chaos-to-my-thoughts

[chaos-to-my-thoughts]

i cannot even begin to explain how that video made me feel.

[chaos-to-my-thoughts]

PEDRO PASCAL at "The Fantastic Four: First Steps" UK Launch Event (July 10, 2025)

[chaos-to-my-thoughts]

A doppelganger drabble of Lloyd's pov at his brother's and sister-in-law/potential baby mama/princess' wedding.

okay, i couldn’t resist this.

Title: Satellite

Summary: Lloyd cannot escape your gravity, and Ransom learns to accept it. 

Warnings: Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, Stalking, Implied murder, Noncon, Dead Dove: Do not eat

You can’t see him. 

Or perhaps it’s that you won’t, Lloyd thinks bitterly, downing another flute of champagne. It’s dark outside, and the bright lights of the bridal suite make it impossible to see the garden at night. He tosses the glass and listens for the satisfying crash behind him somewhere in the dark. There’s three more glasses on the tray he’d pilfered from the kitchen, and he downs another one before tossing it, too. 

He shouldn’t be out here. Ransom would kill him if he knew he was skulking about outside, but he can’t help it. No matter what he does, what he tries, where he goes, who he kills, who he fucks, he’s drawn back into your fucking orbit, doomed to circle you forever. 

He steps closer to the glass. 

Lloyd had been a good boy, sitting nice and quiet as you had delivered your heartbreakingly honest vows, and as Ransom had lied his way through his—he wonders if drugging you fits somewhere between honor and love.

After all, Lloyd already knows how your pussy tastes. Feels. His cock twitches in his pants at the thought. Speak now or forever hold your peace. He had held his peace. 

It stops after the wedding, Lloyd. 

Fine, whatever. 

But it hadn’t been fine. It still isn’t.

Lloyd watches as you reach back for the zipper. It’s funny, your wedding dress is exactly what he would have imagined, all classic, elegant silhouettes and silky smooth drapery. It’s even better now watching you peel yourself out of it in favor of the tight little cocktail number you have planned for the reception. You’re not mindful of your state of undress—why would you be, the party’s on the other side of the property, nothing out this way but an empty field. 

Fuck. 

Beneath your dress is a delicate corset. It buoys the delicious weight of your breasts with elegant laces and bows—a gift begging to be unwrapped. You’re close enough to touch, if not for the glass, inches away and you don’t even know he’s there. 

“What are you doing?” Ransom actually sounds angry. 

Lloyd reaches for another delicate little flute. “What’s it look like?” He drains it in a single gulp

“Looks like you’re watching my wife through her window,” Ransom replies dryly. “It looks like you’re thinking about going back on our agreement.” He sighs. “You didn’t even make it through the reception.” 

“It’s easy for you,” Lloyd snaps, rolling his eyes. “You get to go home to her.” 

“She doesn’t hate me, Lloyd. She loves me.” Ransom retorts. Lloyd scowls. “We have a relationship built on more than just fucking.”

“Fuck you.” He throws the glass and waits to hear the sound of it bursting into pieces. “I love her too.” It’s the first time he’s said it out loud, but he’s aware his brother already knows it. “It isn’t my fault she never gave me a chance—”

“Yes it is.” 

Lloyd swallows, wishing he had another glass.

“I know.” 

Ransom places a hand on his shoulder. 

“It was fine before things were serious. You know that. I never…I never minded sharing, before.” 

“What makes it serious?” LLoyd snaps, shoving his brother’s hand away. “A ring and some fucking words?” You’re the only thing Lloyd’s ever been jealous of, and Ransom knows that, too. Lloyd wonders if that’s why he hoards you so preciously. 

They stand there in silence, watching you prepare to meet Ransom on the dance floor. You look so happy, a gentle smile on your face. Serene. Unaware. He’s had you so many times but it isn’t enough. It never will be, not for Lloyd. 

“It’ll be the last time.” He blurts it out before he knows he’s doing it. 

“I—”

“I fucking swear.” Lloyd knows he’s lying—Ransom knows it too. He’ll have you as many times as he can, however he can, whatever he has to say to do convince his brother. He wonders if Ran’s as complicit as he is for accepting the lie, making it real. “It’ll be the last time.” 

“The last time.”

— 

“I should go first,” Ransom replies, looking up from your kiss-swollen lips. “It’s my wedding night, after all.” Lloyd rolls his eyes. 

“And what a wedding night it is,” he drawls, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. It comes away wet and shiny with your slick. “

You hiccup. 

“We got married!” You kiss Ransom full on the mouth. “I’m so happy—ahn,” the words dissolve as Lloyd plants his tongue firmly into your cunt as your head lolls, toes curling and twitching. “Mm.” Your legs are thrown over his shoulders, his fingers massaging the curve of your hips. 

“Oh Princess,” Lloyd breathes the words against your cunt. He’d do this forever if he could, just be this close to you always. “Love you so much.” With one hand he presses down on your belly, and with the other he circles your entrance with a single finger. You whine, and Lloyd knows that’s the closest he’ll ever get to hearing his name on your lips. 

Because you still can’t see him. 

For this to even happen, that’s the way it has to be. His superiors at the department are look-the-other-wayers under the worst of circumstances, and so under the best ones they hardly noticed when the medical inventory started coming up short on a cocktail they used often during interrogations; one the boys quietly called the Forget-Me-Not. 

The first time Lloyd had used it in the line of duty he’d known just what else it could be used for—so much better than alcohol. 

And more trustworthy too. 

You roll your hips against his face, riding it out as you cum hard on his tongue. He can feel you clenching and sucking at his fingertips. He stays there, relishing the feel of your pleasure almost as much as you are. 

“Congratulations, Princess,” Lloyd replies. “You made such a beautiful bride.” There’s a pop as you release Ransom’s cock from your mouth, and you lean up on your elbows, staring down at him with a lucidity he’s surprised to see you still possess.

“Thank you Lloyd.” You hold his gaze for a heartbeat before your head lolls back against the pillow. “I mean—hic—Ransom.” His brother looks at him, panic in his eyes. 

“You think she’ll remember this?” He asks, and Lloyd shakes his head. In truth he almost hopes you do, that you saw him, really saw— but he knows this is nothing more than a slip of your tongue. Even if my fucking heart feels like it’s about to jump the fuck out of my chest. If this is true joy, Lloyd knows that whatever else he’s felt, nothing comes close. He drops a heated kiss against the curve of your hip. 

“She won’t remember.” He smiles bitterly. “She never does.” 

You can’t see him. 

Or perhaps it’s that you won’t, Lloyd thinks bitterly, downing another flute of champagne. It’s dark outside, and the bright lights of the bridal suite make it impossible to see the garden at night. He tosses the glass and listens for the satisfying crash behind him somewhere in the dark. There’s three more glasses on the tray he’d pilfered from the kitchen, and he downs another one before tossing it, too. 

He shouldn’t be out here. Ransom would kill him if he knew he was skulking about outside, but he can’t help it. No matter what he does, what he tries, where he goes, who he kills, who he fucks, he’s drawn back into your fucking orbit, doomed to circle you forever. 

He steps closer to the glass. 

Lloyd had been a good boy, sitting nice and quiet as you had delivered your heartbreakingly honest vows, and as Ransom had lied his way through his—he wonders if drugging you fits somewhere between honor and love.

After all, Lloyd already knows how your pussy tastes. Feels. His cock twitches in his pants at the thought. Speak now or forever hold your peace. He had held his peace. 

It stops after the wedding, Lloyd. 

Fine, whatever. 

But it hadn’t been fine. It still isn’t.

Lloyd watches as you reach back for the zipper. It’s funny, your wedding dress is exactly what he would have imagined, all classic, elegant silhouettes and silky smooth drapery. It’s even better now watching you peel yourself out of it in favor of the tight little cocktail number you have planned for the reception. You’re not mindful of your state of undress—why would you be, the party’s on the other side of the property, nothing out this way but an empty field. 

Fuck. 

Beneath your dress is a delicate corset. It buoys the delicious weight of your breasts with elegant laces and bows—a gift begging to be unwrapped. You’re close enough to touch, if not for the glass, inches away and you don’t even know he’s there. 

“What are you doing?” Ransom actually sounds angry. 

Lloyd reaches for another delicate little flute. “What’s it look like?” He drains it in a single gulp

“Looks like you’re watching my wife through her window,” Ransom replies dryly. “It looks like you’re thinking about going back on our agreement.” He sighs. “You didn’t even make it through the reception.” 

“It’s easy for you,” Lloyd snaps, rolling his eyes. “You get to go home to her.” 

“She doesn’t hate me, Lloyd. She loves me.” Ransom retorts. Lloyd scowls. “We have a relationship built on more than just fucking.”

“Fuck you.” He throws the glass and waits to hear the sound of it bursting into pieces. “I love her too.” It’s the first time he’s said it out loud, but he’s aware his brother already knows it. “It isn’t my fault she never gave me a chance—”

“Yes it is.” 

Lloyd swallows, wishing he had another glass.

“I know.” 

Ransom places a hand on his shoulder. 

“It was fine before things were serious. You know that. I never…I never minded sharing, before.” 

“What makes it serious?” LLoyd snaps, shoving his brother’s hand away. “A ring and some fucking words?” You’re the only thing Lloyd’s ever been jealous of, and Ransom knows that, too. Lloyd wonders if that’s why he hoards you so preciously. 

They stand there in silence, watching you prepare to meet Ransom on the dance floor. You look so happy, a gentle smile on your face. Serene. Unaware. He’s had you so many times but it isn’t enough. It never will be, not for Lloyd. 

“It’ll be the last time.” He blurts it out before he knows he’s doing it. 

“I—”

“I fucking swear.” Lloyd knows he’s lying—Ransom knows it too. He’ll have you as many times as he can, however he can, whatever he has to say to do convince his brother. He wonders if Ran’s as complicit as he is for accepting the lie, making it real. “It’ll be the last time.” 

“The last time.”

— 

“I should go first,” Ransom replies, looking up from your kiss-swollen lips. “It’s my wedding night, after all.” Lloyd rolls his eyes. 

“And what a wedding night it is,” he drawls, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. It comes away wet and shiny with your slick. “

You hiccup. 

“We got married!” You kiss Ransom full on the mouth. “I’m so happy—ahn,” the words dissolve as Lloyd plants his tongue firmly into your cunt as your head lolls, toes curling and twitching. “Mm.” Your legs are thrown over his shoulders, his fingers massaging the curve of your hips. 

“Oh Princess,” Lloyd breathes the words against your cunt. He’d do this forever if he could, just be this close to you always. “Love you so much.” With one hand he presses down on your belly, and with the other he circles your entrance with a single finger. You whine, and Lloyd knows that’s the closest he’ll ever get to hearing his name on your lips. 

Because you still can’t see him. 

For this to even happen, that’s the way it has to be. His superiors at the department are look-the-other-wayers under the worst of circumstances, and so under the best ones they hardly noticed when the medical inventory started coming up short on a cocktail they used often during interrogations; one the boys quietly called the Forget-Me-Not. 

The first time Lloyd had used it in the line of duty he’d known just what else it could be used for—so much better than alcohol. 

And more trustworthy too. 

You roll your hips against his face, riding it out as you cum hard on his tongue. He can feel you clenching and sucking at his fingertips. He stays there, relishing the feel of your pleasure almost as much as you are. 

“Congratulations, Princess,” Lloyd replies. “You made such a beautiful bride.” There’s a pop as you release Ransom’s cock from your mouth, and you lean up on your elbows, staring down at him with a lucidity he’s surprised to see you still possess.

“Thank you Lloyd.” You hold his gaze for a heartbeat before your head lolls back against the pillow. “I mean—hic—Ransom.” His brother looks at him, panic in his eyes. 

“You think she’ll remember this?” He asks, and Lloyd shakes his head. In truth he almost hopes you do, that you saw him, really saw— but he knows this is nothing more than a slip of your tongue. Even if my fucking heart feels like it’s about to jump the fuck out of my chest. If this is true joy, Lloyd knows that whatever else he’s felt, nothing comes close. He drops a heated kiss against the curve of your hip. 

“She won’t remember.” He smiles bitterly. “She never does.” 

[chaos-to-my-thoughts]

[chaos-to-my-thoughts]

Bitch! Please write Demon Dr. Barber x plus size BLACK reader & Make it Nasty!!

Demon Dr Barbar x Plus Size Black Reader

@titty-teetee Deffo rusty, lol but I tried! I hope you like it <3

Andrew Barber, Andy for short and Doctor Barber to his patients, tossed the razor sharp edged blade to the wood floor of your bedroom. He watched your hip writhe under his grip as the rest of your underwear fell away. On his knees, his fingers delicately unfolding you, spreading you open as a bible to a theologian. Andy’s eyes burned with hate but his heart, if you could call that black void a caring center, filled with obsession. 

He licked long, tasting what was now his, the bushy hair of his chin tickled your skin in the wake his tongue and you shuddered. His long fingers glided over the curvy lines of your hips, he pushed his face in harder to your core and pulled you closer as he sunk his tongue all the way in. An unexpected shriek from your throat hardened his dick. The tortured squirming, the hurting and yearning panted whimpering he caused you to express exploded pride in his chest.

Andy felt his eyes cloud, he wasn’t afraid but he knew you might be as he rose from between your thick legs. It was time, he decided. He was was glad of the dim light shade, but as the darkness swirled inside him it pulled away the golden hue illuminating the room. He watched you now, laying there your skin glowing under what might be described as moonlight. You opened your eyes looked toward him as Andy slowly descended over your body.

His legs between yours, spreading you further open, he felt the jump in your heartbeat as your eyes met his now completely blackened orbs. He smiled down at you while grabbing your wrists in anticipation that you might try and fight back. 

“It’s time to pay your due,” his deep voice whispered. 

He watched you blink once, twice, and struggle to understand what you were seeing. And like he knew you would you did try move from him. Andy held you there, his hips pushed forward. This was his favorite moment, your eyes widen as he invaded your will, your body.

Wicked. If demons could love this was it. Pouncing on the woman, you, that he wanted to possess body and soul Andy began to ensure that you took every inch of him. And when your mouth fell open in a silent scream he put his mouth over yours. His devilish forked tongue, surprisingly warm and wet slid in. He jerked your hands over your head, picked up his thrusting pace and kept taking your breath away with every rub of his tongue over yours. Consuming you and feeling you give over your will to only him Andy promised himself this one would be different.

This human woman would live. Even as ghostly wisps of black shadow descended over and with every breath you strived for started to feel as if your lifeforce was draining. Andy held back and waited.

Your pained moans turned to yearning whispers after every kiss. You cinched around him the shorter his strokes became. Faster, more driven thrusts had your body shaking until you reached the pleasurable end. But Andy kept going. Once again devoting himself to holding back his instinct to send you into a delicious anguishing experience for his pleasure. He allowed another desire to take root, one that usurped the will of his human mother. The one his angel father used to conquer a mortal womb.

Andy let go, pouring sinfulness into you and the room went black.  

[chaos-to-my-thoughts]

😯😯😯

Begetting

Written:  25 Feb 2020

Pairing: Black Female Reader x Dark! Mob Boss Bucky Barnes

Keep reading

[chaos-to-my-thoughts]

PEDRO PASCAL Vanity Fair | July - August 2025

[chaos-to-my-thoughts]

PEDRO PASCAL Vanity Fair

[chaos-to-my-thoughts]

menace.

[chaos-to-my-thoughts]

Headshots

[chaos-to-my-thoughts]

PEDRO PASCAL Vanity Fair | July - August 2025

[chaos-to-my-thoughts]

#I need to stop relating to a 50 years old man

[chaos-to-my-thoughts]

Doing Time 10

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, threats, age gap, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: you try to keep your brother safe in jail but put yourself in danger along the way.

Characters: con/ex-con!Steve Rogers

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You stare at Steve's large hand as you fight the urge to fidget. He rests is on your thigh, fingers curled just along the inside. He rubs the seam of your pants as his warmth radiates through the fabric.

He steers with his other hand. His posture is slack with nonchalance. Everything is going exactly as he planned and you're just trying to keep up. 

He hums as he tickles your leg. His hand sidles closer to your pelvis and he squeezes. He idles at the red light and smirks at you.

"You got me worked up again. I just wanna pull you across the car..." his eyes flick up and down. "You got thighs that make a man a glutton."

You twitch. While he scares you, his words send a tingle through you. He's skilled at twisting your flaws into beauty. You almost believe every word he says.

"Steve," you touch his hand gently. "The light's green."

"Oh, yeah?" He flicks his fingers coyly towards your cunt. 

You blink and point through the windshield. He glances at the traffic light and chuckles. He leans on the gas, keeping his hand in your lap.

"You should wear skirts," his nails graze the thick seam again. "You got the legs for it."

"I... I like pants." You say softly. 

"You got a good shape. Not just from the front," he ignores your protest. "That dress you wore... mmmph. I got buy you some more."

"You don't have to do all that," you clutch his hand to keep it in place.

"I want to, sweetheart. Lots of things I wanna do." He squeezes and you squeak at the spark it lights in your guts. "Firstly..."

He peels his hand away and turns into a lot. He draws up to the storefront and you glance up to read the big gold letters mounted over the shining windows. You rub the warm patch he left on your leg as you stare at the jeweler's shop.

"I thought about a crown but I'm thinking that's a bit much," he snickers. "I think a ring will do."

You look at him, stunned. It shouldn't be a surprise. He's been clear. As straight to the point as you wish you could be. Yet it's all so sudden.

He gets out first and comes around to open your door. He pauses and skims your figure with his eyes. He tuts.

"Definitely needa get you a sweet dress."

You stand and he shuts the door. His hand finds your lower back and he ushers you toward the shop. The world around you is hazy with futility. You know you can't stop him but there's that little human urge that won't go away.

He opens the shop door and lets you through first. He struts in behind you.

"Hello, sir," he greets the man behind the counter. "Lovely day."

The chubby man with the long mustache drooping around his lips winces. He looks up from the board of earrings in front of him and gulps. His brown eyes widen.

"Rogers?" He coughs.

"One and the same, Ahmad," Steve affirms as he nudges you forward. "Long time."

"Yes, sir. Very long. I thought you were in bars." The man nervously taps his fingers on the counter top.

"Behind bars." Steve corrects him. "Did my time. Now I'm out. And my lady needs a ring."

"Your... yes." Ahmad peeks at you and bows his head. "Very beautiful. Lovely lady." He clutches his hands together. "And you are such a handsome man, how could you not have a beauty."

"Yeah, yeah, Ahmad, you don't gotta do all that. Not to say she isn't a stunner." Steve nears and crosses his arms. He leans his elbows on the glass display and peers through. His shoulder round and he looks even bigger.

"Well, sweetheart. You want one diamond. You want a diamond covered in diamonds..." he bends his neck and squints at the selection.

"Oh, er, I'm not picky. Something small is fine."

"Be picky," he insists. "I don't want fine, I want perfect." He beckons you forward with a glance. "Come on."

You sniff and come forward. Ahmad smiles at you, "let me know whatever you like, miss."

"Thanks," you look down. The sparkle is too much to focus.

You're drawn to one in particular. A purple oval surrounded with little diamonds. You stare and chew your lip. You should look for something smaller.

"Which one's got you?" Steve shifts, angling toward you as he leans on one elbow.

"Well, that one's not bad," you point to the plain silver band with a small circle diamond.

He tuts. "You know, I see right through you. Be honest."

You rub your neck. "I don't wanna spend too much--"

"Don't fret about my money," he warns. "Which one?"

You drop your hand and point again. "That er, purple one. Sorry I don't know the stone."

"Amethyst, yes," Ahmad reaches underneath and takes out the entire board. "The stone of clarity and control. You must have a good head on you."

"Oh," you murmur and shrug. Not really. If you knew better, you wouldn't be standing here with this man.

Ahmad pulls free the ring and offers it up. You can only stare. The nicest jewelry you have is a hand-me-down silver chain and locket from tour mom.

Steve takes it then grabs your hand. You flinch as he stands at his full height and slips the band around your finger. You watch him push it down to your knuckle. He runs his thumb over it then cradles your hand in his. He lifts it higher to admire the stones.

"That the one?" He asks.

You stare at the ring. It's gorgeous but too much. You don't say so. You can't. 

You nod. "It's very pretty Steve. We could... wait until we get everything else sorted."

"It's sorted," he insists.

He lifts your hand and kisses your knuckle. You lower your eyes as he lets you go. You clasp your other hand over the ring as he turns to Ahmad.

"How much?" He reaches for his wallet.

The number makes your chest drop. That's more than your rent. A lot more. 

He counts out bills. You've never carried anything more than a couple hundred and that was for a deposit or something. He has a whole bank on him. 

It's another clue. He's not just a man with money, the way he wields it, the way others react to him. He has power.

"Th-thank you," you croak and pinch the ring. Steve stops you.

"Don't take it off. Never." He wraps his hand around yours and pushes it down. "That means you're mine." He puts his wallet away and looks back at the jeweller. "I'll be back for more. She'll need a full set."

"Yes, sir," Ahmad puts away the board of rings.

Steve takes you out. The sunlight is warm and bright, a strange sheen on the grey day. You can only watch as he whittles away the pieces of your life and rebuilds to his liking.

His hand slips off of yours and trails up your forearm as you near the car. A low growl rises in his chest as he lets you ahead of him. He spreads his fingers across your ass and kneads. You yelp on surprise.

He reaches around you and opens the back door of the car. You reach back to clamp down on his wrist. You trip on your toes as he slaps your rear.

"Just a quickie," he snarls. "Seeing you in that ring..."

"Steve. Please. We can go--"

"Get in," he commands and pinches your ass again. "On your stomach."

"Huh?" His sudden shift has you off balance. "Steve--"

"Now," he rasps as he grips the door. "Pants off."

You turn to look at him in horror and catch his hand as he tries to grope your chest. "I don't want to... here."

His eyes narrow and his jaw squares. He scoffs and shakes your hand off of his. He frames your face with his thick fingers and leans in.

"I'm not fucking asking. Let's celebrate." He pushes his nose and forehead against yours. "I waited before. No more."

You wince and pet his knuckles. You whimper and he lets you go. You bat your eyes and slowly sit on the back seat.

He's big enough to block your view of the parking lot. You tremble as you unbutton your fly. Disbelief numbs your touch. You lift yourself and peel off your pants, your underwear twisting down inside them. 

He looms over you and taps his fingers on the roof. You untangle your feet and drop the clothes onto the car floor. Steve sighs and it blows through in an icy wind. 

You shimmy back into the car. You turn over and he growls again. As you spread out on your stomach, he crushes in behind you, a knee between your legs.

He shuts the door as he crams into the back seat. He pushes your left leg over the edge of the seat. You quiver as you're exposed to him.

He bends over you and hooks his arm under your neck. He kisses the back of your head and pets your cheek. He inhales your scent.

"Can't help myself, sweetheart. This is what you do to me."

He slips his hand between your bodies, wriggling over you as he plucks open his fly. He grunts as he shifts his weight, the lack of space as suffocating as he is.

He guides his tip down along your cheeks. The fabric of his slacks tickles your skin. He prods along your entrance. He drags his hand free and hooks it beneath you.

He shoves between your folds and rubs your clit. He puffs into your hair as he teases you. His legs are bent up, cramped against the door as he smothers you. He bows down to nibble at your neck.

You slicken against his touch. He swirls and flicks as you close your eyes and clutch the edge of the seat. Humiliation scalds over you. What if someone sees.

He rubs you from clit to entrance and back again. He teases you until you moan, the soft mewl the final surrender. 

He frames your cunt with his long fingers and spreads your lips. He tilts his hips down and guides his tip between his knuckles. You hold your breath as he delves into you.

He rumbles as he dips into you in a single slow thrust. When he's at his limit, he shudders. He rocks his pelvis and you clench around him. His arm tightens around your neck and he kisses your jawline as he groans.

The wet noise of you clinging to him fills the humid space. He pumps into you, the tempo cloying in your ears. You babble as he grunts, each thrust more eager than the last.

His patience shatters as he hammers into you. You arch your back to ease the blunt force of his intrusion and he plays with your clit as your walls quiver around him. You heave down into the seat as his feet bounce of the window. The cacophony makes you dizzy. 

"Oh, sweetheart, you're so good." He snarls as he pounds you into the seat. "Hm, the way you're made for me."

He rolls his fingers furiously and you bite your lip. A fire-laced tide washes over you and floods your brain. You whine through your orgasm as it drips out around him.

"That's it, doll. You know I'm the best man for you," he pushes himself up, staying inside you as he unloops his arm from your neck. 

He pulls your hips up as he readjusts. You hunch down onto the seat, slack as you hang from his grip. He moves you up and down his length, slamming you back against his pelvis. He moves you to his will, growling and grunting, nails digging into your hip. Your insides twine around him.

He buries himself inside you as he holds you in place. He exhales shakily then starts again. He bucks into you as he gropes one side of your ass. The car shakes with his fury.

"Doll, I feel you clinging to me," he puffs. "Mm, you're so sweet... mmm, I'm gonna marry you and do this every day..." he grunts and bends over your again. "I'm gonna fuck you... til death do us... part."

He ruts until he collapses. He flattens you under him as he spasms and gushes inside you. You shiver as he spills out, his hips rocking slow and uneven as he rides out the aftershock. 

Your breaths are shallow, mingling damply in the closed space with your sweat. He groans and kisses your shoulder. He takes your hand brings it to his lips, kissing the wring on your finger.

"That's why you wear a skirt, baby." He pushes in as deep as he can. "I want access at all times."

[chaos-to-my-thoughts]

Vindictive biker Curtis…..

this one made me think of curtis!! i hope you had a nice weekend!

"You're dangerous." – "Only if you ask nicely."

Trouble in the Air

Warnings: threats and dark insinuations.

Trope: Brother's best friend/biker.

The sunlight shines in slats across the dusty wood. The swelter of summer beams across you as the laze on the porch swing. You keep one head on your arm as you clutch the book, cover curled back, spine broke, entranced by the fictional world shielding you from the roiling heat.

So wrapped up in the story that you don't notice the shadow until the step creaks. You look over, expecting Greg, but not so disappointed not to. Your brother never arrives with good news or a good mood.

You sit up as Curtis rests his foot on the edge of the top step. He's tall but not lanky. The bristle of his shaven head matches the stubble across his jaw and cheeks. His blue grey eyes are icy despite the temperature.

"Haven't seen Greg today," you close up the book, ready to flee inside for something cool to drink. And away from Curtis. He's never been mean but you know who he is.

"Sounds like a good day," he drawls as he steps onto the porch. At his full height, he gives you second thoughts of standing. "How are you doing? He's not causing you guff?"

You shake your head and run your thumb along the book cover. Your nerves spin as his gaze is bolder than the noon sun. You fidget.

He walks along the railing and turns to lean on it. He crosses his arms and tilts his head. It feels like an interrogation.

"You're quiet." He comments.

You shrug and look down guiltily. It's not just with him but you can't find the voice to say so.

"It's fine. I'm quiet too. I say what needs to be said."

He drops his arms and pushes off the wood. He turns and sits next to you on the bench swing, anchoring it as he plants his feet. He looks too big for it.

"I don't like rambling, so I'd like you to be honest."

You blink. Your heart leaps into your throat. What's going on? He usually goes away when your brother isn't around.

"Do I scare you?" He asks.

You stare at him. The heat makes time slow down and you drop your gaze to your lap. You trace the title of your book with your fingertip. Your temples are throbbing.

He reaches over and puts his hand around yours. His touch is searing. He wiggles the book free and looks it over. He flips it and reads the synopsis.

"Interesting," he holds it out. "Why are you afraid?"

You take the book and squeeze until it bends. You swing your feet, toes dragging on the porch.

"You're dangerous," you croak.

He's quiet as he measures your answer. You must spund awfully stupid. He sits back and stretches his arm across the back of the bench.

"Only if you ask nicely," he says.

You don't know what he means. His touch frightens you. He tickles your bare arm.

"Sit back."

You obey. Your head rests on his arm. He sighs.

"I can be dangerous. I'm glad you realize that," he swings the bench as you sit rigid next to him. "Which means you'll tell me the truth."

"The truth?" You murmur.

"Uh huh. You're going to tell me where your brother put my money."

"Money?" You look at him. "I don't know anything about any money."

"I'm sure, sweetheart." He exhales again. He stares put at the yellow sky. "You gonna make me ask again?"

"I swear--"

He catches your by your jaw and pushes you back into the bench. You sputter and he leans in, pressing his nose to your cheek.

"I'm not leaving here without what I'm owed. So tell me where the fucking money is." He snarls. "If he spent it, say so."

You squirm and he squeezes harder.

"Please, I really don't know," you eke out.

His hand slips to your throat. You squeal. His thumb pushes behind your jaw as he drags his lips up your cheek and hovers before your ear.

"He takes something of mine, I take something too."

He's so quick, you can't think. He stands and the swing hits the house. He wrenches you from the seat and hauls you off your feet. Your book slaps onto the floor as he hangs you over his shoulder. You can smell his leather vest and sweat.

"Let's see what he likes more. My money or his own damn sister," he growls as he stomps down the front steps.

[chaos-to-my-thoughts]

i am here still.

[chaos-to-my-thoughts]

INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE | SEASON 1 & 2

[chaos-to-my-thoughts]

Check it out!!

Title: O U T S I D E [2 of 10]

Pairing: Ex-Con!Curtis x Southern!Reader

Summary: Your older brother is out of jail and back home, but old habits die hard, and you find yourself caught between what you need, and who can give it to you when Curtis Everett starts hanging around again. 

Warnings: Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, Mild Stalking, Recreational Drug Use, Intimidation, Crime, Gang Activity, References to Past Physical and Emotional Abuse, Murder, more tags to be added

The words on the page in front of you shift and blur together before your eyes, and you rub at them tiredly. You’ve been at it since early afternoon, the impressive pile of your textbooks and binders serving as a testament to your attempts at dedication. But you’ve taken woefully few notes, and your attention remains split between what you should be doing and what is going on downstairs. With Damien in the house it feels like concentration is impossible, your mind returning to speculation like a dog with an old bone. 

You’ve seen precious little of him since your mother’s party, settling into a tentative schedule of purposeful avoidance. He doesn’t seem to rise from the dead until late afternoon, sometimes not until after you’ve left for class if you’re lucky, which means you don’t see him at all. His firmly locked door, though, is a constant reminder of his presence every time you pass by on your way to the bathroom, regardless of whether you see him or not. Sometimes you can hear him, speaking in hushed tones on the phone you know your mother is paying for. 

As you attempt to get back to studying, the doorbell rings. It irritates and jars you, sounding three more times before you realize that you’re going to have to answer it yourself despite both your mother and brother being home. Downstairs, she’s wrapped up in her favorite blanket, the T.V. blaring and the air conditioner blasting behind her. I bet she can’t even fucking hear it. It’s barely past one, but there’s an empty bottle of grocery store wine on the table, and the glass in her hand is dangerously full as she lifts it to her lips. 

Jealously you bask in the cool air for a minute or two before the insistent knock makes you turn away from the scene before you and reach for the doorknob. 

On your porch is a man you don’t recognize, dark hair pulled back away from his face. He’s broad, like Curtis, but not quite as tall, the expression on his face less than inviting. There’s a disappointed set to his features, maybe in the press of his lips or the narrowing of his eyes, and he doesn’t try to hide it. 

“D here?” He asks, cocking his head. The New York accent is so strong it practically bowls you over. “He told me t’ stop by.” You clench your teeth. Of course he did. 

“I’ll go get him. Who should I say’s here?” 

“Tell him Bucky’s here.” You make to close the door, but Bucky’s foot finds its way between it and the frame. “Oh, and Doll?” He grins. “He told me I could wait inside.” You leave him in the entryway, fists clenched as you storm back into the house. Damien’s door is closed, like it always seems to fucking be, so you rap your fist against the painted wood hard, and then two more times for good measure. In the split second before the door flies open, there’s a muffled curse that reaches you from inside. 

“What?” He glares down at you irritatedly, blocking the crack in the door with his own body. 

“Bucky’s here.” Damien nods, his expression unreadable. 

“Tell him I’ll be right there.” 

“You tell him yourself, I’m not your fucking errand-boy,” you snap. “He’s in the hallway.” He shifts, crossing his arms. As he does so, you peek into the room around his shoulder. For the briefest of moments you’re allowed a glance inside, clothes everywhere, but the table is clean, with a scale on it. You feel his hand before it touches you, and you move accordingly, taking a step back so his push is a light tap. 

“You’re a fucking asshole.” You shove past him, angry tears burning behind your eyes. The fuck’s he need a scale for? Your mind is racing. He’s dealing again, he has to be—that’s why these people keep coming by the house. It’s worse than fucking dealing—it’s distributing. You swallow hard. The house had been watched for months after Damien had gone in, you remember the unmarked police cars doing rounds on the block, the plainclothes cops following you from home to school to work and back again.

You don’t want that again. 

Mind your business.

You finger the scar beneath your shirt as you close your bedroom door as far as it’ll go before turning on the old A.C. in your room. It sputters a little before the air coming out turns cool. If they can run them downstairs you’re certainly not going to be the only one in the house suffering for the sake of the power bill. You bypass your desk—studying feels more impossible than ever, now—and go straight to your bed, flopping down on it like a ragdoll. 

You know better than to meddle, now. That lesson had been hard learnt but it had been learnt, first on the bathroom floor in agony as the broken bones of your left arm shifted beneath your skin, and again when you had left the hospital. 

Sister or not, you fuck with my shit again and I’ll put you in the goddamn dirt right next to her. 

As much as you hate D, you believe him, too. 

Maybe it’s selfish—but you’re not willing to go through it all over again, to withstand Damien’s rage just to feel righteous. You know how quickly that feeling fades—how quick the pain sets in. Absently you touch your shoulder again. If you press hard enough, you can feel the screws they put in, hard strange metal beneath soft flesh. 

What will he break this time, you wonder, if you’re brave enough to challenge him again? It had felt so good, so right to empty those bags down the toilet and flush them. You remember laughing, wondering if the rats living in the sewer would get high from being in the water. And then the memory of the door slamming open so hard the wall dented, Damien’s voice louder and angrier than you’d ever heard it—

“What the fuck did you do?!”

—

The uniforms at Peach Rings changes every two weeks. This week you’re forced to fend off the rowdy patrons dressed as some type of naughty nurse. Handsy Howard, as the rest of the girls all called him, stands in the wait-station doorway, watching as you adjust the stupid little white hat on your head. 

“What, Howard?” 

“You got sat. Jerry’s here. He wants to see you.” His eyes are glued shamelessly to your ass.  “He asked for you.” 

“Yeah, I get it. Can you move?” Reluctantly he peels his gaze from you, shuffling out of the way with his hands in his pockets. And they better stay there. Candy’s on the floor, halfway to the ceiling in six inch pleasers. It’s 4pm on a Wednesday night, though, so her signature flip-split is performed in front of a practically empty room. The only person sitting there is Jerome—you refuse to call him Jerry no matter how many times he asks—leaned back in his chair like he owns the place. 

You approach him from the side, keeping your posture relaxed and casual. 

“Jerome.” 

“Oh, hiya, Sweets.” He grins at you. “Liking the new uniform?” He cocks his head like he’s genuinely curious about your answer. Like it matters. “I love it.” 

“It’s great. I’ve always wanted to cosplay at work.” You reply flatly. “Can I get you a drink?” 

“Tom Collins.” You narrowly avoid his hands as you bring back his drink from the bar. 

“Hey, watch it or I’ll get you cut off, Jerome!” No jury on earth would convict me. The Wednesday night turn out is fairly pathetic on the best of days, but you end up with a few decent tables that keep you busy, running back and forth. They usually have three girls on—but tonight it’s just you and Bridget in your matching, ridiculous costumes. Your hands are always full, either with drink trays, your order pad, or tugging down your incessantly rolling skirt. 

At the end of the night, you have just shy of two-hundred and fifty bucks to show for your grueling shift, the majority of it in cash so you don’t have to worry about your mother seeing it get deposited into your account before you manage to squirrel it away into your savings. I really should take her off my accounts. I’m not fifteen anymore. You’re usually off early enough on a Wednesday to catch the second-to-last bus, but tonight you’re rushing for the last one, checking your phone nervously, watching the minutes slip away as you perform your list of mundane closing tasks. 

Like he can sense you’re in a hurry, Howard takes his time checking you, peeking slowly beneath each table before lazily signing his name on your check-out slip. 

“Christ, Howard, some of us have places to be,” you mutter, shouldering your bag. 

“Some of us have cars.” He gloats. You watch in real time as the underused lightbulb in the pitifully empty attic behind his eyes fizzle to life. “But, um, if you need a ride…” he doesn’t finish, trailing off hopefully. 

“I’ll walk.” You can feel the heat of his scowl on your back as you make for the door. There is a sliver of power in your rejection, and you cradle it preciously as you step out into the thick, muggy evening. It doesn’t matter that you now have to walk the bus route all the way back to the train station, that you definitely won’t make the last train, that you’ll have to spend money you don’t have on a taxi ride home. 

Handsy Howard won’t have you cornered in his 2004 Lincoln town-car, his greasy hand on your thigh. Not tonight. And if you have it your way, not fucking ever. 

You remind yourself of this after the first thirty minutes of walking, when the sidewalk becomes a narrow strip on the side of the road, and cars honk at you after swerving too close. And again when your shirt begins to stick to your back underneath your backpack and your inner thighs chafe painfully as they rub together. Google maps tells you that you have another hour-and-a-half walk ahead of you, and you feel your eyes water. 

It’s not fucking fair. 

Nothing you’re not used to. 

It’s already long past dark, and when the rumble of rubber wheels on asphalt isn’t drowning out all else, the sound of cicadas singing fills your head. You’ve been walking over an hour when a sleek black sedan slows as it passes you, going the opposite way. You aren’t expecting it to whip around as other cars honk, people leaning out of their windows to cuss at the driver, pulls up next to you. 

“Ladybug what are you doing out here?” Curtis leans down so you can see him through the passenger side window. You watch as he shifts into park, ignoring the angry tide of traffic growing behind him. 

“I—I missed the bus.” You say lamely, shifting your weight from foot to aching foot. “It’s okay, I’m walking to the bus station.” You don’t want to be in a car with Curtis either, 

Curtis laughs. “The hell you are. Get in.” 

“No, really—” Your legs are aching, unused to the strain, feet swollen in your cheap, dollar store sneakers. “I’ll be fine.

“I said get in. Respectfully, it’s not a discussion, Ladybug. Look at you.” You don’t really want to walk another hour in the stifling heat on the unpaved side of the road. At least he’s not Howard. As you waffle, a fresh chorus of honking horns and loud curses makes the decision for you.

“Get in the fucking car, lady, Jesus Christ!” Someone shouts, and your cheeks heat. 

“Fine.” You open the door and get in, holding your bag on your lap both to take up as little space as possible, but also to block access—just in case. The surge of power you’d felt denying Howard evaporates as you sink into the comfortable seat. The interior is as plush as the exterior; leather seats, a dashboard screen, push to start. The air conditioning feels amazing, goosebumps rising on your sweat-damp skin. You remind yourself not to get too comfortable, clutching your bag tighter. 

“You can, um. You can just drop me off at the train station.” 

“Ladybug, you know as well as I do that there’s no trains after midnight.” He glances at you. “Why don’t I just take you home?” 

“I don’t want to inconvenience you.” I don’t want to owe you.

“You’re not an inconvenience.” He’s not looking at you—he can’t, he has to focus on the road—but there’s a deep frown across his features, and it makes an unfamiliar sort of warmth bloom in your chest. 

“Thanks.”

When he drops you off at home the lights are off, and you breathe a sigh of relief. Your mother isn’t the type to wait up for you, and you’re glad you won’t have to entertain her nonsense after the shift you’ve had. You make to get out of the car, but Curtis catches your arm. 

“Wait, Ladybug. Can you get your phone out for me? I want you to have my number.” He smiles sadly. “In case this happens again.” 

“No, no, don’t worry about it, I’ll just—”

“Buckhead to the Five points is a long walk, Sweetheart.” For a second you forget to breathe. Right. Nita’s. Buckhead. 

“I have friends. In the area.” 

“Not very good ones, if they wouldn’t drop you off so you didn’t have to walk miles in the dark on the side of the road.” He replies. “Just take it. What’s the harm?” 

You hesitate before opening your phone. Taking his number doesn’t mean you have to use it, right? Carefully you hand him your phone and allow him to punch in his details. 

“Sent myself a text so I don’t ignore it.” He hands you back your phone. “Just want you to be safe, Ladybug. That’s all.” 

“I told you, no one calls me that anymore.” Neesh is dead and Damien’s a fucking twat. Curtis shrugs. 

“Guess that makes it more special, then, don’t it?” 

Your mother is passed out on the couch, a half-empty bottle of wine teetering dangerously on the edge of the coffee table. Old habits, you suppose. Old habits that seem to flare up when your brother’s around. Damien did tend to bring out the worst in people. Your stomach knots, thinking of Neesh. 

The very worst. 

Your mother mumbles sleepily as you tidy up around her, picking up an empty glass that had rolled under the couch. Could a person change? You turn the thought over and over in your mind as you pull a blanket up over your mother’s sleeping shoulders. Could they change underneath the skin, who they were, are, would be? You don’t know. You straighten up, turning off the television. 

You won’t be around to find out. The ticket from Hartsfield-Jackson to Portland International Airport is already paid for—you’re just finishing out the semester here before you’ve got enough credits to leave and never look back. You’ve got almost enough in your savings for first month’s rent and a deposit, and you’re confident another few weeks at the club will give you the rest. 

Momma and Damien can have each other. 

You’re going to be free. 

—

“And what is that an example of?” Professor Greenbalm looks around the lecture room before her dark eyes fall on you. “Any ideas?” Nervously you finger your pen, clicking it a few times. You regret the action instantly, the noise seeming to echo in the dead quiet. 

“Bias? Uh, media bias?” 

“Yes, exactly.” Oh thank Christ. “And what else?” Your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth as you flounder. “It draws into question…” She hesitates before shaking her head. “Journalistic Integrity.” 

I should have known that. 

You spend the rest of the lecture shrinking, hoping that you won’t be called on again. You aren’t, but as you gather up your books to leave, Professor Greenbalm calls your name. 

“Stay a minute, will you?” Nervously you wait as the last minute stragglers finally trickle out the door, and the professor runs her fingers through her short, graying brown hair. “A month ago you were at the top of the class.” She says, brows furrowing. “What happened?” You don’t want to give excuses, the bitter ones that linger on your tongue. I had to take more shifts because Momma’s check’s not going as far with three people in the house. Can’t study at a strip club. 

“I know. I’m sorry, It’s just… things are kind of difficult right now. At home.” 

“I just don’t want to see your potential wasted. You could really be something, if you applied yourself. I think a lot of the other students could learn from you. But if this continues…” She shakes her head. “The missed assignments, the late ones. I don’t see how I can recommend you for the fellowship program.” Your chest goes tight. 

“It won’t.” You say quickly. “I’ll deal with it. It’s just—it doesn’t matter. I’ll deal with it.” You hadn’t had any trouble keeping up until Damien came home. The house was never quite peaceful but things had been at least predictable. You’d learned to live with your mother, learned at least how to tiptoe around the living land-mine in your home. Now it’s like there are pitfalls and sand-traps to avoid too, not to mention your increased workload.

“I’ll handle it.” You say again, as if trying to reassure both yourself and your professor. She only sighs. 

“I hope you do.” You blink back frustrated tears, practically tasting Professor Greenbalm’s disappointment. It’s chokingly bitter. You’re tempted briefly to stay, to plead your case, but you know it won’t help.

You blink hard, forcing back the angry tears that threaten to leak down your cheeks as you flee the lecture hall. The bathroom is only a few minutes walk but you barely make it before you begin to cry. You don’t even check if it’s empty, locking yourself in a stall before sitting down on the closed lid. The ability to cry silently is one you’ve perfected, quieting the gasping sobs as you clutch yourself. 

It’s the first time you’ve cried since Damien’s been home, the first time you really let yourself feel it, the raw anger, the rage. He never should have been let back inside in the first place. 

How could you do this to me Momma? How?

Before long you’re gasping for air, quiet trembling breaths that leave you aching. He’d hurt you so bad, and she just… she didn’t care. 

She’d never cared. 

You don’t know how long you sit there, but you emerge with puffy, bloodshot eyes and a runnyYo nose. The two girls at washing their hands at the sinks are gracious as you splash water onto your face, sniffling. 

“Is it a man?” The blonde asks, shaking her head. You accept her tissue with a stiff nod. “It’s always a fucking man.” 

Outside, the sticky Atlanta summer settles over you like a humid blanket, and you wonder if you have enough in your checking account to uber home. You don’t have to do mental math very long, though, because the sound of a horn nearly makes you drop your phone. 

“Need a ride, Ladybug?”

to be continued…