Work Text:
It felt better when it wasn't a distraction.
The realization leaves a bitter taste on his tongue, pungent to the point he has to force his attention away from Lycaon's touch, to not physically recoil from it. The tongue lapping away at his neck, the hands roaming his body. There is purpose to those movements, like they know exactly where to poke, where to prod, and Hugo bites his lip for his stupidity. For letting it get to this point in the first place.
He can't recall the exact moment things changed between them for the first time. It could have been a month ago, it could have been a year. Maybe even longer. It could have happened on a whim; drunk on the adrenaline of a successful heist, or Jack's cheap liquor. One thing he knew though — one thing they both knew, was that it had felt like the most natural thing in the world. To touch and to be touched in this way, it was like they were always meant to be like this.
Hugo had let his guard down around Lycaon, utterly and completely. That was his first mistake.
Distantly he feels Lycaon's tongue move, a trail starting from the arteries pulsing in his neck, to his clenched jaw, and finally to his sealed lips. He doesn't have to think before opening up his mouth. He doesn't have to think about anything when muscle memory does it for him.
Regrettably, it also reminds him of how much he used to enjoy this.
Lycaon's muzzle wouldn't allow for their kisses to be anything but messy, all saliva and tongues and far too many teeth. They never ended with Hugo's lips unscathed. The bloodied tear on his mouth would follow a ruthless bruise on his neck, on his shoulder, teeth that would clamp down on flesh like he was living prey. One wrong move and his throat could be torn apart, nothing but paper in the jaws of a beast. That thought would always cross his mind when Lycaon stopped fussing and let himself loose, and without fail, the same thought would always make him lightheaded. Like he was secretly waiting for it. Aching for it.
God, was he aching for it.
Sharp claws would tease his sides when they held him in place, a telltale of what the consequences would be, should he try to squirm out. Sometimes he would do it on purpose, just to feel the prickle. Remind himself that Lycaon was still there — that he held him like he was something actually worth keeping. For how much longer he's going to keep pretending that's the case, Hugo doesn't know, but he lets it happen anyway. It has become some sort of routine after all, and well, routines are hard to break.
A cold breeze suddenly stings his neck, slipped through the window's crack behind him. It's what pulls his mind back from where it was drifting, what it takes for him to realize Lycaon had stopped licking him. The grip on his waist had significantly loosened too. He hadn't noticed. He hadn't noticed at all.
“What,” he says and it's sharper than he intended, judging from the nervous flick of Lycaon's ears.
“Are you okay?”
And Hugo blinks, scrambles for his bearings because this was a question that typically came after the sex was done and over and they would turn on their sides to sleep. There was a time when Lycaon would always cling to him after, when Jack was still with them. He doesn't do it much anymore. “Of course.” Practiced words, though a little heavier on the tongue as of late. “Why wouldn't I be?”
“I don't know. It's just… You're being pretty quiet.” He sounds almost bashful. “And you're still not hard.”
Hugo glances down at the soft cock between his legs, a thoughtful hum on his lips because oh, he hadn't noticed this either. No wonder Lycaon stopped. Their make outs were normally enough to leave him leaking without even laying a hand on him there. This… may be a problem. He plays it off anyway.
“So?”
“So should we stop?”
“Wha—no!” It's embarrassing how fast the words leave him, how loud they sound in his ears. It's even more embarrassing to know he was the one to initiate this, yet still not showing any signs of arousal. This hasn't happened before. A deep breath and Hugo forces his shoulders to relax before his back leans against the glass, thighs spreading slowly in invitation. “I admit I'm a little out of it tonight. How about you work for it for once?”
A beat of silence passes where Lycaon simply stares, eyes fixed on his like he knows he'll find the answer there. Cruel that he is, trying to strip him bare when Hugo is naked already.
The search ends when Hugo averts his gaze, and with a defeated exhale Lycaon drops to his knees. He opts to act clueless instead. “... Is something wrong, Hugo?”
Pushing his hips further off the railing, Hugo adjusts his position until Lycaon's head is snug between pale legs. He can feel his breath, nice and warm against his freezing skin. Plush fur tickles his thighs.
Is something wrong? Now, there's a million dollar question. Just thinking about the answer is enough to give him a headache. Because why should he be the one to deal with it? The one who can't stop thinking about it? Why the hell is Lycaon still acting clueless?
“I don't know, Lycaon. Is there? Since you're being oh so persistent.” Meet blunt force with blunt force. It's his own fault anyway, he let his mind drift further away tonight and Lycaon finally took notice. Now Hugo can only hold his breath, nauseating anticipation while the ball sits in Lycaon's court. An opportunity, a chance to explain himself. All Lycaon has to do is take it. Take it, and show Hugo that he trusts him.
Prove Jack's warning wrong. Prove Hugo's fears wrong.
Just fucking take it.
“... No. There isn't.” Lycaon's gaze falters when he speaks, too cowardly to meet his own. That, somehow, makes things easier.
“Mm, thought so.” One of his hands digs into Lycaon's hair, behind his ear where he knows the mutt likes it, and he pulls. Rough and careless, just right for a growl to rumble in his throat. Yes, this has always been easier. “Now put that maw to some actual use.”
And oh, Lycaon does. His tongue has always been a force to be reckoned with. Longer, stronger than his. It might as well fuck Hugo's mouth in what would be an attempt at a simple kiss. Hugo loved it. He loved losing himself in it. The part that would always drive him insane, however, is the texture. It's why his hips thrash on instinct when he feels it. Warm and slick muscle, large enough to cover the whole underside of his shaft in one fell swoop. He wasn't even given the chance to scream. Not when another impatient lick follows — this one dragging, pressing against his perineum, then moving to lap up his balls.
He swallows the shrill moan that threatened to escape by biting down on his tongue, using the taste of blood as an anchor. That, and the iron grip on Lycaon's hair. A violent tremor surrounds his hand that Hugo makes a point to ignore. To hell with Jack. To hell with Lycaon. To hell with the bitterness and this bleeding heart of his. He doesn't need to think about any of it when what little control he has over the beast feels this good. His grip tightens, forcing Lycaon even closer, enough for that cold nose to scrunch up against his crotch and his teeth to graze the tender skin.
Lycaon doesn't want to talk? That's fine. They never were ones for talking anyway. Not when this has worked just as fine.
The vibrations of Lycaon's heated purrs sear his skin, dangerous like a bite. Oh, he could bite him. Bruise him, mark him in places only they would know. And why shouldn't he, if they're still not done pretending? Hugo pulls at his hair again and of course, of course Lycaon understands. They've always read each other perfectly. Anywhere but where it matters. It's still better than nothing, he supposes, so when Lycaon's jaws clamp down on his groin Hugo makes sure to let him know; that is exactly what he wants.
“A-ah, fuck!”
A gentle lick, a sharp bite. Lycaon repeats this pattern on the same spot, on different spots, anywhere his mouth can reach while Hugo's legs keep him in a headlock. His eyes drift up sometimes as he does, the same apologetic look dogs give to their owners when they know they've messed up. Only a monster could stay mad at that. Hugo huffs at the irony of that thought, smile crooked and ruined. He can't remember the last time he wasn't mad at Lycaon.
An insult hangs from his lips, only to be swept away the second Lycaon takes him into his mouth. His heart near leaps out of his chest, something paralyzing about the weight of his cock resting on Lycaon's tongue, caged between sharp teeth. Hazy eyes drop to find Lycaon's already on him, intoxicated like all those nights they'd spend drinking their minds silly and stumbling into Jack's bed while the old man was away.
You dirty bastard. His next breath stutters on its way out. How dare you look at me like this now.
“Lycaon…” He can't help but twitch between the wolf's jaws when large hands get a sudden grip on his thighs. Lycaon must've felt it too, because his tongue twirls around him, feeling him up, challenging him not to cum right there. “Shit, Lycaon.”
Claws dig into his flesh, and Hugo instantly knows he has to brace himself for something. Still not getting off of him, the maw keeping him hostage unhinges like that of a predator for that freakish tongue to roll out, reaching all the way to Hugo's hole, then dragging itself back up. A breathless gasp, a shattered moan. He can feel himself sink from his perch on the window and melt directly into Lycaon's open mouth and oh, how fucking unfair it is, for Lycaon to unravel him so effortlessly. To watch the upper hand slip right through Hugo's trembling fingers.
An idea crosses his mind in his desperate efforts to hold on to it, and he grins despite the nausea it sends to his stomach. He lets go of Lycaon's hair, moves to his hands instead. Still on his thighs, a single squeeze is all it takes for Lycaon to get the memo and relax, to give Hugo free rein over them.
It's that featherlight touch that guides those hands higher, past his stomach, past his chest, relishing the way Lycaon blindly follows. Past his nipples, past his collarbones. Once they reach the base of his neck, the wicked smile on his lips is impossible to contain. There those claws are, long and sharp and only a breath away from his windpipe.
What had Jack said, choke him? They could get a taste of it, right here, right now. See if the mutt is truly up for the job. All he has to do is press down. Just…
a…
little…
Like a bucket of ice was dumped on him, Lycaon jerks his hands out of Hugo's grip and stumbles backwards, a loud thud when he falls hard on his back. Wide eyes stare up at him, bulging with what could only be described as fear.
“What are you doing?” He demands in spite of the quiver in his voice.
Hugo can only blink. “Me? What are you doing?”
“Your — my hands. You…”
“I just thought it would be fun to try a bit of a squeeze.” An innocent explanation, perhaps more so than his actual intentions. “Though I wouldn't have tried it if I knew I ran the risk of you biting my dick off. What the hell was that?”
“Don't do that again. It's—” There's a short pause. His mouth opens and closes at a loss before settling on a pathetic “—dangerous.”
The silence that follows is oppressive, so much that Hugo can hear the hollow whistle of the night air slipping through the window, the nervous swish of Lycaon's tail across the floor. It's his indignance that cuts through it all.
“Dangerous,” he echoes, partly in annoyance, partly in disbelief. “Do you hear yourself? Since when has either of us cared about dangerous?”
“This is different.”
“I let your stupid teeth near my jugular and that has never been a problem. Why would this be any different?”
Say it. Come on, say it.
“What the hell is this actually about, Hugo?”
Lycaon sits up now, voice raising with his hackles, and Hugo has to laugh over the audacity alone. He laughs and laughs, until his heart aches and the wetness in his eyes is indecipherable even to himself, and only when his oxygen runs out does he straighten up, shifting his weight but not his gaze. That one lingers, just above Lycaon's snout. Haughty like his voice.
“You've been asking me this question all night, oh dear partner of mine. One would think you know the answer better than I do.”
Lycaon's jaw clenches like he does know. His fists do the same. “You know I hate when you act like this.”
“Yeah?” Hugo's tone reeks of vitriol, furious and cruel. “Why don't you fuck it out of me then? Since that's all we seem to be doing lately. Would that make you feel better, Lycaon?”
“... I'm going to bed.”
“Ah.” Hugo stays where he sits against the window, watching Lycaon stand on his feet, turn on his heel. “Sure, go ahead. Leave me to clean after your mess here.”
Lycaon doesn't even bother with a retort. The door to their room slams shut behind him hard enough to shake Hugo's heart, casting him back into the oppressive silence of their attic. Only there's no faint swish this time. The air seems to have stilled too. Frozen against the large window, Hugo's eyes are stuck on the door, unblinking even when they start to burn. Even when a single droplet spills. A sense of hopelessness washes over him, stronger than he has ever felt it. Because for the first time, he can't pinpoint what hurts more; knowing they'll be back to normal by tomorrow, or realizing just how fast their time is running out.