#pupplyleb

"Hey, pipsqueak, have you seen my—" Caleb comes, ambling like he does, into the bedroom, where he sees you. You're wrapped in his pilot jacket, the sleeves too long and shoulders too wide as you're practically knee deep in laundry.

"Oh... you're wearing my jacket." His voice is soft as Caleb watches you from the doorway. Other than your huge laundry load, the room is spotless, like you've been cleaning all day. You clutch his t-shirt, half-folded in your hands, a little tighter.

"Mhm... was cold while you were out." You mumble, blushing in the cheeks from his focused gaze. "Anyway," you say, finishing your folding of the shirt and putting it off to the side, "You're home early. I was gonna give it back before you came home."

Caleb's face breaks into the world's brightest grin then. "I couldn't focus." He explains. "all day, all I could think about was how much I missed you. I lied about being sick so I could rush home sooner.”

“Caleb…” the words to scold him don't come, they catch in your throat. Instead you sigh. “C’mere, baby…” Surrender.

If it's even possible, Caleb's shining smile grows even wider. He tries to come closer with impeccable control, stepping in the room slowly. It's the opposite of rushing you and knocking you onto your back against the floor like he's been itching to all day.

When he reaches where you sit on the floor, he drops to his knees in front of you with a soft thump. He's still taller than you, even like this, and you tilt your head just to look him in those big purple puppy eyes, clear as the morning sky.

You can smell the need on him and it makes you clench your fists tight as it envelops you. The warmth from his body radiates like a space heater.

“You're in heat…” you whisper, nose twitching with nervousness, your face warm. Your season has been going too— for days actually—a whirlwind of busy-ness and avoidance, and snapiness you tried to make up for with this. Cleaning, chores, homemaking, your body wash and perfume rubbing scent off onto his things.

“Mm…” He hums confirmation, forehead dropping to touch yours. “Yeah… but so are you, I can smell it everywhere, look at how twitchy you are, bunny baby.”

Your cheeks grow even hotter, and you bury your face in the crook of his neck, unable to stop yourself from sinking your teeth into the skin, just a little. The faint pressure of your teeth makes him shiver, a small moan coming from his throat. His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair holding you there.

“Good girl, just like that,” he breathes, voice rough with arousal. “Mark me. I want everyone to see.”

You release his neck, lapping over the reddened mark with a soft apologetic lick then kiss.

“I was… I was trying to be good,” you whisper against his skin, your confession tumbling out. “I cleaned everything. Folded all your things. I thought if I made everything perfect, this… this feeling… would go away.”

Caleb pulls back just enough to look at you, his purple eyes dark with understanding and sheer, unadulterated want. “It doesn’t work like that, does it, pips?” he murmurs, his thumb stroking your fever-warm cheek. “All the folding in the world doesn’t fix the ache.”

You shake your head before pulling him into you again, wrapping your arms around him. You hug him as tightly as you can inhaling deeply with your face buried in his bulky chest.

“Caleb, be a good boy, please. I need you to lie down.” You can feel the hard line of his arousal rubbing against you when you say it, the amount he's holding back just to be good for you. To let you take the lead.

A full-body shudder wracks his frame at your request, a soft, punched-out whimper escaping his throat. The sound is pure submission. He moves immediately, his large body unfolding from its kneeling position to lie back on the soft carpet amidst the piles of clean folded laundry. The scent of him—of home and want and Caleb—explodes around you, mingling with the clean linen and your apple perfume.

He looks up at you, his purple eyes hazy with devotion, his chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths. His hands rest palm-up at his sides, a gesture of utter surrender.

You crawl over him, the oversized jacket swallowing your form, the sleeves falling over your hands. You brace your hands on either side of his head, caging him in. Your hair curtains around your faces, and you see the pulse hammering in his throat, right beside the fresh, red mark you left.

"All day," you whisper, your voice low and thick with a need you're finally allowing yourself to feel. "All I could think about was your scent on this jacket. It was driving me crazy. I was folding your shirts and I just wanted to bury myself in them."

"Please," he breathes, his hands flexing, desperate to touch but refusing to break his promise of stillness. "Honey, please."

"You're my good puppy," you murmur, lowering your head to nuzzle his jaw, then his ear. "My perfect, good boy who came home to me."

You shift your weight, settling over him, and the feeling of his hardness against your core, even through the layers of fabric, makes you both gasp. His eyes screw shut, a low groan rumbling in his chest as his hips give a tiny, involuntary jerk upwards.

“Mmm…” he whimpers, eyes glazing over, hands flying up to grasp your waist.

The soft, worn cotton of his jeans and the thin fabric of your clothes together feel like such an unbearable barrier. A shaky sigh escapes you, fogging the skin of his neck.

"You're being so good for me," you praise, your voice a husky whisper. You shift again, a slow, teasing roll of your hips that has his breath catching in a ragged gasp. His hands clench into fists on the carpet, the tendons in his forearms standing out. "You don't have to be still... Touch me, please…"

His hands fly to your hips, large and warm, gripping you with a possessiveness that makes your head spin. He guides your movements, his own hips rising to meet yours in a slow, grinding rhythm that is pure, agonizing friction. The jacket slips from one of your shoulders, pooling around your elbow, but you don't care. All you can feel is him, solid and wanting beneath you.

"Look at me," he pleads, his voice strained.

You lift your head, meeting his gaze. His purple eyes are blown wide, the pupils swallowing the morning-sky color, leaving only a dark, stormy ring. They're full of so much—adoration, desperation, a love so deep it looks like pain.

"I missed you," he chokes out, the words raw and honest between panting breaths. "I miss you even when you're right here. It's so constant.”

His hands on your waist are firm and attentive, you can feel how he attempts to loosen his grip as you grind against him. "You feel that?" you whisper, breathy, "Can you feel how much I need you? It's been like a fever under my skin all day. I scrubbed the floors until they were shiny, just so I could maybe feel the burn in my muscles instead of this one.”

A sharp, sympathetic sound catches in his throat.

“Silly girl,” he whispers back to you. His voice is husky, deep with a craving only you could fill. He takes one of the hands that you have against his chest into his. He thumbs slow circles onto the back of your hand while pressing a soft apologetic kiss to your fingers.

"Let me make it better," he breathes, his voice ragged. "Let me take care of you, baby. Please.”

The hand not holding yours comes up to gently push the fallen sleeve of his jacket the rest of the way off your shoulder. The heavy fabric pools at your back, leaving you feeling both exposed and empowered, cradled in the shell of his scent.

"Take care of me how?" you ask him, your voice barely there. You’re still moving against him, that slow winding press that has him biting his lower lip, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment before he forces them open to hold your gaze.

"However you need," he breathes, his thumb still stroking circles on your hand. "Let me... let me taste you. Let me worship you. You've been working so hard all day, taking care of our home. Let me take care of you… it's all I want.”

A soft, shuddering sigh escapes you, your body going pliant over his. The last vestiges of your control, the need to have everything perfect, evaporate. You nod, a barely-there dip of your chin.

"Okay," you whisper, the word a sacred permission. "Okay, Caleb. Please."

The effect is instant. A deep groan comes from his chest, and the hands on your hips still your grinding motions with gentle, but firm, pressure. He shifts beneath you.

"Let me up for a second, honey," he murmurs, his voice low and soothing against your ear. "Just for a second."

Reluctantly, you push yourself up, kneeling over him. He sits up, his eyes never leaving yours, and his hands come to the collar of the oversized jacket you wear. He doesn't rip it off, but he peels it from your shoulders with a slowness that is its own form of torture, his knuckles brushing against the sensitive skin of your neck, your collarbones. The heavy fabric falls away, pooling behind you on the floor, a nest of his scent.

He looks at you the way he's always looked at you, like you're all he's ever wanted, all he's ever wanted to want. His lashes are long and his face is flushed, his smile something close to grateful, but lustful too. His breath hitches as he sees you without the shield of his clothes.

"Beautiful," he breathes, and the word is so full of awe it aches.

His fingers move to the hem of your shirt, hooking under the soft cotton. He looks at you for one more confirmation, and you give it with another slow nod. He lifts it up and over your head, tossing it aside to join the jacket. The cool air of the room kisses your skin, but it's nothing compared to the heat of his stare and the physical warmth of him.

All the love in the world is in his careful touch on your waist, in this bright purple eyes. Your world lights up when he's near like this, and it's hard not to press your thighs together, the arousal growing embarrassingly wet, thick, and pulsing between your legs. Shallow breaths escape your nose as your heart speeds impossibly faster.

His hands are warm and slightly rough, a pilot's hands, as they skate from your waist up your spine. They push into your hair, cradling the base of your skull, and he draws you in for a kiss that is all soft, searching pressure. It’s a kiss of hello, of homecoming, of I’ve missed you with my whole being. Your lips part for him with a sigh, his tongue invading your mouth with slick ease, melting you into butter in his grasp.

He lays you back with a gentleness and restraint that shouldn't be possible with the need that is climbing up his spine and down his core. If he had a tail it would be thumping incessantly, you think. The laundry and his jacket surround you, a cloud of fabric, with hair spilling around you too.

“Have I finally died, pips? Is it all over? Did I earn heaven?” He whispers, murmuring into your neck with hot breath and sloppy kisses, suckling sweet bruises into your pliant skin. “Let me finish seeing you, n then I will ease your pain. That's all it will take to ease mine too… aren't we lucky to have each other? I couldn't imagine this any other way…”

He's still kissing your neck, then your chest, when his hand slides down your stomach. The touch is gentle but somehow still too much, making you arch pitifully into him with a softened whimper. His hand so skillfully undoes the tie of your sweats before he hooks his finger into your underwear and the pants at once, pulling them down your legs and then off of you. He tosses them away.

Then he moves, his own need so palpable you can barely look at him.

He stands just long enough to rid himself of his own clothes. His shirt is pulled over his head, revealing the familiar, well-loved landscape of his torso, all firm muscle and warm skin. His jeans and boxers follow, kicked away with a quiet urgency. He kneels between your legs again, completely bare, his arousal obvious, his body a promise of what is to come.

“Caleb…” your arms wrap around his shoulders as he cages you in with his forearms resting against the floor. The sheen of sweat over his muscle makes him glow in the afternoon light from the window, and your body is warmed by both the light and by him at once.

“I want you to put me inside, can you do that, bunny baby?”

You whimper involuntarily at his husky request, your eyes wild as you look into his. His gaze is calm but he's sweating like a fever and trembling like a plucked string. He's so good for you it hurts him, and that fact pleasures you more than you'd care to admit.

You nod, your breath coming in shallow, your hand reaching to hold the hard, thick length of his aching cock. The precum that's dripped down it is wet in your small hand. He groans at the contact, his hips jerking forward.

“Mm… fuck… m'sorry…” he pants, his eyelashes fluttering against his pretty freckled cheeks as his eyes stutter shut.

“Mm-mm, s'okay… you're… so good…” you respond to his aching apology with breathy reassurances, stroking him a couple times as you line him up with your dripping entrance. He groans, his hips bucking again, pressing the entrance impatiently with his leaking tip, eliciting a soft whimper from you once again. “Caleb… please?~”

He doesn't need you to ask him twice. One hand in your waist and then he's pushing through, inch by devastating inch, slowly, as if even now, even with you melted into his hands and begging for him, he needs to prove that he can hold back even the most extreme of his urges. When he's fully seated, his hand squeezing into your skin, he whines again, the sound helpless and grateful. And then he moves.

It's clear that he tries to start slow, pulling in and out with attentive care, your walls pulsing around him inside of you.

“God it's perfect, it's so good,” he babbles into your neck, as you arch against his strokes. Your hands chase up his biceps, and you buck your hips faster into him.

“More, I need more…”

“Mngh… k-kay, yes ma'am…” he groans, his bangs falling wildly over his eyes and brows. He drives into you faster and harder now, your hips rising to meet him but still, as good as it feels, it's not enough.

“Caleb… I need to be on top, please, let me ride you instead, babe… cmon, please,” you whine squeezing his biceps, again.

He breathes out in aroused exasperation, holding still before pulling out and bringing you closer against him. The emptiness makes your head spin, but he rolls both over before you have anything to say.

“Go on then, honey, use me as much as you need. I'm yours to take.”

And take him you do. You plunge down on top of him, frantic and overwhelmingly fast, unsheathing him, only to fill yourself with him all over again mere seconds later. Your soft wet walls are milking him as you try to hit the ache where it blooms, deep inside, the tip of him hitting your sweet spot again and again.

"Fuck.." Caleb groans, his voice higher than usual as his head throws back. His hands find your thigh as your back bracing you against each other. The lewd slap of wetness and skin against skin fills the room over and over. Sweat drips down your skin and gasps, whimpers and moans mix with the sounds of your manic coupling. The way you ride him now, it's the finest, most exquisite torture. "Mmph... b-baby it's hard to last when you-"

Your hand flies over his mouth, stopping his words in their tracks. His eyes grow wide.

"Please just wait a little while longer, you can do that can't you? For me? Yeah?"

The way his eyebrows knit together he looks like he could come right then, but still, he nods underneath your pressed palm, hopelessly devoted, committed to pleasing you. To think, he really thought that he'd be too much for you like this, and you're proving it is likely the opposite. He closes his eyes in surrender and you slowly move your hand from over his mouth.

An exasperated sound leaves Caleb's throat, strangled and desperate as your hand frees his mouth. His eyes, dark and wild, stay locked onto yours, as pressing and obedient as ever. His entire body trembles with the effort of being there for you to use.

“My best boy,”you whisper, leaning forward onto his chest, braced on your forearms. “I love…that you try so hard… help me out here.” As u push back into him with a slamming bounce, your noisy puppy of a man is heaving, shaking, his trembling hands sliding down your sweaty waist and back to slam you into him.

“Fuck…” He whines, going still before…

“God… like this? Is this what you want?” His cock slams hard against your cervix, your stomach curving with a clear bulge over and over with the ram of it, again and again… “please tell me it's—”

The next slam makes you cry out, cutting off his pleading begging for validation. Your legs shake, thumping against his straddled sides. You practically lift off of him by the force alone, collapsing off your arms, your face pressed flat onto his chest. The slamming in and out doesn't stop, but he lets out a huff of breath in victory. “Yeah?” he teases.

“Mmhm.” You whine, the perfect punching of your g-spot pushing you back into submission. “P-perfect.” You can hardly move as he fucks into, your body perfectly heavy against him.

With you collapsed and pliant against his chest, Caleb takes over completely, his control shattering into something raw and instinctual. Each drive of his body punches a sharp, breathy sound from your lungs, your face pressed into the sweat-slick hollow of his throat.

You can feel everything—the frantic hammer of his heart against your cheek, the flex and coil of his stomach muscles with every thrust, the way his hands scramble for purchase on your slick back, desperate to keep you locked against him. Each thrust punches the air out of you in forced breaths.

“Mm… taking me s-so deep,” he chokes out, and the words are broken prayer against your ear. His rhythm is relentless now, a primal, pounding beat that leaves no room for thought, only feeling. The ache that had been a constant, low hum in your core for days suddenly tightens, coiling into a sharp, impossible point of pressure.

A high, thin whine escapes you, muffled by his skin. The sound is such a helpless one, but it translates.

“Cmon, baby,” his voice is ragged and thick with the strain of holding on the edge for so long. One of his hands slides between your wet bodies, and his thumb finds the swollen and oversensitive bud of your clit, pressing in a slow, attentive circle. “Let go for me, come all over my cock, I know you're close. Please…”

A broken cry tears from your throat then as you convulse around him, your vision whiting out entirely. Your inner walls clamp around him in a series of violent milking spasms that drag a helpless roar from Caleb's chest. The sensation, alongside the naughty sounds you make as you come, is the undoing of his impeccable control.

He bucks into you once, twice, three more times, his rhythm stuttering, and then he stills, buried to the hilt. A long shuddering moan is drawn out of him as he pours into you. His release is hot and seemingly endless, his cock pulsing with it. His arms lock around you, crushing you against him as he empties himself into your welcoming heat.

For a long moment, there is only the sound of ragged breathing, the beat of two hearts hammering against each other. Slowly, carefully, Caleb slips out of you, and a mutual, oversensitive shudder runs through you both. The absence of him is a profound, hollow feeling, a temporary relief that you already know is a lie.

The frantic, buzzing need has quieted, retreating to a low, contented hum beneath your skin. You know it’s not gone. It’s just… satisfied. For now.

“It’s going to come back, you know,” you mumble into his collarbone, your voice wrecked and raw. “Probably… in a few hours. Maybe less.”

Caleb chuckles, a soft, breathless laugh beneath your ear. His hand, still tangled in your hair, strokes lazily. “I know, pipsqueak. I know it already.”

There’s a beat of comfortable silence, filled with the fading echoes of your pleasure. Then, a whisper.

“I’m sorry,” you both say at the exact same time.

You lift your head, meeting his dazed, purple eyes. A confused little smile tugs at your lips. “What are you sorry for?”

“For… I don’t know. For being so much?” he offers, his cheeks flushing. “For needing you so desperately it feels like a sickness. For probably squeezing your hips too hard.”

You shake your head, your nose brushing his. “I’m sorry for being so frantic. For biting you. And for… well, for basically using you as my personal stress-relief toy.”

His grin is immediate, bright and goofy. “You can use me anytime. Please, use me anytime you want.” He shifts, and a wince flickers across his face. “Okay, maybe after a five-minute break. And a shower. We definitely need a shower.”

The mere thought of standing feels like a monumental task. Every muscle in your body has turned to warm, liquid jelly.

“I’m not sure I can walk,” you confess, your legs feeling like they’ve been replaced with cooked noodles.

“Me neither,” he admits with a chuckle. “We’re a mess.”

Somehow, with a great deal of clumsy laughter and mutual clutching, you both manage to get to your feet. The floor seems unsteady, and you sway into each other, his arm snapping out to catch you around the waist.

“Whoa there, bunny baby.”

“S’your fault, puppy. You broke my legs.”

He leads you, both of you wobbly and clinging to one another, toward the bathroom. The air is still thick with the scent of sex and his cologne and your perfume, a heady mix that promises this is only a temporary ceasefire.

Under the spray of the shower, the silliness continues. He fumbles with the shampoo bottle, and you lean against the tiles for support, giggling as he washes your hair with an almost comical level of concentration. You return the favor, your hands sliding over his soap-slicked shoulders, and he lets out a contented sigh, his eyes closing.

It isn’t a solution. The heat, the need, the delicious, maddening cycle of it—it’s all still there, waiting just beneath the surface. But right now, clean and warm and wrapped in soft towels, stumbling back toward the nest of laundry on the floor, all that exists is this. His hand in yours. The silly, sated smiles you can’t seem to wipe off your faces.