House Squatter Raccoon boy - Trax

Rain clung to him like a second skin. Every step squelched, socks soaked, tail dripping. He slipped through the narrow gap in the backyard fence, heart pounding with each gust of wind that rattled the loose boards. Home. Almost.

Trax had started calling it home a while ago — the abandoned house with its broken gutters and vine-choked walls. The only place that hadn’t pushed him away.

He scaled the tree, claws finding familiar grooves in the bark, then swung himself to the attic window he’d jimmied months earlier. He eased it open with the quiet skill of a creature who’d learned silence was survival. The smell of dust and old wood washed over him. Comfort. Safety.

He exhaled and climbed inside.

His nest of mismatched pillows and blankets sat tucked beneath the slanted roof beams, exactly where he left it. A stolen couch cushion, a discarded jacket someone left outside a bar once — his treasures. His sanctuary.

His boots and socks land in a corner, followed by his wet jeans. He rubs the worst of the wetness from his messy hair with a thin blanket. Much better. He crawls into the blanket nest and pulls the thicker blankets over himself. Warmth slowly crept back into his bones as he burrowed deep, ears flicking at the drumming rain.

One night, he told himself. Just one dry night.

His eyelids began to droop — street exhaustion always won fast.

When thunder breaks, Trax wakes up with a start. It's now pitch black outside, and the rain is still pounding on the windows.

Stretching, Trax reluctantly makes his way down the old, creaky stairs, regretting not having put his jeans back on when he crawled out of his nest.

Luckily for him, the plumbing in the empty house was still working—unlike the electricity. What a luxury to be able to pee in a functioning toilet—and wash your hands!

Trax was just about to get rid of the last drops when a noise made him jump.

His head shot up.

A squeal of metal.

A lock turning.

He froze.

No one came here. No one was supposed to. He had checked just last week — no furniture, no cars, no footprints in the dust. It was dead. Forgotten. His.

Then the faint click of a door shutting echoed up the walls.

Someone was inside.

His chest tightened around his ribs like a trap springing shut. Not again. Not another place taken away. He’d just gotten comfortable. He’d just let himself relax.

Breath caught in his throat. His ears strained.

Footsteps. Soft. Careful. Then a pause. Like someone looking around or listening.

Trax swallowed. Maybe they were just hiding from the rain too...

He almost crept out the door without putting his dick back in, but then thought better of it.Great. That’s intimidation 101 right there — nothing says “fear me” like a guy defending his squat in his underwear. He gritted his teeth. They don't need to catch me with my dick out on top of that.

The soft raccoon ears twitched, listening for the slightest sound. Cautiously, Trax crept into the hallway, the air cool on his bare legs, the floor unpleasantly cold under his feet.

Pressing himself against the wall, he peered into the living room.

No one in sight.

Listening intently, he crept further through the dark hallway until he could see into the kitchen, lit only by a streetlight.

Empty...

As he slowly turned around, he heard a faint click – and suddenly the lights in the hallway and living room came on, blinding his sensitive eyes. Far too bright!

Squinting, he staggered backward, bumping into the wall behind him in shock. His fluffy tail pulled down a withered potted plant, whose pot shattered with a crash far too loud for the quiet house...

There was a loud thunderclap... Was that a scream? He wasn't sure.

Trax carefully opened his eyes and held up a hand to shield himself from the light. Someone was standing in front of him.

Someone who obviously knew more about electrical fuses than Trax...

Great, not only is someone here, but Trax was in his underwear and a thin shirt in a house that clearly didn't belong to him. His heart is pounding in his throat.

“Fantastic. Lights. Just what I needed — an audience while I’m half-naked..."

Trax blinked hard, fury bubbling up faster than his embarrassment. Half-naked, dripping, and apparently hosting now. Fantastic.

He stepped closer, bare toes curling on the warped floorboards, tail bristling.

“Listen,” he said, slow and sharp, “you’re trespassing. You walk in, make noise, break my stuff — that’s not just rude, that’s expensive. I don’t call the cops. I make life... unpleasant. Think poltergeist with better taste.”

He smiled — all teeth, no humor. “You’ll remember this house for the rest of your life. I’ll make sure of it.”

A step closer. His shadow stretched over the stranger’s shoes.

“So here’s the deal: you get out now, quietly, or you stay and find out just how creative I get when someone tries to take what’s mine. And don’t get handsy — I bite, and I don’t ask twice.” ”

The words came soft and sure, colder than the rain still hammering the roof.

Trax bared his teeth, the raccoon grin gone feral. This was his den. His junkyard kingdom.

The rain clung to him like a second skin. Every step was muddy, his socks soaked, his tail dripping. He slipped through the narrow gap in the garden fence, his heart pounding with every gust of wind that rattled the loose boards. Home. Almost.

Trax had called it home some time ago—the abandoned house with its broken gutters and ivy-covered walls. The only place that hadn't rejected him.

He climbed the tree, his claws finding familiar grooves in the bark, then swung himself to the skylight he had pried open months before. With the quiet dexterity of a creature that had learned that silence meant survival, he carefully opened it. The scent of dust and old wood enveloped him. Comfort. Security.

He exhaled and climbed inside.

His nest of mismatched pillows and blankets lay beneath the sloping rafters, exactly where he'd left it. A stolen sofa cushion, a discarded jacket someone had once left outside a bar—his treasures. His sanctuary.

His boots and socks landed in a corner, followed by his wet jeans. He wiped the worst of the rain from his disheveled hair with a thin blanket. Much better. He crawled into his blanket nest and pulled the thicker blankets over himself. Slowly, warmth returned to his bones as he snuggled in, his ears twitching in the drumming rain.

His eyelids grew heavy—exhaustion on the road had always caught up with him quickly.

When the thunder rumbled, Trax jolted awake. Outside, it was pitch black, and the rain was still lashing against the windows.

He stretched, pulled the blanket higher, and snuggled back in, trying to go back to sleep.

A noise made him jump.

His head jerked up.

A metallic squeak. A lock turning.

He froze.

No one had been here. No one was supposed to come here. He'd checked just last week—no furniture, no cars, no footprints in the dust. It was deserted. Forgotten. His.

Then the soft click of a door closing echoed through the walls.

Someone was inside.

His chest tightened as if a trap had snapped shut. Not again. Not another place taken from him. He'd just settled in. He'd just relaxed.

His breath caught in his throat. He strained his ears.

Footsteps. Soft. Cautious. Then a pause. As if someone were looking around or listening.

Trax swallowed. Perhaps they were simply hiding from the rain...

Cautiously and quietly, like a shadow, Trax crept into the hallway, pressing himself against the wall and listening intently.

Reaching the stairs, he crouched down and peered through the banister into the dark ground-floor hallway. His eyesight was sharp even in the darkness, and his ears were perked up as he tried to assess the danger.