The first time was so unreal that part of Fray had suspected he’d dreamed it, until Tin casually groped his ass the next day. The second time felt a little more grounded, but—well—he’s furry. It’s a novelty and one that Fray is still engaged by, but it’s weird.
On the third time, though, there in the Society’s richly appointed guest room, Fray finds he’s starting to figure out the details. The nuances. Don’t touch the big ears. The height difference feels like less of an issue than it did before, and he really—really—likes the claws. It’s a shame the scratches don’t last longer than an hour with his body’s overzealous healing process. But then, Kai would probably stop talking to him entirely again if he made them remember that he’s fucking the rat.
The pads on Tin’s hands are still weird for him, and he’s never heard any of the other people he’s fucked make the kinds of weird hissing sounds this pink gremlin makes. He’s still conflicted about if he liked Tin spitting into his mouth last time or not. But, mostly, Tin has been just like everyone he’s ever slept with: a mixed bag of oddities and proclivities and mild annoyances and exciting surprises.
He’s on his back when he notices it. Well, feels it. Half propped up in the nest of pillows on the bed, to be exact, past his own peak and feeling immensely lazy. Tin is still going, though, on all fours over him. Fray doesn’t mind. He might make his way to a second one if Tin takes long enough, and anyway, how long had Tin said it had been since he had more than his own hand? Let the guy have his fun.
And anyway, the longer Tin takes, the longer Fray gets to have his hands in that fur.
He loves that fur, he’s learning. He likes how silky it is just beneath the outer coat, and it’s the perfect length for him to grip. It feels incredible moving over the soft skin of his chest and stomach. He’d been a little too wigged out to touch it much the first time, but that had given him a taste for it the second time. This third time he’s leaning into it, but he’s noticed that here and there and really in quite a few places his fingers get stuck. It’s mostly in the harder-to-reach spots: behind Tin’s ears, the backs of his thighs, his shoulder blades, the base of his tail where the fur grows long.
Fray considers this as Tin carries on.
“Good for you, too?” Tin says in his sarcastic way afterward, words heavy with the implication that he does not give a damn whether or not it was good for Fray. Fray is tempted to waggle his hand in a gesture of noncommitment, just to piss him off, but he suspects that will ruin his chances. He’s cooked up a plan of action.
So he just says, “Yeah,” with an appropriate amount of satisfaction (since it was in fact pretty good; something to be said for age, he guesses, but who did Tin learn this stuff with?). He follows it with a “Get your shaggy butt off me, I’m going to the bathroom.”
“Gonna douche, princess?”
“You’re a douche,” Fray says, and shoves him off with ease.
Three minutes later he returns, cleaned off and with fresh boxers, with a comb stuck in his hair and a small spray bottle in his hand. Tin, who has lit that huge stupid cigar he got from one of the old men around here and sits on the edge of the bed, staring into the middle distance. He stirs vaguely when the mattress dips behind him with Fray’s weight, but doesn’t bother looking at him. This changes when Fray gives the bottle a shake. His ear flicks and he twists, peering suspiciously at the still-sloshing bottle. “S’that?” he asks, cautious.
“Detangler,” says Fray. “Shut your eyes.”
“Fuckin’ what—”
“Shut your eyes. You’ve got knots everywhere.”
Tin glowers at him. His uncanny eyes narrow and dart over Fray, from the comb to the spray. “So?”
With a brandish of the comb, Fray says, “So I’m going to de, detangle them. You want spray in your eyes, go ahead and leave them open.”
“I don’t need your frilly poof ass playing Barbie Hair Adventures with my—fuck!” He had not closed his eyes. Most of the spray had landed in the little collection of knots behind his ear, though, and Fray seizes his chance while Tin paws at his face. He scoots in closer, and drags Tin nearer with the same motion. With one hand he firmly holds the hair just above the lowest tangles and with the other he braces the comb, setting the teeth into the gleaming wine-red knot.
Tin freezes the instant he’s pulled back. His spine stiffens, and in a moment of determination Fray hooks one leg forward to keep him from pulling away. “Chill out,” he says after a moment, addressing the rising gutteral growling from the subject of his attention. “I’m almost done.”
“You want to detangle my pubes too?” Tin snaps. “This shit smells like a hooker.”
“It’s green apple. There, done.” With a practiced hand he smooths the comb through the newly freed hair. “You’ve got a bunch on your back, too,” he goes on, and considers asking for permission before deciding against it. Tim seems like the kind of guy who needs to be wrestled into things that are good for him. “I’m going to get those too.”
But there’s no resistance as he saturates the knots hidden in Tin’s shoulders. The weird little thing in his lap has reached back to run those weird green claws through the spot where the knots had been. Fray watches, keeping busy with his own work, and marks his satisfaction when Tin drops his hands into his lap and does not lodge further complaint.
The comb does its work. Over the next five minutes the shoulders are cleared, along with a few stray snarls that had stuck to Tin’s hips and lower back. “Okay,” Fray says, considering. “Felt a bunch on the backs of your legs and in your tail, especially. Lie on your stomach for me.” Tell, not ask.
He expects resistance, and it’s not that he doesn’t get that. It’s just not how Fray anticipated it arriving. Tin doesn’t answer at first, and indeed it seems as though he did not hear him. Then he shakes himself and peers over his shoulder at Fray. There’s a slightly glazed look in his eyes. “What?” he says in a voice less prickly than usual. “What’d you stop for?”
“Need you to move.”
Tin’s stare sharpens and hardens as he seems to process that Fray is speaking to him. “Why?”
“Because,” Fray says, asking for patience, “there’s a bunch more on your legs.”
“Oh,” Tin mutters, and does not move. He turns away again and gives a great shiver, almost cartoonish in its exaggeration, then mutters something as he lays the cigar down on the bedside table’s ash tray and crawls further onto the bed. He flops down on his stomach and Fray follows.
Despite the as-yet unwashed smell of sex that clings to the fur on Tin’s legs, he’s more distracted by Tin’s behavior than anything else. It’s odd, he thinks as he sprays down the collection of tangles on his companion’s legs, very odd that something as simple as having his hair ungnarled would put him in such a state. Fray’s had friends fall asleep while he played with their hair, before, but those are people he would say have significantly fewer reasons than Tin to stay on high alert. Perhaps he’s reading too much into it, though. Anything that keeps Tin from shredding his patience is welcome by him.
He’s just finished Tin’s legs and moved on to the tail when the silence is broken. “If you wanted my ass you coulda just asked,” Tin growls, and flicks his tail high. The fur flounders and flutters. It’s mesmerizing. “Don’t take you for a top, though. I guess you can eat it if you want. But no fisting until the third date.”
“Gross,” Fray says mildly, and returns to brushing out knots.
The snark fades in and out over the next few minutes, seemingly every time Tin remembers he’s supposed to be objecting to this. They’re toothless compared to his usual barbs, though, and they’ve gone entirely extinct by the time Fray pulls the comb through for the last time. The tail is in his lap at this point, and Tin lays with his face buried in his arms and his ears drooped low. It’s only now that Fray notices something that he had been too focused to pick out earlier: the low, steady rumble coming from the creature on the bed, even and soft. Fray smoothes his hand down Tin’s back, checking for any remaining knots, and is satisfied to find none. He puts down the comb and stretches out his arms, feeling the repetitive motion of unpicking a knot taking its toll. He says, “I didn’t know you could purr.”
The sound continues for several more seconds before dying entirely. “I don’t purr.”
“Okay.”
“Fuck you.”
“Already did.”
Tin snorts. He does not move, which is interesting. Unable to help himself, Fray strokes two fingers down the center of Tin’s spine, thinking about what he remembers from the database. Occupant Age: Unknown, claims to be approx. 50 years. Occupant Limitations: Not to be given access to sharp objects. Not to be approached without full-body personal protective equipment. Not to be given access to other living creatures unless under direct orders. Time Under Observation: Ten years.
“There,” says Fray, and pulls his hands away. Tin groans in annoyance. “Done. No more knots.”
“Fine,” Tin grunts, after a moment. “What next?”
“There is no next,” Fray says before he can be surprised. “You’re detangled. That’s it.”
“Oh.” Tin levers himself up with his elbows, and that same blurry look is there, albeit sharpening. “So you’re done?”
“I’m done.”
“Good riddance,” Tin says after a moment, sleepy and without venom. “Now get out if you’re not going to suck my balls too.”