#metallic-scaled-scarf

[tallysingatsby]

A collaboration with @ego-osbourne for @metallic-scaled-scarf! Ego did the lineart and I did the coloring! For those who don’t know, this is Nonvul and his dragon, Krotumir.

[ego-osbourne]

Once He’s Gone

//click for better image quality//

Nonvul singing a dirge.

A commission for the mighty @metallic-scaled-scarf ! Their dragon priest OC :]

[mellowscrolls]

Art Trade I did with @metallic-scaled-scarf!

Nonvul penning a letter to a dear friend as Krotumir terrorizes the countryside in the background (alternately titled Dovahzul beats to study and relax to)

link in “Nonvul” to the google drive host because tumblr eats quality waaahhh

[bforblitz]

Guess who watched the last unicorn recently

Anyways this is Sera’s Daedric horse (she is absolutely a horse girl). He may or may not eat people

[carl-tabora]

The Necron and the Baby

Original post: https://www.reddit.com/r/ImaginaryWarhammer/comments/1exlig3/commission_babys_first_necron_drawn_by_carl_tabora/

"An-nakhrimun awkwardly stares at the tiny human in her hand, confused and unsure. The human stares back, extending tiny hands towards her while making incoherent noises, clearly unafraid of the soulless Necron.

What is she supposed to do, is she supposed to eat her? She quickly glances up, seeking instruction from the mature human couple, yet to her dismay only receiving their smiles.

Ever since awoke from the Great Sleep and subsequent exile by Illuminor Szeras, she has been drowning in despair and sadness, wallowing at the memory of her failing her entire species and the terrible fate upon herself and her mother. Landing her ship on this nameless planet, she sat upon the top of her ship's exterior and fell into unmoving catatonia, with only the maintenance of her mother, now a mindless warrior, drove her to act slightly.

Not even herself realized how long it had been, but before she realized, an alien race that called themselves “human” appeared. Time has been hard to grasp for An-nakhrimun, as the humans have been in a completely different state each time she paid attention to them. From colonizing the planet, building gleaming cities, fighting among themselves against their robotic servants, collapsing into primitivism, and rebuilding their society with even more inferior technology. She is the only unchanged constant on this planet.

Humans have long used to her presence, sometimes even scaling her ship to try to communicate with her. Now, with her ship buried under dirt, humans have built a park around her seat, these interactions only became more frequent. Sometimes when she pays attention, she could even see humans sketching her figure with primitive pen and papers.

Most of the interaction has been quiet and distanced, but only once, she was forced into physical confrontation.

On a heavy snowy night, two tiny humans, male and female, wearing tattered clothes, stumbled to her seat, cold and shaking. They have no home to return to, and in the winter’s chill, they will not see tomorrow’s sunrise. They embraced the metal alien lady, waiting to die, instead, they found a warm energy dome around her. An-nakhrimun, frozen in confusion and flustered at the tiny humans grabbing onto her, channeled a deflection shield to repel the coldness, in order to try scaring them away.

She sighed a silent relief when they finally left when the sun rise, and didn’t even realize just for that night, she paid so much attention to those two humans, she even forgot to wallow in her own sadness.

Since then, An-nakhrimun sometimes would find small trinkets and items on herself and her mother, scarf, small flower, sachet. She does not understand the purpose, yet keeps them as it might be of some significance she doesn’t get.

Now the two humans have matured, and they came to her with their own offspring, like a female feline eager to show its master what she produced, and asked her to join them on a “family dinner”.

The word sounds so foreign, yet so familiar. Though she lacks the flesh to consume food anymore, she remembers how her mother used to be smiling at the dinner table even with barely any food. She glances at her mindless mother, and allows both of them to be dragged out of the park.

The interaction with humans has distracted her from her own sadness, and she doesn’t hate it.

Yet, such a time would be short lived, as the current Terra time is 850.M30, and the 16th legion of power armoured genetic soldiers, serving the self-proclaimed Emperor of Mankind, will be arriving into the system in less than a year…

Scene art for my tabletop campaign, depicting the pre-campaign story of Lone Cryptek An-Nakhrimun, who sat on a planet being depressed for 10k+ years until Great Crusade came knocking. And the baby that would become the origin of her fake human face."

[levans44]

Call me crazy, hold me down

pairing: ransom drysdale x reader

summary: you met ransom in college, working as harlan's intern. when he sees you again 10 years later, this time with an engagement ring on your hand, he’s hell-bent on finding out more. he's always had a way of getting under your skin, but this time, it’s different. times have changed—and so have you.

warnings: 18+ SMUT, power play, implied cheating, jealousy, history of FWB, degradation, light breath play, fingering, unprotected sex, semi-public sex, slight age difference, canon divergence, porn w/ plot, plot twists

word count: 3.4k

“Ransom? Ransom Drysdale?”

With a velvety swoosh of his overcoat, he turns to face you, sharp blue eyes landing on yours.

Standing in the gilded glow of the country club, Ransom Drysdale wore tradition like a second skin—rich cashmere sweater, perfectly tailored chinos, and the kind of bone-deep confidence that only old money could bestow.

Yet he wore it all with a touch of recklessness, a lazy defiance that set him apart even as he fit right in.

The burgundy scarf draped around his neck—a vibrant, unruly splash against the muted palette of the room.

And, of course, the Gucci loafers. 

With the heels stamped down flat and soles scuffed to oblivion, they made it clear that, among the desperate sea of elites clinging to pedigree, Ransom was both one of them, and something entirely another.

Soft, pink lips part, exhaling your name. 

“Shit.” The incredulity in his eyes replaced just as quickly with an unmistakable hunger, raking over your frame with no remote attempt at decency or subtlety. But then again, neither had ever been his style.

“…is that really you, Sunshine?”

Sunshine. As soon as the nickname glides off his tongue, a memory flashes into your mind - the shock of cold metal against your bare skin, warm hands gripped around your hips as they hoist you up onto a library cart, rucking up the hem of your yellow sundress. 

You blink in quick succession, chasing the thought away. 

“In the flesh.” You nod, flashing him an innocent smile. 

Head cocked in disbelief, he steps in, arms outstretched for a hug. His palm skims your lower back, the other cradling a glass of whiskey.

A heavy whiff of cologne envelops you, that familiar scent of rich vanilla and cedarwood, and it’s all the confirmation you need to know that nothing has changed.

Harvard class of ’11, side-by-side members of Phi Beta Kappa honor society. 

You’d earned it through countless late nights and waitressing shifts, scrimping and saving just to make ends meet. And him? Well, a shiny new literature building bearing the Thrombey name may have tipped the scales.

For a moment, you let your nose brush against the soft fabric of his cable-knit sweater, whiter than the streaks of cocaine that marked his habits at Harvard’s exclusive club meetings.

As you start to pull back, you catch a flash of your reflection in his aviators, hanging from his collar—a spitting image of the Hamptons elite, you know you’ve never looked better. 

Knows he knows it too, evident in the way his fingers linger over your arm as he pulls back. 

“Whatcha been up to?”  

“Oh, you know, just making ends meet.”

 You sigh, twirling your fingers around the empty glass in your hand. 

“…how’s Harlan doing?”

Hand-picked by the infamous novelist for a summer internship your freshman year, it was Harlan who had introduced you to his other intern. Ransom was a senior then, neither grateful nor interested in the opportunity you had to fight tooth and nail for. 

“Well, old man hasn’t kicked it yet.” 

Ransom sighs, shoulders sagging with an undeniable air of annoyance as his hand leaves your side, stepping back to down sixty dollars worth of whiskey in one go. His adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, eyes wandering down to the empty martini glass by your hip. He glances back up, licking his lips and pointing a signet ring-clad finger in your direction. 

“Espresso?”

You shake your head, eyes darting down to your glass. 

“Vodka.”

He chuckles, nodding his head.

“Of course. Classic.”

You don’t dwell on his words, nor the suggestive wink he shoots your way as he heads in the direction of the bar, about to fetch you both another round.

You wince, reaching forward to stop him in his tracks.

“Oh no, Ran, you don’t have to.”

With a raised brow, his gaze drops to where your hand rests on his forearm. You pull your hand back abruptly, as if singed by his stare. 

A flicker of something possessive crosses his features, new interest lighting up his eyes. 

Jaw unclenching as he settles on that familiar smirk, though it’s a little stiffer this time. 

He raises his chin, cocking his head to the side, and the bridge of his nose catches the lighting of the overhead chandelier. 

A small twitch in his brow as he murmurs:

“Married, huh?”

You nod softly, pursing your lips as you glance down at the glistening stone on your ring finger. 

“Engaged.”

“Huh.” He murmurs, blinking.

His gaze falters for a moment before they find yours again. Eyes narrowed as he leans in, voice dropping two pegs:

“You know, between us, I always thought I’d be the one to get married first.”

You let out a soft laugh, amusement lighting up your eyes.

“Meaning you thought I’d never get married.”

He shrugs, mirroring the smile on your face.

“Can you blame me? I mean let’s face it…”

Lips inches away from yours, a devilish grin splitting his face wide open. 

“….neither of us were really the marriage type.”

And your heart skips a beat, a raw memory edging its way into your mind.

Coarse upholstery scraping against your cheek, the quiet creaks of wooden furniture ringing across the dorm common room—he’s got you bent over a worn-out couch, holding you down by the neck as he sneers in your ear. 

‘Does your little boyfriend fuck you like this?’

You blink slowly, raising your brows with a quiet breath. 

“That was over 10 years ago, Ransom. I’ve changed.”

He chuckles loudly, head cocking in a silent challenge.

“Is that right?” 

Leans in even closer to your ear, close enough to feel his warm, whiskey-soaked breath.

“Because by the way you’ve been staring at my lips, I’d disagree.” 

Pink lips curl around a set of bright, sharp teeth as he grins, the edges of his wool coat dancing around your frame.

You freeze, breath hitching in your throat as he leans down, his lips grazing your ear and leaving a searing mark—like the red-hot tip of a cigarette against your skin.

“…tell me, Sunshine, you think you can keep your hands off me all night?” 

“Who is it?”

“Hmm?” You mumble, mind half gone from the way his hands were gripping your hips, ass pressed against the cold marble of the bathroom sink as he rucks your tennis skirt around your waist.

The scent of expensive liquor and mint fill your senses as he grumbles against your pulse point, voice coarse and low. 

“That schmuck you’re marrying.”

He pulls back from the space below your jaw and in the split second your eyes meet his—a viridescent streak of emerald amidst all that smug blue. And you know.

An electric jolt rips through your stomach, equal parts thrill and disbelief, and you throw your head back, letting out an incredulous laugh.

“Drysdale, are you seriously jealous?”

He scoffs, but his hand tightens around the swell of your hips, his ring digging into the soft flesh. Suddenly yanks you to the edge of the marble counter as you gasp, grasping at his sweater-clad chest for balance. 

“You really think I’m the jealous type, Sunshine?” he murmurs, nose brushing against yours as he splays his hand over your exposed knee, warming up the skin. 

Then, with deliberate slowness, drags the blunt tips of his nails up the inside of your thigh, making you visibly shudder.

“Still a fan of that move, huh?” He grins, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes.

Ignoring your half-assed attempts to push him away, he continues to trail his fingers upward until they find their way to your core, thumbing the outline of your sex through the damp fabric of your panties.

“…so who is he?” He taunts, gripping you in closer, lips pressed against the corner of your mouth. 

“Ransom…” you murmur, scalding under his hungry gaze as it swallows your every reaction—a sarcastic eye roll turning into a genuine show of pleasure once he shoves the flimsy lace to the side, fingertips dipping in between your folds.  

And although you had no plans of humoring his question, Ransom’s other hand flies up to clasp over your mouth, trapping the pathetic whimpers slipping off your tongue.

He shakes his head feverishly, crooning into your ear:

“Shh, wait, wait, you know what? Lemme guess.”  

You only let out a muffled groan in response, eyes rolling back into your head at the way two of his thick fingers enter your sopping cunt, agonizingly slow. 

“Let’s see… does he have a J.D.? 5 years at daddy’s law firm, promoted to senior partner before you could say nepo baby?” 

His fingertips find that plush spot deep inside you and you gasp, his palm muffling broken syllables of his name. His hand clasps tighter against your mouth, wholly ignoring you as you claw at his wrist:

“.. or, or, Wallstreet, maybe? You living out your dreams of being a little trophy wife, sweetheart?”

Pulls out only to add a third finger, shoving his hand deeper between your legs, forcing your knees further apart. You groan at the added stretch and he only smirks, continuing to pump his fingers in and out while ignoring your desperate gaze. 

“Ok, and this might be my personal favorite….” 

A feral flash of teeth as he grins, curling his fingers upward. You can't help but arch your back, your gasp still muffled by his hand over your mouth. 

“…is he one of those self-made, go-getter types? Daddy ditched mommy without a dime so he had to scholarship his way through some shitty state college?”

Faster now, dragging his palm against your clit, hand soaked with your arousal.

“Turned his life around with dedication and work ethic. Is that what you’re telling yourself, Sunshine?”

Eyes squeezed shut, you cling onto the fabric of his coat for dear life as his fingers stroke your g-spot over and over. 

“So what’s it gonna be, sweetheart? Bachelor number 1, 2, or 3?” 

He whispers, releasing his grip from around your mouth as you gasp for air, his now-free hand dropping down to his belt buckle. 

“F-fuck you, Ransom, He’s…ah, shit—“ 

A clink of designer metal is all the warning you get before he’s burying himself in you, replacing his fingers with the head of his fat cock. The words dissolve on your tongue as he pushes inside at a glacial pace, prolonging the ache of the stretch. Drags it out just as slowly, delivering a sharp slap against your clit, before sinking back in. 

Your eyes flutter shut at the obscenity of it all, the shameless lick of his lips as he smirks at your obvious embarrassment. 

“Fuck, look at you.” He murmurs to himself as he snakes an arm around your waist, pulling you in for a searing kiss, his tongue pushing past your teeth as he sets out on a relentless rhythm.

Pulls back with a wet smack to raise his free hand up to your mouth, coated thoroughly with your slick. Pushes three fingers past your lips, thrusting them down your throat, deep enough to make you gag. Your eyes roll back, clenching around his cock as you arch your back, sucking feverishly. 

“That’s it, show me how much you want it.”

And with his fingers still shoved down your throat, he smirks, tugging your head down to meet his gaze.

“Bet he doesn’t fuck you this good, huh?”

The glare you manage to give him as you gurgle around his fingers is just the edge he needs, letting out a loud groan as he snaps his hips into you harder, the sound of skin slapping against skin ringing across the bathroom tiles. 

Your climax arrives with a strangled cry as your eyes squeeze shut, legs trembling as waves of ecstasy crash over you, your core spasming around his cock. 

While you struggle to catch your breath, Ransom’s thrusts become erratic, grunts growing deeper in an all-too-familiar way. He pulls out with a shudder, guiding your left hand between your thighs to wrap around his slick cock. The engagement ring glints under the dim lighting as you stroke him in quick, firm pulses. Ransom hisses, eyes zeroing in on the hand wrapped around him as he finishes with a throaty groan, streaking your inner thigh with his release.  

A soft jangle of his belt as he slides the buckle into place, while you carefully slide off the marble surface, steadying yourself. 

“You still haven’t answered my question, Sunshine. Don’t I deserve to know what kind of loser managed to tie you down?” 

You’re still breathing heavy, light-headed and buzzing, yet you manage to choke out:

“… fuck off, Drysdale, he’s a bigger man than you’ll ever be.”

He lets out a sharp laugh, hand flying up to grab your chin, smearing spit and remnants of your arousal over your lips. 

Gives you a bruising kiss, teeth and all, just because he can.

Pulls back with a wet smack, flashing you a smirk that chills you to the bone.

“Yeah? Is that why I just fucked his fiancée in a country club bathroom?”

Three days later...

“Ransom Drysdale, you’re under arrest for attempted murder of the first degree. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot—“

Ransom’s sharp chuckle interrupts the arresting officer mid-sentence. His gaze snaps over to you, standing in the corner of the living room, arms crossed and watching intently. 

He barks out your name, laced with disdain. 

“You’re a cop? You gotta be shitting me.”

You take slow, deliberate steps toward him as the officer finishes reciting his Miranda rights, yanking Ransom’s balled-up fists into a set of cuffs. Ransom’s not foolish enough to resist, but he squares his shoulders, holding his ground as you approach him. When you’re close enough, he leans in, his voice dropping to a low growl, face inches from yours.

“You slut.” He spits, all nine circles of Hell swirling in his eyes. “You think you can fuck me over like this and get away with it?” 

He huffs out a breath, nostrils flaring. Glances up past your shoulder at Benoit Blanc, standing in the archway of the foyer.

“… this isn’t over. I’ll see all your asses in court. You hear me?”

You tilt your head, eyes gleaming with satisfaction as you glance black at the arresting officer, silently signaling for one last moment. 

“You know, it’s so funny you mention that, Ransom.”

Crimson lips raised into sharp peaks as you smile, taking another step forward.

“Can I share a secret?” You lean in, voice barely a whisper.

“Guess who’s leading the prosecution on your trial?”

You watch as his scowl falters, a flicker of confusion that douses the fire in his gaze.

4 years of shitty undergrad, putting up with entitled assholes like Ransom Drysdale, all so you could graduate at the top of your class and land a full ride to Yale Law. Youngest prosecutor in the state of Massachusetts to hold the title of Attorney General, just freshly appointed last week, and with a perfect record to boot.

Just one look at your first case—a claim filed by Harlan’s home care nurse who suspected foul play, that someone had switched the labels on her med vials, nearly forcing her to administer a fatal dosage—and you knew who had dunnit. 

Pulled a few strings to get on the shortlist for the exclusive country club that Ransom frequented, and a flash of your left hand plus a couple drinks back at his place was all it took. 

Inebriated from the whiskey and drunk off his arrogance—anything for his sweet, innocent ray of sunshine, lapping up tales of his grandiose plans with wide-eyed admiration.

How he had swapped the labels, how he managed to cover his tracks. 

How a damn Brazilian nurse foiled it all with her selfless resolve, getting Harlan to the ER even after administering the correct medication. 

It was everything you needed to build a complete case against him.   

You living out your dreams of being a little trophy wife, sweetheart?

Eat shit, Drysdale.

“So what.” Ransom spits, rolling his eyes, but the mask slips just another inch further.

“You don’t think my lawyers can get me out of this? It’s attempted murder, for fucks sake.”

“Hmm, I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” You step in closer, cocking your head to the side.

“You know, Ran, first-degree attempted murder is punishable for life in prison in Massachusetts.”

Even closer now, his face just inches from yours, breath hot and jagged against your lips. 

“Hire all the fucking lawyers you want — I don’t lose, asshole.”

A silence that feels like forever as his eyes dart furiously between yours, nostrils flaring.

And when he fails to find the familiar submission in your eyes, his smug, devil-may-care bravado is broken with a quick twitch in his brow—a brief flicker of realization, concealed just as quickly under a mask of rage. He lunges forward, looking just about ready to break out of his cuffs and wring both his hands around your neck. The officer yanks back on his arms in warning.

You don’t so much as flinch.

“You vile. fucking. bitch.” He hisses, gritting through his teeth.

“Hmm, takes one to know one.”

You smile, promptly stepping back as the arresting officer hauls Ransom away. 

“You slut! I’m gonna ruin your life, you hear me?” The sound of jangling metal cuffs rings out in the foyer as he’s dragged out of his grandfather's estate, past Blanc who simply sidesteps Ransom’s loud tirade.

“… get the fuck off me!”

“See you in court, Mr. Drysdale!”

You call, waving from the front door of the Thrombey mansion, watching the outline of Ransom’s designer sweater get shoved unceremoniously into the back of a police vehicle. 

Through the tinted windows of the back seat, you catch the glimpse of a man stripped of his mask, a ghost from your past, face twisted in fury and defeat.

“Miss, didn’t nobody tell you that gloatin’s in poor taste?”

A low, southern drawl croons from beside you. 

You flash a smile at Benoit Blanc, who’s watching the police car pull out of the driveway behind a lit cigar, an equally satisfied expression on his face.

“Oh, I think a little gloating may be warranted.”

"Ya know... the way you’ve pieced this all together is mighty impressive. You sure I can't convince you of a career as a private investigator?”

You laugh, watching the police car disappear through the dense woods.

“That’s kind of you, detective, but the courtroom’s where I belong.”

You purse your lips, thumb absentmindedly rubbing against the band on your ring finger. 

“Plus, I… may have cheated my way in a little with this one.”

Blanc shrugs, smiling around his cigar.

“I figured as much, seeing as how you and Mr. Drysdale were on a first-name basis.”

You let out a small sigh, turning to face Blanc as you extend a hand. 

“It’s been a pleasure, detective. Couldn’t have done it without your insight.”

“Oh, the pleasure’s all mine.”

Cigar hanging from his lips, Blanc shakes your hand with a firm grip, before the shiny stone on your finger catches his eye, glinting in the afternoon sun. 

“…that’s a nice ring you got there, ma’am. Must be a lucky fella.”

He flashes you a wink, and you have to fight the urge to smile, realizing why this strange character of a man was heralded as the world’s greatest P.I. 

After Blanc leaves you with a tip of his hat, you take a few steps out into the sprawling yard of the Thrombey mansion, turning around to take in the full view of the estate. 

‘Playing life like a game without consequence…’ 

Harlan’s words echo in your head—one of the many nights you’d stayed over late, helping him finalize manuscripts while Ransom was out partying. 

‘….untill you can't tell the difference between a stage prop and a real knife.’

Lucky you that Ransom couldn’t tell 10-dollar cubic zirconia from a real diamond, either. 

After taking one final glance at the estate, you start your descent down the hill of the Thrombey estate, twisting the ring off your finger and tossing it into the dense shrubbery where it vanishes from view.

“So long, Drysdale.”

A/N: so uhm... this might be the filthiest thing I've ever written? hope you enjoyed the little reveals in the story, had to stay true to the og genre. title credit to fiona apple

[ahollowgrave]

-pokes you gently- so what's it like getting a reading from Selenite and how likely is she to tell you outright when you'll die? For reasons :)

(Mentions of: Bones, Animal Sacrifice below the cut.)

The reading room is small and cramped -- Nite prefers the word ‘close.’ Scarfs dyed hues of blue are draped over the light sources, casting a watery mosaic onto the low ceiling. The smell of incense hangs in the air, hazy. There are no windows and only two doorways; the one you just came through has a fall of fabric serving as its door. As it drapes shut behind you it muffles the waiting room and the city beyond, making the sounds distant and otherworldly.

The center of the room hosts a small, round table with a lip around the edge. Two equally plush chairs face each other over it. Shelves line the walls, each one filled to bursting. Jars of buttons, of coins, of metal shavings, bags of varied materials and sizes, some with drawstrings open and their contents spilling out: dried seeds, teeth, bits of bone. Locks of hair carefully glued and pinned into intricate knots or frames or braids. Bits of rock and brightly gleaming crystals in wide-ranging hues. Feathers and scales and claws of beasts. Not to mention the trinkets; Lockets, charms and their bracelets, rings, keychains, and necklaces fill the empty spots, or their own jars, or hang precariously from the corner of shelves. It is hard to take it all in, truly. As your eyes adjust they find that Nite is already waiting for you. A low, pastel light emits from her hair and in the quiet room, barely audible, you can make out the whirring of her eyes as they focus on you, take you in.

(I talk about bones and animal sacrifice from this point on!!) What happens from here depends so much on the customer and their question! Nite uses bones in her reading in the forms of Osteomancy and Scapulimancy. The former is when one is ‘casting’ with bones and other objects and diving things from the way the objects fall. The latter is divining the future from the markings on the shoulder blade of an animal; often an animal sacrificed in the name of the question asker.

Her strongest, clearest readings are done via Scapulimancy. However, because this involves venturing outside of the safety of S9 most of Selenite’s customers don’t reach for this method. Mostly, hunters or fighters of The Arcadion. Thankfully, if a client truly wants a reading done this way, Obsidian (@iron-sparrow's S9 beauty) is happy to do the perilous part for them. For a fee, of course! Maintenance isn’t cheap, even if being done by your best friend.

So, most of Selenite’s readings are done via Osteomancy.

For reference, Osteomancy heavily features bones (of animals) hence the name! However, a practitioner will mix items of importance in with the bones. Hence all those trinkets! Depending on the client, depending on the question, depending on recent events, and the vibes of the day, Selenite will change out the items in her basket.

Selenite does not wear a regulator anymore and when she realizes a client will meet with death soon she makes a promise -- often just to herself but sometimes directly -- to remember and mourn them. Sometimes she asks for something of theirs on that last meeting and often this gets added to her collection and used when she feels moved too.

Not all her clients are seeking answers related to their death! In fact, few are. But that doesn’t mean Selenite doesn’t know, doesn’t learn.  If they haven’t asked directly she won’t tell them directly! S9 already fears death and grief too much for her taste and she won’t add to it. Truly, this knowledge is a burden and it is not one Selenite seeks to give to lay on her client’s shoulders. Mostly she wants them not to be scared when Death comes.

When asked directly she answers directly.

Thank you for the ask! And your patience in my answering!

[pinksugarscrub]

Heartstrings

Hobie Brown x fem! black cat! reader

Inspired by a post by @undobutton , I'm sorry I can't link it to the story. It's been so long I can't find it. Thank you again!

Word count: 1,162

Part(s): 1, 2, ???

~

Art is a freedom of expression. That’s something that your mother drilled into your head when you were young. Your small fingers littered with paint or covered in clay as you listened to her speech for the umpteenth time.

Before, you hated the constant lessons. English, math, science. All centered around culture and the history of man. It was unbearable until…it wasn’t. Until you saw him. His voice cracking as he sang and his fingers missing every other chord on his borrowed guitar.

That’s when you finally understood what she meant.

Art, is freedom.

-

The streets of Camden were always full of life. The back streets anyway. That’s where Norman Osborn’s authority ended.

Kids running around carefree as music played from a scrapped radio. It always brought a smile to your face.

You greeted everyone you passed briefly. Blending in with the crowd easily as you weaved through the many makeshift homes.

To the government you were outcasts. But this, this was home.

You eyed one home in particular. Freedom fighters laughing as they knocked their glasses together.

Pursing your lips as you bite back a smile as soon as you spot him. His wicks give him away instantly. There were too many people around so for now, Hobie would have to wait.

Tearing your gaze away from the tall punk, you came to an alleyway. Narrow enough that you would have to suck in your breath and position your body to the side to even squeeze through. You grinned at the challenge. With a quiet huff you gracefully scaled the building. Your footsteps silent against the concrete. It was exhilarating.

Rolling to a stop you cause the spray paint cans in your backpack clink together. Your expression only brightened as you quickly tore your bag open. The familiar cat eye shaped goggles you adorned along with a black coat and gloves folded neatly inside.

Gingerly you slip the leather on before fixing the metal studded belt around your waist. Of course, you offset the intense color with a pair of jeans and chucks.

Keeping your identity was a priority. Just like that new Spiderman swinging around the city. He was a sight to behold. If you managed to catch a glimpse of him that is.

You shook your head to pull yourself from the cloud of your imagination. It was time to search for the perfect canvas.

You nodded mostly to yourself as you slid a scarf over your nose. Dropping down with a thud onto an abandoned apartment building as you scoured the skyline.

Not noticing the curious gaze on your back.

-

You popped open a can of fresh paint. The cap clattering to the ground as music blared through the walkman attached to your belt. You took a deep breath as you glanced down at the sketch in your black book.

“Here we go,”you murmur as the hiss of the can echoes through the air. The colors blending together seamlessly as you tapped your foot to the beat.

Normally, you would tag your name into any and every surface you could find. But today, you decided to go the political route. An outline of a young girl appearing on the brick. She was messy, unkept. But bright and bold against the black background.

You wanted your work to embody hope. For a better future, for freedom.

That’s why you had made it this far right? You had to have some purpose as the people closest to you passed on and left the picture of your life.

That’s what you cling to on the days you miss your mother.

You blend out of the confounds of your outline. Flicking open a can of blue paint before shaking it. It was almost impossible to find paint now that the police had caught wind of you and other artists so you had to make this can last.

Your eyes shifted every once and awhile as you kept an eye out for officers. Used to their angry shouts as they tossed objects at you. It was hilarious watching them as they doubled over, gasping for air as you mocked them from above. There was even a device in your bag in case things went south but that day had yet to come.

After what seemed like hours which was actually only a matter of minutes you were met with silence. Your hand lowered as you paused the walkman. Stepping back to critique your work.

There were some errors here and there. Places where you colored in a different color than you had intended and empty spaces but overall, you were happy. Ten minutes below your normal time.

“No expectations?”

You froze at the unfamiliar voice. Gripping the can in between your fingers as you slowly turned to look behind you. And if you were holding your breath before you were sure you had nothing left as you exhaled.

“I think I see what you’re tryin’ to say but-” The loud thud of his boots causes your skin to crawl. By the tone of his voice you assume he has a smile underneath his mask. Possibly even smug. “-be a dear and humor me.”

It takes him not one but two strides before he’s at your side. He’s so nonchalant, hands dug into his pockets as he towers over you. Spiderman. The Spiderman. You feel faint.

“What, cat got your tongue love?” Tilting his head to the side as he chuckles.

You bite your bottom lip, anxiously watching him as you resist the urge to bolt. You did not just steal a new set of supplies only to leave them in the hands of Spiderman. Regardless of how noble he seemed. They were yours. Taken fair and square.

“What’s it to you?” Posture stiff as you eye his form for the hundredth time.

He seemed amused by your response. Head moving back to its original position. He can practically see the cat ears atop your head. Maybe even a tail flicking angrily against the back of your thighs.

“You wound me love.” Shifting his weight so he’s facing you directly. “Thought us rebels had to stick together.”

You purse your lips. Casting a glance to your bag before returning your gaze to him. “Rebels are just as disloyal as cops. Save their own skin if the situation calls for it.”

He scoffs at your threat. It’s cleverly disguised.

“What do you want with me?” Your eyes narrowed beneath your goggles. Beginning to slowly circle him like a predator eyeing its prey. Like a cat ready to crush a nuisance of a spider.

He practically fell over with laughter. Hands on his knees as his body shook.

To anyone else he would seem entirely relaxed. Showing vulnerability to a civilian was natural of course. But you weren’t just some civilian. You weren’t helpless like the rest of Camden.

You were the Black Cat.

You were a wanted woman.

And you were ready to pounce.

[katastronoot]

My part of the art trade with @metallic-scaled-scarf !!

[metallic-scaled-scarf]

Commissions Open!

That's right, I'll be opening up for commissions! I figured there's no better time than the present to try for it, and I'm very excited.

Commission info below, alt text provided.

I'll be using Discord largely to communicate, if you would like to ask about commissions, DM me on Tumblr and we can arrange to talk on Discord.

I'll be using PayPal for payments. Half paid before, half paid after, just for security for myself and the commissioner.

Even if you can't commission, do reblog! Spreading the word helps us artists worlds more than liking and scrolling by.

More examples of my art will be under the cut, if you need to see anything else. I also will link my art blog, @metallic-scaled-scarf-art , if you'd like to scroll through everything I've posted art-wise since I rejoined Tumblr.

[thana-topsy]

WIP Wednesday 7/26/23

Wednesday again already!? I was tagged by @mareenavee and @kookaburra1701 who I'm pretty sure have already read snippets of this, but here you go again some more. (Oh and @skyrim-forever thank you!)

I'll try to tag people that I know aren't already getting bombarded with tags lol. So let's go @throughtrialbyfire @greyborn2 @what-with-you-dear @metallic-scaled-scarf @mongoose-bite @yesjejunus @nientedenada @moriche show me ya wips.

This is from the broader Enthir story I'm now working on, including 100% more backstory.

---

Word count: 1260

Urag was a fixture of the College of Winterhold just as much as the statue of Shalidor himself. When Enthir had first arrived, newly freed from the rigid curriculum of the Imperial University, ripe with enthusiasm and fresh charisma, he’d quickly gotten himself into the old orc’s good graces. In his near fifty year tenure in academia thus far, Enthir had but one rule: always befriend the archivist.   

Of course, Urag ran his Arcanaeum very differently than the stuffy bastards at the Imperial University. Differently from the University of Gwilym, for that matter. And the Synod’s archives weren’t even worth mentioning in comparison to the College of Winterhold’s vast collection, much of which (Enthir later found out) was locked away in some secret archive and put out on rotation. A large chunk of the collection—known colloquially as the Forbidden Archives—could only be accessed if you knew what you were asking for, presented a thesis and outline detailing the nature of your study, and clearly stated your reasons for needing said research materials, all stamped with the Arch-Mage’s seal of approval. 

Or, bypassing all of that, one could attempt to make nice with the librarian. 

“Please?” Enthir was on the tips of his toes as he leaned across the high desk, jutting out his lower lip. “I won’t even take them out of the Arcanaeum. You can hover behind me menacingly while I read, even.”

“Nope. I’m going to need to see your proposed outline,” Urag repeated, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Enthir curled his lips against his teeth and narrowed his eyes. “Well, here’s the thing—I don’t exactly know how to propose anything without knowing whether or not my theory is even feasible.”

“I believe you just described a hypothesis,” Urag said, a shimmer of playfulness behind his gruff expression. “Which would be a great way to start your outline.”   

Enthir smiled thinly before pushing away from the desk and spinning on his heel, expression dropping into a scowl as soon as his back was turned. He sat down at one of the long tables with an audible huff and pulled a scroll from his satchel, all while contemplating what he knew of Urag’s character thus far and the likelihood of the orc accepting a blowjob in exchange for reading material. Something told him it wouldn’t work quite as well as it had at the Synod.

He began to furiously scribble his ‘proposed outline’ with more ink on his quill than necessary, the first sentence’s letters bubbling and blending together in a physical manifestation of his petulance. Soon enough, he’d tricked himself into actually completing the task at hand, lost in his own theories. He blew across the page as he finished, reading it over while he waited for the ink to dry, before rolling it up and marching back over to Urag’s desk. 

“Here,” he said, offering the proposal to Urag with a scowl. 

Urag took it, unfurled the scroll, and proceeded to read the outline at a leisurely pace as Enthir drummed his fingers on the top of the desk. Urag’s eyebrows slowly crept upwards as he read, his eyes darting to Enthir only once while wearing an expression that was hard to parse.  

“Interesting theory,” Urag said at last, rolling the scroll back up and handing it to Enthir. “Bold, even. But it’s missing something.”

Enthir quirked a brow in silent question. 

“The Arch-Mage’s seal.”

“Come on, Urag!” Enthir exclaimed, throwing his arms up. “I don’t have time for this bureaucratic bullshit!” 

“This bureaucratic bullshit, as you call it, is how our collection has survived as long as it has,” Urag all but growled. “You’re a formidable scholar. That much is clear. But you’re not above the rules.”

Enthir hissed through his bared teeth. Final play, he thought, and marched around the desk. Urag managed to look surprised as Enthir rounded the corner and took a knee in front of his chair.

“What–?”

Before Urag could finish his question, Enthir was already pulling the necklace from the satchel on his belt with steady hands. The palm-sized opal charm shone with a brilliant light, almost too bright to look at directly. Enthir glanced up at Urag to find the orc’s expression slack with awe, the multicolor refraction glistening in his dark eyes. 

“Where… did you get that?” 

Enthir allowed himself a sly smile. “I have my connections,” he said, turning the necklace over in his palm, rolling the charm between his fingers like a captured star. “And I have a buyer, but it’s time-sensitive. And this little trinket is not something I’m going to be able to sell to just anyone. Hence the… expeditious nature of my request.”

Enthir saw Urag’s throat bob as he swallowed. “May I?” he asked quietly. 

Enthir hesitated, his fingers tightening around the charm almost unconsciously. But then he smiled. “Sure.”

Urag took the opal from him with the reverence of a temple priest, turning it between his fingers as he continued to stare. He glanced back at Enthir with an expression he, once again, couldn’t quite interpret—it could have been respect, possibly even a hint of being impressed—but there was a nervous pull in the pit of Enthir’s stomach that told him that maybe he’d misjudged. That Urag would confiscate the necklace and report him to the Arch-Mage for possession of Daedric artifacts. 

“You’re dealing in dangerous territory, my friend,” Urag said at last, handing the opal charm back to Enthir. “But I have good news, at least. You don’t need permission to access anything from the archives. One moment.”

Enthir watched Urag push out of his chair and walk away from the desk, disappearing around the bend of the bookshelves. He returned the shining necklace to his satchel and got to his feet, leaning back against the lower edge of the desk with crossed arms. Urag returned several minutes later holding a nondescript tome.

“Here,” he said, setting the book on the lower desk between them, hidden from any possible student that might pass by. The title read: The Knights of the Silver Rose. “Familiar with the order?” 

Enthir just shook his head, leaning in close enough for their shoulders to brush as he flipped open the cover and began to skim the table of contents.

“Group of anti-daedra crusaders. The only thing that makes them stand out from any of the others we’ve gotten over the past few millennia is that they kept records on the artifacts they confiscated, as opposed to outright destroying them. This book is part history, part catalog.” He reached over to turn the page, his hand brushing against Enthir’s, dry and warm. “Here. Page one-seventy-five.”

Enthir let Urag flip to the appropriate page, glancing up at the orc’s face. He wore an expression of concentration—studiousness. Enthir felt a light fluttering beneath his ribs, stirrings of conspiratorial excitement. Not only had Urag recognized the artifact on sight, but he had known the exact book to pull for further information. An obscure one, at that.     

“The Opal Charm of Meridia,” Urag said, tapping the page with a thick finger and looking to Enthir with an air of smug satisfaction. “There you have it.” 

“Thanks,” Enthir muttered, unable to pull his gaze away from Urag’s face. 

“Just say what you want more directly from now on,” Urag said with another smirk, eyes crinkling with amusement. “You’re not in Cyrodiil anymore.” 

Enthir’s expression split into a wide smile, and he clapped a hand against Urag’s broad shoulder. “Urag, my friend, I believe you and I are going to have a very fruitful relationship.”

[bomberqueen17]

acid dyes in squirt bottles

I didn't take great pictures. I thought I had but I'm going back through and I just didn't take the ones I thought I had.

So, to start, I used the bottles you can buy from dharma, because I was ordering stuff from them anyway. I'd also gotten one of their kits on a clearance thing so I had gloves and rubber bands and such to hand.

what photos I have are behind the cut.

[image description: A silk/wool blend scarf, folded in half and also slightly scrunched along its length, lying on top of a slightly crinkled length of aluminum foil, on top of a plastic bag, with the bottoms of a few bottles visible at the top of the frame, and a plastic container with some dye in it and a plastic spoon.]

So here's the only one I photographed in-progress. It's a scarf, about eight by 32 inches or so? To the left it's pale yellow, then it's orange, then red, then fuschia, and then black at the far left end.

I had four bottles, so I had yellow, red, fuschia, and black in the bottles by this point. But I had two different colors of yellow dye, and I wanted a very pale color on the extreme end of this one. So I mixed up some of the pale-pale yellow in a plastic takeout soup container and dabbed it on with a spoon. I kept the right end of the scarf slightly elevated, so none of the darker dyes would run along under the underside of the scarf into that yellow section.

I've found that squirting two colors next to each other doesn't blend them very smoothly-- which is an effect to play with, but. I wanted a gradation, so I experimented, and smooshing the scarf around with a spoon carefully can do it, but the thing i settled on for this one was putting a lot of yellow and a tiny bit of red from the squirt bottles into another plastic soup container and then applying drops of that mixture with a spoon in the middle where I wanted them to meet, to get a better orange. (My motivation was partly that the intended recipient of this scarf loves orange, so ymmv with this technique.)

I did do one scarf where I did not attempt to blend colors but squirted them as standalones. I'd done a tub-dye in a pot on the stove of a brilliant blue, and I'd done some shibori-tyeing of scarves in that bath earlier, and they were out and drying while I did this. one of them, i'd tied far too well, and it had large expanses of white and then some very dark blue banding, and I decided that was too much white left for me. So I took that one and overdyed it with the squirt bottles, in all the white areas, in random splotches. To get green for this I did just get the tiniest amount of green dye powder and mix it up in a soup container and apply it with a spoon, because I did not have another squirt bottle.

[image description: here's that scarf, after steaming and drying but before ironing. An expanse of wrinkled silk fabric lying atop a metal drying rack is mottled with dark blue, and then is softly colored in splotches of pink, yellowish-green, green, and purple.]

A bit gaudy but kind of cool, I'm giving it as a gift to a preteen girl whose wardrobe I think it will compliment, but would have worn it myself. Couldn't get a pure yellow because the white areas had backstained pale blue in the rinsing, but the sort of violent chartreuse here is fun.

The black dried to a purplish-gray color, so next time I should do actual math on the dye amounts. I do own a kitchen scale and had intended to use it to weigh the fiber and the powder, like the tutorials say to do, but *jazz hands* my kitchen is tore upppp and everything I own is in boxes, so where that scale ended up the sweet lord only knows and I will find out before I do my next batch of this.

(the reader can swap in whatever entity they prefer for "the sweet lord" because i am actually not specifying, I don't want to know what kind of entity is tracking the belongings nominally in my possession because obviously they are not on speaking terms with me and won't tell me where any of that stuff is no matter how nicely and desperately I've implored, over the years, so I just assume we're not friends. I will reciprocate the disinterest, politely, as that seems wisest.)

And finally, for a bonus shot, here's a shibori-dyed silk/wook scarf I'm *very* pleased with, which I achieved using the blocks of wood the kit came with, accordion-folded it between and rubber-banded around it, simmered it in the acid dye according to directions, and then rinsed it. It was originally a really striking white in the excluded patches, but one of the other scarves it was rinsed with had a lot of excess dye still in it, so it backstained the white of this scarf, which I actually prefer somewhat.

[image description: a length of fabric, translucent, stretched over a drying rack. It is a dark navy blue with big splotchy white shapes connected by wiggly strings of white.]

The blue dyebath, I hadn't measured the pigment into and it had way too much. So I came back the next day and threw in some habotai yardage, loosely gathered and folded and then rubberbanded along its length, and then I had a wool/nylon dress that had become stained so I threw it in too, scrunching and rubberbanding it because I knew it wouldn't dye evenly. (There was already some acid in the dyebath from the previous use, which I think encourages it to strike fast, that's why they have you put the item in and simmer it a little before adding the acid? this is something I've surmised, so I might be wrong, but I just felt like I wasn't going to get a good solid color from this bath so I'd better tie-dye on purpose and hope for a cool accidental result.)

I was busy, so I turned the heat off after half an hour and let the goods sit in the bath until it went cold, and when I went to pour it out, the dyebath was completely, entirely, one hundred percent clear, clearer than the previous day's rinse water.

The yardage came out glorious:

[image description: my mother-out-law's immaculate basement (trust me, it really is) bisected by a slightly translucent length of silk habotai, gently mottled in deep blue and white, hanging from the laundry line in gentle folds.]

I might buy another batch of scarves, I have a ton of stuff I need to do fiber-reactive dyes on but I have the fever and want to get better at silk scarves.

But I have. So many muslins I have made out of real cotton muslin, and I can't really wear them until I've made them be some other color. So.

[ego-osbourne]

Sam Guevenne Robes Remaster

//click for better image quality//

A he! With fun new robes!

I know the whole point of Sanguine’s mortal disguise is to look like your most Average Guy Ever™, but that does not excuse his lack of fashion in-game. My main goal was to make him more colorful. And with some painful torture help from the cult server, we came out with a p solid design!

Also! The wine glass! I’d always had the idea in mind that the Sanguine Rose could shift into a few different forms, but uddy pal @metallic-scaled-scarf came up with the great idea for one of those forms to be a rose-shaped wine glass that holds an infinite amount of whatever liquid you put in there. They also helped greatly with the design for the glass!

[mellowscrolls]

I’ll bite! Tell me about your Dragon Cult headcanons :0

Okay! Dear God, let me go find my notes spread over like ten different documents (exaggeration)!

Alright, so starting off, I'm going to throw in a disclaimer that this is lore built off of Metallic and Liches' works and headcanons all given a new coat of varnish as I scoot my plagiarism ray out of frame. I'm going to throw it under a read more for clarity and the sake of everyone.

TW for manipulation, cults, mutilation (non-graphic)

Starting with the ancient hierarchy, I have it go somewhere like: Alduin > High Ranking Dovah > Konahriik > High Rank Dov's Ruling Priest > Low Ranking Dovah > Their Ruling Priest > Wooden Masks > Acolytes (unmasked) > Divines Clergy > Everyone Else. Technically Akatosh/Bormahu was supposed to be/was advertised as the top of that chain, but that didn't work out so much in practice.

Within the cult itself were a few key customs. Let's start with the masked priests.

Dov have one masked priest each to handle the politics and mortal affairs of their Junaar (kingdom). These masks are made of precious metal or material and can be made custom to the specifications of the dov who requires them. There is one Masked Priest per dovah who earns one, and that internal hierarchy amongst the dragons means that your status and what you are in charge of may change very frequently depending on your dragon's social standing.

It is a great honor and a great burden to be chosen for the role of a Named Masked priest. Masked priests are given names by their dovah, usually approved by Alduin, in a naming ceremony that erases their mortal name from living and recorded memory. Only the dov bestowing the new name may remember the old, and to keep a copy of the name in physical form is considered a great insult.

In preparation for a naming ceremony, priests are usually imbued with "blessings" by being carved with (or even forced themselves to carve) Words of Power into their skin, which are then imbued with power and bound to the priest-to-be's soul by their dovah. These enchantments are binding to the soul in a way that can either slightly shift their personality to favor the nature of the word or can make them a completely different person, at their dovahthuri's discretion. These blessings are extremely hard to sunder and cannot be harmed by the person they are upon unless directly ordered by their dovah or Alduin. (Most of the carving part of the headcanon was pioneered by @metallic-scaled-scarf with Nonvul, go check them out)

Under the Masked priest within their own Junaar was usually a group of attendants ranging in number from about 3-5. They are the Wooden Priests, wearing wooden masks in the style of their Priest, symbolizing their un-named and un-blessed status. They were not allowed to speak, but were usually able to communicate telepathically as a sort of hivemind while still maintaining most of their original personality. Masked Priests were always chosen from their predecessor's pool of Wooden Priests, so there was a long-term competitive nature usually fostered within their little group. Any Clergy below the Masked and Wooden Priests went without a facial covering and could communicate freely. When converging in Bromjunaar for moots, the Masked Named priests would trade their masks for wooden ones to hear the words of Konahriik, as both a gesture symbolizing equality as well as silence before the words of the Mouthpiece of Alduin.

In global politics, mer were much more unlikely to ever make it to the rank of Masked Priest, with the Falmer treated as slaves and prisoners of conquest while the Ayleids and Chimer were treated as highly tenuous allies at best. Dragons did not usually care for their priests so much as use them as tools of communication and politick. A Masked Priest was very regularly simply a new game of chess to start with the other Dov as one would vie for another's power, land, or status.

As for individual Headcanons, or how I write my dragon priests, I will make another post in the near future.

[linda-likes-to-draw]

🏴‍☠️SHIPS AHOY!🏴‍☠️

Featuring the Salt In The Wound crew!

Velehk Sain, Scuttle and Ego by @ego-osbourne

Rhytma by @inkhajiitswetrust

Kynreeveby @the-troll-of-the-bridge

Heracles by @mellowscrolls

Diana, Luce by @bostoniangirl21

Calamity by @metallic-scaled-scarf

Lorelei by @liches-covered-in-lich

Landlubber, Capsize by @bforblitz

Morale by @kiir-do-faal-rahhe

OK YEETS THIS IN YALL FACES BAIIII

[eveandtheturtles]

Not Yet

I'm supposed to finish Massage smut for Leo and Gym Buddies Spicy Epilogue for Raph but no, have this instead lol. Hope y'all enjoy

Rating: M, BUT no kids allowed, pwp, we getting kinky - light bondage (the tort is the one tied up).

Pairing: Reader x Turtle of Choice

Anyone knows Bitter:sweet - Drink you Sober ? Great song I tell ya. I had a break writing smut so I hope I'm not too rusty.

Tagging: @madammuffins @turtle-babe83 @thelaundrybitch @pheradream15 @dilucsflame33 @sharpwindow

(lemme know if anyone else wants in on the tag train! also I'm looking for Beta Reader to help me with my Started with a Kiss fic, at least help me out with chapter 4, hmu if you know someone or want to help yourself it be super appreciated)

Your fingers slid down slowly, tracing the grooves and ridges of his plastron. The gentle slopes and rough patches. The cracks and healed scars. You listened to the hitch in his breathing, the willpower of keeping his exhales steady and the threat of a moan at the back of his throat.

The ropes held him well. His eyes fixed on you. He was a good boy.

You bit into his thigh, scraping your teeth over the firm muscles and scales. The cage held his excitement at bay. This was the longest he wore one. You enjoyed the teasing and the pleading in his eyes. The power and responsibility. Give him so much pleasure he can't think of anything else.

Your fingers travelled over the sensitive spots on his body. He twitched and strained against the bonds. You grinned. There was something intoxicating about it. This warrior, proud and powerful, falling apart at your hands.

You licked your lips and gently nibbled the neck just under his jaw. Your nails scraped over the delicate skin closer to where it'd join with the shell and a gasp erupted from his mouth. You knew he wanted to touch you, ravish you as his control was slipping. Good. You wanted him unrestrained, unhinged the second the bonds would snap. This was your little game.

"Please," you heard him rasp out. Needy.

"Shh, not yet," you whispered back and kissed him softly. "Not. Yet."

From the night stand you picked metal finger-claws. Blunt at the tips but with more force then your human nails. Then you dragged them down his plastron.

He gritted his teeth, stopping a moan from breaking through. You smiled and peppered few kisses over the marks. Then you did it again. His hips bucked. Another run down and he chocked a little.

Your hips swayed in his lap, feeling the metal of his cage. You were close to giving in. You let out a breath, not yet. But you could give you both a treat.

You slipped over to his face. You traced over his beak, mouth and chin with the tip of the claw. Lovingly. Then you pried his mouth open. He gave in easily.

He was so good to you. That tongue of his working magic. Your back stretched and arched as you gave him easier access. It was your time to fall to pieces. He knew just how to make you climb that high. Eager to please. Eager to feel your come on his face. But it wasn't about you tonight. You had to exercise your own restrain and remove yourself from his talented mouth.

You reached around your neck and removed a small key from a thin chain. You delighted in the roar of relief as you unlocked the cage.

Proud and ready. He was pulsing before you. Soaking himself in the precum. Tempting.

"Hmm~" You rubbed a metal clad knuckle over the shaft and he inhaled sharply.

You tsked. "Remember, not until I say so," you said and he nodded, licking his lips.

You rubbed just under the head between your fingers, then licked over his opening. His mouth was open, barely controling his breathing. You removed claws from one hand and got a soft, satin scarf you softly wrapped and rubbed over him. You alternated between the gentleness and softness of the fabric and the cold and hardness of the claws watching him closely.

He twitched, head on the pillows was trashing back and forth. His cheeks puffed with each barely held up moan.

"It's okay, make some more noise," you allowed him and lowered your mouth.

The moan he let out as you sucked hard on him was probably heard above ground. Your head bobbed as he repeated your name over and over, mixed with curses and pleas. You helped yourself with your hands, squeezing his shaft that would just not fit in you.

He was so hot being so vulnerable. So yours. You pulled back your head and enjoyed the deep growl of protest. You tsked again and he whined. You gave him a second to calm down. The final object you took was lube then mounted him properly.

Slipping him inside you was always an experience. He stretched you in all the ways no one else could. The grith, the size... You always took a few pumps in and out and lots of lube to fit him in. Your terrapin cried out. His eyes rolled back. The ropes creaked but didn't break. Not yet.

You started to move. Slow pace to drive him further into frenzy. Your hands rested on his plastron as your hips worked. Your eyes locked and you both moaned. The wet sound of your bodies together, the great ninja under you- you made him submit to you so easily. You. It was bringing you closer to the edge. Then it happened.

The bonds finally snapped. Your world spun and you were under him. Getting pounded all the way to Sunday. The bed protested under you.

His hands locked your wrists above your head and your knees almost pressed to your torso. He hammered into you just as you wanted. Pushing all the air out of your lungs and all the thoughts from your mind.

Even then you could hear him: "P-please-, please! now?" He hissed through his teeth.

"Not yet! Not yet!" You cried out. You dig into the sheets almost ripping them in half, until- "NOW!"

It hit you both like an aftershock of an explosion. He burts inside you and you locked onto him tight. Both yelling to the skies, melted together, almost one person.

Then you both fell slack, motionless. Minds empty, bodies too spent to afford even a twitch. Only on instinct he avoided crushing you. He scooped you close and you snuggled together.

There were no words as you gazed at each other, pure bliss and love between you. Finally.