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Lost Puppy (18+)

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Puppy Hybrid!Caleb AU, 18+ MDNI!!, ≈ 11.4k words

You never stopped missing Caleb after the day they took him away—changed into something feral.

Almost 9 years later, he’s older, stronger, and still wearing the collar you gave him, but something burns hotter than relief in his violet eyes. After years apart, a lifetime of caged instincts, nearly a decade of orders, and a promise finally kept—Caleb’s come home to remind you of exactly who he belongs to... and he's... sick?

cw/tags: x reader, caleb is doggieboy, smut! with plot!, angst! smut and almost fluff oh my!, explicit sexual content, heat cycles! the plot device!, hybrid/anthro Caleb, collar!! long period of separation, knotting, breeding, scent-marking, oral sex, rough sex, size difference, aftercare, emotional reunion, past trauma, mentions of captivity, experiments, and a government facility, foster care, grief, loss, consent, begging, possessiveness, dirty talk, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, mild pain/pleasure mix, slight power imbalance, hurt/comfort, submission, dominance, emotional dependent queens, reunion sex, praise kink, light biting, dog tail/ears, mutual pining, petnames pips/pipsqueak/ good girl (once)/ma'am(once)/baby a cpl times, angst with happy enough ending

author's note: 😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨 y'all I'm sorry i got so carried away... like 6k+ words of smut and 5k of story. I've been losing it writing this bit by bit for a little while. This is the longest thing I've written in so long 😩 and I've never quite written anything like this, but I was enamored with the idea. It's a bit silly and I chose vibes over fully explaining Caleb's turning, but in my head some ppl exposed to the chronorift catastrophe became hybrids that day or at some point as a child. Or something like that. Also: if you have trouble imagining the knot/his cock the 'diego the direwolf' bad dragon dildo is close. 🫡

I meant to post this last night but... I got sleepy before I could finish the post 🤠 also. pretend I didn't use the same banner art twice thx. This is a standalone fic for now but I might write more

Get added to my taglist(s) must have age in bio or pinned

🍎 for caleb

☃️ for zayne

🖤 for sylus (in future)

🐟 for rafayel (also in future)

🌟 for xavier (also a maybe in future)

🐇 to be on the list for all of my writing

Masterlist (not up to date will fix soon)

So many years and yet, the day they took him away from you lives in your mind even now…

He was your only friend in the shelter, the two of you growing together and then eventually fostered together. Caleb was like your sun. Any day could be bright if he stood by you. You played together, did each other's hair, he painted your nails.

The two of you began to have a shift in your relationship ten years in, around the time you were fifteen and he was almost seventeen. A suspicious closeness. You'd slip into his bed more, him into yours, looks lingered. Nothing ever happened to push the plausible deniability in being “best friends”, though.

Caleb's 17th birthday started like every other. Somehow you wore his birthday hat, he was surprising you with little adventures. At the amusement park, you kindly thanked everyone who wished you a happy birthday, scowling at a pleased-with-himself Caleb when they walked away. "Attention suits you better than me, pipsqueak."

After a few rides when Caleb said he was dizzy and needed to sit down, it made sense, motion sickness happens even if not very often to Caleb. But when you grabbed his face with your two hands and he was burning up and growing lethargic you knew something was wrong. You called Josephine, your elderly foster parent as a sweating, sickly, Caleb leaned his body weight into you with his head on your shoulder. He was so heavy that it was like his evol was pressing him further into you.

The hours after were a blur of ambulances, emts, a too-quiet drive to Akso Hospital with Josephine.

It was weeks before they finally let you see him, unaware of what you'd see. The doctor guiding you back was kind and warm as she tried to preface.

“Your foster brother—” you cringed at the title. He was something else first. Brother was unfit, uncomfortably so. Even if he wore it like a badge of honor. You realize you weren't fully listening as you caught her continuation after missing some of her talking. “...but his condition is still somewhat unstable given how fresh he is out of transformative states. Regardless, you may see him and talk through the glass partition. He's restrained at the mouth, leg, and arms but he's as comfortable as possible—please do not be alarmed.”

The sterile white of the hospital hallway felt suffocating as you followed the doctor, your pulse hammering in your throat. The word restrained echoed in your skull, twisting your stomach into knots. Caleb—your Caleb, who laughed too loud, walked you to every class, walked you home daily, cared for you when you were sick and carried you on his back when you were tired—was bound like some kind of dangerous animal.

He'd never hurt anyone… not for no reason… not on purpose…

The doctor stopped in front of a thick glass partition, and your breath hitched.

There he was.

Caleb sat on a medical cot, his broad shoulders hunched, his wrists and ankles secured with padded cuffs. A muzzle obscured the lower half of his face, but his eyes—those deep, violet eyes—snapped to yours the second you stepped into view. His ears, newly furred and canine, twitched atop his head, his dark hair messy from days of restless movement. His tail, another unfamiliar addition, thumped excitedly against the cot at the sight of you.

You pressed your palm to the glass before you could stop yourself.

His whole body strained toward you, the restraints creaking as he fought them. A low, desperate whine escaped the muzzle, and your vision blurred with tears.

"Hey," you whispered, voice cracking. "Hey, dumbass."

His ears flattened, his eyes darting over your face like he was memorizing it. The doctor had said you could talk to him, but what were you supposed to say? That you missed him? That you were scared? That you hated this—hated seeing him like this?

You swallowed hard.

"They wouldn't tell me anything," you admitted, your fingers curling against the glass. "Just that you were sick. That you were... changing."

Caleb made another sound, muffled but unmistakably frustrated. His fingers flexed, like he wanted to reach for you. You wished he could.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he leaned forward as far as the restraints allowed and pressed his forehead to the glass, right where your hand was.

Your breath shuddered out of you.

You stayed like that for as long as they let you—foreheads nearly touching, separated by cold, unyielding glass.

The second—and last—time they allowed you to see him, he was worse.

His body had filled out, his frame broader, more defined. His hands were clawed now, his teeth, especially his canines, sharper when he snarled at the nurses who adjusted his restraints. But the second he saw you, he stilled.

This time, they let you into the room.

"Caleb," you breathed, stepping closer.

His throat worked, his voice rough from disuse. "...Missed you."

You didn't hesitate. You reached into your pocket and pulled out the collar—black leather, with a small apple charm and a dog tag engraved with When You Come Back. You'd spent weeks saving for it, refusing to believe he wouldn't return to you.

His breath hitched when you fastened it around his neck.

It was too loose by a little.

"You better, okay?" You whispered, your fingers lingering against his skin. "Or I'll never forgive you."

His eyes burned into yours, feral and yearning.

“I will,” he said it, but it came off muffled by the muzzle he was forced to still wear.

Then the orderlies came.

They took him away after that. You wished it were you instead. Prayed that you'd sprout ears and a tail of your own so you could go with him.

☆☆☆☆☆

The years after Caleb vanished were a slow bleed, a constant, dull ache that seeped into everything. You moved. Josephine, bless her elderly heart, helped you find a tiny apartment after high school graduation. You went to community college, then transferred, got a degree in something practical. Graphic design. You got a job. You paid bills. You existed. When Josephine passed, you couldn't even cry at the funeral. Her blood family barely spoke to you. She left you a good bit of money though, money you saved, mostly for emergencies or a special dream. Not like dreaming came easy now. Or at all.

The world felt muted, perpetually cast in the grey light of that sterile hospital hallway. Birthdays came and went—yours, Josephine’s, the phantom echo of his. His 18th, the age he should have been free, passed in a blur of choked-back tears you shed alone in the shower. Then his 21st. You paid an older classmate to buy a cheap bottle of wine, poured a glass for him, and left it untouched on your windowsill until it turned to vinegar.

The world spun on, Linkon just as it always had been, vibrant and loud for others, but for you, it was a silent film projected onto a screen of frosted glass. Laughter sounded distant. The sunlight felt thin. Connections with others were polite, surface-level exchanges that never penetrated the cold, hollow space Caleb left behind.

You kept the apartment small and uncluttered. The idea of anything more than what you had felt like an echo chamber for his absence. The only personal touch in your studio was a small, framed picture on your dresser: the two of you at the amusement park, the day everything shattered. You were wearing his stupid birthday hat, scowling half-heartedly, while he beamed beside you, his arm slung over your shoulders, radiating warmth even through the faded print. Beneath the frame, on a delicate silver chain, hung a replica of the apple charm from his collar.

Time became a series of ‘before’ and ‘after’. Before Caleb was taken. After the glass partition. After the restraints. After the final, wrenching goodbye with the collar clasped around his neck. The ‘after’ stretched on, an endless, featureless plain. You stopped checking the mailbox for impossible letters. You stopped jumping when the phone rang late at night.

Hope was a luxury you couldn't afford. It hurt too much when it inevitably crumbled.

The memory of his promise—“I will”—was a shard of glass embedded in your heart, beautiful and agonizing. You learned to live around it as a dull throb that was simply part of your existence.

His face, his voice, the specific cadence of his laugh, the way his violet eyes would soften just for you… these things didn't fade. They calcified. Became the sediment of your loneliness. You dated, briefly, awkwardly, a few times, but... It never felt right. No one’s touch burned like his fevered skin against yours that last day. No one’s presence filled a room, warmed your very bones, the way Caleb’s had. He wasn't just your friend, your almost-something, your sun. He was your gravity. And without him, you were perpetually floating: adrift, untethered, cold.

☆☆☆☆☆

The replica apple charm feels so much heavier some days, like today. A dreary Tuesday evening, rain smearing the city lights outside your apartment window into watery streaks. You are curled on your worn sofa, a design project forgotten on your laptop, staring at nothing.

His 26th birthday is just weeks away. Another milestone he won't reach beside you. The familiar, crushing weight settles on your chest. You trace the cool metal of the charm at your throat, a silent ritual of grief.

Thump. Thump-thump. Thump.

Your breath catches mid-inhale, stilled, and frozen solid in your lungs.

It isn't loud. Just… distinct. A pattern knuckle-rapped against your apartment door. A rhythm etched into your soul from countless shared hiding spots, secret signals, a lifetime ago in cramped shelter rooms and Josephine’s creaky house.

Thump. Thump-thump. Thump.

Your heart does more than just pound. It slams against your ribs like a trapped bird trying to shatter the cage of your bone. Blood roars in your ears, drowning out the rain, the hum of the fridge, everything. Impossible. Utterly, completely impossible. It's a trick. A cruel echo conjured by your own desperate longing, amplified by the drear of the evening and the looming date of his birthday.

Shame, hot and immediate, washes over you for the dizzying, treacherous leap your heart takes.

'Stop it,' you scold yourself harshly, squeezing your eyes shut. Don’t be stupid. Don’t…

Thump. Thump-thump. Thump.

It comes again, and this time it's firmer—more demanding.

You are moving before conscious thought registers. Your legs feel numb, disconnected, carrying you across the small space on autopilot. The world narrows to the door, the rhythmic sound of the knocks to the wood, and the frantic hammering in your chest. Your hand, trembling violently, hovers over the deadbolt.

You fumble with the lock, your fingers slick and clumsy with sudden sweat. The chain rattles as you slide it free. You take one last, shallow breath, bracing for disappointment, for the mundane reality of a pizza delivery guy or a lost neighbor.

You pull the door open, and the dim hallway light falls on him.

Time stops. It fractures then reassembles itself around the figure hunched in your doorway.

Around…

Caleb.

Taller. So much broader. Shoulders that strain the damp fabric of a simple, dark grey t-shirt. Powerful biceps, a defined chest hinting at a strength that hadn't been there at seventeen. His dark hair is longer, a shaggy, unruly mullet plastered wetly to his neck and forehead.

Rainwater drips from the shaggy strands onto the worn hallway carpet.

But his eyes… Those deep, burning violet eyes, wide and desperate, lock onto yours with an intensity that steals the air from your lungs. They are the same. They are utterly, devastatingly the same.

And perched atop his head, twitching violently, soaked and plastered down but unmistakable—soft, dark puppy ears. A thick, equally dark tail, low and tucked tightly against his leg, gives a single, frantic wag against the denim of his jeans before stilling again, as if he fought to control it.

His chest heaves. A flush paints his neck, creeping up his jawline, visible even in the poor light. Heat radiated off him in palpable waves, cutting through the chill of the hallway. He is coiled tight, every muscle straining with visible restraint, his large hands clenched into white-knuckled fists at his sides. His breathing is ragged and shallow.

Then you see it. The collar.

Black leather, worn but intact, snug around his strong neck, fitting better than it did all those years ago. And there, catching the weak light: the small, unmistakable gleam of the apple charm. Below it is the dog tag. You don't need to read it. You know the words engraved there as surely as you know your own name: When You Come Back.

He is still wearing it after everything? After all these years? So… many years…

"Is it... really you?"

The sob erupts from your throat before you can stifle it, and it's as ugly as it is sudden. Tears, hot and blinding, well up instantly, spilling over and streaking down your face. Years of bottled grief, of hollow life, of desperate, unanswered and lost hope, shatter the dam.

A low, distressed whine escapes Caleb. The sound is one of canine anguish. Of human heartache. His eyes, already wide, fill with a mirrored sheen of tears. He takes a half-step forward, one large, trembling hand lifting from his side.

The restraint in his posture cracks, replaced by a frantic need to erase your pain. Same old Caleb.

"Don't... don't cry," he rasps, his voice deeper, rougher with age and disuse, but achingly familiar. His hand, shaking almost as badly as yours, reaches out. His knuckles, rough and warm, brush against your wet cheek with infinite, heartbreaking gentleness. "Please... Pips... don't cry. I'm… I'm back now. I didn't mean to scare you."

The touch, his voice, the old nickname spoken by him, right now, it is a final straw of sorts. A choked cry rips from you, and you crash forward. You don't bother to be gentle, and you can't think right enough to be hesitant.

You fling yourself into him with the force of years of pent-up longing and fury and devastating relief.

Your arms lock around his solid torso, fingers digging into the hot, rain-damp fabric of his shirt. You bury your face against his chest, inhaling the scent of rain, wet dog, warm skin... him…

He is furnace-hot, radiating heat that seeps into your chilled bones, solid, and real. He is here.

He staggers back half a step under the impact, a surprised grunt escaping him. Then his arms—huge, powerful arms that could crush you—wrap around you with astonishing tenderness.

One hand cradles the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, while the other presses firmly against your back, pulling you impossibly closer, anchoring you against the storm of your own tears and the heat pouring off him. He buries his face in the top of your head, his shaky breaths ruffling your hair.

You cling to him, sobbing brokenly into his chest, the years of desolate waiting pouring out. Between ragged gasps, the anger surfaces, sharp and sudden, fueled by the sheer, agonizing relief of his presence.

"You... you idiot!" you choke out against his damp shirt, your voice muffled and thick with tears. Your fists clench in the fabric.

"Years... Years, Caleb! Why... why didn't you come? Why didn't you come sooner?! I thought maybe you were—" You sob, unable to even finish the sentence.

His arms tighten a fraction, the rumble in his chest deepening into something pained. He doesn't answer immediately, just holds you tighter, his own breath hitching as he pressed his lips to the crown of your head, a silent apology radiating from every tense, overheated line of his body held in careful check around yours.

The silence that follows your choked accusation is thick, broken only by the frantic drumming of rain against the window and the ragged symphony of your shared breathing. Caleb doesn’t loosen his hold for a long moment. If anything, his arms become steel bands, anchoring you against the furnace of his body, as if he fears you might dissolve back into the grey years if he lets you go. His face remains buried in your hair, his breath a hot, shuddering harmony to your fading sobs, and he holds you in your tears until your sobs slow to sniffles.

His voice, when it finally comes, is a raw scrape against the quiet, muffled by your hair.

“Couldn’t.” The word is heavy, laden with a pain that mirrors your own. “Pips... God, you think I wanted to stay away? You don't really think that, do you?”

You pull back slightly, just enough to look up at his face. His violet eyes are glassy, pupils blown wide despite the dim hallway light spilling into your apartment. His cheeks are flushed a deep crimson, spreading down his neck beneath the worn leather collar. Sweat beads his forehead, mingling with the rainwater. His breath hitches again, a low whine vibrating deep in his chest.

"They... they didn't just take me to another shelter," he rasps, his gaze darting over your face like a starving man, while his hand, still tangled in your hair, trembles violently. "Government facility. Lockdown. Experiments. Training."

Each word swirls between you like those lost years. He continues gauging your expression. "Took... took two and a half years just to learn how to hold steady enough... not to... not to crush things. Or people."

Unspoken: Or you. His eyes flicker with a haunted shadow.

"My evol... it goes haywire when I... when I can't control... combined with being a hybrid..."

He trails off, his jaw clenching so hard you could see the muscle jump. A fresh wave of heat rolled off him, intense enough to make you momentarily lightheaded. His ears, plastered wetly against his skull, twitch erratically. His tail, still tucked low, gives another frantic, involuntary wag against his leg before he visibly wrestles it still, his knuckles whitening where his other hand grips your back.

"Then... when I was stable... mostly... they said I had to serve." His voice drops, thick with bitterness. "I was an asset… property. Five years. Mandatory service for 'Progressive assets'." He spits the term like poison. "Tracked and monitored at every damn move. I couldn't risk... couldn't risk leading them here. To you. You'd be my accomplice."

The implication hangs in the air, colder than the rain outside. If he’d come for you while still owned, still tracked... they would have taken you both. Or worse. Who knows.

"I counted the days," he whispers, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. The heat radiating from his skin is almost feverish. His breath fans hot against your lips.

"Every single one. Your birthday... Josephine..." His voice cracks on her name.

"Knew... knew when you moved. Knew this address." His eyes, burning with an intensity that steals your breath, lock onto yours.

"The second my discharge was processed... the second the tracker deactivated... I ran. Ran straight here and didn't stop or really sleep." He swallows hard, a visible tremor running through his entire frame. "Just... ran. To you."

His explanation paints a horrifying picture of captivity and enforced servitude. The anger that had flared moments ago sputters out, drowned by a surge of protective fury on his behalf and a devastating wave of understanding.

Caleb hadn't abandoned you. He’d been caged.

He’d been owned.

You feel yourself grow warm with frustration before forcing yourself to change the topic. Raging at what happened to him won't help him and will barely help you.

"But... but you're burning up," you murmur, your hand lifting almost unconsciously to touch his flushed cheek. The skin is searing to the touch and he flinches at the contact, a sharp inhale hissing through his teeth, his eyes squeezing shut for a second. His body tenses even further beneath your hands, every muscle coiled like a spring under unbearable pressure. The low whine in his chest deepens, becoming almost a continuous, distressed rumble.

He doesn't pull away from your touch, though. He leans into it by the smallest fraction, a desperate, seeking pressure. His eyes are opened now, the violet nearly swallowed by black, his gaze holding yours with a terrifying, vulnerable hunger. He's so beautiful to you in that moment it's devastating. Your heart's reaching still, again, but different than it has in all the years without him in front of you.

"Yeah," he breathes, the single word thick with shame and a need so profound it vibrated in the air between you. His large hand slides from your back, trembling as it comes to rest over yours where it cups his burning cheek. His skin feels like live wires beneath your palm. "Pips... I... I didn't plan this. I didn't know it would... hit me like this. Not now. Not... not the second I saw you. I thought… I'd be good."

His admission hangs there, along with your new understanding. The frantic energy, the overwhelming heat, the trembling restraint, the way his entire being seemed focused on you with a terrifying, singular intensity... it all comes together to make sense.

His thumb brushes over your knuckles, a gesture achingly familiar yet brand new. His voice drops to a ragged whisper, barely audible over the rain and the frantic pounding of your own heart.

"Been holding on... holding on so tight since I knocked... but... I can't... I can't think straight. Smell you... feel you... after so long..." His breath hitches again, a shudder wracking his powerful frame. The look in his eyes is a pure, desperate apology mixed with a yearning that threatens to incinerate his carefully maintained control.

"Need... need you to tell me... tell me what to do. Please. Before I... before I break something. Or... or scare you."

He stands there against you, massive and trembling on your threshold, the collar you gave him years ago still clasped around his neck, his puppy ears flat with distress, his tail a rigid line of tension, utterly at the mercy of the storm inside him and the girl-now-woman who had always been his anchor.

The years of separation, the government facility, the enforced service... thoughts swim, but the raw, overwhelming need radiating from him in waves of heat is a bridge of sorts, threatening to consume you both.

You shake your head exhaling exasperatedly, frustrated at yourself for making him stand there, before pulling him in by the t-shirt sleeve.

"Come inside, Cay. That's first."

His breath leaves him in a rush of mostly relief as you tug him forward. He stumbles over the threshold, his large frame nearly vibrating with restraint, his movements jerky like he’s fighting his own body with every step. The door clicks shut behind him, sealing you both in the dim warmth of your apartment.

The second the lock engages, Caleb shudders. A full-body tremor wracks him, his tail flicking once, twice, before going rigid again. His ears twitch violently, rotating toward you like radar dishes locking onto a signal. His pupils are blown so wide his violet irises are nearly swallowed, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts.

You take a step back, just to give him space, and he makes a noise—a low, wounded sound deep in his throat—before catching himself. His hands flex at his sides, claws pricking into his own palms.

“Sorry,” he grits out, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m—fuck—I’m trying. It’s just…” His voice drops to a whisper. “You smell so good.”

The admission sends a jolt through you. You’ve seen Caleb in every state—playful, sick, restrained, desperate—but never like this. Never hungry.

You swallow hard. “What… what do you need?” You think you know, but whether or not you dare is something else entirely.

His eyes snap open, burning.

“You,” he says, and the way he does pulls your breath away.

The word hangs there, simple and devastating.

Then he’s moving and it's not the reckless, uncontrolled lunge you half-expected—no, Caleb crawls. He drops to his knees in front of you, his big hands hovering just above your hips, trembling with the effort of not touching. His head tilts back and up at you, exposing the strong line of his throat, the collar, the apple charm glinting in the low light. His ears are pinned back, his tail tucked tight, his entire body bowed in submission.

“Please,” he whispers. "Will you help me?"

Your heart flutters.

He isn't the same Caleb who carried you on his back, who laughed too loud, who wore your scowls like a badge of honor anymore.

But God help you—despite yourself, you want him.

You reach out, fingers brushing the warm shell of his ear. He jerks like he’s been shocked, a punched-out whine escaping him. His hands finally settle on your hips, grip feather-light, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he holds on too tight.

“My Caleb,” you murmur before it can be stopped.

His name from your lips like this is a spark to a match.

With a growl that vibrates through your bones, he surges forward, pressing his face against your stomach. His nose drags along your skin, inhaling deeply, his breath scorching even through your clothes. His damp arms wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against him, his heat seeping into you through your clothes.

Your fingers curl slightly in his damp hair, feeling the heat rolling off him in waves. He’s trembling all over, a low, restless rumble vibrating against your stomach.

"Tell me to go," he murmurs again, the words strained, almost strangled. "If you don't want me like this... if you're… afraid..."

You look down at him—really look. At the man on his knees in front of you, his broad shoulders hunched, muscles taut with restraint, puppy ears pinned flat against his head in shame and need. The leather collar you gave him is damp and worn, the apple charm glinting faintly in the lamplight.

"I’m not afraid of you," you say softly.

Something in him falters, breaks. His hands on your hips tighten minutely, claws just barely grazing through your clothes before he forces them to still. His breath is a shuddering exhale that fans heat across your skin.

“Pips...” The sound of your old nickname in that rough, low voice nearly undoes you.

“Cay,” you whisper back. Your hand trails down to cup his flushed cheek, and you feel the way he leans into the touch with almost desperate relief.

The room feels smaller, hotter, like the air has thickened around you. You can feel his restraint fraying — not snapping yet, but the threads are stretched thin, pulsing.

When your thumb brushes over the corner of his mouth, his control slips another inch. His grip on your hips firms, pulling you a fraction closer, his head tilting until his nose brushes your shirt, dragging along the fabric as he inhales like he’s been drowning and you’re oxygen.

Finally.

Your breath hitches, the words coming out your mouth faster than thought can study through them for risk.

“You’ve been holding on long enough,” you murmur.

His head jerks up, eyes blown wide, the violet almost eclipsed by black.

“Don’t—” His voice cracks. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.”

“I mean it.”

For one heartbeat, he’s frozen, then… the tension snaps.

The sound he makes is low and guttural, a growl laced with relief, need, and gratitude. His stands and his arms surge around you, crushing you to him, and the sheer heat of his body sears through your clothes. Your feet leave the ground for half a second before his arms grip you—gravity bowing to his need without his conscious control—before he steadies you again.

“God, I missed you,” he breathes, his forehead pressing hard against yours, the apple charm clinking faintly as it shifts. His tail gives a helpless, shuddering consistent wag, brushing your calf.

He breathes against your lips.

“This is your last chance to tell me to go. Make me a stray. Stop me from ruining you.” His eyes dart across your face to your mouth. The hills of your soft parted lips.

“Will you kiss me?” You blurt it out, breathy and clumsily.

His breath is ragged, eyes wild and crazy with disbelief.

A pause, then his face flushes further: “If it's bad tell me how to be better. I… haven't practiced—”

You laugh. A puff of breath.

“Let me boss you around like when we were kids. You just follow my lead,” You whisper, blinking away the sudden burn in your eyes before you pull him into you by the collar.

“Yes, ma'am.” He swallows, Adam's apple bobbing, lashes fluttering.

Your fingers curl into the leather at his throat, tugging him down just enough to close the breath between you. He comes willingly—too willingly—like the pull of your hand is the only gravity left in the world. His mouth meets yours in a clash of heat, the first brush tentative only because he’s terrified to hurt you, but already there’s a growl caught in his chest, vibrating into your lips.

He’s warm—no, hot—and the heat of him seeps into you instantly, flooding your skin where his hands finally stop hovering and close around your waist. The claws are careful, barely grazing as he molds you to him, but the tremor in his grip betrays just how close he is to losing it. His tail is a whipcord behind him, smacking once against your calf before curling in, the tension bleeding out in ragged bursts.

When you part for air, he doesn’t pull far. His forehead presses to your cheek, breath dragging in deep, shaking inhales.

“You smell different,” he mutters, but it’s praising, almost dizzy. “Older… sweeter… fuck, I can’t—” His nose traces along your jaw, the wet tips of his hair brushing your skin. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

“Show me,” you breathe.

He freezes. The weight of the words seems to lock his muscles, his hands tightening on your hips. You feel the ripple of restraint under your palms, a beast on the verge of breaking.

“Last chance,” he warns again, but his voice is ruined, shaking, his pupils swallowing the violet. His tail’s started a slow, involuntary wag, brushing the backs of your thighs as if betraying him.

You tug the collar just enough to feel the leather creak.

“Caleb. Show me.”

The sound he makes at your command is guttural, almost a snarl, but it’s not anger—it’s the noise of something that’s been caged too long finally given permission to run. In one smooth surge he’s walking you backward until the back of your knees hit the couch, lowering you down without once breaking contact. His hands map you as though re-memorizing territory—over your sides, down your thighs, thumbs brushing in just enough to make your breath hitch.

The heat pouring off him is nearly unbearable this close. His chest is a furnace under the damp cling of his shirt, the hard lines of his body vibrating with instinct. He lowers over you until his nose is pressed just beneath your ear, inhaling so deeply it feels like he’s trying to pull you inside him.

“You’re mine,” he growls against your throat, though it comes out half a whine. “Smelled you the second the door opened. Don’t care about anything else. Just you. Always you. I need you to forgive me.” His lips graze the tendon in your neck and your whole body shivers

“I do.”

One of his ears flicks against your temple, the soft fur a stark contrast to the scrape of his stubble. His tail is restless now, wagging and curling, brushing the cushions as though trying to cage you in. His hips lower, the solid heat of him pressing between your thighs through the thin barrier of denim.

When you arch up into him, his breath stutters.

“Don’t—” he warns, but it’s helpless, his claws digging just enough into your sides to keep you still. “If I start, I… I won’t stop ‘til you’re marked.”

"Okay." That's all you say.

And the word hangs in the air between you, small and soft, then just a fast as it's registered, it detonates inside of him.

Caleb’s pupils dilate until the violet is nothing but a thin ring, his breath stuttering like a man trying to hold himself together in an earthquake. The growl that builds in his chest is low, deep, almost reverent. He presses his forehead hard against yours, heat pouring off him like a furnace, and you can feel the tremor in his hands where they grip your hips.

“You have no idea what you just gave me,” he practically gasps, voice thick and almost breaking on the edges.

Then he moves slowly, with care, and with the unstoppable certainty of someone stepping into a moment they’ve replayed in their head for years. He leans back just far enough to look at you, drinking in your face like it’s a luxury he’s afraid to blink away.

One big, trembling hand leaves your hip to grip the hem of his damp t-shirt. He peels it off slowly, the fabric sticking to the heat of his skin, revealing hard lines cut deeper than you remember. You take in his broad chest, shoulders that look built to block out the world—carry it, even—every muscle standing taut under flushed, feverish skin.

The collar is still there, the leather darker from rain, the apple charm on it clicking against the dogtag, catching the light with every subtle move. His tail twitches once, betraying him, before it curls low again.

He sees your eyes on him and something in him softens and tightens all at once.

“This… right now… is everything my old self prayed for,” he admits, the confession almost a growl. “Back then, I wanted this so bad I thought I’d die from it. Now—”

He inhales sharply, ears twitching as if trying to catch every beat of your pulse. His gaze flicks lower, then back to your eyes. “Now I can smell everything you’ve been through. Who touched you. Who you let close.”

His jaw flexes, a dangerous heat under his voice.

“You weren’t alone all those years.”

It's not an accusation, you don't think so. You can hear just a deep, possessive ache, like he’s mourning the time he wasn’t allowed to be there.

Your breath stumbles... the look in his eyes hurts. .

“Caleb… I—”

He shakes his head once, cutting you off without malice, his hands finding your waist again.

“Don’t explain. I don’t need to hear it. I already know...I'm glad you didn't freeze yourself here. I just—” His voice drops to a whisper. “I’m here now. And I’m never letting anyone else put their hands on you again.”

His mouth finds your jaw, the scrape of stubble dragging heat across your skin. He kisses slow, deliberate, each press of lips and teeth is a hot reclamation. His hands roam, hot and unhurried, sliding up your sides beneath your shirt, fingertips grazing ribs, thumbs sweeping under the swell of your breasts before retreating like he’s savoring the denial almost as much as the touch.

When you shiver, his growl deepens. “Cold? I can—”

“No,” you breathe, and his answering sound is nothing but satisfied hunger.

“Ah.~ Okay. Good, then.”

He pulls your shirt over your head with deliberate slowness, eyes locked on you like he’s half afraid you’ll run away. The way he looks at you—half worship, half ownership—makes your skin feel too tight.

His palms flatten against your stomach, sliding up, up, until they cradle the weight of your breasts. His thumbs drag over your nipples through the thin fabric of your bra, and your back arches before you can stop it. His ears flick forward, tail twitching again at your response, and the smirk that ghosts over his lips is for a minute the Caleb you knew—cocky, but for you alone.

“God, I’ve missed spending time with you,” he murmurs, leaning in to press his mouth to the side of your neck, just beneath your ear. “Missed you.” His tongue grazes your pulse point and you feel his teeth press, testing. “You’re warm here. Even to me. Sweet. Perfect.”

You thread your fingers into his damp hair and tug to pull him closer. He groans, low and rough, pressing his hips into yours so you can feel exactly what years of wanting you has done to him.

“Caleb—”

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his own dark and desperate. “Tell me to keep going?” Finally not to stop.

“Keep going.”

He exhales like he had his breath held. His hands drop to your jeans, unfastening them with quick, easy movements, deft fingers, like the time he helped you out of your jeans when you were on your period. He’s pushing them down over your hips before you can catch your breath.

He pulls your jeans and panties down with one finger hooked in the waistband, and he sound of fabric scraping over your thighs is drowned beneath the roughness of his breathing. His nose skims the newly bared skin of your hipbone, inhaling deeply like he’s been starved for this scent. The scent of you.

Caleb sinks lower, big hands settling on the outside of your thighs, his thumbs sweeping along the sensitive crease where leg meets hip. His eyes track the slow reveal of your skin like it’s the first time he’s ever seen daylight. He presses his face in, nose brushing over the inside of your thigh, drawing in a long, shaking breath that ends in a low groan.

“God… this—” His voice catches, and he shakes his head, pressing another inhale against the other thigh. “I’ve dreamed about this exact moment for years. Same floor under my knees. Same air in my lungs. Same you.”

His grip tightens, and you feel the faint prick of claws before he forces them to retract.

He shakes his head. Water droplets falling over your chest from his hair. "Sorry."

Your legs want to tremble, but he’s holding them firm, spreading you just enough that the heat of his breath spills higher. His tail gives two hard, involuntary lashes behind him, the tip brushing your ankle.

When he looks up at you from between your thighs, it’s almost too much—violet eyes nearly swallowed by black, jaw tight with restraint, hair damp and falling into his face.

“I can smell them,” he says, the words thick and low. “Every one you’ve ever let close. But they’re faded. Fading.” His hands push higher along your thighs, spreading you another inch. “By the time I’m done, the only scent left on you will be mine.”

The vow stands in the air between you.

He leans in, his mouth brushing just to the side of where you need him most, lips warm, tongue flicking once over the delicate skin before pulling back just enough to make your breath hitch. His ears twitch forward at the sound, tail curling low.

“Yeah… that’s what I want to hear. I'll know you missed me, even when you settled for less than me.”

When his mouth finally closes over you, it’s with a hunger barely leashed. His tongue works slow at first, deliberate, savoring the way you tense and gasp. His hands keep your hips pinned when you instinctively try to move, and the rumble of his growl travels straight through you.

He’s methodical—mapping every reaction, testing pressure and pace until he finds the spot that makes your head drop back.

“There,” he murmurs against you, heat and vibration rolling over sensitive nerves. “Knew it.”

You tug at his hair and he groans, the sound spilling into you as his movements quicken, precision giving way to the deep, steady rhythm of a man losing his patience. His grip on your thighs tightens until you feel the ache in your bones, but it’s grounding, not hurting—like he’s holding you in place for his own sanity (and yours.)

When you shudder under him, he lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes, mouth wet, chin slick, his expression a mix of adoration and absolute possession.

“I’m not stopping until you come on my tongue,” he says, voice hoarse but sure. "I need to know how it tastes."

And then he’s back on you, relentless now, tail wagging in short, sharp bursts he doesn’t seem to notice. Every stroke of his tongue is matched by a muffled growl or a desperate exhale, like each reaction you give him is feeding something primal that’s been starving for years.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders, nails biting into hot skin, and he shivers—actually shivers—under your touch. The sound he makes is wrecked, and he presses harder, deeper, until the world narrows to heat, his mouth, his hands, his voice urging you through it.

When you break, it’s sharp and overwhelming, your thighs clamping around his head, and he doesn’t pull away. He rides it with you, groaning against you, drawing it out until you’re trembling in his hands.

Only then does he lift his head, licking his lips slow, eyes burning into yours.

“That’s one,” he murmurs, standing and hauling you against his chest like you weigh nothing. “I’m not done yet.”

He’s already walking you backward toward the couch, his body a wall of heat, the collar warm against your collarbone when he lowers you down. His gaze drags over you—bare, flushed, still catching your breath—like he’s memorizing the sight of you to carry with him forever.

When he reaches for his belt, his voice drops to something dark and sure. “You’re going to give me everything I missed. Every year. Every day. All of it—tonight.”

You’re still catching your breath when he settles between your knees, his belt already loose, the heavy fall of his hair shadowing his face. He looks down at you like you’re the only thing keeping him on this planet. Like you're the only thing on the whole planet.

“I want to help you not hurt anymore,” you whisper, voice trembling but sure. Your hands come up to his chest, the heat of him radiating into your palms. “Please.”

Something flickers in his eyes—raw, aching need tangled with something deeper, older. His chest rises and falls in a sharp, uneven rhythm, and then his mouth curves into a small, pained smile, like he can’t believe you just said that.

“You can,” he murmurs. “You’re the only one who can.”

He unbuttons the rest with slow, exact movements, each motion heavy with intent. The denim slides down over his hips, and your eyes widen instinctively. You’ve been with men before, but nothing—nothing—like him. He’s thick, long, the flushed head heavy and dripping already, the base swelling into a knot that looks impossibly large for you to take.

Your lips part, but words don’t come. He notices—of course he notices—and his tail gives one slow, involuntary sway before curling tight again.

“Not what you’re used to,” he says softly, not boasting, just stating a fact. “I can smell them on you, faint… but nothing like me. You’ve never had anyone built to fit you the way I am.”

Your stomach twists at his tone—it’s possessive, and yet... it’s also worshipful, as if this moment is the result of every year he’s been denied.

He kneels over you, one arm braced on the couch cushion by your head, the other hand curling around his shaft. He strokes himself slowly, the movement dragging your gaze, the sight almost too much to take in. The knot swells faintly under his touch, and he watches your face for every micro-expression, his pupils huge.

“I’ll go slow,” he says, though his voice has a dangerous edge to it. “But I need you to feel all of me. Need you to take me.”

Your breath stutters when the blunt, heated tip presses against you. He’s warm—almost hot enough to burn—and slick enough that he slides against your entrance easily, teasing you without pushing in. His eyes flick up to meet yours.

“Last chance to tell me no.”

“Nice try, dummy, I’m not saying no,” you breathe, trying to calm yourself by teasing him as if it could ever be like before. Now that he's returned like this his hybrid body racked with need for you. He laughs. Shaking his head and smiling.

"We'll see who's dumb after I've burned all my heat into you, alright?" He says this whole looking at you with a cocked head as if daring you, his cock glistening with precum in his fist. When you flush and look away he smiles like he won.

"Breathe for me."

And the room spins.

The first push is overwhelming, stretching you wide, the pressure intense but intoxicating. His jaw is tight, a low growl vibrating in his chest as he watches himself sink into you inch by inch.

“Hah...So tight,” he mutters, almost to himself, his free hand gripping your thigh to keep you open for him.

“God, Pips… you’re perfect.”

You clutch at his shoulders, nails biting into his hot skin, trying to relax as he works deeper.

Every inch feels like it burns you from the inside. It doesn't hurt so much as it stretches you. You're soaking wet and subconsciously coaxing him into you. Moaning mingled into your breaths. By the time he bottoms out... at least up to the knot, it rests against you, pulsing faintly, too large to fit just yet. He’s breathing hard above you, sweat slicking the line of his throat beneath the collar.

He doesn’t move right away, letting you adjust, his thumb brushing circles on your hip.

“You feel that?” he whispers, pressing his forehead to yours. “That’s me. Every part of me. No one else has ever been this deep in you.”

You nod, unable to speak, the fullness almost dizzying.

His hips shift slightly, just enough to make you gasp, and he groans low and long, tail lashing once behind him.

“We’ll work up to the knot,” he promises, voice dark but soft with intent. “When I lock inside you… you’ll know you’re mine.”

And then he begins to move—slow at first, savoring every inch, every shiver that runs through you, every sound you make, years of need poured into every thrust, his body caging yours.

His relief is almost palpable—rolling off him in deep, shuddering breaths that puff hot against your cheek. Each thrust is heavy, controlled, his body moving like it’s been programmed for this, for you.

The heat in him is blinding, the tension that’s been coiled inside finally unraveling with every wet, obscene slide of his cock through your cunt.

But it’s more than just relief—it’s you. The way your nails drag across his back, the way your breath hitches each time he bottoms out, the way your scent has changed around him in minutes, blooming richer, sweeter, feeding some primal instinct that he’s been starving for years.

He buries his face against your neck, inhaling deep between growls.

“God… I’ve needed this. Needed you. Barely imagined I would come back to this.”

You moan into his ear, your voice trembling but desperate. The sound goes straight through him, making his hips stutter. He pulls back just far enough to watch himself slide into you again, the sight almost undoing him completely.

“You feel so fucking good,” he rasps, eyes flicking to your face, needing to see every reaction. “And I’m not even… not even knotted yet.”

The thought alone makes your pulse jump, your walls clenching around him in anticipation. His eyes darken even further, a shiver running down his spine as the tight squeeze drags a guttural groan from his chest.

"Caleb..." Your voice is breathy almost like a plea. For what? You don't know right now. More of him. Of this. You wonder if it's even real. Could you dream something like this anyways?

“Pips…” He swallows hard, his thrusts growing a fraction deeper, testing the stretch. “When I do… when I lock inside you… you won’t be able to think about anything else. You’ll feel me for hours.”

You can barely answer, your moans breaking into his mouth as he kisses you hungrily, hips pushing forward with more insistence now, a harder and quicker pace, the wet slap of skin filling the room. Each movement grinds the thick swell of his knot against your entrance, and the pressure makes you dizzy.

A choked sound sputters from your lips as he hits your g-spot, the sweet sensation brutal with the intense waves of sharp pleasure pulsing through you. He strokes into you, hitting that same spot over and over, groaning at the sounds you make in his ear.

“Close?” he murmurs against your lips, the question more a command than anything.

“I can feel you. Gripping me. And...You're even drooling a little, pretty baby,” he whispers roughly, sending shockwaves straight to where he speaks of.

Pretty baby.

You blush. Red hot.

You gasp as he wipes the spit from the corner of your lips before sucking his thumb, releasing it from his mouth with a loud pop, and placing the warm pad of the fingertip to your clit. He circles the overstimulated bundle of nerves as he pumps his cock into you, causing you to arch, feeling yourself attempt to squirm away from the warm feeling coming to a crest, your vision spotting.

"Fuck—!" You moan as he tries to coax your orgasm from your clenching cunt. A few small whimpers escape Caleb too when your walls close even tighter, milking him without even realizing, as he tries to unspool your pleasure.

When the air around you grows heavy and you suddenly can't squirm through the pleasure, you know why.

He pulls out almost fully, coated in slick he earned from you, just to slam back in. He does this again. And again. Over and over until your sounds are so lewd they sound pornographic. The pleasure building and you're so close.

"C-caleb... fuck... your... evol." You gasp out.

"Be a good girl and come on my cock and I'll be a good boy stop using my evol, okay? Give me what I earned, pips. Come on me... please..."

The way he says it—like he’s entitled to it, like it belongs to him, like he needs it to live—pushes you right to the edge. You cry out into his mouth, clinging to him as pleasure rips through you, your cunt squeezing him so hard his breath catches.

He groans, long and low, hips rutting into the aftershocks, chasing his own breaking point.

“Yeah… just like that. I’m right there… I’m going to give you everything, soon. T' thank you... for... helping me.”

Your body is still quaking when his rhythm turns ragged, the deep, rolling thrusts shortening into desperate, grinding pushes. His forehead presses to yours, his breath hot and frantic, violet eyes gone almost fully black.

“Pips… I can’t hold it anymore,” he pants, hips bucking harder, the thick swell of his knot battering at your entrance with each push. Every time, you feel it stretch you a little more, coaxing your body to open for him. He’s watching your face, every flicker of pleasure, every gasp, like they’re the only cues that matter.

“Let me—” his voice breaks into a growl.

“Mmph..." Then whinier...

"—let me in all the way. Please.”

You nod, barely coherent, and that’s all the confirmation he needs. He draws back just enough to slam forward with one deep, claiming thrust, the swollen knot forcing past your tight resistance in a slow, burning stretch. It’s overwhelming, almost too much—and then it’s there, locked, the sudden fullness making you cry out. Pain-pleasure wires crossed.

Caleb groans like he’s been freed from containment, his whole body trembling above you. His claws dig into the cushion by your head, his tail thumping erratically behind him as his hips grind against yours in short, shallow ruts.

“Oh… God, yes… I'm... yours... but—fuck—you're mine now.”

The heat of him is unbearable, his cock pulsing inside you as the knot swells to its full size, sealing you around him. And then you feel it—the first hot rush of him spilling deep, flooding you in thick, heavy waves that make you moan into his mouth.

He bites down gently at the junction of your neck and shoulder, not breaking skin, just holding you there while he pours every drop into you.

“Please...Take it… take all of it,” he groans, his voice low and broken with heavenly pleasure, shuddering as another pulse forces more of his release into you.

Your body reacts on instinct, clenching greedily around him, milking every drop.

"Feels so good… it hurts…" You manage to breathe/whine, and his breath stutters at the sensation, a shaky laugh breaking through his panting.

“Feels too good—fuck—been dreaming about this since before I even knew what heat was,” he groans into your cheek.

You cradle his face, guiding him to kiss you, slow and deep, while his hips twitch involuntarily, grinding him even tighter against you. His tail finally stills, curling loosely across the back of your thigh like he’s tying himself to you physically.

The knot throbs inside you, every small movement sending sparks through your oversensitive body. He doesn’t pull back—he can’t—and he doesn’t want to.

“We’re not done,” he murmurs against your lips, still catching his breath.

You can feel every beat of his cock inside you, the knot stretching you so wide you’re not sure where the edge of pleasure and pain even is anymore. The seal of him is unyielding, pulsing, and every faint throb pushes more of his heat-drunk hardness against places deep inside you that no one’s ever reached.

He kisses you like he’s trying to drink you in, his mouth hot and desperate, swallowing every shaky breath you give him. When he pulls back, his lips are wet and red, his voice shredded.

“Pips... Please...don’t make me stop,” he begs, his forehead pressing hard to yours. His hips twitch forward, shallow but deep in a way that makes you gasp, your hands curling into the solid muscle of his shoulders.

"I’m still burning. God, I’m still so hard. I need to give you more… all of it. Let me fix this... with you and I promise I'll do everything. You won't lift a finger. I'll treat you like a princess. Make up for every day I couldn't. For... fucking you like this..."

You quiet him by pulling him into another kiss, greedy and in need of the softness to contrast the hard length piercing through you. When you pull off of him, your words come out broken.

“You’re already… so full inside me… Caleb—”

He groans at the sound of his name in your voice, hips grinding tighter. The motion forces the knot to tug against you from the inside, a flare of near-pain that instantly melts into dizzying pleasure, and you moan so loud it makes his ears flick.

“Tell me more,” he growls. “Talk to me—tell me what I’m doing to you."

You try to breathe through it, your nails dragging down his back.

“You’re stretching me so much… I can feel everything… your cock’s so thick—so deep—And the… knot—Caleb, it’s too much but I can’t—” You choke on your own voice when he pushes harder, rutting like he can bury himself further despite the knot locking you together.

His breath is ragged, every thrust a little rougher now, rocking you into the couch cushions, making both your slick and his cum from moments before spill around the seal of his knot as it nearly pops out of you. You feel it—hot, thick, leaking out from the last release only to be pushed back in by the relentless press of him. It’s filthy and perfect, the sensation of him breeding you over and over without ever leaving your body.

He bites your jaw, murmuring against your skin.

“You’re taking me so well. I can feel you milking me—God, you want more, don’t you?” His voice is ruined with need, almost a whine now. “Let me give it to you. Let me fuck you through this until I burn it all out.”

The heat radiating from him is suffocating, his muscles flexing around you like steel every time he drives forward. The pressure of the knot shifts, dragging against you from the inside with every rutting grind, and the mix of too-full, too-hot, too-good makes your vision swim.

Your hands fist in his damp hair, dragging him into another kiss, and your voice breaks between panting breaths.

"Don’t stop...”

He groans into your mouth, the sound raw and wrecked, his hips moving faster now despite the lock.

“Then take it—take every drop—don’t you dare let me go until I’m empty.”

He shifts suddenly, his grip under your thighs lifting you with ease despite the knot anchoring you together. The movement pulls a startled cry from your throat—half shock, half the overwhelming sensation of him dragging you with his body still locked inside.

“Up,” he murmurs, his voice thick with heat, “I want to see you.”

You barely have time to process before he’s maneuvered you, laying back against the armrest with your hips tilted up toward him. He stays buried, knot pressing deep, his hands splayed over your waist as if he’s afraid you might slip away if he loosens his hold. The new angle sends him even deeper somehow, the broad head of his cock nudging something so sensitive you jolt under him.

He smirks down at you, a flash of that old Caleb buried under all the hunger.

“God, you’re making those little sounds again,” he teases, rocking his hips in a slow grind that drags every inch of him against your slick, swollen walls.

“I’ve wanted those. Thought about them every night.”

Your attempted response comes out as a whimper when his knot shifts inside you, the bulge pressing up into your belly. He glances down, eyes widening slightly, and then his grin turns wicked. One big palm slides over your lower stomach, pressing lightly until you both feel the firm swell move under your skin.

“Feel that?” His voice is a rasp, almost aching. “That’s me. All the way in you, so deep I can touch you here.”

He gives a gentle push and you gasp, the sensation so intense it’s almost unbearable. “Fuck, you’re perfect like this… stuffed full and still asking for more.”

Your hands clutch at the couch cushions, knuckles white as he starts to move again—short, hungry thrusts that keep the knot tugging against you from the inside while the rest of him grinds into you with maddening precision. The wet slap of your bodies meeting fills the room, punctuated by your breathless cries and his low, broken groans.

“Gonna give you more,” he pants, bending down to kiss you, his tongue sliding into your mouth like he’s claiming that too. “You’ll feel it for hours. You’ll walk tomorrow and still know I was here.”

The heat builds fast again, every movement pressing that bulge in your stomach tighter against his palm until you’re moaning into his mouth, your body trembling under the constant, unrelenting fullness.

He breaks the kiss to whisper against your lips, “Come with me, Pips. Milk me again. I want to feel you squeeze it out of me.”

You’re already close, the combination of too much and not enough winding you up until the knot pulses inside you and sends you over the edge. You cry out, overstimulated but in heaven still. Your walls flutter around him, and his entire body locks.

His head drops to your shoulder with a guttural groan as another hot rush floods into you, thick and heavy, filling every space until it’s leaking past the seal of his knot.

He keeps moving even as he spills, rutting through the release, the sensation so raw and overstimulating it makes you shake.

“That’s it,” he breathes, almost deliriously, “take all of it—don’t let me stop—let me give you every drop.”

His fingers slide possessively over your hips, thumbs pressing into your skin as if anchoring you. “Still so warm,” he murmurs against your neck, voice a wrecked rasp. “Still holding me.”

You swallow hard, your body too sensitive to even shift without feeling the thick press of him everywhere.

“You’re not exactly letting me go,” you manage, the words breaking on a shiver when his knot swells faintly again, locking you even tighter.

He huffs a breath that might be a laugh.

“No... no, not—not yet. Not when I’ve still got more to give you.” He tilts his head, nose brushing the damp line of your throat, breathing you in like it’s the only thing cooling the burn in his blood. “You don’t *get* it, Pips… I’ve been holding this back for *years*...”

Your stomach flips at the low, certain way he says it. His tail shifts lazily over your thigh, a stark contrast to the twitch in his hips that grinds his knot against you from the inside. It makes you gasp, and his ears twitch forward at the sound like it’s fuel.

“You like that,” he says softly, almost smug. “Even when you’re full, you still want me to move.”

You’re not sure if it’s the truth or his heat speaking for you, but you nod anyway. There's nothing else. His eyes darken, and his grip tightens.

“Then we’ll stay like this,” he decides, the words more vow than suggestion. “’Til you’re too tired to say my name. ’Til you smell like nothing but me.”

☆☆☆☆☆

You lose track of how many times you are bred by Caleb’s insistent cock.

The hours blur into heat and muscle and the steady, relentless rhythm of him claiming you, stopping only long enough to drink water, to kiss the damp hair from your face, to murmur that you’re still his, still perfect, still taking him so well. His body never cools, only shifts from feverish to molten, each new knotting stretching the ache in you a little further. Somewhere between the third and the fourth time you come apart around him, you stop counting entirely, lost in the dizzy haze of sweat and breath and the constant, intoxicating weight of him inside you.

When it finally breaks—when the heat in his body ebbs enough for him to slow—your world is reduced to the throb between your legs and the heavy, protective sprawl of his body over yours. The room smells thick of sex, skin, and the wild, almost sweet edge of his scent marking every inch of air. It clings to you, seeps into your hair, your skin, the couch beneath you.

He lifts himself just enough to look down at you, his eyes heavy-lidded but soft, the worst of the frantic edge bled out of him. His tail hangs loose and still, curling against your hip like it’s reluctant to let go.

“Pipsqueak… baby...” His voice is rough but no longer strained, a low rumble that vibrates through your chest. “You’re sore.”

You try to smile, but it’s more a faint twitch of your lips.

“You’re… observant.”

The corner of his mouth curves in something too tender to be a smirk. He eases out of you slowly, every inch a stretch that makes your breath catch, until you feel the final tug of his softened knot slipping free. His hand is there instantly, cupping between your thighs, holding you closed as if to keep the mess from spilling out. “Easy, tiger,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You’re gonna be tender for days.”

The ache is deep and constant, but his touch is gentle now, a stark contrast to the brutal need that drove him hours before. He shifts you into his lap, wrapping you in one of the blankets from the back of the couch, his slightly lessened body heat now a comfort instead of a burn.

The apartment is quiet except for the sound of rain outside and your uneven breaths. He smells like sex, sweat, and you—so much you that you’re almost dizzy from it. His lips find your hairline, lingering there like he’s memorizing the way you feel in his arms when there’s finally nothing left to fight.

“You’re mine,” he whispers, softer this time than any time before. You kiss his collar, cool leather against your lips, as if to say, ‘and you're mine’.

☆☆☆☆☆

The days after blur, not from exhaustion alone, but from the strange unreality of living beside him again.

The first morning you wake without the fever of his body pressing into yours, every muscle protests. You ache in ways that go deeper than your skin. Your hips are sore, your thighs tremble when you stand, your core is heavy and raw from the constant, unyielding lock of him. Even so, the soreness hides something else: a deep, quiet satisfaction that’s almost shameful to admit to yourself.

Caleb moves through your apartment like he’s been here the whole time you were apart, barefoot and shirtless, padding to the kitchen to bring you water before you can even ask. He fusses like a man who’s finally been given something back he thought he’d lost forever and refuses to risk it. A loyal puppy. A caretaker. Your Sweet Caleb.

He checks your temperature, runs a bath and insists on lowering you into it himself, kneeling on the floor beside the tub so he can rinse your hair. The rough calluses on his hands are at odds with the way he handles you, careful like you’re porcelain.

In quiet moments, the reality sinks in.

The part of you that learned to live without him, building routines around absence and keeping your heart busy with small, safe things, is confused by the constant presence of him again after so long. It startles you when he’s there every time you turn around, when he's not letting you do things for yourself, when your meals are made daily, and the rhythm of his breathing replaces the near-silent, low hum of the apartment as the sound you fall asleep to.

You think about the facility and the years he was tracked and monitored… caged and used. Sometimes you catch it in him, even now—the way his eyes flick to the door at certain noises, the way he seems to catalog the room’s exits without thinking. There’s a part of him that is always watching for the next hand to drag him away.

And then there’s you. A part of you is afraid to ask if he’s staying because the answer feels too heavy to hold if it isn’t the one you want. Even though you know: he wouldn't leave if he had any choice. Ever.

One evening, a week and a half after the rain-soaked night he knocked on your door, you find him sitting on the floor beside your couch, back against the cushions, head tipped back so his throat is bare and the leather collar rests loose against his skin. His tail swishes slow over the carpet, eyes half-lidded as he watches the ceiling like he’s trying to make sense of something.

“You’re quiet,” you say softly.

He turns his head toward you, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “Just… realizing I don’t have to count days anymore.”

Your chest tightens and your heart soars at once. His birthday is coming. Just a few days left. You'll spend it with him for the first time since that horrid day. And after that, more time. A gift you wished for religiously before.

You’ll both have to relearn each other, figure out what life looks like now that “before” and “after” are finally colliding. If he is really staying… he’ll have to remember how to exist without a cage, without the constant hum of someone else’s control. You’ll have to relearn how to let someone fill your space without fearing their disappearance.

But for now, you let yourself believe him. Just a little. Gambling hope is like your favorite old habit, and with him here. You can't help but play at the odds for your hope answered again.

He’s here. He found his way to you. To home.

So, for him, and for you too, there's no need for counting anymore now that you're together at last, unless you were to tally the days since he showed up dripping on your doorstep.

Which you do.

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