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tug o' war

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It’s the gait which catches his attention, the familiarity of the long, striding gait and his tail swishing back and forth. Coupled with the blond hair and matching ears, a clear picture forms in his mind, long before the boy even notices his presence.


Thinking of John Rider always brings back bittersweet memories.

John Rider was a cat-boy too, but he was taller and broader than the boy now. He left such an imprint of Yassen that Yassen even considered a pack bond with him—had offered a pack bond with him, even though John was Cat and he was Wolf—only to be rejected and sent away from Paris. Didn’t John realise? The MI6 reveal would have hurt less. It wouldn’t have mattered that John loved Helen. Yassen would have learned to love her too. They wouldn’t need to be together to be pack. Even all these years, John’s betrayal still stings to this day.

Almost as much as Greif’s incompetence is currently grating on Yassen’s nerves at the moment, Yassen reflects. How arrogant, they must be, to think that they can deceive Yassen so easily. Do they think Yassen that vapid? That he is nothing more than a finger on a trigger? If there’s anything Yassen hates more than an incompetent fool, it’s people thinking he could be made into said fool with no consequences.  

In that moment, however, Yassen is hit with an idea. A chance for him to blow off some steam and for Greif to finally make use of himself.

What was the expression… two birds, one stone?

Yassen’s afternoon just got a whole lot better, and it starts with a special cocktail of sedative in Alex’s meal.

The sedative doesn’t take long. Alex is stumbling and swaying as he tries his way back to his bedroom. It’s a good thing Yassen is there to catch the long, solid, line of cat-boy in his arms.

“Alex…” Yassen tilts his head. “Friend, isn’t it?”

Interesting how accurate an idiom could be: Yassen could see the hairs on the back of Alex’s cat ears stand, even fighting the drug as he is. The halls of Point Blanc always smells of antiseptic and cleaning products, but now, there’s a fresh, tang of fear underlining the tantalising smell of the cat-boy in his arms.

“Who are you?” Alex asks slowly.

Yassen smiles. The boy’s ears are twitching and his eyes are struggling to focus. Even then, his face looks remarkably like John’s.

“A friend,” Yassen says.

“Did you…” Alex wrestles his tongue back under control. “Did you do this to me? Let me go—Let me go!”

He jerks in Yassen’s arms, but Yassen only clamps down on his hold. “Steady now,” Yassen says, keeping his voice low and soothing. “I only want to help.”

Alex’s eyes flutter close. “Help…?” he mumbles. “How can… help…”

He grows limp in Yassen’s arms.



Yassen sequesters Greif’s office for himself—part of his demands—and undresses the pliant cat-boy in his arms. He lets his hands linger over muscle, appreciating the soft yielding of his toned limbs. He cups his cat-boy’s firm, round balls and runs his thumb over the curves, appreciating the heft in his hands. His little cat-boy keeps in good shape, Yassen thinks, before he cuffs Alex’s hands behind his back, and the cuffs connect to the collar adorning Alex’s long, tanned neck. He should have brought a bell to go with the collar. It would have completed the picture.  

He bends Alex over the table and wakes him up with a couple of slaps on his ass. His cheeks pinken beautifully, and his tail whips sharply, even as his ears are downturned. That’s how he knows Alex is awake.

Yassen curls his fingers in Alex’s hair and tugs his head back, just to see the tantalising curve of his back. Alex’s spine is more flexible than the average person’s. It is a joy to watch it strain and bend. His other hand roams, once more, tracing the line of his shoulder blade and the dip. He can still smell the drugs in Alex’s system, can still practically see the haze he’s wading through in his mind. Yet, even with the sedative dragging his system, there’s still an air of uptight rebellion.

“Greif mentioned that you’ve been a handful,” Yassen says, cupping Alex’s heated ass. “Said you had problems keeping your mouth shut.”

Alex’s ears twitch back and forth but he stubbornly stays silent.

“Nothing to say?”

Yassen punctuates his question with two smacks under the swell of Alex’s ass—in the crease where his thighs meet his cheeks. Alex yowls, ears folding back as he tries to wriggle away. His cries are music to Yassen’s ears, and heat shoots straight to his crotch.

“I bet you’ve never been disciplined a day in your life,” Yassen says, landing another smack and pulling back as Alex tries to squirm away. “Never lifted a finger. Never been on your knees for some proper work.”

“No,” Alex mumbles clumsily. “Fuck you… You don’t know… me…”

Bent over, ass up and flaming red, and he’s still holding on to his bratty attitude.

Yassen is having the time of his life.

“Oh?” Yassen asks.

And just to add some variety, Yassen strokes the flared, reddened skin with gentle hands. His hands travel until he’s circling the base of Alex’s tail—a spot where a cat is most sensitive. Then, he massages the base with a careful amount of pressure.

A sharp gasp as Alex tenses under him. Through the heavy stench of pain and fear, Yassen catches a delicious waft of arousal.

It hardens him up to the point where he thrusts his hips into the boy’s ass to relieve a moment of heat. Alex only tenses as Yassen leans over and presses a breathy moan into the nape of his neck. The hand on his hair turns gentle, caressing almost.

Yassen breathes in Alex’s intoxicating scent. “You said I don’t know you, Alex,” he says, before swiping his tongue out and savouring the salt on his lips. “Why don’t you enlighten me to who you really are?”

Then, he kisses his way down Alex’s back, around his arms, ending with a wet, warm, nibble at the base of Alex’s tail.

Alex’s breathing has gone heavy and ragged. His ears twitch under the onslaught of pleasure. “I’m Alex Friend. I was born in Monaco, but I lived most of my life between London and Knightsbridge. I got kicked out of Eton—”

There Alex goes, thinking that he can have one over Yassen like Yassen’s nothing but a blind fool. Just like John Rider. But maybe it’s the hot, limber cat-boy lying helplessly underneath him—the small spike of annoyance does nothing to damper his good mood. Having a cat-boy under your mercy does wonders for a bad day.

Yassen rips open a drawer, picks up a tube of lube with both hands and squirts it over Alex’s hole. Alex yelps, but before he can scramble away, Yassen wraps the length of his tail over one hand and yanks him closer. The effect is almost hypnotic. When Yassen tugs his tail out and higher, Alex has no other choice but to follow with his ass.

“Stay still,” Yassen grunts out. “Or we can do this dry. Your choice.”

One rough exhale, but finally, no wriggling. Good, Yassen can finally get to work.

Yassen takes his time coating his fingers and massaging the lube into all it’s creases. Alex’s hole twitches, and Yassen can smell the arousal intensifying around the room. He kisses Alex’s cheek, his mouth a hair breadth’s close to the creases of Alex’s hole that he catches a bit of lube, but he doesn’t go any closer. He focuses, instead, on working his finger until it breaches the tight ring of muscle.

Even from one finger, Yassen could tell that Alex is tighter than anything Yassen’s ever fucked. Each push and pull encounters so much resistance—like his body is doing everything it can to bear down until his finger pops out—and his blood only boils hotter with the thought.

Once Alex is used to a single finger, he sneaks in a second. Yassen likes the look of his rim stretching obscenely around him. He crooks both fingers down, pumping in and out, as he seeks the little spot which will drive his cat crazy. He finds it from the moan Alex’s fails to muffle, and he almost wishes he flipped Alex backside down, so that he could watch the flush of Alex’s face, and the play of his stomach muscles as Yassen fingerfucks him to completion.

But then he wouldn’t have such a scrumptious hold on his tail. Gripping his fist tights, Yassen pulls Alex’s tails back slowly—until he has no other option but to follow the motion and stuff himself full of Yassen’s digits. He presses down hard and he twists his fingers back and forth.

“Stop,” Alex whimpers. “Stop. That’s—that’s too much!”

Yassen ignores him, but he loosens his hold enough so that Alex can squirm off his fingers. The moment Alex almost passes the first knuckle, however, Yassen tugs his tail back once more. A tiny mew is all Yassen hears as Alex is forced to drive himself bak. 

He does this again and again, sometimes jabbing a little too hard, sometimes pulling out his finger slower than a melting glacier. He does this until Alex is trembling and sweating and little whines are escaping from his mouth.

“Please,” Alex says. “Please. I don’t know what you want.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Yassen says, his own voice low and breathy. “I want to know who you are.”

“I’m just Alex,” he sobs out. “I’m Alex Friend. I was born in Monaco, but I lived most of my life between London and Knightsbridge. I got kicked out of Eton for smoke bombing the place down—”

Yassen leans over and bites down on one ass cheek.

With a cry, Alex comes all over the desk, gasping and twitching around his fingers.

Yassen keeps a slow pump as Alex bows and strains and wrings himself out. Eventually, he quietens down, softening like a plump, ripe peach. Yassen turns his head to the side, and runs his tongue around Alex’s puffy rim as he pulls his fingers out.

There are probably tears running down his cat-boy’s face, from the force of his climax. How he wished he would have been able to see it. Next time, Yassen decides. There will be a next time, and Yassen will fuck Alex with their faces towards each other.

Speaking of…

Keeping one hand holding Alex’s tail, Yassen unzips his jeans, and presses himself inside his cat-boy.  

Panic tinges the air. “What are you doing?” Alex squeaks.

Yassen doesn’t answer. He only pushes in until Alex’s rim stretches and stretches—and finally swallows the tip of his cock. A deep-seated groan rumbles up his chest, and his own muscles almost spasm from the pure, intense jab of white-hot pleasure hitting him in the gut. His cock is substantially thicker than two fingers, and it feels like every bit of drag sends sparks of pleasure up his spine.

“No,” Alex says, his ass shaking even as Yassen continues to drive himself in. “No, no, no—I don’t want this! This isn’t happening!”

Alex only bears down as Yassen bottoms out, mistakenly thinking it would stop Yassen from his path. (Poor thing. It’s the only thing he can do.) Even through all the resistance, Yassen builds a steady rhythm even as Alex alternates between yowling and whimpering as he strains under every touch.

The pleasure must be too much for him, his unlucky little cat, still so sensitive from the last time he came. The pleasure must be pinching. It must feel like he’s being rubbed raw.

Yassen’s thrust becomes more desperate as he feels his own pleasure cresting. It builds and builds—until it crashes over him. Yassen gives two hard thrusts, before grinding his hips into Alex’s ass. He finally lets Alex’s tail go, caging over Alex’s body and stretching out the cramps in his hand. He can feel the base of his cock swell and thicken as he spurts load after load into Alex’s body. Sliding his hand under Alex’s lower belly, he presses up, and Alex lets out a frail moan as he’s stretched impossibly wider.  

Now that the heat is calming down, the wolf rises up. He is—impressed by the boy’s resilience, impressed by the absolute gall of him to lie under pressure. He is pleased at the way the boy responds to pain as much as he does to pleasure, pleased at the way he squirms on Yassen’s knot, and much too pleased at how Alex smells like the both of them.

Little shudders run up Alex’s spine as Yassen’s knot throbs inside him. Yassen indulges himself with burying his face into the back of Alex’s head. He presses light, tender kisses on Alex’s flopped over, exhausted ears.

He suddenly wonders what it would take to make Alex purr. Make Alex rumble under him harder than a mini-motor.

“I found your picture on the body of a dead man, Alex,” Yassen mumbles against his ear.

Alex instantly freezes. 

He slowly loses control of his breathing. Then, he starts shaking.

Yassen nuzzles his way down Alex’s neck. He swipes his tongue up, tasting fear, anger, and the scrumptious salt of Alex’s skin before pressing his lips right below his ear. 

“I only want to know who you are,” Yassen says. “Who you really are. So think twice before lying to me again.”

With one hand on Alex’s chin, Yassen turns his face to the side.

He softly presses their lips together.

It’s fascinating—that after everything they’ve been through—that after warming Yassen’s knot and having Yassen’s cock fuck his hole sloppy—this one act is the one which will finally cause him to cry.  “You bastard,” he says, struggling to stop his sniffling. “Did you kill him?”

“I kill a lot of people,” Yassen mumbles against his lips. “You will need to be more specific.”

“Did you kill him?” Alex asks. “Did you kill Ian Rider?”

Yassen doesn’t say anything. He only stares into Alex’s teary, livid eyes, and hopes Alex sees the hollowness inside his own.

“You did, didn’t you?” Alex chokes out a sob. “Oh my god.” 

“Ian didn’t have a picture of you,” Yassen says. “He would never endanger something so precious.”

Alex closes his eyes. Soon, his chest convulses from his crying.

Yassen kisses him again. “You don’t have to worry anymore,” he says. “I will take care of you from here on out, Alex Rider.”