Warnings: 18+, MDNI, dirty talk, thigh riding, language, fluff, desperation, no use of y/n
Summary: Unable to keep dirty thoughts about your boyfriend at bay, when he provides an opportunity, you take it.
word count: 1.5k
Masterlist
He had to know what he was doing, he just had to. There was no other explanation for the tight white T-shirt on his form and the way he leaned over you at dinner, his heavy cologne invading your senses and T-shirt tugging down to reveal his tattoos shaded in by heavy chest hair. Maybe it was just you, a desperate and aching need filling you at the idea of him. Already drunk off just his smell and the heavy way his accent lolled off his tongue. You were desperate for him, in literally anyway, imagining that same tongue that peeked out to lick his lips was somewhere on your body instead.
It’s not long until the other dinner guests leave, you and Chris automatically in the habit of cleaning up after the fun night. You retrieve all the dishes and dump them in the sink, determined to have them all placed in the dishwasher while Chris collects empty beer bottles scattered around the home. You’re thankful for the distraction, arms wet to your elbows as you rinse each dish, mind no longer wandering on Chris’ broad body and all the things you want to with it.
“Sorry,” Chris’ voice suddenly mutters, a hand falling to your hip as he presses his hard body against your back. His free hand reached above the both of you, opening the cupboard there to retrieve who knows what. The infiltration has you tightening your grip on the ledge of the sink, the curve of your ass fitting perfectly into the dip of his crotch. A perfect puzzle piece match and you can’t help the way your head droops and a sigh escapes your lips. This doesn’t go unnoticed by Chris either, realization dawned on him that you are putty in his hands.
“You okay?” he asks, voice low and heavy in your ear. You gulp, trying to keep your voice steady and mind off of the fact you would do anything to desperately grind back into him right now.
“Ye-yeah. I’m fine, just a little dizzy from the wine,” you say, eyes opening and offering a soft smile over your shoulder. He hasn’t moved away yet, fingers still wrapped around your waist, and he doesn’t realize he might just be the death of you.
“Okay, you sure?” he asks, this time with less curiosity in his voice. It makes you question his reassurance until you feel him push tighter against you, hips lifting just a bit that you can now feel him under the curve of your ass.
You don’t answer, unsure if any words could actually come out right now. Your knuckles turn white from how hard you grip the sink and Chris abandoned whatever it was he came to grab in favor of turning off the sink. His hand returns to hold the other side of your waist and it’s at this moment you realize how screwed you are.
“I don’t think it’s the wine making you dizzy. I mean I’ve never seen you so desperate,” he mutters, hips rolling into you again while one of his hands trails to your stomach, pushing you tighter against him. This time you can’t help the whimper that escapes your lips, your ears turn red from embarrassment but Chris just grins. Slowly his hand dips under your shirt, a large palm gliding up your stomach and rising the fabric with it. When he reaches the cup of your bra, your body finally stops fighting him, your ass grounding into him while your head flings back to rest against his shoulder.
“It’s your fault,” you accuse, more whines leaving you as he lays his hand across your breast and offers a soft squeeze.
“Yeah baby, how’s that?” he asks, lips closing on your neck and leaving the faintest of kisses. Cleaning the house has now been abandoned in favor of each other, a desperate need coming from you both.
“You’re just so big and you smell so good. Every two seconds you had your chest in my face and I’m just a girl,” it’s nonsense, pure nonsense leaving your lips because what words are there to even say as he feels this good pressed against you.
“So all night, you were just sitting there and imagining me in the most filthy ways?” he asks, a hand brushing some hair away from your shoulder so he could have more access to your neck. He continues to taste the skin there, sucking softly and soothing it over with his tongue.
“Not exactly, I was imagining all the different ways I could use your big body to please mine,” you answer honestly, in too deep to go back now and a little dizzy with the idea he might actually give you what you wanted.
“Care to show me?” he asks and you nod eagerly, not a bit of shame in your eyes as he releases his hold on you and guides you to the living room couch. He stands before you, a mischievous grin on his lips as he presents himself to you.
Without any words shared you grab the hem of his shirt, lifting and revealing more and more of his happy trail. He allows you to remove his shirt, enjoying the way you gape at his sturdy and hairy chest like it was some sort of dessert. When the fabric is thrown somewhere to the side, your small fingers take their time wading through chest hair and exploring the tattoos littered along his chest. He tries to hide the way he shivers as you glide them down and tangle in his happy trail before finding the buttons of his jeans. It's not often he relents control in the bedroom but how turned on you are for him when he had done nothing to you yet made him desperate to submit. He was curious to know what had been in your head all night.
“Look at you,” you muse, smirking up at him as you grip his length through his strained briefs. He winces at the sensation before grinding into your palm. He’s so hard for you already but having him inside you wasn’t first on the list. “Sit down Chris.”
He is quick to obey, unsteady steps backward until he falls to the couch. He still looks so big against the cushions and you just smile as you slowly undress. Your panties are a mess and you can feel your arousal on your thighs as you look at the Greek God of a man in front of you. Once completely naked you stalk your way over to him, one leg hooking around his waist. He prepares for you to follow suit with the other but instead it wedges between his legs and your wet heat settles against his thigh.
“Fuck baby,” he says heavily at the sensation. His hands grip your hips, to ground you or himself, he’s not sure. His length pushes against the top of your thigh and you laugh lightly at the very dirty predicament you're in.
“Been imaging this all night,” you tell him before gliding your hips forward. You move easily due to how wet you are and even though his cock barely brushes along your leg, he’s the one moaning. Discovering it felt even better than imagined you find a rhythm and begin to grind down on him. It should be embarrassing, using him to get yourself off, but the way he looks at you mesmerized takes it all away.
“Please cum like this?” he begs and you just whine, your clit scraping over his leg hair just right and he removes a hand from your hip to grope your breast. You moan again when he pinches your pebbled nipple and Chris is certain he might cum in his pants just from this.
It’s not long until you feel that coil tightening in your stomach, your slick dripping down his thigh, and you’re so close. Chris notices and brings his mouth to your breast, sucking your nipple softly into his mouth. The new sensation has the rhythm of your hips faltering but he uses his hands to steady you and when he switches to the other nipple, your body stutters to a stop. You convulse, slumping into him as you finish all over his thigh. Chris’ cock jumps, his precum leaking desperately through the fabric, and you look so fucked out already.
“I think that was the hottest thing I’ve ever experienced,” he mutters, nuzzling you close and you hiss when your sensitive clit nudges his thigh. He’s so hard it almost hurts.
“Can I ride your abs next?” you ask and he lets out a hearty laugh, head tipping back in the process. You smile softly, eyes heavy with exhaustion and Chris looks at you lovingly.
“Not yet, I need to be inside you first. Maybe tomorrow,” and you don’t complain as he uses his strength to lift you and lay you along the couch. You watch dreamily as he finally removes his boxers and frees his length. It’s so hard it nudges his pelvis, angry and red. Your pussy clenches just at the sight and he grins before sealing his lips against yours and pushing up inside of you.
Summary: You tell Steve you're in love with him…. It doesn't go as you'd hoped… And one night during a cry fest, Bucky makes you feel like you're on top of the world.
Warnings: angst, heartbreak, steve's a douche canoe, unrequited feelings
WC: 770
Fluffier Version Here
ao3 // tag list
Cold light from the compound windows cut across the floor in hard, indifferent lines as you stood in the doorway, feeling smaller than the room should have made you. Your words came out like a broken whisper. “I’m tired of being your secret, Steve. I don’t want to do this anymore. Being… this—” You swallowed. “It’s wearing me down.”
He didn’t look up at first; the scraping of paper from his desk was louder than anything. Then his shoulders stiffened, and the quiet in the room changed shape. When he finally turned, there was none of the softness that had come in the middle of the night—only a flatness that landed on you like a hand. “So what now?” His voice was level, practiced. “You going to try someone else? Bucky? Tony? Is that it? Am I not enough?”
You wanted to argue, to say no in a hundred different ways, but the truth had jagged edges you weren’t ready to reveal. You’d thought you could keep it small—keep the nights and the rules and the rest of your life separate—but the rules had quietly unraveled. “I never said that,” you managed. “I… I can’t keep doing this, Steve. Not like this.”
He laughed without humor—short, brittle. He let the sound hang there like a verdict, leaning back in the chair. “You knew what this was from the start, Y/N. You were content. What changed?”
Everything had changed. Every careless touch had become a map you couldn’t erase. Every morning after he’d left to go be Captain America had felt like a hollowing. You couldn’t tell him you’d been building a life of small, dangerous hopes around him. You couldn’t tell him you loved him in a way that would break you if he didn’t take it back. So you said the thing anyway, because silence was worse: “I love you.”
The word fell between you and he didn’t move. For one disorienting heartbeat you saw something—something like a crack—but then he closed it up with a practiced motion. He let out a breath that was almost like pity. “You love me?” He said it as if trying a bad joke on the air. “You love me and you think that gives you the right to make this messy?”
You felt heat rush to your face, shame and exposure. “This isn’t a joke. I didn’t want it, Steve. It just happened.”
He took a step closer, and you expected—foolishly—to feel comfort. Instead, his hand grazed your cheek and there was nothing warm in it. His thumb pressed there for a fraction of a second, then he pulled back as if the touch had burned him too. “You fell into something with me,” he said, voice low and steady. “You built dreams on a lie we both agreed to keep. I can’t apologize for what I am, Y/N. I won’t be the man who ruins his life—and whatever I have to keep—for someone who chose the shadows.”
You wanted to tell him that every late hour, every quiet confession to yourself, had not been a choice. You wanted to shove the truth into his face: that you hadn't chosen the shadow, you had been pushed into it by loving him. His silence swallowed the rest.
“I can’t,” he said finally, with the kind of finality that felt surgical. “I can’t promise you more than this. I won’t be a secret turned into a scandal or a mistake. Don’t expect me to pretend otherwise for your comfort.”
You opened your mouth, the world narrowing to the space where his eyes met yours—so blue, so terrible by the end of it—and tried to find the words that would stop him. He stepped closer and kissed you, but it wasn’t a promise. It was an erase: practiced, controlled, and cool as winter. When he pulled away you could taste the last of whatever warmth had ever been true between you, and it was salt and goodbye.
He straightened, eyes flattened. “Don’t tell anyone,” he said. “Don’t look for me. That will be better for both of us.”
Then he left—no last hand on your back, no whispered consolation—just the click of the door behind him and the compound taking him back, large and indifferent and impenetrable. You sank to the floor on the other side of that closed door, the light cutting you into angles, and realized the thing you’d become was smaller than the love you’d secretly cultivated: a shadow he’d stepped over on his way out.
There's this thing, this feeling so good in your stomach about how happy, euphoric, excited and thrilled the entire fandom is with Chris Evans on the TIIF red carpet at the world premiere of "Sacrifice."
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
A/N: hear me out—just hear me the hell out—
No. Fucking no.
You can see the car parked in the driveway from down the block, as soon as you round the corner. Foolish, fragile hope flutters in your chest, the hope that you might be wrong. That the big, black Dodge sitting just behind your mother’s beat up Toyota is someone else’s. In someone else’s yard. But with every heavy step down the busy street it curdles into resignation.
He’s parked badly, the truck askew in the driveway like a backslash. You walk around it, your shoulder aching as you readjust your bag. The front door’s open, the way it always is this time of year, and the smell of cooking food wafts gently through the screen door. The air outside is thick, wet, and stifling—Atlanta summer. You’re sweating as you dart up the stairs. Even though it’s only five minutes from the bus stop to the house, your shirt sticks uncomfortably to your back, your thighs chafing where your shorts end.
Inside, a large pair of men’s loafers lay across the mat, equally as crooked as the truck outside. Voices and laughter sound from the kitchen, buoyed by the scent of honey and cornbread, and the muddy-water smell of catfish. You resist the urge to straighten his shoes, to fix them like you fix every-fucking-thing-else—
You don’t.
I could just go upstairs. You can probably make it past the kitchen without being seen. Just pretend he’s not even here. You can’t, though, your feet refuse to carry you past, like they know you need the confirmation. Need to see.
Your mother’s back is to you. She’s bent low over the stove, a long filet of catfish held in her cornmeal-crusted fingers. It’s even hotter here in the kitchen than it is outside, but your mother is old-school; the air conditioners down here are for company and for show—“not for you kids to run up my damn power bill”.
Damien is seated at the head of the table like a king. His feet are propped up on another chair, arms pillowed behind his head. He looks comfortable, too comfortable, like he belongs there when you know he doesn’t. Not in the fucking slightest.
“Baby, you like your fish fried hard, don’t you?” Your mother’s bourbon smooth drawl rounds out the edges of her words and elongates her syllables with a warm twang. “Your plate’s almost ready.”
Your stomach turns. He’s not supposed to fucking be here when I’m here. That’s the fucking deal. Your tongue is practically burning with the rebuke, but you swallow it instead, and the words burn all the way down. More respect, that’s what you need, she’d tell you, more flies with honey than vinegar.
“Momma.” She jumps, turning around like you’d bitten her instead of just said her name. “D.” Damien grins at you, sitting straight up and dropping his feet to the hardwood floor with a loud thump. “Momma we talked about this—”
“How you doin’, Squirt?” He’s all smiles, all warmth as he rushes you, pulling you into an uncomfortably tight hug you don’t have time to return before he lets go again.
“Aren’t you happy to see your brother?” Your mother asks over her shoulder. “He’s been gone so long.” You were supposed to have my fucking back. The words pass unspoken between you as her expression turns pleading. Please keep the peace, her face says in the silence as you stare at the two of them. Don’t make a scene. “Your uncles are all coming over. To celebrate.”
You glance at the pile of catfish, the bowls of greens and seasoned rice—it’s enough to feed a small army.
“Oh.”
It’s all you can dig up from beneath the glass-sharp shards of her betrayal. You’d talked about it, had a plan—no one was supposed to contact Damien. No one was supposed to let him back in.
Your brother squeezes your shoulder, laughing. “Good to see you too, Squirt.” You want to pull away from him, the truth burning in your lungs with the desire to be exhaled right into his smug face.
I wish they put you away forever.
“Hi.” He goes in for a hug and you turn your body to the side, so that it sloughs awkwardly off of you. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, don’t be like that,” He says. “Thought you’d be glad to see me.”
“When did you get out?”
“Six weeks ago.” Six weeks. That’s all the time it had taken to get back into Momma’s head—to her heart. Six weeks to forget.
“Oh.” He claps you on your shoulder—the bad one. It feels like his fingers linger on the raised scar beneath your t-shirt, but you don’t know if you imagined it or not, if it’s a warning—a reminder.
“That all you got for your big brother?” Damien smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Things will be different this time. Better.” You swallow, tasting the bitterness of his lie before answering with one of your own.
“Okay.”
—
The roof is still your only private space, given that the door to your room hasn’t locked properly since you were twelve. Tonight is much the same, as your brother’s “Welcome back from prison, you piece of shit” party is still raging on beneath you. At least up here, the noise from your drunk uncles playing dominoes and cards is drowned out by the general Friday-night block-shenanigans, which is honestly preferable.
You exhale a thick cloud of smoke from your nostrils, and it spirals up into the dark sky before disappearing.
Just have to make it until August. Just two more months.
The joint dulls your feelings of betrayal and rage until they’re minor annoyances, and not all-consuming the way they had been as you’d been forced to smile and tell your brother how much you’d missed him.
Like a hole in the fucking head.
When you’ve smoked it down to the filter, you flick it into the gutter, where it sparks and fizzles out against the decaying leaves filling it. Just another two months, and you’ll be in Portland. You’ve already put up with Damien for twenty-five years—what’s another two months? You slide down from the roof onto the little outcropping outside your window—you refuse to call that one by one rectangle of nothing a balcony. Your room is exactly as you’d left it, your father’s old amp in front of the door to keep it shut.
It’s one of the only things you plan on bringing with you.
Somehow, even with the door closed, your whole room still reeks like cigarette smoke. Which means Leonard’s down there smoking again. You grimace. There’s no use in chastising him—any of them. Your mother had agreed to no more smoking in the house—just like she’d agreed to no more Damien in the house.
Respect your elders. Don’t go telling grown folks what to do. Your mother’s irritated voice rings in your head. It doesn’t matter that you’re more than grown yourself, not to them. You grab the worn pair of headphones hanging on your bedpost, and settle them snugly over your ears. The music quiets instantly, and you bask in the near-silence.
Two months.
—
The air still smells like stale cigarettes when you finally roll out of bed late the next morning, the house eerily silent. When you venture downstairs, still in your pajamas, the evidence of last night’s party are still strewn everywhere—beer bottles resting on every available surface, red Solo cups with ominous contents and dirty paper plates on the sofas and coffee table. The ashtray that your mother continues to claim is merely decorative is now full of cigarette butts, and a few blunt roaches.
The kitchen is hardly better, the counters packed with trash and dirty dishes you know are meant for you to clean up. For a satisfying moment, you imagine stiffening your arm and sweeping everything onto the floor, imagine the bottles shattering against the tile before you pull out a garbage bag from under the sink and get to work. There’s no use complaining—and you can’t ignore it, the trash rising up around your ears while your mother dotes on her favorite son.
Don’t you know what I do for you? What I sacrificed to bring you into this world?
You reach for the faucet, turning it viciously as your eyes water. I wish you fucking hadn’t.
It’s mindless, at least, the cleaning. So much so that when someone raps on the locked screen door from the front of the house you nearly jump out of your skin. You drop the plate you’re washing back into the soapy water, splashing yourself. The knock comes again, more insistent. Probably Uncle Stefan. Left his wallet again. Shaking off the suds, you head for the door, rolling your eyes irritatedly as the banging continues. With a frustrated hmph you yank open the door, eyes narrowed.
“Uncle Stu I don’t know where Momma put your wallet, she’s not home—” The words curl in on themselves in your throat. The man on the porch is most certainly not your uncle.
“Good thing I’m not lookin’ for your Momma.” He flashes you a bright, white smile. It’s hard to talk around the lump in your throat but you manage.
“D’s not here either.” You want to look past him, to stare at the air over his shoulder instead of into those stormy blues, anywhere but at him, but there’s so much of him he has to slouch to fill the doorway. Curtis is wider than last you’d seen him, his blond hair now close-cropped, the beginnings of a beard shadowed around his mouth and jaw. The edges of a tattoo peek out from beneath his sleeves and shirt collar, one he hadn’t had the last time you’d seen him—
Five years ago, in the back of the same cop car as your brother.
“Now that’s a pity.” He clucks his tongue, and the silence that follows is nearly as heavy as his gaze. Beneath it, you are suddenly all too aware of your wet shirt sticking to your chest with every nervous breath you take. He licks his lips, slow and deliberate. “Mind if I wait for him?”
“I don’t know when he’ll be back.” You don’t know why you don’t just say no—men like Curtis Everett don’t hear that word enough anyway—but it feels like you can’t. Like his asking is only a formality. Like he’s daring you to say no.
“He’s out with Momma. Don’t know how long they’ll be.” You hope the bitterness on your tongue doesn’t show in your voice. You should be over it by now, should have accepted the order of things long ago.
But somehow, it still always stings.
“I don’t mind.” Curtis shrugs, muscles flexing beneath his shirt. You don’t remember him being this big. He places a hand on the doorframe, leaning down till he’s almost eye level with you. “‘Sides, that gives you and me time to catch up.” He drawls, a grin spreading across his full lips. “Doesn’t it Ladybug?”
“Don’t call me that.” You snap. “Nobody calls me that anymore.” A slow grin spreads across his full lips. It makes you shiver.
“Nobody but me.” Suddenly, you’re fifteen again, buying your first eighth from your brother’s cool older friend, Neesh holding onto your shirtsleeve as you hand over the money. “Brings back memories, doesn’t it?” For a moment you debate whether or not to answer.
“Yeah,” you say finally. “Memories.” Bad ones.
He glances past you into the house. “Looks like you all had a good time last night.” You can’t help the scowl that crosses your features. “Your momma does love a good party.”
“Yeah. For me to clean up.” You wince. “Sorry, I mean—”
“You’ve always been the responsible one.” He shrugs languidly. The silence between you stretches on until he breaks it again. “I really don’t mind waiting.” He shifts so slightly you don’t even really register it, and suddenly he’s towering over you, the width and breadth of Curtis Everett filling your vision. He’s half-inside already, his foot on the threshold, the bulk of him leaned in past the doorframe. You feel small, vulnerable, your heart a frightened rabbit in your ribs. “I won’t get in the way. Promise.”
I’m coming inside. He doesn’t have to say it, he doesn’t need to.
“Fine.”
—
You can feel Curtis’ eyes on your back as you stand at the sink, suck in an endless cycle of wash and dry. You grit your teeth as you furiously scrub the breading-caked fryer basket. Sometimes it feels like you can’t win for losing—first Damien, now Curtis. Who next? With my luck it’ll be fucking Dave. You shiver slightly at the thought—the walls still have patches of off white paint from where he’d driven his closed fists through the plaster.
You never could find the right shade of eggshell white to cover the damage.
A furtive glance over your shoulder reveals Curtis, standing in the doorway, a garbage bag in hand. It’s practically full to bursting, the crinkle of crushed plastic cups and paper plates as he hefts the bag almost as loud as the silence.
“Got the living room cleared up.” You turn to face him, wiping your soapy, wet hands on the dishrag by the sink. It’s like you need to see where he is, to gauge the distance between your bodies constantly, like the hyper-vigilance will keep you safe. You know of course from experience that it won’t, but it doesn’t stop the habit. There’s a certain irony in your fear—Curtis hasn’t ever hurt you, hasn’t ever even tried, but something about him terrifies you, and you don’t want to know what he’s capable of.
“Thanks. You can just leave it by the back door. I’ll take it out on my way to work.”
“Oh? Thought you were still in school.” Curtis drops the bag by the door on the opposite side of the kitchen, before draping himself over the counter. “Least, that’s what D told me, anyway.”
“Maybe you should ask him, then,” you reply snidely. “Since he knows so much.”
“Maybe. But I’m askin’ you, Ladybug.” Suddenly, you’re aware you’re the only person in the house. Not that you hadn’t been before, but it dawns on you now in a way it hadn’t when he was at the door—
Silly little girl. You’ve gone and let the wolf in.
You panic, tongue searching the roof of your mouth for a precious second as the lie forms in your throat.
“Nita’s. In Buckhead.” He nods his approval.
“Nice place.” You hum noncommittally in response. “Maybe I’ll come see you sometime.” The cup you’re washing slips from your fingers, shattering in the shallow, soapy water. “You okay, Ladybug?” You’re the furthest from okay that you’ve been in almost a decade but you don’t know how to say that.
“We’re ho-ome!” Your mother’s lilting, sing-song-y tone saves you from having to reply. She bustles into the kitchen, arms laden with shopping bags. “Oh good, you’re up. D will be in with the rest of the bags and—” She pauses, a sharp intake of breath marking her observation. Better late than never.
“Curtis Everett, you better not be standing in my kitchen with them outside shoes on.” She snaps, pointing down at his feet.
“Miss Gregory.”
“Don’t you Miss Gregory me. Go on and take ‘em off or go stand on the porch.” She makes a shooing motion towards the front door, her lips pursed in a disapproving frown. “Go on, now. Take ‘em off.” Curtis moves too gracefully for someone his size, crossing the kitchen in easy strides. There’s more than enough room between your back and the table for him to pass without touching you, but he brushes against you anyway. You nearly drop the pieces of glass you’re holding as you go stiff.
He did that on purpose.
But when you look at him all you see is his receding back as he moves in the direction he’d been instructed to, leaving you and your mother alone in the kitchen.
“Help me put these away.”
Groceries. It was bags and bags of groceries. You sink your teeth into your lip to keep the angry words inside. The fridge has been empty for weeks; between paying for your classes and covering her half of the light bill and your own has left you little to spare in the way of grocery money. Up until this week the two of you had been scraping by on frozen dumplings and ramen.
“Did you get paid, Momma?” You ask quietly, pulling open the fridge door. She sucks her teeth.
“Not that it’s any business of yours, but yes. I did.”
“It’s just, you said you’d pay me back for the power bill when you got your check.”
“We needed groceries.”
“We needed them before, too.” You say pointedly, and she rolls her eyes. “I just…I hope you didn’t blow your whole check on a nice breakfast and groceries for Damien. I don’t have any shifts this week, and—”
“Girl, who are you talking to?” Your mother’s tone is low and accusatory. You know instantly you’ve gone too far.
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t tell me how to spend my money when you live in my house rent free,” she snarls. “Disrespectful—” she mumbles something, a curse you can’t make out. “Move. I’ll do this myself.” She practically shoulder-checks you out of the way, angrily shoving her hands into the grocery bags. When you don’t move fast enough, she sucks her teeth. “Move, I said. Since you’re so grown.”
You know defending yourself will only make it worse, so you clamp your jaw shut, your eyes focused on your trembling hands.
Two months.
Your mother places each item into the refrigerator as loudly as she can, slamming down bottles of juice and packages of frozen meat so hard you worry she’ll shatter the shelves.
“Momma.” She slams down some frozen ground beef, shutting the freezer with equal force. “Momma, come on.”
“You giving me orders now? You just don’t know when to stop—”
“Look, I’m sorry, okay? I’m just… things are tight as it is. I’m just worried about us. I don’t want anything bad to happen.”
“That’s my job.” She sighs. “I’m the parent, you’re the child. Stay in a child’s place.”
I’m twenty six years old.
“Yes ma’am.” You clench your fists out of sight, where she can’t see them as you crawl back onto the proverbial tightrope. “I’m sorry.”
Getting your first tattoo at the Obsidian Stain & Sin Studio turns out to be a decision that has a lasting effect.
Pairings: Ari Levinson x curvy Female!Reader x Curtis Everett
Content Warnings: [check individual parts for their respective warnings] explicit smut, mfm threesome, questionable initial consent
MAIN SERIES:
↠ Obsidian Stain and Sin [8.1k]
↠ Taking You Home [6.2k]
↠ Worship in the Bedroom [3.3k]
↠ Get Closer to Me [5.8k]
↠ Sleeplessly Embracing You [2.4k] - CURTIS POV
↠ Sensible Sorting [1.5k] - ARI POV
↠ Shifting Desire [6.8k]
↠ Too Simple For It [3k]
more coming soon
EXTRAS:
↠ "Slower" a Sexy September scribble
↠ "Creamy" another Sexy September scribble
↠ making pasta from scratch
an ask about making you pass out/somnophilia with these men(aces)
an ask about the publicness/dynamic of your relationship
OTHER TATTOO ARTISTS:
✒ Steve Rogers
Like Real People Do | Put Your Sweet Lips on my Lips
I Already Know | I Will Not Ask, and Neither Should You
✒ Andy Barber
Lightning in a Bottle | Just One Morning After
↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest
Chris Evans Characters Collection
