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#paul newman facts
rovermcfly · 1 year
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New York City, 1977. Detective Frank Barnes (Paul Newman) is fighting more than just the heatwave: A robbery spree becomes increasingly difficult to investigate as the head of the operation, Sonny Moreno (Robert Redford), uses it as a platform to flirt with none other but the head detective himself. What ensues is a cat and mouse game full of adrenaline, drama and sexual tension that leaves the cop torn between two worlds.
more at @themoderngomorrah
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venus-haze · 5 months
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Celebrity Skin (Thomas Hewitt x Reader)
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Summary:  Your rollercoaster of a film career comes to its untimely end when you end up on Thomas Hewitt’s cutting room floor. He hopes you’ll be as much of a fan of his work as he is yours.
Note: Female reader, implied to be older than Thomas, but no other descriptors are used. This is mostly from Tommy’s perspective and extremely dark and bleak, so look at the warnings before deciding whether or not you want to read this. Do not interact if you’re under 18 or post thinspo/ED content. 
Word count: 2k
Warnings: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT. Explicit and implied non-con, mentions of animal death and cannibalism, kidnapping, Hoyt is pretty much his own warning. Implied major character death. Hurt no comfort. No happy ending. Do not interact if you’re under 18.
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Hollywood was never going to see you again. No one would, as a matter of fact. That much had been set in stone as soon as you sped through Fuller, Texas. Ghost town. Full of nobodies and hicks. A pass-through on the road trip you’d treated yourself to after landing a movie with Paul Newman. He’d never see you again, either.
Almost as soon as you passed the county line, going 60 in a clearly marked 45, sirens blared behind you, and you cursed as you pulled over. You should’ve never pulled over.
“Got a good one for ya here Tommy,” Hoyt said, slapping the meat of your thigh as he presented you to the hulking man. “Says she’s some kinda actress.” He leaned in close to your face, a mean grin on his own. “Sure good at actin’ like she don’t want it.”
Your lips were split, dried blood and semen on your mouth and face. Could barely manage a snarl at his uncle, but you tried. 
“Bet you’re gonna taste real sweet, pumpkin,” Hoyt taunted, smacking his lips before pushing you to Thomas.
You didn’t cry or scream as Thomas dragged you down to the basement. Hoyt beat that out of you already. Mean and vicious on the side of the road, or maybe in the back of his squad car. Didn’t matter. You were all but resigned to your fate until Thomas laid you down on his butcher’s block, securing you to it with the usual metal cuffs, deftly hammered in place. You only began struggling when you caught a glimpse of the knives and blades displayed prominently throughout his workshop. Too late.
Thomas paused, staring at your face, screwed up in pathetic agony as you begged him for mercy you wouldn't receive. Recognized it from somewhere. You had looked different, though. Face made-up, eyes glistening, hair perfectly styled. Like a dream. 
He leaned in closer, and you blinked, teary-eyes transporting him back to his youth. Unforgiving summer breaks where he’d wake up early to help out on the farm before the heat of the day settled in. Sometimes his mama would scrounge up some change for him to go to Fuller’s lone movie theater in the afternoon. ‘Get a break from this heat, honey.’ She knew full well that wasn’t what drew him there. The darkness, the anonymity, for once everyone else was faceless and hidden like him. He wasn’t the main attraction, not even the sideshow.
It’d been years since he stepped foot in that theater. Slowly stopped going after Hoyt got him the job at the slaughterhouse. Just like that, though, he remembered you. A film noir wherein you were cast as the leading lady to a man who may as well have been old enough to be your father, but you looked like you loved him. Especially when you cried for him, tears sparkling as they silently, regally rolled down your pretty face one by one. 
Over time, femme fatales fell out of fashion, and so had you not long after he’d stopped going to the movies. He’d catch glimpses of you, though. Staring at him from the cover of magazines like a star-crossed lover whenever you had a new movie coming out, less frequent as time went on. He was barely sixteen when he swiped a copy of Modern Screen, your enticing, full-color portrait on the cover, chock-full of interviews, gossip, and most importantly, photos. A ball gown and come-hither stare. Lounging half-naked poolside. In a skimpy black dress with a fox fur piece draped around your neck, cigarette holder between your pretty lips as you leaned over a bar, your cleavage nearly spilling out from your dress. 
That one had made him feel funny. Made his pants tighter around the crotch as his imagination ran wild. Thought about presenting you with a cat pelt he’d skinned and sewn up himself. Instead of running and screaming in fear like the girls at school, you’d accept it graciously, wearing it like the fine fox fur. A gentle hand on his chest, simpering eyes as you asked softly how you could ever repay him because he was your leading man. A kiss on his cheek, and then more. So much more.
Back then, he never considered how pretty you’d look when you cried for him. Grabbing a nearby pair of rusty scissors, he cut through your clothes, damp from sweat and spit and god knew what else, stuck to your skin. He peeled them off of you, unwrapping his once in a lifetime gift and wasting no time in touching your bare stomach that seized beneath his touch. His hands drifted upward, taking each of your soft breasts in his big hands, rough and calloused from years of hard labor. He brushed his thumbs against your nipples, raised from exposure to the cool air in his basement hovel. Pinching one between his fingers, he tugged on it, eliciting a whimper from you as the skin painfully stretched to its limit until he finally let go.
Frustrated by your barrage of pleas and protests, he grabbed a nearby rag and shoved it in your mouth. You gagged, senses overwhelmed by the taste of rancid blood and unidentifiable bodily fluids. He pressed his fingers against your abused cunt, marveling in the wetness as you whined like a stupid little deer that’d gotten its leg blown off during the hunt, strained bleating to be put out of its misery with a bullet to the head or a snap of its neck. 
He growled, pressing his masked lips to yours, the friction from the leather re-opening the cuts that had split along your lips. You choked on your makeshift gag, tears streaming down your dirty face. He was almost dizzy. Or maybe he was in love–sweaty palms, racing hearts, an animalistic urge to possess, to mark, to maim. 
Hoyt was the one who eventually caught him with the magazine. Being a bit too loud, he supposed. Instead of the tongue lashing he’d been expecting, he received a proud pat on the back instead, ‘Nothin’ to be ashamed of Tommy. You’re a man. ‘s natural after all,' Hoyt said. 'Try to keep it quiet ‘round mama, though. She still thinks you’re innocent.’
Innocent. Despite how much his mama tried, he hadn’t been innocent in a long time. You hadn’t been either. Your romantic trysts were in headlines or discussed on radio gossip programs. Those had been frequent, and his brow furrowed as he wondered who the hell you were to deny him. Hollywood floozy. Too good for him, just like every other woman.
He unzipped his pants, pulling his length from his pants and feeling himself growing harder at your muffled screams of protest. His size. He knew he was big, far too big for you to handle, but you’d make it work. As if you had any other choice. 
Stroking his length with one hand, he scratched at your belly with his blunt nails on the other hand, shuddering at the fleeting thought of you bigger, pregnant with his child. With a ragged breath, Thomas positioned his cock in front of your aching cunt, reveling in your whines as he pushed in just the tip, feeling you strain around him, warm and soft. ‘I love you, Tommy,’ you had purred in his fantasies. ‘I want you to make me yours. Give me everything.’
He grunted as he buried his length deeper in you, a high-pitched squeal in return. His face felt hot beneath his mask, his cock twitching as your pussy clenched around him. You wanted it. You wouldn’t be so wet and pliant if you didn’t. Grabbing your hips, he slammed his hips against yours, burying his face in your neck, feeling how your throat strained to express your pain despite the gag. How easily he could grab a nearby knife and cut through the tender flesh, knowing just where to slice so he could watch your blood pour out of you, probably sparkling and pretty like your tears. It was perfect, you were perfect. Better than he’d ever imagined.
Pressing his body weight against you, he pinned you further, your twisting torso trapped in place beneath him as he relentlessly pounded into you, his huge cock pushing your cunt to its limits, and even further than that when he hit your cervix. Your tears poured down your cheeks, blood trickling between your legs. He was so close, he could almost reach out and touch it.
He wanted to keep you around. Wasn’t sure how he could make an appeal to mama or Hoyt, though. Probably useless around the house, let alone the farm, just a pretty face for his own amusement. ‘Another mouth to feed,’ he could practically hear Hoyt snarl. He still felt bad about Uncle Monty, now he was a burden on mama and Hoyt too. Making an exception for you would be far too much to ask. Besides, he never had luck keeping pets growing up. Was always too rough with them, too morbidly curious. Maybe it’d be different with you. 
Glancing at the chainsaw beside him, he slammed into you again, his dark gaze fixed on the blood-rusted power tool.
No. It wouldn’t be. Because being this deep inside you made him only want to go deeper, see the extent of his love. Watch your heart beating in your chest for him. Stand over you as you bled out, rib cage cracked open in the ultimate display of vulnerability. You’d provide for his family, and he’d savor every moment, every bite that touched his lips, feeling you inside him. It was the only way. You’d be a part of him forever. Till death do you part.
He came with a loud groan, a primal howl muffled by his mask. Your abused pussy milked his cock until his seed spilled inside you, and his length became soft again. Laying his head on your heaving chest, he listened to your heartbeat. Rapid like a little mouse. 
Nuzzling his face against your breasts, he settled against your warm skin, basking in it while he still could. You’d be even warmer once he opened you up. All too familiar with that sensation. He closed his eyes, though, imagining you lovingly running your fingers through his hair, a sweet, fucked out smile on your face. But there was no place for a man like him in Hollywood, and no place for a woman like you in Fuller. Star-crossed. What a shame.
You had stopped making noises through your gag, either too exhausted or simply resigned to your fate, only whimpering when he finally pulled out of you, your pussy feeling almost painfully empty. Eyes glazed over, they fluttered shut for a moment, but opened as soon as his hand caressed your cheek, pulling the rag from your mouth. 
He watched silently as you sucked in a much needed breath, bringing on a coughing fit with how dry your throat was. You dissolved in a fit of sobs that echoed in this vast underbelly of terror, exacerbated by his attempt to kiss your forehead, pressing the leather against the deep lines in your distressed face. You struggled weakly, fruitlessly against the metal cuffs that secured you to the table.
Unlike in your movies, there was no one to save you this time, no gruff private eye or surly police chief to come in guns blazing at the last minute. Hoyt had already made you well aware he was no admirable man of the law. You were lucky to have ended up with Thomas. He thought the screams that came from the women Hoyt kept around–albeit temporarily–were more difficult to listen to than that of someone he was disembodying. 
Sadistic. Thomas never considered himself such, but he understood the appeal of ravaging, tearing apart in a display of power that never failed to send adrenaline running through his veins. He would savor your demise, his magnum opus, unable to imagine someone else coming along and piquing his interest as much as you had.
He revved the chainsaw, taking in your raw screams as he raised it over his head. Lamented not having a camera around to capture how perfect you looked awaiting your end at his hands. It’s what you were made for. His movie star on the cutting room floor.
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ajaxxx-x · 2 months
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Working on a Hal’s design based on the fact that Gil Kane used Paul Newman as a model for him
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stark-raving-romantic · 6 months
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Poll one has been complete and the winner is The Lightning Thief! The winner of this poll will face off against the previous winner to declare the true winner and best opening line.
And again, if you feel I've forgotten a particularly good quote, feel free to suggest.
Please reblog to break containment 💙📚
The Voyage of the Dawn Treader: There was a boy called Eustace Clarence Stubbs and he almost deserved it.
Rebecca: Last night I dreamt I went to Manderly again.
The Dark Tower: The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed.
The Restaurant at the End of the Universe: In the beginning the Universe was created. This had made many people very angry and has been widely regarded as a bad move.
A Wrinkle in Time: It was a dark and stormy night.
The Book Thief: Here is a small fact: you are going to die.
The Outsiders: When I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, I had only two things on my mind: Paul Newman and a ride home.
The Princess Bride: This is my favorite book in all the world, though I have never read it.
The Night Circus: The circus arrives without warning. No announcements precede it, no paper notices on downtown posts and billboards, no mentions or advertisements in local newspapers. It is simply there, when yesterday it was not.
Anna Karenina: Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.
The Fellowship of the Ring: When Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End announced that he would shortly be celebrating his eleventyifirst birthday with a party of special magnificence, there was much talk and excitement in Hobbiton.
Frankenstein: You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings
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missmaywemeetagain · 1 year
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Sister, my darlin’ Madi! 💗
So, I already told you that I will be in your inbox, right? I’m requesting a fic for Post Army!E. Uh oh…
What do you think you could do with this picture?
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I was thinking maybe a little romance, a little smut action, a little exhibitionism kink (cause come on, we all know Elvis likes to watch his conquests), maybe a little bit of spanking. I don’t know, but it sounds a bit better in my head when I thought about it 😂 Feel free to do whatever you please with it. If you can’t stray away from angst, I welcome it.
-Daisy (@powerofelvis)
Ah, my darlin' darlin' baby! My first ever request and it seems entirely fitting that it's for you, my biggest cheerleader!! 💗 @powerofelvis
I hope I did your request justice--I maybe went in a little different direction (I couldn't manage the spanking for this one, sorry!) and I'm also apparently incapable of writing anything less than 4k, so here's your 5.7k monstrosity of smuttasticness! Love you, baby, and I hope you enjoy! 🥰
This is filthy, so Minors, DNI!! 18+
This is part of Madi's Get to Know Me Gala 💗. Requests/asks are still open for the time being!
So, here it is, my first Request: Snap
You pride yourself on being one of the top photographers in the field, especially when, just like so many other careers, it is dominated by men who think they know better and do better solely because of the dangling appendage between their legs. Luckily, your boss has a progressive outlook and sees your talent for what it is.
The thing is, you are able to get something different from your celebrity subjects and he knows it. The women feel more comfortable with you because they know you aren’t trying to get in their pants, and the men either soften or want to impress you to do just that. And you seem to have a naturally honed ability to figure out quickly what they want and need and are able to play to that to get the best shots.
It’s a win-win most of the time.
Luckily, you don’t tend to get starstruck easily, perhaps because you see behind the curtain of the business. Not to say you didn’t get some butterflies around Paul Newman or feel a sense of awe around Grace Kelly. But overall, the glitz and glamor doesn’t affect you much.
You are a little surprised, however, that your next assignment is the one and only Elvis Presley, fresh from his image-changing stint in the Army. And you sense that the change of image is going to be the challenge on this shoot because remaking a man who the public already has a solid image of through a measly photograph is easier said than done. You have little doubt, based on your research and what you’ve seen so far from his pretty army discharge pictures, that his rebellious streak is now over. But who he is now and who he wants to be going forward likely looks very different from the hip greaser image burned in your head from the 50s.
That and the fact that you’re traveling on a train with him as he heads off to his next big film in LA is throwing you a little for a loop. But you are nothing if not adaptable.
There are more than abundant rumors of Presley’s love for the ladies, which is how you think you find yourself the only photographer who is asked to join him on the train on his journey. The other male photographers had clamored their way past you, fighting for shots at the train station, both outside the train and in it, before it was set to leave. You hung back, taking a few pictures here and there, but mostly smirking to yourself at the desperation to get the man’s attention.
It surprises you a little how pleasant Presley is, how accommodating. He’s nothing but a polite Southern gentleman, giving everyone their piece of him graciously. And the interactions with the fans are nothing less than remarkable based on your experience with other celebrities, and you chronicle that with your camera. There is a presence about him, an essence, that you’ve never quite encountered before with the way he commands the space he is in, demanding attention without ever actually saying a word, without requiring it. But you are finding it a little difficult to get a true read on him with so many people around.
You sense there are many other sides to him, but it’s not until you are almost alone with him and the train starts moving that you are able to discern what they might be. When you are finally introduced properly and are up close to the man, you cannot deny that your heart flutters and you shiver a little at the open way his brilliant sapphire eyes take you in from head to toe.
“Well, hello there, honey,” he drawls, the words warm and dripping into your stomach as his hand clasps yours. “You must be our resident photographer.”
You hate the way his gaze and his touch disorient you. You’ve been around dozens of charming, handsome men, but this man is on another level altogether. He’s more than just a chiseled jaw and high cheekbones and stunning blue eyes. No, there is a magic about him that draws you in, throwing you off your game and threatening to melt you into an embarrassing puddle.
It’s more than a little infuriating.
You manage to snap out of it, clearing your throat and introducing yourself firmly, professionally, putting on your best celebrities-don’t-rattle-me affect. But the damage is done because you can see the glint of amusement in his eyes and the tiniest smirk play at those famous full lips.
You watch him relax with his friends, joking and messing about. Keeping a healthy distance, you get some shots that will likely never see the light of day but help you gauge the lighting and get a feel for him. When not around the onslaught of reporters, he seems filled with an almost adolescent penchant for horsing around, which seems interesting for a man of 25 fresh out of the Army who presents now as keen and intelligent enough despite the Southern accent that the snobs in LA and New York want to look down their noses at him for.
Suddenly, as if commanded silently, the others disperse into the different private cars reserved for him and his people, leaving the two of you alone. After a moment, those deep eyes of his find you, and he beckons you down the train car towards him in a come hither motion and the raise of an eyebrow.
That is when you realize what Elvis needs for you to get your shots. The man wants to play. A little tete è tete is in order, perhaps.
Easy enough, you think as you sit diagonally to him in the bank of seats across from him. You’ve played similar games before with other handsome men. Nothing tawdry, but a little flirtation never hurt anyone. Though with the way his eyes darken and his posture changes ever so slightly, for the first time ever, you think you might be a little out of your depth.
Regardless, you force yourself to maintain an air nonchalance. You hold up your camera. “May I?”
He nods, a smile playing at his lips. You’ve known some of the biggest stars to be uncomfortable under the gaze of a lens in their more private moments, but Presley seems to have no qualms whatsoever. And as you snap a few casual shots up close, it becomes crystal clear that the camera loves him. Every angle just works. He has no “bad side.” It’s almost exhilarating for someone like you who seeks to capture the truth in these moments to have the challenge of a man who was born to be in front of a camera as your subject.
Somehow, he’s both childlike and suave all at once. Innocent and sultry. Feminine and masculine. And he’s got the longest eyelashes you’ve ever seen on a man.
Elvis lets out a long whistle. “You sure are the prettiest photographer I’ve ever seen.”
Your eyebrow raises and you are thankful that your camera conceals the slight blush on your cheeks, despite knowing this is likely just a line to placate you.
“Is that so?” you respond evenly.
“Mhm. Sure is a nice change from the usual group of stuffy men up in my business, I’ll tell you for sure. Much rather have you up in my…” he trails off, then winks.
“I’m not sure you could handle a woman like me, Mr. Presley.” It’s a challenge and a risk, to be sure, taking this way to a man of such stature, but you put just a bit of playfulness in your voice to temper the slice.
He pauses, considering you in a different way, then mimics your own words back to you: “Is that so?”
Snap.
The photo you capture then is one you know has that edginess, that something else you are looking for.
There’s a sense of tension in his posture now, only recognizable to you because not a second so he was the picture of confident relaxation. But you’ve caught him out—that famous lip of his curling as he throws your words back at you, his almond eyes narrowing suspiciously but full of a feline sexual energy. While his right arm appears casual on the armrest, his long and slender pointer finger goes rigid, a suggestive gesture to be sure.
He’s playful about it but in such a way as a jungle cat seeks to play with its food before devouring it.
Heat courses through your limbs and pools low in your belly, a purely biological response to this amazing specimen of a man and the way he’s looking at you.
You manage to find your voice. “Quite so, I’m afraid,” you say with a flirty, faux sorrow.
“We’ll see,” he hums, then slides over the seat until right across from you. In a bold move you don’t see coming, Elvis nudges his toe under your skirt and in between your properly clasped knees, spreading your legs apart until his foot rests possessively through your thighs on the seat underneath you.
“You’re one cocky sonnuvabitch, aren’t ya?” you muse, finally bringing your camera down to look him in the eyes. You are hyper aware of the way his toe inches up, closer to the heat that now begins to pulse between your legs.
”Gonna have to wash your mouth out if ya keep talkin’ like that,” he purrs.
Snap.
“Oh, really?” You are loathe to admit just how badly you want to see him try.
“Yes, really.”
“Hmm, suppose you’d have to catch me first.” You are fully taunting him now, quickly hurtling into the realm of unprofessional but unable to stop yourself.
Snap.
But based off the smile on his face and the heat in his eyes, he is enjoying himself.
“Oh, that ain’t hard.”
“No?”
He chuckles and inches his foot up far enough that your thighs now encase it, sending a rolling shiver through you at the pressured sensation.
Snap.
Obviously, you know how a good round of flirtation and suggestion can open a subject up, so to speak, but you don’t mix business with pleasure. Right now, you are running headlong down a very dangerous road. You aren’t completely naive to the ways of men and sex, but you also aren’t overly experienced when it comes to the deed itself, due to propriety and self- preservation. Your experience has been limited to heavy petting and the basic mechanics of the act, but nothing you’d call very exciting or even overly enjoyable. The whole sex thing honestly seemed overrated, made more to please men than women.
But that was before Elvis Presley sat across from you and wedged his foot between your thighs.
The more you think about it, about him, the more you think you might burn right through your clothes as though it were the dead heat of summer and you’d been running for miles. You force yourself to breathe slowly, evenly, to keep control of your faculties and the situation, but he stares at you with those intense eyes and you already know it’s a losing battle.
“Show me how to work that camera, honey,” he says, surprising you with the change of tactics.
“What for?” Your camera is your livelihood, your baby, your artistic expression so this makes you nervous. Usually, you’d never, ever let a subject touch it. But these aren’t normal circumstances (and you also know that he has more than enough money to replace it if he screws something up).
“Oh, you’ll see,” he smirks, eyes dancing. He makes no indication that he’s going to move his foot from its precarious position in order for you to shift towards him, and when you raise your brows at him questioningly, he just smiles that wide, million dollar smile.
So you slowly, carefully, scoot your butt to the edge of the seat in order to lean far enough forward with the camera in hand. In doing so, however, the sole of his shoe is now flush against your core and you can’t help the little yelp that escapes your lips when he presses against you. It stokes something inside you that you’ve never felt to this extent before.
Oh, you are in trouble. You are in way, way over your head.
You manage a gulp and then clear your throat as you lean over to show him the workings of the camera. He meets you in the middle, and your eyes nearly roll back into your skull for the way it presses his toe into your now aching cunt.
Holy hell, the man smells intoxicating, and you are aware of just how close his face is to yours. It’s as if his eyelashes flutter in slow motion, his breath hot near your cheek, and a pressure builds inside of you, one you’ve only felt when your curious hand has made its way into your panties on a sleepless night or when you’ve pushed a pillow between your thighs, rocking into the friction. Certainly no man has ever made you really feel that way.
But that feeling barely touches the fire that courses through you now. In a slow daze, you show him the basic mechanics and he gently pulls the camera from your grasp. Suddenly, you feel vulnerable and bare without it, your shield of indifference taken away.
Elvis leans back, releasing some of the pressure on your core, and you can breathe again, if only for a moment, because the look in his eyes is nothing short of obscene in its sexiness.
“You develop your own film, darlin’?”
You are confused by the question, but all you can seem to do is nod in response, wondering where in the hell this is going.
“Good. Now, relax, honey, and pull that dress up for me,” he says, as though he’s asking something completely benign of you.
Your face must register your confusion, your surprise. To his credit, he moves his foot away, and his gaze and voice both soften, “I ain’t gonna hurt you, I promise, but you gotta tell me if this isn’t somethin’ you wanna do.”
To your credit, it doesn’t take you long to find your voice, as stammering as it might be. “I-I-I want to,” you say, and it comes out so breathless you’d roll your eyes at yourself in any other circumstance. In fact, you are rather shocked at your eagerness.
Elvis smiles broadly. “Well, okay then, honey. That dress,” he commands, nudging his chin up to remind you what it is he wants from you.
Your heart flutters so fast that you’re not sure it’s even fully beating anymore. You inch the fabric up, up, up your thighs, feeling the softness as it wrinkles under your palms, exposing your stockings to the man in front of you.
Much to your chagrin, you are utterly spellbound. A reasonable voice in the back of your head tells you to stop this nonsense immediately before you make a fool of yourself before you cross lines that cannot be uncrossed. Yet your body is so wound, so tuned into him, so needy for whatever it is he has in store for you that you can barely think.
Snap.
It takes a moment to register that its him taking pictures of you, not the other way around. An embarrassed heat rushes to your cheeks when you realize he’s aimed the camera squarely between your legs and not at your red face.
You pause when reaching the white lace tops of your stockings, the garter clips that hold them up now visible.
Snap.
It’s likely the way he bites his full lower lip behind the camera that gives you the courage to keep going, that little tell that perhaps he’s just as aroused as you, that this isn’t some cruel joke.
Finally, you pull the hem up over your hips, exposing your white panties fully to his scrutiny. Perhaps it’s the damp spot in the center of them that has him shifting his hips with a quiet, low groan. The sound sends a thrill rippling through your limbs.
Snap.
His voice comes out husky and about an octave lower this time. “Now reach into those panties and touch yourself for me, baby. D’you know how to get yourself goin’?”
“I think so, yes,” you reply breathlessly, altogether unsure if anything you’ve ever done to yourself is anything what this obviously experienced man expects.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll help guide ya if you need it,” he says with a kind of deference, patience.
You nod, then, biting your lip in concentration, you slip your hand down under the waistband of your underwear. The pads of your fingers are cool against the blazing heat of your sex as they trail down to that sensitive bundle of nerves you’ve only touched the surface of exploring. You circle the bud a few times, your hips rolling involuntarily in response.
Snap.
“Lower,” Elvis commands, and you obey, sliding down to find how swollen and soaking you already are. Something about the way he is watching you has a coil in your belly tightening in a way it never has before, has your body responding in ways it never has with another person.
“Are you wet, baby?” he breathes.
You nod.
“Show me.” It comes out sultry and eager and sets you on fire that he wants to see with his own eyes what he’s doing to you.
You pull your fingers out of the damp fabric and show him the slick shining there.
“Goddamn,” he whispers, snapping another photo. “Lemme taste you.” The blush revealed on his sky-high cheekbones when he pulls the camera away is enough to send your breath heaving, but it is nothing at all compared to what happens in your body the moment his lips close around your sticky fingertips.
An obscene moan rolls out from your mouth as his soft tongue licks your digits clean. The sound seems to urge him on, resulting in him sucking one, then the other, gently. Your hair stands on end, goosebumps running down your arms, your eyes fluttering closed. That coil inside your pelvis tightens so tight you feel like you might burst, but then he removes his mouth with a resounding pop.
You whimper at the loss and your eyes flutter back open to find his deep blues staring back at you with a passion that seems to rival your own.
“Sweet as honey,” he murmurs with a dreamy smile, picking up the camera once more. Something inside you is proud that he’s enjoyed tasting you, as if you were always meant for him to enjoy. “Now I wanna see that kitty.”
You didn’t know it was possible to be more flushed that you already are, but your cheeks rage with blood. You aren’t exactly sure how he wants that to happen and your brow furrows.
“Just pull those pretty panties to the side for me, baby,” Elvis encourages.
It feels like all the blood in your body rushes into your pussy the moment you slide the ruined cotton off to the side, leaving you bare for him. The cool air makes you shiver, or maybe it is the way he groans as he takes a picture of your most private of areas.
“T-touch yourself for me,” he says, his voice needy and strained now.
You run your fingers down then up through your lower lips, feeling the throbbing pulse of blood down there as you do so, feeling that tightness in your belly squirm for more. The obvious tent in his black slacks has you breathing even harder as you wonder what he would feel like buried inside of you.
But Elvis has other ideas.
“Aw, hell,” he moans before tossing your camera aside and falling to his knees in front of you like a desperate man praying for forgiveness. You barely have time to register your shock at the superstar prostrating himself at your feet before his large hands spread your thighs further apart, and his luscious lips kiss their way up your slit, landing on your aching clit.
“What are you—Oh my god!” you cry out before you can stop yourself, your hands flying into his dark mane of soft, perfectly styled hair. Never in your life had a man put his mouth there, it wasn’t even something you knew was done, and ohmifuckinggod it feels so good that your mind goes blank.
When Elvis moans into you, lathing his tongue flat against you and dragging it up your core, you think you stop breathing completely.
So far gone are you as his wicked tongue winds through and spears and soothes you, that you don’t realize that the mewling murmurs of, “Oh, Jesus. Holy mother of—Oh, Elvis!” are actually coming from your mouth. You feel him smile against you, pausing his ministrations long enough for you to catch your breath.
Which is good, because he immediately knocks it back out of you as he slides a long finger into your tight heat and latches himself to your clit like a man possessed. The deft way his finger pumps, then curves into some unknown spongy spot you didn’t know existed until this very moment has you writhing on the seat, clinging to his beautiful head for dear life. Somehow, the combination of the suckling and licking of your little nub coupled with the rapid work of his hand has your entire body tensing before he hurtles you over an invisible cliff, that tight coil in your belly snapping. Shuddering and gasping, you free fall, and a soothing warmth washes over you from head to toe.
You’ve never felt anything like it in your life.
Your chest heaves with exertion as you come back into yourself, whining at the emptiness when he removes his finger, then shivering as he replaces it with his tongue, lapping at the excess of slick arousal that now seems to coat everything below, including his face.
The aftershocks that he causes to ripple through you stoke the fire in your belly again, and you think that maybe, just maybe you had this sex thing all wrong. That the few men you’d fooled around with had absolutely no idea what they were doing. Because this…this was…so good you can’t even think of an intelligent way to describe it.
Elvis straightens and pulls up onto his knees, looking utterly pleased with himself, his pretty mouth shiny with you.  Slotting between your open legs, his eyes shine with arousal.
“Was that good, baby? Did you come?” he asks.
“I—was that…? Did I come? What does that—?” you stammer, barely able to string together a coherent sentence, confused by his words in your haze.
He chuckles at your floundering. “Have you never come before? Never had an orgasm, honey? That’s a damn shame,” he says, wiping his mouth with his thumb, then licking it.
You blush at your inexperience and at his gesture. “That was an orgasm? I mean, of course it was…I, well, I’ve been with men, I just—that never—Um, yes, th-that was amazing,” you babble, knowing that you must be bright red with embarrassment, but your body is so loose and warm that you almost don’t care.
He only smiles at your bashfulness and leans up into you, his mouth hovering so close to yours that you feel his warm breath on your lips and can smell yourself on them. “Well, best give you another one for good measure. Whaddya say, baby?” he whispers, your entire body tingles at attention.
All you can do is nod, almost frantically, wondering how in the world he could make that happen again and absolutely desperate for it at the same time.
It’s then that he finally kisses you and you are consumed all at once with how pillowy soft his lips are, how you can taste yourself on his lips and it feels like it should be wrong, but you sort of like it. He’s surprisingly gentle, his passion evident but controlled as he explores your mouth much in the same way he explored your pussy—soft at first, but insistent. You open to him easily, his tongue quickly finding yours and in one fell swoop, he maneuvers you onto your back on the seat, slotting his long legs between your thighs.
The gentle way his hands and lips caress your face, your neck, down to your breasts and waist has you distracted enough that you are surprised when he rolls his pelvis into yours and his excitement is particularly evident as it pokes into your belly.
It’s because of me, you think in disbelief, I’ve made Elvis Presley, of all men, aroused.
And that thought suddenly has you ravenous and bold. You reach between you two, taking his clothed but considerable length in your hand and squeezing.
Elvis groans above you, then smiles. “You eager little minx. Give you a little taste and now it’s all you can think about, huh?” he teases.
Your response is to smile back and work his length with your hand. You may not know much about the female orgasm before today, but you sure as hell are familiar with how his equipment works.
 “Okay, okay,” he gasps, his eyes rolling back, “Jesus, woman, I hear ya.”
He rids himself of his suit jacket while you make quick work of his belt and buttons and zippers. Unbeknownst to you, yet completely unsurprisingly, he is wearing no underwear, so with a quick push of his slacks off his hips, he’s totally bare for you.
He’s well-endowed enough for you to be a little nervous about it which he seems to pick up on. “Don’t you worry, baby, I’ll go slow,” he whispers kindly in your ear.
You nod and respond by wrapping your hand around him and pumping his shaft, swirling your thumb gently over his foreskin and over the head of him. The beaded pre-cum slicks over the tip, eliciting a low growl from the Adonis hovering above you.
Pulling up your skirt again, you bend your knees invitingly, letting him nestle between your legs. Elvis takes a moment to kiss you roughly, nipping at your lower lip, as he coats his erection in your slick, rubbing the length of it between your already sopping and swollen folds. The tip of him brushes against your clit maddeningly as he does so, causing you to arch and keen under him.
Finally, you can stand it no longer, reaching your hand down to line him up with your entrance. He smirks above you, but the look is wiped off his face and quickly replaced with something almost akin to awe as he pushes into you slowly. Your body yearns for him in such a way that, even though you are quite tight around him, you seem to suckle him in, inch by inch. The sensation has the both of you moaning, eyes rolling back and lips parting as you join together.
“Fuck, honey. So goddamned tight for me,” he groans, and a shudder of pleasure rolls through you.
It's utterly delicious the way he slots into you so perfectly, bottoming out as you swallow him whole. He gives you a moment to adjust and relax into the heaviness of him in your body, looking down at you with what you realize are quite soulful eyes. His arousal is obvious in the way his pupils are blown, but he still looks at you with an air of reverence even though this seems to be a spontaneous and casual fuck on a train.
When he starts thrusting in and out of you, slowly at first, and with somehow perfect precision, hitting spots inside you that you didn’t know existed, you realize you’ll never be able to have sex again without comparing it to the gorgeous man above you.
Lord, you wish you could take a picture of the way he looks right now, hair mussed and sweat beading on his forehead, his plump lips parted and panting. This is the perfectly imperfect Elvis you wished to capture when you got on this train. But in this moment, he is just for you to see. You don’t want to share him with the world.
He’s patient in his approach to keep his promise, yet he doesn’t need to wait long. Your body is humming with arousal, the warmth blossoming over you as his thrusts become more pointed and deeper. The way he rolls his pelvis, then swivels it, playing with motion and depth make you realize he’s gauging every reaction you have, adjusting to what brings you closer to falling apart.
You barely recognize the sounds coming out of your mouth, feeling every hard inch of him taking over you, wanting more, more, more. Your wet heat flutters around him and he speeds his thrusts, but it’s when he brings his hand between you and rubs his thumb against your hypersensitive bud that you truly begin to fall apart.
This time, it’s more gradual, the way the heat and pressure builds. You know more of what to expect, but holy hell, he’s playing you like an instrument, making your entire body quiver with desire and need. You almost want to escape the feeling—it’s so intense, so stimulating, as he pounds into you from above, but you also never want it to stop.
“C’mon, baby, that’s my good girl,” he praises in that low Southern drawl, and that takes you up, up, up the crest of your arousal.
You pant and whine, desperate now for a release you’ve never had a taste of until now.
“That’s it, come for me now, darlin’, come on me,” he moans, working your clit faster.
That sends you flying over the edge, hitting the crest of your orgasm so hard the wind is knocked out of you, and you see white stars in the blackness of your closed eyes. You clench around him, your legs wrapped around his waist, squeezing, as though he can keep you from flying away. Body shuddering with release, you feel a gush of warmth and he’s sliding so effortlessly through you, he could split you in two and you wouldn’t even know it.
“Oh, fuck, you’re so good for me…did so good baby,” he pants, watching you come down from your high.
Elvis slows down, easing you through it, though he looks like he wants to absolutely ravage you for the way he looks at you so hungrily. He’s holding back, you can tell.
“I’m gonna pull out, baby. I-I-I—can I come on your pretty lil’ face?” he gasps, eyes begging you.
You’d be more taken aback if he hadn’t just fucked you silly. Never in a thousand years would you think to let a man claim you in such a way, but you find that you want—no, need—it. You’d let him do almost anything with you at this point.
You nod, unable to speak with how fucked out you are. Elvis pulls out of your heat and you groan at the loss of him, but he’s pulling you down to the floor and you go, bonelessly, onto your knees. Towering above you, he stands, using the remnants of your glistening release to pump his cock expertly, and the sight sends shivers through you.  
“Oh, that’s it, honey. Open your mouth for me,” he pants out, tapping your chin with his finger.
You obey without question.
Elvis clasps his free hand at the back of your neck, cupping your jaw as he thrusts roughly into his other hand. “Aw, f-f-f-fuckin’ hell,” he moans loudly, and then he comes violently. Pulsing, hot streams squirt over your cheeks, your chin, and you taste the bitter tang of his salty release on your tongue.
You’ve never tasted a man before, and you’re glad the first is Elvis Presley.
He looks absolutely ethereal in his release. The way he grits his teeth and then his mouth hangs open, eyes fluttering shut and body shuddering as he paints you with him makes him even more attractive than you thought possible.
You wait, mouth still agape and covered in his seed. His bedroom eyes open and he looks down at you. “Jesus, you look so damn beautiful covered in me,” he says dreamily. “Stay just like that.”
Then, surprising you once again, he grabs your camera which had been discarded earlier, bringing it up to his face.
Snap.
He memorializes the moment.
“Swallow, baby,” he guides you, tapping your chin closed. You do, even though it makes you a little queasy because you’ve never done this before.
Snap.
“Open,” he says, pulling the camera from his face. Then, he uses his thumb and fingers to wipe your face of him, depositing the rest of his cum in your mouth. “Want ya to take it all for me,” he coos. You take it willingly, and then suckle the rest off his fingers.
“My pretty lil’ photographer,” he moans out, snapping one last shot as he pumps his fingers in your mouth. “S’good for me, you dirty girl.”
You can’t help but whine at that.
Elvis flops back down onto the seat, dark hair failing in his eyes, and pulls you into his lap. He kisses you, gently, then with more insistence as he seems to relish the taste of himself on your tongue.
“Mmm, I want copies of those photos,” he says seriously, pulling back and looking into your eyes.
You blush furiously. “Okay,” you whisper, nodding.
He lets his head fall back onto the seat and closes his eyes in refraction. After a moment, he speaks again, pulling you in close.
“And I want you to be with me in California, once we get there. Will you stay?” he asks quietly.
The way he asks so earnestly both stuns and delights you. You couldn’t say no even if you wanted to.
“I will,” you say.
Elvis smiles.
Grabbing your camera, you take one last shot of your beautiful, mind-blowing man.
Snap.
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hotvintagepoll · 2 months
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my mom (canadian) says that she's surprised that paul newman isn't winning because, in her opinion, he's WAY hotter than christopher plummer. i told her that i think he's winning due to the fact that everyone on this website loves the sound of music and she was like "hm. paul newman is still hotter."
i was actually a little surprised, since she likes dilfs (i hate that i know that about my mom) and paul newman wasn't anywhere near as dilfy looking as christopher plummer was in the sound of music, but whatever. My Mom Has Spoken.
i also voted for paul newman i've betrayed my country christopher plummer forgive me orz
Canadian vs Mom's Favorite Dilf
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youremyheaven · 7 months
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Art & Vedic Astrology
i thought ill make a post about the recurring motifs, patterns, techniques that different nakshatra natives seem to resort to in their art work!! so here it goes<3
Punarvasu
Punarvasu natives often use matrixes, mazes, repetition, interloping patterns, and tessellation in their work.
Pedro Friedeberg
He has Punarvasu rising and he is known for surreal, abstract and whimsical style
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he repeatedly used the same patterns over and over again in his work
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Claire Nakti's new YT short did mention that these natives were very prominent in the Surrealist art movement and I often see how they have this surreal, whimsical element in their artwork. Often using bright colours and repeating the same pattern/motif over and over again.
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the Punarvasu aesthetic is veered towards maximalism. however these natives do not like clutter or maximalism that is random? if you look at any of these artworks, you can see how the same pattern is repeated many many times (a common theme in the work of these natives) its not 8 different patterns or motifs, so there is a sense of minimalism or balance within their otherwise eclectic seeming art creations.
MC Escher
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If I use the term "tessellation", the artist that would come to mind for most people is MC Escher (Ketu in Punarvasu). he had a thing for repetitive imagery and using the same pattern over and over again.
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he made the technique of tessellation as well known as it is now. in fact it was Escher's signature style
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alt-j has a song called "tesselate" and its written by joe newman (the lead vocal) who also has ketu in punarvasu!!
Harmony Korine
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He has Ketu in Punarvasu and you can see how he uses endless circles in his work, going back to Punarvasu's association with the endless nature of the universe
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he returns to the same motif again and again
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or draws the same pattern repeatedly
Paul Klee
he has ketu in punarvasu and his venus & rising in swati, another nak associated with infinite space and abundance
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there is a tendency to use the same pattern repeatedly
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once again the punarvasu urge to use bright colors and repeat the patterns, themes, motifs
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and there's a lot of interlooping
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here's a cat (punarvasu's yoni animal)
Sol Lewitt
He is Punarvasu moon
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There is tessellation and use of bright colors
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repeatedly using the same shapes, patterns and the work being maximalist outwardly but minimal in essence
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lots of interloping because punarvasu is the endless infinity of the cosmos!!
Ashlesha
slightly similar to Punarvasu natives, these natives also seem to love repetition and pattern making
Yayoi Kusama
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Yayoi Kusama is Ashlesha moon and this art installation definitely seems to invoke serpentine vibes but sticks to the whimsical, colorful, exuberant nature that is Kusama's trademark
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her birth time is unknown but I strongly believe that she has Punarvasu rising tbh
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i mean??? her work is very punarvasu coded imo but here's more of her ashlesha esque work
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not to promote stereotypes but these be looking like snakes to me 🤪
Princess Fahrelnissa Zeid
She is Ashlesha moon
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Ashlesha natives love color and using bold patterns and designs in their work but their work is maximalist through and through
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with Punarvasu, their artworks were almost minimalist compared to the hypermaximalist works that Ashlesha natives seem to create
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do you see how crowded and busy these works are?
Keith Haring
He is Ashlesha rising and we can see how he consistently used similar motifs throughout his work but his work is very loud and very maximalist
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like this
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his work is very eclectic and very busy
Andy Warhol
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Andy Warhol is Ashlesha sun & rising and his most famous artwork is one that uses repetitive imagery and features Marilyn Monroe (Ashlesha rising)
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(yes this is a painting) Ashlesha natives love to use the same pattern to crowd an entire painting
Willem de Kooning
He is an Ashlesha moon and his works also have the same eclectic, colorful and "loud" aesthetic that we saw in the works of other Ashlesha natives
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do you see how there is a similar running motif in all his works but compared to the works of a Punarvasu native, an Ashlesha native work seems far more frenetic and fast(?) there is a different degree of intensity
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thealmightyemprex · 10 days
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Sci Fi Month Frank Herbert's Dune(2000)
So I talked about David Lynchs attempt at a Dune adaptaion ,but there have been other adaptaions of the story,with Denis Villenuves Dune PArt 2 currently in theaters by the time of this post,but the adaptaion I am looking at today was a 3 episode miniseries made for the Sci Fi Channel (Still never calling it Syfy ,I can be petty ) .Ive kind of avoided this version because welll......Its a early 2000's TV adaptation of an epic novel for the Sci Fi channel ,which is unfair,as I love a good miniseries but I'll admit I can be a snob sometimes,but over the years I have heard praise and to this day many people (My dad who is an old school Dune fan ) call tyhis the best adaptation of Dune
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In this 2000's miniseries Duke Leto Atredies (William Hurt ) is given control of Arakis by the Emperor Shaddam IV (Giancarlo Giannini) who uses it as a ploy to destroy Leto by giving support to Letos enemy the Baron Vladimir Harkonen (Ian McNeice ) to destroy the house of Atredies,but Letos son Paul (Alec Newman ) and Letos concubine Jessica (Saskia Reeves) escape ,join the native people of Arakis ,the Fremen to seek revenge on the Emperor and House Harkonen ,while also taking advantage of a prophecy
.....SO I enjoyed this a lot.Its not flawless but if you are in the right mood it is enjoyable .I will say it is not as grand as the Lynch or Villinuve films,its shot on soundstages and lacks the all star casts of those films....But what I like is its more Shakespeare then space opera ,very theatrical sort of sci fi .I actually like the sets(GEidi Prime in particualr is perhaps my fave take on the planet ).The costume design is where this shines ,I heard the costumes were inspired by Moebius (The French comic artist) and you can tell,the characters feel like they walked right out of a sci fi comic,and with the designs and colors this mybe my favorite LOOKING version of Dune .I think the three episodes tell the story very well,though the best written is part one,and part 2 feels a bit padded but it sticks the landing for part 3 .I also think this miniseries nails the darker parts of the story better then the 84 Dune ,mainly that Paul is NO hero
The actors are mostly good,though very few are my favorite takes on these character.Some stand outs are Karel Dobry as the enigmatic Liet-Kynes(My fave take on the character),Julie Cox in an expanded role as Princess Irulan,Barbora Kodetova is good as Chani ,Saskia Reeves is a very good Lady Jessica ,Jan Unger is a suitably slimey Piter de Vries ,and Matt Keesler is suitably villainous as Feyd .The big star gets of the miniseries are Giancarlo Giannini as the Emperor who is better then Jose Ferrer but still lacking a bit of gravitas ,and William Hurt as Duke Leto ,who I think does a fairly good job as the noble duke even if its funny he is top billed as a guy wh dies in the first part .The scene stealer of the series is our villain ,the Baron played deliciously deviously by Ian McNiece ,who might be my favorite take on the Baron ,he feels like a classic Shakesperian villain and McNice is clearly having a ball without going as over the top as Kenneth McMillian in the 84 film
If the miniseries has a weak point the weakest has to be Paul.Alec Newman is not bad ,in fact hes pretty good at anti hero Paul near the end....But his begining PAul feels like it is written younger,and he comes across too petulent and whiney
However I do reccomend this and it is very solid ,higly reccomended
@ariel-seagull-wings @the-blue-fairie @piterelizabethdevries @themousefromfantasyland @theancientvaleofsoulmaking @princesssarisa @countesspetofi @filmcityworld1
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khaleesiofalicante · 1 year
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“You’ve been alive for a long time, right?”
Magnus stopped stirring his coffee and turned around. “Is that a stab at my age?”
“Nope,” Alec replied. “I have a history doubt.”
“Oh!” Magnus said and settled down next to the shadowhunter on the couch. “Do tell.”
Alec chuckled.
Magnus frowned. “What?”
“You got a little excited,” Alec pointed out, chuckling again. “It was cute.”
Magnus rolled his eyes fondly. “What do you want to know? I promise to be unbiased. Unless your question is about Napoleon or Paul Newman. I had beef with both of them.”
Alec smiled. “So. We’ve been to hell.”
“Hm-hm,” Magnus sipped on his coffee. “Who hasn’t, Alexander?”
Alec grinned and shook his head. “Is there a heaven?”
Magnus choked on his coffee a little. “We’re directly diving into the deep questions, are we?”
“I’m just curious. We know there is hell. Multiple hells, in fact. So, like, what about heaven?” Alec asked. “Where does Raziel live?”
“Probably in Los Angeles,” Magnus replied. “He looks like the type.”
“Seriously,” Alec nudged his leg. “Heaven? Does it exist? What’s it like?”
Magnus took a deep breath and put down his mug. “From what I know, no one has really gone there, or at least come back, to tell the tale.”
“Shame,” Alec sighed. “I just thought it might be real. Hell is pretty much like we imagined it to be.”
“Heaven is probably the same,” Magnus shrugged. 
“Angels and golden gates and harps?” Alec asked with a grin.
“Hopefully, there is also WiFi,” Magnus noted seriously. 
Alec laughed. “You’ve never wondered what it’s like?”
“I used to,” Magnus admitted. “I spend a good portion of the 16th century trying to find it.”
“Did you?” Alec asked. 
“No such luck. So, I gave up,” Magnus replied. “I did end up in hell. Twice. I don’t know what that says about me.”
Alec pulled him closer. 
He held Magnus between his arms. 
Magnus wanted to spend his immortal life there. 
“It says that you are incredibly brave and stupidly reckless,” Alec whispered.
“Incredibly brave and stupidly reckless,” Magnus hummed. “Sounds like the nephilim motto.”
Alec pressed a kiss to his cheek and walked over to the bathroom. “You love us.”
“Keep your voice down!” Magnus yelled after him. 
The truth is, Magnus had always believed in heaven. 
The truth is, Magnus had never really given up on his quest to find it. 
And then...And then he had met Alec. 
Heaven made little sense after that. 
Heaven became the space between Alec Lightwood’s arms. 
@malectober
this was supposed to be about hell but it turned into something else lmao. writers y’all know what I'm talking about 😋
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isitsafe · 7 months
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Paul Newman sold salad dressings. Patti LaBelle sells desserts. The fact that Rick Dees has not started selling nuts is just a wasted opportunity.
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polijakefim · 1 month
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F  L  A  U  N  T
TRAVIS FIMMEL
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Girl's Gotta Eat
There are paths seen and unseen. There are paths taken. There are the Midwestern housewives who sit at home, who formerly popped bennies and ran topless through every jam band show at the local amphitheater. There are the vagrant, longhaired transients who receive stares as they push their cart of nothings around sweaty Southern towns, that formerly received stares only because they were professing at the front of a philosophy class. There are the attention-deficit young men, oft chastised for their inability to focus, but given open creativity, become playwrights and screenwriters. There are the balladeers. There are the celebrities. There is the you. There is the me. And there is Travis Fimmel, sitting in a hotel room in Vancouver, freezing his balls off. His is a story of barefooted farm boy turned bare-bodied model turned actor.
“It’s bloody cold,” he says in a relaxed Australian drawl. Of course it is. Fimmel grew up helping out on the family farm in a small town on the fork of two rivers in the middle of sunburnt Australia. He’s currently in the benumbed west Canadian port city filming Duncan Jones’ Warcraft: a film of epic proportion and expectation. But despite the video game-based spin-off, one gets the feeling Fimmel is the kind of lad who would much rather be chopping wood than mashing plastic buttons on a gaming controller. “I’d never heard of it,” he freely admits.
The path begins. When I ask about his early foray into Australian-rules football, he concedes what stymied the course, “Yeah but I sucked at it, man, I was very bad.” And thus he skipped the sporting life and tried college, “I didn’t pass any classes becauseI didn’t end up showing up—I was doing project managing for construction, like a foreman. Architecture and commerce [was the] main part of the course, I didn’t really want to go to college, I was just trying to fill in time…but then I ended up going overseas.” Fimmel wasn’t meant to be a paper-pushing desk jockey; just as Paul fucking Newman wasn’t meant to sling charred chicory at nine-to-fivers. With those baby blues and gilded locks it wasn’t long before Fimmel was modeling, most notably for Calvin Klein and most times wearing not a stitch. Previously Fimmel has played down his years of modeling, crediting favorable lighting, advanced cameras, and Photoshop for his looks and success. In fact, it’s speculated—and blatantly obvious upon viewing—that Fimmel was the inspiration behind Samantha’s washed-out brick-bod lover—“Jerry” Smith Jerrod—on Sex and the City.
The path winds. “Wound up in L.A., got into an acting class and then that’s where I started acting. I had no idea, never wanted to do this stuff, still don’t really want to do it, mate,” he admits. Fimmel is even-keeled, he exudes a thoughtless vibe, and as much as Fimmel plays it all down, one even has to question how hard he worked to get to his current status. Sometimes his nonchalant nature can come off as arrogant, and it’s easy to imagine he’s often misunderstood, but couldn’t care less; he’s just riding the wave. At first, Fimmel took jobs everyone in Hollywood thought would pay dividends but floundered [see: WB’s Tarzan] until he grew a beard and started swinging an axe. Ah, the farm boy swinging the axe again. It’s in History Channel’s Vikings that Fimmel found his niche, receiving acclaim for his portrayal of the contemplative but merciless, Ragnar Lothbrok, a deep-thinking maniac from Viking Age Europe. There is a swagger to his character that is maintained somewhere within Fimmel. When I ask about his association with Ragnar, he states, “Every guy that I know that fights is always the quietest guy in the room; I just try to think more than talk. You’ll always learn more by listening rather than being the loudest guy in the room. And whatever you do, you do because you enjoy it, so I try to make my character enjoy fighting.”
The path straightens. And so we find ourselves back in that Vancouver hotel room, freezing our balls off with Fimmel, as he’s in the midst of shooting the biggest film of his career. With all the aloofness Fimmel radiates, it piques one’s interest to know what he really is passionate about: “Farming, mate. That’s whatI want to do. I love the country. It’s hard to explain. When you grow up in the country you just enjoy it so much. I love animals and I love trees and anything country.”
And, lastly, that beard that’s quickly becoming his trademark: “It just grew I guess, I couldn’t for ages. I would have loved to grow one when I was a kid, I would have loved to have gone to prom and school and shit with a beard.”
Nothing to do with shedding the barefaced image of your Calvin Klein days? “[Audibly scoffs] Shit. I couldn’t grow one then. Otherwise I would have had one.”
That would have been a different path.
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missrayon · 7 days
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I've been convinced since I was a teenager that jake gyllenhaal was paul newman's secret child because it didn't make sense to me that paul newman was his godfather and the fact that jamie lee curtis is his godmother doesn't make sense either so I was like right so obviously paul newman had an affair with jamie lee curtis but that couldn't get out because it would ruin his wife guy image plus because of who jamie lee curtis' parents are and her age so they gave jake to some random family to raise to protect the scandal but I could never explain maggie because she looks just like jake. but looking up their parents right now they actually look just like them and it's kind of ruined a conspiracy I've become convinced is true. I still don't understand why paul newman taught jake how to drive though because isn't that like a father son activity
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ufonaut · 2 years
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Omg!! The fact that Hal was based out judicially off of Paul Newman is so cool. Is there any other characters in DC that were based off the appearance of famous actors/actresses?
oh, lots and lots! gil kane in particular is the master of this one and from him alone we've got:
hal jordan is based on paul newman (yes, yes, you know this one but it's worth repeating)
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(alter ego #102)
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sinestro is based on david niven
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(wizard insider: sinestro, june 2007)
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abin sur is reportedly based on yul brynner and knowing gil kane, i can both see it & believe it but regrettably the only source we've got here is wikipedia. i'm counting it as true enough for the purposes of this list though!
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outside of gil kane's work, a couple that immediately come to mind are:
batman: year one bruce wayne is based on gregory peck
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(david mazzucchelli's notes in the batman: year one hardcover)
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doiby dickles is based on edward brophy
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(irwin hasen in alter ego #3)
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captain marvel & mary marvel are based on fred macmurray and judy garland respectively
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(c.c. beck in the fawcett companion)
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john constantine is based on sting
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(alan moore in wizard magazine, nov 1993)
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and there are, i'm sure, a lot of other characters i can't immediately remember but i hope you enjoy these!
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gatheringbones · 8 months
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[“William Quantrill was born in Ohio, made his living as a cattle rustler and slave catcher in Missouri-Kansas and Texas, and was living in Lawrence in 1859, although not yet politicized. Quantrill’s pro-slavery terrorism in Missouri coincided with the onset of the Civil War, when he and fifteen men set out to torture, kill, and destroy the properties and livestock of abolitionists and their supporters. In August 1862, Quantrill received a field commission as a captain in the Confederate Army.
By the time of the attack on Lawrence a year later, Quantrill was able to muster a force of hundreds of Bushwhacker guerrillas, nearly all armed with multiple six-shot revolvers. The group staged its attack at daybreak, when everyone in the town was still sleeping. Although the men of Lawrence had drilled and practiced for defending themselves and the town, they stored their firearms and ammunition in the city’s armory, so the sleeping population was defenseless when the lightning attack began. Over a span of hours, the guerrillas secured the main hotel as a command center, slaughtering 150 unarmed men and boys, most of the adult males of the town. They burned about a quarter of the town’s buildings, including all the businesses except two.
For the city of Lawrence today, the trauma of the massacre still resonates, especially for the descendants of the dead and survivors. “‘It was utterly catastrophic,’ said Pat Kehde, a retired Lawrence bookstore owner and great-granddaughter of Ralph and Jetta Dix,” reads a Wichita Journal account 150 years after the fact. “On the morning of the raid, Jetta tried to protect Ralph by standing between William Quantrill’s men and her husband. When Jetta stumbled as one of Quantrill’s men rode his horse into her, Ralph was momentarily unguarded and in that instant was shot and killed.”
“We are in an age where we have a war on terrorism, and we talk about terrorism all the time,” said Lawrence historian Paul Stuewe, “but we don’t think about the 19th-century terrorism.”“It is a calamity of the most heartrending kind,” said the New York Times following the attacks, “an atrocity of unspeakable character.”
Following the Civil War, John Newman Edwards, who had fought for the Confederacy, wrote Noted Guerrillas, extolling the Missouri guerrillas as great patriots of the Confederate cause, romanticizing the taking of life up close, claiming the guerrillas were almost superhuman specimens, trying to place them alongside the valiant Confederate Army to be commemorated. He was fascinated by the guerrillas’ deft use of the pistol, often attacking with one in each hand, rather than a rifle, which was the standard weapon used by professional soldiers. He wrote that before a battle, “a Guerrilla takes every portion of his revolver apart and lays it upon a white shirt, if he has one, as carefully as a surgeon places his instruments on a white towel. . . . He touches each piece as a man might touch the thing that he loves.”
Edwards also portrayed Quantrill and his guerrillas as expert horsemen, shooting while riding fast. In fetishizing the guerrilla revolver and the horse, Edwards heralded the beginning of the “cowboy” and “outlaw” hero of the post−Civil War decades, even though these figures had nothing to do with cattle or ranching or even the “West.”
Some of the most enduringly famous, or infamous, of the Missouri guerrillas—Jesse James, Cole Younger, Myra Maybelle Shirley (Belle Starr), and their brothers—came from land-owning slavers; some, like the Shirleys, ran successful business operations and were well connected politically. Their elevation to post−Civil War social bandit heroes would eclipse their former pro-Confederate deeds. In the two decades after the Civil War, the Winchester rifle was fetishized for killing Indians, and the Colt revolver for outlawry. In the process, gun violence and civilian massacres were not just normalized, but commercially glorified, packaged, promoted, and mass marketed.”]
roxanne dunbar-ortiz, from loaded: a disarming history of the second amendment, 2018
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milfmarthawayne · 8 months
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Fun fact: Hal is actually modeled after Paul newman, a jewish actor
Huh! That’s so interesting. Again I know very little about Hal besides what I’ve seen of him through my Roy Harper read and Quiver. So… I know about his bromance with Ollie and that he’s Jewish and —besides a couple other random plot points and facts I’ve picked up from following Hal fans on here — that’s about it.
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huntingingoodwill · 1 year
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sick boy headcanons part ii
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masterlist
send requests for my 1.3k sleepover!
my other sick boy hcs :)
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- simon, simon, simon… where should i begin!
- he loves buying you flowers! he’ll show up at your front door, whipping a slightly wilted, plastic wrapped bouquet from behind his back with his toothiest grin.
- there are often times he’s hanging out with mark and just stops in the middle of the street and is like “wait. i gotta go buy them flowers, im seeing them tonight.” and drags him into the nearest supermarket
- mark just flipping through random magazines begging him to hurry up while simon chooses the best bouquet. yeah it’s cheap but he wants the best for you! he chooses the freshest looking one every time, bringing them to you on the tube, biting the stems between his teeth as he fumbles for his card
- okay so sometimes money is tight. sometimes simon can’t really afford to blow his extra cash on store bought flowers. that’s fine! but he refuses to let you go without. he will literally drag mark to the fields to pick wildflowers for you, well, whenever he’s not shoplifting them, yelling at rents whenever he whines about it being too much trouble. he definitely steals flowers from your neighbour’s shrubs on the way to your house, showing up with a loose bouquet brimming with wildflowers, a huge smile, and a grumpy mark
- simon does not tolerate anybody treating you badly. he’ll retaliate, totally, and 100% gets an attitude, shoving and threats included, but his favourite method of solving these problems is of course: is to sic begbie on them like your guard dog
- someone spills a drink on you? your boss refuses to give you your promised pay? someone hits on you in a gross, disrespectful way? (knowing him, he probably gets mad at whoever hits on you even if it’s in the most respectful way possible) he’s all up in begbie’s ear whispering “did you see that guy? he’s totally staring at you. like, what’s his problem?” getting begbie to get super mad at them because he thinks they’re disrespecting him when it’s really all simon’s orchestration. this devolves into a fight of course, that simon watches with rapt amusement while holding his arm over your eyes to shield you from all the bloodshed
- simon is a movie stan. a buff.
- he loves bringing you to arthouse and theatres that play his favourite old movies :))
- his favourite era for film is the 60s. paul newman, alain delon, and of course, his celebrity crush: sean connery. they’re just all so suave, so cool, they’re all he wants to be!! you go to one movie with him and the next week he’s dressing like them and talking with that same quick cadence. you make fun of him for it endlessly but you’re lowkey into it
- youll sit next to him in matinees with your head on his shoulder and he can’t help but whisper little facts about the film to you every once in a while
- he probably brings a nerdy little notebook too to write details in
- mark tags along to a lot of the movie dates too i don’t make the rules
- and you and simon always bum off his popcorn which pisses him off but what’s he gonna do!
- besides going to the cinema, you two have movie nights every once in a while, watching whatever film is on tv or whatever he managed to rent that week at home together, legs kicked up on each other’s laps, eating takeaway
- he wouldn’t miss these movie nights for anything!! his friends will ask him out but he just goes “nah. cant. we’re watching goldfinger tonight.” or sometimes he’ll be out at the pub with the whole gang, and jump up suddenly, remembering he’s gotta go because taxi driver’s on at 9 and you’re waiting at home for him with food
- also because he’s a bond fanboy he takes you to every new movie!! though of course he’ll spend a good chunk of time on the bus ride home complaining about how no one can beat good ol’ connery
- also long, late night train and bus rides with him :( he always lets you fall asleep on his shoulder, and death glares at anyone who tries to sit next to you just in case it disturbs you
- he hardly wants to wake you up when you reach your stop, but watches as you rub your bleary eyes when he does. he thinks it’s cute :(
- late night walks with him, too!
- be it just simply from the train station home, or when you two can’t sleep and just need to take a late night walk. it’s just the two of you, and you spend your time just walking, the only sounds in the street being you talking
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