Archive of Our Own

Hugo is young, beautiful, and full of bad decisions.

At least, that’s what had been drilled into his head at his father’s home before he had fled, so he finds no reason to pretend to be something he is not. And currently, he’s scoping out another victim to help lighten their wallet and their worries.

A young man had to eat, after all. And without the shelter of a home or the support of a family, he has to look out for himself.

It helps that he is indeed beautiful. He’s pulled more victims in with promises of a back-alley romp than anything else, even if it always ended with them knocked out and his ass still pure as he merrily takes their wallet and leaves them with no dignity.

In this crowded city he calls his own, he sits and sips at his coffee, eyeing people through the dark lenses of his sunglasses as he scopes out the next target. The early winter chill has started to invade, and in his thin tank, ripped jeans and oversized blazer he isn’t exactly dressed to combat the temperature that gnaws on his thin arms. But when it comes down to food, shelter and clothing, he prefers the former two.

That’s why he sits here now even though the chair is cold, because he needs to find another source of income so that he could kindly ‘borrow’ their wallet without the intention of ever giving it back.

His quest is made easier as people shop for the holidays, so he knows their wallets are fat and easy to grab from between the hundreds of shopping bags they carry. He just needs to find a young woman, usually the easiest of his targets, and gently nudge her—

Hugo pauses as someone enters his line of sight.

From out of a café steps a creature that looks fresh off a runway, or maybe the glossy pages of a skin mag.

His sunglasses lower just the slightest bit as he takes in the gorgeous Thiren.

His target is all thick thighs and a thicker chest, held together by a stretchy black shirt and a stupidly trim waist that should be inhuman. A red jacket hangs from his broad shoulders, buttons barely holding on for dear life, a signal to all the people around to stare at this prime cut of meat.

His presence commands all the attention, reeking of money, and Hugo should understand that this was not a simple, easy target.

That wasn’t going to stop him, however. He liked a bit of a challenge.

Something hot turns in his stomach, which he just writes off as hunger.

Because what else could it be?

Hugo slides from his seat gracefully, hands slipping into his pockets as he starts to follow from a safe distance.

The Thiren’s gait is steady and long, but easy enough to keep up with. He watches as the man doesn’t stop to peruse the shops, instead keeping his face forward as he turns into a less populated side street that has shops mostly closed for the moment.

It’s there that the Thiren finally pauses to pull out his phone, and Hugo sees his chance.

He ‘accidentally’ bumps his shoulder against the Thiren’s arm, his deft fingers fishing out the wallet quickly. It’s the usual song and dance, an old habit now that feels like second nature as he slips it under his sleeve. He makes sure his young, surprised mask is firmly in place before he turns to face his target.

Ah, and such a handsome face it was.

Pity that this would be the only time he would be close enough to see it.

“Pardon me,” he says cheekily, turning away.

A large fist anchors around his wrist, stopping him in his escape.

Swallowing down the brief flicker of panic, Hugo turns a mulish pout over his shoulder, towards the Thiren who holds him. He raises a golden brow, tilting his head towards the hold.

“May I help you, good sir?” he asks, filtering as much petulant confusion into his voice as he can. “I apologized for the brush, but I don’t think manhandling me in return is smart of you.”

This close, the wolf Thiren is big – no, not just big, but big. Hugo is pretty sure his own waist is the size of one of the man’s thighs alone, with a barrel chest that is highlighted by a clingy black shirt and broad shoulders that scream for nails to drag over. It doesn’t help he seems to tower over Hugo, so the younger man does his best to put on his most disarming look of youthful innocence.

This man, this Thiren, is silent as he quietly pulls off his sunglasses, pinning Hugo with an intense one-eyed inspection that makes his toes curl in his shoes. He looks over his captured target, from the tips of his ears, all the way down his artfully ripped jeans to his shoes.

When the man continues not to say anything, Hugo tugs at his wrist. “Release me, good sir, before I make a scene.”

“Oh?” Those lips curl into an amused smile, the rough rumble of the voice making Hugo twitch as it slides deliciously down his spine. “Wouldn’t that only serve to incriminate you?”

Frowning, Hugo once more tugs at his wrist, but the grip does not loosen. “I don’t understand what you’re implying.”

“No?” Without much effort, the Thiren tugs him closer, until Hugo can feel the heat and smell the cologne of the other man. He has to tilt his head up to meet that discerning gaze, back arching to scowl upwards. The Thiren lowers his head, until the edge of his nose nudges against Hugo’s. “What would PubSec do if they found all those stolen wallets on you, I wonder?”

Ice replaces the arousal.

Hugo has long trained himself not to show what he is thinking, so his blank face should give nothing away except slight distain.

He licks his lips, trying not to tremble as he sees that single eye dilate at the action. “Are you calling me a thief?”

“Yes.” The Thiren tilts his head, considering. “A little thief, who thought he could take what wasn’t his.”

It’s been a while since Hugo’s felt true fear. Thick and cloying, his tongue heavy in his mouth as he tries to think of some acidic comeback that would prove his false innocence.

“If you’re so sure I’ve stolen something, why haven’t you called PubSec?” he challenges.

“I’m just curious as to the creature who thinks he can steal from the leader of Mockingbird.”

Mockingbird.

The name is well known enough not to toss around lightly, even as a joke. A criminal organization that made headlines every other day, their deeds printed in bold black. Hugo has read enough of them to know they weren’t to be messed with, not with his small time thief business that was mostly to keep food in his stomach and a leaky roof over his head. Certainly nothing like the government secrets or priceless artwork that disappeared from high security facilities.

It…had to be a lie, right? Something to shake him?

Hugo squares his shoulders, unwilling to bend to the deceitful words.

“If you’re Mockingbird, then I’m for sale,” he quips, keeping his glower dark as he once more tugs at his wrist. It doesn’t move.

“Oh?” The Thiren tilts his head, the amusement in his smile sharpening into something that has teeth. “So you’re something that is worth being stolen if there’s a price on you?”

A hand winds around Hugo’s waist, pressing against his lower back to tug him closer to the ridiculous body of the Thiren. His nose nudges against Hugo’s ear, a flicker of a tongue that makes the blonde-haired young man gasp in surprise.

“Mockingbird likes priceless, beautiful things,” the Thiren continues, his hand sliding down until the length of his middle finger slides against the seam of Hugo’s pants. It presses in, up against the intimate valley that hides the little furl of muscle that clenches under the touch. “If you think you’re trying to call my bluff, I fear you are going to lose.”

“You’re not Mockingbird,” Hugo hisses, trying not to arch into the touch. “Especially the leader.”

“You doubt me?”

“Yes, now unhand me.”

“Is that what you want? For me to let you go?”

And Hugo means to say yes, to spit it out between a snarl, but the Thiren’s fingers on his ass tighten, a threat of nails piercing the thin fabric of his pants. He gasps, knees going weak as he falls further against that massive chest, startled at how affected he is.

He could easily break the grasp, has been taught self-defense and how to break someone’s nose, to fracture an elbow with a quick twist regardless of the size of his opponent. His upbringing allowed nothing else but survival, so why couldn’t he do it now?

“Who would miss a little blonde thief?” the Thiren murmurs in contemplation, more to himself than to Hugo. “Or, who would miss one of the heirs of the Ravenlock family?”

Hugo freezes, his indifferent mask shattering as he stares incredulously up at the Thiren. Surely he had misheard. His throat clicks as he swallows, trying to gather the shattered fragments of his mask and rein in his emotions he knows can be seen plainly on his face.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he says, and it wavers and almost breaks at the end.

“I told you,” the beast of a man says, voice lowering to a destructive growl that makes the hair on the back of Hugo’s neck stand straight, “Mockingbird likes priceless, beautiful things. It’s our business to know secrets that others try so hard to hide, and I could see your lineage from a mile away.” Lower still does that voice drop, until it’s barely human. “I could smell what you were outside of that vile bloodline, but I was content to let you leave until you purposefully put yourself in my path.”

It's not fear that trickles down Hugo’s back. “What I…am?”

“You know, don’t you?” His wrist is released, only for that wide palm to smooth itself over his lower stomach. “This niggling little feeling?”

Hunger, Hugo thinks. Hunger, that’s it.

…hunger for something other than food. A hunger he had learned about back in his old home, one he had learned to fear when he had been taught what it would mean.

“Mate,” his numb lips manage to form.

Because of course his bastard bloodline came from Thirens as well, as weak as it was, prone to their biological needs that didn’t plague regular people. He had thought his half-blood nature would exclude him from the stupid mating instinct.

The Thiren smiles, lips pulling back into something that with edges that exposed the glint of his teeth.

“Mate,” the Thiren repeats, the word final on his lips, a death sentence that shackles Hugo. “That will make this easier.”

Out of the corner of Hugo’s eye he sees movement, and he jerks away at the hand that reaches up.

“What are you doing?”

“Stealing you,” is the simple answer. The Thiren’s hand gathers the tail of his braid, winding it around the meat of his fist and using it to pull Hugo’s head back slightly. The Thiren leans down, his smile a threat as he murmurs, “And you’re going to let me.”

And Hugo…resists.

He has to.

Even as the odd feeling in his stomach threatens to drown him, he fights.

He pushes his hands against that broad chest, panic making him forget the lessons that had been beaten into him as a child. Nails scratch and palms smack, but it’s useless against the power of the beast, who pulls him closer, who forces his face into the meat of his chest as the Thiren makes comforting sounds.

“Let me go,” Hugo snarls, mortified at the feeling of wetness of his cheeks that he refuses to believe come from him.

The Thiren rumbles a negative, a possessive hand curling around Hugo’s frail waist. “No.”

“Let me go!” Hugo shouts, but it’s dampened by the commanding grip of fingers on his cheeks, pulling his head up as the Thiren tilts his head down.

His mouth is filled with a hot, heavy tongue. It invades easily, uncaring of his teeth that could bite into it, but Hugo can’t even think of doing that when it slides into his throat.

He digs his nails into the meat of the beast’s shoulders, but what should be a defensive action melts into a tight grip that he uses to keep himself anchored as he gives into the demanding kiss.

Spit drips down his chin, lips swollen and wet as he tries to keep up with the movements, his inexperience showing in the hesitant return of his own mouth against the one that dominates his own. If anyone were to peek down the street to where they were, called forth by his calls for help earlier, they would just see two lovers entangled deeply with each other.

Hugo is startled into moaning when a large palm skates down his waist, down his ass, to grip his thigh. It’s lifted, pulling his leg up, giving the Thiren more room to push his groin into as Hugo’s leg is wrapped around that stupidly trim waist.

Fuck, Hugo manages to think around the lack of oxygen as the Thiren pulls away, saliva dripping over his lips. Fuck, he was in so much trouble.

“My name is Lycaon,” are the softly crooned words that he can barely hear through the cotton in his ears. “I’ll be taking you home now.”

Home.

Hugo didn’t know the meaning of the word.

But something heated settled in his stomach alongside the dread, the hunger, and the arousal. Something that was innocent and happy at being seen, held, treated like he was precious.

Hope.

Digging his hands further into the man’s blazer, wrinkling it, he pushes himself away with a snarl.

“Like hell,” he spits, hating the way that single eye curves up in amusement as his voice breaks. “I don’t need you.”

“Perhaps not,” Lycaon agrees somewhat unexpectedly, leaning down to nuzzle the sharp point of Hugo’s ear. “But I need you.”

Knees weakening, Hugo fights against the little voice in his head that asks him to submit.

A big, strong, powerful man needs you it wheedles. Handsome, dangerous, willing to provide for you. You could have him wrapped around your finger. You’ll never have to be cold or hungry again.

But his freedom…

Your mate, the voice continues. It has such a small chance of happening, and here you are, with the person that compliments you the most. It’s a small price to pay, wouldn’t you say so?

To compliment that little voice, Lycaon continues to speak, unknowing of his inner turmoil. Or, perhaps, because of his inner thoughts.

“I'm proud of you,” are the devastating words that batters at Hugo's defenses. “It must have been hard, living without support.”

His knees threaten to give out, heart giving a sordid little jump in his chest that cries out you see me!

Lycaon’s mouth slides down to his neck, where the slope of his shirt and pathetic blazer have slid off to expose. “What is your name, dear one?”

It’s funny – after all they had done in the short span of a handful of minutes, sensual and obscene, only now does the mundanity of knowing his name come up.

Hugo rolls the idea around about lying, but the tightening grip to his ass warns him that might not be the best course of action, even if there’s a slight interest in knowing the punishment that would no doubt follow.

“…Hugo,” he answers softly.

He can hear the swish of a tail wag before it is forced to stop by its owner.

“Hugo,” Lycaon repeats, rolling the name around in his mouth, tasting the syllables and weighing it’s worth on his tongue. “A beautiful name. I’ll be sure to use it thoroughly in our mating.”

Mating.

The word hangs like a guillotine ready to fall at any point, and it should bring nothing but fear and despair…except Hugo wants to face it with a smile, to grab the descending blade between his teeth and bite down until it bled.

And maybe Lycaon can sense his weakening resolve, because the Thiren continues to talk.

“I won’t steal you unless I have to, so I give you the option of coming with me now, or,” and here Lycaon’s voice falls into a destructive rumble, so close to a growl that it makes the hair on the back of Hugo’s neck rise with the foreboding sense of danger, “I will chase you. Between the two of us, I’m sure you understand which would give up first.”

Yes, Hugo does know.

He’s underfed and inexperienced, and the chase would be more of a comedy act if he were to run.

If he wanted to run.

He kinda wants to try, if only in an automatic response to protect himself.

But he also wants to stop, to be seen, to be cared and loved for.

The two sides war inside of him, a battle that will lead to him losing no matter what. He swallows, the bob of his throat enticing to the Thiren who watches him so intently, that crimson eyed gaze dilating ever so slightly.

Hugo licks his lips, trying to muster up some mask of control. He doesn’t think he succeeds. “I’ll…come with you.”

“Quietly.”

“Quietly,” he agrees, the word soft and almost longing on his lips.

“I’m going to take you to my home,” Lycaon says, tone descending into something that has Hugo squeezing his thighs together, “and I am going to give you everything.”

Everything.

It sounds fantastical and idealistic, not routed in reality.

Everything came with a price, Hugo knew, but what was a shackle of commitment in exchange for not waking up hungry or afraid?

So he remains quiet and obedient as Lycaon escorts him to his car in the nearby parking structure, the Thiren’s broad hand on his lower back guiding him.

Lycaon’s hand stays on his thigh the entire ride, more of a reminder of what was to come than as an anchor to hold him in case he ran.

The Thiren’s large fingers stroke over the thin denim of his pants, slipping down to the inside of his thigh and pressing against the seam there almost questioningly. The size of his palm alone outclasses Hugo’s slender thigh.

And Hugo should clench his legs closed, to protect himself in any way he can…

Except he spreads them instead, challenging the man with a full deck of winning cards, bluffing his way to victory with a hand full of jokers and a pocket full of coins.

“Why don’t you pull over?” he offers, the shake of his breath carefully hidden behind his bravado. “What’s the need for taking me anywhere when you can have me right here?”

His own hand, so pathetically small against the Thiren’s, curves over the top of Lycaon’s. He pulls it up towards his groin, where it’s hotter, where his filthy body responds to the stimulation like the traitor it is.

Lycaon allows the manipulation, curving his palm over the inside of Hugo’s thigh, the edge of his pinky finger grazing over a zipper—

And then it doesn’t move.

It stays there, a lump of marble that is unmovable as Lycaon carefully continues to drive.

“Aren’t you tired?” the older man asks, and from this angle Hugo can’t see his one eye. “You don’t have to pull your tricks anymore.”

“Tricks?” Hugo hisses out, trying to soften his tone but failing. “What if I just want you to touch me?”

“Then do you shiver in anticipation, or fear?”

Fuck, Hugo thinks, glowering up at the beast as he catalogues that, yes, he was trembling. And not from fear.  

Which, somehow, made this all the more frightening.

His lack of fear going into this situation is what frightened him. This practical stranger, who had declared himself both the head of the thief syndicate Mockingbird and his mate, was essentially kidnapping him, and Hugo was letting it happen.

He could’ve run, knew the ins and outs of the alleys pretty well, could slip into a store and hide among the racks of clothes if he so felt like it.

…but he hadn’t.

Something keeps him there. Call it curiosity or instinct, but Hugo doesn’t want to run despite the warring feelings inside of him that scream out of reflex to escape.

The rest of the ride is silent, Lycaon’s hand on his thigh unmoving.

By the time they pull into the rather alarmingly empty parking garage, the tension has worsened, at least for Hugo. His companion remains annoyingly unreadable, unruffled in a way that Hugo wishes he could be. But, no, he sits in his chair, trembling in painful anticipation as Lycaon finally turns to him.

The hand on his thigh slides up, gripping his chin, pulling him forward to press a rough kiss to his mouth that Hugo is all too eager to allow as his mouth drops open. He whines, the sound high and broken, fingers reaching out to fumble with Lycaon’s belt.

One big hand grabs his wrists, stopping his pursuit.

“Impertinent pup,” Lycaon growls against his mouth approvingly, his smile lined with teeth. “I have half a mind to put you on your knees now and knot your mouth.”

A thumb slides over Hugo’s mouth, pressing against the seam.

“But we’ll save that for later. For now, I want to worship you until you regret ever thinking you could steal from me.”

There’s a displaced current of air as Lycaon pulls away and moves out of his door, and Hugo watches with anticipation as the beast of a man rounds over to his side. Lycaon bows as he opens the passenger door, a false mask of being a gentleman that Hugo wants to call out as he slides his legs out, but remains silent as he takes the offered hand.

The parking garage elevator is quick to open its doors to Lycaon’s press of the button, like it had been waiting for them. The inside is small, made smaller by the wide build of the Thiren that follows behind him.

Whatever space there may have been is completely encased in the heat and scent of Lycaon, who stands next to him, back straight and posture perfect as his single eye watches their ascent. It’s Hugo that slouches and presses himself into the corner, folding in on himself like he could become small enough to not be seen.

Lycaon doesn’t touch him, which just makes the trip that much worse as the anticipation grows to a painful throb. Still doesn’t touch him as the doors slide open, that massive clawed hand holding the seam of the doors and allowing Hugo to slip past.

“Follow me,” Lycaon commands, moving past him, and Hugo tilts his head over his shoulder to watch the elevator doors close with a decisive, silent hiss.  

His means of escape, fleeting away from his grasp as he follows Lycaon. Obedient, in a way he never was, even under the thumb of his father.

Lycaon slides a card through a reader next to the only door in this odd little hallway, the little light turning green and granting them access. An apartment, Hugo sees as he shuffles inside, one that is opulent and rich in décor. The finery is not as grandiose as those found in his father’s home, but decidedly less gaudy.

It’s almost…homey, if home felt like a cage as Lycaon shuts the door behind him.

Now, alone with the beast, the tension rises.  

Hugo watches as the beast of a man walks over to a high-backed chair, thick thighs bunching as he takes a seat.

“Come here,” is the command, one that has no room for Hugo to decline, not with how powerless he was compared to the older man.

…and he doesn’t want to decline.

That gnawing feeling in his stomach burns as he walks closer, watching as the Thiren spreads his massive thighs as he leans back in his chair, that singular eyed gaze looking over him, pleased. Despite knowing his own looks, Hugo feels lacking in his streetwear, pathetically young and underdeveloped from the lack of care or love in his family’s home. They hang heavy around his slim form, and even with a stylish belt and artful rips, he knows he doesn’t exude the same type of aura that the Thiren does.

Once he is close enough, Lycaon pats at his own thigh, the command loud despite the silence.

Sit in my lap.

Hugo swallows, which just adds fuel to the hunger in his stomach as he tremblingly rests one knee next to a thigh, hands hesitantly reaching out to rest on broad shoulders as a means to anchor him as he climbs up. His ass rests nervously against the man’s belt buckle, right above where he knows the bulge of the man’s cock rests.

“Good boy,” Lycaon praises, which leaves Hugo to shake and shut his eyes as it flows like honey down his spine. “You just need a little instruction.”

“I’m not a dog,” Hugo bites out, snarling at the gently smiling man.

“No, but you’re unlearned and almost feral. I have hope I can teach you better.” Lycaon grips his chin, leaning forward to lick over the sharp slash of his mouth. “I will take such good care of you.”

The promise rankles something inside of Hugo, who has survived for so long on scraps, who has only had himself to rely on. He’s done his best, and it feels invalidated in face of this man who has everything.

And maybe his thoughts show on his face, because Lycaon pulls him closer, palms on his ass, running his nose over Hugo’s cheek.

“I’m so proud of you,” is the sledgehammer that slams into Hugo’s ribs. “You’ve done so well with having so little to work off of. To think, my little mate has become what I am,” Lycaon murmurs against his ear, hands flexing from their place on his ass. “If I had known you were in that horror of a household I would’ve taken you in the middle of the night. Just climbed through your window, tossed you over my shoulder, and absconded with you before you could even shout.”

The image makes Hugo shiver, which he tries to hide by turning his face away. But Lycaon is there to turn it back with an unbreakable grip to his chin.

“Do you like that idea? Of being saved? Or stolen?”

Sneering, Hugo tries to pull away. “Neither—”

But he yelps as the remaining hand on his ass spanks him. The sound is loud in the quiet of the room, ringing in his ears long after it has faded.

“Maybe I would’ve taken you right there in your small bed, just lifted your nightgown and set myself between your pale thighs,” the Thiren continues. “Claimed you right in the house you hated, let your virginity stain the sheets while I gagged you on my tongue to keep you quiet.”

Don’t think about it, Hugo tells himself, and fails.

He thinks about it.

Of his shared room with twelve other children, biting into his fist to be quiet as the silk of his nightgown was pulled up his waist, a hungry beast between his legs. Letting himself be used and debased, cumming into a big fist while he choked on a thick tongue.

He revels in the image as much as he reviles it.

“The Ravenlock family has done you a disservice in not sharpening your blade,” Lycaon continues. “You have such potential to be a dangerous weapon. Instead you’re dulled by inexperience and a lack of care, unable to pierce through a heart as you scrounge for leftovers. You stole my wallet. Rather messily at that. I think it’s time for you to learn that your poor actions have consequences.”

Hugo yelps as he’s maneuvered, body easily manipulated by the large Thiren as he’s made to lay with his stomach across Lycaon’s thick thighs. He understands very quickly what is happening when he feels sharp nails dig into the waistband of his pants, easily tugging them down without much of a fight. His underwear goes with it, tangling around his ankles as a broad palm strokes lovingly over the curve of his ass.

“Lycaon,” Hugo tries to say, pushing himself up to turn and snarl—

—only to fall back down with a yelp coloring the room as the hand smacks across the tender skin of his ass smartly.

He’s being spanked, Hugo somehow manages to think past the static that fills his head, as his cock fills and his gut sparks with arousal. He’s being spanked, and his body likes it.

The spanks are rhythmic, a steady pace that doesn’t change in pressure or time, always coming a few seconds apart. Over his ass, across his thighs, down the tender curve of his balls, nothing is spared.

It doesn’t hurt. Each strike only serves to make his arousal burn hotter, his cock hard and leaking from where it’s pressed against Lycaon’s thigh, staining the Thiren’s pants with proof of his pleasure.

Hugo curls his fingers into the fabric of Lycaon’s pants, odd noises churning in his throat that he would deny he ever made when he is of sober mind. But he can’t deny the choked, bitten off gasp as the hand briefly stops, two thick fingers spreading the cheeks of his ass to press up against his rim.

They rub gently against the tight furl, feeling so obscenely large against the tiny area as they stroke and prod. And Hugo, inexperienced in acts of intimacy, can only tremble at the tender touch.

“Lycaon,” he bites out, trying to inject strength into his voice and failing when it comes out broken and whining.

The Thiren doesn’t answer him, content to play with his body.

The fingers don’t penetrate him. Worse, they add pressure to the unused entrance, pulling it open by framing either side of the furled rim, allowing his virgin insides to be exposed to the curious eye of the beast.

“Lycaon,” Hugo tries again, looking over his shoulder to level a glare at the Thiren wetly.

“Hugo,” Lycaon returns, the name rolling deep and dark off his lips as his eye flickers up to meet Hugo’s own. His hand moves away, instead pressing his warm palm to the reddened skin of his ass. “You know what is going to happen tonight, correct? Or do you need me to list out every way I am going to slowly take you apart in the name of pleasure?”

Ah, but there’s still some fight left in him, simmering in his chest as he spits out, “If you’re capable of even giving me this pleasure you speak of, I will be surprised.”

The thighs under him tighten in surprise, the hand that strokes him pausing over his reddened skin.

“Do you think me unskilled?” Lycaon asks, and that’s all Hugo receives as the man stands, forcing Hugo to his own feet.

Hugo hastily pulls his underwear back up, too loose pants a lost cause, but Lycaon is right there to lift him into a hold as he marches towards the bed.

He isn’t tossed like a sack of potatoes, but Hugo does let out a quiet oomph as his back meets the luxurious sheets of the bed. At the edge of the bed Lycaon towers over him, impossibly large as he looms like a predator over his prey.

“Wait,” Hugo begs, the first strands of panic finally threading through his voice as he presses his hand between his legs to hide himself. “Please, I’ve never—”

“Good,” Lycaon says, the word barely audible between the growl of a beast.

Hugo’s strength is no match for the Thiren, who pulls his wrists above his head and pushes his thighs apart to make wait for his trim, built waist. His wicked fingers pull down Hugo’s underwear, tearing the worn piece of fabric apart under his eagerness, letting them fall forgotten around Hugo’s ankle as Lycaon angles his head down.

Hugo digs his fingers into the Thiren’s hair, biting his lower lip to stem the noises that leak from his mouth as that hot, hot mouth swallows his cock all the way down to the root in one easy slide. He arches, pebbled nipples pressed out into the air as his toes dig into the bedding.

The hot, slick suction makes him thrash.

Intimacy was not to be found anywhere in his home or on the streets. It was to be feared and avoided, a lesson he had learned from the back street whores who had helped him when he had first escaped his family home. He had seen their bruises and stained thighs, taken in their soulless eyes and the mistakes of a condom that had broken…if there had been one at all.

He sees the army of children his father has sired, the dozens of women who he had used.

Hugo doesn’t want any part of it.

…but he can’t deny the pleasure of it.

He’s touched himself before out of morbid curiosity and teenage hormones, the act shameful when clarity had returned and the white of his pleasure had washed down the drain.

Life outside the home was mostly about surviving, not getting off, so the hot, wet suction of the Thiren’s mouth builds him up too fast as Lycaon pulls back to swirl his tongue over the weeping tip to gather the liquid that gathers there.

Lycaon is experienced, which shouldn’t be a surprise considering how he looks, and it only serves to render Hugo into a writhing mess.

“Lycaon,” he calls out, a whine breaking the end of the name. “I won’t—”

Lycaon pulls off of him, licking his lip and giving an approving growl as he looks over the mess he’s created beneath him. He kisses Hugo, forcing the taste of his own pleasure back into his mouth, tongue fucking down into his throat to make sure it stays.

There for but a moment, pulling away to sit back on his haunches as the stupidly tight expanse of his shirt stretches obscenely across his chest. And Hugo is a rapt audience drunk on the taste of his own precum as he watches Lycaon unbutton the red shirt over it, pulling it from his broad shoulders.

“Help me,” Lycaon commands gently, his dark eye ever watchful as Hugo sits up shakily.

Lycaon moves first, gathering the tight black shirt from where it rests at his waistline and tugging it over his head and shoulders in a swift movement that makes Hugo dizzy from how his muscles bunch and flex. The revealed chest is plentiful, stomach flat and defined with a musculature that makes Hugo almost self-conscious of his own slender form.

When the shirt has cleared Lycaon’s head, hair ruffled from the neckline, the Thiren licks his lips as he looks down at the appraising gaze of his little mate. His large hands reach out to grab Hugo’s guiding them to the fastenings of his pants.

Lycaon moves them away, leaving Hugo to stare unseeingly at the button and zipper that are held between his fingertips.

His movements are slow, marked by a slow building anticipation that settles in his gut. The button pops up, the zipper purring as he pulls it down, cloth peeling away like petals to expose the veins of Lycaon’s lower stomach and the hemline of his briefs. He swallows, the action painful as his fingers slide down behind the fabric touching hot skin as he gently pulls it down.

Hugo stares unseeingly at the revealed cock.

It’s a monster, he thinks. There was no way his body would be able to accept that.  

It borders the line between human and bestial, and he knows what a knot looks like from the many porn magazines he’s thumbed through when he was bored enough.

The sight of this one, however, makes his gut twist hungrily in desperate want, even though his somewhat sober mind understands that the connection will be tight and difficult.

Lycaon lines it up against his own, dwarfing him as it slaps wetly against his belly. And seeing it like that, seeing how far it would reach inside of him, makes Hugo tremble in fearful anticipation.

It won’t fit, he thinks, unable to voice it out loud to avoid sounding like some stereotypical porn video. He would break.

Lycaon rumbles, voice more of a growl than human syllables. “Touch it.”

Swallowing, Hugo can’t help but listen, reaching out to wrap his hand around the weapon of a cock.

It’s so hot.

Would it burn him from the inside, he wonders, carefully giving it a tentative stroke like it would bite him. His knuckles bump against the swell that would fully form into a knot, and he swallows as he thinks of statistics and the elasticity of muscles, if his body could accommodate it.

The tip leaks copiously, coating his fingers in the viscous liquid that he instinctively knows, but still somehow surprises him as he pulls his hands away to look at it from where it webs between his fingers as he spreads the digits apart. Precum his mind unhelpfully supplies, and the hunger in his gut twists with a sick little urge to lick it—

He presses it down to the bed before he can give into the temptation.

Which leaves him to look up at the towering beast who watches him silently.

Lycaon’s gaze is intense, even with a single eye. It roves over him, taking in the peak of his nipples and the dip of where his navel sits, down to where his neatly groomed pubic hair surrounds his own filled cock.

It’s not so much a surprise as it is a shock when he sees a large hand reach down to touch him, mirroring what he had done to the Thiren. Still wet with saliva, the glide of the hand is easy and smooth.

Lycaon takes them both in hand, squeezing the two cocks in his large grip as they thrust against each other. The glide is wet and obscene, another level of pleasure Hugo has never encountered that makes him grit his teeth to ride out the wave that threatens to drown him. He won’t last, not like this, but Lycaon is unrelenting in the way he thrusts up to grind his cock against his own.

“Lycaon,” he bites out, colored with a whine, “I won’t—”

“You can come,” is the oddly gentle permission that manages to leak out past the roughened tone. “I want you to experience pleasure in anyway possible, as long as it is by my hand.”

Hugo squeezes his eyes shut, head thrashing side to side as he tries to hold back.

“Please,” he begs. For release or mercy, he isn’t quite sure. But the word sounds perfect in his mouth, alongside the name of the man who does this to him. “Lycaon, please!”

His orgasm is not like any he’s managed to pull from himself before.

It takes him unaware, a tightly wound string that snaps almost painfully. He arches, his shout painting the walls as it bounces around the room, toes digging into the sheets as they curl from the force that rips through him.

It coats his flat stomach and thin chest, glistening pearls that decorate his skin in a mockery of jewelry as it drips over his peaked nipples and gathers in the dip of his navel.

He’s left shaking and panting, body going limp as he stares unseeingly at the ceiling.

The bed shifts, the larger body of Lycaon prowling over him to take in stock of the destruction he has wrought. That crimson gaze slides over his skin, as physical as a touch as it gleams in pleasure.

Hugo is weak to the kiss that follows, a reward he can taste as he swallows the pleased rumbles that vibrate out from Lycaon’s throat and into his mouth.

“Beautiful,” is the softly crooned praise that just makes Hugo shake more, overwhelmed as he is. “My mate is so beautiful when he comes undone. I can’t wait to give you more pleasure.”

Against his refilling cock, he can feel where Lycaon is still hard and twitching. He reaches down, trying to return the favor, but a grip to wrist stops him.

Lycaon pulls it back up, kissing the back of his hand like the gentleman he isn’t.

“On your knees,” is the dark command, one not to be disobeyed.

Hugo tilts over, any grace he might’ve had dispersing into vapor as he gets his knees under him and props his hips up, putting himself on display for the man that would be his mate.

A pleased rumble, dark words heavy with intent pressing into his skin as Lycaon praises, “Good boy.”

Hands knead the shape of his ass, which isn’t as plentiful considering his malnutrition and lanky form. It shouldn’t be very appealing part of him, but Lycaon seems to find no issue, if the heat of his breath is an indicator as the hands spread him open and a wet tongue licks over his twitching rim.

Over and over, spit trickling down over his balls and dripping down his erect shaft. Lycaon indulges in the taste of his body, groaning low in his throat as he presses the tip of his long tongue to the clenching hole.

The tongue that invades him is determined, breaking past that first initial barrier of resistance with only a solid push. Hugo can only lay there and take it, nails digging into the sheets of the bed as nerves are touched that have never been before, his body trying to decide if it wants to shove itself back to meet the liquid thrusts or try to move away to escape the sensation.

“Lycaon,” he begs.

The hands holding him only pull his cheeks further apart, the tongue delving deeper.

“Lycaon!”

He’s being devoured.

He likes it—

His voice breaks on a whimper as he feels the blunt tip of a finger probe at the stretched muscle. It sinks in beside the tongue, the odd sense of fullness becoming an ache that he can feel in his stomach as he tries to claw himself away from the feeling.

But big hands just drag him back, forcing his body to accept the intrusions.

And, somehow, they do. Against all odds and the clench of his muscles, his body relaxes enough to allow them entry.

Traitor, he thinks to himself.

Betrayed by his own instincts, he can only shakingly press his hips back to meet the testing thrusts, and is rewarded with a low growl of approval that vibrates within his body.

One finger, then two, dripping with lubricant that escapes the tight confines of his ass to drip down the back of his thighs. A hot tongue follows the trails, lapping up the wasted lubricant only to press it back into his body.

A heavy blanket of nothingness dampens Hugo’s thoughts as he settles into the pleasure that swells in his gut. Always a moment away from smothering him, but it provides nothing but comfort as the Thiren continues his preparation of his body. From two it becomes three, splitting him wide open as they shift within him, Lycaon pulling his mouth away to examine his work.

“Beautiful boy,” is the devastating praise that shouldn’t make Hugo shake, but shudders ripple down his spine regardless. “I’m so glad you found me.”

The blunt head of the cock replaces the fingers that pluck his strings so prettily, and Hugo freezes as he realizes.

“Relax for me, dear one,” are the words that drip into his ears, his body responding before he even has a second thought as the tension bleeds out of him. “Good boy.”

The initial push is slow, which makes it worse, because Hugo can feel every slick inch of that meaty cock as it breaches his body. He would’ve much preferred rough and fast, if only to have a reason to hate this, hate the man who treats him gently, like he was precious and breakable.

Hugo is marked with scratches and dents, not an item to be considered valuable, far too thin and lanky to be attractive, but in the hands of Lycaon he is a precious jewel to be treasured. And in this jewelry box he has found himself in, surrounded by a myriad of other beautiful things and rich taste, he is the one that sits on the pedestal of crushed velvet as Lycaon mounts him.

There is a restraint there that Hugo can feel, see in the arms that cage him in, how they shake with effort as the slow push inwards continues. Slow, slow, slow, until the chiseled hips meet the flesh of his ass in a gentle kiss.

Lycaon lets out a shuddering sigh, the first sign of something other than perfection that Hugo has seen.

“My most precious mate,” he says, the words like a collar that wrap around Hugo’s throat.

The Thiren leans down to nuzzle his shoulder, unmoving for the moment as Hugo adjusts to the intrusion. Achingly slow, Lycaon pulls his hips back, dragging the heavy heat out of Hugo, before thrusting forward.

It’s still gentle, still slow, but each push and pull adds another layer of quick and rough, growing and growing until Hugo can hear the sound of his own flesh smacking against Lycaon’s.

“Lycaon,” he pleads, words turning into a sharp whine at the next thrust. “Lycaon, please…!”

His nails tear at the bedding, long, jagged lines that render the sheets unusable.

Lycaon leans his body down over his back, teeth nipping at the sharp point of Hugo’s ear. “Yes, darling?”

“It’s too much!”

“I know,” is the unapologetic words that are lined with a gentleness that does not match that smack of hips against his ass. “I am impatient, and for that I apologize. But our bodies were made for each other, and you take me so well.”

The Thiren leans back, pausing in his destructive ministrations so that he can put a clawed hand to one ass cheek, pulling it to the side so he can stare appreciatively at the swollen rim that suckles his cock. A thick thumb reaches over to teasingly slide over the smoothed muscle, pressing against it, and Hugo buries his face into the pillow at the touch.

Blinding himself does not make him deaf, and he can hear the pleased rumble of the Thiren as Lycaon says, “You’ll take my knot so prettily.”

Fuck, the knot.

How had Hugo forgotten about that?

He feels it grind against his rim now, his body pulled back to meet the thrust by the Thiren’s hands on his waist. Not completely filled yet, but already it feels like too much.

There was no way it was going to—

For a brief moment, Lycaon pulls him down hard enough to meet his next thrust that it pops inside.

For a single instance, Hugo blacks out.

When he blinks back into consciousness, the half-popped knot is back outside of his body, tears on his lashes as his ear is nuzzled by the muzzle of his mate.

“You’re doing so well,” Lycaon whispers, licking the tears that drip from his eyes. “You feel perfect.”

The knot dips inside again, his rim not protesting as much this time as his body swallows the extension. He doesn’t black out this time, allowing him to feel how his body processes the intrusion.

Every time it breaks through the barrier of muscle that should keep it out, sharp little explosions of pleasure zing up his spine. Again and again, until he actually starts to desire the push of bulging tissue into his body, craves it.

Lycaon slides a hand down to his stomach, testing the give of it.

“You’ll be a beautiful mother,” are the words that send a violent shiver down his spine. Not from revulsion, oh no – but from delight. And Lycaon, sensing his weakness, hammers home his dark words with each slick thrust. “How sweet will you be when round with my pups?”

It’s an impossible thought, because his biology wouldn’t allow anything to take.

…but the fantastical imagery still manages to take root in his mind that is barren from the abuse of his past.

Children, he thinks, torn between desperate want and horrifying displeasure. Of his belly round and fat, chest heavy with milk. How Lycaon would press his frightening mouth against his nipple to feed from him as the Thiren gently fucked his pregnant body.

He shouldn’t want it. He shouldn’t want any of this.

He’s seen the devastation of desire and lust, is a child born from it.

“Please,” Hugo begs, even if he doesn’t know what he’s begging for.

For release, for his body to be filled, for a child that would never take root in a body barren of a womb – he doesn’t know, but that doesn’t stop him from wanting.

So when the knot pops inside for the last time, swelling to its full size and locking them together, Hugo goes limp instinctively.

Hot breath ruffles the hair at the base of his neck, the rest of his long hair pushed to the side as Lycaon fits his teeth to the delicate area and biting down with single-minded purpose.

Every nerve ending suddenly sings, and the previous submissive gesture turns into a painful arch that just forces his neck further into the maw of the beast that fucks him.

The thin strings of control snap, and Hugo sobs as his body finally gives up, spilling his release into the sheets underneath him as Lycaon continues to grind into his body. It feels never ending, his cock spitting out the pearls of his pleasure with each aborted thrust that just forces the hard cock inside him to grind against his prostate.

“Hugo,” Lycaon growls into his ear, those thick arms winding around his thin body and holding him tight as the cock twitches, a moment away from filling him. “My mate.”

Hugo can smell his own blood on the Thiren’s breath, can feel their bond reshaping his soul as it snaps into place.

“Mate,” he whispers, the smile that stretches his face painful. “Your mate.”

Lycaon gives a devastating noise, inhuman and dark.

His grip is almost painful as his hips slam forward as much as they can for the final time. Hugo feels the wet heat, scalding him from the inside. He jerks at the sensation of the knot finally reaches its peak fullness, plugging him up and keeping that wet heat firmly locked inside of him.

His body clenches around the knot unintentionally, milking it more with each involuntary twitch. His stomach is sore and heavy, a mocking image of false hope as Lycaon smooths his hand over the almost imperceptible bump in his lower abdomen.

Weak from the exertion of mating, Hugo can only lay there and accept the nuzzles and kisses, obedient as he opens his mouth to accept the hungry tongue. His eyes flutter shut as Lycaon continues to flex his hips, each small, grinding movement just causing more cum to fill his already overfilled body.

“Lycaon,” he whispers, voice ruined.

“I know.” Lycaon kisses the back of his neck, where the mark throbs. “But I’m not satisfied yet, my jewel. And I don’t think you’ve had your fill either, hm?”

And, fuck, how did he know?

That needy little hunger that has been boiling in Hugo’s gut since he had first stumbled across this man has yet to abate. Its sharp little teeth dig into his hidden desire, crying for nourishment.

So Hugo doesn’t protest as Lycaon lifts one of his legs up, giving more room for the Thiren to grind forward.

“When you wake, you will be safe,” is the hushed promise, and Hugo nods, closing his eyes as the rhythm starts again, praying his fragile hope can survive.

~*~

Hugo wakes up with a sore neck, sullied thighs, and still filled with Lycaon’s cock that slumbers inside of his tired body. A thick arm lays across his waist, keeping him trapped against the sweltering heat of the beast that sleeps behind him, that ruffles the hair at the back of Hugo’s neck with gentle exhales of air.

He lays there, trying to sort the riotous jumble of thoughts and feelings that roll through his head, even if there’s this odd bubble of joy that sits like a rock in his stomach. Home, something whispers to him, mate.

Happy.

Safe.

Yet after years of enduring what he has, he still finds it still too good to be true.

Surely he has to wait for the other show to drop, right?

His nervous energy must awaken his bed partner, because he feels the shift behind him.

“Good morning,” is the rumbled greeting he hears, the arms around his waist tightening as a nose nuzzles up behind his ear. “How are you feeling?”

Like he’s been rode hard and put away wet. Like he’s an overworked muscle or a bundle of nerves that are raw to the touch.

Like he’s safe.

Like he’s home.

Instead of all those thoughts, he says, “I’m alive.”

A rumble of laughter. “I’m glad to hear it. I was afraid I was rather…intense last night in my attentions.”

A kiss is pressed to the mark on the back of his neck, a Thiren equivalent to an accepted marriage proposal. A ring that he would always wear, bound to his soul.

“Allow me to draw you a bath,” and Lycaon pulls himself away to stand, all marble-esque muscle and devastating beauty. He doesn’t even attempt to hide his thick cock, heavy with morning wood. “Then we can have a hearty meal and discuss the terms of our life together.”

His ass is a masterpiece, Hugo thinks as he watches it walk away, still immobile on the bed. For once, Hugo doesn’t have to wonder how he will get his next meal, or if his temporary shelter would be found.

This is his life, he thinks, reaching up to touch the bite mark that still throbs.

But, as he digs his nails into the mark to make it darker, to make it bleed, that doesn’t mean he can’t tilt it just a bit in a direction that benefits him.

And he starts as Lycaon walks back in, pulling his weakened body up to sitting as the scent of soap follows after the Thiren.

“The bath is ready. Allow me to help you up—”

Lycaon’s words start short, mouth clicking shut as Hugo shucks the blanket that was draped over his lap.

He wonders how he looks, body sullied by lust with the proof that leaks from between his spread legs, neck marked by sharp teeth.

Hugo reaches down between his thighs and uses his fingers to spread his used entrance, smiling up at the beast that stares down at him.

“I don’t think it took,” are the soft words that Hugo uses like a weapon, watching their daggered ends hook into the older Thiren’s desire and pull him forward.

Hook.

Line.

Sinker.

His voice is submissively soft as he continues, “Won’t you try again, oh mate of mine?”

This was power, he thinks, a thrill of something electric going up his spine as the Thiren prowls between his legs. Hugo lets his mouth fall open easily to accept the length of tongue, moaning as his used body is pulled up to meet and grind against Lycaon’s awakening ardor.

“Mate,” Lycaon growls, all sharp consonants and bestial connotation.

“Mate,” Hugo agrees, smiling with his wet, swollen lips smiling as he winds his legs around the stupidly trim waist.

Carefully, he picks up a massive hand, looking up from under his lashes at the beast of a man as he slides a finger into his mouth. He sucks on it, making a show of the service he offers as he pulls the dripping wet digit from his mouth when it’s sufficiently dripping. He drags it down his body, down between his soiled thighs, pressing it up against the swollen rim of his entrance that still leaks with Lycaon's spend.

“Don’t waste our children,” he whispers, holding back the grin he feels as Lycaon clenches his eye shut, shuddering. “Put it back in me.”

He knows the tub is overfilling, can hear the patter of water as it splashes over the edge of the porcelain, but the beast cares little for the waste as he guides his cock back into Hugo’s waiting body. This time there is no need for preparation – the long night of warming it has kept him loose, and his body easily accommodates the thievery of his pleasure.

Wrapping his arms around the broad shoulders, Hugo laughs.

Bright and free, uncaring that he had left one cage, only to be bound to another.

But this time the key sits heavy on his tongue, tasting of iron as he accepts the desperate kisses of his beast.

Hugo had managed to steal something from the Thiren after all, something worth more than his measly wallet - his heart.

And he doesn’t plan on giving it back.