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1939-03-02

Another night burning the midnight oil. I was busy watching a moth circling the bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, while listening to the traffic outside. At least I wasn't alone in being awake at this unpleasant hour. There's a small comfort in knowing that you're not the last person on earth, even if you're entirely isolated from the others. They're equally isolated from each other, anyway, each car its own kingdom. Hell, might as well be its own planet. For the moth, that lightbulb was the world, and just like the real one, it was a hostile one that'd burn it each time it tried to land, until it was too hurt to fly anymore. I'd seen it so many times. Those cases were the majority of what I worked with. Someone new to the city comes to me telling a sob story about how their dream wife or husband is cheating on them after the passion cools down. At least the moth only burns itself.

Me? Right, I'm a private detective. A hyena by birth, a detective by trade. People come to me when they need their problems solved and have no idea where to start. Sometimes the cops do, too, when they prefer paying someone to do the investigation for them. I don't blame them. I'm not bound by protocol, so I get results.

Whiplash stood up and stretched. The hyena glanced out of the window, and then at the clock. Six in the afternoon. The sun had already set. Right now, he had no cases to work on, no leads to follow, and a detective without a case was little more than a mannequin. A display piece, a ruin of a bygone age kept alive only by his own stubbornness. The times were changing, with fewer people trusting private investigators, but he wouldn't change. He couldn't change. He was stuck in this life and time, the only way he really knew how to operate.

Just then, interrupting his brooding melancholy, someone knocked on the door. A shadow cast on glass by the hallway lights. Whiplash straightened his tie and opened the door in one continuous motion. In walked an otter, most of her face covered with a broad-rimmed hat, and most of her body left on display by a skin-tight dress that clung to her curves like a lover spurned.

"A thief," she said, the moment the door closed behind her, plunging the hyena's office back into that perpetual twilight. Dust swirled around in the rays on neon light that bled in through half-open blinds. "I need you to track down a thief."

"Did he steal your heart, or something more material?" Whiplash asked. He picked up a lighter and offered it to the dame, without as much as asking if she smoked. She shook her head.

"You could say that. What he stole might as well have been my heart. A family heirloom, plucked from right under my nose while asleep. But I woke up just as he was making his way outside," she explained, leaning back and crossing her legs.

"So, what'd this thief look like? And why come here instead of the cops?" Whiplash said, continuing his questioning.

"What he stole was stolen to begin with. That's a problem for the cops. It's not a problem for you," she stated matter-of-factly, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her crimson-red lips. "The original owner is long dead. I'm still alive, even in this miserable city."

"No different to what the politicians do," Whiplash remarked. He gave a sigh, grabbing a notepad and a pencil to write down what he could. "Some would say this entire city is stolen goods. So, his looks?"

"Jackal, or maybe a coyote. Black fur. Slender build. Like he was born to be a cat burglar," the otter recited, with a look on her face as if she was examining her memories directly. Eyes half-lidded, like she was tired. Whiplash briefly wondered if she'd look like that in bed, too. "Gold accents. He's not from around here, or my men would've recognized him."

He wasn't, but she was. Whiplash knew perfectly well who she was, even a thick layer of expertly applied makeup doing little to conceal her identity as one of the most notorious bootleggers in the city. She dealt in booze, gambling, and all the other things that men needed to keep their hearts beating in a world that increasingly felt like it didn't care for them. A necessary evil, like an injection of adrenaline to bring someone back from the dead. She didn't steal, they said. Instead, she only provided the city with the vices they desired to pay for with money they couldn't afford. An iron hand in a silk glove, ruling over her slice of the city's underworld. Her name was best left unspoken.

"You say what he stole was stolen?" Whiplash asked. "What exactly did he take?"

"A small statuette. Golden. An ushabti. Little Egyptian thing they filled the tombs of the pharaohs with, this one shaped like the god Anubis," she detailed. "Stolen, in a way. It isn't mine, no, but it wasn't the previous owner's either. Nor does it belong to the man who took it."

Whiplash got the distinct feeling that there was more to the story. Perhaps the thief was also a lover, having taken the artifact after fucking the otter into a blissful stupor. Maybe not. He wasn't going to ask, as he preferred his office without bullet holes. It didn't matter, in the end; she'd certainly reward him. Hopefully with money, though favours from one such as her would go a long way towards making some.

"Can you do it?" she asked.

"Shouldn't be too difficult. Got any leads?" he answered.

"He's likely still in the city. There are other people who have these artifacts. The museum, for one. He's staying somewhere I don't own yet," she continued. "Just beware. Women aren't the only gender he'll rob blind."

"Don't have much to steal," Whiplash commented. "I'll take the job."

Of course he would. Declining her was a quick way to get an acute case of lead poisoning, and helping her was a good way to get paid. Whiplash knew which one he preferred. It wasn't his ideal kind of job, but at least it'd keep him afloat another year. She left without as much as another job, leaving him to his work.

Already, he had some good idea where he'd find this jackal.

1939-04-02, evening

I light up a cigarette. I don't smoke, no, but one of these coffin nails provides a disguise. An excuse to loiter; to stand outside a building waiting, as long as it's smoldering between my fingers. Nobody questions a smoker trying to sate their addiction, and nobody looks at you twice. If you stand there doing nothing, people get suspicious. They start asking questions. With the smoke, they don't even notice you; you become a part of the scenery. As far as anyone's concerned, you're a different person each time.

I know the jackal's staying here. It's the perfect hotel for his kind. Big, luxurious, popular. Full of people to blend in with, and more to get drunk and question for leads. They don't ask questions either. Already the gleam of the bronze fittings they stuck to everything is fading, and in a few more years it'll be all gone as the city rot sets in. The rot criminals like him feed and encourage, with each piece of history they take.

The cold wind picks up, and I shiver, pulling my trenchcoat tighter. Yeah, it's one of those nights, the kind you only get in February, with a wind so cold you'd think it was whipped up by the devil's wings in the center of Hell. If the jackal doesn't show himself soon I'll end up looking a lot like the old bastard, frozen in front of his godforsaken hotel.

God, I don't think I've ever wanted to be inside a hotel this badly. Even boredom, drunk guests, and cheap décor are better than being outside in this cold. This car does nothing to keep me warm. Snow, there's snow. Appropriate. Wouldn't be surprised if the flurry the weather report mentioned turned into a whole blizzard.

Fortunately for Whiplash, it didn't take long after that. At the first glimpse of the jackal, he blinked, as if trying to clear his vision. His fur was so dark he looked like a gap in the shadows, a narrow view of the void floating gracefully across the hotel floor, accentuated only by the glint of gold adorning his ears and arms. This was no doubt Navah, famous cat burglar and probably more, but nobody had managed to pin the other suspicions on him, accusations sliding off his glossy fur like water off a lotus leaf. They only knew he was a cat burglar because of circumstance. There'd been an earthquake, and he'd been found trapped inside the mansion he was emptying. Even the best thief couldn't account for the unaccountable. They'd only charged him with trespassing, since he'd managed to empty his bags and pockets before they dug him out. A small fine, even if everyone knew what he was really doing. After that, they'd never caught him for anything again.

That was, of course, why the otter had hired Whiplash. A private dick didn't need the kind of justification the police did. There was nothing illegal about observing someone, as long as you didn't bother them, and there was nothing illegal about interrupting a crime in progress even if you were a civilian. He'd just have to catch him in the act. Now that he'd confirmed that the jackal was here, his target was obvious. A nearby museum was having an exhibition on ancient Egypt, featuring more than a few pieces of ancient jewellery. That was what he'd been after that one time he'd been caught, too, and the kind of items that'd been going missing all over the city. Gold-plated ankhs from collectors; ancient gemstone bracelets from museums. Even ritual masks had been taken. What interest the jackal had in them, Whiplash didn't know. Maybe he fancied himself a new god of death, Anubis reborn. The hyena didn't care, either. His job was simple. He'd catch the bastard red-handed in a photograph, and if he could, he'd bring him to the police station in cuffs, too. That was all the otter had wanted. She probably had plans of her own after that, and going by how she carried herself - that look of cold determination in her eyes - they were much less pleasant than whatever punishment the law would hand out.

Whiplash only had to wait until he left, now. From his vantage point, he had a good view of the entire parking lot, and the museum was too far to walk. The hyena's own roadster was parked there, too. It was another one of those things; the lot was only for hotel guests, but every time someone asked, he simply told them it was his, and nobody questioned if he had a room or not. He looked like he did, after all.

1939-04-02, near midnight

Yeah. I was damn near frozen stiff by the time Navah finally left the hotel. Still, even an ice sculpture could be dangerous. Beautiful one moment, then shattering into thousands of razor-sharp pieces the next. Hopefully, I'll manage this without having to shatter. Right now, I'm parked outside the museum instead. Tailed the jackal here but lost him. Still, doesn't take a genius to figure out he's going to break in sooner or later. Big, gaudy banners advertise the Egyptian exhibition. Really, normally I wouldn't care. It's all stolen artifacts, anyway, and the original owners are long-dead, as are their offspring, and their offspring in turn. But this is what my client pays me for. She probably owns half the place. Wouldn't be surprised if she ground up mummies for eternal youth the way the Victorians used to do in London.

That, and I plain don't like thieves. They bother me on a personal level. If you want to make a statement, you make a statement. If you wanted to return the artifacts to their original country, even if none of the owners remain, I'd ignore that too. Taking them for yourself only made you an even worse thief; at least at the museum, the public could study them, for however much there was to learn from old pieces of fabric and metal. Stealing from a thief didn't make you honorable, it made you a thief. And in this case, one thief was paying me, and the other wasn't.

The plan is that I'll catch him in the act here, then squeeze the location of his hoard from him using that. And then hand him over the cops anyway before my employer can get her hands on him. Nobody dies, I get paid, and I end this bizarre string of Egyptologist thefts. Seems like a win-win to me. I'll have to figure out a way to get inside, though. The jackal's scouting the place now. I expect he'll be climbing up the façade soon.

The museum was guarded by a singular cat. The exhibition wasn't a valuable one, bar for the historical value, so the city had figured one guard was enough. At least they'd picked a naturally nocturnal species. Unfortunately for them, both jackals and hyenas were nocturnal too. Whiplash wasn't much of a climber, nor flexible enough to squeeze through a half-open window without breaking it, so he leveraged what he was good at in order to get inside.

"Evening," he greeted the lone security guard. "Name's Whiplash. I'm a private investigator. Need to get inside your museum."

"Wh- no, the museum's closed. It's like..." the cat stuttered, with the look of someone who'd just been asleep with his eyes open. Whiplash realized he could've probably walked straight past the poor guy. "3 AM. No, it's _very_closed."

He had a bit of an accent. Eastern European, maybe. The hyena wasn't sure. He wasn't even sure if the cat was a fellow he. A slender little thing, employed not for their ability to scare any thieves off or wrestle them into submission, but for their big eyes and ears.

"Yeah, sweetie, I know it's closed. Didn't stop the thief from getting in," Whiplash stated. "You've not read the news? There's been a series of thefts-"

"-of Egyptian artifacts, yes," the cat sighed. They stepped out of their booth to confront the hyena directly, in a surprising act of bravery, given that they only came up to Whiplash's chest in height. "I've not seen anyone. Why don't you call the police if you think someone's inside?"

"Gonna take them too long to arrive. He'll be long gone with whatever he's after," the hyena stated. He looked the cat over. They were as androgynous as they came. Slender enough to pass as either a man or a woman, with the slightest swell in their chest. Some people didn't approve of that kind of thing, but Whiplash had seen much stranger during his time as a detective. Besides, if someone was both male and female, all it meant was they had the weaknesses of both. He took a step closer.

"Instead of worrying your cute little head about it, open the door and I'll be out of your hair. Might even see me walk out with the guy, and then you can call the cops. They'll probably have your face on the front page for saving the exhibition," he spoke. The cat seemed unconvinced, their hand twitching near the baton on their ill-fitting belt.

"I... really can't," they replied. Loyalty was an admirable trait in this day and age. In a world where everyone was out to line their own pockets, loyalty was gold. But it was liable to get you in trouble. The cat probably knew he was out of his depth already. Admirable, but stupid.

Whiplash lunged, grabbing the cat; one hand over their hips and the other over their chest. He squeezed the little thing against himself, tightly enough that he couldn't even try to reach for his weapon.

"Tell you what. You just have a little nap. I'll even lock the doors behind me, how's that sound?" he asked, in a deep, throaty tone, fingers digging into the softness of the cat's chest. They let out a little mewling moan in response.

The only difference between men and women was where you'd squeeze to make them melt. If someone was both, all it meant was they had more weaknesses. Whiplash had plenty of experience with both. With his other hand, he deftly unbuttoned the front of the cat's uniform, slipping beneath to caress his warm body.

"N-no, what are you-" they protested, only to be silenced by another high-pitched little moan as the hyena's fingers reached their most sensitive bits. Stiff _and_wet, which was about what Whiplash had expected. Poor little thing probably had some saucy dreams while napping at his post. He grasped the kitty's shaft tightly, squeezing it, and began to stroke.

"Just relax. You don't need to worry about a thing," he rumbled. Knocking someone out was easy enough, but it left marks, and more than that, it left the victim angry enough to spill the beans to the cops when they came. This way was just as effective, except nobody would admit to it. His fingers quickly grew wet with the cat's arousal as they pinched his swollen tip, rubbing it just as he would a regular woman. Sure enough, it made the guard moan again, their lithe body shivering and trembling, probably not used to being treated like this. Probably never having been touched at all.

Whiplash sped up his motions. His other hand kneaded on the cat's chest, tweaking their stiff nipples through the fabric. It only took a few moments to get the kitty thrusting into his hand, gasping for breath as the sensations quickly overwhelmed them. A shudder went through their body, and then, a slick warmth coated the hyena's hand in a quick series of throbbing jets of heat. Yep, weaknesses of both. Strengths, too, but that wasn't something Whiplash was concerned with right now. He let them ride out their quivering orgasm against his rough, experienced fingers. The cat slumped against him with a tired purr.

"There you go. Wasn't so bad, was it? Now you have a little nap while I catch the thief for you," Whiplash purred, lifting the cat up effortlessly and placing him back onto his seat in the guard booth, making sure to grab the keys to the front door at the same time. They looked so relaxed and satisfied, a dazed smile on their face, quickly drifting off into an exhausted slumber. The hyena almost felt jealous; sometimes he wished he could relax like that. Unfortunately, he had a job to do, and unlike the cat, he had more to lose than just his job. He wiped his hand on a tissue and headed inside, as quietly as he could.

1939-05-02, early morning

Museum's as cold as one of the tombs they plundered for the artifacts. I know the jackal is here somewhere, or if not, he will be. I just have to bide my time. When I think about it, I'm around royalty, here; sarcophagi and even mummies from people who were far more important than I'll ever be. Probably more important than anyone in this city. Gods, even. Fat lot of good that did them, they're dead all the same.

Can't believe what I had to do to get in here. Then again, the poor cat probably needed the relief. Came like a firehose, all over my hand, just from a bit of a rub. Then again, I have always been good with my hands. Might as well take it as a compliment. Left me a bit stiff myself. If only we'd met at a bar, or anywhere but here, and I might've done something more. That's the life of a detective for you, though. Everyone you want to meet is someone who specifically doesn't want to meet you. The task at hand, then. I have to find the jackal, tie him up, and deliver him. Not sure if I'll deliver him to the cops or the otter though. She didn't specify, as long as she got her statue back. Worthless junk, even if made of gold, is hardly worth a life.

Could've sworn I heard something just then. Nothing, now. I wouldn't be surprised if it was ghosts. Now, where's Navah's point of entry? He's hardly going to walk through the front door like I did. A window, maybe, but none of them are open. Most of them can't even be opened. Wouldn't do to have these royal mummies freeze in the cold February air, would it? Of course, an expert burglar like him could easily make his way through. Could probably break one without making a sound too. But the people on the street say he never leaves any traces; nothing except the absence of whatever he was after.

So, that leaves one option. If he's not getting in through the front or from above, he'll becoming from the back. Those doors are probably easy to pick. Could stand there and grab him the moment he enters, but... call it unprofessional, but I want to see what he's after. The wind's howling outside, now, snow whipping down. Probably going to throw a spanner in his plans, too. Won't be any traffic going in or out of the city for a while. Means that once I catch him, I'll have plenty of time to question him.

Whiplash heard something rustle again and stashed his journal away. Sure enough, in the back; the tell-tale sound of a lock being picked. Quiet. If it wasn't for the fact that he'd done it a few times himself, he would've thought it to be a mouse, scurrying about, or the wind rattling a window latch. Instead, he pressed himself flush against a wall, steadying his breathing.

In a few more moments, the back door swung open as if welcoming an old friend. There was the slightest creak, and then an immediate pause, as long as a deep breath. Then, the door opened all the way, and Whiplash could hear the softest footsteps, barely audible at all, across the dusty floor, before the door closed just as quietly.

Navah. It had to be; nobody moved that silently unless they didn't want to be heard, and nobody at the museum would have need to be so quiet, bar for a thief. Though not as agile as his target, Whiplash was experienced enough with moving silently, and so, the moment he saw that dark silhouette - once more blending into the shadows - he followed. Navah moved with the certainty of someone who knew exactly where he was going, and Whiplash followed him as a hunter stalked its prey. No doubt the jackal had been here as a visitor before, scouting out where the items he was after were kept. The valuables were locked away in safes overnight, but the hyena already knew that Navah wasn't here for material gain. No, it was something else. Some personal fancy for artifacts of ancient Egypt, or even a superstition about their powers. Perhaps he sought eternal life, as many men did. Some said the ankhs would grant it. That was not the case, of course. Nobody lived forever, but it was a comforting lie.

Navah walked past the exhibits, his large and sensitive ears constantly swivelling to make sure he was still alone, and each time they twitched, Whiplash froze again, until the jackal finally came to a still, standing in front of a glass display. Inside was a small army of those ushabti. Whiplash had looked them up while waiting for a lead; they were supposed to guard tombs, and advice and help the dead in whatever rituals they needed to perform. Why Navah wanted them he couldn't tell. Perhaps it was merely a matter of a private collection. A shrine to the god the jackal so resembled. Just a few seconds longer, now, so that he'd know which of them he was after. Navah couldn't carry more than one, maybe two; the ushabti were hefty things.

Silently, Navah placed his bag of tools on the ground and fished out a strange-looking knife. Whiplash only recognized it as a knife for its purpose; without a moment of hesitation, Navah pressed it against the display case, and with a low sound like someone grinding their teeth while stuck in a nightmare, it easily began to make a groove in the glass.

So occupied was the jackal by this that the hyena could sneak closer. Only a few steps. His bulky frame wasn't designed for stealth the way the jackal's was, but even the most sensitive of ears suffered the weakness of sounds covering other sounds. Soon he was close enough that he could pounce, half-hidden behind another display case. The glass soon gave way, and Navah caught the falling piece effortlessly, resting it on the floor as he reached in.

It was almost impressive, the way he worked. No, scratch that, it _was_impressive. Each of his motions seemed calculated and yet natural, as if he'd done this a thousand times. Just as when he had picked the lock, there was so little noise that someone could've been standing in the next room and not suspected a thing. No wonder he'd gotten away with it for so long. Yet, now the jackal's luck had ran out; he's crossed the wrong person, the kind who could and would spend their vast resources on vengeance and retribution, and as a result, Whiplash was on his tail.

The moment Navah's fingers closed around one of the ushabti - indeed one shaped as a jackal, a rarity as far as Whiplash could tell - he pounced. A few, loud steps across the marbled floor. This, Navah hadn't featured in his calculations. He spun around, eyes wide as he saw the hyena barrelling towards him, and set off running. Well, he tried to; his hand, still inside the case, caught on the blunt edges of the glass just enough that by the time he was free of it a split second later, the hyena's shoulder struck him. The impact sent him off balance, and he fell, thankfully not against the display case but against a nearby door. With their weight combined, the door's hinges splintered and they both went tumbling down, sliding for a meter or so on the slick floor. The impact left the jackal wheezing, but Whiplash, living in this city, was used to taking blows. That, and it was the thief that'd absorbed most of the impact. He managed to scramble on top of Navah, using his weight to make sure he couldn't run.

"End of the road for you, jackal," Whiplash grunted, pinning the smaller male's chest against the floor. Squirm as he might, Navah wasn't strong enough to break free, and far too winded to even try. In his eyes was the look of someone fighting back panic by trying to think his way out of a predicament, like a mountain climber who had just lost his grip and had only one chance to regain it before a mile-long fall on jagged cliffside. "Don't worry, you'll have prison guards keep you safe. Better them than these statuettes."

"I have a better idea," the jackal replied. "I do you a favor and you let me go."

"Yeah? What favor is that? You happen to have a million dollars on you?" Whiplash asked. He wasn't entirely opposed to the idea, as long as the payment was enough to get him a permanent vacation in the Bahamas, or perhaps in Finland; somewhere as far from this miserable hellhole of a city as possible. It was, however, very much a mere idea. A thief like Navah wouldn't have the means.

Navah didn't reply. Not with words; rather, he pushed back against the hyena, nudging his rump just against his crotch. Whiplash cursed under his breath, feeling himself stiffen rather eagerly against the warmth of the jackal's body grinding against him. It had been quite a while...

"Hard-boiled detectives like you need relief, I think," he murmured, with his breath steadying when he felt the effect he was having, suggesting that the hyena was at least receptive to what he was offering. "I'll give you that, and then we go our different ways. I'll leave the artifact..."

"...and the others?" Whiplash asked. His haunches twitched as he fought the urge to thrust, deep-set as it was in every man. Navah had a sensual scent about himself, something like dry figs and desert heat, with a distinct masculine note to it despite his rather androgynous build. That didn't make resisting any easier.

"They're in a safe place. Let me up, I won't run. Not without my tools, which I can't reach from here anyway," the smooth-talking jackal continued. "Those things were expensive, you know."

"Not like you'll need the tools in prison. You should be happy that I'm not taking you to the last person you stole from," Whiplash grunted. "She might put those tools to use extracting the truth from you instead."

"Mm. It was a calculated risk. You're the unknown variable," Navah spoke. He kept squirming, and much to Whiplash's chagrin he was soon fully hard, his length tenting the fabric of his black jeans. Eventually, with a sigh, he got off the jackal, though not before snapping a handcuff over his wrist, securing the other end to himself.

"Clever. But really, I won't run," he purred. His amethyst eyes glimmered even in the dim light, as if reflecting something the hyena couldn't even perceive. "A good rogue always takes care of his tools..." he added, with a suggestive glance towards the hyena's bulge.

"Rogue, now? You're only a common thief," Whiplash snorted. "Exactly what this city doesn't need more of. We'll wait until morning. I can't drag you through the blizzard and I doubt the cops would come either. Not until it clears up."

"Exactly. Which means that you'll have plenty of time to enjoy me," Navah grinned. "Then we'll see if you still think of me as a common thief."

"If you try anything I'm leaving you cuffed here until the museum opens tomorrow," the hyena replied. "I doubt these statuettes make for good company."

"You'd be surprised," Navah grinned. It was an unsettling sight; the way his fur barely reflected any light put a disconcerting amout of emphasis on his sharp fangs.

Whiplash heaved him into a nearby chair. The room they'd broken into was some kind of office, it seemed, dusty and unused, with furniture from twenty years ago, with enough wood to make a forest jealous. Finally, he pulled up another chair and sat down himself, taking a well-deserved break from the action.

There was a small light on the desk. Might as well. He flicked the switch, and the sight of the dust they'd kicked up in their brief struggle swirling in the weak beam of light made him cough. It did, however, illuminate the jackal fully.

He was handsome, there was no denying it. A little more masculine than the guard Whiplash had "taken care of" earlier, but not much. Taller, with narrow shoulders and slender hands, as if nature itself had conspired to give him a career on the wrong side of the law. Yet, it was still his choice to embrace it, Whiplash reminded himself. Navah was dressed in skin-tight leather, just as black as his fur. A vest with countless pockets, some of them no doubt hidden, and tight pants that'd protect his legs while too snug to catch on anything. He was, certainly, a professional.

"Like what you see?" Navah grinned. Having gotten over the shock of being caught, he had turned on the charm at full blast. He massaged his arm around the cuff. "Wouldn't be the first time I get cuffed to a big, manly hyena. Usually, though..." he trailed off.

"Yes? Usually what?" Whiplash replied.

"Usually they're the ones being restrained," Navah replied with another flash of his sharp fangs. He let that thought simmer for a few silent minutes before standing up, smoothly, with recovered grace, and then introducing himself to the hyena's lap so the two were sitting very intimately, face to face, in the darkened room. His scent tickled Whiplash's nose again.

"If you're hoping to get the key, it ain't here," the hyena growled. "And you're not escaping if you have to drag me with you."

"Oh, I'd hardly resort to such things," Navah replied. Despite his dark countenance, he was warm to the touch. A warmth that the hyena had felt only moments ago, though not this intimately. The kind of warmth his body sorely missed, a rarity in this unfeeling city where everyone sought profit over intimacy. The jackal was no different, of course; he was planning his escape, somehow. It had an undeniable effect on the hyena regardless, the same way a dream might, even if it wasn't real. "Relax. Enjoy this. It feels like you need it."

He did need it. There was no denying it. He needed it like a starving man needed food, or a desert wanderer needed water. His cock was achingly hard at the slightest hint of getting to sink into the jackal, thief or not. Always busy with work, he hadn't had much time to pursue anything resembling love or affection. Not that any could be found here. As such, Whiplash didn't protest then Navah, straddling his lap, reached to free his manhood from the tight grip of his pants. The thief's fingers wrapped around it, and he groaned, even that little touch electrifying to his senses, sending one of those familiar, pleasurable jolts of lust through his body.

"You caught me, after all. This is the reward you get," Navah grinned. His grip tightened, and his free hand deftly unbuttoned his own pants.

"My reward will be handing you over to the authorities and getting paid," Whiplash grunted, though his hips bucked into the jackal's touch.

"Maybe. But I like giving the ones skilled enough to catch me something more," he replied, with a warm breath as he positioned the hyena's shaft against his pucker.

"You're saying you get caught, nnf, often?" Whiplash replied, his cock throbbing with anticipation, feeling the tight heat tease at his glans.

"You're the first," Navah answered. With that, he sunk down, an inch perhaps, impaling himself on the hyena's engorged shaft with a pleasured groan. An inch, maybe two, engulfing the hyena in a swirl of pleasure as he felt that tightness embrace his cock.

He could resist no longer, thrusting deeper into the jackal. As much as he disapproved of his "career", there was no denying that he felt amazing. Maybe he'd just gone without this for too long. It didn't matter. Every inch was bliss, and he was twitching and throbbing wildly in response. Knowing that he was the first to catch this rogue massaged his ego just the same, even if he wasn't entirely convinced of the jackal telling the truth. His whole life revolved around deception, at least until he had everything he needed.

Still, the pleasure was true. As was the mark he'd be leaving, warm and sticky, deep inside his slender body. Suddenly, it made perfect sense how easily the guard had surrendered to him. It wasn't just them, either, but everyone in this city, starved for any kind of physicality, any kind of personal warmth. He glanced down, and caught the jackal's own shaft bouncing as he slipped deeper yet, proudly and shamelessly erect, a clear drop of his arousal forming at the tip.

Ah, fuck it. He can explain why he's full of cum to the cops. It's not my problem, Whiplash told himself, and grabbed the jackal's hips. With a powerful thrust, he hilted inside the thief, and the two moaned in unison at the sweet sensations of carnal fulfilment. The pleasure surged through him already, wresting away control of his toned body, all his attention focused on that singular need. It seemed the jackal felt it too, gyrating his hips with a focused look of lust on his narrow muzzle; perhaps he needed it just as much as the hyena did. The blizzard howling outside lent an almost romantic feeling to it all, or at least, a convincing facsimile of romance.

That was all he really needed.

Soon they were rocking together, their bodies working in perfect harmony despite the opposition of their minds only moments before. Every moment of it felt smooth and natural, necessary even, and as the sensations grew slicker with each pulse of precum and warmer with each moment of growing desire and need, they filled the room with growls and grunts of pleasure.

"Mm. Who would've thought you'd be so into a rogue?" Navah purred, evidently unable to contain himself as he felt the hyena swell and twitch inside him, responding with deliberately squeezes around that wonderful rigidity.

"I- I don't know why you don't want to go to prison given that you like this," the hyena growled back. He was thrusting steadily now, bouncing the jackal on his lap. The mismatched lovers were entirely caught in the tides of pleasure, working single-mindedly towards the orgasmic relief their stressful careers demanded. It was almost tantric, in a tight, pressured rhythm.

"The most attractive men don't go to prison," Navah replied. "Nor do detectives skilled enough to catch me."

It felt almost as if half the point of his nocturnal burglary was as to pose a challenge. To see who was worthy of laying with him. In this city, it didn't even rank among the ten strangest motivations, the hyena thought. Then again, he was biased; he didn't want the pleasure to ever end, even though he could already feel his own orgasm approaching. The pleasure was building to an inevitable climax. It'd only be the briefest glance of heaven, a lingering touch of paradise, and then he'd crash down into the grime of the city once more. It'd feel worse, then, having been shown the contrast between dizzying heights of pleasure and the drudgery of everyday life, but equally, it was a price worth paying. It was, after all, better to have loved and lost, than...

"Do it," Navah growled. He moved on the hyena's cock with breathless determination, each motion pre-planned and calculated, if not by intellect, then by instinct. His hips swayed, and his own knot was swollen.

"You first," Whiplash countered. Even in his lustful trance, he retained enough control over himself to wrap his fingers around the jackal's rock-hard length. It felt, despite the stiffness like silk against his palm. Unyielding masculine hardness wrapped in sensual, slick heat. He began to stroke, despite already feeling his own seed welling up, ready to erupt into his law-breaking lover. The jackal shuddered, losing his rhythm, arching his back like a cat in heat.

It was a brief attempt at dominance and gaining the upper hand, but in the heat of the moment, it came too late. In only a few more frantic, desperate thrusts, bounces, and bucks, both males went over the edge near simultaneously. Beautiful euphoria washed over the detective as his orgasm came almost violently, and he thrusted, roughly, into the jackal's eager body. An observer might've thought them true lovers, rather than two rivals satisfying a mutual need, with how passionately their claws raked over each other, with how the jackal's jaws caught the hyena's shoulder in the throes of passion and he pressed himself tightly against the big hyena, feeling his heat blossom inside him.

At the same time, he was painting the detective's spotty chest with thick pulses of his own cum. Evidence he rarely left behind, warmly soaking into the hyena's fur, as undeniable carnal proof of their union. He drew a sharp, jagged breath, _savoring_the fading throbs and muted heat inside him. Then it was over, that brief surging peak of purest pleasure. Reality reasserted itself. The two lovers slumped down in the worn office chair.

Neither said a word. Not because of any awkwardness, but because of contentedness. Nothing needed to be said. Tomorrow could wait, with whatever their choices their respective careers would force upon then. That night, in a dusty museum in the middle of the blizzard, they slept as lovers.

In the morning, Whiplash stirred awake only to find Navah gone. The rogue had somehow managed to squeeze his hand out of the cuff. He must've dislocated his thumb to do so, Whiplash surmised. Beyond the dry remains of last night's passions, the jackal had left him with a token of his defeat, however; in his lap was a statuette of seemingly solid gold. The item he'd stolen from the otter, it had to be. That meant that while the thief hadn't been caught, he'd at least avoid the otter's wrath for letting the jackal slip between his fingers. A surprisingly respectful gesture.

The blizzard had ended overnight. Soon enough the museum would open. Whiplash made himself scarce long before then, closing the broken door behind himself as well as he could; hopefully, by the time anyone noticed it, it'd be too late to connect it to anything in particular. On a whim, sure enough, the ushabti from the museum's display case was gone. Had that, then, been his true goal all along? If so, why had he stolen from the otter to begin with? A desire for a challenge, perhaps - or an incomprehensibly convoluted scheme to find someone worthy of mating with?

Whatever that jackal wanted with those things I'll never know, he scribbled in his journal while waiting for his next target to make a move, several days later. Everyone has their own obsessions, I guess, he added, after a few moments of thinking. Alongside a set of universal needs. The kinds we satisfied together. Maybe their paths would cross again. Maybe not. Either way, the following weeks seemed a little brighter for the detective, as he returned to his life, like a glowing ember of satisfaction remained inside him, reminding him that there was still pleasure, fleeting as it may have been, even in this gritty age.