FSE

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~ Chapter 18: A Little Trouble ~

“Oh, it's been too long since I've 'ad a dog." The vixen demurred, as Fenton's thumb trailed across her navel. “Much too long indeed." Her breath was hot on his neck, the sour stink of her coat thick in his nose. The available options for a man stuck in the Lyskirk capital's plague buffer were far from glamorous, but Fenton had never been picky.

“Mmm." He growled into her neck, errant paw sliding even further up her shift, lightly tracing her sternum. “And m'I likely to be stuck through for this sorely needed gaze into paradise you've offered, m'lady? 'Fraid I've quite the allergic reaction to swords, you see."

“Oh, jealous lovers? Me?" She gave an over exaggerated snort, giggling as Fenton's left paw began to explore the uncharted land south of her trouser-line, quickly finding her cunt. It was warm, and wet, and tight enough Fenton figured she'd more than do. Her breathing got heavier as his fingers worked their magic, curling upwards, the base of his palm pushing on the surrounding area. The lady – though it was a stretch to call her such – swallowed audibly. She gasped. “I'd dare say," gasp, “my man's found himself much," moan, “much too busy playing gangster, to be bothered with... fuck... me, these days." Her fingers dug into Fenton's neck as his finger found the sweet spot.

“Woman's like a puzzle, I always said." Fenton growled, biting her ear. “Gotta work at 'em some, do no good t'anyone gatherin' dust on a shelf. Your man sounds like a right twat in my books, leavin' you to y'self like this m'lady, pardon my language."

“Right, twat." The lady hissed, her delicate paw sliding down Fenton's chest and pressing up against the bulge steadily growing in his trousers. “Fucking prick, thinks he can slum about the buffer like it ain't stinkin' obvious to me when he comes home smellin' of some aled up old quim."

“Who's he figure himself for anyway?" Fenton muttered, distracted as the lady fished his prick free of his trousers. He was dripping from the tip already, his balls pulled tight. “Solomon hisself?" He laughed, and the lady laughed with him.

“Oh you'd think so alright, wouldn't ya?" She mewled, fingers curling precariously tight around the base of Fenton's cock. “Spends all his days at that fucking bar'a theirs on the south side, thinking he's a big man 'cause he gets a copper to beat the snot outta some kid locked in quarantine with the rest'a us."

“Yeah... that piece of shit." Fenton muttered, grinding his teeth together as her massaging fingers climbed steadily along his length, circling and squeezing as they went.

“But he ain't touched me in months, aye, right prick." She squeezed harder, all but tugging on him. Fenton felt his own paw falter.

“Careful m'lady, it's, ugh, ah¸ been a while--"

“But I ain't mindin'. I'll fuckin' show him I will."

“Now, I, err, ahhh--"

“Call me a whore?! While you fuck anything that moves down at Fletcher's and I won't be none the wiser? No, after all who gives two shits what Eriss thinks? She don't matter none, she's just a whore." She wailed, and Fenton's head rolled back. She just kept pullin' on his prick, wouldn't stop, it hadn't been nothing but his own paw on the road, seemed so long since he last felt the warmth of a woman clamp down on his manhood. His paw had gone still in her cunt, his thigh muscles tightening as she stroked him faster and faster. “I'll show you a whore Brackden!"

“M'lady, I, ah, fuck--" The Doberman grunted and hissed, squirming in place, trying to slow down, trying to think of Breeze, trying to think of anything but--

“I'll fuck erry dog and mutt in this plague ridden shit-pit if I 'ave to, that'll show 'im who's a whore!"

“Gah!" Fenton cried, a hot jet shooting from the tip of his prick, splashing across the lady's shift and belly like a drop of mayonnaise from a sandwich. He growled and shuddered, her paw limp and her face unimpressed as rope after rope of pent-up cum painted her front side. He begged it to stop, cheeks flushing with shame even as quivers of pleasure and relief rallied up his neck and all through his hips.

“Well." She said, dropping his cock like it were a hot coal.

“I did say it's been a while." Fenton said lamely, tucking his prick back in his trousers. He hitched them up, glancing around.

Got what I came for, least.

He bit his lip. “If we wait a bit, I might--"

“Just fuckin' go." The lady snapped, covering her eyes. “I don't know why I thought to do this. I'm a bloody fool."

Can't argue with that. He began to edge away.

“Go on then, fucking get!" And she swiped a paw at him like he was a misbehaving pet. She still had his dripping cum splattered against her front. Fenton ain't ever meant to do harm in his life, and yet here he was again, leaving someone in tears. Even when he had his paws wrapped around that fucker's throat back in Niverron, he'd been secretly hoping Breeze would pull him off, would stop him before he went too far. And the wolf had, in his own fashion.

“Come now, no need for tears." Fenton said, feeling even more foolish as he stepped closer, holding an open paw like it were likely to do a single lick of good.

Come now? Wasn't that half the problem what caused this? What's the plan then, aye? Pat her on the shoulder while she's doused with your seed? Goodman bloody Fenton, you right cunt.

“Damn it all." Eriss muttered, dabbing her eyes with the unsoiled sleeve of her shirt. “Think I gone and pissed the bed again I 'ave."

“Oh, none'a that now, we can get you cleaned up. It were only a little mistake, it's alright." Fenton offered lamely, as a long shadow fell across the narrow alley.

“Alright?" A new voice hissed, and when Fenton turned he was faced with a tall, muscle and ink-ridden fox, accompanied by two rougher looking dogs. When he spoke, his tone was low, low with the simmering kind of anger Fenton recognised as being far more dangerous than any over-brazen bellow. “That my wife your pup-patter's smeared on then mate? Huh?"

“Oh, shove off Brackden." The lady muttered, glancing away.

“You shut your mouth, slut." Brackden growled. “Boys always said Eriss was a whore, I's too blind by fool-headed love to see it. Fuckin' bitch." His gaze shot back to Fenton.

“Pardon, was jus' leavin'." He said, averting his eyes.

“Believe I asked you a question." The fox said the words quietly. He took a step forward, pushed Fenton on the shoulder, and then screamed, “Is THAT. My FUCKING. WIFE?!" Fenton wiped spittle from his muzzle, looked even further away.

“Seems a divorce was on the cards anyway..." He muttered, already wishing he hadn't. When Brackden's fist came, Fenton managed to dodge only half'a it. The meaty paw caught his shoulder and he stumbled, hissing as Eriss screamed, shoving him from behind. The Doberman stumbled forward, boots skidding in the mud, catching himself on Brackden's other fist buried in his gut. Fenton had always been good at coppin' a beating though, learned from the best, and so soon as his face hit the mud he was wriggling like a fish, fixing to get as much muck and slop on him as possible, anything to make it harder to get a grip. He felt one of the dog's boots come down on his wrist and cried out as it sang in pain, wishing to the Triumvirate he'd brought along that nice bow he lifted in Niverron, for all the fat good it had done him so far. Briefly, he wondered what Breeze would do in this situation – probably roar with thunder, stab some new knife into one of those cheap boots and rip the leg clean off. It would be vicious and righteous and more than a tiny bit terrifying to watch, but one way or another that big wolf'd make mincemeat of the thugs, no doubt about it.

But Breeze wasn't here, only Goodman Fenton, and so he did what he knew best – he ran.

The Doberman rolled onto his back, kicking up and ramming the sole of his boot square into Brackden's balls. The fox doubled over and Fenton was already shooting backwards, flailing like a madman sick with plague, spitting and cursing out the blood, dirt, and other unmentionables currently filling his maw. He rolled onto his knees, almost got a leg up when one of 'em landed a good – but lucky – kick right into that sweet spot Fenton's old city-wall comrades had bruised, back at their reunion in Niverron. It wasn't so lucky for the dog after all, he figured, since there were few better places to kick a man busy scrambling on his knees.

Breeze helped y'out there, if you could call it that. Now it's on you, damn yellow-belly mutt. It was funny, Fenton reckoned, the kinds of thoughts that entered your brain during a situation like this. Right now, all he could think about was Breeze, and how he really ought to put more time into his archery practice if he was hopin' the big wolf'd keep him around. Triumvirate's tits, I hope he doesn't leave me in some place like this.

Another few scrambles and near misses, and Fenton was on his feet and flying through the plague buffer grounds. He could hear the voices shouting and hollering as they gave chase, but figured it weren't worth a look back. A thick crowd and improper civil engineering had left most of the ground outside Gohdren a right shit-pit, the presumably once-green fields stomped down over the years into a fine marshy paste. The Doberman felt the mud sucking and pulling at his every step, each turn sliding, threatening to overturn him. He raced by a row of sagging soiled tents, briefly glimpsing the mad and diseased stuck inside, their bodies riddled with shakes and shudders, their minds addled with far worse. He heard screams as he ducked through the shanties in a sicker part of town, vaulting a wagon with a split axel, doing his best to close off his ears to the wails and pleas of the insane.

“Get OUT! Get out, I wanna talk to my mother, y'hear you fucking bastards?! MY! MOTHER!"

“I loved her I loved her Ilovedher I ain't meanttohurtherIonlywantedtogetallthosefuckinbugsouttaher--"

“They're in my head, my bleedin' head, I can feel it, the Emperor's eye burrowed deep in my brain! Get it fuckin' outta me!"

“Burned and brazed, burned and brazed, turned and phased, smashed and crazed, burned and brazed! Ha-HAHA!"

All that agonising delirium, muddled together, slurred and howled, mixed with as many other voices pleading they stop, all above a consistent bed of wordless screams for help and salvation.

When Fenton pulled out of that area he was glad of it. He couldn't hear the furious voices of Brackden and his gang anymore, and even slowed enough to risk a glance over-shoulder. He saw nothing out of the ordinary, but kept running anyhow.

When Fenton eventually let himself slow, his lungs burned, and his stomach felt just about ready to turn over and empty itself. He spat a mawful of bile, wiped his lips on the back of his paw. Panting in place, he looked around, scanning the muted crowd for any sign of vengeful gang members and thankfully seeing none.

“Fuck me, Fenton you lucky duck." He muttered, righting himself with a groan. He weren't too far from the tent he and the other two had claimed for themselves, and so picked out the direction and began to limp, cradling his throbbing wrist. Other two. He wanted to call 'em friends, but friends didn't leave each other behind, so if Fenton called Breeze and Erasmus friends, it'd only hurt that much more when they did.

As a stubby column of city-bound soldiers marched down the thoroughfare, the Doberman scurried out of the way by habit, ducking his head. The men were decked in well-tarnished Lyskirk colours, their shoulders slumped, faces crestfallen. From his spot to the side, Fenton watched their faces. They was mostly foxes, but a few was wolves, and there were three deer even, but no dogs. Most of them looked stern, as if they were trying to act tough, even as if they wanted to be there, as if they were daring the sick and mad to strike out, itching for a fight. Goodman Fenton shook his head as they passed. Wanting to fight, wanting to be a soldier, he couldn't think of a more bloody fool choice in life. He'd signed onto the city guard to get out of work. The war never came that far in, it'd never reached a city like Niverron, not fer sixty years 'least. Sure, some place like Owerich, or Stanton, or even Lesserung, they saw action, saw sieges, sometimes even saw rule under Astmoor swords, for a time. But Niverron? Nah, no way, it'd be an easy gig, sit up on a city wall and watch for an army that'd never come.

That'd been the plan, but Fenton's plans always went to shit. Part of him even suspected his plan to stay away from an honest day's work had been what summoned Nurjan and his league of extraordinary fucking ferals in the first place.

How did they get in so far, come to think? He wondered, frowning even as he approached the tent Breeze had named 'home'. Last Fenton had heard before the siege, the Arch-Brigadier in Ferrin had sent men to the coast, and then suddenly – Nurjan was upon them. Came up out of nowhere, what about the towns between us and the bay? That was when he'd run, like a coward. Abandoned his post at the first sign of trouble... maybe Erasmus was right to despise him. Fenton could, and wanted to, blame everyone else for his position. It were Breeze's fault for dragging him back there, his Captain's fault for stationing him, hell even the King's fault for not defending his nation better, but deep down, Fenton knew it were all on him.

He'd chosen this life, like the damned fool coward that his Ma always said he was.

~ X ~

Erasmus ran his paw slowly over Breeze's muscled abdomen. It was so firm and hard, almost the total opposite to his own flabby – yet slim - gut. His fingers traced the hard edges, Breeze's earthy rustic scent strong in his nose. Erasmus was sure he could drink that smell in all day, if it could be allowed. He briefly wondered what the smell right beneath Breeze's balls would be like, and let out a tiny shudder at the idea.

“Well?" The big, shirtless wolf asked innocently, cocking his head. Erasmus blinked twice, a blush hiding in his hazel-furred cheeks.

“It isn't looking great." He admitted, feeling a little dazed. Breeze was sat up at the rear of the tent, stripped to the waist, the paltry excuse for a bandage covering his stab wound soaking in a bucket to their side. The wound itself was swollen and pussy, yellow drips of excess easing out from the middle. From what Erasmus could tell, the wound was relatively shallow, and since Breeze wasn't coughing up blood, it seemed to have missed any vital organs. The veins and flesh surrounding it weren't too inflamed, and he wasn't sure it hadn't shrunk a little since he first bandaged it up. “I don't think it's infected, but it does look tender. Does it hurt much?"

Breeze shrugged, a tingly ripple running through Ras's stomach as his eyes washed over the wolf's chest. “Some, when I lie down mostly."

“You're lucky." Erasmus whispered, his slender fingers still trailing over the wolf's chiselled abdomen. Breeze let out a pensive breath, and Erasmus felt his stomach do a flip.

Is this real? I've never felt this excited before. He hoped Breeze hadn't noticed the slight swelling in his trousers. But what about all the horrifying things he's done? What about the monster he was acting yesterday? The otter glanced up, and saw the Breeze he knew on the wolf's face, staring down at him with a vaguely puzzled expression. It was almost like yesterday had been a completely different person.

“Lucky." Breeze said softly, chuckling. “Been cursed with that word most'a my life now. How I got my name."

“Cursed?" Erasmus asked, still trying to pretend he was examining the wound. How good it would feel, he imagined, to be wrapped up by all that muscle, held tight and fierce, held down. He shifted his legs, crossing one over the other.

“Mhmm." Breeze demurred. “Down here it might be a boon, but life's hard in the Northwest. No king, no law, nothing but bandits and plague it feels – they call 'em the Madlands for a reason. Luck ain't a thing to be proud of up there, because sooner or later everyone winds up the same way. It's taboo, of sorts."

“That... doesn't make any sense." Erasmus mumbled, not even pretending now, running Breeze's coarse fur through his fingers, letting his paw trail up the wolf's iron-hard chest, feeling his arms.

“It's hard to explain." Breeze admitted, carefully watching the brown paw tracing over his pectoral. “Why they called me Witchborn. 'Cause I was cursed with good luck, always surviving what other men died to. Born under the sign of the witch, doomed to outlive all his friends, never free of this damned life." He gave a sardonic laugh. “Don't make much sense I know, and not like I had many friends I could count on to outlive anyway. People don't like it s'all, maybe cause they're jealous their brother died when you lived, I don't know."

“No, I think I get it." Erasmus cooed, his paws back near Breeze's waist. He was trying to find the courage to stretch down the wolf's trousers and see his sheath. He imagined it would be big, and he felt a compulsion to bury his snout in it, to inhale that smell.

But then he remembered Richeleau, back on the boat, her lips pressed to the wolf's. Even if Breeze had been one of the exceedingly rare males that shared the same shameful flaw as Erasmus, why would a rugged and capable warrior ever want a weak, city dandy like himself? These thoughts plagued Erasmus, but he pretended to ignore them as his paws explored the area just shy of the wolf's hips.

Breeze grabbed him, wrapping the small brown paw in his large blue-grey one. “Ras." He said softly.

The otter blushed, immediately trying to pull away. Breeze held him firm. “Breeze, I... I didn't mean..."

“I just, are you..."

“I don't know." He admitted. “I don't know what I want."

Breeze leaned down, inhaled slowly, and for a moment Erasmus was sure he was going to kiss him. He gently pulled the otter closer, and Ras felt his paw come down over the bulge at Breeze's crotch.

“I..." He squeezed, and felt a large, thick shape twitch beneath the fabric. Electricity raced through him. “Breeze." He gasped.

The moment was shattered into a thousand pieces as Goodman Fenton brushed through the tent flap, loudly proclaiming his greetings.

“Hello friends!" He cried, and Erasmus instantly snatched his paw away, his hard-on instantly deflating. He glanced away, rubbing the back of his neck and biting his lip, face on fire. Fenton stooped inside the wide but squat tent, waddling over to where they'd stored a burlap sack filled with dried fruits and nuts. He dug out a pawful and began shovelling them into his maw. “I've learned some things, 'ad my proverbial ear to the ground, so it were."

“Oh, really?" Breeze asked, his voice flat and narrow like a sword. Swallowing, Erasmus picked up the dry set of bandages and began awkwardly wrapping them around the wolf's wound.

“Give me your paw, I should take a look at that too." He mumbled, and Breeze passed over the paw he took an arrow through back in Niverron. Fenton kept talking as Ras slowly unwound the bandage, checking over the wound.

“I've chatted to barkeeps and other buffer ne'er-do-wells, plus a... lady or two... and I have deduced that Solomon, that big-boy crime lord our Ras was talkin' 'bout, mostly runs the south side of the karen-teen. He's got a pub, or... the shanty-version of a pub least, over there. Calls it Fletcher's Bulls-Eye, that's where most'a his boys hang."

“I see." Breeze said, as Erasmus tightened his bandage.

“You're a very quick healer." The otter muttered, still staring at the ground and wishing it would swallow him up. “Paw is fine."

I can't believe I touched Breeze's... manhood. The memory of how warm and firm it was still burned in his mind. And how big. He wished he could stop breathing so hard. Is everything on this wolf just massive?

“Good." Breeze said, making a fist. “Fenton, you know where this place is then?" The Doberman nodded, and Breeze stood up, knocking over a chair as he did. “Right. Let's go have us a chat."

“R-right now?" Erasmus sputtered. Breeze looked at him, that same vicious fury from yesterday peeking through his eyes. A quiver of fear ran through him, and suddenly he couldn't imagine cuddling someone so cold.

“Course. That prick Estrion has my little girl, and the sooner we meet Solomon the sooner I can wring his and Richeleau's necks." And he pushed past, collecting his coat with a flourish and stepping outside. Fenton and Erasmus exchanged a glance, then hurried to follow.

“Breeze, I doubt that these thugs will just take us right to Solomon." Erasmus said, already terrified he was going to see Breeze do something horrible. “Plus, there's the whole plague buffer out here to think of. Even if they wanted to--"

“If this fella is as big a deal as you say," Breeze growled. “He'll have a way into the city. I know these kinds of people Ras, they're big fucking cowards who make themselves strong by enlisting killers and scum, like me. Slaugh was exactly the same."

“So you'll torture them until they let you in?"

“No, nothing like that." Erasmus felt a cool breeze of relief wash through him. “I'll tell 'em I want to talk to him, that's all."

“Er, Breezy." Fenton chimed, struggling to match the wolf's brisk pace. “I'm not sure that--"

“Just gonna ask, kick up a little trouble, make some fuss."

“Oh, if that's all then." Fenton replied, rolling his eyes.

The group came to the Fletcher's Bulls-Eye and didn't stop to think. Despite Erasmus pleading they make a plan, Breeze barrelled on in, heading straight for the bar. He didn't even seem to register the otter's complaints, eyes locked ahead, paws already balled into fists.

“Fuck, he's gonna get us killed if he don't slow down." Fenton hissed, and Erasmus found it hard to disagree.

In a pub filled with mostly foxes, a six-foot northern wolf made entirely out of muscle and rage drew some eyes. Breeze gave some of the starers a nod, and sidled on up to the bar. Fenton and Erasmus hung back, wary of getting too involved.

“Got ale?" Breeze asked. The room had gone quiet. The barkeep, a portly bear, waddled up with a single glass in paw.

“Sure you're in the right place, mate?" He asked, shooting a questioning glance to a trio of rough-looking inked-up foxes in the corner. One of them shrugged.

“This is Solomon's place, aye?" Breeze said.

“I... uh..." The bear flailed, and the trio stood up.

“I just wanna word with him, that's all."

“Hey, pal." One of the foxes said. “This ain't the--"

Erasmus flinched as Fenton grabbed his arm. “I think we know how this ends, Ras. Maybe we outta wait outside?" And the two of them pushed back out the door right as Breeze snatched the glass from the bartender and smashed it across the first fox's face. The door fell shut as the bar erupted into screaming and shouting, and Fenton and Erasmus sat astride the entrance as people hurried out, not wanting to get mixed up in what they likely assumed was some kind of gang war.

“Think he's likely to go back to himself after we get Abigail back?" Erasmus asked, as something inside the pub was smashed against something else.

“Maybe this is himself?" Fenton asked. “I mean, buddy, how long have you known the guy?"

“Six months, a little longer."

Fenton just stared back at him. “Well, if it gets that pup back I guess that's good enough. Little tyke shouldn't have'ta get stuck with the likes of Richeleau and Estrion. Maybe Breeze'll go back to normal after that."

“Maybe. Erasmus said.

The conversation was interrupted as the fragile door to the pub crashed open, a blood-sprayed fox stumbling out. Breeze followed, and the fox fell over into the mud.

“Please!" He cried, covering his head. Breeze just laughed.

“Tell your boss, there's a crazy fucker starting trouble in the plague buffer." He said, turning back to give Erasmus a short grin. “And tell him the crazy fucker wants a word."