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catscidr · 10 days ago

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— 「 TOTALITY 」

Hugo Vlad x Reader — 4.4k

summary: when he finally has you, it will be because you have begged for him.

content: thigh-riding, finger sucking, dry humping, a really fresh dom-sub dynamic, delayed gratification, orgasm denial, yearning

Fondness crept in through the back door. It slunk past every lock and every security measure and twined itself between his ribs, squeezed his heart with every pulse.

Hugo realized it was there in the early hours of the morning when he vaulted in through the window of their latest hideout. A light in the kitchenette beckoned him closer. He expected to see Vivian, up and rooting around. Instead he found you, clothes a muss, eyes red and puffy. His footsteps were light; he’d leaned against the doorway and basked in the fluttering warmth of the stove light. The kettle whistled. You’d picked it up like it weighed a hundred pounds, hunched over your cup as you poured, and let the steam float up to caress your face. The scent permeated the kitchen. Warm, earthy, soothing. He called your name and you jumped, tea sloshing over the rim and down your fingers.

Before regret can bring him to step forward and dry your skin, you recover.

“There’s enough for another cup,” you offer, propping your hip against the counter. You fished a mug from the cabinet before he could say a word. You didn't know how he took it, not yet, but he'd swallowed his critiques and sipped the bland herbal blend for a few more stolen moments in the quiet of the kitchen.

You were punctual, discrete, and forthcoming with information. Exemplary qualities for an informant. But as difficult as it was to find reliable help, it wasn’t your professional qualities that had elevated you in Hugo’s opinion. Sincerity wedged its way into every move you made - something he’d initially mistaken for desperation.

The first time he had come to terms with your genuine intentions, Vivian returned home from collecting a dead drop with two unexpected bundles in her hands. Clear, simple wrapping - cookies dumped into the crinkly packaging. Homemade, by the looks of it. The little flip tags tying them shut (also homemade, heavy cardstock, familiar handwriting) declared ‘VIV’ and ‘HUGO’.

Poison via cookie. Of course. How novel.

No, he shouldn't jump to conclusions. The age of strychnine in cakes is long over. He's simply been watching too many old movies lately. There must be something else to this. You weren't stupid enough to try to lace these. A tracking device, maybe. If you had been so trite as to try poison, perhaps a new compound.

He spins the little bag in his hand, examining it from every angle. Vivian has already pried hers open, cookie held flat in the palm of her hand. It’s lumpy and uneven. Not the sort of thing he would pick out from a bakery, despite the perfect golden brown shade.

Surely, Vivian must be having similar thoughts. She held a cookie up to her face, turning it back and forth, squinting in the light. She breaks one in half, inspects the insides. Pride blossoms in his chest. Of course she knew to thoroughly investigate any unexpected gifts. She had always taken well to her lessons, and –

Oh, you've got to be kidding, she just ate it.

"Now, why would you do that?"

"They’re chocolate chip," Vivian confirms.

"Vivian." Hugo pinches the bridge of his nose. There’s a thorough stockpile of emetics in the medicine cabinet. He can’t believe he’s going to have to tear into them after he just restocked. "You cannot eat strange food. Spit it out."

"Chocolate chip cookies aren't strange." Crumbs dust the corners of her mouth. “I thought it may have been oatmeal raisin.”

“Spit it out.” Every word punctuated by a shake of his hand. Vivian places the other half of her cookie in his palm. It’s hopeless, he thinks. She’ll learn once her stomach is cramping, once she’s lying on the couch with a trash can beside her. He’ll have to stay up all night to tend to her.

Hugo put an embargo on the cookies, plucked them from her grasp and kept them out of reach. She would learn not to trust strange gifts so easily. Any minute now. Any second.

After an hour of insisting that she would regret her gluttony, Vivian reclaimed her cookies. She marched away, munching on her prize, chin shoved to the ceiling. The last thing he needed to hear from her, of all people, was ‘I told you so’.

(Once Vivian truly showed no signs of ill effects, he'd tried the cookies for himself. Homemade, as he suspected. Malformed though it was, the flavor didn't disappoint. Soft and chewy - but not so much so that it crumbled at a touch. Next time, he thought, he would like to try them fresh from the oven.

The thought pierces through the cotton candy cloud in his mind. Next time – ridiculous. Hugo dusts the crumbs from his desk and focuses on the papers before him. A forgery will be easily sniffed out if a smear of chocolate blurs the lettering.)

He had meant to tell you to knock it off with the treats at your next rendezvous, but all that had come out of his mouth had been a gentle admonishment:

“Perhaps don't include our names on your extra supplies, hm?” He hands you your promised payment in the dark of the alleyway, any bite in his words weakened by the brush of his fingers.

Honest confusion pulls your brows to a peak. You hesitate, hand hovering between you. Realization clicks in your eyes, the rest of your body following lockstep with rigid precision. You nod, stuff your hands into your pockets.

“Gotcha. My bad.”

Silence stretches. There’s something here still, something unsaid that you’re trying to dredge up from the depths. Hugo can see the words forming on your tongue, bubbling behind your pursed lips. That pitiful look in your eye was practically pleading for him to toss you a lifeline. After a few false starts, he nearly does.

Finally, you finish floundering and come up for air. “So– chocolate chip is okay?”

Hugo barks a laugh. Genuine, surprised - it seems to scare you. Your shoulders draw up high. You’re serious?

He answers quickly, before you can blow the whole thing off as a joke.

“Macadamia nut.”

You nod again, sharp. The mountains of your shoulders erode. “White chocolate?”

“Is there any other way to make them?”

Twilight looms. The neon signs of the main street hum to life. A warm glow pours into the mouth of the alley. Your edges hum with light in the gloam. He needs to get moving. Tonight has a tight schedule. He can’t spare a moment more, but lingering in this bright spot is all he wants.

Hugo drowns the instinct and retreats further back into the alley, lets the chill of the shadows embrace him with a quick farewell spared to you. He’ll contact you again if he needs something. You know how to reach him.

When he glances back, you’re still there. Radiant, beaming. You wave. His heart squeezes. He forces himself to rime his ribs in indifference.

It melts quickly. The next time you had a drop for them, Hugo had picked it up himself. He shouldn’t have been surprised, in hindsight, but the bags of cookies waiting neatly atop the files you’d left behind made him pause. He opens one (no name tag in sight, tied with a simple lilac ribbon) and fishes out a cookie. White chocolate macadamia nut.

That was the tipping point. From then, he took notice of every little motion. Every quirk of your head, every barely contained laugh. It’s not obsession, not really - idle fascination, more like. You were an open book when he knew how to look, how to run his finger down your pages and crack open your cover.

The signs were everywhere. Honestly, Hugo is ashamed that he hadn't picked up on it sooner.

A gentleman wasn't supposed to pry into the particulars of other's bedroom preferences, but he had never been much of one to begin with – and this had dipped far past the point of mere speculation. You wanted to be good so desperately that it oozed from everything you did. He had mistaken it as a paltry grasp for control - managing everything around you, evaluating needs at any given time, fulfilling requests both spoken and unspoken.

He could compile a binder a foot thick of evidence of your inclinations - all of it bared willingly, your soft underbelly exposed to any who knew where to look, how to part the layers of your little façade. The more comfortable you became, the more your eagerness to please rose to the surface.

The final nail in your coffin came when Vivian had returned your gifts in kind.

She had shown Hugo the box of treats before you arrived, beaming at the assortment of chocolates. Truffles, chunks of fudge - all manner of delicacies nestled in their crinkly papers, procured from a local bakery. Her eyes had glimmered, the anticipation of your reaction turning her giddy. She'd snapped the lid shut just before he could pluck one up. Still sharp despite her excitement.

“They aren't for us,” Vivian chides, turning her nose up.

“One should always taste the food before serving it to an esteemed guest, don't you think?” He reaches again and Vivian turns her back to him, clutching the chocolates to her chest.

She tied a thick ribbon around the lid, fixing him with a pointed look as she searched for a place to stash the box away. Too slow - you knocked at the door just as she picked a hiding spot. Vivian jolted, nearly tossing the chocolates to the floor.

Hugo swept you inside, gentle press of his hand against the small of your back. You fell into his path easily. The little thrill that shot up your spine didn't escape his notice. His hand lingered as he called for Vivian, his palm dragging along your back when he finally found it in him to pull away. That had bought her enough time, he thought, but her excitement had led her to simply hide the box behind her back.

"I have something for you," she declares, trying her very best to sound serious. She couldn't even wait for you to ask what it was before she produced the chocolates.

Your eyes soften. Your hand twitches, reaching for the box, but you resist the temptation and lay your palm flat against your chest. "For me? You didn’t have to do that.”

Vivian toddles over to you, a piece of fudge held between her thumb and forefinger. Even she knows that sometimes, you have to be dragged kicking and screaming into life’s little pleasures.

“Open!” She commands, hand reaching up to your lips.

Your mouth pops open obediently. Hugo's eyes linger, sharpen - the chocolate pressed to your tongue, your eyes focused on Vivian, lips still parted - waiting for the other half of a command.

It's not coming, not from her. He has to bite back the word from slipping past his lips. You blink, and anticipation of order clears. You close your mouth and savor the treat for what it is.

“So good. Did you make it?” You ask around a mouthful of fudge.

Hugo drives his gaze away. To the backdrop of Vivian chattering happily about the confectionery, he formulates an approach. Neither of you can continue like this. For once, he’s grown tired of this dance - the fluid steps, weaving around each other, intentions clear and interwoven, your inclinations perfectly in rhythm with his own.

You pull his gaze back to you, a truffle offered up to him. Cherry bourbon, you think, hopeful smile at your lips.

It will have to be sooner rather than later, he decides, ducking his head and accepting the chocolate from your fingers.

It’s that same evening, after business has been handled and your journey home is too long, too arduous for you to leave for the night. Vivian had already made her exit hours earlier, busied herself with preparations for Mockingbird’s latest target and made herself scarce. The wind outside howls, rattling the windows - evidence that you chose correctly, that you were right where you belonged.

Hugo took advantage of the circumstances; he bundled you in his own clothes, passing you a spare undershirt to sleep in. You’d rubbed at your arms, forced the warmth back into your skin and sheepishly requested one of his button-downs to wear over top. Just for a while, to warm yourself while you were chatting before bed.

Who was he to deny you? To deny himself? If you wanted to cover yourself head to toe in him, surround yourself with his scent, then he would be a fool to turn you down. You play this game just as well as he does. He helps you into his shirt - unnecessary, you assure him, yielding to every touch – and you shove the sleeves up in a bunch just to get him to chide you, to feel his hands on you again when he fixes your sleeves properly, rolls them neatly up to your elbows and taunts you: “I thought you were cold?”

Of course you were cold. That’s why you gravitated to his side when you settled onto the couch. The pull had become natural over the past months. You tuck into his side, cheek nuzzling the point of his shoulder. It’s tempting to let you be. You’ll fall asleep like this. It won’t take long. It never does.

He can't let you slip into that comfort tonight. Not if either of you want to escape this uncertainty, if you want to stop dancing the same dance every week. His hand smooths down your arm, shrugs you closer to him. The sigh the floats past your lips makes his stomach tighten and churn, thoughts sampling the noise for later, for when he pictures you beneath him. Your eyes shut, legs drawn up on the cushion beside you.

Hugo's hand tucks beneath your arm, stroking your side with a feather-light touch. The puddle you had melted into reforms, a faint layer of frost over top your comfort. His fingers press beneath your shirt (his shirt, he reminds himself, a flare of pride warming his chest) to plunder your bare skin.

“I'm aware you have certain predispositions.” Hugo brings his other hand up to keep you close, fingers dancing along your collarbone. He drags a knuckle up the column of your throat. You bare it to him willingly. He turns your face from side to side, watches the way your eyes track him.

He knows that look. He’s seen it before when you looked over documents, reviewed statements and picked apart the lies between the lines. The walls have come up - not quite all the way. You’ve merely had time to draw out the sandbags, last line of defense against this coming flood. You're appraising him. Trying to figure out how you measure up - if he truly likes what he sees. If he's worth all this pliable, eager submission.

You've already made your mind up. You know it. He knows it. But this is how the game is played. What you have to offer is not a reward that can be earned by checking off the right boxes - it's a gift to be given. He's been patient - subtle, even. (Or, as subtle as he gets.) He’s let you pretend that all of his affections are casual, that he touches everyone this way, let you second guess the words that have only ever been for you.

“You sure about that?”

“Very much so.” Hugo’s eyes trail down your form, drinking in every part of you.

He’s right on the money. He knows he is. Those eyes are open to him now, no more feeble attempts to hide away.

He can see past the feigned indifference. The hesitance, the pall of wariness writ plain across your face. Hugo's sincerity was lost on you. It stung to see you spurn honest efforts at every turn, but he was nothing if not adaptable. If you couldn’t trust words, then he would resort to action. He would ease your mind the only way that he could.

“Come here.”

Hugo's pats a slender thigh. You arch a brow, unspoken really? twisting the corner of your mouth into a grin. Poke and prod all you like. He knows he hasn’t misjudged you. He expects your resistance, just as he expects that in the end, you will shuffle up to your knees and settle onto his lap.

You do, after a moment, after swallowing your denial. You hold your weight off of him, hover over him. As if you really think he’ll allow that. His hands brace on your hips and tug you flush with his lap.

Awkward. Stiff. You're sitting there like a statue, hands hanging by your side, as if you’ve never touched him - as if you’ve never laid your palm over his heart and fallen asleep to the assurance that it still beats for you. That won't do at all. He clicks his tongue. A touch to your waist; you bend against him. A guiding brush against your neck and you tuck your head beneath his chin. One more press to your hip, fitting you just right on his lap.

"Better," Hugo notes. He brushes your cheek with the backs of his fingers. You’re still stiff, still uncertain, but he can feel it melting from you again. His head dips to your ear, voice a whisper. “You've proven me right, you know.”

You're no brat; not really. He knows the difference between a brat and this reticence, so close to fear it’s almost indistinguishable. You want to be good so badly that it burns a hole in your chest. Every move you made, every anticipated need was in pursuit of usefulness and praise.

There was no need to work so hard for it, not from him. You would learn that with time. He lets you adjust, lets you get used to this closeness without the threat expectation.

Your hips shift against him. Hugo's breath hitches. He covers it quickly, twists the sound to a breathy laugh. He pulls his head back to watch you, and you crater closer to his chest, keep your head down and tucked against him. The short, shy little wiggles are off-beat and uncertain.

That won't do. If you're going to do something, you ought to do it right. He curls a hand into the plump of your hips and guides you to a steady rhythm, pushes past the shy little starts of your hips and turns the motion into a drag. Your hands fist in the sides of his shirt, finding purchase against his chest. You’re so painfully aware of your own body. Those little movements must have felt so noticeable, so large to you.

He keeps his hand folded over the point of your hip, urging you to shift and tilt. Too far, the angle all wrong for both of you - a swift tap to your ass corrects you, your breath catching in your throat. When you settle back how he directs, your heat is evident through the fabric of his slacks. Hugo moans. The sound drifts naturally from him. He rolls his hips, eager to show you how good this feels, how you make him stir.

“Lift your head,” Hugo murmurs, knuckle catching beneath your chin. “I want to see you.”

It takes a moment for you to drum up the courage to stop hiding against him. He allows it - but the moment it stretches past a moment, his shifts to grip your jaw, to insist. You don’t need too firm a touch; you’re so eager to comply, after all.

Pulling from his chest straightens your spine, drives your hips into his. His eyes flutter. The heat of your core against his dick makes him shudder. He presses his palm flat to the small of your back, makes sure you feel every bit of what you’ve done. It ripples down his body and into you, mirrored in the roll of your shoulders. Your teeth catch your lip. All those pretty sounds, stifled. He'll fix that.

He presses two gloved fingers against your lips, tapping expectantly. Confusion clouds your eyes. He taps again, firmer. Hesitant, uncertain, you part your lips.

“There you go,” he purrs, fingers pressing flat against your tongue. You wait for instruction, keep him held in your mouth, eyes wide and waiting “Suck.”

Your tongue massages along the seam of his fingers, pressing his digits toward the roof of your mouth. If you’re this eager about his gloved hand, he can only imagine the feel of your mouth around his cock.

The phantom sensation makes his cock stir, pulsing with each eager lick and suck. Warm, wet - the eyes that fluttered shut to take his fingers would widen as he slipped past your lips again and again, gazing up at him, delirious and cock-drunk. His thumb strokes your jaw. Just like that. In time, you'll be perfect for this; he’ll forge your confidence, have you pawing at him, pleading for a mouthful.

Your hips stutter when they pull flush with his bulge. You fall out of the rhythm he had lulled you into. Stumbling into sharp, staccato thrusts– even your tongue turns sloppy. Desperate, hitching, sucking at his fingers harder, you disbelief that you could have done this to him driving you forward, enshrining the feeling into your memory.

Hugo holds you firm against him, lets you feel the press of him against your pulsing core. One languid, controlled push of his hips against yours and you whimper around his fingers. His eyes narrow, flit to the plush of your lips. He wants - needs - to sink his teeth into them, to pry noise after noise from you until you’re a moaning mess in his lap, rutting and scrabbling at his belt, needing to feel him skin-to-skin.

He can’t deny himself any longer. He pulls his fingers from your mouth and grips your jaw. Your head tilts to slot your mouth against his, too eager, too quick, teeth clacking. Hugo chuckles against your lips. His hand cups the base of your skull, fingers curling and tugging you back just enough to lick into your mouth.

It’s hungry and quick. His need for you pulses, his body a throb of pleasure. You’re so pliable underneath him, so eager to be taken.

He almost misses it - the way your hips have stalled, the way your kiss turns ravenous to sweet. It takes too long for it to click, for his touch to soften; he doesn’t know why or what has made you shift, but when he parts from your mouth (lips swollen, kiss-bitten and beautiful, every ounce of his restraint utilized when he brushes his thumb against your plump bottom lip) the heat has dissipated from your gaze.

His cock throbs, strains against his pants. It would be easy to keep going. You would make it so simple, so good for him. But he won’t. When he finally has you, it will be because you have begged for him.

Hugo strokes down your back. He presses his forehead against yours, lets your breath mix in the space between you. You wiggle your hips against him insistently. He hisses a breath through his teeth. The hands the pulled you close still you, firmer now than ever before.

“That’s enough for now, don’t you think?”

Rejection, hurt - he watches it all flicker across your face, keeps stroking you gently to smooth it away.

“You don’t want to?”

“I do,” he concedes, corners of his eyes creasing in amusement. He needs to be firm now more than ever, else you’ll think you can get away with anything. “Very much so. But I’ve said no.”

You're trying your very best not to pout. Poor thing. That prideful streak is harder to break than he thought. He files that look away for later, when he's fucking his fist to the thought of you, rutting into his sheets face down as if it could ever hope to compare. You can pout all you want - but until he hears a proper whine for him from your mouth, this is all you get.

You shift back on his lap, drive distance between your bodies. His hand lingers on your jaw, fingers stroking as you pull away. A flicker of disappointment joins the lingering heat in his gut.

“There's no need to rush off.”

Hugo's hand encircles your wrist. His thumb trails along your pulse. You could break from his hold easily; he would let you slip away if it was what you wanted, even if it killed him.

“What, you just wanna hang out?”

He snorts a laugh. You say it like it's impossible. Like this is a trick. Like he hasn’t spent months by your side with no expectation of physicality, like he hasn’t kept that door open for you, waiting for you to walk through it on your own.

“Is that so far-fetched?” Hugo tugs you gently back, suggestion more than action. “Come back here.”

Hugo can see the gears turning. You're piecing it together, struggling to reconcile lingering pleasure, freshly denied, with this new offer. You settle back against him warily, waiting for the other shoe to fall.

It never does. You rest against him. His cheek settles atop your head, eyes closing. His heart still pounds.

“You’re still hard,” you grumble. Adorable.

“Ignore it,” he whispers, a laugh bouncing across his words. He shushes you, turns his head to drop a kiss to the crown of your head. Gathering his arms around you, he hefts you up and shifts to lay flat along the couch, keeps you cradled against his chest.

Despite all your grousing about how impossible it is, you’re out within minutes of him stroking tenderly down your spine, murmuring sweet nothings to appease your over-conscious mind. Limbs heavy, body rising with deep breaths, he pulls a blanket over the both of you.

The wind outside abates; the noise of the city closes in around you. He tries to focus on your breathing, and the little noises you make as your dreams solidify.

Ignore it. Easy for him to say. He stares at the ceiling, hand resting underneath your shirt, still so hard that it aches. His jaw clenches. He should have had you lay any other way, should have found a way to excuse himself and take care of this before settling down with you. A rare misstep in his plan, a contingency he hadn’t thought to ensure. Hugo notes this for next time; leave an out for himself - five minutes to himself at most so he’s not throbbing, dick still pressed against you, unfulfilled.

It will be worth it in time. Having your everything, freely offered, is worth the torment.

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