#snowpiercer

[junkfoodcinemas]

Snowpiercer (2013) dir. Bong Joon-ho

[sweeetestcurse]

Chris Evans as Curtis Everett in Snowpiercer

[itberice]

Wtf?!???!

[buckets-and-trees]

Golden/Too Bright [Sunburst Hotel & Casino]

Characters/Pairings: soft!dark Curtis Everett x curvy Millennial female!reader Word Count: 4.9k Summary: The casino manager at Ari's hotel resort has his eye on you from the moment you step into Sunburst with a large bachelorette party in tow, and he knows you're trouble. The good kind of trouble he shouldn't entertain.

Content/Warnings: one-night stand; grumpy Curtis; explicit smut (unprotected vaginal intercourse, clitplay, creampie), semi-public sex, corruption kink

Author Note: Standalone story that takes place at Ari's Casino. This was an idea I had originally concocted and thought I would get ready for the Hoes for the Holidays fest last December, but didn't, but a quick tweak from off-season December booking to off-season February booking, and here we are. Enjoy the ruin...

This is dedicated to my fellow type-A planners.

Curtis first sees you in the lobby of the hotel. You’re one of a gaggle of girls in matching attire—nine of you with pink track suits with white racing stripes and one in white with pink stripes. A bachelorette weekend.

Curtis snorts and rolls his eyes.

This is the wrong hotel to base a wild bachelorette party out of.

And you’ve clearly recognized your mistake as he observes you talking to one of the front desk agents checking in your party.

The lobby is a sea of sensible shoes and pastel windbreakers. Curtis can clocks eight mobility scooters parked in a neat row by the afternoon tea station, their owners trading stories about aching hips and grandchildren with alarming volume. The carpet is a repeating motif of fuchsia and turquoise shapes, gaudy enough to induce motion sickness, but your posse’s coordinated outfits actually fit right in with the loud colors.

The desk agent keeps assuring you that yes, the hospitality suite is set up for her use, yes, the adjoining rooms are stocked with extra towels and there’s a “cake station” in one of the suite per the reservation notes, but underscores that this is not a “party hotel,” and he has to enforce “quiet hours” after nine p.m.

You nod and sign the forms, clearly trying to pretend this is fine, undoubtedly trying to imagine how you’ll keep ten women entertained in a glorified bingo hall after the sun sets.

As the casino manager for the resort, Curtis was in the upper management meetings when its owner Ari Levinson discussed the deep discount weekends throughout January, February, and March to try and lure snowbirds back in to the senior-citizen-focused resort property. The weekend before Valentines had been discounted even more than most of the others.

He smirks from across the way when he sees you grimace as the agent hands you the keys and informs you that breakfast runs from five to eight am, the bar closes at nine pm, and so does room service.

Curtis can see the frenzied look behind your eyes even from this distance. You’re clearly a type-A planner, so this kind of fuck-up is beyond comprehension in your book. There’s an urban breed of young woman who attacks leisure with the zeal and logistics of a military campaign. He respects that, technically. He saw it frequently at the hotels he was at before this one. And he can already see it in the crisp way you take the key cards, the sharp nod as you gather your flock and herd them toward the elevators. You never glance down at your phone once, fielding the complaints, concerns, and chaos that’s threatening to erupt with unflagging optimism. You’ll Uber out—which had been the plan from the beginning for some of the elements of the itinerary, get food delivered after hours—which would probably be better than room service anyway, and a resort of senior citizens means none of you will have to deal with frat boys or finance bros trying to hit on any of them while you’re all here at the hotel home base at least.

Curtis will not admit that he might be a little bit impressed.

You’re going to end up being trouble for him at some point, he can just feel it.

By two pm the next day the casino floor is a festival of carnage, the slot machines screaming under the barrage of your bridesmaids. Your group is easy to track, a showy spectacle of sequins and synthetics trailing through the baccarat pit, martinis sloshing as conversation ricochets off every surface. The youngest of your group—twenty-two, maybe—already has a paper wristband for the “Mocktail Mania” crawl, and her phone out, live-streaming the chaos to a social media audience. Curtis counts five times you are stopped to take selfies with someone’s grandma. The grandmothers are loving it. They circle your orbit like you’re the new floor show, poking at your feathered headbands and laughing when some of you teach them the choreography to one of the latest viral TikToks.

As the afternoon progresses, you steer the group through the different offerings, trailed by the loyal, the hungover, and the barely-standing. Curtis has to admire the logistical ballet—how you are already distributing twenty-dollar bills with the distracted authority of a treasurer. But he has his eye on you. Appreciated novelty though you may be to the elderly now, Curtis will not hesitate to remove your party from the floor if the menagerie becomes a menace of any kind.

It’s a slow-motion collision of generations. The old folks can’t get enough of you. They beam when your group slips them pink satin sashes and inserts them into group photos, suddenly elevating a routine Tuesday into a major life event. There’s a sashay in the step of Mrs. Eileen, age ninety and proud, as she wheels between slot rows with a feather boa loosely looped around her neck, cackling at the iPad screen her great-niece uses to stream the dance party to “the internet.” Other regulars, in their lavender and beige, sprout out of their seats to offer tales of their own honeymoons, their own marriages, sometimes their own bachelorette shenanigans.

Curtis sees it all from the security desk, which gives him the best vantage on the mayhem. He’s supposed to be finishing paperwork—new vendor contracts, a proposal for replacing the bulbs in the chandelier above the poker room—but he ends up using most of his monitor’s real estate to watch your group’s progress via the security camera split-screen. There’s a method to your madness, he realizes. You’re not just leading the mob. You’re scouting. By three, you’ve had a chat with the cocktail waitresses, a run-in with the barback, and some sort of exchange with one of the off-duty pit bosses. Curtis catches the pit boss’s face on camera, a fleeting, sheepish look as he hands something off to you. At first, he thinks it’s a comped drink voucher—usual for a weekend like this, no crime in it. But you pocket it without showing anyone, flash a lopsided grin, and move on.

You’re working an angle. Maybe it’s the luck of the tables, maybe you’re just collecting stories for your war chest, but he’s suspicious. And it’s his job to be.

Midway through a routine sweep of the floor, he’s making his way toward the back of the penny slots when Curtis makes his decision and threads through the crowd to intercept you. The rest of your group is already deep in the throes of minor chaos—someone in pink is doubled over laughing, two are engaged in a mock arm-wrestling match on a cocktail table, one is arguing with a cocktail waitress about the correct way to say “appletini.” As he closes in, he sees that you’ve parked yourself on a padded bench between the keno machines, legs crossed, phone in hand. You’re texting, or maybe orchestrating something else, but you notice him before he can make the first move. For a second, your expression tightens—he braces for it, the guilt, the deer-in-the-headlights—but instead, your face breaks into a lopsided, almost grateful smile.

“Just the man they told me to talk to!” Like you’re greeting a friend, or long-lost co-conspirator. “You’re Curtis, right? I was told you’re the guy who can get things done around here.”

Curtis is momentarily wrong-footed. This is not how it’s supposed to go. He was coming to find you, he was ready to deal out a polite warning, a thinly veiled threat in customer-service-ese, not this.

But he nods, lips pressed into a neutral line. He waits for the ask, already rehearsing the tight, professional shut-down. But you beat him to it, voice sliding straight into business.

“It’s about the bar,” you say. “We’re not looking to cause problems, really—we’ll keep it down, we’ll clean up after ourselves, we’ll tip everyone at least twenty percent, cross my heart.” You put your hand over your heart for emphasis. “Is there any scenario where the bar could stay open after hours, for us for a special event?” You don’t even glance at the chaos in your wake. “Like, a couple hours. Just for my group. Is there a form for that or something?”

It takes him a second to recalibrate, but he does. “That’s not my department,” he says, definitive. “That’s Ari’s call. The owner.”

You nod, but you don’t miss a beat. "That’s what I heard, but someone said when Ari’s on vacation, you have final say. Figured it couldn’t hurt to ask."

He keeps his expression as flat as the casino carpet. "Ari’s out until Monday, and I can’t sign off on something like that. Sorry. Policy." He crosses his arms, which usually signals an end to this sort of conversation.

You tap your nails against your phone. Then your smile turns even sweeter. “But, if you were, hypothetically, going to green-light it for, say, a very harmless group of out-of-towners,” you lean infinitesimally closer, “is there any way we could make that happen?” And you put a gentle hand on his forearm, a brief brush, just for a moment.

Instantly, Curtis’s nostrils flare, and for all of three seconds, his veins surge with hunger, with the urge to press you up behind a row of these machines, and—

“No,” he insists.

None of that.

His sharp refusal has you shaking your head, seemingly coming back to yourself as well. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have done that,” you say, and the apology is so barefaced, it almost startles Curtis more than the hand.

You cross your arms, too, hugging yourself in that way people do when they’re recalibrating. “Sorry,” you repeat, “I didn’t mean to…” A vague gesture. “Honestly, that’s not even my style. I’m just—” You look away, jaw flexing. “This whole weekend was supposed to be perfect. I planned it for months. I thought I booked the right hotel, but it turns out the other ‘Sunburst Resort’ is forty miles south. The one with the rooftop bar and the infinity pool. Half the girls already want to murder me. The other half are just… really, really chill about it, which makes it even worse somehow? So, yeah. I just wanted to pull off one thing for them. Still make this weekend special.” You look at him then, straight on. “But I get it. You’re just doing your job.”

Curtis feels his jaw loosen, but he’s not going to lower his suspicions completely or make concessions. He should walk off, should leave you to the swarm of friends and the memorializing of catastrophe into just another party story. And yet…

“It’s not like your girls are having a bad time,” he says, jerking his head toward the havoc at the penny slots. The bride is wearing a plastic tiara and howling with laughter. Someone else is eating maraschino cherries straight from a glass. The bridesmaids might as well be background extras in a movie about senior living remixed for social media. “You may even be single-handedly responsible for the most fun anyone’s had here since the pandemic.”

You give him a look that’s both relieved and incredulous, like maybe you’re not used to being let off the hook. “I guess I’m just projecting,” you say, and your smile does a weird, sidelong thing. “I need it to be good more than they do, you know?” You glance down at your phone—probably to check for incoming fires—and then back up. “I appreciate you not making this into a whole thing.”

He shrugs. “I just know how much worse it can get,” he says. “And I’ll take your rowdy bachelorettes over the Texas Hold ‘Em AARP tour any day.”

“But it’s still zero on the after-hours?”

He shakes his head, and you nod in your polite resignation.

Textbook good girl.

Women in the first halves of their lives are an almost-never kind of occurrence at this place, but it’s not as if he’s never interacted with them before.

But it’s how good you are, how perfect you try to be that’s ignited some itch in him over you. He wants to hold all your attention in his hands for a minute and suffocate it in pleasure, see if he could get you to relinquish the reins of control and let whatever was corked tight inside uncork, explode, run rampant.

Because where he can see you’re spirited in your pursuit of control and perfection, he’s cool, calm, collected in his.

But you’re the last thing he needs.

He clears his throat. “The hospitality suite’s got a fridge,” he offers, voice at half-volume, trying to avoid the path between of being too helpful. He doesn’t want to give the impression that he’ll soften. “If you tip our concierge Lloyd, he’ll stock you with the good stuff. And some of the stuff he shouldn’t.”

You blink, and then give him a real smile. “Thank you.” Your voice is warm with those two words, and, fuck, if now he doesn’t want to get you saying thank you for other reasons.

Again, no. He won’t go there.

You start to say something else, but he’s already pivoting away, put an end to the scene before he can get any more entangled. He doesn’t need to continue looking into your soft eyes, doesn’t need to think about how wide they’d if he stuffed his—

He growls and then barks at one of his pit bosses to keep an eye on table seven, and stalks off toward the cage to count down the afternoon drop.

At 10:17 PM, Curtis is on his way out, mind already shifting to the leftovers and whiskey sour waiting for him in his shoebox apartment.

He freezes, pivots.

Music. Laughter. The unmistakable warble of Abba at full throttle, the chorus punched with off-key shrieking. All of it coming from the bar that was supposed to be closed over an hour ago.

Curtis marches through the swing doors and right into a riot.

The bachelorette party is there, of course, but they’re not alone. At least two dozen seniors are crammed into the bar's banquette, drinks in hand, some already mid-dance on the sticky faux-wood floor. Eileen’s signature feather boa is now a communal scarf, being passed from neck to neck. Someone’s great-uncle—he recognizes him from the slots—has his tie around his forehead like a Rambo bandana, and is doing shots with two of the bridesmaids. The bride is slow dancing with someone’s grandma. The DJ booth is unmanned, the playlist hijacked by a phone plugged directly into the sound system, which is blaring “Dancing Queen” at top volume.

And, somehow, Ari Levinson is behind the bar himself, slamming a bottle of tequila on the counter with a theatrical flourish.

Ari who’s not supposed to be back until Monday.

Curtis wades through the bedlam, dodging an emerging conga line, and slides behind the bar next to Ari.

“You’re supposed to be in New York,” Curtis says, voice low but edged.

Ari just flashes a golden grin. “I have a private jet, and Eileen called me personally,” he says, as if that explains everything. “Said if I didn’t make this bachelorette party’s dreams come true, she’d never forgive me.”

Eileen was their wickedest widow slash beloved queen of the resort, left with more money than god, and stayed at Sunburst in one of the penthouse suites that was essentially hers every other weekend at this point.

Curtis feels the corner of his mouth twitch. “So you’re bartending now?” Curtis asks, monitoring the controlled chaos.

Ari shrugs, “Back to my roots.”

Curtis locates you instantly, perched at the end of the bar, not in the fray but close enough to referee. You’re in a pale knit mini-dress and white sneakers, another outfit to match the rest of the bridal party. There’s a highball glass in your hand, the liquid inside nuclear red and fizzy. Cherry garnish. Shirley Temple. He snorts—of course.

You’re running the spectacle, but not running wild. Your head is tipped just so, like you’re listening for the precise moment the party will veer from beautiful disaster into regrettable territory. The instant it would go too far, you would be there to drag your girls back.

His stare must be a laser, because you catch him immediately, and your face bursts wide open with a smile. Not just a little polite, thanks-for-your-help smile—a full, flashing, not-even-a-little-bit-sober beam. You’re off the barstool and striding toward him before he can look away.

You reach him in an instant, and before he can ask what you need, you blurt, “I just wanted to say, thank you! I never dreamed of anything this big, but it’s bigger and better than I could have hoped for!”

Curtis knows how to field gratitude—he does this every day, nodding his way through the bland, forgettable compliments of winners and losers. But this, the way you lean in, smiling like you’ve just hit the jackpot, tips something loose in him.

“This wasn’t me. It’s Eileen you have to thank for all of this. She’s a force of nature,” he says.

You turn and look for her in the crowd, but Curtis can still hear you. “She’s a fucking legend,” you say, soft, reverent.

Curtis doesn’t let it sit. He leans in, close enough you have to tip your chin up to meet his eyes. “You looked like you were eager to thank me, though,” he says, and the words are so direct, so specific, that your eyes widen.

Curtis’s mouth shifts into a smirk, and then his hand is at your elbow, guiding you up and away from the bar with a grip a shade firmer than necessary. Not a gentle graze, but a serious claim. He doesn’t say a word—just nods to Ari, who raises his tequila bottle in salute, and then steers you through the riot of bodies and then around a corner to a masterfully hidden set of stairs. Privacy to ascend to the dark kingdom of the VIP lounges.

Curtis badges a golden door open and you step in, a little ahead of him, a little breathless, and something dark in him revs at your wide-eyed reaction as you look around, soaking up every angle. You turn in a slow circle, taking it in, the perfectionist in you surely already clocking the amenities, the escape routes, the places where a control freak could retreat if she suddenly needed to.

The room is a jewel box with velvet seating, a mirrored bar with bottles for a hundred moods, and outside the glass doors, a crescent-moon balcony that wraps around the entire level, cantilevered over the revel below. The sound comes up through the floor, dull and distant and thrilling.

Curtis closes the door behind them with a soft click, then flips a switch that kills the ugly ceiling lights and bathes everything in a pinky-purple glow.

He leans against the door, arms crossed, blocking the exit with a casual, unignorable presence. “Not quite the rooftop bar you wanted, but it has its advantages,” he says.

You drift to the balcony railing, which overlooks the bar and a slice of the dance floor below, packed with the intergenerational party. He comes up behind, close enough that you must feel him, but he doesn’t touch you yet.

After a minute, you say, “So this is the VIP suite.” You sound breathless, lighter than you probably want to.

Curtis makes a noise of affirmation. “Should be for high rollers, but turns out ours come here to be in the crowd, not above it.”

You lean on the railing, looking down. “I’ve never been in a VIP anything.” You smile, but it’s tight.

“We should make it an experience you’ll never forget then, shouldn’t we?”

He leans in, sets his palms on either side of you, bracketing your ribs, caging you in as you grip the balcony. He can see you’re nervous, the first crack in your facade.

Curtis wants to see what happens if you let go—just a little. See if he can shake something loose in you that won't snap back into shape. He wants to see how far he can make you unravel, if you’ll trust his control, indulge in surrender, let him break you.

He sets his hand on your hip. A test. He feels you tense, feels the nerves shudder through your spine as you take a deliberate breath, all the way to the bottom. Your hands grip the balcony railing, but you tilt your head just enough that he can see the hint of defiance in your profile. Not fear—just the need for a reason to surrender.

He gives you one.

His lips graze your ear, and he pitches his words low, dangerous. “You know you want to let go,” Curtis says. “You don’t have to run the show every second.”

He waits for a protest. Instead, your voice comes out soft, “What if I don’t know how?”

Now, that is interesting.

And perfect.

Curtis doesn’t hesitate. He puts both hands on your hips, sharp and possessive, and pulls you back against him. There’s no space between your bodies, just the heat and the thud of his heart against your spine and the point of his cock, already hard, pressed up between the small of your back and your ass. The party below blurs out of focus. His lips drag a line from the curve of your ear to the side of your throat, the scruff on his jaw catching and scraping against your skin. He doesn’t bother with sweet nothings, just fills your world with the shudder of your own breath and the slow, insistent sweep of his palms up and under the hem of your dress.

“I’ll show you,” he growls, and you shiver in his hands but don’t resist.

Curtis lifts the skirt up over your hips, slow and sure, not for seduction but to test you, to see if you’ll stop him. You don’t. You’re trembling, but it’s the good kind—a shudder up your spine, a breath snatched and held tight. He likes that. He likes that a lot. He skims his hands further up and under, finds the smooth curve of your ass, finds the edge of your panties and tugs them down with a single, practiced motion, just far enough to bare you.

You twist to glance back, half shy, half incautious, and your voice comes out husky, nothing like the chirpy, put-together party leader from the lobby. “Is this…okay?”

He smirks. “Doesn’t matter if it’s okay, as long as you want it,” he growls, teeth grazing the juncture at your neck.

Then he’s undoing his own belt, one-handed, and you’re already melting into a perfect arch, braced and bent, just how he likes. Curtis is not a man for pleasantries. He likes efficiency, wants results, but something about you—this fine-tuned girl with the power stance and nervous little quiver—makes him want to prolong this, draw it out like the last hand at the table.

It’s a dangerous place to do this, up here and not so far from view, but that’s the point. The wide glass gives a perfect god’s-eye view of the casino, and below in the bar anyone who glances up might see a silhouette, but not a face. That risk turns the air inside electric. He wants to see how far he can push you, if you’ll crash out as a good girl or revel in coming to heel.

There’s no buildup. He doesn’t tease, doesn’t check in, just pushes forward and fills you in a single, breathtaking lunge. You choke out a surprised noise, probably loud to your own ears but lost in the spill of music and laughter that pulses up from below. He keeps going, not giving you time to adjust, not gentling his pace, just claiming you over the balcony with the force of a man who’s been starved.

The drag of his hands, the pound of his hips, the roughness of fabric and fingers and bone—he means every thrust to bruise, to mark you with the memory of this room until you can never walk into another casino again without feeling phantom pressure on your waist. It’s insane, this surge of possessiveness, but it only twists tighter as you arch and gasp and fight to keep yourself silent, because you’re good, you’ve always been good, and Curtis can sense the struggle as you try to keep the noises caged. He won’t let you. He wants you to let go, and he’s not above brute force to get you there.

He snakes a hand up under your dress, flattens his palm against your stomach, keeping you pinned so you’re forced to stay put and take every inch. His other hand creeps up, wraps around your throat and squeezes, thumb against your windpipe—not enough to hurt, just enough to underscore who’s in control.

He fucks you, relentless, and it’s not performative, not for show, just the pure, greedy satisfaction of it. If there’s any doubt in him about whether you want this, it dies when you start bucking back into him, meet him thrust for thrust, until the friction threatens to light the air on fire.

Curtis relishes every stifled gasp you make, the way you spasm and cling to the rail as your knees start to go. There’s a pretty, wild abandon now, your hands scrambling for purchase, and for the first time you look utterly unstaged, raw and perfect. His thumb strokes your pulse, steady, both pushing to more and grounding you at the same time.

Curtis is never gentle, but he’s always attentive. He’s got enough years behind him to tell when someone is about to crash. You’re creaking, threatening to snap in his hands, hips torqued back against him, begging, desperate for more. He takes a hand off your stomach and slips it lower, finds the knot of nerves that he knows can quell your need.

He works you, deliberate and precise, until your body rebels against you, locked tight around his cock as you choke out a single, helpless sound that’s all desperation. “Good girl,” he growls, and you keen.

He doesn’t stop. He keeps punishing you through it, and even when you shudder and sob, proud spine melting into a loose, slack curve, he won’t let you slide off the edge. Not until he’s wrung you out once, twice, three times—he wants you completely spent, the sight of you ruined, breath gone jagged. Only then does he come, a savage surge he buries in your heat, hands digging in with a grip that promises bruises by morning.

He laughs—low, dark, delighted—and stays pressed against your back until he’s wrung every last bit of shiver from your muscles, still touching and tormenting the your oversensitive intimate parts, fingers still tormenting with out, cock punishing your inner walls with slow ruts while he’s still half-hard. When he lets go of your throat, he pulls your face around and bites your earlobe, hard enough to leave a mark.

There’s no clean-up, not with him, not in a place like this. He slides out, fixes your dress, puts himself together with the brutal efficiency. You stand there, trembling, breathless, stuck in place.

His cocky self-satisfaction bubbles in his chest while you stay hunched over the balcony, hands vise-locked on the rail, knuckles bleached to bone. He relishes every second of it—the way you strain to straighten up but can’t quite, the way your body fights to process what just detonated inside. He enjoys watching you flinch when he slides your ruined panties delicately back into place, tugs them up with a snap of elastic. “Gotta keep my hot cum inside your tight cunt,” he mutters, the words more ruin he knows you can’t be used to.

Then he finally guides you to the couch. You look up at him, blinking, lips only slightly parted, doe-eyed in your ruined haze. He pats the side of your head before stepping away.

He pours you both a drink, because he’s not a complete animal, and hands yours over wordlessly. You sip it. He’s got vodka, but he only gave you a flavored sparkling water. You meet his gaze. He likes the way you steady yourself on a few sips.

“Now everyone in the bridal party should be able to say they had a weekend they’ll never forget,” Curtis says a few minutes later, once you seem more settled.

You huff a small laugh. At last, you manage to say, “I don’t even know if my legs work.”

He stands, knocking back the last of his vodka. “You can stay up here long as you want.”

He doesn’t offer to walk you to your room, doesn’t linger, just brushes his knuckles across your cheek and lets himself out the suite, the click of the latch leaving you in a glittering, elevated hush. He’ll send a note to your room, leaving his number and a line letting you know he’ll ruin you more if you want him to before you leave.

🥵🥴

so, again, that happened.

I must throw out a note to @stargazingfangirl18 who was there when I imagined up this man and encouraged his development! Gave great fuel to my fire once again!!

read what happens the next morning: MORNING DEPARTURE

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest Chris Evans Characters Collection

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!

[chaosinstigator]

my underrated king <3

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Criminal Intent

Warning: noncon, stealing/crime, fear and intimidation.

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: An act of desperation leads to a moment of retribution.

Note: this idea popped into my mind so I quickly jotted it up. No plans on a series but I could see a couple of continuations if y'all want. Let me know, pls!

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 ❤️

You got over should or shouldn't a long time ago. This isn't about morals, it's not even about greed. This is survival. You just need something, anything you can hock for a couple bucks.

Your stomach is a siren, crying out for anything. You listen to that, not your conscience. When it boils down to it, ethics are as much a commodity as a gold watch or designer purse.

Confidence is key. Not real confidence, just the appearance of. People only notice what you let them notice.

It's dark. Late. You move between the shadows of house, trailing behind the bumpers of pickups, stopping to stand on tiptoe and peek in the beds. Empty bottles won't even get you a return anymore. Fucking pricks in their suits, writing down new rules for everyone but themselves.

Just a small thing. Nothing that's too much. If they can afford them, they can afford to replace them, surely.

You stop and rub your eyes. The streetlights soften the edges. You see something further down a lot.

The long drive is full up. Three pick ups, an outdated corvette, and a couple bikes near the unlit garage with four doors. You weave between, pausing to test the handles and peek through the windows.

Huh. One's unlocked. You find greasy receipts for a burger place this end of town and coupons for more. Jesus. Fat fuck.

You keep on towards the bikes. Usually, you don't get much off of them. You might manage to twist off a mirror or couple pieces of metal to sell at the scrapper.

You check the first. Nothing. The second turns up a couple pills tucked inside the handlebar. If they're any good, you can get a decent profit. You don't touch the shit. Makes you an easy target, even if it would ease the ache in your gut.

The third bike is nice. The silver cobra painted on the matte grey tank catches a glimmer of moonlight. You feel around slowly.

There's a leather pouch right behind the seat. Someone must've been distracted. You unbuckle it, the metal clinking louder than you like, and sift around blindly.

You take out the only object inside. A folding knife. You'll be lucky to take ten from the pawnshop. They have a whole fucking bucket of knives.

A click makes you clumsy. The knife falls between your feet and you stand sttaight. Stiff. The gravel mulches behind you.

"Hands up." The grizzly voice sneers.

Fucker. You raise your hands. The man comes close and kicks the knife under the bike and you hear it skitter to the other side.

"You law?" You ask.

"Shut up." He growls.

You sigh and stay as you are. His body heat clouds around you as he pokes you with the barrel. You huff.

"Keep your hands up and turn around." He commands.

"I'm just hungry--" you say.

"Yeah? Bet those pills are real filling." He jabs the gun deeper between your shoulder blades. "Turn the fuck around."

You close your eyes and deflate. You face the man and look. He's just a black silhouette but you can tell he isn't with the force. You stare at him, bracing for something, anything.

"You know what I do with thieves?"

"I can guess," your fingers droop weakly.

"Don't you know where the fuck you are?" He steps closer and angles the barrel under your chin. The silver glow of the moon limns his long nose and lights his grey blue irises.

"Somewhere I shouldn't be."

"You're goddamn fucking right." He pushes until your jaw aches.

He glares at you as the shadows coil like a basilisk. He drags the gun along your cheek and presses against your temple. He hooks his finger in the top of your hoodie and tugs it away from your neck. He scoffs.

"Listen to every fucking word I say and I might let you limp out of here."

You sniff and shake your head. "What the hell am I gonna do?"

He clicks his tongue. "Turn around. Walk up to that wall. Put your palms flat." He gestures with the barrel.

You obey and march stiffly up to the front of the garage. He follows you. You stare at the obscure siding and resign yourself to whatever comes next.

"Pay for what you took and we're even."

"You think I'm out hear stealing cause I got money--“

His knuckles snap against the back of your skull.

"Point is you took what's mine. You owe me." He shifts behind you. "I didn't say nothing about money."

He kicks your heels.

"Pull your jeans down."

Your body locks up and your fingers curl to fists. You swallow dryly. You reach down.

“Ah, move slow. I’m still being nice.” He warns. “You still got all your fingers.”

You ease your motion. You don’t bother with your fly. You slip your thumbs under the denim and elastic and shove your jeans down. You stop just at the midpoint of your thighs.

A gristly hum climbs up his throat. You flinch as his hot hand spreads across one side of your ass. From that alone, you’re assured that it’s not just the darkness playing tricks. He is indeed a very formidable man.

“Stay like that. Don’t make a noise.” He drawls.

You don’t move. You dip your head forward and lock your legs. You’re terrified but you know better than to show it. Even if you’re not bawling and begging, you’re sure he knows.

He grabs your wrists and guides your arms up. He forces your hands against the side of the garage. He lets go and you stay as he put you.

You close your eyes as something clinks. His belt buckle. A thick breath chafe and his zipper cuts through the still night. You bite down until your jaw throbs.

He grabs your hips and guides your feet back, just a little. With a heavy boot, he moves your legs further apart. He squeezes and tilts your lower back. He traces his fingertips across the top of your ass.

“Be nice, still, and quiet for me.” He rasps.

He steps close, pumping himself slowly. His knuckles brush the curve of your backside. He smells the crown of your head and his hot breath puffs into your hair. His large hand frames your hip as he trails his tip beneath your as and along your thigh.

He rubs up along your cunt as he bends his knees. You clench and clamp your eyes tight. He pushes against you. His slow deliberate intrusion burns. The resistance of your body makes it worse and when he slips inside, you grunt. Just his tip has you trembling.

He brings his other hand to your hip. He grips you tight as he tilts his pelvis up, splitting you with each inch. A long groan grinds from you as you push your hands hard against the wall. You lean your head on the side as you gnash your teeth.

When you think he’s done, he jerks his hips and plunges even deeper. You cry out and he hushes you, digging his nails into your skin. You quiver and nod. You swallow down the pain.

“Good girl,” he whispers.

He stays buried in you as he drags his touch up your sides. One hand slips under your hoodie and the crumpled shirt beneath. He cups your tit as his other arm hooks around your neck. His squeeze just under your jaw and he pushes his head next to yours, his cheek against your temple.

He slides out of you until just his tip. He urges back in and you chuff out another tight breath through your nose. He rolls into you, over and over. Each thrust is long and measured. Torturous.

He turns so his nose presses your temple. His breath dampens your skin. He rams into you harder. Your feet arch so you're on your toes. He bends you until you’re crushed between him and the garage wall.

He snarls as his hand snakes down your stomach and a thick finger delves between your lips. You gasp and gulp, bracing the crook of his arm as your nerves spark. You moan and shake your head. He curls his arm until your knuckles are against your neck and you can’t breathe.

“I said be quiet.” He sneers as he snaps his hips meanly. “You wanna take from me?” He ruts up into you harshly. You keep an elbow against the wall as you clutch at his arm with both hands. “You’re gonna take all of me.” 

He hammers against your ass mercilessly, flesh slapping between your stifled whimpers. Your head hangs over his thick arm as his leather coat opens around you, tickling your sides as his tempo picks up with each tilt. He growls and nips your ear.

“Then we’ll see if you can walk away from this.”

[krirebr]

Luck Be a Lady

Pairing: soft!dark Curtis Everett x female reader

Word Count: ~10.1k

Summary: Desperate for money, you accept a job as a cocktail waitress at an underground casino. You think you know what you're doing, but when you meet Curtis, will you realize you're in over your head?

Warnings: Mob AU, violence, allusions to murder, explicit language, dubcon touching, noncon touching (not Curtis), willfully oblivious reader, SMUT - facefucking, dirty talk, light d/s dynamics, praise kink, other explicit sexual content. This is definitely on the darker end of the soft!dark spectrum, so proceed with caution! All of my work is 18+ - Minors DNI

Dividers by @thecutestgrotto

Masterlist

A/N: And here it finally is! This is my first real attempt at soft!dark. I hope I did it right! 😂

This was inspired by two things: 1) me going to a rep screening of Goodfellas and spending the entire time wondering why I hadn't done a mob au yet and 2) @bigtreefest saying "enforcer!Curtis Everett and mob boss!Andy Barber" in my general direction. Thanks for the inspo, friend!!

And big thanks as always to @paperweight91 who not only came up with Curtis's name for reader but also offered heaps of encouragement and was a great sounding board. And thanks to @stargazingfangirl18 for helping me figure out how exactly we'd get to the smut. Thanks Siri!

Any comment, reblog, or ask to let me know what you think will be greatly appreciated. Please come scream at me about this! 😄 As always, thank you so much for reading! 💜

You fruitlessly tug down your very short skirt as Holly talks at you. You’re both standing in the corner of the bar’s basement waiting for the night to start in earnest—your first night.

“Lloyd’s not so bad,” she says of your boss, the man who runs this little underground gambling ring. “You’ll have to split your tips with him at the end of the night, but he doesn’t take that much, and you’ll make enough that you won’t really notice. As long as you do that, he’ll mostly keep his hands to himself.”

You nod along, glancing at the mustachioed man conferring with the bouncer at the door. The interview process for this job had boiled down to a thorough once-over that’d made you feel naked in your jeans and t-shirt and a “You’re not too stupid to take a drink order, are you?” and then you had the job.

Holly had vouched for you. Neighbors for almost half a year, she’d come home early one morning last week and witnessed you trying to convince the landlord that you were good for your past-due rent. She’d taken you for coffee and told you she might be able to help if you were good at keeping your head down and mouth shut. And now you were here.

“The customers, on the other hand,” she continues, smacking her gum, “you’ll have to let them touch, at least a little bit. Within reason, you know? But if anything gets out of hand, you can just tell Jake at the door and he’ll take care of it.”

“Within reason?” you ask, voice shaking, just the littlest bit, as the pit that started forming in your stomach when you agreed to this grows a little more.

The look she gives you verges on exasperated. “Well, you want to make money, don’t you?”

Yes, you do. Very much so. It’s a need, not a want. So you nod and try to listen as she keeps giving you the rundown. 

Before you’re ready, the first patrons start trickling in and then you’re off to the races. It’s not too bad. No one’s orders are too complicated, mostly just bottles of beer and glasses of straight whiskey. The bartender, Colin, is friendly enough, although you learn that he’s another person you’ll need to split your tips with. 

As for the touching, there are hands on your hips, pats to your ass. But you’re rewarded with folded-up bills held up between fingers or tucked into the strap of your top. Or, twice, slid behind the waistband of your skirt. Once you realize that the majority of these bills aren’t ones or fives, but twenties, you care about the touching that comes with them much less. Plus, you’re too busy to really think about it that hard. 

You can’t believe how busy it is for a random Tuesday night, multiple games of poker, craps, and who knows what else all going at once. But when you mention that to Holly, she just laughs and shakes her head. “This is nothing,” she says. “On the weekends there’ll be three more of us and another one of Jake. Things get wild.” 

You don’t have time to decide whether that makes you nervous or excited before someone is signaling for your attention again. You manage to suppress your grimace when he slides his arm around your waist to tell you what he needs from the bar. You’re rewarded for your troubles by a wad of twenties. You aren’t sure who these men are to tip so freely, but you know better than to look a gift horse in the mouth.

It’s an hour or two later that Lloyd calls you over to where he’s speaking to a large, impossibly broad man, dressed in a soft-looking henley under a leather jacket with dark jeans. There’s dark ink all over his hands that disappears up his sleeves and reappears on his neck in intricate lines. He’s got close-cropped hair and a full beard that’s neatly trimmed. His deep blue eyes drill into you right away and you do your best not to shiver.

“Got a new girl tonight, Everett. Still learning the ropes, but she’ll take good care of you, won’t you, Cupcake?” 

“Yes, of course,” you say, before Lloyd wanders off to check on one of the poker games.

The man, Everett, lets his eyes rove over you. “Cupcake, huh?” His voice is deep, gritty, but there's something there that's much gentler than you expected.

You give him what you hope is a coy smile. “Sure. If you want.” Lloyd was treating him like he's important. You hope important means deep pockets.

He hits you with a penetrative stare, so strong you almost have to take a step back. “No,” he finally says. “I don't think so. I'll find something more fitting.” Then he turns and starts to walk away, before calling over his shoulder. “I'm gonna get dealt in. Bring me a whiskey once I'm settled.”

You watch him go for just a moment, and then head to the bar, asking for a whiskey. 

“This for Everett?” the bartender, Colin, asks. When you nod, he grabs a fancy bottle off the top shelf. “This is all he drinks. And he doesn't pay for it, alright? Don't ever think about giving him a bill.” 

You look back at the man in question, seriously looking at the cards he’s just been dealt. Who is he???

You collect his whiskey and move back to him. As you set it down, he turns to you. “How about this?” he asks as he holds up a crisply folded hundred-dollar bill between two fingers. Your eyes widen at the money. All you’ve done is bring him one straight pour. “There’s another one of these in it for you if you make sure I never see the bottom of this glass tonight. Sound good?” And then he folds the bill one more time in his thick fingers, before sliding it under the low-cut neckline of your blouse. Your skin tingles where he brushes against it.

“Yeah, you got it,” you just breathe out, a little shocked you’re able to form words. He gives you a smug smile that you can only describe as shark-like before turning back to his cards, and you understand it as the dismissal that it is. 

You move around the room, collecting empties, getting refills, trying to goodnaturedly accept unsolicited touches. The whole time you feel eyes on you, but whenever you glance Everett’s way, he’s focused on his poker game.

Eventually, a down moment finds you catching your breath against the wall. The moment Holly sees you standing still, she’s quickly making her way to you. “You need to be more careful around Curtis,” she hisses, lowly.

You look at her, confused. “Curtis?” Jake’s at the door. Colin’s behind the bar. You don’t know a Curtis.

“Curtis Everett!” You glance at the man at the poker table. He’s running a poker chip across his knuckles mindlessly. Then he looks up and you briefly make eye contact before you quickly look away. Holly is staring at you and she looks worried. But the name still doesn’t mean anything to you, so you shake your head and shrug. She groans as quietly as she can. “He’s Barber’s top enforcer!”

This whole conversation feels so out of the blue that it takes you a minute to catch up. Barber. Andrew Barber. The most feared mob boss in the city. Probably the state. Maybe even more. Ruthless and exacting was how the papers described him. He’d been the subject of multiple stings and taskforces and whathaveyou but nothing ever stuck. “He works for Andrew Barber?” you ask, shocked and a little appalled.

Holly stares at you in a way that you can only describe as dumbfounded. It takes her a few moments to find her words, then, “Bitch, you work for Andrew Barber!”

Everything stops. “What?” you gasp.

“Oh my god,” Holly groans. “This was such a mistake. It’s an underground card game in his city! Who did you think was running things?”

“I– I don’t know,” you stutter, stupidly. The god’s honest truth is that you’d never really stopped to think about it. You’d been staring down an eviction, struggling to afford groceries. Unable to make ends meet no matter what you did. When Holly told you about this job, all you saw were dollar signs. You didn't think about anything further. Of course, you’d known these games were illegal, but it seemed so minor in the grand scheme of things. You hadn’t connected it to anything bigger because you just hadn’t wanted to.

But now– Now that you know the truth, what are you going to do? You know what you should do. You should walk out the door right now. You should find some other legitimate way to pay your bills. It’ll be safer. It’ll be better. It’ll be so much harder.

As you bite your lip, trying to process all of this information, Holly continues. “Listen,” she says, “still get him drinks, be friendly, whatever you need to do. But keep your distance however you can. Don't encourage him. He's just– He's really dangerous. They don't call him Barber’s attack dog for nothing, ok?”

“Yeah,” you say. You start to look back in Curtis’s direction but stop yourself. You think about the hundred you already have and the one promised to you at the end of the night. You think of how empty your pantry is. But then you see the genuine fear in Holly's eyes. You let out a shaky breath. “Yeah. I got it. Thanks.”

“He doesn't even come in here that often. I'm surprised to see him tonight, so I'm sure it’ll be fine,” she says, but you can tell she’s nervous.

You nod, absently, finally letting yourself glance over at him. His drink is getting close to the bottom. “Shit,” you mumble. “I gotta get him his refill.”

“Do you want me to do it?” Holly asks. 

You should let her do it. You absolutely should. But you just can’t give up on that tip. You shake your head. “No, I’ll be fine. But thanks.”

You head back to the bar and grab Curtis’s top-shelf whiskey of choice from Colin, then make your way to his table. You set it down next to him, hoping to move away without him even noticing, he’s so engrossed in the game. But as you take a step back, his hand shoots out to grab your wrist. He holds it tightly until you meet his eyes. “Good girl,” he murmurs, and you can’t help the sharp intake of breath or the way you feel his words in your knees. He strokes his thumb down the inside of your wrist, then abruptly lets go, pushing his chips to the middle of the table. You step away, gathering yourself as subtly as you can, and get back to work.

The rest of the night goes quickly. The crowd gets a little rowdier as they drink more, but you find that it’s nothing you can’t handle. The reality of who these people are, what they’re connected to, never leaves your mind. But really, they’re not so bad. None of this feels so bad at all. And soon, people start heading out. You’re beginning to clean up, when a recognizable voice rings out, “Bambi!” You turn and lock eyes with Curtis. He crooks two fingers at you and you quickly make your way over to him.

“Bambi?” you ask.

He grins at you and it feels more than a little predatory. You’ll never admit how much you like it. You try to keep Holly’s warning at the forefront of your mind. “Wide eyes and just getting your legs under you,” he says. You instinctively duck your head at that, which earns a dark chuckle. “Here,” he continues, as he pulls a genuine, fat money clip out of his back pocket. You’ve never seen something like it in real life before. He peels off two bills and holds them out to you. “This is what good girls get,” he says, a low rumble in his voice.

You swallow as you take them from him. Two hundred dollars. Twice what you were expecting. “Thank you,” you say quietly. 

He shakes his head. “You earned it.” Then, after one last long look at you, he turns around and leaves.

You stand and stare after him. You don’t doubt anything Holly said, but three hundred dollars, just for bringing him drinks. He doesn’t seem that bad, not really. A little intense maybe, but there’s some sort of interest there, and it can’t be that bad to encourage it, just a little if it earns you these sorts of tips, can it??

Any hesitance you have about this entire endeavor completely disappears as you count your money at the end of the night.

Your first week flies by. You're starting to get the hang of the job. You get along with your coworkers. You get to know the regulars. You like it. Even Lloyd isn’t so bad as long as you give him his cut at the end of every night.

And you’re making so much money.

In your downtime, you pay your landlord what you owe him. You go grocery shopping without scouring for coupons first or calculating exactly what you can afford beforehand. You make a Pinterest board of what you want your apartment to look like now that you might actually be able to buy things to fill it. For the very first time, you’re thinking about things you actually want, not just desperately trying to figure out how you’ll pay your bills. You’ve never felt this calm, this relaxed, this free before. It’s an incredible feeling.

And Curtis. Despite Holly’s reassurances that you wouldn’t see him much, he seems to be there whenever you are, trying to capitalize on his winning streak at the poker tables, you assume. His tips are still insanely generous. You don’t think he carries anything less than hundred dollar bills. 

And there’s just something about him. The way he looks at you. The way he touches you. It’s not like the other men here. His touch is like fire, warming from the inside. There’ve been times when his hand on your hip has almost made your knees buckle. That doesn’t happen with anyone else here.

But you’re being smart and you’re being safe. You are. You’re going to set a savings goal, you think. And once you hit that number, you’ll be out of here, onto something more legitimate. And until then, you’ll just keep your head down and mouth shut, like Holly said. You haven’t even really seen anything. It’s a good plan. It’ll be fine.

She’s right that the weekends are wilder. Even with three additional girls working the room, you’re kept running. You do your best to keep an eye on Curtis’s drinks, but it’s much harder than on weeknights. And you aren’t really able to pause when you drop them off. It’s one of these times, as you’re pulling away from the table as soon as you’ve set his glass down, that you’re stopped short by his hand on you. He pulls you back in by the wrist and says, “They’re just running you ragged tonight, huh, Bambi?”

You smile and shrug. “It’s busy.”

He holds out a bill and you try not to smile even wider as he slips it into the waistband of your skirt. “For all your hard work.”

You bat your lashes a little. “You spoil me.”

“I like spoiling you,” he says, lowly. 

“You’re too sweet,” you say softly. Then, pulling your arm away with a wink, you add, “Gotta run,” and you’re onto the next table.

You’re getting good at this, figuring out what level of harmless flirting is just enough to keep the money flowing. And you’re having fun. You’d never expected that.

Holly and two of the other girls, Jane and Kristi, are congregated at the end of the bar, waiting for drinks, when you join them. They’re all watching you warily. “So, uh,” Jane starts quietly, “you seem to be getting pretty cozy with Curtis.” 

Before you can respond, Holly scoffs behind her. “I’ve tried to warn her but she won’t fucking listen.”

You roll your eyes. You’re tired of hearing this. “I seriously don’t get what the big deal is. He’s nice and he tips well. It’s harmless!”

Kristi just gapes at you. “He’s nice?!”

Holly slams the drinks she was waiting for onto her tray. “Whatever,” she grumbles. “It’s her fucking funeral.”

You shake your head as you watch her go. It’s fine. You can take care of yourself.

The rest of the night goes by in a blur. You don’t get much of a chance to talk to Curtis, but you feel his eyes on you before he disappears a little before closing.

At the end of the night, once you’ve helped clean up, you cash out with Colin and Jake and then go to find Lloyd in his office. You think it’s kind of ridiculous that you’re basically paying him to work there, but it is what it is. And Holly was right, you’re making so much that you barely even notice. 

Lloyd is sitting at his desk, looking a little more disheveled than you’re used to. He startles at your approach, which is also new. 

“Oh, hey,” he says, with slightly rounded eyes. “What can I do for you?”

You look at him, a little confused. “Just here with your cut,” you say as you hold out his money.

His hands immediately fly up to his chest, palms out. “No, no,” he says. “You made that fair and square. You just– you keep what you make from now on, Cupcake. Sound good?”

You swallow and nod, preparing yourself for whatever other price you’ll have to pay for keeping your job, mentally calculating what you’re willing to do. But Lloyd doesn’t do anything, doesn’t make any move to get closer to you. Just stays there at his desk, turning back to his work. “You have a good night,” he says, clearly dismissing you. 

You leave confused, but richer, telling yourself not to question it too hard.

Things go so smoothly for a few weeks that you’re a little shocked when the bubble bursts. 

It’s a relatively quiet weeknight. There are a few games going, but nothing compared to the weekend. The pace of the night feels leisurely. It’s nice.

It’s maybe the first night you haven’t seen Curtis there. It feels weird. He’s become such a part of this place for you. A fixture, like the bar or the carpet. Just one of the elements that make it what it is. But it’s fine. Of course, he doesn’t come every night. He probably has a whole life outside of this. He must’ve gotten bored of playing cards. Oh well. It was nice while it lasted.

You’re passing the time talking to one of the regulars at the bar, Vinny. He’s in his fifties, you think, with gray hair and laugh lines. He’d gone bust at the poker table (or maybe it was craps tonight) earlier and then had moved to the bar to drink away his sorrows and bad luck. That was how his nights tended to go.

He’s sitting on a barstool, his arm around your waist where you stand next to him. He’s a little close for comfort, but he’s always just been a friendly guy, so you’re alright. Which is why you’re so surprised when, in the middle of a story about the good old days of the Copa Cabana, his other hand suddenly finds its way between your thighs. You freeze. For just a second. Then you force out a laugh and try to push his hand away. “Bad boy,” you try to tease, your voice shaking. His hand will not move. What is happening? “Come on, let’s keep our hands to ourselves.”

Instead of doing what you’ve asked, his thumb briefly brushes the inside of your leg and then his whole hand begins moving higher. You stop breathing. You push again but he won’t budge.

“You’re such a pretty doll, aren’tcha?” he says. 

Tears start to gather in your eyes. You look around wildly to see if anyone’s noticing what’s happening. Colin’s busy making drinks. Jake and Lloyd are talking by the door. Everyone else is engrossed in their own business. “Vinnie, stop, please,” you whisper. You don’t know why you can’t get your voice to work, can’t get your body to move.

“Come on,” he cajoles, “I’m being nice, aren’t I?” 

Then his thumb brushes against your panties and your entire body jolts into action. You wrench your leg out of his grasp and take several steps away from him. Your whole body is shaking now. “I gotta–” you start, trying to keep your tone casual and failing miserably. “I gotta get back to work, Vinny.” Then you grab your tray off the bartop and walk away as fast as you can.

You don’t really have a destination in mind. You pick up a few empties as you wander between tables. You can feel his eyes on you, following you. You try to take a deep breath, calm yourself down. It isn’t very helpful. You look up to see Jake by himself now. You make your way over to him, Holly’s words on your first night in your ears. That was out of hand, wasn’t it?

He looks up as you approach. His big golden retriever smile on his face. “Hey, what’s up?” Then he actually takes you in and his smile drops. “What happened?”

“Um, Vinny, he, uh–” You feel a few tears fall down your cheeks and you just shake your head.

Jake’s face darkens. “Did he hurt you?” 

“No, uh, he– he just–” You shake your head again. “No, he didn’t hurt me.”

Jake doesn’t say anything for a moment, just looks at you. There’s something about the way he does it that makes you think he understands everything you just can’t say. He nods once. “Alright. I’ll take care of it. You go take your time in the back. Do what you need to do. He’ll be gone by the time you’re done.”

You let out a shaky breath. “Okay, thank you,” you say so quietly. Then you get yourself to the back room as quickly as you can.

It’s really more of a hallway than a room, small and narrow. All of the storage space for the building is in the legitimate bar upstairs. But there’s enough room for you to crouch down, your knees pulled up tight to your chin. You bury your face in your thighs and let the tears you’ve been holding in finally fall. You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re safe. You’re fine. 

You don’t know how long you’ve spent trying to calm yourself down when a large shadow suddenly looms over you. It takes you a moment to gather your strength to find out who it is. You hope it’s Jake telling you Vinny’s gone. You’re afraid it might be Lloyd, here to tell you to get back to work. There’s a slowly building terror that it might be Vinny himself.

After a deep breath, you look up to find Curtis staring down at you, concern on his face and fiery anger in his eyes. “What happened?” he growls.

You shake your head and turn away. He crouches down in front of you. “Are you alright?”

A humorless, uncontrolled laugh escapes you. Once you finally stop, you ignore his question and ask your own, “Why are you here?”

It takes him a very long time to answer. He just looks at you seriously for several moments. Then, finally, “Jake called me.” While you try to figure out why on earth Jake would do that, he continues, “I'm sorry I wasn’t already here.”

“Why?” you blurt out without thinking. 

He looks away without saying anything. You both just sit in the silence for a few moments. Then, you try to change tactics. “Where were you?” you ask out of morbid curiosity. You can't imagine what his life is like outside of here.

“Working,” he says curtly. He plays with a ring on his middle finger and the movement draws your eyes to his hands, specifically his knuckles. They're scraped and caked with dried blood. 

You swallow and you catch how his eyes track the movement. His eyes are always on you. He catches everything. 

“Someone touched you?”

“Lots of people touch me,” you say, flatly. “It's part of the job. You touch me.”

His eyes narrow at that. “But this was different.” It isn’t a question.

You look down at your hands in your lap and don't say anything. 

“Tell me who it was.”

“No,” you say instinctively, something about the moment feeling incredibly dangerous. 

He huffs in frustration. “Are you trying to protect him?”

“No!” you say, sharply. “I’m protecting myself.”

“You don’t have to do that. Not from me. Not ever.”

You don’t know how to tell him that every atom in you knows that that isn’t true. You can’t explain it, and it wasn’t until the moment he joined you in this little closet, but you’d swear that he’s a danger to you. You just can't articulate how, but you feel it in your bones. And still, here you stay.

At your silence, he grits out, “If you don’t tell me who it was, Jake will.”

Jake probably already has, that’s what you’ve figured. “Great,” you say. “Then you don’t need me to say it.”

“Bambi,” he lets out in an exasperated growl. “I'm trying to help you.” 

You just look at him and then figure you may as well ask the main question that's on your mind. “Why did Jake call you?” 

He ignores you and stands up. “Come on,” he says and extends his hand, “I'm taking you home.”

You just blink up at him. “My shift isn't over.” 

He shakes his hand at you impatiently. “It is now. Come on.”

You shake your head. “Curtis, this is my job. I can't just– Lloyd will–”

“I'll take care of Lloyd. Let’s go.”

You think about going home. About sitting alone in your small apartment. At least here you'll have something to do, things to focus on, to keep you busy. At home, there'll be nothing to think about other than that hand between your legs and– “No,” you say as firmly as you can manage. “I'm staying here. I'm finishing the night.”

His jaw ticks but he doesn’t say anything, just tries to stare you down. You stare right back. You will not concede this. 

Finally, he exhales through his nostrils, then growls out an unhappy “Fine. But I'll–” He's interrupted by his phone ringing in his pocket. He takes it out and glances at the caller ID and sighs. “I have to take this.” He steps away as much as he can in the tiny area and answers with a curt “Everett.” There's a slight pause. “Yeah, I took care of it.” Another pause that has him glancing at you. “No, something else came up.”

You don't wait to hear the rest of the conversation. You take the opportunity to go back to the main room and get back to work. 

You don't see Curtis again that night. You don't spare much thought to where he might've gone. You're too focused on getting through the remainder of your shift. When it's done, Jake insists on seeing you home. You don't ask why. You already know who's behind it.

The next few days are fine. You try to put what happened behind you, doing your best to ignore it. But that becomes impossible when three days after the incident you watch Vinny walk in. You can’t help the little burst of panic you feel as you warily watch him sit down at his usual table and get dealt in. 

As subtly as you can, you make your way over to Jake. You don’t even say anything before he’s looking at you, chagrined. “I know,” he says. “I’m sorry, but I had to let him in. I promise it’s all going to be taken care of. It’s just– You can ignore him tonight, ok? Just trust me. You don’t need to worry about him. I promise.”

“Ok,” you say reluctantly, trying to resist looking back at Vinny. “I just– I didn’t think I’d have to see him again.”

“I really think that after tonight you won’t,” he says sincerely.

You don’t really understand what that means, but you nod anyway. “Ok,” you say. “I, uh, I should get back to work then.” 

He just nods after you, looking a little concerned and a little sad. But the room is filling up, so you don’t have time to delve into it.

Sometime later, as you’re taking a brief moment to idle by the bar, a strange hush descends over the room. You’re facing away from the door, away from the rest of the room, but you see Colin take in whatever it is that’s caused this. His face pales and he lets out a quiet, urgent, “Shit.” 

You turn around to see what on earth could be going on and you immediately freeze. Curtis is here. But that’s not what’s garnering all of this attention. Well, not all. Because he’s not alone, there’s a man with him. A little shorter, not quite as broad. But you’d be able to feel the power radiating off of him, even if you didn’t recognize him. Soft dark hair, thick beard, an immaculately tailored suit. You’ve seen him in the papers, on the news, but in real life, he’s even more intimidating. Andrew Barber.

Barber leans in close to say something to Curtis, who nods, eyes scanning the room until they land on you. Your breath catches, but luckily Colin calls your name behind you and you have an excuse to turn around. He places two glasses of dark liquor on the bar. “Everett,” he says, gesturing to one, then “Barber,” while waving his hand over the other. “Got it?” You nod and place them on your tray. They’re identical to your eyes except for the fact that Barber's has a muddled black cherry at the bottom of the glass.

You carefully bring them over, trying to force yourself to breathe. Curtis intercepts you and grabs the drinks when you're a few steps away. “Thank you, Bambi,” he says, lowly. 

Barber perks up. “This is Bambi? Really?” He extends a hand and you have no choice but to take it. “Andy Barber,” he says with a disarming smile. “It's a pleasure to meet you finally.”

His handshake is firm, demanding. He is terrifying in his friendliness. And he knows who you are. Has known, for who knows how long. You glance at Curtis, but he's just calmly drinking his whiskey. You don't know what to say, what are you supposed to say?? So after too long a pause, you practically whisper, “Thank you, Mr. Barber.”

He chuckles lightly as he takes back his hand. To Curtis, he says, “You're right, Bambi does suit her.” Then he turns back to you and adds, “Andy, please.”

“O– Okay, Andy,” you say, with what you desperately hope is a benign smile. You look over at Curtis, you’re not entirely sure why, but out of these two dangerous options, he, at least, is familiar. “I should get back to work.”

Curtis is staring at you, but it’s Andy who answers. “Mmm, and we have a game to join, don’t we?” Curtis nods but still doesn’t break his gaze. Andy smirks, “No rest for the wicked.”

You have no idea what to do with that sentiment, so you take the opportunity and get out of there. You walk through the tables, checking to see if anyone needs anything, but the mob boss’s physical presence seems to have ground all action to a halt. The room is collectively holding its breath. 

You go back to the bar for want of anything else to do. Colin is standing ramrod straight, coiled in case he needs to spring into action. Lloyd is sitting down at the end of the bar, drumming his fingers, eyes moving all around the room. You settle next to Holly, who looks just as scared as she did that first night when she was trying to warn you off of Curtis. “Is this,” you start to ask, your voice shaking. “Is this normal? Does he come here a lot?”

“No, never” she shakes her head. “Why would he come here? He has real clubs and restaurants. He doesn’t need to hang out in a shit hole like this.” She shakes her head again. “He’d only come here for a reason.”

You turn your head back to the room and find that Andy and Curtis have settled at Vinny’s table, joining his game across from him. Your heart lands in your throat. That can’t– No. You’re just some cocktail waitress. Even with Curtis’s obvious interest in you, you aren’t important enough to bring the most powerful man in the city here. You’re nothing. He must have other reasons.

The room is quiet enough to hear a pin drop as everyone waits for something to happen, which is why when Andy does start speaking, you don’t have to strain your ears to pick up every word.

He looks at his cards carefully, then over at Vinny. “You know, Vinny, you’re a hard man to track down.” His voice is so calm, it sends a chill up your spine. “You don’t go home, we can’t find you at work. I was starting to get worried.” He runs a few chips through his fingers before tossing them into the center of the felt. “That’s why, when I heard you were showing up here, I sent my best man to investigate,” he nods towards Curtis, “just to make sure you were ok.” 

You don’t have a great view of Vinny from where you’re standing, but you can see how stiff he is, how silent. But he still calls when it’s his turn.

“You can imagine my relief when I found out you were alright. Except,” he raises again, a few more chips into the pot, “you’re losing a lot of money, aren’t you? Now, this upsets me. Not because you’re losing your own money. But because it’s mine, isn’t it?”

Vinny finally tries to pipe up. “Andy, hold on. I can ex–”

“You owe me $150,000, Vinny. With interest, that total’s climbing every day. And yet, you sit here and you just keep losing, don’t you? At my own game. What would you do if you won, huh? Would you really try paying me back with my own money? I thought maybe you’d at least have the smarts to cross the border and try this at one of Roger’s casinos. Huh? Paying me back with my enemy’s money, at least that I could respect. But no, it’s only me you think is stupid enough to fall for your bullshit. So now I’m here to give you the chance to fucking do it to my face.” With that, he violently pushes all of his chips into the center of the table. 

Everyone else has folded. It’s just Barber and Vinny now. You’re not sure Curtis even actually played. He’s just staring Vinny down, although occasionally his eyes will flick up and meet yours. You hate feeling like you’re a part of this, but you don’t know what else to do besides watch it play out.

Vinny is just spluttering, while Andy calmly looks on. It’s all the expected, cliche stuff you’ve seen in gangster movies. He’s got the money, he swears. He just needs a little more time. Andy has to know he’s good for it! You want to roll your eyes right along with Andy.

“Call, Vinny,” Andy cuts him off, sternly. “That’s $150,000 I just put in the pot. Call. And if you win, we’re even. Your debt’s erased. But if you lose, well then that’s $300,000 you’ll owe me. And you know I won’t be able to tolerate that. So call. And let’s find out where we stand.”

You can’t see what Vinny’s doing, but you can imagine the way his fingers must be hovering over his chips, his eyes moving down to his cards to check, one more time, if they’re as good or bad as he remembers. You know there’s no way out for him either way. He’ll have to call. He’s just delaying the inevitable.

You feel like you can't breathe as you wait for him to just finally do it, but Andy cuts in again. “The thing I can't understand, Vinny, is why you kept coming here after Curtis showed up. Either you're very stupid or really fucking greedy.” He looks at Vinny carefully. “Maybe a little of both. I hear you've been touching something that doesn't belong to you.”

You gasp. No one notices, but you do. He can't be talking about you. He can't. He can't. 

Vinny seems even more confused than you. “What are you talking about? I haven't touched anything!”

Andy continues to ignore him. “So you're stupid and greedy. That's why you aren't afraid of him like you should be. They call him my attack dog, did you know? Have you heard that? Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe you think he’s some puppy that follows me around. You’d be stupid to underestimate him, underestimate me. But maybe you only do that because you've never seen my dog off his leash.”

Curtis springs into action, lunging across the table to grab Vinny by the collar, and then slams his head into the felt. Before there’s even time to react, he’s stood and he's picking Vinny back up and hurling him onto the floor. Curtis comes around the table to stalk after him and the look on his face has you gasping for breath. You've never seen Curtis like this. There's a glint in his eye that might be the scariest thing you've ever seen. Who is this man? What is he capable of?

Vinny is dazedly trying to crawl away, but Curtis catches him easily. He grabs Vinny’s collar and hauls him back up, delivering two punches to his face in quick succession. The sound it makes. There's no other sound in the whole room. No one's saying anything, no one's doing anything. Everyone's just watching, hypnotized. You turn away, your stomach churning. Your eyes catch on Andy, sitting back in his chair, placidly drinking the whiskey you brought him, completely relaxed, like he's watching anything else. You can't look at him either. 

The room is completely silent except for the crunching of bones, Vinny’s whimpers, and Curtis’s grunts. You look up again to be startled by eye contact with Curtis. His eyes are wild, unhinged. Feral. But there's something else in it, like all of this is for you. That all of you are there, everything is happening, because Vinny dared to touch you. It takes your breath away. It’s mesmerizing.

Andy finally stands and strides over to where Curtis is holding Vinny up in the middle of the room. He looks down at Vinny, then spits in his face. “I'm tired of trying to draw blood from a stone,” he says. Then he turns to Curtis and finishes, “Get rid of him.”

Curtis gives you one last long look, his face unreadable. You feel it in your knees. Then he drags Vinny out, leaving a bloody trail behind him.

The moment they're gone, it's like the entire room can breathe again. “Lloyd,” Andy calls out. “How ‘bout a round for everyone? On me.”

Lloyd nods to Colin who hurriedly starts pouring drinks. And you, so grateful for something to do, instead of just standing there, shaking, start loading the glasses on your tray.

As you begin to pass them out, Andy of all people, pulls you aside. “Bambi,” he says quietly, “I hope you know now, we take care of our own.”

You gaze at him, shocked. It feels like a comfort and a threat. But why? It's not so much the implication that this all had something to do with you, but you can't for the life of you imagine what you've done to get yourself to a place where Andy Barber might consider you his, however distantly. It can't just be that you work here. You can't picture him doing something similar for Holly or Colin. Once again, this all feels so incredibly dangerous. 

While you're struggling to come up with anything to say to that, he grabs a drink off your tray and downs it quickly. Then, with a wink, he turns and leaves. You’re left staring after him until someone calls after you and you're scrambling to pass out drinks again. 

The night ends quickly. No one seems eager to stay and drink and play after everything that's happened. Not when there's still blood on the floor.

You do what you can to help clean up, but when you stare at the stain helplessly, Lloyd tells you not to worry about it. He's got a guy.

Colin walks out with you so you aren’t in the parking lot alone. You're grateful. You're still so shaken. As you approach your car, your beater that you still don’t quite have the money to replace, you see someone leaning against it. You stop short, looking to Colin for help, but he just keeps walking to his own car, his head down. That’s when you know it’s Curtis. 

You take a deep breath and then force yourself to keep walking towards him. You can't begin to parse how you feel to see him now. Your keys are ready in your hand like you might just get in and drive off without speaking to him. You know you won’t.

When you reach him, his voice is rough as he asks, “Are you ok?” He’s cleaned up. There’s no more blood on his hands, his clothes have been straightened.

You open your mouth to answer, even though you have no idea, so instead what comes out is “Did you kill him?”

“Did you want me to?” is his immediate reply.

It stops you in your tracks as all sorts of feelings come bubbling up, ones you can not, will not examine. This is about his propensity for violence, how terrifying he became, not– No. “Did you?” you insist. 

He looks at you carefully then shakes his head. “I don't think you actually want me to answer that.”

“But you've killed before?” You can't stop yourself from pressing, from pushing. You don’t know why. 

He just sort of smiles, gently almost, in a way that is deeply unsettling. “You need to stop asking questions you aren’t ready for me to answer, Bambi.” And it’s the way he says the nickname, like you really are that babe in the woods, just born with no knowledge of the world around you, that has your hackles rising.

“Andy called you his dog,” you say, like he should be offended.

To your surprise, he laughs, his head thrown back. Then he takes a step closer to you, and you take the opportunity to sneak in behind him, get to your car. You realize your mistake immediately when he turns back around and cages you in, your back pressed against the driver’s side door. “Everyone calls me his dog. Because he’s the civilized man in the designer suit, and I’m the animal just begging for a reason to slip my leash.”

Your heart pounds wildly in your chest. You should get into your car. You should drive away as fast as you can. You should never come back. But you don’t. “You did it for him,” you say, mustering all the strength into your voice that you can. “You didn’t do it for me.”

He leans over you, the space between you shrinking rapidly. “Yeah, he asked me to do it,” he nods. “But if he hadn’t, I still would have done it. For you.”

 You try to shake your head, to tell him that that can’t be true, even as a wild, loud part of you starts to rise up and claw out of your chest. You try to tamp it down, deny it, but before you can, Curtis is leaning in further, his whole body pressing against you, and then he covers your lips with his.  

There’s a heat that comes up out of him that fills you, the instant his skin touches yours. His hands are on you, your neck, your hip. You can’t keep track, can only say that his hands are there, everywhere, that his body touches all of yours, that his lips and his tongue are demanding, unrelenting. You are burning up from the inside.

Too soon, but ages later, he pulls away. His eyes are on fire as he looks at you. Then he tears his gaze away, and hits the roof of your decrepit car twice, looking at it disdainfully. “You get home safe,” he says, then steps back to allow you the space you need to get into your car.

You do what he wants you to do. You get in your car, sit in the driver’s seat, and then stare blankly out the windshield. You’ve never felt so out of control in your life. How did this happen? You were flirting for tips, that was all! You encouraged it for money, that was it, and now– You press your thighs together, trying not to pant. You will not be unmoored. 

A slight movement in your periphery makes you notice that Curtis is still standing just to the side of your car, watching you. You turn your keys in the ignition and shift into drive.

It doesn’t mean anything it doesn’t mean anything it doesn’t mean anything, you chant to yourself all the way home.

It’s your next shift back, and everything seems to have changed. You don’t understand it. You keep doing laps of the room, keep sidling up to regulars you were so friendly with just a few nights ago, but now, they won’t even look at you, let alone touch you. No one’s ordering anything.

Or at least, they aren’t ordering from you.

Holly has been running around nonstop all night, basically having to take care of the entire room by herself. You watch man after man after man slip her little bundles of money. 

You want to scream. What the fuck happened? What did you do? What are you going to do?

You go to stand by the bar to wait for something you can do. Colin gives you a brief nod of acknowledgment but that’s it. He’s been cold, too. No. Not cold, distant. You don’t understand what’s changed.

You take a deep breath. It’s one weird night. Things will be better tomorrow.

Things don’t get better. The next night is the same. You’re starting to panic. This job was supposed to be your lifeline. Without it, without the money you were making, you’re not sure how you’ll survive.

Curtis comes in after a couple of hours of nothing. You could cry you’re so happy to see him. But terrified too. If he gives you the cold shoulder, this job really is over. But you have no idea how he’s going to act, not after what happened last time. You’re not sure how you’re going to act either. You can still feel his lips on yours.

You bring him his whiskey immediately and he greets you with an arm around your waist, pulling you in. “Hey Bambi,” he says quietly. Then he gets a good look at you. “What’s wrong?” 

You look at him carefully, not sure what to confide. You aren’t even sure what the problem is. You shake your head. “Not my best night,” you say with a tired smile. “But I’m fine.”

He stares at you for a moment, then stands up. “Come on,” he says, grabbing your hand and leading you to the little back room. You feel eyes on the two of you the whole way there.

Once he’s closed the door behind you both, he asks again, “What’s wrong?”

You sigh. “The last two nights have been weird here. I don’t– I don’t know. I’m just worried. I don’t know what happened but I’m not making any tips. No one’s treating me like they used to.”

“Mmm,” Curtis hums thoughtfully. “I think,” he says as he takes two steps closer to you, which in this small space is significant, “everyone else here has figured it out.”

It’s suddenly a little hard to breathe with him standing over you like this. His presence, his attention is always so much. “Figured what out?” you ask, confused.

“That I have lost my patience for watching other men touch you.” 

It hits you like a freight train. “What?” It comes out in a whisper.

“I’ve let this go on for too long,” he says, his voice is calm, casual. “I don’t want you working here anymore. This is done.”

“I– What? Curtis. What?! I have to work! I have to pay my bills! I don’t understand. I don’t–”

He takes one last step forward. You feel the heat coming off of him. “Shh,” he soothes, cradling your cheek in his hand. “It’ll be alright. I’ll take care of you. I take care of what’s mine.”

You pull your face away, even as the urge to nuzzle into him is so strong. You feel like you’ve missed something, a thousand things. You feel too many steps behind. “Curtis, I’m not– I’m not yours.”

Something comes into his eyes and you’re reminded of him standing over Vinny, covered in blood. His hand travels down from your cheek. He strokes your throat once, and then his hand closes around it. “Look me in the eye,” he growls, “and say that again.”

His hand is firm, snug, but it doesn’t tighten. But you can imagine so easily how it might. You look him in the eye. You open your mouth, ready to say it again. But then– then you see it. In the way he looks at you, the way he’s always looked at you. You feel it in his grip on you, now. You can’t deny it anymore. 

Curtis shoves you into his bedroom. You’re panting already. You need his hands on you, right now. You don’t have to ask for it. He gets you to the center of the room and yanks down your skirt, tearing it in the process. You step out of it and take your blouse off, throwing it on top of your skirt. Curtis’s eyes are cataloging your body, the swell of your breasts spilling out of your bra, your soft tummy, thick thighs. His gaze, as always, takes your breath away.

You reach out for Curtis’s shirt, but he grabs your hands. “I want you on your knees,” he growls and you immediately kneel for him. He throws off his shirt, revealing the expanse of his chest, the muted blacks and grays of his tattoos. You’re desperate to run your hands over them, trace the art, but instead, they just twitch at your side. He'll tell you what you're allowed to do.

He begins unbuttoning his jeans and your mouth drops open. He chuckles darkly. “Perfect little slut.” He takes his phone out of his back pocket and aims it at you, taking a picture as you gaze up at him under your lashes, your mouth wide open. “I've been dreaming of getting you on your knees for me.” He puts his phone on his dresser, then continues taking off his pants. “You ready to choke on my cock, baby?”

“Please,” you whine. You're practically salivating now. His bare thighs are as thick as tree trunks, the muscles corded. His abs ripple as he moves. His shoulders, his back. You want.

He frees his cock and rolls his black boxer briefs down his legs, stepping out of them. It's long and thick, just like the rest of him. Your breath catches. You don't think you've ever taken something that big before.

He takes a few steps so he's completely in your space, his cock bobbing right in front of your face. He takes it in one hand, the other firmly on the back of your head and slowly feeds the tip into your mouth. You taste his musk on your tongue. As he rocks into your mouth, going a little further each time, your hands come up to grasp his thighs. On his next thrust in, you run your tongue along the underside of his dick. His movements stutter just a little and then he looks down at you, a smirk overtaking his face. It's just a touch mean, in a way that has you soaking your panties. “You ready?” he asks, his voice rough. And then without waiting for the answer, he thrusts in all the way, making you take him deep in your throat.

You flail, slapping his thigh as you try to swallow around him, breathing frantically through your nose. After holding you there for a moment, he sets a brutal but steady pace. It takes you a moment, but you find your rhythm, your panic subsiding. Once you feel steady, you lift one hand from his thighs and bring it up to cradle his balls. “Fuck, Bambi,” he grinds out. “You're gonna– I– fuck!” His hand moves from the back of your head down to the back of your neck, which he grips firmly, pulling you off his cock. As you cough and splutter on the floor, he growls, “The first time you make me come is gonna be inside that perfect cunt.”

He helps you stand on wobbly legs, then shoves his hand between your legs, cupping your pussy over your panties. “Shit, fucking soaked just from deepthroating me?”

You let out a needy little whine, trying to push further into his hand, but he withdraws it, instead settling on your hip. “Well,” he grins, “if they’re ruined anyway…” then uses that hand to rip the black lace down the side, letting them fall to the floor. He makes quick work of your bra as well, then takes a step back and sighs, “Shit, Bambi, look at you.” It’s the reverence in his voice and on his face that has you launching yourself at him, unable to keep from kissing him any longer. He lets you, quickly taking control, letting you feel all his hunger, the want he’s kept barely bottled up since he first laid eyes on you. You understand it all now. His erection brushes against you, and now it’s his turn to whine, just a little. 

He pulls away, brushing a hand down your cheek, then says “Get on the bed, on your stomach.” You quickly comply, laying in the center of the bed with your knees pulled up and spread beneath you. He brings his hand down on one asscheek harshly and you can’t help the lewd moan that escapes you. He chuckles, “Oh, I will definitely remember that for later.” He grabs your hips and cants them up, then whistles at your exposed cunt. “I knew it. Absolutely beautiful.” Then he unceremoniously shoves two fingers into your hole and you choke on nothing. “Shh,” he coos. “You can take it. My cock’s gonna be a lot thicker.” 

As he starts scissoring his fingers inside you, you can’t hold it in any longer and start babbling. Mostly a combination of “please,” and “Curtis,” and “I need,” over and over.

“I know, baby,” he says as he pulls his fingers out of you. “I’ve got what you need right here.” You have a brief moment to feel the tip of his cock on your pussy lips before he’s thrusting it into you, as far as he can go without making it hurt. 

“Oh my god,” you cry, pressing your forehead into the mattress and balling his dark blue sheets in your hands. You feel so full. It’s so good. He’s working himself into you as quickly as he can, desperate now. You both are. Once he bottoms out, fully seated in you, he pauses. Then with one hand on your stomach and the other around your neck, he pulls you up onto your knees, your back flush to his chest. You cry out at the new angle; he’s somehow even deeper now. He starts thrusting up into you at a punishing pace. You’re bouncing up and down in his firm grasp. The hand on your neck turns your head to face him, his lips brushing against yours. He holds eye contact with you as the hand on your stomach snakes down your pelvis so his thick fingers can begin circling your clit. “Fuck! Curtis, please!” you shout. 

“Yeah, come on,” he breathes, “you can let go. You can do it. Come for me like a good girl.” It’s those words that send you careening over the edge, your cunt pulsing around his cock, squeezing him until he’s coming too with a grunt, filling you up until both your cum is leaking out around him. 

He holds you there, on your knees, as you both come down, your twin pants all you can hear.

You wake up slowly, the sun shining on you through the soft drapes. You start to shift then groan at how stiff you are. The night before comes back to you. Curtis took you two more times before you both collapsed in satisfied exhaustion. He’s still out like a light beneath you. 

You take a moment to look at him. It’s odd to see him so peaceful, so still. There’s nothing of the feral predator he projects to the world. It makes you feel oddly close to him, seeing him like this.

You carefully get up without disturbing him and begin collecting your clothes. You put on your bra, but there’s no saving your panties. Same for your skirt; it’s ripped along the seam. So instead you pick up Curtis’s t-shirt from last night and put it on. It smells like him. You breathe it in shamelessly knowing there’s no one to witness it.

You savor the soreness as you move out of the bedroom. It’s like you can still feel him inside you, how much he wanted you, needed you. It makes you feel a little powerful, having that effect on a man like him.

You make your way into his living room. You didn’t really have a chance to look at his house last night, as determined as he was to get you into the bedroom. If you’d ever thought to picture it, this wouldn’t be far off. It’s all rich blues and greens and grays, leather and dark wood. Masculine. It suits him. 

As you’re admiring the room, you hear footsteps behind you and then two big arms are encircling your waist, pulling you into him. “Good morning,” he rasps. 

You turn your head to him. “Good morning,” you say with a smile.

“Fuck, Bambi, you’re even hotter in my shirt than you were last night.”

You smirk at him even as your face heats. “Mmm,” you hum. “It’s comfy. You might not get it back.” He nuzzles into your neck as you continue. “I was hoping you might have something I could wear for bottoms, too. You destroyed my skirt.”

His beard roughly drags against your skin as he asks, “Why the hell would I let you wear bottoms?”

You laugh. “Because I have to leave the house, Curtis.”

“No, you don’t,” he says as his hand begins to move between your thighs.

You playfully swat him away, even as you feel yourself getting wet again from his attention. “I have to go home.”

“Why? You’re staying here.” It’s how certain he sounds that has you turning around in his arms.

“What?”

“I don’t like your building. It isn’t safe enough. Now that I finally have you, of course, I’m going to keep you here with me.”

Once again, you feel too many steps behind. You just blink at him, confused. How does he even know where you live??

He takes your chin in his hand, his fingers gentle. “I told you, Bambi, I take care of what’s mine.”

Tag list

@stargazingfangirl18 @yenzys-lucky-charm @thezombieprostitute @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @bval-1 @km-ffluv @texmexdarling @ladyvenera @roxyfan14-blog @darkserenity24 @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @ronearoundblindly @brandycranby @midnightramyeoncravings

[darkmasterlistyouneveraskedfor]

The Opportunists Masterlist

A group of men work together to recruit the perfect women for them.

Featuring: Jack O'Malley, Andy Barber, Lloyd Hansen, Johnny Storm, Mike Weiss, Jake Jensen, Ransom Drysdale, Steve Rogers, Curtis Everett, Colin Shea, Pete Brenner, Cole Turner

In Progress

Stage 1: The Interviews

Cosmo | Lynx | Stella | Vega | Astra | Lyra | Ursa | Nova | Corvus | Carina | Starla | Orion