FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Three more bodies in the last week. One of which he'd personally come across, despite no longer being that sort of on duty patrol officer. When a member of the general populace person could just walk upon a body laid out in the street, you had to know something was wrong. There was rumblings in the PIA, something bad was afoot, yet no one knew what, why, or more importantly, who.

Then there was his own department, Missing People. He already knew there had been something off when he started as a general Officer. It only got worse. So much worse. When you started putting the pieces together, looked further back..

At least some of the top brass were actually starting to give him credit when he said there was something off about the amount of Missing People continuing to occur on Prism. It'd been the better part of a decade since Rocket was rooted out and the last scraps wiped away. There wasn't any 'big bad' holed up on the island, or at least, no one that would justify the discrepancies he had found. No one who would justify the amount of continued disappearances over the years. Not when it was looking like it might even go back before Rocket. Someone, something that had been disappearing dozens and dozens of people, for so long, yet with no signs of the who, how or why? It was beyond frustrating to think about.

Sometimes you wanted to forget. Or maybe it was just not to think.

It was hard to tell.

Tonight was one of those nights.

He didn't know why he kept coming back.

She wasn't good for him. They both knew that.

Yet, here he was again, in the corridor of a back alley dump of a building, knocking on a door because the bell hadn't worked in years. With all the gentrifying of the island as a whole, it was amazing places like this apartment building still existed. Yet it did. Despite all the good intentions of good people and all the money in the world, some people didn't want to be saved and there was always going to be others willing to exploit that lack of self preservation and do the bare minimum to keep the money coming in.

He'd tried once, at some point, to get someone to come in and clean up this joint. They'd laughed. Not all of them of course, there's enough officers his age and younger with hope in their eyes and filled with all the best intentions who wouldn't dare laugh. It was the oldsters, the ones who didn't hold much faith in the new system, the one that tries to help the disadvantaged instead of punish them for the crimes they commit because of it.

Pushing hadn't resulted in anything. Red tape they said. Waste of time and money. There were better things to put attention to, ones that would gain actual results. Leave the derelicts to their destitution. If it wasn't this building, it'd be another. At least everyone knew where this and the ones around it were and the likely company to be found within.

The sounds of a half dozen locks being undone and eventually the door opened barely wide enough to see a face through.

"You really need to get the spy hole fixed, Carousal."

"It is fixed, the asshole across the way keeps clogging it with gum."

There was a scowl to the purple cat's features as she glanced past himself to the hall beyond before looking back to him again. "I'm busy tonight," the words tart, not necessarily at him, it was always hard to tell.

"Oh.. I'll uh, I mean, I'll go.. Sorry to bother you-"

"It gets me, every time, the small boy's words out of that great big body of yours," a quirk to feline features and she was stepping back into her abode, pulling the door slightly more ajar, "I'll make some time." A wink and then she was gone from sight, a dance of purple tail the last thing to be seen. "You can manage the door, right?"

The door. The stupid ill fitting door that didn't like to open anything more than it currently was. Enough for the Liepard-morph to squeeze in and out as need be, but not nearly enough space for the likes of himself. A good deterrent against those not wanting to make a scene. At least, when they didn't know how to get the door to move without letting the rest of the world know.

A duck down, fingers just barely managing to squeeze under the door's supposed jam and it was a small heave to rebalance the door on it's pins and push it open. It was times like these that he wished he had claws, or at least something slimmer for squeezing into small places. His wide wedge shaped nails made this more of an effort than some, despite the ease of which he could move the door once he'd finally got the correct grip.

Complaining groans of metal and wood accompanied his shuffle into the apartment as he attempted to ease the door in ways it didn't want to go. A few moments to straighten up again, to grip the door from behind and he was closing it with a lot less effort. Then it was on to fingers attempting to make a mess of the order of the locks.

"You'd think someone in your line of work would remember details better, copper boy."

"Yes, well, I guess I don't visit often enough to remember."

"Often enough." She was chiding him, the voice harsh as he finally managed to get the order complete.

With a shiver he turned to look at the Liepard and the apartment she called her home. Bare essentials for furniture of the living room, couch, tv with a cracked screen on a cabinet pulled off the street, some sort of dollar store dining table and folding chairs of which at least one was missing. A lamp on mismatching side tables. Stains on the walls, making an unpleasant tapestry with the holes and cracks. The carpet not much better with it's accompaniment of boxes of mostly eaten takeout strewn along the floor, adding a sour rotten edge to the musty smell of the room in general. Through a doorway was the edges of a burnt out stove and a kitchen counter that hadn't had a good clean in weeks, or possibly even months. A place he tried to refrain from entering for his inescapable desire to clean things. An added reason for being more inclined towards the other doorway leading from the living space. One that that the Liepard-morph was currently standing between. She stood next to the couch, leaning on one of it's arms, tail twitching down at her ankles.

"The usual then?"

"Not much for small talk are you?"

She scoffed, "Small talk? What do we even have to talk about? Nice weather we're having? You hear about those sportsballs?" The sneer was undeniable and not for the first time he wondered why he even bothered. Why come here? Why her?

He could feel his face flushing in embarrassment, ears going back and tails drooping. Then his face was going even more red as she laughed and turned away from him, "I told you, I can make some time. But you're going to have to make a move, or you might as well turn around and back out that door you fiiinally got closed."

For a moment the temptation was there. The desire to cut his losses and just leave, go away, not come back, not think.. A thought that barely lasted as she lifted away from the couch with a slinking grace that looked entirely out of place to her surrounds. Body moving in ways that his eyes couldn't stop watching, the stirring of lower regions in anticipation ruining any possible thoughts of leaving. It was too late now. It was too late the moment he knocked on the door, let alone standing here in this room.

"I didn't think so, copper boy," she laughed at him again, harsh, mocking even as she looked up at him, ears barely to the height of his shoulders. "Sooo.. What's it going to be tonight, hmn? How are you going to ruin me for the people who actually bother to book my time?" Voice a purr as she moved hands along his hips, the waist line of his pants.

It was already hard to think of words and unsurprisingly he stumbled as he attempted to respond, "Uh.. I didn't mean to- You know I-" At least he wasn't stuttering. You'd think after all this time he could manage some sort of adult like composure in this situation. Closer to thirty than twenty and he still acted like a teenager under a female's wandering hands. A novelty for the dark type who had gone through these motions a number of times before.

"Mrmnmooo-" a sound instead of words as deft fingers undo his pants and find their way inside, teasing at what was already heated with desire. "We're going to have to dress you up. I don't need the next round complaining of sloppy seconds.. Or thirds." A breathy sigh as she flashed him a hint of teeth with her grin, "You do have the wonderful ability to leave me dripping for much longer than I expect."

And she was gone. Walking away and leaving him wanting, panting. Thoughts, words, all gone in the blur of growing lust that she'd just.. "Right. S-sorry." And there's the stutter. Internal groan as he stoods watching her walk away, trying to gather his thoughts, "Uh- am I-?" "Yes, move your ass, unless you want to stay standing in the middle of the room with your pants down."

..They're not even fully down yet. Which honestly, makes it worse as he takes a half shuffle step and almost gets caught on them enough to trip himself up. The joys of being an ungulate.

"You coming?" her voice from the other room, through the door that had been closed. "I do hope not. Or am I going to have to make time for a longer session..?" she's mocking him again, laughing in that harsh way that makes his blood rise in a different way to what her hands were doing moments ago.

A snort of mild annoyance and he's almost fighting the pants as he both attempts to put them on and take them off at the same time, that is, before sense wins out and he completes the process of removing the clothes. Leaving him in the shirt, jacket and heart shaped boxers that he really needs to get his mother to stop buying for him. The next thought is that he really should take the jacket off, the only problem being there isn't really anywhere clean to put it down. Of course, it's going to be coming off at some point anyway, so he might as well do it while he's got the forethought for where it'll actually be placed.

Pants picked up, jacket off and over an arm he decides on the back of the couch as a suitable resting place for now. Better than the floor at least. Then it's a matter of following her.

Standing in the doorway, the room is dark, lit only by the light that's able to pass his large frame from the living room. There's little to see, a messy bed, cover and sheets tossed to one side, a pile of half covered pillows at the head. There's a dresser and a bed side table, bottles and pills spilled about, both hidden by the dark, despite the attempts of the glow from a digital alarm clock.

A half step into the room and suddenly she has him, a claw out and under his chin, tilting his head up and away from her even as she slinks her body to his, wrapping one of his arms around her. "I don't have the time for your false coyness, bully boy, not if we're going to have some real fun.." Her voice a hissing whisper as she stands on toes, looking up at him, even as she forces his gaze away, nuzzling into his collar and neck.

There's a swallow, awkward with the feel of her claw to his throat, a grunt as he tries to tilt his head away, look down at her, as her free hand goes about unbuttoning his shirt in a terribly impractical way. De-buttoning would be more accurate as she takes her claws and deftly slices the threads holding each button in place. Each dropping to the floor, one by one with quiet plinks on the threadbare carpet. He's going to need to buy a new shirt. Explaining how he lost all his buttons again really isn't worth the hassle.

It's rough. It's always rough.

There's more than a few scars under his thick fur from times past. Along his sides, the lines of his ribs, his shoulder blades, he's lost count of them all. She draws his blood and he sees red. A fog of heat, desire, lust, both of flesh and something more. Something thrilling, something shameful. That something he wont admit to himself, that is the reason he keeps being drawn back to a well worn whore who takes pleasure in making a young bull rage. Of having his hand around her neck as she writhes and howls in pleasure. Of crushing her body against any surface that presents itself, the back of the couch, a wall, the disgusting kitchen counter. There's been more than one bit of furniture they've broken over the years. Her mocking laughter, his apologetic words.

Yet, for all her derision, the spiteful words she says that bring out his rage, the way she can whip him into a frenzy of lust. He's never hurt her. Not more than she's wanted, not like she's pained him.

She's small, delicate despite the power and strength in her feline form. The lash of her claws, the bite of her teeth. He could crush her, the air from her lungs, her throat. His body towers over hers, eclipses it with his own solid foundation of muscle on the frame of a full grown bull in man shape.

He rides her, or she rides him, gentle at first, careful, mindful of his size and strength, even when she's impatient. A size queen she calls herself, a concept he doesn't quite fully understand, doesn't wish to understand or know more of. He's hurt partners before, the fear is there, underwriting everything else, killing the pleasure of it all until he knows he's safe to proceed.

Carousal does her best to forgo his cautions, his desire not to harm. She bites him with words and teeth, she taunts him with her flesh and things she knows will bring a rise. Bring out the beast that slumbers deep within, the one filled with unrestrained rage and lust.

He lets her. Cautious at first, blindly willing in the end. He wants it as much as she does. The unleashed passion, the lack of thought that goes with his actions as he allows desire to take control.

She cries out, she howls, her body shudders, arches and writhes as he pounds her, takes control, does all that he pleases with her body until he's done. Her intentions, her consent no longer an issue, the mutual cries of pleasure all he cares about.

Spent, done, heavy breathing and a space for thoughts to eventually reappear. The first thing he sees is the holes in the wall above the bed where his horns have gouged the plaster. Again.

"I gave you money to fix the holes in the wall."

"I spent it."

"Not on the wall."

"Something better," she purrs.

He sighs to himself, rolling over and sitting up, checking through his fur for the inevitable tender spots. Attempting to distract himself from the line of questioning he knows she wont appreciate.

"Done then are we copper boy? Time to run away with your shame," she mocks him again, the good times already gone. Or maybe her sourness is simply how she enjoys things at this point. It wouldn't surprise him, not really.

For a moment there's that hint of red, the thrill of possibility of more. A moment that doesn't last as she looks to her clock and swears, instantly shutting down any such chance. "Shit. I'm going to be late. Krissy's going to take all the best options. Shit, shit, shit.. You, get out of here. You've made me late. Fuck."

There's no point arguing it. Even if she had said she had the time, made the time. It's his fault. If he hadn't been here, she wouldn't of been tempted. She wouldn't of allowed herself to be distracted.

He watches as she gets up, body stretching, showing off every limber muscle in what little light there is, the lithe body of a natural athlete and predator. He can't help but admire her, body stirring despite being so recently spent. Luckily she doesn't notice, focusing too much on rushing about, grabbing clothes, something from one of the small spilt bottles, chucking it back with a swig from an already opened bottle of something alcoholic. Actions enough to kill off any interest mentally, even if his body isn't fully convinced.

A wince and he's standing, moving to grab his own clothes from this room and the last. Putting them on as best he can while Carousal finishes getting all she needs to leave.

There's a glance his way, a frown, a look of realisation, "You're still here? Why are you still here? Fuck off already. I've got to be places."

Mostly dressed, the jacket over his unbuttonable shirt and he rubs his neck slightly, "I can give you a lift if you li-" She doesn't even let him finish, laughing in that derisive way of hers, "You? Take me? Ha! You'll scare them all off. I don't give a shit what you say about it all being legal and above board 'now'. Lots them girls don't believe it.. Even more of them skinny boys from the mainland. Get their rocks off on the thrill of it not being right, not legal. You take me, they'll think the PIA's come in to shut 'em all down, everyone'll run." She looks at him, up and down, sneers, "You really needin that much of my time you want me for the rest of the night? Your wallet ain't deep enough and I don't like you enough to warrant the discount."

She saunters up to him, tail dancing behind her, accentuating her movements in that perfect way to make you stare at all the things you shouldn't. A single piece outfit, black vinyl in a form fitting wrap from bust to bum, barely containing anything appropriately with being both too low and too short. A series of gold rings run down both sides from top to bottom, showing more than just hints of her natural purple and gold through their loops.

"We both know you wouldn't last, the things I would do to you," she sneers, "little copper boy," pushing past him with barely a care.

He sighs, watching the swing of her tail as he does up his jacket enough to hide the shirt and follows after. "I was only offering.." A mumble of words she doesn't bother acknowledging, instead, she stands by the door, undoing the array of locks, waving him through, to leave, be gone already.

He lets himself out, going through the hassle of moving the door after she's processed the locks. She follows him out, slams the door shut that foot or so that she needs to squeeze out and then she's gone, down the corridor without even a backwards glance.

Eyes watch after her, the space she filled before turning a corner and disappearing from sight. He leans on the door, sighs to himself, winces as he moves skin in just the right way to get something bleeding again, he can feel the dampness between fur and the material of his shirt. At least he's already decided to throw this one away. Explaining the blood stains and the buttons really isn't worth the trouble. Not with his current desk job. He's never been a good liar.

Why does he keep doing this to himself? She's not interested in him, doesn't want him, doesn't want his help. This is an arrangement, a paid for service. That he doesn't happen to pay half the time. A confusing arrangement where she yells at him either way, calls him names, calls herself names. Belittles and degrades them both and yet holds out a hand for cash every other time given the opportunity.

His mother is right, he should just find himself a nice girl and settle down..

He'd almost managed that once. Not that long ago.

But then he'd found himself here. At this door. Knocking and being let in. Over and over again. More often as things got more serious between himself and the lady, as they'd become exclusive, as he'd introduced her to his family, as they'd spoken about a future..

He couldn't explain the scratches, the bruises under his fur, the musty smell of the apartment that clung to his clothes. It was the musk of someone else on him in places they shouldn't be, not even particularly intimate places, that had ended it. Ended it badly.

He couldn't explain, he couldn't be honest. She was too pure and good, held too high on a pedestal that he couldn't reach, couldn't attain. He looked up at her as his shame pulled him down, away from all that could of been.

He didn't deserve her, couldn't convince himself otherwise. Sought out a way to self destruct any possibility of a happy future and did so with aplomb.

The worst part was that the regret wasn't nearly as strong as it should be. He still doesn't believe he was worthy of her, of anyone. Despite the good he tries to do in his life, it never seems to be enough.

So he keeps coming back. Here. To this wonderful inconsistent pit of pain and pleasure that he can't crawl, let along walk or run away from.

The memory of their first encounter is still scrawled in his mind. He'd been looking for signs of Brace, his brother. The one who was in and out of rehab, living in shit holes like this one.

Off duty, he hadn't even had his uniform on, was simply trying to get answers and information. Despite his best intentions it seemed that everyone he spoke to was able to smell 'cop' on everything he said and did. The fact many of them had seen him in the uniform at some point or another beforehand ruined most of that pretense anyway. No one was particularly forthcoming with information.

He couldn't remember what he'd cornered Carousal on initially. She'd been her typical tactful self, foul words and claws that lashed the air if not his body. She'd been somewhat cautious then. At least, at first. He shouldn't of followed her, chased her. Eventually cornered, she did what she does best. She pissed him off.

Nowhere to go, no one to see, he found himself angrier and more frustrated than he'd been in months. One brother gone, the other missing and this taunting woman taking him on a pointless goose chase to nowhere with no intention of giving him anything he wanted or needed. He'd punched the wall in his frustration. It shuddered and cracked. Her eyes lit up. She said something else, exact words long forgotten, got up in his face, put a claw to his chest and was still purring even as he slammed her back into the wall. The result nothing but laughter from the cat and more mocking words. He saw red, then the dust from the wall beside her head as he punched it and roared in her face.

How he got from that position to having her hoisted up against the wall, pants undone and her yowling pleasure in his ear is all muddled. He's pretty sure she witched him somehow, did something to turn frustration to lust and take it all out on her, willing mistress of his seduction.

That was the first time he can remember coming down from the red film of rage to a moment of shame unlike anything he'd ever felt before. Sure, he'd gone into rage modes before and embarrassment and shame were part of the package once you came down from the high. But this was the first time he'd acted on that base instinct with another, in such a primal way, one that had left him panting, confused, spent in a way he'd not experienced before. The smell of her, of them, that's what brought it all home to him, even more than the bodies pressed together, gradually coming apart, sliding free of her and the drips that followed.

Apologies tumbled from his lips, words stuttering and lost as he backed away, attempted to tidy himself up, set her right, explain himself, the situation, anything. This had never happened before, he didn't mean it, he was sorry, was she okay?

Carousal laughed at him, gave him a flippant remark, used those spiteful words he's come to know as the only ones she knows.

He left, what else could he do? She seemed okay, she had nothing he wanted, not anymore.

The shame of it all stuck with him a long time. He meant to find her, to apologise more, to make it right somehow.

The chance didn't come. Not like he'd intended at least. Instead, she was brought into the precinct, charged with some misdemeanor that had escalated when she fought back. It was a night in lockup, to calm her down before they let her go again, a warning and a fine never expected to be paid, some sort of community service or therapy classes she'd already failed to attend in the past for previous offenses. No one really cared, a lost soul who had no intention of helping themselves, why do more than the bare minimum when history showed no desire for change?

That time nothing happened, he tried to apologise and she laughed at him, mocked him and his simple minded stupidity, then passed out for the night.

He saw her a few times after that. Mostly kept out of the way. Didn't want to be reminded of their encounter, of what had happened. There was red under his fur every time he saw her. That and something worse. A stirring of body and mind in ways he wasn't comfortable with.

He wanted to do it again.

The thoughts got worse with time. They came up at the most impromptu times. Sleeping didn't make it go away, instead he had dreams, vivid ones of things he knew hadn't even happened.. But he wanted them to.

There was a war going on inside of him and he wasn't winning it. The temptation to find her, to 'accidentally' run into her and the possibility of it leading to something more.

He made excuses to change his patrol, to find reasons to be in the areas he knew she frequented.

In the end it was an accident when he did find her again. The boys in the office were giving him shit. Could tell he was frustrated. Pent up. Told him to get his dick wet already before he exploded. If he couldn't find a nice girl, they knew the numbers for some bad ones.

Something to ignore. He was fine. He didn't need assistance. He'd managed just fine for this long before. Sure, he hadn't been obsessed with a fantasy he didn't even know he had wanted in the past, but he'd be fine, he didn't need assistance with his problem. That is, he didn't have a problem. He was fine.

One night he looked at the pile of leaflets the local bars and entertainment industries liked to drop from time to time. The PIA were well known for their terrible work/life balance, so they were prime targets.

He went with the plain one, the one that didn't bother with bright colours or flashy pictures. Just black text on white paper. Cheaply printed. The ink smudging even with his awkward tentative touch.

It wasn't too far. East side of town, somewhere between the mall and the docks, where people like to get lost and not be found. The same place he'd gone looking for answers about Brace. Ones he'd found eventually, without Carousal's help. That time at least. He was in rehab again, detoxing from whatever he'd done to himself this round. As much as he hoped it'd stick, he had his doubts. This was the third try in as many years. Brace didn't really want the help, it wasn't there in his eyes when he'd agreed to go along with what the family wanted, again.

The Black Door. Up some crooked stairs that made him pause for a moment in consideration for how well they'd take his not inconsiderable weight. By the end of them he had a little more confidence, they'd barely even groaned as he went up.

Opening the door and ducking down to enter he found himself in a dimly lit room with a small glass paneled desk and an Onix-woman smiling at him from her curled position behind it. She asked him to come closer, if he knew the process, if he had any particular requests or preferences. There was a bit of paperwork to look at as a first timer, personal details so they could follow him up if there were.. issues.

It wasn't the first time he'd been to a brothel. Though it had been some time.

"It'll make a man out of you, finally," were the discouraging words from a father who pushed him through a door into a room with a woman he'd never met before. One more in line with his size. That had been a nice element to the surprise of it all. Sadly, not enough to make him follow through with real eagerness to what was expected of him. It may of been better if she'd had some of the enthusiasm he lacked. That wasn't the case.

It wasn't a thrilling experience when all was said and done.

Other encounters had been better. Out with the boys, from bars to strippers, then something more for those who didn't find it with the dancing girls.

He'd liked the Krokorok lady. She'd liked her job, was amused by a shy man constantly asking if everything was okay and if he could do anything to make things easier for her. It was one of the few times he'd actually been made to relax and enjoy himself with a lady, to stop worrying about her and let her take care of him. Her touch had been gentle but firm, sensuous, a dancing pleasure through his fur as she worked him up from tease to almost release. Multiple times. The finish when it finally happened was a wave of pleasure he'd been unable to repeat for some time after.

There'd been others. This would be another. It wasn't shameful. Sometimes you needed something more than your own hands or whatever devices sat at home. Nothing compared with actual touch. The feel of someone against you, their breath, the smell, the sounds they made as you pushed deeper, harder..

He'd never been good at the work/life balance, unsurprising, really. Dedicated to his job, hook, line and sinker, there was little free time to be had. Not with extended family commitments to help with this and that whenever he wasn't on the clock. There was always something that was needed for his various siblings and their own extended families. Time for himself wasn't a thing.

So a girl of his own wasn't a common occurrence. Not ones that lasted more than a couple of dates. Dates that rarely ended up in bed afterwards. He wasn't the sort to just jump in bed with someone and his self-conscious manner with anything intimate made the likeliness even rarer. So on occasion he'd pay for company instead.

And here he was again, doing just that.

It hadn't been intentional, he'd said it without thinking. He'd like a feline, Liepard-lady if possible. He didn't bother mentioning smaller than himself, the species request did that for him. There weren't too many female morphs larger than his 6'7" squared off stature.

Into a private room with a plush bed to sit and wait. It wasn't particularly clean. A scented candle sat on a dresser, it's smell acidic and cheap, doing little to hide the underlying funk to the air that told him the linen either wasn't washed often enough or to an appropriate standard. The mirror above the bed was warped, cracked at three of it's corners. Looking up he quickly lost count of the spiderwebs from light fittings, up the walls and into the corners.

Did he accidentally order the creepy room? Or was this just the standard of things at this establishment? He didn't get very long to think on it as the door opened and she walked in.

He didn't move. She was talking but he wasn't hearing a word of it. Eyes watching the laced up body as she went through motions she'd done a hundred times before, preparing the room, herself, him.

It was only when he'd failed to respond to multiple prompts that she took the time to actually look at him. To see what the problem was.

There was a moment of nothing. Where she didn't remember and all that there was was disdain as she spoke sharp words about his inability to respond. Was he deaf? A mute? Simply stupid? Was she wasting her time?

Eyes couldn't stop watching her, taking in every inch of the feline grace that moved like liquid in everything she did. The golden circles and their distinct patterns he'd had to imagine in his dreams. Where the purple started and stopped.

Belatedly he realised what he was doing, tried to apologise, to get up, leave, that he'd made a mistake and he didn't mean to be here.

That's when she remembered and something lit up in her eyes. Something dangerous.

She didn't let him leave. It wasn't hard. He didn't really want to leave, not now that he'd found her, had her so close, had paid for the opportunity..

There was a hand on his chest, pushing him back down onto the bed, distracting him away from any thought of leaving.

There were words. The mocking derision that would come to colour all their future encounters. Words that started mild, teasing, unsuspecting in their backhanded complimentary manner. The bite came as she undressed him, released the tension that'd been building in his pants and then left him wanting. Words that prickled the skin, made the red rise in his vision even as blood was driven south.

She started on top, a situation that didn't last long as she baited him, brought claws to bare and made him rise up against her. It was barely an effort to throw her over, to come up on top and drive down even as her claws came out and drew blood. She yowled, back arching, her chest to his as he drove further into her, pinning her down and falling into the pain and pleasure of it all. Between gasps and moans she bared teeth, took a bite to the thick mane of his neck and fought back to little effect. He had her almost exactly as he wanted and he wasn't letting her go, despite her pretense of protest. She wanted it too, he knew she did, if he slowed, she drew blood, hissed in his face and said any number of spiteful words to draw him back in.

An inescapable combination of ecstasy and raw animal urges.

He was the prey, she was the predator, yet here he was, dominating her, holding the power and drive above her. Making her want more. Making her want him despite the base instincts that rebelled against it.

It was over before he knew it. Spent, exhausted, bleeding.

She took a couple of minutes to tidy herself up and kicked him out without a second thought. Done, she no longer had need of him and his swimming mind that was still putting together what exactly it was he'd just done. There was an attempt at words, to stay longer, to talk to her. Nothing worked. She drove him out the door and closed it in his face, clothes bundled in his arms instead of dressed upon his body. Something he had to remedy quickly before too many faces looked out from the surrounding rooms.

He came back.

Of course he came back.

You don't dream of someone for that long and not come back once you've found them.

She wasn't always there. The Oshawatt that was there more often than not at the glass desk to sign people in lamented the unpredictability of the dark type and those of her nature. Of her inability to stick to a roster. If it wasn't for some of the particular clients she was able to satisfy that others weren't willing to cater to, she'd of lost her job a long time ago. As it was, they all had to make to do by her timetable, not theirs.

Eventually Carousal's disinclination to follow the rules got her fired. He found out a week later. Disappointment impossible to hide. It was as he was leaving that one of the other girls gave him a number, a small piece of paper with numbers hastily written on. Pity. She'd pitied him, offered him a better option, a nicer one. Saw his lack of interest, questioned why a good boy like him was chasing a nasty piece of work like that. Didn't he know what he was doing to himself? The Liepard was trouble, everyone knew it, spoke it loudly. The kitty even did it herself.

He'd do better to forget about her, move on, go somewhere else.

It took him a long time to actually dial that number. To call the one person in the world he wanted to see and yet knew he shouldn't.

She answered, once, twice.

The third time she called him. Asked him if he wanted a good time. To come to this address.

He brought money.

She didn't want it.

Not that time.

The beginning of a more personal relationship, one in which she was just as likely to berate as beguile him no matter who was making the contact. Impossible to read, he rolled with the punches- scratches, as best he could. Anything to be able to keep coming back.

At least he kept it mostly to her apartment now. It'd been a while now since his indiscretions had shamed him enough to actually come close to finally stopping. Not that he was sure there was a point he couldn't make excuses for anymore, not after the last few times.

Given Carousal's penchant for aggravation, it was no real surprise that Kong's work life had continued to cross paths with the cat's, even if general Officer work wasn't his role anymore.

She was supposed to be leaving, spoken her words, given the report she was requested to assist with by the officer in charge. Yet, there she was, at his door, peering in, well beyond the bounds of where a general citizen should of been. He'd been alone until she walked into the room. It didn't take long for the pleasantries to disappear, what little there were. Carousal was never much given to kind words, why would stalking him in his own work place be any different? She'd never been to his home, this was the closest to his abode that she'd managed to see.

The interest in what he was doing, why he was doing it, was intermittent. Her intentions were entirely non work related, at least for him. It didn't take long for that to become obvious. Not when she sat herself atop his paperwork on his desk in a very compromising manner.

The door wasn't even closed.

It's not like he was the first person to use office space for non work related activities. He just didn't think he was going to be one of those people. Not in the later afternoon when the building was still filled with people going about their work day. She kept him quiet to start, hushing protests, then the groans she was actively eliciting. The thrill was something completely new, the chance of getting caught, of getting in trouble, doing things he knew he shouldn't be. It was intoxicating in terrible new ways that she knew she could lead him down.

That hadn't been so bad. Wrong. Yes. Inappropriate in the work place. Most definitely. But not really much worse than various stories he'd heard from one officer or another over the years. The more scandalous ones having occurred in locker rooms or the open plan office spaces. He at least had a private office. Sure, he shared it with two others, but that wasn't on a full time basis most days and there hadn't really been a risk of anyone else stepping in. It wasn't often that people actually came looking for him at work.

No. It was the time in the cells. When she'd been collared for physically assaulting someone and had proceeded to attack the arresting officers, again. Something wasn't right. The aggression she was showing, the way she kept lashing out despite any and all attempts to calm her down. Whatever she was on, whatever she'd done, it wasn't working for her and she was out to get the world and everyone in it.

He'd stopped by earlier in the evening and got spat on for his efforts. Same thing happened again a couple of hours later. It was the third time, somewhere after 2am, when he should of been long gone and the station was on bare bones staff when he finally got a different reaction.

Silence, that was the first thing he noticed. The total quiet compared to the screaming and yowling she'd been going on and on with the last time he had visited. Luckily there wasn't any extra company for the Liepard in the cells, mid week with no special events in progress, the cruise ships were in a lull, it was a quiet night for the PIA. Or perhaps it was more lucky for them. He couldn't imagine how much worse she would of been with the knowledge there were others nearby to torment.

"Carousal. Are you awake still?"

Her eyes, they glowed in the dark. Jaded gems of judgment.

"Is the big bad Copper boy feeling lonely?"

"No, I was just wondering if you were feeling better. I was concerned."

"Big bad copper boy.."

He should of walked away.

He never walks away.

His behavior almost got him fired. The disciplinary actions were harsh.

How could he forget the cameras? That someone always came by on the half hour to check how prisoners were going. What was he thinking?

He wasn't thinking. Or at least, he wasn't thinking with the sensible part of his brain.

Few moments in his life are filled with anywhere near as much regret as that night. The consequences that came so close to ruining his career, his life.

It was almost enough to make him stop.

Almost.

"Dood, ya waitin on 'er? Cause she ain't 'ere. Gone workin' or whatevas that kind does."

A voice to snap him out of his thoughts. Rough, mouth still making slapping noises as mandibles chewed on something. He looked down to see the huddled form of the Sizzlipede-morph, scowling, face droopy in ways that weren't particularly befitting for his kind.

"'Workin'! Ha!" voice a scoff even as he scuttled past the considerably larger bull. "Serves 'er right, ol-" The rest of the words lost as he lifted a hand to remove the gum from maw then stuff it into one of the numerous key locks on Carousal's door.

"Hey-"

"Whatcha?" the bug half turned, scowled at him, fire spouting from various points in the badly fitting and well worn clothes.

A sigh, what was the point? "Nevermind."

"Thoughtcha, stupid big ol'-" voice once more cut off, this time as the neighbour opened and closed his own apartment door, the next one on the left from the Liepard's.

Time to go.

Well past the time to go.

It wasn't even that late. Maybe he could fit in some report time before he went to sleep..

Who was he kidding?

If only the distraction lasted longer than the encounter. That is, that he could have some sort of enjoyable feeling, thoughts to go home with. Instead of this increasingly more desolate pit of shame and emptiness that was ever so slowly consuming everything inside of him.

It's not like work wasn't doing a good enough job of that on it's own. Why did he have to keep adding more fuel to the fire?

Perhaps it was because this was his choice. A terrible choice, one he had no good reason to keep making other than it was his to make.

Is this what addiction is like?

Maybe he had a better understanding of what Brace was doing to himself than he wanted to admit. At least his brother had an excuse. The last person to see his twin before he disappeared, blamed for what had happened. Blamed for not doing anything to stop it. Blamed by those who should of believed him. Blamed by family. Blamed by an older brother who supposedly lived by the letter of the law.

Blamed for making up outlandish stories of disappearing people in grey suits, here one moment, gone the next, with no time to step in.

Mysterious grey suits that kept coming up in his missing persons reports in those few instances when there was a witness to the scene.

Maybe he should speak to him.

Tell Brace he finally believed him.

Now, after all these years of blaming him for losing his own twin.

Fuck.