Chapter Text
She says, “I’ll be back before you know it,” like he’s the one that needs to hear it—like parting’s harder on him than her. He can see the worry in her eyes but still forces a smile, nodding, pretending it’s no big deal. A small part of him wants to hyperventilate, but he clamps down on the trigger, refusing to connect his grandmother ducking into the back of a cab with his parents dying. She’s not really leaving him. She’s going to stay with her sister for a week or two or maybe even three during a rough patch. His grandmother’s a saint—always there for anyone who needs her. His instinct is to follow, but he’s got work and bills and will have to send them money for the treatment. Peering out the back window, she promises, “You know how tough that old coot is—she’ll pull through in no time.”
Tyme answers, “Yeah,” and almost pesters her to call. But of course she will. They’re close. And he doesn’t want her to think that he needs it, that he’ll be lonely. Their rickety old house isn’t all that big. He spends most of his life working anyway. She blows him a loving kiss and gives the driver instructions. Then they’re pulling off and down the street. Tyme waits, watching, until the car’s long gone, and trudges back inside to make lunch for one. He half hopes he gets called in.
He does. He works. He maneuvers awkwardly around Nan, the break-up hardly fresh but still uncomfortable, and he overhears the nurses gossiping about who he’ll sleep with next, and he listens to Den natter on about brain scans and outlandish theories and a new program he’s starting. Den asks plenty of times what’s new with Tyme, and he always says nothing: the last thing he needs is for Den to have an excuse to come talk his ear off at home. The first week is uneventful but bearable—his grandmother texts that her sister’s home from the hospital with a laundry list of food restrictions and physical therapy exercises. She hints that she might be staying longer, and he tells her that’s perfectly fine: he’s doing great, and all those standard lies.
She prods him to go out and meet people, not just patients and practitioners. At first, his agreement is halfhearted; he’s not the type for meaningless hookups. And he doesn’t know where to meet anyone substantial outside of the hospital. And he’s learned his lesson about dating people at work—the rumours never end. Den tries to drag him on a double-date, and he insists that he’s got plans. It’s not a complete lie, because he makes plans, using that reasoning to drive himself to a bar. It’s been a while since he’s gotten blackout drunk and figures he could use the relief, if only for one night.
The place he picks is purely for proximity to the hospital, but it looks decent inside. Not too seedy. It’s dark, crowded, with music that’s too loud, but he expected all those obstacles. The floor is filled with young bodies gyrating against each other, too generic to catch his eye. He beelines for the bar instead, figuring it’ll all be easier with alcohol.
There are two guys already there, maybe a little younger than him, college-age in jeans and long white shirts, one with too much gel in his hair and one that looks delectable.
Tyme automatically does a double-take. They’re both hybrids, the plain one some breed of dog and the pretty one a cat—sleek triangular ears rise out of black hair, the long strands shimmering in the dim fluorescent light as smooth as the short fur. He has a long, feline sort of face, thin eyes and plush lips, pale skin rosy from his drink. A thin black tail peeks out around his hips, draped low down the bar stool, while his companion’s big bushy counterpart wags with palpable excitement. The other one is yammering, while the cat leans on the counter, occasionally hiding in a glass of gold liquid like he’d rather be anywhere but there.
Tyme stares right at him over the dog’s shoulder, only to catch a snippet of conversation despite the aggressive song: “Buck up, it’s not like you’ll get in trouble. Sriwatsombats never do.” Then the dog barks out a laugh like that’s hilarious, certain families skirting the law. The cat’s visibly uncomfortable.
Tyme’s frozen in place. The bartender’s finally noticed him, glancing over from a group of girls down the line, but Tyme shakes his head—he’s not ready to order—he doesn’t know if he can stomach anything without throwing it right up.
The flashbacks come rolling in. He tightens his fists and looks away when the cat’s dark eyes flicker over. The back wall’s lined with bottles and stark artificial lights, as good a place as any to stare at. Tyme’s heart pounds through his chest. He’ll never forget that name. The dog snarls some sick joke that has the cat groaning, and then he’s pushing back and heading for the dance floor, grabbing his friend’s arm—if they’re even friends. If they came together, they’re probably not leaving that way. The cat resists and mutters something about getting water. He’s snidely called a prude and finally left alone. When the other hybrid’s swallowed up in the crowd, that cat’s face says the same thing Tyme’s thinking: good riddance.
Then it’s just the two of them sitting nearly side by side. Other patrons drink around them, absorbed in conversation or on their way out, Tyme and the hybrid the only two staying, silent, and Tyme stops pretending the cat doesn’t have his attention. The cat has to know he’s gorgeous; anyone would look.
A fucked-up plan’s developing in the back of Tyme’s reeling head. He’s had millions of terrible revenge schemes come and go, none remotely doable, never an opportunity so golden—it’s like an invitation’s fallen right into his lap. He still wants to throw up. The cat frowns at him, long fingers circling the glass, before turning to drink it, evidently giving up on their connection. He looks vaguely bored. He doesn’t spare a single glance at his friend. Or any more at Tyme.
Tyme eyes his handsome profile, his slender figure, the fuzzy tail tapping one lean leg. Tyme hasn’t been with a hybrid in forever.
He’s always liked cats.
He’s always hated tyrants.
He sucks in a breath and takes a deliberate step closer, drawing those pretty eyes. At least it’ll be easier than it should—the Sriwatsombat is hardly difficult to look at. Knowing his last name taints that beauty, but it’s still there, in the soft curves of his cheeks and the elegant lines of his throat. He has a sensual grace to his movement—he tilts his head curiously at Tyme. It’d save them both a ton of trouble if he’d hiss and send Tyme away.
Tyme leans in to ask over the music, “So, you come here often?”
The cat snorts, as well he should—it’s the oldest line in the book. Tyme would’ve come up with a better one if he’d known he’d actually meet someone half so scrumptious. As lame as Tyme is, the cat still sounds civil. He shrugs and admits, “Sometimes.”
“I don’t. Do you know what’s good here?”
The cat lifts a brow, waits a beat, then slowly pushes his glass over. It scrapes across the bar into Tyme’s waiting hand. His brain waffles through the thrill of an indirect kiss and the disgust of drinking a Sriwatsombat’s spit. He’s screwed if the cat has anything orally transmittable.
He deems it worth the risk and takes a quick sip. It’s plain and bitter, surprisingly cheap. But decent. He’s not picky. He slides it back and leaves his hand there, separated from the cat’s by that drink that they’ve shared. He offers, “Tyme.”
Those eyes drink him in, all of him, head to toe, and he’s immensely glad that he’s used the extra downtime lately to workout. He dressed well for the night. He must look good enough, because, finally, the cat says, “Great.”
Great. He plays that over in his mind—Great Sriwatsombat.
His mark.
A cute little kitty cat borne of great evil, left alone in a crowded bar, ripe for the taking. Great’s smaller than him, hardly out of shape but clearly less muscular; Tyme judges: weaker. There are no obvious bodyguards in sight, no creeps in uniform suits or conspicuous bodybuilders with earpieces, and the one friend is nowhere to be seen. Tyme’s ideal revenge would be to murder the man that murdered his parents.
But he’ll settle for kidnapping that man’s precious purebred kitten. Tyme shifts his hand around the glass, letting his pinky graze Great’s knuckle. The tension between them thickens—he can see Great’s hitch of breath and feel his own temperature rising. They both know what’s going to happen. He casually asks, “Where you from, Great?”
It’s so, so much easier than it should be. He doesn’t have to push at all. Great stares down at the point of contact, chews his perfect bottom lip, and then leans in to breathlessly lie and ask, “I’m a stray... wanna take me home?”
The blood pounds in Tyme’s ears. His libido screams as loud as his scheming brain: yes. It must be the simplest vengeance in history: Great all but drapes himself across a silver platter, nestled in the palm of Tyme’s hand.
There’s only the faintest hesitation—whatever small scrap of a conscience Tyme has—and he doesn’t listen to it. He tells Great he’d love that, and then they’re headed to the parking lot, with no thought for whoever Great left behind. Great doesn’t even send a call or text about where he’ll be. He gets into a stranger’s car and lets that stranger take him home. It’s incredibly reckless. If Tyme’s grandmother knew what he was doing, she’d probably say the same thing about him.
But she’s safely off with a loved one, so Tyme’s free to to back Great into their house, peppering kisses down his throat and working at his buttons. Great arches against the wall he’s thrown into, pressing up into Tyme’s chest, grabbing just as greedily at Tyme’s shirt. He mewls as Tyme laves across his bare skin and whimpers when he’s bitten, clutching desperately to Tyme’s hair when Tyme sucks a hickey into his shoulder. He makes lovely sounds, far better than the music they left behind, a welcome echo in Tyme’s empty home. They quickly fill it up with self-made steam and hungry moans from both sides. As Tyme spreads his hands across Great’s trembling chest, he realizes that his wicked plan won’t just be easy but delightful: he can’t help but enjoy it.
He barely thinks in time to do more—to excuse himself to the ‘washroom’ and really go set up his phone on his desk, facing the bed, half hidden behind laundry and papers. He hits record and guides Great in. It’s nothing like herding cats. Great comes right to him, ears perked and tail upright, the rest of his all-human body showing full signs of interest. Tyme could almost laugh over how quickly the plan comes to fruition. But Great keeps him in a different mood, too erotic for laughter. Great tumbles happily onto Tyme’s bed and spreads his legs right open.
It’s a treat to undress him. Every swathe of bare skin is more tempting than the last. He has tattoos in surprising places, sharp marks of personality beyond his family’s uptight visage—he could play the part of a stray if his clothes weren’t so expensive and his face weren’t oh-so perfect. His hair’s long like a rebel and he moves like some punk college kid that couldn’t care less for propriety, but his body’s smooth and flawless like it’s well taken care of, and his delicate features scream good breeding. He’s the sort of rare hybrid that some rich eccentric would pay billions to catch and cage and keep as a performative plaything in their mansion. But he bites Tyme’s bottom lip like he’d rather enter a bar fight in some back alley and go home with the winner.
He seems equally pleased with Tyme. He must live in a penthouse or sprawling manor with bathrooms bigger than Tyme’s bedroom, but he doesn’t have a single disparaging comment for the dilapidated décor. He barely even looks around—Tyme probably didn’t have to hide the camera so well. Great gives all his attention straight to Tyme, splaying his hands across Tyme’s broad chest and eyeing the bulge in his boxers like it’s a full box of catnip. Watching Great licks his lips sends waves of lust right down Tyme’s spine.
Tyme has half a mind to keep him, maybe put him up for ransom. When all the clothes are off and Great’s completely bare beneath him, Tyme nips at his exposed throats and mutters, “No collar, huh...?” Because someone of his stature could have a diamond-studded one with Sriwatsombat proudly engraved on a golden pendant. The dog at the bar had one, but Tyme didn’t bother reading it. He only has one arch enemy.
Great chuckles, “I’m a stray, remember?” with bizarre sincerity. Like he really has no name to show. No hand that owns him. Tyme lifts over him, considering. Great’s hair is fanned out around his pillow, soft thighs open around his waist. The cock jutting proudly out of dark curls is long and pretty, like all of Great. The sly smile on his lips is everything. He teases, “What? You wanna put one on me?” He makes it sound like that’s just fine, a complete stranger claiming him on the first fuck. He stretches, reaching beneath the pillow and fluffing it, idly sighing, “Go for it, handsome.”
It’s becoming a joke, how open Great is to him, leading Tyme to wonder if Great’s always such a slut or if their connection’s that fierce. Tyme tries to call his bluff, answering just as casually, “Alright.”
There’s a collar in his bedside drawers, not one with any meaning, just a cheap toy left over by an ex that used to love fucking hybrids. He left it over once, and Tyme probably should’ve thrown it out, but he never got around to it. There’s no sentimentality, just laziness, or more important things—it’s a generic piece with no writing anyway. The leash bundled next to it is Tyme’s; he bought it to tie up that ex and has tied up a few people since. Nan never liked that stuff. She was too good to get off to the darker things that Tyme imagines when he’s jerking off. They weren’t really compatible.
He’s had condoms and lube nearby for awhile and hasn’t used them in too long—it’s a relief to find neither has expired. Great laughs at him while he checks the numbers in the lamplight, like it’s ridiculous to care, like he would’ve just taken Tyme raw. Tyme doesn’t think he could bring himself to do that, even to his enemy’s hell-spawn.
Great looks amazing in the collar. He lies there, relaxed atop Tyme’s crisp white sheets, lounging comfortably all through the process. He lets Tyme wrap the crude material around his neck, tight against his soft skin, too rich for such rough binding. It’s plain, black, generic, but does the trick: it paints a fantasy: a world where Great’s his. Great wears it beautifully but thankfully doesn’t call Tyme master. Instead, he lies in waiting, breath audibly held, like waiting for Tyme’s approval. As soon as Tyme breathes, “Yeah,” Great’s lifting up to kiss him.
They kiss more, more, non-stop, full of teeth and tongue, stifling and asphyxiating, but it’s impossible to do anything else. Great’s an excellent kisser and fits in his arms so well. It takes a tremendous swell of will power to remember the camera and maneuver Great around. Somehow, he gets Great up on all fours, facing the desk in the corner, ass high in the air. Even fingering him is fun; he’s tantalizingly tight but swiftly relaxes. A little bit of petting, and he opens right up for Tyme’s fingers. As Tyme works him wider, he fists the sheets and asks, “...You gonna put the leash on too?”
He wasn’t sure. But since Great asked, the answer’s unavoidable. The fantasy’s already growing. Tyme clips it to the back of Great’s neck and realizes aloud, “We should establish—”
“You can choke me,” Great groans, grinding back on Tyme’s hand like he can’t wait long enough to think of a safe word. “You can do whatever. I don’t care.”
That’s not how it works. Not safe. Tyme should really care about that.
But Tyme’s already in for fucking someone under false pretenses, filming it without consent, blackmail and maybe even kidnapping, so it’s not too far a leap to fuck without precautions. Great clenches around him like being fucked is all that matters, and Tyme’s not strong enough to fight that.
The noises Great makes when Tyme’s fingers slide out are absolutely sinful. The way he cries at Tyme’s cock thrusting into him is somehow even hotter. He even pushes back onto it like it’s all he wants, like he’s dying for Tyme to bottom out, and Tyme manages to get balls-deep even though Great’s ass has a vice-like grip on him. He was sure he had it gaping, fully ready. But he’s thick and Great’s deliberately squeezing his cock, moaning brokenly and squirming.
He’s so hot that it’s a chore not to come from that first thrust. It’s all Tyme can do to catch his breath. His head swims. Great’s burning up inside and looks wildly good beneath him. The whimpers are the worst. The most intoxicating. Head hanging, Great writhes in place, like he wants to impale himself even more. Tyme’s tempted to grab the tail emerging right above his crack and pound mercilessly into him, just jackhammer his hole until it’s red and puffy. Tyme thinks he could get away with it. Great makes it sound like he’s up for anything, and he moans around Tyme’s cock like he’s perfectly happy to be ravaged. Tyme’s hand wraps around the leash and grips the small of Great’s waist. He thinks of reaching under to pay Great’s hanging cock some attention but doesn’t want Great to come too soon either.
They need to put on a good show for the camera. Great needs to be fully, utterly debauched. Then Tyme can send his father crystal-clear proof of his debasement and maybe threaten to upload it online. With how beautiful Great is, it’d go viral in a heartbeat.
High on that thought and Great delicious asshole, Tyme digs his fingers into Great’s middle and thrusts deep into Great’s body—Great tosses his head back and screams.
It feels so natural. So right, even if it’s wrong. Tyme works into a brutal rhythm, shoving as far into Great’s tight channel as he can go, then sliding almost all the way out, just to slam back in—each thrust sends Great flying up the mattress, and Tyme has to jerk him back down. Great’s forced to keep up on his knees by Tyme’s firm grip, but his arms occasionally give out, only for Tyme to tug the leash and force him up again. He makes a choking noise each time but scrambles to sit up, to maintain Tyme’s preferred position. It’s a good one that’ll definitely have Great’s pretty face front-and-center for the camera. Besides, guiding Great like that is hot, hotter when he whines but ultimately obeys, even better when he starts panting Tyme’s name. He lasts remarkably long, and Tyme doesn’t help at all—he can hear Great’s hard cock slapping his stomach, or assumes that’s what he’s hearing, over the slap of his own thighs against Great’s ass and the squelching mess of lube gluing his cock and Great’s hole together. He has to bite into his mouth and hold himself back several times. He wants Great to lose it first. He wants Great to see stars. He wants the tape to show Great absolutely losing his mind on some commoner’s dick, and Tyme doesn’t even care if Great’s saying his real name—he stupidly wants it known that he’s the one wrecking Great’s tight asshole, that Great’s wearing his collar. The longer they fuck, the more it feels like it’s his, like Great is his, and he’s tattooing his mark on Great’s velvety insides. He feels like he could quite happily fuck Great’s gorgeous body for the rest of his life.
Then Great cries out, tensing all around him—Great clenches so tight that Tyme’s vision actually blurs. He gasps with his own pleasure as Great’s hips jerk violently onto him. There’s a second where Tyme’s reeling, and then he’s shoving Great down—he slams Great into the mattress and starts pounding into him so hard that it sounds like Great’s actually crying. It doesn’t stop him. Leash tight in one hand, he grabs the base of Great’s tail with the other—Great startles and yelps as Tyme holds his ass in place and beats the hell out of it with a hard cock. Tyme’s coming a second later, hissing as he fills the condom, wishing he hadn’t bothered, wanting to fill his shiny new Sriwatsombat to bursting with his cum.
When it’s over, he’s panting. His hips stutter to a stop, jerking almost reflexively. Great’s trembling beneath him. Sweat’s beaded all over both jiggling globes, pooled in the small of Great’s back and trickling between his shoulder blades. Great’s cheek is nestled in the sheets, his eyes hazy and far away. His mouth is open, tongue lolling out—he looks fucked stupid and stupidly fuckable. Tyme could almost go again.
Except he already came a boatload. It’s grotesquely trapped around his flagging dick. He stays where he is anyway, looming over Great, buried to the hilt. He’s still holding the leash, but it’s lax, winding up over Great’s shoulder. He looks like he hasn’t been fucked that good in ages and just wants to savour it. Tyme’s savouring it too.
He shouldn’t. If he had any sense, he’d kick Great right out, edit all traces of himself out of the video, and send it off. He also wants to tie the leash around the bedpost and keep Great chained right there. He looks good there, like he belongs in Tyme’s bed.
Tyme bends down to kiss the sweaty nape of his neck. He shivers and mutters, “Holy shit.”
Tyme gets it. He feels the same. He unclips the leash before he eases himself out of Great’s ass—Great hisses at the loss, hole choking up lube with little spasms. It’s pink and slightly swollen. Tyme feels minutely bad for abusing it, but not enough to swear he’ll never do it again. It’s tempting to bend down and kiss the poor thing, but Tyme resists. He tugs the condom off, tossing it at the nearest waste-bin. Great sleepily mumbles, “I came on your bed.”
They should’ve put a condom on him too. It’s Tyme’s fault. He was too distracted. He also doesn’t care. He’ll wash the sheets tomorrow and get all the Sriwatsombat germs out.
But that’s tomorrow.
In the meantime, it’s late, much too late for guests, but Great makes no move to go and Tyme stalls in making him. Tyme’s the first to get up and pauses in the doorway, meaning for it to be a hint. It doesn’t work. He winds up muttering, “I’m getting water,” and heads for the kitchen. Great shouts something about milk after him, like he’s the waiter at a restaurant. He considers filling up a bowl and leaving it on the floor by the bed to lure Great off—it’d be fun to watch him kneel over it and lick it up like a regular, non-hybrid cat. The draining post-orgasmic haze keeps him from bothering. Instead, he pours a glass and carries it back for Great to down. He does use more tongue than necessary, licking flecks off the corner of his lips. He drinks it all, sets the empty glass down on the nightstand, and promptly flops back onto the mattress, snuggling into Tyme’s pillow like it’s his own. Tyme can’t help wondering the last time he washed it. Certain hybrids are supposed to have a heightened sense of smell. Great obviously doesn’t mind Tyme’s scent.
Usually, Tyme would shower off after such a rigorous workout. Except it’s too risky to leave Great alone for any stretch of time while his phone’s still recording. He does stop by the washroom to piss and brush his teeth.
He comes out determined to either offer Great a spare brush or kick him out, except he’s already fast asleep, and too cute to wake up. Asleep, he looks nothing like the son of a rich monster. To be fair, he also looked adorable awake. The leash is still close at hand and would work well enough to tie him up and turn that innocence against him.
Ultimately, Tyme risks leaving him free. It feels better to stretch out beside him. The blankets are bundled at the end, half slumped on the floor, and it’s not worth using them, because Great’s body heat is a whole furnace. Somehow, Tyme winds up with his arm thrown across Great’s side, spooning close, Great’s limp tail tickling his thigh. He falls asleep like that.
And he still has Great in his arms come morning. Great’s rolled over and tucked his head under Tyme’s chin, half off the single pillow they’re sharing. His feline ears are flopped over, his arms curled next to Tyme’s chest, his knees brushing Tyme’s legs. He’s as cute as he was yesterday. And he’s still there, so there was no need for restraints. The pseudo-kidnapping’s working well. There’s a long stretch where Tyme tells himself he’s plotting the next step, when really, he’s basking in the long-term afterglow and maybe enjoying the company.
Eventually, his mouth’s too dry to stand, and he carefully extricates himself. He tries to be slow, quiet, but Great’s thick lashes flutter up anyway, only to squint against the sunlight streaming in. Tyme never bothered drawing the curtains. He freezes, unsure what to say, but Great only yawns and snuggles back into the pillow. It doesn’t look like he’s going anywhere.
Tyme announces that he’s going to the washroom, Great grunts acknowledgment. The usual morning routine begins. Tyme even manages to fiddle with the desk, blocking the view with his body, and get his phone back. It’s long since stopped recording. He doesn’t dare check the video while Great’s in the room. With the evidence secured, he picks out a new day’s worth of clothes and heads to the shower.
He comes back to find Great wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, all snuggled up and back to sleep, like Tyme’s bed is all his. It’ll probably smell like him for a few days. Except Tyme needs to wash the sheets. It’d be annoying if Great weren’t so damn cute, even cuter with his hair ruined and his legs tangled in Tyme’s sheets and his supermodel figure still buck naked. His briefs peak out of the rumpled pile on the floor. Tyme can’t bring himself to demand that Great put them back on. Or anything back on. Regular cats don’t wear clothes anyway. Tyme tells himself his hybrid shouldn’t either.
Not his. A stray one. The collar’s still around Great’s throat—a safety hazard that Tyme eventually deals with—Great grumbles tiredly while Tyme fumbles it off, but it does come off, banished back to the nightstand. For some reason, Great seems to wilt at losing it. Tyme doesn’t ask. Disgruntled, he tells Great the shower’s free and heads to the kitchen.
He makes breakfast for both of them. It’s not intentional, just happens. Great proves to be a picky eater, wrinkling his nose at parts of it but eating nonetheless. Despite his clear complaints, he thanks Tyme. He still looks irresistible, even in day-old clothes with his hair all tangled. Tyme almost offers to brush it but catches himself just in time.
When he sees Great’s ears twitch, he almost reaches out to scratch beneath them, but resists by clenching his fist around his fork and pretending it’s not adorable. They slept through the morning. The afternoon is... pleasant. And then Den calls him with some emergency at the hospital, and just like that, the bubble bursts.
It’s over. His phone’s heavy in his pocket as he explains to Great—he has to run, Great can finish eating and go, there’s nothing valuable in the house to steal anyway. Great looks impressed to find out he’s a doctor and jokes, “Damn, you save lives? Why didn’t you say that last night? Would’ve got you in my pants a lot faster.”
Tyme snorts, “Faster? Is that even possible?” And he has to resist the urge to kiss Great’s tongue when he sticks it out. Then it’s in to scrubs and out the door. It’s all a jumbled blur. It feels surreal—he actually got traction on revenge and let it linger. He’s good at what he does and concentrates when he needs to, but Great’s somewhere in his head all day.
He’s stuck at the hospital way longer than he wants to be, than he should be on his ‘day off’, but one emergency rolls into another, and maybe a part of him is still avoiding his empty house. It always seems emptier after someone’s just left him. Of course, it’s not the same, Great leaving verses his grandmother—Great was never his to lose. He finds himself amused that he ever thought of kidnapping Great, like he could’ve actually followed through or got away with it. He sort of regrets taking the video, using Great at all, but then he reminds himself of all the blood on Great’s hands and knows that he’ll still send it straight to Great’s father. He can’t watch it at the hospital but plans to start editing as soon as he gets home.
Except when he gets home, the living room lights are on. He can hear muffled voices. The front door’s unlocked. Tyme’s cold to his extremities, sure that he’s somehow been preemptively caught. He shifts his keys between his knuckles and wishes he kept a bat outside.
He creeps in slow, peering around every corner, only to find a familiar kitten sprawled across his couch, watching an old movie with the volume way too high.
A scoffing noise breaks out of him, and Great jumps, ears perked straight up. He swivels to face Tyme with wide eyes, only to groan in relief and slump back into the cushions. He grabs the remote and dials the sound down before Tyme can yell at him.
Tyme’s frozen, because Great’s still there, and he’s wearing the battered old collar. In the sober light of day, or late evening, it makes Tyme cringe. He doesn’t know why he kept the stupid thing. He gestures towards it, wryly asking, “That the best you can do?” Great’s brow knits. Tyme clarifies, “The collar.”
Lifting a hand to run his fingers over it, Great asks, “Why? You got a better one?”
Tyme almost points out that Great definitely does, but that would mean letting on that he knows who Great is, and it’d probably be better to do that in text when they’re far apart. Except they don’t have each other’s number. Theoretically, they’re complete strangers.
They go out for dinner together like they’re dating, because Tyme’s too tired to cook, and for whatever reason, Great’s still there. When Tyme asks why, Great casually reiterates the stray story, but it obviously runs deeper, because it’s not true and he’s still there. They eat at run-down outdoor tables by a street cart, and Great pretends that doesn’t bother him, but it’s so clear he’s used to being catered to. Tyme snorts at him. He pouts. He picks at his own plate and Tyme’s and asks what Tyme’s doing after.
Something different. Anything. He means to say he’s going home alone, but Great says he’s between semesters at university and has nothing better to do. He makes it clear that everything’s on the table.
So Tyme takes him home again, partially for the promise of more revenge but mostly because Great’s irresistible. The sex is fantastic. And it’s easier the second time to enjoy the afterglow, to lie next to each other and appreciate Great’s pretty face without having to worry about the camera. There’s still a mix of guilt and shame. He’s hyper aware that touching Great should feel so wrong, but it just doesn’t. Great follows him into the bath afterwards, and it’s too tender, a much sweeter moment than sex that’s harder to ignore. They don’t talk much, just lounge in the warm water and occasionally drag soap across flushed skin. Great’s dangerously good company—it’d be so much easier if he wasn’t. If he didn’t fit so well in Tyme’s arms. If he didn’t lean on Tyme while they toweled off or playfully steal Tyme’s toothbrush. Tyme knows all about good hygiene, but Great points out he had Tyme’s dick in his mouth an hour ago, so a toothbrush isn’t so bad.
Then he’s climbing back into Tyme’s bed, and with a sigh, Tyme offers pajamas. They’re a little baggy on Great, the shirt slumping down his shoulders and the sweatpants draping too low down his sharp hip bones. Tyme has to sleep facing away so he’s not sucked into another round. He has work in the morning.
Great’s still there in the morning.
And the evening.
He doesn’t put the collar on again, but Tyme does find him absently touching his bare throat while they’re hoarding opposite ends of the couch, reading separate things. It’s enough for Tyme to put his book down and ask, “Did you used to wear one?” He leaves out the question of what name was on the front—a partner’s or family.
Great frowns and hums a curious note like he doesn’t know what Tyme means. Tyme taps his own throat, and Great says, “Ah. I... yeah. A lot of hybrids do.”
Tyme knows. They’re not exactly rare, but uncommon enough to get hassled occasionally, from weirdos obsessed with that type of animal or curious how it works, what bizarre instincts they have or special skills or physical traits hidden by their clothes. A collar might mitigate it, boasting of backup, some other power behind them, and can be a point of pride like a wedding ring or family crest. Tyme imagines Great’s had custom-made designer pieces more valuable than pearl necklaces or intricate lockets with loved ones painted on the inside. So of course Tyme wonders why he’s not wearing one anymore, why he didn’t bother dressing up to go clubbing, when he was clearly ready to seduce someone and theoretically make a good first impression. When Great’s not forthcoming, Tyme prods, “Why not now?”
Great shrugs.
Tyme pushes, “A pretty thing like you probably had a fancy bedazzled one.”
Great laughs, such an endearing sound, and grins at the sleazy compliment. “Maybe. But if I’m gonna wear one, I want it to mean something. And my last one...” He hesitates, wavering, and settles on a low, “didn’t.”
Tyme can feel himself frowning too. The implications tumble around in his head—does his family mean nothing to him? How could a collar that cost a fortune mean nothing to a baby born of nepotism? Or maybe he’s just so spoiled that he treats jewels like worthless stones. Except he seems fine with Tyme’s ancient couch, its sunken pillows, the tiny phone screen he’s perusing when he probably has a dozen high-speed laptops at home. He doesn’t say anything about going home.
And for way too long, Tyme doesn’t either. If he alludes to Great leaving, Great clings tighter, snuggles up to him in bed until he scratches underneath Great’s chin. Once he starts, it’s hard to stop. He finds himself absentmindedly petting Great all the time, which Great moans for and leans into and obviously adores. It almost makes sense, why he stays. His maids probably don’t feed him and pet him and fuck his pretty brains out as thoroughly as Tyme does.
Tyme watches the tape of their first encounter too many times. At first, it’s just to know what he has. Then to see if he should crop anything out, mute parts, cut whole sequences where Great’s screaming his name.
Then he’s just watching it because it’s hot, especially the moment Great’s eyes roll back in his head and he comes all over his own stomach. Tyme touches himself to it more than once, huddled away in the washroom or in bed while Great’s showering. He doesn’t get that many moments alone anymore but doesn’t miss them. It’s nice to have someone to come home to, especially on the odd occasion where Great’s ordered in or even tried cooking himself. He’s a chill pseudo-roommate, low maintenance for what he is, even if he leaves minute traces of short black fur on the floor. He fits well into Tyme’s routine—they work out together, go on short runs, do stupid couple exercises they find online just for an excuse to touch. Then they’ll lounge about in their birthday suits and trade slow songs on Tyme’s old guitar. Great has a nice voice, like he has a nice face and a nice ass. It’s not that he has a nice aura, exactly, but his energy fits with Tyme—Tyme knows he’s no saint either. But he’s trying. Great feels like he’s trying. When there are traces of spoiled rich kid in him, they’re cute instead of overpowering. He’s cute. He lies across Tyme’s lap while they get sucked into a new kdrama, and Tyme can’t help petting his hair.
Every day Tyme half expects some paid thug to kick his door down, shoot him in the heart, and drag Great home. It never happens. He asks once or twice if Great’s told his family where he’s staying, and rather than ask how Tyme knows he even has one or insisting that it’s fine, Great grunts noncommittally. So Tyme waits it out and never quite gets around to sending the video.
He spots a new display in the department store across from the market where he gets all his cheap groceries—a range of hybrid collars that look decent but affordable. They were shopping together, but Great left to make merits—another anomaly that doesn’t jive with Tyme’s scathing view of his family. Tyme probably should’ve gone with him but didn’t want his sins associated with whatever heinous crimes Great’s committed, and someone needed to get food. He’s got both arms full of paper bags and realizes he’s been staring for awhile. Great’s still nowhere to be found. So Tyme sneaks in one last purchase that he hides in the bottom of a bag, under a load of heavy spices that Great’ll keep far away from. Tyme hides it in his sock drawer when they get home; socks are one of the few things that Great doesn’t steal from him.
Great practically lives in his shirts, his pants, sometimes even his boxers, and Tyme should probably put a stop to that but doesn’t. A few of Great’s things magically appear: clothes, toiletries, a laptop he does school work on, nothing ostentatious. For the most part, he functions like Tyme, like any old human, except he takes long naps in absurd positions, wrinkles his nose at regular Thai dishes with any spice, is skittish about getting his tail wet, and absolutely melts whenever Tyme pets him. It makes it hard to imagine him doing any heavy-lifting for his family’s underground business, because he’s resilient but has such an enormous weakness—a few strokes behind his ear, and he crumples. Tyme can easily imagine him purring under a doting cop’s affectionate attention while the rest of the force raids a warehouse full of contraband behind him.
The longer they’re together, the less Tyme can picture Great in with the mafia. The more time passes, the more genuine he is when he tells his grandmother to take her time. He picks up less extra shifts at work, actually wants to go home, and begrudges the days that keep him busy all night. When he gets off past midnight, he doesn’t bother changing out of his scrubs, just trudges out and ignores the patients in the waiting room that try to jump on him or the nurses at the front desk that ask if he can see just one more person. He’s half asleep on the drive home and fully expects Great to already be out cold, which sucks, because it’s poring rain, and that’s usually when they cuddle the most—when it’s awful outside but warm and cozy with each other. It’s when the guitar’s most likely to come out and the clothes rarely stay on. But he’s too tired for sex anyway.
The lights are all off in the house, but Great’s curled up on the couch, face aglow from the phone screen. It takes Tyme a second to realize it’s his phone—he forgot it at home and never had a moment’s pause to ask Great to bring it to him. Great still could’ve. But it wouldn’t have been smart to direct Great to it anyway.
Great tells him, “Your grandma called,” and looks over, right into Tyme’s eyes. Tyme’s shoulders and feet are killing him. He needs to change and sleep but can tell that something’s happened and finds himself glued to the spot. It’s not hard to guess what’s wrong. He has a lock on his phone, a standard pin-code, but he’s gotten complacent lately and might’ve typed it in while Great was watching. Cats are sly and clever. Great’s got a decent memory. Maybe he heard the call, it drew attention to the phone, he opened it out of curiosity, perhaps thinking Tyme was calling home, and had a look around while he was in there. It’s not like Tyme has a ton of content to sift through. Except if Great did stumble on the video, surely he’d be fuming.
He’s frowning but otherwise much the same as usual. Tyme doesn’t know what to say and can’t even risk apologizing in case his assumption’s wrong.
Then Great says, “You could’ve just asked,” and Tyme’s heart drops. It’s definitely that. “It’s not like I’m conservative in bed. I would’ve let you film it.” He shouldn’t have. He’s always been way too easy.
Drifting to the free end of the couch, Tyme finally says, “Sorry.” Great just snorts and hands the phone back—Tyme can’t help checking that the video’s still there.
It is. Great could’ve deleted it and didn’t. Great leans against the backrest, ears flopping over, more relaxed than he should be. He looks particularly soft in the dim light, a hazy bluish glow dappled through the rain. The heavy patter on the roof adds a soothing ambiance when it should do the opposite: there should be a storm inside. Great picks at the thick upholstery while Tyme weighs out his options.
Finally, he just asks, “You’re not mad?” Because he should be.
He shrugs. “I mean, that was kind of messed up, not telling me you were recording. But it’s not like I can stand on a moral high horse. I’ve done some fucked stuff too... or... I dunno... looked the other way and...” He trails off, shoulders slumping, burdened with something else that Tyme doesn’t know—they talk often, but not about the past. Then Great mumbles out of nowhere, “I don’t really wanna see Title again.”
That was the other hybrid at the bar. They were ‘friends’ by circumstance—the only two hybrids in their class. And, Tyme suspects, the two richest. Great mentioned him in passing, telling Tyme not to worry about ‘the douche from the bar’, and that’s about it. As far as Tyme knows, they don’t hang out anymore. It’s late enough that Tyme’s brain is working slow, and he blurts without thinking, “I thought you were talking about your family.”
Great scoffs, rolling his eyes, not at Tyme but the invisible elephant in the room. “I’d say I’m distancing from them too, but I think they already had me at arm’s length anyway. They don’t tell me anything, and the more I...” Trailing off again, his eyes flicker to Tyme. Sharp warning bells break through the brain fog. They’re getting somewhere. If Great had told Tyme on the first night that he wasn’t close with his family, that he wasn’t part of their crimes, Tyme wouldn’t have believed him. Every inmate says they’re innocent. Great never claims complete innocence, but he slowly admits, “The more I try to get close to them, the more I think I don’t want to know.”
One of the windows yawns open, and rain splatters the floor. Tyme swears and gets up to close it, hit in the process—the wind’s blowing water sideways. When he turns back, Great’s horizontal, nuzzling into the cushion Tyme just left. His eyes are closed, ears drooping. It’s too late for deep discussions.
So they go to bed, snuggle close, and don’t talk about it in the morning. Tyme gets his phone back without mention of the video, but deep down, despite everything he tells himself, a part of him knows that he’s not going to send it anyway.
They go out. Great wants to utilize the break between classes—he’s studying Engineering, and Tyme teases that of course he is; that’s apparently what every young gay man in Thailand does. Great huffs that feline hybrids don’t, only the big, scary animals, the ones automatically designated as ‘tops’ in BLs, which only opens him up for more teasing about being all the cat cliches. They’re in a little boat, traversing yellow-green water, when Great wonders why there are so few doctors in BLs. Tyme can easily explain that: doctors have better things to do than stumble, slow-motion, into cute boys they met during childhood, only to waste countless time on longing stares or making romantic rooftop picnics. Great playfully falls into him, extra slow, and they wind up having lunch on a nearby rooftop that makes the surrounding buildings look less claustrophobic than they are.
They go swimming, tail and all, with none of the fuss Great has when that same tail’s forced into the bath. Maybe it’s different when they manage to get a moment alone at a fancy pool, all the kids busy at school and luck on their side for the rest. They dive in side by side, trace the long path to the other end, only for Tyme to ruin their first lap on a whim: an underwater kiss, awkward and fumbling but magical. They come up for air, laugh, and do it again.
They hit the beach, walk through the sand, find a hammock to lie in, and Great looks so carefree that it’s hard to believe he’s ever seen anything go wrong. Maybe he’s rubbing off on Tyme—maybe if Great is rotten to the core, Tyme doesn’t want to know.
It’s those little moments that convince Tyme more than any grand speech could’ve. It’s the way Great’s heart races when Tyme’s lying on his chest, listening for the sound, and the way Great hums along to his guitar, confidently off-key. And the way Great joins in on calls to Tyme’s grandmother, who puts her sister on, so they can ask all sorts of silly questions like how often do humans grab Great’s tail. Great groans that that’s the worst. Tyme grabs it extra tight that night, and Great only moans loader.
Great has little almost-fangs on either side of his mouth, the sort of angular teeth that should make him look demonic but only add to his smile. It should be a major deterrent to Tyme’s dick, but he winds up thrusting down Great’s velvety throat anyway, back up against the fridge because he was supposed to be making dinner. Great looks too good on his knees to stop. He’s too good with his tongue. Lately, Tyme’s been wanting to come all over that pretty face, but never gets a chance to, because self-control’s so hard when Great’s so tight around him. He fists both hands in Great’s hair and hisses, “Great—”
Great hums around his mouthful like yeah, he is great. Tyme moans, head lolling back. He grits out, “Hey... pull off...” half because he wants a gallery of sordid pictures to go with his video, and half because he wants to throw Great over the counter and finish in his ass. There’s a wily twinkle in Great’s eye, so it’s no surprise that he keeps going.
He sucks hard, hollowing out his cheeks, and Tyme comes with a cry. He inadvertently shoves Great closer, holding him on, pumping it all in. Tyme can feel the back of his throat and knows it’s all going straight into his stomach. Great squirms and whines but takes it, ears twitching and nose wrinkling as Tyme feeds him an appetizer.
As soon as he lets go, Great pulls off. Tyme’s flagging dick bobs into the open air, slick with spit and spend. He pants while Great splutters. Voice devoid of sympathy, Tyme chides, “I told you to pull off.”
Great sticks out his tongue, pink and wet and way softer than it should be. He singsongs, “Too bad. If only you had a collar you could use to really yank me around...” It sounds offhanded, more a joke than anything, but Tyme knows him better than that.
So after dinner, when they’re fully dressed and about to start a movie, Tyme breaks out the collar that’s been in his drawer for days. A week. It feels like a big deal to present it, even unwrapped and nonchalant, with nothing carved on the silver oval pendent. If Great wants, he can put his name on there, or address, or a dumb design, whatever. Great accepts the gift with a giant smile, and his eyes might be a tad watery.
His voice is even, but sounds profound, when he mumbles, “You’re never gonna get rid of me now.” He asks Tyme to put it on, and Tyme does, mentally scolding himself for thinking it’s not unlike sliding on a wedding ring. That’s ridiculous. It hasn’t been that long. It was all under false pretenses. He still hasn’t come clean about that. But he knows he won’t send the video. He’ll tell Great everything... someday.
Weirdly, he gets the feeling Great won’t even care. He touches his collar all night, running his fingers along the band, batting at the pendant, tugging the little hoop that pendant dangles from. Tyme tries to mitigate the swelling emotion by admitting, “It was on sale.”
But Great laughs, “To a stray, it feels diamond-studded.” Except he’s obviously not a stray anymore. Tyme no longer mentally argues whether or not he ever was. Tyme’s realized it’s complicated.
Great wears it all night and nothing else. He’s still collared, over-hot and sticky with old sweat, half on top of Tyme in the morning. Absently stroking Great’s back with one hand, Tyme flips through his phone with the other and deletes the video.
He finds it’s not that hard to give up. They fuck all the time anyway. He could make a new one, where Great would actually wink at the camera, go cross-eyed and stick out his tongue, exaggerating the orgasm, moaning extra load, putting on a proper show to help Tyme’s special revenge. They could do it together. Except Tyme thinks less and less about vengeance and more about how they’re going to adapt to not being able to fuck on every surface of the house once his grandmother comes back.
Her stay went longer than it was supposed to, as long as it probably would’ve been in the first place if not for her worrying about him. She seems to realize she doesn’t have to anymore. He’s hardly lonely, but still misses her, and has mixed feelings when she says she’s coming home.
The night before, Tyme works late, so there’s no room for a final romantic dinner. Not that ‘romantic’ was ever the right word. Playful, maybe. It’ll still be fun when his grandmother’s home. After work, the house is empty, with a post-it note on the fridge that Great’s out with his brother. It’s fine, because Tyme was going to use the evening to clean the house. Except Great obviously already did. So Tyme’s puttering is mostly useless. He makes a token effort anyway, sweeping up stray cat hairs, for lack of anything better to do without his—
Great’s his. He realizes that he’s been thinking of Great as his boyfriend and swiftly corrects that to ‘pet,’ but absolutely knows the truth. They’ll have that conversation... eventually.
When Great gets home, he’s visibly bummed. He and his brother clearly don’t have the good relationship Great would like, though he says it could be worse, it’s fine, it’s just not... anything of substance. He says that sometimes he feels like he doesn’t even know who his brother is anymore, that he’s just looking at a second father, and the gap between them is a chasm that isn’t worth trying to jump. Tyme offers sympathy and finds he genuinely means it. It always sucks to see Great down.
He’s quiet but less sorrowful by the time they’re curled up in bed, resting against the headboard, the bedside lamp on but neither actually reading the books in their laps. Tyme has an arm around Great and pets him in long, firm strokes that have Great purring low. It’s a soothing, satisfying sound that calms all of Tyme’s nerves. He doesn’t bring up his rough day at work, the loss of a patient, and doesn’t need to. Great seems to be less bothered about his brother. They’ve found solace in each other and the nice little pocket universe that they’ve created for themselves.
Great’s the one to make it sappy, sleepily muttering into Tyme’s shoulder, “I’m glad I met you.”
Met is a nice word for it. The mood is pleasant enough that Tyme feels safe enough to say, “I was going to kidnap you, you know.”
Great tilts up, peering at Tyme through half-lidded eyes. He doesn’t straighten or pull away, just regards Tyme as he is. Tyme’s still petting him and bestows a quick peck on his forehead like that makes it all better. Then Tyme glances at the bedpost near Great’s blanket-covered feet and explains, “I would’ve leashed you up right here.”
Great chuckles, hushed and rumbling. He’s wearing his collar, like he always is, engraved with English letters, his own name. They’re not that smitten yet, that they need to wear each other’s names. But they’re on the way. Great runs his hand over his own throat, tracing the restraint, and muses, “Sounds kinky...”
Tyme could laugh. Great always lets him off easy. He gets away with far too much. He’s covertly filmed Great at his most vulnerable, considered sending it to his father, nearly blown up his life, and might’ve kidnapped him too. All Great’s done is raid the pantry and pretend he has nowhere better to go. The new semester starts up next week. With that and Tyme’s grandmother back, they’ll have significantly less alone time. Knowing what he does about Tyme, Great should be pleased with that.
He whimsically sighs, “Finally, somebody I know does something fucked up that I can actually be on board with... did you get a new leash with this collar, or should we dig out the old one...?”
Tyme groans. “You’re not helping.”
“No, I’ll totally help. Should I hold my wrists together for you, or...?”
“You know what I mean. You’re not helping my karma levels.”
“What, I’m supposed to make you a better person now? I can barely handle being a not-terrible one on my own.”
Tyme rolls his eyes, but it’s fond. He can’t help it. He thinks Great’s a lot better than terrible. He doesn’t know about himself. Or if they’re good for each other. Sometimes it feels like they’re both grasping at straws, trying not to look back, walking too slow out of dark pasts, just surviving the present.
It’s easier with two. Three. “My grandma’s coming back tomorrow.”
“I know.”
“I think she’ll like you. In person, I mean.” They’ve already spoken over the phone. He can feel Great nod into his shoulder, and he moves his hand to scratch behind Great’s left ear, like rewarding him for good behaviour. Great purrs louder; Tyme’s grandmother will love him. He’s more lovable than he has any right to be.
He asks, quiet like he thinks the opposite, “Can I still stay when she’s here?”
Tyme’s hand only stops for half a second. Then he’s back to faithfully doting on his gorgeous partner. “What, weren’t you listening? I’m kidnapping you.”
Great laughs. “No, you’re homing a stray.”
Tyme hums, “Sure,” and kisses him.