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“Are you sure you’re alright…?”
The hushed question broke the silence between the two men. Hugo clicked out his tongue and let out a loud enough tsk that definitely could be heard by the wolf thiren walking behind him.
Their footsteps were barely audible. Both men had long mastered the art of moving without sound, an occupational habit of phantom thieves. Well, former phantom thief, in Lycaon’s case, though silent steps seemed to serve his new line of work just as well. That said, Hugo’s footfalls were slightly louder, just barely, even compared to Lycaon’s, despite the metal heels that accompanied the butler’s prosthetic limbs.
They walked through a seemingly abandoned market district. The alley was empty, the hour still early— just a few hours past sunrise. They had left Port Elpis’s dock and slipped into a more secluded sector, edging closer to the Hollow. The area was considered high-risk; too close to where Companion Hollows might appear and swallow the whole area. As a result, property value had plummeted to virtually nothing, leaving most buildings deserted.
An ideal place for phantom thieves, you could say.
Hugo’s eyes darted constantly, sweeping over the surroundings. He could feel the itch of smudged eye makeup clinging to the corner of his lid, but resisted the urge to rub it and make it worse. News of his death had already made the papers—he trusted no one knew his real identity, but growing up in a criminal syndicate made vigilance a second nature to him. Scanning the area was muscle memory now.
Hugo had just been the most honest he’d allowed himself to be in years, sharing something dangerously close to a heart-to-heart conversation with his former partner. And now that same former partner was trailing beside him, insisting on tagging along for the next step of his plan.
Well, considering Hugo’s current… condition and situation, he couldn’t lie to say that he didn’t appreciate the extra hand.
But that didn’t make it any less annoying.
“Lycaon, that’s the fifth time you’ve asked me in the last hour. My answer remains the same: I’m fine.” The blond man answered in annoyance, turning his head just enough for his burning red left eye could be seen by the other man. Well, people said thirens are more receptive and sensitive to human’s emotion, but Hugo wanted to make damn sure Lycaon knew exactly how annoyed he was.
But turning his head for Lycaon to see his eye came with a drawback, in which he could also see Lycaon. The thiren wore that same infuriatingly calm, unreadable expression, staring straight at him. Unblinking. Dead serious. It made Hugo's skin crawl with frustration.
God, that’s expression pissed Hugo off so bad.
The thing was, even though Lycaon had perfected his neutral mask over time, he still struggled to control the more wolfish parts of himself. For example, his tail and his ears. And right now, those ears were pinned slightly back, betraying his concern for Hugo.
Hugo hated that it touched him. Hated that he could still read Lycaon so easily, despite all the masks and half-truths the thiren had started to wear. That was supposed to be his role—he was the one who lived behind layers of lies and deceptions, not Lycaon.
Still locking eyes with him, Lycaon said flatly, “I wouldn’t keep asking if you didn’t look like you were about to collapse any moment.”
Hugo had grown taller since their adolescent days, no longer the scrawny boy Lycaon once knew. Even so, the man still towered over him— unfairly so. Lycaon had to literally look down to meet Hugo’s eyes. It wasn’t symbolic, but it felt like it was, and the implication twisted something ugly in Hugo’s gut.
Not that he had the energy to dwell on it.
His brain felt like it had been fried. He was barely standing after two full days lost in a drug-induced haze. There’s a very real, physical pain on his left shoulder and both of his wrists. Well, no. His whole body ached, every step a reminder of the hell he’d just crawled out of. He’d relived the worst of his childhood; the beatings, the cold indifference, his mother’s cruelty. He saw the faces of his dead siblings. He heard Serena’s (who’s also dead by the way) voice, he fought the amalgamation of negative thoughts in the form of himself.
And somehow, that wasn’t even the worst part.
The worst part was Lycaon. Or rather, the memory of him, distorted and cruel in the hallucination. That false version of Lycaon had said the vilest things Hugo couldn’t forget, no matter how hard he tried. Seeing the real one now, with that familiar eye, only made the wounds feel fresh again.
Hugo amazed he didn’t just lose his mind and go batshit crazy. Granted, maybe it’s because he already is crazy, so it evens out somehow. That would explain a lot.
“Careful there. Any more concern in your tone, and I might start thinking you actually worry about me,” Hugo said with a sarcastic lilt. He tried to quicken his pace, but every step sent a jolt of pain through his left shoulder. He bit back a groan, unwilling to give Lycaon any more reason to fix him with that insufferable stare.
Which, judging by the prickling heat at his back, the Thiren was absolutely still doing exactly that.
“I am worried about you,” Lycaon said, his tone flat like he was stating the obvious, and Hugo didn’t bother to imagine what face the wolf had over his face
“Well, you shouldn’t.” Hugo shot back without missing a beat. He pulled his jacket tighter around his shoulders and adjusted his grip on the suitcase. Then, gathering the strength, he threw a glare over his shoulder. “Don’t start acting like you care now, former partner. Just because I trusted you to follow along with my plan —and we pulled it off flawlessly, I might add— that doesn’t mean the past magically disappears. Might I remind you that we only started speaking again days ago, after years of silence.”
“…”
There’s no answer from his (former) companion, and Hugo scoffed.
“Or is this about the warehouse? Is that it? Pity?” Hugo’s voice sharpened with every word. His mismatched eyes narrowed, the red in his left eye gleaming with growing anger. “Is this your twisted idea of playing the savior now? Spare me the honor, then. You don’t get to play my savior.”
“You’re limping,” Lycaon said quietly, not rising to the bait.
“Am I now?”
Technically, it wasn’t a lie. His legs were fine, but with the pain radiating from his shoulder, he’d unconsciously shifted his posture, throwing off his balance just enough to make his gait uneven, and resulting to make his walking a bit weird.
Lycaon didn’t answer, but Hugo caught a pause between the echo of the butler’s metal footsteps; Lycaon was lengthening his stride to close the gap between them. Hugo, with his naturally low body temperature, felt the bouncing warmth at his back. That could only mean Lycaon was now walking directly behind him, hovering like he was preparing to catch Hugo should he collapse.
And apparently, the dog had grown even more insolent. Hugo felt a warm palm rest against the small of his back, and then Lycaon was beside him, taking on most of his weight to ease the strain on his injured shoulder. Hugo scoffed at the help but didn’t swat the hand away; his strength was draining faster than he expected.
“Brazen before, and now shameless. I suppose Victoria Housekeeping doesn’t teach basic etiquette? How shameful, for the Mayflower’s dog to lack finesse.”
Still, the support at his back felt sturdier now, keeping Hugo’s mind from drifting too far into exhaustion. Lycaon matched his sluggish pace without a word, and as they rounded a corner, one of the wolf’s ears flicked slightly in mild confusion.
“This isn’t the path to the Hollow entrance,” Lycaon said.
They were moving away from the fissure listed in their Carrot Data.
Hugo leaned a bit more into the support without thinking. “An astute observation. Yes, we’re heading to one of my safe houses.” He gestured toward himself, indicating the sorry state of his bloodied, sweat-soaked clothes. The shirt clung to his skin like a second layer, a result of both exertion and the lingering effects of the mind control drug. “I feel disgusting. I need a change of clothes and a moment to prepare before diving into the Hollow.”
Under different circumstances, Hugo would’ve enjoyed the way Lycaon’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Unfortunately, he was too tired to savour it.
“What’s that look for?” the blond thief muttered. “Let me guess— you’re wondering why, after claiming I don’t trust you, I’m suddenly leading you to one of my secret bases, correct?”
Lycaon was too stunned to speak, the wolf thiren had stopped walking without him even noticing, which in turn forced Hugo to stop as well, as he was relying on Lycaon’s support. Lycaon’s hand at his back tensed.
Hugo then dropped his sarcastic remarks, heaving a long sigh, “To soothe your wrinkled brow: this is just one of many. And really, what worse can you do with this information anyway? Betray me for the second time?”
But of course, it wouldn’t be Hugo Vlad if he didn’t get at least one jab in. He hadn’t lied when he said Lycaon’s betrayal hurt then, and it still hurt now.
The blond man then drew in a deep breath, forcing his gradually heavy limbs to move again. The motion prompted the thiren to resume walking, following wherever Hugo was leading them.
“Don’t insult me, Lycaon. I’ve been —no, we’ve been— living in the cesspit of society. I know better than to let my guard down,” Hugo muttered through gritted teeth, throwing his best glare at his walking-and-talking cane stick.
“Hugo…” Lycaon's face twisted and flinched in something akin to hurt. His hand unconsciously pressed more firmly against the small of Hugo’s back.
Even around me…? Lycaon didn’t ask it out loud, but Hugo heard it anyway.
Especially around you. Hugo also didn’t say it out loud, but his glare answered it anyway.
They continued in tense silence, winding through the quiet streets. After another two or three turns, they arrived at a small warehouse tucked into a corner of the southern dockyard. Abandoned facilities and crumbling storage areas surrounded the low structure. It wasn’t situated at the seawall’s edge, but it was close enough for the soft splash of waves to be heard. There was no proper road leading to it, but if one scores the giant tetrapod along the seawall, they can reach the dock area in no time.
Lycaon could see why Hugo had chosen this place as a Mockingbird’s hideout— or perhaps even his personal one.
“Here we are,” Hugo said, his voice just a shy from a relieved sigh. He pulled away from Lycaon’s support and tottered over to the clearly locked door. A small device box beside it blinked to life with a soft beep as he began unlocking it.
Lycaon lingered at a respectful distance. Hugo did not attempt to shield the keypad, and despite himself, Lycaon’s eyes caught the sequence as deft fingers entered it: 1…8…9…5…7… It was probably impolite for Lycaon to have noticed, but muscle memory and instinct kicked in, and some habits die hard. Maybe the thief in him wasn’t gone after all. He filed the numbers away in the back of his mind, only to immediately avert his eyes when he caught Hugo looking at him with a flat, unimpressed stare, like he knew Lycaon had peeked.
“This… isn’t one of the old hideouts,” the ex-thief offered quickly, attempting to shift the subject before Hugo could call him out.
Hugo scoffed at the weak attempt but let it pass. He shook his head and pushed the door open with a tired motion.
“You’re crazy if you think I’d stick to anything predictable. Mockingbird is a phantom thief syndicate. We don’t leave trails.”
The inside of the safehouse was much larger than it appeared from the outside. A spacious living room greeted them, with a large workbench occupying almost a quarter of the space. Two sofas were placed beside a low table, and a small kitchen area with a modest fridge sat at the back. A short hallway to the right led to three closed rooms. The living room had windows, already covered with tinted film and topped with roller blinds. As far as Lycaon could see, there was only one entrance, though he couldn’t be sure there weren’t any hidden doors or trapdoors. All in all, it was a secure, yet comfortable enough space. Hugo likely used it when he had missions nearby.
"..."
Hugo cleared his throat, snapping Lycaon out of his silent assessment of the area. The leader of the Mockingbird limped toward the workbench and placed his suitcase on top of the metal desk. “I’m too tired to argue with you about everything. Go rest or do whatever you want while I prepare. It won’t take long. Just... don’t break anything, will you?”
Lycaon gave a short nod, unsure of what else to say. He chose to sit on one of the sofas, straightening his legs to relieve the pressure on his knee and prosthetic socket.
Hugo pressed a button on his suitcase handle, and the deadly weapon scythe unfurled onto the table. The blond man assessed it with sharp, critical eyes before huffing in satisfaction at his own evaluation. He pulled a toolbox from beneath the desk and placed it next to the weapon.
Lycaon thought Hugo would likely perform some quick maintenance on it, but instead, the other man flinched slightly and left the box untouched. With his back turned, Lycaon couldn’t see his face.
“Cabinet to your left,” Hugo said after a long pause. “First drawer has water, second has rations. The ether aptitude serum and med kit are in the box next to it.” He informed, before slowly walking toward one of the closed rooms.
Lycaon couldn't help but notice how his (former) partner struggled just to stay on his feet.
“Hugo, you really don’t look good.”
Hugo let out a sharp hiss. “Yeah? I just faced the worst nightmare you could ever imagine in the last two days. I don’t look good and I don’t feel good either, Lycaon. Thank you for your kind observation.”
The phantom thief stumbled mid-step, and Lycaon immediately stood from the sofa, steadying him with a hand. “Let me help you to the bathroom,” he offered quietly. It was easier to slip into his polite, composed butler persona. Automatic, almost. But something about using that mask with Hugo felt wrong, too carefully distant. Too formal.
Still, maybe that was what they needed right now. Lycaon could act like the ever-capable attendant. Hugo could slip into the role of the spoiled young master. It would make things simpler. Easier.
“…Just this once, I’ll allow it,” Hugo muttered bitterly, clinging to Lycaon’s sturdier arm. Lycaon could feel the silent frustration simmering beneath his grip— Hugo hated needing help. Hated feeling helpless. Pointing it out would only make things worse, would only dig the chasm between them wider.
So Lycaon said nothing. He quietly guided Hugo toward the second door in the hallway—apparently, the bathroom.
Once inside, Hugo sank onto the closed toilet lid with an annoyed grunt. He began to tug off his jacket, each movement stiff and reluctant.
Taking that as his cue to leave, Lycaon turned to go. “Where do you keep your spare clothes? I’ll fetch them for you.”
“Living room,” Hugo muttered as he slipped off his shoes and nudged them toward the sink. “There’s a duffel under the cushion of the second sofa. Clothes are in there.”
Lycaon gave a curt nod and shut the door behind him with a soft click.
He followed the instructions precisely. Sure enough, beneath the cushion of the second sofa, a duffel bag lay tucked out of sight. Several, actually. Likely pre-packed for emergency departures. Just in case. Typical Hugo: meticulous, paranoid, prepared.
Aside from the bags, the safe house bore no personal traces. Nothing that could be used to identify Hugo or link back to Mockingbird if the place was ever compromised.
Everything had been meticulously planned.
Lycaon opened the duffel and retrieved a clean outfit nearly identical to what Hugo had worn: a deep purple shirt and black dress pants. He also selected a pair of socks and black underwear, keeping his thoughts professionally blank. No need to dwell on anything inappropriate. The only thing missing was a jacket and Hugo’s usual accessories, but the one he’d been wearing might still be salvageable.
Returning to the bathroom, Lycaon knocked twice against the wooden door. He heard a low hum of acknowledgement from inside. Turning the handle, Lycaon stepped in.
“Hugo, I brought your clothes—”
And the wolf thiren froze in his tracks, his years of housekeeping discipline barely keeping him from dropping the pile of clothes in his arms. The bathroom was thick with steam, hot water still hissing against the cold air. Through the heavy steam, Hugo stood beneath the running shower, visible behind a fogged glass partition, its door wide open.
Bare of any clothes.
The wolf barely managed to glimpse a flash of pale skin before his gaze quickly snapped to the floor, his full awareness fighting to keep his claws from elongating and tearing through the clothes he was holding.
“—S-sorry. I didn’t know you were still showering...”
There was the sound of a knob turning, and the heavy shower stream softened to a drizzle. Hugo’s teasing chuckle echoed through the bathroom. “What, acting shy now? We used to bathe together after missions, remember?”
“That’s—” Lycaon spluttered, instinctively raising his head, but quickly ducked it again as the reduced steam made the figure in the shower stall more visible. “T-that was different. We were—”
We’re different now- didn’t manage to slip past his mouth.
“Thanks for the clothes. Just set them on the vanity,” Hugo said casually, ignoring Lycaon’s visible embarrassment. “And since you’re already here, make yourself useful. Get me that small box by the sink, will you?”
Right- something to do, an order, will definitely distract him enough. Take the box by the sink, right. That, Lycaon could do.
Lycaon quickly turned toward the sink, angling his body just enough to shield Hugo’s figure from view. His gaze landed on a small plastic container beside the faucet. Inside were vials of a magenta-blue serum and pre-filled, sealed packages of syringes containing a translucent yellow liquid.
His stomach sank. The concern he had just pushed down surged to the surface again.
“Hugo, this is—” Lycaon hesitated at the edge of the open shower stall. Hugo’s hand was already outstretched, waiting expectantly.
“Ether aptitude serum. We’re heading into the Hollow after this. I need a dose or two, given the state I’m in. The yellow’s just a painkiller.” Hugo explained nonchalantly, which in itself was a huge alarm warning.
The confirmation only made it worse. Both of them were naturally gifted with unusually high ether aptitude. They were able to survive inside the Hollow longer than even the most resistant human, probably on the same level as the Hollow operation investigators' elites from the defense forces. That was why Mockingbird had built its methods and modus operandi around Hollow-based tactics. Because they were built for it.
So, for Hugo to need a booster aptitude serum…
Lycaon didn’t move. Hugo, sensing the delay, leaned out from the stall with a flicker of irritation. Without waiting, he snatched the container from Lycaon’s hand and stepped back under the weakening spray of the shower.
“Did you know? Injecting during a warm shower actually helps,” Hugo said conversationally, as though discussing the weather. “The heat softens the skin and dilates the blood vessels, so our body absorbs the medication faster.”
Lycaon’s eye followed the movements of the one person who had —and likely still did— keep him wrapped around his finger. Hugo reached for the painkiller first, unsealing one of the syringes and removing the protective cap from the fine needle. He examined the inside of his left elbow, searching for a vein, then swiftly injected the serum. A soft sigh escaped him once it was administered.
Lycaon’s breath was caught, not because of the embarrassment like before, but by horror.
Now fully visible through the clearing steam, Hugo’s condition was laid bare. Angry red cuts circled both wrists, the right one still sluggishly bleeding. Likely rope burns from when he’d bound himself to the chair, enduring the withdrawal from Hartman’s drug. Bruises and lacerations littered his pale skin, likely remnants from his fight with the Ethereal when he faked his death and fled into the Hollow. But most alarming were the deep, mottled bruises blooming across his shoulder blades, the left one especially dark and swollen.
“Did you sprain your shoulder?”
“Apparently, thrashing around while tied up isn’t great for your joints,” Hugo replied airily, testing his left arm with a slight motion before grimacing and letting it drop again. “Lucky it didn’t dislocate.”
Lycaon didn’t know what came over him. Before he could stop himself, the wolf thiren found himself stepping into the shower stall, ignoring the way the water instantly soaked through his clothes and plastered his fur to his skin. The metallic clink of his prosthetic echoed faintly on the tiles as his lone crimson eye continued to trace the painful map drawn across Hugo’s body.
“Lycaon, what—”
Hugo turned his head in disbelief at the intrusion, his face contorted into an irritated one, but when he caught the sight of... maybe solemnness? On Lycaon’s lone eye, he didn’t say anything. The annoyance drained from his face, replaced by a neutral mask.
As Hugo faced him fully, however, Lycaon was hit with another unwelcome sight: more bruises. Ugly patches of blue and purple marked Hugo’s collarbone and upper chest, a harsh contrast against pale skin.
“…”
“You’re going to soak through your clothes, you know,” Hugo said at last, his voice flat. His long, wet hair clung to his skin, the loosened braid now falling in heavy waves down to his thighs like molten gold. Even dulled by dirt and water, it shimmered faintly in the light.
“…”
Hugo sighed again and turned his back on him. “Fine. Stand there like a sopping wet dog and watch me shower for all I care, you creep,” he muttered. He ran his fingers through his long, blood-matted hair, grimacing when they snagged on a knot. A low hiss of frustration escaped him as he began to work through the tangle with visible irritation.
But in that motion of him pulling his hair away, Hugo exposed the nape of his neck.
Lycaon’s eye widened.
It was faint, barely visible beneath the bruises and grime, but unmistakable: a shadowy ring around Hugo’s throat, shaped like claws. A bruise. One Lycaon had left… when he’d grabbed Hugo by the neck during their staged confrontation.
“I... I didn’t think I left a mark,” Lycaon said quietly, his voice low with guilt. He brushed a careful, clawed finger over the faint bruise. “I thought I controlled my strength.”
“You did. Quite the performance, actually,” Hugo replied dryly. “Though if you ask me, there’s still room for improvement. You bowed your head too low; it nearly gave you away. It’s a miracle no one caught on.”
“You’re taking too big a risk…” Lycaon murmured, his elongated claw tracing along the bruised skin with painful gentleness, careful not to hurt him again.
“This again?” Hugo sighed, reaching for a small bottle of cleansing oil. “Was my last answer not enough for you?”
The familiar scent drifted between them. The same brand that Hugo had used years ago. The familiarity hit Lycaon like a wave, pulling something tight in his chest.
Just like when he’d stepped into the shower without thinking, he didn’t know what came over him now—only that he was suddenly pulling Hugo into a desperate embrace from behind, wrapping his arms around him. The ache in his heart throbbed sharply. Years had passed, and yet Hugo still felt so small, so fragile. Still fit too easily into Lycaon’s arms, as though nothing had changed at all.
Lycaon missed him. He truly did.
He fooled himself for a long time. Playing pretend, telling himself he was over it, that he’d moved on. The first two years after he left Mockingbird, there wasn’t a single word or trace of Hugo. The organization fell into an odd silence, mentioned only in whispers among the weak and in sneers and wary glances exchanged by the powerful.
Lycaon had always been arrogant and selfish enough to believe that Hugo was still keeping tabs on him. He knew Hugo had been watching when he first established the Victoria Housekeeping Agency. He knew Hugo followed every one of the agency’s endeavours. Hugo was out there. Watching. Always.
But the reverse was never true.
For Lycaon, all he had was the cold certainty that Hugo still existed somewhere in the world— and that was it. He never knew what became of him after the split. He told himself he didn’t need to know. That was a lie, of course. A fat, desperate lie.
Every so often, Lycaon found himself searching. News articles. Gossip. Whispers about the phantom thief syndicate that only grew more infamous with each passing year. But like mist in the dead of night, like the scattered bird’s feathers mocking him, Hugo always slipped through his fingers. All Lycaon ever found were headlines, rumors, scattered praises, and criticisms.
Never Hugo.
Even after standing and mingling among the powerful and elite society, the very people who had once been —and could very well become again in the future— victims of Mockingbird’s schemes, Lycaon still knew so little.
Lycaon hadn’t even known whether the group had recruited anyone new, which made his encounter with Miss Vivian all the more shocking. He hadn’t expected Hugo to take in a wounded young woman, nurture her under his wings, and raise her like his own.
And still, a part of Lycaon, arrogant and selfish as ever, clung to the belief that no one could ever replace him in Hugo’s eyes.
So Lycaon kept lying to himself, telling himself he had moved on. And for a while, he even believed it. He believed Hugo had moved on, too, especially after the way he vanished from Lycaon’s life, leaving behind only the faintest traces. A cold shadow lingering at the edge of his peripheral vision; never solid, never present. Hugo couldn’t be found unless he wanted to be.
Until he did.
Until Hugo stopped running. Until he chose not to hide from Lycaon anymore and stepped back into the spotlight. Back then, they’d stood under the same stage light. Equals. Partners. But now, Lycaon found himself in the audience, watching from the dark while Hugo danced across the stage with the grace of a fleeting dream.
A dying ember only needs the smallest spark to ignite again, and Lycaon’s heart burst in his chest the moment he saw Hugo’s theatrical return at the auction that night— so composed, so commanding, so him.
Lycaon thought he didn’t miss Hugo.
Until he did.
And when it hit, it slammed into him like a crashing tide— sudden, overwhelming, impossible to ignore. And the Hugo Lycaon found now was different yet still the same, still beautiful yet had become even more destructive. Destructive for his idealism of justice, and destructive to his own well-being.
The young Hugo Lycaon once knew would never have made a plan that would hurt himself, let alone one that endangered him this deeply. Lycaon couldn’t help but wonder, distantly and with a chill in his bones: if he’d found Hugo any later than this… would there have been anything left of Hugo, for Lycaon to find at all? Or would Hugo’s self-destruction have gone past the point of no return, alongside the darkness Jack had told him, and leave Lycaon behind with nothing but regret and an aching, unrelenting longing?
It pained Lycaon.
“Can we… can we start over?” Lycaon whispered desperately into the space between Hugo’s neck and jaw. His voice was so soft, so small, almost drowned out by the steady downpour of the shower above them. It was a question, borderline a plea.
“…”
Hugo didn’t turn to look at him. And Lycaon didn’t dare to try to meet his eyes, only pressing his snout gently against Hugo’s uninjured shoulder, breathing him in.
Maybe it was the cold. Maybe he imagined it. But Hugo shivered beneath his touch.
“My plan requires absolutely no distraction. I cannot afford nor allow any failure, when there’s so much at stake.” Hugo said simply.
That is not an answer to Lycaon’s question, no.
But it’s also not a no.
And it’s not a yes either.
But there is it again, the chasm between them. The same one that had cracked open so long ago. The one that broke them apart. Still yawning, still widening with every word left unspoken.
“Is it all just for vengeance? Everything you’re doing?” Lycaon knew it was futile, but he asked it anyway.
“Drop it, Lycaon.” Hugo’s voice was like steel, final. “Don’t waste your time trying to change my mind. I thought we’d already agreed: I’ll walk my own path, and you’ll walk yours. We won’t sway or try to change each other… because we both know we can’t.”
There was a slight tremble at the end of his words, but neither Lycaon nor Hugo acknowledged it. Because acknowledging it would mean exposing the barely healed wounds both still carried, wounds scabbed over but never truly closed.
Locked in a stalemate, neither of them pursued the subject any further. And yet… despite everything, Hugo didn’t push Lycaon away. And Lycaon, despite it all, didn’t let go.
Each second passed beneath the heavy torrent of water. Lycaon should’ve been uncomfortable, soaked to the bone in wet fur and damp clothes. But the sight of Hugo, trying so hard to hold himself together, leaning, but not quite, into him, made the wolf-thiren silently commit to the discomfort.
He had already shed his muzzle strap, gloves and wrist strap, and his outer vest back in the living room. Now, only his white shirt and dress pants clung to him, heavy with water. Lycaon lowered his head. His tongue, peeking past sharp fangs —those same fangs Hugo used to poke and tease— gently brushed against the most visible bruise. The one he had left. He licked softly around it, tracing the edges of the mark on Hugo’s neck.
Hugo tasted like soap and wildflowers. The kind that grew stubbornly through cracks in concrete. The kind that thrives and survives even in the harshest environment. The kind that didn’t bend to any rules.
“You’re tense,” Lycaon murmured between soft laps of apology.
A shudder rippled through Hugo’s smaller frame. He exhaled sharply and tilted his head slightly, exposing more of his neck, giving Lycaon better access to the bruises. “Your fang is dangerously close to a human’s carotid. Of course I’m tense.”
It was true. Lycaon could feel the pulse beneath his tongue, steady and strong. If he sank his fangs in, just a little deeper, the blood would spill fast and hot. Enough to paint the room in steam and red.
“Lycaon, what are you doing?”
The wolf had moved them forward, guiding Hugo until his front pressed gently against the wall. With one arm still secured around the thief’s waist, Lycaon reached out with his free hand and turned off the shower. The water slowed to a stop, leaving them dripping, and the air was still thick with steam and unsaid things.
“I can help you relax,” he said, low and quiet.
Lycaon used the same arm that had turned off the shower and moved it smoothly, purposefully, to curl around Hugo’s waist. Lycaon’s palm, burning hot against the chill of the room, trailed up and settled over the left side of Hugo’s chest, right above where his heart was. But in doing so, his claws grazed a sensitive nipple. Hugo almost believed it was accidental. Almost. But the way Lycaon tightened his embrace around him, and how the wolf’s tail moved to trap Hugo’s body into the embrace, said otherwise.
“W-Where do you think you’re touching!?” Hugo snapped, flustered.
Lycaon said nothing. Instead, he pulled the squirming man flush against his chest. He was acutely aware of how large his hands were, easily spanning the breadth of Hugo’s torso. One rested firmly over the thief’s chest, the other curled possessively beneath his abdomen. Their size difference was glaringly, almost absurdly obvious in moments like this. If he wanted to, Lycaon could probably wrap his hands around Hugo’s waist and still have room to spare.
That silence, that knowing touch. With the way Hugo flushed down to his neck, the other man knew exactly what Lycaon’s intention was.
“S-Shameless mutt… unhand me— ahh, this instant…!” Hugo barked, cheeks flushing with a heat that had nothing to do with the water.
“…What happened inside the warehouse?” Lycaon asked, his voice barely more than a breath against the damp skin beneath his lips, as if he dreaded that speaking any louder might cause Hugo to vanish. His right hand remained firmly pressed against the rapid thrum of Hugo’s heart. “What did you see in your dreams? You’re all wound up.”
“N-None… hah— none of your business…”
Lycaon’s tail curled gently around Hugo’s left leg, its soft fur brushing away the lingering water. He ignored the sharpness in Hugo’s voice, choosing instead to continue lapping at the pale column of his neck. This time, moving beyond the bruises. He knew the rough texture of his tongue, unique to a wolf thiren, leaving Hugo shuddering beneath every careful stroke.
“We’re just… collaborators at best. I’m not obliged to tell you everything about me,” Hugo said with effort, his words fractured by the sensation of claws dragging lightly across his nipple.
The claws halted. Lycaon’s ears flattened back instinctively, and dejectedly, at the statement. Their eyes met as Hugo cast a sharp glare over his shoulder.
Is that really all we are now? Is it so hard to trust me again? Lycaon’s eye asked.
What do you think? was the cold, wordless answer in Hugo’s light grey gaze.
Lycaon could almost hear the crack between them again. He’d thought, perhaps foolishly, that they’d patched it up; clumsily mended what they once had, enough to pretend things were as they used to be. But the wounds of their separation were still there, raw and unhealed, hurting them both.
He sighed, long and heavy. Years of being the so-called lapdog of New Eridu’s mayor hadn’t worn him down like Hugo had in just a handful of days, and considering the nature of his work, that said plenty. His line of duty was filled with things better left in the shadows.
Seeing no point in arguing further, Lycaon returned to his original goal: getting Hugo to relax. He reached for Hugo’s jaw, gently but firmly angling his face toward him before leaning in. Since he couldn’t kiss Hugo the way humans could, he settled for something else. His tongue swept slowly across Hugo’s lips, coaxing them apart with practiced ease. Once they parted, even slightly, Lycaon didn’t waste a moment; his tongue slipped inside, rough and deliberate, licking into the warmth of Hugo’s mouth.
Hugo gasped, his hand curling into a tight fist against the wet wall. He tried to resist, teeth clashing in brief defiance, but both of them knew it was a losing battle.
Though Lycaon couldn’t kiss Hugo in the traditional sense, he was gifted with something else: a rough, preternaturally long tongue. He could reach farther than any human ever could, though he still had to be mindful of Hugo’s sharp teeth. The fight was half-hearted now, resistance waning under the pressure of memory and instinct.
Hugo let out a shuddering sigh when Lycaon’s tongue dragged across the roof of his mouth, reaching all the way to the back of his throat. Lycaon opened his lone eye just in time to see Hugo’s knees buckle from the overwhelming stimulation. Instinctively, the thiren pressed a thigh between Hugo’s unsteady legs, supporting him. The motion left Hugo nearly seated on Lycaon’s firm, muscular thigh— his plush ass now flush against the wolf’s groin.
Lycaon bit back a groan at the sensation, clenching his jaw. A low, guttural growl rumbled from his chest; not meant for Hugo, but for himself. This wasn’t about him. This was about helping Hugo relax, helping him let go for once. Still, the sound seemed to spark something in the man cradled in his arms. Hugo shivered, his body going soft and pliant, as if his body unconsciously answered to the sound.
“Lycaon—” Hugo gasped out a weak, muffled protest between kisses. When Lycaon finally (and reluctantly) pulled away, Hugo coughed, catching his breath. “We… we really shouldn’t be doing this… The plan—”
Lycaon didn’t move far. He leaned in and pressed his tongue gently to the twin beauty marks beneath Hugo’s crimson eye. “Miss Vivian and the Master Proxy’s banquet is the day after tomorrow.”
“The workers—”
“You said yourself they’re being transported tonight,” Lycaon murmured against his cheek. “We have ample time to catch up.”
“….” Hugo didn’t respond, probably because he knew Lycaon was right. And Lycaon knew Hugo hated it when Lycaon was right. The blond man only renewed his weak struggle against the sturdy, fur-covered arms holding him in place.
Lycaon trailed his hand downward, brushing against the man’s pelvis. A firm press there stilled Hugo’s resistance. “You’ll sabotage your own plan if you dive into the Hollow exhausted and injured. I thought reckless stunts were my thing? Are we switching roles now?”
“Hah—! In your dreams…!” Hugo barked out a laugh, disbelief thick in his voice. But it faltered at the end as Lycaon kept trailing his hand down, brushing against a slowly filling erection. “I… I already calculated and mapped out—ah… the best route and timing… It’s just that there’s this arrogant, clueless, backstabbing mutt who thinks he knows better than me…”
“Hugo…” Lycaon’s ears drooped, and a pitiful whine threatened to slip from his throat. He swallowed it down, forcing composure. “It seems no matter what I say… or how many times I say I worry about you… You still won’t believe me.”
Something about Lycaon’s words made Hugo go still. Whatever effort Lycaon had made to ease the tension evaporated as the thief straightened up, back taut against Lycaon’s chest. He didn’t look at him when he answered. “I don’t. You didn’t care about me back then, why should you start now?”
“I—”
But before Lycaon could try to de-escalate the conversation, Hugo twisted sharply and shoved him back with a surprising burst of strength. Maybe Lycaon’s hesitation, his brief confusion, had helped that push to land. He stumbled, only to freeze when Hugo turned to face him, eyes shining with unshed… tears.
“You weren’t there,” Hugo said quietly. Just that. A single sentence that carried all the hurt, all the pain, all the heartbreak from that night… to this moment. “You weren’t there, Lycaon.”
When I needed you the most, said the tremble in Hugo’s voice.
Lycaon stood frozen, a short distance from Hugo’s trembling form, unable to find the right words. The water clinging to Hugo’s skin had mostly dried, but no matter how Lycaon tried to convince himself that the dampness on Hugo’s cheeks was just leftover from the shower, he knew better.
“I know,” he said at last. Because what else could he say? He couldn’t rewrite the past. The damage had already been done; the chasm between them was carved deep and wide, filled with too many regrets. Apologies now would only feel hollow, maybe even insulting. He couldn’t bring himself to mock Hugo’s pain with half-hearted comfort. “I know, Hugo.”
For that, I am sorry, said Lycaon’s outstretched, untouched hands.
It seemed Hugo heard the unspoken apology anyway—his expression twisted, anger flashing across his features. Yet even as his fury rose, so did the tears, spilling faster now from his mismatched eyes. Maybe it was the aftereffect of Hartman’s mind-control drug, or maybe it was because Hugo had always been the emotional one between them, but Hugo looked so confused, so small, so hurt, so painfully wounded that Lycaon finally gathered the courage to step closer.
Hugo didn’t push him away when Lycaon gently pulled him back into his arms. The wolf-thiren leaned down, tenderly licking the steady stream of tears from the corners of Hugo’s eyes.
Hugo’s fingers curled into the thick fur at Lycaon’s shoulder, trembling with hesitation, unsure whether to pull him closer or shove him away. “Stop… Stop it, Lycaon… I—I can’t break apart now. I—”
I don’t think I will be whole again if I break apart for the second time. Hugo didn’t finish the sentence, but the unspoken words were loud to Lycaon’s ears.
“You won't,” Lycaon said, sure of his promise now. “I’m here now, Hugo.”
Maybe Lycaon wouldn’t grovel on the ground to beg for forgiveness, because deep down, Lycaon himself knew the reason why his past self had made that decision. Even though regret was thick on his heart, even though Lycaon had spent most of his life thinking about the what-ifs, by the end of the day, Lycaon kept firm in his belief and conviction, and he wouldn’t blame Hugo for doing the same.
But if holding Hugo close—keeping him from shattering again—was the only thing Lycaon could offer now, he would do it willingly. He would take every curse, every hurtful word, every bit of anger Hugo had left to throw at him. Because time had dulled the jagged edges of their wounds, and Lycaon… had finally grown wise enough to understand what mattered.
"Please, Hugo, just for this once. At least let us pretend," Lycaon pleaded softly.
"Hah... playing pretend now, are we?" Hugo's voice was bitter, but it was clear that the anger laced in his words was not just for show. Perhaps this was what he needed—an outlet to release the anger and pain that had been building inside him. Maybe the horrors he'd seen in the nightmare induced by the drug had pushed him so far into vulnerability. Lycaon watched as Hugo slowly began to give in, his fatigue finally catching up to his body, worn down by exhaustion and emotional turmoil.
"Fine. My acting has always been flawless anyway," Hugo muttered, the words filled with sarcasm, but there was a tired acceptance in his tone.
That was all Lycaon needed to hear. Gently, he brushed away the trail of tears still clinging to Hugo’s cheek, and Hugo, already falling into his 'act', leaned into the touch, his eyes softening slightly. The wolf-thiren crouched down, gathering Hugo’s trembling legs, one arm slipping under his knees while the other supported his back. He lifted Hugo carefully, carrying the battered leader of Mockingbird out of the shower stall. Hugo rested his head on Lycaon’s chest, silent, drained of energy by the argument that had been too much for his already fragile state.
“Hugo…” Lycaon whispered as he gently placed him on the cool marble surface of the vanity. He slipped in between the gap of Hugo’s legs, positioning himself carefully so as not to hurt him further. He took both of Hugo's hands, careful around the cuts on his wrists, and looped them around his neck, pulling him closer.
The moment hung in the air for a heartbeat before Lycaon leaned in again. This time, Hugo greeted the closeness, his lips parting to meet Lycaon’s. The kiss was soft at first, but then deepened as Lycaon’s hands travelled up Hugo’s torso, pressing their bodies closer together. They moved together without hesitation, like they had so many times before.
It had been years. They had both changed since those foolish adolescent days—Lycaon’s body now strong and defined, the once-rambunctious pup was now a more controlled and confident wolf. Hugo had grown too, no longer the lanky figure he once was. They were different, yes, but in that moment, Lycaon still remembered Hugo’s body as if it were just yesterday. Their first clumsy time together felt so close, so vivid, like they were thrown back into that vulnerability again, along with all the times that had followed.
Despite the differences in their physiques, neither of them had ever let that stop them from sharing this… intimacy.
After what felt like an eternity, Lycaon pulled back. A string of saliva still connected them, and it was Lycaon who broke it, gently pulling away from Hugo. He carefully urged the man to lie down, grabbing fluffy towels and positioning them under Hugo’s lower back. Then, he adjusted Hugo so that he leaned more to his right side, being mindful to avoid further strain on his sprained left shoulder.
Hugo propped his weight on his right elbow, and Lycaon made sure to cushion his right wrist with enough towels to prevent further irritating the raw skin around the cuts. The goal was simple: to give Hugo as much comfort as possible, allowing his body to relax and rest before the more difficult mission ahead.
Hugo was already in a blissful state, his mismatched eyes were half-lidded as he watched Lycaon drop to his knees, taking Hugo’s left leg and hooking it on his shoulder. A warm breath hit his most sensitive part, and Hugo shivered as Lycaon’s snout gently nudged over his perineum.
Lycaon didn’t get to trim his claws. Well, he didn’t think that he would be doing… this before embarking on the mission. Such a shame; Lycaon missed taking Hugo apart using his fingers, so he had to resort to the second-best things.
The first broad lick over the rim gave such a shock that Hugo flinched violently on the table. Fortunately, Lycaon had a tight grip over his waist, so Hugo didn’t accidentally hurt himself by knocking his hipbone over the hard marble surface. The second swap of his tongue made Hugo shiver, a whine escaping his mouth. Wolf’s snout was longer and wider than a dog, so as Lycaon meticulously licked over Hugo’s ring of muscle, his snout rested on the sensitive area just beneath his twitching cock.
Lycaon pulled back briefly, and he watched with half awe and half lust as Hugo’s hole, reddened and thoroughly wet with water and his saliva, twitched and gradually bloomed like the most beautiful flower Lycaon had ever laid his eye upon. The thin leg on his shoulder twitched every so often, spasming as the owner tried, but failing, to catch his breath.
Lycaon’s metal knees scraped over the floor as he inched forward, this time pointing his tongue to prod into the relaxed muscle.
“L-Lycaon…!”
When Lycaon’s tongue finally breached inside, Hugo flinched, his body buckling above him. The thief’s hands scrambled for purchase before finally latching onto a tuft of Lycaon’s hair—thankfully, missing his sensitive ears.
It's been years, but Hugo still tastes divine. His skin was usually cold, but now it had been warmed by the shower before, and his inside was even warmer than it was. As if to add more stimulus to the already bordering overwhelmed Hugo, Lycaon reached his free hand, wrapping it around Hugo’s leaking length. It had been drizzling precum for a while now.
“Nghh- Lycaon!”
Perhaps they were still clinging to the guise of their earlier ‘act,’ but it hardly mattered now—moans and soft whines spilled freely from Hugo’s lips, his body twisting weakly under the unrelenting waves of pleasure. The wolf thiren drank in every sound like it was the sweetest ale, committing each breathless cry to his memory. His long tongue worked deeper, writhing within, coating the warm inner walls with a generous layer of saliva. Wolf thiren saliva, similar in composition to that of common canines, was thicker, slicker, and more viscous than a human’s. With how thoroughly Lycaon had been tasting him, it was no stretch to imagine Hugo feeling utterly overwhelmed, as though he’d been prepped with an almost indecent amount of lubricant.
Mindful of his long claws, Lycaon begun to gently tug at the cock inside his fist, stroking it slow and long, the short fur at his palm gave a rough texture each time it glided on the shaft. Lycaon worked his jaw more, eating out Hugo’s ass like it was his last meal, his snout reaching higher and nosing at the underside of the man’s balls.
“W-wait— Lycaon… ahh—”
Lycaon noticed the way the leg resting on his shoulder tensed—muscles pulled taut, toes curling. Hugo was close. So, with renewed fervor, he increased the pace of his strokes. The bathroom filled with the obscene symphony of slurping, Hugo’s ragged breaths, the slick slide of wet skin against matted fur, and the low, unconscious purr rumbling from deep in Lycaon’s chest.
When Lycaon’s fist reach the head, he used the pointed tip of his claw and gently prodded into the slit, being extra careful not to hurt the sensitive organs.
“Ah—!!”
It was that telltale edge of danger that finally pushed Hugo over. The phantom thief let out a hoarse wail, his body convulsed as his muscles locked up at the slamming force of his orgasm. Hugo slumped into the pile of towels beneath his head. He bit down on the fabric, desperate to muffle the raw sounds spilling from him as pleasure scorched through every frayed nerve.
Lycaon felt the inner passage contracted around his tongue, and he retracted his tongue just in time to lap at the cum spurting out weakly from the shivering length. It probably wasn’t the best idea to give the overwhelmed man any more stimulation, but leaving the mess unattended would only end up soiling the vanity. So Lycaon, ever the responsible and proactive attendant, took the initiative to clean it up himself.
“Hugo,” Lycaon rasped, his voice rough and raw, like he had been the one screaming and grunting the whole time. He pushed himself up onto his feet, leaning over the sink to cage the panting man beneath his bulk, his tongue trailing along the sheen of sweat that clung to Hugo’s neck and collarbones, glistening under the bathroom lights.
“Tell me what you want,” Lycaon asked huskily, cradling the back of Hugo’s head with one hand and sliding his forearm beneath it, so Hugo’s head now rested gently against his arm.
The wolf thiren trembled with restraint, barely containing his own rising hunger. His jaws clenched so tightly; Hugo could probably hear the faint grind of his fangs pressing together.
“We can stop here, if that’s what you want,” Lycaon said, voice thick. “Just say the word. I’ll give you anything.”
The blond man, dazed from his high, glanced downward. Looking past his softening cock and the mess of spit and cum on his abdomen, slotted between his opened thighs, resting just beneath his ass was an undeniably raging hardness that Lycaon had been inwardly battling.
This was probably a bad idea after all, but Hugo was too far gone in the pleasure to care. He couldn’t even feel the stabbing pain in his shoulder anymore. With a shaky breath, he pushed weakly against Lycaon’s furred chest, then slowly rolled onto his front. Using the scattered towels around him, he propped himself up over the vanity table, trying to make himself as comfortable as possible in his bent-over position.
“Mhm.”
Without saying anything more, using one trembling hand, the blond man pulled and parted his cheeks, presenting the glistening hole Lycaon had just prepped. An invitation. A welcome.
Lycaon felt like his entire body was set ablaze. His breathing deepened, quickened, and nearly panting at this point, just from the sight before him. Hugo —beautiful, divine, Hugo— was presenting himself to the wolf. His legs hung limply over the edge of the vanity, still trembling from the aftershocks of release. Golden hair spilled around him like liquid sunlight, some strands trailing down his back, others splayed messily across his quivering form.
Lycaon had never seen anything more breathtaking.
He couldn’t suppress the guttural growl that tore from his throat.
“Hugo,” he rasped, voice wrecked with desperation, his hand fumbling at the waistband of his own pants, taking out his own very hard and very erect cock. His pheromones were in complete disarray, spiraling out of control, like he’d been yanked into a rare, all-consuming rut.
He spat into his palm before stroking the sticky saliva across his whole monstrous length, forgoing the use of a proper lubricant. Under normal circumstances, Lycaon would’ve been horrified by such a crude, primal act, but Hugo had always possessed the uncanny ability to drag the worst out of him. And well, Hugo’s hole itself was already lubricated enough from when Lycaon was eating him up.
“Hugo,” Lycaon said again, each call of Hugo’s name got closer to a plea, to a prayer. He lined himself up with the reddened rim, using the blunt part of his thumb’s claw to pulled the tiny puckered hole a little to give a small opening his cock needed.
The first press elicited a groan from both Lycaon and Hugo.
Lycaon blanketed Hugo with his own body, his metal knees scraping against the sink cabinet doors as he slowly sank into Hugo’s warm, welcoming heat. Hugo’s head had lolled to the side, and his visible red eye blinked faintly from beneath the shadow cast by Lycaon’s body. Leaning down, Lycaon licked at the twin beauty marks again, forcing every ounce of discipline and restraint not to simply thrust forward. His thighs trembled from the effort.
This is not about him. This is about Hugo. He reminded himself.
“You—you’re still absurdly huge…” Hugo gasped, the words barely leaving his lips as his eye fluttered, nearly rolling back from the overwhelming pleasure.
Lycaon huffed a warm breath against his shoulder blades, his voice low and rumbling as he responded to the skin on his lips. “You’ve only got yourself to blame for this,” he murmured, dragging his snout up Hugo’s spine, parting golden strands to nuzzle at the sensitive nape of his neck.
He was still pushing in, slow and deliberate. It was a tight fit, almost unbearably so, when it reached the middle part where Lycaon was the thickest, but the lingering looseness from Hugo’s earlier release made it possible… barely.
“And how,” Hugo choked out, breath catching as Lycaon finally bottomed out with a deep, primal groan, “—is that suddenly become my fault, you mutt… ah…” Hugo felt like the cock reaching all the way to his throat. His body trembled, and a dizzy haze bloomed behind his eyes. “I feel… so full, Lycaon…”
Bracing his arms on either side of Hugo’s head, the wolf eased back and thrust in again, testing the rhythm, his tail wagging excitedly.
“Oh- Oh god…”
Hugo was so warm. The inner channel hugging tight around Lycaon’s impressive size, like it was getting to know each other again after a long time apart. Lycaon felt himself pulsed, and with every drag he moved his cock, every ridge on his length grazed Hugo’s bumpy walls, eliciting a moan from the man underneath him. Hugo just lay there pliantly, too tired to move back to meet Lycaon’s movement. He just lay there, and took everything Lycaon gave him. It’s so fortunate that Lycaon placed many towels under Hugo; it cushioned him from being moved too harshly against the table surface. Maybe because they’re inside a bathroom where noise tends to echo, but Hugo could almost swear people walking just outside the safe house could hear the loud, embarrassing noises of skin slapping against (furry) skin.
It was disgusting, really. Lycaon had intended to take it slow and steady; to make love, to reconnect, to honor the time they’d lost. But the burning passion he held —and would only ever hold— for this one person was consuming him from the inside out.
He watched with addled mind how Hugo was stretched around him perfectly, red rim around Lycaon’s angry red cock, how the wolf’s saliva lubricating the slide had started to froth around the entrance with how much friction their coupling makes, creating a halo of white whenever Lycaon pulled out and thrust back home inside. Hugo’s legs trembled like those of a newborn fawn; vulnerable, delicate, the perfect prey for Lycaon’s insatiable hunger when it came to him, and his erection hanging forgotten in between those quivering limbs.
“…! Nnghhh ….!”
The wolf then noticed how Hugo’s melodic moans and whimpers had quieted, dulled and muted by something. Concern flickered through Lycaon, and he slowed his pace to check on him. What he saw made his hips still instantly; Hugo was biting down on his lower lip so hard it had begun to bleed. Lycaon could see the unmistakable punctures where the thief’s sharp fangs were embedded deep into soft flesh.
“You’re hurting yourself,” he murmured, gently prying Hugo’s jaw open with careful fingers. A sluggish trail of blood slipped down Hugo’s pale chin, and Lycaon wiped it away with his thumb. “Here. Bite me instead.”
He repositioned slightly, sliding his forearm beneath Hugo’s jaw and pressing it to his lips. After a moment’s hesitation and a few trembling breaths, Hugo finally sank his fangs into Lycaon’s arm. The wolf thiren barely flinched. The sting was nothing compared to the ache in his chest from watching Hugo tear himself apart out of pain and exhaustion.
Now, with Hugo cradled in his arms, biting down like a wounded animal, Lycaon held him tighter and continued his thrusting again.
“Nngh…!”
From his sheer size and length, it’s easy for Lycaon to reach the deepest part of Hugo that any normal-size cock couldn’t reach. When that said monstrous cock grazed both Hugo’s prostrate and hit the back of his rectum, Hugo felt like he blacked out for a moment. A hoarse scream tore from his throat, instinctive and ragged, and his jaw slackened, releasing Lycaon’s arm. His tongue lolled out in a haze of bliss, drool dripping onto the matted fur beneath his chin.
A low, feral growl rumbled from the back of his neck—Lycaon was just as undone by the intimacy of it all.
“Ahh—L-Lycaon…!”
Lycaon was everywhere. He was on him, inside him, wrapped around him. No matter which way Hugo moved, Lycaon was there. Each thrust felt like a starburst behind his eyes, deliberately angled to strike that bundle of nerves inside him. Hugo could barely breathe under it.
The bite marks along Lycaon’s arm kept multiplying, as Hugo sank his teeth in again and again to ground himself. The wounds formed a bleeding ring— a red, raw bracelet around Lycaon’s forearm. It was almost poetic, a brutal match to the dark necklace of bruises left by Lycaon’s hands and claws, the one that circling Hugo’s neck. And with how mercilessly Lycaon was plowing into him, Hugo wouldn’t be surprised if he will nurse a bruise on his ass as well after this.
What a pair they made, really. They worked best, even when they hurt each other. Some might call it toxic. Unhealthy. But this— this had always been the case for them. From the very beginning.
“Hugo, I’m… I’m close.” They continued their animalistic coupling for a short moment later, before Lycaon had to rest his sloped forehead against Hugo’s spine, huffing and grunting. The wolf could feel himself swelling more, the base of his cock grew as blood filling them in preparation for depositing his seeds. “Hugo… I don’t think your current condition will appreciate it if I knot you.” Lycaon said it with every ounce of rationality and shred of common sense he had left.
He needed to pull out, he really did. His knot could last nearly forty minutes, and they still had a schedule to keep. If he locked them together now, Hugo would undoubtedly lose the ability to move properly after this, because his rim would be stretched to the point it would leave it loose. Hugo will be thoroughly sore and uncomfortable, and that was hardly ideal when they were about to enter Hollow with a high possibility of facing many fights.
Lycaon really needed to pull out.
When the telltale of a knot that was already forming caught into the reddened rim, Hugo let out a high-pitched keen of pain—a sound sharp and raw enough to snap Lycaon back into a sliver of self-control, and the wolf thiren hurriedly pulled out. The swollen length then rested heavily on Hugo’s lower back; its size already increased so much that Lycaon had to gulped down at the imaginary of his cock inside Hugo again.
Not wanting to left Hugo’s hanging from pleasure, Lycaon use the arm that was not being chewed on by Hugo, and strokes his cock fast, pleasuring him from the other ends.
It doesn’t take long for Hugo to reach his second orgasm. The thief’s mouth was open in a silent scream as he emptied himself to Lycaon’s fist. Lycaon watched with hunger as he could feel the slowly closing hole fluttered alongside the wave of pleasure, he could almost feel it milking his cock, even when he’s not inside anymore.
Hugo was a blabbering mess of moans and pants, the flush creeping across his entire back while the bruises marring his skin deepened in angry contrast. From the visible part of his face, he looked utterly wrecked; his makeup long washed away in the shower, with tear tracks, spit, and smeared blood clinging to the corners of his lips.
Hugo was beautiful.
Lycaon, trying to calm the raging fire of his pheromones, leaned down again, gently trying to free his arm from Hugo’s bloodied mouth. His forearm looked horrendous: fur ripped off messily, haphazard bite marks scattered across the skin, dried blood, and trails of saliva. It was as though he'd been mauled by an angry predator—and, in a way, that wasn’t far from the truth.
He licked at the corner of Hugo’s mouth, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Hugo…” Lycaon had lost count of how many times he'd called his name that day. It had become a desperate plea, almost pitiful in its intensity. He urged the tired thief to meet his eye, and a soft whine—like that of a kicked puppy—escaped his hold. Despite his exhaustion, Hugo sensed the desperation in him, blinking one eye open.
“Hugo…” was all Lycaon could say aloud. Is it wrong for me… to think that you’re still mine? Lycaon’s eye asked the real question anyway.
There was something about them, about the unspoken questions that always lingered between them. Yet, somehow, the other always managed to hear the question and answer it anyway.
Hugo was silent, the weight of fatigue causing a pause in his answer. …Was I ever yours to begin with? was the answer that echoed in Hugo’s tired gaze.
Lycaon felt his heart break a million times.
The thing Lycaon regretted most wasn’t just their separation. That hurt too, deeply— but more than anything, he regretted making Hugo feel unloved all this time.
They had spent most of their youth together, learning, surviving, and being there for each other through everything. And yet…
And yet Hugo had still felt so alone.
Lycaon could somehow find a way to fuse them together into one, and Hugo would still feel like he was alone. Their separation, and now their reunion, made that heartbreak clear, etched into Hugo’s every word, every movement. His body spoke louder than his theatrical mouth and dramatic words ever could.
A part of Lycaon was quietly, fiercely grateful that he could still read Hugo to a degree, even after all they’d lost. But another part of him wished they’d changed so much that they’d become strangers and unable to understand each other. Because then, maybe, Lycaon wouldn’t be able to see the pain and sadness that drowned the present-Hugo.
Reconciliation still felt far off for them.
But it wasn’t impossible.
Not after what had just passed between them— what they pretended was an act, but felt like something more. There was still hope.
“…Are you alright?” Lycaon asked after a while, his voice heavy with lingering adrenaline, still feeling the beat of his own heart pounding in his ears. It was almost ridiculous; just half an hour ago, they’d been drenched under the shower, but now they were dry, flushed, and covered in sweat.
“I can’t move…” Hugo's voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper.
Lycaon’s ears drooped at the sound of the weak protest. Hugo didn’t just sound worse; he sounded like he’d been tossed into a hollow and run over by an armoured ethereal ten times over. But the guilt was eased slightly when Hugo turned his head, and there was a relaxed expression on his face, even with a mix of irritation and sulkiness, just like how he’d always acted after a particularly intense… activity. Like a petulant child.
“I’m sorry. I probably overdid it,” Lycaon said, his voice genuine. He gently rolled Hugo onto his back, reaching for one of the scattered towels on the sink table. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
“What about you…?” Hugo asked sleepily, his voice laced with fatigue as he watched Lycaon tuck himself back in. Hugo glanced down, noticing that Lycaon hadn’t finished himself. “Your knot…”
“It’ll go away on its own, given time,” Lycaon replied easily. The butler turned on the faucet, setting it to warm, then soaked the small towel in it. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it myself.”
Once the towel was at the perfect temperature, carefully attuned to what he knew Hugo would prefer, Lycaon began to clean up the mess on Hugo’s body. He wiped away the stickiness and dried sweat, massaging sore muscles along the way. Hugo sighed in satisfaction at the gentle care, and Lycaon felt a spark of warmth—finally, after everything, he could bring some comfort to his (former) partner.
“There’s a dryer in the backyard… go use it for your uniform…” Hugo mumbled sleepily, tugging gently on Lycaon’s damp, rolled-up sleeves.
“Wolf-thiren have a higher core temperature than humans, so my clothes will probably dry on their own,” Lycaon replied with a small smile. “But thank you. I’ll use the dryer.”
After deeming Hugo clean and drying him with the softest towel available, Lycaon dressed the barely awake phantom thief in fresh clothes. He sat Hugo up, positioning himself between the parted legs, and gently leaned the thief’s head against his broad shoulder. Lycaon ran his fingers through the long, silky, golden strands, brushing them out with care. Hugo’s eyes fluttered closed, snuggling closer to the soft fur around Lycaon’s neck.
“Next door… bedroom…” Hugo mumbled, barely coherent.
Lycaon smiled at the sleepy order. “Sure thing, Young Master.” He responded dutifully, going along with it. Despite how much Hugo despised the elite, it never changed the fact that Hugo could act like a spoiled man when it suited him. Lycaon hefted him into his arms with ease, carrying him with one arm while his other hand tidied up the scattered towels and clothes. His butler habits die hard, you could say.
“Wake me up… in one hour…” Hugo mumbled more orders, even after Lycaon tucked him into the small bed, pulling the thin blanket over his frail body. Lycaon’s Victoria Housekeeping instincts flared up, noting that the thin fabric probably wouldn’t be enough to keep Hugo warm. He almost started mentally drafting a list to procure a higher-quality quilt and blanket.
“The plan… needs to be executed… tonight…” Hugo finished, his voice trailing off as sleep finally claimed him.
“Of course. Rest, Hugo.”
It was comforting to see the ever-restless, ever-fatigued Hugo finally relaxed. Since the moment Lycaon had first seen him again at the auction, the leader of Mockingbird had been working himself to the bone to complete his so-called grandiose plan. Lycaon remembered a time when Mockingbird had been just the two of them— Hugo, pouring everything into crafting the most extraordinary, eye-catching heists. Their work had always felt more like a magic performance than a heist, which was part of the reason why Mockingbird had managed to capture the masses' attention during their first appearances.
Hugo rolled onto his side, pulling the blanket with him. Lycaon watched from where he sat at the edge of the bed. Hugo had a naturally low body temperature; he was always prone to getting cold. With his head tucked into the ball of blankets, Lycaon could glimpse the faintest line of skin on the thief’s neck.
Lycaon reached out, gently caressing the faint necklace of bruises that circled Hugo’s neck. His mind turned over the thoughts; within the hour, everything would move again. The chaotic gears of Hugo’s meticulously orchestrated plans would grind into motion, and this brief moment of solace would end. Lycaon didn’t know what would happen to his relationship with Hugo again, as this ‘act’ would be done when he had to wake Hugo up in an hour.
He could still hear the chasm between them, still feel the distance that lingered. But perhaps —just perhaps— they will finally be able to take the first step into meddling things.
Lycaon leaned down to gently lick at the faint bruises on Hugo’s neck, the marks left behind by his own hands and claws. If this was the only thing he could give Hugo right now —a blooming chain of marks pressed into skin— then so be it.
For now, this fragile necklace of bruises was enough.