FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Whiplash sighed. He sat at a cafe, the chair barely big enough for his bulky frame. These European places were made for slender little critters, not for tall and muscular hyenas like himself. But the atmosphere was good enough to compensate for it, at least. The sun was shining, but not in the oppressive way that it would be later, during the peak of summer. The cobblestone streets contributed a lovely, almost picturesque ambiance to the city atmosphere, and of course, his cup of hot chocolate made from freshly ground beans had its own delightful fragrance to complete the picture. Well, that and the cinnamon roll in his hand, wrapped in the café's custom little paper clothes. It had a picture of the Eiffel Tower on it, and for a moment, Whiplash wondered exactly how his new job – no, his new duty – had brought him this far from anywhere that either he or his client had ever lived or even visited.

But those thoughts could wait just a moment longer. He raised the cinnamon roll to his mouth and took a bite. Freshly baked as it was, it tasted amazing, a perfect symphony of butter and cinnamon combined with bread so soft it felt like biting a cloud. As he did, he let his mind wander a little again, while scanning the environment. Taking in what the place normally felt like was supremely important for what he did, because eventually, it would change. It'd be a minor change, most of the time, his neck-hair raising when it wouldn't normally, or a glass falling halfway off a table instead of shattering on the floor below. It could be a cloud that stuttered as it drifted by in the sky, or it could be a child who ran by twice without one millimeter of variation.

Or it could be more than that. The worst of the things he hunted for could break things. The old granny sitting next to him might suddenly slit her own throat with the cutlery. A passing moped might explode, cause unknown, and catch a nearby residence on fire. Or the next cough by those children playing in the street a few hundred meters away might unleash a pathogen that dwarfed what happened in the twenty-twenties, airborne and leaving people bleeding from every orifice.

What he hunted for were manuscripts. Empowered manuscripts that had once been written by his client, the writer, or as the hyena liked thinking of her, simply “the otter". The otter was, though her intentions were always fairly pure and positive, half possessed by a dark presence that clung to her like static electricity to a wool shirt, or like miasma to a corpse. For the longest time, that hadn't been a real problem; she would channel the darkness through her writing, along with all the perversions that people could imagine, and it had all been harmless. She knew how to deal with it, and as such, even anomaly hunters usually left her alone. She was hardly the only harrowed artist out there.

When had it all changed, then? The hyena took another bite of his cinnamon roll and washed it down with the sweet, full-bodied hot chocolate to ward away the chill of the early spring afternoon. So far, it looked like an idyllic little day. And yet, it was here somewhere. This was where all the hyena's research had led him.

It had changed, he remembered, when the otter had gotten a publishing deal. An up-and-coming publisher had licensed a whole heap of her stories, and in celebration, they had invited her over to the printer's shop to see her ideas put into reality. Well, on real paper, anyway, but that similarity was what her Muse had latched upon. Reality was reality, it had argued with whatever metaphysical force had kept it in check, no paper was just as real as the ideas described on it.

That reasoning had worked for perhaps half a second before the universe brought the hammer down on it in that impersonal sense it always did, the same way it crushed children's beliefs of Santa existing, but it had been enough. The Muse, or whatever that dark presence really was, had managed to worm its way into most of the first edition prints. While the Muse itself was malignant, its essence wasn't necessarily so, but the problem was that it was impossible to know what effects each manuscript would actually have. All that the hyena, or the otter, or anyone else knew was that those pages would irreversibly have some kind of effect on the reader, and often on the world around them as a sort of echo.

None of them had realized what had happened until the celebrations much later, when all those “empowered" anomalous prints had already been shipped off to warehouses around the world. The otter, her editor – the hyena, that was his original task – and the CEO of the publishing company had all been in his office uncorking a bottle of champagne. After the first drink, the CEO opened the very first print of The Muse, and after reading a few passages, promptly leapt through his office window and into the still-running printing presses below, overcome with the desire to be remembered the same way a book was. The result had been something akin to abstract art, pages of strawberry jam studded with shards of glass.

Yes, it hadn't been a pretty sight, and then there had been a long investigation into why exactly he had suddenly become suicidal, but in the end both the otter and Whiplash had been cleared of any suspicions, mostly thanks to the CEO's obsessive filming of his own office via a security camera just above the door.

The Muse was the otter's darkest work, thankfully. They had spirited it away from evidence with the help of a cheetah cat burglar, later, and then edited it again. The process of reading the book while looking for errors and room for improvement – with a critical eye, in other words – seemed to defuse the anomalous energy, just as it made a good story almost impossible to enjoy.

But even though her darkest story had been contained, the time that the otter and hyena spent in police custody following the CEO's sudden demise had allowed the original manuscripts to end up all over the globe. And that was, then, what the hyena now had to hunt, before they caused any more damage. A millionaire CEO was one thing. He felt very little pity for that one, but it was the risk of innocents being hurt by the infected books that drove his desire to seek them out.

---

Only a few streets over, a wolf was browsing an old bookstore. Julien loved the smell of old books. Back in the earliest days of his childhood, the whole city had been full of these places. Nowadays, there were maybe one or two; few people read anymore, and those who did tended to prefer doing so on their tablets and phones. Julien was okay with that method, but nothing beat the feeling of a real book in his hands.

It wasn't just the fact that the paper books were, well, unique. Each book, even though mass produced, had a history. It had been in several hands before his – countless, for some of the really old ones – and each reader had made their own interpretation of the text. It made the book feel alive in a way that digital text on a display couldn't.

Then there was the feeling of the pages against his fingers. Some books were poorly bound and cut, but that added its own charm to it all. Some were perfect from the store, but quickly deteriorated as they were read, over and over again. Sometimes, a page was folded or torn. Why? Had the previous reader truly detested the text upon it? Was it a pure mistake? Had someone bumped into them while reading? It added a kind of meta-quality to the reading, along with the tactility of it.

Finally, there was the smell. Ever since childhood, the smell of old books had been synonymous with adventure to him. The promise of impossible experiences that were available by simply cracking any of them open. It was almost mystical, like fine incense. Not to mention that sometimes the previous owners' homes clung to the pages, too, or at least the fragrance of them did. One book in his collection smelled like a fireplace, another like perfume, and it only spurred his imagination further.

Today, though, Julien wasn't here to browse for whatever might catch his interest. He had heard that the store had received a shipment of particularly exotic books. One of them was, supposedly, a Ruddertail original. C. Ruddertail wasn't a particularly well-known author, but the stories she wrote were noted to really speak to her small audience, of which Julien definitely considered himself to be a part, but otherwise she was kind of an obscure cult favorite. Supposedly, this book had just been printed before the CEO of the printing company threw himself into the machine and interrupted the entire run, meaning that only one had ever seen the light of day.

That made Julien want it, and badly. It was like a magic ring, lost in a river and calling for him to pick it up. The enchanted sword of legend, or maybe Merlin's spellbook. The store was disorganized, though; he had already gone through the pile of new arrivals, and the entire shelf under the letter R. Now, he was browsing the twice as big shelf of livres non triés, quietly mumbling his irritations about the store owner procrastinating sorting them.

---

Whiplash felt that first tremor just as he finished his pastry. For a moment, the world blurred and then doubled. There were two of everything around him, as if existence itself was drunk. Just as two of the same car were about to collide with each other, everything snapped back into singular existence.

Well, that was his cue. Whiplash stood up, briefly making sure that he only had one pair of legs, and then headed towards the nearby bookstore. It had to be there; otherwise, it wouldn't be affecting reality like that.

The store was simply named Livres Anciens, antique books. Nobody greeted the hyena as he entered, other than the musty smell of old books. The entire place seemed deserted, as if the owner had simply disappeared. That was entirely possible; sometimes the empowered books ate people, on top of the more anomalous effects. Well, it wasn't exactly an act of eating, but rather, revisioning them out of existence for nutrition.

Whiplash didn't know exactly how it worked, only that he, having worked as the otter's editor for several years, was immune to the effect. He wasn't immune to the other effects caused by reading a book, but those could still be mitigated if one knew what to expect.

Or if one happened to be completely immune to the effects of a tale. The one he was hunting here was the original manuscript for The New World. It was a hopeful tale that only had one particular effect, and only on one particular type of person. Namely, it turned any transgendered individuals who read it into the other sex, fully and completely. Whiplash was quite secure in his identity, and so to him, the story was merely a story.

It still had to be contained, of course, and either depowered or kept in secure containment, only to be used by those who were ready for the effects it would have. It wasn't that he was gatekeeping; it was the fact that thanks to the Otter's perception of reality, such changes could be rather shattering.

Ah, there – on the top shelf of the third bookcase – a worn-looking tome with the typical Ruddertail back cover, a little too ornate for what it was, being a rather pulpy science fiction tale with significant erotic elements.

Mission accomplished, he thought, as he pulled the book from its position on the shelf and cracked it open to confirm its identity, only to suddenly be overwhelmed by a feeling of dread as he realized that it wasn't The New World, it was the Unnamed Book, that had been printed but hadn't yet had the covers properly printed, owing to a lack of a name. It never had received one due to the CEOs unfortunate “accident". Most importantly, only the otter knew what it was really about, as the hyena hadn't proofread this one, which meant it could have any effect.

---

In the other bookshop on the street – there were always two of everything, unless there weren't, after all – Julien finally found the book that he had been looking for. An original print, as far as he could tell, of The New World. He took it out of the shelf gingerly, feeling its weight transfer from the shelf and into his arms. Julien didn't intend to read it here, but instantly, as he claimed the book, which he hadn't even paid for yet, he was overcome with a desire to do so.

The wolf ran his fingers down the book's spine. He wasn't sure if it was knowing the value of what he was holding that excited him, or the fact that he loved Ruddertail's stories. Well, if it was the former, then it'd be smarter to never read the book at all, to avoid giving those miniscule creases, tears, and sometimes, stains that the average collector thought of as a scourge. When it came to value, anyway.

It was somewhat ironic how the best way to preserve the value of art was to keep it unseen and untouched. Did art not need to be seen? Was a book in a safe even really a story, or merely a potential?

Julien sighed.

He really, really wanted to read the book here. The bookstore did have a little reading area, which seemed a little cozier than his reading nook at home.

Maybe he'd just give it a little peek. The book had such an energy about it, something compelling, dominant, even erotic. He halfway found himself wanting to rub himself against the spine or perhaps caress the rough first-edition pages of it. It made him shiver. He had to read it, the book seemed to demand, and he had to read it right now. His cock swelled up in his pants at the thought, and while the wolf couldn't understand why the thought of reading a simple book would turn him on that much, it certainly did.

His classmates always made fun of him for enjoying reading more than he enjoyed sports. Well, maybe some of that had been deserved if he was going to get rock hard at the prospect of reading something. He had never been one for the archetypical masculine interests that all his friends were into, and preferred books for his distraction from reality. Or anything else, really.

Julien tugged his shirt over the conspicuous bulge in his jeans and walked over to the register to pay for his newest treasure.

---

Someone tapped Whiplash's shoulder. He spun around and saw himself.

It's going to be one of those days, isn't it, he thought.

“Wow, it turns out I look pretty good in reality, too," the other him laughed. “Maybe not quite as sexy, but I guess that can be excused."

Whiplash, the original, raised an eyebrow. The copy sounded exactly like him, and he knew that this was the doing of the Unnamed Book, but there was something oddly familiar about him, in the sense that the other hyena felt more like himself than he would've expected from a terror spawned by some fragment of the otter's Muse.

“What do you mean?" he asked.

“Well, you weren't created by an author eager to describe how sexy your body is," the copy replied.

“So, you're me… from the otter's stories?" the original asked. He still had his hand in his pocket, on the bottle of solvent that he was entirely prepared to douse his fictional self with, if he tried anything.

“And you're me as you are in real life. Assuming that this isn't another of her stories. Who knows, you might be a fictionalized representation of the real life you," the copy grinned.

The original rolled his eyes. “If that were the case, the otter herself would be her own fictional self, too."

“Yes, but only one level fictional. As you are to me," the copy grinned. He took a step closer, and the original twitched in anticipation. “Think about it; could books empowered by a supernatural, inspirational presence really exist in reality?"

“You're not going to get me with that," the first Whiplash growled. “Even if this reality is fictional, it's where I've lived my whole life."

“So, the truth doesn't matter to you, then?" asked the copy. “The fact that you in true reality might just be editing this story for the otter?"

“Sounds a lot less exciting, when you put it that way. Now, get back in the book," the original commanded him. “Either you go back willingly or I'm going to erase you."

“And disappoint all the people who liked the otter's books? Like How Stories Get Made? That was me," the other commented. “Don't worry, though. We're both the same person. I understand you. And I also understand…"

“…yes?" Whiplash asked. He was gripping the bottle so hard that it felt like it might shatter in his hand.

“Your kinks. I understand all your desires! And I know what I'd like to do before I return into the pages of the that book," the copy replied.

That gave Whiplash some pause. There was a chance that his copy was trying to distract him from the other book. But he had never been a villain in the otter's stories, and he knew that even the Muse couldn't change the essence of a character.

“I suppose anything bad would be stopped by editor-me in another life, if you're correct. But the things that the Muse spawns often lie," he noted, as pleasant as the idea of truly playing with himself was. “That means I can't trust you either way."

“Of course you can't. But it's hardly a great exercise of trust to just fuck my feet," the other replied. “All three of us."

“Three-" the hyena began, and realized immediately that his copy meant the theoretical editor, again. He was having some difficulty focusing on the task at hand, probably because the book appeared to have ripped him into several reflections of himself. “-we probably shouldn't base our actions on a theory from a theoretical construct made by something supernatural."

“Not supernatural, supertextual. You know how this works, you've seen the otter's works affect reality. I'm merely the next step above that, and you yet another," his clone spoke, tight-lipped, until he broke down laughing. “I know my time is limited; when the story ends, so do I. You will, however, not. I have no reason to hurt you."

“No reason, maybe, but it's not like the Muse does, either," Whiplash countered.

“The Muse doesn't lie unless the otter wants it to, and in our tales, it never will," replied the clone. “But I digress. We don't have long. Why not have some fun while we still can?"

His copy winked at him. It felt both menacing and lusty.

“And the other book? The one I came here for?" Whiplash asked with a growl. “What menace will that inflict before we're done?"

“Do you forget which book it is? I suppose this one dividing us might have divided some memories of yours, too," the clone mused. He leaned back against the opposing bookshelf with a smug grin.

Whiplash realized that he indeed couldn't remember which book he was hunting for, or where it was. Apparently, the copy had received those memories. Fuck. If the book was something like Drone 743 he had to haul ass before it started transforming people into infectious latex drones. If it was The Blossoming, the whole world was at a real danger of ending. The copy looked at him with amusement in his eyes.

“I don't suppose I could make you give them back?" the original sighed. He was still holding the solvent, but he had no idea what would happen to his memories if he used it.

“You could. If you let me suck your cock, for example. Maybe you could suck mine, too. Just imagine, how many people get to do that?" the copy grinned.

---

Julien sat outside the bookstore, just a street down from where Whiplash was wrestling with his clone, and placed the book on the little patio table. The otter's works always felt more important than they really were, he mused. But it was a good feeling; the book felt as if it was calling out to him. It was a really good one, he knew that. He'd had quite a few friends recommend it, and the printed version was supposedly even better than the one the otter had published online.

He did what any avid reader would, and cracked it open. As Julien started reading, though, he began to feel a little strange. It was a sensation that he couldn't ever remember feeling before, as if he was no longer in full control of his body, or specifically, his eyes. He felt a little drunk as he read about the life of Alex in the far future, when almost everyone lived in giant city-arcologies, and all the women had died out.

With each word that he absorbed, the compulsion to read the next grew stronger. It was like… he didn't know what it was like. It wasn't unlike the sensation of “just one more page", but it was much stronger, and it came with a heady dizziness, somewhat akin to drunkenness or a high, and a warm buzz that seemed to center in the middle of his torso.

He kept reading, excited to see where the story was going, until he suddenly realized that he was no longer reading the story. He was participating in it. He was there in the horrible future, where all hope was slowly dying, and all new women had to be created from those unknowingly compatible with said womanhood. It was incredible how immersive the book was. He couldn't look away from it, and it really did feel as if he was living Alex's life – or maybe taking her place but going through the same plot – through all the loop-de-loops of doubt and anxiety and hesitation about the whole ascension, then they'd see if he turned into a woman.

Suddenly, Julien was perfectly aware of the fact that the book would impose on him exactly the same fate that would soon befall the fictional Alex.

If he didn't stop reading, that was, and he couldn't stop reading, and he couldn't stop looking at each new word, and the pages turned as if he was physically walking through them, and then he was in the chair and strapped to it as the nurse approached him with a syringe and placed it just at the prominent vein in his arm and-

---

Whiplash felt the tremor of another Muse-infused, anomalous book being opened, and he let out a frustrated growl.

“Fine, I'll fuck you face if that's your one wish before you go back inside the book," the hyena told his copy with a scowl on his face. It wasn't that he didn't want to have his cock sucked, even – or especially – by himself, but the situation called for such urgency that he could already tell he'd be hatefucking his fictional self pretty roughly.

“Great," the copy smirked, and took a step closer. His hands, which felt just like the hyena's own, slipped under his shirt. For a moment, it was difficult to tell them apart, or to say, strictly, where one ended and the other began. The copy's fingers trailed through his fur, tickling as they went, which made Whiplash quiver. Of course, a copy of himself, fictional or not, would know exactly what turned him on.

That was what made it good. But it also made it dangerous.

It turned him on, too. The hyena wasn't the kind of person who could completely disregard the needs of his flesh, and this was a fantasy that he had, at least sometimes, enjoyed. The otter's books knew that, of course. They played into it, the bastards.

“Sit down," the clone commanded. “Don't worry, if you didn't notice, the book split time in two, too. Nobody will perceive us in any meaningful way."

Whiplash hadn't noticed, but he did now. The way that things outside were happening twice with minor variation. He had been far too distracted confronting his own double to notice it, but he could hear two identical cars pass outside. Two slight breezes, sneaking in through the open front door, which was open twice.

It was hard to describe. But if his copy kept his word, he wouldn't have to bother trying to fuse two realities into one. The last time he did that had already been painful enough. And so, the hyena sat down on a nearby reading chair. A soft leather thing that seemed to be there only for the owner's amusement, to see how many buyers preferred reading books inside a bookstore.

The copy sank to his knees with a rather horny grin on his face. Whiplash's friends said that he had a horny grin, which was how he recognized the expression, but before he had any time to muse on the subject any further, the copy's hands were already on his pants, unbuttoning them deftly – with the same skill that he'd do it himself, naturally – and with some obvious eagerness.

It was, if the copy was to be believed, his only real time in existence outside of fiction. Or at least, on this level of fiction. Whiplash's head hurt trying to think about that, but thankfully, the copy fishing out his cock and squeezing the hardening shaft distracted him rather nicely.

“I'd say something about how nice your cock is, but…" the copy smiled. And then it leaned in it to take Whiplash's glans into his mouth with no further teasing. There was a definite hunger to the motion, and how could there not be? This version of himself was the one that featured in all the porn. The one who fucked the artist's character. The one who played with the otter while she was writing to inspire her to write more. The one who- nngh!

Whiplash slumped back as his own tongue coiled around his cock, combined with the most delicate, sweet suction. His copy pursed his lips around the shaft, squeezing just softly enough to make the sensation completely irresistible.

“You're not the only one who's ever fantasized about sucking his own cock, you know. Except maybe like this," the copy said, breaking the suction for just a brief moment to drive that point home, before once again greedily inhaling Whiplash's cock.

It was then that the hyena realized that he needed this. He had been chasing the books for so long that he hadn't had any time to do the stuff he actually wanted to do. And how could he not? Even if he wasn't the otter's editor, several of the books would end the world if left alone, and several more would throw it upside down in the worst of ways. No, he didn't have a choice. But that didn't exclude taking little breaks. A breather. A chance to get his cock sucked by a person who looked exactly like himself, the only difference being that he was fictional.

Whiplash grunted, muscular hips twitching as the copy took his shaft all the way down to the very hilt, and then swallowed hard enough to make his throat clench around it. He seemed to love every second of it, and how could he not? He was, after all, the hyena himself but written as a character in a rather erotic novel about this exact thing.

Maybe it'd be hotter to not keep reminding himself of that, though.

Instead, he grasped the fictional hyena's head, dug his fingers into his scruffy scalp, and forced his cock deeper. The copy rumbled approvingly, and then he really began to suck. He did it with the kind of almost mystical expertise that would make any man drool, each suckling motion of his throat nearly making the hyena melt, and every darting, worshipful flick of his tongue along his engorged cockflesh leaving him squirming and groaning.

“Keep going," he choked. His balls suddenly felt as if he hadn't cum in a week, and that was because he hadn't, chasing down leads on the accursed, anomalous books. And now that he was quickly approaching that point, the pleasure had his cock leaking precum like a faucet – the copy seemed to savor each drop, the way his tongue coiled around Whiplash's glans – and his eyes tearing up to the point he could barely see the world with how wet they were.

Of course, there was a danger to all this. He still didn't know if he could trust the copy, much less take him at his word. He wasn't a real person, and his motivations were a mixture of the otter's esoteric storytelling and the malicious influence of the Muse. But right then and there, Whiplash would've given just about anything to make those sensations continue. It felt like immense relief about to happen, like rain after a hot summer's day, or night after an endlessly busy one, it felt heavenly.

He wasn't going to last long, but they also didn't have long. No matter how good it felt – for both of them – they'd have to chase down the second book soon.

The copy reached to cup his heavy balls, and then squeeze them gently, as if appraising the original hyena's need. He gave an approving mm-hm, clearly deeming his need, or perhaps his capacity, great enough. And so he began to properly bob his head while letting his tongue lash over the hyena's dripping cockhead, lapping up the precum as if his life depended on it, with undeniable, ravenous hunger.

“I'm not- rrrgh, not gonna last," Whiplash warned him, tapping his copy on the shoulder. But he didn't care, instead sucking even more firmly, one hand massaging the hyena's balls and the other stroking and squeezing the very base of his throbbing shaft when it wasn't inside his warm, welcoming mouth. “I'm- f-fuck-"

The copy, of course, didn't care. He seemed to need this almost as badly as Whiplash himself, and tapped his thigh as if saying yes, please, cum in my mouth. At least that was how the hyena took it, not that he had a choice anyway. And in truth, he told himself, he needed this and deserved it in equal measures.

The hyena's cock throbbed hard, jerking against the roof of his mouth, and the copy squeezed his balls as if to encourage that climax. A second later, his mouth was flooded with thick, warm cum. It tasted just as good as it always had in the stories he'd featured in; rich, a little salty, but incredibly masculine, as it coated his tongue and filled his mouth so quickly that he could barely swallow, a little trickle of cum dribbling from the corner of his mouth. He kept his lips firmly planted against the hyena's crotch, letting his cock pulse in his very throat, swallowing around it to keep the throbs coming.

It was the first time he had really tasted cum. All the other times had been like memories, in a distant other world, bound fully within text. And now that he had a taste, he loved it. Whiplash would want him returned to the book, but they'd cross that bridge when they got to it. Not everything the Muse wrought was necessarily evil, just twisted.

Finally, Whiplash slumped back in the chair, and slowly, his copy pulled his snout off the original's cock, letting his tongue drag along the sensitive underside and then swipe over the glans at the top as he finally let the softening member slip out.

“Thank you," he rumbled. “For that taste of what life is like."

Whiplash didn't quite know how to reply to that, but his whole body was tingly and he felt so deeply, wonderfully satisfied that a reply frankly felt entirely unnecessary. He could've just sat there forever, with his cock out and wet with his copy's saliva. It was all perfectly okay, and the copy – and seemingly, the universe itself – gave him that moment of reprieve. A few moments to let his thoughts wander and his head remain mostly empty, a brief minute to feel the afterglow soothe the tension out of his tense muscles and stiff neck. But then, the copy spoke again.

“There is one more thing I could help you with," he smiled, already seeming satisfied with the way he licked his lips. “Then I promise I'll disappear."

“You're pushing your luck," Whiplash panted. “Just go away already."

The copy's cum-soaked grin widened. “No, no, I know exactly where the other book is. We understand and sense each other. I will take you to it. But I think you will appreciate having me there when you see what it has wrought. Especially since you might need a while to get going again."

He stood up again. “You also forgot that there's a third book," the copy added with a flick of his long hair. “Really, you should be sucking my cock, if I weren't on your side you'd really have fucked yourself – and not like we just did – by mistaking the two others."

The exhausted smile on Whiplash's muzzle faded. A third book. He didn't know what either of the two were, but he at least knew that he had prepared to encounter one of them. The other could be anything, and if it was bad, he had failed terribly in his duties. Especially if it was The Blossoming. That book was by far the most dangerous of the otter's work, barring The Muse itself. And that book was already secure.

He stood up and pulled his pants back up, stuffing his cock back into his boxers. It had been a wonderful moment, but now reality, or whatever passed as reality after the whole incident, was at this door again, knocking with intention to break the whole door down if he didn't answer it.

Mutely, he picked up the book that had spawned his copy and stashed it into his bag. At least that was something. Please, God. I don't believe in you, but just in case, please don't let it be The Blossoming, Whiplash muttered under his breath as he followed the copy, who he desperately hoped had a plan.

---

-Julien was changing. He felt like he was suspended in a void rather than in the bookstore. It was impossible. People didn't just transform like they did in the otter's books. And yet, his skin was getting softer. His chest was slowly swelling out with each breath. How quickly, he didn't know.

And it felt wonderful. Like it was always meant to be. He wasn't sure where the line between himself and Alex in the story could be drawn, though. His very identity seemed to blur. Was he even a man at all?

He couldn't be. Or the injection wouldn't work. And that was what he had received, wasn't it, so that he could help repopulate the world as one of the few, special breeders. One of the new generation of women who would one day be the mothers of almost everyone who remained. And it only worked if that was what he had always been.

So that meant that she was a woman.

The fact that she didn't live in that world didn't really cross her mind as anything unusual. The book had stripped away the borders of realty and fiction, and now, both were equally real. She was Alex, and she was also Julien, one's experiences bleeding into the other, and so, even though Julien hadn't received the fateful injection they used for the ascension, she would receive exactly the same results.

Because deep inside, she was a woman, and she always had been. That was the truth the otter's book had revealed to her as it swept her up into this shifting, fuzzy, amorphous transformation.

Unlike the characters in the book, she was perfectly conscious of it all, watching breathlessly as two beautiful, undeniably feminine breasts grew in. She squeezed them experimentally, and if her mouth had been under her control, she would've moaned at that sensation. But it wasn't, so she simply savored the feeling. Even her grey fur felt softer than it ever had before, and her arms and waist narrower, thinner, more effeminate.

But that wasn't all there was to it, of course. There was a sting of pain as her hips widened. Normally, that wasn't possible after a certain age, but nothing about what was happening to her was possible at all. It was the result of the otter's words and some actual magic fusing itself into her body. Perhaps it wasn't entirely benevolent, but Julien didn't want the moment to end regardless.

It didn't. The book wouldn't let him out of its grip before he had been fully reshaped into a reflection of Alex, a proxy of sorts to act in reality while keeping her own mind. Each change wrought was to reshape the world to be more like the tales in the books. And so, Julien kept watching, now in third person, as the plump sheath between her wide, flared hips slowly shrank, as if shying away now that it no longer belonged on her body.

And each moment of that felt amazing, like a prolonged orgasm. Cum – the last cum she'd ever produce – was forced out through the hard but shrinking stub of an increasingly clit-like cock as her balls shrank, first to marble size and then to nothingness, leaving a wet cleft between her legs. A cleft that immediately burned with a raging need. She had to get pregnant! She had to get pregnant right now. It didn't matter how or with whom, but that singular purpose quickly consumed all of her other thoughts in a raging firestorm of anomalous lust.

She had to get bred, by anyone. Right away. The very first cock she came across.

---

“So, you're aware of how the Muse twists most stories to add some aspect of what it deems inspiration to them?" Whiplash's copy asked, and since it had been a few minutes since they last spoke, he was startled by hearing his own voice from an external source again.

“Yes, I was there when the… anomalies manifested, I suppose. The first book didn't actually have anything like what that poor CEO did," Whiplash himself replied. He had to stop himself from saying idiot CEO.

“Mhm. So, for the second book," the copy started. “And I suppose I can tell you which it is – The New World – it has added a twist. We're going to stop that twist from happening."

Whiplash sighed with relief. “So, not The Blossoming. That's good. What's the twist?" _ _

“We have to breed the victim," the copy stated plainly. “Or bad things happen. The effect will spread and spread and that's not good for anyone."

“Great," Whiplash sighed. “So, live out the finale, basically."

“Yep. But I can do the breeding, if you'd like. The victim is as real a person as you, so you might end up stuck if you do it," the copy laughed.

They reached the other bookstore. And sure enough, inside it they found a grey wolf, too small and feminine for her baggy clothes, feverishly masturbating with her hand buried in her sweatpants. The sight was deeply arousing, or it would've been if Whiplash had no context for any of this.

“Okay. How about you do this, and I find the third book?" he asked.

The copy shook his head. “No. You don't know what the third book is. You want me there for it, just as much as you want me here for this. There's only one way any of this can work out."

At this point, Whiplash had realized that he had to trust the copy, who approached Julien. She took a moment to notice the handsome hyena, but when she did, the look in the wolf's eyes immediately melted into one of adoring – and rather adorable – sexual need.

“You just read a book, didn't you?" the copy asked, with a lopsided grin. “And all of this happened."

He had to make sure it was the right person, Whiplash supposed, rather than just some exhibitionist. Though perhaps the question was purely out of politeness; The New World lay on the table in front of the wolf, open at the pages where Alex is fully transformed. And sure enough, there was no trace whatsoever of the wolf having started off as a male. Not with her heavy breasts and a face so stunningly beautiful that Whiplash wondered if the book had also given her permanent makeup.

“Y-yes," Julien stuttered, with a hopeful but confused look in her eyes, as if she still wasn't sure which reality she was in. Was this her breeding? Her chosen partner to go first, before the adoring crowd all took turns fucking her?

“And I assume then, that you'd like me to be your first? The first to breed you?" the copy smiled reassuringly, quickly figuring out exactly where she was, mentally speaking.

Julien looked at him so wide-eyed that she almost reminded Whiplash of a cartoon character. But then she squeaked out a quiet “yes" and tore off her hoodie and sweatpants as quickly as she could. With a chuckle, the copy eased her onto her back in the large, comfortable seat.

For some reason, the shopkeeper completely ignored the pair. Maybe he was one of the rare people with full anomaly blindness; they couldn't see or hear anything that the otter's books created. Whiplash had once theorized that it might be a form of simple aphantasia, but right now wasn't the time for scholarly pursuits. And even the blind could still be hurt by what they couldn't see.

Either way, Julien spread her legs eagerly. In her mind, this was her best friend, her lover, and that was the reality of it. She had known the hyena for ages, the book told her, and she remembered every moment. That was why she was so eager to let him breed her, after all.

She moaned happily as the other Whiplash placed his cock against her virgin entrance.

“Are you sure you want it to be me who makes your belly swell the very first time?" he asked, playing along with the story.

“Yes, I do, p-please," Julien whimpered. “Breed me."

It was rather fascinating how much more eager the copy was to oblige that request than the real hyena would've been. It was the otter's touch, no doubt; she clearly enjoyed writing Whiplash as a breeder, even if he was the opposite of one.

Slowly, knowing that the wolf was indeed a virgin, at least now if she hadn't been one in her previous life, the copy slid his cock in, inch by inch, coaxing apart those wet, silken walls. For Julien, it was an experience beyond description; her body finally functioning the way it had always been meant to work, accepting a hard, twitching cock into her fertile depths. It was a wonder that having a male body had ever felt good, or even acceptable, because this was heaven in comparison.

Reflexively, the wolf squeezed her heavy breasts as the hyena finally hilted inside her. He held himself there, giving the new woman a few moments to adjust.

“Ready?" he asked, and the original Whiplash admired that self-control. It was easier if you were an idealized, fictional character, he supposed. He had no idea what happened if a fictional character and a real person bred, but then again, at this point, Julien's existence was part fiction thanks to the book.

“Please," was all Julien whispered, and then she wrapped her legs around the hyena's strong waist to push herself deeper onto his cock.

The copy took that as invitation, and began to slowly thrust into the wolf, himself moaning at the feeling of her body so tightly engulfing him, begging for him to breed her even when her words failed. And he would. He wasn't sure how long he'd exist, but he was determined to enjoy the few moments of joy he got. He thrust into the wolf with the kind of ease that only a true stud could have, as he had been written to be, in a way that made the wolf whimper, moan, and then melt underneath him, already soaking wet with pleasure as her body cheered him on.

This was it, she thought. She was actually going to become pregnant. How she had longed for that sweet moment of someone finally seeding her!

“I'll be quick," the copy grunted as he drove his cock deep again and again. “You can enjoy the others later. My friend here, first of all."

He settled into a steady, thumping rhythm. Crotch against crotch, it sounded wet with each slap of his soaked crotch against her lips. Julien couldn't believe how good it felt, but then again, it made perfect sense. Just like it had for Alex, the first cock she took had her screaming with pleasure, even if the situation was entirely different from the two hyenas' perspectives.

She had never felt so slutty. Or so feminine. Being fucked and bred in public while everyone else waited for their turn, the wet thrusting sensations driving her into a total erotic meltdown that had her wailing out her pleasure shamelessly as her heat-struck body glutted on his cock, just like in the story.

It was rather a good moment for the copy, too. Though they didn't really know each other that well, the story that provided circumstance to their act of rutting and soon insemination bound them both and made them know each other, at least as characters in that story, of which some parts were based on real life and some not. In a way, and on some level, they loved each other, and always had.

She wasn't surprised that animals in heat always ended up pregnant. Wait, was that even her thought, or one from- did she actually want to- suddenly Julien could've sworn that she had lived through all of this before, the sense of déjà vu so strong that it made her head spin.

“Yes, this is what you always wanted. Ever since you were young, I've known you were really a girl. And you'll feel that way too once you're pregnant. Just relax and let me handle it all," the copy groaned, reassuring the wolf that there was no need to panic. They had to finish the story that they'd begun, or things would quickly get worse. Not that he didn't want to enjoy the moment a little longer.

He was painfully close, because stories or not, he was a virgin in real life, too. And he was seconds away from a climax that he still wanted Julien to experience first. Thankfully, the wolf was close, herself, having been left so soaking wet and wound up by the transformation that even a slight touch could've set her off. The copy's cock did so easily.

Her whole body tensed for a brief second, and then she arched her back in a spasmodic motion, trembling underneath him as she howled out in blissful orgasm. That very moment, she felt the hyena's cock twitch inside her, the sensation completely unmistakable. Between mind-shattering clenches and quivers of pleasure, all that Julien could think about was how she was going to get pregnant. She was going to get pregnant with her very first love.

But more than anything, receiving the hyena's seed like that, it made her feel even more deeply feminine, as if it solidified the changes the book had wrought in her – assuring her that being a woman was the right thing for her – while at the same time, lifting her back into reality with each warm, virile gush that hit her cervix. It reassured her of everything, even things that she had never thought about in her life, like pregnancy. Yes, Julien had thought about being a woman, but never to this degree. Never to this deep, intimate degree that left her utterly breathless as she was well and truly inseminated.

“Feeling better?" the copy grunted, and Whiplash himself felt like he should've been taking notes in case he ever ended up fucking a wolf in heat.

Still, his orgasm wasn't quite over, and he held himself there, deep in Julien's smoldering hot and slick embrace, until the spurts slowed to a potent drooling of cum into her depths. And then he held himself there a little longer, just because he didn't want the moment to end. The instant it did, they'd have to confront the next part of the story – not The New World, that one had done was it was going to do – but the third book.

The copy knew exactly what it was. But saying it aloud wouldn't change anything. He knew that this, too, was just a kind of story that had run its course. It couldn't be interrupted or ended early. Just like a sex act. It had to end in that messy climax, consequences and all, to be even remotely satisfying, didn't it?

Doesn't it just, you sadistic asshole, he thought, directing his thoughts towards the writer, even as he savored the feeling of Julien's warm pussy still squeezing him lovingly. I know, I know. It does have to end like that. But let me enjoy it for just a moment longer.

Julien smiled an adoring smile at him, and another at Whiplash. She didn't question why the two looked identical. There was no need; she was happy. Happier than she had ever been before.

It was a beautiful moment. Even the original Whiplash, who had no particular affinity for the act, had to admit the wolf looked adorable with her empty-headed grin, and his copy perhaps even more so, huffing and puffing as he tried to steady his breath, his body trembling, still, in the aftershocks of his first real orgasm. Around his cock, pearly-white cum leaked from the wolf. Ah, no matter. There was plenty enough inside her to get her pregnant.

They remained joined by their messy crotches for a little while. But then, just as the copy of Whiplash pulled out of the wolf with a satisfied, panting grin, and the real hyena in turn picked up The New World and tucked it into his bag with the other manuscript, a grey mouse next to them – ignoring the sex like so many others seemed to do – grabbed a book from the store's shelves.

A chill resonated through the air. It was that sudden sense of fear you felt when certain, or at least paranoid, that you were being watched, and Whiplash knew what it meant immediately. That was the third book.

“Don't open that-" he shouted, but it was too late. The mouse, curious about what the book with the sleek, black, and featureless cover might contain, opened it. It wasn't his fault; it was what you did with books, after all. But the second the book opened, reality flickered briefly, with a nanosecond glimpse into something black and cold that Whiplash couldn't even describe. Darkness? Void? The end of all things?

No. Suddenly he realized what it was. The deep, dark, and bottomless well of inspiration.

It wasn't The Blossoming. It wasn't Drone 743. Whiplash watched with abject horror as black tentacle-legs clad in shadow-chitin reached out from the anomalous book, wrapped themselves around the panicking mouse, and then crushed his entire body. There was no fanfare, no grand spectacle; one moment, he was alive, and the next, every bone in his body had been pulverized. His body was pulled into the book, and using that as leverage, the thing that Whiplash and his copy knew those legs belonged to pulled itself out.

“This isn't possible," Whiplash snarled, grabbing the cum-leaking Julien and rushing out of the store. “That book isn't here. It's not here, and we fixed it!" he yelled at his copy, who followed suit.

Julien, still dazed, was carried outside, and when finally placed down perhaps a dozen meters away, stumbled behind the two hyenas, her world having turned from a blissful dream into a horrifying nightmare in a split second. She had the body she had never known that she always wanted, but watching the blurry, black thing emerge from the blood-soaked book made the wolf absolutely certain that she'd lose it soon.

“It's possible," his copy shouted, as the shadow followed them outside. It shouldn't have fit through the door of the bookstore, but it wasn't truly bound by any one physical shape. “Haven't you figured it out? We are fiction, and in this story the book wasn't secured! You are remembering reality!"

The Muse stood upright, or at least as close to upright as the amorphous creature could, and stared at the two hyenas with a deep, malignant hunger that crawled across its features like a swarm of insects.

“You have no proof of any of that, and even then, how is it here? How is it separate from the otter?" Whiplash shouted back. He couldn't base his actions on the thoughts of an anomalous copy of himself. Not even if the copy seemed reliable. He couldn't assume that this was fiction and not simply a result of the otter's works.

“It's here to inspire us, that's what it does. But it's not real," the clone yelled.

The Muse took a shuddering step that looked like the first in the hangman's dance. And then it spoke.

“WHERE IS SHE?" the Muse asked, the voice making Julien cringe and cover her ears. It hurt the hyenas too, but they were used to it; it sounded like a bedroom door breaking as the horrors flooded in. Like a clogged pipe shaking at night. “WHERE?"

“What do you mean where is she? You are part of her!" the hyena countered, though he knew it was all fruitless. The best he could do was delay, until he couldn't. And then he'd die, if he didn't come up with a plan. Worse yet, he might kill a hundred people in a flurry of manic “inspiration" before he died.

“FINE," the Muse replied. It looked lost, for all of its menace. Like it wasn't supposed to be there. Then again, it wasn't really supposed to be anywhere. “THEN WE SHALL SEARCH TOGETHER."

It moved again. Whiplash went through every emergency plan in his head. He had the solvent, but that had to be applied to the book, which was behind the Muse. If he got any closer, he'd be dead or worse before he could even react, crushed with the same effortless, almost trivial evil of a child crushing a ladybug for no reason except that it can.

“Fuck it," Whiplash's copy sighed. “I didn't want it to go like this but we're out of options. Give me the solvent!"

There was a sincerity in his voice that finally, after all these hours, made Whiplash trust him fully. Whatever the plan was, it was better than nothing, because if nothing happened then the Muse would be free to inspire them in its own terrible way. He tossed the bottle to his copy, who immediately uncorked it.

“Just remember what this means. And remember me. When you read that book without me in it," the copy sighed. His playful attitude was gone, replaced by a grim determination.

“Wait- wait, what are you-" Whiplash protested. He had assumed that his copy had a plan. Not suicide.

And the copy, looking exactly the same as the muscular, black-haired hyena even in the last moment of his fictional life, ran towards the Muse. Its legs caught him effortlessly, binding him in the black, inky substance and cracking him like a nut. And at that moment, the bottle of solvent shattered. It soaked the copy – who simply faded out of existence like erased ink, mercifully already dead and not having to feel his body dissolve – but it was the effect on the Muse that was different.

Whiplash had predicted that nothing would happen. Only the otter, or a writer of the same skill, could control the being. As far as the hyena knew, it was also completely immortal. And yet, as the solvent soaked into it, parts of it were quickly erased. The Muse froze. Pain wasn't a thing it could feel, nor fear, but whatever it felt was enough to make it stop moving as more and more of its body was eaten away by the solvent.

How was any of this possible, Whiplash asked, as he fought the urge to think about his copy's fate. Had he been right, then? Was this all another of the otter's tales? It all made sense; the third book that he hadn't been aware of, the Muse being here even though it could not be, and it being erased just as any text would be if exposed to the solvent. But it was a being beyond comprehension or even dimensions, and so… so this wouldn't happen. Unless it was text, just beneath that horrifying exterior.

Whiplash raised his gaze towards the sky. If this is a story, at least give me a happy ending. Give the real me something to feel good about, he thought, almost whispering the words out loud. It wasn't a prayer. It was a plea from character to creator, and perhaps to the version of himself that would be going through his story. He didn't have to suffer, and neither did Julien. Not more than a good story demanded. Not more.

When he lowered his eyes again, the Muse was gone, as if it had never been there at all. The book's pages were faded, the text much harder to read, not helped by blood that had soaked into the paper. Whiplash wasn't sure if he should be worried that the book remained, at all, because it really shouldn't have existed to begin with. Not in this world, at least.

Had the Unnamed Book created it, pulled it from a different story? Was that why his copy had known, and he had not? No, not now. He couldn't think about that kind of thing now. First, he had to assess the damage and get out of here. As he dug out the Unnamed Book one from his backpack, it was to discover that its pages were blank. No, not blank, he realized, as he looked more closely. Faded. Still legible, but barely. He snapped it shut; that was something to think about later.

Someone would come by, soon. Cops, whatever they amounted to in a world that was pure fiction. He knew that much. And he couldn't be here for that. Neither could the transformed and still vulnerable Julien. Without a word, Whiplash turned around, having stuffed all three anomalous books into his backpack, and picked the slender, feminine wolf up and carried her away, blinking away the tears as he thought about the copy's sacrifice. At least there'd be a trace of him left in whatever child Julien ended up having. It wasn't as if his brief past had been erased. At least Whiplash hoped so.

Did their lives have meaning? At least they both felt, and thought, and remembered. Even if they were just figments of the otter's imagination, it didn't make them any less real. Just not quite as much as their real selves. If Julien even had one, now.

It was pointless to think about. And if it was all true, then the otter telling them that would have ruined the story, which meant she was just as bound as they were by the rules of the medium.

At least, for right now, Whiplash had the wolf he had just met. The two embraced each other for no reason but to feel warmth and safety by the time they reached the hyena's hotel room. To her, he was the same as his copy had been, and to some degree, he felt like that too. They were just as compatible, at least.

The books had been secured, at whatever cost to his psyche. Maybe he could enjoy a few calm days in Paris before continuing his unending mission. He felt his cock stir, snuggled up against the wolf. A few calm days.

Maybe. Please.