FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Wasn't it strange how you could tell someone's identity by how they did small things? That's what Stephen idly thought to himself as he heard the knock on the door. Two rapid raps of the knuckle that conveyed urgency, or perhaps a few coffees too many.

On the other side of the office's glass wall, the boss' presence was obvious as ever. Tall as he was a good part of him stuck out above the section of glass matted for privacy. What stood out as well, was the baby blue blazer. Not exactly regular office attire.

"Come in," Stephen called. It wasn't like he could deny the boss, but everyone hated a boss who just waltzed in without asking.

Conroy did as requested, moving straight past the desk Stephen was working at to position himself at the window. No telling what he thought to find there.

Wool, coarsely woven, Stephen noticed. That was just like the boss, he thought. Understated, old fashioned, yet picked carefully to stand out. It was rather a nice jacket, and it wouldn’t look out of place on English nobility going for a jaunt on their estate, but that’s precisely why he wondered where he kept getting this stuff. He could almost imagine the boss haunting the thrift stores of the city, possibly hidden behind opaque sunglasses and the upturned collar of an ancient raincoat. But the garments of bold taste hung on his lanky, quite unusual frame as if he were modeling them.

"Good performance saturday," the boss spoke to the window pane.

"Thanks." He waited a second, then added, "me or Franky?"

Conroy cast a glance back over his shoulder, a one-eyed gaze that lingered for a little too long.

"I think she might have started slapping people around if you hadn't been there."

Yeah, that was Franky. He couldn't help but crack a smile. The union man had really been asking for it, and he could easily imagine himself reaching across the table and delivering his arguments by hand, let alone Franky. Maybe he wouldn't call her short-tempered, but she certainly was some kind of tempered.

And also, his girlfriend. He wasn't sure which part of his mind whispered that, but it gave him a warm sense of self-satisfaction that he mellowed in for a moment.

"Not enjoying your fifteen minutes of fame? Is that why you're holed up here?" Conroy asked.

The out of the way office he'd found at the ass end of the building provided a welcome oasis of calm. True, his co-workers didn't probe him with questions that were too uncomfortable, but after having to give the same recounting for the fifth time he'd grown tired of it. His phone still buzzed in his pocket with uncommon regularity, even after having done much of the same on that device. One guy did broach the subject of tigress-fucking, which he had left unanswered. There had followed some comments about Franky's obvious physical assets, but they could say that to her face if they ever met her. He had no doubt she'd provide a helpful lift to facilitate the conversation.

"I've already had fifteen just from walking through the door," he said. "And now you're here, keeping the clock ticking."

"I booked my time slot well in advance," the boss quipped. He turned to face him, leaning against the window frame. "So, anything you have to say about the whole thing?"

Well, how could he take stock of that? They'd been thrown to the sharp claws of a professional entertainer to be skewered like the clueless nobodies they were, though they'd managed to dodge some of the skewering.

"It sucked."

"You really are incorrigible." Conroy shook his head. He'd be tut-tutting if he weren't actually voicing his disapproval.

"Oh, come on!" Something flared up in his chest. "They barely acknowledged all the shit Franky and me got put through."

"That's the way it goes, Stephen." Something hardened on the boss' face. "Do I have to remind you that you asked for this?"

He looked at Conroy, out the window behind him. The view was dominated by the blind wall of the adjacent building. Between the drab gray of the office and the view, the boss looked out of place.

"Maybe it was a mistake. Thinking we'd get a fair shake."

"Life's not Mickey D's."

"What?"

A grim smile passed over Conroy's face. "You don't get to say what kind of shake you'll get."

Goddamn, that was so bad he might have made it himself. This might even be getting down to Franky's level, judging by how he had to beat down the reflex to give a well meant 'fuck you' in response.

"Well, this one sucked. There might have been some mold in the machine," he sent back instead.

"Look Stephen, I get it. But that's just how life works." The boss crossed his arms even as he remained casually slumped against his urban backdrop. Sometimes he thought that life was just one, big photo shoot to Conroy. He could just imagine the production crew to his back, cardboard walls of life lifted and hastened aside. No wonder the man wouldn't see his point of view.

"So how did your date go?"

"Hm?" The boss arched an eyebrow.

"Or whatever it was you had to scurry off to Saturday." He leaned back in the barely comfortable office chair, trying to get a good look at the boss. Maybe if he imagined a camera in his hands. "It had to be something really juicy for the likes of you to miss out on The World Keeps Turning, right?"

It was almost imperceptible, but first the boss' face went slack. Then he flashed a broad smile, and winked slyly. "A gentleman doesn't tell."

Bullshit. Stephen wasn't a gentleman, and he wasn't telling.

"So, is she human or..."

The boss shook his head. "Stephen, please."

"Just curious." He gave a lop-sided shrug. He could scarcely imagine what kind of women Conroy would go for. Or what kind of women would go for him, for that matter. Where did ironically flashy people meet, anyway? "But if you're not going to tell me about your conquests... I've got a hot date with a backlog of workplace safety reports."

The boss didn't budge.

"That's not all."

He arched an eyebrow in return. The boss had always been talented in diplomatically stalling the point. Out with it, he thought.

"I got a call from the accident investigation team this morning. They weren't thrilled to see you and the tigress talking about an ongoing investigation on national TV."

Stephen threw his head back and laughed, then winced, rubbed his side.

"Damnit," he hissed between his teeth. He could fuck construction equipment, but not laugh?

"What's so funny?" Conroy's tone was gray, dull business.

"Do these people think they're CSI, or what?"

"Would you be this glib if the tigress hadn't been there?" The boss flashed the smile of someone who knows they have point.

"Obviously not. I'd be dead," Stephen admitted. He pushed himself away from his desk, as if proximity to opened Excel sheets were the problem. "Why does almost dying have to be such a fucking..."

"Language," Conroy interjected.

"...hassle. I just want this shi... stuff to be over."

Did he, though? His relationship with Franky had more in common with the chance meeting of truck and car at an intersection than it did regular relationships. There hadn't been flowers, and they still needed to have their first date. He wouldn't even have met her if she didn't have a minor streak of paranoia that went well with throwing beer cans at political opponents. If the knot that bound them in the first place unraveled, would they stay together?

"But it isn't. It's an issue. And you'll just have to deal with that."

You. Not 'we'. Funny how that always went, wasn't it? Though, Conroy was probably dealing just fine. The man liked being seen, after all. If it'd been up to him, neither him nor Franky would have seen the inside of that studio from anywhere else than their living rooms. Probably. He'd been sitting there, taking the questions with a smile that reaches the eyes for all the wrong reasons. All the more's the riddle, because it certainly had been up to him in part.

"I will," he said, masking his musings with determination.

"Good. Because they want to give it another once-over. At ground zero."

Wouldn't that make it a twice-over?

"Really?"

"If you're up to it."

Optional unavailability in professional matters was a minefield. You either had trust, valid reasons, or unmissable qualities to push your absence into the acceptable. Ideally, you had all three. He had none.

"Sure," he said. Conroy's face remained impassive, as if he'd never floated the question. "When is this thing going down?"

"This afternoon."

"You're kidding."

Now the boss flashed a smile. "Need a ride?"

He wore the construction site like a second skin, by this point. The roar of machinery, the shouting of the workers, the crunch of the sand under his feet felt familiar, even comfortable. They were halfway across the site before he realized even the wobble of his hardhat wasn't bothering him anymore. Was it almost dying in this place that had, instead, made him tear off a piece of it to keep in his heart? Or was it simple relational familiarity, Franky transferring her expertise to him through the power of sex and cuddles? It was somewhat worrying to consider he was the construction worker's version of a military husband.

If he hadn't been dragging Conroy in his wake, he might not have looked all that much out of place. But the boss confidently cut through the working class atmosphere like a damascene kitchen knife through butter. People were staring.

In the shadow of the concrete hulk the place of the accident was more recognizable by the people reverently refusing to tread foot on the place where the debris had fallen than by any other metric. The remaining potholes, filled with murky rain water, were little more than sock-soaking hazards. Maybe it was folly to expect the mess to persist for more than a week on an active site. The open-topped container sitting nearby, its cheery, red paint job giving way to weathering and use, likely stored what remained.

Of the eyes that turned in their direction the golden blaze of Franky was the most obvious. Really, it was hard to describe any part of her in any other way than 'obvious'. Half a ton or thereabouts of growling social maladaptiveness that shook the ground when she worked, stuffed into baggy, blue coveralls. The shovel he'd seen her use the day they met -or one much like it- provided a convenient armrest, stuck in the ground to the hilt. The other pair of eyes belonged to the woman who had first taken down his answers about the accident. Metaphorically, she disappeared next to Franky. Quiet of manner, gray of dress, the most outlandish thing about her was nothing of her own choice: The hardhat. It seemed as if the next blast of noise from the site's many machines and people might carry her off, scatter her to the wind.

Though, when the heavy rattle of a pneumatic hammer blew through the site, she remained where she stood, unperturbed, watery eyes still fixed on him and the boss.

She mouthed something, which he thought might have been a greeting, and he might not even have heard when standing next to her.

"Yer last name's 'Clover'?" Franky boomed over the noise of the site, shit-eating grin spreading over her face like an oil slick. "Didn't peg ya fer Irish. Top o' the mornin' to ya!"

Goddamn her satellite dish animal ears.

"You're an orange cat the size of a small building," he shouted up to those meddlesome ears, "you have no business mocking me!"

This did nothing to wipe the smirk off her face.

"Don't go losin' yer lucky charms over it."

"Let's focus," the boss spoke up. "This is serious, after all."

Did that ginger hair betray Irish ancestry? He was certainly already famine thin.

"Are you ready to begin?" The young woman was audible over the din with wavering volume, as if shouting was new to her.

He looked up at Franky. She looked down at him. They both shrugged.

"Ready as we'll ever be," he shouted back.

"OK, great! If the procedure triggers any... uh... PTSD-like symptoms, you can stop any time you want."

Well, he didn't have any PTSD, right? Would be kind of hard to go near Franky if he did. And even the sight of her in her work clothes, all ruffled up from said work made him want to go near her. Touch her, in fact. Touch her a lot.

"What?" Franky foghorned over the noise without effort or tact.

"Post Traumatic Stress Disorder," the young woman yelled back. "If you start experiencing acute anxiety..."

"No, I heard ya. But that's an episode. Ya'd usually wanna diagnose PTSD before triggerin' one and not, ya know, 'xpose the victim to triggers and all." He could feel the golden blaze of her eyes turn on him. "Ya good, right? No diagnosis? Ain't got trouble sleepin', any altered anxiety response or whatnot? Emotional numbness?"

Jesus Christ, Franky. Now is the time to start flexing your brain muscles? Sure, it was reassuringly sensible of her, but where the old and primitive parts of his brain were just trying to focus his attention on how Franky filled out her coveralls, they were now trying to convince him a dangerous predator had a bead on him.

Which, to be fair, she did.

"I'm fine. No nightmares I haven't been awake for. No irrational fears."

"He's good," she called back down to the investigator.

Not only was the comment completely superfluous, but accompanying it was a meaty paw slapping down on his head. A gesture of encouragement, on planet Franky.

Pushing his headgear back in place he resolved to grope her a little extra later down the line. He could see the investigator mouth something, think better of it, and speak up in earnest.

"Alright, let's go through the event from the start. Could you please show me how you arrived at the incident site?"

With no further discussion they began reenacting their memories in the shadow of the rising, stark concrete skeleton of a building. Franky preceded him, the tip of her tail bobbing in front of him with the occasional twitch. Yeah, he'd kept a tail length between them back then, not fully trusting her to not turn on the spot and clock him in the side of the head.

No sudden anxiety made itself master of him as they trudged in their best approximation of their own footsteps, though some lust did stir within him due to the view on display. Her butt had been one of the first things he'd noticed about her, right after and due to her obvious size. It wasn't particularly sophisticated of him, but it was what he was.

And it was quite a nice butt.

He halted his stride in the middle of the pockmarked stretch of sand that remained where the rubble had been cleared. Franky looked on with her fists planted in her side, having run the course of the script as well. The investigator -Karen, he remembered her name now- held her pad in front of her, as if she were trying to ward them off with a holy book. The unwinking eye of its camera stared back at him.

"You're filming us?"

"Yes."

Well, that was a nice, neutral, and clear answer. Not that he'd spoken with any real diplomacy. He'd recently acquired a certain nervousness around suddenly appearing recording equipment, which he supposed she had neither empathy nor sympathy for.

"Next we'll simulate the incident itself," Karen said.

"What?" He shot a quick glance at Karen, then Franky, even Conroy, who was standing off to the side with a rather impartial look on his face.

"Lady, I ain't jumpin' on him a second time," Franky said, crossing her arms.

Karen made the universal sign of having to deal with idiots but not being allowed to say so. She pinched the bridge of her nose, and if it weren't for the ever-present roaring engines, tools impacting material, and practiced shouting of men at work he was sure he would have heard a belabored sigh.

"You don't have to jump on him. We just need to have a good idea to which extent you provided cover during the incident."

"Yeah, well..." he looked down at the wet sand, water pooling in murky puddles, "...you can forget about me rolling around in the mud."

"Of course." Maybe his senses deceived him, but she sounded more terse. Her watery eyes set in something approaching resolve. "That's why we have the tarp."

With a nod she indicated an anonymous roll of blue plastic, sitting against the equally anonymous red container. Stuff like that was more invisible around here than a chameleon in a hard hat.

"Right," he conceded.

There wasn't much to rolling the thing out over the ground. When it was beginning to feel slightly awkward Conroy stepped in to hold down part of, stepping around the puddles with almost overstated daintiness. At least the boss hadn't worn his most expensive shoes, from the looks of things. These were just brown leather, and didn't hurt Stephen's eyes at all. Franky fished chunks of concrete rubble out of the container to weigh down the corners of their tarp.

"Think that one hit my back," she grinned as she single-handedly thunked down a weight that would cause him serious trouble. "I remember the pointy bit."

Karen regarded the piece of concrete for half a second, then flicked her eyes back up to Franky's stupid grin. "Very good. Now, if you can get on top of him?"

"Sheesh, lady. Don't wanna buy us dinner first?"

Karen just stared at her from behind the pad, camera poised to capture the action.

Nothing more for it, then. The tarp hardly looked welcoming, and the long-silent voice of common sense protested in the back of his mind. It's ridiculous, it said. A discomfort not worth it to learn the obvious. His eyes flicked towards Karen, standing silent like a golem.

Let's just get this over with.

He sat himself down with a slight bit of awkwardness, keeping his injured half stiff with the sort of practice only taught by master pain. Some give remained in the packed sand, molding itself under his weight. Water squelched between the ground and the tarp as he laid himself down completely. The naked sky revealed itself to him from that position, with only the very tip of the building-to-be vying for competition. He'd never been an avid cloud-gazer, and recently most views he got of the sky had been eclipsed by a certain striped face, with eyes to rival the sun. Torn cotton wads of clouds drifted at a decent pace, revealing and concealing strips of blue. Common, nondescript nice weather, with a mild threat of rain hidden in the more swollen formations. Nothing anyone would leave the house over, or stay in for.

"This good?" he called to Karen, keeping his eyes on the drifts of cotton candy above them.

The familiar bulk of Franky crept into his view of the sky with footfalls he could tell were cautious and gentle, because they reverberated through the ground slightly less than normal. Feet planted to each side of him, she looked down at him past the swell of her working woman's belly sitting comfortably in the roomy coveralls.

"I'll... uh... try to be gentle." She appended the comment with a smirk that failed to conceal that she, too, thought the situation was kind of weird.

She went down on one knee, the other, then as gingerly as a giant tigress could, Franky lowered herself over him. On her hands and knees she loomed over him, presenting a sky of dirty, blue fabric. Albeit it one with pleasant, feminine curves.

If she drops down, she'll crush you, an errant voice in the back of his mind spoke. Yes, Damocles' giant girlfriend. That was something that was never going to change between them.

"Was this the position you were in during the incident?" the preternaturally nondescript voice of the young, gray woman sounded.

"I were a little further down," Franky rumbled in return.

The face with the watery eyes soundlessly shifted into his peripheral vision. His odd position drew as much emotion from her as everything else did.

"Are you OK with her approximating the incident more closely?" Pause, blink. "It's best for the investigation."

"Yeah, sure." Only his instincts remained uncomfortable with Franky's weight and size (and teeth, claws, and growl), but even if his discomfort with being crushed by a tigress was more cerebral he wouldn't want to give it away to silent, unknowable Karen.

"Just give me a lil' tap if things get too claustrophobic."

The slivers of daylight that remained were then gradually eclipsed as she lowered herself. The soft curve of her belly cushioned against him. She was warm and soft, though that was no surprise. He remembered this happening a lot faster, and with a lot more force, but it was easy to imagine her ill-disciplined dietary habits might have saved his life. Rock hard tigress abs might have broken, rather than bruised, his tiny, squishy body.

Pressure increased as she lowered herself further down, darkness near totally enveloping him as her heavy breasts lowered down on either side of his head. That same musky smell tickled his nose. His breathing grew shallow under the weight, the dull ache in his side growing more pronounced. He reached up to tap out, but Franky held as he did so. Instead, he gave her a good scratch and belatedly hoped Karen and Conroy didn't see it.

There was, he found, a certain comfort in being compressed by part of the weight of his giant girlfriend. The outside world was reduced to vague mumbling, while heat flowed into him from her to sap away into the cool sand beneath him.

Around the time he was coming close to grasping the secrets of the universe in his meditative state, the weight rose away from him. Franky pushed herself to her booted paws over him and habitually scratched her stomach with zero regard for the attention it drew to her blue collar curves. Her eyes fell to him.

"Ya alright down there?"

"Uh. Yeah." He pushed himself onto his elbows, the tarp dimpling and sinking back a ways.

Franky extended a hand, though he needed only two fingers. She pulled him to his feet. Conroy and Karen stood to the side, the latter absorbed in the screen of her pad, the former's face creased in betrayal of laughter held back.

"You think this is funny?" Stephen asked.

"Yes, I do." The boss composed himself, straightened his back. "Why do you think I came along at all?"

The sound to his back, where Franky stood as implacable as a mountain, was one he had learned to recognize. Heavy arms being drawn up and crossed, tucked between breasts and belly as if mother nature had left a spot open just for them. The tarp moved under his feet with a tortured moan as she shifted her weight. With a look over his shoulder he confirmed there was that pronounced tic in the tip of her tail.

"We're done. I have everything I need," Karen said, defusing a situation she was oblivious to. With efficient, mute motions she put the pad away. "Thank you for your cooperation."

With that sterile greeting she turned and started plodding her way off the site, back to where-ever they kept people like her. Stephen imagined her slotting back in a coffin-like alcove in an anonymous wall somewhere with rows of other android-alikes stretching as far as the eye could see. His imagination amused him for a moment, though he was quick to remind himself it was a bit of shameful hubris. Nobody who looked at him would guess he had a developing habit of going elbow deep into tigresses. Neither was Conroy, for all his peacock flamboyance, any more interesting than Karen probably was. Unless the boss was holding out on him.

A snort sounded from above.

"Din't even roll up her own tarp."

That she didn't.

Stephen glanced up, past Franky, to the top of the concrete hulk. He had no idea from which floor the rubble had fallen, but there was no way Franky didn't. She worked here every day. He turned back to the boss and was just about to turn his curiosity into an excuse to keep hanging with his girlfriend when the tinny sound of classical music being piped over tiny speakers issued from the boss' pocket.

"'scuse me," the man said while he fished his phone from his pocket and put it to his ear.

He looked back at Franky with a shrug, eliciting a stab from his side. Franky shrugged back. As the boss shouted random affirmations and questions to his caller, they dealt with the tarp. They were halfway when the boss shouted to them with the wave of one lanky, well-dressed arm.

"Heyo!" Weird shout, but OK. "Something came up. I need to run. You OK with catching a cab back to the office?

"Sure!" He shouted back. With a final wave, he was looking at the boss' retreating back.

He blinked once.

"That was easy."

A blue streak flew through the air, hit the side of the container like a gong, and settled in the sand besides it. Franky's way of returning the roll of tarp to its original spot.

"Ya... like... plannin' to hang 'round some more?" Though her voice still carried over the din with several bands' worth of bass, he could tell she was trying to keep it down.

"Well, yeah. Unless you mind." The hot sensation of shame crept up his neck. He'd been quick to throw his own work to the fire, but maybe Franky had serious stuff to do. "Maybe get a look up top, where the rubble came from."

With a measured deliberateness she bent into a squat, bringing herself down to his level. More or less. Even like this, she was still taller. There was that piercing nature of those golden eyes, fixing him like a butterfly. The cute spot on her nose was almost like a target when she was this close, practically impossible to ignore. Practically impossible not to kiss, though he managed to hold out with them being in the middle of an active construction site and all. He could feel the sidelong glances of passing workers. The smoking elephant definitely saw them, but the sly wink he gave with his lusciously lashed eye betrayed he was no risk.

Franky's black lips curled into a smirk, whiskers thrust forward.

"Did ya really think I wouldn't feel yer boner?"

Another flash of shame hit him, a hot slap in the face. Light glinted off fangs as Franky's smile grew.

I'm really that obvious, huh?

He willed the shame into the dim parts of the back of his head, somewhere near where his baying, primitive parts had slunk off to. He tugged the corners of his mouth up in a dumb smirk to meet Franky's.

"You did give me groping privileges."

"Tha's not bust-a-nut-in-me-gut privileges." She followed her bon mot with a low, roiling chuckle, fierce sideburns jiggling in the rhythm.

Maybe he hadn't banished those primitive parts at all. Maybe they were just in league with one another. Because he definitely wanted to reach out and run his fingers through the fur. On both sides. And then kiss her fully on her foul-mouthed snoot, cute spot first.

And oh God, her neck fluff was peeking from her collar like a cravat.

"Franky, want to find a place with a little more privacy?" He cast a glance about, almost involuntarily, seeing nothing but the active site. "I feel kind of looked at here."

"Aw." Her smile now drew to its full glory, fangs bared in an expression awfully close to a predatory snarl. "Ya want a quickie?"

What.

"What."

He must have looked thunderstruck. Franky was already haw-hawing like caught up truck engine, paw to snout in a failing attempt not to, before he'd finished the word.

"You do that? At work?"

"Hah. Yah. Ya don't?"

Ah shit, what should he say? He was too boring for this.

"I just call it normal sex, and no, not at work."

She snort-laughed, like an orange, striped pig. Then leaned closer, catching him fully in the blaze of her eyes, hot breath puffing in his face with just a whiff of fast food burger. And again that hint of spice-laden tigress musk.

"'fraid we'll get caught?"

"Yeah," he answered truthfully, "kinda."

"Exciting, ain't it?"

She chuffed, and drew up to her full height, rising as surely as the building behind her was. From on high, she made sure that he saw her grin, then turned and marched off, tail swishing through the air above him.

Damn, that thing really was a hazard.

He followed. Of course he followed. There wasn't really any other option in the cards, no matter how worryingly coy she played. There wasn't any way he wasn't going to follow that big tigress butt dancing in front of him, luring him along like a siren from Greek myth. Except big and chunky. And a cat. And also hopefully not to his doom.

She trekked along the wall of the structure, still only a concrete shell in a patch of sand, leading him through a large opening in the wall. They crossed a bare concrete floor, spotted with sandy bootprints. The sounds of a circular saw biting into pipes, beeping equipment, the screech of metal on metal, all bounced off the concrete walls to fill the soundscape completely. Men shouted conversations over steaming styrofoam cups of cheap coffee.

Then she ducked into another passageway, down a broad ramp, into a space too big to be described as a room, pillars holding up a roof that let in a sliver of light along the edges of the outer wall at ground level. They were in the childhood stage of a parking garage. A lack of equipment and, more importantly, men hinted that not much work was being done here. Finally, she lead him around a corner, obscuring them from the open entrance.

"Welcome to the penthouse suite." She threw her arms wide to indicate the space, tip of her tail twitching to indicate mischief. "'xcept it ain't no penthouse. Nor a suite."

Her gruff voice echoed off the bare walls with naked clarity. She stood planted as surely as if she had a foundation of her own, arms in her sides, looking down at him. Bit of a grin. This was sexy, in her book. Maybe she had run her script and expected him to be sexy back at her. So he did.

With one pointed finger he jabbed one massive thigh hard enough to hit solid muscle.

"Ding," he said.

"Wha?" Franky scrunched her snout in wonderment.

"I'm calling the elevator."

She blinked at him.

"To the penthouse."

Understanding dawned on her face. "Right!"

Within a second he found himself reclining against the reassuring strength of her flexing bicep, big paw cupped comfortably on his butt. He didn't even need to do anything. She pressed her nose against the side of his neck, chuffed a blast of hot air, took in two dainty sniffs, then dragged the tip of that overly wet, overly wide tongue over most of it.

"Tiny boyfriend," she grinned. Even in the sparse light those teeth glinted like a cutlery drawer.

Reaching up, he took hold of a tuft of stripey sideburn, not sure whether he pulled himself up or her down, and planted his lips firmly on the cute spot. He really loved that luxury leather touch of her nose.

"Still can't find my mouth."

"That's what you get for calling me tiny."

"Maybe I oughta call ya..." As she said it he could already feel her free hand slide up his thigh, "...squishy..." At that point her thumb nudged his balls, with just enough pressure the make the joke work. The rough pad of her finger traced the outline of his dick through the denim of his jeans, but he was already hard before she even got to that point. Of course he was. The baying voices of his primitive mind had gone quiet at her unsubtle affectations. It all just... sort of fit. Metaphorically. He could no longer tell the difference between love and lust, and wasn't sure if Franky even made the distinction. His mind, from smallest inklings to abstract far off goals, was illuminated by the blaze of those golden eyes. Or, at times, had the impression of that giant ass on it.

"You really suck at dirty talk," He said.

Honesty only made her grin grow, fangs poking from black lips.

"I'll show ya something dirty alright."

Even with those giant fingers, thickened by years of hard labor, she found the tab of his zipper. Then rested there.

Her eyes had narrowed, but it was the ears that gave it away. Those tiny, acute muscles alien to primates preened them, tracked them independently from where she was looking. Her hand retreated, tips of claws poking from fingertips. Her whiskers, he noticed, stuck forward aggressively.

"Ya hear that?"

He didn't even know she could whisper like that. Her voice still low, owing to her size, partway towards the human inaudible range.

Boner forgotten, he scanned the unfinished parking garage. Nothing could hide against those bare walls. He shifted his gaze to the sliver of daylight pouring in above, bright as a floodlight now his eyes had adjusted. He squinted, then saw it. Just opposite of them, contrasted against the bright gray concrete of the wall behind, the tip of a shoe poking out from behind one of the pillars. Without saying a word he lifted an arm and pointed a finger.

What happened next lurched his stomach, briefly pinched his injured side, and monumentally confused him for at least a few seconds. There was no real border he could perceive between lying calmly in Franky's giant, well-muscled arm and being shaken, hoisted like a baguette underarm, and seeing the parking garage recede back into daylight at a speed that terrified him, with the beating off his lover's booted feet echoing off bare concrete.

"What the fuck?!" It took him an embarrassing amount of time to get out this eloquent assessment of the situation.

"Knew I fuckin' heard somethin'."

He honestly couldn't tell if she was even addressing him, or the world in general. At speed, they rounded a corner, every heavy footfall tugging at where she held him. There was a throb in his side, though the alarm bells blaring in his mind pushed that concern to the back.

It was the same guy. The same fucking guy. Too much pudge for the jacket, trying to look cool. He'd already put away the camera, but the bulge of the holster was obvious. The beady eyes that had looked calculating and confident the first time they'd met were wide in fear now, as they looked back at them over the man's shoulder mid-run.

"Motherfucker!" Franky boomed with enough bass to make loose pebbles rattle. "Trespasser! Trespasser on the site!"

With those cries she bounded down what was, to her, a narrow space between two walls, feet pounding the sand with the power of pneumatic hammers. The paparazzo ran with a conviction that made Stephen practically hear his panting in his mind's ear, and it wasn't enough. Franky gained with every step, and so did he, carried along by an angry, orange tsunami. Before long he could make out the seams on the back of the jacket, a second later Franky's hand reaching out, claws unfurled.

Then he ducked left, into a low and empty doorway. Franky skidded to a stop, dragging a track, as the echoes of normal, human footsteps disappeared down another anonymous part of the hulk of a building.

"Fuck!" she snarled, barely more word than growl.

Now is your time to shine.

Wait, is that you, lizard brain?

Yes, despite having done fuck-all he could feel the superhero strength of adrenaline coursing through his veins. Courage by proxy. He was primed, his cavemen self peering out from the back of his mind, coiled like a spring, flint spear in hand.

"Let me down!" He shouted up to Franky's fuzzy ears, now flat against her skull.

Immediately the ground rushed close. He caught his fall with feet and hands, a distant stab of pain reminding him he was human. He ignored it, pushing himself up and launching into a run. He heard Franky says something behind him, but his purpose was clear. The dark opening of the doorway yawned before him. He ducked in, chasing the sound of receding footsteps even as his eyes adjusted. Ahead stretched a concrete space, with the low ceiling of an open second floor held aloft by pillars stretching along the wall.

There it was, sticking below the ceiling and buzzing past the pillars, the dancing shape of a leather jacket. He'd worked this out beforehand, didn't he? The faces of two guys carrying a stack of pipes followed the paparazzo as he sped by, though they did nothing.

Part of him wanted to yell something. Something like 'stop' or 'get him'. That was probably a life of pop culture at work, rather than common sense. Instead, he let his shoes speak for him, adding the echo of his own steps to the cacophonous chorus of the site.

The guy was moving well despite the extra weight he was carrying, being well on his way to clearing the structure. All the practice from snapping shots of people who really didn't want shots snapped at work.

Stephen was halfway down the hall, eyes of the workers snapping to him, when his mark reached the other end, heading for another low, narrow opening. He held back his pace as he came barreling in, but not enough to avoid the man who came around the corner. The paparazzo bounced off like a pinball, careening around the corner without even glancing at his victim. The worker fell with a shout of surprise, and then a stream of curses. Speeding past him, Stephen could only give him his best attempt at a sympathetic look. More curses, angry inquiries, and promises of bodily harm followed him down the corridor.

The paparazzo made himself busy disappearing down the narrow corridor. Well, it wasn't really all that narrow, for someone of normal size. Franky would have to stoop and squeeze.

As stabs of pain in his side began to return to the noticeable and leg muscles began to feel strained, there was one obvious truth: He wasn't gaining. A history of never having been much of an athlete conspired with a present of injury-induced laziness to create a vague future filled with exercise, but it didn't carry him closer to his target.

A moment of clarity hit him, and he veered off his course, crossing another hall filled with newly surprised men at work. They were doing a good job of filling up the gaps, but most of the building was still a skeleton. Mr. Cool Jacket had given away enough intent for Stephen to guess which exit he was heading to, provided he wasn't planning to vault the fence. But he'd bet good money the guy didn't come by bus, so he was going to the same place he arrived at. He'd bet better money it was a bike. Maybe a sports car. But not a classic.

He burst out of the building where a wall or window was going to be.

Thank fuck Brutalism was dead.

It was almost a straight shot to the exit from here. Sand crunched under his sneakers as he pushed his body to its rather average limit, the nagging pain in his side rapidly stepping up to a rhythmic pounding. He followed the contour of the building, drawing stares all the way. Past the last corner lay a sandy stretch with truck tire furrows pointing the way out.

Mild panic gripped his beating heart as he saw no-one. Had he made the wrong call? Running aimlessly in a vague direction along the tracks he swiveled his head left and right, looking for that distinct jacket.

Then, as the voices of self-doubt were already sharpening their knives in the back of his head, he found himself on the ground, looking up at the sky. Several things went through his mind as it dawned on him that he was no longer standing. A lightning quick flash of hot annoyance at it happening twice in one day, and really quite often in recent weeks. The simple sensation of wetness spreading along his left side, creeping down his lower back and entire ass. These were both trumped by a sense of triumph, however, as he propped himself up. Opposite of him, already halfway to his feet, was that slightly pudgy paparazzo, cradling his camera like a newborn.

"You!" the man called over the noise of the site.

Stephen had wanted to call something witty back. He wasn't quite sure what, as his wit was rapidly consumed by a more primal feature of the brain. Pain. Part of him was sure that what remained of his ribs was rattling around like broken glass in a sack, poking skin with every breath. The only thing that came out of his mouth was a scream with a question mark at the end, enriched with some half-formed curses.

"Oh Jesus, are you OK?" A sudden sense of worry painted the journalist's face as he scurried forward, not towards the exit, but towards him.

A pang of guilt ricocheted around Stephen's mind as he caught himself being surprised at the man's empathy.

"I'm... fuck..." he gritted his teeth, hissing the last word through them, "...fine."

The man spoke another sentence half of which was lost in the whine of a nearby crane, the other half in the pounding misery coursing through Stephen's body. He was sure it was at least somewhat helpful, as the man came forward with arms outstretched, apparently intent on pulling him to his feet.

That was when he disappeared in a coarse blur of blue and orange with a yelp and a growl. The ground shook as the beast pounced, and his lizard brain spurred his limbs into involuntary motion, scrambling back a rather pathetic distance. A similar process was obviously going on in the mind of the paparazzo as he struggled mindlessly in the grip of a single clawed hand, legs kicking nothing but empty air.

"Gotcha!" Franky boomed, grinning at her trophy with all her meat-ripping fangs exposed and shining, framed by cruel, black lips.

Was it the constant activity of the site that masked her normally highly noticeable presence? Or did she tap into her ambush predator ancestry?

She gave her prey a few lazy shakes to convince the fight out of him.

"Good job, Stephy!" She turned to give him a glance of positive appraisal, but as soon as her eyes fell on him her expression changed. Smile turned to snarl, nose wrinkling in anger. The golden blaze of her eyes turned to supernova intensity. And under that hardhat, he imagined, her ears pressed flat against her skull.

Shit, he could feel the color drain out of him, his heat sapped by the wet and pain. He made no motion to get up, and realized he had his arm clasped firmly to his side. He must have been a sorry sight.

Franky drew the paparazzo close to her, leaving him no choice but to meet her gaze, his pallor visibly paling before them.

"What. Did. You. Do?" They were barely words, coming out closer to growls, dipping towards infrasound more felt than heard.

The man hung limply in her grasp, now, only clutching at her wrist in pure instinct.

"Nothing," Stephen heard himself say, then tried to articulate around his gritted teeth. "Ran into me. Wasn't looking. It's not his fault. Much."

The anger on her face seemed to soften somewhat, though it was hard to say. Franky was just really, really good at looking angry and scary. If it were a sport, she'd have a closet full of trophies. She leaned forward to offer him two fingers, which he took, and pulled him to his feet.

It wasn't long before other big folk showed up. There was Rod, obviously, the chain-smoking elephant who seemed as regular a fixture of the site as Franky was. Some other faces he'd seen here, or at Big Joe's. They formed a semicircular wall of privacy, the other end provided by the bare concrete of one of the building's finished walls against which leaned the journalist with a nonchalance belying his situation. All color regained after they'd convinced Franky to put him down.

Rod threw his trunk over his shoulder and expelled smoke backward, which was considerate of him.

Stephen eyed the paparazzo, who eyed him back with a little smirk.

Don't you smirk at me, he thought.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

"My job." The man didn't sound as annoying as he looked. In fact, he sounded perfectly normal, maybe slightly smug. The concern, and then fear, he'd seen in the man had been tucked away beneath a thick layer of carelessness. "Why are you holding me against my will? There are laws against that kind of thing, you know?"

"Yer trespassin'." Franky said behind him, to the assenting grunts of a few others. "S'our duty to hold ya 'til the law arrives, ain't it?"

To that the man smiled broadly, leaning back even more casually against the wall, ankles crossed.

"Oh no! Not the law!" He spoke the last word with the Hollywood version of a Southern drawl.

"Then there's the matter of the assault," Stephen said.

He could see the guy tense up, unslouching his posture, facial muscles tightening.

"I didn't attack you. There's plenty of witnesses."

"I saw ya push him down," Rod spoke, then took a pensive drag from his smoke. "And kick him. Viciously."

"Downright mean, that was," another man said to sounds of assent from the rest.

"I had to pull yer off like ya were in heat," Franky rumbled. "Real crazy what a man'll do when he thinks he'll get away with it."

The paparazzo was silent, his eyes flitting from one person to the next.

He's appraising the crowd, Stephen realized. Looking for the weak link. Best to let him come to his own conclusions.

It only took a few seconds until the man let out a bodily sigh.

"What do you want?" he said.

Stephen took a shaky step forward, feeling every hair of movement. With his free hand he pointed.

"Let's start with that."

The look of injury that passed over the paparazzo's face when he realized Stephen was pointing at the camera, neatly tucked against his body in a secure football carry despite the heavy duty strap, was almost enough to make him feel like the villain in the situation.

"Do you ha..."

"Fork it over, scumbag." Franky brooked no protest.

The guy seemed to hesitate for a moment, letting his hand rest on the camera before offering it to Stephen's outstretched palm.

"Thanks," he said, though there was precious little courtesy involved in their exchange.

Pain asserted itself as he needed two hands to operate the thing. He wouldn't have put it past a guy like this to operate an old analogue camera to go with the jacket, but thankfully he had more sense than that. After figuring out the controls he found his way to the gallery.

On the screen appeared the predictable: Him in Franky's arms, or arm. Her free hand was quite clearly resting on his family jewels, a fact made even more obvious by the look of utter perversion on his own face. Jesus, did he really look like that when he was getting off?

A chorus of lecherous voices reminded him of the plus size audience behind him.

"I told you they was fucking!" One called.

"That ain't fuckin'. That's heavy pettin'."

"Franky's gettin' some sugar!"

He couldn't help but flick his gaze in the direction of the journalist. Their eyes met briefly, the man answering with a wiggle of the eyebrows.

Asshole.

Flicking through the rest of the photos created a reverse slideshow of Franky and his... interactions, kissing, cuddling, ending in their arrival. The peanut gallery provided fitting commentary. Apparently that was only the encore to a good day's work. Following their now not so private moment he saw himself gradually reappear from beneath Franky, Karen standing morosely to the side in some pictures. Conroy having the time of his life. The pictures went further back still, to the boss and him arriving. He knew he'd flicked past the last one when the next was that of a young woman in a tight dress, smudged makeup, and drunk off her ass flipping the camera a well meant bird.

He guessed she must be famous or something.

"Satisfied?" The man was already holding his hand out to receive his camera back, though he had the presence of mind to keep a straight face.

"Almost." With a flick of a nail he pried open the latch and coaxed out the SD card.

"Oh, come on, man. You're messing with my livelihood, here!" The man threw his hands up in what had to be at least in part theatrics. "That's a week's work! Just delete the pictures, and you'll never see me again. Promise."

All Stephen could do was lift an eyebrow. "Really?" He thrust the camera up in the air, where it was snatched from his grasp by a certain angry, stripey piece of construction equipment who got the message.

"Nice camera." There was an obvious edge in her rumble. Cruel chuckles rose from the others. "Kinda hard to handle with big mitts like mine, though."

"Fine! Fine! Take it."

"Ya can't be that stupid, can ya?"

"What more do you want?" The man's face hardened. Stephen knew nothing about camera's, but there was that feeling of quality to its heft, and even he recognized Nikon as a brand. Above him he could hear Franky poke and prod at it, and with how the man's eyes were glued on it he guessed Franky might as well be playing with his balls. "If you break that thing, I'll sue. That's two months wages you're playing with. Plus court costs."

"Broke while we caught ya. Stupid to commit violence while carryin' delicate stuff."

The rest confirmed the alternative fact with the requisite uh-huhs and a-yups, punctuated by the sound of a hard keratin claw tapping glass.

"You were waiting for me," Stephen dropped the hammer. "If you want to go to court over your little toy, I'm sure they're also going to be asking why you were here in the first place. Because," he tapped the pocket where he'd put the SD, "they're going to see the same thing we did."

Relative silence hung in the air for the moment, the secluding wall of beast-people even dampening the continual noise of the site.

"Alright," the paparazzo sighed. "I'll spill the beans. But I want every single one of you fucks to show me a dead screen, you hear? This is off the record."

"He's smarter 'n he looks..." Franky said, and held her big tablet out as she turned it off. "Do it if ya wanna stick around fer the show, or fuck off."

The rest followed suit without a word. Stephen had some trouble, but managed to fish his own phone out of his pocket as the devil played a tune on his ribs.

The leather-clad journalist gave the crowd a once-over and settled in a more relaxed posture.

"Good. I hope you don't mind the paranoia. We're living in the Information Age, if you haven't noticed."

"I understand," Stephen said, keeping himself from giving Franky a pointed look. "Now get to the spilling. We don't have all day."

The man sighed, again.

"I have an inside source." He let a silence fall, tension visible on his face. Stephen guessed even bottom feeders had some sort of code. So much for honor among thieves. "He calls me whenever the two of you," he flicked a hand to indicate Stephen and Franky in one motion, "are going to be together. I don't really know why, but you gotta admit, it's juicy stuff."

"Why?" He could hear Franky cross her arms above him.

The paparazzo gave a casual shrug. "You know what people are like. Big lady gets with small dude, speaks to the imagination. I've done some shoots with a mouse who had a cat wife, too. Nice people. Not at all camera shy. You might have seen it. If you did, that was my work."

He had seen the pictures, in passing, sitting behind a shouty tabloid headline.

"And then there's your..." he smirked. Again, "...chance meeting. Good stuff."

Franky answered only with a dismissive growl.

"So who's the source?" Stephen asked. The wall of beast-people wasn't going to keep out the rest of the world forever.

The man shrugged. "I don't know. It's not like he leaves his name. He calls me, uses burners."

"So we know it's a man." He narrowed his eyes. It felt good to do it at someone else for a change. "See? You know more than you think. What does he sound like?"

"He uses a voice changer."

Of course he does. He didn't even drop a beat answering that.

"There's apps for that, you know. He'd be stupid not to."

"What about his manner of speech?"

"Formal. Educated. I think he's trying to curate what he says, but he ain't no dockworker," the man spoke with a flourish, let his eyes wander over his audience, "or construction worker."

That wasn't completely unexpected, but it cut out Franky's co-workers. Unless there was a disgruntled guy with a Phd walking around on the site.

"Did he sound human?" Franky piped up.

It was a fair question. Stephen caught himself in the assumption that the mystery caller was.

"I guess," the journalist shrugged.

"No growling? Purring? Gekkering?"

"Trumpeting?" Rod weighed in, blowing a sad note from his trunk. A chuckle rose up from the wall of workers.

"Did he whistle?"

"What?" The man registered genuine surprise.

"Whistlin's primate territory, with yer weird lips," Franky enlightened him.

"No. No weird sounds, human or animal. Just talking."

A heavy hand fell on Stephen's shoulder. He knew those pads, the claw tips pricking his skin. Franky. It seemed obvious why she wanted to draw his attention, and the sound of shouted questions breaking through the wall of bodies confirmed it. Bending forward he could peer past the legs of the collected beast-people and see the more diminutive forms of regular sized workers moving closer.

The jig was up, as they say. Mostly in movies.

"Guess I'll be taking my leave, then," the journalist said, pushing himself out of his slouch. He shot another sly grin. "It's been a pleasure."

"Pleasure ain't over yet," Franky rumbled. "Rod, get him outta here. All quiet like."

"It'll be my... pleasure," the elephant chuckled even as he wrapped his trunk around the journalist's waist and stuffed the man down the front of his coveralls. Franky lowered in his camera by the strap, and gave him one final piece of advice.

"Keep yer trap shut if ya don't wanna see the inside of a cell."

Despite his predicament the paparazzo seemed to understand the advantage of getting a sneaky ride out, and it was surprising how well the human form melded into Rod's standard issue beer gut when covered by the sort of heavy duty fabric he needed to keep it secured.

"What's all this?" A voice bellowed. A solidly built, middle-aged man shoved and slapped his way between the legs of the large scale workers. He swept a narrow-eyed gaze across the group like a searchlight. "Where's the trespasser?"

"Dunno," Franky shrugged.

The group broke up as they spoke. Rod stepped out of the man's field of view soundlessly and made his exit. He'd heard of people stumbling into elephants like they weren't the largest land mammal, but it had to be seen to be believed.

The foreman's eyes rested on Stephen with a squint.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"Safety guy," he answered.

"We were doin' some testin'," Franky said.

The foreman gave him another once-over. "You look like shit." Then, to Franky, "get back to work."

Then he turned and trudged off towards the conclusion that the trespasser had gotten away. Business over and orders received, the group broke up to return to their various tasks with the requisite goodbyes.

"He's right, tho'. Ya look like shit." Franky looked down on him from on high, remaining by his side.

"Feel like it, too," he answered. It seemed for a moment they were really going to get somewhere with the paparazzo, not to mention it felt kind of nice to get back at the guy, but the endorphins he got from that were wearing off. Cold sweat beaded on his brow as the deep throb of pain fought itself to the forefront of his perception. "Maybe I really ought to catch that cab."

"Ya really wanna go back to work like that?"

"You got a better idea? It'll wear off. Eventually."

"Uh, yeah..." She bent down to his level with a huff, blazing golden eyes illuminating his pallid features. "Call in sick an' go home. Or stay here."

"You just want me to yourself," he cracked half a smile at her.

In return fangs glinted under black lips. "Maybe."

He could feel his free hand rising up before he thought better of it. The lure of her bristly fur was hard to deny, but they were out in the open. It shouldn't be an issue, but the collision still gnawing at his nerve endings said otherwise.

"But ya really do look like shit, an' I think ya might be pushin' yerself too hard," Franky continued. "Least ya could do is cut out early."

"I still have stuff to do."

She blasted out a single laugh. "Like what? Ya ain't gonna be much use 'round the office by the looks of it. Ya've got rights, ya know?" She straightened herself out again, looking down at him past her snout much like a headmistress might. "Do I need ta drag ya home myself? Yer health's more important than struttin' 'round the office."

"Male, educated, probably human," he said as much to himself as to Franky. "That's all we got, but he's got to be at the office."

"An' he'll be at the office tomorrow. Let's get moving. Want me to carry ya?"

He got halfway through his first laugh when the bone saw burn made him groan and double over. They'd just beat the press, he was trying to keep it stealthy, and she wanted to give him a ride across the grounds.

"I can walk."

"Coulda fooled me..." Franky shrugged.

"You don't get it, Franky," he said, beginning to move at what could be more accurately described as a shamble than a walk. "I wasn't planning to come around today. Who-ever it is, he had to have seen me leave the building."

"Whatcha gonna do?" she growled after him. "Ask every dude at the office 'bout his secret press connection?"

People were beginning to stare as he tottered like an invalid.

"Not every dude. Erudition is in surprisingly short supply at the office."

Office jargon was as thick and heavy as the clipped words and casual curses of the construction crews were terse, but when you got down to it precious few people at the office had the luxury type of 'nothing to do with your actual job' background people liked to call 'educated'. Mostly, it was limited to the management.

It came in a whisper from his subconscious. He stopped his shamble to appreciate this sudden moment of clarity. Really, it was obvious. Even if he wasn't right, the pieces fell into place too neatly to ignore. Christ, it seemed almost too reckless to be true, but the guy wasn't a professional conman. Probably thought he could have been, though.

But why?

"Ya OK?" Franky caught up to him in two steps.

"I... uh... think I might have a guy."

"That's great!" Franky said a little too loudly, then dropped her voice to a husky growl. "Tell me who he is an' I can go clobber 'em."

He'd hardly ever seen those eyes blaze with this kind of fervor. Even her fur seemed to bristle with zeal at the opportunity to finally put paid to the entire affair. He felt almost guilty for having to complicate the matter.

"It's my boss."

"Ah fuck..."

"Ah fuck indeed."