.

“Fuck, [Y/N], you need to stop sounding like that before...” Leon cut himself short, by now he was already halfway in you, the feeling of your velvet walls throbbing around his cock made his mouth dry before a shaky breath left his lips. A low whimper guttered out of his throat as you trembled under him, allowing him to bury his cock deeper and deeper into your pussy until your ass met his pelvis. “Feel that, princess?”

You moaned out a high-pitched yes to his question, throwing a glance at him over your shoulder as you looked at him through blurry vision. Salty tears clinging to your lashes with your bruised lips parted slightly, your eyes looking back at him with nothing but sheer desire. Leon spared you a smirk, pushing back his hair from his face before his hand landed yet another spank on your ass— seemingly turned on by the way you yelped and squeezed around him.

“Keep your eyes on me while I fucked you like the filthy whore you are.”

Leon begins to rock his hips at a slow pace, making sure you’re still adjusting to his size, his eyes shifting back and forth from your face to the way your cunt wraps snugly around his cock. Leaning closer to you until his chest pressed against your back, Leon planted a kiss on your earlobe. “You’re making me drunk from how good your pussy is, baby.” He said, kissing down the nape of your neck before he stood up back straight and began to move his hips faster.

This might just be the relief Leon needed after all of the fighting he had to endure.

“Hey, no looking away.” Every so often, he’d spanked you for not looking him in the eyes. He needs to see every contortion of expression on your face while you locked eyes with him. Leon knows you struggled to keep your eyes open, losing yourself in the pleasure as his throbbing cock goes in and out of you at a steady pace. And Leon loves it. He loves making sure your eyes are still on him, whether by spanking your already sore rear or suddenly thrusting deep inside of you to hear the small little scream you make when you’re surprised.

“Sorry, daddy.” And every time he does that, you never fail to apologize to him between your choked sobs and broken moans. It was endearing to watch, seeing you try your best to not disappoint him while he’s fucking your pussy raw in the back seat of his car. The shape of his fingers is already bruising into the skin of your flesh, the mixture of both pain and pleasure sending you over the edge as you curl your toes every time the tip of his cock grazes against your cervix. The prominent vein on the side of his cock rubbed against your walls with every thrust, fishing muffled moans out of you.

“Touch your clit for me, baby.” You’re so pathetic like this, being fucked in the backseat of a guy you just knew a few hours ago. But you knew what would happen the second you agreed to a ride back home from him. Not that you regretted it, being dicked down by Leon has been nothing but heaven for you. Obeying to his order, your hand travelled down between your thighs, putting your index finger on your swollen clit before easing it in a circular motion. “Good girl.” He growled, picking up the pace of his thrusts before he stopped in his tracks. Sweat hanging at the tip of his hair as he looked down to the ground, the pleasure was too much for him.

He can just cum any second now if he moves. Taking notice of his sudden pause, you grind your cunt into his dick, pushing him back into the warmth of your pussy as his eyes shoot wide. “F-Fuck, baby, you can’t…” He stuttered, the feeling of your tight cunt pulsing around his cock and the way your ass bouncing on him was too much for him to handled. Gritting his teeth, Leon pushed your head back down onto the leather seat, his other hand keeping a firm grip around your hips as he started to snap his hips at a rougher pace.

“Fucking slut, can’t even give daddy a rest.” He cursed under his breath, his cock ramming into your pussy deeper as if he were moulding the shape of his dick into your sweet cunt. Every last of self-control left his body the second you started bouncing on his cock. Leon couldn’t care less at the fact that you had already cummed on his cock once or how he rendered you into nothing but a crying mess— all he cared about is the high he was chasing.

Leon needed that sweet release. He needed to cum deep inside of your pussy despite having no rubber on. “I'm going to cum inside, baby, fuck, fuck, fuck….” You probably can’t hear it but Leon finds it adorable how you’re nodding your head to whatever he said. Throwing his head in pure bliss, Leon finally comes undone inside of you, shooting sticky webs of his seed deep into your cunt before he stays inside of you for a couple of minutes as he catches his breath. His cum overflows out from your pussy the seconds he pulls out, dripping down between your thighs and dirtying his leather seat with his cum and your juices.

“You're so pretty like this, [Y/N].” He groaned, putting his pants back up. Leon fished out his cell phone from his pocket, pressing the camera icon as he started recording.

“You’re recording…?” You asked, instinctively hiding your face from the camera as he laughed. “Yeah, I wouldn't want to forget a moment like this.” Leon calmly said, his fingers running between the lips as he scooped up his cum and started writing his initials on your lower back. He dragged the white, translucent liquid as he formed the L. S. K. alphabets on your skin.

“Perfect.”

p.s send me any thirsts (dc are welcomed) abt leon pls or carlos or any cod members. thank u ♡ english isn't my first language so if any of the sentences sound weird, just ignore it!!!!! anyway, thank u 4 readin’ this messy pornfic lol

[legend-the-dumb-jock]

Himbo wishing

“I wish to be a big dumb himbo” was all he said while he looked at the mirror hoping his wish would come true.

I was feeling generous with this one so I will give you exactly what you wanted. One BIG DUMB HIMBO. after taking the picture your mind instantly went blank as a big dumb laugh came out against your will. You were looking at this strange object in your hands and had no idea what it is. Already forgetting the simplest of things because a himbo like you is only going to work out. You dropped the strange object on the floor not realizing it contained the remnants what will soon be your old life. You walk to the weights and begin lifting them. You’re a pro at lifting weights now with all the training being put in your himbo brain. You weren’t even aware that you had gotten shorter while you lifted weights. Going from 6’ down to 5’6”. Your feet teaming large though at a size 13. Your arms begin to bulk up with some serious mass while your chest does the same. Your legs are getting more muscular by the minute. You keep listing weights needing to left heavier. And longer. You’re not even aware when abs begin to form but instead of remaking flat you stomach pops out into a tight gut. Firm to the touch with abs still visible. Body hair and lots of it begin to frown on your back, chest, gut—- everything. Even in your shoes your feet are getting wrapped in the dense dark forget coming out of your skin. A thick beard forms on your face and you’ll always have a 5oclock shadow now. Your body begins to produce more sweat than you could ever imagine. You’ll always be wet with sweat from this day forward now. Walking from the gym your clueless dumb brain isn’t even aware of what has happened to you. Iq plummeting and only being able to comprehend working out. Your butt begins to feel an itching and burn as your himbo brain is demanding you get used by others. Your shorts tenting in the front from the mere need to satisfy this new slutty himbo body you are cursed with. Let’s hope you are smart enough to figure out how to handle it now.

[sabrondabrainrot]

OMG Nexus and Rez🌑👾

Hee Hee more catching up on my part but OMGEE just met Nexus. What a cutie!!! I love how he he has little man syndrome. He really had to remake himself to be sooOOOOoooo tall. I also just saw Lunar's dream and met that little guy Rez. Did a fun doodle of Rez. Liking the presentation.

There's a transparent Nexus under the cut. Also! I made a transparent version comparing my New Moon Design to Nexus design. I realized they're not much different and I think it's a really funny poetic irony. Except like, Nexus is way taller then his old self.

I burned my retinas to make this arttttt

Nexus the pookie!

Then the comparison! look at that slouch lmao. I imagine Nexus likes to loom because he is so tall now.

I loved how Ruin is so intimidated by Nexus lmao, Old Man literally having to work under an emo baby.

I didn't include my signature for the transparent versions just some quick disclaimers:⚠️

🚨I've never once consented to my art being reposted or uploaded to anything that's not my accounts.

🚨I do not consent, and never will, to my art being used to train AI.

Thank you <3

[getvalentined]

I'm thinking about First SOLDIER.

I still think I'm right about the battle royale being a Synaptic Net Dive (particularly since the event in Ever Crisis where we literally faced down the system that was used to train that first round of would-be SOLDIERs in the battle royale), but the iteration of First SOLDIER in Ever Crisis isn't. Not exactly, anyway. It seems like it's whatever the energetic equivalent of the SND would be for Sephiroth, whatever you would call the way that he (and Lucrecia) can pull memories out of people's heads and put them on display, run through them and relive the experience tangibly, beat for beat—only in Ever Crisis, it's Sephiroth doing it to himself.

Sephiroth gave up his memories in Meteorfall, using his only surviving Clone as an anchor to keep his consciousness from being burned away forever—this is why the Remnants don't actually know him, because they're made from what the Lifestream remembered of him, not from his own concept of himself. He doesn't have a concept of himself anymore, he needs someone or something else to pull him back together.

Jenova "remembers," such as she can, because they were temporarily fused into one being prior to Meteorfall. This is why Kadaj's assimilation of the last piece of Jenova at the climax of Advent Children opened the way for Sephiroth to come back up out of the Lifestream, albeit in an obviously incomplete state.

Cloud also remembers, and he's special: as the only surviving Sephiroth Clone, as the man who struck him down both in Nibelheim and in the Northern Crater, as someone who actually met him prior to everything falling apart, Cloud's memories contain both the most accessible and the most complete version of Sephiroth that can currently be found.

But it's still someone else's memory, because Sephiroth doesn't remember himself.

The Sephiroth at the Edge of Creation at the end of Remake comes from some point well beyond the end of the series, postcanon by some incomprehensible degree. And he's...different. That Sephiroth uses his old personal pronoun, that Sephiroth is almost soft with Cloud—and that's the same Sephiroth as we see at the end of the opening arc of First SOLDIER, because the corresponding cutscene appears to take place just before Cloud arrives at the end of Remake.

That Sephiroth is out there at the Edge of Creation thinking about his childhood, thinking about Rhadore, thinking about Wutai, thinking about who he is and what he's done.

And he remembers. Somehow, in spite of everything, that Sephiroth remembers. He knows what happened to him, what he went through, what he did. He knows himself. And Sephiroth is not some horrifying amalgam of a extraterrestrial pathogen and the incandescent rage of a man created only to be used, he's not an incomplete echo of a memory of a hero long dead; and the Sephiroth at the Edge of Creation knows where he came from, how he got here, and everything that happened along the way.

And he's playing it back to himself.

What's he looking for? What's he hoping to see? Why did he start there, on his first field mission, where he learned the only thing he really had to prove was that he's capable of compassion? Where he learned that it's not black and white, and that death can also be mercy?

Why did he move forward to the night that he ran himself ragged saving lives in an attempt to never have to show that kind of mercy again?

That Sephiroth remembers, and he's choosing to remember this.

And I think...that might make him a Sephiroth that can be saved.

[fatallyfalling]

Bitter Water 0.03 ~ ♆

“ Let the 67th Annual Hunger Games begin, “

{{ finnick Odair x Reader }}

{{ previous part || next part }} {{ masterlist }}

warnings: typical Hunger Games violence/trauma/themes, language, blood, injury, insinuation of forced prostitution, enemies to lovers, slow burn, death, nightmares, etc

{{ word count }} 4.5 k

{{ outfits }}

{{ prompt }} The tribute Parade comes and goes as training begins and the next two weeks all but fly past. Then after an intrusive interview the day of the Games arrives.

{{ a/n }} Super quick “highlights” up ahead !! This chapter jumps around a bit and is much faster paced than normal but i swear it makes sense in the long run I just didn’t want to bore you all with regurgitated details to be revealed later on. enjoy!!

You didn’t see Finnick again.

Not even after arriving in the Capital on the train platform. A small piece of you had started to regret your outburst, but a bigger part was too stubborn to admit that. Besides, the likelihood of you seeing the boy again was slim. Thatcher was right in saying you’d be “whisked away” because everything moved incredibly fast from then on.

Your transport to the Tribute Center was quick and efficient. You were barely able to settle before a prep team all but kidnapped you and whisked you away once more to the Remake Center to prepare for the parade and opening ceremonies of the Games.

The prep team’s techniques were invasive, to say the least. Almost every inch of your skin was examined, prodded at, scrubbed, washed, plucked, waxed, moisturized, and polished when they finished the lengthy cleaning process. Even The dried blood under your fingernails had been picked away. As more time passed, the more you really did start to feel like some kind of show animal or “prize-winning salmon” leaving a sour taste in your mouth.

Managing a weak thanks as you’re handed a flimsy gown to cover up with, your prep team gives a nod before leaving. That too-clean feeling from the train ride sends pinpricks up your spine again as you sit up to slide the gown on and peer around the sleek room. It’s wide open and similar to some kind of medical bay, although much more modern than the small clinics back in District 4. Peacekeepers line the outside wall along slanted windows. There are many smothered voices behind plastic, vinyl curtains used to separate the small prep rooms down the open corridor. It’s safe to assume you’re surrounded by the other Tributes.

A stylist introduces herself to you as Hyacinth, briefly explaining the vision behind the luxurious garment as it’s pulled from a protective sleeve on the hanger in her hands. Every set of Tributes was given costumes to match their District’s core industry to wear throughout the parade. District 4’s costumes, obviously, represented their many fisheries. The garment was difficult to distinguish from any other fishing net made on your ports back home, but as the stylist began to wrap the intricate material around your exposed skin it began to look more like a costume.

You were right about the ensemble being mostly netting. Thankfully, you were provided a bodysuit that had been airbrushed to match your complexion and painted details to resemble gills across the sides of your ribs. Large iridescent blue-green fish scales had been woven in and across the netting on your chest as if splattered there, crawling up your collarbones and wrapping around your shoulders. More scales were placed down your arms towards your fingertips, and the same process was applied to your legs with a sticky substance. The bottom of the netted costume had more scales adorning the hemming, their colors changing under the lights. You were left barefoot, which you felt was a bit dangerous, but you were too focused on their intricate handiwork to object to. Your hair was left in its natural texture, although Hyacinth laid a few pieces just how she wanted them. Ear cuffs made to resemble fins wrap around the shell of your ears. Your makeup was painted on in colors to match the color-shifting scales, and your fingernails and toes were painted an ocean blue.

“You look absolutely stunning Darling,”

Hyacinth had stepped back to admire her finished product, and you couldn’t help the insecurity churning your insides. A bathing suit revealed more than a netted outfit, but you couldn’t help feeling completely exposed. “I-It is very beautiful. Thank you,” You try not to stumble on your words as you do a small twirl in the mirror. Hyacinth’s smile spreads, and she gives a giddy clap of her hands, largely appreciating the flattery.

“Wonderful Darling!! Now, come, come, we must get you downstairs. Your chariot awaits!”

You’re ushered away from the small prep room and quickly transported from the Remake Center to an open-air stadium for the Tribute Parade. Upon entering a large open hall connected to the stadium floor, you notice the twelve shiny mental chariots pulled by beautiful inky Clydesdales. The horse’s mane and tails are freshly groomed, and their coats shine in the stadium lights. You can’t help thinking what magnificent creatures they are as you approach. The other Tributes around you are resigned to themselves, talking only to their stylists or one another. Your district partner and their stylist are already beside your chariot as well. You offer a small hello but wander over to the beautiful inky-colored creatures attached to the chariot.

One of the Clydesdales gives a soft whinny as you gently reach out to stroke its mane. You’d only seen horses less than a handful of times but had always admired the strong creatures. The remaining minutes you have before the opening ceremonies begin are spent stroking the horse’s strong neck and muzzle while whispering sweet nothings to the creatures.

Once an announcement is made that the ceremony is about to begin, you give the horses a sweet smile in farewell before stepping up onto the chariot beside your District Partner. You hadn’t noticed the odd look they’d given you, but their eyes quickly averted upon you meeting their stare. That familiar anxious knot twists your insides as the gleaming chariot lurches forward to follow the procession. Your knuckles turn white from how stiff your grip on the front of the chariot is.

The parade runs smoothly, though you find the loud cheers and hollers of the hundreds of thousands gathered to watch the event extremely overwhelming. Bitterness sets in your jaw as you remember they only care about the entertainment your death will provide. Your promise echoes through your mind as you take your eyes from the grandstands to look ahead toward the President of Panem, Coriolanus Snow.

You will not die.

Training begins in the morning, bright and early. There’s officially less than two weeks before the Games. All twenty-four tributes are transported to the Training center from their quarters and dressed in nearly identical uniforms consisting of black athletic long sleeves and pants with sleek black combat boots. Burnt orange accents run up the side seams and across the shoulders of their uniforms. The only distinction between Tributes is their district number embroidered on their backs in the same burnt orange as the accents on their clothes.

You scan the large training area as everyone spreads out to show off their personal strengths. Shifting your weight between your feet, you try to focus on your brief discussion with mags over breakfast. The goal of the training is to be observed by potential sponsors who can send aid in the arena. The more sponsors you get, the better your odds of potentially surviving. Your goal wasn’t to gain as many sponsors as possible by showing off but instead focusing on honing your skills to survive without the extra gifts. With a deep inhale, you make your way to a tall rope course that stretches the expanse of the upper levels of the hall and get to work.

The first few days spent in the Training Center, you work on getting through the ropes course, then getting through the course with weights, then doing both things while being as light-footed and silent as possible. You try to distance yourself from the other tributes, especially the growing pack of careers. Your best bet is to blend in and remain invisible to keep others off your back. Tensions increase after the first week, and a fight inevitably breaks out between the careers. Two female tributes are arguing for power within the alliance, ending in the pack dividing in two. You can only hope the grudges they now carry become their downfall in the arena as you resume your knife-throwing practice.

You’re not the best, but you manage to at least hit the target a few times. By the end of the next day, you’re hitting the target, although nowhere near the center or any crucial extremities on the human cutout. It would be enough to slow an opponent but nothing lethal at long range. You tried to push away the bile that threatened to rise in your throat whenever you remembered the high possibility of actually facing another human being with these knives. You hoped it wouldn’t come down to that, but your rationale knew better. The claim you spat in that bronze-haired boy’s face rang in your ears.

“I’d rather choose death than a life with blood on my hands.”

You scrape by with a score of six during the private Tribute Showcase, nimbly traversing the ropes course with a heavy weight on your back with barely a sound. Your goal of staying under the radar had worked.

Tonight, Hyacinth was fawning over another luxurious garment designed for your impending live audience interview with the ever-charismatic and flamboyant Caesar Flickerman. The stylist monologues her vision while zipping the back of the ensemble. Your costume tonight was made to represent the sea itself, a deep aquamarine bodysuit covered in various droplet crystals hugging your form, and a makeshift cape of the same deep color fades into layers of progressively lighter sea greens and blues, mimicking the sea foam of rolling waves on the coast. The many layers of the waterfall cape move in a satisfying cascade down your back to the floor, trailing behind you.

You’re given slim boots to match the bodysuit, and your hair is pinned up to showcase your bare back and the excessive cape. Ear cuffs nearly identical to the ones you wore during the parade wrap around your ears, and your makeup is honed more to accentuate your natural features than cover them. The polish on your fingernails is a muted sea green that causes a twist in your chest. The color reminds you too much of a certain bronze-haired boy.

Regret flashes through you again.

“Alright, Darling, shoulders back. Head high, you’ll be a spectacle no one will look away from,” Hyacinth coos as she brushes the fabric across your shoulders and adjusts finishing minute details. You offer a small smile with a sweet thanks before she loops your arm in hers and leads you toward the wings backstage. You really weren’t fond of the many cameras or prying eyes that awaited beyond your shadowy safe haven out of view, but you didn’t have a choice but to smile and play the part.

The male Tribute of District 3 is wrapping up their brief interview, and that anxious knot contorts harshly inside your chest. Soon, the interviewer and interviewee stand, shake hands, and the Tribute exits stage left.

“Now, Our next Tribute hails from the northern end of our beloved District 4,”

Caesar chirps through his introduction, and a nudge from behind urges you forward at the call of your name. You startle forward but manage to keep a sureness in your steps. The bright flashing lights and mechanical snaps of cameras form an overstimulating cacophony between the roar of the Capital citizens. The host of tonight’s event is adorned in sparkling silver, from the top of his slicked-back hair down to piercing eye contacts and a monochromatic tux that you could’ve sworn was closer to chrome from the gleaming shine.

You offer a wavering smile as you approach the host. Caesar Flickerman motions you to the seat beside him as he descends to the eggshell-colored swivel chair. You take your seat, adjusting the cascading cape to flow over the arm of the chair to remain because of the audience. A chorus of “ooo’s” and “ahhh’s” reverberates through the auditorium, and you can’t help the burning flush at the tips of your ears. “You look absolutely stunning tonight, my Dear,” Caesar compliments through a picture-perfect smile. You nod in thanks as he dives right into the questions.

“So, how has Capital life been treating you?”

“Uhm, it’s been very.. different, to say the least,” You stumble a bit through your response, but Caesar simply nods and leans out to the crowd with that picture-perfect smile and a laugh. “Well, what’s the most?” and a chorus of hoots and laughter rises from the audience again. Your faux smile falters, and your hands wring together in your lap anxiously. “It’s just more..extravagant than back home, is all. More colorful.” You reply shakily. The host nods in encouragement before moving on to the next question.

“Well, a little birdie whispered that a certain Sweetheart of the Capital arrived with you on the Tribute’s train. Our beloved Finnick Odair, one might say. Correct me if I’m wrong, but is there possibly a star-crossed lovers situation on our hands?”

Your blood runs cold as the phrase leaves Flickerman’s lips. He’s leaned forward, clearly on the edge of his seat, with the microphone pointed towards you, and the auditorium falls deathly silent. Your throat feels tight as all you do is stare in pure disbelief. “W-What?” You choke out, bewilderment on your face as your ears flush red from a burning embarrassment in your chest. The audience scoffs in disappointment at your response, and your confusion grows.

Caesar’s expression shifts as his smile falters, his eyes all but telling you to answer or make something up so he can move on. You stutter in reply while firmly shaking your head from side to side,

“No, no! It’s nothing like that at all. Honestly, I find him more irritating than anything. Besides, I’d never fall for a stuck-up Peacock like Finnick Odair in a thousand years!”

Your embarrassment turns into anger at the question as the audience groans in further disappointment, a few “Boos” echoing through the rafters above. However, much to your dismay, a few conspiring whispers slip through under all the noise that signifies your words weren’t taken as truth. This makes your blood simmer as Caesar barks a laugh, slapping a tanned hand on his silver knee.

“Ah hah! Well, that’s a mighty claim my dear, but I’m not so sure you’re well believed seeing that blush on your cheeks!”

Your jaw sets as you sit through two more equally ludicrous questions about your life before you exit the stage and return to your living quarters for the night. Upon returning to the Tribute Center and changing out of your ocean blue costume with the help of Hyacinth and her team, you immediately sink into the heavenly warmth of the large tub in your private washroom. However, not before receiving a thorough chew out from Thatcher over your once again “unprofessional behavior” when answering Caesar’s questions and for apparently “disrespecting” the Capital’s Darling.

Gently, you scrub yourself clean but remain in the comforting heat and steamy air till the water is frigid, trying to soak in the pleasuring warmth as long as possible while enjoying the brief privacy the washroom allows. Eventually, you drain the tub and towel yourself off, slipping into soft, lightweight bottoms, similar to the ones Finnick had thrown at you on the train, and an oversized short-sleeved tunic.

Finnick.

Unwanted pinpricks of regret stab your chest again, and a crease forms between your brows as the remembrance of the bronze-haired victor brings the interview questions surging back to the front of your mind. You grip your toothbrush tighter as you try to push away the embarrassment from earlier tonight. You didn’t know or understand how a rumor like that could even be an inkling in someone’s mind. You didn’t even see the boy at the station platform, and what business was it of a bunch of old snobby Capital Elites to reach after the love lives of children picked to slaughter one another in less than a day? Your stomach churned uncomfortably at the thought.

Once you finished preparing for sleep, you pad your way over to your bed and find a comfortable seating position before flipping through a few of the ‘sleep aids’ with a small metal remote. The floor-to-ceiling windows in your luxurious, Capital-provided, bedroom flashed between different sceneries till you landed on one of the waves crashing on a foggy shore. The muddy sand of the beach drifted under the lull of the tide. Occasionally, seagulls cawed from the clouds above.

You knew you should be doing something with your last night of so-called ‘freedom’ before the Games begin tomorrow, but all you can do is stare at the waves. You wonder how your siblings and father are faring like you have every night since your departure from District 4. You could only hope they were learning to adapt with you being gone. Trying not to spiral over your fate, you drag your hands down your face to scrub at your eyes with a heavy sigh and thick swallow.

“I can do this…”

You mutter the mantra to yourself as you internally review the strategies Mags had made you memorize. There weren’t any clues given as to what the arena entailed. Rumors had been overheard in the Training Center, but the Gamemakers never repeated an arena. There could be anything in that dome of death tomorrow. The waves continue to crash on the screen, the whistle of a breeze blowing through the tall pines just beyond the beach that helps keep you grounded.

You could do this. You had to. Your father’s only word in farewell echos like many others.

“Survive,”

The morning comes too soon. You didn’t touch much of your breakfast even though you know you need as much energy as possible. Mags gives a pointed look your way, and you begrudgingly force a few bites down. Afterward, Mags, Hyacinth, and you are escorted by peacekeepers to a flight hanger near the Tribute Center. You receive an almost bone-crushing hug from your mentor that you graciously return with equal vigor.

“Thank you, for everything”

You murmur into the older woman’s hair. You feel her tears dampen the tunic covering your shoulder. Forcing yourself to pull away and wipe the tears from the elderly woman’s face as she signs her care for you. You offer a sweet smile and other thanks before a Peacekeeper takes your arm and leads you onto a hovercraft. Hyacinth follows, and you're pushed into a seat.

“Your arm,” The Peacekeeper orders while reaching out their hand. You hesitantly reach out, and they quickly place a device with an abnormally large needle into your arm. You grimace at the sting as a trigger is tugged, and a small glowing object appears beneath your skin. Your arm is dropped, and you place two fingers lightly over the slight bump caused by the device. “Don’t touch that. It’s your tracker.” The peacekeeper remarks, and you startle, returning your hands to your lap. The flight is long, but you don’t doze off as adrenaline pumps through your core. Tucking stray flyaways behind your ears, you look across to Hyacinth, who offers a solemn smile. The hovercraft eventually lands, a group of Peacekeepers in stark white uniforms meet you, and you’re quickly led to a small room.

The room is bare bones with only a rack containing your uniform for the Games, a small desk, and an overhead lamp. Two peacekeepers stand guard outside the door, and Hyacinth helps prepare you one last time. The uniform doesn’t give much away about what to expect of the arena besides its colors. Consisting of dark brown hiking boots, slim-fitted pants with multiple pockets in burnt umber, a warm brown skin-tight tank top, and a lightweight khaki-colored windbreaker. The possibility of a dry, warm climate arose in your mind as you examined the materials of your uniform. Hyacinth gave you a sad smile as she fixed the hood of your jacket.

“Good luck my Darling, it’s been my pleasure to know you.”

The stylist’s smile is sad, tears brim her eyes, and you can’t help feeling emotional. This was it. She would be the last person you saw before the Games began. You wrap your arms around the tall woman in a hug, surprising the stylist, but she gently accepts and returns the gesture. You give her your thanks before an announcement comes through a speaker somewhere in the room that the countdown is about to begin. With a thick swallow, you step towards the glass elevator indicated to ale you up into the arena. You hesitate, a shaky inhale entering your nose before gingerly stepping onto the panel. The glass door wraps around with a slick “shink” and your whirl to face your stylist. But she’s already left the room, probably unable to watch another one of her tributes enter the thunderstorm of the Hunger Games arena.

You don’t blame her.

A moment passes before the platform you’re standing on begins to rise, and your gaze turns skyward. The light is bright, causing your sensitive eyes to squint. You take note that you’re at least in an outdoor setting. The air that kisses your skin is dry and warm as your platform fully breaches the earth into the arena. Your head swivels as you take in the surroundings as a bright yellow countdown has begun in the sky above via hologram.

The arena of the 67th games was a ravine.

Half the tributes are spread on your side of the steep, open-mouthed drop, the other twelve across the wide mouth on a parallel cliff. There are trees behind, but there are no weapons because they’re all in the center across a woven net. The footholds are wide. If you’re not careful, you’ll trip and either plummet to the rushing water miles below or succumb to a Tribute’s attacks. Weapons and supplies are placed on a tarp in the center of the woven bridge. The Cornucopia. Maybe things would be over sooner than you thought.

The countdown is halfway.

Wetting your lips, you take a glance down and fight the urge to vomit, hearing someone else already do so over the side of their podium at the descent less than a foot from the cliff edge. Layers of cliffs jut out in makeshift ladders and walkways with alcoves to possibly hide in, but you quickly realize the only source of fresh water will be the rushing river at the bottom of the ravine. Glancing back up, you quickly try to stop the blanking panic in your mind as you try to recall everything Mags had taught you. Your best bet was to run. You can use your jacket as cover and get to the bottom to hide while everyone is too busy risking the crawl to the weapons. There was bound to be edible plant life at the bottom, or worse, you hunt for something better on the way down.

Ten seconds left.

Nine,

Eight,

Seven,

Six,

Five,

Four,

Three,

Two,

One,

“Let the 67th annual Hunger Games, begin.”

A bell sounds, and all hell breaks loose. No one yells, only the fierce grunts as Tributes race for the Cornucopia. You don’t see your District Partner, but you don’t stay static long enough to see the carnage that ensues as you bolt in the opposite direction. Two other Tributes bolt after you but veer straight into the trees beyond. Your heart feels like it’ll burst from your chest as you sprint down the edge till you find a slope to take you down. Falling to a slide, you slip down to another cliff as the first canon booms.

twenty three left.

Two more canons burst through the arena as you continue your rocky descent. Children are screaming above you, and you hurl what little substance is in your stomach as a body falls in front of you with a sickening crunch. The blood splatters across your skin, and you bite back your terrified scream. You have to keep moving.

Another canon.

Twenty left.

You dare take a glance behind and luckily manage to escape unnoticed. But you don’t hold hope on that factor as loud snaps reverberate down the canyon. Someone was cutting the net to the Cornucopia. There’s more screaming as you nimbly jump from the rocky slab you stood upon down to a jutting-out cliff, narrowly avoiding a fall to your demise. A pained scream catches in your throat through gritted teeth as your shoulder makes contact and you roll across the red earth. A dampness coats your tongue with a metallic taste of copper. Blood.

Forcing yourself to stand, your knees nearly fall out from under you, but you remain upright as you take another running jump to an even lower rock platform. By now, someone shouts above the screaming, “Go that way!” and you force yourself to move faster. You don’t have time to see what the voice originating the order meant. All you know is you have to get away. You land chest first on the edge of the cliff, and the wind is knocked from your chest. Blood splatters on the gravel, projected from the cough of air escaping your lungs. It’s an effort to pull yourself back up over the edge, slipping on sliding feet for a foothold on the rock wall, but you manage. There’s the crunch of boots above, and your terror amplifies tenfold as a spear shoots past you down to the depths. “S-Shit..” you gurgle on blood as you take off running once more, choking down small gasps of air that never seem to reach your lungs.

You can’t stop.

Another canon goes off and you hear another body fall to the depths, following another grotesque crunch of bone and muscle on rock.

Nineteen left.

A metallic clatter fills the expansive cavern of the ravine, and you spare a fleeting glance above just as the netting of the Cornucopia plummets. Metal cases, weapons, backpacks, and other supplies become entangled in the tarp they had rested upon as debris falls. Cases shatter and clang on the many cliffs. You do your best to evade the sharp debris but aren’t fast enough as a blade slices across the back of your left leg. You’re brought to your knees by the searing pain but again force yourself up, barely remembering to grab the small blade and continue your descent. White hot pain shoots ribbons through your entire leg, but you keep moving, albeit slower than before. Two more canons.

Seventeen Tributes left.

Seven children already dead.

You could only hope your canon wouldn’t fire anytime soon.

Another canon, sixteen left.

You will not die.

{{ taglist }}

@emerald-09 @reader-bookling123 @finnickodaddy @thehairington86 @darlingsoulbeautifulthoughts @avoxrising @meri-soni-meri-tamanna @whens-naptime @violettbae @the-lonely-abyss @secretsicanthideanymore

[whumpbees]

Take the things that make your whumpee themself. Animalistic features? Carefully removed and stored. Birthmarks burned away, hair dyed or make them grow out their hair. Train any accent out of them, break bones and let them set wrong, give them a collection of scars- Just, remake them until they can't even recognize themself, anymore.

[byunpum]

( makes a lot of sense cuz I have a request before the last one and wonder if it got to the shadow zone )

Anyways, let's remake the request, aunt reader after Kiri got her seizure aunt stay with her brother and also try to be the supportive person, and when the kids gets kidnapped her down to earth demeanor change to one of her wanting blood and during the raid she fight everything she got to get the kids out of the ship and to safety

But she sacrificed her life to make sure that the kids are all out, Neteyam is alive but not aunty reader

Her final words to the family is to keep on going and she gift her brother and neytiri their parents ring saying mom would have wanted them to keep it

I swear I couldn't make this any longer. I have three nephews, they are still little. But shit… I would give my life for my chicks. This series of 'aunt y/n' touches my heart.

"Kids come here" you hear your mom call out to you. It was a beautiful afternoon, and you were playing with your two older brothers. The three of you quickly arrived in the kitchen, where your mother was. She was sitting at the table, and she had a pretty little yellow box. "Mom what's that?" says Jake, sitting down next to you. While your other brother sat next to your mother. "Here's something very important…" she opens the box and in it is a beautiful ring. It had an emerald in the center, and it was golden. "I want you to…keep this." She takes it in her hands, and places the ring on a small chain. Then she reaches over and places it around your older brother's neck. Jake stood next to you, as you both watched their mother. " This will be your sign of life…ok, when someone is away. This will be given to the next one." She says, you could tell she was tired. Mom had been sick for a long time…so it was time to pass the ring on.

The fight with the recoms and the RDA team had been brutal. Getting on the boat and trying to get your nephews out alive was your only mission. You had trained for this…to survive. You had done it for the last 20 years, and now you had your family. Your brother was fighting for his family, as were you. Lo'ak was in front, while neteyam held your hand for everyone to keep up. The shooting did not stop. As you reach the edge of the exit, you push spider, then lo'ak follows and there was neteyam, the boy didn't want to leave you. " Auntie Y/n you go first" the boy yells, as he drags you by the arm. " Don't be an idiot…go!!!" you give him the order, while pushing him to jump into the water. Then you follow them, luckily they had taken the lessons your brother had very well.

It was very little time that you had stayed in the Metkayina clan, but it was enough time to learn how to swim and breathe properly. As you came up to the surface, you saw that everyone was there. Lo'ak was hugging spider and neteyam was next to you. It wasn't, until you felt a burning sensation wiggling in your chest. Neteyam quickly placed his hand on the wound. "You are hurt!" the boy was teary-eyed, and lo'ak and spider quickly took the ilu, to take you to a safe area. It all happened so fast, you didn't even have time to think. "I'm…fine" was all you said. Neteyam was holding you in his arms, holding his hand on your chest. Trying to stop the blood from coming out.

When you reached a safe area, Neteyam laid you down. " Aunt…you're going to be fine.it's okay" you see how your nephew won't stop crying, he was desperate. Trying to help and solve something that had no way out. You hear in the distance, how lo'ak shouts jake's name. But neytiri arrives to his answer. "Y/N" the woman calls out and walks over to you, to take your head and nestle it in your lap. "Y/N…no, no…not you" neytiri was your sister…you had become so close. You had known her even longer than jake. "Neytiri…I think" you raise your hand, for her to take it. Neytiri holds your hand, and kisses your palm. Tears fall and slip down her cheeks. "I'm here…we're all here" neytiri says, looking up.

And yes everyone was there. Your family…everyone. Even jake, he had arrived a few seconds ago. "y/n…relax, you'll be fine" says jake his voice sounded dazed. Your free hand goes to your neck, and with what little strength you had you rip off your chain. And you hand yourself over to your brother. "We will be far away brother… it's your turn to have this" you speak, your voice is almost a whisper. Jake starts to cry, but tries to stay strong. His children are there, his mate is there. He couldn't break down, but here was your…his only sister. The only thing he had left of his old life, the only thing he had left of humanity. Neytiri wipes some tears that fell on your cheeks. "I want you to be strong…and I want you to always be together. Whatever happens," you speak, watching as your nephews and nieces stand by their mother's side. "Whatever happens" they say…you can feel kiri's head fall on your thigh. And as lo'ak's whimpers grow louder. "No…you can't leave," says neteyam, as he moves closer to his father, so he can take your hand. "I love you…you know that" jake says, leaning in to give you a kiss on the forehead. "See you on the other side" you laugh a little…as your vision goes white and then everything goes dark.

[professional-sephiroth-scrungler]

Ok wild fuckass theory that probably works more as some type of fan fic AU or fix-it (loosely) and probably won’t happen but chekekfj

This is gonna be very rambly but bear with me

To me it seems that TFS and new details in Rebirth are setting up that Jenova is in more control than we previously thought. While I still believe there is some level of fucked up symbiosis, I question how much is actually Sephiroth (insane or not) and how much is Jenova. Would Jenova want revenge on Rufus for killing Glenn? Probably not because that is a very human, Sephiroth thing to want.

Jenova is a calamity that destroys worlds, we’ve known this since the OG and we’ve known that the Nibelheim Incident was because Sephiroth was rightfully angry, betrayed, and upset at what he had learned (false info but hey). In Rebirth we see it flashing between Sephiroth and Jenova, especially in the reactor where their faces are overlayed for a second. It makes me wonder, while Sephiroth was 100% having a mental breakdown, would he have killed and burned the entire village if it wasn’t for Jenova’s influence. In Crisis Core before leaving for Nibelheim, he was talking about deserting/leaving after this last mission. Without Jenova, i could see him wanting to get revenge on the people who wronged him, take down Shinra, and other such things. But since Jenova’s sole purpose is to be a world destroying calamity, she would twist that want of revenge on those people into just getting rid of all of it and become a god.

Side Tangent. I find the length of Sephiroth’s bangs to be important on telling what Sephiroth we are looking at (sane, short. insane, long) and Square seems to have just kinda forgotten about CC Seph having shorter bangs ig for optimization but it makes moments like in Chapter 8 of TFS confusing where we see very much sane Sephiroth from right before the CC era with long bangs and it cuts to Sephiroth with the same model, as far as i can tell, at the Edge of Creation. That leaves two options I can think of; 1: the Edge of Creation is a Jenova created sub space or mind space that she has been taking Sephiroth to and he has no idea wtf it is yet (unlikely). 2: That little scene was Sephiroth during the Remake Trilogy slowly gathering old memories and maybe even realizing that Jenova is in more control and influenced him more than he originally thought and is slowly regaining his identity. This feels more likely so thats what im gonna continue this rambling with. But please Square, you can sacrifice a few more megabytes to add another hair model to swap in.

Anyways, going with that Sephiroth is slowly remembering who he was, and how episode 1 of TFS seemed to be drawing some pretty harsh parallels between Sephiroth and Rosen plus everything they seem to be setting up with Jenova, i think Square is setting up a type of redemption for Sephiroth. It won’t be a true redemption but it would be something. The line from Rosen, “There is no place for me in your world,” feels very intentional and VERY Sephiroth. The parallels between Sephiroth and Rosen’s isolation and being trained from a young age to do one thing only for Sephiroth to kill him because Rosen feels that he can’t be a part of society feels like a set up for how Sephiroth’s story will ultimately end. If Cloud and crew somehow manage to separately Sephiroth from Jenova or something, there is no place for Sephiroth in the world anymore for very different reasons than Rosen. He’s killed, tortured, tried to end the world; no one would accept him after everything he did. Clearly, sane Sephiroth felt a lot of guilt over who he had killed and was trying his best to be the hero he never truly wanted to be to maybe right his wrongs. But if he gets his mind back, there is no righting the wrongs he had committed. There is no place for him anymore. He had been a dead man for 5 years anyways. The only thing he deserves is death and to finally join the Lifestream. The only catch is if Cloud can show the same empathy young Sephiroth did for Rosen. Any in the end, I think Cloud will be able to. In Advent Children, he showed some level of empathy and compassion for Kadaj in the end.

In the small snippet of Sephiroth we got in chapter 8 of TFS, he was thinking about how hate breeds more hate but compassion can end that cycle. And I think that is going to be the key to finally ending the cycle of FFVII.

[missmaywemeetagain]

Sister, my darlin’ Madi! 💗

So, I already told you that I will be in your inbox, right? I’m requesting a fic for Post Army!E. Uh oh…

What do you think you could do with this picture?

I was thinking maybe a little romance, a little smut action, a little exhibitionism kink (cause come on, we all know Elvis likes to watch his conquests), maybe a little bit of spanking. I don’t know, but it sounds a bit better in my head when I thought about it 😂 Feel free to do whatever you please with it. If you can’t stray away from angst, I welcome it.

-Daisy (@powerofelvis)

Ah, my darlin' darlin' baby! My first ever request and it seems entirely fitting that it's for you, my biggest cheerleader!! 💗 @powerofelvis

I hope I did your request justice--I maybe went in a little different direction (I couldn't manage the spanking for this one, sorry!) and I'm also apparently incapable of writing anything less than 4k, so here's your 5.7k monstrosity of smuttasticness! Love you, baby, and I hope you enjoy! 🥰

This is filthy, so Minors, DNI!! 18+

This is part of Madi's Get to Know Me Gala 💗. Requests/asks are still open for the time being!

So, here it is, my first Request: Snap

You pride yourself on being one of the top photographers in the field, especially when, just like so many other careers, it is dominated by men who think they know better and do better solely because of the dangling appendage between their legs. Luckily, your boss has a progressive outlook and sees your talent for what it is.

The thing is, you are able to get something different from your celebrity subjects and he knows it. The women feel more comfortable with you because they know you aren’t trying to get in their pants, and the men either soften or want to impress you to do just that. And you seem to have a naturally honed ability to figure out quickly what they want and need and are able to play to that to get the best shots.

It’s a win-win most of the time.

Luckily, you don’t tend to get starstruck easily, perhaps because you see behind the curtain of the business. Not to say you didn’t get some butterflies around Paul Newman or feel a sense of awe around Grace Kelly. But overall, the glitz and glamor doesn’t affect you much.

You are a little surprised, however, that your next assignment is the one and only Elvis Presley, fresh from his image-changing stint in the Army. And you sense that the change of image is going to be the challenge on this shoot because remaking a man who the public already has a solid image of through a measly photograph is easier said than done. You have little doubt, based on your research and what you’ve seen so far from his pretty army discharge pictures, that his rebellious streak is now over. But who he is now and who he wants to be going forward likely looks very different from the hip greaser image burned in your head from the 50s.

That and the fact that you’re traveling on a train with him as he heads off to his next big film in LA is throwing you a little for a loop. But you are nothing if not adaptable.

There are more than abundant rumors of Presley’s love for the ladies, which is how you think you find yourself the only photographer who is asked to join him on the train on his journey. The other male photographers had clamored their way past you, fighting for shots at the train station, both outside the train and in it, before it was set to leave. You hung back, taking a few pictures here and there, but mostly smirking to yourself at the desperation to get the man’s attention.

It surprises you a little how pleasant Presley is, how accommodating. He’s nothing but a polite Southern gentleman, giving everyone their piece of him graciously. And the interactions with the fans are nothing less than remarkable based on your experience with other celebrities, and you chronicle that with your camera. There is a presence about him, an essence, that you’ve never quite encountered before with the way he commands the space he is in, demanding attention without ever actually saying a word, without requiring it. But you are finding it a little difficult to get a true read on him with so many people around.

You sense there are many other sides to him, but it’s not until you are almost alone with him and the train starts moving that you are able to discern what they might be. When you are finally introduced properly and are up close to the man, you cannot deny that your heart flutters and you shiver a little at the open way his brilliant sapphire eyes take you in from head to toe.

“Well, hello there, honey,” he drawls, the words warm and dripping into your stomach as his hand clasps yours. “You must be our resident photographer.”

You hate the way his gaze and his touch disorient you. You’ve been around dozens of charming, handsome men, but this man is on another level altogether. He’s more than just a chiseled jaw and high cheekbones and stunning blue eyes. No, there is a magic about him that draws you in, throwing you off your game and threatening to melt you into an embarrassing puddle.

It’s more than a little infuriating.

You manage to snap out of it, clearing your throat and introducing yourself firmly, professionally, putting on your best celebrities-don’t-rattle-me affect. But the damage is done because you can see the glint of amusement in his eyes and the tiniest smirk play at those famous full lips.

You watch him relax with his friends, joking and messing about. Keeping a healthy distance, you get some shots that will likely never see the light of day but help you gauge the lighting and get a feel for him. When not around the onslaught of reporters, he seems filled with an almost adolescent penchant for horsing around, which seems interesting for a man of 25 fresh out of the Army who presents now as keen and intelligent enough despite the Southern accent that the snobs in LA and New York want to look down their noses at him for.

Suddenly, as if commanded silently, the others disperse into the different private cars reserved for him and his people, leaving the two of you alone. After a moment, those deep eyes of his find you, and he beckons you down the train car towards him in a come hither motion and the raise of an eyebrow.

That is when you realize what Elvis needs for you to get your shots. The man wants to play. A little tete è tete is in order, perhaps.

Easy enough, you think as you sit diagonally to him in the bank of seats across from him. You’ve played similar games before with other handsome men. Nothing tawdry, but a little flirtation never hurt anyone. Though with the way his eyes darken and his posture changes ever so slightly, for the first time ever, you think you might be a little out of your depth.

Regardless, you force yourself to maintain an air nonchalance. You hold up your camera. “May I?”

He nods, a smile playing at his lips. You’ve known some of the biggest stars to be uncomfortable under the gaze of a lens in their more private moments, but Presley seems to have no qualms whatsoever. And as you snap a few casual shots up close, it becomes crystal clear that the camera loves him. Every angle just works. He has no “bad side.” It’s almost exhilarating for someone like you who seeks to capture the truth in these moments to have the challenge of a man who was born to be in front of a camera as your subject.

Somehow, he’s both childlike and suave all at once. Innocent and sultry. Feminine and masculine. And he’s got the longest eyelashes you’ve ever seen on a man.

Elvis lets out a long whistle. “You sure are the prettiest photographer I’ve ever seen.”

Your eyebrow raises and you are thankful that your camera conceals the slight blush on your cheeks, despite knowing this is likely just a line to placate you.

“Is that so?” you respond evenly.

“Mhm. Sure is a nice change from the usual group of stuffy men up in my business, I’ll tell you for sure. Much rather have you up in my…” he trails off, then winks.

“I’m not sure you could handle a woman like me, Mr. Presley.” It’s a challenge and a risk, to be sure, taking this way to a man of such stature, but you put just a bit of playfulness in your voice to temper the slice.

He pauses, considering you in a different way, then mimics your own words back to you: “Is that so?”

Snap.

The photo you capture then is one you know has that edginess, that something else you are looking for.

There’s a sense of tension in his posture now, only recognizable to you because not a second so he was the picture of confident relaxation. But you’ve caught him out—that famous lip of his curling as he throws your words back at you, his almond eyes narrowing suspiciously but full of a feline sexual energy. While his right arm appears casual on the armrest, his long and slender pointer finger goes rigid, a suggestive gesture to be sure.

He’s playful about it but in such a way as a jungle cat seeks to play with its food before devouring it.

Heat courses through your limbs and pools low in your belly, a purely biological response to this amazing specimen of a man and the way he’s looking at you.

You manage to find your voice. “Quite so, I’m afraid,” you say with a flirty, faux sorrow.

“We’ll see,” he hums, then slides over the seat until right across from you. In a bold move you don’t see coming, Elvis nudges his toe under your skirt and in between your properly clasped knees, spreading your legs apart until his foot rests possessively through your thighs on the seat underneath you.

“You’re one cocky sonnuvabitch, aren’t ya?” you muse, finally bringing your camera down to look him in the eyes. You are hyper aware of the way his toe inches up, closer to the heat that now begins to pulse between your legs.

”Gonna have to wash your mouth out if ya keep talkin’ like that,” he purrs.

Snap.

“Oh, really?” You are loathe to admit just how badly you want to see him try.

“Yes, really.”

“Hmm, suppose you’d have to catch me first.” You are fully taunting him now, quickly hurtling into the realm of unprofessional but unable to stop yourself.

Snap.

But based off the smile on his face and the heat in his eyes, he is enjoying himself.

“Oh, that ain’t hard.”

“No?”

He chuckles and inches his foot up far enough that your thighs now encase it, sending a rolling shiver through you at the pressured sensation.

Snap.

Obviously, you know how a good round of flirtation and suggestion can open a subject up, so to speak, but you don’t mix business with pleasure. Right now, you are running headlong down a very dangerous road. You aren’t completely naive to the ways of men and sex, but you also aren’t overly experienced when it comes to the deed itself, due to propriety and self- preservation. Your experience has been limited to heavy petting and the basic mechanics of the act, but nothing you’d call very exciting or even overly enjoyable. The whole sex thing honestly seemed overrated, made more to please men than women.

But that was before Elvis Presley sat across from you and wedged his foot between your thighs.

The more you think about it, about him, the more you think you might burn right through your clothes as though it were the dead heat of summer and you’d been running for miles. You force yourself to breathe slowly, evenly, to keep control of your faculties and the situation, but he stares at you with those intense eyes and you already know it’s a losing battle.

“Show me how to work that camera, honey,” he says, surprising you with the change of tactics.

“What for?” Your camera is your livelihood, your baby, your artistic expression so this makes you nervous. Usually, you’d never, ever let a subject touch it. But these aren’t normal circumstances (and you also know that he has more than enough money to replace it if he screws something up).

“Oh, you’ll see,” he smirks, eyes dancing. He makes no indication that he’s going to move his foot from its precarious position in order for you to shift towards him, and when you raise your brows at him questioningly, he just smiles that wide, million dollar smile.

So you slowly, carefully, scoot your butt to the edge of the seat in order to lean far enough forward with the camera in hand. In doing so, however, the sole of his shoe is now flush against your core and you can’t help the little yelp that escapes your lips when he presses against you. It stokes something inside you that you’ve never felt to this extent before.

Oh, you are in trouble. You are in way, way over your head.

You manage a gulp and then clear your throat as you lean over to show him the workings of the camera. He meets you in the middle, and your eyes nearly roll back into your skull for the way it presses his toe into your now aching cunt.

Holy hell, the man smells intoxicating, and you are aware of just how close his face is to yours. It’s as if his eyelashes flutter in slow motion, his breath hot near your cheek, and a pressure builds inside of you, one you’ve only felt when your curious hand has made its way into your panties on a sleepless night or when you’ve pushed a pillow between your thighs, rocking into the friction. Certainly no man has ever made you really feel that way.

But that feeling barely touches the fire that courses through you now. In a slow daze, you show him the basic mechanics and he gently pulls the camera from your grasp. Suddenly, you feel vulnerable and bare without it, your shield of indifference taken away.

Elvis leans back, releasing some of the pressure on your core, and you can breathe again, if only for a moment, because the look in his eyes is nothing short of obscene in its sexiness.

“You develop your own film, darlin’?”

You are confused by the question, but all you can seem to do is nod in response, wondering where in the hell this is going.

“Good. Now, relax, honey, and pull that dress up for me,” he says, as though he’s asking something completely benign of you.

Your face must register your confusion, your surprise. To his credit, he moves his foot away, and his gaze and voice both soften, “I ain’t gonna hurt you, I promise, but you gotta tell me if this isn’t somethin’ you wanna do.”

To your credit, it doesn’t take you long to find your voice, as stammering as it might be. “I-I-I want to,” you say, and it comes out so breathless you’d roll your eyes at yourself in any other circumstance. In fact, you are rather shocked at your eagerness.

Elvis smiles broadly. “Well, okay then, honey. That dress,” he commands, nudging his chin up to remind you what it is he wants from you.

Your heart flutters so fast that you’re not sure it’s even fully beating anymore. You inch the fabric up, up, up your thighs, feeling the softness as it wrinkles under your palms, exposing your stockings to the man in front of you.

Much to your chagrin, you are utterly spellbound. A reasonable voice in the back of your head tells you to stop this nonsense immediately before you make a fool of yourself before you cross lines that cannot be uncrossed. Yet your body is so wound, so tuned into him, so needy for whatever it is he has in store for you that you can barely think.

Snap.

It takes a moment to register that its him taking pictures of you, not the other way around. An embarrassed heat rushes to your cheeks when you realize he’s aimed the camera squarely between your legs and not at your red face.

You pause when reaching the white lace tops of your stockings, the garter clips that hold them up now visible.

Snap.

It’s likely the way he bites his full lower lip behind the camera that gives you the courage to keep going, that little tell that perhaps he’s just as aroused as you, that this isn’t some cruel joke.

Finally, you pull the hem up over your hips, exposing your white panties fully to his scrutiny. Perhaps it’s the damp spot in the center of them that has him shifting his hips with a quiet, low groan. The sound sends a thrill rippling through your limbs.

Snap.

His voice comes out husky and about an octave lower this time. “Now reach into those panties and touch yourself for me, baby. D’you know how to get yourself goin’?”

“I think so, yes,” you reply breathlessly, altogether unsure if anything you’ve ever done to yourself is anything what this obviously experienced man expects.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll help guide ya if you need it,” he says with a kind of deference, patience.

You nod, then, biting your lip in concentration, you slip your hand down under the waistband of your underwear. The pads of your fingers are cool against the blazing heat of your sex as they trail down to that sensitive bundle of nerves you’ve only touched the surface of exploring. You circle the bud a few times, your hips rolling involuntarily in response.

Snap.

“Lower,” Elvis commands, and you obey, sliding down to find how swollen and soaking you already are. Something about the way he is watching you has a coil in your belly tightening in a way it never has before, has your body responding in ways it never has with another person.

“Are you wet, baby?” he breathes.

You nod.

“Show me.” It comes out sultry and eager and sets you on fire that he wants to see with his own eyes what he’s doing to you.

You pull your fingers out of the damp fabric and show him the slick shining there.

“Goddamn,” he whispers, snapping another photo. “Lemme taste you.” The blush revealed on his sky-high cheekbones when he pulls the camera away is enough to send your breath heaving, but it is nothing at all compared to what happens in your body the moment his lips close around your sticky fingertips.

An obscene moan rolls out from your mouth as his soft tongue licks your digits clean. The sound seems to urge him on, resulting in him sucking one, then the other, gently. Your hair stands on end, goosebumps running down your arms, your eyes fluttering closed. That coil inside your pelvis tightens so tight you feel like you might burst, but then he removes his mouth with a resounding pop.

You whimper at the loss and your eyes flutter back open to find his deep blues staring back at you with a passion that seems to rival your own.

“Sweet as honey,” he murmurs with a dreamy smile, picking up the camera once more. Something inside you is proud that he’s enjoyed tasting you, as if you were always meant for him to enjoy. “Now I wanna see that kitty.”

You didn’t know it was possible to be more flushed that you already are, but your cheeks rage with blood. You aren’t exactly sure how he wants that to happen and your brow furrows.

“Just pull those pretty panties to the side for me, baby,” Elvis encourages.

It feels like all the blood in your body rushes into your pussy the moment you slide the ruined cotton off to the side, leaving you bare for him. The cool air makes you shiver, or maybe it is the way he groans as he takes a picture of your most private of areas.

“T-touch yourself for me,” he says, his voice needy and strained now.

You run your fingers down then up through your lower lips, feeling the throbbing pulse of blood down there as you do so, feeling that tightness in your belly squirm for more. The obvious tent in his black slacks has you breathing even harder as you wonder what he would feel like buried inside of you.

But Elvis has other ideas.

“Aw, hell,” he moans before tossing your camera aside and falling to his knees in front of you like a desperate man praying for forgiveness. You barely have time to register your shock at the superstar prostrating himself at your feet before his large hands spread your thighs further apart, and his luscious lips kiss their way up your slit, landing on your aching clit.

“What are you—Oh my god!” you cry out before you can stop yourself, your hands flying into his dark mane of soft, perfectly styled hair. Never in your life had a man put his mouth there, it wasn’t even something you knew was done, and ohmifuckinggod it feels so good that your mind goes blank.

When Elvis moans into you, lathing his tongue flat against you and dragging it up your core, you think you stop breathing completely.

So far gone are you as his wicked tongue winds through and spears and soothes you, that you don’t realize that the mewling murmurs of, “Oh, Jesus. Holy mother of—Oh, Elvis!” are actually coming from your mouth. You feel him smile against you, pausing his ministrations long enough for you to catch your breath.

Which is good, because he immediately knocks it back out of you as he slides a long finger into your tight heat and latches himself to your clit like a man possessed. The deft way his finger pumps, then curves into some unknown spongy spot you didn’t know existed until this very moment has you writhing on the seat, clinging to his beautiful head for dear life. Somehow, the combination of the suckling and licking of your little nub coupled with the rapid work of his hand has your entire body tensing before he hurtles you over an invisible cliff, that tight coil in your belly snapping. Shuddering and gasping, you free fall, and a soothing warmth washes over you from head to toe.

You’ve never felt anything like it in your life.

Your chest heaves with exertion as you come back into yourself, whining at the emptiness when he removes his finger, then shivering as he replaces it with his tongue, lapping at the excess of slick arousal that now seems to coat everything below, including his face.

The aftershocks that he causes to ripple through you stoke the fire in your belly again, and you think that maybe, just maybe you had this sex thing all wrong. That the few men you’d fooled around with had absolutely no idea what they were doing. Because this…this was…so good you can’t even think of an intelligent way to describe it.

Elvis straightens and pulls up onto his knees, looking utterly pleased with himself, his pretty mouth shiny with you.  Slotting between your open legs, his eyes shine with arousal.

“Was that good, baby? Did you come?” he asks.

“I—was that…? Did I come? What does that—?” you stammer, barely able to string together a coherent sentence, confused by his words in your haze.

He chuckles at your floundering. “Have you never come before? Never had an orgasm, honey? That’s a damn shame,” he says, wiping his mouth with his thumb, then licking it.

You blush at your inexperience and at his gesture. “That was an orgasm? I mean, of course it was…I, well, I’ve been with men, I just—that never—Um, yes, th-that was amazing,” you babble, knowing that you must be bright red with embarrassment, but your body is so loose and warm that you almost don’t care.

He only smiles at your bashfulness and leans up into you, his mouth hovering so close to yours that you feel his warm breath on your lips and can smell yourself on them. “Well, best give you another one for good measure. Whaddya say, baby?” he whispers, your entire body tingles at attention.

All you can do is nod, almost frantically, wondering how in the world he could make that happen again and absolutely desperate for it at the same time.

It’s then that he finally kisses you and you are consumed all at once with how pillowy soft his lips are, how you can taste yourself on his lips and it feels like it should be wrong, but you sort of like it. He’s surprisingly gentle, his passion evident but controlled as he explores your mouth much in the same way he explored your pussy—soft at first, but insistent. You open to him easily, his tongue quickly finding yours and in one fell swoop, he maneuvers you onto your back on the seat, slotting his long legs between your thighs.

The gentle way his hands and lips caress your face, your neck, down to your breasts and waist has you distracted enough that you are surprised when he rolls his pelvis into yours and his excitement is particularly evident as it pokes into your belly.

It’s because of me, you think in disbelief, I’ve made Elvis Presley, of all men, aroused.

And that thought suddenly has you ravenous and bold. You reach between you two, taking his clothed but considerable length in your hand and squeezing.

Elvis groans above you, then smiles. “You eager little minx. Give you a little taste and now it’s all you can think about, huh?” he teases.

Your response is to smile back and work his length with your hand. You may not know much about the female orgasm before today, but you sure as hell are familiar with how his equipment works.

 “Okay, okay,” he gasps, his eyes rolling back, “Jesus, woman, I hear ya.”

He rids himself of his suit jacket while you make quick work of his belt and buttons and zippers. Unbeknownst to you, yet completely unsurprisingly, he is wearing no underwear, so with a quick push of his slacks off his hips, he’s totally bare for you.

He’s well-endowed enough for you to be a little nervous about it which he seems to pick up on. “Don’t you worry, baby, I’ll go slow,” he whispers kindly in your ear.

You nod and respond by wrapping your hand around him and pumping his shaft, swirling your thumb gently over his foreskin and over the head of him. The beaded pre-cum slicks over the tip, eliciting a low growl from the Adonis hovering above you.

Pulling up your skirt again, you bend your knees invitingly, letting him nestle between your legs. Elvis takes a moment to kiss you roughly, nipping at your lower lip, as he coats his erection in your slick, rubbing the length of it between your already sopping and swollen folds. The tip of him brushes against your clit maddeningly as he does so, causing you to arch and keen under him.

Finally, you can stand it no longer, reaching your hand down to line him up with your entrance. He smirks above you, but the look is wiped off his face and quickly replaced with something almost akin to awe as he pushes into you slowly. Your body yearns for him in such a way that, even though you are quite tight around him, you seem to suckle him in, inch by inch. The sensation has the both of you moaning, eyes rolling back and lips parting as you join together.

“Fuck, honey. So goddamned tight for me,” he groans, and a shudder of pleasure rolls through you.

It's utterly delicious the way he slots into you so perfectly, bottoming out as you swallow him whole. He gives you a moment to adjust and relax into the heaviness of him in your body, looking down at you with what you realize are quite soulful eyes. His arousal is obvious in the way his pupils are blown, but he still looks at you with an air of reverence even though this seems to be a spontaneous and casual fuck on a train.

When he starts thrusting in and out of you, slowly at first, and with somehow perfect precision, hitting spots inside you that you didn’t know existed, you realize you’ll never be able to have sex again without comparing it to the gorgeous man above you.

Lord, you wish you could take a picture of the way he looks right now, hair mussed and sweat beading on his forehead, his plump lips parted and panting. This is the perfectly imperfect Elvis you wished to capture when you got on this train. But in this moment, he is just for you to see. You don’t want to share him with the world.

He’s patient in his approach to keep his promise, yet he doesn’t need to wait long. Your body is humming with arousal, the warmth blossoming over you as his thrusts become more pointed and deeper. The way he rolls his pelvis, then swivels it, playing with motion and depth make you realize he’s gauging every reaction you have, adjusting to what brings you closer to falling apart.

You barely recognize the sounds coming out of your mouth, feeling every hard inch of him taking over you, wanting more, more, more. Your wet heat flutters around him and he speeds his thrusts, but it’s when he brings his hand between you and rubs his thumb against your hypersensitive bud that you truly begin to fall apart.

This time, it’s more gradual, the way the heat and pressure builds. You know more of what to expect, but holy hell, he’s playing you like an instrument, making your entire body quiver with desire and need. You almost want to escape the feeling—it’s so intense, so stimulating, as he pounds into you from above, but you also never want it to stop.

“C’mon, baby, that’s my good girl,” he praises in that low Southern drawl, and that takes you up, up, up the crest of your arousal.

You pant and whine, desperate now for a release you’ve never had a taste of until now.

“That’s it, come for me now, darlin’, come on me,” he moans, working your clit faster.

That sends you flying over the edge, hitting the crest of your orgasm so hard the wind is knocked out of you, and you see white stars in the blackness of your closed eyes. You clench around him, your legs wrapped around his waist, squeezing, as though he can keep you from flying away. Body shuddering with release, you feel a gush of warmth and he’s sliding so effortlessly through you, he could split you in two and you wouldn’t even know it.

“Oh, fuck, you’re so good for me…did so good baby,” he pants, watching you come down from your high.

Elvis slows down, easing you through it, though he looks like he wants to absolutely ravage you for the way he looks at you so hungrily. He’s holding back, you can tell.

“I’m gonna pull out, baby. I-I-I—can I come on your pretty lil’ face?” he gasps, eyes begging you.

You’d be more taken aback if he hadn’t just fucked you silly. Never in a thousand years would you think to let a man claim you in such a way, but you find that you want—no, need—it. You’d let him do almost anything with you at this point.

You nod, unable to speak with how fucked out you are. Elvis pulls out of your heat and you groan at the loss of him, but he’s pulling you down to the floor and you go, bonelessly, onto your knees. Towering above you, he stands, using the remnants of your glistening release to pump his cock expertly, and the sight sends shivers through you.  

“Oh, that’s it, honey. Open your mouth for me,” he pants out, tapping your chin with his finger.

You obey without question.

Elvis clasps his free hand at the back of your neck, cupping your jaw as he thrusts roughly into his other hand. “Aw, f-f-f-fuckin’ hell,” he moans loudly, and then he comes violently. Pulsing, hot streams squirt over your cheeks, your chin, and you taste the bitter tang of his salty release on your tongue.

You’ve never tasted a man before, and you’re glad the first is Elvis Presley.

He looks absolutely ethereal in his release. The way he grits his teeth and then his mouth hangs open, eyes fluttering shut and body shuddering as he paints you with him makes him even more attractive than you thought possible.

You wait, mouth still agape and covered in his seed. His bedroom eyes open and he looks down at you. “Jesus, you look so damn beautiful covered in me,” he says dreamily. “Stay just like that.”

Then, surprising you once again, he grabs your camera which had been discarded earlier, bringing it up to his face.

Snap.

He memorializes the moment.

“Swallow, baby,” he guides you, tapping your chin closed. You do, even though it makes you a little queasy because you’ve never done this before.

Snap.

“Open,” he says, pulling the camera from his face. Then, he uses his thumb and fingers to wipe your face of him, depositing the rest of his cum in your mouth. “Want ya to take it all for me,” he coos. You take it willingly, and then suckle the rest off his fingers.

“My pretty lil’ photographer,” he moans out, snapping one last shot as he pumps his fingers in your mouth. “S’good for me, you dirty girl.”

You can’t help but whine at that.

Elvis flops back down onto the seat, dark hair failing in his eyes, and pulls you into his lap. He kisses you, gently, then with more insistence as he seems to relish the taste of himself on your tongue.

“Mmm, I want copies of those photos,” he says seriously, pulling back and looking into your eyes.

You blush furiously. “Okay,” you whisper, nodding.

He lets his head fall back onto the seat and closes his eyes in refraction. After a moment, he speaks again, pulling you in close.

“And I want you to be with me in California, once we get there. Will you stay?” he asks quietly.

The way he asks so earnestly both stuns and delights you. You couldn’t say no even if you wanted to.

“I will,” you say.

Elvis smiles.

Grabbing your camera, you take one last shot of your beautiful, mind-blowing man.

Snap.

[ilikethisacompletelynormalamount]

Halfway through their Actors on Actors conversation, Brie Larson and Andrew Scott discover something they have in common: Neither of them is a trained actor. Larson brings up the subject almost hesitantly, to explain why she has difficulty talking about her craft. “I didn’t go to school for it,” she says. “No! I didn’t either!” Scott replies. Excitedly, Larson says: “I knew I liked you!”

Despite any self-professed deficiencies about discussing acting, Larson and Scott insightfully talk about how they each got their start at a young age, and then dive into their current television projects: his remake of “Ripley” on Netflix and her Apple TV+ limited series “Lessons in Chemistry,” which Larson also developed as an executive producer. Both shows originate from books — Patricia Highsmith’s classic thriller and Bonnie Garmus’ 2022 bestseller, respectively — and though their characters are very different (Tom Ripley is a grifter turned murderer; Elizabeth Zott is a thwarted physicist), both stand apart from society, looking in from the outside...

RIPLEY LESSONS IN CHEMISTRY ACTORS ON ACTORS

BY KATE AURTHUR

ANDREW Scott & BRIE Larson

ANDREW SCOTT: I was reading that you were shy as a kid.

BRIE LARSON: Not anymore. I’m totally fine now. I’m totally confident and cool.

SCOTT: I really related to you when I was reading that, because that’s why I started as a kid. I think there’s a slight myth about actors — that they’re very outgoing or sort of precocious. So did you ask to start acting?

LARSON: Yeah. My parents were chiropractors, and I was super shy. I wouldn’t let it go. Of course, it’s changed the course of my life in so many ways. But at a time when I was so shy and had such a hard time expressing myself, at 6 years old, I was basically given, like, “OK, here’s a script for how you have a conversation.” The actual fiber of how I understand how to have pleasant conversations with people is based upon weekly acting sessions.

SCOTT: I used to go to these drama classes on a Saturday, and I would be fully shaking before you go in. And then you’d have to get up in front of your other 7-, 8-year-olds, and do an improvisation, or say a poem or something. I don’t feel like it’s an overstatement to say that I think it’s completely changed my life — not just my career. I had a really bad lisp when I was a kid, so I had to do elocution lessons. I had to go, “He sees seashells by the seashore,” and I just completely got rid of it.

Do you feel shy now?

LARSON: I had to face myself in so many different ways; that’s part of the thing that I actually seek now. I mean, I’m so grateful that I had so much rejection growing up. It’s wild! I very much had a slow burn in my career. I’d get close to things, so I knew that I had something, but I wasn’t booking, or I’d book one job a year or something — just enough to give me hope. It gave me so much experience so that when I was given the opportunities, I was truly ready for it. I never had a time on set where I was like, “Oh, gosh. This is bigger than what I understand.” It was always, like, well paced.

SCOTT: Absolutely. People who get an awful lot of scrutiny at an early age, I think, find it harder to experiment a little bit. So it’s good that I was unemployed for so long.

LARSON: It turns out I’m so happy that it seemed like it wasn’t working out for me! Look at us now! But, yeah, when I was stalking you online, I was like, “Wow, it feels similar.”

SCOTT: Just to wrap that shyness thing up, somebody said a really brilliant thing to me, which was, like, “There’s nothing wrong with being shy. Be shy. It’s a nice thing you go a little bit red.”

LARSON: I blush very easily. It’s horrible.

SCOTT: So “Lessons in Chemistry.”

LARSON: Let’s talk about our shows.

SCOTT: She’s singular, but it’s not shyness. She’s actually quite forthright. It’s beautiful stuff. And you’ve been involved with it for …?

LARSON: I think it took two years. Maybe longer. But I think it was about two years when we started working on it to then actually filming it.

SCOTT: Are you so proud of this?

LARSON: Yeah, I think so. I’m proud of what we achieved in the time that we did. I don’t have a connection to when it goes out in the world; it just feels like then it’s not about me anymore — it’s just images and feelings. I am proud of how much we said in the show. I felt like we got a lot in it, and a really amazing group of people that worked on it. And I loved playing her.

SCOTT: Were you looking at the edit and all that kind of stuff?

LARSON: All the time. And nonstop.

SCOTT: Did you find that you were able to …

LARSON: … detach? You have to. I’m just like, “Of course I didn’t do it all right.”

SCOTT: I think there’s maybe a fear that people are going to say, “We need another close-up of me, please.”

LARSON: I felt very committed to finding what things weren’t working. Especially with a character that I also felt was very different from me, and how little she emotionally expresses.

SCOTT: I love that about it.

LARSON: I struggled with it a lot, and I felt very lost with it. I am just very used to my understanding of when something’s working — when it feels very true and I’m just in it. And I would be in it with her, but I felt like the part of me that would want to cry, for example, was being pushed. She’s always twisting the knot inside, and won’t give it to anybody.

When you’re playing Tom Ripley, what does it feel like to lie when he’s lying?

SCOTT: Well, I tried to make him lie as little as he could get away with, so that he lies in order to get himself out of a situation. And he murders to get himself out of a situation. He’s not bloodthirsty. I mean, he could have not murdered, I suppose.

LARSON: Yeah.

SCOTT: We all make that decision.

LARSON: Yeah, no, it’s a choice you make every day.

SCOTT: I suppose any of those things about him being a liar or sociopath, I found unhelpful. The kind of stuff that Tom Ripley, I suppose, is famous for as an iconic literary character — “Is he a psychopath?” or “Is he a murderer?” or whatever. But the murder-y parts — we shot it for nearly a year, and they only took up a few weeks.

LARSON: He’s mostly not murdering. I have a question about playing a character that has existed in many different iterations and forms. I feel like you have experience with that, because you do theater as well. Do you have the same approach every time, in terms of researching and watching previous versions of it? Or do you just block it out?

SCOTT: Absolutely, I block it. Because, No. 1, I adored the film “The Talented Mr. Ripley” — the Minghella movie with Matt Damon and Jude Law and Gwyneth Paltrow and all those amazing people. But mercifully, I hadn’t seen it in a very long time. One of the first conversations I had with Steven Zaillian, our writer-director, was “Why?” And he had such a singular vision for it. He wanted it a very particular way. I was worried that I was too old and blah, blah, blah — I had just a very specific idea that was based on the film.

I had to remind myself that that film was also a reiteration of something: There was another version with Alain Delon before. There were loads of different ones. So it has been reinterpreted a lot. And I feel like it’s very important that he said, “We want to age the characters up.” And he was talking about this very particular kind of noirish black-and-white vision that he had. And that made me feel very comfortable. And I always think that it’s important, because it happens in the theater so much — if it was a Shakespeare character, thousands of people have played one character. I always find that really interesting. I think the response, I suppose, is to be respectful, but not too reverent. What’s the point of doing it if you’re going to do it exactly the same way? So I didn’t look.

LARSON: What do you think about some sort of Ripley universe — into the Ripley-verse? Just all the Ripleys.

SCOTT: Like Marvel? Sort of like the Fantastic Four? Is that a thing? Oh, and they all get together?

LARSON: Yeah, Ripleys together. I’m just curious. I got a couple studios interested, so I just …

SCOTT: You do? So kind of you! You make things happen. Are you not tired? You’ve been setting up projects for me? God, you’re kind.

LARSON: No, I’m writing a part for myself as well.

SCOTT: You’d be a good Tom Ripley! 

[legend-the-dumb-jock]

Age gap relationships are always something that our society doesn’t understand much. William and Jamie certainly seen their fair share of that. Jamie had met William at a pool party for a wedding and the two hit it off immediately. William was 20 years older than Jamie, at 40, but you wouldn’t be able to tell that. He took good care of himself. The two of them started seeing each other and after a few month the relationship quickly got serious. Leading to marriage with 2 years. They were inseparable.

But then the day came when Jamie realized that the weight was started to stick and getting harder for him to lose. He started going to the gym with William. Now that both of them were going they qualified for a free couples training session which they took advantages of almost immediately. Embrace the Nee you ! Was what the flier said for the training. That’s when they met Colt.

“Hey boys. You ready to sweat !” William did the talking for the couple. He told Colt about how the two of them were wanting to be fit and healthy. Colt just chuckled and told them both that he’s make sure that happened.

Colt made the couple workout harder than ever. Each session getting harder. Jaime started noticing that William was changing. He looked like he was getting older. Hairier. More of a brute. And he himself was losing weight and start to get more muscular. Before long the workout plan changed to allow William more time to relax and sit down. But that Jamie didn’t get the same the same break. Colt instead moved all the remaking workouts from Williams routine to Jamie. Forcing them into his own schedule. It became normal for Jane to be working up a sweat while William watched from the side with a thick cigar in his mouth. William had change completely. Now balding with wife hair and hair covering most of his body with a thick hard gut protruding.

Jaime too was starting to get hairier by the day. Sweating more and more. The one change that really made Jamie realize something was wrong was the appearance of his first tattoo. He didn’t even realize he had one at first. It felt like a sun burn on his back at first and then after a couple days he finally looked. At first he was shocked. Running to William. Demanding to know what was going going on. Why he had a tattoo now. William puffed on his cigar more and just blew a cloud of the thick smoke right into Jamie’s face. Putting him under a spell. Sending his waking mind to sleep again. Jamie getting a big dopey grin “I need more don’t I?” And that was all William needed to drive him to the tattoo shop and tell the artist to start the full body process on Jamie.

Jamie was soon collared by William. As their dynamic shifted. William began to call Jaime son and Jaime called him a daddy or papa depending on the mood. Jaime was now completely reliant on his muscle daddy. Who made his choices for him. Who would tell him “I’m done growing for now but you’re just starting. And I want you massive”. It became normal would his daddy to inject him with his daily gym juice only thrust his thick cock in him right after. Making Jaime scream in pleasure. William had big plans for boy. With the constant doses of roids he giving him he eas going to be blowing up in size and hair. As he plowed into him now he could see the fur beginning to grow on his back while the hair on this head was starting to thin. Which only made William even hard to thrust. William dropped Jamie off at the gym. He paid colt his standard rate to continue the supply of gym juice and changes that had brought them here. He had turned William in the big bear daddy. And with constant hypnosis Jaimie wasn’t aware of he was being forced to turn into the submissive muscle slut he was always meant to be. Looking at them now you would never know that they weren’t muscle gym junkies just months before. Their whole world changed already. Williams changes had come to an end but with Jamie’s young age he had so much more growing to do. He patted the his dumb little sub on the butt and pushed him into gym where he knew another constant round of exercises and mental blocks would bring him even closer to being perfect. The big dumb fella was already sweating as he lumbered to the weight machines and William just went to his normal bench and sat down to light up up his cigar.

January 2nd, 2022 4:33pm

[contentloadingandstuff]

Aether Whump | Things Money Can Buy - Intro

A/N: Yup, the series is back - sort of. I'm going to be remaking what's here already to make it an actual story instead of just random whumpy scenes. CW: Canon violence.

Honed blades clash, sending a handful of blue sparks flying. Growling, Kunikuzuchi withdraws his blade and brings it down with double the force, just for his weapon to be stopped by Aether’s sword, held firmly in his experienced hands. The Traveler pushes forward, forcing his opponent to take a step back under his relentless pressure. The katana is raised just in time to stop a follow up blow, but the sheer force bends his whole body backwards. 

Scaramouche doesn't have time to ready his own attack as Aether maintains the pressure, delivering blow after blow to his opponent. Each clash creates dents in his blade, the white iron chips flying every time he barely manages to block. 

“Worthless… weapon…!” The puppet speaks, grinding his teeth as he strains with each blow. An attempt to stab the human is foiled with an efficient parry, sending him back on the defensive. 

“Not used to fighting, are you?” His golden eyes are filled with grim determination. “Or risking your own skin in the first place, huh?”

At last his katana reaches the end of its rope and Aether's next strike cuts it clean in half, the end of his blade slashing through Scaramouche's chest. He stumbles backwards, clumsily raising his iron bracer to stop the next strike. No blood from the cut stains the dusty boards or the Delusion factory. 

The warrior mind of his opponent remains unphased at this, instantly winding another strike. Scaramouche throws out his hands, summoning bolts of Electro with all of his might. His opponent is stopped in his tracks, forced to stand his ground and block the attack with a rapidly deployed Geo shield. He shoots another bolt but as he does so, the shield explodes into jagged, yellow shards of rock. They strike his vessel, embedding into his shoulder and offsetting the lightning to harmlessly strike the floor. Wasting no time, the enemy charges forwards and strikes true. 

The Harbinger’s arm clutters to the ground amongst servos and gears. Wires short out in the wound, shooting sparks out of the wound. He falls to his knees, dazed, clutching the removed part of his mechanical body. 

Seeing his opponent unarmed in both meanings of the word, Aether takes a step back. He uses the tip of his weapon to slide the katana’s remnants away from Scaramouche. 

“Hah. It seems like you're not only figuratively heartless.” 

Unflinching, Kunikuzuchi looks up at his enemy, his mouth a snarling grimace. 

“Whatever you are, you'll pay. You'll pay for the war.” He points his sword at Scaramouche’s throat. “Tens of thousands dead, just so you Fatui could lay your hands on the Gnosis. But no more.”

There is no inkling of neither hesitation nor mercy in his eyes - only stone cold resolve. Scaramouche’s expression softens. In the silence of the room he can feel a pulse in his chest. 

His hand clutches over the wound. He has been destroyed, defeated. He is left kneeling before his enemy like never before. It is over. 

Scaramouche feels his throat tighten in fear as he awaits death. 

But Aether stands still. In the corner of his eye, Behind the man, Scaramouche sees a splash of red on the wooden backdrop. He focuses and sure enough, he spots a handful of Skirmishers looking on from a balcony above them. 

Useless minions, he thinks, but his thoughts are stopped dead in their tracks as he spots a rifle trained straight at Aether. 

Scaramouche's eyes shoot open. Maybe they aren't so useless after all. 

Noticing this, the Traveler turns his head only to be welcomed with a loud gunshot.

He spins around, instantly summoning a shield to defend himself. Scaramouche summons Electro in his remaining hand and slashes across his would-be killer's shins. Aether screams out as the energy burns through his trousers and into his exposed flesh. He falls forward, the puppet using this opportunity to get back to his feet. Feeling the anger and hate boil inside him, he outstretches his arm and summons a shockwave, sending the momentarily unbalanced Aether flying at the wall. Barreling through various shelves and crates, his body smashes against the stone wall with a dull thud, sword cluttering to the ground. 

Kunikuzuchi smiles. He curls his fingers, lifting Aether into the air and slamming him into the debris-ridden floor. As he impacts a small cloud of dust arises from the broken furniture. Aether is picked up again and thrown to the side, his face meeting the cold stone of a fireplace. 

“You should not have returned here, you fool. Just destroying our plan wasn't enough for you, so you thought - the audacity! - that you could capture me too?” Scaramouche dusts his knees off, gazing smugly at the human, slowly raising to his feet. Before he can stabilize himself though he is raised up again and tossed like a ragdoll to the opposite end of the room. “And then you don't even kill me when you have the chance. You're a mockery.”

Aether grunts. Scaramouche observes as he drags himself to his knees and coughs out a bloodstained tooth. His eyes flicker with excitement. 

Adrenaline rushing through his body, Scaramouche steps forward using his powers to pick his defenseless opponent up yet again. With a satisfied groan, he gestures downwards with his whole arm, sending Aether crashing against the ground. Then, Scaramouche repeats. Then again. And again. 

With each gesture of his hand and each painful impact, Aether groans in pain. His cries become quieter and quieter as the deceptively hard floor stains with more and more blood. When Scaramouche can hear the pained sounds no more, he finally releases the human from his grip, letting him fall to the floor. 

As the Traveler moans weakly, Scaramouche laughs to himself. “Pathetic.”

Aether clutches his stomach, coughing as the Fatui approaches him. Every now and then a few new droplets of blood stain the floorboards. Using his foot, Scaramouche turns his enemy over onto his back. He aims his leg and stomps onto his stomach, sending him into a coughing fit. 

“I would gladly end your misery here, if only you weren't such a nuisance, Traveler.” The man tries to turn his head to look up at him, but is forced into place with Kunikuzuchi’s sandal on his head. 

Aether spits, sending him a look of defiance.

“You'll pay”, he speaks with a mocking voice. 

With a kick to the head, Aether's world is plunged into darkness. 

Scaramouche takes a step back, admiring the battered body of his opponent. He turns sharply towards his saviors. 

“What are you waiting for, morons? Tie him up. We'll take ‘the Traveler’ on a really memorable journey.”

Thanks for reading!

[mhaynoot]

[ tw suicide , suicidal thoughts and intentions - orv spoilers - epilogue joongdok ]

yjh progressed so much and so far through 1863 regression turns not only to cut down the constellations and systems that made him suffer but also to find a way to either save the world or die permanently, whichever came first.

out of all the yjh and the regressions, the one who achieved that goal was the half slain by himself in the 1863rd round, the one who encapsulated all yjh's feelings of "i want to die".

the one that said "i want to live" was all that was left.

yjh remembers renouncing his regression status. his character trait.

"yoo joonghyuk, former regressor."

but he who hated his regression the most, who experienced suffering like no other because of it, chooses again to regress once more to save kdj. he tries not to think why but does anyway when the the scenario nights once again drag on long and agonising.

"are you sure?" people had asked right before the group regression. as if he would have ever brought it up as a suggestion if he hadn't been sure.

was he sure?

yjh closes his eyes.

he remembers renouncing his regressor status. he remembers delcaring not only that he will lived this round - this life - fully but that he will live solely for the ending in which kdj was an anomaly. he remembers kdj too. the little twist to his lips, the downcurved tilt, and his eyes, yjh was always reflected into his eyes. but they only saw him then. "I was twenty-eight, and I was an employee of a game company. my hobby was reading web novels…"

yjh remembers.

"yes, I'm sure."

but more than reliving the hellish nightmares of the scenarios once more, it only completely breaks him when regressing still fails-fails-fails-

(like kdj had told him over and over again)

two years passes by. time is supposed to ease grief. he should have moved on.

yjh breaks into the museum to grab the broken [final ark] with no real plan and fights hsy with his all so she could kill him because that's what he wanted. because yjh wants to fucking die and had tried everything from clutching a gaming mouse to training to talking endlessly with his teacher and sister but still- still he finds no purpose in life after the failed regression.

he imagines that guy yelling at him, calling him a sunfish.

even though he was free from the scenarios, free from the regression skill, can grow old normally with all his loved ones into a happily ever after. in a world surely and carefully forgetting the secnarios, erasing almost everything of that nightmare. today, the night sky is forever dark with only the glimmer of weakened constellations. yjh had saved the world and his companions and his sister and himself. it was everything he had ever wanted. everything that could have ever made him happy.

kim dokja, he grieves and grieves and grieves.

it is only the dumb blind faith and hope of a hacked brained plan that lets him live until he's shooting through space with a faint, infinitely burning wish.

and because of course nothing ever goes right, the ship breaks down and then everything else is breaking down and he's drifting through space in the vast loneliness and hollowness of his own dying stories.

1, 2, 10, 100, 333 days of drifting.

it is the kdj's story that revitalises him again and again as he reads and rereads and reads more and more

until, finally, he could understand kdj just a little more.

he wonders if this is what it means to have a soulmate. to have someone who completed him so much. who is his everything and to know he is everything to that guy too.

they are each other's beginning and end, salvation and damnation, life and death.

and then,

on death's door, he draws his sword. he regrets but he does not give up.

words echo between his ears in his final moments. that guy was right in the end. of course.

he dreams of fighting and that damn journey to the west remake and he dreams-

his eyes search around, always desperately searching. it's like chasing a ghost. like trying to bridge a bridgless gap between him and-

"where is kim dokja?"

"captain!"

everything in him knows it, knows what happened even if it remained a dream in his memories. the stories vibrantly holding him together was proof enough that he got saved by that bastard. he'll be damned if he ever reveals the truth to biyoo that though.

they crest and bob through the ebb and flow of the wordlines and the universe.

some worlds a peaceful. no scenarios.

yjh wonders if the stardust reincarnated in these worldlines is happy. selfishly, he hopes not and that they'll always wish to come back. to stay. he's already doomed countless worlds for this purpose. spreading this dream of destruction for a single man.

its with these selfish wishes, they drift through space and the brief stops along the way.

some, he leaves faster than others. it depends on how quickly he and biyoo can find a suitable webnovel author. but it doesnt always go all that quickly. authors. they're reclusive annoyances. yjh thinks of hsy and her first appearance and edits the latest update with particularly brutal comments on her prose. so some worlds, they linger on.

somehow, he finds himself on a high building in every world. sometimes they're in seoul but not always. all cities eventually start looking the same anyway. similar but foreign concrete city scapes. large, open skies.

that guy had said the view was beautiful.

"wake up, yoo joonghyuk."

centuries and world lines drift by.

he was not the 41st yjh and she was not the 41st shin yoosung. they had lived and grown to become the them they are now. had both been touched by that guy and his actions. her more so than him.

sometimes, he gets caught in her visage. on the way she smiled or her eyes gleamed. nebulae dwarfed in comparison. every bit of her father.

more than her eyes and her smiles, it was the way she talked. that slightly annoyed, flippant wit. she talks so much now, babbling, scheming, or just talking for the sake of talking. like she was making up for the years of being pretty much nonverbal. or the years of travelling alone. although, her father had always able been to understand her quite well. maybe it was a connection between parent and child.

yjh didnt try to remember his own child, they were always there. a small swaddled thing. it was a worn out grief. memories so bright it faded. a life too short.

biyoo's dad had said he understood. he had never lost child. had sacrificied himself over and over again to ensure not a single one of his went through that cut fate.

yjh knows that kdj had never experienced it. but yjh understands kdj too.

every world, she finds recent trends in webnovels and the world news and what strange "gimmick" the world operated on. some had game systems like the star stream. some had an old apocalypse lingering. some were in the middle of a breaking world. nothing quite bad enough to not find an author, of course.

he wonders if kdj was thriving in those less peaceful worlds like he thrived in the star stream. yjh selfishly hopes not. hopes that something is irreversibly missing in a life without his companions, without yjh.

even if they only stopped in the world for an hour, biyoo always finds the time to report her findings to him. she settles into the arc beside him and rambles on about how the different systems compared to each other or talks about a popular webnovel and the characters in them. the arcs they go through.

something in his chest loosens at the fimilarity. it wouldnt do to get lost in the memories of another person in someone else but he was a regressor.

maybe she understands that too because she always continues to talk even when he stops responding, stops looking quite at her.

he was glad she was there with him. in this long journey.

in the arc, through the worldlines, on the highest points of city buildings, he edits the story, he adds his own chapters. he finds their memories and their stories and writes it all down. he types with fingers tracing only a singular name.

he reads more.

he writes more.

protagonist, reader, author.

the star stream seems to be finally over. their epilogue was upon them.

that pivotal last chapter had not be written yet. the one where kdj comes home.

yjh settles his hands on the keyboard.

as he enters the stratosphere, as the cockpit burns and lights through earth's blue skies like a shooting star, and he finally breathes in the air his and kim dokja's world again, yjh thinks about his long journey. about his 0th turn. about 1865 regressions. about answers and questions and the future. about his happiness.

the [ark] slams into the ocean. he can already see lee jihye screaming at him in the distance. the rest of his little nebulae wait for him. his little sister looks ready to beat him up.

he looks at them and smiles.

as he's pulled towards his and kim dokja's companions, moved back into their embrace and circle as if he's never left, he thinks about his long journey. about his 0th turn. about 1865 regressions. about answers and questions and the future. about kim dokja.

yjh thinks about every stardust that scatters through the wordlines that he had visited. some of them had been peaceful. some of them less so.

yjh hopes each stardust reincarneted into these worldlines are doing well. that they are warm and eating well and are loved. and, yjh hopes that he could still find the ending where he can love that guy and show it to him too. tell him, eventually.