Chapter 2: Button, Button, Who’s Losing Buttons?
The alley was a canyon of shadows, the sounds of The Rail swallowed by the groan of the city. Max walked a few paces ahead, the ember of his cigarette a single moving star in the dark. Tyson followed, the damp air cool on his exposed stomach and groin. His clothes felt like a soaked second skin, heavy with the promise of what was coming. The initial bravado of the bar was settling into a low, electric hum in his veins.
Max stopped under the shuddering yellow flicker of a dying streetlamp just before the alley opened to a wider, grimy service road. The cap on his head was a dark silhouette. He didn’t turn, just spoke over his shoulder, his voice clear in the sudden quiet. “Nice jockstrap. A conscious choice, or were you just out of clean briefs?”
Tyson caught up, his bulk filling the space next to him. “It holds everything in. Mostly.”
That’s when Max whirled.Fast. One clawed hand shot out, not gentle, and fisted in the strained cotton over Tyson’s pec, right beside a struggling button. The fabric screamed. Tyson’s breath hitched, not from surprise, but from the sudden, direct contact. Max’s green eyes glinted, inches away. Up close, Tyson could see the pale spotted pattern on his tawny fur, the crisp line of his jaw under the military cap.
“Bet you pop the rest before we reach my place,” Max purred. His other hand came up, his thumb finding the same stressed white button Tyson had fought earlier. He pressed.Not hard. A deliberate, testing pressure right against the swell of Tyson’s muscle.
A rumble started deep in Tyson’s chest, a vibration that traveled up through his throat and into the hand clutching his shirt. “You buying?”
“I’m observing.” Max’s thumb circled the button. His words were clinical, but his pupils were wide, black pools swallowing the green. A faint blush, warm and dusky, spread up from his neck, across his cheeks.
Tyson shifted his weight. The movement was small, but in the tight, ruined denim, it was everything. The seams at his thighs let out a soft, groaning creak. He saw Max’s eyes flicker down. The bulge in the dark-green jockstrap was a thick, defined curve, damp now from sweat and the humid alley air. It twitched, a stark, involuntary jump against the fabric.
Max’s breath caught. The blush deepened.
“Try me,” Tyson dared, his voice gravel.
For a long second, they were locked there under the stuttering light, the city holding its breath. Then Max released his shirt, the fabric falling back with a snap. He took a final drag of his cigarette and flicked it into a murky puddle where it died with a hiss.
“This way.”
He led Tyson across the service road, past overflowing dumpsters that reeked of rot, to a set of narrow, rusted stairs bolted to the side of a concrete support column. It led up to the network of walkways and service platforms under the highway itself—the city’s forgotten skeletal system.
“You live in a bird’s nest?” Tyson grunted, starting up the stairs. The metal shook under his weight.
“Temporary. Quiet.” Max was ahead of him, light on his feet. “Don’t fall. It’s a long drop onto some very angry-looking rebar.”
The climb was three flights, each one a strain on the already tortured seams of Tyson’s clothes. By the time they reached a small, grated landing, he was breathing hard. Sweat traced paths through the fur on his chest and back. The single, bare bulb over a dented metal door did him no favors, illuminating every strained thread.
Max unlocked the door. It opened into a single room. It wasn’t an apartment; it was a hideout. The space was long and narrow, tucked directly under the curve of the highway’s underbelly. The walls were raw concrete. The ceiling was a maze of pipes and insulated ducts, vibrating with a constant, low hum from the traffic above. It smelled of concrete dust, old paper, and Max’s distinct, clean scent.
A narrow bed was pushed against one wall, neatly made with tight hospital corners. A small, rugged-looking duffel sat beside it. A camping chair and a crate serving as a table were the only other furniture. A few paperback books were stacked with geometric precision on the crate. A single window, thick with grime, looked out into the tangled darkness of the support structures.
Max tossed his cap onto the bed and turned, leaning back against the crate. He crossed his arms. The room seemed to shrink around Tyson’s presence.
“Cozy,” Tyson said, stepping inside. The door clicked shut behind him, sealing them in with the hum. His voice sounded too loud.
“It serves.” Max’s eyes were roaming again, taking inventory in the more intimate light. “You can lose that.”
Tyson understood the command. The shirt.
He reached for the topmost remaining button. His fingers, thick and still buzzing from the beer, fumbled. He grunted in frustration.
A soft laugh from Max. “Need assistance?”
“Just… gettin’ there.”
Tyson’s fingers stilled. A different, sly idea cut through the beer-fog. He dropped his hands from the button. Instead, he looked down at his own chest, at the three remaining plastic islands holding a continent of muscle at bay.
He grinned.
He brought one thick finger up, not to unfasten, but to touch. He slowly traced the circumference of the highest surviving button, feeling the insane tension in the threads. He circled it once, twice, a deliberately teasing motion.
Max watched from his lean against the crate, arms still crossed. His green eyes narrowed slightly, confused by the sudden shift from struggle to performance.
Tyson’s grin widened into something smug and knowing. He met Max’s gaze, holding it as his other hand came up to grasp the bottom hem of the shirt. He gave it a sharp, downward tug, aligning the fabric.
“You’re right,” Tyson said, his voice a low, conspiratorial rumble. “Some steam lettin’ would be nice.”
He took a deep, deliberate breath, filling his lungs. Then he pushed his massive pectorals forward and pulled his shoulders back in one fluid, powerful flex.
The sound was brutal. The cheap cotton, strained beyond any reasonable limit, emitted a sharp, collective groan. Then: PING. PING.
Two white projectiles shot across the room like bullets. One ricocheted off a humming pipe with a metallic tink. The other vanished into the shadows near Max’s duffel bag.
The shirt fell completely open, revealing the full, furred expanse of his torso. A deep, genuine sigh of relief and pleasure shuddered out of Tyson. The release of pressure was immense, a physical unclenching he felt in his bones.
Max jolted upright, uncrossing his arms as if burned. A brilliant, dark blush flooded his spotted cheeks and raced up to the tips of his ears. He instantly looked away, down at the floor, his posture rigid. He was trying to master his expression, to reassemble his detached soldier’s composure.
Tyson saw it all. He let the ruined shirt hang open, not removing it, just wearing its defeat.
“See something you like?” Tyson asked, echoing his challenge from the bar, his tone dripping with playful malice. He took a step closer. The floor seemed to vibrate with him. “You’re blushing, soldier.”
Max’s head snapped up, his green eyes wide and stormy with a mixture of embarrassment and raw want. He opened his mouth, but no cool, controlled words came out. Just a sharp intake of breath.
He was completely, utterly flustered. And Tyson, swollen with power and pride, didn’t let him hide it for a second.
And Tyson, swollen with power and pride, didn’t let him hide it for a second. He closed the distance between them in two slow steps, the hum of the traffic above filling the room like a held breath. “Cat got your tongue?” he murmured, his voice all gravel and heat.
Max’s back was against the crate now, nowhere to retreat. He swallowed, the blush a fever across his skin. “Just… calculating the structural integrity of that shirt.” His attempt at cool detachment cracked on the last word.
“Already failed inspection.” Tyson’s broad hands came up, not to touch Max, but to gesture at his own bare chest. He let the ruined shirt slide off his shoulders, catching it on one finger before letting it drop to the concrete with a soft whisper. His fur was dense and matted slightly with dried sweat from the bar, a testament to the night’s build-up. The room’s stale air touched new skin.
Max’s gaze dropped, dragged down by gravity. It traveled over the solid shelf of Tyson’s pecs, the dark fur trailing down his sternum, the slight, solid swell of his stomach. It snagged on the waistband of the jeans, still cruelly tight and hanging open. The stark white and green of the jockstrap beneath was a flag of surrender he hadn’t given.
“The pants are a code violation, too,” Max said, his voice thinner now. He was trying to sound like he was still in charge of this inspection. He wasn’t.
“Yeah?” Tyson rumbled. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of the denim, just inside the hip bones. He didn’t push them down. He just held them there, framing the strained, damp fabric of the jockstrap. Every muscle in his torso was on display, flexed just enough to show the life under the fur. “What’s the penalty?”
“Demolition.”
The word hung there, sharp and final.
Tyson’s sly grin returned. He applied pressure, not down, but out, widening his stance. The ancient denim, stressed from the climb, soaked in beer-sweat, and strained over his thighs, let out a long, low groan. It was a sound of material fatigue. A promise.
“Get on with it, then,” Tyson breathed, his light-brown eyes locked on Max’s.
A switch flipped. The blushing, flustered recruit vanished. Max’s hand shot out, fast and precise, and clutched the frayed fabric where the last remaining button held the fly together. His knuckles pressed hard against the swollen heat underneath.
“You’re a fucking mess,” Max hissed, but it was admiration, not disgust. His other hand came up to Tyson’s hip, claws pricking through the fur.
“Your mess.”
Tyson shifted forward, a tiny, insistent nudge into Max’s grip. The metal button, the last sentinel, dug into Max’s palm. The threads screamed. Max held his gaze, green eyes burning, and gave one firm, deliberate twist of his wrist.
POP.
The sound was softer than the shirt buttons, a deeper, more definitive snap. The button spun away into the dark corner of the room, a tiny metal disc giving up the ghost. The denim, released from its last point of tension, sagged open completely.
The jockstrap was the only thing left holding him in. The damp fabric was dark, stretched to a frightening thinness over the thick, urgent shape of him. The full, heavy weight of him was now blatantly obvious, barely contained, a breath away from spilling into the open air of the room.
Max’s breath left him in a shaky rush, all his borrowed composure gone. He was just a young man now, staring, captivated and overwhelmed. His hand was still fisted in the open fly, the denim rough against his knuckles.
Tyson leaned in, his broad snout close to Max’s ear, his warm breath stirring the spotted fur there. “Told you,” he growled, the vibration humming through both of them. “Try me.”