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 Three pick ups, an outdated corvette, and a couple bikes near the unlit garage with four doors.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.
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
Summary: The rebellion fails. You and Curtis pay the price.
Word Count: 300
Playlist Prompt: Animal I Have Become - Three Days Grace / “I can't control myself”
Warnings: Dubcon/Noncon (sex pollen of sorts), angst, Curtis Everett (he's a warning, okay?).
A/N: Day 21 of the June Jukebox Scribbles Challenge by @societynsoelsscribbles . ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications as I no longer do taglists. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
The train was meant to save people after the world had frozen over, but it was a prison.
Curtis had learned the truth about the train. How Wilbur needed children to keep it running. The leader of the tail section tried to stop him. Destroy the train. The attempt failed.
And he was being punished for it.
“Stay back,” he snapped, his breathing ragged. “I can’t control myself.”
You weren’t sure what they injected him with, but it didn’t take him long to claw at his clothes. He managed to maintain an impressive physique despite the conditions of the back of the train. And he was looking at you like a man starved.
A predator about to devour his prey.
“Curtis,” you whispered, backing up as much as you could.
He always looked out for you. Made sure none of the men ever touched you. He didn’t touch you either. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he feared what would happen if he slept with you. What if he got you pregantn? Bringing a child into this life of hell wouldn’t be fair to either of you.
Which is exactly why Wilbur put you in there with him.
He wiped a bit of sweat and grime from his forehead. “I didn’t…” He took a step toward you. “I didn’t want it to be like this.”
“I know,” you said sadly, a tear rolling down your cheek. “I know.”
“Please, don’t hate me,” he begged.
“I could never hate you, Curtis,” you promised, looking at the camera in the corner before your protector grabbed you.
Wilbur would pay for making Curtis force himself on you. He’d pay for the lives he ruined. The children he took.
And if Curtis did get you pregnant, Wilbur would not take your baby.
