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Woo! I’ll take a look for before I post Slither <3

My story is posted! “Naughty and Nice” Tags: 3Plus, Anal, Anthro, F/F, Inc, M/F, Oral Summary: Final story in the trilogy that began with “The Ninth Reindeer” and continued with “Checking It Twice” The mysterious hacker again threatens to ruin Christmas, and this time, Rudy is in no condition to save it. IB, I took the liberty of adding a link to the story collection in the top post.

Let’s all raise a toast to our brilliant @BronxWench on her birthday. Happy birthday, and may they be many more.

Happy Birthday, love

Take their aesthetic and go from there. For example, Bob Bob is a necromancer. Fantasy- The man before you clutches a staff made of a spinal column, His robes are black and his jewelry all have bones or skulls he attended by two skeletons one of whom is carrying a silver platter and the other is infront of him protectively Urban Fantasy- This man is unaware of your arrival. His boots are covered in dirt as he toils adding components best left unmentioned as he repairs his skeletal motorcycle from the excavated coffins around him. A despondent moan issues from the coffins as one by one they all uprose. His focus is entirely on his task of repairing his damaged cycle. His chaps and thick black leather jackets makes you think he’s a biker or some sort. He stands up ramrod straight suddenly as his ruby necklace flashes and then he turns. The ruby holding within it a fiery baleful eye. “ You’’ll do nicely.” Cyberpunk- There was crashing on the door as broken servos whirled in futility. “I know you are in there!” You turned frightened as the dead monitors one by flicker on despite being cannibalized for parts. “Do not attempt to adjust your television” The man’s voice snarked. Dead pale hands plunge through the old monitor and clasp the edges of the screen and then something. No! someone came through. A seamless transition of digital to physical. Brilliant white tattoos thrummed with vigor as the man pulled himself free. His skeletal markings pulsing in-time with with your heartbeat. Old jeans ripped and torn expose more of those garishly white bone tattoos. His t-shirt barely showcasing some ancient vintage band “Don’t worry Corpo scum. I’m sure, I’ll find a use for you… One way or another.” Space Fantasy- “Oh thank god.” Came a tired but relieved voice. You stir softly as the cyrogel disperses and is absorbed back into the capsule. You take a moment to look around. This was not the world promised in the brochure. Your capsule slowly opens and the faint stench death assault your lungs. There is a nervous employee with a holographic badge proudly displaying ‘BOB’ With a smiling emoji. “Holy shit, you’re dead!” You gasp in astonishment. “Mostly dead, Also means slightly alive and with the forbidden art the difference in degrees is staunchly important!” You shiver at the corpse, because that’s exactly what he was. Half his face was torn completely off revealing smooth bone and a rictus grin. “Mom always was worried that the cyrogenics capsule wouldn’t work so she fret until I was competent enough to master death. That’s neither here nor there.Right now I need you to vacate to level three if you please!” You look around the generational ship that was deathly quiet. “Where is everyone?” The employee looked agitated. “Okay, brief version and you really need to get to level three. Something hit the ship, everyone on this level is dead except for you… and we’re not alone.” A corpse smashes into your capsule wetly. Midwest/ Antebellum Fantasy- At first you were hesitant about the hired help. Yet, there they were skeletons dutifully holding out your corset, petticoats and even your hoopskirt. The moment you got out of bed and relieved yourself. They diligently helped you into your day clothes with nary a complaint. The dead maybe could be more useful than merely rotting inthe ground. There was a knock at the door and there was your favorite yank. Bob in his dark blues saber and revolver on his hip. You could feel death pulsing off the immaculately groomed pistol. “Time to go Miss!” WW2 – From the constant bombardment, the omnipresence of the artillery and the cries of the wounded and the dying. Winter had come and with it hell itself. They’d understand they all would. You just wanted to visit a random-city in Europe. You look at yourself in the mirror and try to ignore the haggard and haunted look upon your face. Your clothes shredded yet still somehow providing relief from the bitter chill. They all look at you with vacant eyes. You refused to die here… And they were all dead anyway. Just a few more days… Right? Then you could get rations again and then you could stop… You try to rub off the dead blood staining your lips, your cheeks. Tears streamed silently down your reflection and like scavenging wolves they scrambled to hug you. Your emerald ring throbbed and part of you wants to take it off. Death would be quick as you are torn apart yet you don’t. “Just a few more days. Bob!” The dead are not warm and there is no comfort. I look at fashion throughout the ages and try to mix and match. Sometimes it doesn’t work but when it does *chef kiss*