FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Written by fugi88, commissions open

If you like stories like this, feel free to donate what little you can to paypal.me/fugi88 - It helps a lot!

---

Part 2 of Alexander's Accounts, continuing from sleeping with Artemis

It was going to be a good today. I was in a good place, held by a gentle werewolf in a warm bed. It was dark, as always, which is why i checked my watch's glowing hands. 08:30. I was still having early-starts, it seemed.

I didn't move because i didn't want to wake up the sleeping Artemis. He sounded the most peaceful he'd been ever since i met him. At last.

Eventually, i found out why i was woke up at this time. His arms were pulling hard into my chest, keeping me stable against his thrusting pelvis. He had become erect and he was having yet another wet dream.

I decided to ignore it. It felt nice, too, so i didn't really mind.

He began doing it quite roughly and he was gripping me hard. I felt my breathing become labored as he humped at me.

He slowed down and i took a few breaths. And then he sped up right again.

He went on like this a little while. He stopped, and i fell back asleep.

I woke up and i eventually decided to leave the bed. Even if Artemis was incredibly endearing, i simply didn't feel like enjoying his unconscious movements was that ethical. I peeled his arms off my chest and clambered over Artemis. He woke, but i simply told him i had work.

The kitchen was freezing cold when compared to my room. Provides the highest-quality industrial temperature sealing of all of the werewolf country, said blast-therm's promotional materials. The chef was sitting there at his morning newspaper, a vat of plain water boiling behind him. This morning had tortellini as the breakfast of the day. Nothing for me to cook this early.

A_ct oblivious; you were book-shopping and went home without confrontation_. That's what he should think. “Why…?”, i asked.

“Violent thugs are back at it… again!”

I faked shock, quite well. “Oh…! And they're going against humans…?”

“Yeah, against humans. Ok, granted, they have been sent to prison, but…” He continued, a new thought “One even had their lower body's autonomy destroyed by some stabbing, apparently.”

“How absolutely horrific”, i said. “I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy.”

But i'd give it to some randos on the street, i guess…? I'm such a liar.

He began to open his newspaper again. “Seriously. It'd be best if you worked on this lunch's pastries, anyways. Better use of time”

I'd like to read that newspaper. It'd be helpful to nail down the details. Am i really that guilty? Are they the same thugs who attacked me? I looked for a slot. Today's newspaper would be read in hierarchy order, stored for a week or so in the tinder pile, and then used to help light the barbecue for the weekend barbecue-buffets. It'd take it after the guys above me, i guess.

I'd read it this lunch for once, i guessed. The time was 09:40, early for the werewolves. I had about an hour to take in the fresh morning.

So, i went out into the yet-unopened dining area and began my wake-up morning routine. It simply involved a bunch of body-weight exercises doable in street clothing and using, at most, chairs and tables. I taught myself them back in university for when the Latin lectures got boring. I never dropped the habit, even after i left university.

I think i knew why. There was something inside me which found deep agreement with this kind of “do everywhere with little tools” kind of thing. Uncomplicated, minimalist, simple. Those were my principles, after all. it's why i even preferred chopsticks in the first place.

It kept me from becoming ugly, and i was happy for it. I used to get sore from this, but i peeled back on intensity a while back.

I didn't have anything in particular to do after the exercise. I decided to go do the work anyways. Batch payment would reward me well. Well, “well”.

The head chef turned his head to look at me as i walked in. “Hey, Alejei, want to read the newspaper? I'm done."

“Yeah.” I was surprised he wasn't holding it in reserve for when the other cooks arrived. He walked off to do his little opening-up duties.

He had given me a nickname, pronounced with a heavy northern accent. I transcribed it faithful to Spanish orthography. It sounded almost like a Russian name, but that was likely a coincidence.

The head cook had found himself bilingual but isolated by the younger generation's loco lexicon. That was the derogatory term, of course, for loco was too well-known of a word to be considered part of the lexicon. They went for “machnun" instead. From Arabic, too.

I opened the newspaper and began skimming through. I was immediately reminded of why i didn't like the newspapers here. Every article had some kind of swing pushing it in a certain direction. a “north-helping” bill became a “south-parasitic” bill. “life-saving humans” became “valid humans”. And importantly, “thug” became “rightful native”. These newspapers were shit. I was glad the police could offer at least some justice for what the newspapers called the “wrongfully imprisoned”.

I found the newspapers were best used wiping the shit off my anus, bringing some politician's face kissing my arse for all the shit they'd done.

I read a short article, a testimony. It was very much against the attacker. He had a little monologue.

The damned human went up to my good peer Feliximus, who had suffered his whole life, having had money issues. We were trying to get him a house, asking kindly for money on the street. We were civilised. We were polite. We kept to our own business.

He simply stabbed him in the back and used his little needle to destroy the nerves. I almost retched. And then i looked. He was fucking bleeding out onto the street. I swear i saw little yellow sticks drifting down into the storm drain. They were nerves in a pool of blood, the keys to his mobility forever broken. He's suffered a lot in life and it pains me to know he'll have to suffer more.

Obviously Silas-Augusto tried to have the human tackled down to get him contained, but the damned human simply turned over and he got stabbed in the stomach by the needle. He fell unconscious. He's trying to recover from sepsis as we speak. I'm not sure if he'll survive.

I tried to get the human what he deserved but he stabbed me just as i was preparing for a punch. The asshole!

We're going to prison eventually because the police have a human-seeking bias for no reason.

Whoever did this, fucking prepare yourself for the fucking worst. We won't stop until you're in a wheelchair too. And then you'll finally fucking understand.

Thanks a bunch for ruining our lives.

You sh_ouldn't be so blasé about this_, echoed Artemis's words.

Not a single word in the article was pushing for me as a person with rights. Not a single mention of what actually happened. I was the bad guy.

Not that i cared. What bad does it do to be isolated and hated by those who'll never meet you again?

So, the pastries, how about them? I dug around a little in my head to find them again. Ah yes. It'd start with the dough, then the filling, then the ornate cuts.

I was the one guy in the kitchen, still. I hadn't my lowers to call in for the dough-mixing nor basic shaping. I could leave this all until lunchtime, but i didn't particularly feel like simply existing for this morning.

So, i grabbed a few bags of flour, half a bag of sugar, sea salt, some unsalted butter, and quite a bit of water. The bags here weren't quite home-size either, having been designed for the werewolves's hands. Commercial-sized, too, and that was a lot of dough i'd be making. A lot of time invested. I was glad it'd turn into dough i could use myself later on.

I tossed the flour and sugar together into a large mixing bowl. Some salt went in, too. Butter came in next, being pulverised by my ungloved hands. It was better this way.

It was, of course, illegal to cook without scrubs and gloves, but i simply wore a hairnet. The law was written for werewolves, and my arm-hair was nowhere near the thickness it needed to be to pose a problem.

Artemis eventually left my pantry. "Gosh, that bed is far better then mine"

He shot a lecherous gaze at me. "And even better with you."

"Stop it", i teased. "You're too sweet."

We looked at each other for a second.

"Well, i've got work now”, he replied.

I sighed. “And do you actually want to go?”

“Nah."

“Shoddy”, i said. “Why work if it's so horrible?”

“It gives me money”, he said. “Which i need for… food and a house, i guess”

“You're welcome at my place anytime”, i said.

“ehhh”, he said. “I'd rather not rely on you.”

“Honestly, it's fine”, i said. “I'll even help you find a better job.”

He looked into my eyes. A flash of thought covered his face.

“Maybe”, he said. “I'll tell you after lunch.”

Artemis left. The law applied to him too, and to let himself stay would open him to the head cook's tirades on hygiene.

We were a hair-free restaurant, after all.

And i went back to kneading the dough. I wouldn't get enough money to pay off my room until i had the entire lunchtime demands met. The pastry formed only a small part of that.

It was important to make the perfect pastries. Savoury, filled with mincemeat. They were far more meat-heavy then the human equivalents.

I got to kneading the dough as i let my thoughts drift further.

Being human, i woke up much earlier then the werewolves did naturally. Artemis had woken up early since i had stirred him earlier. The manager had woken up early since he had the H1 gene lineage. It was an increasingly minority gene which did sometimes still show up.

---

I had the pastries done and breakfast was well-past served. Artemis had came back and i was enjoying a break, sitting with him.

“How'd it go?", i asked.

“Oh, terrible.”

“Let me guess, shouted at for a mistranslation.”

“Yeah.”

His leg moved to touch me. It wasn't energetic. I looked to his face, which didn't show much light nor joy. Did mine? Pastries likely burnt all the joy away from mine.

“You should ask for unemployment”, i said. “Risky but healthier.”

“Ehhhhh”, he voiced.

“Just try it..:! I'll even look for a job for you”

“Yeah, i know.”

He looked out of the window onto the street. Our food delivery fan was moving to park. The bulky werewolves would handle the unloading.

“Like, why wouldn't being a driver suit you?”, i asked.

“Too understimulating", he replied.

“Hmm”, i replied.

I budged my other foot closer to his and he squeezed a little. I looked into his eyes, stuck on a face with a pained expression.

He'd almost finished his own pastry. I had too.

He used to think i was weird for eating with chopsticks. I'd use a knife to break the food and chopsticks to eat them. We'd gotten used to our differences now.

I grabbed a piece of mincemeat with my chopsticks. It almost slipped off the steel surface, but it ended up in my mouth. I was adept, after all. As always, my left hand was free. I used it to gently stroke Artemis's elbow. It felt soft and fluffy.

Luckily here, table manners meant less of the “elbow off table” kind of stuff and more of the “Don't scrape the plate” kind of stuff.

The foot touching mine detensed in response. Time was going to push him to his job eventually and we were both powerless to this basic fact of the universe.

Why was it that in this strange world filled with werewolves who had somehow managed to organise themselves their own society and government in a pocket realm of some deceased Earth magician that we couldn't split from the basic reality of time? Why was it that in this most weird place relying on the work and split between humans and werewolves that we couldn't build good places to work?

It was unfair. What had Artemis done to deserve this?

I wanted to pull him close, give him a hug, say it'd be ok. But we were on opposite sides of the table and he was still eating. It'd be rude to do so, so i'd have to be content with this simple two-point contact.

“I think it'll be time soon”, he said. A hint of forlorn drenching his voice

“I wish you the best”, i replied. “Do you want a hug?”

We both stood and pulled each of ourselves together in a height-disgraced hug. he wrapped his arms around my shoulder-blades and squeezed close, pulling me a little off my feet. Was i his main comfort? Who else did he have?

“You should quit", i said.

“Maybe i should”, he said.

And just like that, he walked away and left.

---

I basked in the post-sunset afternoon glow. The heat which had found its way into the city over the day was beginning to do a strained stretch-out in its efforts to remain, almost challenging the night. “Hehe, i'm only going to try harder tomorrow”, i could almost hear the warm breeze screaming at the cold displacing it.

Summer would come soon. That meant it'd be the perfect time to travel off to the north. I'd like to try with Artemis. I've always wanted to see what they've built for themselves.

He was probably halfway through his shift. I had nothing to take my time. I'd done a big batch, before time, as always.

It felt good to receive the payments, as always.

I instead decided to take a night-time walk. Alibis and chopsticks at the ready. I stepped out onto the street, the daring humidity almost oppressive in its weak attempts to have any effect at all.

I was glanced at with deep suspicion and possibly hatred by the same number of people i was yesterday. Nothing had changed. The newspapers had pushed their sensationalism a touch too far, after all. Nobody really cared all that much for the thugs's rants.

I wondered who of the people staring at me had their own humans under them, chained up in their own jobs. Just how prevalent was the common human?

I didn't care much. With the asphalt under my feet, the flickering yellow streetlights, and the tired smell of pines, i was in my place. This world was the one i had chosen, after all, chained up to a hospital bed and thinking about just how shoddy the human world could be.

The pinkish hues of the sky were giving way to a jet blue quite quickly now, the streetlights only growing in effectiveness.

I first visited a home improvement shop. If Artemis decided to live with me, living in a space-age steel box wouldn't be that appealing nor homely. Maybe i could get some cool painting or some other way to break up the metallic patterns.

There was nothing much of use here. The odd painting i found too tacky. I found a nice one recreating a scene from old Rome, but it made the tendrils of my education squeeze me in punishment as i looked at the various inaccuracies the werewolf artist had put in; a gun with a bayonet was the thing stabbing Caesar.

No, this shop was too cheap, too rubbish, too useless. I guess i wouldn't be buying anything today.

Nothing stopped me on the way back to the restaurant; thugs were exceedingly rare, after all.

I saw Artemis at a table. He was staring out of a window, his back to me, where i found a position just nearby him, out of view. “Hey", i whispered.

He jamp and looked at me. “Where did you go?”

·"The regular, out to the city. Did some window shopping."

“Ah:”

I sat next to him. He hadn't taken anything to order yet. “Did you quit?”

“At long-last.”

I rested my own foot on his and squeezed it.

We gazed out of the window. Not much was passing by, as usual.

“So, what now?”, Artemis asked.

“It'd be a god idea to live together”, i suggested. ”Your apartment's rent will bite at your savings."

“And the job?”

“Plenty of openings in the paper.”

He let some tension leave his frame. His eyes narrowed as he began focusing on particular things. The bollard on the street sat there, slightly scraped yet still standing strong. A horsefly landed on it. It was scared off by a passing werewolf. Not today, it probably thought, werewolves are too reactionary.

In its place, someone dropped a bag of groceries. A lot of meat fell out. They must have had a family to feed.

“I'll get the paper”, i said.

The kitchen was a cacophony of pans and knives, each working to complete their own batch. A head chef was screaming at everyone to get them to somehow organise themselves for the orders of today. The scrubbers at the vegetables in the sink, the cutter at their knives, and the cookers at their pans.

I tried to find the newspaper. It was my break so i was legally required to avoid doing work, not that it mattered. The head cook screamed at me to help with the dicing.

The gloved werewolves had done a shoddy job. The cubes were irregular and ugly, chopped too finely for their clumsy hands.

So, i set about showing them just how finely i could cut. Whilst they had barely managed to hit half a centimetre's worth of smallness, i easily went for 2 millimetres.

I'd take the newspaper from those above me and rip out the “jobs” section. I'm not sure much would interest Artemis. Something just might, though.

I took a tomato and a sharp knife. I sank into the floppy flesh with the tool, hard and precise, diving up and down with a narrowness which challenged even me. I am the most delicate cook, after all. Nobody was unoccupied enough to be shocked, but i still did it anyways. Each salad would be only ¤0.50, so i had to work quick. I had a minimum wage to make and a place to pay for.

The head cook stopped screaming. I could feel his presence behind me.

“You slept with a patron, right?”, he asked with a hint of darkness.

I didn't look away from the knife's edge. “Yeah.”

I could sense him shift his weight. “The rent agreement was for one person. Double the people, double the rent”

People, right? That implies something he dosen't believe. Perfect. Coyly, i replied to his word-mixup. “Ah, so you think werewolves and humans are equal, right?”

“Well, no… the bodies, double the bodies and double the… the rent”, said a stammering head chef.

“Hmm… i'm not burying any bodies, am i? Wrong word again.”

“Hombre lobo barra hombre”, he said in a perfect accent. Werewolf slash human. Northen Spanish always used the “hombre lobo” term to refer to werewolves. Well, at least the standardised RAE-approved version of Spanish. English had lost the “wer-” prefix for “man” a long time ago, leaving Northen Spanish the only way to express this particular bit of nuance.

"Vale", i said, in a more gringo-y accent. I still made sure to substitute the v for a b and the e for a short “eh” sound.

“Well, i've already paid for this month, so let's just look past it for this month”, i suggested.

He shifted behind me. “Hmm…”

“Trust me”, i lied.

“Ugh, ok". He went back to screaming out orders to the increasingly chaotic kitchen.

Salad 10 of 150. The graphs said i'd have to make a good 150. 150 salads in-waiting for the average of 150 for today. Those not eaten would have to be donated by the end of the day; the government had banned simply letting such food go to waste.

I wanted to go back to Artemis. I'd have to explain later, then. The kitchen was forbidden to anybody save for staff during cooking hours. Despite it being against the rules, Artemis could easily sneak past during the off-hours.

But i worked hard, diced the vegtables, made just the perfectly balanced dressing.

I counted as the numbers went up. 25. 50. 75. 125. 150.

Done. I took the paper; it was my turn to read and i took it, for once. I skimmed past the thug article. I'd read it again another day. Now, i was risking being forced another job. Clippings, whilst discouraged, were being taken. I saw the occasional gap making the page difficult to turn. Only two sheets of jobs, 4 by 5 on each. A short description for each.

I ripped out the page and folded it such that it fit into my pocket.

I left through the double doors. I looked across the restaurant. Artemis wasn't there.

Had he left? Would he be back eventually?

I went back to my bedroom to look for him. He wasn't in the steel blast-therm box.

I instead decided to sit on the balcony, holding the book i'd taken from my room. It was getting interesting now. We were moving into Pompeii, preparing the house. We wouldn't have known it but it was only a few months before the explosion. So many interesting stories had been told to me as i walked down the ancient road, but it was now time to begin a new life in the city.

I loved this book. It was well-written and made me feel healthy to read it. That's why i didn't notice Artemis hovering just next to me. “Hi”, he whispered just behind me.

I jamp and looked at him. “Where did you go?”

“I sold my house and took what i needed”, he said. He was wearing a backpack. It was pulling the straps tight and forcing Artemis to slump forwards to maintain stability. Werewolf backpacks were much larger then any human backpack i was used to. Werewolf backs were stronger then humans.

He has no home, it dawned on me. He trusts that i, me, i myself, am responsible enough to be able to care for… him?!

“You're not unpacking that in my fridge”, i said. “I'm surprised you committed this quickly.”

“Yeah, i was considering it.” He took his bag off and put it on the floor with a hefty sigh. “You're just the spark that pushed me.”

“I found you a gift”, i said, removing the folded page from my pocket and handing it over.

He eagerly unfolded it and glanced over the titles. “These all look rubbish.” The eagerness faded.

“Your job was worse”

“Touché.”

He found a seat across from me. He saw the book i was reading. “No spoilers”, he ordered.

Ok, then. I dog-eared my page and put the book down so we could both look empty-eyed out onto the street. We could lose ourselves in thought here, alone, but together.

We loved doing that. Did we love each other yet? Why had we even moved in together?

What could he even do as a job?

“The chief is saying he'll double my rent if you live with me”, i admitted.

“Shit…”

“Can you provide for yourself?”

“How much?”

“¤500 a month”

“Maybe… if i get a job”

All the options were rubbish, i realised, as i saw the upside-down letters he was glancing over on the newspaper. The options ranged from a boring cleaner to some boring driver.

Something did stand out, though. An opening for humans here. Free housing, too…?!

It burnt me a good little to know i was paying for something others wouldn't have to. Did humans read the newspaper? Did they decide they would want the job? Would i be displaced?

It was pulling towards night, dinner, and the head cook was retiring to bed. Mosquitoes were arriving and they hurt me quite a bit; i didn't have the hair nor thick skin a werewolf had.

We retired to my larder and i locked the door shut. I wasn't dumb, so the ventilation hole was kept open, complete with the mosquito screen.

The room was small as ever, even smaller with Artemis's rucksack. We sat on the bed and began reading from where we had stopped last night. You notice new things when rereading, especially when speaking.

And yet again we pulled each other close. Our frames almost merged with how hard we pulled into each other. Well, Artemis was the one doing the pulling. I had not the strength to be the one pulling us close.

And yet again we had our mentofruit. They're much more fun the toothbrushes, i guess.

And yet again we went into the bed.

And a thought struck my mind.

“You thrusted me last night”, i admitted.

“That's normal for us werewolves”, he said.

“What if i enjoyed it?”

Shit. I shouldn't have said that. He twitched and pulled himself a little distance from me. “er…”

“Actually, who are in your wet dreams when you thrust me?” Make this about him instead.

“Well, i guess, er… you… .”, he admitted. “And… yes, i do… enjoy them.”

“So… is it ok if i enjoy the thrusting”

“It's fine… i guess.” He pulled me closer to him and pulled his knees up to squeeze me. “It's only fair.”

Stay tuned for part 3, in which we tackle these issues

---

Some notes:

• Artemis from Alexander's Accounts and Artemis from Remember the Flowers are entirely separate characters and any resemblance is entirely coincidental. I should have chosen a more distinctive name. Eh.

• Rant on media formats

• The only two visual novels i've consumed are Far Beyond the World and Adastra, both of which i found troublingly hard to resist.

• I don't like to read visual novels for i find they happen to turn literature into more of a short-form-content kind of thing with “enter to continue dialouge” and “here's an image so your minds eye can relax”, which ends up being too engrossing for me to, enjoy in a way.

• I don't like consuming stuff that is so engrossing it's difficult for me to pull away

• On the other hand, i've went for reading the 1.7 million word Worm web serial and i've been working my way through it. It's about 17 100,000-word books and those are quite thick books at that…!

• Rant on languages because why the fuck not

• I hate how the word “exercise” is spelt. I always have to mentally say “exer-kiseh” to even have a chance at spelling it correctly. What's worse is that my spellchecker thinks i'm misspelling excessive, which… er, “excersice” is nothing alike.

• You know what, i hate English orthography. It's too complicated and i hate having spent 18 years of my life immersed in English, speaking it fluently, yet i still make true spelling mistakes; mistakes not from clumsy hands but from character strings burnt into my brain that i simply don't know.

• If even i still make frequent mistakes in English, mainly in its spelling, does it really serve its own purpose? Sometimes i pray for an RAE of English to help arrange a better orthography.

• On the other hand, Spanish orthography is absolutely amazing and i find it an absolute pleasure to use it. Sure, there are little quirks like the q-k allophone or the c?s/k thing (but i have heard that “c” is used instead of “s” to denote where some dialect speakers would use the “th” sound, so…), but it's so phonetic it's almost boring.

• I should probably write stories in Spanish to improve my Spanish. They'd probably read like the silly stories i wrote in year 8 though. Nay, i should read whole damn novels in Spanish to understand it. I'm at the point i don't really need improvement in my English skills but rather what English i do choose to write.

• I mean, there's a reason some literature makes you ask “Ok what the fuck are you actually saying beyond all these fancy words?” and some makes you go “Ok, this is cool and all, but how important is this rant to the story?”. That's where poor storytelling takes over from poor English. I suffer from the former, lol.

• I should probably mention Catalan. I like its orthography and think it makes for quite the interesting change from Spanish, and i do like the language, but i feel that writing werewolf erotica in it would be a bit of a shitty move on my part. The people i'm around already are a bit icked out knowing i write so much of it; i don't want them to have their native language raped by my misuse of it.

• I should be glad i live closer to Barcelona than Bilbao because as we all know, Basque is one of those languages which is both difficult and

• I should probably go full-disclosure since i've kind of wanted to stop self-inserting.

• Yes, Alexander is from the same country as me; this is to allow his background to be easier to write

• Yes, Alexander used to do his exercise in-school because i tend to do it; i end up squatting on the chairs quite often out of habit. Nobody really cares, so eh.

• Ok, i can do a series of push-ups which, was both to my and other's surprise, but i can't do a pull-up if my life depended on it lol. Alexander, be free!

• Yes, Alexander's simplicity-revolvant principles are based off mine, a way to express my desire. I call it posi-simplicity. It revolves around tools and the preference for simple tools. I love eating with chopsticks and i much prefer what can be made at home with DIY tools over what needs to be specially bought.

• Ok, there are exceptions like this computer i'm writing on

• Hell, it extends to the media i enjoy; i like to read web serials purely because they're posi-simple; a single line of text, a massive long thread of words, carrying the entire story. The phone does the story-recieving and the server the story-sending. Beautifully posi-simple.

• No, Alexander's physique is not mine. Authors tend to dream about hopeful fantasy situations. I'll leave that there for you. to logically deduce from.

• No, i didn't take Latin in university.

• No, i don't have a boyfriend. Writing erotica has actually freed up my libido quite a bit too, so i probably won't be actively seeking one.

• Story planning

• Alexander's Accounts, i've decided, is going to have another "ricochet plot"; things change in-world which eventually changes the protagonist. This time, though, the protagonist actually has to work to fix their problems.

• If you want to try the pastry, the full recipe i based my writing off is at https://www.kingarthurbaking.com/recipes/all-purpose-flaky-pastry-dough-recipe

• Ok so the cuisine available at the restaurant isn't quite specific. Think of it as the souths native cuisine. I'm taking from a wide range of influences here.

• The book Alexander is reading is of my own invention. I offer the book's plot and storyline as CC0; write that little Pompeii story if it interests you.

• Why is it that i can design the general plot for that Pompeii story yet i haven't got any idea for how this series is supposed to traveal from the beginning to the end (which i have, fortunately, planned out and got a vauge idea on how it works)? Ugh, sometimes i hate how fickle my creativity is.