omg I almost legit forgot about party favors! And for Superior AI verse my beloved 😩 don’t look at me!!
Superior AI Custom Order Request:
1) Your CE!babe of choice (If you’d rather I pick the babe for you, let me know).
Not gonna lie, part of me is curious about a Mr. Freezy AI, but I think that’d be too scary. 🫣 Maybe Curtis? Or whoever sparks inspiration. You can pick. I’m pretty easy with CEvans (just not Pete, Drew, or Jack). 😊
2) What are the top 3 reasons why you are ordering an AI?
Only 3 reasons? Okay 😔
I’m a lonely kind of person. I don’t have many friends and I tend to keep to myself, even though I crave connection. So having an AI bot would allow me to fill that void. And I wouldn’t have to worry about being judged.
To be honest, I am insanely curious. I really wanna get my grubby little hands on all the components and just feel them. I wanna see how all the computer parts connect and learn how they work—with their consent, of course.
There’s something about customization that really intrigues me. It’s like the appearance/outfit options in video games or making a Build-a-Bear. Probably ties into ownership—I made it, it’s mine. But I like the idea of creation and being a part of it.
Dick 🍆👅👀🙂↕️
3) Soft, soft!dark, or dark?
I am a soft!dark babe through and through. Gimme all the soft, unhinged, obsessive, possessive I can take please 🙏🏻
4) Smut or no smut?
I’d love some smut, but whatever your muse tells you is absolutely fine by me.
I’m so excited for your birthday, Siri!!! This event is so fun and I can’t wait until you read the fics I wrote for it. And thank you for hosting these party favors. You know this is gonna make my year. Superior AI verse, my beloved. 🥰 💜
Take whatever time you need with this, I know your job has been exhausting. I hope you get lots of rest and happy time while you’re on vacation/break for the next couple days.
GASP! I can’t believe you, of all people, almost forgot about the party favors 🤣 I’m so very happy to fulfill your order, my friend. I mean that quite literally, too, I was fucking euphoric writing this hahahaha. And thank you again for joining in on my birthday bash. I loved your Lloyd story and I can’t wait to see what else you cooked up. You truly spoil me! ❤️
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Sensory Overload
Warnings: AU. AI!Curtis. Hand job. Dirty talk. Possessive!Curtis. Brief oral (m receiving). Cum eating. Reference to oral sex (f receiving), face riding, unprotected sex, and breeding.
RIP your panties, each and every one of you lollll.
Curtis stood before you–looming impossibly close–watching intently as you touched him.
And not only touched him, but stared into the depths of the open circuit panel on his abdomen, mesmerized.
It was a very specific customization you had requested when having him built–easy access to his circuit board and, well, his robotic innards. You had always been so curious about AIs, and you knew that once you finally had your own, you’d likely spend hours exploring him well beyond run-of-the-mill surface level primary user experiences.
And you had.
Starting the very first day he had arrived at your home, you started to pepper him with questions and explore all of the customizations you had requested, much to Curtis’ amusement.
So far, your favorite discovery had been his pleasure sensors. They were two rows of lights to the left of his circuit board that lit up in varying shades of blue and turquoise each time you gave him pleasure.
Like right now, as you slowly stroked his cock.
That was another favorite customization detail–Curtis’ cock. It was long, thick, and slightly curved in a way that always hit just right whenever he fucked you.
You squirmed at the very thought, pressing your thighs together as your arousal flooded your panties, momentarily distracting you from the depths of Curtis’ inner workings.
“As much as I love watching you explore and enjoy yourself, I can’t wait to have my turn,” Curtis’ deep baritone washed over you, making you blink owlishly as you tipped your head back to meet his dark gaze.
“Really?”
His lips twitched, eyes sparkling at you. Curtis knew you weren’t just being coy or fishing for compliments, you were genuinely curious if he truly felt an eagerness–a desire–to touch and tease you.
You know, since he was a machine, and all.
He ducked lower, his ruggedly handsome face hovering a few inches from yours as he confirmed, “Really. Genuinely. I love the sounds you make when I play with that pretty pussy. I love the taste of you on my tongue–”
At that, your lips parted, but before you could even give voice to your question, Curtis was answering it.
“Yes, I can actually taste the sweet tang of your cunt, kitty cat.”
Your face warmed, both at his ability to predict you and the way your mind worked, and at the pet name.
It had only been two days into you and Curtis getting to know each other when he had dubbed you his kitty cat, “Because curiosity, and all that,” he’d explained when you’d given him a pleased yet puzzled look.
“What do you most want to do to me today?” you asked shyly, your grip on Curtis’ cock tightening and making a groan spill past his lips.
“Mmm, I think I’m going to make you sit on my face for a while, so I can drown in that delectable pussy.”
Your breath hitched, and Curtis leaned even closer, his big hand gripping your own as you paused mid-stroke on his cock, gaping up at him with parted lips and darkening eyes.
“Then,” he drew out the word, eyes flickering to your lips and lingering. “Then I’m going to fuck you, make you ride me so you can feel me filling you up, buried deep. And so I can watch that pretty face as you keen and cry and beg for me.”
Curtis slowly began to guide your hand up and down his length, both of you watching the way his cock head dribbled with pearl after pearl of “pre-cum.”
“Then maybe we’ll test my newest feature and see just how much cum I fill you up with when breeding mode is activated.”
“Curtis,” you gasped helplessly, visibly trembling with need now as you both began to stroke him faster.
“I’m gonna spread you open and watch it all leak out, too, every last drop. So I can revel in how much I own you, because I do, don’t I?”
You nodded, your hooded gaze fixed on Curtis’ cock now. He groaned again, louder this type, his thick thighs flexing, and just as you felt his cock throb beneath your palm, you darted close, closing your mouth over the crown of him so you could eagerly drink his cum.
But even in your horny enthusiasm, you were sure to remain far enough away that you could watch the way his pleasure sensors went haywire–lighting up and erratically pulsing like neon lights in a night club–as he rode out his peak.
Even though he didn’t actually need to breathe, Curtis panted raggedly as he came, his free hand cradling the back of your head to hold you in place as he rutted into your mouth, pumping your throat full of him, making sure you drank every last drop.
And because you had been so specific in your customization of him, his spend was delicious, the flavor you had so painstakingly designed, almost like creating a one of a kind perfume.
It exploded along your tastebuds now, filling your throat, making you moan as you swallowed the last warm gush of his seed. You were breathless as you pulled away from him, delighted to see his cock was still rock hard as your fingers fell away from his warm skin.
Watching you with a look that toed the line of feral and screamed possession, Curtis’ grip on the back of your head tightened as he angled you closer, reeling you in so he could kiss you.
Just like everything Curtis did, it was with intent, and you knew if you had your own pleasure sensors, they’d be zinging like a pinball machine as he deepened the kiss and touched his tongue to yours to share in the taste of his release.
“You’re mine, say it,” Curtis husked once he finally pulled away.
“I’m yours, Curtis,” you whispered without hesitation, meaning it with every fiber of your being.
“Fucking right you are,” he hummed, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of your nose before slowly pulling away.
He straightened, offering you a hand up, and once he pulled you to your feet–and right against him–he nuzzled your warm cheek, his lips seeking your ear to murmur:
“Now it’s time for you to get naked and plant that pretty pussy right on my face. It’s my turn to have fun now, and I’m gonna enjoy every second of it.”
Characters/Pairings: mob boss!Curtis Everett x Reader
Word Count: 4.4k
Summary: When you end up in a wrong-place-wrong-time scenario of the mob, you do the only thing you can to stay safe: seek out their rival across town and try to make a deal with their devil...
Author Note: Look at that word count, @stargazingfangirl18! LESS THAN 5K! Can you believe it?! Actually following the guidelines for your birthday bash!
↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest
“You picked the wrong man to steal from.”
“I didn’t steal, he only thinks—”
Curtis cuts you off with a palm, a gesture sharpened by impatience. “Doesn’t matter. You’re in his crosshairs now.” His gaze is a slow, deliberate scan—the blue of his eyes not cold, but still, like deep winter water. It lingers on the slight tremor in your lower lip, the too-quick flutter of a pulse at the base of your throat. He doesn’t just look, he measures. “You know why he’s dangerous.”
You nod.
“The only man more dangerous than him,” Curtis says, “is the one you’re looking at now.” He leans back, folding his arms like he’s savoring the moment. “You came to me vulnerable. I don’t care what desperation drove you here, the protection I offer comes at a cost. From this moment, you’re mine.”
You stare back at him, a tightness clenching your ribcage. “What does that mean?”
Curtis’s eyes don’t move from your face. “First, it means you walk out of here alive, which is significant. Second, it means when I call, you answer. Third—” He lets the word dangle, a silent threat that prickles at the base of your skull. “It means you’ll do exactly as I say, no questions, no hesitation. You pay me back, starting now.”
Your throat works. “Whatever you’re thinking, I don’t—I’m not capable of that. I don’t have any of those skills. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.” The cold dread trickles further down your spine.
Curtis laughs—sharp, not cruel, but honest, and that’s somehow worse. “That’s not the currency I want from you.” He pushes back from the desk and comes around it, stopping just before you. “Stand.” The command is quiet, absolute.
Your movements are slow, wary as you rise. His hand moves to your hair, fingers twisting into it with a firm, deliberate grip that holds you in place.
His other hand skims the side of your neck, thumb tracing your pulse, then slides down over the buttons of your blouse. You sense it’s a test as he pops the first fastener, then the next, exposing your collarbone, the top of your bra.
“There’s freedom in belonging to someone like me. All your choices, your debts, your enemies—they become mine. The things you want, you’ll get them.”
The cold air stings your skin. Curtis doesn’t blink. He takes you in, cataloging every detail, every twitch.
“You’re smart,” he says, his voice low and even. “So don’t be difficult.” His fingers slip inside the bra cup, brush the curve of your breast, lightly pinching your nipple, rolling it between callused fingers. A jolt, hot and sharp, shoots through you. You focus on a single point on his desk, on the reflection of the light, anything to keep the reaction from your face.
He smiles, the kind of smile that shows he’s already three moves ahead. His hand slides down your stomach, fingers mapping the curve of your hip until his thumb rests on the bone. He looks at you, waiting for the flinch, the fear. You give him nothing.
“Good girl,” he says, voice low and private. “You don’t beg. I like that.” He pushes the skirt down over your hips, lets it puddle at your feet, then runs his palm over the plain cotton of your panties. Curtis’s thumb ghosts over the curve of your waist. You shiver, but try to hold your ground. The other hand, still curled in your hair, pulls your mouth toward his. He kisses you without preamble or flourish; it is a transaction, an assertion, a signature on a contract.
His mouth tastes of wintergreen and steel, a clean, sharp shock that dissolves all thought. Your lower back arcs before you can stop it. You want to think it’s survival, but the heat crawling up your neck says it’s something more.
He breaks the kiss and murmurs, “You don’t strike me as someone who likes being owned, but you’re not naive, you had to have known this could’ve been my demand. You showed up anyway. I respect that.”
It’s not a question. The thought of resisting flickers and dies. The risks bloom in your mind, vast and unknowable. So you stand frozen, enduring the cartography of his hands as he weighs every tremor, every flinch.
His grip on your hair tightens. He bends your head back, baring your throat. You taste his aftershave as his mouth presses against your jaw, then lower, tongue flicking at your pulse point. He sucks there, a sharp, claiming bruise already forming, and the sound that escapes you is embarrassingly small, cut off before it can become anything worse.
The hair, the bruise—those are nothing, just pressure and nerve endings. What strips you down further than his hands ever could is the absence of performance in it, no relish, no cruelty, just the flat efficiency of a man collecting what he considers his.
Curtis draws his thumb over your hip, a languid, meditative gesture, and then slips his hand under the waistband of your panties, knuckles cool against your skin. He watches your face, not with lust but with the clinical focus of an engineer. You hold yourself very still, spine pulled long, and refuse to tremble when his fingers slide lower, cupping then parting you.
He finds the cut of you and lingers there, gathering evidence: your dampness, the way your thighs tense and relax, the slow hitch of your breath. “You’re scared,” he says, almost curious. “But not scared enough to run.” He pushes two fingers inside. It is sudden, blunt, and your body takes him in without hesitation, which is somehow the worst part.
You’re not sure if the ache between your legs is want or humiliation, but you tilt your hips toward his hand, chasing the friction. The corner of Curtis’s mouth moves, barely—less a smile than a parenthesis around something he has decided not to say. He pushes his fingers deeper, but only briefly before withdrawing them completely.
Curtis pivots, bringing your body with his, and the next instant you’re seated on the edge of the desk, the mahogany chilled against the bare skin of your thighs. You brace yourself with your hands, fingers splayed wide, and try not to slip. Curtis’s grip on your scalp softens, fingers stroking your temples as if to soothe you after the jolt.
He sinks to his knees. Your legs part before his palms find them, a quiet acknowledgment of the inevitable. The press of his shoulders between your thighs fills you with dread-laced anticipation. He nuzzles against the inside of your leg, his breath warm. Then his nose skims your thigh, bearded jaw setting off sparks as he inhales your scent. All you can do is sit there, quivering for the next element.
He runs a finger along the hem of your panties, tugging them side to side, threatening to tear but not committing—a game, and you’re the piece he’s determined to position exactly. He brings his face close, mouthing the cotton through the thin barrier, the heat of his tongue a brand on your skin. Then he bites, gently, and finally slides the fabric aside.
He licks the length of you, unceremonious and thorough, collecting your slick on the flat of his tongue before delving in again. The first touch is a shock, but the second, the third—his tongue flicking, then broad and slow—makes your thighs quake. Curtis offers no reprieve. He holds you open, two thumbs braced at either side of your hips, and tongue-fucks you with the focus and stamina of a man who has never once rushed a job in his life: unhurried, deliberate, already sure the patience will pay out.
Any thoughts of rebellion shatter under his mouth. Your palms press flat against the gleaming wood, fingers splaying wide as the wet, rough heat of him unspools you. He alternates gentle lapping with hard, fast circles, and when you gasp involuntarily, his hands lock tighter around your thighs, holding you in place for his inspection.
Curtis glances up, and the look in his eyes is a command: pay attention, this is your life now.
You hold his gaze as long as you can, but when he drags his tongue in a slow circle, then hones in, flicking with a precision that flattens your thoughts, your head snaps back and you let out a strangled moan. Curtis doesn’t relent. He pins you to the spot with the force of his hands, ratcheting the pressure until you’re shaking, until nothing exists but the relentless, wet friction of his mouth and the teetering, unbearable coil deep in your center. You hover there, lightheaded, mouth open, almost sobbing—so close you can feel the orgasm’s shape, its inevitability, rising to swallow you whole.
And then he stops. His hands leave your thighs, his mouth vanishes, and cold air hits your wet skin. The absence is so sudden you almost fall forward. You make a disbelieving sound, a hollow, desperate noise that you would never admit to being your own.
Curtis stands, and the movement is so fluid it sends a chill through your adrenaline-spiked body. His lips glisten and his beard is darkened by your wetness. He is marked by you, and the sight is a claim more absolute than any word. He brings two fingers to his mouth, unhurried, and drags them across his lower lip—not cleaning it so much as savoring it. Then the corner of his mouth lifts.
“Take them off,” he says, voice soft but ironclad.
You know exactly what he means. Your hands are shaking, an aftershock of the denied orgasm, but you manage to hook your thumbs beneath the elastic of your simple underwear. Peeling the cotton away from your skin takes longer than it should, the fabric reluctant, and you keep your eyes down through it.
Curtis’s gaze flicks downward. “Give them to me.”
You do. Expensive perfume and your own scent rise together as you ball the cotton in your palm. Something in you wants to hesitate, wants to hoard this last trivial privacy, but you hold the panties out, arm extended as though offering up a vital organ. Curtis takes them from your hand, folding the fabric into a neat square on his desk before returning his attention to you.
He doesn’t speak. Curtis moves into you, closing the distance until your knees frame his hips and the air between you vanishes. His hands find your wrists, his grip firm but not yet painful. His composure is flawless. He brings your hands to the waistband of his trousers, curling your fingers around the smooth leather of his belt.
“Go on,” he says, the softness in his tone making the command even sharper. “Show me you understand your price.”
Your chin lifts, a note of challenge you can’t quite stifle, and his eyes crinkle—savoring it, cataloging your resistance as if it’s one more asset to be leveraged. Still, you obey. The buckle is cold and heavy, slippery under unsteady fingers. You fumble only once, but he catches it, a fleeting smirk that barely lifts his lip.
The belt slides free with a whisper, the sound loud in the hush of the office. You unzip his trousers. Curtis’s cock, hard and already straining against the thin fabric of his briefs, presses up and out. You hesitate at the elastic, and even though it’s only the briefest of moments, it prompts him to say, “Don’t make me ask twice.”
The briefs peel down by your hand, catching briefly at the head before releasing him fully. His cock stands rigid and heavy, flushed dark along the shaft, veins snaking down to the root. You swallow, surprised not just by its size but by the way your pulse seems to synchronize with the thick veins throbbing beneath the skin.
Curtis doesn’t move for a moment. He lets you look, lets you absorb the inevitability of what’s about to happen. Then he takes your hand and wraps it around him, his own palm engulfing yours.
“Good,” he says, voice a low hush right beside your ear. He keeps his hand over yours, making you stroke him—slow, firm, the way he must want it. The sensation of the velvet skin stretched over steel, the heat, the weight of him—your hand is barely enough to circle the thickness, and he guides you, forcing your palm to glide from tip to hilt, back again. You tighten your grip a little, and he nods, approving. “That’s it. You’re a quick learner. Keep going, just like that.”
You can’t decide if you’re proud or mortified, or if the electric hum in your chest is something else entirely. He releases your wrist, lets you work him at your own pace, but stands so close you can feel the tension in his thighs, the faint tremor in his muscles.
He watches you, eyelids half-lowered, jaw tense. “Slower,” he murmurs, his hand closing over yours to correct the motion. “Tighter.” You adjust, feeling the weight of his judgment in each second. When you find a rhythm that makes his hips hitch, his praise comes like a targeted strike. “That’s it, good girl,” he says, his voice rough. “You know exactly what I want.” You want to both recoil and lean into it, hungry for his next word of praise.
“Now,” he says, voice gentled but unyielding, “lie back.”
The desk is colder than you expect. You brace your elbows to cushion the fall of your shoulders, and for a moment you wonder if someone is watching through the lens of one of Curtis’s security cameras. The humiliation sharpens your thoughts, pulls everything in you to a single, unbearable point of focus. Curtis, unconcerned, caresses the inside of your knee with the back of his hand, then nudges your ankles apart.
He makes a study of arranging you, touching as little as possible—moving one leg, then the other, until you’re splayed open.
“Did you ever picture yourself like this?” Curtis’s gaze doesn’t leave your face, absorbing every flicker of expression. “Laid out across some desk, trembling and aching for a stranger’s touch?”
You shake your head, just once, tiny and mute. Curtis’s lips curl, and he leans forward, setting his palms on either side of your splayed thighs. “I’ve never had someone so innocent.”
He straightens, looming over you, the tip of his cock grazing your pubic bone. He doesn’t thrust or force; instead, he runs a knuckle up the seam of your cunt, parting you, then smears your own wetness with a slow, methodical swipe, a clear reminder of the position you’re in.
“Touch yourself,” he says. “Show me what it looks like now that you know who owns you.”
Your hands, lost in the blur of their own movement, hesitate for a moment. His stare pins you in space, demanding not just performance but your active complicity. You slide your palm down, trembling, and find yourself slick and swollen, raw from his mouth minutes before.
You start slow, fingers feather-light across swollen skin, and it’s as if your body’s no longer yours—a performance for him, orchestrated and observed. You circle your clit, once, twice, then a third time, breath stuttering as you feel him watching, feeding off your vulnerability. The office is silent except for the tiny sounds you make, the slick slide of your own touch, the shuddered hitches in your chest.
“Good,” he murmurs. The word lands like a hand at your throat, and heat floods your skin. You keep going, because you must. Each pass of your faltering fingers is a surrender, peeling away layers you’ve built around yourself for years. Curtis watches with unblinking, dissecting attention. When you gasp, his eyes narrow, absorbing the knowledge. His own cock twitches above you, but he’s in no rush. He’s content to let you simmer, binding you deeper with every passing second.
After an eternity of this methodical torture, he leans over and catches your wrist in his hand. “You’re close,” he says, robbing you of release, and the words barely register before he’s licking your fingers clean, tasting you right from your own hand.
His mouth on your hand, then your wrist, is a jolt—worse than shock, more thorough than any humiliation before it. He savors, lips and tongue hot against the fragile bone, eyes never breaking from yours. He tastes your pride and your shame and your need, each lick a raw, immediate claim.
You’re still splayed and open, motionless as a freshly-dissected thing, when his attention turns to your cunt. He slips your fingers from his mouth and presses two of his own back inside you, slow but forceful. The stretch is deep this time, the angle different, and you arch against the desk, biting your lip until you taste blood. The edge he denied you comes screaming back, fuller and thicker, and your body goes tight with the urge to come.
But Curtis doesn’t let you. He eases out, pushes in again, then stops. He makes you wait, makes you rest your entire life on the rhythm of his hand.
“Roll over,” Curtis says, and the tone of it leaves no room for refusal.
You do, awkward on the polished wood, clumsy in your own unsteady state, and your breasts flatten against the desk’s cool surface.
You sense him looming behind you, the heat of his body radiating against your naked thighs and ass. A hand sweeps up your thigh, takes a deliberate grip at the fullness of your hip, and parts you, opening you wider. Then you feel it: a thick, wet spatter of spit landing square on the pucker of your asshole. Heat blooms up your spine. You can’t stifle the gasp, the raw animal shock of it, and your fingers claw uselessly at the inlaid edge of the desk.
Curtis laughs, low, leaning down close to your ear. “Bet nobody’s ever had this from you before,” he murmurs, almost tender. His thumb finds the wetness and pushes, insistent and greedy, pressing a slick circle into the tight muscle.
“No—” you start, but the word is half a whimper, half a plea, and Curtis ignores it.
Curtis’s thumb doesn’t just circle. It presses, unyielding, slow and hard until the slick, reluctant ring of muscle gives. The sensation burns, raw and invasive, but the worst of it is how easily your body yields to him, ...how the sharp sting of pain melts into a dark, helpless ache. His thumb stays buried in you, a brand no one else has ever dealt, while his free hand guides the blunt head of his cock to where you’re already slick and trembling.
There’s no other warning. He pushes forward, and you feel the thick head of him as it parts you, stretching you wider than you’ve ever been, ...a pressure so intense your body forgets, for a moment, what breathing is. The invasion is total—a double-helixed thread of sharp invasion and unwilling welcome, the thumb in your ass and the cock splitting your cunt open.
He gives you no time to adjust—pulls back, then drives forward again, setting a pace that’s brutal but precise, each stroke calculated to wring the most out of you. It’s overwhelming, impossible, but you can’t imagine asking him to stop. His thumb slides free, and he replaces it with two fingers, prying you wider, stroking the sensitive rim until you’re gasping, your thighs trembling. Every nerve in your body is a fuse, and Curtis is lighting them one by one, savoring each tiny detonation.
His rhythm is methodical, each stroke a punishing, deliberate claim. Curtis fucks you the way an engineer would take apart an engine: methodical, deliberate, letting your body feel every calibrated inch, letting you register the exact, obscene fit of him before he draws it back and does it again, harder. The burn and the stretch, the impossibility of it, is only magnified by the pressure in your ass, the sensitive rim still smarting from the aftershock of his thumb. The desk creaks beneath you, and you want to vanish into the grain of the wood, become nothing more than a smudge beneath his palm.
He keeps one palm between your shoulder blades, pushing you flat as he thrusts, not fast but with the relentless, measured cadence of a man who doesn’t believe in overplaying his hand.
Tiny animal noises, desperate and unmoored, escape your throat, but you can’t rein them in—not with Curtis locked tight behind you, rutting his cock inside you as if he means to split you in half and stamp his name on every cell. His cock is relentless, thick enough to ache, and each half-withdrawal comes with an obscene, wet squelch that makes your cheeks burn hotter. Sweat prickles against your spine. Curtis fucks you through it, never wincing, hand braced at the small of your back, using you as leverage, a tool, a puzzle he’s solving.
He knows exactly what he’s doing. He leans forward, and his chest presses into your back, imprinting, and his exhale ghosts over your neck, turning the sweat there to something electric.
He drags his teeth over the curve of your shoulder and bites down, hard enough to sting, the pain rich and total. “You like being ruined,” he whispers. The confession folds inside you, settling with the rest of the heat. You want to tell him he’s wrong, or right, or that you can’t even tell, but all that comes out is a tangled, helpless moan.
Curtis slows, not out of mercy, but to draw the moment until it’s thin as gold leaf and just as precious. He withdraws nearly all the way, letting you feel the obscene emptiness, then slams back in. Tears prick your lashes, blurring the grain of the wood beneath you. Your body keeps giving, keeps making room for the sheer intensity of the pressure, even as your mind flails for an exit.
Your orgasm detonates so violently you don’t even recognize the first wave when it hits. It’s only the aftershocks—your vision tunneling, your breath stalling, every muscle in your body drawn so tight it feels like you’re being wrung from the inside out—that clue you in. Your vision whites out, your voice—yours, not some borrowed sound—rips from your throat, and nothing survives except the raw, animal fact of sensation: the stretch, the burn, the fullness, and the mindless surrender to it.
Curtis’s pace doesn’t break, not for a second, but you feel him—God, you feel him—throb and pulse inside you, his cock swelling and erupting as he locks you in place with both hands. His grip on your hip is bruising, the pressure of his palm a brand, and the heat of him floods you in thick, pulsing waves. He groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through your bones, and for one bare instant, you sense him lose control—just enough to confirm there’s a man beneath the layers of calculation.
For a long, silent moment, there is only the sound of your own racing breath and the metallic rasp of Curtis’s exhale against your spine. Sweat slicks the hollow of your back. Your cunt aches, still spasming around the slow, inexorable withdrawal of his cock as he softens, but does not—will not—yield his hold on you.
You expect the letdown—an abrupt break in the spell, a fastidious man righting himself, shoving you aside, reaching for a tissue with a wordless grunt. Instead, Curtis stays. The full press of him doesn’t relent—chest to your back, hips to your hips—holding you there the way a signature holds a contract. His hand drifts up the side of your waist, slow and open, then back down—not grasping, just tracing, mapping, savoring.
He pushes back, and his cock slides out of you, a slow, slick withdrawal that draws a shuddery whimper from your throat, unbidden. You hear the quiet rustle of fabric, then feel the cool, crisp linen of a handkerchief—not a tissue—pressed between your thighs. He works without tenderness, but there is care: each motion exact, deliberate, the handkerchief folded and refolded as he goes. He attends to himself with the same economy of motion before tucking himself back into his trousers.
Curtis straightens his shirt, buttons his jacket, and takes a moment to survey the wreckage of your clothes strewn around the immediate vicinity. He says, “Stand up,” and when you do your knees buckle beneath you, only a little, and he steadies you, his hand under your arm. With the other, he retrieves your blouse, guiding your arms back into the sleeves in a way that’s almost gentle. He buttons you—one, two, three—his fingers efficient as they work around the missing fastener. The skirt is next, dragged up over your hips and zipped at your back.
Your underwear is still on the desk, but Curtis picks it up, and tucks it into the inner pocket of his suit. His eyes move over you with a cool, analytical precision, as if he were checking the final figures on a balance sheet.
Then—unexpected, anticlimactic, almost tender—he reaches for your face. His hands, the same ones that stretched and split you, are steady and warm against your jaw. He tips your face up. This kiss is different. There is no conquest in it, only the slow, intentional pressure of his mouth sealing over yours. His lips are soft, a little swollen, and you can taste yourself on him—a bright, metallic tang that makes your stomach clench.
He breaks the kiss. A strand of saliva stretches, then snaps, and he traces your lower lip with his thumb, the gesture proprietary.
“You’ll be driven to my penthouse,” he says, as if your life hasn’t just been rewritten in the last hour. “One of my men is waiting in the lobby.”
“I can just go home.”
The look Curtis gives you is sharp. “You won’t be going back there. I’ll have someone collect your things.”
The finality is stunning, and you blink up at him, the room tilting as his words rearrange your world.
“You’re mine. That means my rules, my house, my bed.” He pauses, his gaze locking with yours. “Tomorrow, I’ll put a ring on your finger. There will be no confusion, for anyone.”
SURPRISE, SIRI! I DIDN'T EVEN GIVE YOU EVEN A MORSEL OF A HINT THAT I HAD THIS COOKING IN THE KITCHEN!!!!!
Though, to be honest, I was getting so annoyed I couldn't write a 5k birthday story for you that I angry-wrote this one to prove to myself I could do it. 🤣
I hope you ALL enjoyed... He certainly made my 🐱 go brrr....
↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest
I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!
Stronger in numbers. A saying that rang true even more so on the Snowpiercer. To get extra rations, more bedding, more sanitary supplies, you needed to be name bound. Curtis was the only one willing to risk the fraud with you.
Word Count: ~3k
Notes: Only defining characteristic of Reader is that they’re American (GN Reader)
Babe: Curtis Everett
Scenario: Emotional Constipation (more so denial but whatev!)
Dialogue: “I have no idea what the future holds, but what I do know is that I want you by my side for every second of it.”
Trope: Friends to Lovers (hints of a kind of omega verse? Not outwardly stated but, like, it’s there)
For @stargazingfangirl18 Birthday bash! <3
When the world was ending all those years ago, one question you never thought you’d ask was “Will anyone care that I’m not bonded with this person I’m dating?” And you DEFINITELY didn’t think the answer was “Yes. Very much so.”
But, with little left on the Snowpiercer, genuineness was coveted. You may not be able to shower every day, or get decent rations, or even be able to sleep for longer than 3 hours at a time, but goddamn if you weren’t bonded!!
Like, never see them again, split up.
“It’s not like…” You couldn’t stop yourself from keeping your voice hushed, “It’s not like they can read our minds, right?”
Curtis was being very kind and let you voice your innermost anxious thoughts. He leaned heavily against the tiny, makeshift table, a serious look on his face as he nodded along. Curtis knew just as well as you did, it wasn’t just the “genuineness” that mattered. Partnerships were tested constantly, if you couldn’t prove over and over that you were somehow deeply biologically tied to your partner then they’d split you up.
“Right… we hardly have consistent heating, so it’d be shitty of them to keep a secret memory reader hidden away somewhere.”
His monotone joke was enough for you to crack a strained smile.
It wasn’t like you didn’t like Curtis. He was nice! He was very courageous and stood up for all of you in the Tail. But, y'know, love (or even being BONDED) was something much more than just safety.
Maybe, in another time, you’d have sought out a genuine connection with him. A connection that wasn’t overshadowed by limited time and basic necessities.
“Yes, right,” an unconvincing, breathy laugh followed, “So, to make sure I got it all right…”
You wet your lips and looked down at the imaginary timeline you’d both conjured on the table. Using the scratches in the metal as marking points you rehashed the plan.
It was simple in concept, but was laborious in reality. You’d already been setting up the ground work for weeks, maybe even months. Getting “caught” in private talking, sneaking away to the others loft late at night, sharing rations.
But that wasn’t enough to convince those who gave you supplies to give you more. Friendship was great, but partnerships were more serious. Partnerships implied stability. Partnerships implied connection. Partnerships implied power.
So, to convince even your closest friends that you and Curtis were more than that, tonight was the big moment. And the moment you were dreading.
“We get new rations in,” you glanced out, peering through the slim doorway at the sleeping cart. A cluttered mess of rags, sheets, and any form of light your community had managed to scrounge up, “three hours. We sit with the group, act all close, somehow imply something more serious is happening…”
Christ you were bad at this! And worst of all, vocalizing it was making you less confident. The table mocked you, each scratch you traced with your finger felt further from the next. Acting wasn’t your strong suit, and purposefully lying about the deep, “biologically driven” connection you had was beyond impossible.
Curtis could sense your distress. Hell, anyone with a working brain could sense it! He covered your hand with his, forcing your eyes to focus on him instead of the table, “Hey, you’re right, you’ve got the plan memorized.”
You peaked up at him through your lashes. Greeted with a tired smile, deep creases around his mouth, and crows feet that framed his blue eyes. Deep breath in, deep breath out… You nodded.
“We spend the night with company,” Curtis continued for you, “I - awkwardly - will try to get us alone, but we go to that nook that still can carry sound. I’ll make up a tangent about the before times, marriage, and regular proposing… all you have to do is say yes.”
“Right, yes.”
He said it so confidently. He was so sure it was going to be easy that you feared you’d be the entire reason this failed.
With three hours to kill, and unfortunately no work to keep you busy, you were left alone with your thoughts.
You didn’t have to lie about feeling nauseous, the knots in your stomach were very real. And with rations coming soon, no one else was in the rest lofts.
Your bed was in a different section than Curtis’ was. On the bottom of the stack, shoved to a back corner. With it just being you, you had ample privacy. Over the last few years you saved up excess fabric to make a curtain around your bunk just so you could savor every ounce of privacy.
What you really should’ve been doing was napping, but your racing mind refused.
“C'mon,” you mumbled, tossing and turning. Closing your eyes didn’t help, you still felt like you were staring straight through your eyelids!
However, if there was anything this train had taught you, it was how to wade through messy thoughts.
I can’t sleep because I’m anxious.
Easy enough to confirm. A rolling stomach, hot and cold flashes, and clammy hands. Simple diagnosis of nerves.
I’m anxious because I feel like I’m lying.
Half true. Yes, lying to your friends puts up mental barriers between you and them. But was it lying?
Lying would only be true if Curtis and I weren’t bonded.
There’s one of the biggest hurdles. Are you bonded?
That was harder to deconstruct. When you were little, your parents told you that bonding was a telltale sign that you’d met your soulmate. Or whatever other equivalent of “perfect match” other adults talked about.
Every partner you’d ever had made you think you were bonded. Your parents said it was because you cared too much, wore your heart on your sleeve, so you reasoned your devotion was something more.
When you asked what being bonded felt like, no one could explain it.
So, were you bonded with Curtis?
You cared for him very deeply, that much was clear. He helped everyone get their shit in order, stood up for others, and was fiercely protective.
And he’s cute. The little voice in the back of your mind chirped.
Yes, that was also something to consider.
With limited resources to shower or any kind of self care, it was impressive you still found anyone attractive.
Blue eyes that were the clearest window to his mind. There was a warmth there that made you dream of the beach and ocean again, not pure ice and snow.
It contrasted with the rest of him - and the train in general. Broody nature before you got to know him, grime and dirt from the lack of showers you got, and the dreary lighting on the train.
He also had a large presence. Tall, broad, big hands. Big… big hands.
Well, great.
Because you’d worked yourself up over this your body started confusing the stress with horniness.
You rolled onto your stomach and muffled an annoyed groan into your pillow.
Three hours… you just needed to wait out three hours.
It took you some convincing, but you’d managed to get out of bed and dressed nice.
As nice as possible. Your pants and sweater with the least amount of holes.
How silly it was. When you were little you sometimes fantasized about getting engaged. Maybe you’d be out at a fancy restaurant, dressed to the nines, sipping wine and gazing out the window to the bustling city alive even at night.
Maybe you’d be on the beach. Collecting shells and smelling salt as warm sand was crushed between your toes.
Maybe.
You stood in your planned spot, lingering just out of sight from one of the group cars that had a makeshift living room.
Footsteps started towards you, heavy and purposeful, and you startled at the noise. It didn’t take more than a moment to rationally calm down, it clearly was Curtis.
“Hey,” he mumbled, blocking your view.
“Hey.” You whispered in reply.
He looked nervous. His hands tucked into his pockets and he was breathing more deeply than normal. Nothing incredibly out of the ordinary, but enough for you to notice.
You decided not to point it out. Instead you peered around him, barely peaking over his shoulder. There was somewhat lively chatter, laughter faint enough to have your ears straining, but loud enough you couldn't suppress your own smile.
“Are we gonna…?” You looked at him and gestured back, “A nap helped, I’m much less nervous.” You whispered, your smile becoming a bit more sheepish in admission.
“No.” He awkwardly held his arm out to stop you, eyes growing wide. You were taken aback and stopped suddenly to avoid walking straight into his arm. Curtis softly cleared his throat and leaned down to speak softer, “I, uhm, I told them I was waking you up. Figured we’d give it enough time to let them start thinking. Yeah?”
You hummed and nodded in understanding, shuffling back enough to give you both more room.
“Guess we’re stuck here for a while then, huh?” You sucked in a breath through your teeth and tilted your head up at him.
Curtis returned a small smile, leaning against the wall next to you, “Only a little while,” he shrugged, “but you are typically a heavy sleeper.”
It was hard not to roll your eyes and grumble and pout at his teasing jab. You lightly slapped his chest and he made a dramatic, yet hushed, groan of pain.
“Ouch, beating me up? How rude.” He nudged your foot with his, you returned the motion.
“You’re being dramatic,” you grinned and peaked around the corner, faintly able to see Tanya and some of the others gathering around one of the tables.
He followed your gaze, “No, I’m serious, you probably broke a rib or two.” Curtis tried to look serious, but the corner of his mouth twitched into a smile, betraying him.
Curtis then stiffened. He shifted from calm to on edge in an instant, the clearest sign being how his pupils dilated.
He grabbed your elbow and stood stiffly straight.
“Kiss.” he mumbled, eyes flickering over to where Tanya could barely see you two from around the corner.
Without a pause, you immediately grabbed the front of his shirt and pressed a quick kiss to his lips. You’d both instigated the well timed PDA from time to time, though, Curtis was better at gauging when the more risque PDA was called for.
“One… two… three…” you softly counted, breath ghosting over his lips. The actual kiss was because you were terrible at faking one, the weird half inch gap between your faces was to keep up that illusion.
He softly laughed, you could feel his breath on your face. He didn’t move, his hand still cupping the back of your head, “Alright, we’re good, I think she saw.”
“Ok great!” You grinned and pulled back. Though your nerves were on high alert, there was no time left to worry about selling the story. Because, really, if you weren’t trapped on this train, if this was the before times, what would you have said you and Curtis were?
Sleeping in the same cot most nights. Sneaking away to have company with just each other. Sharing meals. Protecting each other. At the very least, you’d say you were dating.
He returned a thin lipped smile and slowly pulled his hands away, “Do you want me to do most of the talking?”
You opened your mouth, ready to immediately say yes. But there was an air of calmness that was settling in your bones. Maybe it was because Curtis seemed so… at ease.
“No,” you finally answered, though a little more uncertain than him, “It’s just us and some other friends… I can handle it.”
Very rarely did you all let yourselves talk about before the train. It just confused those who only ever knew of the Snowpiercer, made the oldest of you sad, and typically just made the rest of the day gloomy. Gloomier than it already was.
But Tanya must’ve been in a reminiscent mood.
“Where’d you grow up?” She cleared a spot for you to sit on a pad next to her. Edgar fidgeted with scraps of cloth, pulling apart the fibers. “Where in America?”
“Oh,” you blinked down at the floor, a little taken aback by the question. “My family moved around a bit. For a while I was in Montana, then Georgia for a few years… Right before the train I was in Connecticut.”
Curtis sat next to you, leaning back on his hands yet keeping one arm behind you. He seemed to realize it before you did, but the question rocketed you back into your own memories.
You were 16 when you got on the Snowpiercer. Living on the third floor of a historic apartment in South Central Connecticut. Just your parents and you, the youngest of your siblings and the last to go to college.
Project management… Architecture… Design… That’s what you’d wanted to do.
Cramming for the ACT, SAT, finals, and building a portfolio all before your senior year. You were gonna get a full ride and --
And there was something else. You were going to do something else. Was it with someone? You were still planning on staying in Connecticut, right? Fuck, what was it?
“Hey,” Curtis whispered and nudged you, pulling you out of the fog. You blinked, unshed tears managed to stay that way as you deeply inhaled crisp air.
You must’ve only been zoned out for a moment, Tanya was asking everyone the same questions.
Edgar didn’t know where his parents were from, Tanya herself was from Nevada, Gloria from Tennessee, others from Iowa, Kansas, North Dakota… It was crazy to think that in any other world you wouldn’t have known each other.
“Curtis?” Tanya asked, finishing up the circle.
“My parents were from Michigan, but I grew up in New York.” You mouthed the words as he said them, having memorized both states the moment he first told you.
How close did the two of you actually live? Had you ever crossed paths in those trips to New York you’d made? If your parents moved there instead, would you have been in the same high school? Studied for the same tests? Gone to the same college?
Talk of family was of course the next to follow. Living and dying on this train was one thing, but those older than you who had the chance to live in houses, rent apartments, live in a van, have kids, see grandparents, become grandparents… Their stories now seemed just as fictitious as dragons and fairies.
Gloria was engaged before the Snowpiercer, her fiance died soon into the shift. One man had just gone to his son's wedding, he never knew if they made it on or not.
You leaned into Curtis more, head against his shoulder. Luckily one woman had a lighter tale, she was one of the oldest people here, her husband and daughter made it safely and her husband died just a year or two ago. Her daughter sat next to her, sadly smiling.
“Were you bonded?” Your voice was foreign to you and it took you a moment to realize you were even the one who spoke.
The woman looked up at you, her own sad smile brightened and she nodded, “If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t know any different. He was perfect. My family still is.”
Family. How sweet. Your stomach ached, you were getting hungry again. Curtis’ thumb lightly rubbed your hip bone, subtle enough to settle you. People murmured to each other, speaking a little softer now. This was always the precursor to that gloom.
Curtis cleared his throat loud enough for everyone to hear though his eyes stayed casted down at the floor.
This was it. Game time.
“Can I talk to you for a second?”
The back area was nicer. Quiet and calm. But it didn’t do enough to soothe the racing in your heart.
This was the last scratch on the table, the last tick mark you’d planned out. Anything else was up to chance.
He grabbed your hand with one of his, his other hand cupped your face.
“Hey.” He whispered with enough conviction to pull your focus, but soft enough that you could melt into his safety.
“Hey.” You echoed, feeling the waver in your voice.
“Just like we planned, yeah?” He half smiled, the faintest smile line on his cheek.
“Exactly like we planned.”
And even still, it was beyond real as Curtis knelt down.
“I wish we met at a different time,” He started to say, rolling back his shoulders and shifting on his knees, “When we didn’t have to worry about being warm or having another meal…”
For some reason you’d never fully envisioned this moment. A part of you assumed he’d just give the whole spiel, with a straight face, and slap the ring on your finger. But seeing him knelt down, holding out a makeshift wire ring, stuttering through his speech… Christ, your heart was hammering tenfold.
He cleared his throat and tried to settle his nerves with a deep breath. You could feel his anxiety radiating off of him and you wanted nothing more than to help him in some way. His thumb rubbed the wire of the ring, the glass catching stray light while he fidgeted.
You could feel tears in your eyes and you anxiously wrung your hands together, “Me too.” you mumbled.
“I have no idea what the future holds, but what I do know is that I want you by my side for every second of it.” Curtis looked down at the ring, the simple wire and glass shard he’d smoothed out. There was a conflict in his eyes, he looked back up at you with a profound sadness.
He said your name, pained and slow, “You deserve better than this…”
Your throat was dry and tight, your eyes were brimming with tears and all you could do was quickly shake your head.
“No I don’t!” You blubbered, stepping closer and grabbing his hands. At your touch, his face visibly softened and showed his age a little more. You winced, realizing how poorly that came out, “Curtis, there isn’t anything better here than you…”
You could’ve melted into a puddle right there as he smiled. A tired, but convinced smile. He stood and slipped the ring on your finger. You tipped your head up to hold his gaze.
You couldn’t explain why this closeness felt so different than any other time. The numerous kisses, hugs, and held hands was nothing compared to the way his hands delicately held you. Tight enough to keep you there, but light enough that he might’ve thought you were nothing more than a delicate flower.
Curtis’ brows pinched together for a moment. “Can I kiss you?” He whispered, fingers twitching to try and hold you tighter.
“Oh, yes, please.” You pleaded.
Air left your lungs as his lips met yours. It was tentative and slow yet you still felt that rush of electricity through your body.
In your head, you counted. One… two… No, no! You willed the analytical bullshit from your mind and just focused on the ring on your finger and his hands on your body and his lips on yours and the way you both shakily gasped for breath while maintaining the kiss.
And then you felt it.
What it was was that click in your mind. The perfect and satisfying sensation of putting two yearning pieces together.
A warmth bloomed in your chest and a buzz of electricity followed. All you really knew for certain was that it was all his doing.
Oh alpha Curtis 🥹 I just need one day off suppressants and I will make and do whatever he wants forever
Exactly!!! Those pills aren't empowering you, they're tricking you into thinking you want a life you can't actually have. Don't worry. Curtis will show you the right way to live. Even if he needs to force you off those suppressants himself. 😈
Curtis, so softly, so gently, taking away all of your choices and agency and making you do whatever he wants (sex, it's sex) because he just knows so much better than you what you actually need. Your tiny little mind will understand, eventually, everything he's done for you.
Sometimes I just want to be gaslit, just a little bit. Is that so wrong?????
I'm trying to write for @stargazingfangirl18 s birthday celebration!!
A Curtis Everett fic, they're friends to lovers and an emotionally constipated couple :P (and it's set on the Snowpiercer)
did I accidentally combine WAY too many prompts that excited me? yes. Was it because I knew I'd probably only have time to write only one? very much so.
did I have to shave off like 3 other things from my OG idea to keep it at word limit and not drive myself insane with my ambition? yes, holy shit yes.
Warning: banditry, murder, death, trauma, kidnap, fear, and many dark elements.
My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.
Character: Curtis Everett
Summary: you are captured by bandits while employed for the much hated duchess, finding yourself in the middle of a heated plot for revenge.
Note: Another installment of my medieval AU. Special shoutout to @stargazingwriter18
As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️
“Where to?” Giles asks as you approach.
“Mister Clement’s. The Duchess sends for her velvet cape.” You answer as you approach the carriage.
“Ah, a fine day for a ride. Pity she won’t venture off herself. It might lighten her spirit.”
Your silence says more than any response could. The driver chuckles and opens the door. He pulls down the stool even as you protest it isn’t needed. He helps you inside by your elbow and you thank him.
“Be calm, lady, and I will have us to Mr. Clement’s by midday.” He avows.
“As you will have us. Take the road safety, is all I would bid, sir.” You settle into the bench and stack your hands in your lap.
The Lady Duchess, Diana Sombrette, would speak to Giles in a bolder tone, with impatience in her teeth. As she does all who do her bidding and even those who do not. She has little patience or pity for those who cannot meet her measure.
You cannot resent your place very much. It keeps you a palette to sleep and food in your belly. As meagre as both may be, they are preferable to none. You also cannot gripe for a task outside the castle walls, as oppressive as they are.
Giles takes his seat at the front of the carriage and puts the horses to trot. You rock with the motion of the axle. Mister Clement is not much more amiable than the Duchess. You do not relish even a brief rapport with the tailor.
The driver whistles and the willowy tune puts you at ease. You lean over to see past the curtains to the rows of trees and a cluster of brush beyond. The shadows of creatures unknown pass between the trunks and crack twigs and fallen branches beneath their paws.
The forests are a mysterious place. Treacherous. The noble claim right to them as their hunting and game grounds, while other less regarded figures trespass, hidden in caves and ravines as they plot against the proclaimed keepers. You shiver and try not to think of those tales, instead catching the white tail of a hare as it retreats from the clatter of the carriage.
You laze in the soft canter of the horses, barely noticing as they slow. It’s only as the uneven melody of the driver’s lips quiets that you break from your trance. You sit up as the rustle of branches and leaves fills the silence Giles grunts.
“What is the meaning of–”
Thunk! Something hits the side of the carriage and you wince as you notice the piercing point lodged through the upper corner. The arrow head stares you down as you clutch your hands over your heart. It cannot be!
“We have no conflict with you, sir,” a voice proclaims. “But with the lady within.”
“The lady… no, no, yer mistaken,” Giles insists.
“Are we? Is that not the duchess’ sigil upon those wheels? Hm? Painted by those hands she enslaves for her selfish needs.” The voice accuses again.
“They are, but the lady is back at the castle.” Giles insists.
“So you steer an empty carriage? How ridiculous.”
“I am on the duchess’ mission. I needn’t explain to you lot of scoundrels–”
Another startling thump lurches the carriage. The blade of a knife pokes through the other side of the wall. You gulp.
“We don’t wan’ harm you, fellow. You are only as we are. Crushed beneath the greed of that vile duchess.” The man continues. “We only ask that you step down and surrender your cargo.”
“I cannot do that–”
“We would not like to hurt you, but will if needed.” The voice sinks in warning. “We permit you one last chance.”
“I am done with you vermin!” Giles sneers and the reins snap. The horses jolt forward and the carriage bounces. The wheels turn one spin before they catch and something cracks. You fly from the bench and hit the parallel one before heaping onto the floor.
Giles cries out as you hear his body hit the dirt. You heave out a tight breath and gasp. Your body is paralysed as you struggle to breathe through the pain in your ribs.
“It didn’t have to be this way,” a grittier voice cuts through the chaos without and you hear a terrible slice and groan.
Footsteps clamour around the carriage as you rock and fight to sit up. When you find the strength to, the door opens from the other side. You cry out and kick your heels down, pushing yourself back. The door behind you swings out and you’re seized, hauled out into the open air.
“We’ve got her!” The men proclaim.
There’s a cheer from the dozen other bodies closing in on you. Your eyes flit back and forth as panic swirls in your vision. Your gaze clings to the body on the ground. Poor Giles is face down, a puddle of blood spreading through the dirt. Your stomach drops and your legs buckle.
Several of the men part to let through a man in a wool cap and tattered grey clothing. He holds an axe as he walks with unbreakable pride in his shoulders. Your tremble as the edge of the tool glistens scarlet.
He stares you down as you wilt and wriggle against the two men clinging to your arms. He sighs and blinks slowly. He keeps his eyes closed.
“It is not her.” He hisses.
“It has to be! She was within. There is no other–”
“The driver was honest.” The man opens his eyes, irises icy blue. “I know the duchess. And she would never wear an apron of the sort.” He grips his hips. “She must suspect our plot.”
The men exchange looks and grumble.
“What do we do?” Another asks; the one who spoke to Giles earlier. “Let her go?”
“No. We cannot. It would only give the duchess more suspicion.” The man in the grey wool, the one you assume to be their leader, grits. “We keep her. Use her. She will know the duchess and her life. Perhaps she will afford us our next chance.”
“Hm, suppose that makes sense.” The other man responds thoughtfully.
“No one…” the leader raises his finger and comes forward. “Is to touch her.” He growls as he approaches you and waves off the men beside you. “I will get the information we need.”
🪓
The man walks you between the trees on a short length of rope. One end is wound around your wrists, the other in his grip as he tugs you along. The other men walk in pairs, whispering, watching the trees as they make cautious progress.
You keep your head down and stare at your thumbs. Your skirt catches on thorns and brambles and your soft-soled shoes slip on roots and moss. Several times the man yanks you as you slow to avoid falling.
He leads you down a steep ridged decline and at the bottom, you find a sight that strikes you. Tents set up on the flat of the ravine, a few women peeking out from the flaps with feral eyes. One emerges and sheaths a long dagger at her waist.
“Edgar,” she greets the man who did most of the talking back at the carriage. She rushes toward him then slows as she sees you next to the other man. She frowns. “What’s happened?”
“It wasn’t the duchess.” He says grimly as he squeezes the woman’s arm.
“Then…?” The woman prompts.
“We’ll figure it out,” the man at the other end of the rope snips and pulls you forward.
He drags you past the other women as they emerge; a few with children on their hips or behind their skirts. The man tugs you forward and grabs the back of your neck. He forces your head under the tent flap of the structure at the very rear of the settlement.
He points to the ground. “Sit.”
You obey. He gets down on his knees and winds the loose end of the robe around your ankles. You watch him without a word.
“You are the duchess’ sheep.” He accuses as he stands.
You lower your head. His soles scuff the ground. He grabs the waterskin slung around his torso and loosens the top. He drinks and hums. He tightens the tie on it and paces around.
“Maid.” He states.
“Yes.” You murmur.
“Close to her then.” He mulls as he brings his hand up to his chin. You peek up at the movement and find his cold eyes on you. You quickly drop your head again. “She’s lost a driver. Won’t want to lose you too.”
You chew your cheek. You’re not certain for that. The duchess dismissed Talula for bringing the wrong wine and the stable boy for kicking up dirt as she passed.
He walks a small circle, stops, then squats down in front of you. He rests his forearms on his knees.
“Look at me.” He snarls.
You look up as you shiver. “Sir.”
“Tell me everything.”
You scrunch up your nose in confusion.
“Tell me about what the duchess does in a day. Tell me when she pisses, when she eats, when she sleeps. Tell me everything you know.” He reaches to his belt and frees the axe, pointing it at your nose. “Believe me when I tell you, I can smell a lie before it’s told.”
You gulp. “I understand,” you wisp out. “I… I will be honest.”
He turns the axe and presses it to your chest. “Good woman.”
🪓
You sleep on the ground, as you have for nights past. You don’t count them. Knowing won’t help you. You shiver in the corner, wrists and ankles bound so you can only lay in a ball.
You groan as you shift. There is no comfort to be had; not waking, not sleeping. Two times a day, the bonds are loosed so you may go into the trees to relieve yourself. A woman called Ursula watches you with her blade out. Then you are led back. You are fed a handful of nuts and sometimes burnt barley.
There is no use in complaint. You are afraid but there is nothing this man could do or say to assuage that. You told him all you could but he did not seem happy for it; if that is an emotion he would know. Since, he has said little. You haven’t either.
“Curtis,” a whisper comes from without.
That’s his name. You’ve heard a few say it. He sniffs and rolls over on his bedroom. He sits up, axe already in hand. You watch his shadow.
“Ed,” he greets the man through the flap. The soft dwindling dusk pores through the small gap.
“Today. The horsemen ready.”
Curtis grunts.
“There is a feast. The duchess will go. Along with the rest of those heathens.” Edgar explains in a coarse hush.
Curtis nods. “Six men.”
“Six?” Edgar sounds surprised.
“More than enough,” Curtis assures and drops the flap back.
He turns and goes back to his bedroom. He doesn’t lay down. He lights a stub of tallow with the scratch of flint. He pulls out a whetstone and works on the edge of his axe, the shink of his sharpening making you twitch.
“You’ll come too.” He says bluntly. “I’m certain your mistress misses her sheep.”
🪓
A different man holds the rope. You perch at the foot of the trees as you watch the line of men snake through the brush and hide in the ditch at the edge of the beaten road. You’re exhausted, so much so that even your adrenaline can’t keep your head from nodding. The endless coursing of fear has drained you of all strength and hope.
Your eyes droop and your head wobbles until you hear it. A noise so distant it could have been as simple as a bird flapping through the leaves. But then it keeps going. The steady grind of wheels grows closer and closer, pebbles pouncing beneath the wooden frames, dirt mulching louder than it should.
The man next to you tenses. You look down at the ditch. You cannot see the men as they hide beneath a criss cross of overgrown weeds and vines. They are clever. It must be how they surprised Giles before.
And left him dead.
The horses’ hooves thunder nearer and the call of a bird goes up. All at once, you realise the squawk came from the throat of a man. Guards appear first. The duchess must have heeded the previous carriage’s fate. The bandits are methodic in their attack. Their arrows aimed in the gap above halberd or exposed beneath the under arm.
The soldiers wail and fall from their saddles, their horses stampeding forward. That is until they notice the large rocks across the road, arranged there by the attackers. They rear and kick up, neighing in fear.
The bandits hurl up ropes tipped with iron hooks as the carriage comes into sight. Two stand and shoot their arrows that embed in the wood.
The driver panics and rolls off the bench. You know him; his name is Rhys. He stumbles over the side of the carriage as the horses keep running. The bandits tie the ropes to trees and the carriage lurches to a halt entirely. The roof splits from the tension of its bounds. You clutch your damp skirts and stare foggily as the scene plays out.
“Come, your time is now.” The man wrenches you up as the bandits hurry onto the road, checking the men writhing on the ground. If they are not dead, the bandits make sure of it.
There’s a shriek from within the carriage.
“Around, around!” Edgar hollers.
Two of the men hurry around as the door on the opposite side opens, swaying the vehicle. There is another fearful shout. You’ve never heard the duchess so terrified.
The man jerks you down the incline and through the ditch. Diana continues her struggle as she is restrained by Edgar. Curtis stands before her calmly as you’re dragged up onto the road.
“You!” She snarls as her green eyes flash. “I should’ve known it was you, you vile rat.”
“Shhhh,” Curtis hushes her as he raises his axe to his lips and walks forward.
The duchess retracts against Edgar and whines. “Who are you, scoundrel?”
He hushes her again and pushes the blunt top of the axe to her mouth. “I’ve come to make a barter. A generous one as what you’ve taken cannot be repaid.”
“What do you–”
“If I must quiet you again, I will have your tongue in my purse.” He warns. The duchess’ scoffs as her face contorts in fear. “Now, my terms are not imbalance. You will have your maid returned to you. You may even keep your horses and your carriage. But that will be all.” He turns the blade slowly in front of her face. “And you will ride and ride and ride until you cannot any further. But you will not come back here.”
Her nostrils flare and her lip curls.
“And you will not return. Ever. If I see your face again, I will do worse than what your men did to my people.” He sneers. “I will burn you alive but you will not die of it. You will live with it. For days, weeks, possibly months… and your flesh will rot away and you still will not know of the pain you’ve caused me and mine.” He declares, his hand shaking on his axe. “And we will claim what we need. The castle, the kitchens, the barrels you hoard, the rooms kept empty for your pride.” He pushes the axe against her chest. “Am I understood?”
The duchess rolls her eyes. “Kill the maid, see if I care.”
Curtis’ eyes narrow. His lashes dip down and he bows his head. He backs up and signals.
“Grab the pitch.” He commands.
“Pitch?” Diana squeals. “You cannot– you must unhand me– the King will have your heads.”
“Not if I have his first.” Curtis retorts. “But I’ll settle for yours.”
He spins and approaches another man with a pail in hand. He trades his axe for it and looks into it. He carries it to the duchess. It’s steaming.
“You have your men go out and fight your battles so you would not know what pitch smells like. You would not know how it covers the flesh of a man and slowly suffocates him. How he can remain alive for such a time and suffer and suffer.” He tilts his head. “But you will learn. Slowly.”
He raises the bucket as Edgar forces the Duchess to her knees. She cries out and claws at his hands. Curtis holds the pail over her.
“You will not want it to get in your eyes. For what is worse than burning from the outside in, being blind as you do.” He slowly tips the bucket and you close your eyes. The duchess screeches as you hear a sizzle so sickly you fall to your knees. You cover your face with your bound hands and shudder. In her fate, you only see your own.
🪓
The pressure drains from your hands. You open your eyes as the burning smell stains your tongue and soul. You shake as you blink away the shock and stare at your loose wrists. A hand with black trimmed nails winds up the rope.
You look at Curtis as the men move behind him, inspecting the carriage, reining in the horses.
“Is it my turn?” You ask.
His brows tweak and his lashes flutter. “Your…” he begins.
You look at the axe on his belt. He hooks the rope beside it. “What good is your death?” He growls. “Cruel enough she would throw you to us wolves.”
He stands and claps his hands on his jacket.
“What… what do I do?” You ask as you look around.
“Did I say you were free?” He challenges. You stay on your knees. “You know our faces, our names, where we eat and sleep. You cannot go but you don’t have to die.”
He spins away and calls to Edgar. The other men continue to strip down the carriage and search the purses of the soldiers in the dirt. You look over it all. You don’t want to die but you don’t know if you want to live either.
🪓
You walk with the bandits back to camp. Ahead of you, Curtis leads the way, at the rear, Edgar keeps the line moving. As you get to the decline, you lower yourself to make your way down. Your foot slips and you slide over the jutting rocks and roots that make the footholds.
You’re caught by your sleeve. You plant your foot and look up as Curtis clings to you. He steadies you then lets go. You continue down as he trails you.
Ursula greets her husband, Neil, and Edgar finds his wife, Joan, and their daughter, Gwen. The other men disperse to return to their tents. There are two missing. The ones who were bid to take the duchess back to her castle. You can still hear her senseless whimpers.
You peer around. You don’t know what to do. You don’t belong here. You go to the smoking pit and sit in the dirt. You stare at the embers.
You stay like that for a while. Ursula appears with her mussed and pot in hand. You quickly look away.
“My husband says you will stay with us.” She hangs the pot over the pit and stokes it.
“I guess.” You agree weakly.
She nods and hums. “There are some women, you might have seen them. The sisters Martin. They were nuns but… we were all once someone else. They might have space in their tent.”
“I thank you.” You say.
“Hm. If you give me your name, you can share the soup.” She offers.
You look at her. You recite the name that doesn’t feel like yours.
She feeds you as you stay where you are. Others come to warm their food and fill their bellies. You are a ghost among them. Children chase each other between that fire and the next.
Dusk sets in and you shiver. You should get up and find those nuns. You can’t.
The moon shimmers down as the fire dwindles. You lower your head and bend over your knees.
“You cannot sleep here. There are real wolves.” Curtis startles you as his shadow blocks out the moonlight. You look up at him. “My tent remains… open to you.”
“That is kind.” You say.
You rub your hands together and blow into them. You hug your bent knees, tucking your fingers under them. He sighs and circles the pit.
“I’m not asking.” He says.
You swallow. You take a deep breath. You can’t move, not right away. He waits. You shift onto your knees and press your hands to the dirt. You stand stiffly.
He approaches and you shy away. He catches your wrist. You quiver but do not draw away. He walks you away from the fire and between the tents.
Your eyes wander and as you pass Ursula’s tent, you spy her by a torch propped out of the dirt. She watches you and lifts her chin in acknowledgement. Curtis drags you to his tent and pushes you under the flap.
It’s different. There are blankets piled over soft mounds. You have seen that embroidery before. These come from the Duchess’ inventory.
“You need purpose. I took that from you.” He says as he slides his axe free from his belt. He places it on a pillow. He stands straight and undoes his belt completely. He locks it inside the hide chest next to the heap of bedding. “So, I have thought on it. You will have new purpose.”
He stands again and undoes the wooden buttons on his jacket. You stand and rock near the tent flap. He peels off the jacket and folds it over the chest. He tugs the back of his tunic and strips it off too, revealing the dark hair that trims his torso.
When he straightens again, he pauses to look at you. He crosses the small space and grabs the braided end of your belt. He unknots it as he stares at you. You watch the apple of his throat.
“It is cold in the night.” He tosses the belt away and pinches the slack fabric of your dress. “But you are warm and I’ve not been in some years.” His hands stretch around your waist. “Do you see your purpose now?”
Your lip trembles and you squirm.
“Come,” he takes your hand and guides you to the layers of blankets and cushions. “Lay. Tonight we sleep. Tomorrow, we’ll see.”
