#alright so | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lucius-i-ran · 29 days ago

Text

Small towns, contrary to popular beliefs, are restless. They're not frantic. People do not rush or scurry, at least most of them; they jog, at best.

When the bell of the church's tower strikes 7:30, for instance, kids smile in their sleep and turn to cradle themselves in the coolness of their pillows, sweating off the summer's dew. So do their mothers. Their fathers huff to shave themselves squeaky clean. Some men try to suffocate themselves with the snake of their ties, others kiss their wive's foreheads, lingering press, to memorise the wrinkles on their lips and letting them keep company all the way to the office. And when the the bell of the church's tower strikes 8:30, some of those suit-pressed devils are already halfway through their paperwork, while the most melancholic of their peers stare at waves crushing down the pebbly beach, foam drowning dead clams and a hidden pearl. And before the bell of the church's tower strikes 9:30, women have already been up, for a good half hour at least. Breakfast is already plated, peaches and sweet milk, and some of grandma's canestrelli, two for each child, and coffee for the adults to indulge and wake up properly. The least affected by the summer heat have already kissed the kids goodbye and, soft shoes on, they clack the short heels on the stony streets, scanning shop's windows, fruits on display, sales and chatters.

See? Restless. But as they are small, they grow predictable and Nico, all the way from the hard seat of the counter, has memorised all of their routines by now. No one dares to even look at the shop until the clock clicks 9 sharp. Mrs. Mercenaro is the first to arrive. Every Tuesday she asks for the necessary to the best artichoke sauce - or at least, so she claims; for the longest time Mr. Saverio, shop keeper, had always gifted her couple of apples more, so Nico complies, obidient. "Sciô." Nico calls him. He had known Saverio for as long as he was old enough to stumble into his shop and buy half a kilogram of pineseeds for Sunday's pesto and even though Nico is freshly eighteen - practically an adult himself - he still can't refrain from calling him Mister. So he hollers and guide with his voice the dry old hand, to write down the day's buisness.

And when the clock clicks 9:30, sharp, or 9:34 if the bakery's window was interesting enough, it's Master Ferrando's turn. Even before the old man can make the shop's bell shriek, the paper bag's already full. Three buns of fresh oil-coated bread, a tub of mayo - and only the good Lord knows what he does with a tub of mayo everyday - and three sweet peaches for his nephew. He's a silly man, always snapping forgetful fingers to get the names out of the tip of his tongue, but he's generous. Nico likes him. After he hands him what he needs and endured a soft pinch on the cheek, Nico waits patiently for the 10:15 sharp, the banker's daughter, to take a bar of dark chocolate. Her mother nags her to watch her figure and her father laments that he could buy her the finest Perugia's chocolate. She will be back in a week, when the wrap lays empty but she remembers only eating half of it.

But somewhere, somewhen between 9:45 and 10 o'clock, the bell sounds a dissonant note in Nico's swiss clock. Before raising his eyes to face the anomaly, he spares a quick glance to the calendar. No birthdays missed. Today marks Saint Egidio's martyrdom but, unless a baby has been blessed with the name that very day - which Nico, as the whole town, would know in a matter of seconds - no one's coming to claim any dry biscuits and sweet wine to celebrate. And the Ricci's anniversary is not to be drinked to until a week from now. Eyes skims some more to meet Sciô Saverio's, who is looking at the stranger just as puzzled, if not even more. Meaning: situation might be dire. Nico only sees him when he finally reaches the counter.

"Buongiorno," He says, unsure, meeting Nico's eyes and then not.

The sight is blissful, so much in fact that the only hand to keep Nico's soul on ground, is the urge to register how sweetly he said so, like no one in that town had. It had the softest 'b', snapping mellow on the plump lips, growing upon half of the word, bridging right to the 'n'. Nico hears the caress of the overly curled 'r', soft on the shell of his ear, and he traces every closed 'o', resounding it on every crevice of his brain. It's the most honeyed greeting a person can convey. Although, that might be an angel, not a person at all. His sounds are too silvertoned, his coils too aureate, his features too cherubic. Nico grows stunned, and while his own mouth hangs agape, he observes the boy's move to try and curl in the next right word.

"English?" Is all that Nico can manage in his haze. He sees how the man's shoulder slowly untangle and the sun starts to shine again in his cornflowers fields.

"Thank you." He nods, releasing all his knots in a chuckle. "I don't think I would've survived the embarrassment of butchering another word." And thank God for grandpa's letters from D.C. because this boy talks fast. Had Nico been just a tad less experienced and he would've struggled to run after his words.

"America?" Nico smiles, or tries without looking too much like a cod.

"Texas." The boy nods again.

"What brings you all the way here from the States?"

The boy's mouth coils upwards and his head cocks to the right with amusment, then it morphs slowly in a poorly masked somber. "I'm here with my dad for the summer. He says that you haven't lived until you've seen Italy's beaches."

"You don't sound happy," Nico furrows his brows. "You don't like it here?"

"No!" The boy hurries to lift his hands in defence. "I've seen very little of the town and I can already tell," he sighs. "It's lovely." Then he raises his shoulders. "Just homesick, I guess."

Nico feel all the snotty tears running on his face, the sleepless nights in D.C., how he would howl and shriek for poor 'Papà' left behind on the lonely town's beaches, when work would tie him down one or two nights longer to the Roman's land, not even realising that, hadn't it been for mamma, his papà would've kissed them goodbye almost immediately. Nico nods, understanding.

There's a scratchy voice that rattles him out of his mind. "Nico, l'orologio." It says. And the clock says: 10:08. The banker's daughter surely has already stepped out of the white mahogany doors.

"I'm afraid we can't chat any longer, not right now at least. Were you looking for something?" Nico almost cries, suffers from the thought of not looking at that piece of heaven anymore. He was getting used to the sight.

"Oh, uhm, just sugar."

"How many grams?"

The boy hums, stumped. "I, uhm-- Just enough to last us a week?" He lets two coins tin on the hard wood counter, one silver and one golden. "This is what I have."

Nico smiles and take the silver one, rings and hands him change. His chest scoffs in a summersault and a laugh, endeared to say the very least, as he weighs and watches the pearly sand fall from the scoop to the bag.

"You know," The boy starts and rocks a little on his heels. "You people talk better than I thought."

Nico lets the bag fall onto the counter with a thump and holds it tight in his fingers. "What do you mean?" He spells out.

"I mean," the boy stops rocking. He senses something it's not right. He bits his tongue, probably trying to cut it off before he can say something silly again. "It's a pretty small town in Italy. I-- I thought you'd be, you know-"

"Ignorant."

"No! It's just," The boy looks around like the answer is writting on the scale or maybe on the wood shelves. "It's a pretty remote town, maybe you don't get a lot of tourists or, I don't know--"

"No need for tourists, english is taught here." Nico basically slams the adhesive shop's logo to secure the sugar. "I expected a little less vanity from someone that didn't even bother to learn how to greet properly." He slides with care and strenght the bag. "Cinquecento grammi di zucchero! " He shouts to Saverio and turns right back to the rude American boy, cheek bit and jaw clenched "Five hundred grams. It'll last you a month. Good day."

Nico feels the stranger's gaze searching for him, but he's already gone to fiddle with something on the register, trying to look busy. Anything to keep him from falling into those deep sapphire mines. "Sorry." He hears him whisper and drag the slight leather heels away, so slump they're almost scratching on the floor. Only when he hears the bell ring again in a goodbye, Nico turns. He sees him look one way and the other to cross the street. He sees how his curls sways with the same rhythm of his hips and how the too tight shirt warps on the hollows of his back muscles, how the too short hem doesn't cover his dimples of Venus. How little effort he puts into being so strikingly heavenly. How, even in sorrow, his eyes look so seraphic when they turn to him again.

"Sei un deficiente." Saverio huffs.

Nico's head darts to follow the voice, behind shelves and a pretty thin wall. Saverio can't see him now, as he's currently too busy trying to was away ink from his hands with a cloth, but Nico is shooting a glance that would make an angry child pale. "Quando mai." He scratches in retort.

"E invece si," Saverio chuckles. "Prima ti incazzi, poi gli guardi il culo." He leans on the desk so he can meet his eyes better. "Ridicolo."

53 notes · View notes

syluses · 3 months ago

Text

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.”

5K notes · View notes