It’s hard work, being on the run. Fray’s sick of it already, and that doesn’t bode well for his immediate future. They’ve been in the old Ringer place for four straight days now, waiting for the Librarians to give up and go home. To say that Fray is stressed or bored or terrified is an understatement of all three. No one has claim to the abandoned house’s lone twin bed during the day, and so Fray has interred himself here with it in the attic. Being further from the front door feels safer, despite knowing how dumb that is. He’s lain here for nearly two hours, listening painfully to every sound and trying to peek down at the street below from the nearby window. He’s tense and restless and frustrated.
He’s nearly slipped into uneasy sleep when a noise jolts him awake. A thud. Not a heavy one, and from somewhere close by, inside the house, not outside. Minutely, he relaxes. The relaxation goes right to hell when something small and neon pink hauls itself one-handed up the attic ladder. As Fray watches in bewilderment, Tin scrabbles up the last rung and takes two careful steps from the trap door. He raises his other hand, the one he hadn’t used to climb, and Fray realizes what he’s doing a moment before he does it: chugging a can of that awful whiskey sour Club he’d stolen from the arcade. There’s two more under his arm. Fray had had half a can himself before realizing that he both hated the taste and that it was much too strong for him.
Tin crushes the can and tilts his head back, eyeing Fray balefully. Long seconds pass. Tin hiccups, shakes himself, and growls, his clawed hands balling into fists. “If I don’t fuck somebody in the next hour,” he says matter-of-factly, “every cat in this neighborhood is in mortal danger.”
Fray blinks at him slowly.
Tin leers. “You want that on your conscience, kid?”
“I think,” Fray says, after a moment of thought, “that a cat could probably fight you off.”
Tin’s tail lashes, swsh, swsh, itself a catlike response. Then in a single motion he’s leapt onto the bed on all fours (or threes, the other two cans still held firmly under his arm). He plants a knee on Fray’s chest and braces himself with the headboard with his other arm, pinning Fray to the mattress with his unblinking eyes. The green of them seems to glow. He’s otherworldly, this thing. Wholly out of place, a mockery of nature. He seems much too big for what he is. Fray wonders how he’s made it this long. His pupils, usually narrow slits, are blown out. “C’mon, Frou-Frou,” he wheedles. “They’re gonna put us back on the Library shelves soon. Baj said you’re a slut. You gonna be able to live with yourself if you don’t see what it’s like to get fucked by me?”
Fray stares up at him, feeling his heartbeat pick up. It’s not untrue; he sleeps around. This bothers him less than the fact that Tin has apparently been reading his mind. Locked in this house with nothing to do but think, Fray’s thoughts have indeed wandered—more than once—to what sort of situation Tin might have in his tiny shorts. Because, God, what would fucking Tin be like? It’s a more pleasant thing to think about than being reshelved.
“Well?” says Tin, fast growing impatient.
Fray groans and rubs at his eyes. He doesn’t want to think about anything right now, and without the freedom to go running, sex is about the only other thing he knows will work. He drops his arms in surrender. “Fine.”
A sharp-toothed grin slithers onto Tin’s face.
Tin’s not much for foreplay. Big surprise. By the time Fray sits up and pulls off his shirt, Tin has already stripped down entirely. It’s fur all the way down, paler on his stomach. Interesting, but not titillating in the way Fray usually finds someone who’s naked. He’s set the Club cans down on a nearby folding chair and cracked another open, too. He takes a huge swig, belches, and gives Fray an appraising look. “Not bad,” he says, and it’s not even begrudging. Good. At least he can recognize quality. “Tits, huh? You got a pussy? Lemme see.”
Accompanying this is a clawed hand worming its way down the front of Fray’s track shorts, against his underwear. He can’t suppress a little catch of breath as Tin’s padded fingers probe against his body. It’s forward even for him, and he takes a second to recover from the surprise. By the time he has, Tin’s slipped his hand back out. “You treat everyone like livestock or am I just lucky?” Fray asks gruffly, but he can’t quite keep the reedy quality from his voice.
“Just the really slutty ones like you,” Tin says without any particular inflection, and for some reason this sends the blood right to Fray’s cunt. The feeling gets worse when Tin presses the backs of the fingers that had just been between Fray’s legs against his nose and inhales. “I had you figured out the minute I saw you, y’know,” he says before running his tongue along his hand. “Everything about you from your prissy hair to how you bend over. You bottom bitches are all the same.” That leer comes back, and now Tin climbs bodily into his lap, kneels bent on either side of Fray’s thighs. “I like that in a guy.”
Before Fray can school his rapidly spinning thoughts into a reply, Tin’s grabbed him by the chin and uses it to turn his head this way and that. Livestock. “Good teeth, too,” he says carelessly. “Quality horseflesh. Aw, blushing already? You like getting manhandled by me? ’Course you do. Open your mouth.”
So Fray does, of course, extra conscious of the heat in his cheeks. “Wider,” Tin commands, and takes another drink. As Fray strains to meet expectations, Tin passes the drink to the curled grip of his own tail and uses the newly freed hand to brace against the back of Fray’s head. Before Fray can figure out what he’s going to comment on this time (what, his throat being the perfect cock sleeve? He’s heard that one. He knows), Tin tilts his own head down and presses his thin, wet lips to Fray’s. The grip on Fray’s chin tightens, and he finds out why a moment later when Tin leans deeper in and pushes his swig of whiskey sour into Fray’s mouth. Fray jerks under him, a garbled sound of alarm getting lost under the liquid as it threatens to go down the wrong pipe. Then Tin has pulled back and used his grip on Fray’s face to force his mouth closed. “Swallow,” he commands. His eyes blaze in the half-light of the attic.
Without other recourse, Fray obeys. He comes up panting and sputtering, and pushes Tin’s hand off his face. “Wo-o-ow,” Tin says, grinning lazily. The aggression has vanished, leaving Fray feeling off-kilter. “I didn’t think you’d actually do it. You are a slut.”
“That was disgusting,” Fray shoots back. His throat burns, as does his face. “You’re disgusting.”
“Aww, poor baby. What, did you think I was gonna get romantic for you just because I’m cute and fwuffy?” Tin’s voice drips disdain. He leans forward, placing a hand either side of Fray onto the headboard. Penning him in, like a sheep. “I’m not a cartoon rabbit. I’m a grown man. I know how I like to fuck. If you’re too vanilla for that then you better bail now.”
This close Fray can smell him, hot fur and whiskey and musk. Fray wipes alcohol and saliva from his lips, and swallows again. His body throbs. He says, “Didn’t s, say I didn’t like it.”
Tin’s glare morphs into a predatory smile. He relaxes, ever so little, and he takes another drink, still holding the can with his tail. “Fuckin’ nasty, kid,” he drawls, drawing one hand down through Fray’s hair. It hasn’t gotten far before Tin forms a fist and uses Fray’s hair to drag him back, arch his spine. Fray’s startled noise morphs all too quickly into a moan. “Ha! You like your hair pulled, too! Figures a nice kid like you would be a freak, under all the A-pluses and gold stars.”
Fray tries not to pant and fails. “Not a ton of A-pluses, honestly.”
“Yeah? Didn’t fuck any of your teachers? Too bad.” Tin grabs one of Fray’s barely-there breasts; Fray jumps. He squeezes and runs the tips of his claws along the dark circle of his nipple, eyes flitting up to gauge Fray’s reaction. Said reaction is for Fray to flinch and bang his elbow on the headboard. He’s floundering. He knows what to do with another human. How is he supposed to reciprocate? Tin doesn’t even have anything to grab that he can see. Maybe he doesn’t have anything at all? Like a Ken doll? Is that hot? He’s not sure. Maybe?
All these questions are chased out of his head by Tin grabbing his jaw again and kissing him properly. What Tin lacks in convention he makes up for in initiative: he’s the first to escalate every motion, every deepening. His tongue, longer than Fray had expected, and softer, licks insistently at the inside of his mouth. The sharp teeth prick at Fray’s lips. He’s the one to grunt into Fray’s mouth and demand: “You a dead fish or something? Touch me. You ain’t going to lose your memory if that’s your worry.”
“Not worried,” Fray says, a little indignant. “Don’t know what you want, is all.”
“I just said, pipsqueak, so make yourself useful already.” To emphasize his point, he grabs one of Fray’s hands and puts it on his hip. The fur is shockingly sleek, save for a sparse intermingling of thicker, coarser guard hairs. Fray is reminded of a long-haired cat, and is immediately taken out of the moment. Is this bestiality? No. No way, right? Oh, god. What if he’s got a weird animal dick? Is that hot?
His thoughts are broken by a particularly hard bite on his lower lip. “I didn’t tell you to stop,” Tin says, his tone tighter and even more prickly than before. “Is this gonna be a problem? Are we doing this or am I wasting my time?”
“No,” Fray says, and is annoyed by the protesting tone of it. It makes him feel like a kid. “Sorry. Just getting used to it. You.”
Tin pulls back, his eyes narrowed. If he’s at all affected by the making out, it doesn’t show. There’s a long pause, and with an internal wince Fray regrets his word choice. But there’s no snapping, no cussing him out. “Yeah, well,” Tin says eventually. It’s low in his throat, almost under his breath. His ears have swept backwards. “Guess I can’t blame you for that. However,” he goes on in a louder voice, and hooks his tail over his shoulder to retrieve the can of Club. “I got a trick for that. Classic strategy for men everywhere.”
He shoves the can against Fray’s chest. Some of it sloshes out onto his breasts. “Drink. Until it stops freaking you out,” Tin says flatly. “Works every time.”
There’s something lurking under the words. It’s black and heavy, formless. It’s in the lines of his face, too. It feels old, to Fray. Scarred-over. It feels a lot like how everything about Tin felt when Fray was first assigned to him.
Slowly, Fray takes the can. With a grimace at the taste, he throws back his head and chugs it. When he’s done with that, Tin takes it and shoves the last unopened one into his hands. “I’m kind of a lightweight,” Fray says, hesitating before popping the tab. “Two beers is my max.”
“Two?!” Tin barks, incredulous. “Fuck me, kid, you’re gonna get alcohol poisoning just from sucking my dick. Christ. We’ll fix that. Drink.”
Fray drinks. He forces himself not to complain about the taste, which is awful, but there’s a part of him that’s too proud to let Tin know how much he dislikes it. He downs it as quickly as he can, and when he’s finished he feels light-headed and heavy. Tin takes that can, too, and looks him over. “Pisses me off to say it, but you are cute,” he says archly. He thumbs a drop of the splashed whiskey that had clung to Fray’s breast away and sticks the pad into his mouth. The light-headed feeling intensifies. “Bet you squeal like a bitch in heat, too. Get on your back. Legs open.”
This is going faster than Fray is strictly used to. He’s gotten accustomed to being the more experienced one, and he doesn’t know if he quite likes being on the other side. That said, he doesn’t know that he dislikes it, either. It’s mostly just overwhelming. “What’re you going to do?” he asks instead, eyeing the green claws that crown Tin’s hands. Already he has trouble keeping his focus on them. They seem to smear in the air.
Tin makes a great show of rolling his eyes. “I’m gonna warm you up. Get you into it. Give that booze a boost. You get horny enough and you don’t care so much what it is that’s touching you, yeah? Come on.” He accentuates this with another squeeze of Fray’s breast, catching the nipple between thumb and forefinger. It’s still impatient, but a dull, resigned kind of impatient.
At last Fray acquiesces. He gets himself as comfortable as he can on the ancient mattress and its sagging boxspring, settled against the lone, skinny pillow. He finds himself groping his own chest as he tries to arrange his legs comfortably. The attempt becomes moot as Tin slips between them. It’s a strange sight, this creature with his impossible everything, running his hands down Fray’s hips to pull the rest of his clothes off. Then he’s on him, hands moving quick and certain. They feel strange pressed flat, more like elongated paws than fingers. Tin isn’t as bad as Checkers the rat, at least. His tail has fur on it.
Then the padded palm cups itself between Fray’s legs and he isn’t thinking of much at all. He bites his lip against the sensation, and harder when the hand starts to move in slow circles with steady pressure. “Shit, I love blonds,” Tin mutters, his other hand raking its fingers through the fine, soft hair above. “Can see everything.” The hand pressed against Fray’s cunt splays out, spreading his hole open ever so little. He feels the rush of cool air into him. Fray whines, and Tin gives the first genuine-sounding laugh Fray has heard out of him today. “Easy, easy.”
This continues. Fray flits between watching and covering his face, his head spinning from mounting pleasure and the canned cocktail. He’s wet and getting wetter. Tin’s found the clit with shocking ease and the broad pad of his thumb harries it, chases it around beneath its hood. With his remaining fingers he strokes and plies at Fray’s lips, spreading the slick around, sometimes dipping inside to get more. The slow drag of the claws inside him makes Fray buck and tremble. Tin growls with each one, and when Fray hitches his knees against Tin’s sides it grows into a lustful rumble. He is deeply conscious of every shiver and gasp that Tin draws from his body. “So you like it nasty, huh, Fray?” Tin is saying into his thigh. Teeth drag across the skin. The fur is so soft. “Thank god for young perverts. Keeping the spirit alive. This what you’re into, then? Getting fingered by old men? Or—” Abruptly he pushes all four of his fingers into Fray up to the knuckles, and Fray’s hips jerk violently. The motion flows up his spine and sets the whole world spinning. Tin laughs. “Maybe getting fisted by old men?”
“N—not so ha, hrr … god, Tin …”
“Just ‘God’ is fine,” Tin says. The moan he’s answered with makes Fray bury his face in his arms again, dumbfounded by himself. Tin’s back to laughing, even after he pulls his hand out of Fray’s hole with a mortifying squelch. “Look at this,” he says, jabbing Fray until he does. Before him is Tin’s hand, the fine fur flat and glistening with something viscous. “That’s all you. Did you cum already?”
Being honest? Fray isn’t sure. He doesn’t think so. He makes a pathetic little noise of noncommittal. “Never mind, don’t care,” says Tin, crawling further up Fray’s body. His fur slides slow along Fray’s tensed stomach and hard nipples, sending electric zaps of pleasure to his brainstem with every move the man makes. When it finally stops, Tin is poised over him with his wet hand arched over Fray’s face. “Open up.”
This, this is definitely hot.
He’s grown to appreciate the taste of himself over his experiences, and it’s no worse on Tin’s hand. The finely toothed pad catches on his lips and the sharp taste of his own slick bursts over his tongue. Being fed his own pre by a guy he barely knows, twice his age and on a bare mattress in an abandoned house—maybe he is a slut.
When Tin pulls his hand away Fray growls and swipes vaguely toward it. “Shut up,” Tin tells him. Before Fray can even try to get out a reply, Tin has grabbed him by both wrists and firmly braced his thigh between Fray’s legs. He leans forward, hard. “Hump it,” says Tin, pulling on Fray’s arms to keep him squarely seated. “Grind. Give me a show and maybe I’ll fuck you proper.”
The heat and weight of Tin above him feels like heaven. Fray groans. “C, c’mon, m-man—”
Tin’s thigh drives forward, hard and irresistible. Fray squalls. He doesn’t need to be asked again, not after getting a taste of it. Tin’s fur is just as soft against his cunt as it is against his chest, and the sensation of a hundred hairs dragging against his clit makes him seize and pant. He grinds desperately against Tin’s leg, hands fisted in the sheets. Sometimes Tin moves, forcing Fray to change the angle of his motions. This is invariably the source of new tenors of whimper, moan and plea. When he can get the words out, anyway. “Need more,” he whines after nearly three minutes of this. His whole body is aflame, but this needy grinding against a leg has him hungrier to cum than he’s felt in ages. “Tin. Tin, Tin, m-more.”
“More?” says Tin with mock surprise, dripping sarcasm. “Why should I? You’re way more fun like this than your normal boy scout act. Should just start doing this to you on the daily. Whatddya say?”
“Hhha. H, hate you …” With another growl that peters out into a whine Fray shoves himself against the leg again. Tin finally reciprocates, working his leg to broaden the effects of Fray’s efforts. He’s close, close—
Tin pulls away. Bereft, Fray tries to hook him back in with his heels. Tin barely notices. Instead he’s examining Fray’s cunt by dragging two fingers around the sensitive edges, delighting in the way it makes him twitch. “Good start,” he says, licking excess from his fingers. With both hands he grabs Fray’s hips and drags him closer with surprising strength. He ends with his lower back in Tin’s lap, his pelvis trying to tilt toward his face, his spine forming a lazy “C”. Before Fray can orient himself Tin has jammed his fingers into Fray’s hole again. This time he spreads them wide, opening Fray the furthest he’s been so far. It makes him feel empty. Fray is stupid with need, the desire to get pressure back on his clit driving him to twist and strain. Tin laughs, easily keeping control. Finally in his frustration Fray tries to slip his hand up his stomach to soothe the ache. Tin slaps it away. “Papa’s busy, brat,” he growls. “This pussy is mine right now.”
Fray growls back. “Not fair.”
“Ohhh, fair? You don’t want to get into fair with me.” He seems a lot bigger, bent over Fray with his hand halfway inside his hole. His hand shifts, the fingers and thumb adopting a more narrow configuration. He pushes deeper, and the wide spot where his thumb joins the palm finds resistance. “Quit tensing up,” he tells Fray, keeping the pressure steady. “You’re getting my whole hand. You can take it. I bet you’ve taken bigger.”
Before Fray can respond, he pulls back his hand, only to push it in again with a harder thrust. Fray yowls as his body strains to accommodate, as something inside him is knocked against and pleasure floods his brain. It’s the biggest thing Fray’s taken in a good while. He squirms and bucks as Tin repeats the motion again and again, more pressure being put into the in-thrust with every round. He’s crying out, moaning like a whore, and when Tin’s hand finally breaches him in its entirety he bites down hard on his own hand to keep his howl in check.
“There we go,” Tin is saying. It’s low, even soothing. His arm has stilled, but his fingers curl into the palm, the fist hitting places in Fray he hadn’t known about. Tin’s wrist twists carefully left and then right, moves a little further forward and then pulls back enough that he feels the stretch again. It’s too much. It’s too much and he wants more. Tin’s gravelly voice is nearly gentle when he says, “Good. Good boy. Tell me how it feels.”
The alcohol laps at his brain. It occurs to Fray that he’s not sure if he can speak with any clarity right now. He tries anyway. “F—full.”
“Yeah? And?”
Fray wracks his mind, what little of it he has access to under these conditions. What does Tin want him to say? “Feels good,” he gets out, a stab in the dark. “Big, it’s big. Oh, god.” Every time he bears down on the fist it seems to find somewhere new that makes him shudder. “Please …”
Oh, that goes over well. A grin paints itself lazily over Tin’s face. “Please what?”
It’s remarkable how fast his reservations have crumbled. Tin has a way in his method that seems to be driving Fray mad. “Want you to fuck me,” Fray says, trying to lift his hips as if to do it himself. He doesn’t make much headway. “Please, please, I’ve b-been good …”
“Christ, kid,” he hears Tin mutter. “You could make a nun cream herself.” He hooks his free arm around one of Fray’s legs and holds it steady, the fingers in Fray’s cunt flexing in preparation. “You got muscles down here, you know that? Strong. Let’s give em a workout.”
Suddenly he’s pulling out. Fray whines in protest, propping himself up on his elbows in time to see Tin pop his soaked hand out. Tin admires it for a moment, catching a string of slick that clings to his hand with two sodden fingers. “You fucking love this, don’t you?” he says, fingers working their way back inside. Fray moans, and louder when the widest part of Tin’s hand pushes back into him. “You’d do big numbers in porno.” Out. In. “There we go.” Out. In. “Loosen this sloppy hole up. Just like that. Look at me,” Tin commands, as his pace gets faster and Fray’s breath starts to catch. It’s a struggle, and embarrassing besides, having to look someone in the eye when their entire hand is inside him. It makes him clench involuntarily and the first real sparks of an orgasm race after. “Eyes on me,” Tin says, voice husky. “Look at me while I fuck you. I want to see your face when you cum all over my arm.”
Fray bites his lip. It’s the only thing he can do to focus at all, though by now every part of him feels so sensitive that even the pain has a ring of pleasure to it. The sounds alone could drive him over the edge like this: Tin’s growly heavy breathing, Fray’s shamefully slutty cries, the wet, vulgar sounds as he’s fucked. Something rolls through his hips, a massive wave of pleasure. Warning tremors. His eyes flutter closed, then open again in answer to Tin’s warning growl. “D’n’t stop,” Fray slurs, one hand kneading at his own breast and the other running its fingers through his hair. “Please, close, I’m close.”
Tin does not stop. All his focus is on his pistoning arm. But he does smile a lazy, smug smile. “Yeah? You want to cum?” Fray, whining; Tin, laughing. “I guess you’ve earned it,” he says, and the claws in Fray’s leg bite tighter. A moment later something hot and wet presses hard to Fray’s clit. He gives a tremendous yelp, hips jerking away, but he has nowhere to go. In desperation he grabs for the headboard behind him. Tin’s long tongue finishes its lick and goes back for another, making contact as Tin’s arm pumps faster.
Another wave of pleasure, so keen it nearly hurts. This is going to be one of those really good ones, the ones that radiate out through his entire body and make his toes actually curl. He gasps as it builds in the core of him, like pooling lava, breath hitching, legs pushing, his cunt tight around Tin’s fist. The touch of tongue has become an unashamed kiss and his clit rolls helplessly under that mouth. He feels like he might die.
There—there—there—
Sound crackles through his head. It only registers as words after he has passed the point of no return, Tin’s voice, aggressive and demanding: thank me, boy.
It hits him like a train. For all his whorish sounds he is almost silent when his orgasm overtakes him, save for a sound almost like a sob that morphs into a long, low moan. As the release floods his body with pleasure and his brain struggles to keep pace. He hears himself gasping thank you, sir, and is horrified by it. Horrified, until he sees the way Tin’s eyes widen and how a knowing grin sweeps his face, because that’s when Fray’s climax seems to double in power. He is fully out of the world.
Tin watches him from between his thighs. His mouth is still parted, strings of saliva connecting his lips to Fray’s clit. He has the self-assured satisfaction of a cat that’s just knocked over a glass of water. “You’re welcome,” he says after Fray finally goes limp, clearly pleased with his results. “You are a good boy.” Fray moans. Tin cackles. “God! You little whore. Brace yourself, I’m pulling out.”
The whine ekes out of Fray’s throat as Tin’s hand unfolds and withdraws. His body resists the attempt, still-spasming muscles trying to keep it inside. They fail in the end, and Tin’s hand is freed with an obscene sucking sound. “Jesus,” he hears Tin mutter, and upon looking sees the source of the oath. Tin’s furred hand is soaked to the skin, glistening and glossy in the afternoon light that pours into the high attic window. There’s something white mixed in with the wet. Tin tilts his hand this way and that, then smears the excess off on Fray’s stomach.
This is what at last drags Fray back to the land of the living. “Hey!” he protests, trying without much real effort to kick Tin away. Tin just grabs his ankle and holds it aside, using Fray’s thighs to wipe off what was left behind. “That’s gross, ugh! You’re d-disgusting!”
“Mad I didn’t make you eat it?” Tin leers, and sticks his fingers into his mouth. Fray ignores the way his cheeks heat up. Instead he scrabbles awkwardly upright and looks with some distress at his messy stomach. Tin, on the other hand, ponders the taste like some beer connoisseur. With another obscene sound he pulls the fingers free and makes a show of smacking his lips. “Hmm,” he says. “Pennies. Kinda sweet. Acidic, though. I’ve had better.”
Still boneless in the wake of a really good orgasm, Fray rolls his eyes theatrically. “Whatever,” he says, and lets his legs be shifted further apart so Tin can sit in that squirrel-like way of his. He’s fuzzy-brained and self-conscious in a way he isn’t used to, and it quickly consumes his thoughts. Tin’s command and his own unhesitating obedience lay before him, a shape he recognizes but not one he’s sure he likes. He had not even considered not obeying. He thinks about that errant, overheard comment from some Sunday school teacher to a random churchgoer, ages ago, the one that’s stuck uncomfortably in his mind for years now. He’d do well in the army. He can’t function without orders to follow. It had not been about Fray, but it stayed with him all the same.
Roseingrave’s face flashes in his mind’s eye.
Tin is watching him through half-closed lids. He’s sat back now, pushing the balls of his feet into Fray’s spread thighs seemingly for his own amusement. It may well be a calculated move, for it parts the fur that grows thin and short between his legs. For as much of a veteran as Fray surely is in the art of looking at people naked, he still finds himself somehow shy here. He can only bear to take glances, which tell him little through the fur. He can’t actually figure out what he’s looking at. And of course, Tin notices. He lifts his eyebrows lazily, making no move to hide himself. “What, you want the peep show?” he says, and he’s aloof again. Almost disdainful. It rubs Fray the wrong way, just like almost everything else about Tin. “Ain’t scared of what the pink raccoon is packing?”
Fray sets his jaw and lifts his chin. He can match this man. He can. “Should I be? You got a chainsaw down—down there, or something?”
This sets Tin to cackling, though it feels less natural than perhaps it should. “I think you’d still suck it even if I did,” he says, and takes a luxurious-looking stretch that shows off a body that Fray watches with growing fascination. The fur around the core of him, hips-thighs-stomach, looks thinner and softer than that on the rest of him. The skin gives an unexpectedly delicate impression. As Fray watches, Tin relaxes, his left hand reaching lazily between his thighs. With his fingers spread into a “V” he slides them down, parting folds and fur. Fray stares. He can’t not.
He’s never seen anything like it, not even in magazines. It’s nearly like someone took two different sets of anatomy and merged them. He sees a shaft the length of his thumb and a little bigger around, hard and straining; he sees the slickened lips that Tin’s claws peel apart below it to reveal a hole that looks like it would just barely admit Fray’s finger. Looking at it makes something odd start to happen in the back of his skull, too, much too distant to properly comprehend and all the more arresting for it. The booze still swimming in him makes it too far away, or maybe makes it so he can feel it at all. It’s not mere lust, of that he’s sure—though there’s a wealth of lust on top of it.
But Tin can’t be expected to read his mind. It’s a bit of a shock when the rest of Tin’s hand slides down, covering himself from view. The spell is broken. Fray is still recovering when Tin says with an air of impartiality, “I’m getting off whether you’re here or not, so you better pick—”
Before he can stop himself, Fray says (more urgently than he’d meant to), “Can I touch you?”
Tin, who had gone as still as a cat with the interruption, gives him a bewildered squint. He recovers with a swiftness. “You wanna?” Tin says carelessly. He slides his hand a bit closer to his thigh, revealing the edge of a soft curve of flesh. “How bad?”
His head still mostly emptied, Fray hauls himself up to his hands and knees. His own speed startles him. He’s just reaching forward when Tin’s tail swings around and cuts him off. “If you start,” he says, voice almost threatening, “you’d better be ready to finish.”
The weight in his voice flips some rusted-out switch in Fray’s brain. He almost feels it crunch and crackle as it moves, and the resultant inner machinery shifts, clicks, rumbles, oiled into motion with the alcohol and hormones. Fray shoves the tail aside, pushing forward, forward, rising onto his knees as he takes hold of Tin’s shoulder and thrusts him back down to the mattress. He’s bigger than this guy, he might be younger but that doesn’t mean he’s an idiot or a coward, and the longer Tin looks at him with that doubtful squint the more determined Fray becomes to wipe it off his face. “I’m not going to chicken out in the middle,” he tells Tin, still holding his shoulder with a grip that might be too tight. He gains a minor victory with the surprised look that crosses Tin’s face as Tin is pushed all the way back down, now lying face up, and Fray climbing on top of him. When he’s squared himself above Tin, Fray takes in the sight. The man’s expression has changed, is still changing, morphing chameleon-like: surprise, suspicion, intrigue, and finally back to that leer. “I’m going,” Fray continues, finding confidence in the whiskey, “to make you cum.”
Tin’s infuriating grin creases his whole face. “That so? What, by staring at me? Not my kink, babe.”
In the past, in the times where Fray has slept with someone new, someone less experienced, he would do his best to make them comfortable. He’s found sex is best when it’s not treated as the sacred thing his youth group teachers tried to make it out to be, but something more fun, more relaxed. It’s been successful, largely. This is not where his thoughts have wandered. He does not want to check in with Tin to ensure he’s having a good time. He does not want to take a break despite having climaxed himself only minutes ago. He wants—and this is strange for him—he wants to have Tin biting a pillow and whimpering under him. He wants to wipe that smug grin off his face and replace it with something whiny and flushed. It feels like a pressure on the inside of his skull. Without much forethought, he shifts enough to pin Tin to the mattress by his chest. Fray’s hand seems huge against his little body, and the fur is so sleek and nice to touch. Nice to grab, pull—
“Well, what’s this?” Tin says in a murmur, still smirking. He puts his hands around Fray’s forearm, both bracing himself and keeping the hand there. “You got a bossy side, kid? Think you can break this stallion?”
“I hate the way you say shit,” Fray replies, and to his chagrin Tin’s ears perk and his grin broadens. Beneath Fray, he rubs his thighs together with a soft sound of sliding fur. Fray thinks again of the alien anatomy between Tin’s legs, feeling dizzy as he thinks about how that oversized clit must be moving under the pressure. A bloom of heat begins to unfurl in his hips again. “I should shut you up,” Fray goes on, curling his fingers into the hair coat. “S, sick of listening to you running your mouth.”
“Aw, but I’m so much fun to talk to,” Tin says, and kicks up his legs so his heels hook onto Fray’s hips. It takes everything in Fray not to look down at Tin’s crotch. “I might even tell you you’re doing a good job. Being a good boy. I doubt it, though. What, suddenly you think you’re hard enough to top me? Better men have tri—”
It’s at this point that Fray, who has been casting around for something of use, snags his own discarded underwear from where it lies at the foot of the bed, and stuffs it into Tin’s mouth. Tin, whose eyes bulge in true surprise and who instinctively tries to jerk his face away, growls just like an irate cat. Fray crams the rest in. It won’t last long, he’s sure, but it’s something. “God, finally,” he says to Tin’s muffled noises, and without further preamble he flips the man over. Claws snag the sheets as he does. He doesn’t care.
What he does care about is that—structure between Tin’s legs. He needs to see it up close, in a way unlike anything he’s felt before. It’s almost nonsexual. It’s almost jealous. He lets Tin shift and scramble awkwardly as he leans back, running his hands down Tin’s sides and hips, until he can take hold of Tin’s legs and push them apart.