#who use their pelts to transform

[the-thing-inside-your-closet]

Danny and Ellie are forced to flee Amity Park. And find themselves in Coast City.

I started writing this with the intention of only writing a short prompt, but then I just kept going until I felt like I’d written enough.

Danny gets caught up in yet another fight with Skulker, only this time it wasn’t because Skulker had come for Danny. No. He’d come for Ellie. And she was already weak from fleeing the GIW who had shot at her the moment she arrived in Amity Park.

Whether Skulker is after Ellie for Vlad, or because he wants her pelt can be up to you.

Either way, he manages to beat Skulker and captures him in the thermos. Just as he lets out a long sigh of relief he hears the sound of an ecto-gun being fired and then his side is burning and he’s falling. He’s falling too fast and it hurts and he can’t stop-

Danny guys the ground hard. His head is spinning, his skin feels like it’s burning, and he can hear the stomping of feet as someone runs towards him.

He needs to get up. He needs to get away. Find Ellie and make sure she’s safe. He’s needs to MOVE- but he can’t. Black spots for his vision as he manages to stand up and his eyes meet the end of his mother’s gun.

Before anyone can speak, he’s falling again, handing face first in the dirt. And the familiar feeling of de-transforming washes over him.

The last thing he hears before loosing consciousness is the grief stricken sound of his parent’s voice as three voices shout in unison.

“OH MY GOD DANNY!”

“DANNY ARE YOU OKAY?!”

“NO, GET AWAY FROM HIM!”

When Danny wakes up again, he’s in his room, the curtains are drawn but he can see the sliver of sunlight pouring in through the gap underneath. He notes that his body aches, but not as much as usual after a fight like that. And there’s a warmth enveloping his hand. It’s soothing, and he almost considers going back to sleep when he notices that there’s a ghost in the room. And all too fast he’s sitting up and staring into the exhausted, red, puffy eyes of his mother looking back at him from where she’s sitting holding his hand in hers.

Just behind her he sees Ellie floating just above the ground talking quietly with his dad.

“Danny,” his mother’s voice draws his attention along with Jack and Ellie’s. “How are you feeling, sweetheart? Are you in any pain?”

He didn’t notice when she’d helped him to lay back down again. “Do you need anything? Ellie here was just telling us about how regular pain medication doesn’t work as well for the two of you. But I’m sure we could find something for you that might-”

“Mom,” Danny rasps. Man his throat was dry.

As if reading him mind Ellie appears by his mother’s side holding out a glass of water with a straw in it. Maddie helps Danny to sit up a little more so he can drink.

“Mom,” he tries again, sounding better this time, “I’m okay. I promise. It’s not that bad!” He starts to lie as the panic sets in. He de-transformed in front of them. He knows he did. And the fear shows on his face, it must, because before he can even begin trying to think up an excuse his mother is crying.

“Oh Danny, it’s okay. We know. And we’re not angry at you. We love you. So much.”

And Danny’s heart swells at hearing it. “You don’t hate me for being Phantom?” He asks quietly.

“No! We could never hate you Dann-o!” His dad’s cheery tone doesn’t disguise the sadness and guilt etched into his face. “We’re just…so sorry that we never noticed before. And that we…” he can’t finish his sentence but he doesn’t need to. Danny already knows what he’s apologise for.

“I’m okay. I promise. I heal fast!” Danny tied to reassure them.

It seems to help a little, though his parents still have a grim look in their eyes. As they make connections in just how Danny would know that about himself.

And Ellie, with perfect timing to cut the tension, announces happily, “Danny! Good news! Your parents said I could stay with you!”

Ellie had told his parents while Danny was unconscious about being his clone. She saw how they fretted over Danny, cleaning and dressing his injuries with the love and care she only imagined from a parent that truly loves you. And they had accepted her almost right away. Jack even crying as he proudly declared himself a father of three.

Jack soon excused himself, saying he’ll go see if Jazz needs any help with cooking lunch. Danny and his mother share a look, and with a final kiss to his head says she’ll go make sure nothing gets brought back to life. And she asks Ellie to please make sure Danny stays in bed and rests.

Danny and Ellie are left alone in his room, and it gives Danny the chance to really revel in everything. His parents accept him. They love him, both sides of him. And they accepted Ellie too! And said she can stay! She doesn’t have to be alone anymore.

Now, a lot can happen in the span of a few seconds, let alone minutes. In the time it took for Maddie to reach the kitchen, their front door was kicked down and a group of GIW agents had stormed in demanding they hand over the ectoplasmic scum they were harbouring.

Jack and Maddie drew their weapons and planted themselves directly in front of the GIW agents. The agents state that a ghost shield was put up around the house to prevent any ghosts from escaping, and by law any ghosts within the premises were ti be handed over for destruction immediately. Jazz runs upstairs to Danny’s room to warn them that the GIW were inside the house and that they needed to run. They need to get to the portal NOW.

With all the authority of an older sister Jazz tells Ellie to grab the go bag Danny had insisted on having prepared, and picks Danny up despite his protests that he could walk. Or well, fly. Ellie turns them all invisible and intangible and takes them down to the lab.

They can hear the sound of shouting, and something breaking and a gun being fired all coming from upstairs as Jazz opens the portal for Danny and Ellie.

Another shot rings out. And then another, and more shouting.

“Quickly you two need to go!”

Another shot.

“Aren’t you coming with us?” Danny, now Phantom, asks suddenly as he and Ellie are preparing to enter the Ghost Zone.

Two more shots.

“Someone needs to be here to deactivate the portal in case the guys in white make it down here. I’ll be fine. Mom and dad will be okay, they’re not here for us so you two need to go. Now!” There’s banging on the lab’s door and Jazz shoves both Danny and Ellie into the portal. The last thing Danny hears before the portal closes behind them is another shot being fired.

Danny is scared and angry as he and Ellie are forced to fly through the zone with no currently known way to get back to his family. He needs to make sure they’re okay. He needs to protect them.

But right now Danny is still hurt, and he needs to get himself and Ellie somewhere safe. They begin to slowly make their way through the zone, looking for somewhere to rest and avoiding any ghosts that might want to pick a fight.

Ellie isn’t sure how long she and Danny have been moving for. It feels like it could have been days, or hours, or even minutes. But Danny can’t fly as quickly right now. He’s trying to keep a brave face for Ellie’s sake but she can see the exhaustion beginning to take hold of him.

So Ellie makes the executive decision to touch down somewhere to rest. She tells Danny she’s tired. Danny knows she isn’t and it’s only because she’s worried and wants him to rest. So he goes along with it and they make their way to the next floating island they come across and thank the ancients it’s empty. The two halfas touch down and Danny slumps over as he sits against a nearby rock. Ellie pulls out some energy bars that were tucked away in the go bag and hands one over to Danny.

They do this a few times, stopping to rest, as they gradually make their way to the Far Frozen. Ellie had insisted on going there, Frostbite would know what to do, and he would be able to help Danny with his injuries that had started bleeding again in all the commotion of escaping, and then flying and hiding from ghosts known to attack Danny regularly.

But unfortunately luck is not on their side yet again as a natural portal rips open directly in front of them, and closes behind them after spitting them out in a city they didn’t recognise.

That’s how Danny and Ellie find themselves in Coast City, hiding out in an old warehouse by the docs while Danny heals and they figure out how they’re going to get back home.

That is, until now.

Danny stares up at his little sister and sighs with the resigned tone of an exasperated older sibling.

“Ellie,” he takes a breath, “what did you do?”

“I’m my defence,” Ellie glares up at Green Lantern, who has Ellie scruffed by the back of her hoodie, before looking back at Danny, “I simply do not vibe with the law.”

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Ideas Lying Around

I'm on a 20+ city book tour for my new novel PICKS AND SHOVELS. Catch me in DC TOMORROW (Mar 4), and in RICHMOND on WEDNESDAY (Mar 5). More tour dates here. Mail-order signed copies from LA's Diesel Books.

I get a special pleasure from citing Milton Friedman. I like to imagine that as I do, he groans around the red-hot spit protruding from his jaws, prompting howls of laughter from the demons who pelt him with molten faeces for all eternity.

If you're lucky enough not to know about Friedman, here's the short version. Friedman was a kind of court sorcerer to Ronald Reagan, Margaret Thatcher, Augusto Pinochet, and other assorted authoritarian, hard-right leaders who set us on the path to the hellscape we inhabit today. But before Friedman rose to prominence and influence, he was a crank. Specifically, he was a crank who dedicated his life to rolling back all the progress of the New Deal and re-establishing the Gilded Age:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/06/the-end-of-the-road-to-serfdom/

In his crank days, people were justifiably skeptical of this project. "Milton," they'd say, "people like New Deal programs. They like the minimum wage, the 40-hour work-week, and the assurance that they won't be maimed, poisoned, burned alive, or otherwise killed on the job. They relish a dignified retirement, quality education for their children, and the assurance that no one is starving to death in their country's borders. People like national parks! They like Medicare! They like libraries, museums, and reliable weather forecasts! How, Milton, do you propose to convince the vast majority of people that they should settle for being forelock-tugging plebs, groveling before their social betters for the chance to scrub their toilets?"

Friedman had an answer: "In times of crisis, ideas can move from the fringe to the center in an eyeblink. Our job is to keep good ideas lying around, in anticipation of that crisis."

When the oil crisis hit, when prices spiked in the USA and abroad, Friedman seized his opportunity. The years following the oil crisis saw a violent political revolution in which organized labor, social justice movements, and the political opposition to oligarchy were crushed under police batons and the guns of Pinochet's thugs. The world was transformed. Left parties like UK Labour were remade as austerity-pilled neoliberals (not for nothing did Margaret Thatcher call Tony Blair "her greatest accomplishment," and it took Bill Clinton to pass a welfare "reform" bill that was too extreme even for Reagan to get through Congress).

Friedman was a monster.

But.

He had a hell of a theory of change.

When prices spiral, when people can't pay their bills anymore, when their retirement savings are wiped out, anything is possible. The oil crisis wasn't Jimmy Carter's fault, but the voters still delivered a Ba'ath Party-style Republican majority in 1980. The covid shocks weren't the fault of the world governments that presided over pandemic inflation, but they were creamed in the ensuing elections.

Let's talk about Trump's tariffs here. Trump's goal is to force a re-shoring of the American industrial capacity that was shipped to low-wage, low-regulation corporate havens around the world after the Reagan revolution. The pandemic provided a vivid lesson about the problems with long, brittle supply chains where all the slack has been extracted and converted to dividends and stock buybacks. That kind of system may work well – at least to the extent that it keeps Walmart's shelves full of cheap goods – but holy shit did it ever fail badly. Re-shoring is a good idea, as are other forms of pro-resiliency industrial policy.

But re-shoring doesn't happen overnight. As we saw during China's covid lockdowns, when one supplier ceases to ship goods, other suppliers can't spring up overnight to take up the slack. China itself became a manufacturing powerhouse thanks to extensive state support and planning, and it took decades. That kind of patient, long-run, planned process is the best-case scenario (and it still caused wrenching dislocations to Chinese society). Simply throwing up tariff walls and demanding that industry figure it out – amid the resulting economic chaos and the political instability it brings – isn't a plan, it's a disaster.

Redistributing the means of production around the world is a necessary and urgent project, but it won't be advanced through Trump's rapid, unscheduled mid-air disassembly of the global system of trade. Tariffs will cause breakdowns in neoliberalism's fragile supply chains, and the ensuing chaos – mass unemployment, shortages, political rage – will make it even harder for countries (including the USA) to rebuild the productive capacity vaporized by 40 years of neoliberalism.

This is our oil crisis, in other worlds: a moment in which a belligerent superpower's ill-considered monkeying with the underpinnings of global production will cause chaos, the crisis in which "ideas can move from the periphery to the center" in an eyeblink. If Steve Bannon can call himself a Leninist, then leftists can call themselves Friedmanites. This is our opportunity.

Or rather, it's our opportunity to seize – or lose. Governments are defaulting to retaliatory tariffs as the best response to Trump's tariffs. This is political poison: making everything your country imports from the USA more expensive is a very weird way to punish America for its trade war. Remember the glaring lesson of pandemic inflation: a government that presides over rising prices will be destroyed by the electorate.

There's a much better alternative, one that strikes at the very roots of American oligarchy, whose extreme wealth and corrosive political influence comes from its holdings in rent-extracting monopolies, especially Big Tech monopolies.

Tech giants are the major factor in US economic health. Take Big Tech stocks out of the S&P 500 and you've got a stagnant market punctuated by periods of decline. Superficially, US tech companies have different sources of extraordinary profit, but a closer look reveals that they all share the same foundation: Big Tech makes the bulk of its money in the form of monopoly rents, backstopped by global IP treaties.

Apple and Google take a 30% cut of every dollar spent in an app, and it's a felony to jailbreak a phone to make a new app store with the industry standard 1-3% transaction fees. Google and Meta take 51% out of every ad dollar, and publishers and advertisers are locked into their ecosystems by abusive contracts and technological countermeasures. HP charges $10,000/gallon for the colored water you put in your printer, and third-party ink and refills violate the anti-circumvention laws the US has crammed down the throats of every country's legislature. Tesla makes its fattest margins by renting you features that are installed in your car at the factory, from autopilot to the ability to use your battery's whole charge, raking in monthly fees from you and anyone you sell your car to – and the reason your mechanic can't just permanently unlock all that DLC for $50 is the IP laws that your country agreed to enforce in order to trade with the USA. Mechanics pay $10k/year per manufacturer for the tools to interpret the error codes generated by your car, and the only reason no one is selling a $50/month universal diagnostic service is – once again – US-originated IP laws that came in a parcel with trade agreements that gave your country's exporters access to US markets. Farmers pay John Deere $200 every time they fix their own tractors, because the repairs won't work until a technician comes out and types an unlock code into the tractor's keyboard – and bypassing that unlock code is a crime under the laws passed to comply with international treaties.

These aren't profits – they're rents. It's money Big Tech gets from owning a factor of production, not money it gets from actually making something. The app maker takes all the risks, but Apple and Google cream off 30% of their gross income. Big Tech's profits are almost an afterthought when compared to its rents, the junk-fee platform fees and farcically expensive consumables. For tech firms, capitalism was a transitional phase between feudalism…and technofeudalism:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/28/cloudalists/#cloud-capital

America's robust GDP figures are a mirage, artificially buoyed up by the monopoly rents extracted by US Big Tech, who prey on Americans and foreigners:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/02/18/pikettys-productivity/#reaganomics-revenge

But foreigners don't have to tolerate this nonsense. Governments around the world signed up to protect giant American companies from small domestic competitors (from local app stores – for phones, games consoles, and IoT gadgets – to local printer cartridge remanufacturers) on the promise of tariff-free access to US markets. With Trump imposing tariffs will-ye or nill-ye on America's trading partners large and small, there is no reason to go on delivering rents to US Big Tech.

The first country or bloc (hi there, EU!) to do this will have a giant first-mover advantage, and could become a global export powerhouse, dominating the lucrative markets for tools that strike at the highest-margin lines of business of the most profitable companies in the history of the human race. Like Jeff Bezos told the publishers: "your margin is my opportunity":

https://www.marketplacepulse.com/articles/the-cost-of-your-margin-is-my-opportunity

In times of crisis, ideas can move from the periphery to the center in an eyeblink. Many of us have spent decades organizing and mobilizing against these extractive, dangerous, destabilizing abuses of technology, where the computer-powered devices we rely on for everything are designed to serve their manufacturers' shareholders, at our expense. And yet, these technologies have only proliferated, infecting everything from insulin pumps and ventilators to coffee makers and "smart" TVs.

It's time for a global race to the top – for countries to compete with one another to see who will capture US Big Tech's margins the fastest and most aggressively. Not only will this make things cheaper for everyone else in the world – it'll also make things cheaper for Americans, because once there is a global, profitable trade in software that jailbreaks your Big Tech devices and services, it will surely leak across the US border. Canada doesn't have to confine itself to selling reasonably priced pharmaceuticals to beleaguered Americans – it can also set up a brisk trade in the tools of technological self-determination and liberation from Big Tech bondage.

Taking the margins for Big Tech's most profitable enterprises to zero, globally, will strike at the very heart of American oligarchy, and the hundreds of millions tech giants flushed into the political system to put Trump into office again. A race to the top for technological liberation benefits everyone – including Americans.

Truly, it would be a rising tide that lifted all boats (except for oligarchs' superyachts - those, it will swamp and sink).

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/03/03/friedmanite/#oil-crisis-two-point-oh

[beloveds-embrace]

PLEASE,….,, im begging you give me a break from the duchy au angst PLEASE GIVE ME SOME FLUFF

We all need a break 🙂‍↕️ here you go, anon! 💗

Dukedom au masterlist (not yet fully updated)

The first snow of the season finally fell and blanketed the grounds of Price manor, transforming the estate into a true winter wonderland. You stood by the frosted window in the sitting room, wrapped in a warm shawl, watching the flurry outside with a soft smile. The warmth of the fire behind you offered a comforting contrast to the icy world beyond the glass panes, the crackle of burning wood a soothing ambience that eased the mind.

It was a rare moment of stillness in the manor, with no pressing duties or social engagements demanding your attention. Your fingers traced absent patterns on the windowpane, thoughts wandering here and there until the sound of a throat clearing drew your attention.

Johnny stood in the doorway, a handsome grin tugging at his lips. His cheeks were flushed from the cold, and a hint of snow dusted his dark hair. He stepped towards you, grin softening into something fond. “Lass, ye look far too peaceful. Fancy a bit of fun in the snow?”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Fun in the snow? Johnny, I hardly think-”

Before you could finish, Kyle appeared beside him, a resigned but equally amused expression on his face. “He’s already dragged the stablehands into a snowball fight. You’d best join, my lady, before he wreaks havoc on the entire household.”

Your laughter bubbled out before you could stop it. Kyle had snow all over his shoulders. “And you? Did he rope you into this as well, Kyle?”

Kyle’s lips twitched, his tone as dry as ever. “I’m merely here to ensure no one ends up with frostbite. Or worse, Johnny getting pelted by a snowball with rocks in it again.”

“That happened one time!”

It was then that Simon strolled in, adjusting his coat. He cast a critical look at Johnny, and then shook his head. “You’re dragging the Duchess outside in this cold? She’ll catch her death.”

“Not if she bundles up properly,” Johnny huffed, grabbing your hand and pulling you towards the coat rack. “C’mon, love, live a little!”

Your protests were half-hearted as he helped you into your newest winter cloak, his enthusiasm infectious. Kyle and Simon waited, and even helped bundle you up further until the warmth on your cheeks were more from kisses than being fully covered.

Within moments, you were outside, your boots crunching against the fresh snow. The air was crisp, the sky a pale gray, and the laughter of the staff echoed from the gardens. They greeted you as you passed, smiles and excitement clear on them.

John stood on the veranda, his hands in his pockets, watching the chaos with an indulgent smile. His sharp eyes softened immediately as they landed on you, snow dusting over your cheek already, giggling as Johnny aimed a snowball at Simon and missed spectacularly.

And then Johnny and Simon both turned their focus on you.

“You’re enjoying this far too much,” John called as you ducked behind a hedge for cover, joining a maid who grinned and helped you begin preparing snowballs.

“Come join us, Your Grace!” you called back, cupping your hands around your mouth.

His smirk widened, but he shook his head. “I’m better as a referee, my love.”

Kyle, ever practical, soon found himself roped into the game despite his earlier protests. You shrieked as he launched a surprisingly, scarily accurate snowball your way, only for Johnny to step in and shield you with his body, dramatically flopping into the snow as if mortally wounded.

“Go on without me, lass,” he groaned, sprawled on the ground. You and the maid watched him, giggling. “Tell my story… tell my bairns not to forget me…”

Your laughter rang out, bright and unrestrained, and you offered him a hand. “You’re ridiculous, Johnny.”

“Aye, but ye love it.” He replied with a wink, and checking that everyone else was sufficiently distracted and the maid has left, tugging you down into the snow beside him just for a few moments.

Simon joined soon after, his usual composed demeanor giving way to competitiveness as he and Kyle teamed up against Johnny. Even John eventually relented by your insistence and a little pleading pout, stepping off the veranda to orchestrate a proper snow fort building contest.

Hours passed in a blur of laughter and play just like that, the biting cold forgotten in the warmth of shared joy. By the time everyone slowly returned indoors, cheeks ruddy and clothes damp, the sitting room felt like a haven. You beloved, ever-attentive Kyle was the first to fetch a warm blanket for you, draping it over your shoulders with a small smile.

Johnny disappeared into the kitchen, reappearing a while later with steaming mugs of cocoa for everyone. “Best remedy for cold fingers, bonnie.” he declared, pressing a mug into your hands and then a kiss over your temple.

Simon settled beside you, his arm draped casually along the back of the settee, along your back, and you lean into him with a soft sigh. “You’ve got snow in your hair, darling,” he murmured, gently brushing it away.

John watched the scene from his armchair, chest warm and content. The sight of you, nestled among the men he trusted and loved most, your laughter lingering in the air, was enough to make him feel like the luckiest man alive.

As the fire crackled and the snow continued to fall outside, you leaned back, your heart full. Your eyes fluttered shut, dozing in and out of the river of dreams, and though the conversations around you continued they made sure to lower their voices. You could feel a familiar hand, gentle and careful and wholly Kyle, caress your cheek.

And with joy still lingering in your veins, warmth curling your chest, you fell asleep safe and happy.

[laurasimonsdaughter]

A flock of seagulls screeched overhead, providing very unwanted backing vocals to the screaming of the flailing young man that was currently being hauled towards the shore by a particularly ill-tempered selkie.

“Seabed below, could you please cooperate!” she snapped, beating her tail against the waves. “I am trying to help you!” It was hard enough to swim half transformed like this, let alone having to use both arms to keep hold of this panicking idiot.

At long last she reached shallower waters. Shallow enough at least, to safely let go of the human.

“There!” she cried, heaving him in the general direction of the beach. “Get yourself ashore!

He flailed some more for a few moments, screaming his head off and thrashing in the shallow water, until he realised he could stand and began wading frantically to the shore.

The selkie watched him go with exasperation. “You’re welcome,” she barked after him, and then pulled her pelt back up over her head and dove back into the waves.

She did not show her human face again until she had reached her favourite rock. A nice, big, flat one, that rose just above sea level. Arms were helpful in pulling yourself out of the water. The selkie flopped comfortably on her stomach, her lower half still in the foamy water, determined to still enjoy at least something of the early morning. It had been such a nice morning, before all the screaming, with the wisps of mist that drew from the sea towards the shore only barely dissolving.

It was not to be, however. She had barely folded her suntanned arms under her head, or an annoyingly familiar shape came through the faint haze of the last morning mist. A black mare, the gate of her hooves as smooth as poetry and her manes dark like the night. Kicking up and trampling pebbles under gleaming black hooves the horse charged across the beach and straight into the water. The selkie watched the proud head disappear beneath the waves with narrowed eyes. A moment later there was a splash of water beside her rock and two pale hands gripped its slick edge.

The selkie met the sea-green eyes of the transforming kelpie with a scowl. In the grey light of morning her skin seemed almost silvery, but she knew the lighting didn't matter, her frustrating kelpie companion always looked equally and annoyingly beautiful.

“I swear, if I have to rescue one more of your stupid victims—” she growled.

“Good morning to you too,” the kelpie tutted, arranging herself on the rock with an effortless grace the selkie felt she never possessed while she had human limbs.

“I mean it,” she snapped. “That was the third one this week!”

She was sick and tired of it. You’d think humans would eventually learn, but they never did. There was always someone stupid enough to mistake the kelpie for a normal horse and anyone foolish enough to climb onto her back got galloped straight into the sea. She didn’t actually hurt them, she just left them to splash around, but only very few of them managed to swim back to the shore on their own. Most of them needed help. Help that usually took the form of a very annoyed selkie.

The kelpie grinned, teeth gleaming in the pale light of morning. “You don’t have to rescue them.”

“I like my sea free of screaming humans, thanks,” the selkie grunted. “Seriously. Can’t you give it a rest for a while?”

“I would, but they make it so easy,” the kelpie grinned. “Besides, if I stop, who knows how long I’d have to wait for you to come and chat to me again…” She winked and slid off the rock back into the water. The silky ripple of the kelpie’s long, black hair fanned out wide and seemed to stain her skin until a moment later a beautiful black horse raised her head up above the water.

The selkie gave a furious scoff, jumping out of her pelt in order to stand up, tracking the dark shape in the water with her eyes. “You came to see me!” she yelled after the equine form galloping triumphantly into the sea foam. “You always do!”

There was no reply. Just a distinctive kelpie laugh, sounding loud and neighing across the waves.

[grayandthyme]

“when there’s so much love to go around?” ;

anon said: I love your Tommy fics SOOOO much <3 it would be so awesome if you could write a super domestic fic, like a dinner or get together with all the millers. you always write Tommy so perfectly mischievous 😩 I think we could all use that in our lives rn

tommy miller x wife!reader ♫ meet me in the woods - lord huron

Synopsis: You and Tommy throw a dinner for Christmas. Tomfoolery with the town. Warnings: pure domestic fluff, dialogue heavy, reader is referred to as she/her, y'all just love each other okay, getting teased about children, barely smut, more so kissies.

authors note: your honor, i love them. i love domestic reader and Tommy—i say as they drag me tf away. ty anon ily for this.. keep requesting.. i see u our minds r the same..

part 2 here

Winter of 2033

It had been hours since you first rolled out of bed, feet hitting the floor before the sun even crept over the snow-covered ridge. The air in Jackson was sharp with winter, but your home was warm—alive with movement, scents, and soft laughter.

Tonight was the Christmas dinner. The big one.

And just like every year since you first settled behind these walls, you were hosting it.

It had only been a year ago that you brought the idea to Tommy—transforming the holiday from a quiet, private gathering to a community-wide Tipsy Bison feast. “Why keep it small,” you’d said, chin in his lap as he sat in that old armchair, “when there’s so much love to go around?”

You still remembered the way he’d looked at you then—like you’d strung up the stars yourself. His fingers had drifted through your hair, the other hand warm against your cheek. “You’re perfect, ain’t ya?” he whispered, not asking, just stating something true.

Now, the scent of roasting meat wafted through the air, kids screamed in the distance as they pelted snowballs, and inside the hall, you stood with your arms crossed, brow furrowed at the crooked evergreen bough above the hearth.

"Higher," you said, voice sweet but firm, hands settled on your hips as you leaned back to assess the greenery.

Tommy let out a long, theatrical grunt from where he stood on the chair, stretching just a little more to pin the garland. "You sure this ain’t high enough? I’m about to pull a hamstring for a damn pine branch."

You squinted, tilting your head, "Mmm… now a little to the left."

He froze. "…Sweetheart," he warned, glancing over his shoulder with narrowed eyes, "if you ask me to move this thing one more time, I swear—"

"You'll what?" you teased, stepping closer, a grin tugging at your lips. "Grumble at me until I die of old age? It's workin'…"

Tommy chuckled, low and fond, shaking his head. “You really like bossin’ me around, huh?”

"You make it too easy," you said, eyeing a bit of snow from his shoulder that had stuck to his coat when he rushed in from patrol. "Besides, you’re the one who ran here the second you got back. I didn’t even ask."

He stepped down from the chair then, hands going to your waist, eyes sparkling with something warm and wicked, “Didn’t need to ask. You say jump, I’m already in the air.”

You rolled your eyes, even as your heart stuttered. “Hopeless.”

“Hopelessly in love,” he corrected, leaning in to steal a kiss. “With a woman who makes me decorate trees after I’ve walked ten miles in the snow.”

You laughed against his mouth, fingers tangling in his coat collar. “And you love every minute of it.”

"Only 'cause it's you," he murmured, voice dropping just enough to melt something inside you. "Now… how crooked is it, really?"

"…Crooked enough that you’re gonna need to get back up there.”

Tommy groaned dramatically, already turning for the chair again. “Lord, give me strength.”

“Hey!” a familiar voice echoed through the mess hall entrance, followed by the unmistakable stomp of snow-covered boots. “This place looks sick!”

You turned just in time to see Ellie practically burst through the doors, cheeks red from the cold, a scarf wrapped around her neck like she got tangled in it mid-run.

Joel followed behind her, a little slower, shaking the snow from his coat, feet gliding against the entrance lip to keep snow from coming in, arching a brow at her enthusiasm.

Ellie spun around, arms stretched wide. “You guys really went all out this year—look at this!” She gestured dramatically to the garlands, the lights, the long tables draped in handmade cloths.

“Glad it passes inspection,” you said with a grin, brushing your hands off on a stray dish towel, shedding any dirt or pine oil.

Tommy once again hopped off the chair with a soft thud, muttering, “She’s lucky she showed up after the garland wars.” … “Only one casualty,” Tommy said, shooting you a playful glare. “My damn patience.”

Joel gave a faint, amused huff and patted Tommy’s shoulder on his way in, “It’s like… Hallmark threw up in here." Though it was quiet enough that only Tommy let out a huff of air in amusement.

You leaned in, stage-whispering toward Ellie, “Don’t let him fool you. He’s been humming Christmas songs under his breath all day.”

“Betray me, woman," Tommy gasped, placing a hand over his heart, mock-offended.

Ellie rolled her eyes, grinning widely. “You guys are gross.”

“You say that now,” Joel muttered, pulling off his gloves, “but wait ‘til she’s ropin’ you into hanging ornaments next year.”

Ellie made a face. “Yeahhhh—I’ll just be in charge of the music.”

“Only if it’s not that weird stuff you like,” Tommy teased. “Last year you played that sad punk song about—what was it—dyin' in the snow?”

“It’s poetic! It's Slipknot!” Ellie defended, dramatically offended. “It has layers!”

You just laughed and moved to straighten one of the place settings, glancing up at the group with a warmth that settled in your chest like the glow of a fireplace.

This was what you’d wanted when you first brought up the idea: a night where nobody had to be on guard, where jokes could be tossed around with ease, and where people who'd fought so hard to survive could finally just be.

Joel’s eyes wandered the room, lingering on the wreath above the hearth, the tables arranged with care. He nodded, quietly approving. “Looks good.”

High praise, coming from him.

You gave a little mock bow. “Why, thank you, Mr. Miller.”

He raised his lip, that semblance of a smile, “You’re welcome, Mrs. Miller.”

Tommy sidled up behind you then, slipping an arm around your waist. “If we’re done admirin’ her genius, how about y’all help set out the cider?”

Ellie perked up. “You made cider?”

Tommy grinned. “Well… mostly she did. I just stirred it once or twice and took the credit.”

“Shocking,” you said, elbowing him lightly as you walked toward the kitchen, his arm still draped around you.

Ellie bounded after you. “Okay, but is there whipped cream? Because if there’s no whipped cream, I’m filing a formal complaint.”

Joel sighed behind her. “Kid, it’s cider, not dessert.”

“Says you.” Was that a fat joke?

Tommy chuckled, then turned his head slightly, murmuring in your ear as the others bickered playfully behind you. “This right here? This is why I don’t mind bein’ bossed around by you.”

You looked up at him, heart soft. “Because I make great cider?”

He leaned down, brushed his nose against your temple. “Because you make this feel like home.”

𓇼ㅤ ㅤ𓂂ㅤㅤ ˚ㅤㅤ ◌ㅤ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ㅤ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏

“Ellie!" you called, already halfway back to the box of leftover decorations, “... you’re in charge of the string lights. Grab Jesse and have him help you run them along the ceiling beams.”

“On it!” she shouted back, already tossing her scarf toward a chair.

“Wait—why me?” Jesse called as he walked through the door, blinking snow out of his lashes.

“Because you’re tall, and you just got here,” you said, pointing towards the box.

Tommy let out a low whistle, watching you move from one task to the next like a conductor in front of a half-chaotic orchestra, “Lord help us. She’s in general mode now.”

Joel, who was currently uncoiling a bundle of firewood near the hearth, smirked under his breath. “Don’t fight it, Brother. It’s easier just doin’ what she says.”

You pointed a finger in their direction without even looking. “Speaking of—which one of you is getting the fire started?”

“Already on it,” Tommy said, tossing a small log into the hearth. “You want it roaring or romantic?”

“Roaring,” you replied. “It’s freezing out there.”

Tommy crouched beside his brother, striking a match. “Don’t think she knows how not to make things romantic.”

You caught that one and just smiled as you passed, hands full of small cloth-wrapped bundles for the tables.

You weren’t barking orders—no—no one would’ve called it that.

You had a softness in your voice, a way of asking that made people want to please you. Like it was their idea all along. It wasn't manipulative, but it was enough of a push that make people want to entertain. Maternal. Caring.

Ellie was already arguing with Jesse over how to untangle the lights, their banter echoing through the hall. “No, you loop it over that beam—what do you mean it’s stuck? Use your freakishly long arms!”

“Long arms?”

“Freakishly.”

You laughed to yourself, their bickering just adding warmth to your heart, adjusting a centerpiece on the nearest table, already moving to the next one.

There was a flow to all of it. Like the dinner wasn’t just being set up—it was being built by hands that wanted people to feel seen, safe, and loved.

You weren’t just hosting a meal.

You were holding a whole town’s worth of worn-down hearts together with pinecones and cider.

And maybe that’s what struck you, as you paused for a breath and watched them all—Tommy, grinning beside the growing fire; Joel, quiet and steady as ever; Jesse helping Ellie, begrudgingly, reach for another beam.

They were all yours, in some small way.

Not possession. Not only romance. Just… yours.

Trusted you. Looked to you.

It felt almost sacred.

You didn’t have to be just Tommy's woman. But it felt like, for the ones who had no one else—you were.

And that was enough.

He caught your eye from across the hall, hands now dusted with soot, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “You gonna sit down at some point tonight?”

“Eventually,” you said, blowing a hair from your face. “After I single-handedly bring order to the post-apocalyptic North Pole.”

He chuckled, stepping forward to press a kiss to your temple. “You know they’re all following you like you hung the moon, right?”

You gave a half-hearted shrug, not out of modesty, but because there was always more to do. “Somebody’s got to keep things moving.”

“And nobody does it better,” he murmured. “But don’t forget to let yourself enjoy it too.”

You leaned into him just for a second, letting the warmth of his chest and the crackling fire fill your lungs. “I am enjoying it. This is joy.”

You pulled away, clapped your hands, and called across the room: “Ellie, when those lights go up, you’re getting the first cup of cider.”

She whooped, hands leaving the ladder Jesse was standing on, “Hell yeah!”

“And Jesse, if you fall off that beam, I’m not bandaging you until after dinner.”

“I’m not gonna fall!” he said, “…probably.”

Tommy laughed beside you, and Joel shook his head as he stoked the fire, a quiet grin forming.

And for just a moment, with the scent of pine, the hum of voices, and the low crackle of warmth in the hearth—this place felt like the safest one on earth.

Taking your break, you slipped out of the main hall and into the kitchen, the swing door creaking gently behind you.

The warm scent of roasted vegetables and spiced cider hung heavy in the air, curling around you like a blanket.

The dishes were set out in organized chaos by Seth—covered platters, still-warm trays, foil-wrapped pots lined up for the eventual dinner.

You moved on instinct, checking lids, stirring where needed, straightening one of the larger trays that had started to tip. The clatter and laughter from the hall was muffled now, just a faint hum behind the door.

You didn’t hear Tommy come in until arms wrapped around your waist from behind, drawing you back into the solid heat of his chest.

“Caught you,” he murmured against your ear.

You grinned, still stirring the pot of mashed potatoes with one hand. “Caught me? I’m working, Miller.”

He moved into the crook of your neck, facial air tickling at air-sensitive skin, voice low and lazy, “Mhm. Always workin’. Always takin’ care of everyone else. Thought I’d steal a minute before you disappeared back into Christmas mode.”

You laughed, setting the spoon down and turning in his arms. “Oh, so now you want to slow down. Not when I was hanging garlands, or setting tables, or bribing Ellie to stop tripping over extension cords—now?”

Tommy leaned in, brushing his nose against yours. “Exactly now.”

His hands stayed at your waist, thumbs stroking idle circles through your sweater, his other finger through your belt loop to keep you put.

There was something in his eyes—mischief, sure, but also something softer. Admiration was tucked behind the usual boyish charm.

The kind of look that made you feel like the only light in a room full of lamps.

"You know," he said, voice just above a whisper, “you keep runnin’ around makin’ everything beautiful, I’m gonna have to fight off half the damn town.”

“Oh yeah?” you teased, fingers playing with the collar of his shirt. “And who exactly would be bold enough to test your claim?”

He grinned. “Nobody if they know what’s good for them.”

You leaned up, brushing a kiss against the corner of his mouth, “Possessive looks good on you, Miller.”

He smirked, but it softened into something else, quick, “I ain’t just proud of you, y’know.”

You tilted your head, curious. “No?”

“I need you,” he said, voice suddenly quiet—serious in the way that made your chest ache a little, “All this—this whole town, this dinner, this life—it runs ‘cause you make it feel like it’s worth buildin’ Worth stayin’ for.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the weight of it. And he saw that in your eyes, because he gave you a small shrug and smiled again, a little more sheepish this time as if removing weight, “Just sayin’. While I got you to myself.”

You kissed him then. Slower, firmer. Your hand came up to cradle his jaw, thumb brushing across the scruff of his cheek. He leaned into it like it was something he’d been waiting for all day.

When you finally pulled back, your forehead rested against his.

“We’ve got about two more minutes before Ellie breaks in here demanding cider again.”

Tommy groaned, dramatically, “Can’t we just barricade the door and say dinner’s canceled?”

You laughed, kissed him once more—just quick this time—and turned back to the trays.

“Help me carry the rolls,” you said with a wink, lifting a basket. “And maybe later, I’ll let you sneak me into the coat closet.”

Tommy grabbed a tray, “Fuckin' Christmas miracle…”

You both walked back out to the hall, hands full of food and hearts full of something far warmer than the fire.

𓇼ㅤ ㅤ𓂂ㅤㅤ ˚ㅤㅤ ◌ㅤ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ㅤ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏

The mess hall had shifted entirely.

Where once it had been full of echo and motion, now it buzzed with a gentle hum—laughter bouncing softly off the walls, forks clinking on plates, chairs scraping as people leaned into stories and leaned closer to each other. The scent of roasted root vegetables, smoked meat, and spiced cider filled every corner.

You moved between tables like a steady current, checking on folks, sliding napkins back into place, refilling cider mugs as if it were second nature. Everyone looked so full—not just their plates, but their faces.

Smiling. Relaxed. Safe, for once.

Tommy had already slipped into his seat beside you, a little too proud of how many compliments he’d gotten on your recipes. The combination of your genius and Seth's skills.

You gave him a nudge and sat down at last, your plate mostly neglected, your chest still warm from the earlier kitchen moment.

Then, from the far end of the room, a voice called out, sounding like Eugene.

“Hey, someone’s gotta do a toast!”

A few cheers followed, cups raised in mid-air. Jesse added, “Not it…” quickly, and made a quick motion to lower his head. The future of Jackson just hid from a speech.

She shoved him, grinning. “Come on, don’t be a coward!”

You laughed, shaking your head, trying to retreat into your cider. But then Ellie’s eyes lit up, and she pointed right at you. Little shit.

“Don't hide, Cmon—” she said, smug. “You're the reason any of this came together anyway!”

Tommy turned toward you, eyes already warm. “Got my vote.”

The rest of the room started chiming in. Some teasing, some sincere, but all in agreement.

“Yeah, c’mon!”

“Speech! Speech! Speech!”

You could feel the heat rise in your face, not unwelcome—but definitely a little overwhelming.

Looking at Tommy for help, but he just gave you that look—half fond, half you got this, darlin’.

An even bigger shit.

You cleared your throat, standing slowly, mug still in hand. The chatter dimmed into expectant silence.

“I—uh,” you started, immediately laughing at yourself. “I didn’t really… plan anything.”

Someone from the back shouted, “That makes it better!”

You smiled down at your cider for a second, then looked up.

They were all watching you—not with pressure or scrutiny, but with the kind of warmth that came from knowing you were among people who loved you.

People you’d fed, and worried for, and teased, and built something real with.

So you tried again, this time a little steadier.

“I guess… I just wanted tonight to feel like home. Whatever that means to each of us.” You looked around the room, letting your eyes land on a few familiar faces—Ellie, laughing quietly over her plate; Joel, looking at you with the smallest of nods; Maria, arms crossed but with a smile that said she was proud.

“I know the world doesn’t make much room for softness anymore. But we made this. We kept this. And I think that means something.”

Your voice caught just a little, nerves, but you pushed through it, heart pounding.

“So if you’ve got a full plate, and someone at your table to share it with… then you’re already lucky. And if you don’t have that yet—then you’ve still got this room. These people. This town. And you’ve got us.”

You glanced at Tommy—his eyes didn’t leave you once. There was a glisten there, no hiding it.

“So… cheers,” you finished, lifting your mug with a bashful smile. “To Jackson. To the people who made it home."

The room erupted in soft clinks of mugs, low cheers, and a few watery laughs.

Ellie wiped her eyes in a dramatic-fake-crying motion, and Jesse pounded his hands on the table to add to the claps. Even Joel looked a little off-kilter, quietly murmuring, “That’ll do.” It only earned a breezy eye roll from your features.

You sat down again to Tommy slipping an arm around you, fingers kneading into your jeans pocket, lips pressing to your temple with barely-restrained pride.

“You’re somethin’ else,” he murmured, voice low, “Think I fell in love with you all over again.”

You rested your head against his shoulder, smiling like your chest couldn’t contain it.

“Good,” you whispered. “I was starting to worry your resolve was slippin'.”

He chuckled. “Not a fuckin' chance.”

The fire crackled low in the hearth now, casting golden light that danced across the walls.

Plates were being picked at lazily, conversation lulled into warm after-dinner murmurings.

Ellie and Jesse were halfway through a heated card game with Maria pretending not to keep score. Joel was quietly sipping cider, eyes distant but not unkind, adding his finger to the play, telling Ellie which card to deal. Backseat poker-ing.

And next to you, Tommy was fully leaned back in his chair, one arm slung over the back of yours. He looked content—belly full, boots stretched out, cheeks still a little pink from the fire. That belt buckle wouldn't last long if he had another bite.

Every so often, he'd glance around the room with that quiet pride, like he couldn't believe he got to be a part of this.

You turned toward him, shifting just enough so that your lips barely grazed the edge of his jaw, quirked near his ear. Your voice dropped, soft as the snow still falling outside.

“Y’know,” you whispered, brushing a hand across his arm, “I was just looking at you, and thinking…”

He glanced at you sideways, the faintest smirk already tugging at his mouth. “Dangerous start, sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes, “I was thinking… you’re my favorite thing here.”

He tilted his head toward you, eyebrow raised, teasing. “Outta the whole town? Even with the cider?”

“Even with the cider,” you whispered, leaning closer. “Even with the fire, and the lights, and the people I love more than life.”

Tommy’s teasing fell quiet under your voice, his eyes softening as you continued.

“I know I run around makin’ sure everyone’s got a seat, or a spoon, or a slice... I like doing that. But when I sit down next to you… That’s the part that feels like rest. Like breathing.”

You felt him exhale, slow and deep. His hand slid down to lace his fingers through yours, resting between your chairs.

“I love you, Tommy,” you said, still low and quiet, just for him. “I love this with you. All of it.”

He didn’t say anything for a second—not because he didn’t know how, but because he felt it. In his chest. In the place no one else had touched in years.

Then he turned, eyes so full of affection it almost hurt to look at.

He didn't reply.

As vocal as he usually was, sometimes love bit him hard, a little obscure in the back of his memories.

The small comments about his father and childhood. Desert Storm and the way he would clutch the handle of every iron in his grip. This felt like balm to soothe the constant panic.

You gave his hand a squeeze, letting your forehead rest against his temple for just a beat before pulling away.

“Just had to say it. Before the kids start asking for seconds and I forget again.”

Tommy chuckled, brushing a kiss to your temple, then to your cheek, then just beneath your ear. “Say it as many times as you want, sweetheart, I ain’t never gonna get tired of hearin’ it.”

You sat back in your chair, still holding his hand, still wearing that quiet smile.

The world outside was still cold. Still cruel. But here—in the flickering firelight, with laughter echoing and love so thick it was stitched into the walls—you were warm.

𓇼ㅤ ㅤ𓂂ㅤㅤ ˚ㅤㅤ ◌ㅤ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏

The mess hall had quieted into that sleepy, late-night hush—candles still flickering low, wax puddled around the wicks. Plates were mostly cleared, chairs pushed back, laughter long since mellowed into the softer kind, the kind that sat under the ribs and stayed there.

Ellie, Jesse, and Dina had darted out an hour ago—something about sleds, or a fort, you hadn’t really caught it. Joel just shouted “Gloves!” before they disappeared into the snow.

Now, it was mostly just the silent, contented ones left.

The ones with sore backs and full bellies and stories that always got better after midnight.

You were leaned against Tommy on a bench along the wall, both of you drowsy and loose-limbed from cider and comfort. He had an arm wrapped lazily around your shoulders, his thumb dragging light circles into your upper arm.

Gail and Eugene were still picking at dessert scraps at a table over, the two of them grinning in that knowing way old friends do. Their love was pure, one so obvious you can see it at first glance.

Joel was near the fire, legs stretched out and sipping from a cup of something strong—his usual kind of quiet, watchful.

“Y’know,” Gail said suddenly, looking straight at you with her chin propped on her knuckles, “it’s criminal how good you two look together. Like somethin’ outta one of those pre-outbreak holiday movies.”

Eugene chuckled, nudging her. “Yeah, all domestic and warm. Like a damn postcard. All you need now’s a couple’a rugrats running around.”

You felt Tommy chuckle beside you, a low vibration on your side. “Here we go,” It came out quietly, just for you.

You groaned playfully and lifted your head. “We host one community dinner and suddenly it’s baby shower season?”

“Oh, c’mon,” Gail teased, sipping her tea. “Don’t pretend it ain’t crossed your mind.”

“It hasn’t,” you said, at the exact same time Tommy said, “Maybe once or twice.”

That made everyone laugh—including Joel, who gave a soft, raspy heh from his seat, barely looking up as he took another sip of whiskey.

You turned to look at Tommy, arching an eyebrow. “Once or twice, huh?”

He shrugged, completely unbothered, eyes full of mischief.

“I mean, you’re good at takin’ care of people. Organizin’ chaos. Wrangling overgrown kids like me. Feels like it’d translate pretty well.”

You gave his thigh a gentle smack, pretending to scold. “You trying to flirt your way into trouble?”

His grin turned downright dangerous. “Ain’t I always?”

The table chuckled again, Gail fanning herself with a napkin. “Lord, you two are disgustingly in love.”

You laughed, cheeks warm, and tucked your head back against Tommy’s shoulder.

Joel looked over finally, that ghost of a smile still on his face. “If they do have a kid, we’re gonna need a whole second mess hall by next Christmas... Just sayin’.”

You pointed at him, mock, “You’re not off the hook, old man. I’ll be expectin’ somethin’ rustic and overengineered. Gotta put you to work somehow.”

Joel tipped his cup toward you. “Noted.”

Eventually, the others began to gather their coats and hats, leaving with hugs and cheek kisses and murmured thanks.

Gail gave you an extra squeeze, whispering something about how you’re already everyone’s girl, honey—wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to be a mama for real someday.

Jesus.

Something about the holiday had people saying their thoughts out loud.

When it was just the embers, Joel, and you, and Tommy left behind, the stillness finally settled.

Tommy yawned and leaned his head back, arm still snug around you. “Can’t believe we pulled it off again.”

You looked around at the soft glow, the empty plates, the leftover cider cooling in mugs. “We didn’t just pull it off,” you murmured. “We gave people something to believe in. And, I think that's pretty damn cool.”

He kissed the side of your head, slow and sure. “That’s all you, darlin’.”

You turned your face up to his, close enough that only he could hear: “…Think we’d be good at it?” you whispered. “If we ever did?”

His brows lifted—surprised, maybe, but not in a bad way. Then he softened like butter on warm bread. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I do.”

You leaned in, kissed the corner of his mouth, and gave him a look. “Might not be tonight though. I’m still covered in pie crust and stress.”

He grinned. “Fine by me. I’m just enjoyin’ the preview.”

From across the room, Joel cleared his throat—not quite loud, not quite subtle—and stood with a smirk.

“I’m headin’ out before this turns into a second honeymoon,” he muttered as he passed, giving your shoulder a brief pat. “Merry Christmas, you two.”

“Merry Christmas, Joel,” you both said, voices overlapping.

The door clicked shut behind him.

And just like that, it was you and Tommy, finally alone in the quiet afterglow of something beautiful built together.

The mess hall was still warm, but the hush had settled in for good now. Just the crackling of dying embers, the faint hum of wind against the frosted windows, and the clink of ceramic as you and Tommy started clearing the last of the dishes.

You were both slow about it—not lazy, just… lingering. Hands brushing over each other’s as you stacked plates, trading little smiles over crumbs and napkin piles.

Tommy grabbed two mugs, swishing out the leftover cider into a pot. “I swear,” he muttered, “I saw Jesse hide a whole slice of pie in his coat pocket.”

You snorted, wiping down a table. “If he brings ants into the single dorms again, I’m blaming you.”

“Me?” Tommy grinned, tossing a rag at your side. “You’re the one who makes the pie like it’s magic.”

You caught the rag mid-air and lobbed it right back, hitting him square in the chest, mocking a huff, “That’s why I married you. Strong reflexes. Keeps things exciting.”

He caught your wrist before you turned, tugging you toward him with that crooked grin you’d fallen in love with—mischievous and soft all at once.

“Oh, that why?” he murmured, voice low as his other hand landed on your waist. “Not the shoulders? The hands? The fact I can fix a water heater and field-dress a deer?”

“All perks,” you hummed, fingers slipping up to play with the collar of his shirt. “But mostly it’s ‘cause you look real good holdin’ a broom and doin’ what I say.”

He laughed into your hair, the sound muffled and tender. “Woman, you own me.”

“Damn right I do.”

For a few seconds, you just stood like that, wrapped up in each other in the middle of a room still echoing with warmth.

It was wild, sometimes—how easy it was to forget the world outside these walls, how deep the roots had grown inside the two of you.

People came to this place because they needed safety. Peace.

You were the kind of love story folks whispered about in awe.

The kind that made them believe in second chances.

“I think we did good,” you murmured after a bit, voice soft.

Tommy nodded against your temple, “We always do.”

He stepped back reluctantly, just enough to finish the task—grabbing chairs to stack, humming low under his breath. You followed, drying the last few dishes, snuffing out candles with a licked thumb and forefinger.

By the time you turned off the string lights and locked the mess hall doors, the snow outside had grown thicker, quiet and pillowy under your boots. You looped your arm through Tommy’s as you made your way back to the house, the wind nipping at your cheeks.

The door creaked open with a low groan, familiar and unbothered. Tommy reached around you to flip the switch, but the overhead light stayed off. Instead, the glow from the hall lamp spilled golden into the room—just enough to warm the corners, to soften everything.

You kicked off your boots with a sigh that came straight from your soul. “My feet are killing me,” you mumbled, peeling off your coat and scarf. “I’ve been standing for, like, ten years.”

Tommy was already unbuttoning his flannel, eyes on you like you were the first thing he’d ever want to see in soft lighting. “You were runnin’ that dinner like a damn general,” he said with a grin. “Pretty sure even Joel listened to you when you told him to stir the gravy.”

You laughed, low and tired, and stepped forward to help him out of the shirt. He let you, arms lifted, smiling all lazy and smitten.

“I like being useful,” you said, brushing lint off his undershirt, “Makes me feel like I mean something.”

He caught your wrists gently, pulling your hands to his chest. “This place means somethin’ ‘cause of you, sweetheart.”

You didn’t argue. Not tonight.

You just pressed your lips to his jaw, soft and pebbled. Let yourself rest there, eyes closed. His thumbs rubbed soft circles into the back of your hands.

Eventually, you pulled apart, shedding the rest of your layers in tired silence. Eventually, climbing up the stairs and settling into the bedroom.

The fireplace was still glowing low from earlier—it hadn’t gone out completely—and Tommy knelt to add a log and stoke it back to life while you disappeared into the bathroom to wash up.

When you returned in an oversized flannel and wool socks, the bedroom was dim and golden, all low firelight and heavy quilts. Tommy was already under the covers, hair damp from a quick rinse, arm lifted in silent invitation.

You didn’t need to be asked twice.

You slid in beside him and tucked your body close, face pressed into the curve of his shoulder, one leg hooked over his.

“Mm,” he murmured, voice already sleep-heavy, rough with comfort. “You’re cold.”

“You’re warm,” you whispered back, fingers trailing lazily along his ribs. He had always been a personal heater, carrying so much warmth it was astonishing.

He shifted to hold you better, like instinct. One hand cradled your head. The other rubbed up and down your back, slow and steady.

For a while, neither of you said anything.

Just the sound of your breathing, the quiet pop of firewood, the way his thumb brushed behind your ear.

Then, so softly, you whispered, “Think we’ll always have this?”

Tommy kissed the top of your head. “Yeah,” he said, without hesitation. “I do.”

You smiled against his skin, nose brushing the hollow of his collarbone. “Feels like I belong here. Like we’re part of the house.”

“We are the house,” he mumbled. “You’re the heart. I’m the dumb cowboy who fixed the floorboards.”

You laughed, pressing a kiss to his chest. “I like the dumb cowboy.”

“Good,” he said sleepily, pulling the blankets tighter around you both. “He’s crazy ‘bout you.”

You sighed, eyes slipping closed, breathing in his scent—woodsmoke and worn cotton.

You were just about to drift off, legs tangled, the weight of the day finally softening in your bones—when Tommy shifted, just a little, and pressed his mouth to your jaw with slow intention.

One kiss turned into two, then three—trailing toward your ear, lazy but unmistakable. You smiled into the pillow. Damn, cowboy.

“Tommy…” you warned, voice already low with amusement.

“What?” he murmured, lips brushing just below your ear, “Can’t a man kiss on his wife a little before bed?”

But there was nothing little about the way his hand skimmed down your side, slipping under the hem of your shirt, or how his mouth found yours—hot, tender, teasing.

You responded without hesitation, fingers winding into black curls as the kiss deepened, stealing the breath right out of your chest.

It was slow at first, more laughter than urgency—soft giggles between kisses, teasing touches, his grin against your mouth when you tugged him closer.

Then the warmth grew into something deeper, heavier. Familiar. The kind of intimacy that only years of love could make feel both playful and feisty.

By the time your shirt was halfway off and the quilt was bunched around your hips, you weren’t laughing anymore—all teeth and tongue.

"On your stomach," His voice was hoarse—an area between sleep, and need. Something he so often craved at this time of the night, hell, probably every moment of the day.

You were quick to turn around in his grasp, face buried into the pillow—fingers lacing through thin sheets, white knuckling as he pulled each bit of fabric from your flesh.

Hands moving to the front of your shirt, a palm splayed against soft swell of breast—it was natural, reverent. He was quick to sink in, breathless and turbulent.

You didn’t even remember when you stopped kissing and started just… being.

The quilt had been dragged up again, wrapped around both of you like a shielding secret.

Your legs were still tangled, bare skin pressed to bare skin, the kind of closeness that made it hard to tell where you ended and he began.

You shifted just enough to glance up at him again, your fingers drawing light circles along his ribs. “Y’know… if this is how we’re doin' Christmas eve, I’m scared to ask what you’ve got planned for New Year’s.”

Tommy let out a lazy, shameless grin, eyes still half-lidded with sleep and satisfaction, “Darlin’, if you let me, I’ll make a tradition outta this.”

You raised a brow. “Mm. A tradition that involves nearly breaking the bedframe?”

“That bed’s tougher than it looks… I on the other hand…” He gave a mock groan, rubbing a hand over his face, “You might’ve just finished me off. You proud of yourself?”

You grinned, impossibly smug, “Devastatingly.”

Tommy reached out to pull you fully on top of him, your laugh muffling against his bare chest as he buried his face in your hair. “God help this town if they knew what their golden girl gets up to after hours.”

You looked up at him with a wink. “Please. Let’s not give them more reason to build me a shrine.”

He huffed a laugh. “Too late for that. I already light candles for you every time you bend over that damn bed.”

You let out a chuffed breath, somewhere between a whine and a laugh, smacking his chest lightly. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he whispered, tilting your chin up with two fingers, “here you are, in my bed. Again.”

"Our bed," The correction lingered, you kissed him slowly, smiling into it, "Only ‘cause you’re pretty.”

“Mmhmm,” he hummed, pulling the covers up tighter around you both, “And humble too, don’t forget that part.”

You let your head fall back onto his chest, your laughter finally softening into a sleepy sigh, "So humble, Miller…"

A long pause stretched between you, soft and golden in the low firelight. Your fingers drifted across his chest like they had nowhere else to be.

Then your gaze caught something glinting just above the blankets. The leather band on his wrist. The scratched face of that old, worn watch Joel had fixed up for him last year, told him to finally get a handle on what time it was.

You squinted at it, blinking drowsily. And then you smiled.

“Tommy…” you murmured, tapping the watch face. “It’s after midnight.”

He lifted his wrist with a tired grunt, turning the watch toward his line of sight. The corners of his mouth twitched into a grin.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he said. “It’s Christmas.”

You looked up at him with a crooked smile, chin resting on his chest, “Guess that makes me your present.”

Tommy chuckled, low and rough. “Sweetheart, you were the best damn thing under the tree and the one who wrapped it.”

You laughed, nose wrinkling. “Smooth.”

He leaned in and kissed you again—softer now. Slower. All warmth and afterglow. “Merry Christmas, baby,” he whispered against your lips.

You touched his cheek, thumb grazing the stubble there. “Merry Christmas, Tommy.”

Settling into each other once more, bodies warm and tangled beneath the blankets, hearts still beating in sync.

The fire cracked low beside you, the snow fell silent beyond the window, and for one more night in Jackson—one more night in this life you built from the wreckage of everything lost—you were happy.

masterlist

part 2 here

[serpentface]

Here's what typical vestment for The Odomache looks like.

The pelt of the lion that was originally sacrificed and worn raw for her incarnation is retained throughout the years of service, preserved and fashioned into a headdress and cape (obscuring a helmet). This can get dreadfully hot in the summer but no one ever said that being a hollowed out pathway for God's spirit was easy.

The body is always obscured near completely, barring the hands, feet, and parts of the face (philosophically, these are the body's least vulnerable parts as its modes of Action, though this is in large part a practicality). This is partially a matter of psychological enforcement that this person is not Just a human, and partly a matter of protecting the part of God's living spirit that's in a wholly human body. Conceptually, the Odomache Enables tremendous power rather than being intrinsically powerful in of herself, so all manners of protecting the metaphysically vulnerable human body are of tantamount importance in her case.

The complete obscuring of any identifiable feminine form is also notably important to the underlying philosophies and biases involved. It is necessary that she is female, a condition ascribed a unique malleability to change and transformation (for good or harm), but the act of female/non-male sex and gender assignment also serves to uphold an underclass in a patriarchy that she By Necessity must be distanced from. This extends beyond the masculinized social and dress performance of Odonii to a masculinized social performance with dress that utterly obscures any part of the body that could be gendered, and dress that is not gendered in of itself (women do wear less revealing clothing than men and skirts of similar length, but the act of Fully covering the body in this form exists outside of the bounds of gendered dress).

[[It should be noted that on a historical level, this role is largely a descendant of a variety of 'celibate and/or masculinized female religious authority' figures in pre/proto-Wardi societies stretching back centuries, rather than an emergent property of contemporary religion and philosophy. This is an adaptation of older roles and worldviews to securely fit the contemporary zeitgeist, and that's part of why many aspects of this role Superficially clashes with said zeitgeist.]]

The relatively undecorated white cloak and robes in comparison to culturally favored displays of color and opulence further emphasizes a sense of the Odomache's separation from humanity. The Wardi image of God is not a human lord, but rather the world itself and the functions of the world distilled into the forms of animals. Human hierarchies exist Within God rather than God having a place within human hierarchies, so in this philosophy it's natural for this particular person of high authority to not closely resemble a Human Authority.

This is still ultimately a human body existing at the top end of a human hierarchy (and in the dimension of religious thought, it a human body holding aspects of God most specifically concerned with maintaining concepts of 'right' civilization and hierarchy), so public-facing garb like this will still include a few mundane trappings of lordship such as this fancy gold khattanocuy displaying an image of an enemy being trampled by the Face Odomache as the guardian lion. Purely ceremonial garb for the Odomache hides the body in its entirety beneath the white cloak and forgoes all decoration save for the obligatory weaponry.

A sword and dagger is worn at all times as a matter of being the ultimate physical bastion of her society's military might, and she is always accompanied by a retinue of 'lieutenants' (Extremely elite servants/squires) who carry whatever other elements of her perpetual armament are not currently in use. These weapons are Completely ceremonial in nature (to the point that they're made or plated with gold rather than anything like, durable) and there is absolutely zero expectation that the Odomache will ever directly engage in combat (the times this has happened historically have been when things have gone horribly wrong).

Her face is usually masked in public, though this is not a strict necessity of the role and is forgone for some ceremonial purposes. On these occasion, it's standard to paint the face red to still partly obscure human features in the same fashion of battlefield Odonii. As the color of blood, it positively evokes bodily vitality and strength, the living spirit of the world itself and the mode of connection to God (and will also be reminiscent of the rite of incarnation during which she is Actually covered in blood)

[mushroom-words]

Run, Little Rabbit, Run || Tyler Galpin

Fandom: Wednesday Pairing: Tyler Galpin x GN!Reader Words: 1415 Note: This has been rewritten and reposted from a previous blog. Warnings: Dark content. Violence. Possessive behavior. Predator and prey trope. Blood. Summary: You've stuck your nose in where it doesn't belong. Now Tyler has to make sure his secret is safe.

YOU WERE TOO curious for your own good. That’s what they would tell you anyway. People would warn you about how the cat fell prey to its own curiosity. They never remembered to mention how many lives the cat had to spare. You weren’t sure how many you had left, but you knew the supply had to be running short by now.

        Mud squelched beneath your feet and splattered up your legs. Rain showered down from the thunderous sky. The pelts of droplets whipped at you from all directions as it flew in harmony with the gusting wind.

        All sense of direction had been blurred and turned around by the churning storm. Everything around you looked the same bathed in the moonlight. A thick fog had begun to roll in and blanketed any potential path through the underbrush. It perfectly depicted a scene out of a horror movie. Right down to the girl running for her life.

        Tyler sang your name from somewhere behind you. “You can’t run forever, little rabbit.”

        He sounded much closer than he should have been. Much too close for comfort. The only solace you had to cling to was knowing he hadn’t transformed into the Hyde yet. Once he did, there would be no hope of escaping his clutches. You still stood a chance while he was human.

        Except he wasn’t exactly human. He was a beast masquerading as a teenage boy. A disguise that he had used to draw you in. Manipulate you into developing feelings for him. Tricking you into believing his act.

        It wasn’t his fault. Not entirely anyway. Tyler couldn’t help what he was or what he did. Hydes followed whatever orders their masters gave them. Someone was making him disembowel fellow outcasts. But knowing that only made the situation far more terrifying. Knowing there were two killers roaming around but not knowing who the mastermind was.

        You threw a precarious glance over your shoulder. He was nowhere to be seen. But you knew he had to be closing in and gaining on you.

        The toe of your shoe caught on something hidden in the underbrush. You cried out as your body pitched forward. You flung your hands out just in time to prevent you from face-planting the mud. Small rocks and broken twigs stabbed into your exposed skin. You ignored the pain as you scrambled back up to your feet. His laughter ran throughout the woods like he could see you struggling. Watching your hands and feet slip against the slick mud. It echoed around you, nearly impossible to hear which direction it came from in the roaring storm.

        “I can smell you, (Y/N),” he sang. “Your fear, it’s almost intoxicating. I bet you taste even sweeter.”

        He was too close. You ducked behind a large tree and slapped your hand over your mouth. Your breathing was ragged and too loud for you to think he wouldn’t be able to hear it. You needed time to think. Fear’s icy fingers had a choke-hold on your ability to properly think about your next moves. But you knew there wasn’t much you could do. You were in the middle of the woods at night with no way to defend yourself against the monster so dangerous and unpredictable that Nevermore had banned him from the campus.

        You felt your foot nudge something. Looking down to see a solid rock, you slowly slid down the trunk and picked it up. The jagged edges scraped against your palm. It was the closest thing to a weapon you could find out there.

        Letting loose a shaky breath, you peeked around the tree to check his whereabouts. You squinted through the downpour but still saw no sign of him. His absence put you more on edge. Not knowing where he was was worse than if you had come face to face with him.

        “Boo.”

        Crying out, you jerked back and let your arm swing with wild abandon. Tyler easily caught your wielded hand and immediately snatched you by the throat. He slammed you back against the tree. Your head knocked against the wood hard enough for stars to speckle your vision.

        He sighed as he looked at you. Just looked at you with eyes as dark as the secrets he held. You wished you were able to decipher the thoughts behind them. If you knew of his plans for you, knew what he planned to do with you now that he had you trapped, you might have been able to formulate a plan of escape. But even you knew that was wishful thinking. Even if you weren’t exhausted and disoriented, you doubted you would be able to see past the doors into his twisted mind.

        The rock slipped from your muddy fingers. He glanced down at it before giving you a disappointed look. Yet underneath that disappointment was a depraved amusement that contrasted sharply against his once inviting features. He shook his head at you and clicked his tongue.

        “Hasn’t anybody taught you not to run from a predator?” He leaned in with a smirk that twisted your stomach with tendrils of dread. “We enjoy the chase too much,” he said in a low voice.

        Tyler released your hand to touch your face. You resisted the urge to flinch away from his fingers. He stroked his thumb over your cheek with a gentleness that belied the circumstances. Shivers skittered up your spine in the same panic that strangled your mind. You shuddered.

        He chuckled at your body’s reaction to him. “The chase is over now, little rabbit.”

        Not much scared you. Even now, you weren’t sure if it was Tyler himself who scared you, or if it was the unknown of what he wanted with you. It might have been the possibility of your death looming over your head that terrified you—or maybe it was how your imagination ran amuck with ideas of what he was going to do to you if he didn’t kill you.

        You didn’t want to stick around to find out.

        You let the saliva pool on your tongue before spitting it out in his face. As soon as it landed, you brought your knee up sharply. The abrupt fight distracted him just enough for you to shove him away from you with a desperate cry. Just the thought of hurting Tyler churned your stomach, but you knew he would hurt you if you didn’t do what was necessary to get away.

        Your shaky legs could only carry you a few feet before a solid mass slammed into your back. You were tackled to the forest floor, the force knocking the wind from you. Tyler manhandled you onto your back and straddled your thighs. He pinned your wrists above your head with a single hand while you struggled to suck air down into your burning lungs.

        Tears mixed with the rain, blurring your watery eyes as you stared up at his enraged expression. “Tyler, please,” you choked out, the words broken between sobs. “I won’t tell anyone, I swear. Just please don’t… don’t hurt me.”

        The anger mingled with something akin to sympathy. Pity. Something that softened the edges of his gaze. But the twisted depravity glinted darker than the night. “Oh, baby,” he cooed mockingly. “I know you won’t tell anyone.”

        He shifted, and it was then you noticed the jagged rock in his hand. You cried and begged until your throat went hoarse and tears and snot slicked your already wet face. He held you down with no effort despite your desperate thrashing beneath him. Not willing to go out without a fight. If you were going down, it was going to be swinging.

        “You won’t tell anyone,” he repeated quietly once you’d exhausted yourself. “I’ll make sure of it.”

        Your scream died out as he brought the rock down with a grunt. Pain immediately exploded across your skull—throbbed as you felt your skin split, warmth trickling down your chilled face in bloody streaks. He slammed the rock into your temple this time. Black began to edge your watery vision. You grappled onto the slippery cliffs of your consciousness as best as you could, but you could feel your fingers losing their grip until you were tumbling from the precipice.

        Tyler leaned down and put his face in yours, making sure he was the last thing you saw before you were plunged into the darkness. “There’s nowhere left to run, little rabbit. You’re mine now.”

[s0ftpixels]

˗ˏˋ art deco ࿐ྂ "you're not mean, you're just born to be seen"

summary: kokonoi hajime unwillingly has front-row seats to sano "mikey" manjiro's descent into darkness and now he unknowingly watches the start of a new obsession with something a lot prettier that owns one too many mini skirts

pairing(s): kanto!mikey x f!reader

notes: told through koko's eyes and the beginning of yandere!mikey and pre-bonten. heart divider by cafekitsune

warnings: canon typical violence, mentions of weapons, mentions of murder, implied mental health issues, slight bimbo!reader, suggestive themes, mentioned voyeurism, obsession, future yandere(?), not edited we die like my potential

word count: 1690

Sano “Mikey” Manjiro was no longer the man he used to be. Perhaps after killing a bunch of people, part of him had gone numb. Or maybe most of him. He doesn’t feel the same way anymore and it’s clear to everyone around him. His black Toman jacket had been long changed to white and he’s got an appointment with a tattoo artist soon. Kokonoi wonders when it will be his turn to get tattooed next. He wonders when the matching jackets will be changed to suits and their flimsy pipes and bats will be replaced with guns. Kokonoi isn’t sure if he’s looking forward to it or not. Many things have changed quickly and so has Mikey. 

Kokonoi Hajime accidentally got front-row seats to Sano “Mikey” Manjiro’s plunge into darkness and it’s not something very fun to watch especially since nothing he does can get the latter out of it. It was almost like Mikey wanted to burn. Like he enjoyed it. Kokonoi Hajime glanced up from his laptop, the soft glow of the screen illuminating his tired eyes. The rain outside pelted the floor-to-ceiling windows, a rhythmic drumming that filled the otherwise silent penthouse. Mikey stood motionless, staring out into the storm as if it held answers to the questions he never voiced. Kokonoi had grown used to this silence, the heavy, unspoken tension that seemed to hang over them like a dark cloud. “Mikey— Oh hi Koko!”

Maybe the only thing stopping Mikey from fully going crazy was you and your damn mini-skirt. You twirl into the room with that infectious energy of yours, your sneakers tapping against the marble floor. The rain pattering against the windows is almost drowned out by your cheerful presence. You greet Kokonoi with a bright smile, your eyes sparkling with a naivety that seems out of place in the world of the Kanto Manji Gang— in Sano “Mikey” Manjiro’s world. “Hi Koko!” you repeat, a playful lilt in your voice

Kokonoi can’t help but crack a small smile at your enthusiasm, the glitter in the inner corners of your eyes shining under the artificial light. You always manage to bring a bit of light into these dark times, even if you don’t fully understand the shadows lurking around you. Mikey, however, doesn’t move. His gaze remains fixed on the storm outside, his reflection a ghostly figure in the glass. Kokonoi watches him, the unease gnawing at him. Mikey's transformation from the once lively, mischievous leader of Tokyo Manji Gang to this silent, brooding figure of Kanto Manji Gang is unsettling. You flounce over to Mikey, your hips swaying with each step. You wrap your arms around him from behind, resting your cheek against his back. “Mikey, come on. You promised we’d watch a movie tonight” you whine, trying to coax him away from the window, glossy lips shifting into a pout

Mikey finally shifts, his shoulders relaxing slightly at your touch. He turns around, and for a moment, Kokonoi catches a glimpse of the old Mikey in the way his dark eyes soften when he looks at you. “Yeah, I did, didn’t I?” he says, his voice a low rumble.

Honestly speaking, in Kokonoi’s opinion, you were kind of a bimbo— in some sense that is. You were top of your class with the goal of getting into law school but here you were in a damn mini skirt, your bruised knees knocking against Sano Manjiro who is a literal fucking criminal. Maybe you have one of those weird fantasies of representing your criminal boyfriend in court. The problem with that though is you and Manjiro weren’t together. You were just a pretty distraction, someone who brought a flicker of life into Mikey’s darkened world, a role you played with such unknowing perfection that even Kokonoi found it admirable. The darkness that enveloped Mikey was thick, suffocating, but you… you seemed to be the only one who could penetrate it, if only slightly with your stupid mini skirt that hugged your hips and thighs so well. “Not feeling it?” You ask him innocently, the tips of your white sneakers knocking against his boots

Maybe you were a little stupid but other than academic smarts, you were emotionally smart too. You didn’t realize just who you were hanging around and what the penthouse you waltzed into was but you knew when Sano “Mikey” Manjiro wasn’t feeling well. Kokonoi admires that because he as well as the other top members of Kanto Manji Gang were yet to figure out Mikey’s emotions. “Not really” Mikey says, his fingers curl around your hip in an almost possessive manner, pulling you closer to him. 

Kokonoi watches the exchange, feeling a pang of jealousy mixed with something he can't quite place. Maybe it's envy at your ability to reach Mikey in a way he can't, or perhaps it's frustration at Mikey's apparent detachment from everyone else. Kokonoi watches you wrap your arms around Mikey’s neck. The contrast between Mikey’s brooding presence and your bubbly aura is almost comical, like a scene from a twisted romantic comedy. Kokonoi can’t help but shake his head at the irony of it all. “What’s wrong, Mikey?” you ask softly, your voice laced with genuine worry.

Mikey’s gaze softens as he looks down at you, his thumb brushing against your cheekbone. “Nothing you need to worry about, sweetheart” he murmurs, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead.

Kokonoi watches the exchange, feeling a twinge of envy mixed with a hint of admiration. Despite everything, Mikey still had the ability to care for someone, even if it was in his own twisted way. You pout slightly, not satisfied with his vague answer. “But I do worry about you, Mikey. You know that,” you insist, your well-manicured fingers intertwining with his bruised fingers.

A small, almost invisible smile tugs at the corners of Mikey’s lips. “I know, babe. And I appreciate it” he says, sincerity ringing in his voice. 

He leans down to press a lingering kiss to your lips, a silent promise of reassurance. Kokonoi can’t help but feel a pang of jealousy at the intimacy between you and Mikey. It’s not that he harbours any romantic feelings for Mikey himself, but rather he envies the connection you two share, a connection that seems to elude him in this world of darkness and violence. As you pull away from the kiss, a bright smile graces your lips once more. Your lip gloss is now transferred onto Mikey’s lips and he doesn’t seem to mind as he licks up the artificial taste, his eyes never leaving yours as he does. It was weird though— You and Mikey weren’t dating but you still kissed and cuddled and did other things like normal couples did. Mikey called you sweetheart, babe, baby, doll, angel and any other sweet endearment his tainted mind could think of but you both weren’t dating. You both aren’t dating but Kokonoi knows the bruises on your knees are from when Mikey’s got you on the floor between his legs and the scratches on Mikey’s back are from you being pinned beneath him. “I’ve been a little stressed though. Come help me out?” Mikey says to you, thumb rubbing away some of the lipgloss that smeared onto your chin when he kissed you

Kokonoi can imagine it clearly— you down on your knees on the hardwood floor in front of Mikey, your pretty eyes wide and watery with drool running down your chin and mascara smudged; your stupid mini skirt hiked up around your hips as Mikey made you take it. “Hm, m’kay” You answer a little too innocently for what Mikey was suggesting at

As Mikey guides you to another room in the penthouse, he looks over his shoulder. “Koko, make sure no one disturbs us”

“Got it boss” He answers, trying to sound as apathetic as possible

The lock on the door clicks and Kokonoi is already scrambling to find his headphones. He’s been a victim of getting hard off listening to your breathy moans and helpless whimpers too many times already and he’s still got work to do. Kokonoi wasn’t a huge fan of being a voyeur like the rest of the sickos and perverts Mikey let into Kanto Manji Gang after all. He barely gets his headphones in when he hears a breathy groan come from the other side of the locked door. He tries to focus on his work, to lose himself in the lines of code scrolling across the screen, but his mind keeps drifting back to the scene unfolding behind the locked door. He can almost picture it—the way you kneel before Mikey, your eyes wide with anticipation, your lips parted in a silent plea. He can hear the soft rustle of fabric as Mikey guides you, his voice low and commanding. It’s a scene that plays out in his mind with disturbing clarity, one that he wishes he could erase but finds himself unable to look away from.

Kokonoi Hajime unwillingly has front-row seats to Sano “Mikey” Manjiro’s descent into darkness. But it seems he’s watching an obsession grow as well. 

An obsession that owns too many mini skirts and with a smile as bright as the sun. 

Kokonoi wonders how long it will take for that obsession to grow into something unhealthy and something that starts to hurt you. But even as he wonders, a part of him knows that he’ll be there to witness it all. Because in this world of darkness and violence, there are few constants, and Kokonoi has unwittingly become one of them. So he continues to work, his fingers flying across the keyboard as he loses himself in the safety of his own little world, a world far removed from the chaos that surrounds him.

As the night wears on and the sounds from the other room grow louder, Kokonoi can’t help but feel a sense of resignation settle over him. Because in the end, he knows that you’re just as trapped as the rest of them, prisoners of their own making in a world where darkness reigns supreme.

[mayasaurusss]

yoyoyoyo what if this time it’s reader who is a werewolf? and reader is with jackie, jackie doesn’t know until eventually she finds out because they panick and tell her. she is a little apprehensive but then she warms up to it. eventually she gets used to all of it, reader’s body heat, how they can retract their teeth, the way their eye colour changes. and in the bedroom? she wants to hear them growl in her hair and go absolutely primal as she gets strapped down just bc she’s a lovely pillow princess bunny. if it can be sweet and smutty that’d be awesomeee also keep up the good work ur writing is amazing ;)

-🫳

Hello new anon! Thank you for your request and encouragment! It's what keeps my blog going!

Contents: genderneutral reader, adult timeline Jackie, strap can be read as dick,smut.

The blood stuck to your skin like dried concrete; the smell of iron, which was so delicious before, now stanks and sticks to your bathroom walls, making the whole place smell like a butcher shop. You are lucky that today she's not home, having gone to meet up with her old soccer team from highschool. You are sure she would leave you instantly if she saw you like this, and would probably call the cops on you. You wouldn't blame her.

Keeping that secret of yours from your lovely girlfriend has proved to be a harder task than you had thought.

You scrub away at your skin with hot water and soap, resigning to tweeze out the bigger chunks with your fingers. When all is done, you find scratches on your skin, probably left from the struggle. Without a doubt, Jackie will ask you about them, and you will have a hard time explaining their source.

"A cat attacked me" or "I fell off the stairs" doesn't work anymore on her. And, if it happens one more time, she might start to think you are somehow cheating on her. With a sigh, you apply some concealer where the scars are, and hope for the best.

Jackie would take some time to get adjusted to all of...this. Now that your secret is out, you can let loose all those traits that you had suppressed in front of Jackie; and while she finds some of them cute, she's not a fan of others. She's especially not a fan of your shedding, having to clean for at least an hour after your transformation, with you looking and whining at her like a guilty puppy.

Looking at yourself in the mirror, nothing seems out of the ordinary. Good, you think. You clean the bathroom off of the countless of hair left from your shedding. The amount is probably enough to make a pelt out off. After a strenuous three hours, you are finally done, not a trace of hair left on the floor.

Now that that's taken care of, you can take a breath of relief.

But you can't help but wonder, what will you do when the full moon comes?

You, as reckless as ever, agreed to an indoor date with Jackie, not realizing that the moon would be full that night. You could try to make an excuse, but on the other hand, you could not say 'no' to her; she had a far too tight hold on your heart for you to deny her. You'll just have to tell her.

On the couch, with her head resting on your shoulder, Jackie doesn't seem to pick up on your weird vibe. You gulp down your fears, breathing through your nose before whispering to her "Jackie... I..." but you can feel the transformation getting a hold of you as soon as you speak. As your canines become too big, your nails too long and your body too large, you break out, escaping from the window and leaving Jackie behind.

Some time passess before you see her again. You had remained confined to the parks and green areas of Wisayok, moving only during the darkest hours, when no one was around; stress so heavy that you remained in your wolf form for several days.

The only reason Jackie found you, was because rumors had it that there was something roaming in town, and she, as usual, just picked herself up and acted with her guts rather than her brain. It took her a while to convince you to go back home with her: you were far too scared to know what she really thought of you. But as everyone around her always thought, her charisma would take her far, and you were back in her arms again.

But she can get through some things. Like, for example, your body heat. You had always avoided sleeping with Jackie too much, fleeing the aftermath of your lovemaking as soon as you possibly could. She never understood why, but as the heat from your body literally starts to suffocate her, she can take a guess. She has to admit that the first times she saw your canines grow when you were having a fight, or your eyes changing colour while on going the transformation freaked her out.

What she can get used to, is the power dynamic that plays in the bedroom. "Come on... please?" she has been nagging you on and on about this for half an hour by now; and having her arms draped over your shoulders while she tries to egg you on while you're studying, really doesn't help your case. "Okay... if I do it, will you promise to shut up later?" she jumps up on your lap, those eyes of her boring into yours with a heat that could melt you.

"Fuck!", she screams as you dick her down, her legs keeping your hips close to her. Despite the thickness of your wolf skin, you can still feel Jackie's nails leaving moon shaped dents on you. She trashes in your grasp, moving her hips in tandem with yours.

She pleads you to go faster, to fuck her properly; but you are too scared to hurt her, so you resign to going at a slow pace.

You didn’t know how far Jackie was willing to go to get what she wanted.

"What, can't do it?" she breathlessly asks. You can feel a building sense of annoyance in your stomach. You shouldn't listen to her. You know how she gets-.

"I... I should have known" there it is. You try to not let her words affect your impulses. You were already having a hard time controlling yourself and she's just egging you on.

The dirty glimmer in her eyes is the only clue you get, before she reaches for your ear and whispers.

"You know who would take care of me? Shauna".

Fuck it.

In a matter of seconds, you have left Jackie's pussy and rolled her over, pushing her upper body down on the mattress, slamming into her with every thrust.

She brought this to herself.

Did she want to see you at your worst? Wanted to see you at your most primal state, wanted you to treat her like the slut she was?

Well, she could fucking have it.

And Jackie? Oh she's absolutely loving this. She wants nothing more than to be taken by you, to feel your cock move inside of her, to hear you groan in her hair every time you speared her down.

Every thrust builds her up toward her own orgasm, tingling her body with pleasure. She couldn't help it, and yet she had only lasted a couple of minutes. She can feel incredibly close, but she needs a little incentive, and in this position, she can't reach her clit.

"S-shauna would fuck me harder" and that does it. You take her by her hips and drive into her so hard and good, that Jackie cums right away, eyes rolling into the back of her head as she screams her peak away. You don't stop until your legs get tired, and by the looks of it, once they do, Jackie had cummed several times, your cock wet with her release.

"Hey Jax..." Jackie is so out of it that she doesn't even answer you, just humms into the pillow, too fucked out to make a coherent sentence. "Are you okay?" you think you might have fucked her a little too good. The skin of her shoulder is red, her pussy clenching repeatedly as you speak to her.

"Hmmm".

You spend several minutes cleaning her up with a towel, giving her water and massaging her sore spots

When you are done, you get in bed with her, kissing her goodnight.

And Jackie thinks that maybe, she likes gentle you better.

But she's sooo gonna get dicked down as soon as possible.

[acourtofwhatthefuck]

Practice On Me — Azriel x Reader

Summary: Young Azriel (twenty years old) in Windhaven. A deliciously cliche trope that’s always fun to write. You and Az are close friends, and that’s why he trusts you with a certain insecurity. And also why you come up with an interesting solution. Doesn’t mean it’s necessarily a good idea, though…

Word count: 4.5k.

Warnings: None.

These nights are cold and unforgiving.

The snow began hammering down in silent droves a couple of hours before. A thick layer of it now blankets the ground and paints the Windhaven camp a brutal white that makes you glance at the boots on your feet. Basic, brown boots that will be soaked and frozen by the time you reach your shoddy hovel of a house. You should have left at the sight of the first snowflake that kissed the ground.

But Rhysand’s mother’s cottage is warm and cosy in a way that yours isn’t. It lulls you to sit back rather than sit up, the fire crackling away in the corner and the smell of spilled ale tinging the air, Cassian’s clumsiness, of course. Your friends eyeball each other around the table, and this game of cards has been going on for too long, and you think your eyes might be growing heavy. If you don’t muster the energy to walk home now, you’ll regret it.

“I’m out.” You announce wisely, eyeing the pitiful deal of cards in your hands. You pile them atop of the table, stretching your arms above your head. The game continues around you.

Playing cards with Rhysand, Cassian and Azriel is always a little amusing — seeing them transform from boisterous, drunken fools to serious, suspicious competitors. They study each other across the top of their cards as if there are any real takings to be had by the winner — but Rhysand’s mother would have your heads if you actually gambled under her roof, so a pile of plastic buttons it is.

Certainly not an incentive to stay any longer.

You stand from your chair, earning curious looks from your three friends. To them, the night is young, at least while Rhys’s mother isn’t here to berate you about the late hour — two, three o’clock, perhaps — but to you, with an unpleasant journey across the camp still to be completed, the night is very much old and very much over.

“I’m heading home before the weather gets any worse.” You announce, plucking your jacket from the back of your chair. “Enjoy the rest of your game, ladies.”

Cassian snorts and Rhys studies his cards once more, ever the serious player, but it’s Azriel — Azriel, who places his dealt hand face-down on the table and also stands from his seat.

“I’ll walk with you.” He announces. Your other two friends don’t so much as bat an eyelash at the offer, because it’s a regular one, one you’ve heard a thousand times and one you know not to politely protest.

Azriel is your closest friend in this gods-forsaken place. And he will genuinely plunge a dagger into his heart before allowing you to brave your walk home alone.

So, you wait by the door as he shucks his jacket on, sliding warm gloves over his scarred hands. And then you’re opening the door, and a savage flurry of snow is pelting your face like it’s been waiting to attack.

“Fucking hell, close the door.” Cass grouses. “It’s glacial out there.”

As if, as Illyrians, the four of you aren’t used to the brutal temperatures. You roll your eyes at his whining and shove your hands into your pockets, before planting a boot into the thick layer of snow already on the ground. You grimace at how little protection your shoes afford you. Twenty years you’ve lived here. You should know better, be more prepared. Hopefully you can make it home before your feet turn to blocks of ice.

“Goodnight, assholes.” You call over your shoulder, and your friends momentarily break from their poker faces to return the sentiment. “Love you!”, Cassian calls, and “Keep warm!”, Rhysand reminds you, and then Azriel is following you out of the door.

“Cass is definitely losing that game.” The Shadowsinger immediately sidles close to you, his side pressed against yours. It doesn’t do much against the glowering cold, but it’s a comfort.

“I’m sure we’ll be able to hear it across the camp the moment he realises.” You breathe a laugh, curling in on yourself. Not only is the temperature simply unpleasant, but it also causes you pain — any extreme weather seems to make the ruined remains of your clipped wings twinge. You search for a subject to distract yourself from the sensation. “How come you didn’t invite Kaeda tonight?”

The name of Azriel’s recent interest has him angling himself towards you, snowflakes catching in his hair. He raises a dark eyebrow. “We’ve not moved past the casual stage yet. Certainly not enough to subject her to Cassian’s company.”

“Shame. It’d be nice to have another female around.” Rhysand’s cousin, Mor, sometimes comes to visit, and you have a few good female friends around the camp, but in your closest circle, you’re a little outnumbered.

Something that didn’t seem to matter so much when you were all younglings making mischief. But you’re adults now. Things are different. You are different.

Azriel presses his arm into yours. “If things progress, I’ll bring her to meet the three of you.”

That’d be nice, you think. To have another friend, and to see Azriel happy. See him appreciated. He deserves to be appreciated.

“And are they?” You press back. “Progressing?”

It’s then that there’s the slightest shift in his demeanour. Anyone else might not catch it — he’s the Shadowsinger, after all, and damn well guarded and cryptic and good at hiding what he’s thinking, feeling. But you’ve known him since you were mere, little runts, and you know every little mannerism.

Even in the freezing cold, Azriel blushes. Turns coy.

“What?” You urge, trying and failing to read him.

He gives a half-hearted shrug. “I want to kiss her.”

“Then why don’t you?

“I want to do it right. I don’t…I don’t want to fuck it up.”

The concern seems like a baseless one. You’re sure Azriel has kissed people before, although he’s always been considerably more reserved than Cassian and Rhys when it comes to females, and you’re not certain how far he’s ever gone. Of all the things you talk about, this isn’t usually one of them. You’re not sure why.

But you’ll help, if possible. You mull over his words as the two of you crunch through thick snow, more and more of it seeping into your useless shoes. The soles of them are worn, and you need a new pair, but you can ill afford it right now. Eventually, the cold starts to get painful, and you stop for a moment, leaning on Az’s arm as you swear quietly.

“There’s no way you’re making it home in those.” He’s totally right, of course. “I told you to get new ones.”

“And I told you, I can’t afford them.” Your toes are numb, now.

“I could fly you straight to your door—”

“Az, you know you can’t.” You sigh; the two of you have had this conversation countless times, because Az takes your safety very seriously indeed. “My father won’t like it.”

It’s not like your father isn’t aware that you’ve been friends with Az and the others since you were youngsters. But as you’ve gotten older, he’s only gotten more paranoid. The last person in the godsdamn universe he would want to think about you having relations with is any of your three closest friends. And if he so much as catches a whiff of them at your door, one of you is sure to pay for it.

Azriel knows you’re right, even if he doesn’t like it. He curses under his breath, and then his arms are snaking around you. “Alright. Hold on to me.”

“What are you…” You cling to him as much as your frozen fingers will allow. He’s always a little warmer than you are, and the feeling is pleasant. As pleasant as his scent is. So naturally, you press closer to him.

“We’ll go to the mead hall.” Azriel explains. “No one will be there now, but the hearths will still be warm. We can spend the night there, and I’ll fly you home in the morning when your father has left for the forge.”

The mead hall is where the Illyrian families across the camp congregate almost nightly to eat their dinner and learn of camp news. It mostly becomes an unpleasant atmosphere, with the males drinking too much and at least one fight certain to break out. You try to attend as little as possible, opting to eat your meals elsewhere, usually in the company of your friends, but your father sometimes insists that you accompany him and drag his drunken ass back home afterwards.

At this time of night, though, the brutes will have been long kicked out and sent home. The cooks will have followed soon after, and the only remaining presence in the long hall is the heat that filled the place. The mere thought of it is a mouthwatering one.

Unsurprisingly, it’s locked, and unsurprisingly, Azriel and his shadows get the door open as if it isn’t. He places you down in the entrance, and you’re immediately heading through to the mammoth dining hall, the warmth breathing out at you and thawing your frozen skin.

Az’s boots thud on the wooden floor after you, leaving little patches of melting snow in his wake. “I’ll get another fire going.”

You hop up onto one of the long wooden tables, first kicking off your sodden shoes and then stuffing your socks into them. You wiggle your toes, trying to generate some warmth into your pinkened feet.

You watch Azriel from across the room. The strands of his dark hair are damp and falling into his eyes, his skin cold-bitten. Sometimes, in moments like these, it stuns you how beautiful your closest friend is. You suppose it’s easy to forget, sometimes, when you’ve known somebody for so long; easy to become desensitised to their beauty. But looking at him like this, you’re sure he must have a whole line of suitors — both female and male — vying for his attention. Even if it’s something he never talks about.

To you, he’s just Az. And you can’t help snorting quietly as he so predictably scoops your shoes and socks up and places them by the fire he has lit.

A mother hen, truly.

“You should start to warm up any second.” He says, traipsing back over to where you’re sat. He slots himself between your legs, and his warmed hands cup your face. “I’m going to buy you a new pair of boots.”

“No you’re not.” You immediately quip, narrowing your eyes up at him. “I’ll buy them when my father chooses to pay me.”

You know it ticks him off — he, like the other adult males, gets a semi-decent wage for his commitment to the Illyrian army, the hours of training he puts in. You, on the other hand, might spend hours — days — helping out in your father’s forge, using the skills you’ve observed from him, and you’ll still only see the flash of a coin on a rare day that he decides he tolerates having a daughter, and that you’re not so bad, after all.

Hence why Azriel can afford a pair of boots, and you can’t. But you’ll not take his money.

So, you change the subject, relaxing into the pleasant sensation of his shadows tickling your skin, warming you. “Why would you fuck it up?”

Azriel’s face turns blank. “What?”

“You said you don’t want to fuck up kissing Kaeda. Why do you think you would?”

He stares back at you for a beat. And then his cheeks darken imperceptibly — nothing to do with the cold.

It surprises you. Az can be coy; shy, even. He’s the quietest of the three males in your circle. A pensive observer, never having much to say but certainly always having much to think about. And you know he has his insecurities, things that bother him, but he’s mostly sure of himself. Knows his power, his strength.

You’re not quite used to him balking from a subject. Becoming flustered by it.

“Has anyone complained about your technique before?” You cock an eyebrow, already knowing that no, they absolutely haven’t. Azriel has very full, kissable lips — something you’ve observed a couple of times before. In a totally platonic way, of course. Totally.

“I didn’t say that,” he lowers his gaze, “I—”

“Just go for it.” You reach up, pinching his flushed cheek between your fingers. “Jump right in and land one on Kaeda. Impress her with your kissing prowess—”

“You,” he tugs your hand away, “are so annoying—”

“The rest will naturally follow when you have your tongue in her mouth. Trust me. And then you’ll be wondering why you were worried in the first place—”

“Except that I’ve never kissed anybody before.”

Immediately, you fall still.

He may as well have shouted the words, from how loudly they seem to echo through the hall.

You stare up at your dear friend, and you blink. Wait for the punchline. Wait for a teasing grin to tug at the corner of his lips — something that very few people other than you get to witness — and for him to tell you that he’s jesting, and of course he’s kissed somebody before, and done a lot more stuff than that, too. All the stuff. Every bit of it. Over and over again—

“Let’s just drop it.” He murmurs, stepping away. You think you might have offended him with your silence, your surprise.

“Wait.” You blink, grasping hold of his arm. “Just…wait.”

He studies you. “Is it that much of a shock?”

Honestly? Yes, yes, it is. Because how did you not know this? You met Azriel when you were both eleven years old. Nine years ago. You faced puberty together and all the awkward things in between. And while you may not sit and discuss the ins and outs of your respective experiences, you simply assumed that his were progressing and evolving just as yours had. Cauldron, Rhys and Cassian stuck their cocks in different males and females every other week. You supposed you’d merely…grouped Azriel in with such things.

But when you think about it — really, truly think about it — Azriel is the only one of the three males who has never introduced another female to the group; no matter how short or fleeting their presence might be. You can’t pluck from your brain a single name he’s ever mentioned besides Kaeda — and that’s a very recent thing.

You’re still waiting a teeny, tiny, little bit for him to say he’s joking. But his cheeks are redder than ever.

“You’ve never kissed anyone.” You repeat, blinking at him.

He purses his lips. “I haven’t.”

“You’ve never pressed your lips to another person’s—”

“I think we’ve established that, Y/N.” He pivots, turning his back on you. “Just forget it.”

“No, wait, fuck, Az, you know I’m shit with words.” You reach for his hand. “Just…how come? Why have you never kissed anybody?”

His hand is tense in yours. You don’t like it. So many times, you’ve held his hand, felt his fingers fold around yours and your palms warm against each other’s. But he holds it limp, now, barely any weight to it. You give it a gentle squeeze.

He pauses. Then squeezes back.

And it’s then that you realise that’s where the problem lies — his hands. Scars.

“Az,” you sigh softly, tugging him closer to you. “Your hands are beautiful. A part of you, your story. Anyone worth knowing — worth kissing — will think the same.”

And gods, you mean the words with every tiny shred of your spirit and soul. There’s no one on the Mother’s green earth that you love more fiercely than the male in front of you. So kind, despite the hatred that’s been shown to him. So gentle, despite the brutality of your environment. He’s wiped your tears and kept you warm and shared his food and given you a place to sleep when your father has made your life particularly difficult. Platonic soulmates exist, and Azriel is yours.

He turns back to you and keeps hold of your hand. And he chews his bottom lip as he says, “I do know that. I know that not everybody is judgemental. But it’s not just the scars.”

You brush your thumb over the back of his palm. “What else is it?”

“I just simply don’t know…how. Fuck, theoretically, of course I know how kissing works. I’ve seen it more than enough. But that doesn’t mean I’ll be any good at it. I could be awful, for all I know.”

You highly, highly doubt that to be the case. “You just…practice. Until you know what you like. Until you know your technique.”

Hazel eyes study you curiously. “So…you have, then. Practiced.”

It’s rather strange, but a sudden, random slither of guilt presses down on your shoulders. Silly, because Azriel would never begrudge you your experiences — and you’ve had plenty of them, good and bad.

But in that moment, you want nothing more than to be able to tell him that you, too, have never kissed anybody. That you’ve never touched anybody or lain with anybody. That you’re just as inexperienced and clueless as he is.

But that would be a bare-faced lie. And you and Azriel do not lie to each other.

So perhaps it’s the guilt that causes you to blurt out, “Practice on me.”

Azriel blinks at you. His hand slackens in yours. “What?”

And fuck, you’ve said it now. You’re not sure whether or not you even meant to, but you think it’d be more awkward to retract the words than stand by them and ride them out. You square your shoulders. Try to seem sure, confident.

“Practice kissing with me.”

The poor male is completely dumbfounded. “You’re…my friend.”

“Yes, Azriel. That’s why I’m offering. Practice on me, refine your technique, and then you can apply that confidence to Kaeda.”

“Practice…on you…”

“I’m trying really hard not to be offended by the disgust that’s on your face right now.”

“Shit, no, that’s not—”

“You know what? Forget I said that. Dumb idea. Terrible idea. Forget I even mentioned it.”

Az stares at you. And you don’t want to balk from the eye contact, but you also totally want to throw yourself in the fire, because it would burn less than your embarrassment right now.

And then he says, “Is it a serious offer?”

You lift one shoulder into a shrug. “Why not?”

Oh, there are a million fucking reasons why not. The most pressing being that yours and Azriel’s friendship is, perhaps, the most stable thing in your life. Certainly the most precious and treasured. Rocking that is a very bad idea, indeed.

And you think, for a moment, that that’s precisely what Az is going to tell you. He has that look on his face that he usually gets when you’re about to do something stupid. The one where he chews the inside of his cheek and his eyes rove your face.

But then the word leaves him, quiet and a little breathless, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I accept your offer.”

He—damn. You didn’t think this far; suppose you didn’t expect him to actually agree. And yet here he is, agreeing.

Suddenly, you feel like you’ve never kissed anybody, either.

But you’re supposed to be guiding him here. So you sit up straight. Lift your chin. Azriel watches, eyeing you a little like you’re a creature he’s never seen before. The bewilderment on his face squeezes your heart a bit.

“Do you want to do it now?” You ask.

He swallows. And his eyes fall down to your lips before flicking back to meet yours. “I suppose there’s no time like the present.”

And there isn’t. The two of you are here alone, no background noise from Cassian or Rhysand to battle with. It’s just you and Azriel. Your eyes. Your mouths.

You realise you’re still holding his hand, and so you use it to pull him closer to you, slot him back between your legs. You’re certain he’s trembling, and you are, too.

“Just take your time.” You tell him. “Let your body lead. Do what feels natural.”

He gives a stiff nod. And pauses. “And you promise to be honest afterwards? About how it was?”

Your eyes soften. “Always, Az.”

He nods again, and then he’s sucking in a slow, steadying breath. You remain still, allowing him to make the first move, to do whatever he wants.

There’s a pause of heavy silence, and then he dips his head. Kisses you once.

It’s a quick, closed-mouth kiss. Sweet, if not a little stiff and awkward. But you know Azriel is testing the waters, deciding whether he truly wants to do this. If he surmises that he absolutely doesn’t, you’ll stop, say no more about it. You keep still and allow him to decide.

And when he pulls back to study you, you give him a reassuring smile. One that silently communicates, I’m fine, we’re fine, this is fine.

It seems to give him the little boost he needs.

He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. Slowly, he slips his hand out of yours, and you allow him to. You watch as he inches even closer. Moves his hands up to rest at either side of your face.

When he’s cupping your cheeks, his eyes meet yours, and he whispers. “Is this okay?”

You squeeze his forearm once. “It’s fine, Az. Do whatever you feel you want to do. I’ll tell you if I don’t like anything.”

He nods, and his gaze drags down to your lips. You’re still, careful, not moving until he’s ready to. And maybe he’ll not feel ready. Maybe he’ll stop this and pull back and decide it’s a terrible idea—

No.

Azriel’s thumb sweeps over your cheek. And then he leans in and presses his mouth to yours a second time.

This time, it’s different — you can tell straight away.

It starts out slow, his lips exploring yours, moulding to the shape of them. The kiss is a caress on your mouth, and it’s a damn good start. You find yourself leaning into it. Kissing back.

For a split second, you feel Az pause. But then his hand is cupping your cheek firmer, the heat of his palm meeting the heat of your face and making you forget how cold you were only minutes ago. Az’s lips part, and so naturally, yours do the same. You kiss him gladly.

And he’s not bad at all. You’ve kissed far more experienced males with far worse technique. Azriel may be nervous and tentative, but there’s something there, lurking beneath the surface. Something that will grow with the right encouragement, the right amount of confidence.

You…you want to give him both.

But it’s important to remember why you’re doing this. For his sake. So he can comfortably kiss the female he’s interested in.

You part from him momentarily, his breath fanning your lips as you ask him, “Are you doing okay?”

“I am.” There’s a rasp to his voice. “Are you?”

“I’m doing great.”

And you are. The weight of Azriel’s hand on your cheek is surprisingly pleasant. This exploration is new, and it’s thrilling, and it’s nice. It feels…nice.

“Do you want to keep going?” You know what you want to do. “Or would you like to stop? Whatever you want, Az.”

He swallows again. “I want to keep going.”

You nod, and in gentle encouragement, you move your hands to rest at his waist. You must be imagining the slight tremor that wracks through Azriel’s body in that moment. Or perhaps it’s just a coincidence.

There’s no time to think, because he dips his head and catches your lips faster this time. He tilts your head up, applying a little bit of pressure to your mouth. Your lips part, and so do his.

Az’s tongue seems to tease the seam of your lips. And then he slides it into your mouth.

His taste invades you so suddenly, so thoroughly, that you gasp. It’s something rough and smoky. Rugged and pleasant. You can’t think of the exact words as his tongue meets yours, and nor do you care to. All you want to do is reciprocate. Kiss him.

You scoot forward on the table, lifting yourself up slightly to add a touch more fervour to the kiss. Your tongue rolls around Azriel’s, and it’s so damn good, so damn sinful, so damn unexpected.

You’re aware, somewhat, of Azriel’s hand slipping from your cheek and resting at the column of your neck. And he licks at the roof of your mouth, and at your tongue, and somehow at every part of you that has you wanting more. His lips work perfectly with yours, not faltering once.

In that moment, you might forget who you are and what your life story is, but you don’t think you’ll ever forget this — this kiss of pure, salacious, unguarded need. If this is what Azriel kisses like for the first time, you can’t imagine how he could possibly progress. How it could get better than this.

One of you makes a needy little noise — you think it might have come from him, but it lands in your mouth, anyway. And then you’re being yanked closer, and your hands are moving up to tangle within Azriel’s hair, and you’re tugging the strands and pulling him against you and kissing him so desperately that you’re sure you’re going to feel it days, weeks, months from now. Azriel’s fingers knead the back of your neck, and your legs snake around his waist, locking him in.

There’s movement. Natural, pleasant movement — you, him, both of you together, moving and shifting.

You don’t know at which point you’re lying back on the table, or which of you made it happen; but suddenly Azriel is hovering over you, his body flush to yours, too-hot parts of you meeting too-hot parts of him.

The kiss is burning, and needy, and you writhe beneath him, and he writhes on top of you, and he’s pressing against you, and you both groan.

And then Az breaks away.

He doesn’t move far — just rips his lips from yours.

You’re both panting, breathing so hard that your heaving chests touch with every breath. Azriel blinks down at you, and you blink up at him.

And in that moment, you become aware of just how far this has slipped. He’s basically lying on top of you, his body moving with yours. Your scents have changed and combined, and you both know what the earthier, deeper quality to them means.

That you got a little carried away. And this needs to stop — now.

Azriel stares down at you, panting against your mouth as your heart thunders in your ears.

“Fuck.” Is all he says.

azriel tags: @hanasakr @positivewitch @ruler-of-hades @brekkershadowsinger @nightscourtt @imperfect0angel @luna-1-3-5 @hyacinthoideshispanica @lucyysthings @lahoete @littlemoonash @blacksstarrynight @azriels-mate123 @ghostly-poetic @frieddesigninspiringquotesslime @a-frog-with-a-laptop @illyriansimp @morrie-rose @passingthroughfireandshadow @illyrian-dreamer @azrielsbabyg @96jnie @mich0731 @mulansaucey @truthtellerfanclub @acourtofbooksandmagic @insightsonmylife @basicbittywitty @curbside-cyanide @acourtofchaosandmess @123345566 @starrynights-frostbites @eos-princess @thesillyyogourt @ona-raising-07-l @acediahamartia @dontfollowmepleaseitsannoying @polli05927 @asdfjklbooks @azriel-luvr @amysangel @humanpersonlasttimeichecked @wildflowernightmere @audie-writes @aaronwarnerswifereal @starxqt @lulufairbank @laurzwrites @livelaughlovenestaarcheron @girlwith-thecinder-blockgarden

[pyre-of-pages]

Why does Skyrim like to rip my heart out?

I always liked coming across the Farmer couple on the roads -- the ones who lost their home to a dragon attack. I would always stop and give them some money and wish them the best.

I was just traveling at night when I get jumped by a werewolf (which is rare for me at least) but after I shoot it dead I notice it's labeled as "Farmer" and doesn't offer a pelt, just two pheasant breasts. I know there's that one guy in the Reach you find next to a body and then transforms when he sees you, so I decide to use "Detect Dead" to see if it was something like that.

I find the Farmer's wife, the same one I've given money to multiple times, dead nearby. Apparently, her husband was a werewolf this whole time and attacked her. I'm assuming he transforms if they spawn on the road at night.

I am legit sad about this.

[bigification]

Under New Management

The smell of sweat hits hard when I enter the gym. I haven't been in a gym in years, but just the smell is enough to bring me back. There is a jacked Arab dude sitting behind the reception, I just tell him I'm here for an interview and he lets me by.

I felt so out of place here. I'm this skinny white guy walking through a gym filled with built Arab guys. I start to wonder how good my chances are of getting this job. I figured my degree in business and experience managing other businesses would be enough, but now I'm starting to wonder if I'm too much of an outsider.

I tell myself this isn't the time to overthink as I make my way to the office. I have to walk past the locker room to get to the office. I see a white guy getting into the showers, probably one of two non Arab guys I've seen here so far. I also walk past an older Arab guy who seems to be checking himself out in his phone's camera.

I find myself staring a bit too long and the man looks up from his phone, making eye contact with me. I quickly look down and continue walking.

"Are you here for the interview?" The man asks. I stop in my tracks and nervously say yes. I feel the butterflies fill my stomach as I realize he's the manager of the gym. I'm already off to an awful start. "Go ahead son, I'll get dressed and meet you there." The man points to his office down the hall. I just nod and walk away.

A few minutes later, the man walks in wearing a nice black suit and expensive looking jewellery. He sits down at his desk and gets right into the interview. I get more and more confident and the interview goes on. He seems quite nice, if a little intimidating.

"You know..." The man sounds more genuine, "I am getting too old for this job. How do you feel starting right away?" He asks. My heart sinks, I have to think quick. "Of course!" I blurt out.

"Great" he says, "it is tradition in this gym to pass down this watch through management." He takes off his expensive looking silver watch and passes it to me. I hesitate for a moment before grabbing it and sliding onto my wrist. The watch feels good on my skin, the cold of the metal is refreshing. I look at the watch and admire its beauty when I see something changing. My hands are... growing. My hands crack as the bones grow, making my hands wide and my fingers long. My thin fingers thicken as muscle and fat pile into them, and callouses cover my palms. My forearms start to thicken as veins start to surface under my skin. They grow until they burst through the button on my sleeve. I also notice my skin start to darken into a tan colour, resembling that of the man who interviewed me. Thick dark hair starts to sprout on my hands and my forearms, giving them a touch and ragged look. I feel the transformation move up my arm and to my biceps. They grow and grow, making my sleeves tight as skin around them. My shoulders broaden and my chest pumps outward, popping off the top couple buttons on my shirt. My shirt strains further as I grow two massive pecs with a thick pelt of hair covering them. The fat in my stomach melts away, revealing a defined six pack that also gets covered in dark hairs.

I feel my pants tighten as my ass perks up and my thighs thicken. I grab my crotch with my massive hand and feel my dick grow larger and larger until a visible bulge forms in my pants. I feel the scratch of hairs growing all down my legs. Suddenly my feet burst from the dress shoes I was wearing, revealing my massive hairy feet.

Finally I feel my face shifting around. My brow bone becomes more prominent and my nose becomes larger. I feel my face sliming down as a big bushy beard grows on my face. I also feel the hair on my head recede until it's only a short buzz cut.

I sit there for a moment, getting used to my body as memories flood into my head. My childhood in Pakistan, moving to America when I was a young man with my father. He bought this gym, allowing me to workout constantly. And now he is passing the gym onto me.

"I am proud of you son. I'm happy you get to take over the family business." Father says to me.

"Thank you father." I respond in a deep voice with a heavy accent.

I walk out of the interview room, and back through the locker room. As I walk through, however, I see that American man getting out of the shower. I would normally be okay with the occasional American being at the gym, but today I was not feeling as generous. I approach him as he is drying off outside the shower.

"What the hell are yo-" the man tries to say, but he pauses as I forcefully grab his wrist. Suddenly the once skinny man begins to rapidly grow. His biceps became massive, his pecs thickened, and his stomach fat melted away revealing a defined six pack. Every part of his body continued to grow, his ass grew fat and round, his dick doubled in size, now being the thickness of a pop can, and his thighs thickened until they rubbed together. His skin started to darken, going from a pale white to an almost bronze brown colour and thick dark hairs sprouted all over his body. A thick forest of hair quickly covered his chest, stomach, arms, and legs. His thin blonde hair became a wavy jet black buzz cut as his once clean shaven face grew a thick beard.

"Good workout brother." I give him a firm tap on his shoulder and he nods back at me. He is a beast of a man, and a loyal customer at the gym, one of many good men who come here.

[satoshy12]

Kryptonian Danny Ghost Phantom

Danny Fenton's life takes an unexpected turn when he's accidentally exposed to a Kryptonian artifact while in the Ghost Zone. The Kryptonite radiation triggers a transformation in Danny's human DNA, turning him into a half-Kryptonian/Ghost hybrid.

It was Frostbite who told him he wasn't human anymore but an Alien. Danny didn't seem to have much of a problem with it he was already a Halfa; and it was pretty cool to now be an Alien!

But he struggled to control his newfound powers and adjust to them like he did with the ghost powers. He discovers his newfound abilities, including flight, super strength, and heat vision.

But that means that while most of his villains didn't try to attack him, Fenton's body is too strong. Few others worked to be stronger than that, like Skulker. Well, mostly Skulker.

So while in a fight with Skulker with new weapons from Vlad, he crash-lands in Metropolis from the attack in the Ghost Zone.

The new weapon was a poison that would have a retrograde amnesia effect on Danny. Vlad wanted to slowly make Danny forget about everything before he took him in as his own son. Skulker could then have Jack's pelt, and as a ghost hunter, it would show he hunted down a hunter.

+

In Metropolis.

Dressed as Superman, Clark made his way to a place where he heard the crash, and saw a black-haired boy standing up from the crater. He tried to talk to the boy, but he seemed to only speak kryptonian! But not in an accent he knows, which means he just met a Kryptonian boy not related to him or a clone. He would say he is 2 or 3 years younger than Kara.

Danny was confused that his "human" body wouldn't speak English. It seemed like he was more hurt than he thought.

So as Clark tried to talk to him, Danny used his heat vision to hit Skulker behind him. Clark was shocked at first, thinking the boy attacked him, until he noticed he attacked the Being behind them.

And as Skulker ranted then about how he plans to "Hang his pelt on at the foot of his bed, As he is an endangered species!" well, those are the wrong words to say. As Superman got pretty angry, he attacked Skulker, who was pretty shocked that he was able to punch him. It must have been the portal's fault.

Clark was angry at the idea of someone hunting down the Kryptoanian to skin them! He was almost as angry as when he met Darkseid.

As Danny saw how the older hero could fight Skulker and was destroying his suit, he escaped until he could transform back to Phantom or find a way home.

Without the suit, Skulker is pretty weak.

Superman captured the tiny thing and turned his way back to find the boy. But he seems to be gone. Well, he would need Kara's or Karen's help; he didn't fully understand the accent.

+

Danny with white hair was walking down the streets. He would find a place to take a break. And help himself with his memories.

Whatever Skulker injects into him, he starts to forget what he was doing…. Wait, what again was his plan?

[r0-boat]

Literally nobody asked for this

Whb au where everything's the same but the demons have dinosaur forms

Something something that one girl Duna from Fossil fighter is something something

AU background:

Instead of the demons being demons and this alternate universe taking place in hell, it takes place in another world entirely, where dinosaurs can shift into a more humanoid form. Seven clans rule over this prehistoric world. Instead of houses, these weird Dinosaur shifters live in dug-out dens with soft leaves and pelts like cavemen as bedding for their nests.

They seem to know how to make and use tools but prefer the thrill of the hunt.

You are the first human they have seen in a long time. Apparently, humans are so rare that they are considered extinct.

Human smell nice :) human make good den-mate...

Satan (Utahraptor)

Big angry flood, The smallest of the kings but still an Apex predator of the jungle. He is truly a force to be reckoned with as he protects his fellow raptors of the Gehenna Clan with his own life.

When he sees you as part of his pack, who protects you with his life, and when you see him and his pack hunting together to catch prey, it reminds you of a biker gang.

He transforms into his humanoid form thanks to his white feathers and hair. He's always staying the red with the blood of his latest kills.

He and The Gehenna Clan live in an open prairie and woodlands where the wet season is short yet dramatic, causing large floods, and the dry seasons are long enough to be considered semi-arid. Despite having the heart of the clan being where the majority of their nesting spots are, you could still find plenty of temporary and backup dens all around their territory. They love to move around, and you have to when you want to and need to find herds of moving prey and water.

Mammon (Gigantosaurus)

The most lush and diverse territory of the clans. They have meat, they have fruit. They even have luxurious goods to trade with the other clans. No wonder that they are considered the wealthiest. And with an understanding of tool use, they're considered ahead of their time in semi-fantasy prehistoric standards.

However, your tales of the land you come from fascinate him. You don't seem to be lying. You even showed him proof, a little screen device that his claws almost broke when he had it in his hands.

He likes how small and soft you are compared to him; even in his human form,, he towers over you. He likes that you curiously poke and prod at his tail and the little feathers that stick out of his shoulders.

Even he has rarely seen humans, and you're just so cute, like a little pet, an exotic pet. He will offer you everything that the Tartaros Clan has to offer. If that's not your liking, He has 100% confidence that he and his subordinates will put the resources and time to replicate anything you desire from your world.

Leviathan (Spinosaurus)

Hades is a perfect mix of land and water, whether a forest with plenty of rivers, lakes, or swamps. It is a subtropical region with so much humidity that it feels like you're drowning. It's wet, rainy, and foggy most of the time.

The heart of the Clan and any place with dens usually lay the floor with cold stone. That makes living in the clan far better. They take great pride in their dens.

Of course, there are spinosaurus rulers. The ruler has the biggest and most luxurious den. In a hidden cavern past a waterfall, he hides away in a cozy subterranean lake glittering with crystals. He is constantly taking care of and maintaining his den.

He only recently started adding more pelts to make his otherwise cold den more habitable after catching wind that a human had appeared.

Beelzebub(Gigantoraptor)

He may look friendly, but beware. His dinosaur form is not only huge, but gigantoraptors eat plants and meat. And this one is not picky.

In a temperate forest, the Abyssos Clan is very well known for its plentiful sweet fruits, especially fruits that like to ferment and spoil into a blend that causes one to get intoxicated. The shifters from the Abyssos constantly store these fruits in old barrels before burying them.

With food being so plentiful, they are not picky eaters. They'll eat anything they find, whether it's the first they grow or the vermin that eat them.

Usually, the oviraptorosaurs that make up the clan stay in either small groups or in the heart of the clan. However, the clan's leader prefers a more roaming, solitary lifestyle.

Lucifer(Smilodon)

You have seen very few prehistoric mammals. Other than Lucifer, Beleth is a white cave lion. You wonder why only those two and no one else you've seen.

According to Lucifer, there were many more prehistoric mammal shifters and humans until something seemed to have happened. He also had brothers, but he refused to talk about them.

The Paradise Clan is the most versatile, with climate and biome in their territory, as well as the most diverse dinosaur shifters. From strictly herbivores to carnivores to anything in between, all of them have something in common.

A very advanced knowledge of medicine and medicinal herbs. And their leader seems to be extremely curious about your human nature.

Belphegor(Yutyrannus)

With the finest furs and his fluffy down, he is out like a light in minutes. Like many shifters, he surrounds himself with our dinosaurs, which work well in packs, very smart raptors, and therapods.

Their fluffy little tyrant mostly just shoves the work off, too. His poor cave lion subordinate rules it like a pride.

He never really slept much in his human form. He did one night cuddling you, and now he's addicted. His favorite part is when his tail wraps around your leg, and your sweet scent picks up on his sensitive nostrils when he buries his nose into your skin.

He likes to lay his big ass Dino form head on you and squish you grumble about how comfy you are as you beat on his feathery skin and yell.

Asmodeus (Tyrannosaurus Rex)

It may seem weird at first, but trust. According to research, Tyrannosaurus was not only a pretty good parent but also a very sensitive lover.

The tip of her nose is as sensitive as a human's hand, and they likely used it in courtship (Google says prehistoric foreplay; I will not be using that for obvious reasons). Although not the biggest of the apex predators being labeled as it will immediately get to his head.

Abbaddon clan has the most diverse pack of Dino shifters besides Paradise Lost. The majority are outcasts and very dangerous dinos. Abbaddon rests between a cascading mountain range closed off from the rest of the world in a calm little valley near the coast. With lots of yummy fruit trees, warm tropical weather, plenty of filling prey, and company just like them, Why would they leave?

His personal paradise All he wants now is a mate, and he'll be complete

[dollopole]

Merlin is the embodiment of “I quit.”:

“I should resign… I said I should resign.”

“Do you think I sit around all day doing nothing?! I haven’t had the chance to sit around and doing nothing since the day I arrived in Camelot! I’m too busy running around after Arthur, and when I’m not running around after Arthur, I’m doing chores for you, and when I’m not doing chores for you, I’m fulfilling my destiny. Do you know how many times I saved Arthur’s life? I lost count. Do I get any thanks? No. I’ve fought Griffins, witches, bandits; I have been punched, poisoned, pelted with fruit, and all the while, I have to hide who I really am, because if anyone finds out, Uther will have me executed! Sometimes, I feel like I’m being pulled in so many directions, I don’t know which way to turn!” (a classic)

“I think it was a bird.” “That? That was definitely… A woman, screaming.” “Why couldn’t it have just been a bird?” “It’s never just… A bird.”

“No, I don’t really fancy it.”

“Yes, and maybe one day you will magically transform into a prince. But since magic is outlawed, that will probably never happen. Come on, let’s go.”

“SOME PEACE AND QUIET!”

“A man who’s alright does not pace, Gaius.”

“Nothing ever good happens in the Valley of the Fallen Kings. No one in their right mind would go there.” *get attacked by bandits* “NOT SO SECRET, AFTER ALL!”

“Maybe we should wait until it’s light.” “Or we could do it now, whatever it is that we’re doing. In the dark, when it’s incredibly scary and dangerous.”

“Not every day a servant gets to write the prince’ speech.” “*leaves*”

“Go ahead, I’m probably going to die anyway.” “Right, so that gives me, what? A one in forty chance of making it?” “So I’m not probably going to die. I’m definitely going to die.”

“Oh, and you… I’ve heard of how you—MISTREAT YOUR SERVANTS! THEY DO EVERYTHING FOR YOU, DO THEY EVER GET ANY THANKS?!”

“Percival! That is a sword, it does hurt!”

“I take it you didn’t come all this way just TO SMASH MY FAVOURITE POT!”

“Say that again!” “WHY?! HAVE YOU GOT ALE IN YOUR EARS?!”

“So… Your step-mother’s a troll.”

“You’re threatening me with a spoon?🤨”

“Yes, it’s almost like having to work😁.”

“I’m enhancing it… For comfort, and ease of use.” “I’m just saying that… The belt is… One hole shy of perfection!”

Give my man a break, or another job💀.

[cryptid-paint]

I've been slowly working on a Loboan Ben au

Basically in this au, Ben gets kidnapped by Zs'Skayr as revenge against Grandpa Max who is biggest enemy throughout Max's plumber's career. Ben is specifically kidnapped with the help of Zs'Skayr personal guard, a Loboan named Lykos whoever once they're back on the Anur System, Lykos can't help but feel sorry for the crying child and decided to "get rid of Ben" (at least that what he tells his boss) by taking him home and adopting him, raising him along his pup, Scout, who is a couple years older than Ben. The kid grows up using Loboan pelts and a headpiece as a disguise to help him blend in better and also serve the purpose of masking his human scent and replace it for a lonoan's scent. However by the time Ben turns 10, a strange meteor falls from the sky, Ben ofc checks it out and the Omnitrix jumps straight to his wrist, the device inmediately starts to slowly transform him into a Loboan to help Ben survive in Luna Lobo, giving him that partial transformation look he had at the start of the Ben wolf episode, however he does need to manually activate the Omnitrix if he wants to have access to a full Loboan transformation.

This is an au I'm still working on, so if you have questions, want to know more about Ben's adoptive parents or if you wanna know anything about the au in general feel free to send me an ask!