FSE

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Wow, I haven't written anything in a loooong time. I'm sad to say that I most likely will not be writing a second part to the other story I have submitted on here, as it's been.... wow... a very, very long time. Hopefully this little... thingy will prove satisfactory. Also, it's now 6:40 AM-ish as I submit this, so please forgive any little odd things that may have slipped in. If I get enough feedback I just might actually follow through with this one. Please comment!

"Goodbye dear!" may just be the least-endearing utterance to ever pass a mother's lips. Two simple words, those three little syllables, manage to destroy a son's pride, wrack him with guilt, and unleash a hell-storm of embarrassment that he must endure until he can leave the company of those who have heard the accursed cry. Fortunately, he is not alone, for the first day of college, and therefore, the last day of truly being a part of the central family unit, brings with it hundreds, nay, thousands of these cries in campuses across the world. For one particular fox, however, the dreaded 'Mother's Salutation' left him feeling especially wronged. It's difficult to impart a lasting good impression when your mother embraces you tighter than a boa constrictor and plants a sloppy kiss dead-center on your forehead. Purple headfur and piercings do not exactly convey an image of Stalwart Rogue when everyfur in your dorm has seen your mother kiss you like a kit heading off to bed. He supposed she did it out of caring for him, but he sensed a tiny bit of spite buried in the depths of the motherly kernel, some horrible seedling of jealousy and bitterness that perhaps wanted her son of 18 years to return to her, crying and trembling, to hide from the harshness of collegiate life just as he had hid from the crash of thunderstorms when he'd been a pup.

The fox-boy gave an unenthusiastic wave good-bye as his mother and father pulled out of the over-crowded dormitory parking lot and exited off the town's Main Street onto US 75, heading North back up to Minnesota where she would undoubtedly sob over the loss of her first-and-only son. The boy thought his father would stand out on the back porch and slowly nurse a Michelob or a Blue Moon as the unusually crisp early autumn air blew past his nose, bringing the scent of dying leaves and waning sunlight to him. He would, perhaps, shed a tear or two in remembrance of his own college days, of youth gone by, and of chances with his son missed, perhaps a piece of wisdom late-recalled that he dearly wished he'd passed on.

The fox-boy scoffed. It wasn't as if he was dead, or leaving on some epic journey; a Frodo without a Samwise on a much-abridged quest was all he was. Gladly, he did not have a Hobbit's height problems; at 6' 5" he was desperately tall, especially so for a fox. He both enjoyed his lofty position and despised it. It lent a certain imposing quality to his stature, which meant he was very rarely, if ever, "picked-on", but he also felt as if he were looming all the time, and he'd heard his teachers accuse him, more than once, of having his head in the clouds all the time. He thought this a terribly cruel pun, but it was, nevertheless, accurate as William Tell with his bow and arrow. One of these days, he thought to himself (as if he could have thought to anyone else), William Tell's aim isn't going to be so true, and someone's going to lose an eye out of sheer stupidity.

He ran a paw through his headfur and fuffled, his mother's term for his particular method of sighing that involved three or four short, choppy sighs that sounded akin to an engine breathing its last, then shouldered his large duffel bag and hiked up the front sidewalk. A veritable stream of furs cascaded around him, jostling each other this way and that as salmon do when going up-river to spawn. He and his parents had already moved his computer, television, futon, fridge, and other accessories of dorm living upstairs to his room, and the duffel bag, which had been unceremoniously stuffed full of clothes at the last minute, was the last thing to get dragged up the three flights of stairs that led to his floor, and thus, his room. A few furs headed into his hall ahead of him, and several others followed him in, but as he hiked up the stairs, sack of skivvies and shirts on his back, he noticed that no one else was headed to the third floor. He fumbled in his pocket to try and extricate the floor key from amongst his earbuds, loose change, student ID, and various receipts accumulated on the 9-hour drive to the campus. He'd just managed to fumble it out and into his paw when the door swung open and promptly smacked into his muzzle, the sudden flash of pain, coupled with the taste of blood and a high-pitched whining noise that filled the space between his ears to the brim, caused him to fall flat on his backside on the landing. He felt that he was dangerously close to teetering backwards and falling down the flight of steps he'd just ascended, but found he did not notice this minor inconvenience when compared to the momentary murderous rage that swamped his mind as he looked up for the culprit of such a malevolent act.

His search came to a halt with staring into the most beautiful pair of gray eyes he had ever seen in his life. He decided very quickly he did not care. "Holy shit man, are you alright?" came the owner of the eyes' query, his voice obviously full of concern and incredulous shame. The fox-boy gave no intelligible reply further than a grunt and ignored the gray-eyes' proffered hand as he pushed himself up off the ground. This was promising, his first interaction with someone who, presumably, lived on his floor, and not only was he injured, the boy sounded straight out of an "American Pie" movie. Joyous occasion, he was with "shit-headed frat boys" as his older sister insisted on calling them. The boy who'd offended him so reached out and brushed what the fox assumed was imaginary dust from his shoulders, then rubbed the back of his head in a cliched and totally endearing manner. The Gregorian chant of "Rip his head off" ceased and the fox-boy stood tall, his tail giving away his agitation by squirming and twitching every which way as he took in the sight of the boy opposite him.

He was... as they say, Beautiful. The inconsiderate asshole who'd slammed open a door into the fox's face was a slim and athletic-looking otter who stood at about chest height on the fox, which was to say a good 5' 10". His slate-grey eyes seemed to search the fox's face frantically before his muzzle broke into a wide and spectacularly dazzling grin. The fox was, unusually, taken aback. "So sorry about that man," the otter quipped lightly, that infuriating article hanging onto, so far at least, every sentence that passed his lips. A smooth-furred brown arm had sneakily wrapped itself around the fox's waist and he found himself being led down the hall by the shorter fur. "Yeah man, funny meeting you this way. I was kinda hoping we'd start off on better terms, ya know?" Oh sweet fancy Moses the boy was both insane and a product of some sort of half surfer, half babbling idiot English department.

"Um," the fox interjected, and the internal turmoil must have shown clearly on his face, for the otter replied with, "Come on man, we're down there!" an enthusiastic point. "I noticed you'd gotten your stuff all set up already. Recognized you from the family picture." No. Please, merciful Jesus no. "Man, that vixen in the picture, is she your sister, because damn dude, I would tap that in a heartbeat. No offense if she's your fix or anything." In his mind the fox heard music from "The Twilight Zone" and the green-carpeted, beige-painted walls seemed to take on a nightmare-ish quality. The outline of everything began to sag and run, colors flowed together, and the door to his room, which was squarely at the end of the hallway, seemed to be both stretching away from him and rushing to meet him at the same time. "Hey, um, dude, you're not gonna pass out on me are you?" They'd stopped their Bataan march and the otter was waving the hand not gripping the fox's hip up and down before the vulpine's eyes. He shook his head violently and got his brain to refocus, things slowly slipping back into place, though the terrible feeling of dread seemed reluctant to leave him. "You wouldn't happen to be my roommate, would you?" the fox asked, both knowing and loathing the swiftly forthcoming answer.

"Yeah man! Great guess! I was worried that the bonk to the noggin was affecting your brain or something." The fox fuffled again and nodded, then hoisted his duffel bag a little higher and slank down the hallway with his head down and his tail-tip tucked between his legs. The otter was taken aback and stood rooted to the spot in the hall for a moment, his arm somehow managing to stay in contact with the fox's hip even as the distance between them widened. He quickly caught up to the fox though, entering their room mere moments afterwards to find the fox sprawled out on his futon, the black duffel bag having been stowed safely on the loft bed the futon was resting under.

The otter thumped the door closed with his tail and slipped off his shoes, his toes wiggling as they were freed from the tight, hot confines of the mustelid's sneakers. He slid over to the fox and proceeded to lay directly on top of him, the otter's arms encircling the other male and holding him close. This was, under the circumstances, perhaps not the best first move the otter could have made towards the fox. What ensued after, however, was a great tumultuous thrashing that put the death throes of a giant squid to shame as the fox attempted to dislodge the otter-boy from his back. It was not often he resorted to cursing, but now seemed as appropriate a time as any. "What the fuck are you doing to me! Get off! Get off get off get off!" but the otter was like a limpet, and the fox simply could not pry him off by strength alone. "Seriously, what in Hell's name is wrong with you! Let me go!" he gave a mighty grunt and strained with all his strength, but alas, the mischievous ass was not giving up his prize so easily. The fox settled for sitting on the futon and leaning back with all his weight, figuring that if the otter did not let go voluntarily, he could try and crush the little bastard to death, or at least unconsciousness. The otter-boy proved to be smarter than previously thought, however, as he merely wriggled his way around to the front of the fox, so that they were belly-to-belly and nosetip-to-nosetip.

"Why hullo there." chirruped the otter, the fox squirming fruitlessly in his grasp. In his movement to the front the otter has managed to pin the other boy's arms to his sides, and so now the fox was completely and totally helpless. "2-time State wrestling champion." remarked the otter with a smirk. "You're not going anywhere." the fox growled and raised his lip up in a snarl. "Wonderful, now get the fuck off of me!" the otter shook his head, then leaned forward and pressed his short, blunt muzzle against the fox's own longer, more narrow one. Their lips touched and the otter's jaw opened wide enough for his tongue to slip out, the pink muscle lapping at the other boy's mouth, begging for entry with every motion. Its wish was soon granted as the fox opened his mouth more eagerly than a baby bird about to receive its first meal, and as it was his first kiss, what could be more appropriate. The obviously more experienced otter led the way as his tongue danced in the fox's mouth and one arm uncurled itself from around the vulpine, reaching down to grip a swollen and throbbing something through the fox's blue jeans. The hand began to jerk and ride up and down the stiff member, all the while the intricate tongue jousting continuing up above. The fox, lost in the heat of the moment, felt his climax rise to its peak quickly, his seed squirting into and staining the front of his jeans. He pulled away from the otter and whispered, "Fuck me." The mustelid grinned and nodded eagerly, then leaned forward and replied, "My name's Jamie." The fox was bewildered as to why that mattered for the time being, but didn't care so much as the otter easily maneuvered him onto his back and dragged his jeans down his legs and onto the floor.

Moonlight shone through the single window set into the concrete-block construction of the dorm rooms and illuminated the scene in room 355, the last room at the end of the hall on the top floor of the oldest dormitory on campus. It streamed down onto the peacefully sleeping face of a very tall fox with purple highlights in his headfur and three silver hoop-piercings in his right ear. Every so often he would softly mutter the name, "Jamie," and his roommate would shudder whenever he could hear it. Jamie lay awake in his bed and whimpered as he heard his name whispered again by the dreaming fox, the same fox who'd walked into their room and promptly fallen asleep on his futon. HIs name was... Oh what was it again... um... Zak. Yes, that was it, Zak without a "c" he had said. As Zak lay below dreaming fitfully, the incredibly heavy scent of his arousal and his "nighttime emissions" invaded Jamie's nostrils and forced upon him the realization that it was going to be a very, very long semester.