This is a short work of erotic fiction containing furry, or anthropomorphic, characters, which are animals that either demonstrate human intelligence or walk on two legs, for the purposes of these tales. It is a thriving and growing fandom in which creators are prevalent in art and writing especially. These stories have been public for some time, but I am slowly uploading my back catalogue of stories currently.
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Crossfire
Gunfire called out overhead and Sur'kesh - known as Kesh by those closer to him - tucked and rolled out of danger, keeping his wolf muzzle low and belly flattened to the ground. There was the metallic taste of blood in his mouth and grit scraping his chin, but he noticed neither, wriggling on his stomach towards cover. He hissed and spat, levelling his weapon and sending a cool bullet into the shoulder of a fleeing coyote who collapsed to the ground, howling and mercilessly trampled under the feet of panicked civilians. The wounded coyote caught one last glimpse of his attacker, the dark grey timber wolf, before his vision was obscured by stampeding paws and snarled.
All in a day's work, my friend.
Once upon a time, just like a fairy tale, the police had ruled the streets with an iron fist, but now the only law was that of bullet and blood. Most civilians had deserted the area, letting the gangs remain to fight it out as they wished, but there were always some that got caught in the crossfire, innocent victims that no one really cared about. It didn't help that the remaining civilians tended to gather together, so when one was stumbled across by a leering gang, they were all under fire. It was a harsh world to live in, with furs at each others' throats, but one that Sur'kesh was wily enough to thrive in. There was only one problem.
A battle-scarred bloodhound howled and charged him, raising a flat-bladed knife over his head so that it caught the sun, flashing and blinding him for a split-second. Swearing, the wolf bodily rolled to the side, bringing his hind paws up just in time to catch the hound in the gut and send him flying. The hound snarled viciously and scrambled back to his feet, lashing out but not before Kesh caught him neatly in his blade-arm with a bullet and then his stomach. He would have fired a third time to be sure, but there was a soft 'clunk' from the gun and Kesh stepped back, keeping the firearm pointed towards the ground.
Leaving his enemy to writhe in the dirt, Kesh checked the gun over carefully and, sure enough, it had jammed. Damn it. His better gun lay in the dust somewhere, perhaps picked up by another fur who surely thought that it was his lucky day to find such a pristine weapon. Ah well, he was not in a position to be choosy. He ducked and covered his head as an explosion went off nearby, shards of glass and wood rocketing through the air, as deadly as any bullet or knife. Eardrums ringing, he stood upright and flattened himself against wall of the nearest building - it had been a convenience store at one point, but all the goods had long been pilfered and the shelves stood empty.
His gun. His gun. His ears were throbbing. He needed to fix his gun.
Shaking his head in an instinctive but useless attempt to clear it, he darted light footed around the corner, dodging unmoving bodies and pools of slick blood as he went; it wouldn't do to slip up now and leave a track of bloody boot prints in his wake. There was a clamour going up some distance away as if two better formed groups - sub clauses of the gangs - were facing off, jeering and mocking each other with crude words and gestures: he knew the drill. It would continue until one fur was thusly aggravated and fired the first round of lead. The rest would follow suit, like sheep, and even more would flock to the destruction like geese. They were nothing more than animals. And, if they were sheep, he was the wolf among the flock. He was the deadliest.
Most of the city was as good as the slums or tumbled down ghetto, respectively; he had been to too many cities and this one stank just the same. But it meant that disused houses and flats with shattered windows ran abound - he had plenty of choice with regards to a somewhat safe location where he collect himself and render his gun usable again. He hefted himself through the glassless window of a ground floor flat, snorting in distaste at the dirty but clearly feminine furniture that he found there. The window pane had been removed fully at one time so there was no broken glass on the floor, which he was thankful for as it was too easy to cut one's paws in such situations. Indeed, apart from the grime, the room was unsullied and looked as if it had merely been abandoned some weeks ago, perhaps when the conflict had first stampeded too close for safety. The woman who had lived there must have been wise to escape while she had had the chance, floral curtains and all.
He dropped to one knee, out of sight of the window, and inspected the gun. It was a feed jam - two live bullets trying to occupy the same space - and he cursed the fact that he was forced to use an auto-loader. He missed his other gun, the comforting feel of the metal against his paw. This one was no good, no good at all. Meticulously, Kesh dropped the mag, pulled the slide back and let those two bullets fall to the floor.
There, he thought grimly, checking the bullets left in his leather belt, which was designed to hold bullets, firearms and the ever-present knife at his hip. Problem solved. Though it would be a right damn thing if it had happened when some bastard was coming towards me. A right damn thing indeed. Must be my lucky day.
Something rustled outside the building and he jerked his muzzle up, freezing as if he had suddenly become as lifeless as a statue. His eyes darted between the window and the door, slightly ajar, which he supposed led into a hallway if it was anything like a normal apartment, though one could never be completely sure without investigating. Someone was coming, making no effort to be quiet as Kesh stealthily tracked their progress around the edge of the building, knowing instinctively that this fur was keeping to the shadows: they didn't want to be seen.
Light of foot. Feline.
Broken glass crunched under the strange fur's boots inside the building - the kitchen, perhaps? - and Kesh angled his body towards the door, making sure that he had plenty of room to manoeuvre. They were closer, treading cautiously down the hall or through the desolation of the next room over. Either way they were getting uncomfortably close and Kesh steadied himself to take them out. A part of his mind wished he could run. Another on his 'list' would be no joy to him.
"Fancy meeting you out here," a sultry voice purred as a silver-furred snow leopard pushed open the door with one paw and leaning against it, a smirk fluttering across her lips. Kesh's jaw dropped and he fell back, out of line with the window that seemed to draw the eye of any passing fur like a beacon. He couldn't be seen chatting with a member of the opposing gang.
"Krystal!" He hissed, resisting the urge to drag her back from the doorframe - any fur could come up behind her at any moment. What the hell did she think she was doing? "You can't be in here!"
"It's surely safer than being under that lead hail," she drawled, flicking her fluffy tail tip at the faint echo of carnage.
"Oh, sure, certainly," he growled sarcastically. "Please, why don't you have a seat? I was just about to put the kettle on."
"Oh, don't mind if I do."
To his disbelief, she did just that and, after brushing the dust off the sofa, she casually lowered herself into the seat, curling her tail around her left leg. She wore basic clothes, muddy green cargo pants and a cream tank top - or it used to be cream, Kesh supposed. The leopard's fur was touched with dust from the street and she looked exhausted, though not in body. There was something in how she held herself, defiant and rigid, that made Kesh pause and seat himself beside her, his arm slowly going around her waist.
