An Unlikely Rescue

The sun beat down on the marble-inlaid street of the Primrose district of Veloria, making Franky’s pale grey fur feel uncomfortably warm beneath his simple wool tunic. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his long ears drooping with the sheer tedium of it all. His father, Corbin, was inside the palatial estate of Sir Harrington, finalizing the details for a grand tapestry depicting the Founding of Veloria. The Harringtons were a wealthy badger noble family and an important one in city politics or some such. Franky knew it was a vital commission, the kind that kept the family fed and their stall respected at the High Market. However, it was just another hour spent in soul-crushing boredom.

He tugged at the collar of his tunic, a familiar, restless gesture. His older sister, Willow, would have been content to sit and sketch the exotic flowers spilling from ornate planters. His younger brother, Bino, would have been chasing his own tail or something equally as babyish. But Franky was 11, and he felt a restless thrumming under his skin, a need for something more. He wanted to be like Warren. Warren, who was off with the City Guard, was probably chasing a cutpurse through the winding alleys of the North Ward or delivering a coded scroll to the West Gate Garrison right now. Warren was doing things. Franky was waiting.

It was the unfairness of it that gnawed at him. His parents had finally, finally, stopped trying to make him wear dresses and answer to the name they’d first given him. He was Franky. He was their son. They’d given in, not out of understanding, he suspected, but because his stubbornness was a force of nature they’d grown tired of fighting. But being Franky still meant fetching yarn and minding the stall. He’d won the battle for his name, but he was still losing the war against boredom.

A strange sound broke his reverie—a yipping and the click of claws on stone. Franky’s ears swiveled, zeroing in on the source. Down the lane, a boy was walking, and on a thick leather leash, he led the most peculiar animal Franky had ever seen.

It was a dog, but not like the two-footed variety he saw everyday walking the streets of Veloria. This was a feral creature, wiry and gaunt, its coat a patchwork of brindle and mud. Its ribs showed faintly, but its muscles were coiled tight, and its amber eyes held a wild, intelligent light. Feral horses were a common enough nuisance on the city’s outskirts, but a real feral dog, walking on four legs, on a leash in the heart of the richest district? It was an anomaly. An adventure.

The boy holding the leash was a rabbit, like Franky, but where Franky’s fur was the color of dust and stone, this boy’s was the rich, deep brown of expensive chocolate. He wore a velvet tunic the color of wine and his boot buckles were polished to a mirror shine. He held the leash with an air of casual, arrogant control.

"Stay right here, Franky, and don't wander," was what his father had said. But he had already forgotten his father’s explicit order. Franky pushed off from the wall. His heart thumped with a sudden, thrilling beat. He scurried to catch up, his worn leather soles slapping against the pristine street.

Franky struggled to catch up to the boy and the dog. It seemed like every time he thought he was making headway, the pair would disappear around another corner. Finally, he spotted the boy who had paused near a small tree to allow the feral to relieve himself.

"Hey!" Franky called out, trying to make his voice sound deeper, more confident. It see

The chocolate rabbit turned, one ear cocked. He looked Franky up and down, a flicker of amusement in his dark eyes as he took in Franky’s plain clothes. "Can I help you?" he asked, his voice smooth and clipped.

"That's some animal," Franky said, gesturing with his head. He fell into step beside the boy, his eyes fixed on the feral creature. The dog eyed him warily, the growl a low vibration in its chest.

"He's a beast from the Dustmoors," the boy said proudly. "Bought him myself from a foreign merchant. My father said I could keep him if I could tame him. I call him Fang."

"Wow," Franky breathed. Training a feral dog! That was something Warren would do. This boy, who looked no older than Franky, was living a life of excitement. "My name's Franky."

"Julian," the boy replied, a faint, condescending smile playing on his lips. "You're a long way from home, aren't you? You don't look like you're from the Primrose."

Franky felt a flush of heat under his fur. He hitched up his trousers, a movement he’d copied from Warren. "I'm from the Upper Ward," he said, trying to sound proud. "My father's a weaver. We're here on business with the Harringtons." He knelt down, wanting to reach out a paw to pat the strange dog who's growls had turned into happy pants.

"The Upper Ward," Julian mused, as if trying to place it on a map of some distant, uninteresting land. He seemed to notice Franky’s attempts at touching his dog and pulled the animal roughly out of reach. "I see. Are you lost?"

Franky tried to stifle his chagrined expression at seeing the animal treated roughly. "No!" Franky said, maybe a little too quickly. "I know my way around. Just… waiting for my father."

"Well, if you're headed back," Julian said, magnanimously turning to face northwest, pointing with a slender, well-groomed paw. "You'll want to go that way then. It's the quickest route. Just head straight that way. The Harrington Estate is just past it."

Franky's brow furrowed. He was sure he should be going south, back towards the district center, but he hadn’t been paying attention at each turn. And this boy, Julian, lived here. He was wealthy, confident; he must know. Who was Franky, a weaver’s son, to question him?

"Oh. Right. Thanks," Franky said, feeling a bit foolish.

"Don't mention it," Julian said with a dismissive flick of his wrist. He gave the leash a sharp tug, dragging Fang, as they continued on their way, leaving Franky standing alone in the street. He yearned for a dog like that of his own. He even saw the dog look back, seemingly mirroring his own thoughts.

Franky hesitated for only a moment. His father would be angry, but if he was quick, he could be back before the badger noble was finished with his dithering. An adventure, a shortcut, a story to tell Bino later. It was too good to pass up. He turned northwest, as Julian had directed, and began to walk.

The polished marble façades of the Primrose district soon gave way to clean, sturdy stonework but it didn’t seem right. There were signs for jewelers and sculptors and no sign of rich estates. The smell of metal filings and stone dust replaced the calming scent of rosewood and flowers. A knot of unease began to form in his stomach, but he pushed it down. Julian knew what he was talking about. Franky just had to keep going.

He passed the formidable stone walls of a garrison, a place he’d only ever heard about in Warren’s stories. A thrill went through him, maybe this was Warren’s turf! But it was quickly replaced by a growing dread. He walked for what felt like miles or at least 20 minutes. The sun had to dipped a little lower, nearly at the level of the city wall, painting the upcoming street in hues of orange and purple. Nothing looked familiar. The crowds were thinner here, the faces harder. The neat cobblestones became cracked and uneven pavers, slick with grime.

The street narrowed, and the buildings seemed to lean in on him, blocking out even more of the sun’s light. The air grew thick with the stench of coal smoke, unwashed bodies, and despair. A hulking boar with a scarred snout, wearing the tattered remains of a watchman's uniform, eyed him from a grog-shop doorway. A family of gaunt-faced foxes watched him pass from a shadowy alley, their eyes glinting.

This was far from Primrose. This wasn't like any ward of the city that Franky had seen before.

His fur prickled with cold fear. He clutched his arms around himself, trying to seem smaller, less conspicuous. He had been so desperate for an adventure, so eager to trust the first person who seemed to be living one. The chocolate rabbit hadn't been a friend. He'd been cruel. He had sent him here on purpose, a little game for a bored, rich boy.

Franky was lost. Truly lost. He looked around at the dilapidated shanties, the leering faces in the gloom, and the hostile shadows that seemed to writhe and reach for him. He realized then where he was and realized this wasn’t an adventure. This was the Rough, the most dangerous part of Veloria. And as true darkness began to fall, the weaver's son from the Upper Ward realized he was utterly, terrifyingly alone.

A cold dread, sharp and penetrating, washed over Franky, eclipsing the lingering warmth from the evening sun. He was in the Rough. Every cautionary tale his parents ever told, every whispered warning from Warren about the city’s underbelly, coalesced into a single, terrifying reality. His breath hitched in his throat. He had to get back.

He spun on his heel, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Back the way he came. That was the answer. He tried to lock the image of the street in his mind, but the dim light turned everything into a confusing morass of gray timber and black shadow. The alley he’d just passed looked identical to the one fifty feet ahead. Every grimy doorway, every pile of refuse, seemed to mock him, shifting and rearranging themselves the moment he looked away. There were no guardsmen here. No familiar sigils of the Wards. Just the silent, judging eyes of those who called this place home.

He stumbled down a lane that felt vaguely correct, only for it to dead-end at a rough-hewn wooden wall scrawled with crude chalk symbols. He backtracked, his panic rising like bile. With every wrong turn, the knot in his stomach tightened, a physical manifestation of his fear. But another feeling began to smolder beneath the terror, hot and sharp: anger.

He pictured Julian’s smug, chocolate-furred face, the casual cruelty in the way he’d yanked Fang’s leash. A rich bully playing a game with someone he saw as lesser. A spark of defiance ignited within Franky. One day, he vowed, he’d find Julian again. He wouldn't be a scared, lost kid then. And he'd make him pay. More than that, he’d rescue that poor dog. The memory of Fang looking back, a flicker of longing in its wild eyes, cemented the resolve. It wasn’t just revenge; it was justice.

For now, though, justice would have to wait. Survival was the only thing that mattered.

He turned from the dead-end, looking for any path that led up, away, towards the cleaner, more welcoming streets of his memory. Instead, he saw only more of the Rough spreading out before him like a stain. The buildings grew more decrepit, leaning against each other for support. The stench was stronger here, a mix of rotgut liquor, spoiled food, and something acrid he couldn't name. He was getting more lost, not less.

"You're a long way from pretty," a voice chirped from beside him.

Franky jumped, his fur bristling. He whirled around to see a raccoon boy his own age or maybe a little younger perched on a stack of splintered crates. The boy had clever, dark eyes framed by his natural mask, and a pair of tinkerer's goggles pushed up on his forehead. His clothes were patched and worn, but clean at least. He held a complex-looking contraption in his striped paws, polishing it with a scrap of cloth. He wasn't big or threatening, but after Julian, Franky's trust was a shattered thing.

"I'm not lost," Franky lied, his voice coming out as a squeak. He tried to puff out his chest, to look tougher than he felt.

The raccoon boy let out a short, knowing chuckle. It wasn't a mean sound, just one of simple observation. He tucked his goggles and gear into a bag carefully. "Sure you're not. And I'm the City Lord's son." He gestured with his head at Franky’s clean, albeit simple, tunic and worn-but-sturdy boots. "Your kind doesn't end up in the Rough at dusk by accident. You look like you just took a wrong turn at yesterday."

Franky’s ears flattened. He didn’t know what to say. Every instinct screamed at him to run, but he had no idea where to run to.

"Look," the boy said, his tone softening slightly. "You've got the scent of a mark all over you. Stick around here after dark on your own, and you'll be lucky if you still have your boots by morning." He hopped off the crate. "I'm Pip."

Franky stared, his mind racing. This raccoon was direct, not slippery like Julian. Still, caution coiled in his gut. The last time he accepted help, it had led him straight to this nightmare.

"I can get you to the edge of the West Ward, to the City Barracks," Pip offered. "From there, even a topsider like you should be able to find your way home. It won’t be free, though."

Franky narrowed his eyes. "What do you want?"

"Got anything to trade?" Pip asked, his eyes scanning Franky with a practiced efficiency. "Something to eat, maybe?"

The question was so practical, so devoid of malice, that it took Franky by surprise. Julian had tricked him for sport. This boy, Pip, just seemed hungry. Franky’s paw instinctively went to his pocket. His mother, ever practical, had tucked a small, honey-and-oat cake into his pocket before they left, "in case the badger talks your father's ear off." It felt like a lifetime ago.

He hesitated, his paw hovering over the small, sweet piece of home. This could be another trick. Pip could take the cake and run, leaving him even more lost than before. But as he looked at the raccoon boy’s expectant face and then at the deepening shadows of the alleyways around them, he knew he had no choice. He couldn't get out on his own. He was a weaver’s son in a den of wolves. He had to take the chance.

Slowly, Franky pulled the now slightly-crushed honey-cake from his pocket. "This is all I have," he said, his voice barely a whisper.
Pip’s striped paws accepted the cake with a surprising delicacy. He didn't snatch it or wolf it down. Instead, he carefully unwrapped the paper and took a thoughtful bite, his eyes closing for a moment in appreciation of the sweet oats and honey.

"You always want to make sure you get something in exchange for service," he said between bites, his voice now muffled. "That way you build trust. At least, that's what Master Oakhart says. He's my teacher at the Templedon school."

Franky blinked. "You go to a school?" The words were out before he could stop them. A school? Here, in the Rough? He'd always assumed schools were for the more prosperous wards, places with slate boards and clean floors, not… this.

Pip finished the last of the cake, licking a crumb from his paw. "Of course I go to school. How else am I going to learn advanced mechanics and elemental theory?" He gestured for Franky to follow, turning into a slightly wider, less menacing alley. "Come on. The longer we stand here, the more interesting we look."

Wary but with little choice, Franky followed. Pip moved with a quiet, confident energy, his feet finding sure purchase on the slick, uneven stones. As they walked, the oppressive closeness of the shanties began to recede. The air, while still thick, lost some of its desperate stench, replaced by the more mundane smells of boiled cabbage and a distant tannery.

"My brother and I live over that way," Pip said, flicking an ear towards a particularly dense cluster of ramshackle homes. "But not for long. He's going to be a famous adventurer, you'll see. He's already the best brawler in our block. And I'm going to be his quartermaster. I'll make all his gear—grappling hooks, smoke pellets, maybe a collapsible climbing pole. That's why I need school."

Suddenly, the polished gear and goggles made perfect sense. This boy from the Rough had a dream, a plan that was just as grand as Warren's, maybe even grander. A flicker of kinship sparked in Franky’s chest. He, too, wanted more than what he was being offered.

The shared feeling of ambition made Franky feel bold enough to share his own story. "I got tricked," he blurted out. "That’s how I ended up here."

Pip glanced back, his dark eyes curious. "Tricked how?"

The words tumbled out of Franky, laced with a bitterness that surprised even him. He described the Primrose district, the chocolate rabbit Julian, and his beautiful, wild dog, Fang. He told Pip how Julian had purposefully misdirected him, the condescending smile on his face, the cruel tug on the leash. "He did it just for fun," Franky finished, kicking at a loose stone. "Just because he could."

Pip was quiet for a long moment, processing the story. "That's how you build 'report,'" he finally said, nodding seriously.

"Report?" Franky asked, confused.

"Yeah. Or something like it. Master Oakhart was talking about it," Pip explained, tapping his temple. "It's when you make someone trust you, to get them to do what you want. But Julian did it all wrong. He did it to be mean. That's not building trust, that’s just being a bully." He saw the anger and humiliation burning in Franky's eyes. The injustice of it was plain as the mask on his face.

They emerged from the last alley, and Franky’s heart leaped. Ahead, he could see the tall, torch-lit walls of a City Garrison, and beyond it, the wider, cleaner streets of the West Ward. It was familiar territory. He was safe.

Pip stopped at the edge of the shadows. "From here, you just head southeast to Primrose. Or due east you'll eventually hit the High Market, and you should know your way from there."

"Thanks, Pip," Franky said, the relief so profound it almost buckled his knees. He turned to go, but Pip's voice stopped him.

"You know," the raccoon said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "A bully like that doesn't deserve a prize animal. A feral from the Dustmoors... that dog deserves a better master." He looked at Franky, his eyes glinting with a familiar, clever light. "If you really wanted to teach that bully a lesson... and rescue that poor dog... I could help you steal it."

The offer hung in the air, a spark of pure adventure. Everything Franky had been yearning for was suddenly crystallized in Pip’s audacious proposal. The fear he’d felt moments ago evaporated, replaced by a fizzing excitement. Get revenge on a bully, rescue a mistreated animal, and have a real adventure with a new friend. It was perfect.

He glanced towards the garrison, the sensible path home, and then back at Pip, whose expression was a mixture of mischief and genuine purpose. The sun was setting, but the sky still held a deep orange glow. It wasn't truly late yet. He could do this. He could have his adventure and still make it home before his parents raised an alarm.

"Stealing… that's not right, is it?" Franky said, the thought surfacing like a bubble from deep within his memory. His father was an honest artisan; thievery was for the desperate and the dishonorable. The words felt like they should have weight, but they felt flimsy against the raw injustice of Julian’s actions.

Pip scoffed, a quick, dismissive sound. "Is it right for a rich bully to trick a kid into the Rough for a laugh? Is it right for him to yank on that poor dog's neck like he was ringing a bell? Julian didn't earn that dog, he just bought him. We wouldn't be stealing. We'd be liberating."

Pip's logic was like a key turning a lock in Franky’s mind. Liberating. The word felt heroic. It sounded like something Warren would do. The last shred of hesitation vanished. His father and the Harrington estate seemed a million miles away, a problem for a future Franky. The present Franky, the one standing at the edge of the Rough with a clever new friend, had a mission.

"Okay," Franky said, his voice firm. "Let's do it. Let's liberate Fang."

A wide grin split Pip's face, his eyes sparkling under the brim of his goggles. "Excellent! I knew I liked you." The raccoon was practically vibrating with eagerness. "Okay, first things first. We need a plan."

Franky nodded, his mind racing. "How do we find him? The Primrose is huge."

"Easy," Pip said, tapping his snout knowingly. "You said Julian's father bought the dog from a foreign merchant, so they're rich. And you said he was a rabbit. There's probably only one really wealthy rabbit noble family in the Primrose district. Finding it will be simple."

"Okay, so we find the house. Then what? We can't just knock on the door," Franky said.

"Of course not," Pip said, already deep in thought. "We need a way in. A way to get past the servants and guards without anyone asking questions. We need a disguise that makes us invisible." He snapped his fingers, a grin spreading across his face. "Privy chamberpot collectors."

Franky's nose twitched in disgust. "What?"

"Think about it!" Pip said, his excitement overriding Franky's revulsion. "Who wants to get close to the pot collectors? Nobody! They wear big hats, keep their heads down, and everyone gives them a wide berth. They go into the back entrances of all the noble houses, even the kitchens and servant's quarters, and nobody ever looks them in the eye. They have access to everything. We just need the right disguise, and we can walk right in."

A flaw in the otherwise brilliant plan struck Franky. "Wait," he said, the practicalities of his own life intruding. "Privy collectors come in the morning. My mum would kill me if I wasn't there to help open the market stall." He pictured his mother's disappointed face, the guilt already churning in his stomach.

Pip considered this, his brow furrowed. "And no one wants a full chamberpot sitting around all day before being emptied. Going in now, at night, would look suspicious." He chewed on his lip for a moment, then brightened. "Tomorrow, then. Meet me here at dawn. There's no school for me, and my brother Bernie is off with his 'adventuring mentor' all day, so I'm free. It'll be perfect. Can you get away?"

Could he? The thought of deceiving his parents sat uneasily with him, but the thrill of the mission was a much stronger pull. He could say he was going to the dye vats early in the morning to learn how they mixed the dyes. It was a small lie for a grand cause. Liberating Fang. It was worth it.

"Yeah," Franky said, his voice imbued with a newfound confidence. "Yeah, I can get away. Dawn, right here."

"Excellent!" Pip gave a sharp, satisfied nod. "Bring a spare tunic if you can, something dark. And be ready to get a little grimy."

With the plan set, the two boys parted ways. Pip melted back into the shadows of the Rough, a comrade disappearing into his own world. Franky, standing alone but no longer lost, turned toward the garrison's reassuring gate. His heart was still pounding, but now it was with anticipation, not fear.

He approached a broad-shouldered wolf in the City Guard armor, trying to look small and harmless. "Excuse me, sir," he said, his voice barely a squeak. "I'm looking for the Harrington estate? I got separated from my father."

The guardsman looked down, his expression stern but not unkind. He gave Franky a set of simple, clear directions, pointing him back into the heart of the Primrose district, a route that was thankfully straightforward and well-lit.

Franky scurried through the opulent streets, which now seemed less intimidating and more like a future conquest. The marble and manicured gardens were just scenery for the adventure to come. As he neared the Harrington estate, a familiar, frantic voice cut through the quiet evening air.

"Franky! Franky, where have you been?"

His father, a stout rabbit with fur the color of worn pewter, was pacing back and forth in front of the ornate gate, his paws wringing in distress. Sir Harrington stood on his porch, looking deeply annoyed by the commotion.

"I found him!" Franky's father cried, rushing forward and enveloping him in a tight, desperate hug. "Spirits above, son, I was about to call the Guard! I told you not to wander!"

"I'm sorry, Papa," Franky mumbled into his father's rough wool vest. "I... I thought I saw someone I knew and followed them. I got turned around." It was only a partial lie, but the weight of it still pricked at him.

His father held him at arm's length, checking him over for any sign of injury. "Turned around? Franky, you were gone for over an hour! Anything could have happened!" His anger was quickly fading, replaced by overwhelming relief. He let out a long sigh, his shoulders slumping. "Well, you're safe. That's what matters. Let's go home. We'll talk about this later."

As his father led him away from the Primrose district, back toward the comforting familiarity of the Upper Ward, Franky felt a strange mix of guilt and exhilarating defiance. He was in for a lecture, he knew, but it didn't matter. His father thought the ordeal was over. For Franky, the real adventure was just about to begin.

The walk home was a stilted, silent affair. Franky’s father, Corbin, marched a pace ahead, his back ramrod straight, radiating an aura of cold fury. Franky trailed behind, his long ears drooping, bracing himself for the inevitable explosion.

When they arrived at their modest but tidy home in the Upper Ward, the lecture finally came, but it wasn't the one Franky expected.

"Do you have any idea how you behaved?" Corbin hissed, keeping his voice low as they entered. "Leaving me to make excuses to Sir Harrington! A badger of his standing! He thinks my family is unreliable, that my son is a scatter-brained whelp! This tapestry could secure our reputation for years, and you treat it like a day at the fair!"

There was no mention of the dangers Franky might have faced, no questions about where he’d been or if he was scared. It was all about the business, the client, the reputation. A familiar pang of disappointment hit Franky. It wasn't him his father was worried about; it was the family name. The lecture ended with a dismissive wave. "Go to your room. I don't want to look at you right now."

Franky felt a hot flush of resentment that quickly burned away his guilt. If his father was only concerned about being embarrassed, then Franky's secret mission felt even more justified.

His mother, Clara, intercepted him before he could escape, her expression a mixture of relief and concern. She put a gentle paw on his shoulder. "Franky, your father is just... flustered. But, are you alright?"

Here, his guilt returned with a vengeance. Lying to his father was one thing, but deceiving his mother, whose worry was genuine, felt like twisting a knife. He took a breath, steeling himself. "I'm okay, Mum. I'm sorry." He then launched into the lie he’d begun formulating on the walk home. "I was thinking... Papa said the dyer was mixing a new order of cochineal bugs for the reds. Could  I... could I go watch them first thing in the morning. Before we open the stall."

His mother’s weary face transformed. A warm, surprised smile blossomed. "Oh, Franky! Really? That's… that’s wonderful." She saw it as a peace offering, a sign of budding maturity. The irony of it made Franky’s stomach clench.

She turned to his father, who was brooding by the hearth. "Corbin, did you hear that? Franky wants to watch the dyers work tomorrow morning. He’s showing some initiative."

Corbin grunted, still annoyed. "He should be here, helping set up."

"Nonsense," Elara said, her voice firm but gentle. "It will save you a trip later in the day when the market is frantic if he brings some of the dye back with him and Willow can help me anyway. Let the boy go. It shows he's learning to be useful."

Outmaneuvered by his wife’s unexpected delight, Corbin sighed and relented. "Fine. But you be back here before the market rush, you hear me? No more wandering."

"Yes, Papa," Franky said meekly, relief washing over him. The path was clear.

Later, lying in the small bed he shared with his younger brother, Bino, Franky found it impossible to sleep. Bino was a small, quiet lump beside him, already deep in dreams. Across the room, Warren's bunk was neatly made but empty, a constant, silent reminder of the life of action Franky craved.

The ceiling above him became a screen for his thoughts. He pictured Pip's clever, masked face, his confident grin. He saw the grand estate of the Julian’s family, a fortress to be breached. He imagined their disguise, becoming invisible ghosts walking through the halls of the rich. Most vividly, he saw Fang, the wild dog with knowing eyes, and felt a fierce, protective urge to free him from a cruel master.

This was it. This wasn't fetching yarn or haggling over the price of wool. This was a mission. A rescue. An adventure.

A fresh stab of guilt pricked him as he remembered his mother's proud smile. He was deceiving her trust, but the alternative—a lifetime of obedient boredom—felt like a cage. He rolled onto his side, facing the window. The moon cast pale stripes across the floor, and the city outside was quiet. But inside Franky's head, the world was alive with the thrumming, terrifying, wonderful promise of dawn.

Lost in his thoughts, a restlessness spread over Franky. His fur twitched with the energy of his dreams, and with a sudden, sharp need building beneath his stomach. He thought of his upcoming adventure, the thrill of the unknown, the wild eyes of Fang that seemed so untamed and Pips eagerness. And as he thought of these things, his paw began to drift of its own accord. Beneath the linen of his underpants, the tips of his fingers found the spot that seemed to spark a kind of magic. He knew he shouldn't. Not here, not with his little brother so close. But that need was an urgent, whispering thing. The thrill of the taboo mingling with the thrill of the taboo he craved most—the adventure.

Franky closed his eyes, his fingers grazing the downy curls that hid his clit. It felt so good, that soft nub was like a piece of smooth glass beneath his fingerpads. He suddenly needed more, and rubbed harder, feeling how warm he was getting. He thought of Fang again; what would it feel like to have the feral licking his sensitive spots. He began to thrust his fingers into his hole, feeling the muscles contract and loosen. 

His cunny had become so sensitive lately. His climax began building quicker than ever, his hips bucking into his palm. He stifled his moan in his pillow, his body convulsing as he came shuttering. Then Franky stopped abruptly, from fear of being caught by his little brother, or worse, his father. And in the afterglow, the strange new sensations he was feeling melted away as his body relaxed and he drifted off to sleep.

A soft, insistent pressure on his shoulder pulled Franky from a shallow, dream-tangled sleep. He blinked, his vision blurry, and saw his mother's gentle silhouette against the pre-dawn grey of the window. He had been running through a field of flowers side-by-side with Fang moments before and his mind was having difficulty adjusting.

"Franky, son. It's early," she whispered, her paw resting warmly on him. "If you're going to the dyer's, you should leave soon."

For a moment, confusion reigned. Then, the memory of his lie, and the thrilling purpose behind it, crashed back into him. He was a secret agent on a mission. "Right," he mumbled, sitting up. "The dyer's."

The ruse worked more perfectly than he could have hoped. When he pulled on his oldest, most patched-up tunic and trousers, clothes stained with faded splotches of madder red and weld yellow, his mother simply nodded in approval. "Good thinking. No sense in ruining your better clothes in the dye vats."

As he headed for the door, she pressed a small bundle into his paws. It was two warm, sweet breads, fresh from the hearth. "One for the road," she said with a soft smile, "and one for when you get there. Don't let Master Flinn work you too hard."

The simple, loving gesture sent a fresh pang of guilt through him. He was taking her kindness and twisting it to fuel his deception. But as he tucked the second bread securely into his pocket—a provision for his co-conspirator—the thrill of the plan quickly overshadowed the guilt. He was being resourceful. That's what Warren would do.

The streets of the Upper Ward were quiet and cool, bathed in the soft, hazy light of a city just beginning to wake. Franky walked with a purpose he'd never felt before, his worn boots making soft sounds on the cobblestones. He arrived at their designated meeting spot, the corner just shy of the West Gate Garrison, feeling a nervous energy buzz under his fur. It was a strange place for a clandestine meeting, under the watchful gaze of the very authority they were about to defy. Torches still burned on the garrison walls, casting long, dancing shadows, and Franky could hear the faint clatter of armor as the dawn watch prepared to end their shift.

A familiar, soft chuckle came from a shadowed alcove. "You look like you're about to face a firing squad."

Pip emerged, looking even more like a professional tinkerer in the morning light. "Got the goods?" he asked, eyeing Franky's pocket.

Franky pulled out the second sweet bread. "My mum sends her regards," he said wryly.

Pip took it with a grin. "Tell her I'm grateful for her contribution to the cause." He took a bite, then pulled two objects from his own satchel. They were large, floppy-brimmed hats made of a grimy, dark felt. They looked well-worn and smelled faintly of damp earth and sweat. "The final pieces," he announced proudly. "Found them near the tannery. No one will give us a second look in these."

He handed one to Franky, who tentatively put it on. The brim flopped down, obscuring the top half of his face and shadowing his eyes. He instantly felt more hidden, more anonymous.

"Good news," Pip continued, pulling on his own hat. "I did some scouting after you left. The Avern estate is on the east side of the Primrose, near the old aqueduct park. Big place, wrought iron fence with little rabbit silhouettes on it. Can't miss it." He lowered his voice. "The privy collectors for that block usually make their rounds just after sunrise. We don't need to search. We just follow them in."

The plan was audacious, simple, and utterly terrifying. Franky's heart hammered against his ribs. The unlikely pair of would-be-thieves, a weaver's son and a tinkerer from the Rough, stood in the shadow of the law, ready to sneak into the heart of the city's wealth and power. All for a dog they didn't know and a justice they had defined for themselves.

"Ready?" Pip asked, his eyes gleaming under his shadowy brim.

Franky pulled his own hat down a little lower, took a deep breath, and nodded. "Let's go liberate a dog."

They found the perfect vantage point: a small, overgrown alcove between a florists shop and the towering, ivy-choked rear wall of the Avern estate. The spot offered a clear view of the servants' gate—a heavy, iron-studded wooden door set into the stone. The air here was cleaner, smelling of damp earth, clipped boxwood, and the distant, sweet perfume of roses from the hidden gardens within.

The initial thrill of infiltration quickly gave way to the dull reality of waiting. The sun barely peaked over the distant city walls, warming the stones around them. Pip, ever the tinkerer, pulled a small, half-finished device from his satchel and began to fiddle with strange workings, completely absorbed. Franky, however, had no such distraction. He counted the bricks in the wall. He watched a line of ants march a crumb across a paving stone. He tried to picture Warren on a stakeout, wondering if he ever got this bored.

And then, another, more urgent sensation began to make itself known. A familiar twitch, a nagging pressure in his lower belly. He tried to ignore it, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, but the feeling only grew more insistent. The sweet bread and the cool morning air had conspired against him. He really, really had to pee.

He fidgeted, crossing and uncrossing his legs. Pip glanced up from his mechanical bug, one eyebrow raised. "Got ants in your breeches?"

"No, I just..." Franky trailed off, embarrassed. "I gotta go."

Pip didn't even look up from his work again, simply gesturing with his head towards the far wall of the alcove. "Just go over there against the wall. No one's looking. We're in a back alley, not the High Market."

Franky froze.

His face flushed with a hot, prickly shame. The simple, practical suggestion felt like a spotlight thrown on the one secret he guarded more fiercely than anything. Go against the wall. Pull out his cubhood. The words echoed in his mind, highlighting an impossible obstacle. He couldn't just go like a boy. To pee, he'd have to drop his trousers and squat. An act that would instantly reveal the body he worked so hard to make everyone forget, the truth he buried under baggy tunics and a boy's name.

How could he possibly explain that to Pip? His new friend, the one person who saw him as an equal, a co-conspirator, just another boy on an adventure. Revealing his secret felt like it would shatter that image, changing everything. Pip might not be cruel like Julian, but he might look at him differently. He might see him as a girl pretending, and the thought was mortifying.

"What's the matter?" Pip asked, finally looking up, his clever eyes noticing Franky’s panicked stillness. "Go on."

Franky’s mind raced, scrambling for a plausible excuse. "I... uh..." he stammered, his voice barely a whisper. "I can't. Not when people are around."

Pip blinked, then let out a small chuckle. "Shy bladder, huh? Alright." He thankfully didn’t press it. He just shrugged and went back to his tinkering. "Suit yourself. But don't go wetting your trousers. We'll look even less like professional privy collectors then."

The acceptance was a relief, but the physical discomfort remained, a throbbing reminder of his dilemma. He pressed his legs together tightly, his whole body tense with the effort of holding it in. Just as the pressure felt like it was becoming unbearable, a low, rumbling sound reached them from the end of the alley. The rhythmic clatter of wooden wheels on stone.

Pip pocketed his beetle in a flash, his focus instantly sharpening. "They're here."

Franky’s own discomfort was forgotten, replaced by a surge of adrenaline. Peeking around the corner, they saw them: two burly-looking badgers pulling a large, covered cart. They moved with the slumped shoulders and plodding gait of those engaged in thankless, necessary work. They smelled faintly of lye soap and something much less pleasant.

They were heading straight for the servants' gate.

Pip nudged him, his eyes alight with excitement under the brim of his floppy hat. "Showtime."

Pip gave a sharp, almost invisible nod. The moment was now. As the first burly badger disappeared into the estate's service corridor, the second lumbered through the gate, momentarily blocking the view of the servant woman inside. That was their window.

Hats pulled low, heads bowed, Pip and Franky detached from the alcove and shuffled forward, mimicking the weary gait of the workers. They fell in right behind the second badger, two small, grimy shadows attached to larger ones. Neither the badgers, focused on their unpleasant task, nor the prim stoat servant woman, who held a scented handkerchief to her nose and looked pointedly away from the entire affair, gave them a second glance. They were invisible.

They were in. The badgers turned left down a stone corridor, but Pip deftly guided Franky through a stone archway to the right. They emerged into the dazzling morning light of a magnificent garden. Manicured hedges formed intricate patterns, a marble fountain gurgled peacefully, and the air was thick with the scent of a thousand blossoms.

And there, amidst all the cultivated beauty, was a startling patch of neglect. Tied by a stout chain to the trunk of an ancient oak tree was Fang. He wasn't lying down, but standing with his head low, the picture of utter dejection. His water bowl was empty.

As they approached, Fang's amber eyes lifted. His ears twitched, then perked up. A low woof, more a puff of air than a sound, escaped him. Franky thought he saw the dog’s tail give one hopeful thump against the dirt. He must have remembered his scent.

"Easy, boy," Franky whispered, kneeling down. Fang shuffled closer, whining softly, and pushed his head into Franky’s chest before eagerly licking at her outstretched hand with a frantic warmth. Franky’s heart ached for him. This was right. This was a rescue.

Her fingers traced the thick leather of his collar, seeking a buckle, and met cold, hard metal. A heavy brass padlock, gleaming in the sun, secured the collar to the chain. There was no key.

"Scrap," Pip breathed, coming to the same conclusion. "We can't break the lock. But maybe... maybe we can cut the collar."

Franky barely heard him. The overwhelming relief and excitement of finding Fang had loosened some vital internal clamp, and the pressure in his bladder suddenly became a sharp, burning pain. He couldn't hold it another second.

"We need a blade," Pip was saying, his eyes scanning the area. "Something sharp. Look, a tool shed!" He pointed to a small, slate-roofed structure tucked away behind a row of rose bushes.

But Franky couldn't wait. He couldn't think about blades or plans. The need was absolute, overriding everything else. With a panicked squeak, he bolted, dashing behind the relative privacy of the tool shed. He fumbled desperately with the cord of his trousers, dropping them around his ankles, and squatted down just as a torrent of relief streamed from him onto the soft earth. It was the most satisfying feeling he'd had all day.

A quiet footstep crunched on the gravel path behind him.

Franky froze, mid-stream, his heart leaping into his throat. He looked over his shoulder, his eyes wide with horror.

Pip stood there, having followed him from the tree. He had a look of confusion on his face, which quickly morphed into pure, unadulterated surprise as his gaze dropped from Franky's panicked face to his crouched form, to the undeniable evidence of how he was peeing. Pip's mouth opened slightly. The pieces clicked into place—the shyness at the alley wall, the sudden rush, the posture.

"Huh," Pip said, the single word hanging in the sudden, deafening silence of the garden. "So that's why you couldn't go against the wall."

Mortification, hot and total, washed over Franky. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to disappear. Tears pricked at their corners, blurring the image of the grass and his own worn boots. His treacherous body, however, refused to cooperate with his shame, continuing to empty his bladder in a steady, unstoppable stream, an auditory testament to his humiliation. His secret, the one he guarded with tooth and nail, was laid bare in the most undignified way possible. He waited for the laugh, the taunt, the inevitable "you're a girl!"

It never came.

Pip just tilted his head, his tinkerer's gaze analytical rather than mocking. He seemed to process the new information with the same detached curiosity he'd applied to working on his strange device. "Nice, cunny," he said, the words blunt and strangely clinical, as if commenting on a well-formed cog.

Franky’s breath hitched, caught somewhere between a sob and a gasp. The sheer, unadulterated absurdity of the moment—the high-stakes mission, his desperate need to pee, and Pip's bizarre, matter-of-fact pronouncement—was too much. The bubble of hysterical tension inside him popped. A strangled giggle escaped his lips, then another, until he was shaking with helpless, silent laughter, tears of mirth now mixing with tears of shame.

His laughter was abruptly cut short by a series of sharp, frantic barks from the garden. Fang, left alone and chained, was growing agitated.

"Scrap! He'll give us away!" Pip hissed, all business again. He immediately sprinted back towards the oak tree, leaving Franky to his own devices. "Shhh, boy, it's okay! We're right here!" he heard Pip whisper urgently.

Shaken but also strangely relieved, Franky finished, hastily pulling up his trousers and fumbling with the cord. The immediate crisis of his bladder was over, and the crisis of his identity hadn't exploded the way he’d feared. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve, took a shaky breath, and jogged back to the oak tree.

Pip was stroking Fang's head, calming the dog's anxious whimpers. When Franky rejoined him, Pip didn't even give him a second look, his focus entirely on the padlock.

"I'm an idiot," Pip muttered, tapping his forehead with the heel of his palm. "A complete blockhead. I didn't think of it before, but I could try my new lockpick device. I was making it for Bernie to use on an adventure and it might work on this lock."

He rummaged in his satchel and produced a strange contraption. It looked less like a precision tool and more like a metal spider cobbled together from spare watch parts, thin wires, and twisted strands of metal. It was clumsy and experimental, the kind of thing only a 10-year-old with a dream of adventure could invent.

"It works on simple tumblers," Pip explained, kneeling by the lock. "And this is a cheap brass one. Rich people will spend a fortune on fences, but buy the cheapest locks." He inserted the spindly end of the device into the keyhole and began to twist and probe, his brow furrowed in concentration. Franky held his breath, watching Pip’s striped paws work with delicate focus. Click. Spin. Click.

Then, from an upstairs window of the grand house, a voice slashed through the tranquil garden air—Julian's voice, shrill and furious.

"Fang! Shut that yapping or you're gonna get kicked again, you stupid mutt!"

Franky and Pip froze, their blood turning to ice. Julian was awake. And he was close.

The venom in Julian's threat, a promise of casual violence, sent a chill down Franky’s spine. Fang felt it too. The dog, who had been leaning into Pip’s calming strokes, suddenly stiffened. He sensed the hostility from the house, the tension radiating from the two cubs, and his fear returned as a low, guttural growl. He began to struggle, pulling against the chain, desperate to be free.

"No, Fang, quiet!" Franky pleaded, clamping his arms around the dog's wiry body, trying to hold him still.

The dog, desperate to be free, writhed in his grasp, all coiled muscle and frantic energy. Franky’s paw slipped on the shifting fur and brushed against the unfamiliar, soft firmness of the dog's furry balls and the sleekness of his sheath. A hot flush of embarrassment shot through him, a bizarre and unwelcome sensation amidst the terror, but there was no time for it. Fang was making too much noise.

"Almost there... almost..." Pip grunted, his whole body trembling with concentration as he manipulated his strange device. The wires twitched. The metal spider seemed to dance in his paws.

With a final, desperate twist from Pip, a loud CLICK echoed in the tense silence of the garden. The padlock sprang open.

But the sound, a clear signal of success for them, was a signal of theft for the one person they'd forgotten was watching.

The upstairs window burst open with a crash. Julian leaned out, his chocolate fur bristling with rage, his face contorted in a triumphant sneer. "Thieves! They're stealing my dog! Guards!" he shrieked, his voice piercing the morning calm.

Panic erupted. Franky fumbled with the open lock, pulling the heavy chain free from the collar. Pip snatched his precious device and shoved it into his satchel. For a fleeting second, escape seemed possible. They could bolt for the gate.

But a heavy door to the house slammed open and a guard rushed into the garden. He was a rotund hound, his uniform stretched taut across his belly, who looked as though he'd been roused from a pleasant breakfast. He skidded to a breathy halt on the manicured lawn, his short sword half-drawn, a look of utter confusion on his face. He had clearly expected hardened criminals, not two small, scruffy cubs in oversized hats, one of whom was now clutching the chain of a prize feral dog.

Before the guard could even process the scene, an even more rotund figure emerged behind him, eclipsing him in both girth and fury. Lord Avern, Julian's father, was a mountain of a rabbit in a wine-colored silk dressing gown. His jowls trembled and his face was purple with rage.

"What is the meaning of this?" he boomed, his voice a low thunder that seemed to shake the very leaves on the trees.

The path to the gate was blocked. The would-be-thieves and their liberated dog were trapped, caught between the confused guard and the furious lord of the house. They were found out.

Franky braced for the shouting, for the guard to grab him, for the world to come crashing down. He clutched Fang's chain, a meager prize for what was about to be a very bad day.

But Lord Avern's booming voice didn't hold the expected condemnation. He assessed the scene: the trembling boys, the agitated dog, the open padlock. Seeing them with the cool, appraising eye of a merchant weighing goods. Then, a slow, weary smile spread across his fleshy face.

"Thank the gods," he sighed, the sound a gust of wind. "Someone else wants this beast." He craned his thick neck to shout up at the open window. "Julian, quit your whining! You even said yourself yesterday you were sick of caring for him!" He then fixed his gaze on the two stunned cubs. "Take this thing and go."

Franky’s jaw hung open. Pip blinked, his brain visibly struggling to switch from 'imminent capture' to 'baffling success.' Not only were they not in trouble, but it sounded like Julian’s father was actively pleased to be rid of the dog.

Up at the window, Julian’s face had gone from triumphant rage to a mask of pure, sputtering fury and humiliation. "But... but he's mine!" he screeched, his voice cracking. "I bought him! You can't just give him away!"

"I can and I am," Lord Avern said with an air of finality. He turned back to Franky and Pip, his expression hardening slightly. "I'd give you a reward for taking this troublesome hound off my hands, if you hadn't broken into my garden to do it. Now, be gone with you two before I reconsider my generosity."

The rotund badger guard, still looking deeply perplexed, reluctantly sheathed his sword and took his cue from his employer.

Pip recovered first. He gave Franky a sharp nudge in the ribs, a silent, urgent command. Move. Now.

Franky snapped out of his trance. He tightened his grip on the chain, which felt impossibly light all of a sudden. With Pip leading the way, they walked—not ran—across the manicured lawn. They passed the guard, who simply shrugged at them as if to say 'not my problem.' They passed Lord Avern, who had already turned his back on them, dismissing them from his reality as easily as he had dismissed his son's prize.

The guard unlatched the heavy servant's gate. It swung open, revealing the blessedly mundane alleyway beyond. They slipped through, and the gate clicked shut behind them, sealing them out of the strange, opulent world they'd just upended.

They stood in the alley for a moment, the cool morning air a shocking contrast to the heated drama of the garden. Franky looked at Pip. Pip looked at Franky. Then they both looked down at Fang.

The dog, now free, seemed to understand that the tide had turned. The fear was gone from his eyes, replaced by a bright, intelligent curiosity. His tail gave a tentative wag, then another, faster one, and he surged forward to lick Franky's hand, his whole body wiggling with a joy that was infectious.

They had done it. They had actually done it.

A grin, wide and triumphant, spread across Franky's face. He let out a giddy laugh. "We did it!"

Pip punched the air with a small, victorious fist. "Liberation successful!"

They reveled in the moment for a few glorious seconds before Pip, ever the pragmatist, brought them crashing back to earth. His triumphant grin faded into a look of thoughtful concern.

"Okay," he said, rubbing his chin. "Step one: liberate the dog. Check." He looked at Fang, then at Franky, then at the sprawling city around them. "Step two... uh... what's step two? We can't exactly take him back to your mum's market stall."

The joy of their impossible victory deflated like a pricked bubble. Franky looked at Fang, who was now happily sniffing at a loose cobblestone, and then at the alley walls closing in around them. Step two. He hadn't thought about step two at all.

His mind raced. The workshop did have a small, enclosed yard in the back, but how on earth could he explain this? 'Oh, hello Papa. I broke into a noble's estate this morning with a boy from the Rough and liberated this feral dog as a form of social justice.' No, that wouldn't work. On top of that, he still had a lie to maintain. He was supposed to be getting red dye. Cochineal bugs. He had nothing.

The weight of it all landed squarely on his shoulders. He looked at Pip, his last hope. "Um... do you think you could take him for a bit?"

Pip’s ears drooped. "I've got no room either," he said apologetically. "My brother and I let a single room in a boarding house. Our landlady is a shrew of a hedgehog who counts our fleas. A feral dog would get us thrown out before lunch." He patted Fang's head. "Sorry, boy. You're your liberator's problem."

Franky’s heart sank. It was all on him. He had to think fast. The sun was climbing, already warming the back of his neck. It had to be approaching mid-morning. He was running out of time. A new plan, flimsy and full of holes but the only one he had, began to form.

"Okay," he said, taking a breath. "Okay. I'll say I found him. Wandering near the dyers. And he just... followed me home." He looked down at Fang's trusting, upturned face. It was plausible. The dog was clearly attached to him already. "And the dyer... I'll just say Master Flinn was working on a big commission for the guard's green tunics today, not red. So he didn't have any spare cochineal. It's... it's better than coming back with nothing."

It was a lie built on a lie, a house of cards he could only hope would stand up to his father's scrutiny. He looked at Pip, a sudden, genuine wave of feeling washing over him. This strange, clever boy had become more of a friend in a few short hours than anyone he’d met in his life.

"Will you come visit me in the Upper Ward sometime, Pip?" Franky asked earnestly. "I live near the weaver's guild hall. Just ask for Corbin's loom works. I really value that we have become friends."

Pip's usual roguish grin softened into something more sincere. He looked surprised, and pleased. "Yeah? Yeah, okay. I know the area. I'll come by. Maybe I can help you build a proper kennel for... him." He nodded towards Fang.

Franky felt a lightness in his chest. He might be walking into a storm at home, but he wasn't entirely alone. He had a dog. And he had a friend.

He offered his paw. Pip took it in a firm, quick shake. "Good luck," Pip said, his eyes twinkling. "With your Da, I mean. He sounds tougher than Lord Avern."

Franky couldn't help but laugh. "You have no idea."

With a final nod, Pip slipped away, melting back towards the direction of the Rough as easily as he had emerged from it. Franky stood alone, holding the chain of his new, impossible responsibility. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and turned towards home, hoping his luck, which had held so miraculously in the garden of a lord, wouldn't run out when he faced his own father.

Surprisingly, Franky’s wild gambit worked far better than he had any right to expect. His arrival at the workshop, a feral dog in tow and no dye to show for his morning, was met with his father's deep skepticism. The story of a stray dog simply following him home and the dyer conveniently being out of the exact color he needed was flimsy at best, and Corbin’s displeasure was palpable.

The situation was saved, unexpectedly, by his mother. Clara, upon seeing the intelligent, watchful dog, didn't see a stray but a solution. "The rats from the lower canals have been getting bolder," she declared thoughtfully. "Some as big as a small child, they say. A good dog could be useful." Her practical argument, framing Fang not as a pet but as a furry, four-legged guard, was enough to sway the argument from an immediate refusal to a grudging trial period.

In the days that followed, Fang proved to be the perfect houseguest. He was quiet and unobtrusive, choosing a pile of discarded wool sacks in the corner of the workshop as his own and settling there for hours, a silent, watchful companion to the rhythmic clatter of the looms. Franky's father, who at first ignored the dog, soon found himself appreciating the quiet loyalty. He began leaving out scraps of meat from his lunch and would occasionally reach down to give Fang a gruff pat on the head.

Before long, Fang had woven himself into the fabric of their lives. His presence became a normal, comforting part of the workshop's atmosphere. For Franky, it was a quiet, constant reminder of his grand adventure, a secret triumph nestled right in the heart of his family's mundane, everyday normalcy.

A week later, as things were settling into a new, comfortable normal, a familiar figure appeared in the workshop doorway. Pip stood there, looking slightly out of place amongst the looms and yarn, but with the same clever spark in his eyes.

"Free day," he announced by way of greeting. "Master Oakhart believes in a balanced approach to education and recreation." And much more conspiratorially, he asks about their prize, “Where’s Fang?”

Franky's face broke into a wide grin. He'd been hoping Pip would keep his promise. "He's over here," Franky said, gesturing to the corner where Fang was dozing on his sack pile.

Pip's face lit up. He crouched down, letting Fang sniff his hand before scratching the dog right behind the ears. "Look at you," Pip murmured, a genuine fondness in his voice. Fang, in turn, wagged his tail emphatically as he recognized the scent of one of his rescuers. "You've already got it better than I do." He sighed dramatically. "I regret my lack of square footage every day."

Franky's father was out delivering a finished runner to a client, so the workshop was quiet and theirs alone. Hearing Franky's mother had just baked, he fetched two still-warm sweet breads and a flask of milk. They sat on a bale of raw wool, sharing the treat in comfortable silence for a few minutes. Fang  occupied the space between them, looking up expectantly for any errant crumbs.

Soon, Pip's natural curiosity took over. He began to wander around the silent looms, running his striped paws over the heavy wooden frames. He peered intently at the complex web of threads, the heddles and reeds, his brow furrowed in concentration. "It's a machine," he said with a note of reverence, as if trying to reverse-engineer its function just by looking. "A machine for making cloth."

Franky watched him, feeling a strange flicker of pride in the family business for the first time. “For tapestries specifically. This one is the largest my papa operates.”

After his inspection, Pip came and sat back down on the wool bale. He was unusually quiet, picking at a loose thread on his trousers instead of meeting Franky's gaze. The easy camaraderie of a moment ago was suddenly replaced by a shy, nervous energy. 

He reached down to rubbed Fang’s belly as the feral dog rolled onto his back. He seemed to be struggling to say something. "Hey, Franky?" he said finally, his voice much quieter than usual.

"Yeah?"

Pip hesitated, fumbling for the right words. "That day... in the garden," he started, his gaze fixed on the floorboards. "When you... you know." He took a small breath. "The thing that... well, that makes you different. From other boys."

Franky's stomach did a nervous little flip. He went still, waiting.

Pip finally looked up, his expression not mocking or mean, but filled with a sincere, almost scientific shyness. It was the same look he'd had when studying the looms. "I was just... wondering," he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "If I could... see it again."

A cold dread, sharp and familiar, snuffed out the warmth in Franky’s chest. The friendly workshop suddenly felt like a cage, with him as the main exhibit. The question echoed in the quiet space, confirming his deepest fear: he wasn't a friend, he was a curiosity. A freak. Pip had only come back to get a better look.

He stared at the floor, the weave of a nearby rug suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. He couldn't speak. A hard knot formed in his throat, and he felt the sting of tears threatening again. His hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Pip must have sensed the change in him, the way he shut down completely. He started backpedaling immediately, his words tumbling over each other in a rush.

"No, wait, I didn't mean it like that!" Pip insisted, his voice laced with panic. He waved his paws nervously, as if trying to physically push his question back into his mouth. "It's just... I'm trying to understand." He gestured vaguely at his own crotch. "I mean, I know what I have down there... and other boys... my brother. Fang even." He gestured helplessly towards the sleeping dog, whose hind leg was splayed open in blissful slumber, exposing his own straightforward maleness to the world.

The gesture was so absurd, so purely Pip, that it pricked a tiny hole in Franky's wall of misery.

"What I mean is," Pip pressed on, his sincerity palpable. "You're unique, and I like you. You're my friend. And I just want to know more about you. To understand you better." He finally dared to look up from the floorboards and meet Franky's eyes, and Franky saw not a hint of mockery, only a genuine, desperate plea to be understood. "I mean, I can show you mine if it's weird," he added in a small, rushed voice. "So it's fair."

The offer hung in the air between them, startling in its vulnerability. So it's fair. It wasn't a demand to see the freak. It was an invitation to share a secret. Pip was offering his own trust as collateral. He was trying to build a bridge, not just stare across a gulf. The word Pip had used before came back to Franky: rapport. An exchange to build trust.

Slowly, the knot in Franky's throat began to dissolve. The fear didn't vanish, but it was joined by a fragile, tentative feeling of being seen. Really seen, not just looked at. He thought of all the times he'd had to fight to be Franky, the stubbornness and anger he'd had to wield like a shield. Pip wasn't asking him to fight. He was just asking to understand what was behind the shield.

He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

Without a word, he stood up and led Pip to the back of the workshop, to a secluded corner behind a tall stack of finished tapestries that were rolled and waiting for delivery. It was a small, private space, hidden from the door and windows, cocooned in the comforting scent of wool and dye. He felt his heart hammering, but for the first time, it didn't feel entirely like fear. It felt a little like courage.

The silence stretched, thick with unspoken tension, until Franky finally swallowed past the lump in his throat. He met Pip's hopeful, earnest gaze. The fear of exposure still coiled in his gut, but the strange, fragile courage that had blossomed in the alley was still there.

"Okay, then," Franky said, his voice a little rougher than he intended. "You first."

Franky had, of course, seen other boys’ bits before. His little brother, Bino, had gone through a phase where he preferred to be naked, a tiny, unashamed lump of fur and flesh. And Fang, his new companion, was constantly on display, his maleness undeniable, unignorable. Franky had found himself watching the dog often, a strange fascination mingling with his own shifting sense of self. He'd even, once, stumbled into Warren's room while his older brother was playing with himself. The sight had been shocking, confusing, and profoundly unsettling, sparking a wave of questions he hadn't known how to ask. He remembered Warren's shaft, engorged and glistening, stretched to a size Franky hadn't known was possible, and a flush of bewildered heat touched his cheeks at the memory.

A soft thud, followed by a quiet scuff of paws, announced Fang’s arrival. Roused by their movements and hushed voices, the dog had wandered over, drawn by curiosity. He sat on his haunches a few feet away, his head cocked to the side, amber eyes following their every move as if in bewilderment at this strange ritual they were performing.

Pip, now with not one but two sets of watchful eyes upon him, hesitated. He shifted from paw to paw, a nervous energy vibrating from him. "I mean," he started, a nervous laugh escaping him, "we are all just boys after all, so it's no big deal." He tried to sound casual, but his voice was a little higher than usual.

He pulled his tunic over his head in one swift motion. His frame, though lean and wiry, was noticeably more gaunt than Franky's, all sharp angles and prominent ribs. The soft, grey-brown fur of his raccoon body seemed to ripple with nervous energy, and an unexpected urge to reach out and stroke it, to feel its texture against his paw, flickered through Franky.

His trousers came next, removed a bit more slowly, awkwardly, as he tried to maintain some semblance of modesty while stripping in front of this audience.

Pip's hands nervously hovered near his little sheathed cubhood and acorns, ready to cover up at any moment. Franky, for his part, realized he never had really paid much attention to his brother's bits until he had caught Warren squirting that white liquid in the air just as Franky had opened the door. He was curious now that he had such a willing participant.

"Can I touch it?" Franky asked hesitantly. 

Pip raised an eyebrow, surprised but pleased by the unexpected turn of events. "All right," he agreed. "But how 'bout after you get naked too? I feel a bit exposed right now," Pip suggested.

A soft breeze brushed through the workshop, carrying the scent of crushed wool and dye. Franky took a deep breath, feeling every inch of his nerves stretch taut. Despite the danger—or maybe because of it—his heart was pounding in his chest, a thudding, exhilarating pulse. He didn't hesitate this time. He shrugged out of his tunic and dropped it to the floor.

His chest was smooth and flat, the pale grey fur spreading over broad paws and lithe shoulders. There was a little baby fat to him, a reminder that he was still young. Not nearly as young or thin as Pip, but that felt like a distant whisper in the moment. He focused on the task at hand, the need to trust and be trusted. To forge a connection, however fragile or strange.

Removing his trousers brings up feelings of trepidation again, but he quashes them remembering Pip has already seen his difference.  He quickly sheds his own trousers revealing the cunny he shamefully keeps a secret.

Once naked, he glanced over at Pip. His friend seemed smaller than before, more vulnerable, but there was also a strange kind of bravery in his eyes. A willingness to be seen, and to see.

"Can I?" Franky asked, voice low and hoarse. He reached out, his fingers trembling. He traced the soft fur around Pip's cotton-covered bits, his touch light at first, careful. It was a gentle exploration, a tentative touch that quickly grew bolder. And as he touched Pip, he felt something shift inside him - not just the raccoo’s soft fur, but something deep and aching and kind of brave, too.

Pip flinched at first, then relaxed under Franky's gentle touch. "It's okay," he murmured, his voice surprisingly steady. "I know you've seen Fang's. It's alright."

A smile tugged at the corners of Franky's mouth. "Yeah," he agreed, mirroring his friend's bravery. He traced Pip's little sheathed member, feeling the soft, springy skin beneath his fingertips. The acorn-sized balls were smooth and warm, nestled in the soft tufts of fur that cushioned Pip's thighs. He moved closer without even thinking about it, pressing their sides together.

Their hearts beat in unison, a private rhythm they shared. And for a moment, in the cool darkness of the back room, surrounded by the smells of home and danger, they were just two boys, exploring each other with a fierce, strange kind of tenderness.

Pip's fingers hovered just over the rabbit's exposed sex. Franky knew from personal experience how it seemed to radiate heat that could be felt even before touching. His own explorations at night next to his sleeping  brother came to him unbidden and he really wanted Pip to touch him. Needed it.

"Can I?" came Pip's request. Barely before the last syllable left his lips, Franky was already pushing his paws towards his warm bunny hole. He was so eager to be touched.

As Pip's fingers spread over his cunny, Franky could feel the soft little member in Pip's sheath getting more firm. Like Warren's had been, thought Franky. But unlike his older brother, Pip's sheath seemed to open and a bit of pink slipped free. Looking somewhat wet and a little alien.

Franky could feel a hot moisture spreading through his pussy, a strange, almost foreign sensation that it was  being caused by someone other than himself. Pip probed gently, circling his paws around the entrance. Franky let out a small gasp, his back arching in surprise as one of Pip digits parted the flesh and entered his secret tunnel. The sensation was foreign, but not unpleasant. He could feel Pip's fingers sliding against his soft inner walls and teasing the virgin entrance. A slow, hot shiver ran through him.

"Does that feel good?" Pip whispered, hesitating.

Franky swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. He bit his lip, willing himself to be brave. "Yeah," he whispered back. "It does."

Pip's fingers pressed harder, a gentle massage that sent a burst of heat through Franky's belly. He gasped, feeling Pip’s little cock twitch against his pawpad. Then, before he could think too much, he traced the smooth pink rod emerging from Pip's sheath.

Franky's hand was shaking, his curiosity burning bright. He'd seen the way Warren used his, the quick, fluid motions that left little smears on his thighs. And now here it was another maleness, different to be sure but similar, in his hand. Franky wrapped his paw around the small member and stroked. Pip flinched under his touch, then relaxed.

"It's okay," Pip assured him. "Go on."

Tentatively, Franky began to mimic what he'd seen, stroking the slippery, warm length of his friend’s shaft. There wasn’t much to hold onto, but it still felt wonderful. Pip moaned, his body shivering slightly, and Franky felt a thrill of power coursing through him. They were exploring each other in a way no one else had, a secret language of touch and heat.

"Franky," Pip whispered, his voice raw. "Franky, I feel something strange. Like something’s growing in my belly"

Franky looked up, meeting Pip’s eyes. He could see the need there, the desire, and it sent a spiral of heat through him. For a moment, they stared at each other, breathing hard, hearts pounding in steady rhythm.

Then, without a word, Franky pressed their bodies close together, nestling his cotton-down covered cunny against Pip's straining hardness. Together, they shuddered as the Pip pressed against Franky’s sensitive button. 

Franky had felt an orgasm before, during his nighttime explorations. The shivers of pleasure rippled through his body and he felt the tell tale wetness within him leak out slightly. But  Franky suspected this was Pip's first cum. The raccoon yipped as his hard little spiked throbbed  repeatedly against his bunny clit. No whitish liquid shot out like with Warren, but the look on Pip's face was the same. 

Moments later the two separated and felt the need to sit. They dropped unceremoniously to a bench next to the loom. Side-by-side they luxuriated in post-orgasmic bliss.

Pip was the first to speak, "Did we just do sex?"

And Franky burst into laughter,  "Not really. You need to stick it inside for that. But it was really nice."

"Do you want me to do that?" Pip asked sincerely. "Put it in, I mean?"

Franky pondered. Did he really want that? But before he could respond, Franky noticed Fang watching them intently. A bright red member poking out of the feral dog sheath. As if Franky's gaze was all that he was waiting for, Fang approached the two cubs. 

Franky's eyes widened in surprise as Fang approached, his nose twitching curiously at the scent between his thighs. He seemed to know what he was doing, watching Pip and Franky had awakened something in the feral dog too. Franky tensed, trying to pull away from the feral dog at first. He felt a flood of embarrassment wash over him, hot and flushed his cheeks with it. But Fang was persistent, licking and nuzzling at his cunny, pushing Franky’s thighs open wider to get better access.

"Hey!" Pip chuckled, but there was a note of concern in his voice. "Back off, Fang!"

Fang did stop, but only for a moment. Then he was back at it, licking Franky's exposed cunny with a rough, persistent tongue. The sensation sent another wave of heat through him, pleasure mixed with confusion and a twinge of fear.

"What's he doing?" Pip asked, looking between Franky and the dog.

"I-I don't know," Franky stammered, his voice shaky. He thought to push Fang away, but the feral dog was stronger than he looked and it just felt so good. Franky glanced over at Pip, seeing curiosity on his young friend's face. A feeling of embarrassment washed over him, fierce and hot.

They sat there for a long moment, watching as Fang continued to lick and nuzzle at Franky's intimate places. Finally, Pip smiled, shaking his head. "Guess you're the wild one in the family," he teased.

Franky laughed weakly, still flushed with embarrassment. "I guess so," he agreed. And as he looked back at Fang, he realized something. For all his wildness, there was a tenderness about the large dog. A fierce, loyal kind of love that he didn't quite understand, but felt deep in his bones… or deep inside his cunny.

And suddenly, Franky knew that he wanted more of it. More than just waiting around for their father's commissions or the rare moments of excitement in Veloria. He wanted to be wild, like Fang, and fearless, like Pip.

Fang continued his explorations, his tongue darting in and out of Franky's slit, almost provoking another orgasm. He could feel Pip's presence next to him, warm and curious. Suddenly, the raccoon shifts to kneel down beside the feral dog, eyes wide with wonder.

"Whoa," Pip breathed, reaching out to feel the thickness of Fang's shaft. Franky felt another rush of embarrassment and arousal. "Look at this!" And He really wanted to. He imagined how the dog’s cock might look hard and throbbing like Warren’s had been. At the thought, Franky is thrust into another orgasm as Fang’s tongue bathes his throbbing clit.

When Franky recovered several moments later, he knelt down next to Pip to inspect the feral dog's cock. It was rather large, easily 9 inches of dark red and veiny dog meat. So much thicker than his older brother’s, and with a tapered tip and with a strange bulge tucked inside his sheath. 
Fang didn't seem to mind their touch, only tilting his head curiously when Pip pressed a finger to his cock, stroking the swollen length and wetting his paw in viscous fluid. As Franky watched, the raccoon tasted some of the strange liquid and a smile spread across his maw. “It’s weird, but good. Sweet like honey, but not as strong.”

Franky is surprised as Pip leaned in to lick at the dripping tip.The expression on Pip's face was one of pure bliss as he moaned around Fang's cock, and Franky’s surprise shifted to little pangs of jealousy.

"Don't lick it, silly," Franky said, but there was no disapproval. He was too caught up in the moment, too fascinated by the feral dog and his own friend's bravery. Pip must have detected a note of curiosity in his voice, because he grinned and back at Franky.

"What?" he asked, eyes sparkling. "You want to try?"

Franky watched as Pip pulled away, a hint of longing in his eyes. He scooted forward, situating himself in the now-empty spot left by Pip.

Franky took the cock in his paw and leaned in. He slipped Fang's tapered tip into his mouth. It was warm and hard, the taste of him lingering on Franky's tongue. He'd never thought it'd taste so good. He sucked eagerly, drawing Fang deeper into his mouth. His body moved in counterpoint to the feral dog's gentle humps, wanting more.

Time seemed to stand still as he tasted Fang, the salty-sweet flavor of his pre-cum coating his tongue. He ran his paw up and down the sheath, feeling the knot of desire grow. He wanted more, needed it. As he sucked and licked, he couldn't help but feel a sense of rightness he'd never known before.

Fang groaned, hips bucking against Franky's touch. The animal was huge, his shaft thicker than any other cock Franky had seen. He could feel it stretching his maw open wider, filling him in a way that made him moan. He wanted this pleasure to last forever, but he knew it couldn't.

Finally, with a sharp cry of longing, Franky pulled away. He looked up at Pip, unable to hide his sheer bliss. His friend grinned back, their newfound closeness permeating the air around them.

"Wow," Franky mused, wiping a paw across his mouth. "Now you know what you mean. It tastes so good." And then an idea formed in his mind, "Wanna try what Fang tasted earlier?" He rotated his hips to push out his still damp cunny towards the raccoon.

Pip grinned back, but said nothing. Instead, the cub proceeded to bury his face under Franky's bobbing cottontail. His tongue lapped at first tentatively at his pussy lips, but then dug in deeper to taste the pink flesh inside.

Franky turned back to the throbbing cock in front of him. The taste of hot dog cock on his tongue and Pip's growing familiarity with his cunny, had Franky whimpering in pleasure. Sandwiched  between two males, he felt a lot more secure in his own masculinity. Maybe because Pip didn't judge him at all for his differences in appearance or in his budding desires or maybe because he was really just a male that liked other males.

Franky felt the need for something more than just Pip's tongue inside him. A strange itch that he couldn't explain. He spit out Fang's cock just long enough to turn his face back towards where Pip was busy savoring his cunny and grunted out. "Please, put it in me. Stick it in my like I said before. " Pip's head popped up from behind his tail.

"You mean it," Pip's eyes gleamed with excitement.

"Do it! I need something inside me."

A bit too embarrassed to meet Pip's eyes any longer, Franky turned and swallowed Fang's cock back into his mouth. But he felt the younger raccoon fumbling to line up his little hardness. Then felt the thin member enter his pussy. It wasn't painful like he feared, maybe because the cub wasn't that big. Instead it felt nice, comforting like a hug.

"Oh," Pip gasped. "That feels... good." 

Franky couldn't believe how right it felt, how natural. He gripped Fang's sheather tighter, encouraging the feral dog to thrust. He felt like he was a part of something bigger, something wild and untamed. Something he'd never experienced before.

As Pip began to thrust gently in and out of him, Franky moaned around the dog's cock. The pleasure was overwhelming, but he welcomed it. He felt alive, free. He looked up at his brother, seeing the flush rise in his cheeks.

"So nice," Pip whispered, his voice hoarse with desire. He gripped Franky’s body tightly as his movements became more erratic. "I'm feeling it again," he cried. 

Franky’s own orgasmic was triggered again as he felt the little raccoon cock shuddering inside him. An insistent, but dry cum racking Pip as deep inside as the cub could thrust himself. Franky’s own cum was wet, he knew his body was starting to change in the past few weeks as something inside him awoke.

Above him, Fang pawed at the ground and gave a sharp bark. Lost in his own sparkling bliss, Franky has momentarily stopped sucking on the dog’s cock, but Fang started humping harder as if in compensation. The  rabbit felt the tip of the dog’s cock slip into his throat nearly causing him to gage.

The sudden, violent surge of Fang's orgasm took Franky by surprise. Perhaps it was the increased tightness of Franky’s throat on his cock or the scent of his immature cum in the air, but Fang's powerful orgasm was unleashed. Franky felt more than tasted the thick liquid spurting into the back of his mouth. It was warm, thick, and surprisingly abundant. He swallowed as much as he could, but the sheer volume was overwhelming. He pulled back, a gurgle escaping him as he struggled to clear his throat.

At the same instant, Pip let out a soft yelp as he slipped out of Franky's wet folds, his lean body shuddering with his own release. Franky sputtered, gasping for air, the taste of Fang’s cum coating his tongue and filling his nostrils.

For a moment, they simply lay there, sprawled on the dusty workshop floor. Fang, his magnificent cock now flaccid and dripping, panted heavily, his flank heaving. Franky, a sticky mess, stared up at the high rafters, his body humming with a dizzying mix of pleasure and shock. Pip, equally spent, collapsed beside him, his fur damp with sweat, his eyes glazed over. Post-coital bliss, sweet and heavy, settled over all three of them. The air was thick with the musk of their exertions, a potent cocktail of canine, raccoon, and rabbit.

Fang let out a contented sigh, his head thudding onto Franky’s thigh. Pip shifted closer, his small paw instinctively reaching for Franky’s hand, lacing their fingers together. A profound sense of peace, of rightness, washed over Franky. He had found something extraordinary, something more adventurous and truthful than anything he could have imagined.

Then, a sudden, sharp clang from the front of the workshop shattered the idyllic haze. The sound of the gate being moved, followed by a familiar, gruff cough.

Corbin. His father. Back from his delivery.

The reality of their situation crashed down on Franky with the force of a falling anvil. They were naked. They were sticky with cum. They were sprawled on the floor of his father’s workshop, with a recently liberated feral dog, and Pip. No. No, no, no. There was no way. Franky’s father would lose his mind. There was no way Franky could let them be discovered like this. Panic, cold and sharp, replaced the warmth of bliss.

"Papa!" he hissed, scrambling. "He's back!"

Pip, equally startled, jumped to his feet. Clothes that had seemed so easy to shed moments ago now became perverse obstacles. They fumbled, hands trembling, pulling tunics over heads, tripping over trousers. Franky, still slick and raw, felt a fresh wave of mortification threaten to overwhelm him. Discovery. This was it.

Then, a new sound cut through the panicky scuffling: the distinct grumbling of his father, growing fainter. "Blast it all! Left the gate key in the lock again. Always something…." The sounds receded, followed by the distant squeak of the front gate opening and closing again.

A reprieve. They had a few more precious moments. Franky let out a shuddering breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

Fang, however, seemed utterly unperturbed. He padded calmly to his usual sleeping spot amidst the wool sacks, letting out a contented sigh as he thudded down. Oblivious to the near cataclysm, he began to diligently clean himself, his tongue working methodically over his retreated member.

Franky and Pip, still wrestling with their clothes, suddenly caught sight of each other. Franky was trying to pull Pip's too-short, patched trousers over his own longer legs, while Pip was attempting to force Franky's larger, but cleaner, trousers over his slim hips. The sheer, ridiculous absurdity of it, coupled with the hair-raising near-miss, caused them both to dissolve into uncontrollable, silent laughter. They clutched their bellies, tears streaming down their faces as they swapped pants, stifling their gales of mirth into the crook of their arms.

They somehow pulled themselves together just seconds before Corbin rounded the corner, pushing his empty delivery cart. Franky and Pip were sitting side-by-side on a wool bale, looking utterly innocent, chatting and giggling like two friends just sharing a joke.

"Well, now," Corbin said, eyeing them with a suspicious glint. He sniffed the air, a faint, metallic tang still present, but then dismissed it as workshop smells. "Didn't expect to see company here. Franky, who's your friend?"

"This is Pip, Dad," Franky said, trying to sound as casual as possible. "I met him in the market last week. He, uh, he's interested in how the looms work."

Corbin grunted, still eyeing Pip. "Hmmph. Well, help me put this cart away."

As his father turned his back to maneuver the cart into its storage spot, Franky and Pip exchanged conspiratorial glances. Under the cover of their laughter, they whispered.

"We have to do this again," Franky murmured excitedly.

"Soon," Pip promised, his eyes gleaming. "Very soon."

When Pip finally slipped out the workshop door, waving a casual goodbye to Corbin, Franky felt a warmth spread through him that had nothing to do with the still-blushing heat of his body

When Pip finally slipped out the workshop door, waving a casual goodbye to Corbin, Franky felt a warmth spread through him that had nothing to do with the still-blushing heat of his body. It was a warmth born of acceptance, of shared secrets, and of a bond forged in the crucible of unlikely adventure and intimate revelation. Not only had Pip accepted him for exactly who he was, differences and all, but they had shared a moment of glorious, exhilarating depravity, an act as deeply intimate as it had been daring.

Franky felt a burgeoning sense of self-acceptance, a contentment he hadn't known he was lacking. The perpetual restlessness, the gnawing boredom that had defined his eleven years, seemed to quiet, replaced by a thrilling anticipation. Franky had found his escape from the mundane. He had found a friend who saw him, truly saw him, and offered not judgment, but kinship and curiosity. He glanced at Fang, dozing peacefully in his corner, a living testament to their successful liberation.

The tapestry of Franky’s life was still being woven, but now, new, vibrant threads had been introduced. He knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his rabbit bones, that this was just the beginning. There would be more explorations, more secrets, and undoubtedly, many new adventures with Pip, a kindred spirit who understood that sometimes, the most exciting discoveries lay just beyond the edge of propriety and into the wild, untamed corners of one's own heart.