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After he unpacked himself Stephen found himself in a typical hall, with a coat rack, a place to put your shoes, and a little hip-high cupboard to put the stuff you want to keep handy. Of course, the coats and shoes were Franky-sized, everything was out of reach for him, and the cupboard wasn't just the size of an oldschool phone booth, it was one. If it hadn't been outfitted with a shelf, he might step in and make a call.

The entire thing was perfectly surreal. In the past, when he was a child, he must have seen the entire world this way, but somehow he remembered it differently. Perhaps it was because help would have always been ready, but his independent adult mind was quick to index the impossibilities the environment provided for him.

Franky occupied the end of the hall like a bouncer, leaning against the empty door frame with guarded casualness.

“Wasn't planning to take anyone home," she said. “So don't mind the mess. And… uh… take off your shoes if you want to climb on the couch."

Seemed reasonable. He did as told, putting his shoes next to Franky's. She wasn't a shoe enthusiast, if these were all she owned. There stood a sturdy, well worn pair of boots, and a pair of 80's neon sneakers. Niké Goliaths. Guess the marketing worked. They weren't only bigger than normal, but bulkier. He guessed her tiger paws needed extra toe room. Maybe some reinforcement in case she got her claws out.

When he was ready Franky turned, and preceded him. Following close behind, her tail brushed briefly against him with a velvety caress. Being so close, her big ass filled most of his world for the moment, and he was reminded of his ridiculous dream. The primitive part of his brain awoke and took in the sight, drawing his attention to the way she filled out the coarse coveralls.

“Behold, my palace!" Franky boomed with a sweeping gesture.

Indeed, the place did have the proportions of a palace, with a high ceiling and ample space. It had all the appearance of a swanky, up-scale studio that someone had rebelliously filled with giant furniture and, against one wall, an enormous kitchenette. A bank of arched windows on the opposite wall provided a view over a small park, greenery clashing fiercely with the industrial remnants and novel concrete looming around it. The world outside was awash in the warm glow of the sun clinging to the remains of the day, thinly stretched shadows drawing patterns where they fell.

He guessed Franky's home must have been a warehouse or factory, just like Big Joe's.

At least Franky held true to the stereotype. People who apologized about the mess a visitor was about to find themselves in were rarely very messy. Chances were that if you were self-conscious enough to worry about it in the first place, you at least took some effort to occasionally toss something in the garbage. No, Stephen had gone to college, where he'd seen rooms with invisible floors, kitchens with enough food clinging to their dishes to feed an African village, and coffee tables supporting the evidence of alcoholic levels of drinking. In contrast, Franky's coffee table only had three empty cans sitting on it, her kitchen a few dirty dishes, and the floor was only used for modest storage. Maybe it could do with a sweeping, but he figured it was harder to see for her, given her eyes generally traveled somewhat higher above the floor.

“Hey, it's not so bad," he said. “The filth, I mean. The house is pretty nice, actually."

A giant studio apartment in an up-and-coming neighborhood, large enough to give even Franky some living space, let alone a normal sized person. He imagined he could put his stuff in the center of the room and have more space left than he'd use. A yuppie would kill for this. A hipster would never be able to afford it.

“Thanks. Hey, can you entertain yourself for a bit?"

“Uh… sure."

She unzipped the coveralls and started struggling them off her shoulders, the sleeves down her arms.

“I really need to take a shower."

Maybe she did. The white shirt she wore underneath was stained at the armpits, and a familiar smell wafted down from her. Acrid and musky, his memory brought him back to the day he'd met her. That is, the feeling of soft, protective darkness enveloping him. Weight pressing down on him.

She got the garment down to her waist, her belly hanging out with complete disregard for anything even approaching elegance, tufts of orange and black fur poking out from under the hem of the shirt. Then she bent over.

OK, she was just undoing her shoes, kicking them off onto the floor with menacing thuds, but she gave a generous peek down the neck of her shirt as she did so. There was a generous tuft of fur between her breasts, which was the only thing affording her some modesty. He could dive into that cleavage and disappear.

Stephen stood somewhat struck. It's not like it was the first time he'd peeked down a woman's shirt without meaning to do so, but normally he didn't get a view of this quality unless he put his face right in there. Which wasn't something he had a habit of doing.

And Franky wasn't done, either. With a tug she forced the coveralls down her hips -Stephen's lizard brain noticed a jiggle- to reveal a thankfully roomy pair of boxer shorts. A true classic, white with red hearts. She slid the coveralls down those tree-trunk thighs and kicked the garment away, towards a corner, but hitting the middle of the floor.

“Could you… maybe warn me next time before you give me a striptease?" Stephen spoke before thinking.

“What? Come on, man. This is decent. Ya see women on the street showing more fur than this." There was a blush in her voice that didn't ripple her fierce expression.

She wasn't wrong, but he wasn't standing in the apartments of those women on the street. There was a distance there that had disappeared between him and Franky somewhere between her jumping on him, and her stuffing him into a bag to take him home. This was still the most naked he'd ever seen her. Maybe shirt, shorts, and socks didn't traditionally count as stripper wear, but that did nothing for Stephen's peace of mind. Under her stained shirt he could see the outline of her bra, straining to do its job. The curve of her stomach poking out from under the shirt with understated indecency. And her legs! Powerful, industrial pistons bound in toned muscle that her fat and fur did little to obscure.

He wanted to ruffle that fur. Surely that was a natural reaction, right?

“I'ma rub some soap on myself. You try not to hurt yourself, OK?"

Swishing her baseball bat of a tail over his head, she turned and stalked off.

Ass.

That big butt moving in those ridiculous shorts, clearly defined as the fabric had ridden up and tightened. With no care for her audience she tugged it back down as she walked.

At this rate, Stephen thought, I'm going to need a shower as well. A cold one.

It wasn't long before the splashing of water emanated from behind the door through which the tigress had disappeared. She wasn't a singer, at least. Stephen didn't know how he'd have taken it if he'd heard growling and yowling come from there.

With socked feet he padded over the heavy beams of the floor. Distracted by Franky's working class striptease he'd forgotten to ask her to put him on the couch. It was a rough thing, thick cushions resting on a heavy frame of dark, lacquered hardwood. There was place there for three people the size of Franky, with some squeezing, which meant it'd have to support the weight of a truck. This was where their worlds diverged, he thought. A normal upsized couch wouldn't be up to the job. Either way, he wasn't going to be able to get up there without her help. Without his injury, he'd just about manage to crawl up there. Maybe with a little jump and roll.

Instead he ambled around the apartment, looking at things. Her television hung obviously on a wall, not the largest he'd ever seen, but getting there. A desk with a computer stood in a corner, the Franky-sized screen, keyboard, and mouse contrasted by a normal-sized tower set on the desk. The cords were probably hell for her to work with.

Of course she had exercise equipment. Weights he'd struggle to bench to train her arms, a bench with a bar set on it that could crush him if it fell. He wasn't even going to look at the weight she could bench, lest he scare himself. A training bike that looked like industrial equipment, possessing a construction that seemed nothing so much like cast iron given a cool, exercise-white paint job.

But most impressive was the real bike. It sneaked up on him, standing against a wall with some other clutter, in shadow and totally unassuming among the other giant things. It barely looked like the sort of bicycle he was used to, lacking any of the elegance that the mode of transport had. The frame heavy, practical, and reinforced. The tires massive and thick, to better distribute weight, seated on wheels with spokes like propeller blades. Gears to make any Steampunk enthusiast green with envy, running a chain that looked like it belonged somewhere on a locomotive.

It had a freaking basket, though. And a luggage, no, freight carriage above the rear wheel.

Weird as it looked, it made a lot of sense. Even though some people had tried, they simply didn't make cars in Franky's size. Most public transport didn't take them, either. So it was either this, or one of the custom motorcycles large sized animal people sometimes rolled around on.

His mind flitted back to the sight of Franky's legs. Yeah, she sure as hell would be able to get that thing up to acceptable speeds.

Eventually he got around to checking the bookcase. The lower shelves were reserved for the less interesting work, as is tradition. Some technical manuals, a book about workplace safety, an encyclopedia or two. If he wanted to read one he'd have to pull it out and rest it on the floor. He took a few steps back to look at the upper shelves and cocked his head to read the titles.

Bulgakov, Dostoyevsky, Gogol…

Russians, neatly arranged in alphabetical order. He could feel the arch of his eyebrows and slackening of his mouth before he realized his surprise. Now, at no point did he think Franky was stupid. She clearly was not. But he had to admit to himself he hadn't expected to find a den of literature in the home of a construction worker.

The sound of water from behind the door was replaced by the howling of a wind tunnel. Her dryer, or dryers? Did she have an array of sorts in there to dry all that fur? He'd have to take a look, if he could.

With the sound announcing that it wouldn't be long before she came out, Stephen did what everyone always did in a situation like that. He idly looked at stuff without taking anything in, passing his glance over the clutter on the coffee table. 1 liter cans of Bavaria. Not his favorite, but at least it was real beer. And, sure enough, a large, empty mug that had once contained coffee. At least the table was used for its intended purpose.

“Hey," Franky called from between door frame and door, barely cracked open. She peeked out from behind it like a cartoon, clutching a towel to her chest. “I kind of don't have anything clean in here. Could ya fetch me some?"

“Uh… sure."

“Next door over." She flicked her head to the side. “Top drawer in the closet for underpants. There's some shirts around there, too."

With that, she moved to close the door, halted, then cracked it open far enough to peer through with a single baleful eye. “Don't go snoopin' around, neither."

“Ye of little faith." Stephen shook his head as he left on his quest. Even if her were a snooper, it'd be too much effort. And he'd only have the bottom half of the room to snoop through.

The next door over wasn't exactly hard to find. He reached up to the handle, pulled, and discovered it wasn't exactly butter smooth. He let his weight pull it down, belatedly realizing it was essentially the same as pulling himself up. A sharp sting burned in his side.

“Fuck!" He managed to keep it to a whisper.

At least there was a clunk to signify it had worked. With a push the door drifted open easily enough, no longer a cantankerous obstacle.

Well, it seemed Franky had different rules for the bedroom. Those same arched windows, designed to shine the light of day on whatever industrial activity once went on here, now let the faltering rays of the sun fall upon a scene of domestic carnage. The covers of the bed, a two-person monstrosity squatting in the middle of the room, lay where they'd been kicked off. Shallow light picked out shed fur clinging to the sheets. Part of the bed was being used as temporary shelving, as was rather more of the floor. Discarded articles of clothing lay in crumpled heaps, giving a disjointed view into the tigress' wardrobe. Shirts, jeans, boxers, mostly. A pair of briefs was as adventurous as she got in terms of underwear, it seemed. The bra's, though. He spotted three, in all. Hard to miss. It had all the appearance of a crazed Medieval engineer having attempted to find a way to let a trebuchet fling two boulders at once, the experiments carelessly discarded in someone's bedroom.

Visible through the debris of ill discipline the floor bore several rugs, perhaps to soften the rough wood that was also underfoot here. The wall above the bed, bare redbrick like the others, was decorated with a vaguely Eastern tapestry. A classic-looking cabinet with decorative carvings supported an incense burner, a picture frame, some clutter. A corner of the room provided a home to a full body standing mirror, the kind that pivoted on a sturdy frame. More than sturdy, in fact, and really two bodies rather than full body. Just walking around the place felt weird and wondrous, but his reflection that passed through the mirror seemed like a special effect. A tiny man navigating around copses of dirty laundry. An explorer of a wild, forgotten land, lacking only khaki shorts and a pith helmet.

Against the wall opposite of the windows stood his objective, a surprisingly standard bedroom closet. Straight slab sides and sliding doors, all black. A monolith reaching almost to the ceiling. His mind, residual exploration fantasy reluctant to leave, imagined howling winds whipping around this insurmountable mountaintop. Luckily, he only had to go halfway.

The sliding door ran smoothly, revealing just what Franky had promised: A stack of drawers, the topmost one being only just above eye height. With a simple pull it ran equally as smoothly as the door on its rollers.

Small mercies, Stephen thought. Every normal action was an expedition in this giant's abode, so it was nice when things went well.

Standing on tip-toes to reach into the open drawer, groping blindly, side stinging in protest, he uttered a minor swear under his breath. Just like him to curse his own luck. He patted his hand clumsily up and down the depth of the drawer, finding soft packets of fabric. Socks.

Just keep moving.

Wasn't it maybe a little weird to be rummaging through a woman's underwear drawer? The sort of weird that would end with him sniffing everything he found. The only reason it hadn't already been more embarrassing was that Franky dressed like a lumberjack, and might as well have been one. Her underwear was more manly than his.

He hit paydirt. Folds of soft fabric yielded under his palm, the bounty of his expedition confirmed when he pulled it from the drawer. Boxer shorts, red with polka dots, unfurled like a sail before him. Fairly stylish for something most people wouldn't lay eyes on. An image passed through his mind of conjoined twins in search of a skirt. This would certainly do, if the sisters had big butts.

Right. Now for a shirt.

The top of the set of drawers made for a shelf, where he spied a stack. He could still reach the lower ones, but the top of the stack was out of reach. Well, that wouldn't do. He felt little for pulling the entire stack down on top of himself.

But there was a solution. The drawers went all the way down to the floor, and the bottom one should serve him well as a step. He pulled it out.

A warm tickle of shame crept along Stephen's spine to his head, where it bloomed in a full blush. Lying there as if waiting to challenge him, neatly tucked away in its box with a peepshow translucent front, was the unmistakable girth of a dildo.

It was no exception to the rule. The thing was the size of his arm, the text on the box making no qualms about it. Under the eye-catching XXXL a ripped as fuck horse man looked out at him with bedroom eyes, apparently unsure whether he was gracing the box of a sex toy or the cover of a romance novel.

Man, what was he even thinking, entertaining these half-formed fantasies about Franky? She was a goddamn giant, and he was just a regular guy with a regular dick. He'd have to scale her like a mountain if he ever were to make love to her. There's no way he could compete with this monstrous battering ram.

His primitive brain immediately betrayed him by imagining Franky naked, on her messy bed, slamming it home to the hilt, growling, sopping wet…

He tossed the boxers over the box, banishing it from sight and the image from his mind. He still had a duty to fulfill.

Balancing himself on the edge of the drawer he could just reach the topmost shirt. The one under it came down as well, leading to a brief wonder about which would be better before he realized it didn't matter, and tossed one back up. It stayed where it should on the first try. At least that went well.

He snatched up the boxers and kicked the drawer shut, refraining from taking a parting glance at his latex nemesis.

With a knock he announced his return, delivering the goods in Franky's outstretched hand. She mouthed a quick “thanks" upon retreating.

Behind that door she was quite naked, the no longer dormant, lurid part of Stephen's brain whispered. Everyone is naked underneath their clothes, Stephen whispered back at his own Id. You're only thinking about it because you've been primed.

Useless stuff, these half formed thoughts jousting at each other in his brain pan. He paced around, kicking his feet. He'd need Franky before he could sit down like a proper person.

Was that it, then? Was his infatuation with this herculean woman just a natural result of a set of disparate circumstances coalescing into a mental schema that seemed to apply to them the most? Or, to put it less pretentiously, was he just triggering thoughts of relationships because he kept seeing her in circumstances he'd normally associate with dating? There was that bit about her saving his life, though. Normal dates, in the general rule of things, did not start with one party saving the life of the other.

Neither was a woman needing to lift you on the couch part of regular dating, come to think of it. That was a dependency sort of thing, but that tended to be part of a developing…

“What're ya pacing about for?"

She'd slipped past him while he was preoccupied with his thoughts, leaning against the door frame of the bedroom. It reminded him of that come-hither pose he really only knew from movies, though she was hardly wearing lingerie. In flagrant lack of care she had only thrown on some shapeless sport shorts, presumably a fresh bra. Its outline showed through the shirt he'd grabbed for her. Just a plain, white one. No cool print or anything. Her hair, rebellious at the best of times, stuck out in a forest of cow-licks.

“Just thinking about the journalists," he lied.

Franky growled a single laugh. “I don't think they'll follow us in here." With only a few steps she was besides him, her eyes flitting from him to the couch. “Need a hand?"

“Please."

Yeah, it was pretty weird how he was getting used to these tiger rides. He'd be fully healed in a week or two –he hoped– after which he could do all his climbing himself. Sitting on a couch too large even to give him space to dangle his legs was going to take longer to get used to, though. He felt like he might roll between the seat and backrest like a forgotten quarter if he didn't pay attention.

But that's only if they ever became more than two people forced together through circumstance. And that meant one of them had to say something at some point.

Franky was inspecting the inside of the fridge, a twitch in the tip of her tail betraying mischievous intent.

“Ya still want that beer?"

“Yeah. Thanks." It's not like 'no' was an option, at this point.

The can cracked open with a hiss. Franky made to set a glass before Stephen on the coffee table, paused as she was doing it, then delivered the glass directly into his hands. It spared both of them some embarrassment that he wouldn't have to point out that he wasn't able to reach that far.

What she thrust into his hands was a shot glass. The thing was awkward to hold and held a less than satisfactory amount of beer.

“It's the best thing I've got," she said as she lowered herself onto the couch. No earthquake this time.

“I guess you don't get many squishy visitors."

“Eh…" She bared her teeth in a grin that was supposed to be disarming. A minute crack in that unflappable exterior. “You're the first one, actually."

“That's OK. You're my first, too."

Franky's grin grew, accompanied by a deep purr. She idly scratched her head, flicking one ear about with her finger. The crack widened.

Ah shit, this was as awkward for her as it was for him, wasn't it? Poor, giant, rib-crushing tiger girl. It's not like she'd planned to take a somewhat strange dude home with her tonight. Least of all one who'd rummage through her underwear and dildo drawers.

“Cheers." He held out the glass and Franky gave it a soft tap with her can. They both drank.

Even on her own couch she sat is if thrown onto it, nestling into the corner with her arms on the backrest and one leg half pulled onto the seat. Inelegant, and taking up all the space she could claw for. He was just the opposite, sitting like a doll in this dollhouse, legs neatly together, drink resting in his lap.

“Hey Franky?"

“Hrm?"

Tell her you want to dive head-first into her ass, his lizard brain whispered. For a moment he felt his heart in his throat, a hammer wielded by that primitive part of him.

“Thanks for getting me past that crew. That was a good idea, and you probably saved my job."

“S'alright. That's two ya owe me." The mischief was back in her expression.

“Scratch them off against lunch and dinner."

She let out a single growly laugh. “At least you'll be a cheap date."

Goddamnit, Franky. You can't just say shit like that in a situation like this. Was there any real meaning behind the joke? That hard, honest exterior made it difficult to spy out anything without directly asking for it. He quickly tossed back his drink, may it give him courage.

“And you'd be a really expensive one."

She patted her belly, eliciting a gentle jiggle. “You didn't think I got this godly figure through moderation, did ya?"

That was a gesture none of the other women he knew, mostly office ladies, would ever make. Especially not the ones who had the figure for it. Franky just completely blew past that dreary, socially acceptable dishonesty without knowing it was even there. Her mannerisms were a battering ram to all the values white collar work had rubbed into his brain over the years.

“Now we're talking 'bout it, you OK with chicken nuggets?" She asked.

“Uh… sure?"

“We'll have to order from the kids' menu for you."

“Big Joe's?"

“Only place that serves portions that keep me going."

Made sense. Though, he could already see her popping regular cheeseburgers down her gullet like potato chips. He had no idea what she would eat in lieu of potato chips, though.

She'd already whipped out her tablet-sized phone and busied herself with pecking her fingers at the screen with fervor. She was a hard tapper, eliciting blunt thuds with every jab. The rapidity with which her fingers moved betrayed a complete lack of doubt.

“Doesn't it get a little boring? Always ordering from the same place."

Franky gave a slow shrug, as if the dismissal of the point wasn't really worth the effort. “It is what it is."

“Yeah, nevermind…" Stephen let his voice trail off. “I guess I'm just looking at it from the perspective of never wanting for choice."

“There's a few other places, but it's like… if there's a place that does something the best, and you like the people… why'd ya ever go anywhere else?"

“Variety?"

She jerked a thumb towards the kitchen. “There's where I get variety. When I'm shelling out big bucks, I don't want to end up with no mouse bites, shit flavor, or mystery meat. It's fast food, not haute cuisine."

She actually pronounced it correctly. Oat kwiseen.

Her eye drifted to his near-empty glass.

“Lemme top ya up."

Beer fizzed from Franky's monstrous can into his more respectable receptacle.

“I'm serious, you know," he said after taking a sip. Maybe he could crack the facade again.

“I'd be an expensive date?"

“About letting me ride in your bag, taking me here."

“It's nothing." She waved the comment away with her free hand.

Stephen couldn't help but shake his head. “Just take the fucking compliment, Franky."

“OK, OK, consider it taken. Thanks." There was a moment of silence. “Felt good doing something smart for a change."

“Oh yeah, I was convinced you were a complete mongoloid before you stuffed me into a bag," he said with a healthy dose of sarcasm. “The rest of you is huge, so I'm sure your brain is as well.

Franky let out a wood rasp chuckle. “That's me, big brain gal. Nah, I mean, I lift things for a living. It pays the bills, but it ain't exactly mentally stimulating."

That's where the Russians on the bookshelf came in, he guessed.

“I get it," he swept his gaze over the living space, “but at least it pays the bills quite well."

“You don't get it." The words were harsh, though Franky took on a look of embarrassment and flicked an ear, realizing how she sounded. “Sorry. Ya get it more than most squishies, but it's like…"

She was clearly grasping to explain something she normally didn't discuss with people. Or, at least, with people his size. He didn't feel offended for her telling him off. Maybe she'd heard fair-weather sympathy too much to take it at face value.

“…Big livin' can get expensive, you know? So you have to do what pays well, and that's stuff where they need big people. It's kind of a narrow pool, but that's fine. The thing is… you're always big. And a lot of folk think that's kinda scary."

“Hey, I like your scariness." He did. “It's a good kind of scary."

“Aw, thanks." Her expression softened. “But it's not like people're even wrong. When that guy kicked you, just because he wasn't paying attention, he could've killed ya. I could've killed ya during the accident. People think I really did."

Maybe it was because she was so uncharacteristically worried about something he'd already taken at face value, but Stephen laughed, then winced at the stab in his side. “I would have been glad to die under you instead of a bunch of rocks."

“It was concrete, busted into rubble."

“So you're just going to say nothing about me being OK with you squishing me like a squishy?"

Great play on words, Stephen. You peerless orator you.

“Oh, I'm honored," she said from behind a man-eating grin, and a swig from her can.

“You should be," he answered, bringing his own glass to his lips. “Best squishy you've ever squished."

“Christ, I think I knocked loose more than just yer ribs."

Stephen laughed, winced, and reached for his sore side.

“Still hurts, huh?" Franky's ears drooped self-consciously.

“It's nothing. Look…" He moved to put his hand on her shoulder, found it out of reach, and put it on the nearest bit of tigress he could find. That happened to be the rough hewn knee jutting in his direction. At once it confirmed just how massive she was. A kneecap like armor plate, bound to muscle of industrial power, tendons of unimaginable tensile strength. She could have been built in a factory.

Wait.

He was touching her. He didn't even think of it. Strands of coarse orange-black fur played between his fingers, he felt an instinctive itch to scratch. This was it. Intimate skin-on-fur contact. He looked up at ochre eyes regarding him, waiting, betraying no ire at his touch. There was the mask, its slight crack making it no more readable.

Widen the crack.

Visions of doubt flashed through Stephen's mind, all riding on a certain horse-sized implement. But whatever impetus he had triggered in himself tumbled forward in an avalanche of intent, as sudden and uncontrolled as the gesture that lay at its origin.

“Franky, I… you're…"

A shrill buzz made Stephen jump near out of his skin before he could even hope to complete his stumbling sentence. Franky whipped her head towards the door, taking her gaze with it. She pushed herself out of the couch, leaving his outstretched hand without the intimacy of her lovely, fuzzy knee. Her tail swished behind her as she left.

Yup, there went The Moment, riding her furry ass out of here. Was he being cockblocked by a doorbell? Did he ever have a hope? He was being foolhardy, wasn't he?

“Food's here." Frankie returned hefting the classic plain, white plastic of fast food delivery. With a weighty thud she deposited it on the coffee table, knocking over one of the empty cans in the process. She made no move to right it. “Dude gave me some lip 'bout you being here. You were saying something?"

“Ah… forget ab… Wait, they know I'm here?"

Franky scrunched up her snoot in a lopsided look. “Yeah. Ya were there with me twice. Ya left with me. And I ain't got no kids to order chicken nuggets for. In squishy terms, we're practically dating."

“They think we're dating?!"

“It's just jokes." She spoke half into the bag as she pulled out cardboard containers.

Was that good? Did it matter? He'd never stopped to think how visible he was hanging out with her, despite the hints being shouted at him in the headlines.

“Uh… what kind of jokes?"

She pressed a stack of warm boxes into his hands, greasy cardboard smell wafting up with a purely Pavlovian allure.

“Stuff like to be careful not to break ya." There was a slight waver to her voice.

He couldn't help but grin. “Good thing I already gave you permission, huh?"

The last thing Franky extracted from the bag was undoubtedly her own dinner. An honest to God leg of lamb (at least, he thought it was lamb, it's not like he was an expert), wrapping quickly shredded by claws. The browned meat gave it all the expression of a caveman's club, as did the way she waggled it in his direction.

“What's funny is you think I'd need it."

She brought the leg to her mouth and tore off a chunk. Marinade stained the fur around her mouth only to be wiped clean by that long tongue gliding over her snout. Almost like a big, fleshy windshield wiper. It shouldn't really be cute, but the messy eating fit in so perfectly with the rest of Franky's bulldozer charm that it blew right out on the other side in the territory of endearing.

At least he finally had an answer to what she ate.

To the chorus of ripping meat, prolific chewing, and the muted, but strangely audible, sound of her tongue scraping fur he started his own meal. Yeah, he should have expected it, but there was still something singularly weird about the giant chicken nuggets he found in the box. Two of them would form a perfectly normal piece of chicken. A bite confirmed nothing out of the ordinary, however.

“'s good?" Franky asked while also negotiating a piece of meat down her gullet.

Clean snout left, clean snout right.

“It's a giant chicken nugget, Franky." He waggled it at her, though it was nowhere near as threatening as the goddamn meat club she was chowing down on. “It'd take an evil genius to fuck it up."

She gave a deep chuckle, then returned her attention to eating.

OK, while the tigress was distracted by food he had some time to think of some way to not be a total idiot in convincing her to hang out in a slightly less platonic way, unmediated by strange happenings. Should he touch her again? Ruffle the fur? Did she like her fur being ruffled? The questions zipped through his head, unconnected and unanswered, in a storm of confusion. Somewhere in the distance his mind's ear heard a dour whinnying.

Franky did a good job with her dinner. What remained was mostly bone, the scraps of meat clinging to it quickly disappearing with the lapping of her raspy tongue. Some stains dotted what had only minutes ago been a clean shirt. After a final inspection she judged it good, and tossed the bone mostly into the bag on the table. With a sated expression she sank back into the nook of the couch and licked her fingers.

“Franky." He gained her attention, still not quite sure of what to say. “When all this shit is over…"

A shrill buzz made Stephen jump near out of his skin before he could even hope to complete his stumbling sentence. Again.

This time it didn't come from the door, but from his own pocket. With an internal cry of frustration he fumbled the phone from his pocket with the intent to reject the call, and pettily block the number. Though he'd expected a known or unknown press person, instead a familiar name lit up on the screen under highly professional, effortlessly flattering headshot.

Conroy.

“Shit, I gotta take this," he muttered, and accepted the call.

“Stephen? You doing OK?" The boss sounded suspiciously chipper.

“Hey boss. Yeah, I'm fine. Uhm… why are you calling on friday night?"

Before Conroy spoke he could just hear the man smiling on the other side of the line.

“You haven't heard then?"

“Heard what?" These damn games. Out with it, man!

“Your tiger girlfriend got chased by the press, camera crew and everything. Some of her buddies came to help, and things got… well, they didn't get ugly, but they looked ugly for a minute there. Long story short, someone put it on Facebook or Twitter or something, some celebrity spread it around. It's being shared all over as we speak. I was sure you'd know. Don't you practically live on the internet?"

He'd be the first to admit he already didn't have a lot of color to his face, but what was there drained. The entire thing went down this afternoon, only scant hours ago. Even with journalists sharing his number like a Thai hooker he'd never have thought things could go viral this fast. He looked at Franky, and even her unflappable expression seemed to have a measure of shock to it. Damn those satellite dish animal ears. Of course she could hear the entire damn conversation.

“Wait, so why are you calling?" And why are you enjoying it so much?

“Remember when I said I'd put out some feelers for your idea?"

“Yeah." Oh shit.

“One of them got back to me tonight. Long story short, they want you both on The World Keeps Turning tomorrow night."

Oh, it was only one of the biggest talk shows in the country. The hands of nervousness clasped themselves around Stephen's throat. Half the fucking populace tuned into it, and the entire thing was live.

“Fuck me!" Franky said, then clasped her hand over her mouth when she realized it.

“Do you have visitors?" Conroy asked.

“It's just the TV. Jesus Christ, boss. Tomorrow? Couldn't you have found an earlier slot? Like in five minutes or something?"

Conroy just laughed at that. “News is like fish, you've got to sell it fresh. And your tigress just pulled a prize trout. They couldn't believe their luck that my number was already in their call history."

His eyes flicked to Franky. “Does she know?"

She clearly didn't, but when were they going to tell her?

“She's got a boss, too. He should be giving her a call."

Right on cue Franky's phone buzzed. Stephen quickly clamped his hand over the microphone.

“Come on, Stephen. Turn your TV down."

“Yeah, yeah," he answered as Franky removed herself to the bedroom to have her own weird news call, already speaking in clipped words to her own boss. “So what's the deal?"

“You're familiar with the format of The World Keeps Turning?"

“Yes." Snappy round-table discussion, safely charismatic host, relevant subjects. Studio audience. Live.

“We've got you for a short segment, maybe ten minutes. It's simple. You talk a little about what really happened, answer a few questions, you know how it works."

“Oh yeah, simple. Just your every day live television performance." If his words could drip with any more sarcasm, they'd drown.

“This is what you wanted, remember? We'll go over it tomorrow at the studio. Just don't dress like a nerd, get a handle on what you want to say. Just relax. They even made that autistic guy look good."

That's true. He even remembered the guy's name. Case. He certainly had a bunch of unique views on life that went over way smoother with people than you'd normally expect. He allowed himself to feel a bit of relief. If someone with a handicap like that could make it through without fucking it up, so could they. But you could bet your ass they hadn't sprung it on him the day before. Neither was he a giant, angry tigress.

“Right, so where do we show up? What time?"

“It's all in the mail I sent you. Chin up, now. I know people who'd kill to be in your position."

Yeah, that's what he was worrying about. That he'd have to talk to people like that. On live TV. If Franky didn't dig her claws into them first. What the fuck was wrong with a nice, controlled interview with some newspaper? Snap a picture of him and Franky not looking ridiculous. Done.

“Alright, boss. See you tomorrow."

With a tap of the screen the world receded into silence. So much for a calm weekend, then. Not to mention everyone he knew bringing this shit up for years to come. If he'd jam Franky's dildo up his ass to the hilt, smile for the camera, and upload it to PornHub he'd be able to get away with it better than what they were going to do tomorrow.

“Ya done?" Franky's rumble sounded tired, its usual edge blunted. Indeed, she looked tired as she lumbered into the living room without waiting for an answer, not that he really needed to give one. “I told ya, please no live fucking TV. How fucking fast do you people work?"

“That camera crew this afternoon? Their shit went viral."

Franky's eyes widened. “Yer kidding me. It's been like three hours!"

He shrugged with only minimal pain. “I guess they don't edit."

“No shit." She leaned on the back of the couch.

Stephen pushed himself upright, standing on the cushions with socked feet, just as instructed. With Franky hunched over and him with a height boost, they were actually close to face-to-face. He focused on the cute spot on her nose.

“You don't have to do it if you don't want to. Just say you're sick, whatever."

“Nah." She forced her snout into a wry smile. “I asked for this, gotta own up to it. 'Sides, ain't ya gonna get in trouble if I flake out?"

He put his hand on hers, scratching the coarse fur.

Wait.

He did it again. What was he even planning to say?

“Hrm?" Franky gave a purr with a question mark on the end, letting that nigh-inscrutable expression rest on him.

“I… I think… we'll be fine."

“You know, I'm kinda glad you stuck with me. Pretty sure I'd have busted someone's head already if I were going it alone." She gave a smile, then his hand was eclipsed by one much larger and fluffier. “Even if you make my worst fears come true."

Oh God, she was touching him back.

“Well…" Think, Stephen, think. “…who said you had to be the only scary one?"

It wasn't a very slick thing to say, but Franky beamed a grin at him that showed every single one of her sharp teeth.

Stephen, there may be hope for you yet.