lobe, 21. | they/she. | donaldson's sl☆t, john murphy summer fling, natalie's controversially young bf. erik's short term long distance casual boyfriend.
zuko goes absolutely fucking feral seeing you in fire nation attire. you’ve known him since you were kids, so he’s used to seeing you in water tribe clothing. but you visit him one time and decide to dress in traditional fire nation robes, and zuko goes crazy.
when you stepped into his hall, dressed like that, his brain went straight into overdrive. it gives him a certain sense of pride, seeing you in his nation’s silks. all of his professionalism goes straight out the window, and he orders everyone else out of the meeting room with a flick of his hand, his advisors scatter like squirrel mice, leaving just you and him in a huge, empty hall.
he beckons you towards him, and you slowly approach the throne. the moment you’re close enough, he grabs at your wrist, yanking you into him. he captures your lips, both his hands coming up to frame your face. your hands land in his hair, brushing through the rivers of black strands.
he twirls you around so you’re seated on the throne, and he breaks the kiss to trail pecks down the side of your neck. he reaches the junction between your neck and shoulder, digging his teeth into the skin.
“zuko— what are you—“
“my lord.” he kneels between your legs, lifting the fabric around your legs. he presses kisses up the your thighs, sucking and biting at the skin.
“zuko, get up. your robes are going to get dirty.”
“my king,” he continues. he doesn’t stand. he takes you into his mouth, and your whole body flushes, embarrassment flooding your face. the sounds are obscene; wet and wanton and it echoes around the hall, filthy and lewd.
“wait, wait. please, zu— i’m going to-” your release floods his mouth, and he presses his head deeper against you, swallowing every drop. he pulls off of you, both of you gasping against each other. “holy fuck, zuko. what—”
“you are never wearing anything else ever again.”
"i dont write smut" me when i lie. no but actually where are the zuko x male reader fics im dying over here guys please send help
YOUR 'BETTER BOBBY' FIC WAS SO GOOD! if you ever felt inspired would LOVE to read more about them. maybe another entity attacks them and they get separated? and alone and lost, reader can't help but miss the real Bobby ahhh. anyway, love you, thank you for writing!
I'm so glad you're all loving this idea, because inspiration hit me so hard I wrote this in one sitting. Continuation to this. Def let me know if you wanna see more 👀
warnings: horror (finally got to write my true love), and some gore (nothing explicit/implied)
series masterlist.
You've been here long enough that you've stopped counting the hallways.
That, in hindsight, should probably scare you the most. The fact that it doesn't scare you anymore.
The yellow used to make your skin crawl, that specific shade of institutional sick. Now it's just... the colour of home. Better Bobby's taught you that. Through sheer repetition of safety.
Every time he pulls you into a new room and checks the corners before letting you sit down. Every time he angles his body between you and a doorway without thinking about it. Or when he hands you something to eat. You've stopped asking where the food comes from. That's another question that goes in circles every time you try it. He watches you until you take a bite, satisfied, like feeding you is the only task on a list he takes very seriously.
You have a room now. Your room. He found it for you three (days? rotations? sleeps?) ago, deeper in Level 0 than you'd been before, tucked behind a series of turns that he walked so confidently you wondered if he'd planned the route in advance.
It's quieter than the others. The carpet is thicker, the hum lower, and there's a warm patch on the floor near the far wall where some buried pipe must be running. Better Bobby dragged every blanket he'd scavenged into a pile on that warm spot and when you'd looked at him he'd shrugged, one shoulder, earring catching the fluorescent light.
"What? You get cold."
Real Bobby used to steal the covers.
You try not to make the comparison. You try so hard. But Better Bobby makes it impossible because he's everything real Bobby was on your best days. Distilled and concentrated, with all the carelessness burned off.
He touches you constantly. Not sexually, just contact. His hand on the back of your neck when you walk. His chin on your shoulder when you're sitting together. His fingers finding yours in the dark when the lights flicker, which they do sometimes. And in those brief, stuttering seconds of blackness you can hear things moving in the walls and Better Bobby's grip tightens. He says I'm here like it's a fact of physics. Like his presence beside you is as fundamental and non-negotiable as gravity.
It's a Thursday, you think, or what you've decided is Thursday—you've started naming the days by feeling, which probably means you're losing it—when everything goes wrong.
You're walking. Better Bobby's slightly ahead of you, one hand trailing the wall, talking about something. He talks to you the way real Bobby used to, a constant low-level narration.
Except Better Bobby's commentary is about the architecture of this place, which hallways are safe, which ones echo differently than they should. The way the carpet changes texture near certain thresholds you should know about. You're half-listening, comfortable in the drone of his familiar voice, when he stops abruptly.
You almost walk into his back.
"Bobby?"
He doesn't answer. His head tilts slightly, the way a dog would listen toa distant sound. His whole body goes rigid in a way you've never seen before. Better Bobby doesn't tense up. Better Bobby is languid and easy and always, always calm.
"Bobby, what—"
"Don't move."
His voice is different. Stripped of the warmth, the lazy drawl, all the honeyed softness he pours over you. What's left is flat and hard. Something in your hindbrain fires that hasn't fired since you got here because Better Bobby has kept you so safe that you forgot what fear tasted like.
You taste it now. Bright and metallic at the back of your throat.
The lights flicker abovehead. Not the usual gentle stutter or dimming it does at random intervals. This is violent, a seizure of light, and in the strobe of it you spot something at the end of the hallway.
You can't process it. Your brain tries and slides off the shape the way water slides off wax. It's too tall, and wrong. So wrong. It takes up too much space for its size, like it's pressing against the dimensions of the hallway from the inside, and it's looking at you with something that isn't a face.
Better Bobby shoves you behind him. Both hands this time. Hard.
"Go."
"I'm not leaving you—"
"Go. Left, left, straight, third door. I'll find you." He looks over his shoulder at you and his eyes are dark and flat. Ancient in a way that makes your stomach drop because for just a second—just a flicker, shorter than the lights—the thing looking out from behind Bobby's face isn't Bobby, either. "Baby. Run."
You run.
Left, left, straight, except there's no third door. There's no door at all.
The hallway stretches and bends and the carpet under your feet changes from rough to damp to something that feels horribly organic so abruptly you almost skid. You're running and the fluorescent yellow is shifting with you, deepening in increments, and the walls are getting narrower.
The ceiling goes lower suddenly and you realise, with a lurch of animal terror, that you're not on Level 0 anymore.
You don't know when it changed. There was no door, no threshold, no moment. The hallways just... became somewhere else. Like you walked through an edit. A jump cut in reality.
You stagger to a stop. Your breathing is so loud it fills the quiet corridor.
It's dark here. Not quite pitch black, mercifully. There's light, but it's coming from somewhere wrong. Faintly blue, sourceless, the colour of television static.
The walls aren't yellow anymore. They're concrete instead. Industrial. Stained with something you refuse to look at closely. The ceiling is a mess of exposed pipes and dead wiring, and water (you hope desperately it's water) drips in a strange pattern that sets your teeth on edge
It's cold here. You're shaking, you realise a moment too late.
You press your back against the concrete wall and slide down to the floor, pulling your knees to your chest and try to make yourself small. Try to make yourself invisible. Because Better Bobby isn't here and without him you're nothing in this place.
Just soft, warm, alive thing in a place that is none of those things.
That's when you see it. From the corner of your eye.
It assembles itself in pieces in the dark, the way a photograph develops, the way something reveals itself to you only once it's already too close.
Teeth first.
A grin. Too wide and white, wrong, hanging in the blue-black dark about thirty feet down the corridor. Human teeth in a human smile except there are too many of them and the smile is too wide. It's not attached to anything you can see, either. Just the grin, suspended, luminous. The way a Cheshire cat would look if the Cheshire cat wanted to kill you.
It doesn't move. You don't breathe.
Then it's twenty feet away.
You didn't see it move. You didn't blink. Not once. It was thirty feet and now it's twenty and the grin hasn't changed, not even slightly. The same frozen rictus of delight, and you understand with a sick, cold certainty that it's not walking toward you. It's just... closer. Like the distance between you is a thing it can edit. A number it can change at will.
Fifteen feet. The grin widens. You didn't think it could widen.
You can see more of it now, or rather you can see the shape of more of it. The suggestion of a body behind the smile, darker than the dark around it, a silhouette that doesn't quite hold its edges. And the sound. There's a sound now, low and wet, like someone trying to laugh through a mouthful of something thick. A gurgling, hitching, delighted sound.
It's happy to see you. Whatever this thing is, it's so, so happy that you're here.
Ten feet. You can feel the cold coming off it. Not temperature, exactly, something else. An absence. A pulling. Like it's drawing the warmth out of the air between you one degree at a time and feeding the grin with it.
You open your mouth to scream and nothing comes out.
"Close your eyes."
The voice comes from directly behind you.
You didn't hear him arrive. You didn't hear footsteps or breathing or the rustle of fabric. He's just there, the way he's always just there. His hand closes over your eyes from behind, firm, warm, his palm flush against your face, fingers curving over your brow.
"Close them. Keep them closed. Don't open them until I tell you to."
Better Bobby's voice is calm. Completely, impossibly calm. The same tone he uses when he's telling you to go back to sleep after the lights flicker. But underneath it—deep underneath, in a register you feel more than hear—there's something else now. An edge that doesn't sound like Bobby at all.
His hand lifts off your eyes. You keep them shut. You squeeze them so tight you see colours behind your lids. Bright, bursting phosphenes, and you press your face into your knees and you hear him move away from you. Toward it.
Then the sounds start.
You can't categorise them. You won't.
There's a tearing sound. Not fabric, or paper; something denser, wetter, something with resistance. A sound like a dog shaking water from its fur except heavier and it ends in a crack that reverberates through the concrete floor and up through your spine.
The gurgling laughter changes pitch. Goes higher. Then higher still. Then it's not laughter anymore, it's something between a shriek and a frequency. A sound that vibrates in the roots of your teeth, and underneath all of it is a low rumbling that you realise is coming from Better Bobby. A sound no human throat should make, a sound like tectonic plates grinding in the dark.
There's a splash. Something hisses, like water on a hot pan. The shrieking cuts out—not fades, cuts, abruptly, like someone hit a switch—and then there's a long, wet, dragging sound that moves away from you down the corridor and fades into the pipes and the dark.
Silence.
There's a ringing in your ears. Your fingers feel numb, heavy. You're biting the inside of your cheek so hard you can taste blood in your mouth.
Footsteps. Normal ones. The soft pad of sneakers on concrete.
"Okay, baby. You can open your eyes now."
You do. Better Bobby is standing in front of you, looking down at you with that soft, tilted expression. Same white tee. Same denim shorts. Trusty camera over his shoulder. Not a drop of anything on him. Not a wrinkle. His hair isn't even mussed any more than usual. His earring catches the faint blue light and throws a tiny star onto the concrete wall and he's smiling at you, gently, like you just had a bad dream and he's here to tell you it's morning.
There's nothing in the hallway behind him. Nothing on the floor. No sign that anything was ever there at all, except a faint smell. Ozone, copper and deeper beneath that, an almost rotten stench. You try to examine it but it's already fading.
You don't ask. You can't ask.
Your body moves before your brain does. You launch yourself off the floor and into him so hard he actually rocks back a step. Better Bobby, who's never been moved by anything in your presence, who stands in front of horrors like a wall moves this time. Your arms lock around his neck and you bury your face in his chest.
You're shaking. So violently that it's almost convulsive, these full-body tremors that you can't control, and the sound coming out of you isn't crying exactly. It's more animal than that, a high keening thing that you'd be embarrassed about if you had any room left for embarrassment but you don't, you used it all up being terrified.
Better Bobby catches you. He doesn't stumble again. His arms come around you and they're solid and warm. He holds you so tight that the shaking has nowhere to go, like he's absorbing it into himself, and one hand cradles the back of your head, pressing your ear against his chest. His heartbeat is steady, steady, so steady, and how is he so steady, how is he always so steady—
"Shhh. I got you. I'm here. It's gone."
You can't stop. You're gripping his shirt in both fists, knuckles blanching, and you're gasping against his collarbone and he just...
He holds you. Doesn't rush it. Or tell you you're okay or that it wasn't that bad or any of the things real Bobby would say in later months to make you feel silly for being scared. He just holds on and rocks you, the smallest movement, his cheek resting on top of your head.
Your voice comes out cracked and ruined. "What—what was that, what did you— how did you—"
He hums gently. "Don't worry about it."
"Bobby, that thing, it was—its face, it was smiling, it was—"
"I know." He pulls back just enough to look at you. Tips your chin up with his knuckle. That lazy smile, easy and warm and so perfectly Bobby it makes your chest splinter. "I know what it was. It's gone now. Don't worry about it."
"How did you get rid of it?" you rasp.
His thumb strokes your jawline. "Does it matter?"
"Yes."
He looks at you. For a moment something flickers behind his eyes. Something vast and patient and very, very old. Then it's gone, and he's just Bobby again, warm-eyed and soft-mouthed, tucking your hair behind your ear.
"I told you, baby. Nothing gets past me." He kisses your forehead. Slow. Gentle. His lips are warm and the concrete corridor is freezing around you. You lean into him like he's the last source of heat in the world. "Come on. Let's go home."
He takes your hand.
You let him lead you.
He leads you back through the concrete and the pipes and the blue-dark, his thumb rubbing circles on your knuckles, and you don't look behind you.
Not even once. Because whatever he did in that corridor is something you have decided you don't need to see the aftermath of, and also because some part of you—the part that still thinks clearly, the part that Better Bobby hasn't quite reached yet—understands that there is no aftermath.
That whatever Better Bobby does to the things in the dark, he does it completely. He doesn't leave evidence. He doesn't leave remains. He unmakes them, and he does it wearing Bobby's crooked smile, Bobby's silver earring and Bobby's cut-off shorts like a costume. Like a skin, like a love letter written in someone else's handwriting.
The concrete gives way to carpet. Just as abruptly. The blue darkens to yellow again. The cold lifts. The hum returns, and for the first time ever you're grateful for it. The way you'd be grateful for the sound of traffic outside your apartment window because it means you're back in the world, or at least, back in the only world you have left.
Your room. The warm patch. The blankets.
Better Bobby guides you down, wrapping the blankets snug around you. He tucks himself behind you and you press back into his chest, his arm winding around your waist. You're still shaking faintly, these little aftershock tremors, and he absorbs every single one.
"Sleep, baby. I'm right here."
And you close your eyes and you think about real Bobby.
You think about the apartment in Santa Clara. The kitchen counter where he used to roll joints with the window open because you didn't like the smell building up inside. The way his camera equipment colonised every flat surface, cables and lenses and that one light diffuser he was so particular about. You used to complain it and he used to say babe, genius needs room to breathe and you'd throw a dish towel at his head while smothering a grin.
You think about the night you fell in love with him. Not the day you realised it (you'd known for a while by then) but the night it actually happened.
You sitting on the hood of his car in a parking lot off El Camino Real, sharing a joint, and he'd turned to you with the camera for once not in his hands and said, so disarmingly, you're the most wonderful girl I've ever met, and his face looked stripped of its usual cockiness. Bare. Scared. Young.
He was so young. You both were.
You wonder if he's sitting in that apartment right now with the TV on and the lights off, not really watching, just existing in the space you used to fill.
You wonder if he's looked at your toothbrush in the holder next to his. If he's opened the fridge and seen the leftovers you made two nights before you vanished (was it two nights? you're losing track of the real timeline, it's blurring at the edges, and that scares you more than the grin in the dark) and whether he ate them or whether they're still sitting there. Slowly going bad, a small decomposition that mirrors something larger in your life.
You wonder if he's picked up his pager. Scrolled to your name. Stared at it.
You wonder if his thumb hovered over the button the way it used to hover over the shutter release—that perfect hesitation, that half-second of do I or don't I—and whether he pressed it or whether he set the pager down and rolled over. Told himself he'd deal with it tomorrow the way he's been telling himself he'd deal with you tomorrow for months now.
You wonder if somewhere under the indifference and the exhaustion and the slow-growing cruelty there is still a version of Bobby who filmed you sleeping because the light was good. Who cut a Metallica shirt into a crop top with kitchen scissors and held it up like a trophy. Who said hold still, the light's doing something crazy on you and meant I love you, you're beautiful and couldn't say it any other way.
You wonder if that Bobby still misses you.
You wonder if he'd ever come looking.
Better Bobby pulls you closer. His mouth finds the spot behind your ear. The one real Bobby discovered during your second date together. The one that makes everything go quiet inside your skull.
"You're thinking again," he murmurs.
"I know."
"About him."
You don't answer. You don't have to.
Better Bobby is quiet for a long time. His breathing is slow and even against your back. The lights hum their tuneless hymn in your ears. Somewhere deep in the walls, something moves again, and you tense at the scraping sound.
Better Bobby's arm tightens around you. A reflex, instant, protective, the one thing about him that never feels performed.
"He's not coming, baby," he says softly. He doesn't say it meanly this time, either. Not triumphant. More so sad. Almost like he wishes it weren't true, for your sake. Because even this thing that wears Bobby's face and unmakes grinning horrors in the dark doesn't want to watch you grieve. "You know that."
hi, back at the richard harmon building again, and started watching memorie of a killer ! my first thought was that they definitely were filming that show on the same place they filmed IT and Welcome to Derry ... turns out I was actually right.
“Reflexes overresponsive. Let’s test the gag reflex next.”
“Tachycardic already? We haven’t even started.”
“Respiratory rate twenty-eight and climbing. Want me to intubate?” (I am going to kms istg LMAOOO)
Public risk is his foreplay.
A hand on the small of your back that drifts lower and lower... a whisper in your ear ordering you to keep quiet, while he works you open under the table.
He loves to turn you into a whiny, needy mess
He’ll stop mid-thrust just to watch you fall apart trying to chase him. “Stay still” voice lazy, watching your every move.
Anger Issues? Who's that?
Langdon has zero patience for clothing. Rips, tears, shoves the fabric aside if he needs. If something’s in his way, it’s gone. You’ve lost count of the scrubs and panties he’s ruined.
More Headcannons~
Leans in during handover like he’s sharing an important information, but actually murmurs “I swear to fucking god. If you drop one more pen in front of me today, I’m making you pick it up with your teeth''
PAIRING:
Clark Kent x Male Reader
SYNOPSIS:
Superman might be earth's greatest hero, but even he can't keep his composure when being sent dirty texts. Stuck in an interview and receiving lewd pictures, Clark barely holds himself together before flashing home to teach his boyfriend a lesson.
WARNING:
18+ SMUT AHEAD
Clark Kent prided himself on composure. He could stand in front of the President, face down world leaders, even negotiate with Justice League members who thought their egos outranked his. He could endure laser fire, collapsing skyscrapers, and entire alien armadas without breaking a sweat.
But you? You were going to be the death of him.
Clark adjusted his glasses, clearing his throat as he angled the notepad on his knee. His interview subject, a nervous city councilman, was rambling about budget reform. Clark offered his usual steady nods, scribbling in neat shorthand, voice warm and professional.
That was when his phone vibrated in his jacket pocket. Once, twice. He ignored it. Then again—longer this time. Clark flicked his gaze down, irritation tugging at the corner of his mouth. He never ignored you, not for long. Sliding the phone under the notepad, he peeked.
The text preview alone nearly made him drop his pen.
"Thinking about you under me right now. Shirt open, glasses on. Bet you’d blush when I grind down…"
Clark coughed into his fist. “Excuse me—could you repeat that last part about infrastructure?” he asked the councilman, voice only an octave too high.
His pocket buzzed again. Then again. And, against his better judgment, he checked. It was a photo. You in bed, nothing but his shirt hanging loose off your shoulders, collarbones exposed, lips parted in a mock-innocent pout. The caption:
"You coming home soon, reporter? I need you to fact check me."
Clark pressed his thighs together so hard the chair creaked. Heat pooled in his gut, and the councilman was still talking. He managed a tight smile, pen barely moving as the phone buzzed again. Another photo. This time your hand slid lower, teasing at skin he knew too well.
Clark’s ears burned. His glasses fogged at the corners. He could feel his control fraying.
“Mr. Kent? You look a little flushed.” the councilman said, pausing with a slightly concerned expression.
Clark forced a chuckle, voice strained. “Ah—just a little warm in here.”
By some miracle, he made it through the rest of the interview without combusting on the spot. The second he was dismissed, he offered a handshake, mumbled a polite farewell, and then he was gone in a blur of red and blue no one could see.
Clark didn’t even bother with keys or doors. He blurred into the apartment, suit jacket half-off before he reached the bedroom, glasses discarded somewhere in the hallway. By the time he reached you, sprawled on the sheets in nothing but his shirt, he was already half hard and flushed scarlet.
“You’re cruel,” he growled, hands gripping your wrists as he pressed you down into the mattress. “Do you know what you put me through?”
You smirked, voice low. “I saw the pictures I sent. Pretty sure you enjoyed them.”
Clark’s answering kiss was rough, hungry. His mouth devoured yours, tongue sliding against yours in messy desperation. His usually careful hands were frantic—tugging the shirt off your shoulders, yanking at his own tie until it snapped.
“You almost had me coming undone in front of a councilman,” he rasped against your throat. “I couldn’t think of anything but you spread out, touching yourself—” His teeth sank lightly into your collarbone, making you gasp. “—and I couldn’t do a damn thing about it.”
You arched up against him, rolling your hips. “Well, you can now.”
That snapped the last of his control. Clark tore his shirt open, buttons scattering across the room, chest heaving. He stripped you bare in seconds, his large hands greedy as they mapped every inch of skin. He kissed down your chest, sucking marks over your ribs and biting your hip hard enough to bruise.
When he finally slid between your thighs, the sight alone made you moan. Clark’s pupils were blown wide, jaw tight as he pushed your legs open and settled in. He stroked himself once—thick, flushed, dripping already—before pressing the tip against you.
“Clark—” you gasped, clutching at his shoulders.
He leaned down, kissing you softer now, but no less intense. “Tell me you want this,” he whispered. “Tell me you need me as bad as I need you.”
Your reply was a moan into his mouth, grinding up against him. “God, yes. Please. I’ve been waiting all day.”
That was all he needed. He thrust forward slowly, stretching you open inch by inch until you cried out against his lips. His forehead pressed to yours, jaw clenched as he fought to keep control. “Fuck—you’re so tight—always so perfect for me.”
Once he bottomed out, his rhythm was relentless. Deep, hard thrusts that had you clawing at his back and crying out his name. Clark’s hands pinned your hips down, forcing you to take every inch as he pounded into you, the bedframe shaking with each movement.
“Wanted to bend you over that interview table,” he groaned, sweat beading at his temples. “Wanted to fuck you right there with my notepad on the floor. You have no idea what you do to me.”
Your eyes rolled back as he angled his hips, slamming into that spot that made you see stars. “Clark—fuck—right there—”
His thrusts grew faster, more desperate, his control unraveling with every sound you made. “That’s it—take me, just like that—” His hand slid between you, stroking you in time with his thrusts until your body trembled.
You came first, crying out as you spilled over your stomach and his chest, clenching so tight around him that Clark lost all rhythm. With a strangled groan, he buried himself deep one last time, spilling inside you with a force that made his whole body shudder.
Clark lay draped over you for a long moment, chest still heaving, his weight heavy but comforting. When your breathing evened out, he finally stirred, pressing one last kiss to your neck before pulling back with a sheepish little smile.
“You’re unbelievable,” he murmured, brushing your hair out of your eyes. “One of these days, you’re going to cost me my job.”
You smirked lazily, still catching your breath. “Pretty sure the Pulitzer Prize winner can survive one horny boyfriend.”
Clark laughed, low and warm, the sound vibrating against your skin. He kissed you again—slow, unhurried—before carefully slipping out of bed. In less than a second, he was back with a damp towel and a glass of water, moving with that gentle efficiency that made your chest ache.
“Here,” he said softly, wiping you clean with careful strokes, not a trace of the earlier frenzy left. He was meticulous, making sure you were comfortable before handing you the water. “Drink. You always forget.”
You rolled your eyes but obeyed, sipping as Clark slid back into bed. He pulled you into his arms immediately, tucking you against his broad chest like you were the only thing anchoring him.
For a while, there was only the sound of your heartbeats syncing together. Then Clark’s voice broke the quiet, playful but fond. “I should write my editor a resignation letter right now. Reason: my boyfriend is a menace to productivity.”
You snorted into his chest. “Admit it—you liked the distraction.”
His hand stroked lazily up and down your back, soothing. “Liked? I almost flew out of there mid-question. You make Superman sweat, you know that?”
You tilted your head up to meet his gaze, the corners of your lips curving. “That’s the goal.”
Clark shook his head, chuckling, then kissed your forehead, all softness now. “My goal is to make sure you never doubt how much I love you.” His voice was a whisper, thick with sincerity. “No matter how much trouble you cause me at work.”
You grinned, curling closer into him. “Guess we both win, then.”
And with Clark’s steady heartbeat under your ear, his arms holding you like you were his whole world, it was impossible to not fall asleep.
The night air was cool, sharp with pine and damp moss, but none of that mattered when Jake had you pinned against the rough cabin wall. His pupils blew wide in the dim glow of lantern light, a mix of hunger and something darker as he looked you over like prey he’d finally cornered.
“You know what I want, don’t you?” His voice was low, all grit and promise. His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, dragging it down before he leaned in and kissed you like he wanted to devour you whole.
Your hands clutched at his shirt, tugging, desperate, but he didn’t let you control the pace. Instead, Jake’s mouth trailed from your lips to your jaw, down to the soft spot just below your ear. You shivered as his teeth grazed skin—just a tease—until he bit down hard enough to make you gasp.
“That’s it,” he growled, satisfied. “Mine.”
You barely caught your breath before his mouth moved lower, teeth scraping down the column of your neck, marking you again and again. Each bite burned, then blossomed into a dull ache as he sucked the bruise deep enough that you knew it’d still be there tomorrow. His hands gripped your hips tight enough to bruise too, pressing you flush against him so you could feel exactly how much he wanted you.
“Jake—” you whimpered, head tipping back against the wood.
He smirked against your skin, lips slick from his assault. “Say it. Who do you belong to?”
“You—fuck—Jake, you.”
That was all the permission he needed. He hauled you away from the wall, tossing you onto the worn rug in front of the fire. His body caged yours instantly, heat radiating as he tugged your shirt down, exposing your collarbone for more claiming. His teeth sank in again, not gentle this time, until tears pricked the corners of your eyes from the sharp sting.
Every bite, every bruise, every scratch of his nails down your thighs was a brand. He wasn’t just fucking you tonight—he was painting you in proof of his possession.
When he finally slid into you, the stretch stealing your breath, his hand fisted in your hair, pulling your head back so he could see every mark he left. Jake groaned low, the sound more animal than man.
“Look at you,” he rasped, hips snapping forward, driving the claim even deeper. “All mine—and tomorrow, everyone who sees you will know it.”
Your nails raked down his back in answer, leaving bloody trails he hissed at—but didn’t stop. He only drove harder, rougher, chasing both your pleasure and his need to mark every inch of you until there was no mistaking who you belonged to.
Logan with a younger boyfriend. He’s two hundred+ so it’s not easy finding someone his age, but him being with someone in their 20’s. Them being the most needy man he’s ever met, constantly grabbing at him, sneakingly pawing at his crotch while out, hanging on to his arm while you walk, getting him riled up just so he’ll fuck you once you get home. Calling you a pervert for making him pin you down and teach you a lesson on how to behave💭
I stopped watching The 100 cuz I got a real bad spoiler, but I started watching again. I'm on the third season and I'm SO pissed off because Murphy literally just disappears and NO ONE cares, like ???? how one of you people just goes missing and no one goes after him.
“clark,” you whisper, shifting in his lap. your fingers toy with the collar of his dress shirt, now half-unbuttoned, his skin warm and solid beneath your hands. “i’m not gonna break.”
his jaw clenches. “you don’t know that.”
you press your hand flat against his chest—it’s like touching a wall of heat and muscle. “you’re not going to hurt me.”
he exhales sharply through his nose, but doesn’t move. “i could. i could crush you without meaning to. i—” he swallows. “you don’t understand how easy it’d be.”
you climb higher into his lap, straddling his thigh. his hands instinctively catch your waist—huge palms, fingers stretching nearly around your sides. it makes your breath hitch.
god, he’s big.
“then be careful,” you murmur, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth. “but stop pretending you don’t want me.”
his restraint snaps like a thread.
you’re on your back in a blur—his hands splayed on either side of your head, caging you in without even touching. he’s staring down at you like he’s starving, like he’s scared of his own hunger.
“you’re so small,” he murmurs. one hand trails down your side, palm easily spanning your ribs. “i could wrap you up in one arm. keep you there forever.”
his voice is lower now, raw. “you don’t know what it does to me. seeing you like this. knowing i have to hold back every second just to keep from ruining you.”
Poor Kaiden has been victim to my ramblings about my ocs for the last two hours; but I still have to ask if anyone else would read them if I posted pieces about them......
may make blogs for them if theres enough interest.
I can only look and think about the fact that your Netflix has the 100. Man, there's NO streaming with The 100 on my country, I'm legit watching it through a drive that I found on twitter.
man, Red White and Royal Blood pisses me off BAD. I just wanted to read the GAYS and suddenly I'm trying to understand politics. the political core of this book is WAY TOO FUCKING LONG.
