#hate that i loved you

[lihhelsing]

Hate That I Loved You

Now complete on AO3!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 ↓ | Part 5 | Part 6

Despite Eddie's wishes, everything just keeps on moving.

In a way, it's a little comforting to know that no matter how badly Eddie fucks up, life keeps going. It kept going when Lou almost broke him, it kept going every time he dumped someone or got dumped. It kept going when his mom passed away in the middle of the European leg of their tour. 

It kept moving when he and Steve stopped walking in the same direction. 

Eddie sits in his dressing room, waiting for his make-up to be finished. He barely slept during the night, a mix of anxiousness and fear of whatever was to come.

Eddie wants to talk to Steve and clear the air and explain that what he had seen the night before wasn't what he thought it was. There's nothing between him and Lou. Not anymore. 

It's not like he thinks Steve still wants something with him. He's not delusional or anything, knows Steve is doing this only as a favor to him and nothing more. But he's done hurting Steve, needs to put an end to all this once and for all. 

There was no time in between the band finishing up their part of the music video at around 3am and the super early call time they all had for the last day of shooting. When he got there, Eddie got dragged to wardrobe and make-up and had no time to even look for Steve.

He hoped Steve hadn't bailed because of whatever it was that he thought he saw last night, but if he had, they would most likely know by now. Probably. 

But to be completely honest, Eddie doesn't even realize he's holding his breath in anticipation until the moment he lay eyes on Steve again. 

Eddie gets into the studio all ready for the shooting. His clothes are a perfect match to what he used to wear back then, right before Corroded Coffin made it big. A sleeveless CC shirt with ripped skinny jeans. Always black. Chains and rings and a leather jacket on top of everything. 

It feels even weirder once he gets a good look at it. The studio had been completely modified and now he can see a perfect representation of his uncle’s old trailer. The place where he made most of the music for their first album. 

The place where he fell in love with Steve.

But now that Eddie is really looking at it, he can see only half of the trailer. The other half is actually the recording studio where they had made their first album. 

Half and half, torn in the middle, just like Eddie had been back then. Unable to choose between life with Steve and the band. 

Whenever Eddie was with Steve, his brain was thinking music and lyrics and chords. He itched to put his hands on a guitar, to take notes, to write. 

Then, when he was with the band, he kept thinking about Steve, missing him, missing his touch and his kiss and-

“Hey,” Steve’s voice sounds unsure, like he had tried getting Eddie’s attention more than once. 

“Hi. Sorry, it’s… Weird being back here,” Eddie says and Steve gives him a soft smile which… Don't seem like a bad thing.

“Yeah. Brings back a lot of memories,” Steve agrees and motions forward as if he’s going to touch Eddie’s arm. 

But then the director is calling their names and asking if they are ready and Steve drops his hand, turning away from him. 

“Can we, uh, talk? After? I really wanted to explain what you saw yesterday.” 

Steve shakes his head. “You don’t owe me an explanation, Eddie.” 

“No, I know. But I want to. If you… Please?” 

Steve looks over at him and there’s this unreadable thing about his expression that tugs at Eddie’s heart. He needs him to say yes. Needs him to listen to him. He needs to still have a chance. 

“Yeah, ok,” Steve says finally and Eddie can barely react before they are being directed to their places for the shoot. 

They have both the places that tore Eddie apart, and they are separated by a thick glass. Steve is standing on one side, a symbol of Eddie’s past life, the one he left behind when he started to pursue a life in music. 

The other is all his dreams coming true. Everything that he ever wanted becoming real. Back then, Eddie thought Steve didn’t fit in it. Steve didn’t feel he fit in. He never made Eddie choose, but soon it became clear Eddie wouldn’t be able to balance the two things at the same time for long.

He’d be away too much. And Steve needed him near. Wanted him there and Eddie wasn’t there. They fought, screamed at each other out of frustration and heartbreak. 

Eddie wanted to stay and he knew he needed to leave, but he only found courage to do it when Steve told him he didn’t see a future for them, that Eddie should put his chips on something more certain. 

He realized that day he would never be enough for Steve. He was splitting himself in half for him, trying to make everyone happy, and even then he was failing. Couldn't get things right.

The day he walked away, Eddie felt like his heart was going to give in. And he feels that way again as he looks into Steve’s eyes and sings how he hates that he loved him. 

There's this glass in between them and Eddie can't get through. No matter how loud he sings, no matter how much he tries, he can't have it all. He starts to wonder how much different his life would be if he had bet on his relationship with Steve. 

Wonders if he would've been happy with any other job. Maybe he would have become a music teacher somewhere. Have a white picket fence house with three cats and Steve. Maybe that would've been enough for him. 

Or maybe he'd resent Steve, like he always said he would. Every time Eddie missed something related to the band because Steve, he said that. Like Eddie couldn't make his own decisions. 

He knocks on the glass as Steve walks around the trailer with his back to Eddie. He wants to reach him, but he can't, and suddenly there's this suffocating need to tell him everything. To tell Steve how he feels. 

It's not past tense. His feelings for Steve never went anywhere, always there, always alive. He needs him to know. Even if Steve doesn't feel the same anymore, he's sure Steve has moved on from their thing a long time ago. He just needs him to know. 

Maybe back then it wasn't time for him and Steve, but maybe now it can be.

[jue-jack]

Kirby is a star!!!

[mochasucculent]

Dumb thing that would not leave my brain

[wheelie-sick]

"oh, I live in a desert and-"

"wow that must be so terrible" "deserts are so ugly" "I would never want to live in a wasteland like that" "it's just empty nothingness"

wishing 10,000 exploding hammers upon you

behold New Mexico

[ID 1: tall, snowcapped rocky mountains rising above a plain filled with desert scrub

ID 2: brightly colored banded cliff walls of several mesas climbing their way into mountains

ID 3: a desert prairie

ID 4: colorful hoodoos against a twilight sky

ID 5: white sand dunes as far as the eye can see

ID 6: a collection of hoodoos against a stormy sky at sunset

ID 7: a juniper tree standing with a cliff wall in the background

ID 8: several juniper trees on a rocky landscape]

[scionsthings]

Rewatching Arcane

[niclepto]

Mel medarda

[dragoncarrion]

Fucking hate ai bitches this shit is poisoning my search results just like that tumblr baby crow post fuck y'all for real

[catmask]

hey guys when you say something is for the johto starters can you include me in that as well? the johto starters and tepig if it's not too much trouble thanks guys

[cloudyydraws]

UY! PHILIPPINES!!!! PHILIPPINES!!!!

[prouvaireafterdark]

listen I know it's heartbreaking that Claudia dies and it's understandable to wish she didn't, but let's please not accuse the writers of fridging her. to do so is a fundamental misunderstanding of the story and is frankly insulting to the intelligence and skill of the writers of the show.

Claudia's death, and the overwhelming grief and regret her parents experience because of it, is quite literally the point of the entire story. she dies because Anne's daughter Michele died of leukemia when she was five years old and there was nothing she or her husband could do to prevent it.

writing IWTV was how Anne coped with the unimaginable loss of a parent losing her child. she created a story about a little girl that could not die and then killed her anyway. Claudia's death is a senseless, unavoidable tragedy, just like Michele's was. the grief that haunts Louis and Lestat for the rest of their lives is the same grief that haunted Anne and her husband.

so when you're accusing people of killing Claudia off to benefit a story about two men, please remember that in real life sometimes parents lose their children. please remember Michele Rice.

she's the reason Claudia exists.

she's also the reason Claudia cannot be saved.

[lihhelsing]

Hate That I Loved You

Now complete on AO3!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 ↓

"Are you nervous?" Chrissy asks him as she fixes his hair inside the limo. Eddie smiles tightly at her. 

"No."

She rolls her eyes and Eddie lets out a long breath. 

"A little."

"Don't be," she says and Eddie is the one rolling his eyes now.

"Wow, Chris. Very helpful."

She pats his face affectionately. "Seriously, it's going to be fine. The music video is going to be a success, you're getting another grammy nomination and you're probably going to become the most insufferable person on earth."

Eddie lets his head falls back and closes his eyes, trying to get enough air in his lungs. The car feels stuffed and hot and-

"Hey. Just breathe," Chrissy says. She places her soft hand on his shoulder, but it's not the same. The voice is wrong and the touch is wrong and everything is just…

"I'm fine," he says and Chrissy frowns because she doesn't believe him, but she knows better than to fight him over it. 

"What are you worried about?"

"What I'm not worried about? I'm worried everyone will hate the video, I'm worried Lou is going to show up here even though I explicitly told him not to. I'm worried people will hate the music, say it's too much."

Chrissy doesn't seem fazed by any of that. "The song is not too much, the music video is perfect, we already ran pre-tests and everyone loves it, Lou is not getting anywhere near this place tonight and all security is aware of him and with clear instructions to get rid of him right away. Now. What's really worrying you?"

Fuck. "What if he shows up?"

"Lou is not-"

"Not Lou. Steve. What if Steve shows up?"

"Don't you want him to?"

Eddie opens his eyes and almost laugh at how confused Chrissy is looking right now. He's such a mess. 

"I don't know. I want him to. I miss him. I invited him. But he hasn't responded and I'm not sure if it will be worse if he shows up or if he doesn't."

Chrissy smiles then, and Eddie doesn't get it. It's not something nice or sweet. Eddie fucked up again, even when he said he wouldn't. He cleared the air with Steve. Apologized for being a jackass when they were together. 

Then Steve said he was happy, and Eddie couldn't possibly risk that. He couldn't risk going back into Steve's life knowing he could ruin everything again. So he took a step back, watched him as Steve noticed the change and he let him fucking leave. 

At least, this time, Steve was the one that left. It was all on him and if he also wasn't sure, if he was happy just how he was, then Eddie was glad he didn't mess it up. 

"Ok, here's the deal. You can't control whether or not Steve shows up. But you can control everything else. You can get out there and have a killer launching party. You can read the awesome speech I wrote to you and you can have fun with your band. If Steve doesn't show, then you probably have your answer."

"What if he shows up?" Eddie asks, hand pulling at a strand of hair anxiously. 

Chrissy bats his hand away. "Then you'll also have your answer, sweetie."

"But, like… What do I do, Chris?"

"You don't let him leave this time, dumbass."

Easier said than done. 

-

As soon as he steps into the red carpet, Eddie is a new man. He's still nervous, of course, but it's easier to put on the mask of rockstar Eddie who doesn't really care about anything when all those people are watching. 

He answers a couple of questions, takes a lot of pictures and moves along, waving at some fans that are standing outside and promising to come talk to them once the event is over. 

He walks straight on, doesn't look back. He sees the boys already there, standing at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for him so they can all go inside together. The place is amazing, there's food and drinks and everyone that's anyone is there. 

Eddie is ready. And then. Then he is not. 

"Eddie?"

He whips his head around. Wishes he could stop meeting Steve like that. Wishes he could prepare himself for the blow that it is to see him. 

He's beautiful. Looks like a dream in a fitted suit. 

But he's fidgeting with his hands, eyes a little glassy. He's nervous, looks like he's holding his breath while Eddie doesn't answer him, just stares, dumbfounded. 

Right. He needs to answer him. 

"Steve, hey," Very eloquent. "I'm… Surprised to see you here."

Steve flinches visibly and Eddie needs to keep his damn mouth shut. Before Steve can say anything or give him an excuse to bolt out of there, Eddie takes the steps he needs to get to him. 

Then, his voice is nothing more than a whisper. 

"I'm glad to see you here."

Steve blinks and his expression softens. 

"Thanks for inviting me. It means…" Steve trails off, his words getting lost somewhere between Eddie and all those people around them.

Eddie can see flashes going out and there's a part of his brain reminding him they are in public. He grabs Steve's hand. 

"Wanna get out of here?"

Steve looks taken aback. "You mean, go inside? Yeah, sure, I think we-"

"No, I mean get out of here. My car is still outside, I can take us anywhere."

It takes a second for Steve to process what Eddie is saying. He squeezes his hand and nods his head. 

"Yeah, ok."

Then, they are off, hands linked together as Eddie pulls Steve in the opposite direction of everyone that's getting on the red carpet. There's still flashes going off and he hears people calling his name but the only thing he cares right now is the feeling of Steve's hand on his and the certainty he's not going to let him leave again. 

-

The light of his phone illuminates the inside of the limo. Everything is quiet, Steve is pressed up on his side even though there's all this space inside the car. He reads Chrissy's messages that he's been ignoring for the past five minutes. 

'Where are you?'

'Eddie, seriously!! Pick up the damn phone!!'

'People are saying you left!!! where the fuck are you?'

His fingers are hovering over the keyboard when a new message comes in, the loud sound echoing through the silence. 

'that times photographer said you left with a mysterious man so either this is Steve and you're fixing things and I'm giving you a pass or you can get your skinny ass back here because you won't miss this premiere for a random hookup'

'just warn a girl next time! and use protection!'

Eddie locks his phone with a loud groan, and Steve chuckles beside him. 

"Everything ok?"

"Yeah, Chrissy is just about to kick my ass when I see her again, but it's fine."

"We can go back," Steve offers and Eddie finally looks at him. The lights come and go as the car moves and Steve's eyes are still shining. 

"I don't want to go back," Eddie says and then, "I want to be here with you."

For some reason, that seems to be enough for Steve to snuggle a little closer to him. They don't talk much during the rest of the drive, but all Eddie can feel is how right everything is. 

- 

His house is big. He knows that, objectively. He doesn't even care that much, he mostly just likes that he has space for all his instruments, has a small studio for when he's feeling restless and enough space for the band to hang out and crash whenever they feel like it. 

He likes it because it feels like home, but the wide-eyed expression Steve is giving the house right now also makes him feel a little self conscious. He knows Steve doesn't care about that stuff, but it's weird to know Steve knew his uncle's trailer and now is seeing this. 

It makes him afraid Steve won't see him as the same person anymore. 

Eddie takes a deep breath and tugs Steve's hand until they are moving again, walking inside the house. He doesn't have a plan, doesn't even know why he brought Steve back to his place because if this is Steve letting him down easy, it's about to get really awkward. 

"Want something to drink?" he offers, hand still curled around Steve's, doesn't know if he knows how to let go. 

Steve shakes his head, eyes the couch and it's crystal clear. He wants to get this over with. Eddie can understand that. 

"Ok, so…" Eddie says when they are sitting down. They aren't holding hands anymore and Eddie misses it.

"Let me talk," Steve says in one breath. Eddie is a little surprised. "Can I go first? I just…"

"Yeah. yeah. Ok"

Steve flexes his fingers and bites his lower lip. 

"Ok," he says, resting his hand on the couch. Not touching. Is that a sign? Are things about to go badly between them? "You hurt me."

Ouch. Eddie flinches even though Steve's expression remains soft. His words are harsh. 

"I'm sorry, Ste-"

"I'm talking."

"Oh. Sorry. Go ahead."

"You hurt me. Back then, when you left. And then last month, when I flew across the country for you and you pulled back. I don't… I can't take it anymore, Eddie. I don't think I can handle getting hurt by you again."

Steve closes his eyes. When he opens them again, they are a little glassy like he's about to cry. Fuck. Eddie is not doing too good himself, and this is worse than he imagined. 

"But I also don't know if I can let this go. Let you go. It feels like we keep missing each other and doing things the wrong way and I don't want to do anything wrong anymore. I want things to be right and I want you."

Eddie blinks as Steve's words sink into him. He's not sure what he's supposed to be feeling but there's something shaped like hope trying to emerge from inside of him. He wants to grab it and keep it. 

"Steve, what are you-"

"I'm not done," Steve says and Eddie shuts his mouth. "I gave you the benefit of the doubt, you know? You pulled back after the shoot and I figured you were overwhelmed. Tired. Sad. Your jackass ex was there, you had to shoot for three days straight and the song is really heavy I just… I made excuses for you but I need to know, Eddie, because it's killing me."

There's a long silence before Eddie realizes Steve wants him to talk. 

"Sorry. I-"

"Stop saying sorry."

"Sor-. Shit. I mean… Fuck, Steve."

Steve keeps his face neutral as Eddie struggles over everything. He doesn't understand what Steve is saying and he's afraid to think it's what he wants because he never gets what he wants. Not when it comes to love. 

"You pulled back. You made me leave because it would make you feel better, to think this was my choice, but it was never my choice. It wasn't my choice when you left all those years ago, and it wasn't my choice last month. I would never choose to leave you, Eddie. Don't you see it?"

"But I keep hurting you!" he says because it doesn't make any sense. Steve shouldn't want anything to do with him. 

"And I keep coming back because I fucking love you and I hate that I love you. Still. After everything."

Eddie's heart is almost beating out of his chest and when Steve looks away from him, it breaks a little. He moves on the couch, closer to him, and his hand finds Steve's chin so he can tilt it in his direction. So he can look him in the eyes when he says what he needs to say. 

"Steve. Fuck. I know you don't want to hear it but I'm sorry. I'm sorry that my egotistical ass hurt you. I'm sorry that I made you think you needed to leave and I'm sorry I left you. That was the last thing I wanted. I wanted you more than anything. More than music and fame and whatever. Things only make sense if you're here and when you showed up for the shoot… That's when I realized it. I need you. I love you. I'm sorry it took me this long to realize I never stopped loving you. Please, please tell me I can still fix this."

Steve blinks quickly, his eyes are a little wet and Eddie wants to run but he can't. Even if Steve tells him to go fuck himself, he owes it to him to sit there and take it. 

But instead of cursing him or pushing him away, Steve nods. It's almost imperceptible, but it's there. 

Eddie feels like floating away. "Can I kiss you?"

Steve nods again and Eddie feels like he's moving in slow motion. His hand cups Steve's jaw and pulls him in until their breaths are mixed. He's eager for the kiss but he wants to memorize everything about this. About Steve. 

How he closes his eyes and his eyelashes glow with the tears he was holding back. How he opens his mouth a little and licks his lips, waiting. How his hand grips the couch hard, as if he needs something to keep him grounded. 

Eddie's free hand finds his waist and pulls him until Steve is almost on top of him. He pushes his hair back, counts every freckle on his face and wonders how he lived without him for so long. 

Never again. 

Eddie dips in, lips brushing Steve's and heart hammering in his chest. The kiss is slow, sweet, soft, but it kicks in his muscle memory and soon he's giving Steve what he wants. Just how he liked it. His hand finds the hem of his shirt and he touches warm skin, hopes Steve will let him take them to the bedroom later. 

For now, he kisses him, and Steve kisses him back.

[s0up1ta]

"so grunkle ford how do you know bill?"

"... that's not important."

[raffi-cat]

red crowned crane grian

[calebrity]

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.”

[lotus-pear]

nothing can best the bond between a boy and his cat (ref)

[inkskinned]

this is just my opinion but i think any good media needs obsession behind it. it needs passion, the kind of passion that's no longer "gentle scented candle" and is now "oh shit the house caught on fire". it needs a creator that's biting the floorboards and gnawing the story off their skin. creators are supposed to be wild animals. they are supposed to want to tell a story with the ferocity of eating a good stone fruit while standing over the sink. the same protective, strange instinct as being 7 and making mud potions in pink teacups: you gotta get weird with it.

good media needs unhinged, googling-at-midnight kind of energy. it needs "what kind of seams are invented on this planet" energy and "im just gonna trust the audience to roll with me about this" energy. it needs one person (at least) screaming into the void with so much drive and energy that it forces the story to be real.

sometimes people are baffled when fanfic has some stunning jaw-dropping tattoo-it-on-you lines. and i'm like - well, i don't go here, but that makes sense to me. of fucking course people who have this amount of passion are going to create something good. they moved from a place of genuine love and enjoyment.

so yeah, duh! saturday cartoons have banger lines. random street art is sometimes the most precious heart-wrenching shit you've ever seen. someone singing on tiktok ends up creating your next favorite song. youtubers are giving us 5 hours of carefully researched content. all of this is the impossible equation to latestage capitalism. like, you can't force something to be good. AI cannot make it good. no amount of focus-group testing or market research. what makes a story worth listening to is that someone cares so much about telling it - through dance, art, music, whatever it takes - that they are just a little unhinged about it.

one time my friend told me he stayed up all night researching how many ways there are to peel an orange. he wrote me a poem that made me cry on public transportation. the love came through it like pith, you know? the words all came apart in my hands. it tasted like breakfast.