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GLASS JAW

Rory went down in the third round.

The dive wasn't hard to fake—his opponent, a rangy wolf sixteen years his junior, had hit him hard enough that by the time Rory opened his eyes, he was staring up into the bank of halide bulbs above the ring. Coach Tatcher was there on his periphery, hovering beyond the ropes like a vulture.

“Get up!" The old bastard shouted over the roaring crowd. “Fuck you, Rory, get the fuck up!"

It was shit acting, Rory thought—but then, he supposed it was easy for him to say. His part of the act, insofar as it was an act, was over. All he had to do now was lie on the mat, spit some blood for the cameras, and collect his share of the take.

That didn't make the sound of the bell sting any less.

The accolades were a blur; the loudspeakers blared as the panel gave its announcement, and the ref let go of Rory's arm to hold up the other wolf's gloved fist. Left suddenly to stand under his own exhausted weight, Rory caught a glimpse of himself in the corner of the massive stadium broadcast screens.

The wolf he saw was a hollow-looking fuck, an old dog with all the lights knocked out of his eyes. He wobbled in place and stared at his own crooked scowl, only half in-frame.

A flash bulb went off in the front row. Between blinks, Rory found himself guided out of the stadium by Coach Tatcher. His leaving went almost unnoticed, the press and the cameras turning to his spotlit opponent.

“Well fucking done," Coach, yelling in his ear, patting his shoulder. When the doors to the changing room closed behind them, the noise of the crowd disappeared like someone had thrown a switch.

Rory collapsed onto a bench, fighting a wave of nausea that had little to do with his injuries. Coach Tatcher tousled between his ears, and for a brief moment, Rory considered decking him.

“Well done," Coach said again, glowing. The words were tinny, and seemed to favour Rory's left ear. “Fell like a fucking stuntman, slugger. Good fucking show!"

Rory nodded. Spat into a towel he didn't remember picking up. Coach was still talking. Rory tried to tune in, he really did—but the victorious blare of loudspeaker music was starting to trickle into the room. He spat again, and felt one of his teeth wiggle in its socket.

“We got you against Leland Paufry next," Coach was saying. “He's got some timberwolf in him, the monstrous fuck. Bets reflect it, too."

Rory wedged a glove between his knees and pulled it off. “Do I lose that one, too?" he slurred, letting the glove fall to the tile and roll under the bench. His fingers shook.

“Oh, don't be sore," Coach said, admonishing. “Bets are four to one against you already. Double that once the Daubreys slag you off in tonight's aftershow, triple that when Paufry puts you on your ass in the first match." Coach grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him, grinning. “And then you win."

Rory tried to do the math—but his pounding skull put a stop to it. “Okay," he said, thickly. He wiggled free of his other glove and prodded gingerly at his tooth.

Coach's hands raised again, like he was going in for another tousle. Luckily for him, they went into his suit pockets instead. “I've already settled it with Paufry's manager," he said, immune to Rory's dour mood. “The big bastard was leery at first –you know how young guys are about throwing their first match– but even that dumb shmuck knows money spends better than pride."

The music from outside hit a crescendo at the same time Rory's right ear popped, flaring his headache. He rolled his jaw, screwed his eyes shut, and let Tatcher ramble.

“He told me –get this, Rory– he said he wanted sixty percent of the take. Sixty! Just because you're a little shopworn. I told him if he takes fifty, you won't push his snout backward into his thick fuckin' skull-"

“Okay."

Coach's grin fell a little. “It's still a fat fuckin' purse, Rory."

“I said okay."

“Good man." Coach pulled a wrinkled envelope from his suit pocket and shoved it into Rory's balled fist. “Go clean yourself up—we got an interview with those Daubrey jagoffs tomorrow morning. Just act your age, Rory, they'll fuckin' eat it up."

Rory nodded, gripping the envelope of cash tight enough to crumple the manilla. “Okay," he said, skipping like a broken record.

“Rory. Look at me."

He looked up. Coach was smiling, in that beneficent way that meant the pep talk was over and it was time to get the fuck out. “Don't go digging up your ego, Rory. Everybody knows you're a champ, yeah? You had a hell of a run, and plenty of guys would kill to have the career you did, and still be in for a title on the wrong side of forty." Coach clapped his hands on either side of Rory's face, jostling his tooth. “But real fights are a young man's game, slugger. And you ain't getting any younger."

Rory stood, and pulled free of Coach's grip, swallowing the bile in his throat. There was only one place he wanted to be just then, and it sure as fuck wasn't here. Taking his silence as acquiescence, Coach patted him on the shoulder, and called to his back as he stalked towards the showers.

“From here on out, you're on easy street, Rory! Lights and smoke and cash and coke. It's all a fuckin' show."

***

Nursing his bruises and aching like a motherfucker, Rory hopped a train to the inner city.

Tonight's fight had drawn a crowd the likes of which Rory hadn't seen in half a decade. It was all marketing: old guard versus young blood; the kind of story that sold seats and was only ever going to end one way.

The evidence of the rowdy, home-bound audience was everywhere on the train. A squashed snap-back with a league logo on the brim, discarded under a seat. A half-rolled poster, forgotten in the aisle. Plastic cups and pocket change and ticket stubs littering the floor of the compartment. The leavings of a passing crowd, and Rory, sitting alone in the quiet of it.

Somewhere between stations, Rory found himself staring at a text he didn't remember typing. He stared for a minute at the recipient's contact photo, then sent it off before he had a chance to overthink it.

I'm coming over, it said.

The response came before the phone made it back into his pocket.

I figured.

There was an image attached: a blurry photo of a TV, playing tonight's aftershow.

Rory ground his teeth. Then, because he couldn't help himself, he tapped open a livestream, and prepared himself for the worst.

“-and how did it feel to step into the ring with Rory Trapp?"

The Daubrey brothers were sat behind their twin desks in their kitschy studio. The kid who'd laid Rory out not two hours ago was sat in the victor's chair, center frame, grinning like a fool.

It was Cecil Daubrey who'd voiced the low-hanging question. Sore winners made for good publicity, and the gaudy jackal had probably been hoping to goad the kid into boasting.

The kid, it turned out, wasn't a sore winner.

That made it worse, somehow.

“It was terrifying," the kid said, utterly sincere. “He was my hero, coming into the league. I've got all his posters from back when he was still hitting above his weight class."

“Ol' Beartrapp, eh?" Cecil Daubrey drawled, the nickname heavy with sarcasm. “I think we still have his sound-bite somewhere."

The kid nodded, too excited or too stupid to notice the dig. “I was front row when he fought Grizzly Jones in '07," he said, scooting forward in the chair. “He was the first canine in history to take the heavyweight belt from a bear. I mean, the guy's a fucking legend, even now he's-"

“And how did the posters measure up to the real thing?" Cecil Daubrey interrupted, saccharine irony dripping from his teeth.

The audience laughed, far too long and far too loud. The kid took a long time answering. Eventually, he just shrugged.

“I just wish I could've fought him back when he was throwing twelve-hundred."

Jim Daubrey, who'd been quiet up 'til now, laughed at that, pawing at his garish fucking tie. “The only thing ol' Beartrapp's been throwing lately is the towel."

Rory tore the headphones out of the jack, cutting the laughing audience short. In the translucent reflection of the train window, his bruised, swollen mug scowled back at him, surrounded by cheap merch and littered tare; a crumpled beer can of a wolf, drunk dry and discarded. Ragged at the edges.

“Fuck are you looking at," he muttered, darkly.

Even when he pulled up his hood and looked away, he could feel his reflection's gaze on him, tired and accusing. When the train rattled, it sounded like canned laughter.

***

The door to Ansel's apartment wasn't locked when Rory got there.

The space was dark, save for the pale flickering of the television and the thin trickle of light from under the bathroom door. It was quiet, too; nothing but the mumbling TV, the hiss of the shower and the creaking of water pipes. Rory locked the door behind him and tossed his cash-filled envelope on the counter. His ever-present headache ebbed as he breathed in the smell of hardwater steam and apple-scented shampoo.

There was a bottle of Lagavulin waiting on the coffee table. Rory ditched his coat as he went to it, hissing as the motion uncovered fresh bruises. The bottle was open, a few fingers already missing. The lip of the bottle tasted ashy, like Ansel's shitty cigarettes. Rory collapsed onto the sofa and drank, every bruise and soreness flaring at once.

On the TV, the aftershow had been replaced with slow-mo breakdowns of gloves touching, sweat flying, and Rory hitting the mat; all underscored by the Daubreys' heckling. The volume wasn't loud enough to hear what they were saying—but Rory had spent a career listening to those gaudy jackals. He could imagine well enough.

His kid opponent was striking in the replays, all grit and determination. Try as he might, Rory couldn't bring himself to hate the guy. He knew what it was like to be drenched in the spotlight, high on beating the odds. Or at least, he had, back when the ring had seemed like the only real place in the-

“Wow. You look like shit, Rory."

Rory blinked out of reverie. There, leaning in the hallway with a towel around his waist and toothpaste on his lip, was a snow leopard. Grinning and effortlessly handsome as always, the feline took in Rory's busted-ass self with an amused half-smile.

Time had been kind to Ansel in a way it hadn't with Rory. Where Rory was built and battered like an old steam train, the leopard still looked sleek and shiny, perpetually unbothered by his years. The leopard's thick, spotted fur gave him the illusion of softness—but Rory knew better. Beneath the conditioners and the dyes and the careful froofery, Ansel had sharp edges that only ever revealed themselves when pressed against Rory's own.

Ansel licked at his smudge of toothpaste. They stared at each other for a moment before both men turned to the TV, just in time to watch a stupid old wolf get knocked on his ass in slow motion.

“You should have been an actor," the leopard said, dryly. “You really know how to sell getting knocked the fuck out."

Rory took a swig of Lagavulin to hide his grimace. “Turn that shit off."

Ignoring Rory's demand, the leopard pushed off the wall and picked up the envelope he'd left on the counter, weighing it in his hand. “It's good to leave on in the background—makes me feel better about my job." He shot Rory a smug look. “At least I get paid before I end up on my back."

“Like that makes it any better," Rory muttered, grip tightening on the bottle.

The leopard hummed, flicking through the bills. He took a wad, counting out his usual amount while shooting glances at the TV. “If you're not in the mood," he said, licking his teeth, “I could always go help the new kid on the block celebrate his big win."

The bait was clear. Rory's hackles raised, regardless.

“Don't bother," Rory sneered, dousing a flash of anger with a slug of whiskey. “After tonight, that kid'll have whores half your age crawling into his lap. You're better off crawling into mine."

The leopard re-counted the money, snickering. “You sure? Winners pay better, Rory. And anyway, I know victory sex is better than whatever pity-fuck you came here for."

The jab landed, even though Rory's guard had been up. His eyes fell to the whiskey bottle, its label proudly proclaiming its years. Finely aged, it said. He felt his permanent scowl settle deeper into the lines of his face.

“Say that again a little closer, cunt," he mumbled.

Across the room, he heard the sound of the towel dropping onto the linoleum.

The leopard crossed the distance and climbed into his lap, plucking the bottle from his white-knuckled grip. “Don't take it so personally," the cat said, mildly. He took a slug, then placed the bottle daintily on the coffee table behind him. “You fuck better when you're angry. I'm trying to help."

By habit, Rory's hands went to the curve of Ansel's back, just as the leopard's slid up the front of his shirt. “Right. Okay."

“I mean, we can lean into the 'kicked puppy' angle, if you really want." He nipped the stinging bruise at the corner of Rory's jaw. “But you'd have to be a good boy and roll over for me."

“No," Rory muttered once, then again when one of the leopard's hands crept around to his tail. It only stopped when he grabbed the feline by the wrist and pulled him away. “Fuck that."

“Come on," the cat purred, “you rolled over for the new kid on the block, but you won't do it for me?" He tried to pull away, but Rory held on, tight enough that the other man grunted in pain. “Ow. Ow."

“Fuck you."

“That's the idea," Ansel muttered, tugging at his hand. Rory tightened his grip. “But I really needed this today, and –ah– you're being an old dog about it."

A flash of anger turned the world red for a moment, but the leopard was kissing him before he could shoot back. Rory nibbled at the other man's lip reproachfully. Ansel smirked, and brought his free hand up to cup Rory's muzzle-

Rory's tooth exploded in pain, and he growled at the sudden burst of adrenaline. The leopard pulled back as if he'd been burned, a confused apology already on his tongue.

“Tooth," Rory mumbled, rolling his jaw. The feline made an 'ah' sound and went to climb out of his lap, but Rory dug his hands into his hips, holding him in place. “'S fine. Fuck you. Keep going."

The leopard nodded, fixing him with a calculating sort of expression. He shifted his weight in Rory's lap, his naked body silhouetted against the TV.

Then, casually as he'd kissed him, he slapped Rory across the muzzle.

The sportive glint in the leopard's eye couldn't have been clearer, even past the spike of shock and anger. Play with me, Rory. He could practically hear it in the leopard's voice, dark and impatient. The leopard slapped him again, and Rory felt the barest hint of claws. Play with me.

He felt the growl building in his chest, the angry heat of it putting his hairs on end. Even in the unlit apartment, Rory could see the leopard's pupils dilate at the sound of it.

“There we go," Ansel whispered, hungrily. “Come on, puppy."

He pulled his hand back again.

Rory surged off the sofa, and the two of them crashed into the coffee table. One of its cheap legs split with a loud crack, sending them tumbling over it, locked in a tangle of limbs and bared teeth. With a heave that shot fire through his side, Rory pushed himself on top of the feline, one hand still locked in a vice around the other man's wrist. The whiskey bottle, thrown by their sudden grapple, landed next to them, spilling over the floor and soaking into the leopard's shoulder.

The leopard's free hand found purchase at the scruff of Rory's hoodie, and then their muzzles were pressed together again. Their scuffling paused for a moment, and Rory pulled back just as the feline bit down, catching his lower lip. He tasted blood.

“Shit," Ansel panted, eyes blown out into wide, perfect circles. “Sorry, I-"

With a snarl, Rory locked his jaws around the leopard's shoulder, hard enough to go through the whiskey-soaked fur and into skin.

Ansel's hands went up to Rory's jaws, too slow. Dimly, Rory could feel the other man's fingers curl against his teeth, taste spilled whiskey, bitter and tacky on his tongue. Between them, Rory felt Ansel's hardness prod his stomach, even as the smaller man let out a litany of curses.

Rory backed off at the noise, sitting back and rolling his jaw. Beneath him, Ansel tried to squirm his way free, a wild expression in his eyes. Rory let him struggle for a moment, then put both hands on the leopard's throat and squeezed.

Rory licked the cut on his lip and held the cat in place. The floor was hell on his knees, but the fog suffocating his head pushed everything else out to make room for it. He didn't even feel the day's hurts anymore—just Ansel's warm, naked form below him, bare fur and bared teeth. The leopard's hands crawled back up the front of his shirt, claws raking through the fur of his stomach. The leopard bucked upwards, grinding his barbed cock against the growing bulge in the front of Rory's track pants.

“Why the fuck-" he wheezed, swallowing under Rory's palm, “are your clothes still on?"

Begrudgingly, Rory let go of the other man's throat, sat up, and pulled his shirt and hoodie off in one go. As soon as they were over his head, Ansel was already kissing him, hands busy at his waist as Rory tossed his rumpled clothes aside.

The leopard's hands slipped down the front of his pants, wrapping around his aching cock. Rory stiffened, letting out a sound somewhere between a growl and a whine.

“Yeah," Ansel whispered into his chest. “Yeah, puppy. That's what you needed."

Rory swallowed another noise. He'd frozen in place, hands raised halfway to Ansel's neck.

“I always forget how big you are," the leopard told him, softly. It was a whore's line, and Rory knew he wasn't the first man to hear it—but just then, with the hand squeezing his emerging knot, Rory let himself believe it.

“Come to bed," the leopard purred, rubbing his face against Rory's throat, playing his fingers around the edge of his sheath. “Put this fucking knot in me, puppy."

It was said in the same teasing tone as before—but there was an unmistakable heat now. Despite himself, and despite how many times he'd heard the same filth pouring from the leopard's mouth, Rory flushed. “Y-yeah?" he returned, suddenly very aware of the leopard's other hand, tugging demurely at the elastic of his track pants.

“I know what you need, Rory." The leopard bit at his ear. “But I'm not going to just let you take it."

Rory's heart did a funny little tap in his chest.

Part of him was insulted that the leopard thought he was so easy to manipulate. The larger part, though, found itself happily led into the bedroom by the cock, kicking free of his pants as they went. When they passed through the door, Ansel dug his heels into the carpet and pushed back, growling playfully.

Rory snorted, and did his best to ignore his own wagging tail. They wrestled for a moment, and Rory let the smaller man move him a step backward before he picked the squirming feline up and threw him like a sack of potatoes onto the neatly-made bed.

He climbed up after him, and Ansel bolted. Rory grabbed him by the ankle and dragged him back, tearing a hole in the sheet where the leopard's claws scrabbled for purchase.

“Where the fuck are you going?" Rory growled, rolling the leopard onto his back and pinning both hands above his head.

Ansel snarled back at him, a low, hissing sound that rose the fur on the back of Rory's neck. In response, Rory mashed their muzzles together, pushing his tongue into the other man's mouth.

The fight turned messy and breathless. Ansel wrapped his legs around Rory's hips and tried to throw him off. Rory dropped his weight onto him, and the fighting turned to frotting as they rolled, one over the other.

As soon as he was back on top, Rory clawed his way forward until he was sitting on the leopard's chest, knees on either side of Ansel's head. Rory laid his cock along the leopard's cheek, and, breathing heavily, pushed two fingers into the other man's mouth.

As he expected, Ansel bit down. Not hard—but enough to draw a pained grunt from him, and a satisfied grin from the leopard. He removed his hand and cuffed him, rubbing the spit into his fur. Then he put his fingers back in.

All the while, the leopard wriggled and fought, kicking against the mattress in an attempt to unseat the wolf from his chest. Rory held him by the hair and played idly with his mouth, growling low in his chest whenever he felt the prickle of teeth. Every so often, he smeared the leopard's spit on his own twitching length and then went back to playing, ignoring the claws raking his lower back.

When he was satisfied, Rory gripped the leopard's hair in both hands, and rutted against Ansel's outstretched tongue, breaths coming hard and shallow. He marked the leopard's open muzzle, groaning every time he felt the rough tongue drag against the underside of his aching cock. Ansel responded in kind, purring beneath him, giving special attention to the thick knot at Rory's base.

By the time Rory actually put his cock into the leopard's mouth, both of them were flushed scarlet. “Yeah," he growled, sinking into Ansel's purring maw. “That's what I fuckin' thought."

The soft, needy noises the leopard made around him were almost certainly for show—but Rory didn't care. The slick warmth of the leopard's mouth hit him with a rush like coke and spotlights and twelve-ounce gloves. He felt potent. Strong.

Real, not real, fixed or fair. He didn't give a shit. The leopard clawed at the base of his tail, gave him the barest rake of teeth, then surged forward and took Rory into his throat.

“Fuck," the wolf panted, wiping drool from his open mouth. He pulled Ansel's muzzle tight against his groin, watching the leopard's muzzle scrunch, feeling him purr against his sheath. “ Oh, fuck."

By the time he felt the tap on his thigh, Rory's senses were shot. He pulled out of the leopard's mouth, barely stopping himself from finishing on Ansel's flushed, panting muzzle. Just the feline's heaving breaths on his wet cock threatened to push him over the edge. Rory held on; even when he felt the leopard's tongue drag over his knot, and he almost fell back into his waiting, needy mouth.

Instead, Rory climbed off the other man's chest. Before the leopard could do anything clever, Rory rolled him over, grabbed him by the base of his tail and wrenched him onto his knees. Ansel laughed and raised his hips. After a moment admiring the view, Rory shuffled forward and folded himself over the leopard's back, licking at the bite mark he'd left on his shoulder.

“Come on," Ansel rasped, arching his back. “It's not too late to roll over for me."

Rory didn't dignify that with a response. He gripped the leopard's tail, buried his face in his scruff, and pushed with his hips.

He slid in easily—despite the leopard's heckling, he'd known him well enough to prep after his shower. Rory thanked him silently, straightening up to watch his cock disappear beneath the feline's flicking tail. Ansel rolled his hips with a happy little sigh, grinning back over his shoulder. He sunk in to the knot, grinding against him with a growl that turned into a whine when the leopard clenched around him.

“Oh, yeah," Ansel crooned in his most saccharine stage-voice. “Just like that, baby-"

Rory snarled and pushed the leopard's face into the mattress. “Shut the fuck up."

He slammed his hips forward, and the leopard's laugh turned into a heady groan. Somewhere through the haze, Rory found his way back to the whiskey-soaked bite-mark, nipping at it testily, listening to Ansel's breaths hitch with every thrust of his hips. The whiskey was finally starting to kick in, leaving Rory's thoughts fuzzy and his cock aching. The leopard's walls were warm and giving, and their hips fit flush together in a way that threw Rory's higher functioning out the window.

They fucked like animals after that, whining and wordless. Sheets curled in one hand, Ansel's hair gripped in another, Rory felt the burn and weight of exhaustion already settling into his legs. He growled and moved his free hand to Ansel's back, pressing the leopard down and changing angles. The feline fought him all the way, trying to push back up onto his elbows, or else crawling forward until Rory was forced to drag him back under him. Rory held him down with all his weight, snapping his teeth next to Ansel's flopping ears, dragging his claws down the curve of the other man's back.

When Rory's knot went in, they both lost rhythm; the wolf, fighting the primal urge to cum, and the leopard twitching beneath him, rolling his hips, making little gasping noises into the comforter.

Rory jerked forward, chasing the feral pace. Ansel pressed back into him, and made a lovely, shuddering sound that was too ugly to have been faked. That was all it took.

He was drooling into Ansel's hair as he came, but it didn't matter. His hips moved in short, mindless thrusts, shooting his load deep into the leopard's raised ass. Rory's chin slid into the crook of the feline's shoulder and they breathed in tandem, locked together, each of their movements sluggish and slow. After a moment, once his toes uncurled from the sheets, Rory began to lick at the leopard's ears, his jaw, his neck, barely aware of doing so. It felt right; like an apology, maybe, while they waited for the world to fall back into place.

When it did, Rory leaned back on his knees, breathing hard. The leopard, wrecked and sweaty, spread his legs apart and groaned as the knot slipped free. Without skipping a beat, the cat dipped a hand between his legs and started to work his barbed length, rolling his hips and mewling into his pillow.

Rory swallowed, then held Ansel's flicking tail out of the way to give himself a better view of his cum rolling down across the leopard's pouch, dripping over his busy fingers. The leopard's head raised just enough that Rory could see his whiskers bent and tangled from his treatment. Ansel's eyes were screwed shut, and the whiny stage-voice had given way to an ugly panting that brought Rory back, aching to half-mast.

Rory buried his snout under Ansel's tail, lapping lazily at his own mess, dragging his tongue over the sticky fur of the leopard's thighs. The other man made a small, desperate noise, hitched into sudden silence, then shivered as he spent himself into the sheets. Rory ate him out through his orgasm, reveling in his shaking legs and twitching tail, continuing even when the leopard collapsed flat to the bed.

They lay where they fell; Ansel, face down, scrunched near the top of the mattress, Rory tangled in the cat's thighs.

After a while, Rory untangled himself and made half an attempt to pull the leopard back underneath him. “Give me a massage," he said, hoarsely.

Somewhere above him, Ansel let out a mumbly laugh. “I thought you had professionals for that?"

Rory sighed. He did; good ones, too, that his physical therapist had been hounding him to go to for months.

Somehow, he always ended up here, instead.

“Bunch of fuckin' hacks," Rory mumbled.

“You just want a masseuse who will give you a happy ending."

The purr in his voice sent a shiver down Rory's spine—but it was a toothless promise, and they both knew it. Their days of fucking their way up the walls had gone by the wayside at some point in the last few years. There was a part of him, the part that woke up when he stepped into the ring, that still craved the feral haze of a good marathon fuck.

Mostly though, he was sore and sleepy.

Rory felt the mattress move, and fingers brush through his hair. “You staying the night?" Ansel asked, a little too casually.

“How much you want for it?" He asked, leaning into the leopard's touch.

The fingers paused. “Make me breakfast before you go, and it's free."

Rory grunted assent, and Ansel's touch disappeared. He rolled over in time to see the leopard's tail disappear through the door back to the hallway. A moment later, the sound of the shower returned.

Too sore to move about, Rory dozed, drenched in the familiarity of Ansel's apartment. He could hear the leopard humming something light and lilting, barely audible past the creaking pipes and rumbling city outside. The place was a shithole—the same lived-in apartment Ansel had had for the better part of a decade. Rory's own place was custom; better in every way, save one.

Rory sighed into his palms.

When the leopard returned, he was damp and naked, re-counting his stack of cash. He hadn't bothered with a towel.

“You should start charging more," Rory blurted, drinking in the feline's body from his place on the bed. “Get yourself a nicer place."

Ansel paused. Frowned. Shrugged. “The place is fine." At Rory's raised eyebrow, he laughed. “You don't like it, you can fuck off back to your penthouse."

Rory chewed on his tongue and changed the subject. “You keep counting those bills like they're going somewhere."

The leopard paused again, longer this time. “It's fine, Rory."

“You owe someone?"

“No." The leopard fiddled with the cash. “Just… covering my bases." He rolled his shoulders, wincing. “Boxing isn't the only job you can age out of."

Rory snorted. “Fuck are you talking about? You still look like you're thirty." He didn't finish speaking before he regretted opening his mouth. Ansel's eyes had gone sharp.

“What," he mumbled, “sucking dick doesn't earn you a pension?"

“No," the leopard said, without any heat. He flicked through the bills once more, then stuffed them into a drawer. “It doesn't. So you'd better keep taking that fixer money—you're my retirement plan."

Rory scoffed, even as his tail dragged back and forth across the sheets. “That's a shit bet on a lame horse."

“Best one I've got, currently." Ansel picked a silver case from the dresser and flicked it open. “Smoke?"

On reflex, Rory went to decline—but then, his next fight wouldn't be decided by his cardio. He heaved himself into a sitting position, already resenting that fact.

“Fine."

Ansel passed him a cigarette, then sauntered over to open the window. Rory watched him move, smoke held halfway to his mouth. In the lamplight, the leopard was lean and lithe, youthful as a photo. It was when he turned that Rory saw the silver hairs haunting his muzzle. The telltale laugh-lines hiding behind his whiskers, at the corners of his eyes.

“What?" Ansel asked. His voice had gone soft, and a little nervous at whatever he saw in Rory's expression.

Rory raised the cigarette to his mouth. “I need a light," he muttered.

They smoked in silence, taking turns flicking ash out the window. Even under the reek of cigarettes, even under that stupid apple-y shampoo of his, Rory could smell himself on Ansel. In the room, too. Old and new scents from countless nights like this.

“I'm up against another kid next," he said, watching the smoke curl around Ansel's head.

“You gonna throw it?"

“I'm gonna win it," he said, hollowly. “One more title. Maybe I'll retire after that. Go out better than Grizzly Jones."

“Who?"

It was hard to exhale through the lump in his throat. “Doesn't matter," he said. “Went oh-and-twenty, then died about it. Coke, Oxy, whores. Page six obituary."

“Don't sound so hopeful," Ansel hummed, through a mouthful of smoke. “I don't have any Oxy."

“Whatever. He was old."

Ansel made a thoughtful noise. “If we were five years younger, we'd still be fucking."

They were both quiet for a while. There'd been a time when Rory couldn't even look at the leopard without wanting to stick his dick in him. But right now, lounging naked next to the most talented whore he'd ever fucked, the biggest thing on his mind was what Ansel wanted for breakfast.

Rory flicked ash out the window and sighed. “When the fuck did that happen?"

The leopard didn't answer, which was probably for the best. He didn't look at the wolf when he spoke, though, which probably wasn't.

“You're not actually retiring, right?"

“No," Rory said, packing as much certainty as he could into the one syllable. “Fuck that noise."

The leopard smiled, and Rory watched a knot of tension slip from the feline's shoulders. He took a drag from his cigarette to shut himself up, because he'd nearly followed that up with something stupid, like: “I gotta make sure you're set before I throw in the towel."

Instead of putting his foot in his mouth, Rory finished off his cigarette.

They left the window open and crawled into bed together. Like before, there was a bit of jockeying for position—but it was a half-hearted scuffle, at best.

“I'll buy you new sheets," Rory mumbled into the leopard's shoulder.

“Mmhm."

“And a new coffee table."

“Mm."

“And another bottle of-"

“Rory," the leopard whispered into his arm. “Shut the fuck up."

Rory nipped at the cat's ear, but did as he was told.

Everything would hurt in the morning. Rory could already feel the stiffness settling into his bones. But that was then. And Rory had never much cared for anything beyond now.

He'd spent a lifetime rolling with the punches, spitting blood, collecting bruises. He'd touched gloves with his dad at nine years old, and it felt sometimes like he was still waiting for the bell; for some signal that meant it was safe to drop his guard.

Ansel wriggled a little in his arms, pressing in closer. Rory matched the rise and fall of his breathing, until he heard the little whistle that meant the leopard was asleep.

Fucker, he thought, nosing into the leopard's hair. Quit makin' it so easy.