Reader

testing, testing, test one two.

at one-fifteen in the morning, after the cat has played at getting up on the desk all night, after I have spent a day working on the wrong assignment, the one which I had the inclination to do rather than the one with the impending doom—I mean deadline.

I wonder what it is that I'm doing that's actually working, even though the numbers haven't lied, not yet.

we'll see if that holds true, with the brief break in the running up to Thursday, and continuation the day or two after. if I'm right, the numbers go back down in the break, and it really is something I'm doing that's working even if finding out involves temporary misery.

but what it is, or in what combination, I don't think I'll ever know.

#AmWriting #Covid19 #Nonfiction #Original #ProsePoetry #Story #TheTruth #WhateverThisIs

#nsfw #furry #erotic #gay #fox

A fox and his boyfriend demonstrate how being “furry” is more fun than you'd think.

(18+ only!)

---

Everyone calls me and Daniel “furries.”

That's not the insult they think it is. Furries aren't lonely nerds sitting on their computers all day. We're artists, event organizers, musicians, doctors, electricians, students, sex workers...and lovers.

Second, and this is the important part: it's true. We are furries. And I'll tell you why (just don't tell Danny I told you).

When I see my Danny, I don't see a plain, ordinary human, but a powerful hunter. I see smooth, sleek fur blanketing a lithe figure, curling around his muscles and rolling down his shoulders. When I press my hand to his belly, I feel his abs beneath a soft, warm bed of cream-colored fur. I can run my fingers through it, feeling each individual strand and taking in its texture, firm enough to rest my head on yet soft enough to fall asleep.

Someone asked me “well, how can you kiss with two muzzles?” As much as I'd prefer to demonstrate visually, an explanation will have to do. When your boyfriend has a sleek muzzle like Danny, that just means there's more mouth to enjoy. I like to start by nuzzling my lips against his, feeling his soft, warm lips brush against mine. I like to press the side of my muzzle against his to hear and feel the warmth of his gasping breath in my ears. Each breath tingles the fur lining my ears, tickling me and making them flutter reflexively. I blush a little, realizing I can't control them, but it's okay: after all, I'm a furry, and this is just one of the many unique ways furries convey emotion.

When it's time for the main event, we both open our maws and tilt our heads slightly to the side. We bring our maws together, and like keys in a lock, they fit together perfectly. You can lose yourself in a kiss without having to worry about accidental bites. And remember, foxes have an average body temperature of 38 degrees Celsius (100.4 Fahrenheit for you New Worlders), which is slightly warmer than humans. This might not sound like much, but you absolutely feel it in the moment. It absorbs into your body and radiates down your spine into your limbs. Speaking of which, you probably both have your arms around each other now, and if he's really into it (which he always is), you'll feel 10 sharp points pressing into your fur. These are—you guessed it—his claws: tools built for hunting and shredding, now used to grip and pull you into his embrace. The hunter drawing in his prey.

We both draw away from each other to catch our breath. Foxes don't sweat the same way humans do: our ears radiate heat, and we pant. The beautiful thing about this is that when Danny and I are together, our tongues are always out and ready to explore. I love to pull back from a long kiss, watch our shared saliva droop and drip onto our bellies, then lean in and press my tongue to his nipples. He gives off the cutest little yip, and we haven't gotten to the fun part yet.

For humans, the word “boner” is a euphemism. But for us, it's real. I can feel him rising against me, his hot member nuzzling into my fur, pressing into my crotch, teasing me. It bounces a few times, begging me to play with it; I can feel a tiny bit of coolness at its tip as he leaks into my fur. I'll pretend to think about it—because that's what teasy, bratty foxes do—but I'm just as eager to take it as he is to give it. I love to wrap my hand around it and feel its girth, especially when I can feel it harden against my fingers. If I'm feeling playful, I'll stroke a finger up and down along its length and trace my finger along the tip, teasing out more of his nectar. If I hear a moan or feel a twitch, I'll know I hit a sweet spot. Oh, but I can't let him have all the fun. I have wants and needs, too.

First, I like to lay Danny onto his back so he's comfortable and his dick is standing straight up, like a rocket ready for liftoff. I'll trace my fingers up along it and feel it pulse and throb under my touch. I'll even give his frenulum a little tickle if I'm feeling silly (which I usually am). But enough teasing. I straddle him, my knees resting under his arms and squeezing his sides. He cups my ass with both hands and squeezes until my fur sticks out in between his fingers, then he slowly inches a finger towards my hole. I can't help myself and moan as I feel him press a finger against me. And then, when he slips it inside—ooohhhhh, I need him right now!

I give his finger a gentle squeeze, letting him know I'm ready. He moves his paw out of the way and grips his dick. It's rock solid and glistening, with a leaking drop of precum on the tip. Absolute perfection. He presses his head against my hole, nestles the very tip inside, then grabs onto my thighs and shoves his hips up with practiced precision.

Reader. You can't even begin to understand the sheer ecstasy. The heat of his member filling me from the inside out. His girth sliding and pushing against me with every tiny movement. His moans as he drives himself deeper and deeper, his claws digging into my thighs as he pulls me closer to him. The soft, smooth skin of his balls against my ass when he gets as deep as he can. He says he can feel my heartbeat when he's hilted, and I nod, even though it's really just me squeezing his pole involuntarily. It's the closest we can get to being a single being.

Danny tells me to relax, and I do. My primitive brain is in charge now and commanding me to do whatever this beast orders. He starts rolling his hips, driving in as deep as he can before pulling partly back out. Even before the second push, I'm rock hard and dripping onto his belly. His cock has a lovely hourglass shape: girthy at the base and just below the head. I can feel each thrust throughout my entire body, making my dick bounce and leak each time his thighs bump against me. His chest heaves and falls as he pants, his belly presses against my balls and my dick. I can see the pleasure in his face: his partially closed eyes, how he bites his lower lip when he thrusts into me, the moans he gives when I tug and squeeze at him. Beauty, love, and passion, all wrapped into one angelic being. He says the same of me, but obviously it's not true. I'm just a regular old fox who got really lucky.

Our breaths are getting faster, our bodies hotter, our thoughts more distant. He's whimpering and clawing at me now, leaving streaks in my thigh fur, begging me to get him there. I lean back a bit, getting myself at just the right angle, then start thrusting my hips up and down in tune with his. He throws his head back and growls, and I know I hit it just right. There's another kind of heat in me now, going even deeper than his dick, seeping into all the places his member can't reach. I feel him throbbing deep in me, but I also feel a sort of fullness. It's his knot, swelling just inside of me and pulling his hips snugly against my ass. This is just enough to push me over the edge, and I can't hold back. All of my love and passion rushes down to my crotch and spills out onto Danny's chest, seeping into his chest fur. He grins and grinds against me as he watches me climax, trying to tease out as much as he can. I watch him lovingly scoop up a bit of cum with a finger and lick at it. He puts his finger out towards me and I obediently wrap my tongue around it, savoring the taste of him and myself. We both stare deeply into each others' eyes as we slowly descend back to earth, knowing that no matter what the world throws at us, it can never take away this experience.

Everyone calls us furries like it's a bad thing. But if this is part of what being furry is, why the fuck wouldn't you want to be one?

we're learning about facilitating groups this semester.

and I have never felt so alone.

#AmWriting #Funhouse #Original #TheInvestigator #TheMoon #TheRiver #TheSun #WhateverThisIs

Verses for a Muse, Performed in Pleasure

#Muse #Real #Fantasy #Erotica #Kinkywords

I once met a poet and translator via a dating app. We didn’t spend much time together, but I believe we both enjoyed the time we did share. Two relative strangers opening up their lives to each other for a brief moment. And then, we stopped seeing each other (and then the pandemic happened).

A couple of years later, I reached out to her and asked if she’d like to meet again. When we did, I received one of the coolest gifts of my life — a published kinky, sexual poem about me! The fact that she didn’t reach out to tell me about it makes me believe she wrote it mainly for herself, or for her audience, not for me — which makes me think those words about me are as honest as they could be.

Voilà — that’s the background and everything up to this point is true. I have two main fantasies involving her:

There’s a “kinky reading” event in our city, and I’d love for her to read that poem in front of the kinky community while my partner and I listen. Maybe even asking her to keep eye contact with both of us while reading.

The second fantasy is more private: my partner and I would invite her for an intimate, kinky poetry reading session. We’d tie her to a chair with our beloved Doxy to make the reading difficult — but deliciously lustful. We’d sit naked in front of her, pleasuring ourselves while she (tries to) read the poems that turn us all on. The rest, you can imagine… passionate, steamy sex filled with moans, squirts, laughter, and smiles.

Next time

#erotika #poem #brat #prey #horny #primalplay

Next time you take control I won’t be so obedient I will fight back I will test your power I will show you that If you want me, You have to earn it.

I won’t surrender So easily. And remember, I’m stronger When I’m horny — Not so easy to break.

Maybe you should grab the cuffs ⛓️‍💥 Tie me to the bed So you can do whatever You want with me.

Ride me or my face as much as you can

All rights reserved. Unauthorized use or publication without permission is strictly prohibited.

Kinky To-Do List (I): Masturbation Material

#beingamasturbationmaterial #strongorgasms #beingsomeonesreasontomasturbate #threesome #muse

• The two of us (me and L.) have sex and record it while wearing masks

  1. Focus the recording on our orgasming body and face.
     
  2. Publish the audio version on Reddit or Fetlife.
     
  3. Create a Pornhub account and upload it there.
     

• The three of us (me, L. and J.) wear masks.
  We have sex and record our faces while reaching orgasm. Afterward, we can decide whether to publish it or keep it for personal use as masturbation material.

M and P: Me. All rights reserved. Unauthorized use or publication without permission is strictly prohibited.

truth.

telling the truth and telling your own truth are two radically different phenomena.

I have the truth written upon my wrist, each stroke, each dot of niqqudot, forming the whole of the word permanently inked.

the word that can animate life, truth itself strong enough to protect us from those who would seek to harm us.

don't feel; don't think; don't trust.

and then with one brief swipe of an eraser, or or a hand wet down with water, a block of clay added.

and truth becomes death, and aids no one.

#Addiction #AddictionRecovery #AmWriting #Codependency #Golem #Fiction #Funhouse #Original #ShortFiction #TheInvestigator #TheTruth #WhateverThisIs

don't touch your eyes with your hands after cutting green onions. doesn't matter how many times you washed them in between.

you're still going to feel it.

last week Monday, class was cancelled by a post, not even the related blue paper taped to the door of the classroom to inform those of us who missed the post. today, I thought, just for a moment, to make that check on the canvas where the class is set out and set into modules and sections.

this week it will be on zoom, it tells me.

on Tuesday, it was supposed to end here, but when here is suddenly an hour earlier and everything else arranged stays the same it's easier to cancel the plans, even if one of them then implodes.

this is the sixty-sixth March, in a repeating loop of March over and over and over again. to most people the notion of people as little boxes on the screen has ceased to be something novel; for me I still have difficulty taking that final leap of logic whereupon I can acknowledge the humanity represented by that tiny box with a photograph or a generic silhouette.

tomorrow will be March and the day after that will be March and they day after that yet.

I wish my classmates would mute themselves.

I wish they would turn their cameras off.

and in person they are almost hyper-social, commingling with one another amongst a sea of chatter so high keyed it overflows the container that they are in. if they cannot quiet this container then how are they ever supposed to be able to create one where there is safety, for them and for the vulnerable on the other side of the table. remember to wipe down the cutting board or everything you use it for next is just going to smell and taste like green onions.

it.

the little squares on the screen aren't people, for all that they speak with peoples' voices and hear with peoples' ears and desire with peoples' hearts. there is some perverse amount of freedom found in being not—

#AmWriting #Covid19 #March #Funhouse #Golem #Original #Pandemic #Prose #ShortFiction #TheRiver #ThingsThatGoBumpInTheNight #WhateverThisIs

Hey everyone!

This will mainly serve as a place for my fiction writing. Primarily I enjoy gothic, maritime, and science fiction, as well as some fantasy! Hopefully I can start populating this with some short stories <3

the sky is hazy between the smog and the smoke; so bright the sun pulsating white hot. it's been on fire longer than we've been alive. fire so hot that it would absolutely incinerate us, made palatable by distance and atmosphere.

the river runs northward underneath the moonlight, against gravity, against the polar minimum as if the moon does not pull back and forth on the oceans to beat them out on the shores.

the picket fence is twined over with plants that do not grow; leaves that turned brown and brittle—in the resting relative peace of restive twilight—petals turned to dust, as if they had never existed in the first place.

you find it's like a fun-house mirror at times, where you can press your fingers to the glass and see in it your own reflections, and then it diverges, reopening old wounds and winding back time—back and back and back and back and back and back and back—until that fence had not been built. so far that the fence was never even thought of; where the fence stands instead was demarcated by the boundary of the lawn, if you could call it that, turned over from Bermuda grass and the last few leaves of the clover that prevent the little hill from just sliding away into nothingness and then its abrupt end where dusty topsoil is raked overturned to dry ashes for sunsoil.

the rabbi Yehuda Amichai says that:

From the place where we are right Flowers will never grow In the spring.

and that:

The place where we are right Is hard and trampled Like a yard.

it makes clear there is no right here, to be found. there is no easy answer from the mirror; your mirror will never tell you what to do. choice and motivation has to come from within—if you use the motivation from without it will eventually cease—and change from that motivation rather than to please.

there is no easy answer, no direction left to go.

But doubts and loves Dig up the world Like a mole, a plow. And a whisper will be heard in the place Where the ruined House once stood.

our houses, our safety, are melted away into the aether, northward into the river that carries us; no easy answer gives us escape from the northbound waters, the only direction left to go is down. when it releases you spit out of the fun-house, no longer in the circus but the middle of the roar of an intersection that should be an interchange, as if you are Frogger and must cross to safety surrounded by all the words that make you small, darting between cars and under wheels.

remember—none of it matters at the end of the night.

when the morning comes, the sky is hazy between the smog and the smoke.

#Astral #AmWriting #Disclaimer #Golem #Mazeldon #Fiction #Funhouse #Original #Poetry #ShortFiction #Story #TheInvestigator #TheMoon #TheRiver #TheSun #WhateverThisIs #YehudaAmichai

Change is coming to the Township of Falaney Creek while Seti, a jaguar, only wishes to live out his life and work his craft as a jeweller. Unbeknownst to him, an odd encounter with a peculiar raccoon has set his future in motion.

This is a teaser for an early draft of a novel I have been working on. I would greatly appreciate any and all feedback on this chapter, thank you for reading!

*****

Tarnished metals fascinated me. I turned the silver necklace in my hands and marvelled over its tainted surface. It wasn’t that the tarnish hid potential. Rather, the jewellery’s potential had already been met and faded. Polishing would cause abrasions or thinning of the metal but it could still be renewed and repurposed. Silver could gleam again, just marked by the passage of time. To me that held more beauty than perfection. I smiled as I dabbed a coarse cloth in the juice of a squeezed lemon. My fingers were steady and firm as I buffed away the stain. The yellowed metal grime slowly yielded to my gentle scrubbing and revealed the shining silver beneath. Lemon juice and a scrub was far from a perfect polish, but it was good enough and all I could afford. I lived by my craft as a jeweller, I kept out of trouble and usually found my purse to be full enough to survive next month’s rent. I was cautious as I threaded the cloth into the delicate segments of the necklace, with slow and measured strokes I swept the metal clean without warping the simple filigree. My work left its mark, a patch of tarnish lifted to reveal speckles of pitted silver I couldn’t fix with my rudimentary polish. I left a scratch or two, unavoidable abrasions with such dated silverwork. I knew the dark grime that stuck to my cloth contained minuscule amounts of silver, the necklace forever thinned by my service. A wealthier patron may be offended by such a thing, but my customers were far from wealthy. This necklace belonged to a neighbour, a family heirloom her grandmother had worn for decades. The necklace had never been worn by her mother due to a lengthy scandal which culminated in an entire branch of the family tree fleeing the township. I was so charmed by the drama I offered to restore it for free, the real payment was just to see her wear it proudly. I took a deep breath and placed the polished necklace on my workbench. It gleamed, the simple design of the piece obscured by its brightness. It was only a few segments of silver worked with filigree that once may have been branches and leaves, the detail had long faded to mere suggestions in the metal. I leant back in my creaking chair and sighed as I tried to dry my paws on a spare cloth. I frowned over the tackiness of my fingers, the scent of citrus filled my head. I wiped down the necklace with a damp cloth, again with a dry cloth and then buffed over the entire piece with a single drop of olive oil to help protect its shine. I tutted to myself. The oil was expensive and I hadn’t originally planned on using it, but the silver shone like moonlight and I knew I wanted it to stay that way. I turned the necklace in my hands as a final check, and once satisfied I wrapped it up in an scrap of cheap silk I’d cut from an old scarf. I didn’t have to carry it far, Demora only lived a few doors down and the day outside was comfortable. I relaxed in the warm air, the smooth pavers underfoot always felt good. I nodded cheerily to another neighbour as they cut daisies from a flower box hanging off of their window. I lived in a confused corner of the Township of Falaney Creek. It was a gorgeous old Wetbank neighbourhood which was originally built away from the town’s centre, but it had become encircled by recent developments as the town expanded and subsequently became more affordable. Many of us who lived here were skilled tradesmen who turned reasonable coin for our hard work, but despite this most of us were renters. Demora was a baker and though her kitchen and oven were elsewhere, she always kept freshly baked treats around. Her home often smelled of leavened bread, as it did today. I drew in a breath and smiled as she welcomed me in. She was a dog with sunny fur and an even warmer disposition. She gasped as I unveiled her necklace. “It’s gorgeous,” she drew in a tender breath as she put it on, her fingers lingered on the silver leaves. It gleamed amidst her yellow fur and took on an almost golden sheen. Overlooking her dining table was a portrait of her grandmother, I’d always seen the resemblance but with the necklace in place it was uncanny. “Storms, you look just like her.” “So I hear.” She delighted me with a smile, I grinned back. “Nan would’ve been proud to see me like this, it’s prettier than I imagined. Thank you.” Joy warmed her words. “Any time.” I bowed my head. We weren’t a wealthy neighbourhood, but we deserved beauty too. We could decorate ourselves in our histories and wear our stories proudly. I rapped at her table as I stood. “I can’t stick around, I’m headed to the forge to start on a new project.” “Well you’re not leaving without taking one of these.” She stepped towards her kitchen, snatched the cloth off of a covered basket and produced a loaf of sourdough the size of my head. My mouth watered as the scent of the baked bread intensified. I accepted it graciously. Demora often gave me bread which I’d eat with jam from another neighbour. From others I was given the hard ends of cheese or dried fruit, whatever leftovers they had spare. In return, I would do odd jobs for anyone in need. A jeweller’s deft hands made quick work of many fiddly tasks. Through my connection with the community I was always finding little things I could do to make their lives brighter, easier or simply just kinder. The mother of a household at the end of the street was so charmed by a decorated set of needles I’d made for her that she now insisted on darning any holes in my clothes. Such was the shared joy we bounced between each other. I wasn’t sure I could survive here without it, my neighbours helped me thin down my expenses to something sustainable. I dropped by home to stash the bread before I left for the day. I had a small workshop at the communal forge located near the centre of town, between parks and the river. It was a delightful space, home to a community of creatives who worked with metal, glass and clay. Decorative sculptures, bowls, jewellery, the forge supported craftsmen of everything from gaudy sculptures to simple belt buckles. There was a spring in my step, I’d been teaching one of the sculptors how to work filigree and in payment she had set aside a fistful of brass I planned to fashion into shiny rings with a willow leaf motif. I was so lost in thought as I approached the forge I almost walked straight into an armed guard. “The forge is closed today.” He stood before me with a hand on the pommel of his sword. He was a fox with a heavy build, his tunic embroidered with the spindly insignia of the Township of Falaney Creek. I made an exasperated sound. “But I work here.” Concern rose in my chest. “And I've work to do today.” “Forge's closed.” The guard stared me down, his voice flat and disinterested. I peered past him to the paved square which held the forge. Horror twisted on my face. A crew stood around with tools as they dismantled our workshops. “But it's our forge.” It was communal, a core facet of the lives of craftsmen in the township. The guard only shrugged. “This square's been flagged for construction so—” “But—” “Forge's closed.” He folded his arms. “Any complaints, you know where to send 'em.” He cocked his head back towards the hill past the centre of town, upon which the mayor's house was built. A hiss rose in my throat. I cut my gaze to the side and bared fangs. This was frustrating. Shocking, even. Just yesterday I'd spent hours honing my craft, retooling junk into jewellery. It was how I earned my living. Storms, the forge was how so many of us did. A thorn poked at my throat. “I have tools in—” The guard shook his head. “Shouldn't have kept them on public property.” “I- we have...” I was quivering. There'd been no warning. “We keep lockboxes here, you can't.”
The fox clicked his tongue. “Ah well.” He tilted his head back towards the hill. “Hope you write letters even half as annoying as you’re being right now.” There was an infuriating drag to his words. I clenched a fist. “Listen. This—” “You listen. Go home, save yourself the trouble and find a real job. You want a forge? Pay a smith.” He spat out a breath and placed a meaty paw back on the pommel of his blade. “Hear the Coraband’s recruiting.” My mouth hung agape, was he threatening me? “It’s public for a reason.” I snarled under my breath, a smarmy smile grew on his face. “There's something I need in my...” I trailed off. The guard was shaking his head. “Can't help ya.” His claws braced against the hilt of his sword as he tightened his grip. I stared him in the eyes, pleading for even a hint of cooperation. There was none to be found, I huffed and turned. My tools were expensive. My tools were mine. These bullies couldn’t get away with denying me my possessions. I set a brisk pace as I headed down the street, out of the guard’s view. I cut into the park which ran alongside the path and hid behind a row of trees and bushes. As I slunk towards the square I kept stealing glances at the guard. The fox stood around with a sour look on his face and shooed off a few others curious about the square. The park went all the way to the edge of the square and nobody took notice of a jaguar amongst the trees. From my vantage point, I could see into the square. A few other guards were positioned around the entrances. Another two sat in the centre throwing dice. The crew destroying the forge were preoccupied with their task. I grit my teeth. Could I do it? With a quick dash in, I could grab my tools and run. They’d see me but would they catch me? I wrinkled my nose. Probably. I could wait for a distraction or come back at night. Futile ideas spooled about my mind, this was not something I’d ever had to consider before. “What's your plan?” A hushed voice fell from the canopy above me. I startled and glanced up. Sitting on a branch in the tree was a raccoon. He dropped to the grass, silent as he hit the ground and rose. I blinked. “What?” I was so surprised the word slipped past my lips. He wore a distant expression though his blue eyes were bright. His brown fur looked soft and faint woody tones of oakmoss drifted through the air around him. I couldn't place his age, slightly older than me but there was a youthfulness he carried with grace. I glanced to his tunic, he wore no insignia. Relief grew within me, but I kept my suspicions nonetheless. Curiously, he wore a copper bell on a thin length of rope which hung to the height of his collarbones. It hadn't jingled. His gaze drifted to the square. “You'll find me no friend of the guard.” I nodded slowly as he turned towards the square and squinted. “Your plan?” he asked. I bit my lip. “I have none. They've got my tools.” “Hmm.” He tilted his head as he sized me up, his gaze lingered on my hands. “Glassblower?” “Jeweller.” “Ah.” He rubbed his chin. “And where would your tools be?” “In a lockbox, at the back of the third workshop to the right of the forge.” He winced. “Right in the middle.” I nodded. “What sort of lockbox?” “It’s wooden, about the length of my arm. There’s a map of the creeks carved into the lid.” I sighed. A friend had made it for me, I’d probably never see it again. Another precious thing lost to the mayor’s grip on the town. Storms, they were tearing down the forge. My heart sunk. “My tool bag will be right at the top.” “Wait here.” He strode past me. “Huh?” He'd vanished behind the tree. I followed but nobody was there. I froze. “What?” I whispered and spun. Expecting him to have slunk around the trunk like some kind of prank. But no, he was gone. I paced about the tree, bewildered. I glanced up to the canopy, expecting to see him climbing between branches. Instead, I heard the rustling of bushes. A chill crept down my spine, he'd disappeared entirely. I whipped around to face the square but there was still no trace of him. I shook my head. It made no sense, if not for the faint aroma of oakmoss I wasn't sure I could trust that he had been there at all. But now I wasn't sure what to do. I was beyond sceptical but until I thought of a way to get my tools back myself, there wasn't much else for me to do but wait. I passed my time glaring at the backs of the workmen dismantling the forge, I cringed as they tore up the complicated pipework that carried molten metal to our workstations. It didn't take long, a call went out in the square. Commotion followed as a dozen officials raced about. A wisp of smoke rose to the sky, I traced it to where a small fire had caught on a pile of pennants that used to decorate the forge. Moments later something scratched in the grass behind me. I jumped, startled. The raccoon stood at a respectful distance, my tool bag clutched to his chest. I squinted at him before my gaze dropped to my tools. “How?” He held my bag out towards me. “A bit of good fortune.” “Explain yourself.” I grabbed it. “How did you do that?” He ignored the question. “It was locked.” I stated firmly. “Was.” He nodded in agreement. “I didn’t bust it open, if you were afraid of that. It’s a very beautiful box.” As a scowl darkened my brow his gaze dipped to the tool bag I clutched to my chest. I exhaled to smother the sparks of indignation that clung to me. “Sorry.” I held out a hand. “Thank you for your help, really. This is all such a scare, I’m quite shaken.” He shook my hand in a single exaggerated motion. “My pleasure.” He felt real. I don't know why I still doubted that, but it was relieving to know he was corporeal. “What's your name?” I asked. He shook his head. “Better if you don't know.” He turned to leave. “Wait.” I reached after him. He peered over his shoulder. “I could fix your bell and make a chain for it. Please, it's the least I can do.” The raccoon's left ear flicked. He raised a paw to the bell. “Good awareness.” He shook the bell, it made no sound. “You'll find it's not broken but a chain, hmm.” He lifted the ratty cord of rope that held it. “I'd quite like that.” His gaze drifted to my eyes and he smiled warmly. “Another time, perhaps.” I furrowed my brow. “I've enough electrum to–” The words caught in my throat, he was gone. One moment he was there, the next, nothing. He hadn’t even moved. I might've blinked. Storms, I hope I blinked. I tried to catch his scent, but only the lingering aroma of oakmoss remained. It was disorienting. How anyone could just vanish like that was beyond me, but he was gone like a spectre come morning. I scrunched my face, my fingers pressed against the corners of my eyes as I took a deep breath. I had my tools, that was what mattered. I was thankful but my curiosity had been piqued. I clutched the leather bag to my chest, with this I was certain I hadn't dreamt him up. I checked to make sure all of my tools were there. Nothing was missing or damaged, but a curious silver coin had been placed inside. It had been stamped with a crude symbol of a raccoon's mask. The uneven depth of the impression made me suspect it was worked by an unskilled hand. He’d left me a mark for a reason, I chewed my lip in puzzlement. I didn't like that I owed him a favour. Perhaps that wasn’t certain, but I felt some obligation to him now. I wouldn't give an unknown favour to a stranger. I'd make a chain for his bell and if ever he came asking for that favour I'd offer it instead. I wouldn't be goaded into whatever game he was playing. I rubbed the surface of the coin, it had been coated in something oily. I sniffed it. Oakmoss, but far stronger than the scent he wore—it was almost eye watering. I wrinkled my nose and stuffed it away in my pocket. I exhaled. He made me nervous. He'd been willing to sneak into the square, he might be some make of criminal. By accepting his help I could land find myself in trouble. I grimaced. There was a friend I could talk to, someone who kept their ear close to the ground and had a penchant for knowing things one should not know. I lifted my tool bag over my shoulder and set off towards Drybank on the south side of town. There were four distinct regions to the township. Wetbank to the north side of the river, given its name due to the proximity to the creeks which the township was named by. Drybank to the south and then the Mayor’s Hill on the northern edge of Drybank. Frustratingly, there was also the Coraband District, on the eastern side of Wetbank. I dreaded to even think of the place. The streets were warmer down south, the mayor had ordered all the trees cut down to make the most space for cheaper housing. The flagstones were ramshackle and full of gaps which routinely filled with muck of questionable origin. Dust drifted on the breeze of Drybank. I clutched my tools to my side. I didn't think this area was unsafe, but the sheer number of guards who walked these streets always put me on edge. There were dozens who patrolled the entire southern district with an air of wanton superiority about them as they troubled townsfolk they deemed suspicious. I kept my head down as I strode towards the alley where my friend lived. She'd rented out the cellar of what was once the biggest tavern in the town. It was a musty living space, but it was large and cool. She'd dressed it up with vibrant rugs and cushions, drapes and incense which left the air hazy in a way she claimed allured her clients. I rapped at the door to the cellar and hoped she wasn't with a client at the moment. The latch clicked. I stepped back as she threw open the door. She went by Taro, though it wasn't her birth name. She was a shapely hippo who welcomed hungry eyes with a low-cut shift and a skirt of thin red fabric which had been layered to show enough leg while maintaining enough mystery to keep a client’s interest. Adorned on her shift was a small silver brooch shaped like a tulip with worn details. It was the first piece of silver I'd ever worked, and it tickled me to see she still wore it proudly. A smile delighted her eyes, which were edged with a soft pink powder that complimented the almost-purple brown of her skin. “Ahh, Seti.” She raised a hand and rolled her wrist as she gestured me inside. I grinned back. “It's been too long.” I stepped forward and embraced her in a firm hug. Today she smelled of little but herself. She breathed deep as she squeezed me back. “Oakmoss?” she whispered in my ear. “It suits you.” I stepped back, embarrassed. “Not mine.” Intrigue filled her face. “Tell me about him.” I shot a hand up, my face scrunched. “Not like that.” She rolled her eyes, pulled shut the cellar doors and we descended into her chambers. I sat against an orange cushion and curiously eyed a set of cuffs that had been placed on the short table in the middle of the room. “I've got a client coming so make it quick.” Taro sat on the edge of the table and crossed one leg over another, flashing me an eyeful under her skirt. I smirked. “Didya like that one?” I lifted my shoulders. “Could've been more subtle.” “Men don't come to me for subtlety darling.” She pursed her lips. We'd long since grown past discretion. She was my oldest friend, I knew her business. Storms. I'd once helped her find clients and even would've walked the same path if not for the apprenticeship I'd scored with a jeweller almost a decade ago. “So what's the trouble?” she asked. I sighed. “They've closed the forge.” She gasped. “What?” Genuine concern creased her brow. I grimaced as I nodded. “Yep. They’re destroying it, but. That's not why I'm here.” “Will you be okay?” I waved the question off. “I'll be fine,” my voice was pitted as I reached into my pocket to pull out the raccoon's coin. I held it up so she could see it. “Do you have any idea what this is?” “Hmm.” She squinted at it, her nose wrinkled as the scent of oakmoss floated between us. “Can't say I recognise it.” I clicked my tongue. “The strangest thing happened when I went to the forge. I got turned away by a guard. I was considering sneaking in to grab my tools, but this raccoon was there. And he got them for me.” I furrowed my brow. “He was like a spectre, gone the moment he left my sight. Vanished, not a trace of him. And then he was back to give me my tools. Somehow he'd gotten past all the guards.” Taro frowned. “Anything?” I watched her closely. “There's...” She sighed and lifted her head. “This isn't for anyone else. Promise.” I nodded. “Promise.” “One of the planners comes ‘round every week or so. He's been frustrated lately, running into problems he's never had before. Things going missing, reports of break ins even under constant watch. One of his documents was half-way rewritten without him even realising. He's pissed, raves about it like he's haunted. At this point he's not even sure if it's sabotage or if he's losing it.” She rose to her feet. “But he swore to me that a raccoon started working his estate. Showed up one day, paperwork all in order, stayed for a week, good worker, then disappeared without a word. Then his troubles started.” I stared. “Might be him. Did he say anything else, brown fur? About so tall?” I raised a hand to my chin. She shook her head. “Not a word else.” “Who's your client?” “Lamrel Merrit. Five inches.” “I- oh.” I cocked my head and blinked. “Good to know.” She snickered. “Figured it might be relevant.” “Sure.” I furrowed my brow. “That's that rabbit, yeah?” She nodded. “What are you going to do about it?” “Probably nothing.” I sniffed, my head still full of oakmoss. “I just worry he might call me in for a favour, which could be trouble.” Taro leant forward, her brown eyes full of concern. “You don't think he's in with The Lenders do you?” I grimaced. “Hope not.” The Lenders were a gang of crooks with far too much money who used either violence or wealth to tip the mayor's hand. “Doesn't seem like their style.” “Mmm. Maybe, but the coin. Like lending a favour.” Anxiety scratched at my chest. I stuffed the coin in my pocket and bared my fangs. “That better not be it.” She cocked her head towards the stairs. “You sure as shit aren't bringing any Lenders 'round this way.” I eyed her wearily. “Don't plan to.” “Good. Now, time to go. My client will be here soon.” I dipped my head, swung my bag over my shoulder and rose into a bone-crushing hug. “Stay safe Seti.” She kissed my cheek. “And come 'round some time I'm not working.” I squeezed her. “I'll try.” As I dipped out of the alley, I bumped shoulders with a tall, white rabbit who was walking at a rushed pace. He seemed well-dressed for this part of town. I whipped around and muttered an apology. He ignored me as he strode into the alley I’d just left. Lamrel Merrit. Five inches. I hid the stupid smile on my lips and turned for home. I wasn't entirely sure what I was meant to do now. First and foremost, I needed to sort out a new workspace. I tried to list everything I had to do to get my business up and running again, but my thoughts kept drifting to that raccoon. I'd been up to no good, so to find him in the same place implied he had a similar motive. He helped me, sure. But he'd set fire to something. Which was admittedly a bit beyond what I wanted to get involved in. I had no love for the mayor and all the changes he'd pushed upon the town, but my livelihood was salvageable. The loss of the forge was a shock, but I could manage. I just didn't want to get wrapped up in anything more. So if I’d been pulled into something, I needed to know what it was. I needed to know who that raccoon was. A buzzing grew in my chest, I couldn’t tell if it was anxiety or excitement. I almost wished he was a Lender, I knew what they were. But it just didn't fit, he seemed kind. He was something else, a peculiarity that could threaten all of the security in my life. With every step I took, the raccoon's coin felt heavier in my pocket. He could be worse than The Lenders with his vanishing act, I wasn’t convinced that was a parlour trick but what else could it be? Magic? I scoffed. Storms, I wish I knew.

Hey there, writers and storytellers! I'm happy to launch Tales.Tiggi.es, a cozy corner of the fediverse dedicated to furry and furry-adjacent writers who want to share their work without algorithms, ads, or corporate bullshit. Whether you're crafting epic fantasy sagas, erotic fantasies, writing slice-of-life snippets, building intricate worlds, a place for technical writings, or just journaling your thoughts—there's a place for your voice here. This platform is powered by solar energy ☀️, runs on respect for your privacy and creative rights, and connects seamlessly with Mastodon and the wider fediverse via ActivityPub. You own your words, always. Registration is currently by invite (reach out to me on Mastodon at @leoburr@tiggi.es or Telegram @leoburr if you'd like to join), and I'm excited to see what stories this community will tell. Let's make something special together—write freely, share boldly. :)