Eli's tongue traced the ridge of Mark's cock like he was memorizing it—every vein, every twitch, every salt-bitter bead of precum that bloomed against his lips. His blue eyes stayed locked on Mark's yellow ones, watching the way they darkened, watching the crack form in that perfect panther composure. The weight of it on his tongue felt like a secret he was learning to keep. Mark's claws scraped lightly against his scalp, not quite pressure, not quite promise, and the sound he made—low, rough, almost wounded—sent heat pooling low in Eli's belly.

"You're learning," Mark muttered, and Eli felt the words vibrate through him like a struck chord.

He hummed around the cock in his mouth, a low, pleased sound that he felt more than heard, and Mark's hips jerked—involuntary, unguarded. That tiny loss of control was worth more than any praise. Eli's hands found Mark's thighs, felt the tremor running through them like current through a wire, and he pulled off just enough to let the cool air hit the slick heat of Mark's cock before he whispered, "I want to be good for you."

He sank down again, taking Mark deeper than before, letting his throat relax, letting himself be filled. Mark's head fell back against the wall with a groan that sounded almost like a prayer, and Eli felt something bloom in his chest—not just arousal, but pride. He was doing this. He was making the unshakable panther shake.

Then Mark's hands gripped his skull—not gentle, not asking—and moved his head fast on his cock. Eli's eyes watered, his throat working, but he didn't pull away. He couldn't. The roughness was what he wanted, what he'd come back for, what he'd promised to stay for. Mark's hips thrust up to meet his mouth, once, twice, and then—a final, driving thrust that buried him deep in Eli's throat. Mark's cum flooded his mouth, thick and hot, and Eli swallowed, and swallowed, and swallowed, until some spilled past his lips and dripped down his chin.

Mark pulled him off, and Eli gasped, chest heaving, spit and cum smeared across his muzzle. He looked up through wet lashes, expecting tenderness, expecting the soft aftercare he'd learned to crave. Instead he saw Mark's eyes—dark, hungry, not done with him.

"On your hands and knees," Mark said, and it wasn't a request.

Eli's body moved before his mind caught up, turning, presenting, his knees sinking into the cheap mattress. He heard the rustle of Mark shifting behind him, felt the panther's scarred chest press against his back, and then Mark's cock—still slick with spit and cum—pushed into him in one brutal, merciless thrust. Eli cried out, claws scrabbling at the sheets. There was no preparation, no gentleness, just Mark's weight and Mark's heat and Mark's cock driving into him like he was trying to prove something.

"Please," Eli gasped, but he didn't know what he was asking for. "Please, Daddy—"

Mark didn't slow. He fucked him hard, without mercy, each thrust punching the air from Eli's lungs. The headboard slammed against the wall. The springs screamed. Eli's vision blurred, white-hot pleasure and sharp-edged pain braided together until he couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. "Take it," Mark growled against his ear, claws digging into his hips. "Take all of it. You wanted to be good for me, didn't you?" Eli sobbed, his body shaking, his cock hard and leaking against his belly. He'd begged for this—begged to come back, begged to stay, begged for Daddy to use him. But now, with Mark's cock splitting him open and no end in sight, he felt the word rising in his throat like a stone he couldn't swallow.

"Please," he whispered, broken and small. "Please stop. I can't—I can't—"

Mark froze. The sudden stillness was almost worse than the pounding rhythm. Eli felt Mark's cock twitch inside him, felt the panther's breath ragged against his neck, and then—slowly, carefully—Mark pulled out. The emptiness ached. Eli collapsed onto the mattress, trembling, his body wrecked and raw, and he heard Mark's voice, rough and uncertain, cut through the ringing silence. "Hey. Hey, look at me."

Eli's breath caught in his throat when the claws that had been digging into his hips relaxed—not pulling away, not retreating, but softening, spreading, tracing a slow line up his spine like a question being asked in a language his body already knew how to answer.

The contrast undid him. Moments ago those same claws had been anchors of possession, holding him down, claiming him. Now they moved like water, like apology, like something Mark didn't have words for but was trying to say with his hands instead. Eli's trembling eased by a fraction, then another, each pass of those blunt claws over his fur a small unraveling of the tension coiled in his shoulders.

He kept his face buried in the mattress, ashamed of the tears he could feel drying on his cheeks, ashamed of how small he'd made himself. But Mark didn't speak, didn't demand he look up—just kept tracing that line down his spine, over each vertebra, until the touch came to rest at the small of his back, warm and steady and impossibly gentle.

A sound escaped Eli's throat—not a whimper, not a sob, but something in between, something he'd never heard himself make before. His body was still shaking, still raw, still aching where Mark had been inside him, but the emptiness didn't feel like abandonment anymore. It felt like space being made for something else, something he couldn't name yet.

He turned his head just enough to see Mark's face over his shoulder. The panther's expression had shifted—the hunger was still there, banked like coals, but beneath it was something Eli hadn't expected. Something that looked almost like fear.

"I'm sorry," Mark said, his voice rough, scraped raw. "I got carried away. I should've—" He stopped, jaw working, and Eli watched him struggle for words, watched the unshakable panther fumble for something he didn't have a script for.

He's scared too, Eli realized, and the thought landed like a stone in still water, rippling outward. The big, scarred panther who had fucked him without mercy, who had growled commands and taken what he wanted—he was scared. Scared of what? Of Eli leaving? Of having pushed too far?

Eli's hand found Mark's where it rested on his back. His fingers were still trembling, but he laced them through Mark's anyway, feeling the rough texture of old scars against his palm. He didn't speak. He didn't know the words yet. But he held on, and he felt Mark's breath hitch, felt the panther's massive frame go still, then slowly, carefully relax.

"Daddy," Eli whispered, the word barely a breath against the mattress. He felt Mark's claws twitch against his skin, felt the heat of that single syllable hang between them like a held breath, like a door left open.