Some Kind of Monster: Chapter One
Chapter One: Self-Made Messiah
"Nyaaaghn! Not so rough, Tony...take it easy...be gentle with me. Y'know Ah'm a fragile lil' thang..."
Of course, the sound of her sultry little voice was lost upon the deaf ears of a man driven entirely by lust and craven fleshly desires that refused to die down until properly sated. The southern hare wrenched her fists into the bedspread, wincing in a concise mixture of pain first, and then ultimately pleasure which overtook her in full phalanx as the muscle-bound Bengal tiger forced his soaring, sizzling-hot cock up to the hilt inside her pussy, from behind no less. How curious it was to find that a tiger's favorite position, oddly enough, was doggy-style. But Fortune Victoria Gear wasn't complaining; the amber-haired leporine woman took his massive rod into her lower lips with the graceful experience of a purebred stallion, unflinchingly rigid for inspection. It was experience that her mate, Tony, severely lacked. He seemed nigh-impending a premature burst already, primed and ready to cum although he'd just inserted. Fortune giggled in a coquettish way, wriggling her ass higher to allow all of him inside. She could feel his piece struggling within itself, flinching outwardly as well as inwardly in a harrowing effort not to release.
The muscular feline must have thought otherwise. Torn from her dreamlike state of delirium, still dribbling a translucent rivulet of saliva from the corner of her lips, she saw the world as it came and then departed in a whirl when Tony hoisted her from his shaft and roughly spun her over onto her back, man-handling her as if she were a plaything, a doll to be molested and fondled over and over until playtime was through. There was a gossamer thread of cum leading from the tip of his rock-hard penis leading, like a trail into Eternal Eden, all the way across to her clit, glistening softly with a nasty sort of ethereal shine before it broke away. The hare could already feel the creeping warmth of a blush behind her reddening cheeks; why were men so fascinated with such things? Did he really have to take time to watch the cum slowly ebbing out of her, as if carpenter marveling over his craftsmanship? No sooner than the complaint had time to surface in her mind, her beloved carpenter began reapplying the wood.
***
For as long as he could remember, the world was split into four continents, each with as many kingdoms, countries, and independent states as there were clouds in the sky. And each had their own remarkable flavor, distinct feel, and culture to go along with it. The continent furthest north was human land, where those descended from apes were most prominent within their underground subterranean strongholds. There was, of course, Fortissimo, the largest and most attractive of the continents due to the establishments of the Kingdom of Preludia. In the past, what began as a simple farmland village eventually became the world's most prevalent military superpower whose capital city of Clef was set within the sanctity of twenty-foot walls of solid stone. It was Seto's homeland. Preludia was once ruled by a governing counsel of reigning sheriffs and so forth, split into various territories and providences before the reign of the current king, who did away with many of the old traditions the instant he assumed the throne.
Many fled west to the continent of Crescendo and the promise of free commerce and trade in the Country of Alto or the Province of Melodia. Some moved south to Intermezzo and the independently ruled city-states, where the sun shone brightest, where the grass was green, and where the threat of human prejudice was least likely to reach. That was part of the reason why Seto had no qualms with coming here on official business; it was pretty and the fresh air found here was nothing like the stale kind that clogged lungs back in the industrious capital city of Clef. The stuff could strangle the breath from a person if not specifically prepared for it. Although Fortissimo was nice and clean, save for Clef, which looked like the perfect example of how to destroy an environmentalist's wet dream, the lush landscapes found in the Continent of Intermezzo were cut and paste from the picture books and postcards of his youth. As he walked, rolling plans expanded around him in every direction, millions of vivid emerald blades of grass swaying back and forth in the breeze like slender green pendulums. It was almost like a commissioned greeting for him, a stranger in these esoteric lands. Every now and again, a forceful gale would blow in to smooth back the fields like a fine-toothed comb, forcing each individual blade of grass to reset, realign, or merely readjust to the current's strength. The sight extended for miles around, as far as his eyes could see, until the grasslands tucked beneath a distant horizon, reneged under wispy white clouds overhead that soaked within a tranquil sea of flax bullion, and vanished altogether. The sun would be up soon; it was already beginning to peek over the distance and chase off the remnants of nightfall, a night he had spent traveling to get as much distance from Violoné as possible.
"Fuck, I'm hungry. I knew I should have grabbed somethin' to eat, not that I actually had the time to." Seto complained, rubbing his stomach through the fabric of his jumpsuit. In his haste to get to Tanza, he somehow managed to neglect his appetite once again, as he hadn't eaten since the day before. At any given moment, his stomach could growl and alert every living creature within the next couple miles to his presence by unleashing an earthshakingly loud roar. He had to get to Tanza before then and sate his hunger first and foremost, then score a pass aboard the next available ship to leave port toward Fortissimo. At that point, it really would be smooth sailing ahead. And with the appearance of a battered wooden fence that corralled about a third of the quiet backwater seaport town, the rest met sharply with jagged bluffs that fell away into the wharf on one side that was descended to the port below by a series of zigzagging stairs in the most unorthodox way. It was the strangest sea docking setup he'd ever seen, yet Seto wasn't one to ridicule his only real way home without at least being three-fourths along the way there already. He kept on walking a trail that slowly led uphill, eventually reaching Tanza before noon.
The first order of business, he needed to book a boarding pass to Encore, the nearest port in Fortissimo. From there, he could literally hitch a ride home to Clef if he needed to; it all depended on how far the folks from Violoné were willing to pursue him, and whether or not he needed to lose any potential fleas on his trail before heading back home. Tanza was dusty, like a scene out of those old spaghetti westerns, the kind where tumbleweeds were ever-presently bounding across one's field of view like prairie hounds bobbing about. In effect, a lot of the buildings here brought to life the allusion in an aesthetic sense; most of them were decades old with chipping paint and rusted metal siding. The house nearest to him was partially dilapidated, collapsing upon itself as the ground beneath it had begun to crumble away. Aside from that minor quarantined house, much of Tanza had that 'old' feeling befitting one of the earliest Fur settlements since the Fur-Human war, centuries ago.
"...geez...this place makes me groggy," he grumbled, shuffling his hands into his pockets. "Huh, well, s'not like I'm gonna be around for very long. Where's that registry center again?" the half-cat murmured, an ear half reclined against his scalp as he glanced around town again. Tanza was like a maze if you weren't careful.
***
She was out of her pink pajamas, in a pair of jeans, slipping over a black sports bra before putting on her boots sitting by the corner of the bed. Then she was out the door in a flash, almost forgetting to lock it as she bolted off. Once again, she was late for work. She had to run at top speed at times like this, sprinting down the street so fast that there was scarcely the time to wave back at the neighbors who offered a warm greeting. Of course, there were the Carters; she always stopped and smiled politely for the aging old couple who practically raised her. It had been years since she last thought about it, about her past, and the fact that she was an orphan. Taken in upon finding the child on their doorstep, the elderly couple of foxes raised her as their own, having never conceived a litter of their own. For much of her life, she never realized the gaping differences in resemblance, or how long her ears were, or how chocolate her hair was when the Carters' manes were rust colored, even in their graying years. When in high-school, the kids began to turn merciless and picked on her because of her unusual green eyes, or because of her yellowish fur, or whatever reason they could find to torment her. When she was seventeen, a group of local girls ganged up and attacked her, beating her to a pulp under the pretense of 'teaching her a lesson' for being such an 'overachiever'. Fortune, however, simply did her best at everything she tried, put for the effort, and usually accomplished. She hadn't been looking for special favors, yet suffered persecution all the same. That had been when her foster-parents introduced her to Tony, a personal trainer who lived within the area and worked wonders with self-esteem in youths.
"G'mornin', darlin'." Mrs. Carter hummed from her squeaky rocking chair, easing it back and forth as she sat at the porch and waited for her husband to come home from fishing. The Carters made a living off selling their catch. Subsequently, Fortune couldn't stomach the taste or smell of seafood without feeling the urge to gag, thanks to almost six consecutive years of rainbow trout, carp, and tuna. Just thinking about it made her sick.
The Jacobs' roof was worn from decades of old age; she took it in three steps, leaping onto it and off the other side before one of the rickety old tiles could dislodge. The next roof was the McAllister house, which she covered in less cautious strides, bounding over it like a gazelle in flight. Just one final leap across the Burtons' home and the narrow path leading behind her job would be in sight. But that was when a shrill cry rang out across the street, the sound of a pained voice calling out for help followed by a startling crash. Fortune skidded so abruptly that the resistance caused her to skitter clean off the roof and back onto the main street, green eyes scanning frantically for the source of the disturbance. She found it.
ARE gonna give me tickets to Fortissimo, even if I gotta personally BEAT it outta yer old ass--" the feline girl growled, brandishing the wooden ticket booth as if it were an enormous club. How the scrawny little woman could lift such a thing so easily was beyond Fortune's comprehension, but it didn't stop her from approaching the girl. The closer her steps brought her, the more youthful the dark-skinned catgirl appeared to become. She couldn't have been over the age of fourteen; her breasts hadn't even fully developed yet and her skin was so soft and smooth that the bunny almost felt a bit of jealousy nip at her insides. And she bore distinct humanoid features, perhaps one of those rare half-breeds Fortune had heard about but had never seen around these parts; people tended to be close-minded about a lot of concepts, especially interspecies crossbreeding.
pray the blow didn't kill her in the exchange.
was that?!" she muddled. She was morosely stroking her throbbing head by the time she realized the cat girl stalking up to her, shoulders stiff and risen in the universal posture of scathing rage. Fortune gathered her footing and quickly hopped back upright at the same time the feline craned her leg back, just as before. The southern hare swore not to be caught by the same trick twice; the moment she saw the foot vanish from sight, she threw her left arm up to intercept. Like a baseball bat catching the pitch across that 'sweet spot' at center-shaft, the resounding crack lilted the area with a unanimous report so loud that one would have sworn something broke. Fortune's brawny forearm matched the feline's kick and now their bodies convulsed in the effort to repel each other, the cat girl's instep against the back of her wrist; it was a battle of raw strength now. And the feline seemed appalled that Fortune could even manage such a deft defense, eyes wide as saucers.
Ash. People call me Ash," she admitted at long last, "and for the record," she said as her high-pitched soprano voice dipped an octave lower, "I'm a boy...not a girl," Seto spat, turning to walk away.
"Now we're even, purty-boy. Ah think Ah'll call it a draw if y'all will," she mused, cocking her head to the side in such a way that it caused one of her ears to flop over against the side of her face like a limp noodle. "Otherwise--"
really hard; you a Super too?" Seto inquired in a softer voice, blinking when Fortune came over and politely thrust her slender tanned digits down into his face to offer a proverbial helping hand up. For a moment, the reigning silence said enough. Fortune's satisfied smiling face and those alluring green eyes, Seto's sheepish grin and timid expression; it was all enough for the both of them to feel as though kindred, sharing a sense of déjà vu from the very second their hands met until the first one who break the silence eventually spoke up.
. Fortune's straight-punch was like being run over by a truck! This woman was remarkable, Seto realized. The petite rabbit in the black sports bra and jeans was nothing if not petit, yet boasted a powerful physique; her body was the sort of pinnacle achievement that most women could only dream about. Seto began to wonder if she was some sort of professional model who took martial arts in her spare time, just to stay in shape. Soft, golden fur and dark chocolate curls of hair that fell around the small of her back seemed to eventually draw his attention down from her gentle face. Originally, he sought to visually capture the length of her hair and commit it to memory, but he soon found himself lost in the cleavage threatening to erupt out of the elastic. Arms neatly crossed over her chest to obstruct his view, bringing him back into the conversation with a start and wondering if she'd noticed him discreetly scrubbing away a bit of drool against the back of his sleeve.
get tickets." Seto reacted just as she expected. He rolled his eyes and scoffed. Obviously, this conversation was getting him nowhere and he reconsidered his previous scare-tactics once again. But one stern glance from Fortune derailed his train of thought entirely, the fear of her brutal punches being more than fresh in mind. It was fresh, physically and stung like hell. She had better pray there was no permanent damage left behind, Seto growled mentally. He already knew that he'd need more than a band-aid after all was said and done.
An' you're givin' them to me for free? What are you, some kinda self-made messiah or something? You just go around punchin' people in the face with one hand and offerin' salvation in the other?" Seto just had to point that out. In his life, as both a professional thief and simply as a citizen, there was never such a word as 'free'. Everything had its price, either scant or exorbitant as it may be. Even the price of breathing in fresh air came with the price-tag of an unavoidable death at any given point, any given time. When someone offered to give something out for virtually nothing, there had to be some kind of catch, a stipulation hidden beneath the fine print which only required one to look just a little harder for the truth.
"...I think I really would have been better satisfied if she'd actually offered me a band-aid," he whimpered, clutching at his reddening cheekbone. "She's got a really strong punch for such a tiny chick," he complained, even if she did stand almost a full head taller than he was. "What a strange bitch," he spat crudely, turning his nose up toward the whole encounter. If this chick actually thought he gave two squirts of piss about her proposal, she was sadly mistaken. He didn't care about acts of charity, and nor was he the type to accept handouts-- neither in a state of poverty or famine. So there was no need for him to feel inclined to owe her anything, save for a four knuckles and a thumb sent across her pretty little jaw, like she had done to him.
What, exactly, did she intend to do with those soft, voluptuous, bouncing, perhaps well-oiled breasts of hers, anyhow? Did she honestly believe such things could entice a guy like him, a man who could have any woman he desired? Was she fully prepared to handle everything he had to offer, pitting that perfectly toned body of hers to the test as he pushed, pulled, twisted, and drove his way toward a first, second, third, and possibly a fourth and fifth Nirvana-- all the way into the early morn, sweat drenching their weary bodies to the core, sticky trails of cum leaking down from the point of no return, yet their passionate session hell-bent on 'no surrender'? Was she truly prepared for such raw, intense, scathingly hot--
" Don't. Fucking. Move."
"Umm, okay. I'll just be over here, not fucking moving , then," the cat-hybrid quipped, earning himself another painful bruise as the gun was knocked against his scalp in retribution. And then came more of that painful silence. Seto used what little time he may have had to think, hopefully able to formulate something before a pretty little bullet could give him a nice brain-piercing to show off to his friends. The voice was just as cleverly hidden as its owner, neither chiming with distinctive masculinity nor femininity-- just a raspy order issued from behind. This didn't bode well. He could only hope to goad this cretin into conversation before getting shot. There was no other way out.
fucking hard it is for me to refrain from flinging your brains all over the sidewalk? I'd be just like tossing a fucking salad..." the voice continued in a gravely serious tone. Seto closed his eyes and actually chuckled.
am going to turn you over to the proper authorities before you can ruin anyone else's life with your selfish deeds. Now start walking. We've got a lot of ground to cover until we get back to Violoné. You should thank your lucky stars that I'm not like you, you sick bastard," the voice seethed. Seto's ears flicked forward.
I'm thankful, alright," he said, grinning. Things were about to get real interesting, real soon.