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miyaz6ki · 8 months ago

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──── day 2: dnd on the hotel door.

⠀ ۪ ⠀✧ synopsis. wherein your friends give him.. more than just suggestive photos at your wedding. (you had a private boudoir photoshoot prior to it!)

⠀ ۪ ⠀✧ pairings. kinich, neuvillette, zhongli, tartaglia, capitano x gn!afab!reader. !!NSFW/SUGGESTIVE CONTENT!!

⠀ ۪ ⠀✧ director's notice. saw a cute tt of this exact topic (⁠人⁠ ⁠•͈⁠ᴗ⁠•͈⁠) will do diff characters next week!

kinich who'd already been so nervous for whatever was to come on this day; he was always more than willing. he knew the first laugh you both shared. the first kiss you both partook in, not everyone he's kissed had such a long-lasting impact on him, that's if he ever kissed anyone at all (that wasn't you.)

it wasn't all that special he said, but everything you've ever wanted in a wedding was there. he remembered what flowers you'd always pluck from the grounds you traveled on. or the colors that always had your eyebrow twitching just hearing the first letter of the pigment's name.

the venue wasn't necessarily small either, borrowing whatever he could in his homeland to make it perfect, even going as far as to asking others for help on what to embellish the locale in.

for as long as you've known him- kinich wasn't much of a romantic. letting you take the lead instead, switching up occasionally by spooning you alternatively. but you remembered he'd always laid his head atop your chest, from the nightmares of his own past, and regrets; he found peace in listening to your heartbeat, and feeling your torso heave slowly.

he wanted to make you feel special today & tonight. so he wants to do it right at least. he tried to fluster you in a way that you'd be surprised, aware he wasn't very amorous.

or at least that's what was in his point of view because you had a whole other plan ready for him. but you didn't know about the surprises he'd throw either.

the whole theme of the wedding was based on his tribe, encased with traces of your own home/favorite colors.

but something that you'd see as a surprise this afternoon was kinich's suit. it wasn't the usual black suit and tie. no- he wore.. your initial around his neck, and his tie was the color of your eyes.

you felt your eyes water a little, walking down the aisle, your arm entangled with the guardian who's been with you since day one. (or whoever you'd like!)

after the classic bouquet toss, and squealings later. you told your newly-wed husband your bridesmaids had a surprise for him. he didn't think much of it; meeting them before, they seemed nice enough. (one of them is mualani btw :3)

mualani who stands beside kinich briefly for the picture, she hands him a polaroid photo from the photographer's kamera. "what is-" he gets cut off, his face turning to playfully sour until it slowly changes to his usual stoic behavior (he doesn't know his face is turning redder by the second)

"you.. hmm." he awkwardly nodded after another picture was taken of his reaction, cheeks aflame; the picture was still so clear in his mind. now it couldn't get out!

the mental image of your body in frilly lace/in nothing but a blanket over you, a simple layer of clothing that stopped him from seeing your bare body- fuck he could feel himself get hard already.

and the more time that passed, progressing with each photo being taken, the worse his boner got. shit he can't believe you're his. and he's damn well lucky to have you.

even as he stood idly, talking to some of the guests, some more of the bridesmaids came up to him, handing him more scenes for him to visualize in his head.

"ahh.. may i excuse myself from this conversation?" he politely bows and walks away to where you were. the eventide's stellar in the sky definitely wasn't shining each time he saw you. oh there it is- that laugh he always loved and fell in love with again each time he heard it.

"pretty.. ahh.. there's something i.. need help with."

kinich who's already in your newly bought home, hurriedly stripping you of your clothes, ready to devour you and eat your cunt out to his content.

kinich who could only palm his erection, as his mouth latched onto your wetness was already waiting for him. your taste, how it smelled, how your slit was already so wet for him- you knew what you were doing. and it worked really damn well.

neuvillette who was already nervous, throughout the proposal, even you relationship before being fiancees, I mean, it was you, why wouldn't he be worried? he was ready to jump off a cliff if anything went wrong if he'd tell the truth, but he'd never say that.

neuvillette who sighed with relief, the days of worrying that something bad might happen to you on your special day with him. taking pictures with the bridesmaids for the wedding's little picture book for you to look back on soon, and maybe even for your kids to look at and call you both corny for.

neuvillette who suddenly received 3 photo frames from 3 of your bridesmaids, confused as he took a look at it, he could only feel the rush of warmth crawling up from his neck to his ears. his horns grew the more he looked into the photos.

"w- where did you get this?" he observed the room shyly, looking for any signs of you, why? to help him out with 'something' of course. no one could take care of it better than you did.

they simply shrugged and walked away, whispering and chuckling to each other. awkwardly walking to find you, pulling you to the side, inside one of the venue's main buildings, bringing you into one of the bedrooms.

"you didn't need to tease me like this." you were pinned to the bed once the wedding ended. the painful boner you had caused hadn't gone away, even now, throbbing, missing where it's supposed to be (inside you)

ripping your wedding dress off your body (not really, just making sure you get out of it without ruining it), he couldn't wait to fill you with his seed. he wanted to see personally if you could take all of him in. he could only caress the very rim of your hole, teasing you with his fingers before he would finally split you apart with his cock.

from the amount of time, he's been alive, his stamina would be unmatched, so it'd be entirely up to you for how long you wanna do this :)

it felt as if he was such a meanie, but his words were different- praising you, and gently holding your wrists in place. it didn't quite match the pace of his cock drilling itself inside you though, it felt deep, and it looked as if the night has barely even started. oh well.

zhongli had never thought of the idea of marriage until he overheard you speaking about it with a few of your friends. it wasn't you necessarily hoping he'd propose, but you were the only one within the group of four to have not been married yet!

he knows you'd never leave him for another, but adding a ring to your pretty little hand definitely would tell all the other men and women alike who try to hit on you to say everything for him.

the wedding was more than just a delight, it was planned to the very smallest of details. it was beautiful, even on a budget of somewhat a lot but not too much; it made sure to shine brighter than most of the stars that night.

before he could sweep you into his arms, and take you upstairs into the home you both chose out before the wedding; some of your bridesmaids, along with your maid of honor had handed him a book.

they said nothing but laughed and walked away to the food section, looking through the book and oh wow.

he hadn't learned what a boudoir was but he definitely enjoyed what he was seeing now. flipping through the pages, staying to the side so no one else could see what was happening. he'll have to ask you about that lingerie set later, white definitely complimented you..

"s'dirty.. you tease me like this, even on our special day? mmmf.." you sat down on his cock, as he showed you off in the mirror. the same lingerie set you wore in the photo book was already ripped off your body, and on the floor. geo marks that scattered, covering most of his arms caressed your thighs that trembled.

his strong arm ran over your body, carefully exploring every inch of you that he could. the thought of being legally, and weddedingly(?) yours. you have his last name now.

he could only imagine how much more pleasure he'd want to give you throughout tonight. he could only praise you for taking him so well, watching you try and use his cock for your own, but he's too big :(.

tartaglia who introduced you with pride to his family after proposing. but watching you treat his little sister and brother so well.. oh he had to get you pregnant.

but for now, he'd put those thoughts to the side, and enjoy his and your special day, no lust, just love.

you had other plans though. and he wasn't gonna complain.

a couple of your bridesmaids took pictures with him for the futurity of the book of photos for his siblings to look through as well. but after each photo, they all handed him Polaroids.

"what's this?" he looked at them confusedly, but all they did was "just look at it!" "you won't regret it!" and boy he sure did not!!! ssshit just covered in a blanket, no nothing underneath? you wanna get fucked tonight?

he pushed you against the wall of the master bedroom. "mmm.. w'na try to get me hard like that again in public, and I'm gonna do a looott worse than tonight, baby."

the ring on your finger he saw as your hand held onto the wall while he stripped you- he couldn't help but let out a loud as hellll groan. even when he held you down to the bed, he made sure to kiss the jewelry on your finger that meant you're his for life.

while you ride him, his eyes are always on the necklace that has his initials on it, watching it bounce up and down on your chest. for the longest time; he was foreign to the idea of even a relationship, let alone getting to marry someone. but he was gonna make sure you'll feel what he couldn't express throughout time.

when he's soo obsessed with nutting inside you, he holds your hips down onto his, making sure not a drop will be wasted. he could already imagine what your kids with him would look like.

capitano who preferred a more quiet wedding. one between simple friends, and I guess co-workers (he was against it but you invited them anyway.)

so in this sense, columbina, arlecchino, and signora had agreed to accompany you as your bridesmaids. tsaritsa also agreed to bless your wedding (because she agrees that you are strong, mentally, and physically, and give capitano something to look forward to, unlike before.)

i guess the others attended (most attended just to say congrats and leave, pierro was best man)

accompanying you down to a glass garden house nearby the venue you chose out, but before he could proceed, your three bridesmaids stopped him. cheeky smiles on signora, and columbina's lips- arlecchino handed him a book.

"they want you to have this." the fourth harbinger states, leaving with the two ladies simply giggling and walking off, opposite sides of arlecchino.

he questioningly opened the book while about to walk back to you but oh. wow.

as he catches up to you, he's still a bit flustered, but quickly composed himself once more. "are.. you trying to tease me, kitten?"

and as much as he hasn't had any experience in a long while, oh boy is he ready to find out if he still got it or not

but capitano never knew he'd be so turned on to think about what real married life had to offer.. like kids. he knew he couldn't necessarily have them since he's a harbinger, but a man can dream, right?

anyways he's already pulling your hair from behind, while he has you doggy style on the mattress. I don't know cause I get the feeling he would.

a tight hold onto the strands of your hair. "fffuck.. this is what you get for looking so fuckin' hot.." he groans.

even so when he isn't fucking your pussy with sloppy thrusts from behind- he's fingering you with his long fingers that make you go wild.

he does take note that his fingers are pretty long, so he's pretty careful when it comes down to that.

you sitting on his lap while he admires you in the mirror, watching how you reacted to simply him adding another digit inside your hole, as another hand held onto your left hand, caressing the ring that binded you to him. he couldn't be happier!

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copperbadge · 1 year ago

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AI Scraping Isn't Just Art And Fanfic

Something I haven't really seen mentioned and I think people may want to bear in mind is that while artists are the most heavily impacted by AI visual medium scraping, it's not like the machine knows or cares to differentiate between original art and a photograph of your child.

AI visual media scrapers take everything, and that includes screengrabs, photographs, and memes. Selfies, pictures of your pets and children, pictures of your home, screengrabs of images posted to other sites -- all of the comic book imagery I've posted that I screengrabbed from digital comics, images of tweets (including the icons of peoples' faces in those tweets) and instas and screengrabs from tiktoks. I've posted x-ray images of my teeth. All of that will go into the machine.

That's why, at least I think, Midjourney wants Tumblr -- after Instagram we are potentially the most image-heavy social media site, and like Instagram we tag our content, which is metadata that the scraper can use.

So even if you aren't an artist, unless you want to Glaze every image of any kind that you post, you probably want to opt out of being scraped. I'm gonna go ahead and say we've probably already been scraped anyway, so I don't think there's a ton of point in taking down your tumblr or locking down specific images, but I mean...especially if it's stuff like pictures of children or say, a fundraising photo that involves your medical data, it maybe can't hurt.

If you do want to officially opt out, which may help if there's a class-action lawsuit later, you're going to want to go to the gear in the upper-right corner on the Tumblr desktop site, select each of your blogs from the list on the right-hand side, and scroll down to "Visibility". Select "Prevent third party sharing for [username]" to flip that bad boy on.

Per notes: for the app, go to your blog (the part of the app that shows what you post) and hit the gear in the upper right, then select "visibility" and it will be the last option. If you have not updated your app, it will not appear (confirmed by me, who cannot see it on my elderly version of the app).

You don't need to do it on both desktop and mobile -- either one will opt you out -- but on the app you may need to load each of your sideblogs in turn and then go back into the gear and opt out for that blog, like how you have to go into the settings for each sideblog on desktop and do it.

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3liza · 6 months ago

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"this photo looks like 'classical Art's" yes that's because we have been using the same rules for visual composition in the west for hundreds of years and all professional photographers as well as amateur photographers who have read even one paragraph about composition are fully aware of the rule of thirds, horizon lines, tangents, weighted frames, etc or perhaps someone just took a photo by accident that also conforms to these incredibly well documented design principles. guy who has seen one image before "getting a lot of image vibes from this"

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elwenyere · 2 months ago

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Fatima Hassona, a Palestinian photojournalist who stars in a documentary selected to be screened at Cannes next month, has reportedly been killed in an Israeli air strike on her home in northern Gaza. A graduate of the University College of Applied Sciences in Gaza, Fatima was not just a photographer, she was a visual witness to a reality that is getting harsher by the day. Hours before she was killed, she posted a photo of the sunset from her balcony, writing: "This is the first sunset in a long time." In an earlier post, she wrote: "As for the inevitable death, if I die, I want a loud death, I don't want me in a breaking news story, nor in a number with a group, I want a death that is heard by the world, a trace that lasts forever, and immortal images that neither time nor place can bury." ... Fatima Hassona was not only a journalist, but a humanitarian voice and an unforgettable image in the history of a city that dies and is reborn every day. Her work bears witness to a reality that she did not stop documenting until the last moment.

#free palestine #fatima hassona #put your soul on your hand and walk

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image-research-thinking · 6 months ago

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Regard noir by Thierry Fontaine.

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headlinxr · 6 months ago

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( 瘋狂的 ) HEADLOCK, P. SUNGHOON ، ݃ •

𓏲 ┈─ ៵ʾpassion is a positive obsession. obsession is a negative passion. . ㌐

̼ ̼ ̼ ̼ ̼ 𓆸 TO THE OTHER SIDE ⸝⸝ you are sung-hoon's muse ˖ ៹

𓈒 𓄹 ⊹ , 夫妻 photographer!sung-hoon x fem!reader × ִֶ

𓆤 ; 廣告 IN THE NIGHT, I SPILL THE LIGHT ຳ reader is jake's girlfriend, jake is a little red flag, reader wants to be a model 𓏲

٬ ៶ ૂ 通告 , This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. ༉‧₊˚

៹ 𓂃 HEADLINXR ִ ۫ ּ ֗ ִ 為了你，為了我 ؛ ៹

The camera doesn't lie. Or at least, that's what Sung-hoon has believed for years, a truth he has carried with him in every step of his life. Through his lens, the world unfolds before him with absolute clarity, a universe reduced to lights and shadows, to shapes and textures, to a moment frozen in time that, according to him, reflects the immutable truth of existence. As a renowned photographer, Sung-hoon has achieved what few can: He has mastered his art with such skill that his images not only capture reality but also penetrate the very essence of his subjects, stripping their souls bare with almost surgical precision.

Each click of his camera is a sigh, a heartbeat, an attempt to capture the elusive. For him, photography is much more than a technical act; it is an unceasing quest for something deeper than a simple pose or a well-composed scene. In each photograph, Sung-hoon seeks to unravel the hidden essence of what he sees: that spark of vulnerability, that fragile beauty that lies behind everyday masks. The faces he photographs are not mere portraits, but windows to the truth, as if each image could decipher untold stories, repressed emotions, silenced fears. In his mastery of the interplay between light and shadow, he has found his most authentic voice, a visual language that allows him, with each shot, to transcend the limitations of the physical and touch the intangible.

He is a master in creating atmospheres, an alchemist of light who transforms the ordinary into something sublime. He knows that light, as elusive as life itself, has the power to reveal and conceal, to create depth in the superficial, and to give shape to what seems inert. For him, each shadow is a promise, and each flash of light, a revelation. In his hands, the camera becomes an almost divine instrument, capable of immortalizing moments that, in their transience, seem eternal. And yet, behind this unparalleled skill, there is a reality that Sung-hoon has refused for so long that he has come to forget it. His camera, which has been his most faithful companion, has also been his jailer.

Because while his art has elevated him to the pinnacle of recognition, it has condemned him to a solitary existence. The dedication he has put into his work, unwavering and absolute, has cost him much more than his time. He has sacrificed a personal life, a life he could never integrate with his vocation. He never had a partner who understood him, nor friends who shared his universe, nor family members who dared to call his attention outside of the studio. Love, friendship, human connections, seemed to him minor distractions in the face of the greatness of his photographic mission. In his mind, there was no room for anything other than visual perfection, the constant search for that transcendent image that could touch the very essence of life.

But while his world was being built through the lens, a subtle and silent darkness began to take shape within him. Each photo he took was a window to the outside, but at the same time, it closed the doors of his soul even more. The camera granted him the power to see and capture everything happening around him, but it denied him the ability to see what was happening in his own heart. In that space where shadows intertwine with light, where the ephemeral becomes eternal, Sung-hoon got lost. He became a distant observer, trapped in an endless cycle of images, but with no real contact with the life that existed beyond his lens. The loneliness he dragged along, hidden within the folds of his success, grew deeper, more overwhelming, until one day, he could no longer escape it.

As Sung-hoon's recognition grew, so did the shadow that loomed over his life. Fame, like a brilliant reflection, mirrored an image of success that the world applauded, but he felt increasingly disconnected, more alien to that applause, as if everything were part of a movie that was not his own. The galleries, the exhibitions, the critics' laudatory comments, the flashes capturing his moments of glory: none of it managed to penetrate the ice armor he had forged over the years. The camera, his tool of revelation, had made him an expert in the truth of others, but not in his own truth. And, despite being a creator of worlds, within himself lay a deep, unfathomable void that even the most powerful images could not fill.

In the stillness of his studio, surrounded by thousands of stories frozen on photographic paper, Sung-hoon found himself in a strange space, filled with foreign memories but empty of his own. The walls, adorned with his best works, offered him a vision of the world he had captured with meticulousness, but the images did not speak to him. Those faces, those gazes frozen in a second that seemed eternal, watched him with a fixity that overwhelmed him, as if judging him in their silence. The gestures he had halted in his journey through life now appeared to him as ghosts of a past he himself had lost. Each photograph was a masterpiece, yes, but also a cruel reminder that he had been a spectator in the lives of others, without truly participating in his own. The distance between him and his art had become an insurmountable abyss.

The studio lighting, which he had so expertly mastered when capturing the essence of others, now seemed distant and cold to him. The shadows he had used to build atmospheres in his photos now enveloped him like a mantle of darkness in his own life. His soul, which he had learned to sculpt in each image, slipped through his fingers like water, like a film unrolling before him, but which he could never touch. Sometimes, at the end of the day, when the last light of the day began to fade, he found himself in front of his photographs, in a silence that devoured him. A feeling of incompleteness overwhelmed him, as if his constant search in the eyes of others had been a way to evade his own face. Why, despite the fame, did he feel that something within him was slowly crumbling? The answer was not in the lens of his camera, but in the absence of a real connection with himself.

It was a typical work afternoon, without any preambles or announcements, when something inside him changed. While reviewing the photographs that would soon be part of his new exhibition, one in particular caught his attention. It was you, a young woman, with your gaze lost on the horizon, as if your thoughts floated beyond your body. In your expression, so laden with melancholy, Sung-hoon saw something he had never perceived before: His own reflection. The sorrow in your eyes, the fragility emanating from your face, the sadness seeping through your gestures, everything seemed so familiar. It was as if he himself, in his bewilderment and emptiness, had become you, trapped in a moment he couldn't let go of.

In that instant, the camera stopped being a simple tool to capture reality and transformed into a mirror. A mirror that reflected not only the image of its subject but also that of his own soul, slowly crumbling, invisible to the eyes of others. You were not just another subject in his photographic archive; you represented what he had left behind, what he had never been able to live. The melancholy of that image seeped into his very being, like an underground river that had finally found its way to the surface.

Sung-hoon was forced to confront the question he had been avoiding for so long: How many times, while observing others, had he seen his own emptiness reflected in their eyes? How many times had he searched in the gestures of his subjects for the humanity he had lost, as if he could find something of himself in the faces of others? Each photograph, he thought, had been a search to find what he had not been able to find in his own life. He had spent years chasing a truth that only existed in the shadows of his lens, without realizing that, in the process, he had stopped seeing the light within himself.

That night, when the studio lights went out and darkness began to fill the corners of the room, Sung-hoon found himself in front of the mirror. The reflection he saw there was not that of the renowned photographer, the man admired for his skill, for his unique vision. It was the face of a weary man, marked by years of sacrifices, of renunciations, of living in the world of images without ever daring to live in his own flesh. The dimness of the room was reflected in his eyes, filled with shadows, unfulfilled desires, lost affections. And as he looked at himself, he saw the traces of loneliness that he could no longer hide, the marks of a being who had been running for too long, without really knowing where to.

It was at that precise moment when something broke inside him. As if a window in your soul had opened, finally letting in the fresh and renewing air of introspection. The camera, which had been his refuge, his lifeline, his prison, ceased to be the only means of expression in his life. And for the first time in years, Sung-hoon began to wonder if it was possible to live outside the lens, if he could find a new way to connect with the world, to stop being a spectator and become a participant. Would he be able to find a life that was his own, without the mediation of the camera?

The search for truth in others had brought him there, to that breaking point. But now, something was beginning to take shape in his mind. Maybe the story he really needed to capture wasn't that of others, nor the image of a distant subject, but his own. The camera would no longer be his only way of seeing; perhaps the time had come to learn to look, for the first time, without filters.

Despite the internal storm that was tearing him apart, Sung-hoon found himself being pulled by an almost mechanical impulse towards the meeting he had with Jake. The appointment was marked in his agenda like a beacon guiding him towards a destiny he could not evade, a point in time that, no matter how much his soul screamed in resistance, he had to fulfill. In his mind, chaos reigned, a whirlwind of doubts and unease that rose like black clouds above him, so dense that he could barely see the light that once propelled him. Despite the years of success and recognition he had harvested in his career, an unfathomable void devoured his being. That void, which neither fame nor applause could fill, was his constant companion, his inseparable shadow. But still, he got up that morning, with a heaviness that crushed his shoulders, and headed to the café where he would meet Jake, his long-time companion, a man whose relationship with life was so different from his that he seemed from another world.

Jake had always been his counterpoint, his antithesis, and at the same time, his reflection. While Sung-hoon got lost in the dark depth of photography, searching for the soul of his subjects, Jake glided over the surface of life, finding beauty in simplicity and human connections with an ease that Sung-hoon had never experienced. Jake was a man who saw life in bright colors, with a cheerful disposition that contrasted with the photographer's somber and analytical gaze. For him, each encounter, each face was a story told without the need for capture, while Sung-hoon looked through the camera, searching for shadows and reflections, the invisible that could only be observed through the lens. But despite their differences, Jake was his companion, and that meeting was a bond that still maintained the appearance of normalcy in a world that was slipping through his fingers.

Upon arriving at the café, the feeling of unreality enveloped him strongly. The bustle of conversations, the sound of coffee being poured into cups, and the aroma that filled the air seemed like distant echoes to him, as if he were looking at the world from the distance of a photograph, frozen and distant. Each object in the place, each face that crossed his path, seemed like a lifeless painting, a static image that had nothing to offer him beyond its fleeting existence. Only the constant buzzing in his mind kept him anchored to that reality, but everything felt like a dream he hadn't chosen himself.

When Jake greeted him, his face lit up with that broad and contagious smile that had always been so bewildering to him. Sung-hoon looked at him, recognizing in him the unyielding energy that he so often wished to possess but never could. Next to Jake, there was a figure that seemed familiar, but he still couldn't put a name to it. A young woman, whose presence seemed to fill the space with a natural light that had nothing to do with the shadows Sung-hoon had grown accustomed to. It's you, your smile was so open and generous that it contrasted with the coldness surrounding Sung-hoon, like a ray of sunshine entering a gloomy room. Despite your apparent tranquility, your energy was so vibrant that it seemed to fill the air around you, flooding the room with a vitality that Sung-hoon felt was foreign.

—I'd like you to meet (Y/N)— said Jake, with a spark in his eyes that Sung-hoon couldn't ignore. —She's my new model and, well, also someone I've been dating lately.—

Sung-hoon nodded mechanically, unable to find words beyond polite formality. His mind, on the other hand, was already beginning to process the image of you. Something felt unsettling to him, as if your presence challenged the stillness he had sought in the photograph. When you extended your hand to him, your gesture was warm and filled with that energy that Sung-hoon had never understood, as natural and genuine as the air he breathed. Despite his attempts to maintain emotional distance, Sung-hoon, inside, was as tense as a wire, with his jaw clenched and his fingers closing around his hand with a rigidity he couldn't disguise. It was as if he were touching something that didn't belong to him, something he couldn't possess.

—(Y/N), it's a pleasure to meet you— he said, with his usual cold and calculated tone, but despite his control, a small crack opened in his voice, a slight tremor that betrayed the internal storm shaking his chest.

You looked at him with a smile that, although warm, never wavered. Your posture was relaxed, completely oblivious to the conflict raging within him. It was a sight that seemed out of place in Sung-hoon's world. In the photograph he had captured the day before, you had been a shadow of yourself, a figure breathing sadness, deep melancholy, as if the world had stopped offering something worthy of your gaze. He had captured that essence, that gaze lost on the horizon, that fragility that so attracted him, seeking in you what he himself felt was missing: A naked truth, almost painful, that could only be understood through a lens. But now, in front of him, stood a completely different woman. The melancholy he had imagined was replaced by a vibrant light, an energy that seemed so foreign to the image he had created in his mind. It was not the sad figure he had seen in his camera, but a beacon of joy, a warm glow that illuminated everything around him.

Sung-hoon, for a moment, was paralyzed, as if time had stopped. The figure of the young woman in front of him was not the same one he had captured. The reflection he had found in his camera, the sadness and depth he thought he understood, crumbled before his eyes. Reality was imposing itself with a force that bewildered him. This woman was not a shadow, not an emptiness; you were the very antithesis of what he had sought. Something twisted inside him, a mix of frustration and fascination, as if the image he had created, the one he had conceived through his lens, was being torn from his being.

Was that the same woman he had portrayed? Was it possible for a captured image to be so radically different from reality? Confusion overwhelmed him, frustration began to take shape, mingling with a strange feeling of jealousy, as if your life were a slap in the face to the truth he had tried to find in his work.

While the conversation continued between Jake and you, Sung-hoon remained silent, his gaze fixed on you, who now seemed an impossible enigma to decipher. Every word you spoke, every move you made, confirmed something he feared: The image he had built of you no longer existed, and he was unable to comprehend the real woman standing before him. The photograph, which had always been his refuge and his way of understanding the world, now betrayed him, crumbling in his hands.

With each breath, a small dark spark began to burn within his being. It was no longer about admiration, no longer just fascination. It was something deeper, something that awakened in him an even greater sense of emptiness. There was something he couldn't reach, something he had touched in his chamber but that now seemed to slip through his fingers, like the light he had tried so hard to seize.

And as his heart beat with growing anxiety, he realized something terrifying: Perhaps photography hadn't given him what he thought it had. Maybe what he needed to capture wasn't in the world he saw through the lens, but in the darkness that hid within him.

From that day on, something in Sung-hoon began to crumble like an old film that, exposed to light, starts to tear and disintegrate. His initial fascination with you, a light curiosity, an admiration fueled by the desire to capture your ephemeral beauty, slowly transformed into an excessive obsession. The lens of his camera, that object he had used for years to spy on the human soul, now took on a different weight, a dark power that seemed to dictate the rules of the relationship. He no longer saw you as a fleeting muse, but as an immaculate canvas, a virgin territory that had to be conquered over and over again. Each click of the shutter was not just a reminder of his technical prowess, but a twisted validation of his need to possess the image of you, to freeze it in a perpetual instant, to impose his will upon you. Each shot was a subtle, almost imperceptible affirmation that what he captured through his camera was his. In his mind, distorted by obsession, each shot reinforced the idea that his love, his devotion to you, was reciprocated, that his control over the image meant control over your being.

The first time Sung-hoon photographed you without your consent, it wasn't an accident; it was a chance disguised as an opportunity. You were sitting on the edge of a window, motionless, looking out at the garden as if the outside world were an extension of your thoughts. The soft afternoon light slipped through the curtains, illuminating your face with an almost celestial clarity. In that moment, Sung-hoon raised the camera instinctively, almost as if the gesture were an extension of his own being. There was no time to think about it, no space for reflection. It was a visceral impulse, a need to capture the image before it faded, as if your beauty were a flash of light that only he could capture, preserve, and, in his mind, possess. The sound of the shutter, so familiar, vibrated in his chest with an indescribable satisfaction, a shiver that ran down his spine. In that single second, something inside him broke even more. The image he was creating was not simply that of a beautiful woman, nor just another of his artistic photographs. It was an attempt to possess you, to trap you, to hold you in a space that he controlled. Through the lens, you became a static object, a being that, for him, no longer existed in the unpredictable flow of time, but in a capsule of light and shadow that only he could decode.

The camera, which had once been his tool to capture the essence of reality, began to transform into a channel to something much darker, a means to impose his will, to create his own distorted version of the truth. Thus, he began to photograph you compulsively, without rest. The sessions were no longer scheduled or agreed upon; they were driven by an uncontrollable impulse fueled by the need to see you in your purest, most fragmented, most his form. Sung-hoon was not just a photographer; he saw himself as a sculptor in the darkness, molding reality, shaping your figure with the precision of his lens, seeking perfection in every angle, in every light. He asked you to stay for an "improvised session," suggested poses with an apparent delicacy that disguised itself as professionalism, but in every gesture, every instruction, there was an insatiable need for control. The power of the camera, the ability to capture a moment in time, became a game of manipulation, a dance in which he was not only the director but the absolute creator.

Each image created was another step towards the achievement of his ideal, an ideal that distorted both your figure and reality itself. There was something perverse in the way he looked at you, a fascination that went beyond mere aesthetic pursuit. It was no longer just about capturing the beauty he had found in his other subjects; in you, he sought something more, something that belonged to him, a beauty he could hold in his power. And, like a painter who wants to capture the soul of his muse in every stroke, Sung-hoon aspired for that beauty to be his, only his, until it merged with his own vision. The camera was no longer just a medium; it had become an instrument of control, an artifact that, in his hands, could strip the woman of your humanity, transforming you into a frozen and manipulated image.

The sessions dragged on indefinitely, and you, although initially immersed in the fascination of art, began to feel increasingly uncomfortable. At first, you thought that Sung-hoon was simply an eccentric, a man trapped in his art, like those cursed geniuses of history who saw the world through a unique, distorted lens. You tried to convince yourself that your concerns were an overreaction, that you weren't seeing things clearly. But as the days went by, something inside you began to resist, as if a small alarm in your subconscious was going off. Every glance Sung-hoon directed at you, every moment he spent in front of the camera, made you feel as if his presence was constantly being analyzed, dissected, reduced to a series of visual formulas that he controlled at will. It was no longer just about capturing his image, but about taking possession of you. Each gesture, each instruction, felt like another strategy to strip you of your identity, to make it fit into the image he had created of you.

After one of those long sessions, you met with Jake to talk about what you had been feeling, even though the words seemed inadequate to describe the discomfort that was overwhelming you. You feared that by expressing myself, your feelings might seem excessive, melodramatic. However, something inside you told you that you couldn't ignore it any longer.

—Jake— you began, your voice wavering, —I'm not sure how to explain it, but... Sung-hoon is being weird with me. He is constantly taking pictures of me, but it's not just for work. Sometimes I feel like he isn't seeing the person I am, but rather an image he has created in his mind. It makes me feel… Uncomfortable. As if he were watching me to decipher something I can't control.—

Jake looked at you thoughtfully, but in his expression, there was something that suggested indifference. In his world, your image in Sung-hoon's camera was not just a portrait; it was an open door to fame. The name of Sung-hoon, so well-known, could be the key that launched your career. What better way to rise in the artistic world than to be under his lens?

—Come on, darling— he said with a confident smile. —Sung-hoon is eccentric, I know, but he's not doing anything wrong. You have to see this as an opportunity. Not everyone is lucky enough to be photographed by him. This could be just what you need to take the next step in your career.—

Despite Jake's reassuring words, you couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. The discomfort you had started to feel with Sung-hoon persisted, growing with each session. Every time he looked at you through the lens, his eyes seemed not only to capture your image but to scrutinize, to penetrate deep within. In his mind, the photographs were not just images, they were not simply captures of a moment. They were symbols of his control, his power, his one-sided and uncontrollable love. In Sung-hoon's universe, each photograph was a declaration: I possess you, I have understood you, I have made you mine.

Meanwhile, Sung-hoon continued his obsessive collection of images. Each click of the shutter was another step towards the creation of a distorted version of you, a version that only he knew and that no one else could understand. In his mind, the photographs wove together like threads forming an invisible web, a space he controlled, where his impossible and unrequited love could live, eternal, beyond the truth.

As Sung-hoon's obsession deepened, his once contained and meticulous nature began to crumble slowly, like an hourglass whose grain of sand never ceased to fall. The darkness that surrounded him grew denser, like a thick fog that took over the room, the air, the space he occupied. Your perfection, so incandescent and ephemeral in its image, was no longer just your face, nor the curve of your body under the soft light of the sunset. No, you yourself had become the very essence of his vision, the focus to which Sung-hoon had dedicated every millimeter of his art. For him, you were no longer a woman; you were a symbol, a canvas yet to be painted, a mystery yet to be solved, and the camera, that extension of his being, was his only passport to that distorted world he had begun to build around you.

The photographer, trapped in his own twisted conception of love and beauty, no longer just captured the light that fell upon you like a brush caressing the canvas. He had become a sculptor of shadows, an architect of moments, a man trying to redraw reality to match the chaos that inhabited his mind. And while his lens rested upon you, his gaze went far beyond the visible, beyond the external appearance that so fascinated others. His eye, always trained to capture the raw and natural beauty of life, now dedicated itself to observing every crack in your soul, every fragment of vulnerability you tried to hide. His vision, once purely artistic, had become an act of possession.

Sung-hoon was not just a mere observer; he infiltrated, like a painter delving into the history of his muse before putting a single stroke on the canvas. He began to explore your intimacy with the same precision with which he composed a perfect shot. In every word you let slip unintentionally, in every sigh that was just for him, the photographer saw an opportunity to discover something new, something deeper. He knew you more than you could imagine. The cracks you had tried to cover with an impeccable facade were now his field of study. He knew of your fears, your dark memories, the scars you carried in your soul, those stories that, had it not been for Sung-hoon's meticulous patience, would have remained as secrets buried in time. He was not simply an observer, but a collector of broken memories, a gatherer of the fragments of your being that you had never shown to anyone.

In his daily interactions, his deep knowledge of your personal life slipped into the conversation with the subtlety of a sharp knife. In a casual comment, Sung-hoon inserted fragments of his private life, as if they were simple, unimportant observations. —I remember that time you mentioned your father, as if you were still seeking his approval— he said quietly one day, while adjusting the lights in the studio. —And that little corner in your apartment, where you keep the old letters... You always keep it closed, why is that?— Each word, each insinuation was like a fishing line cast into the wind, trapping you in an invisible net of your own past, a net that, although as fine as a thread, tightened over time until you could no longer move without being aware of Sung-hoon's constant watchfulness.

For him, it was not enough to capture the light that surrounded you; he had to seize your soul. With each shot, with each scene he asked to repeat, Sung-hoon was searching for something deeper: A distorted truth that only he could see, a facet of you that existed only in his mind. The camera, which had once been his tool to capture the essence of others, transformed into his chain of control, a tool of power that connected him to you, an invisible bond that kept you close, that kept you in his line of sight. And although you began to feel the pressure, the threat of the invisible, you couldn't escape. At first thinking that it was all part of Sung-hoon's eccentricity, his dedication to perfection. But soon, the truth became evident: you weren't being photographed; you were being observed, studied, dismantled piece by piece.

Sung-hoon never resorted to brute force or open threats. He was much more skilled than that. His control was not in strong words or confrontation; his power lay in subtlety, in silent gestures, in the whispers that accompanied each shot, in the way he manipulated the perception of reality through the lens of his camera. He didn't need to say it openly: He knew you were beginning to understand the extent of his influence. Each suggestion, each gesture of support, was imbued with a tacit expectation, the expectation that you would follow him, that you would continue playing your role in the image he had created. He offered you opportunities, but those opportunities were nothing more than carefully woven traps, designed to make you more dependent on him, to draw you even closer to the distorted picture of yourself.

And, like a photographer who discovers an imperfection in a seemingly perfect image, Sung-hoon begins to notice the cracks in your facade. Your smile, which had once been natural and carefree, was beginning to seem forced. Your responses, once so full of life, were now shorter, more evasive. The sparkle in your eyes, which I had captured so many times, was now subtly fading. For Sung-hoon, each of these moments was a revelation. He was not only seeing the woman you pretended to be, but he was also seeing the woman he had begun to shape in his mind, a creation that had no escape. The pressure, invisible but palpable, was his signature. In the tremor of an unspoken word, in the imperceptible shift in posture, Sung-hoon found what he had been searching for: Beauty in fragility, art in oppression, control in broken perfection.

Meanwhile, you began to feel trapped in your own image, a distorted reflection that Sung-hoon had created around you. He, the god of shadows and light, saw the truth behind the masks, and you could no longer hide what he wished to see. The worst part is that, in his mind, you were already part of his creation, a muse that only existed through him. In the web he had woven, you found yourself trapped, not knowing if the exit was an illusion or if the only way to escape was to become someone else, someone completely different from the image he had shaped. But, as always happened in photography, there was no turning back: The exposure had been made, and what remained was a fixed, unchangeable image that only he could understand.

As the days slid by slowly, like a movie advancing in slow motion under the relentless direction of fate, you began to perceive how the walls of your own world, once open and full of possibilities, were closing in, trapping you with a subtle but devastating force. It was as if you were trapped in a photograph that never stopped being taken, each moment immortalized, each gesture meticulously framed. Every word Sung-hoon uttered, every glance he cast, were no longer mere interactions; they were fragments of a story he had written without your permission, a tale in which you were trapped, like a porcelain figure in the lens of a photographer obsessed with capturing your essence, with no voice or vote over your own portrait. It was a story that had ceased to belong to you, a narrative from which you had become an unwilling spectator, watching yourself from a distance that stripped you of your humanity.

In his mind, the perception of time and reality began to blur like the light dissolving on the horizon, tinting everything around him with increasingly dense shadows. Before, your world had been clear, like a well-exposed photograph; but now everything seemed to be revealed through a dark filter, as if the image were taken with a defective lens that distorted colors and shapes. The man who had been, until then, your mentor and companion, began to reveal himself as a dark, twisted, and distant figure, whose influence had infiltrated her life with the subtlety of a rising tide. Sung-hoon, with his gaze fixed like that of a predator, had managed to weave his control over you in such a subtle and meticulous manner that, at times, you wondered if you had ever been free. Freedom, once a natural right, now seemed to You an illusion fading among the folds of a photograph that had been taken without her consent.

Sung-hoon had transformed every corner of your life into a stage where only he dictated the rules. In his mind, every scene had to be directed by him, and you were nothing more than the actress chosen to play a role you didn't know. At first, you had believed that his obsession with you was the passionate fervor of an artist who seeks, like a painter lost in the meticulous details of his muse, to capture every nuance of your essence. But soon you realized that the camera, that extension of the human eye in which he trusted blindly, had become a watchful eye, an unrelenting lens that not only captured your image but also disfigured you, twisted you, and reduced you to a distorted shadow. The light, that sublime element which once revealed beauty, had ceased to be your ally. Now, each ray of light seemed like a threat, a deadly trap in which you found yourself ensnared, trapped within the frame of a reality he had created for you.

Sung-hoon's camera was not simply a tool for creating art; it had evolved into a weapon of control. Each click, each capture, was an assertion of his dominance, a manifestation of his power over your life and identity. In his eyes, you were not a complete woman, but a canvas on which he could paint without your consent, a blank page that had to be molded according to his will. And the most devastating thing of all was that, at first, You had believed he saw you as you truly were, that his work as a photographer had allowed him to delve into the very essence of your being. But, over time, the truth began to slowly unveil itself, like an old layer of paint peeling away, revealing the cracks in the facade he had built. Sung-hoon didn't see you. He didn't understand you. I had reduced you to an image, a figure projected onto the wall, a puppet whose only mission was to fit into the distorted vision of your world.

However, something within you began to awaken. It was a small spark, almost imperceptible, like a glimmer in the darkness, but it grew with each passing day under Sung-hoon's control. The feeling of being trapped became increasingly unbearable, as if his room were an invisible prison, a glass cell that only reflected your own image, as if You were looking at yourself through a mirror that only returned your despair. Every time he looked at you, every word, every seemingly innocent gesture of affection, transformed into a symbol of his manipulation. The casual comments about his past, the insinuations about his darkest secrets, no longer seemed like simple observations; they became sharp knives buried in your skin, constantly reminding you that he knew your vulnerabilities, that he could destroy you if he wanted to.

Each day that passed under his dominion, you felt your freedom fading more and more, like a photograph that, as it develops, begins to dissolve in the water, losing its definition, its life, its color. The pressure that was once subtle had transformed into an unstoppable force, a rising tide that pushed you towards the unknown, towards the disintegration of your own identity. The camera, which had been your refuge, your art, your way of seeing the world, had now become your jailer. And Sung-hoon, the man you had admired, had transformed into the architect of your destiny, a god who shaped reality at his whim, playing with light and shadow like a puppeteer who manipulates humans to his will.

Like a lighthouse in the midst of the storm, the possibility of escape began to become clearer, though still vague. You knew you couldn't keep living trapped in the shadows that Sung-hoon had cast over you. The struggle to regain your freedom turned into a frantic race against time, a desperate sprint to prevent him from completely destroying the public image you had so carefully cultivated. You began to search for clues, to scrutinize the details, to look for the cracks in the perfect facade of your life that Sung-hoon had built. You were like a detective in your own life, unraveling the web of lies he had woven around you, with every word, every action of his turned into a clue about his hidden intentions.

As your thoughts organized themselves, You began to notice details that had previously gone unnoticed. The photo shoots, which once seemed like an artistic ritual, now revealed their true nature: A carefully designed strategy to keep you close, to continue controlling your image and, therefore, your life. The compliments I once considered sincere, the insinuations that seemed like flattery, the intense looks from Sung-hoon, were no longer mere displays of admiration. They had become tools of manipulation, like the light a photographer uses to highlight only the elements they want, the viewer to see, darkening everything else. The truth, like a film that has been exposed to the sun for too long, began to reveal itself with blinding clarity.

Sung-hoon, however, was not a man who could be disarmed so easily. In his mind, each interaction with you was another shot, another take that brought him closer to his ultimate goal: to possess you completely, to break you until only the perfect image he had forged in his mind remained. He knew you were starting to notice his control, but, like a photographer playing with light and shadow, he remained in the shadows, hidden, manipulating every piece of the puzzle without your seeing it. His power lay in the ability to make you feel vulnerable, to introduce thoughts into your mind that would leave You trapped in your own confusion, like a poison silently seeping into the current of your consciousness.

Time, that elusive abstraction that had always slipped through his fingers like fine sand, began to take on the texture of an impenetrable wall. The days, which once stretched like an endless chain of empty moments, now intertwined in a spiral of shadows that faded and dissolved into a whirlwind of uncertainty. Each attempt to flee, each fleeting glance towards an exit that became increasingly unattainable, evaporated with the swiftness with which shadows succumb to light, leaving behind only the sensation of emptiness. In the course of your silent resistance, you came to understand, with painful and dizzying clarity, that escaping from Sung-hoon was not a tangible option, not a viable alternative. Like photographic film that, when exposed to light for too long, develops prematurely, the fate of your actions was already marked, predestined. And as this truth settled in his chest like an unbearable weight, hopelessness began to wrap around his soul, as heavy and dense as the camera hanging from his neck, like an extension of his own being, relentless, like the presence of a specter.

The air, once light and breathable, became thick, like the tension-filled atmosphere inside a dark room, where harsh and cold lights create a palpable sense of claustrophobia. The flow of life, that incessant and turbulent river, seemed to have halted its course, gently moving you towards an abyss from which you could not escape. You no longer fought against the current. The tide of your destiny enveloped you, absorbing you with an almost hypnotic force, as if everything were in its place, as if everything were part of a carefully composed picture. Your resistance dissolved, like an image fading in the developer, when the chemical envelops you and erases the edges of what was once defined. The contours of his will blurred, softening, fading, until the unquenchable impulse for release that had burned in his chest extinguished, fading like the last light of day when the sun sinks below the horizon, leaving only the cold darkness that follows.

Sung-hoon, the man who had been your mentor, your companion, your torturer, and your savior, had taken on the form of a dark, almost mythical figure, a silhouette in which light and shadow merged into an incomplete portrait. Throughout your time together, you had believed you knew him, that you understood each of the intentions hidden behind his icy gaze, like the reflection on the calm surface of water disturbed by a stone falling without warning. But now, in the midst of the silence that surrounded you, you realized that you had been nothing more than a piece in a work that you could not fully comprehend. You were part of a photograph revealing itself before you, an image constructed by a photographer whose vision had transformed you into something even you didn't recognize. And yet, instead of rejecting that truth, something strange began to well up in your chest, like a subtle whisper, a spark of light filtering through a crack in the darkness. It wasn't love, at least not in its purest form, but it was something that resembled it, something more enigmatic and complex. It was a fatalistic acceptance, a kind of silent submission that was beginning to reshape your perception of Sung-hoon.

You had feared it before, that light emanating from his chamber, which you had believed revealed the truth behind the masks. That same light, which now trapped you like an invisible spider's web, kept your soul captive. The intensity of his gaze, that tireless observation that never seemed to leave you, had become the core of your anxiety, a focal point of unease that consumed you. But, as time passed and the concept of escape faded as quickly as shadows succumb to the first ray of sunlight, you began to see something different, something new. Like a photographer examining an image on their screen and realizing that what once seemed blurry is, in fact, a photograph with a disturbing and unique beauty, you began to perceive the complexity of Sung-hoon. The darkness that once terrified you now contained nuances you could not ignore. Each of his gestures, each word he uttered, each glance, contained a profound truth about his being, something that transcended mere manipulation. It was like a lens that distorts the world, but at the same time, captures a raw beauty, a beauty that was undeniable, though incomplete.

Sung-hoon, in his obsession with perfection, was not simply a man with selfish desires for control. His need to capture the essence of the world, of humanity itself, through his camera, was something more visceral, more profound. The photographer was not just an observer of the world; he molded it, took it in his hands like a sculptor shaping clay. And you, caught in that web he had woven around you, began to see, even to admire, that skill, that tireless drive to dominate nature through art. Sung-hoon's vision was not a desire for manipulation, but a primitive impulse, a need to freeze the essence of the moment into a pure image, albeit devoid of all compassion. Somehow, you felt a deep admiration for him, for his ability to distill the chaos of reality into something simpler, more comprehensible. Light and shadow, those two opposites, were no longer enemies in his world. Now they were your allies, and you found yourself trapped in a scene where you were not only the subject but also the spectator of your own existence.

Sung-hoon was not just a man. He was the architect of his world, the demiurge who wove reality around him, undoing and redoing the threads of fate with the same skill with which he adjusted the frame of a photograph. Somehow, you understood that his own complicity in that process had given him the power to transform you. Like an old photograph that, over time, fades and changes, your resistance to him began to crumble like a negative dissolving in water. You no longer saw him as a jailer, a monster who kept you trapped. Instead, you saw him as the creator of a world in which, despite yourself, you felt special, unique. Sung-hoon's control was no longer oppressive; instead, it became a reflection of his own essence, a control woven with almost artistic patience and precision.

That feeling was an amalgamation of fear, fascination, respect, and acceptance. You disliked him, yes, but at the same time, there was something about him that attracted you, something impossible to ignore, something that overflowed the surface of his being. The shadows that once surrounded you now illuminated the truth of your existence, and what once seemed like a prison, a space of despair, now became a refuge where your soul, marked and distorted by Sung-hoon's lens, found itself. The light and the darkness, the contrasts and the shadows, began to weave into a single thread, creating a new reality, a new identity.

Each shot from Sung-hoon's camera not only kept you under his control. It offered you a strange form of comfort. In each image he captured, you saw not only a distorted version of yourself but also a more authentic, more complete one. The light and shadow, which once disturbed you, now took on a new dimension, one in which you found acceptance, transformation. Somehow, you had learned to embrace the image that Sung-hoon had created of you, an imperfect, broken portrait, but essentially true. A portrait that, like humanity itself, reflected fragility, internal struggle, and the inevitable beauty of the struggle itself.

Sung-hoon hadn't destroyed your identity. He had transformed it. And, slowly, as you began to understand the depth of that transformation, you realized that you were no longer a victim of his control, but a work in progress, an image still taking shape under the relentless lens of a man whose art had learned to reveal the deepest essence of your being. Without being able to help it, your feelings towards him became a whirlwind of contradictory emotions, a spiral in which love and fear, submission and admiration intertwined, trapped in a portrait whose exposure was not yet complete. And, like a photograph that is yet to be fully developed, you found yourself trapped in the endless process of its own revelation.

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photosbyjez · 1 year ago

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Great Masterwort: FOTD Dec 31 with Magical AI Artistry

Step into Jez's world where photography meets AI magic! 🌼✨ Explore our frosty days warmed by the sunny charm of Great Masterwort. See the transformation on our latest FOTD Dec 31 feature. #AIArtistry #PhotosByJez #aiartwork

Hi all 😃 My latest post for Cee’s FOTD. I am delving into my archives for warm, sunny shots during these frosty days. The Great Masterworts featured over the next couple of days are white (those last featured were pink); this led to a different feel for the images once enhanced. Any of you following my blog, will know I’m currently working on a project fusing my own photography with AI…

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#AI Artwork #Artistic Inspiration #Creative Photography Techniques #Digital Artistry #Digital Image Transformation #Flowers #FOTD #Hot Mods Art #Innovative Photography #Jez Braithwaite #Nature #OpenAI #Photographic Creativity #Photos #Summer #Visual Storytelling #warmth #Wildflowers

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transmascutena · 1 year ago

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some thoughts on photography and memory in utena:

on the wall in nemuro memorial hall, there are pictures of real people. i'm not sure who they are, but i assume they're of people involved in making the show. either way, they're obviously not real; in the close-up shots of them, they change into pictures of the black rose duelists and other imagery from the show. i imagine it's there as a fun detail by the creators, but also to show how weird and inconsistent reality itself is in the black rose arc.

as for the black rose duel images themselves, it's possible that they are literal as i've talked about in a previous post, but what i think is more likely, is that utena noticing them is a visual representation of her connecting the dots of what's really been going on in this arc.

when mikage brings up the idea of memories and eternity, we see the picture on the wall behind utena, of her at her parents funeral. and behind mikage we see one of his own defining memories.

a pretty clear line is being drawn between memory and photographs. in fact, memories are so important to mikage that photographs are his black rose duel symbol. it's the one he keeps of mamiya and tokiko, altered to look like anthy's disguise, just like his memories are. through mikage we see both how memories of the past can keep you trapped in it, as well as the malleability of these memories. let's look at everybody else:

saionji has a framed photograph of him and touga as kids on his desk. he values their friendship, or at least the memory of how it used to be. he idealizes the time touga was less cruel (or maybe just the time saionji wasn't aware of his cruelty.)

miki doesn't have any literal photographs of kozue or the sunlit garden, though his memories of them are often framed as such. he also keeps a picture of anthy amidst his sheet music. she is his idealized memory now.

juri has the locket of course, inside of which is a cutout of shiori from a picture captured in the moment that ends up defining their entire relationship. is this the version of shiori that juri idealizes? not really, but she is fixated on her resentment of shiori's percieved cruelty, just not the cruelty of taking the boy away. juri keeps this photograph closer than anybody else does with theirs, but she also keeps it hidden. this could mean she treasures her memories the most out of everyone, and is also the least open about it, although i'm not sure i believe the first part.

nanami has the photo-album of her and touga; she idealizes her relationship with him, as well as their childhood. when she makes the connection that touga is adopted, the photos are scattered all over her bed, probably to represent her emotional state.

touga doesn't keep any photographs from what we see, which makes sense with everything we know about him. unlike the rest of the council, he doesn't have any idealized memories of his childhood. but he does use akio's camera, so let's talk about that.

the camera is, much like the car, a tool that only akio is shown to own (although, wakaba does mention a photography club in episode 34.) like the car, it is used to facilitate his grooming (specifically of touga and saionji when he takes those shirtless pictures with them.) and, also like the car, he offers to lend it to touga, to make him feel more like an equal part of the whole thing. unlike the car though, touga accepts the camera.

the photoshoot scene in episode 37 has a transition where the camera shutter sound effect is played over the previous scene. over the shot of utena and anthy holding hands after confiding in each other about akio. i think it's to show that he's always watching, and that they can never truly be free of him as long as they're in ohtori.

i think it also shows the idea of akio framing the narrative of the show as a whole. he plays a sort of director role in it, in that he directs the events happening, as well as how they're portrayed. it's no coincidence that he is quite literally behind the "camera" in episode 33. like the car, a symbol of akio's power and sexual abuse (which is not-coincidentally also present in all of the photoshoot scenes,) his camera (his narrative, his biased framing of events) is ever-present.

and then there's the most important photograph in the show, the frame it all ends on. the picture utena and anthy took together is, unlike every other photograph, used as a look into their future. the reason they take it in the first place is because utena realizes she has no photos of anthy, which distresses her, presumably because she worries that their friendship might not last forever, and she wants something to remember anthy by. this obviously comes with the risk of making anthy an idealized memory, like every other person put in a photograph in this show, but instead it ends up as a symbol for their love. akio may have set up the camera, but anthy (with the help of chu-chu) manipulated their positions so her and utena could hold hands. she also cuts akio out of the frame, much like she cuts him out of her life in the last episode. she doesn't want his presence to tarnish her and utena's memory anymore (although he isn't completely gone from the photograph either, as he will never truly be forgotten.)

#id in alt text #finally finished this post #these are not the only photographs in the show just the ones linked closest to the themes i wanted to discuss here #revolutionary girl utena #analysis #utena #mikage #saionji #miki #juri #nanami #touga #akio #anthy #m #the narrative

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soleauclub · 10 days ago

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It-Girl Glow-Up Series: How to Become More Photogenic

by Soleau Club / www.soleauclub.com

Being photogenic isn’t about having the “perfect” face. It’s about presence. The most magnetic girls aren’t worried about angles or filters, they exude a glow that makes the camera fall in love with them. That glow is a mix of confidence, subtle tricks, and knowing how to own your space.

Whether you’re posting content, updating your brand visuals, or just tired of saying “delete that,” this guide is your new photogenic playbook.

1. Learn Your Face Like You’re Studying for Finals

Take quiet time with your front camera. Look at how the light hits your cheekbones, how your face moves when you smile soft versus big. This isn’t vanity, it’s self-awareness. Know your angles the way a model knows her poses.

2. Master the Tilt + Squint Combo

The classic it-girl pose. Tilt your head slightly to one side and give a subtle squint (like you’re looking into soft sun, not like you’re suspicious). This tightens the eyes just enough to look sultry and awake without doing too much.

3. Highlight, Don’t Hide

Instead of hiding your features, play them up. Use dewy highlighter on the tops of your cheekbones, brow bone, and Cupid’s bow. Add warmth with bronzer and always define your lash line and brows. It gives your face structure, especially in flash photos.

4. Relax Your Mouth

A stiff smile can age a photo. Instead, try breathing gently through your mouth, keeping your lips parted just slightly. It softens your whole face and instantly feels more editorial than cheesy.

5. Posture is Everything

Lengthen your neck, drop your shoulders, lift your chest. Think ballerina with a secret. Confidence photographs. Slouching does not.

6. Take the Photo at Golden Hour

Lighting can make or break a photo. The warm, diffused light right before sunset is nature’s filter. It smooths the skin, warms your features, and gives you that rich, lit-from-within glow. Step outside during this time as often as possible, even your selfies will hit different.

7. Don’t Pose. Move.

Static poses can feel forced. Instead, turn your head slowly, play with your hair, adjust your sunglasses. Shoot in burst mode while you move gently. This gives your photos natural flow and makes it easier to capture that perfect candid.

8. Think a Happy Thought

You can tell when someone is trying too hard in a photo. You can also tell when someone is genuinely feeling herself. Right before the camera clicks, think about something that makes you feel beautiful, playful, powerful, or in love. That energy will radiate and it always shows.

9. Style Around What Flatters You Most

Color matters. So does neckline, fabric, and hairstyle. Choose outfits and makeup looks that frame your features and complement your undertone. When you feel good in what you’re wearing, it translates through the lens. Trust your intuition. The it-girl look is about authenticity more than trendiness.

10. Romanticize Your Image

Photos are just one expression of your self-image. Don’t take them too seriously. Think of yourself as your own muse. Have fun creating visual memories of your glow-up. The more playful and confident you feel, the more photogenic you naturally become.

Ready to Look and Feel Like Your Most Photogenic Self?

Being camera-ready starts with how you feel off camera. If you’re ready to glow from the inside out and finally become that girl: polished, confident, organized, and on brand, then it’s time to join the 3-Month Rebranding Program.

Inside the program you’ll get:

💖 84 daily lessons to shift your mindset, lifestyle, and habits

📱 A free digital xTiles workbook for goal-setting, planning, and progress tracking

📝 40-page printable workbook to map your glow-up

🎀 Daily hot girl homework that rewires your routine from chaos to chic

This is your soft season turned power era. The 3-Month Rebrand is here to help you align your energy, your image, and your entire vibe.

✨ Start your transformation today and become the photogenic it-girl version of yourself: on screen and off. Click [here] to join.

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noorpersona · 23 days ago

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Rivalry: Suna Pt. 2

The email hits your inbox at 3:07 PM sharp.

Subject: Outstanding Work – Feature Column Review

You click it, heart in your throat, and scan the contents like your eyes might betray you.

"Your latest photo essays and match visuals have garnered excellent feedback from both internal and external reviewers. Your composition, lighting, and narrative cohesion are sharp—confident. We’d love to discuss expanding your role going forward."

The praise lands hard. Your chest swells with it.

Three weeks of barely sleeping, grinding through late-night edits, calibrating lenses and color profiles until your eyes blurred. That week you holed up in the studio with your camera gear and a thermos until the sun came up—yeah. It was worth it.

You let out a breathy laugh, leaning back in your chair, eyes fluttering closed. You did it. You did it. You worked your ass off—shot matches back to back, edited through headaches and late nights, fought tooth and nail for creative control on every campaign. And you did it—no thanks to him.

Suna Rintarou.

His name drags itself across your thoughts like a scrape on pavement. You didn’t even work with him for long—barely a handful of shoots, really—but somehow, he lingered. Like you'd seen him just minutes ago instead of months. You didn’t need him. And you were proud of that—still are. But that doesn’t stop the memory of his smug smirks during shoots, the ones that made you want to throw your camera. Or the way he’d push back on your direction—not out of disrespect, but because he enjoyed getting under your skin. Because he could. Because he knew you’d rise to it.

Those joint features were chaos. Him turning the lens into a stage. You, trying not to let it show how often he got under it all.

You thought cutting him out would bring clarity. Clean slates. Easy breathing.

But he stuck.

Even when you didn’t want him to, his image hovered—uninvited, unwelcome—just beneath your thoughts. Every time you lined up a shot, adjusted your lighting, planned a sequence… some part of you remembered him.

The thing is, he photographs well. Too well.

He knows exactly how to angle his jaw to catch the light, how to hold tension in his shoulders like a coiled spring. He doesn't over-pose, doesn’t overthink. He listens—but only just enough. There’s a kind of wordless fluency to working with him that you hate how much you don’t hate.

There’d been moments behind the viewfinder where you forgot yourself—forgot time. Reframing and rebalancing not because the shot lacked anything… but because he gave it something extra. Something real. Something intimate that you couldn’t quite scrub out, no matter how many layers you stacked over it.

You loved the photos. Hated the personality behind them.

Every shoot ended with you in the darkroom or hunched over Lightroom, muttering curses and jabbing at the contrast slider like it could erase the smugness from his eyes. Cropping tighter. Sharper. Still, that look remained. Like he knew something you didn’t. Like he was winning.

Eventually, the shoots stopped. And you had come out on top; Exactly where you wanted to be.

Peace was a luxury. You finally had it.

Until your phone lights up.

You're still basking in it—the warmth of finally getting your due, of knowing you carved your space with nothing but grit and shutter clicks—when the screen flares to life beside you.

Unknown Number

Your stomach twists. Your first instinct is to ignore it, let it ring out. You want to hold on to this moment a little longer—just a few more seconds of peace before the next deadline, the next fight for creative credit, the next moment you’re expected to be brilliant again.

But your brain betrays you with a whisper: What if it’s another opportunity?

You hesitate, thumb hovering above the screen. It could be a thank-you call. A freelance inquiry. A scouting request from a bigger brand.

Or it could be nothing. A telemarketer. A missed delivery.

You swipe anyway.

"Hello?"

“Hi there,” comes a smooth, clipped voice. “This is Rei Sakamoto—Suna Rintarou’s agent. Do you have a moment to talk about a collaboration opportunity?”

The world stills. Your thoughts scatter.

His name—again. Like a curse. Like a hook in your side.

“…I’m sorry, who?”

“You’re the one who shot the MSBY campaigns, right? We’ve been following your work. Kuroo Tetsurou, who’s heading the promotional division, specifically requested you.”

Kuroo. Of course. He’d always had a knack for chaos.

You close your eyes, exhaling hard through your nose. It’s like fate is laughing in your face. Like every ounce of peace you clawed back is now being pried from your grip, one smug pretty boy at a time.

“I, uh… I’m not sure I’m available right now,” you say. It’s almost believable—except your voice wavers, just slightly. Too polite. Too professional. Too damn interested.

The agent doesn’t skip a beat. “It’s only two sessions. Photo editorials for Suna’s next campaign. We’re pairing it with short written features, but what we really need is your eye behind the lens. Tight turnaround—two weeks. Kuroo asked me to set up a meeting today if you’re free.”

You want to say no. Want to burn the whole idea to ash with a single word.

But your mind’s already racing. Editorial credits. National campaign. Expansion. Kuroo’s name attached to it—solid. Respected. The kind of line on your résumé that opens doors.

And him.

Suna Rintarou.

Back in your frame. Back in your space.

You already know how this ends: you’ll hate every second of it—every conversation, every glance, every quiet smirk. And then you'll go home, dump the files onto your laptop, open them one by one… and hate how good they are. How well he fits inside the world you build with your lens. How easy it is to lose yourself in the art of it—even if you can't stand the subject.

You grit your teeth. You already know you're going to say yes.

“…Fine. When?”

The Japan Volleyball Association building is quieter than you expected.

Cool glass, clean floors, air conditioning that hums low and clinical. Everything smells faintly like lemon polish and too-new printer ink. The receptionist barely glances up when you give your name—just types something into her terminal and points you down the hall.

Your boots click against tile that shines like water. You hate how out of place you feel. The kind of out-of-place that makes you tighten your grip on the camera bag slung over your shoulder, square your jaw, and pretend like you belong anywhere.

You’re led into a minimalist conference room—long table, white walls, recessed lighting so harsh it feels surgical. There’s a carafe of untouched water on the sideboard and not a single personal touch in sight.

He spots you the second you step in, and that trademark grin stretches across his face like he’s been waiting for this moment all morning.

“You’re early,” he says, gesturing to the seat across from him. “Didn’t peg you for the punctual type.”

You slide into the chair but don’t drop your guard. “Didn’t peg you for the ambush type.”

Kuroo chuckles, unbothered. “Come on, you’ve survived worse. And you can’t tell me this opportunity didn’t tempt you a little.”

You arch a brow. “Would’ve been nice to have a briefing that didn’t come with a mystery number and a fifteen-second pitch.”

“I like keeping things exciting,” he says, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Besides, I figured you’d say yes the second you heard your name in the same sentence as ‘full creative control.’”

You don’t deny it. But your expression stays flat.

He tilts his head. “Look, I wouldn’t have looped you in if I didn’t think you’d kill it. You’ve got the eye and the edge. And we both know you make him look good.”

You stiffen, and Kuroo notices. He always notices.

Before you can retort, footsteps echo in the hallway.

The door swings open, and in walks Rei Sakamoto—poised as ever in tailored black, expression neutral but sharp. Suna follows just a step behind, hands in his hoodie pocket, hood still up like he couldn’t be bothered to dress the part.

He glances at you the moment he enters, something smug already tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Took a guess you'd be early," he says, voice low and lazy.

You don’t even blink. “And you still couldn’t beat me here?”

He shrugs, eyes drifting to the empty seat across from you like it was all part of the plan. Like he meant to show up just late enough to make an entrance.

You don’t bite. Not yet.

Sakamoto steps forward, smoothing the front of her blazer like she’s rehearsed this. “Thank you for coming on short notice. Suna wanted you for this campaign—he was quite specific.”

That makes your brow twitch. You look at her first, then slowly shift your gaze to him.

“Oh really?”

Suna doesn’t flinch. That familiar smirk starts small, lazy, spreading like heat under your collar. “Told you. You make me look good.”

Your jaw tightens, but you keep your tone light. “Sure. Let’s pretend that’s the reason.”

He opens his mouth like he might say something else, but Kuroo cuts in with a clap of his hands, sharp and loud.

“Alright,” he says brightly. “Now that we’re all here—let’s get to it. We want two sessions. Back-to-back if possible. Full editorials. You’ll shoot, edit, and build out the visual content for the rollout. Your style, your approach—we’re trusting you with the look of this thing.”

You nod once, already calculating the timeline in your head.

Kuroo continues, “We’ve got a tight two-week window. You’ll coordinate with the social team, marketing gets final say on phrasing, but visual direction is all you.”

Sakamoto adds smoothly, “We’ll match your usual rate. If the final drafts are done early, there’s room for a bonus.”

You lean back slightly, arms crossing. “Alright,” you say carefully. “But I have conditions.”

Kuroo lifts a brow, intrigued. “Naturally. Go on.”

You glance at Suna, then back to Kuroo, and gesture subtly with your chin. “He shows up. No excuses. No reschedules, no ghosting, no half-assing it while I pull sixteen-hour days.”

Kuroo blinks, surprised at the sharpness of your tone, but doesn’t interrupt.

Sakamoto takes a half-step forward, voice already measured. “You have my word he’ll be—”

“No.”

Your voice cuts clean through the room. Calm. Sharp. Nonnegotiable.

Her mouth stays open for a second longer than it should, like the interruption stunned her. Kuroo leans back a little, watching you with a new kind of focus, like even he wasn’t expecting that edge.

You keep your eyes fixed on Suna, voice even as steel. “I want to hear it from him.”

The air shifts.

Suna’s posture doesn’t change, but the weight in the room tips toward him.

He doesn’t look startled. Or challenged. If anything, he looks pleased. Like he’s been waiting for this exact line of tension to stretch between you two.

Slowly, he leans forward. Elbows to the table, fingers laced like he’s settling in for something fun. His chin tips just slightly, gaze fixed on yours with all the ease in the world. A smirk ghosts the corner of his mouth again—barely there, but impossible to miss.

He holds your stare, eyes sharp under that lazy half-lid expression, like he’s enjoying the way the room has gone still around you. Like he’s waiting for you to squirm. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

The silence stretches and stretches—so much so that even Kuroo seems to quiet with anticipation.

When he speaks, it’s low and slow, the kind of delivery meant to land just right.

Then, he speaks.

“I show up when it counts.”

The words hang in the air, obnoxiously self-satisfied. He says it like it’s fact. Like it’s charm. Like that one line should erase every time he made you wait, every time he rolled into a shoot with his hair still damp and a smirk that made you want to break your camera.

Your spine stiffens. Your fingers curl into the fabric of your sleeves beneath the table.

Of course that’s what he’d say.

He leans back, clearly pleased with himself, and adds—just loud enough—“And I always count for something, don’t I?”

That earns a twitch in your jaw. You don’t blink. You don’t flinch. But god, you want to.

You inhale, slow and sharp, and don’t dignify it with a response.

Kuroo, on the other hand, grins like a cat with cream. “Great,” he says, already pulling his tablet from the folio at his side. “I’ll draft the paperwork.”

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motheroffeline · 4 months ago

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Infatuation (pt. 1)

18+ minors dni, extremely dark, Aaron Pierre x OC! psychopath! Photographer! black reader Ari, smut, lots of stalking, explicit language, blackmail, dubious consent, omniscient POV, french kissing, oral (f receiving), and masturbation.

Summary: Ari works as a professional photographer for Aaron Pierre and is responsible for most pictures of him that have gone viral. But she finds herself completely fascinated with him to the point of obsession. She began to debate on how to have him completely to herself and then the light bulb came on: fool him with innocence and strike. On the road to darkness with the path already drawn out, Ari knew that the vanta blackness of the night belonged to her own soul.

Taglist: @kaylalb

Why was the world so full of things that were essentially unobtainable? The very essence of what one wanted could lie at their feet but stooping down to get it is where the problem arose. Just as an image said so many words there was really nothing to be said and, in that moment, the world felt silent any who. Malevolence lurked so openly in corners that people walked by and talked to it. Just as one could talk to it, the invisible but present malice could walk into bathrooms and bedrooms to violate privacy. Just as eyes would close and clothes would fall down it would wait with a grin, lopsided eyes trying to instill the image into its brain. Malice and malevolence went hand and hand but interchangeably they destroyed the soul contracts of the forgiving without mercy.

...

"One! Two! Three! Four!" Ari could barely push through the fourth set of crunches before she was completely winded. But, today, was special: this would mark her third year of working for Aaron and Ari wanted to be in tip top shape. She knew that the universe had to put them together because both of their names started with an A. I mean what else could it be? Her muse had walked into her life like a wandering elk in lone woods.

Through Aaron, she had purchased her first home which was considerably modern and had more than what she needed to live on. It was in a less populous part of town as well which gave all the privacy a young woman could need. A phone ringed distantly in the background, distracting Ari away from her thoughts.

Thinking it was Aaron himself; Ari made a mad dash to the phone only to find out that it was Alyssa, a longtime friendship that formed when she was going to school in long island.

"Wake yo ass up, Ari!" Said Alyssa who always spoke as though she was deaf. One of those types of people were always there for their friends through thick and thin; Ari loved the loud woman like a sister and could say that she was the second person in the world in which she truly adored.

"Alyssa, you so fucking loud it's not funny. And, yes, I am going to an event and guess who gonna be there?" Ari liked to mention Aaron at every interval because it meant she had a chance to improve her fantasies of him. At a moment's notice he could worm himself into her mind and even the slightest suggestion of intimacy from him would send her into a fit of lust.

"You mean that sexy, lightskin motherfucka? Shitttt, you lucky to even be that close to him. From all of the videos and stuff I see him of him he looks really shy which is kinda unfortunate because he's fine shyt. I high-key think you'd fuck him even if he was mute, Ari." Alyssa giggled at Ari's defensive words on the other line because she knew of her friend's obsession more than anyone else. Not the extent of her passions but from the root in which they grew -- Alyssa knew only that.

Arousal spread through Ari as she began to visually imagine the cute smile of Aaron and the juxtaposition his eyes provided in the photos she took of him. There was an awareness during the third year of working for him that came about: the utter fascination that turned into grotesque wanting. Hearing his laugh and being an audience to his visage is what turned Kari into a monster: Alyssa nor anyone else could know of her true nature.

Ari had possession of pictures where Aaron was fully naked, she had taken pictures of his social security number and had typed countless emails out just in case he denied her proposal in the coming two or so hours. The way of attainment was so disgusting and muddled with faux innocence that it would stain even the purest image formed of an individual: Ari swiftly hung the phone up on Alyssa. After 8 years of friendship, she had never purposely slammed the phone down in her friend's face, but Ari knew after that in a lot of ways she was not the same person anymore.

Bright colors disturbed her, so she decorated her house in mild and sometimes even dull colors. Additionally, regular masturbation did not do it for her anymore. If she didn't have a vibrator buzzing on her clot, a dildo in her pussy, pictures of Aaron laid out on the bed and porn playing in the background then she would not orgasm.

Ari's phone buzzed on the counter to let her know that the time for the event was closely approaching, and it sent a ravishing feeling through her: he would hate her forever or he would hate her forever and accept the offer. It was his fault to trust a random strange woman that he had met off of a website, it was his fault to conceptualize her as the young apprentice so eager to learn.

A cup of black coffee sat next to Ari as she gulped it down. The shower was running in the bathroom as she let the caffeine dull out the most extreme of her emotions. As she settled, Ari stripped herself naked, letting the soap wash her but never truly washing away anything at all. No matter how clean the skin or flawless the body she had there was an apparent discord lying beneath the clean interior. Deciding that her hair would look better out of her face, Ari braided her curls into five braids. She opted for a bodycon dress that left nothing to the imagination because it would inspire any men's eyes to look even ones like Aaron's....

1 Hour Later....

Ari was standing awkwardly amongst her fellow photographers as though she had walked into the wrong building. Aaron was so busy greeting people that he had not even noticed her arrival which, admittedly, made her a bit angry. But soon after he made his way over to Ari and her eyes wandered to his dick which always seemed to be swinging so heavy in his slacks and in his joggers. Did he even wear underwear?

"Ari, it's so good to see you! I was just telling Brianne, you know her, right? She does some really good editing and I was just thinking that you know how outside and indoor lighting works so you two could be a pretty good team." The adorable look on his face only further pushed the dark agenda in Ari's heart, aboding the beast but with an innocent look Ari spoke to her muse and said, "I think that I'll go solo for a while because I want to try out this new project and I find it rather stimulating. Honestly, I'm scared that people will take my idea and run with it because I don't think no one has done this before."

Aaron's eyebrows scrunched in curiosity and Ari had half the mind to fuck him through the marble floor of the venue right then and there.

"Oh, an upcoming project you say. What exactly does it entail?"

"I know it sounds a bit weird, but I think I should tell you in private because of how innovative it is. Would you mind joining me in the right-wing room for a second?" Ari could only pray that he would bite the bate that she waved in front of his face because if he didn't, she didn't know what she'd do to herself. She had brought the computer that held all of the blackmail pictures, and she was waiting for the currency that he would pay to her: his body.

"No, that actually sounds pretty smart, Ari. I'm pretty busy right now with all of the other guests and the guy that owns the venue keeps calling me about what time we need to get out. Hopefully, his phone has lost battery from calling me, but I doubt it with that dude." The way his British accent would reveal itself had Ari flushed with Arousal.

"See you then?"

"I'll see you then, Ari."

To the dark...

The lights in the right-wing room were cut off leaving an impassive pitch-black room which only had a couch in it. Ari's laptop illuminated the room but never fully lit it giving off a wicked vibe. Perfume wafted off of her neck giving the room a smell of pine, cherry and palo santo which was the absolute balance of masculine and feminine. Aaron walked into the room and Ari instantly lifted her head up with a lecherous smile.

"Hello, Mr. Pierre."

"Huh, what's with the formalities? I wanna hear about that new idea you got... shit sounds pretty interesting. By the way, were the lights off when you came in here? Ugh, I told that asshole to pay the light bill because-" A loud laugh burst from Ari's mouth which interrupted Aaron in the midst of his speech about the possibly dodgy venue owner.

"Aaron, can I be honest?"

"Well, yeah, my momma always told me that honesty was the best policy. So, what is it, Ari? If the plan is a bust, then that's fine because we all make mistakes sooner or later. But, I'll be happy to hear it-"

"Fucking listen." Ari could almost smell the fear and suspicion coming off of Aaron like an expensive cologne, but she had to let the words that she had held in for years come forward through her red stained mouth.

"Ari, what's going on for real? You've never just cussed like that... You one of the calmest people I know." Aaron's voice had a slight tremble to which was indicative of how he'd react when she revealed what she could ruin him with.

"Aaron, I'm going to be very descriptive in how I phrase this: I have pictures of you, so many pictures that they never could be erased without finding more. There are some of you where you are naked, some with you masturbating because I've snuck into your house to get those. I also have your financial information, that I've also got backed up on multiple sources. Your family -- I have some information of theirs as well and did you know what I can do? Besides creating perfect picturesque visuals I can also forge stories like a playwright, I can fuck you over really, really well..." Ari's voice deepened as she elongated the syllables in each word, she spewed to Aaron who was mortified by the passing second. Then, for added effect, she turned the laptop around to show him all of the different photos in which she owned.

"This has to be some type of sick fucking joke, Ari. You that fucking desperate you gotta go ruin my life on some shit?" His voice was trembling with the magnitude of the situation because he had trusted Ari and saw her as a relative because of how reliable and trustworthy she was.

"Aaron, I've wanted your ass for a long time, and you never even knew. That's why I gotta do drastic shit to you. But I'll give you an out to such a horrible end... If you have sex with me, I'll get rid of the information and then you can forget you ever saw me again. But, if I see my name on the news I'll have you dead in about three days because I'm constantly connected to fucked up people like me. So, is it a yes or a no? I need to know an answer right this second so I can notify my people to start digging your grave."

Aaron looked at Ari with a mix of disgust and disappointment with a glare so sour it looked like he could kill her with his bare hands. "Your people? You mean the voices inside your head you crazy bitch! I can't even fucking believe it. I gotta fuck with you because you lonely? So damn bold to sneak into somebody's house and take pictures of them but you can't even ask for sex without threatening somebody." Aaron's voice growled with pure hatred but was low enough to not alert anyone.

"Fuck me or see your life in shambles... Your choice. I know so many women that'll buy your pictures in a heartbeat and then you'll be on Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr-."

"Okay, I get it! What do you want me to do first, Ari? I still can't believe I hired such a crazy slut..." His voice held such contempt that in some way it made Ari feel a little guilty but she swept it under the rug. On the other hand, Aaron grimaced at the arousal that was quickly building in the pit of his stomach.

"Eat my pussy." Ari said with a blunt voice and a blank expression on her face which was a 360 from her passionate threats prior.

"Crazy, you just crazy Ari. What the fuck...." Aaron got on his knees as Ari started to pull off her bodycon dress and panties.

His tongue immediately darted forward and licked her from clit to hole and she let out a low mewl.

"For such an evil bitch you sure do taste like honey." He buries his tongue in her hole, in and out, in and out stroking her g spot.

"Mmmmmm Aaron t-thank you.... F-fuck... I'm sorry..." Ari begins jumping his face as his eyes peer into her trying to decipher who he thought was an angel in human form. His tongue swirls around Ari's soaked clit like a curious tentacle, pushing back the hood and sucking it between his teeth like a hard candy.

"I was even thinking of asking you out one day Ari. I always thought you was cute and shit... Never thought we'd get together like this.... Never thought you'd be a bitch either but here we are..." He speaks against her folds and she moans as the vibrations from his baritone voice rattle her dripping core.

"Goddamn... What about everybody else up in there? You don't think nobody gonna hear us? Oh God, yes, right there..." Ari's voice goes hoarse from pleasure as he grinds his nose against her clit.

"Mmmmmm, when did you ever care about shame? This room is so far down the hall that nobody could hear us. Music playing in the background too so I don't think they'll be too worried. I told them I had some matters to attend to so they won't look for me either. Is that all you need to know Ms. Blackmailer? Your pussy squeezing my tongue...." Ari practically drools at the sound of his voice as he devours her like a Michelin star dessert.

Aaron notices the visual pleasure evident on Ari's face and blows raspberries into her pussy, flicks the hard nub of her clit and gently nibbles on it just to get her to fall apart. In truth, he never expected Ari to be so bold... She was certainly a different person when it came to what she wanted. But, putting his family into it made him feel some type of way about the whole ordeal... Made it seem more dangerous to even be dealing with her but he got on his knees anyways. Who knows what she'll do next?

Ari's hips gyrate as she reaches the peak of her pleasure. "I'm gonna cummmm, ohhhh I'm gonna cum on your long ass tongue... Yes, yes eat me like that.... Mmmm like that- ahhhhh!" Ari let out a scream as she squirted all over Aaron's face, soaking him in her essence.

She quickly drops on her knees and begins kissing him in a sloppy manner completely catching him off guard. There was flight, fight and freeze and he found out which one he was right there in that dark room with Ari. Her tongue hugged his and she stuck most of her tongue down his throat loving the sounds of his gags.

Ari pulls back completely and stares at him for what appears to be minutes on end before finally saying in an utterly dark voice that read a dismal future for Aaron: "Trust me when I say this won't be the last time between the two of us. You're handsome and you're in the palm of my hand. In other words, I can't wait to discover every inch of you."

#aaron pierre #smut #blackmail kink #yandere #Spotify

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