Thief

     Tate Jarvis sat reclined in his non-reclining chair, feet propped up on the wall, the digital clock above his head silently counting seconds.  On slow, late nights at the precinct just like this, he sometimes imagined it could still tick like analog clocks used to.  The way he figured, technological "advancements" for such trivial and mundane objects like clocks were just a guise, hiding their gears and hands which performed the task of telling time just as well as any LED lights could.  Obviously there were no actual gears in the electronic clock, but pretending there were helped Tate make sense of how the silent clockface could still speak to without its ticking voice.  As the otter stared up at the unmoving red lights forming numbers, he decided to himself that his entire train of thought was the product of a caffeine crash and that if he didn't ingest some coffee within the next hour his brain wouldn't be much use to anyone pinned to this investigation.
     Spinning the wheeled chair back to face his desk, Tate dropped his feet back to the ground and exhaled heavily, clearing his head.  He rubbed his eye and blinked, looking down at the stack of papers and folders guarding his workspace, reading off random snippets of information written in his own hand in all manner of ink pen, marker and highlighter.  It made him happy in a way that he was as stumped as he was, since he knew once he and his team finally worked things out it would feel all the more gratifying to finally close the lid on the case.  Tapping a clawed finger on his sad, empty little mug, Tate began debating what bean machine would be responsible for resurrecting him and how far he would have to drag his corpse to get to it, when the cell phone in his pocket began to vibrate. 
     Having only a vague idea of who might be calling him this late, he glanced briefly at the landline phone sitting on his desk before stuffing his paw into his pocket and drawing out the chirring device.  The screen read "LANCE WADE".  Why his senior partner was using a private line was beyond him, but Tate shrugged it off and flipped the phone open, putting the receiver to his ear and rubbing his forehead.
     "Yeah, what is it Wade?"
     Static prevailed on the other end for a few brief moments before it dissipated, and the husky, excited voice of an older horse became audible.  "--Seen anything like it in my fu--ife, you better get down here as soon--ossible!  Already ph--oroner, but I doubt he'll be able to figure it out neither."
     Tate sighed and stood, stretching for his jacket.  "Your reception is terrible right now, where did you say you were?"
     "Pier 19, Warehouse B, come quick and--" There was a hiss of static, and then a friendly blip.  His faithful phone informing Tate that it had dropped the call.
     The tired otter threw his arms loosely into the sleeves of the jacket and dropped the phone back into his pocket, scooping his keys off the desk.  It was a good half hour drive, he thought to himself.  Plenty of coffee shops along the way to choose from.

     The bass-heavy music shook the walls and floor, laser-lights flashing all around Henry, disorienting him.  Silhouettes of other creatures danced before him, grinding and bouncing off one another, their jewelry and glowsticks drawing all the light away from their faces.  It was the otter's first time in a club, and the fact that it was one for gays didn't at all sweeten the deal.  He shifted uncomfortably in the zebra-striped velvet booth, head lowered.  A spotted furry arm snaked over his neck and draped itself over his shoulder, dragging him closer to its owner, causing Henry to lean awkwardly in his seat.  The jaguar next to him grinned drunkenly, laying a paw on his thigh dangerously close to his crotch.  "Come on sugar, I know you know you want to, and everyone here is tired of you playing hard to get.  Get that tight butt out there and mingle already!"
     Henry just shook his head, paws knotted in his lap.  "Nuh-uh."
     His feline friend, Sean, raised his paw until it hovered in front of Henry's face, before clamping down over his eyes, obscuring his vision completely.  "Raise your arm, point in any direction, and I can pick out any three who would be glad to share you between them.  You can't stay a virgin forever, I won't allow it!"
     Henry pulled his head away, huffing and frowning.  "I don't want any three--I don't even want one!  I'm not gay yet, and its easy enough to keep it that way as long as I do exactly the opposite of what you tell me to."
     Sean just grinned again, pinching the otter's cheek affectionately.  "Then be sure not to go out to my car and open the trunk, and definitely do NOT strip down, because you totally DON'T want to put on the skirt you find in there..."  He giggled and jerked his paw back before Henry could slap it away.
     "For someone who wants to assimilate me so badly, you're really doing a shitty job of persuading me," Henry grumbled.  Sean pouted and thought to himself a moment, head bobbing to the music. 
     "Alright then Mr. Slippy," he sighed, flattening his ears. "I'll be serious for a minute.  If you can go out there, find someone cute, and give him a big wet smooch, I'll--" he drew back, voice raising as Henry's fist came into view, "--I'LL PAY for the hotel room.  You're getting your cherry popped one way or the other tonight, and the best I can do for you is let you choose who does it." 
     Henry relented, lowering his fist.  It wasn't true that he didn't want anyone--he knew already he was gay, and being the honest person he was he didn't want to keep lying to himself about it.  In fact, he was tremendously excited about tonight, almost sick over it.  That didn't mean his inhibitions automatically took backseat, though, as was evident by his outward behavior.  He was glad to have a friend like Sean, who could see through his act and bring his true self into the light.  Henry just wished he weren't so...
     "Oh, and here, you'll want this!"  A packaged condom dropped from above Henry's head, zooming down past his eyes and landing square in his groin.  He whimpered and plucked it up between two fingers, standing and shoving it into his back pocket.  Sean snickered and swatted the otter's ass.  "Get some tighter jeans too, you wanna draw attention to this--a skinny thing like you, it's your strongest asset...heh, get it?"
     Henry scooted sideways out of the booth, trembling visibly.  There was no buffer zone between the table and the dance floor--as soon as he stepped foot out of Sean's reach, he was on his own.  He took a deep breath and slipped out, squeezing in between two turned backs and wriggling his way as far out into the crowd as possible.  It was a good thing he was as young as he was--short and skinny, modest attire, he could remain undetected, even as surrounded as he was.  He spend several minutes scanning over faces and bodies, each more colorful, flamboyant and bedecked with piercings than the next.  As he searched he began to make sense of why they all liked this obnoxious music--it forced its way into his chest and made his heart thump, blurring his distinction between his excitement and nervousness.  It made him wish he could enjoy this.
     Eventually Henry found his way to the fringe of the mob, where the bodies were less packed, and features were easier to make out.  He had almost resigned himself to the idea of having to choose someone by closing his eyes and snatching them out of the crowd, when his gaze wandered over a pronounced bulge in a pair of slacks.  The sight made him wince, imagination sparked as he struggled to catch a breath.  His eyes traveled up, over the unfastened bottom button of the male's shirt, over the dark fur revealed therein, climbing upward to meet the face.  And what a face--the german shephard's muzzle sported a casual grin, thick eyebrows curved in smug approval of what the gorgeous hazel eyes saw before them.  A tuft of black hair arched over his forehead, flaring out behind his ears and neck like wings.
     Henry stood stock still, staring with mouth agape.  It was a face he could look at for the rest of his life.  The face of a thief, sent to steal his innocence.
     With heartbreaking resolve, he reluctantly tore his gaze away and looked back over his shoulder.  Sean was sitting hunched in the same booth, watching his every move, tailtip twitching above the lip of the table.  He knew Henry had found the one at exactly the same moment Henry did.  There wasn't any going back now.
     Turning his attention back to the beautiful dog, Henry clasped his paws together over his tailbase as if to protect himself, and advanced towards his target.  Every step he took pushed his thudding heart higher up in his chest until it pounded in his throat, causing his mouth to water.  Faster than he had anticipated, he was standing next to the handsome beast, the swishing tail curved up behind him.  It was like a switch was flipped, completely shutting down any semblance of logical thinking his mind may have been processing.  Henry stood on his toes, hopping to reach the tall canine's height, planting a small, quick peck on his cheek.
     His heart skipped a beat when the shepherd stiffened, head spinning to see who had violated his space.  It took a moment for him to look down and spot Henry, arms behind his back and blushing profusely, avoiding eye contact.  If that wasn't bad enough, the dog's entire body turned to parallel his own, a paw slipping under Henry's jawline to raise his head.  When his eyes met the shepherd's, his heart skipped another beat, then two, before returning in full force, pounding on his chest cavity so hard he feared it would burst through.  Thief's look of surprise shifted, melting into a warm, fanged smile, entire visage radiating heavenly light.  He understood, without having to ask a single question, and he descended upon  Henry.
     His muzzle brushed over the otter's sensitive whiskers, causing him to squeak inaudibly, and his lips made first contact, fusing themselves to Henry's.  The canine tongue slipped in unchallenged, sliding over the otter's, teasing it knowingly.  It wound itself around every tingling, aching inch, hot and wet, tasting of apple and nectar, intoxicating his senses.  His eyes closed and his legs evaporated--yet he still stood, unaware that Thief had his arms wrapped around him, keeping him held upright, terrifyingly close to his own body.  It proved to be too much for him, and he surrendered himself fully, diving headfirst into the raging river, too caught up in his own spiritual release to recognize the simple fact that he was experiencing the best moment of his entire life thus far.
     When Henry emerged from the torrent, and caught a lungful of air, only a small part of him realized the thief was speaking to him, whispering seductively into his ear, the words lost in the blaring noise around him.  Without knowing or caring what they stood for he nodded, knowing that no matter what he had just been told it was undoubtedly the absolute best thing he could have possibly heard at that moment in time.  The shepherd took his arm, leading him away from the mob, from the speakers, towards the illuminated exit.  Henry caught Sean out of the corner of his eye, the jaguar bouncing up to the two, giddy beyond restraint.  There was a brief exchange of words between the canine and feline, and the otter glimpsed a flash of green paper passing from Sean's paw to Thief's.  He smiled dreamily, only briefly, before the world of flashing lights was suddenly flipped, and he was lifted from the ground, footpaws dangling in the air.
     Thief carried the small male out the door with minimal effort, the humidity smacking Henry in the face, warning signs of an oncoming storm washing over him.  He refused to let himself say anything, to make any sound, lest he ruin this moment forever.  Instead he closed his eyes, letting the dog think speak and act for him, while his senses recovered themselves.  Hearing came first, as Sean's voice, dripping with honey, carried over the sound of thunder rumbling in the distance.
     "Be careful with him, love, I promised him the first time would be special!  And don't lose him either, his brother's a cop!"

2

     Tate cursed himself for not possessing the gift of foresight, as he had neglected to keep an umbrella in his car.  The rain had hit as soon as he had arrived at the pier, pounding his windshield with deafening force, his range of vision reduced to little more than a few feet in front of him.  He reached around and searched his backseat blindly, finding the yellowed protective shades he used at the shooting range.  Even if he got soaked at least he would be able to see somewhat.  He sucked down the bitter dregs of an overly sweetened coffee before shoving open the door and stepping out into the downpour.
     The shadowy figure of his partner stood a few feet from his parked car, a glowing cherry floating ghostlike in front of his muzzle, rising smoke barely visible.  Lance apparently knew something Tate had not, as the hood of a raincoat was pulled over his head, the grizzled equine staring back at the otter as he approached.
     "'Bout time you got here.  I was starting to worry."  Lance had a gravelly, monotonous voice that failed to convey any kind of emotion or urgency.  Sarcasm, though, seemed to translate beautifully.
     "Had to chase down a dragon who promised eternal youth.  The hell is so important?"  Tate fixed the eyewear over his muzzle, wiping excess precipitation.
      "Like I said, never seen nothin' like it in my life.  Not in my whole fuckin' life."  The horse almost never swore, and despite its trivial symbolism, it still set Tate's nerves on edge.  "Loading crew of the Ave Maria found it a couple hours ago.  Pulled into port yesterday afternoon, had to double back tonight after some errors were logged on the manifest."
     "...So...what is it?"  Tate had long ago come to the conclusion that Lance intentionally acted the jaded, burnt-out cop, always preaching about the immoral nature of everyone around him and all the twisted things he had seen in his career--which only made this current tight-lipped behavior all the more unnerving.
     Lance just took another long drag on his cigarette.  Tate could see his hands shaking.
     Eventually the ash fell, burning the horses's fingers.  He wiped it away and gestured over his shoulder.  "Like I said, its in the warehouse.  I ain't going back in that damned place."
     Tate couldn't imagine what had gotten the senior detective so upset.  After all those years in the business, he had to have seen more than a few unforgettable things--and if he had called a coroner before he'd called his own partner, Tate wasn't so sure he wanted to see what was in the warehouse.
     "Why don't I just...wait for the coroner to get here and...uh, take a look at the photos he snaps?"  Tate wiped his shades again, more to appear nonchalant than to clear away water.
     Lance spat and shook his head.  "Won't matter neither way."  He said nothing else, rubbing the cigarette filter under his thumb.
     Tate took a few breaths to sooth his nerves, looking past the diamond-wire fence at the partially illuminated building.  A single lamp hung above its entryway door, which had been left ajar.  Whatever was in there, he told himself, he knew it couldn't hurt him, and if it couldn't hurt him it shouldn't be an object of fear.  His stomach twisted a bit, but pawing his holstered pistol boosted his confidence immensely, and he nodded to himself resolutely.  Tightening his jacket, he pulled his heavy flashlight from his belt and walked forward, past the open fence and towards the doorway.
     "You'll know it when you see it," Lance called after him, just as Tate reached the door.  He clicked the light on, raised the fogged yellow shades, and stepped inside.
     A good thing for it too, he surmised, as the only light in the expansive structure shone from his paw.  Water ran off him in rivulets onto the concrete, and he ruffled his hair and facefur to dry faster.  A single step in had him bumping into a metal guardrail--the flashlight's beam was painfully narrow and he didn't much feel like searching in the dark for a staircase.  Tate hefted himself up onto the railing and turned around, lowering himself down and dropping into the blackness.  It was a shorter drop than he expected, as raising the light revealed himself to be face level with the concrete slab he had just stood on.  Shivering slightly, he slowly turned himself back to face the darkness, the sound of the rain outside unable to penetrate the yawning black.
     Several quick turns left and right, and Tate gathered he was standing outside a maze of large metal shipping containers.  He tightened his grip on the cold metal, his own breathing almost painful to listen to.  Wiping his nose of moisture, the otter treaded carefully between the closest row of crates, deciding dutifully that whatever was worth seeing must be close by, inferring as much from Lance's statement.  His footsteps echoed around him, a trail of water dripping from his tail as he went.  The beam of light bounced off of seemingly endless containers, each of them closed off and padlocked.  It was only a few yards in, however, when he saw it--a crate like all the others, but ominous in its presence merely for the fact that it was unlocked and open wide.
     Tate halted before it, keeping the light low, half-expecting some kind of monster to leap out at him were he to raise it too high.  He sniffed, toying at his holster again, before approaching the waiting container, bringing the light up to peer inside. 
     The sight that greeted him surprised and scared him more than any spectre or monster could--in that it the contents of the container looked completely harmless and uninteresting, completely catching him off guard.  Stacks of smaller wooden crates, lining the insides, stamped with the name of whatever company and country they had originated from.  Tate blinked, scanning over the crates thoroughly, expecting something horrifying but seeing only wood paneling.  His interests were soon enough piqued though, as one crate off to the side, near the lip of the container, had fallen from its perch, the warped wooden lid on the floor before it.  He padded forward until he stood parallel to the crate, shining the light down into it.
     At first glance, it looked like a simple shipment of wrapped fish, the glare off the shrinkwrapped plastic obscuring what appeared to be only reddish scales.  Tate frowned, the direct beam from his flashlight obviously preventing him from seeing beyond initial appearances, and he laid it to the side, the diverted glow washing over the plastic.  It was only then that he knew exactly what ghastly apparition rested here, and he snatched the light back up, stumbling backwards in a moment of sharp nauseating terror, replaced soon after with a dull, throbbing unease that tickled at his spine, urging him to return back to his partner, back to the populated world.  Tate took several panicked breaths, turning away from the container, breaking into a full run all the way back to the elevated concrete walkway.  He pulled himself up hastily, climbing the rail like a ladder and throwing himself over.
     It took a few minutes for his breating to calm and his pulse to slow, his stomach churning and head aching from overstimulated nerves.  Tate shivered violently, fearing he would vomit, and regretting that he didn't.  He pushed the door open fully and stepped back into the driving rain, almost forgetting to drop the eyewear back down.  There was no way he was getting any sleep tonight, he lamented as headlights glided into view beyond the fence.  At least he wouldn't be needing any more coffee to keep himself awake for the work ahead.

     Lightning flickered in the clouds above, sprinkles dashing Henry's face, causing him to blink.  He felt lightheaded, weak, all the strength in his body having been sapped by the thief, seemingly fueling the shepherd as he carried the otter all the way into the hotel and up the stairs.  Thief had taken the liberty of leaving Henry in the car as he went inside to pay, so as to be able to carry him directly up to the room without interruption.  The romance was not lost on the young male, despite his weakened state and shoddy thought process.  Each stair climbed quickened the rate of his beating heart, his mouth confusingly dry and salivating at the same time, an uncomfortable pressure stretching at his jeans.  Thief said nothing the whole trip, but Henry could almost hear him grinning, his tail wagging.
     Finally, when it seemed he would die from embarassment at having been carried such a distance like a sleepy pup, he heard an electronic whirring and lock change, the hallway ceiling above him shifting to a wallpapered room.  The entire journey from the club he had refused to lay eyes on his captor, until this moment, when he was laid gently upon the bedspread and Thief climbed atop him, fixing his gaze on Henry, trapping him in those pools of glistening amber.  The tuft of black hair hung low, brushing over Henry's forehead, tickling it.
     "I don't think I can wait much longer, boy...better give me my answer, quick..."
     It was the first time Henry had truly heard Thief speak, his words lost in the music at the club earlier.  The sound tightened his chest and pants alike, hushed, lightly accented, and oozing with amorous intent.  He held his breath, confused, unsure of what to say.  To his despair he waited to long, and he opened his mouth to speak and breathe simultaneously.
     "Guhhh...!"
     The canine smiled devilishly, raising himself up on all fours above Henry, tail twirling behind him.
     "Certainly never expected a name like that...what an interesting family you must hail from..."
     Henry flattened his ears, struggling to speak, but managing only a whisper.  "I don't remember you asking that..."
     Thief cocked his head to the side.  "At the club, my offer.  I said all you had to do was give me your name and I would take care of the rest."
     Henry was sure his reddened cheeks were visible beneath his fur.  "I...it's Henry...Jarvis..."
     Thief kept smiling that smile, and Henry knew his heart would give out any second.  "Very nice to meet you, love...I wager my first guess was right on the money, then?"
     The otter swallowed hard, working to figure out what the shepherd was talking about.  "Your guess...that I'm, uh...it's my..."
     "That it's your...first...time?"  Thief chuckled.  "By the way you're dressed, I don't suppose you were advertising yourself too much...though I suppose it's a good thing you found me when you did before someone of unsavory character stole you away from me forever..."
     Henry wanted to look away, pretend to be uncomfortable, knowing every second he spent staring up at the larger male he gave away another piece of himself, revealing more of who he was.
     "I'm thinking to myself...you came out to him a few weeks--no, days ago, and he did what any good friend would do by taking you 'shopping...'"  Thief lowered himself, drawing his paw up to Henry's collar, hooking a claw under to unfasten the top button of his shirt. The distance between their bodies was shrinking too fast for him to comprehend, and he had to ask:
     "How do you know all this?"  He mentally chided himself, unable to keep the childish wonder from his voice.
     "Same way I know..."  Thief's other arm had slipped from view, and Henry couldn't help but squeak as he felt the heavy paw cupping his rump, over his back pocket.  "...where you're hiding this..."  The shepherd pulled away, raising the condom up between their muzzles.  "Your friend told me."
     Henry groaned, feeling incredibly stupid upon hearing this, as it was so painfully obvious.  Thief chuckled yet again, and worked on prying open each button in turn, until the otter's chestfur was exposed.  "No, I don't claim to have any kind of magical powers over virgins...though apparently, that's not the case with you."  The dog dipped his muzzle, nosing over the creamy bellyfur before pulling back the fabric to drag his rough, wet tongue over a nipple.  Henry gasped, claws digging into the beadspread, heart trilling gleefully in his ribcage. 
     "In fact, I'm willing to bet that money your friend gave me that not only will you do every little thing..."  Thief pulled open the rest of the shirt, pushing the sleeves down Henry's arms towards his wrists and tugging it out from under them to toss it away.  "...that I tell you to do, but when everything is said and done..." Now he was playing with the otter's waistband, testing the elastic, the integrity of the zipper that stood as his last line of defense against external forces.  "...You'll beg me for more, won't you, Henry..?"
     Their eye contact still had not been severed, and there was only one conceivable course of action he could take--he raised his head those last few inches until their noses touched, and he parted his lips, tongue seeking the welcoming confines of Theif's maw.  His eyes finally closed, and he felt a rumble in the dog's chest, a paw delicately but firmly keeping Henry's head in place.  The tables were turned, his tongue overcome with the heated embrace of Thief's much longer, dextrous canine tool.  Their lips unlocked for the briefest of seconds to allow the dog better control over the kiss, forcing his muzzle tightly shut over Henry's, that sweet, overpowering taste of inescapable passion dripping down the otter's throat.
     Somewhere close by, or maybe far away, or within his head, a piano was playing, a steady prologue, a rising introitus.  Henry was only half aware of himself now, of the way his body responded to Thief's insistent touch, feeling his mind giving itself over, all his defenses reduced to ash and rubble and leaving all that he was and what he could be at the mercy of this creature.  There was no action he could take now that would benefit himself in anyway, and he wrapped his arms around to clasp his paws over Thief's waist, the rest of his small, weak form going limp beneath the canine.
     "You're ready."
     The shepherd even spoke for him now, and Henry could only nod, eyes mercifully closed, that smug face imprinted on the back of his eyelids.  He opened them, just once, to burn that image in permanently, and was greeted not with smugness, but tenderness, an almost pained expression of willful desire.  Something akin to regret, a requiem for that approaching moment, that neither would ever experience again.  This was the face, sorrowed, joyful, blissful, that Henry wanted to stay with him forever.
     The violins, cellos, playing at his heartstrings, they brought the requiem into its crescendo, and he closed his eyes, innocence bound and tied now, awaiting its fate.  Thief had already unbuttoned his jeans, the zipper creeping down, the denim fabric pulling away from Henry's furred legs.  His blunted pillar stretched at his undergarment, crying silently to be released, to be handled.  The shepherd removed those briefs from their stronghold, tossing them away, the quivering otter-shaft drooling its intent.  A paw tightened around his girth, and Henry's entire body quaked, legs dragging themselves up to fold open, presenting everything he had to offer to this devlish thief.
     He opened his eyes, and saw Thief had already discarded his own shirt as well.  Toned, rippling muscles greeted his eyes, sexy and fearsome beyond belief, the deceptively thin dog having undergone physical training of some sort far surpassing anything that could be bought with anything as cheap as a gym membership.  His broad chest heaved, and his chiseled arms planted themselves on either side of Henry.  The dark fabric of his slacks was strained and distended, yet he made no attempts to free himself.  It was obvious what he wanted, and Henry could only hasten to oblige.
     The otter's paws deftly unclipped the button securing the band, and pulled down at the zipper, an equally tented pair of boxers pushing their way out, the shape of his canine length visible to Henry's wanting eye.  He opened his mouth to gasp as he slid down the boxers, and the final word of lustful objects presented itself for his judgement, Thief's throbbing member pulsing in harmony with Henry's.  The dark patch of pubic fur, the cream-coffee sac drawn tight over twin orbs.  Henry withdrew his paws, folding his legs up even wider, the silly little condom long forgotten.  Thief dropped his hips, setting his sights, eyes focused in on his prize.  Without a word, he looked back to his catch, that smile slowly overtaking his features again, and he advanced, taking what was rightfully his in a single fell swoop.
     Henry felt a sharp, stomach-jarring stab inwards, and then it passed, replaced by something incredible, a serpentine euphoria that coiled up his spine and warped his perception.  His eyes were wide open, but he saw very little of anything, colors blurring all around him.  The face of the shepherd came into sharp contrast to this, his eyes frowning, but a moan of intense satisfaction escaping his lips.  Suddenly, Henry found his voice again, and a noise unlike any he had ever made rose from within him.  A hollow pleading, one that seemed to warm his insides, cast shivers over his flesh.  It was the signal Thief needed, and the hound buried his claws into the sheets, rooting himself in place.  The otter felt himself spreading, opening wide for the dog, back arching and pushing his belly up to collide with Thief's.  His pulsating rod was cemented between their bodies, and his legs worked around the shepherd's waist like vines, rubbery arms rolling back and forth weakly over his sculpted chest.
     The pumping began, slow at first, the slicked piston working back and forth within his depths, loosening his tensed muscles.  It found its way deeper and deeper, until Henry squeaked, feeling almost as if he could swallow it.  Thief's breathing became steep, laborious, until it devolved into guttaral grunts and growls.  His hips brushed, then slapped against Henry's rump, the otter crying out to numb himself, lessen the sheer intensity at which this pleasure violated his sensibilities.  It only served to make matters worse, his squeals of delight humiliating him, elevating the pleasure to ecstasy.  Thief obviously felt the same way, as Henry's cries fueled his movements, thrusts growing vigorous and emphatic.  The time for tender romances had past, and now primal mandate had taken over.
     Henry had scarcely any time remaining--his forgotten member, sandwiched so tightly between them, had been grating against Thief's furred stomach, and now its own needs had become prevalent.  Were he not in such a helpless state he would undoubtedly be servicing himself in a frenzy, but as it were, the dominant male above him was in control of everything he did, and his actions dictated Henry do nothing but keep himself open, allow himself to be used completely.  Thief bucked his hips rapidly, eyes lidded, panting, control lost completely.
     An ominous pressure was building under Henry's tail, and a previously clouded understanding of canine anatomy became crystal clear to him.  A warning sign flashed behind his eyes, and he pawed desperately at the tuft of dark chestfur above him.     
     "Wait, wait, your--I can't--"
     "I know, I know...!"  Thief breathed impatiently, his paw leaving the sheets to plant itself under Henry's tail.  It gripped the swollen knot, keeping it at bay, preventing him from harming the inexperienced young otter.
     Henry's attention was drawn back to his own crotch, and to the urgency built up within him came to a head--his head, in fact, as he clenched down in alarm, fearing an embarassing release mid-coitus.  His efforts failed, and he drew himself up as close as he could to Thief's torso, spurting into his soft, downy fur, a tiny, raspy squeak accompanying the throes of his first orgasm.
     The thief had won.  He whined in strained satisfaction before his own climax smashed into him, the canine howling in victory, a gush of blistering heat welling up within Henry, filling his bowels.  Thunder crashed outside the hotel room window, and the two lovers were sated.  Thief lowered himself, blanketing the otter with his body heat, whining in his throat.  Henry's legs slipped ffrom their perch, and he lay limp, eyelids growing tired and heavy impossibly fast.  His innocence had been robbed from him, the thief taking away who he had been piece by piece.  Henry knew he could never be happy until he had taken absolutely everything there was to him, and owned him completely.  As he fell into slumber quicker than he ever had before in his life, he was vaguely aware of a wet tongue caressing his muzzle, begging in vain for a final kiss.

3

     Tate sat on the curb next to Lance, head cradled in his paws.  The bulk of the storm had passed, a light drizzle taking its place.  The coroner, a studious looking rat, approached the two detectives, camera hanging from his neck and paws hidden beneath latex gloves.
     "Certainly quite a find you two gents turned up," he chirped, lounging against Lance's black SUV.  "Gotta say, its been a while since I've seen someone get so creative with this line of work.  I think your department's gonna be verrry busy the next few days."
     Tate dropped his paws, frowning up at the cheerful rat.  "Oh yeah? How's that?"
     The coroner cleared his throat, pulling the polaroids from his breast pocket, flipping through them as a dealer would cards.  "Three wooden crates, seven by five by three, each packed to the brim with our friends here.  Its impossible to gauge at this point just how many bodies were sealed up in total, since there are multiple casualties in each package, organized according to size and species.  Cause of death for each, though, is pretty obvious--intense pressure from the shrinkwrapping process, bodies collapsed, the weaker structures and organs were...liquified. Yum.  I don't know what kind of machine can exude that much force on plastic without breaking it," he chuckled, "but the material itself is high-grade stuff.  Industrial strength."
     Lance snorted, shaking his head.  "Helluva way to go.  All those poor souls in there.  Sick."
     Tate felt woozy, but steadied himself.  "I guess its pretty obvious now why we didn't get the civvies involved, huh."
     The coroner looked back and forth between the two.  "Not to me it isn't."
     Lance pulled a empty cigarette box from his pocket, shaking it by his ear before crumpling it and tossing it aside.  "The Ave Maria is an import-export vessel, last port logged in Portugal.  Which makes this a matter for the feds.  But as the dock workers explained, this is the second time this ship has docked here in two days, so its more than likely that whoever shipped those crates did so from this pier, and lives in the city.  I for one don't care much for federal investigation taking precedence over local law enforcement."
     Tate sighed in exasperation.  There he went again, the jaded cop routine.  Only in movies did civil protection and federal agents butt heads.  The reality was that CP, when encountered with cases too big or too disturbing for their units to handle, almost always handed over jurisdiction to the feds without hesitation.  Lance didn't seem to understand the concept that there were always things out of his control, no matter how heavy he carried himself.
     "Wade, listen."  Tate rubbed at his eyelids, cricking his jaw.  "Its 4 am.  I need sleep.  You've put your job on the line just by calling our friend here--" He pointed up at the rat, who waved, "--without going through the appropriate lines.  I'm not losing my job over this.  I LIKE my job.  I like following protocol.  It makes me feel safe.  It keeps me from seeing shit like this."  He waved back at the warehouse.  "Well, you know those feds you hate so much,it's their job to handle shit like this.  I'm going home.  I'm going to bed.  I've got stuff to do tomorrow.  So get up, get in your car, and get the fuck out of here."
     If they hadn't been partners as long as they had, Tate would surely have been clocked across the jaw.  Instead, Lance just snorted, tossing his head in frustration like the old stallion he was, and pulled himself up onto his hooves.  "Yeah.  Sure.  You're right.  I don't like that you're right, but you're right.  It's all sick anyway."  He took the coroner off to the side, turning his back to Tate, who stood as well and stretched.  He needed sleep, bad.  There was nothing standing in his way now between him and his bed back home.
     Nothing, except irony.  In his haste to find protection against the elements, Tate had left the keys in the ignition, and had locked the door behind him.  He fiddled with the door handle a moment before banging on the roof resignedly.
     "Hey, Wade, you mind giving me a ride?"
     The big horse broke off the conversation with the rat, turning to face the otter.  "Why?" he called back.
     Tate pointed at the window of his sedan.  "Locked myself out."
     Lance just stared at him.  "So break the window in."
     "I can't afford window repairs right now.  Spent my reserves on my last fix."
     Lance shook his head, taking something from the coroner's offering paw and stuffing it into his jacket pocket.  The rat turned away, bouncing back to his car, and Lance waved his partner over silently.  Tate patted his hood before trotting over to the SUV's passenger side door, pulling it open and climbing up.
     "You're buying me breakfast for this," the horse grumbled.  He put the car in gear and pulled out onto the wet asphault, splashing through a puddle as it went.
     "So how's the kid?" Lance kept his eyes forward as he drove.
     Tate blinked.  "What kid?"
     "Your kid BROTHER.  Henry.  Haven't seen him in a while."
     "Oh."  Tate shrugged.  "Doing good.  Had a birthday a couple days ago, though I haven't talked to him since then."
     Lance tapped a finger on the steering wheel.  "Seems kind of funny, a sibling that young, and you don't hardly talk to him."
     "He's not THAT young," Tate shot back, "And I've just been busy lately, is all."
     "Yeah, well," Lance clicked his teeth in disapproval, "Try to keep an eye on him, is all I'm saying.  Lotta creeps out there."     
     The otter rolled his eyes.  "Why the sudden concern in my family, Wade?  Something bothering you?"
     "Hey, don't be stupid.  You know I love your family, your WHOLE family."  This made Tate cough uncomfortably.  "And yeah--you don't get to take a look at some poor folk who been wrapped up so tight they been popped, and thrown in crates with a dozen other folk, and then walk away from it saying you ain't bothered.  So if seeing somethin' like that makes me worry for your kid brother, who you say you haven't talked to in days, even though you live in the same damn house, then what do you got to say against me showing concern?"
     "Damn, sorry, okay, I get it," Tate threw his paws up.  He didn't know why he was defending himself to his partner, but he felt guilty nonetheless.  "I'll give him a call today, how's that?"
     "It's a start.  Next step would be to skip out on some of your beauty sleep to actually sit down and talk to him."''
     "He's staying the weekend at a friend's house,"  Tate said.  "Some belated birthday present deal.  The friend is a fag, so I can only imagine what that could mean."
     "Fag friend means fag birthday present.  Congratulations, your brother's now a poof."
     "Yeah, no doubt," Tate laughed.  "Nah, he's cool.  He's had his eye on a particularly sweet young thing, she comes by every now and then.  I think she could even be his first."
     Lance didn't respond, and the conversation lulled.  Tate stared out the window at the dark buildings rolling past, sitting just beyond the range of the overhead streetlamps.
     "Did I ever tell you..." Lance spoke up a few minutes later, "...about that..."
     "That drug ring you busted up down South, and that barfight you got into with that actor, and that mare you slept with that you swear was your sister?"  Tate nodded.  "Many times, actually.  I think its about time you did something else worthwhile, something you can actually brag about and get away with."
     Lance paused, eyes still fixed on the road.  "I wasn't gonna say any of that."
     "Yeah, sure you weren't," Tate scoffed.  "You ran out of stories long ago, my friend.  Long ago."
     "I never told anyone this one, though," Lance said solemnly, quietly.  His eyes seemed saddened.
     "Oh yeah?"  Tate was incredulous.  "A story you never told before?  This I gotta hear."
     Barely had the words escaped his mouth before the world went horizontal.  An unseen force had pummeled into the driver side of the SUV, lifting the vehicle off its tires, sending it rolling.  Tate's arms were thrown out in front of him, the windows shattering, glass bouncing around the canopy of the car like drops of mercury.  The car was airborne momentarily, flipped upside down, before the roof smashed back down on the pavement.  A horrible metallic screech deafened him, eyes shut tight,  blood rushing to his head.  He was dimly aware of the SUV tumbling through the air three, even four times, the tight suspension relieving none of the vehicle's momentum as it rolled.
     After an eternity the car righted itself, slamming tires-down onto a gravel lot.  His head swimming, Tate forced his eyes open, his sight dulled and blurred.  A massive dark shape loomed before the spiderwebbed windshield, figures moving about beyond his vision.  Groaning and gritting his teeth, he raised an arm, reaching for his holster.  A stabbing pain in his chest slowed his progress, every breath he took excruciating.  Soon his fingers connected loosely with his belt, and he pulled weakly at the strap, unfastening the button keeping his pistol locked in place.
     "Jarvis," Lance whispered, his husky voice subdued, pained.  Tate looked over at his partner, who lay slumped against the steering column, face turned away.  He looked dead.  "Under the...backseat.  My Benelli.  Give it to me."
     Tate nodded, grimacing as he unbuckled himself, twisting himself in his seat.  He saw the shadows outside drawing closer, speaking to each other in hushed tones.  Holding his breath, he tore into the leather seat with his claws and shoved himself back, screaming out as he did, almost passing out from the strain.  He collapsed behind the driver side seat, landing on a bed of tinted glass shards.  The dark tube was tucked behind the seat's metal supports, and Tate reached for it, gripping it by the barrel and worming it out.  He heard the driver door creak open and footsteps crunching on the glass outside, and Lance's limp, heavy form was pulled from his view.
     Someone said something he couldn't understand, and he heard someone else respond with "Well where the fuck is the other one?"  Tate drew the shotgun up over his belly with one paw, the other working at pulling his Glock from its sheath.  A leg became visible in the space between the open door and the seat, and he attacked--he whipped the pistol up and blew a round into the presented knee, and the creature hollered and fell.  It fell to the ground, boar's head coming into view, and he fired twice more.  The head snapped back and the body was still.
     His ears rang from the close proximity of the exploding gun, and he winced, pushing the shotgun up by its stock through the gap, shoving it out of the car.  It clattered to the ground below, and Tate prayed Lance was fit to use it.
     Fit he was, as a moment later, the old horse rose slowly, Benelli tucked into his shoulder, held up by one arm as the other, obviously injured, was curled over his belly.  Lance clopped forward, heavy hooves falling like weights, advancing towards the semi-rig that had plowed into his SUV.  The little weasel had fled back to the truck, scrabbling back up into the driver's seat, his nerve lost now that his partner in crime lay dead.  Silly little thing, the staggering horse mused, not keeping a piece close by just in case.  He limped forward until he was directly in front of the crumpled engine housing, the rig roaring back to life.  The weasel had barely time to put his footpaw to the gas pedal before Lance slammed the shotgun down on the twisted metal, tilting the barrel up towards the canopy.  He pulled the trigger and the Benelli kicked back with a powerful boom, the terrified face of the mustelid obscured by a crimson splash on the inside of the splintered windshield.
     Tate had squirmed out of the car and sat now against the flattened tire, the pistol limp in his grip, head sinking towards his heaving chest.  He felt a sticky warmth creeping down past his shoulderblades, and his eyes closed.  He heard a grunt above the idling engine of the semi, his partner dropping the shotgun and falling to the asphault.  Someone had to have heard the shots.  He could rest now.  Take a nap until someone arrived.  He needed the sleep anyway.

     The young otter lay bellydown on the bed, curled in a curious position, his tight, shapely rump elevated slightly over his bent knees.  The german shepherd sitting next to him couldn't take his eyes off it, and was finding breathing difficult.  It was all he could do not to lift that tail and bury his muzzle under it, but he restrained himself, letting the pup sleep on.  His shaft had risen partially, head buzzing with joyous arousal.  This was exactly what he had been waiting for, who he had been longing for.  All the icy stresses that had settled on his back had melted away, and he shook them off, relishing the sunny warmth exuded by that adorable little otterface.  He had to check himself, worrying that he had become a pedophile before working out that there was no way Henry would be in that club if he weren't of age.
     His eyes remained trained on that round butt, paw wrapping itself around his steadily growing member, tightening without stroking.  He closed his eyes, thinking back to a few hours earlier, to those moments before his release.  Henry hadn't known how to act, had tried to keep himself hidden beneath the canine, but he still felt every spasm and twitch as his orgasm had rocked the small otter's body.  Such peculiar behavior...it dawned on him that not only had Henry been a virgin in practice, but had never even felt--never known what to EXPECT from--an orgasm.  At that moment, he envied the otter, knowing he would never be able to feel anything as mindblowing as what Henry had.  He was a true innocent.
     Well, not anymore.  He smirked, allowing a small, measured stroke of his hard shaft before removing his paw. Outside the window, he sun had risen, but clouds still partially obscured it, darkening the hotel room.  The canine backed himself up fully onto the bed, laying on his side and sliding himself up to meet the otter's back.  Taking pains not to wake him, he rolled his arm up and over Henry, tightening around his chest, while his shaft slipped between the soft thighs and his legs curled up under the twitching footpaws.  He pushed his aching canine meat further until it rose up under the softened ottersheath.  This stirred Henry, and he cursed himself for not being more careful.  The otter curled his neck inward, head resting itself on his arm like a pillow.
     "Thief...mmm..."
     The dog blinked, stifling a chuckle.  Had he just been called a thief?  He amused himself with this notion, unaware of the two small, velvety paws until it was too late.  His entire body stiffened, the smile fleeing from his muzzle as he felt the paws stroking his cock, the silken pads massaging over his length.  Was Henry awake?  He raised his head up to check--but the otter's eyes were closed, his features peaceful.  Closer investigation, however, revealed his sheath to be engorged, the pink tip poking out.  His heart ached as his member did at the sight.  Henry must be dreaming about him, and had needed to touch himself, thinking the dog's aroused malehood to be his own.  With a small whimper, the canine pulled the sleepy otter even tighter to him, squeezing his eyes shut to trap a tear before it could splash on Henry's forehead.

     He awoke almost instantly, the sound of his phone vibrating through his pants reaching his ears.  Thief had fallen asleep holding Henry to him like a stuffed animal, and he knew he wouldn't be able to move without awakening the canine.  A brief montage of images from the night before played before his mind's eye, and he shuddered, deciding maybe waking him wouldn't be such a terrible thing.  He pushed the arm barring his chest away, sliding on his belly to the edge of the bed and pushing his top half over, reaching down to grab at his pants.  He pulled the phone from his pocket and put it to his ear, pressing the talk button.
     "Hello?"  He whispered.
     "Hiii, sweetcheeks," Sean purred.  "Morning after call."
     "Oh...yeah, hi."  Henry felt embarassment rankling at the back of his neck.  He pulled his wallet from his pocket as well, dropping it on the bedside table.
     "So I take it you had fun?  You're still in bed with him, aren't you?"
     "Ohh!"  Henry squeaked and almost dropped the phone.  Thief had woken at some point and had taken hold of the otter's ankles, tongue lapping between his cheeks, caressing his sore entrance wetly.  He bit his lip to regain some composure, but Sean heard his cries in spite of  his efforts.  The jaguar laughed manically on the other end.
     "He sounds wonnnderful...mayhaps when you're done with your new toy you'll let kitty play with him?"
     "No!"  Henry squirmed, fighting to concentrate on the conversation.  "No, he's--urgh--"
     Sean was giggling like a schoolgirl.  "Okay, I'll call back in a few minutes..."
     Henry dropped the phone back into his pants and pulled himself up as far as he could, looking back at Thief.  His feathered black hair was just as shaped and beautiful as the night before, eyes closed as he worked, tail swishing slowly over his rocky thighs.
     "Why are you doing that?!"  Henry writhed pitifully, gasping and blinking.
     Thief smirked and withdrew his tongue, kissing once under his tail and opening his eyes, smiling up at the indignant otter.  "Good morning, darling...I was hungry and decided it was as tasty a breakfast as any.  Don't mind me."
     Henry pulled his tail up between his legs, protecting his nethers from Thief's hungry eye.  It felt so alien, this entire situation.  He had never been naked in front of anyone else since he was a cub, let alone sleeping nude with a strange male. "No, I'm...sorry, just...new to all this.  Didn't know I'm supposed to let you lick my butt."
     Thief laughed, a sweet, breathy sound.  "You're adorable.  I didn't have too at all, I did it because I knew you would enjoy it.  You did enjoy it, didn't you?"
     His smug smile had returned, an eyebrow arched, fangs glinting.  Henry kneaded his paws in his lap, a guilty heat flushing his cheeks.  "Does that make me weird...?"
     The shepherd shook his head, chuckling and rolling over onto his back, Henry's gaze drawn instinctively to his bulging sheath.  "Lay with me, dear."
     If any of his friends or family had walked in on them at that moment, Henry knew he would surely die.  He thanked the heavens for hotels and inched forward towards the older canine, legs trembling.  Thief grasped at his paw and held it in his, while Henry lifted himself up and over, setting himself down on the slab of muscled dog.  Thief looked up at him, smiling dreamily, and the otter couldn't help but smile back, savoring every moment he spent with this male.
     "Are we supposed to have more sex now?"  Henry asked, his voice cracking a bit.
     "No...no, now we're supposed to talk.  I said lay, honey, not sit."
     Henry did as he was told, lowering himself until his head lay on Thief's chest, their noses almost touching.  The shepherd ruffled his hair affectionately.  "You called me by an intriguing name last night," he said, finger tracing a pattern over Henry's lower back.
     "Name...? I wouldn't know..."  Henry blinked, confused.
     "Yeah.  You said I was a thief.  What did I steal, I wonder?"
     Henry hesitated.  What could he say to something like that?  "Well...um...you didn't tell me your name?"
     "My memory must be terrible, because I seem to remember saying a lot of things I didn't."  The dog licked the otter's nose.  "Its Warren.  Warren Jacques."
     "Warren Jacques," Henry repeated.  It suited him perfectly.  "What did you want to talk about?"
     "You, and me, and what happens next."  Warren kissed at his forehead.
     "I didn't think that's how one-night stands worked..."
     "Who said this was a one-night stand?"
     Henry could taste the honey in Warren's voice.  "Sean, my friend you met...though I guess it would make him even happier if I came back with a boyfriend in tow."
     As soon as he said it, he knew he'd screwed up.  The air rushed from his lungs as if he'd been punched in the stomach.  Boyfriend?  What was he thinking?  Had he been drugged?  Even he knew you didn't say stuff like that the morning after the first night.
     Warren didn't miss a beat, though, taking in Henry's pained expression and laughing it off, playing along as if it were a joke.  "Hah, he probably would, wouldn't he?  A funny little cat, that one.  He offered to give me his number."
     Henry pulled his ears back, wishing he hadn't said anything.  It was sweet of Warren to detour the conversation like that, but at the same time it left a bitter taste in his mouth.  It told him that Warren didn't want any kind of relationship with him; more likely than not, he was buttering Henry up for the moment when he would drive him home and disappear forever.  It left him with a hole in his gut, a hollow disappointment.  Things had gone sour so fast, so easily, with one little word.  How could ever carry on with this kind of lifestyle if it was going to constantly be that difficult?
     "Yeah...he's funny like that."  He looked away from that smug face, suddenly feeling sorrowful, wanting little more than to go home.  He didn't want Warren to leave at all, but he knew it was coming soon, and he rather would've gotten it over with as soon as possible than have to be torchered like this.  Why did it even upset him so much?  It was only his first time.  As special as he had wanted it to be, he knew from the start his first wouldn't be his last.  It never worked out like that.
     As if on cue, he heard his phone vibrating again.  Sean calling back, and so soon?  He was probably hoping to catch Henry in the dirty act of playing pillowbiter.  Warren's face lit up, and his joyous grin returned, his arm reaching over the edge of the bed, resurfacing with the phone in tow.  Henry reached for it, but the paw drew back, the thumb pressing the speaker button on the side.  He looked Warren square in the eye, those entrancing amber eyes, and managed a faux-pas smile, hoping it passed for playful.  "Hello?"  He  said, speaking to the phone resting on Warren's chest.
     There was a few seconds of silence, and then a very tired sounding voice filtered through the speaker.  "Hey, punk, its Tate...how's uh...how's things, kid?"
     Warren's smile stayed put, but his eyebrows furrowed in confusion, head tilting.  Henry looked down at the phone.  "Um...okay, I guess?  You okay, Tate, you sound kind of...dopey."  Henry mouthed the word brother, and Warren nodded, satisfied.
     "Yeah, heh...dope does that to you, y'know..."  His voice was slow, monotonous.  "They had to put me on stuff, since the, uh, the wreck and all."
     Henry's eyes shot back to Warren's, who's smile had vanished completely, his face expressionless.  "What wreck?  What're you talking about?"
     Tate sighed, coughing once.  "Well...well, there was a collision...uh, a couple people died, but I'm okay, I'm at the hospital..."
     Warren tensed, ears perked in alarm, and Henry felt panic setting in.  "That's why I'm calling, actually," Tate continued, "I uh...well, don't have anyone to pick me up, and...was...wondering if one of your friends could afford the drive..."
     Henry was lifted off the dog and set back down on the bed, the phone following suit.  Warren was already bending over to dress himself, naked ass filling Henry's field of vision; he vaguely recalled falling asleep with the dog's pants and boxers still intact.  "Um, yeah, sure, we can--I can be there soon, already on ou--my way.  Hold tight, 'kay?"
     "Cool, kid, I'll see you soon then..."  The call ended.
     His underwear dropped from the sky into his lap, followed swiftly by his shirt and jeans.  "You're really gonna drive me all the way to the hospital?"  He asked tentatively.
     "Of course I am, don't be stupid."  It was the first time he had heard Warren speak in any tone of voice other than sexy; the abrupt flatness with which he said it saddened Henry.  He decided the best course of action would be to remain silent from this point on, put on a show of being thoughtful to conceal his hurt.  He stiffened his jaw to keep his bottom lip from quivering and began clothing himself at a relaxed pace--maybe he would get lucky, and Warren would be relieved to be left in peace.
     "You ready?  Have everything?  We're not coming back here."  His voice was firm, and Henry sighed inwardly, suspicions confirmed.
      "Yeah...I am."

4

     He felt so lucky, blessed even, driving across town with this wonderful otter sitting in the passenger seat next to him.  Warren's chest was tight, a lump in his throat keeping him from speaking.  Every ounce of his strength drawn from every second passed was exuded keeping himself restrained, keeping him from slamming on the brakes and having his way with his ward.  His lifestyle, his occupation, had taken a heavy toll on him, wearing down his ability to enjoy the life he had been given.  The casual sex with strangers, random tight-short, halter-top wearing subs picked up from a wide range of bars and raves and all manner of backroom parties...he bitterly enjoyed every second he spent with those hollow husks of people, and had constantly been seeking his next release.  It made him feel dirty, even as it became his vice and sustained his well-being, a little bit of who he was being buried and lost in the sheets of every bed he'd thrown his naked body into for the past year.  But now...
     Now, he was certain, he could move past all that, and wash himself clean again.  He looked over to Henry, who's gaze was drawn out the window, and a goofy grin slapped itself on his face--now this was a habit he could boast about.  Whatever he did from this point on, right or wrong, he knew he could do it carefree and with Henry's best intention's at heart.  Henry, who had--
     Warren frowned, looking closer.  Ears drawn back, eyes averted, entire body motionless...something was wrong, and it was his duty now to fix it.
     "Hey--you doing alright there, buddy?"
     He saw the whiskers twitch.  "Fine."
     Warren blinked, puzzled.  "Your brother is getting out of the hospital, not going in.  I'm more than sure he's fine too.  Why so serious?"
     That earned him a half-shrug.  "No reason."
     He was stumped.  What had happened?  He couldn't have done anything wrong--the talk had been sweet, he was giving a free ride to aid the stranded relative, the sex was...
     "What are you thinking about, then?"
     Henry shrugged again.  "Just about what's...um, what I'm doing.  After we get Tate, I mean."
     Even more confusing.  It made Warren's head buzz.  "I'm taking you home.  Right?"  His ears twisted--he could swear he heard a small sigh. 
     "Right..."
     Something was definitely being lost in translation.  "So then what's the problem?  I know you had...a little bit of a shock, last night, but its nothing to be embarrassed about.  The first time is always a bit--well, icky, but that doesn't make you weird or bad...it just means you're healthy."  He felt like he was teaching a sex education class.  "Did it feel...good, at least?"
     Henry was silent for a moment.  "Not really.  The other...part...was better."
     This made Warren laugh inwardly, priding himself immensely.  "Oh, really now?  You mean the long, thick, hard dog part...?"
     Movement was visible even through those loose jeans--Henry shifted in his seat, bringing his thighs together, and Warren again was forced to shun his urges.  "Yeah, it's true that it can override other...sensations.  It's a good thing I'm taking you home after all, then, so what is upsetting you?"
     The otter's head spun to face him.  He looked frighteningly angry.  "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
     Warren's heart nearly broke.  Had he gone insane?  "...I'm taking you home.  Where you...live.  Is that acceptable?  I don't really have anywhere else to...take you..."
     Henry's piercing gaze remained fixed on the driver, who had to remind himself to watch the road.  "Taking me and my brother...home.  That's your plan, right?"
     "If you're suggesting that I plan on inviting your brother in on the fun, then that's not my plan at all--that's something I would need quite a lot of persuading with, anyhow.  But I can't very much afford keeping you in that hotel room forever, now can I?"
     That angry little otter face softened, and Warren could almost feel the heat washing behind those red cheeks.  "You're taking me...HOME...to MY place..."
     Warren's eyes widened.  "What did you think that meant?  I was just gonna leave you alone after getting the best lay I've ever had with another male?  No sir, we're not even remotely close to finished yet."
     Henry hid his face behind his paws, and groaned loud and long.  "Oh my God...I'm so stupid..."
     "Ahahaha!"  Warren seized the otter by the scruff of his neck and pulled his head in close to kiss it roughly.  "Yes, yes you are stupid, but not to worry little guy--in a few days time, you'll be more experienced with a cock than any moaner in this city, I promise!"
     Henry slapped at his arm.  "Don't use that word!"
     "What, cock?"
     "It's a bad...well, it's so..."
     "So...sharp and honest, and leaves nothing to the imagination?"  Warren shook his head and smiled, turning back to the wheel.  "It is what it is.  You'll learn to love the word, just like you'll learn to love the...hah, well, the cock."
     Henry squeaked comically, clamping his paws over his ears.

     It was unusually lifeless in the ER, especially for a weekend.  Tate sat slumped over in the waiting area, an arm covering his face to shield his eyes and ears folded to block out noise.  His head throbbed, aching in disorienting waves that surged every few moments, then receded, drawn back to offer a brief respite before breaking against the inside of his skull again. The drugs were wearing off; he felt as if he'd been waiting the entire day for Henry to arrive, when only a half hour had past since he'd ended the call.  Phones rang around him, nurses chattered and footsteps rolled past him in and from all directions, an indiscernable pulse of constant noise that had long ago ceased to register in his mind.  The only thoughts that pervaded his mind at this point were the complaints at his brother's lack of punctuality, and the small voice reprimanding his paw for straying too near to his jacket pocket, which sagged from the weight of the bottle of painkillers he'd been given.
     He'd been conscious for a few hours now, but had spent every minute of them scribbling on papers and dutifully rehashing last night's events to the friendly neighborhood IA Agent Scarlet Robbins, a curt, overly-insquisitive blue jay.  When Tate's drug-addled narrative had finished and it had become clear he wouldn't be any more use to Robbins than the still-unconscious Wade ("Your name is Scarlet but your feathers are blue, hahaha"), she dropped the interrogation and assured him she would be in touch as soon as he had fully recovered.  She might have been extremely attractive, Tate had thought to himself as he watched her swinging hips and tailfan as she walked out, were it not for her bitchy demeanor.
     A wayward child was tugging at his elbow, asking him something he couldn't understand but knew to be intrusive.  Tate waved him away, and in doing so nearly blinded himself from the intensity of the white light reflecting off the waxed linoleum floor.  He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before opening them slowly, meeting with Henry's, which sat below his unkempt caramel hair and above the rounded nose that was almost touching his own.  Tate hadn't forgotten how young and, at times, silly his brother looked, despite the age difference of barely a decade.
     "Oh, sh...I thought you were someone's brat for a second, Hen..."
     "What happened to you. are you hurt?  I didn't make anything worse by getting here late, did I?"  Henry was pulling back his jacket, inspecting the bloodied patches in Tate's shirt.  He sure as hell acted like a brat, Tate groaned to himself mentally.
     "Yeah, yeah you did, actually...the doctors decided to release me because they're just that cruel and wanted me to die off hospital grounds, maintain deniability..."
     He went quiet as he caught sight of the polished canine standing a few feet away, watching the otters silently.  The stranger smiled and nodded once, offering a paw.  "I'm Warren, Henry's ride.  Pleasure to meet you."
     Tate looked at Henry, then back to Warren, then back to Henry.  "I'd shake, except I've no idea who you are or how you know my brother.  The hell is this guy, Hen?"
     "Uhhh, he's cool, don't worry about it," Henry stammered, appearing nervous.  "You sure you're alright?  Do we need to stop and get you anything, medicine or--?"
     "It's a hospital, dumbass, they have their own medicine here.  And you didn't answer my question."  Tate glared at his brother.
     All at once, Henry dropped his concerned demeanor, and his expression became accusing.  "Yeah, right, like you've ever given two fucks about who I'm around, Tate," he snarled, baring his fangs.  "You and your crackhead girlfriends--"
     "Oh yeah, here it comes, the same shit about how horrible a guardian I am," Tate shot back, his hackles rising.  "You're so tired of it all, things are all so fucked for you, aren't they, you little punk?  Maybe you're new friend here is actually qualified to take care of you than the guy who practically raised your ungrateful ass, so why don't you go live with him?  Pay your rent in blowjobs you queer fu--"
     "Hey!" Warren barked suddenly, taking a step forward.  Tate cut himself off, looking up at the larger male and bristling.  When he saw the fur rising on the shepherd's neck, he relented, sighing and looking back to his brother.  Henry's eyes shone with angry tears, his paws balled into fists, trembling.
     "Forget it," he muttered as he stood, his headache becoming excruciating.  "Let's just go, c'mon.  I need to get to bed, that's all.  Don't think anything of it."
     He brushed past Warren, the static between them palpable, not bothering to look back to Henry.  A couple of secretaries had begun to whisper and point, and more than a few patients had turned their heads.  The last thing Tate needed in his state was the attention of gossiping strangers.  Henry sniffed behind him, the duo's footsteps not far behind.  He certainly didn't need to be involving a stranger in his personal life, either.  Tate made a mental note to drop some gas money to make up for his behavior.

5

     "I had this theory once, see, about acceleration.  How things tend to speed up as they reach their climax.  It wasn't really specific to any particular field of science, it was more vague than that; philisophical, if you will.  Applicable to almost anything.  A garden hose gets more powerful the tighter you draw the nozzle.  Falling off a building--or being pushed, whichever--you accelerate towards the ground until you hit it or terminal velocity hits you.  Even music follows the pattern, everything we do, sex too.  Well, the theory was that not only was this a shared principle for every action, direct or indirect, but that the more things that accelerated, the longer the timeline dotted with all these different little points where something or someone came to their inevitable end..."
     Hauer paused, frowning. He tapped the slickened blade of the antique straightrazor against a claw, the pine marten thinking of how best to explain himself.
     "Alright, so uh, think of it like an equation, and those ending points are the numbers.  You keep plugging in all these numbers and adding, and the equation just gets bigger and bigger--well, eventually it's gonna become impossible to solve, right? Over however many thousands or millions or billions of years, depending on your religion or other system of belief, the numbers just stack up so high that eventually the entire equation collapses on itself. Ceases to be, ends, completely.  So the more things that end, and people that die, the closer we get to the absolute end of everything, or everything we know at least."
     He blinked a bit, wiping red precipitation from his brow.  The nude rat laying bound before the crouching marten had had his vocal chords removed, and only the rasp of air escaping his lungs was audible now.  Unfortunately, his breathing was disquiet, panicked, and so Hauer's white fur was sprinkled in dewy droplets of crimson every so often.  He licked his lips clean, not at all minding the blood that had pooled around his footpaws as he continued.
     "Of course, to assume that all these related and unrelated events of finite cessation would force the hand of a higher power is to assume that there IS a higher power, so the first major flaw of this theory have already become apparent.  In science such as this, it's unfair to assume the pupil being taught does devote himself to any kind of theology.  An obstacle, yes, but not what completely cripples this theory, as it could stll be accepted by a narrow margin of likeminded individuals.  What convinced me that my theory was doomed, actually, was the painfully obvious realization that almost just as often, the exact opposite of this acceleration occurs in just as many different scenarios.  A child grows stronger and faster as he nears adulthood, his peak, not his end, just as he slows and weakens as he nears the end of his life.  A parachute slows someone's descent as they near the ground.  A ship sinks to the bottom of the ocean slower and slower as the pressure of the water increases on it.  So if we're talking on the level of higher powers, then it would be safe to assume that there is a second, equal force working to keep us from coming to our end."
     Hauer looked down at the coroner's badge laying beside the rat's head, then back to the rat himself, and leaned in close, looking directly into his dying prisoner's clouded eyes.
     "Do you feel any kind of higher power keeping you from coming to your end?"
     He didn't need any kind of verbal answer.  Instead, he casually pinned the rat's ear between his claws and tugged it upwards, a quick flick of the razor severing the appendage.  Hauer studied it briefly, ignoring the agonized thrashing of his captive, before tossing it away.  He pushed the folding razor shut against his thigh as he stood, cracking his neck.
     "I thought as much.  Only thing I hate more than a thief is a liar; and I'm not particularly fond of thieves.  See this old relic?  Bought it fair and square from a 24-hour pawn shop down the road, only a couple hours ago, specially for you.  I'm a backwards sort of artist--I take better care of the brush I use to paint than the canvas I'm painting on."
     Hauer took a step back to look over his handiwork.  The rat lay crumpled in an awkward fetal position, on the carpet, paws tied behind his neck, his life oozing from dozens of different gashes.  The wall behind him was splattered in all manner of arterial spray of varying shapes and sizes, miscellaneous chunks of flesh and fur and tendon littered around him in a semicircle.
     "I can comfortably say this is not my best work.  See my point--I get worse and worse as time goes by, whereas the casual artist only grows more proficient.  I'll clean up once you've passed on, but for now I have some errands to run, so it would be best I take a shower.  Hope you don't mind spending the next few minutes alone.  I certainly don't want any gawkers at my funeral."
     The marten stepped over the twitching rat and padded to the hotel room door.  Opening it, he reached an arm around and flipped the paper sign hanging from the latch to read DO NOT DISTURB before closing it again.  Turning back, he dropped the razor on the bedside table on his way to the bathroom, the bloodied tool sliding to rest next to Henry Jarvis's forgotten wallet.

     Warren let the engine idle as Tate climbed out of the backseat, watching as he hobbled up the cement driveway to the quaint little homestead that had obviously belonged to the brothers' parents at some point.  The dog tapped a claw on the steering wheel as he waited until Tate disappeared inside before turning to Henry, who was still visibly upset.  Warren leaned in close to him, burrowing his nose in between the neck and shoulder, causing Henry to tilt his head at an awkward angle and pull back, refusing the affection.
     "Come on, hon.  Its more likely than not he's just trying to deal with the accident--he did say he killed someone after all.  I'd cut him some slack if I were you."
     "Don't call me that." Henry said this without turning.
     Warren switched off the ignition, figuring he would be here a while anyway.  "Why not?"
     "Because it sounds stupid coming from you.  You're too...guy-ish."
     The shepherd shrugged it off, pulling the petite male closer to rest his head on him.  "Just give him some time.  Okay?  I may not know the whole story here, but I know how he spoke to you at the hospital, and that didn't sound the least bit angry to me.  Seems more like he's just frustrated he can't understand you properly.  I know less about you than him, so unfortunately that's just a theory, but a well-founded one nevertheless."
     "That's because we've only known each other a few hours," Henry grumbled from the folds of Warren's polyester.
     "True...which is why I suggest we get inside as quickly as possible so I can learn as much about you as I can with the time we have."
     Henry pulled away from the canine's arm.  "Innuendo only gets you so much information, y'know."
     "Wasn't innuendo."  The expression Warren wore was one of blank innocence.  "That can wait for now.  I'd prefer if it did, really, while we talk about you for a while."
     He saw the thoughts processing beneath the otter's twitching ears, and smiled to himself as he heard the passenger door click open.
     "Fine...but I'm hungry, so I'm gonna make a sandwich first."

     Warren was instructed to wait in Henry's room while he fixed his breakfast.  He sat on the edge of the remarkably tiny bed, looking around the cluttered space.  It clashed with the rest of the tidy house he'd seen on his way in, probably kept that way in respect for the deceased parents.  Henry, however, didn't seem to care one bit--a veritable mountain of dirty laundry was piled in the corner, with all manner of candy and snack wrappers tossed about.  The walls were obscured by dozens of posters advertising movies, bands, and video games.  A closed laptop hummed quietly on Henry's desk, which was relatively clean in comparison to the floor of the room. Warren surmised he wouldn't be breaking any code of etiquette by removing his shoes, which he placed neatly by the bedside dresser.
     Henry slipped in and closed the door behind him, his paw and muzzle playing tug-of-war with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.  Warren tried to make as much room on his side of the diminuitive bed as he could