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sacredwrath · 10 months ago

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P3. Meeting the monster

Torture, beating, injury reveal, gore, infected wounds, nausea mention, taunting

Logan checks his watch, 2:36am. The house has been quiet for hours now, but he doesn't want to risk anyone hearing him leave. Another hour, just to be safe.

Around 3 he loses patience.

He climbs out of bed, putting on fresh clothes and grabbing the canvas sack he'd stashed behind his headboard.

As quietly as he can, he makes his way past the doors of his sleeping teammates and down the stairs to the main level. Jesse still doesn't want to sleep in their old room or pick a new one, so they pile on one of the large couches with Isa and anyone else who wants to join the slumber party. He knows they still don't sleep much, and getting past them will be the trickiest part of this.

He creeps through the living room, keeping to the shadows as best he can, stepping only where he knows the floor won't creak. He stops periodically to check they're still resting peacefully, but luckily tonight Jesse seems to be sleeping soundly. He smiles to himself.

Soon he reaches the far hall and darts into the shadows.

There are two more flights of stairs, the first to a large comfortable basement and the next to a massive unfinished wine cellar that, if Jake was to be believed, had once been a dungeon. Back when the house was a functional keep. Before the heros moved in it was used mostly as storage space. No one bothered putting much work into it, preferring to focus on the areas with more sunlight and a brighter history. When the heros moved in they needed somewhere to keep caught villains before handing them over to the authorities, but that was before everything fell apart. Now, they ignore the floor too.

The bottom of the stairs end in a large concrete room punctuated by sturdy support beams and five metal doors. The heros had replaced the existing doors with heavy steel ones with sturdy locks. Four of the doors lead to cells, and the fifth is a bare bones bathroom.

Logan unlocks a cell. He'd left Morgan restrained with his arms stretched above him. The exposed beams working to his advantage. He'd used a chain from the garage and a pair of handcuffs, hoping the combination would be enough to keep Morgan contained in his weakened state. Still, he enters the cell cautiously, prepared for an ambush.

Morgan stands tall, creating enough slack for his hands to rest atop his matted black hair. He sneers at Logan.

"Nice place.” He says, jerking his chin to encompass the cell.

“Shut up" Logan snaps back, trying to keep his voice calm.

Morgan scoffs, tossing hair out of his eyes. He doesn't look good, despite the confidant pose. His skin is too pale for his complexion, looking almost green in the harsh light. Fading bruises litter his face and hands, and there's something... off about him.

Logan had expected him to be angry, raging, and trying to escape, but everything about the man appears calm, controlled. His dark eyes take in every detail of his cell and captor. It feels invasive, like he's a butterfly on Morgan's tray, exposed, pinned in place. It's disconcerting to feel so scrutinized by the bedraggled, sickly man in chains.

"So..." Morgan drawls, dragging the word into two syllables. "Guess you're one of Jesse's teammates hu?"

The familiarity with which he speaks their name sets Logan's teeth on edge. His lip curls

"And you are Intelligence Specialist Adrian Morgan. Professional torturer for AQUA and lap dog of Commander Mathew Gould. You're the monster who's spent six weeks torturing someone I love."

He shrugs, indifferent to Logan's fury. "Pleasure. Since you didn't kill me, I guess I'm here for payback?" He doesn't sound afraid, or defeated, or even angry, just bored.

Logan circles him, pulling his switchblade from his pocket and flicking it open in answer.

"Great," Morgan sighs, "can I at least get your name first?"

"No" Logan snaps.

The man's attitude infuriates him. Why should he be so calm when Jesse can barely look at a kitchen knife without panicking? It's not right.

He needs this man to feel it. Everything he put Jesse through and more. He needs to replace every memory of Jesse's fear and pain with Adrian Morgan's agony.

He cuts away the man's mud crusted coat and shirt.

-and sucks in a surprised breath. “What the fuck-" The man is a mess.

Beneath his shirt, he is coated in dried blood. Purple and yellow bruises lay across his entire back in a messy criss cross, looking closer to an animal attack than any battle wound Logan's seen. In places, the skin is broken or almost entirely flayed away, leaving raw scabs struggling to heal. Mud caked lacerations overlay the mess, the skin around them swollen and red with infection. A careful web of stitches patchwork the worst of it together, but many are torn and ineffective.

Logan stares in shock. He knew the man had enemies, but not like this. Someome clearly got to him first.

He runs a thumb over a mostly healed portion, gratified to feel Morgan's muscles tense in anticipation of pain.

"The fuck happened to you?" Even as he asks it he knows it doesn't really matter. He doesn't really care. Except maybe to know who's hand he should shake.

"Fell down the stairs." Morgan quips. Logan shrugs

“Looks infected" He prods at the red puffy skin, watching closely, hoping to see the man flinch. He doesn't

"That's your problem now."

Logan raises an eyebrow, failing to see why he should give a fuck.

"Wasn't really planning to let you live through this.” He grins. “Hope it hurts, though." He claps him on the shoulder, harder than necessary, hoping again to see him flinch. Instead, Morgan barks a laugh

"Oh that's dark!" He chuckles, carefully watching Logan's slow progress.

He studies him with such profound intensity it makes Logan uncomfortable. He resists the urge to step back, instead meeting the man's gaze and letting his anger do the talking

The two men's eyes bore into each other. Pure hatred meeting Morgan's almost bored curiosity. Logan growls, he wants to see fear there

"Better get on with it" Morgan prods eventually "unless you're trying to stare me to death."

Logan's eyes don't waver, refusing to give an inch. Morgan yawns, finally breaking eye contact.

"Seriously, what's the hold up? You nervous? Getting cold feet?" He cocks his head, something seeming to dawn on him, and he lets out a surprised chuckle.

"Oh wait! No... that's it isn't it!" A broad mocking grin splits his face.

"How precious is this! It's your first time isn't it?... You're a virgin!" He cackles, throwing his head back in delight. "Oh this is too fucking good! Have you ever even seen real torture?" His eyes dance with mirth as he tries, unsuccessfully, to contain his laughter

Logan doesn't answer. What's wrong with him?

"Well, it's lucky you got me then sweetheart. I've got enough experience, for the both of us, I'll talk you through it."

"Shut up" Logan barks. This man is insane.

"Make me" He spits back, amusement dropping away in a fraction of a second to reveal derision underneath.

Logan moves, pressing the knife hard against his cheek. This close, he can hear the man's rapid panting breath and smell the sour stench of him. It turns his stomach.

"You'll have to press harder than that if you wanna see blood." He hisses, a crazed look in his eyes. “You sure you've got what it takes? You're not gonna pass out on me the second you break skin, are you?”

"You don't know me." Anger claws its way up his throat. The words taste of it as he forces them through clenched teeth.

"But I know Jesse. And you're their family." He pouts. "So sweet. Doubt they'd love someone capable of torture."

That makes Logan pause. What would Jesse think of this? He's honestly not sure. Even though they're angry, Jesse has never been one for revenge. He's not sure they'd be capable of something like this. He's not sure what it says about him that he is.

"Oh no!" Morgan exclaims, "didn't mean to freak you out. I'm sure it's fine.” He grins in mock sympathy. “Here, let me help. I'll make it easy for you. My first visit with Jesse, I had them strung up just like this. I like to start with a knife too. Most people haven't experienced that kind of deliberate pain before. Jesse was no exception -"

"Stop talking!" Each word spears Logan's heart, breaking his composure. He doesn't want to know this.

"You have to shock them. Show them they're out of their element. Let them know you're gonna hurt them and give a taste of what that means." The words spill out fast and brutal as gunfire. "What's coming isn't a back alley beating and a few questions. It's best to make them scream. Otherwise, they'll feel they've got the better of you. Jesse screamed. Only took like twenty minutes. They try so hard to be tough, but turns out, their ribs are especially sensit- oof"

Logan feels the crunch of Morgan's nose breaking against his fist, it isn't even close to enough.

"-they're just pathetic-"

Logan hits him again, and again, not letting him finish. Fists driving into his chest, ribs, stomach, face.

"You fucking animal!" He bellows, punctuating each word with another blow. "You don't deserve to breathe the same air as them!"

He wants to hear him scream. He keeps hitting, but all he hears is the frantic wheeze of breath in and out of the man's shattered nose. The weak little sound makes him see red

Morgan's knees buckle and he slumps in his chains.

Logan drags his head up by the hair only to see sharp, bloodstained teeth grinning up an him. Morgan hisses out flecks of blood and spittle with each labored breath, he's laughing.

"There you are" the words are strained, but satisfied, almost triumphant. They boil Logans blood

The knife is back in his hand as he moves behind his prisoner. Finding one of the partially healed wounds, he slashes through it, reopening and deepening it all at once. Adrian's body jerks and a painful grunt escapes him. Finally.

Logan drags the tip of the knife slowly across his skin, not deep enough to cut, gratified to see goose flesh rise in its wake.

He examines an area on Morgan's left shoulder, a spot where his skin is almost entirely peeled away and infection has set in. He drives two knuckles into it, cracking the scab. Morgan groans, trying to writhe away, but Logan follows his movements, increasing pressure on the wound. His groan turns to labored gasps before Logan finally pulls away.

He doesn't give the man a second to catch his breath before punching him in the same shoulder. Logan sneers, watching his face contort in pain.

It feels good

He lets himself touch rage.

Taking full advantage of the mans wounds Logan places each blow precisely, tearing open semi healed gashes and deepening healing bruises with his knuckles. Fury pours from him like a river broken free of its dam.

Jesses body. Their leg, smashed and unusable. The look on their face when he found them cowering against the cabinets, kitchen knife clutched in trembling hands. The way they act during their hallucinations. They way they look at him-

"How could you?" He roars, not caring that he's lost control. He wants to kill this man

"How could you?" Take their smile, their laugh, their peace! Their whole fucking life now revolves around Adrian fucking Morgan and the damage he's left behind

"How could you?"

An agonized sob tears from Adrian's throat, startling Logan back to himself. The man isn't laughing anymore. Tear tracks cut through the blood and grime on his face, and his body shakes with whimpered sobs he's trying hard to control

There's blood in Logans eyelashes.

He notices he's crying too. Trying to wipe away the tears only smears more blood on him, and suddenly the anger is gone, replaced by trembling hands and nausea. Disgust rolls in his belly at the sight of his bloody hands and the ruin of Adrian's body before him.

"I was wrong." Morgan gasps between labored breaths, his voice still holding the remnant of tears. "You do have what it takes. Congratulations," his eyes drift closed, body relaxing into the chains."You're just like me..."

Silence rings in Logans ears like the aftermath of an explosion, he's frozen in place, he can feel blood dripping from his right fist. After a long moment Morgan licks his lips

"I recommend getting yourself a whip, or a sturdy cane." He pauses "You can do more damage, quicker with those. They hurt worse and don't take as much energy as a beating. You look like you're about to drop" the absurdity of his words shock Logan out of his stupor.

"There's something seriously fucking wrong with you." He shoots back

Morgan tries to laugh, but it's closer to a sob. He sounds drained, uterly exhausted, but almost sympathetic when he says "Your first time will fuck you up. Be sick, if you need to. Take a shower, try and get some sleep. You might be in shock, either way you look almost as awful as I feel." He smirks

Logans eyes narrow. "You're a creepy little fucker. Aren't you? Even chained up in my basement you're still pretending you're the one in control. Trying to make me feel small. When will you get it through your head? You're nothing anymore."

He scoffs, eyes drifting closed again as Logan turns to leave.

"Wait." He calls almost reluctantly. He looks like he's about to say something he already regrets. "If you leave me like this, I'll suffocate. I can't stand for much longer, and hanging like this puts too much pressure on the chest."

Logan doesn't want to believe him, but he can hear the strain in his breathing already. Still, he considers just walking out. It's probably a lie, but even if it isn't... good riddanc. The world would be better off without Adrian Morgan in it. And he might be better off never coming down here again

He can't do it.

Releasing one of Adrians wrists to free the chain from the ceiling, Logan berates himself. If this man lives, if he gets out, it will be Logans fault. He should kill him now while he has the chance. Is it weakness? Too soft a heart? or is he just not done making him bleed.

Adrian slumps to the ground, cradling his wounded midsection. The only sign of his pain is a sharp intake of air as he curls in on himself. He holds his wrists out for Logan to recuff. They're already rubbed raw.

"Thank you." and he doesn't sound sarcastic or mocking or angry, just tired.

"Goodnight, Adrian." He spits, closing the door

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Tag list: @whumpacabra @turn-the-tables-on-them

#whump #whump writing #action and echo #oc whump #my writing #defiant whumpee #injury reveal #whumper turned whumpee #caretaker turned whumper #torture whump #ahhhhhhhhhhh this is the arc that made me write any of this #if theres any bits that dont match the prev arc its cus that ones not finished yet. i couldn't wait any longer to post this one #i was losing steam #now its back #villain whumpee #revenge whump

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syluses · 2 months ago

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separation anxiety

⤷ caleb experiences a rut after a long time, and it just so happens that you’re in his path.

cw. 18+ smut, hybrid! caleb, knotting, dubcon if you squint, breeding, obsessive/possessive behavior, perv caleb, fem human! reader, ruts, size difference, also a lil breeding, 3.5k words because i physically struggle to write smut without a preamble, reader is ovulating and it triggers his rut this time for whatever reason

an. saw this trope going around & wanted to try it <33 he’s got that DAWG in him 💪 also i cant decide if hybrid caleb gives german shepherd vibes or samoyed vibes…. that moments post lives rent free in my mind tho idk (>_<)

𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, & 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅! (๑´ `๑)♡

Caleb would say he hates you for the time you’re gone, but it’d be a big fat lie. His love for you, big and bursting in his chest, deepens in the quiet windows where you’re present at work or running errands throughout Linkon before returning home to him.

There’s a permanence of you in his mind and being. He wants it no other way.

His devotion for you doesn’t necessarily drown him- no, you’re always there with a lifering waiting- but it certainly sweeps him up and threatens to.

He gets a bit ahead of himself sometimes, he’s aware of that; energetic, bulging at the seams with vigor; whether it’s an integral part of his personality or just a consequence of his breed, the pound he came from never quite knew. Your Gran never figured that out, either, and for as sweet and trying as she was, she soon realized she couldn’t foster him for long.

Because he was a big boy, hungry for attention and wired to please, well-meaning but oft over involved with personal space— and he brought a loaded package that your Gran just couldn’t sign her name off on, not after a few months, anyway. She tried her best before nudging him into your care, because she sure as hell wasn’t about to give him up to that squalid pound or the streets again- and besides, the mutt liked her granddaughter; all those visits she paid throughout the summer obviously endeared Caleb to her, and quickly.

You admit, it’s a mite difficult to juggle between long days at work, little tasks that drag you from point to point throughout Linkon, and your own personal life on top of caring for a hybrid stowed away in your shoebox apartment— but your grandmother was all but sapped of her energy then, turning to you for aid although she seldom ever did, and you’d always lend a hand where you could.

The mutt- Caleb, is his name (and you call it fondly even as he’s pawing at your thighs for attention or drooling on your collar)- has grown on you considerably in the past half year, anyway.

You won’t let him down or leave him at the curb. He’s yours. The red collar you bought him says as much, printed with your number on a silver plate, and he wears it not because you make him but because he’s proud of it.

He’s a good boy, he is. He always has been and for that you’re thankful.

Except, this week he’s… different.

As of a few days ago, it’s like he’s been testing the waters- and your patience- on just how far he can go before you tell him off or say bad dog. He must find them warm because he’s just been diving deeper as the week progresses.

You don’t know what to do. He’s oddly aggressive. It’s not rare at all for him to follow you all around your apartment, but he’s foregone the very last shred of respect for your personal space and nips when you try to push him away. Not hard enough to actually hurt- the yip you make is more surprised than anything when he pulls you back in and licks at the small red patch- but you look wounded at it.

Because Caleb doesn’t bite— he just doesn’t.

He wraps you up in seemingly endless embraces and breathes your smell in until he’s dizzy, laughing into your neck like a giddy child. He does this every time you try to leave for work and he’s made you late for it.

Maybe it’s just because you’re ovulating and a little hormonal, but it makes you quite sour and the mood stays even when you return in the afternoon. He’s never liked when you’re gone, sure, but he’s always been there to see you off at the door with a pout as you scratch behind his ear- more or less tame about it.

Your patience really frays at the odd uptick in his possessiveness, though. It’s hurtful.

You’ve always treated him less like a pet- a hybrid- and more like a friend, and you feel quite indignant for it when he growls and tells you that he hates the smell of other men on you, hearing none of your excuses that it’s ‘just coworkers’, glaring at you like some brainless extension of him. You feel less like a person and more like an object, a streetlamp in which he emerges from the shadows for just to piss on to show it belongs to him.

He’s touchy. Snippy. Glued to your side at all times. It’s concerning and frustrating and confusing all at once.

By the fifth day mark, on Friday night, you’re tuckered out by it and don’t question where he is when you return home early from a shift and he’s, uncharacteristically, not there to greet you.

A red collar however, laid on the floor, its tag glittering under dim hallways lights, strikes you as both curious and unsettling.

He never takes that off. No- says it’s his way of showing you and the whole world that he belongs to you, and— have you been too impatient with him lately? Brusque? Maybe you’re a little hormonal but it’s no cause to get short with him, even when he’s acting up, and what if he no longer wants you as his owner—

A gasp.

You find him in your bedroom, humping your pillow, yowling as he comes undone- unawares- and the walls spin as you nearly faint.

You drop your purse. “Caleb!” You shriek, and a visible shiver rolls down his spine as he turns around.

“Bad dog!”

✦

You sleep on it.

Well, you wash your sheet and your pillowcases- and then you sleep on it.

Maybe you overreacted. If anything, you should be grateful for what you walked in on because otherwise, he wouldn’t have known how to tell you he’s been going through a bit of a hot phase- the first of his you’ve experienced- and doesn’t know how to control himself.

You blush just thinking about it, shame knocking in your chest as your heart beats heavy. You feel awful for walking in on him for a number of reasons. One of them being he came all over your bed- and his tummy- and you had to clean both up through furious tears as you peeled your covers off the mattress and pointed him off in the direction of the bathroom, telling him to run the faucet and quick.

A pass of guilt, the fear of you being angry with him, made its round across his kicked expression but he held off on arguing.

For the first documented time in the whole week, Caleb appeared mellow- not agitated, restless, or tense- and rather crestfallen, and you noted it only vaguely as you irately turned on the washer.

Now, it’s in the forefront of your brain.

Well, if he’s been going through some kind of rut lately, it only makes sense he’d be all kinds of pent up, and that his release (albeit in an inconvenient way and place) would provide some relief.

It’s closer to noon when you finally exit your bedroom and meet him at the sofa- the same one you’d all but banished him to last night. He prefers to spend his nights with you, either curled up at your side or splaying his full weight over your back- a breed-relative habit, you’re sure. You’ve heard of some other kinds who enjoy a room to themselves or do just fine with the couch, on their lonesome— But not Caleb.

He looks tired but perks up when he hears you patter down the hall, violet eyes lighting when you timidly take a seat.

With a bit of hesitation, he inches closer until you sheepishly wave a hand and he barrels into your arms.

“Ah- Caleb-“

Before you can even apologize for your jumping the gun last night, he beats you to the punch. “M’ sorry. You don’t hate me for it, do you?” He sighs into your collar and you shiver, “I wish you could understand what it feels like- I wouldn’t have done it if it was somethin’ I could control, I hope you realize that.”

You swallow, digesting his words as you belatedly place a hand on his head to pet. He positively melts. “Y-Yeah,” you mumble back. “It’s okay. I actually wanted to say sorry too. I- I didn’t understand what was going on…”

A deep groan looses from his throat, his chest swelling with content as you itch that spot behind the furry ears say upright on his head. They give a few twitches as he leans against you and wraps his muscular arms around your middle, resting his chin by your shoulder.

“It’s my fault, though, not yours. I didn’t know how to tell you- I was worried you’d just end up scared’a me, or…”

His pause instills interest in you. Your fingers smooth back his brown locks, mussed from fitful sleep, and he sighs. “Or what?” You press softly.

You pull him back just enough to get a look at him, his cheekbones almost shiny with a dusting of pink. His thick brows furrow together.

“Or that you’d leave,” he whispers.

Your eyes widen. You lasso your arms around his neck and pull him to you, your head slotting above his shoulder as his fingers quickly move to support the position, one hand perched at your thigh and the other braced at your side.

“Nonsense,” you grumble at his ear, a bit angry at the suggestion. “I’d never leave you.”

Something hard, then, prods at your middle- too fleshy to be something in either of your pockets- and you stiffen at the realization as it comes a beat too late.

Caleb’s voice is breathy at your ear, low, his tail thumping on the cushion. “Yeah?” He murmurs, a pang of heat stirring in your belly at the sound. Suddenly aware, you gently go to push at his broad chest but he stops you with an imploring look- although the desire, brewing in dilated pupils, isn’t lost on you- and musters a pout.

It looks out of place, the wholesome gaze marred by hunger as it reshapes his puppyish look.

“Even when I am no better than a bad dog?”

Your brow quirks, “I didn’t mean it,” you whisper, wide-eyed as his eyes bore into yours. Every micro expression you make is being catalogued and noted with utmost care, his pink tongue darting out to wet his chapped lips as they grow dry.

“It’s okay if you did,” he murmurs back. “I’m just glad I have you around to remind me of my place…” Long, slim fingers reach up and you watch, unseeingly, as they stroke your cheek, his other hand creeping dangerously close to the waistband of your sleep shorts.

He chuckles, but the humor wanes quickly.

“Otherwise, I’d always be misbehaving. Do you even know what you do to me?” His voice is meaningful, torrid, as he draws in and the tip of his nose brushes with yours. You can’t find it in you to move as your thighs- the ones he slithers a singleminded hand in between- begin to roil with unexpected warmth.

You plant a hand to his chest, shying away, “C-Caleb-“

“Don’t worry,” he says sweetly, “M’ not gonna hurt you. I just….” He lets out a sigh, long and perhaps just a bit exaggerated- but it has the intended effect on you. You purse your lips and feel a trace of guilt twist in your heart.

“You drive me crazy. Y-Your smell- I don’t know why this is happening, either. Honestly? I haven’t had a rut in a couple years. But this…”

Caleb lets out a soft noise of pleasure, lending his full weight to you when he breathes you in and shakes.

When he speaks next, his words come out raspy and so low you hardly register them as his breaths grow labored- they’re all you can hear as the living room space shrinks down to just him and the knuckles that dare to dip into your panties.

“This is just too unfair. You won’t leave me hangin’, pretty,… w-will you?” Breathy. With an undeniable streak of need. You can’t miss the lust that usurps the softer parts of him and makes him look less puppyish and cheerful and more wolfish, calculating.

And, well, when he puts it like that, how could you?

✦

He doesn’t fuck you on the couch. He takes you to your bed and fucks you there like a lover would.

He fucks you deep and fast- to his credit, he doesn’t hurt you, staying true to his word, but the possibility of bruises becomes a nearer thing when he folds your legs back and his grasp becomes constricting, plunging in and out of your cunt with rapt focus. Indigo eyes glow with something feral, like you’ve given him no choice but to claim his ownership over you through sloppy kisses and clinking teeth as he pounds into you, driven him into a corner- but his touch turns worshipful when he presses his forehead to yours and moans.

“Ah- y-you feel so good, so tight,” he compliments, words almost slurred. His pupils expand and he looks no different than a drunken, babbling man, his cheeks a rosy red.

His murmurs are wet against your lips as they graze and mush with his, Caleb’s face so close to yours that his lashes tickle your brow as he gawks at you, so entranced by whatever it is he’s seeing to look away.

A fluffy tail sways unevenly behind him and touches your leg on occasion, almost like it’s trying to curl around you, prickling and eager. Every part of him gravitates to you. You’re the ground beneath his feet. Fertile land.

“And you’re all mine, okay? Nobody else’s. I want you to wear my scent- to carry me with you no matter where you go. You have to promise me you will- mmph- That sound good-?

“C-Caleb—“

You groan when he stuffs himself deeper inside and you swear you feel his length throb inside your walls, stretching. The veins running along his shaft carve out a new pathway in you, one special and just for him, as his balls- heavy and fat, with a hell of a lot to give- slap against your ass. Slick oozes out from the squelching seam of you, coating his thick cock but you still struggle to accomodate his size despite the lubrication.

He’s made to make you feel as if you’re losing your mind. You snatch your jaw with your own hand to keep the flurry of high-pitched sounds from spilling out lest they embarrass you, but he shoos it away and cuffs your wrists with a hand splayed over them.

“Nah- I wanna hear you, baby. You can’t keep holdin’ out on me like this... I’m giving you my all right now, so it should be pretty obvious that you can do the same, yeah?”

A mewl punches out from your lungs half a second later and he seems quite contented at that. He sighs, closing his eyes, saying,

“I’ve been good all along. Can’t you play the part, too? I just want you to see how much I really love you,” his confession is by no means considered casual what with the passion in which its conveyed, but you can’t help but feel it’s a little sudden, said a little too quickly, and you wonder if he means what he says or if the rut is responsible for all these novel, amorous feelings in him.

I mean, he’s probably too wrapped up in the moment to even contemplate his own admissions as they all spew out—

“Caleb, too big—“ you gasp, cutting him off, and he lets out a strangled kind of noise when your walls clamp around him.

Holyfuck holyfuck holyfuck do it again, he wants to say, suffocate me, but nothing comes out and he realizes after a long second that his vision has whited completely. He can’t see anything; he’s in a fuzzy, dazzling world with the blinders on and all he can smell and feel is you- your scent, sugar sweet and about as inviting as a barstool pulled out, envelopes him and he can’t breathe. Can’t speak.

He fucks into you with reckless abandon, huffs you in like it’s his final breaths, and then lets it all go without care for anything else. Far as he’s concerned, everything he knows is defined by you. This is a give and take relationship: he actually gives a damn about your opinion of him and takes all you have to offer.

He’s in love, puppyish and clumsy but fuck you lead the way and lead him on.

“Shh, I know,” he rasps out, steaming up your neck like a fogged window pane as he insinuates himself there. Your whole body feels like a furnace, burning up for him as he opens you up and tucks himself inside.

“I know it’s big, but you gotta be ready for-“ he clips his sentence short, thinking better of it.

He wants to warn you of his impending knot- the one that’ll no doubt leave you yelping and writhing away from him- you certainly deserve as much of a foreword to it, but part of him is just so terrified you’ll reject him or deny him the priviledge of shoving it inside you and fuck he can’t have that.

Caleb’s nothing if not loyal. He’s also nothing if not selfish. That’s always been a wriggling bug he’s tried to stomp out but it remains in the baser part of him, only amplified by the intense rut that came right out of the blue.

He wants you singing his name and bonded to him (or as much of a bond the two of you can form), and so that’s what he’ll get.

He’ll apologize later, and you will forgive him. So all’s fine.

“Y-You can take it,” is the simpler thing he settles on, and you let it pass, because between the fat cockhead splitting you apart deliciously and the sweet, somewhat perturbing nothings he gushes at your ear, you’re deaf to most of everything.

But when you come- unexpected and sharp, overwhelming your senses as your hips ruck up and he has to pin you down in place and ride it out with you as you cream around him- the scream you let out rings in your ears and so does his ferocious grunt. It’s loud and you’re so numb as seconds pass that feel like eons; pointed teeth teasing at the squishy chunk of your shoulder, invoking a buried sense of alarm.

And then he’s biting down hard- not just nipping- the pleasure thankfully driving off the pain as he ploughs inside, muffling a string of curses as he picks up his pace. Caleb gets sloppier and sloppier and then he’s burning white-hot inside you and moaning like a pornstar, pelvis juddering as he comes.

“Mmh- f-fuck- Good girl!” he rewards with half a brain, fucked out into perfect oblivion, and for a second you wonder why his voice sounds more meant for comfort than praise- until you expect him to pull out but he doesn’t, something big and round forming at the base of his cock that has his eyes fluttering back as it pops in. He goes boneless on top of you as every limb of yours stiffens and coils around his broad back.

You scream his name. He shivers.

It feels enough to shatter your mind- the pain searing you, but the ghost of pleasure that creeps up along your nervous system makes you go like jelly beneath him, helpless to whatever he’s got planned for you.

“C-Caleb, you-!”

“Yeah, a bad dog, a bad dog,” he stammers, whimpering at your earlobe, “I know, baby, I know. Just- don’t shut me out, okay? I- It’ll be over soon, just- ah- loosen up around it, okay? It’ll feel so much better that way. Just… hold on to me.”

“I-It hurts-!”

“Ngh, shhh…” He trembles out, shifting to sample a broken mewl from your lips, cupping your jaw with all the love in the world and staring at you as if you told the sun to rise this morning. “Be a good girl and take it, mm? Your pussy’s squeezing me so tight, I think she wants it too, but she has to relax a little first, yeah? Mm… I could give you a whole litter of pups. Give your Gran a bunch of cute lil granbabies to drive her crazy.”

You choke on your own spit, the brunet letting out a near delirious chuckle at the idea and your reaction to it before his brow gives a wince, your walls instinctively trying to push his swollen knot out.

“Wha- Caleb, is that even-?”

“I don’t know,” he kisses your forehead tenderly, his tail giving a heavy, excited thump behind him on the bed as you grab the sheets for dear life and they wrinkle, pinched like your conflicted expression.

“But I’ve been dyin’ to try it out for myself.”

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