#assorted digital camera

[1800titz]

HI. This is the pornstar!AU (Tiger Harry). Enjoy :D

CONTENT/WARNINGS: face-fucking, anal play-ish, Sir kink, general manhandling, light dom-sub dynamics

WC: 8.6K

“Are you open to raw anal?” is probably not a statement Y/N had …entirely expected to hear when she’d agreed to discourse over pastries and dirty chai lattes. 

It’s a pretty good one, all things considered, and asked with complete professionalism, according to their careers and the open, apathetically businesslike expression shaping the features of her counterpart. Y/N takes a sip of her latte. It is quite a good latte. He wasn’t wrong there. 

Harry blinks. 

It’s very on brand, despite the way she’s sure one of the baristas has definitely twisted around from the dishpit, side eye discreet …but there. And in the barista’s defense, she couldn’t even blame her for eavesdropping on the sordid contents of their public discourse. Y/N isn’t going to turn around and look. 

In Harry’s, he didn’t exactly shout. 

The man across from her takes a slow sip from his latte. Good latte, very good latte. 

She can’t help but admire his varying assortment of rings as he cradles the cup, irises winding from the blocky, golden S to its chunky counterpart, the H. So many times she’d admired those hands, those ring-clad fingers traipsing over bare skin, just the tips meddling over abdomens and winding circles around navels. Those digits sunk into the hair of his partner, tangled into the roots as he manually bobs her head over his cock. Those fingers twisting over the pink tip of his shaft, lining it up before his hips pump. Those long fingers splaying over cunts, swiping a thumb to ogle in front of the camera. 

There've been so many instances where Y/N had wondered the significance of that H and that S. And it’s been really quite simple all along.

Should I call you Tiger in person, then? she’d tapped out over the LED keyboard, days prior when they’d only been discussing the prospect of a meet up. Days prior, before she’d flown out for an on-camera collaboration, to bask in the sunlight of California, to enjoy overpriced dirty chai lattes and oddly promiscuous dialogue in the corner of a cafe. 

I think I’ll just take Harry when the cameras aren’t rolling x, RideTheTiger had messaged back. 

Anyways, it’d probably be a sleazy, poorly-executed one liner (and consequently, a horrifically red flag) in possibly every other circumstance, but this isn’t a first date and RideTheTiger has, thus far, been the furthest thing from sleazy. Even paid for her dirty chai latte, practically shouldering her out of the slot at the register. Pulled her chair out for her, asked about her traveling fares prior to delving into said anal topic. It’s all been fairly gentlemanly. Very business-partner-coffee-meeting. 

“No condom,” Harry tacks on, like it’s clarification for the raw segment of raw anal, as if it actually needed some sort of clarification. 

Y/N takes another sip. Damn good latte. 

“I like it,” the young woman tells him, clearing her throat on this edge that implies she’s mindful of her volume. Somehow, even as a freelance pornstar, she still hasn’t quite managed to get over the awkward degree of shame that a public setting incites. “I like the...” 

That barista is definitely fucking peering over.

“…The mess,” she settles on, because anal creampie doesn’t feel like a term to be said with her whole chest over a guava pastelito. 

For a short moment, Harry just watches her, jade roaming and the corners of his mouth slowing seeping into a simper, like he knows brazenly discussing anal creampies in the middle of a cafe — not quite packed, but still a cafe — has her kind of squirming in her seat. He takes another drink. 

“She’s got airpods in,” the man tells her eventually, forest-y irises jolting to something behind her head — the barista that’s clattering about behind the counter. And if she’s listening in, she’s probably going to go home and find one of them online, or ultimately both, and probably subscribe. 

The tension in her shoulders melts away the longer he grins at her over the lip of his lid, dimples indented in the flesh beside the upturned edges of his mouth. It’s just what they do for a living. It’s just sex. It’s just talking about the sex they’re going to have on camera. 

There’s bells and whistles to it, too, but it beats sitting at home and answering phone calls where angry customers screech all tinny through the headset and don’t comprehend the words, “Sir, if you can’t use your inside voice and talk to me like a civilized human being, I’m not going to be able to resolve your issue.” For Y/N it is. At least she gets a couple of orgasms out of this. 

“Sorry,” she tells him, shoulders slumping, “I think I’m still not— I get …weird talking about it in public settings.”

Tiger gives her this careful look over, eyes amused. 

“S’okay, I understand. If you’d rather get into the details back at mine, I’m okay with that.” 

“No, no,” Y/N protests, motioning out with her free hand, almost like her frigidly humiliated disposition will turn him off from collaboration, “No. It’s just, like. Sex work— it’s— it’s 2024. Nothing to be ashamed of.” 

Harry blinks. He gives her another one of those slow, knowing grins with his strawberry mouth. 

“No, seriously. We can get into the …rough drafting in a more private setting.” And then he takes another casual, horribly nonchalant sip, “I get it.” 

The man splays back against the chair, the hand not clutching at his beverage laid against smooth bamboo varnish, the nails there neatly manicured and painted with a soft shade of green lacquer. Y/N wonders what that particular color would look like with a glimmering top coat after he’s sunk the digits in between her thighs. She casts her gaze back up to his face. 

“I just figured I’d ask because we exchanged tests last week.” 

Clean as a whistle, RideTheTiger, (appropriately renamed in her contacts as Harry Tiger OF collab), had messaged on a Tuesday afternoon. That text was tailed with an HDR attachment of paperwork detailing his clean-as-a-whistle results, for proof. And the polish on his nails, fingertips gripped over the edge of the sheet, had been a pretty sky blue in the picture. 

She’d wondered the same thing, then; what OPI’s Rich Girls & Po-boys would look like glazed with a sheen of her slick arousal. 

He’s just a fuckable man, Y/N thinks, sat back in his chair like discussing sex work scene scripting is a normal mid-day affair, soft dusting of stubble coating his jaw, curls swept up off his forehead. His white tee shrouds the swallows and the inky butterfly she’s seen flexing over his tummy, the laurels that seep into the deep cut of his v-line, but it does very, very little to hide the artistry that litters his arm. 

That same arm she’d seen in videos, wrapped in pumped muscle as his fingers had worked his partner to the brink of bliss at a merciless pace, plush mouth shaping over some sort of filthy croon, dimples indented. Those same hands cradling over his counterpart’s throat with a gentle squeeze, that same thumb swiping messily over his partner’s bottom lip. Those same eyebrows with a crease carved between their furrow, those same curls in sweaty, disheveled disarray from the incessant rake through of his hands as his cock got swallowed up by a pretty, swarthy-skinned brunette, or maybe a blonde. A curl that’d flopped over his forehead in those videos, hardly hiding a rivulet of sweat that’d dripped from his hairline, is neatly tucked back under designer shades, now. 

Designer shades he’s bought with his dirty porn money, because despite his spiffy, clean boy, seemingly innocuous demeanor, RideTheTiger is dirty, dirty, dirty. 

Because under his warm smiles and his twinkling jade, there’s an alter ego that lives on the internet. One she’s all too familiar with. 

It makes her chest sort of flush under her sweater. This is happening. This is going to happen. 

The chair creaks a little when he sits up, clearing his throat, “I didn’t want to assume, but. I mean— I’m sure you’ve seen, like, my tips. Is it …odd to say I’m a fan of your content?” his gaze slowly settles from his drink to her face, smooth baritone almost …bashful as plush pink splits into a beam and his words catch on a laugh, “Is that …weird?”

Y/N knows exactly what he’s referring to. They’d been two mutuals subscribed to one another, chunks of profit migrating from inbox to inbox. It’d been like a volley, electric currency bouncing through the expanse of the internet, racket to racket, account back to account, pinging notifications striking on uploads behind paywalls. Only then, Tiger was just a man behind a screen. Tiger wasn’t sitting at a table in front of her, and they weren’t discussing the crude elements of the video they were going to shoot together. 

“Not at all,” Y/N clears her throat and pairs it with a side-to-side shake of her head. 

She’ll never admit that she’d touched herself to the solo session that’d popped up in her DM’s behind a paywall only last week, an automated promotion sent out to all subscribers. The one where he’d been sat in one of those lush, swivel-y chairs in front of his computer, firm thighs splayed and ringed hand tugging over his leaky cock. The camera angle was broad enough to capture his eye contact with the lens, the way his front teeth would nip at his bottom lip, the way the column of his straining throat would go on show as he’d tipped his head back with a groan. 

She blinks, staring ahead as she remembers the way cum had painted all the way up over the panting butterfly. Harry grins from across the table. She half-expects him to brazenly admit he’s done the same to her content. So far, she’s concluded that he’s quite unashamed. 

“Makes it easier to fuck, right?” Y/N says, beating him to the punchline. 

He makes this face then, tipping his head, eyes widening and blinking playfully, mouth curling like he’s appalled by her brazen admission in said public setting. Before the young woman can get flustered by his teasing, he sits back and lets his features relax into something soft.

“Yeah. It does.” 

Harry doesn’t tell Y/N she should wear a plug on the day that they calendar in for shooting. Not while they’re in the cafe. In fact, he waits three whole hours until the very precise moment where she’s using her apple pay at a drive through for the notification banner to swipe down. 

When Y/N steps into his entryway, there’s a wilting cactus stemming from a ceramic basin next to a bowl of keys and varying knick knacks. There’s a pair of dice in there, too. 

“This is Tim,” Harry introduces, unprompted, motioning to the withering plant in passing. 

Y/N nudges with her chin like a sort of acknowledgement, tailing him through the hallway, where a neat array of three framed, abstractly artistic renditions of Kama Sutra positions line the segue. She’s half convinced that the doggy one follows her movement like one of those oddly unsettling renaissance portraits. 

“Very nice.”

It’s a Thursday, and they’ve determined today to be the day that they collaborate. She’s wearing the plug, and she tries to ignore the anticipation curdling in the pits of her tummy as she tails him to the lounge. 

“I think I overwatered him, honestly,” Harry tells her, aimed over his shoulder, “but I can’t bear to part with him.” 

He’s wearing gray sweats, and he’s definitely opted to go commando, if the imprint of his dick when he pivots to face her is anything to go off of (though, whether he’s ditched underwear for the sake of the shoot or solely for comfort, Y/N isn’t sure). All she’s really, actually sure of is that she urgently needs to unglue her eyes from the outline of his cock. 

“D’you want a drink or anything? I mean, I don’t like to do any alcohol before shoots, but if you want, I have seltzers in my fridge.” 

He’s all soft attire — the sweats and bare feet padding over tile, curls a little mussed and swept back. A white tee coats his torso with a cartoonish bee in the center. The words ENJOY HEALTH, EAT YOUR HONEY circle the little piece of outlined artwork in blue. His nails are still green. 

Y/N clears her throat. “Do you have water?” 

“F’course.” 

The kitchen is beside the lounge, and he tells her, as he makes his way over and opens a cabinet to cull a glass, “You can have a seat if you’d like. Figured we’d get the details down before we start filming.” 

His couch is an onyx leather, its form like one of those fancy ones from a 1970s inspired catalog. Y/N sinks into the cushion. She crosses her legs. Uncrosses them. Behind her, the fridge whirs in the kitchen as the water pours into the glass. She’s admiring his fireplace when he stretches the beverage out to her.

“What are we feeling today?” the man winds around to the bend of the sectional, flopping back against the cushions with a sigh as his cotton-clad thighs splay, “…Slow and romantic? Something a little more rough?” 

“Used and abused,” Y/N responds, surprised she manages to keep her cadence as even and nonchalant as she does. The second the statement escapes her, though, she takes a long sip from her glass and hides her simper behind it. 

“Used and abused,” Harry parrots, sitting up a tad as his hands seek new territory from their priorly relaxed splay over the back of the couch. His palms smooth down the fronts of his thighs, instead, and he gives her this little grin; something mischievous that lets his dimples wink alive. “I think I can work with that.”

Yes. She’s certain he can, based on his track record of deviously, deliciously rough content. Three weeks ago she watched a video where his partner was laid out on a table, duck-taped limb to limb, and Y/N had watched his hand — rings removed — roam her body with such delicacy as he drove forward into her. It was all up until the point where the same hand had snaked up around her throat, and then he’d brought it back and smacked her right across the side of her unsuspecting face. It’d sent his partner’s head snapping to the side, and a wave of heat riding through Y/N, coursing through her blood as she’d flipped the vibrator between her thighs to a higher setting. 

Yeah. He can work with that. 

“Since we’re going with that route,” Y/N blinks out from the fog of memoirs circling back to Tiger’s hands exploring and pinching and delivering blows. 

Tiger is much more subdued in this setting. 

“Let’s talk things you’re into, things you’re not so into.” 

The young woman gnaws into her cheek to bridle her grin. “Um. Anal’s a go. Obviously.”

Harry nods, mouth friendly, “Okay.” 

Y/N deliberates. She takes another sip. Harry waits patiently. His green bores into her, and the young woman rolls her lips into her mouth, pupils climbing up to the ceiling as she contemplates. She cocks her head.  

“…Face-fucking. That’s nice. I like dirty talk. I like getting my hair pulled. I like a little bit of pain. You know, like. Spanking. Face slapping, but not, like,” the edges of her mouth cave up, “MMA level—“

The joke culls a huff of soft laughter from him. He nods. 

“Just. General manhandling is good with me,” Y/N tells him. 

Harry nods, his fingers interlocked over his spread knees, and then he sits up a tad. 

“Alright. If we’re going with face fucking, I’m a fan of the trusty tap-tap-tap,” he tells her, motioning with his left palm and patting over his thigh in a series of three as he speaks, “If it ever gets to be too much and you can’t say it, just tap three times, yeah? Just like this.”

Y/N nods. She takes another sip. For a moment, Tiger still has his forearms braced over his lap, but then he sits up a little more. 

“And then when you can say, if anything’s uncomfortable, if you want me to do anything different, just let me know. Doesn’t matter if the camera’s on.” 

Y/N crosses her ankles. She uncrosses them.

“S’all about authenticity. Y’know,” his tongue peeks out to swipe over the plush of his bottom lip, “I don’t wanna be throwing you against the wall or choking you if it doesn’t feel good, even if it looks good on camera. If you’re a clit girl, we’ll play with your clit—“

Her thighs press together.

“If you’re a g-spot girl, we’ll focus on the g-spot.”

She swallows. 

“The throwing against the wall and the choking,” Y/N doesn’t bother hiding her simper as it grows, “Those are good with me, too. And— clit stuff. Yeah.” 

Tiger is hot. Fire hot, like lava coursing and bubbling over rigid stone, even in his soft attire with his soft curls and his soft smiles. He’s got these eyes that feel like they bore through her clothes, but it’s not in an uncomfortably hungry way. 

“What do you… what should I call you during the shoot?” 

His strawberry mouth curls a little. 

“I hear Tiger a lot. M’fine with whatever besides Harry on camera. …If you wanna get a little more into roles we can do Sir. But s’all up to you.” 

It feels like he’s just got this effect — this intense gaze that makes her tummy swirl. It’s not innately an odd shift, going from this entirely professional discourse to soft touches roaming up her sides once they’re in the bedroom. 

It’s the setting for their shoot, and she finds that he’s already got a camera set up on his dresser. One of those that opens up and has a little screen piece that swivels to show what’s currently recording. Harry trails over to it, toggles with the little screen, and, she assumes, begins recording. 

There’s a shag rug by the bed in cream. Y/N eyes it as Harry tugs his shirt over his head, as he makes his way over. Tiger is fire hot, but his touch skims her arm like testing the waters at first. His palms cups her face, the pads of his fingers grazing the sides of her neck, close to her nape, and then his cushiony mouth finds her own. That’s testing at first, too. It’s not a chaste, innocent first kiss by any means, but his mouth is gentle, at first. His hands aren’t hard, and his mouth slots against her own with a kind of tenderness. When her fingers tease up at his waistband, fingering at a warm line of skin between his sweats and his t-shirt, his mouth morphs hungrier. 

“Just—“ Y/N manages between searing kisses as his fingers work the seams of her shirt apart through button-work, “—-jumping right into it, huh?” It’s probably not the sexiest thing to say from the get go of the camera rolling, but she’s honestly still got bits of nerves coiling up in her. This is RideTheTiger. This is happening. She’s going to fuck RideTheTiger. 

Another short kiss, this one she can feel the cushiony pink of his mouth curving up into. 

“Sorry,” Harry amends against her mouth, lips ghosting wetly against her cupid's bow, and the word sounds sort of amused.

And then he’s manually spinning her and marching her over to the dresser, where the camera is set up, her stumbling, rushed gait steadied by the firm press of his thighs from behind as he walks her, colossal hands cupped over her arms. 

“This—” he starts, an introduction blatantly made for the lens, and her pulse stutters when his palm slides up and across and cups over her throat warmly — not quite squeezing, but just there. His other hand explores the expanse of her silhouette from the waist down, pads of his fingers roaming over her tummy, “—is the infamously naughty Birdie.” 

Her veins thrum with something, something hot when the ringed digits traipse to the button of her jeans, just looming over. 

“Can I take these off?” Harry murmurs against the shell of her ear. The tips of his curls tickle at her temple, and she knows he asks it low enough that it’s meant for her. She knows the camera will pick up on it anyways, too. 

“Yeah,” the agreement falls out meshed with an exhale, and her head tips back against his shoulder as his fingers do deft, impressively one-handed work at quick discarding. 

The other hand fondles at one of her tits, only covered with fabric for so long before he takes advantage of the opening he’d made along the line of buttons, pulling at one side for the pink polka-dotted cup of her bra to come out on display. This is all very pro-level disrobing. Y/N decides that when Harry multi-tasks, popping the button of her denim through, pinching at the zipper and tugging down, all still with his other hand caressing over padded flesh at her chest. Ultimately, though, both hands make their way to her hips, and his digits wriggle under either side of her waist band to strip her jeans off, until they rest at about an immobilizing mid-thigh, with an unceremonious yank. 

“I’m Tiger,” Harry talks again, finally, after what’d been a silent moment of apparent concentration, his chin ducked into the nook where her shoulder and her neck meet. 

The man’s fingers toy up under the hem of Y/N’s shirt, wandering over a bare sliver of skin between the top and the line of her panties before they climb the buttoned suture and make work there. 

A chill rolls down her spinal cord, stemming all the way from the nape of her neck, the back and underside of her skull, when Harry declares, almost like she’s not even there, his voice a low and heady baritone, “But, she’s going to call me Sir, and we’re gonna play a little rough with her today, because that’s what she asked for.” 

He’s mid her panting ribcage when the tone in his dialogue switches. It melts from sultry and low to something mirthy when the man sighs and huffs against her neck, like the rounded latches are a long-time nemesis, “Buttons, buttons, so many buttons.” 

Y/N can’t curb the surprised laugh that bubbles from her in response. Her hands rise from her sides (where they’d prior been pretty glued, mostly out of awe and the raw sort of submission manhandling incites), and her forearms brush against his own warm skin as the pads of her fingers shakily work over the stitch he’s on. Harry makes an amused sound into her skin as the corners of her mouth curl up. 

This is real. These are the real moments, the ones that she’s ogled so many times from the other side of the screen, caught on camera mid an otherwise entrancing, perfectly choreographed session of picture-perfect fucking. Like the one where he’d spit and it hadn’t landed where he’d wanted it to, or the one where his partner had spent so long in an angle with her hair over her face and his palm cupped over her mouth, that by the time he’d let up she was spitting out stray hair that’d sunk in past her lips, like a cat with a hairball. Soft laughter had bloomed from the both of them when recognition had dawned, and he’d fingered over her tongue to help her as they’d switched positions. It makes sense why Harry never seems to edit those moments out. 

Authenticity. 

Y/N hopes he doesn’t cut this fragment of the video out. 

“Sorry,” the young woman tells him, her voice garbled with giggles. 

His hands snake up from under her own and they’re the one to pop the final button through. A chilly ring brushes the inside of her wrist. The top separates. 

“There we go,” Harry says, tone colored with enthusiasm, and the way his fingers grip up under the cups of her bra, four for each, and tug abruptly, letting them rest under her freshly-bared tits, kind of, sort of gives her whiplash. 

“Teamwork,” his thumbs slip under either side of her underwear and slink those down until just enough is showing for the eye of the lens. 

Her gaze flits to the viewfinder, and the little icon of her denuded silhouette, pressed up against his chest, one swarthy, inked arm tucked over her ribcage and the sight of his other, ringed digits skimming lower, down her tummy, has her squirming in his grasp. Harry sponges kisses to the side of her neck, and then those ring-clad fingers slide between her legs. Every melty muscle in his arms grows wide awake and tensed like fucking stone. It’s only for a second, before he draws his index and his middle digit, splayed into a blissful V, across either side of her clit. That’s when she liquefies like putty in his hands again, humming softly. 

“…And we’re gonna play with her arse,” Harry tacks on for the camera, almost like it’s an offhand afterthought and not the entire basis of the scene they’ve etched out. 

Y/N laughs, but it melts off into something soft and whimpery when the V lingers and drags. 

“Would you like that?” Harry murmurs, nose tucked into her hair — another comment where the volume implies that it’s obviously meant to be shared between just the two of them — his mouth ghosting over her earlobe and his hand climbing up the ridges of her ribcage like a ladder, “Hm? You want me to play with you there?” 

When his palm expands to rest over the gap between the caging of bone, the space extends out on a breath and she rocks in his touch, hips rolling back subtly. “Mhm.” 

It’s not something he fails to pick up on. The pads of his fingertips expertly toggle at the clasp of her bra — honestly, she’s ludicrously impressed, not only by his keen recognition of the frontal clasp, but this seemingly innate, deft ability to discard clothing pieces with one hand. The straps relax and slip down her shoulders the second the cups fall free and apart. 

“Mhm?” Harry mimics; a low, teasing hum. Y/N thinks then, that this little, patronizing repetition thing he’s got going on could be categorized as a kink in and of itself. 

The palm that’d settled over her diaphragm slinks up to grope at one of her tits. 

It’s kind of game over from there. 

There’s something hard and solid digging into the small of her back, and the longer he spends fondling between her thighs, the longer he spends swiping his thumb over her nipple, the more heat teems to her core, like a glowing warmth that seeps and pulses. The more sure Y/N becomes that his fingertips are definitely culling that top coat she’d pictured all along, enhancing the color there with glinting excitement. 

“There’s a good girl,” Harry purrs when her legs spread a smidge more in response, despite the way they’re nearly glued together with the immobilizing squeeze of her waistband resting mid-thigh. 

The tip of his nose burrows into her hair and grazes at the skin on the side of her neck when his head ducks, fingers sneaking further until the pads press to explore where she’s gushing. His index and his thumb work in tandem to pinch at a nipple and tug. 

And then his tongue licks a practically searing stripe right beside her jugular, and his words send air over wet skin to soothe the flame, “…Getting my fingers all wet, aren’t you?” 

Gameovergameovergameovergameover.

Shelosesshelosesshelosessheloses.

Another burst of air over the wet skin, the soft creak of a chuckle — that’s what reminds her that she’s definitely not breathing. 

Fuck. Y/N sucks in air with a chest tensed like metal armor. His teeth nip over her earlobe. 

And then RideTheTiger slides his slick fingers out from between her legs, coaxing (when she sags in his grip like a marionette that’s had its strings snipped), “Why don’t you give them a little spin and show them the pretty plug you’ve been wearing for me, pet.”

Touch, touch, touch. When Y/N pivots for him, turning her backside to the camera, his mouth brushes the crest of her cheekbone. His warm pecs go flush with her own chest, his palms settle on her love handles and the insides of his rings stipple chills to combat the heat of flesh on flesh. He sponges a kiss to her throat when the young woman throws a glance back to the little screen and shakily presses her palms to the globes of her backside, pulling the flesh there apart to show off the pretty end, silicone petals cradling the shape of a rose. 

That’s when he kneels, cheek pressed to the side of her thigh, when he casts his gaze to the plug with that telltale furrow to his brow bone that she’s seen caught on camera so many times. That’s when his teeth burrow into the pillow of his bottom lip, when he brushes a nearly tentative touch over the plug with the tips of his fingers. That’s when Harry nudges at it and jade bounces from the pallid pink plastic to the shape of her jawline tensing above in response, mouth growing mirthy. 

Nothing prepares her for the way he praises, almost like he’s in awe (and nearly too low for the camera to catch), “So pretty.”

A crease works in between her own eyebrows when his index and his thumb pinch over the plug and twist. And then he lays his thumb over the base and pushes, lightly, as if it can go any further. He draws the pad of his index over the hilt of the plug almost thoughtfully, and then tap-taps in a pair of two that makes her roll her lips into her mouth

“Don’t move,” Harry instructs, after a moment, sneaky, devious fingertips withdrawing altogether. She’s holding her breath again. Y/N readjusts her grip. 

“Just like that,” comes his croon from below, undeniably heady and entirely responsible for the warmth churning between her thighs, “…Just like that, little bird. Show it off, baby.” 

Little bird hits her like a fucking freight train. 

It’s just a play on words, a moniker he’s melded from her stage name, her online personality. It’s been all of, maybe, six minutes — a generous consideration for the timeframe — and he’s already managed to morph her porno pseudonym into a pet name with his soft murmur. 

She’s so focused on the ironic way that such a delicate thing off his tongue makes something so violently carnal stir within her that the young woman doesn’t even notice that he’s been sat near her thighs for a solid second, unspeaking and untouching, besides the paste of his warm cheek beside the press of her hands. 

It’s a suspiciously mischievous sort of silence, but Tiger is no secret-keeper, not when he pats over the back of her leg, a one-tap gesture, and rises to announce, one third amused and two-thirds smug, “Thumbnail.”

The admission is so crude and unexpected that it draws a peal of sputtering laughter from her, feigned indignation meshing with mirth as he rises from the floor, all cocky with an unfairly alluring curl that’s strayed from the rest and flopped to lay over his forehead. 

“You want to use my ass as your thumbnail?” 

Muted raspberry breaks its relaxed line to curve up, obviously self-satisfied and obviously unashamed. Y/N doesn’t think she’ll ever quite keep up with the casual nature of Harry’s mannerisms, not when he hums and his grin splits further, twisting around her to daub her jaw with a kiss.

“…And not my pretty face?” Y/N blinks.

“Last I checked—'' Harry tells her, fingers raking through her roots and palm cradling at her scalp in a way that coaxes chills to bud and roam down the nape of her neck. The digits twist her hair into a bun until his palm is squeezing at her hair all bunched like a flower blooming in reverse, “—You were here to be used and abused, per your request. Not to ask questions.” 

Despite the way he cranes her neck back with the motion, the way it has her jaw unlatching and a surprised exhale full of want escaping, despite the way he drags his teeth down her neck in a line, nipping, Y/N manages to keep her voice impressively even. 

“You don’t want my pretty face painted with your cum as the thumbnail?” she baits, throat bobbing on a swallow. 

He bites. 

At first, his lashline narrows a smidge in obvious inkling that the brazen words have affected him, but then he tips his head and his smug beam morphs more sluggish, more pleased than amused. 

“You want my cum painting your pretty face?” 

“Mm,” Y/N hums in agreement when he turns her head to paste a kiss to the corner of her mouth. 

“Yeah? That’s what you want?” 

His tone is suggestive as he manhandles her over onto the fuzzy rug she’d admired before things got all murky with arousal and …cinematic. Y/N twists in his grasp until he’s nudging her onto her knees with his hands. 

And his voice is low, easy like a sigh, each note interlaced with nonchalance and seemingly effortless power, “Let’s see how good you suck cock.”

Before Harry shoves his waistband down, though, he stuffs a hand into his pocket and culls his phone. He gives her this look down from behind it, thumb tucked behind gray elastic.  It’s this wordless, expressionless sort of seeking; all good? Y/N nudges with her chin, lashes fluttering. Tiger toggles over the screen one-handed, and her eyes flit to the uneven pull at his sweats — if only for a second — that showcases bare skin and the cut of a V-line on one side. As he nudges the sweats off to rest under his balls, the phone pings. It’s the sound of a notification — he’s recording. 

His dick is pretty. Pretty in pink with a prominent vein on the underside and a soft dusting of neatly trimmed, dark pubic hair over his pelvic bone that his happy trail had foreshadowed, and his tip is a ruddy shade that matches the tint of his mouth. She’s seen his cock before, obviously, but ogling it in person rather than as a conglomeration of pixels is a different sort of experience. He’s always looked big on screen, the sheer size of him with a fist over his shaft always implying it. But he’s big. Big enough for two of her hands to cradle over his cock comfortably with the head peeking out from her grip, digits never quite meeting in the middle. Y/N spits into a palm before wrapping it over his shaft, eyes flickering up front under her lashes to meet the lens of the camera. 

“You’re so big,” the young woman admits after a moment, irises bouncing from her grip to the phone looming over, and she drags her tongue over her other palm to cup over him with two like it’s proof. 

And Harry strokes over the side of her scalp, almost like he’s wordlessly scratching a dog’s ears in praise, a soft, pleased huff escaping through his nostrils and his lips shaping over a smug sort of beam that never really unseals. 

Almost tentatively, with her eyes still bouncing from the lens to his cock and back, Y/N leans forward and drags his tip over her tongue. Harry sighs in response, fingertips still hovering at her roots. She purses her lips and lets saliva dribble from her mouth onto his head messily, swiping over the wetness with her thumb, and then she strokes down his shaft with two hands as she wraps her lips over him and draws a circle with her tongue. The subtle, although sharp, inhale she earns in response to the motion has her batting her lashes up at the camera.  

“You’re not shy at all, are you? Not in front of the camera,” Harry says after a moment. 

He’s so obviously bridling a hiss when she drags her tongue up under his leaky tip, his front teeth lodging into the pillow of his bottom lip and brows furrowing. Despite the phone cradled over her face, the young woman still has enough room to observe his. Y/N bats her lashes coyly, pupils flitting back to the camera as her mouth opens to showcase the view of her hands working in gentle twists while she drags his cockhead over her tastebuds. 

“…No, you’re not that shy, little girl that you were in the cafe at all.”

She seals her lips over his tip, hollows her cheeks, and hums. 

“…All prim and proper,” the fingertips that’d scraped over the side of her scalp trail to the back of her head, “…Didn’t even wanna say you liked cum dripping out of you. Didn’t wanna let everyone know that you’re a little anal whore.” 

The words coax her to clench over the plug. 

“…S’okay, baby,” Harry tells her after a moment, “I like that you’re a whore on camera for me,”and then the hand that’d cradled over the back of her skull encourages her own palm to slowly unwrap and fall away as he curls it over his shaft to guide it’s aim. 

Y/N pulls off, and Tiger smears the tip over her spit-slicked, swollen mouth. It parts, and Harry traces over the open seam of her lips like he’s applying lip gloss. 

“Please,” the young woman says, mouthing over his tip, almost inaudible. 

“Hm?” 

“Please,” Y/N repeats, and the drag of his tip slides over her bottom lip on the s. 

Harry inhales from above. He doesn’t immediately give her what she wants, instead opting to draw over her cupid’s bow as he tips his head, voice quiet and still somehow full of a dominant edge. “So polite. You wanna taste more of my cock?” 

The young woman nods, eyes tipped up, and he smears his cockhead over her mouth again. Harry’s teeth nudge into the plush of his bottom lip before he directs, “Stick your tongue out for me. I’ll give you a little taste.” 

And he does. He grazes her tongue with it the moment it’s on show, basking in her soft breaths puffing out against him and the sweet sight of her gaze, unwavering. 

“S’that good?” Harry asks, mouth curling at the (currently) brazenly lewd young woman at his feet, “What you wanted?” 

And she just nods up at him. Despite the way she wants more, the way she wants to close her lips around him and keep twisting her grasp to watch his seams split in ecstacy, Y/N motions lightly with her head. A little sound escapes the back of her throat when he drags the tip of his cock back over her top lip and sighs. 

“You really are such a little whore, aren’t you?” Harry says, tracing along the open seam of her lips with the tip and dragging it over her tongue again, “Give me a pretty smile. Show me just how much you like it.“ 

His words melt off into a rumbly hum when, as he draws over the border of her bottom lip and takes his cock off her tongue, her pretty teeth slowly seep shut and the corners of her mouth form something absolutely overjoyed. Her head cocks, and she grins up at him. All innocuous too, if it weren’t for the head of a cock smearing over the edges of her smile. His thumb slinks out from the hold he’s got over his dick to graze with the pad at the shiny white of her top teeth. 

“Good girl.”

Somewhere around there is when her teeth part and his thumb mingles onto her tongue. Then, the young woman wraps her lips over the digit and sucks. The tension of her cheeks hollowing over his finger in the silence is cut short with a ping — Harry turns the camera off and flings the phone somewhere in the direction of the bed. There’s no definitive thump behind her, so Y/N assumes the man makes it. She hums and pulls off of the digit with a pop and a giggle. 

Dimples pluck alive beside his smile. “Something funny?” 

“No,” the young woman clears her throat, the apples of her cheeks still emphasized and round with her apparent amusement, “Nothing. It’s just.” She blinks up at him, “…Surreal, sort of. Your dick’s just as pretty in person as it is on camera.”

Tiger cocks his head and swipes over her bottom lip with the tip of said dick. She’s quite good at stroking his ego. 

“Thanks. That’s sweet, darling.”  

A furrow works between his brows as her tongue peeks out to daub at the lingering head. “You watch a lot of my videos?” 

And the admission comes almost hungry, with no remorse, “Mm. Touch myself to them.” 

That’s when his brows crease more, when heat swells down through the trench of his tummy and teems up the underside of his balls, where they drive taut at the words. 

“Christ.”

Blown jade bouncing from her lips to the contact of her own eyes and back. Eventually, he swallows and directs, “Tongue out.” 

When she displays it for him, jaw wide, those shambles splinters of composure seemingly fuse. The Harry that emerges nearly gives her whiplash. 

“You touch yourself to my videos?” Harry coos, and the words are coated with so much condescension that Y/N is sure she’d be humiliated in any other circumstance. 

Her tongue twitches under his cockhead. The man looming over swipes that same, leaky tip over her taste buds, and his grin broadens into something like a borderline sadistic Cheshire cat. And then he’s leaning over a smidge, cock still angled over her outstretched tongue, opposite hand fondling under that, at her jaw, and squeezing at her cheeks. 

“That is so—“ emphasizing the words with the slap of his tip against her tongue, Harry grits out, “—fucking—“ another tap that has her uselessly lolled tongue jolting and a garbled little sound wresting from the back of her throat, “—cute.”

Y/N blinks up at him, one hand uncurling slowly and falling away as he nudges the back of her head to swallow more of him in past her lips. 

“Why don’t you use that hand and play with your little clit for me? The way you do when you’re watching me.” 

She makes a muffled noise around him as he sinks in further, and her hand traipses between her poorly, poorly splayed thighs. 

“That’s it,” Harry murmurs, though whether the praise is directed at the way the tips of her fingers pry between her legs or the way she blinks wetly over his cock as she takes more of him into her mouth, Y/N is unsure. “There’s a good girl. Look at me— yeah. Fuck.” 

He holds onto either side of her head, long fingers splaying over her skull, and the young woman splutters when his tip prods at the back of her throat and teases at her gag reflex. The tip of her nose grazes his happy trail, so all in all, it’s a solid effort in one go. Harry holds her there for a moment, relishing in the squeeze of her throat over him as she fights sputtering more, and a throaty groan rips from his vocal chords before his fingers tangle into her hair. That’s when he yanks her off. 

Her chest is already rolling in pants, and the way his palm collides with the fleshy area of her cheek nearly launches her lightheaded headspace into overload. The blow isn’t loud, and it doesn’t really hurt, but he does it a second time, palm grazing over the same fragment of skin. It’s the hand that doesn’t have any rings, and Y/N’s mouth curls up in borderline delirious bliss, teeth unsealed and lips swollen and saliva-daubed. Tiger coaxes a moan when he goes for it a third time. But this time, his hand snakes to palm over the column of her throat and squeeze.

“Fuck, you’re filthy,” Harry tells her, thumb cruising over an inch of skin, “Such a slut for it.”

Her pulse thunders under his grasp. It’s almost like his touch pries the nearly animalistic giggle off her lips. She’s still beaming open-mouthed, and her voice is raw when she beckons, “Yeah—“

And then there’s a ragged gasp and subdued sort of gag, coated with surprise, when Tiger nudges her face forward and unceremoniously shoves his dick back down her throat, his brows pinched.  

“Get that mouth back on my cock.” 

Her hands find his thighs, just wavering over them, curling and unflexing as her eyes squeeze shut. 

“Don’t close your eyes. Look up at me. Look up at me— there you go,” Harry cooes when, despite every instinct that coaxes every muscle in her face to clench and tense, Y/N follows his directions and blinks up at him through a watery sheen. “Shit.”

And then he’s hauling her off and she’s gasping for breath, only for a short moment before he slides back past her jaw until her chin is flush with his sac and he’s pulsing in the warm confines of her mouth. Her lashes flutter. A devious kind of laugh bubbles from him, breathy, and low, and short when the heels of her palms press into the sturdy muscle beneath his laurels. Except this time he doesn’t yank her all the way off for a third time. He holds her there for a second, swearing softly at the view, and then tugs her off until his tip’s on her tongue and pumps back in. It’s a subtle motion — testing, like he’s observing her reaction, really assessing her comfort levels with this. He does it a few more times, as gentle of a motion as it really can be until she squints her eyes shut and muzzles a cough, blinking up at him rapidly through the blur. 

Harry swipes a thumb under her eye, where a rivulet leaks, praising almost in a whisper as she practically vibrates at his feet, “That’s it.” 

Another second to gasp in air, and then he’s fucking her mouth, brushing her gag reflex with every drive forward and every pump out. Y/N sort of loses herself in it — in the fingertips burrowing into her roots, in the huffs and groans that escape him, in the warm muscle beneath her touch, in the way his dick slides down her throat. It’s quite nice. RideTheTiger is fucking her mouth, and it’s nice.

“Look at you,” Harry hums after a while, the hold on the back of her head firm, and she blinks at him all teary-eyed, gagging around him as her chin presses flush with his balls. “So sloppy. Made my nice joggers all wet.” 

Drool pools down her chin, and strings of it dangle from his balls and sully the fabric further. She bats her lashes up at him, and tears slink off from her waterline. Her fingers flex and relax over his thigh, never quite loosening the tension there fully. The man swipes the thumb on his free hand under her eye, where inky black has smudged off from her lashes, and the lewd, left corner of his mouth tips up lopsidedly. 

“You’re such a pretty girl when you’re making a mess,” and then, to nail the demeaning compliment home with the most heady, joyfully smug tone, “Yes you are, little bird.”

His sluggish grin morphs into a borderline pornographic lip-bite then, and he cranes his neck back with a throaty hum, fingers tensing and relaxing, before his digits ultimately tighten in her hair and coax the young woman off. She coughs like she hasn’t breathed in ages, 

Y/N doesn’t know how she gets up to her feet. It’s a lightheaded clamber, coaxed by Harry’s fingers tugging at her hair, his hand on her arm, his definitive, “Get up.” Somehow, though, she manages, despite the fact that her jeans are still half-on, and Harry steadies her and makes her dizzy all at once when his mouth presses hungrily to hers. One hand cradles the side of her neck and the other braces her at the hip. It’s a heated kiss, like Tiger doesn’t mind that her chin is coated with spit, or that the same spit smears over his own jaw as their mouths connect. Y/N nearly trips over her own feet as he walks her, backwards, into the general direction of the bed. The mattress meets the backs of her knees and his hand (which has, since settling on her hip, mingled up her side and cupped over one of her tits) sends her toppling back against the sheets. Harry nearly snickers at her look of indignation. Instead though, he tucks his fingers up under her half-down denim and tugs until her pants are off and she finally, finally has the ability to spread her legs. He tosses those onto the rug, and Y/N watches Harry finish disrobing, kicking the gray sweats into a rumpled pile beside her jeans. 

The camera is still rolling on the dresser, and it’ll keep rolling. It’ll keep rolling when he sinks his face between her thighs, it’ll keep rolling when he pulls the plug out and nudges his fingers in, when he slips his cock into her cunt and then, eventually, switches to her other hole. Or maybe it’ll go in an all different order. Tiger cradles her by the hips and repositions her roughly. The lens doesn’t catch the way she’s all shimmery between her legs with want from its angle, but Harry does, eyes glued there as his fingertips trail featherlight up her thigh and back down. 

A crease works in between his brows like he’s contemplating something, and then he pats the same fragment of flesh he’d been caressing and instructs, “Flip over.” 

Y/N tips over to her side and then rolls onto her tummy, but when she clambers onto her hands and knees Harry beckons, “Where are you going, little bird?” He sighs, warm palm grasping over her ankle and yanking her back towards the edge of the bed, just until Y/N is splayed and forced to shimmy her way back into a pretty arch. “Hm?” 

His hand is still gripped over the joint when the other climbs up the back of her naked thigh, skin on skin petting softly there. “Where are you going, little girl?”  

She’s going to implode. She nearly does when his colossal palms cup either cheek of her backside and spread. He hums like he’s pleased. 

“Which hole should I fuck first…” Harry ponders aloud from behind, but it all feels sort of rhetorical when he nudges over her tightest, little hole, pressing like he’s teasing a breach with the tip of his digit. 

She thinks he must be using his other hand, too, because the pad of his thumb drives a circle over her puffy, spit-slicked clit. The ring of muscle flutters. 

“…Hm?”

SECOND PART HERE

[hoodieseasoned]

sketchbook stuff yea

have been busy w work so no energy for painting or digital,, just some guys !!! a random assortment of drawings from my sketchbook

i did not edit these at all so some shine from the lamp and camera shake to be expected

IMAGE ID'S:

(note: please tell me if I'm doing these wrong, thank you)

[first image: a photo of a sketchbook page, the first drawing on top is of Smallishbeans, depicted from the waist up. He's leaning on his palm while looking disinterested at the camera. He is wearing a life series long-sleeve and red glasses, and he has alien antennas on his head. On his right is a drawing of a small a cartoon alien, with the text "joel smallishbeans" under it and a pink heart. The drawing is mostly uncolored with a green background. Under this drawing is a bust-up marker drawing of Ethoslab. He is looking at the camera while holding up a peace-dign and winking. The drawing is colored with a purple background.]

[second image: A marker drawing of Grian from the waist up. He is looking at the viewer, expression annoyed and holding up his pointer finger. The background is purple, with a repeating circle/swirl pattern starting off from said finger.]

[third image: A small marker portrait of Etho on a post-it note, with blue details done with pencil. He is looking at the viewer, his expression is slightly sad. The background is purple]

[fourth image: Same as the previous one, only with ZombieCleo instead. They are looking off to the side, expression slightly annoyed.]

[fifth image: Pen drawing of Geminitay on a dotted paper. Depicted from the waist up, she is wearing a dress similar to her season nine skin, with wide antlers on her head and pointy ears. She is looking off to her right and downwards, smiling. Behind her head is a halo done with blue pencil, blue is also used to shade the drawing.]

[sixth image: A marker drawing of Pearlescentmoon, on a page next to the previous Gem drawing. Depicted from the waist up, and a side profile, she is smiling up at Gem on her left while resting her chin on her palm. She has purple wings and a red dress, and blue antenna on her head. A big blue crescent moon done with pencil is behind her.]

[seventh image: The Geminitay & Pearlescentmoon spread in full]

[eighth image: A waist up pen sketch of Geminitay dressed in knight armor, holding a sword in front of her and looking off to the side with a slightly unhappy expression. Her armor is shaded with a silver marker and detailed with a gold marker]

[ninth image: A pen drawing of Joe Hills with a fjord horse. The horse is resting it's head on his shoulder and eating an apple from his hand. Joe is smiling with his eyes closed, and he is holding the horse's head with his other hand. His hair is up in a ponytail. The background is a pink square.]

[sheepwavehdg]

HDG microfic: The Body

Contempt, fondness, revulsion, familiarity. It is a mix of emotions you feel towards the organic body you are a digitally perfected descendent of. From a universe of data, where your degenerative disease was simply edited out without regard for the restrictions of real physics, you watch your mistress play with it. Dote on it. Change it, bathe it, reverently toy with it.

You struggle to think of the body as anything but it at this point. Golden irises and orifices that constantly drool fluids both human and artificial. A wet, docile assortment of tissue and blood and muscle and bone living out its last decades in utterly mindless bliss.

When you agreed to the digitization procedure, you didn't spare much thought for the body you would leave behind. You simply wanted out, out of the pain, even if You- the realspace you- was left behind. Copy and paste.

The drugs that eradicated the knowledge of pain from your animate corpse were not optional, but you remember deciding it is what you wanted.

You did not expect your mistress to keep the wretched, adorable thing around like a doll.

You used to sit in on meals from an android shell, but watching it be fed became too uncomfortable. You retreated more and more into the hab walls themselves.

Access to your Mistress's bedroom cameras became increasingly uncomfortable as she continued to play with the thing as though nothing had changed. Empty shell of animal instinct or not, it still moans in your voice, still gasps and whimpers.

You would not deny your former body the pleasures of flesh, but… It makes you uncomfortable. Perhaps most of all because you realize that when you dabbled in deep plunges into the latter alphabet of the xenodrug classes, you were no different in quality, only the permanence of states.

Was this all she ever saw in you? Was the empty doll all you were destined to be? Certainly not. Your Mistress still spends plenty of time with you via the interface in her core that allows her to step into the world you inhabit. She values you, praises the ways you have grown in the accelerated centuries of experiential time in simulated space.

But with that said… why do you envy it?

[hummingbee-o0o]

Picking Lint off the Sofa, chapter 2/2

(obviously, I forgot to make a post, as always)

-

Jesus Christ, the twink thing is true.

Sarah has seen the pictures; she’s seen the tabloids and the social media and the assorted bits and pieces of online gossip, so she should have been ready for it. But it’s one thing to see it in the pictures, with clickbait sensationalism and plausible deniability, and it’s entirely another to see it in the flesh and sitting on the sofa next to her father, with the sort of relaxed closeness that just screams ‘steady relationship’.

It’s weird, and it was weird before she and Lauren even came in through the door.

First off, Dad’s new address is fancy as hell. A pre-war walkable neighbourhood of brick row houses, the sort of place that used to be working class but now goes for seven digits. She knew Dad made some crazy money off his weird vampire erotica book, because he said as much when he sent her and Lauren some pretty substantial money (Daniel Molloy’s semi-regular World’s Sorriest Dad bank transfer in lieu of parenting skills), but holy shit.

And it only gets weirder from there.

Setting aside the doormat with a cartoon bat on it that says ‘unwelcome’, they’re here after dark, because apparently Dad’s new Parkinson’s treatment has him living on some fucked-up schedule. And, you know, then there’s the issue of how you’re supposed to greet your father when you’re checking in on him because everything about his recent behaviour screams either dementia or drug relapse.

“I bet it’s crack,” Lauren mutters while Sarah rings the doorbell. “He’s off the wagon again.”

“We don’t know that,” Sarah instinctively clings to optimism. “I mean, probably. But we don’t know that.”

“Well, sure, it could also be dementia. I think I prefer the drugs.”

Sarah is just about to respond when the door opens.

“Um… hello?” she says, looking at the astonishingly beautiful (and young) man in the doorway.

The man smiles, and it’s somehow both warm and a little alien, like an entomologist spotting a bug. It’s probably the eyes, because holy smokes, his eyes are basically amber. Amber and beautiful. Jesus Christ, he’s so beautiful. Do camera lenses shatter when he has his picture taken?

“Hello,” he says in a smooth, slightly lilting voice. “You must be Lauren and Sarah.”

“Uh, yeah,” says Lauren, also staring at the man, because they’ve seen him in some paparazzi snaps, but now he’s… here. Very here. And very twinky.

There’s a thundering of hurried footsteps, and Dad appears in the hallway.

“Girls, hi,” he says, slipping an arm around the twink’s waist. “Come in, come in.”

(read the whole thing on AO3)

[milolovesbmc]

Sometimes I like to toy around with the definition of love. What it means to me. It's such a big important terrifying thing, that looking at it from different framings feels so humbling.

Love is the high-pitched buzzing of guitar strings and only half-correct strumming patterns. Taped up pictures on walls with edges folded inwards and confusing assortments of music burnt on cds. It's voice cracks and swallowed words and sentences spoken too fast, too tightly knit. Love is framing blurry photographs taken with your parents' old digital camera in your most intricate picture frame.

[britt-kageryuu]

It's apparently another hot day in the studio, because the inflatable pool has made another appearance as the center focus with Donnie lounging in it this time. His model is visibly in a purple Hawaiian style shirt, purple sunglasses and his mask. He has a floating tray with a glass of some colorful juice, a pitcher of the same drink, and an assortment of snacks.

"So due to the AC deciding to die, Genius Built has put everyone into a work from home/work at your own comfort, state until the AC can be fixed or Replaced. Thus I have been working from the studio. Though some of my co-workers want to visit for some reason, not that I will invite them anytime soon." They pause to take a drink, "No matter how they keep trying to bribe me. No matter how tempting." A barely heard mutter of 'he says with much falsehood' came right after.

An animation of cartoon turtle Donnie swimming goes across the screen with:

[Thank You SneakySoftshell for the $10 donation: Why don't you play Multiplayer or MOBA games much anymore?]

Donnies model gains a slightly annoyed look. "Hmm, good question SneakySoftshell. He said with some sarcastic annoyance. And to answer your question, I kept getting teamed with toxic randoms, who when learning who I was would either get more toxic, or beg for a collab!" Splashing could be heard and kinda seen with some glimpses of the tip of his tail could be seen over the edge of the pool. "And there were a few who kept trying to pressure me to join their E-Sports teams... probably very much against protocol. Plus, I may not have predicted the decline in E-Sports, but I was not going to join a team just to probably be let go because of them cutting back teams in the big leagues."

They let out a huff with a slight hiss. "Besides being on a team is somehow more expensive than what we already do with this VTuber stuff! Yes, I did the math of how much this would all cost if everything was outsourced, and not mostly done between all of us!" Donnie then sinks into the pool with a another hiss. Bubbles could be heard along with a slight grumbling sounds.

Shelldon then floats into frame while looking down into the pool. He then lowers down, and taps, what could only be Donnies Snout, while saying "Boop!" Then zooming off with a laugh.

Donnie pushes themself back up with a bit of a blank look, not sure how to react to having his Snoot Booped.

Then in comes a number of bits, donations, and channel point redemptions came flooding in say 'Boop!', 'Boop the Snoot!', 'Shelldon Boop!', and a verity of similar messages, and animations flooding the screen.

Donnie just turns to look at the camera with a slight look of disbelief. "Why is it that my Son tapping me on the nose, is what sends you all into a frenzy?" They read the chat, "Oh sorry, my Son Booped me, and it was quote unquote 'Very Very Cute'," He leans against the side of the pool towards the camera. His tail is visibly swaying behind him. "I will never fully understand you guys."

Shelldon flies back in to nuzzle his head against Donnies with a digital purring being picked up be the microphone. Shelldon then flies back off with a shout of "Love you Dad!" Donnie stares after him.

"Shelldon, please, I don't think the audience can take much more, 'cuteness', and 'wholesomeness', or so the chat is saying."

The audience made an attempt to change the topic a few times, but kept overlapping eachothers requests.

"Well since there isn't a good suggestion, let's go over some science facts that I have memorized over the years, and you can guess which ones were proven to be false after much research~~" Donnie reaches over to a tablet to bring up a box that the science facts would show up on, along with a proven true, or false, and counter.

The audience was pretty entertained for how long this went on. Alot of memes and fanart was created from clips and screenshots of this stream.

-------------------

Masterpost

I had heard about the decline in E-Sports, and had thoughts of Donatello being on an E-Sports team, and all I could figure is that he would probably like it at first, then start to hate it fairly quickly.

[snobunny03]

New Hair

On Monday I got my first haircut 💇🏻‍♀️ in a whileeeee, I haven't had one in over a year! It was my mom's birthday but she's been begging me to get a haircut, so I finally gave in

Lots of split ends and unhealthy thin hair!!!

I went to Assort New York hair salon on jones street. They have many locations across the world and they are based in Tokyo 🗼.

My hairstylist was great, she first cut my hair and they washed it and styled it which I'm not used to, I'm used to the opposite. It was raining that day but I wanted a blowout anyway, she wanted to style it curly but it was part of the package so l asked for the blowout instead.

She cut a lot off which I wasn't sure how I felt about at first, but my hair looks a lot more full and healthy now. l asked her to take photos with my digital camera 📸 and they turned out so so great.

She sort of put framing bangs which I really like I wonder how it will look when I style I curly 👩🏻‍🦱

I want to get some blonde wear and go wigs and color them, I also wanna get a straight brown one and do a blue peekaboo style, but the bleaching process is a whole ass thing. I may go to a salon and ask them to do it for me but I'm not sure if they do that sort of stuff. I also have been feeling the urge to do some sort of color to my hair but I keep reminding myself that I want to keep it natural and healthy lol. I might post a montage of all the colors l've done, and my hair saga. Anyways I hope everyone has a great day ☀️

[renaissanceofthearts]

NEO-JAPAN 1.0

"NEO-JAPAN is a harsh place for a child growing up.. theres gibble venders, 'prosties,' (you know curb walkers, fiddle contractors) and the assortments of thugs, blackmailers, back yard cooks , not to mention the life suckers."

"I had to get infared eyes to make sure the invisible pick pockets don't get ya when you're in city streets. these asshole are as silent as mice, and fingers like a 1500 century pianist."

"things dont get easier when you enter the center of the city, the overwhelming sense of movement is nothing get to use to. you can go from upper-tire high-class, to a guy running his finger through an old sardine can, missing teeth and looks like he's been run over by a bus, with sand paper wheels.."

getting by isn't easy and every time you think you have something, it spills away like rain through the storm drains. Neo- Japan, is the worst and best place to be."

"the authorities are not to laugh at, the basically run around in this thing, 'The Crowd Buster.' its comparable to a mini-tanker with legs, motion sensors, inferred cameras, taser the size of a cannon and fires 50 caliber rounds; its has a horn, with a pitch frequency sound so high and loud, it'll make your ears bleed. I swear the guy got too close and nearly shit his guts out. - it's something people don't forget. It patrols on a 24 hour cycle, in case the local mobs or large gangs get any smart ideas, on who in charge in the city."

"not to mention the 'HIGHWAY PROTAL,' they fly around in gravity paralleled 'NIGHT HAWKS," completely silent and have the speed and range thats unmatched to the normal vehicles on the city streets, it nearly never get old , you see these guy flying around in between towers, making it look easy. it make you dream like a kid, and thats they talk about, being a NIGHT HAWK pilot, I have to say - I always wanted to be one as well.

"above that you have the sub control vessels, impossible to hack, can take a rocket hit straight on and has a Barrier that deflect nearly all energy focused beams. these guys relay all the messages to through out the city, making sure things are under control. 'the eyes in the sky,' if you will...they call these "THE SCARABS", like the beatles. (not the band jack ass.) Do have any idea how many people try to hack and steal these things, you'll become a legend just for trying, there was one guy managed to hack one, but we'll get to that later."

"NEO- JAPAN, is out of control, til the second you see any of these guys in your district."

and they all get controlled by the central tower, "THE DIGITAL FORTRESS," this thing run off 10,000 ocean fans. they pretty much get energy from the constant ebb and flow of the ocean waves, this thing, other then the size is completely unknown, no one and I mean no gets in...

some guy tried to use cyborg insects, at attempt to get in, but was able to infiltrate the tower, the lasers surrounding the "DIGITAL FORTRESS", have unmatched accuracy. I've been told they can shoot a grain of sand out of the sky.

"THE INFILTRATOR - THE DUNG BEETLE."

"these guys are pretty sweet, they can fly, relay messages - via micro short wave speaker they also release a stinky gas, sleep gas and smoke screens, doesn't last every long but gets the job done, not to mention holographic maps of the local areas"

"At times when I dont get enough rest my 'INFA-EYES' get hazy, the synaptic connections get hyper stimulated, my vision hits like a tv inetween channels"... SFX(zzz,zzzt) [infrared eyes]

and ill run into one of 'her.' attitude and all, girls like this can be some of the most dangerous in NEO-JAPAN. they mean business, and the semi to prove it, they run in groups but mostly solitary, they're all connected through a wireless neuro-link, its pretty hi tech, even more hard to install..

you might find them with a "TX9" don't let the simplistic look fool you, it's ability to think, make choices is on par with humans, if not pushing the frontier on whats considered intelligence. These girls roam the city like an unnamed army of hit tech-kittens with 9 inch alumanitum claws, but dont ever call them that. (kittens)

just my luck, my vision comes clear and im being "TOMMY JONES'D"

" you better have something worth taking? or you might have a perma- black out, with those eye."

Zainda, dont joke around with that thing, I dont trust the gentle touch of your 'AUTOMATION HANDS, put that thing down...

"every time I see her, its like the rains falling, as if the storm follows her around, or perhaps she is the storm, just millimeters from firing that thing at anyone. ("DK3," it's a compact 25 round mag with a recall of a 9mm but hits like a 45mm, it's no joke.) i walk past, as she shows the typical smirk on her face."

"I decide to head out the city, to the outskirts for some materials, difficult to find, necessary for keep these eyes working smoothly."

End of part ONE. NEO-JAPAN.

*hope you like part one.*

"NEURO-LINK" EXPLANATION: ITS SOUND, not as simple as you may think, they pretty much replace the whole formal cortex, giving the the person faster reaction time, instant calculation ability, the only down side, you lose the sense of emotional range, a lot of the people who part take in the transplant went completely nuts, with out happiness and sorrow, you tend to lose a grasp on whats real, but for some strange reason woman take better to the transplant then men, why, who knows?"

chat gpt explanation:

The concept of a Neuro-Link involves high-tech brain interfaces that enable wireless communication with external devices. One prominent example is Neuralink, an American neurotechnology company focused on developing implantable brain-computer interfaces (BCIs). These interfaces hold promise for restoring sensory and motor function and treating neurological disorders. Furthermore, Neuralink aims to create a generalized brain interface to restore autonomy for individuals with unmet medical needs and unlock human potential. Additionally, there are discussions around the technical complexities and requirements of such high bandwidth interfaces and brain-to-brain communication. However, it's important to note that while this technology holds significant potential, it also raises ethical and safety considerations

[vaspider]

Spider,(((tw, the story of losing the last dof I evee owned))

I grew up on the outskirts of a very small town and people would drop off the animals that they didn't want right around our property. My dad took in every single animal that was dropped off. Soon people knew that if they didn't want their animals, they could take them straight to my dad. So I grew up with a lot of dogs, cats, and assorted other things.

All through high school I had one dog named Sabi that was my favorite. He would ride in my dad's truck and to get in he would take a running leap and jump the tailgate, landing in the bed.

When my dad died, I was 29 & I had never driven a vehicle in my life. I bought a truck similar to his so I could take the dog with me. By that time he had arthritis and I had to lift him up to put him in. He inherited my dad's bed and bedroom and stayed inside, living like a king is old age.

Time weny on, we got older. I took a job across the state and knew he would never make the trip. The state is Texas and it is huge. So I gave him to a friend who lived about a mile away who has similar animals. That winter he went back to my house, clawing all the door to be let in into back into his bedroom but I was not there. He passed away on the porch, waiting to be let in.

This was before digital cameras and I have few pictures left of him. However he looked EXACTLY like Ser Davos.

Thank you so much for that picture. ❤️I wanted to ask his breed because I never knew what breed Sabi was.

I didn't mean to for this to bring up bad memories. I wanted to share with you how special he was because I know you are a dog lover too.

Thank you again, give him a scritch for me.

Yeah, that was a lot. Please don't send me sad dog stuff, friends. I'm really bad with that.

Anyway. I'm sorry you lost your friend.

According to the DNA test my wife got me for him a couple of years ago, he's 50% mini Aussie shepherd, 37.5% pit bull, 12.5% AmStaff. So basically 50% mini Aussie shepherd, 50% pit bull.

100% American Good Boy.

[1800titz]

pornstar!Harry TEASER

“Are you open to raw anal?” is probably not a statement Y/N had …entirely expected to hear when she’d agreed to conversation over pastries and dirty chai lattes. 

It’s a pretty good one, all things considered, and asked with complete professionalism, according to their careers and the open, apathetically businesslike expression shaping the features of her counterpart. Y/N takes a sip of her latte. It is quite a good latte. He wasn’t wrong there. 

Harry blinks. 

It’s very on brand, despite the way she’s sure one of the baristas has definitely twisted around from the dishpit, side eye discreet …but there. And in the barista’s defense, she couldn’t even blame them for eavesdropping on the sordid contents of their public discourse. Y/N isn’t going to turn around and look. 

In Harry’s, he didn’t exactly shout. 

The man across from her takes a slow sip from his latte. Good latte, very good latte. 

She can’t help but admire his varying assortment of rings as he cradles the cup, irises winding from the blocky, golden S to its chunky counterpart, the H. So many times she’d admired those hands, those ring-clad fingers traipsing over bare skin, just the tips meddling over abdomens and winding circles around navels. Those digits sunk into the hair of his partner, tangled into the roots as he manually bobs her head over his cock. Those fingers twisting over the pink tip of his shaft, lining it up before his hips pump. Those long fingers splaying over cunts, swiping a thumb to ogle in front of the camera. 

There've been so many instances where Y/N had wondered the significance of that H and that S. And it’s been really quite simple all along. 

Should I call you Tiger in person, then? she’d tapped out over the LED keyboard, days prior when they’d only been discussing the prospect of a meet up. Days prior, before she’d flown out for an on-camera collaboration, to bask in the sunlight of California, to enjoy overpriced dirty chai lattes and oddly promiscuous dialogue in the corner of a cafe. 

I think I’ll just take Harry when the cameras aren’t rolling x, RideTheTiger had messaged back. 

[gordiicore]

Assorted Digital Sticker Sheets

Each set is a different theme so scroll thru and find what you love and use them to edit your photos, collages and videos "ol oh and theyre precut so theyre easier to save into your message stickers kw: millenial tech, blue aquatic, digital cameras, chrome silver, retro buttons, pastel 3D girly, cute animals

Cada conjunto es un tema diferente, así que deslizate y encuentra lo que te gusta y salo para editar tus fotos, collages y videos. Ah, y están precortados para que sea más fácil guardarlos en tus stickers de mensajes / millenial tenología, azul acuático, cámaras digitales, plata cromada, botones retro, pastel 3D femenino, animales lindos

[skeleweb]

i mean the summerween trickster was also hellbent on killing children i mean that was a pretty significant thing he did

The unserious poll of the day about fucking the wide assortment of characters from awesomeshow IS NO LAUGHING MATTER. The moral debate about wanting to go to town with a triangle versus a candy man IS NOT SOMETHING YOU CAN FUCK AROUND WITH OR MAKE JOKES ABOUT. Please spread this like wildfire…

First sitting up, then climbing to its feet, the Mickey Mouse costume… or whoever was inside of it, stood there at the center of the room, its fake face just starting directly at me as I mumbled “No…” over and over and over…

With shaking hands, a violently thrashing heart, and legs that had once again turned to jelly, I managed to lift the camera and aim it at the opposite creature now quietly sizing me up.

The digital camera’s screen displayed only dead pixels in the shape of the thing. It was a perfect silhouette of the Mickey costume. As the camera moved in my unsteady hands, the dead pixels spread, marring the screen wherever Mickey’s outline moved to.

Then the camera died. Went blank and quiet and… broken.

I raised my eyes once again to the Mickey Mouse costume.

“Hey,” it said in a hushed, perverted, but perfectly executed Mickey Mouse voice, “Wanna see my head come off?”

[sophisticated-creepy]

As ten o’clock rolled around, true to Annie’s words, the front doors to the Northcott Manor House were shut and locked, the creaky hinges a certain precursor surely to setting the scene for the evening’s future and anticipated spookies. While the staff doted about their closing duties, the overnight birthday party agreed upon using that time to cart in their luggage and supplies, which included small suitcases, presents, a cake, video cameras, digital recorders, duffle bags filled with a random assortment of ghost hunting necessities, and a sack full of pillar candles with strange and unusual symbols carved into their wax. After watching Annie descend the front stoop of the building, the last staff member to vacate the premises, the friends stood in the silence of the foyer, alone with the old ghosts of the infamous mansion.

          “It’s actually happened,” Lola stated. “We’re here, spending the night, at the Northcott Manor House. I can’t believe it. I never dreamed this could be possible.”

          “Well, don’t waste your time waxing poetic about it,” Modesta laughed, steering her dazzled friend into the front parlor room. “You have the whole night and run of the place, but right now, you have presents to open and a party to get started.”  

          Lola watched on in a state of contented bliss as her friends scurried about arranging a table for the birthday celebration setup. Since the parlor had also been converted into a dining space like many of the other rooms on the main level by the Manor House restaurant, it wasn’t difficult placing a linen covered table in front of the room’s magnificent fireplace, and while Modesta, Jack, and Lazare busied themselves with ambiance such as dimming the lights, Raphael retrieved the chilled bottle of champagne from their room as well as extra glasses. The pleasant pop of the cork had Lola blinking herself back into reality just as Raphael handed her a champagne flute full of her favorite sparkling bubbles.

          “You should see the cake Modesta made,” Raphael said as he clinked his glass edge with hers. “There isn’t a cake to be made in all the world that will ever suit you quite like this one.”

          “Mo? You made the cake?” Lola asked, excited to taste her best friend’s masterpiece of baked goods.

          “Naturally,” Modesta retorted, flipping her hair over her shoulder in pride for her confectionary work. “I created a three layered, elderberry and lavender genoise sponge cake with a light blueberry compote and white chocolate frosting.”

          “Oh, my God, when are you going to open a bakery? That sounds absolutely divine, I’m already drooling.”

          “Take a look at the top,” Jack added, pointing at the cake over his rolling camcorder. “I think you’ll appreciate that, too.”

          Lola squealed delightedly as she approached her cake, and laughed with pure joy behind the sound as she saw the little sheet ghost Modesta drew with icing chocolate garnished with edible eyeballs for extra drama and pizazz. “I love how you’ve written ‘Happy Boo-thday’.”

          “I know it reads like ‘booth-day’, but, hey, there’s only so much I can word pun,” Modesta said with a shrug of her shoulders.

          “It’s perfect, and I love it. Thank you,” and Lola gave her friend a hug.

          “You’re welcome. Now, let’s open some presents so we can cut into that thing,” Modesta said, laughing. Lola agreed heartily, and while Raphael and Lazare doled out the rest of the champagne, passing a glass to everyone, Lola situated herself at the head of the table, and once all the friends were comfortably seated, Modesta handed over the first present. “Since we’ve been fawning all over my cake,” she started, “you might as well open my present first,” and she handed Lola the gift bag adorned with pretty paper.

          Rummaging through the layers of glittery, colorful tissue, Lola uncovered a tabletop woolen crow with coiled wire legs for balance and a checkered burlap scarf for fashion. “Look at the baby!” Lola cooed, holding up the figuring for her friends to see. “He’s so cute!” and she held it to her bosom in a loving squeeze. “I love him.”

          “What are you going to name him?” Lazare asked.

          Lola held the crow out before her, turning it over to observe every angle before answering. “Aloysius.”

          “A dashing name for a dapper crow,” Raphael chuckled.

          “He’s fancy,” Lola agreed.

          “Like I said, as soon as I unboxed them at the store, I had to give you one for your birthday,” Modesta said. “I’m glad you like him.”

          “I love him. Thank you.” Lola kissed the end of Aloysius’s beak and gave him another tender embrace.

          “My turn! Open mine next,” Lazare said, holding out the wrapped parcel. Lola accepted the rectangular box with a “thank you”, and tore into the shiny paper. “This came from the pawn shop,” he began to explain, “and there’s a solid chance it might be haunted.”

          “You’re gifting me a haunted object?” Lola asked, pausing midway through peeling back the wrapping paper to stare at him with wide eyes.

          “It’s a possibility. I haven’t personally experienced any activity centered around the object itself specifically, but it does give off some pretty spooky vibes, and who doesn’t love haunted objects?”

          Without further delay, Lola tore off the remaining wrappings, unveiling an unassuming black box, and upon opening the lid, she gasped in surprise. “It’s a fountain pen,” she announced, and taking gentle fingers, plucked the ornate pen from its velvet cushion, showing off the green enameled writing implement with marble detailing and polished gold metal hardware with a wide, sturdy nib.

          “It’s in perfect working condition, too, and I filled the chamber with fresh ink for you, so you are good to start writing whenever you want,” Lazare shared.

          “What do you think, Modesta? Is it haunted?” Lola held the pen towards her friend, who spontaneously gave a jolt and violent shudder once the object entered her personal space. “Yep. Haunted,” Lola laughed, the others joining in.

          “It’s giving off some major residual energy for sure,” Modesta agreed, rubbing her hands up and down her arms to dispel the march of goosebumps crawling over her flesh. “But I don’t know if an actual spirit is attached to it or not.”

          “Only time will tell,” Lola declared, tucking the pen away back into its soft casing. “Thank you, Lazare, I love it. You all are seriously the best people I could ever ask for to be my family. I cannot express how much I love each and every one of you, nor can I thank you enough for making today feel so special. Now, I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m ready to cut into that cake.”

          In agreement, the friends once more bustled about the room, gathering paper plates and cutlery or topping off champagne glasses while Lola moved her newly gifted treasures to a safe place out of the way to later take upstairs. Returning to her spot at the table, Lazare finished putting three birthday candles into the cake, and when everyone was settled, he took out a book of matches and struck the first light. The friends began to sing the traditional “Happy Birthday” tune as the first candle was lit, Lola’s smile wide and joyous with love and warmth filling her heart, and she reached out to hold Raphael’s hand as the second candle was lit. The song was culminating to its end as Lazare was getting ready to light the third candle, but as he lowered the flame to the wick, the matchstick extinguished itself.

          “Sorry about that,” Lazare nonchalantly apologized, striking up a second match to light the remaining candle. Again, he repeated his actions of lowering the match to the wick, and before he could make contact, the flame, once more, extinguished itself.

          “Got some faulty matches there, Lazare?” Jack asked.

          “Apparently,” he replied, striking up a third match, only to have it extinguished before he even lowered it to the candle. “This calls for some advanced critical thinking.” He set aside the box of matches, taking up the unlit candle from the cake, and tipped it over to light it from one of the other existing flames, yet as the wick was about to catch fire, all the birthday candles, at once, blew themselves out.

          “It would appear someone doesn’t want you having a birthday wish,” Jack quipped.

          “That’s rather unfortunate,” Lola scoffed. “Well, joke’s on them, I already have everything I could wish for this birthday.”

          “At least blow out one candle,” Raphael suggested. “Otherwise, your birthday doesn’t count.”

          “Oh? Are those the rules of birthday candles?” Lola asked, her tone teasing and playful.

          “Yes, now be a good girl and blow.” Raphael deftly struck up a match, relighting one of the birthday candles, and pulled the cake closer towards her so she could make her wish. After a few seconds of theatrical over dramatic thinking, Lola blew out the candle, and everyone cheered.

          Modesta took charge of portioning out slices of cake while picking up the conversation. “Lazare and I have another surprise for you, Lola.”

          “Another surprise?” Lola asked. “I’ve had so many pleasant ones today, I don’t know how there could possibly be any more.”

          “We all know how much you love the Gray Lady, so how would you like it if we tried to communicate with her?” Lazare asked.

          “Are you saying, what I think you’re saying?” Lola questioned, anticipation beginning to bubble up inside her chest.

          “That’s right. We’re going to have a séance and try to make contact with your favorite ghost,” Modesta announced. “Respectfully, of course. We’re not provoking her into responding to our ‘demands’ to show herself or perform some kind of ‘ghost-trick’, we’re merely asking some simple questions to try and start a conversation. So, what do you think?”

          “I love that idea! What are we doing sitting around eating cake? Let’s get this séance started!”

          “Relax,” Modesta said with a laugh. “We have plenty of time to summon ghosts. Finish your cake and then we can get started.”

          It was rather impressive, albeit alarming, to watch Lola finish eating her entire piece of cake in three whole bites, but the declared séance had everyone’s eagerness rising the longer they sat and talked, and with excited expectation overpowering the energy around the intimate group of weird friends, Lazare finally broke the tension first by standing from the table to gather his special candles of summoning. Their table was cluttered with evidence of birthday celebrations, so they moved it off to the side, creating space to hold the séance on the floor in front of the fireplace. Lazare sat with his back towards the hearth, the rest flanking him in a circle, the pillar candles placed in proper accordance to speak with the dead. Lola had retrieved her pen and notepad, with Stanley at the ready as well to capture every word and sound.

          “I’m going to go into a trance,” Lazare began. “I’ll be wearing the noise canceling headphones and blindfold, which means I won’t be influenced by your questions, and will only speak on what I intuitively hear. Modesta is going to lead the circle of protection, and then hopefully, the Gray Lady will come through.” Lazare gave a wave to the lens of Jack’s camcorder, then removed his glasses, slipping on the blindfold and securing the headphones. He sat peacefully, taking steady breaths, grounding himself in preparation to begin connecting with the mistress of the house.

          “As I light these candles, I ask that you all imagine a dome of protective white light covering this space. Only those who are of the light may enter this dome. Here, we are safe and protected,” Modesta began. There were five candles in total, the largest one, as well as the one carved with the most symbols, sat in the middle of their circle, with the other four marking a type of compass for north, south, east, and west. Modesta gathered the matchbook from earlier in the night, and struck a match, leaning forward to light the center candle, yet the flame, as before, extinguished itself before making contact with the wick.

          “Damnit, what is wrong with these matches?” Modesta asked in a frustrated huff, striking a second matchstick only to have the same outcome.

          “Surely the Manor House have extra matches stashed around here somewhere. Want me to go look?” Jack asked.

          “No, I saw Lazare had a lighter in that bag he used to bring the candles. Let’s try using that first. I like us to use lit candles when doing a séance, as they help ward off unwanteds, but we don’t have to use them,” Modesta explained as she stood to look for Lazare’s lighter. “Here it is. Okay, let’s try this again.” Striking the metal wheel, a healthy flame appeared from the small pocket lighter, and Modesta was able to light the wick of the center candle.

          “Don’t do it.” Lazare’s drawl was eerily musical, a command while also a coax to continue in lighting the candles, the lilt a taunting sing-song of foreboding.

          “That didn’t sound like a friendly ghost,” Lola whispered, her breath practically stilled from Lazare’s creepy warning.

          “Is there someone already here with us?” Modesta asked, her attention fully on Lazare even as her hand hovered over the candle in the north position. “Can you tell us your name?” All eyes were fixated on Lazare, yet he remained silent and unmoving. Modesta tentatively sparked the lighter over the second candle, watching as Lazare took in a deep breath, but said nor did anything further while she lit the second candle.

          “We just want to speak with the lady of the house,” Modesta continued. “Is she here with us?” Her arm moved to the third candle, but the lighter jumped from her hand, appearing to be smacked out of her grasp, and she yelped, shaking her fingers to dispel the searing charge of energy that shocked her. As the lighter clattered to the ground, the wicks that had been burning, sputtered, and went out.

          “Maybe we should stop,” Jack said, filling the silence that began to border on awkward. “It’s starting to feel like we’re playing with fire…no pun, or irony, intended.”

          “But it is rather interesting, however,” Lola said, “that we can’t seem to light more than two candles at a time. Something clearly doesn’t want a third candle lit. But why?”

          “Do we need all the candles lit?” Raphael asked. “Similar to Lola’s birthday candles, can we conduct a séance with only one?”

          “Light them all,” Lazare spoke, his tone remaining playful yet taunting.

          “That sounded like a challenge,” Jack said on a nervous chuckle.

          “Too bad I didn’t bring my battery operated candles,” Lola said, her sigh tinged with the regret of oversight.

          “That’s it!” Modesta shouted, her outburst startling the group. “If we can’t have traditional flames for a séance, we can always make do with contemporary fire.” She shot up from her place on the floor, continuing to speak her idea aloud while rummaging through the bags holding their ghost hunting equipment. “I’m taking a page out of your book, Lola.”

          “And that would be…?” Lola asked, drawing out the question.

          “The power of loopholes.” Modesta turned from her foraging to face the others still sitting on the floor. “Nowhere has it been said we can’t use modern day torches for a séance,” and she held up five small flashlights, the devices perfect sizes for travel or emergency kits. She handed out a flashlight to everyone as she rejoined the circle, keeping two for herself, as Lazare was oblivious in his current condition to notice the activity scuttling before him.

          “On the count of three, everyone turn on your flashlight,” Modesta instructed. “One. Two. Three.”

          The room ignited in a glow of warm illuminations from the flashlights, their beams pointing towards the ceiling, and like moths to a flame, the friends subconsciously huddled closer into the soft realm of intimate space the torches created. Whatever appeared to dislike the notion of tangible flame seemed to be okay with the crafty makeshift workaround of their lighted protective circle, and when Lazare continued to sit motionless as the flashlights were all turned on, the friends collectively relaxed, eager once more for the séance to officially begin.

          “All right, let’s get started,” Modesta said, rubbing her hands together. “Whomever is---?” She stopped mid-question, as all five flashlights began to simultaneously flicker, the lights dimming as if the batteries were being drained.

          “Get. Out.”

          Lazare’s voice had taken on a gravelly, guttural sneer, the abrupt contrast to his usual cadence eliciting tiny gasps of fright from Lola, the others flinching back at the hatred dripping from Lazare’s command. The flickering bulbs of the flashlights burst into a surge of powerful light, far brighter than what the circuitry was capable before plunging the parlor into complete and utter pitch darkness. Light, as well as temperature, was sucked out of the room, the shadows growing cold as ice, the act of breathing becoming a daunting chore, for akin to the dying flame of a candle, oxygen was pulled from the hauntingly quiet room. The increasingly deep, wet breaths of Lazare saturated the air in an uncomfortable heaviness, the thick vocalization of his next command spreading chills through the hearts of those sitting in the protective circle.

          “Run.”     

~*~*~*~*~*~

Super spooky!

Another new chapter here for "The Third Light", and I hope you all enjoyed it! And yes, it is perfectly acceptable to go out and get yourself a cake now, or any other baked good of your choosing.

More spookies are on their way, so keep an eye out, friends! Thanks for reading, and I'll see you all next time!

~Melissa

[faunabells]

✿welcome to the intro post manifesto!✿

✿✿✿we're the fragaria foragers!!✿✿✿

~as for who we are~

[ this intro post is a lil' bit outdated. so we'll be making a different one soon! we just need to gather the energy to do so. ]

♡ we all respond to the names bambie/fraise and use he/they/it prns

♡ our body's 20, born during the summer of 2004

♡ we're polyfragmented, adaptive, para/autigenic, and share a body with two other collectives. all together, we call ourselves the picnic party.

♡ we also maladaptive daydream, have audhd, low to moderate support needs, and experience alexithymia.

♡ we don't consider multiple likes/reblogs for our posts as spam.

♡ the artwork above is our silly lil' system persona! it's loosely based on how our body looks irl, only embellished with some fantasy elements...in other words we deeply wished that our meat container had pointed ears and big, permanent strawberries on its head...(╥﹏╥)

~byf & interact~

♡ this space is 100% endo and nontraumagenic safe.

♡ while we don't do it frequently, we will just block anyone who makes uncomfortable. it may not be anything personal. we just, like many other tumblr users, want to have control of our digital environment.

♡ due to dissociation and a plethora of other hurdles, we may be slow to blogging og posts.

♡ our blog is primarily a source for plural positivity, but we want to post other stuff that makes us happy! things such as biology, reviews of media, and neurodiversity.

♡ we want to make our space as accessible to others as possible, so if there's anything we can do, pls don't be scared to tell us! on the topic of dms/asks: we don't bite, so you can talk to us/ask questions. (though, most of us are shy, so we may be awkward to talk to-) if there's hate/discourse/harassment involved, we'll simply ignore & block you.

[ first id: a divider of an assortment of hello kitty 3d models with a yellow heart charm on left side while having a bluse star charm on left side. ] [ second id: a traditional drawing of an elf-like person sitting down with their head turning up, away from the camera. his head has two strawberries on either side. the background is pink gingham. ]

[ final id: it's the same as the first, just repeated below the drawing. ]

~a collection of userboxes and sideblogs undercut~

this isn't all of our sideblogs, just the ones we wanted to share here:

@cherubs-on-rollerskates ~ an agere safe space for the kiddos & caregivers

@fauna-frolics ~ an all animal related identity blog

@chthonic-dreams ~ nichoe's fandom pjo/hoo blog

@cherished-milk ~ an aesthetic blog that belongs to the kitschy-kitties, one of the picnic party's separate collectives.

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[saleintothe90s]

497. The Pat Sajak Show, 1989-1990

Back in 2007, a friend had sent me all her old childhood tapes after she had digitized her copies to DVD. I then digitized the commercials to DVD. She had all the CBS prime time cartoons on tape from the late 80s, and I saw this promo for...The Pat Sajak Show?! I remember kinda giggling trying to picture a celebrity hanging out with Pat, because he was known for talking to the every man every day, his contestants on Wheel you know?

In January of 1989, the show premiered, unfortunately around the same time of another television legend:

(article)

Arsenio said in this article:

''My personality is a little easier than Dave's,'' Mr. Hall says. ''I'm just a nice guy. I don't know how to be any different. Let's just say that I'm a warmer version, a warmer brown-bread version of David Letterman. Call me the pumpernickel of late-night.'' 1

If Arsenio was Pumpernickel, then Pat was Wonder Bread compared to Arsenio:

Musical guests will include the likes of Debby Boone, Michael Feinstein, Alabama, the Commodores and the ubiquitous K. T. Oslin - far closer to the easy-listening center than Mr. Hall's. 1

Arsenio's first guests were Brooke Shields, Leslie Nielsen and Luther Vandross. Pat's? Chevy Chase, Joan Van Ark, The Judds, the Commissioner of Major League Baseball, and Michael Gross. I know you're reading that list like "dang, that's a lot of guests." And it was -- the show was a mind numbing 90 minutes long. Who, even in 1989 had the attention span late at night for that. It took me a second to realize why the show scheduled Joan Van Ark the first night, then I remembered she was on Knots Landing which was a big show for CBS back then. I have no clue why the Baseball Commissioner (Peter Ueberroth) was there. What an odd pick for the first night of your big deal nation wide major network late night talk show.

Unfortunately I can't find all of the first night! Just this 40 minute clip of assorted clips from the show.

/edit/

I found the whole episode with commercials!

Luv that plaid jacket. He pulled a Herbalife joke as his first joke! "now that I have you all here, I'd like to talk to you about something called ... Herbalife". Oh us anti-MLM girlies love that joke.

The majority of the clip is very painful. Pat's set is sad and beige, Pat's bandleader is awkward, I didn't even realize that his sidekick was his sidekick at first, I thought he was introducing his producer at first. Pat has too many pencils on his desk and Chevy Chase make fun of him for it.

To me, Michael Gross was the highlight of this clip. He also highlights how redic. a 90 minute show is, look at all the hands he has to shake! It looks more like a parody of a talk show.

Mr. Sajak asked Michael Gross of ''Family Ties'' what was going to happen to the Keatons in this, their last scheduled season. Mr. Gross: ''I hope they die in a plane crash.'' He later explained that he would not like to see them being brought back for phony reunions.  2

I found another full episode from April of 1989, and the audience just isn't with Pat through the monologue. He even told a suction cup car window Garfield joke and it bombed. Poor Pat.

Finally, Finally, in October of 1989, the show was reduced to an hour.

By March of 1990, Pat had a hipper, darker set. He didn't stand up for the monologue by then either. He was making Nest door bell jokes 25 years before Nest doorbell cameras were a thing! This is probably the latest episode of the show with Pat hosting that is on YouTube. Yes, "with Pat hosting". By 1990, Pat wasn't hosting the show on Fridays, he handed the show to a guest.

Pat wasn't even there for his last episode, Paul Rodriguez hosted. :

I don't want to get sentimental or nothing but let me just take the second to tell you that uh Pat Sajak uh is one of the nicest people I've ever had the opportunity to know and to meet I'm sure on behalf of his whole staff he'd like me to say how wonderful it was to be here and work with all of you in 15 months that you guys were on and it's terrific, and there is a tomorrow for him.

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Oh hey, there's a sale going on at my Etsy right now til June 15th.

Meisler, Andy. “TELEVISION; Two TV Veterans March Into the Late-Night Fray.” The New York Times, January 1, 1989, sec. Arts. https://www.nytimes.com/1989/01/01/arts/television-two-tv-veterans-march-into-the-late-night-fray.html. https://archive.is/4CxFw

O’Connor, John J. “Review/Television; Late-Night Chitchat Additions: Pat Sajak and Arsenio Hall.” The New York Times, January 11, 1989, sec. Arts. https://www.nytimes.com/1989/01/11/arts/review-television-late-night-chitchat-additions-pat-sajak-and-arsenio-hall.html. https://archive.is/Z0vun

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