infernal-fire

[infernal-fire]

What Goes Around

Pairing: BFD/DBF!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader Summary: Bucky is your friend's dad and your dad's friend and nothing more. Until he isn't. Word Count: Over 6.2k Warnings: Explicit sexual content, vaginal unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), semi-public sex, possessive behavior, dirty talk, light Daddy kink, age gap (reader is in early 20's and Bucky late 40's), arguing, light violence, swearing, conflicted reader (everything is consensual!), everyone is a mess, Bucky Barnes (he’s a warning, okay?). A/N: Woohoo! Stepped out of my comfort zone a bit on this and I'm so proud! Thank you to @sweeterthanthis , @dreamlessinparis , @buckyownsmylife, @targaryenvampireslayer , @christywantspizza , @sgt-seabass , @lookiamtrying for listening to me ramble about this. Beta read by the lovely @whisperlullaby (thank you as well), but any and all mistakes are my own. Banner and moodboard by yours truly. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated! ***Any soft!dark undertones are unintentional as everything is consensual.***

You met Bethany Barnes your freshman year of college. While some of the girls on your floor knew each other, you went off to university not knowing a soul and had to be assigned a roommate. Your nerves shot up when you walked into the shared room. Beth, as she preferred to be called, was intimidatingly beautiful. You hadn't met any supermodels, but she could've chosen that as her profession with her tall, slender build, long auburn hair, and sparkling blue eyes.

Your nervousness faded when she smiled and gave you a hug, after asking if it was okay.

"You're here!" she smiled more when she pulled away, looking over your shoulder at who you thought was your dad. "By the closet."

You weren't normally stunned silent by looking at a person, but that was what happened when you met James "Bucky" Barnes. With the beard and quiet confidence in which he carried himself, you would've mistaken him for a professor had it not been for the fact that he was in the dormitory. Call it instant attraction or lust, but you found yourself openly staring at the handsome man as he carried a box into the room. He gazed at you, too, or so you thought. Your mind may have been playing tricks on you.

"Dad, quit staring at my roommate. That's weird."

The needle on the record scratched. Her dad. You could see where she got her good looks. He was taller and broader, his hair dark brown instead of auburn, and eyes a deeper shade of blue. One of the hottest men to ever grace the earth, if anyone asked for your opinion.

It didn't matter how good looking he was. This was Beth's dad. It put him in the "look, but don't touch" column.

Your dad, Dave, appeared moments later and introduced himself. Bucky was kind enough to help him with the rest of your stuff and even offered to buy lunch. While he didn't look the least bit upset about leaving, it was clear your dad was having a tough time holding it together and even had tears in his eyes. You understood. It was the two of you for so long and now you were out the door.

Beth put a hand on his arm and gave him a small smile to ease his worries.

"Hey. Your daughter and I will look out for each other, okay? You have nothing to worry about. Plus, I think we're going to be good friends."

She was right.

To your surprise, you discovered that Beth only lived about an hour away from your hometown. Like you, Beth didn't know anyone, but she was friendly and welcoming. Definitely more outgoing than you would ever be. Her popularity grew quickly, but the two of you were there for each other like she promised. While you had lost your mother, hers took off when she was so young she couldn't even remember her face. Bucky did the best he could to raise her. Like your dad had done for you.

Maybe that was why they became such good friends, too.

The two of you traded off different weekends at each other's houses when you left campus and spent a few holidays together. You did a couple of summer trips with your dads doing their best not to be overbearing. Eventually Beth joined a sorority and moved into the chapter's house, so you no longer lived together. Bucky suggested that your dad move closer to his place when he decided to sell the house, that way everyone could still spend time together.

"You wouldn't mind, would you?" your dad asked at the time.

You didn't at the time. It still gave everyone a chance to hang out and your dad seemed to need it more than you. He admired Bucky for being self-made, having a nice house, and a good job. It was as if the man's confidence rubbed off on him. He began to dress better and get in shape. He mentioned possibly dating again, which you encouraged. Your dad deserved to be happy.

You couldn't have predicted it would all go to hell after graduation.

You nursed your wine as you sat at the bar, staring into the abyss of the liquid as you swirled it around. Maybe if you looked long enough, you'd forget about tonight. It should have been an evening of celebration for you. Nothing major, but it was something that meant the world to you.

"I think you need something stronger."

You stayed silent when you turned to your right, slightly surprised when you saw none other than Bucky take a seat beside you. The citrus scent of his cologne filled your nostrils when he moved his stool close enough that your knees touched. Up close, even with the dim bar lightning, you could see the gray hairs in his trimmed beard and perfectly coiffed brown hair. Of all the people you expected to see, he certainly wasn't one of them.

"What are you doing here?" you asked.

"I thought you could use a friend."

"Are we friends?" You asked softly.

Hurt flashed in his eyes, which filled you with guilt. "I thought we were."

You weren't sure if you would label Bucky as a friend, but you cared for the man. He had been good to you over the years, staying up with you and watching movies when you couldn't sleep or listening to you ramble on about your papers, internship, resume, while Beth pampered herself. He gave advice when you asked and listened when you only wanted to talk.

You didn't need to be rude to him.

"We are," you wanted to assure him and you felt a bit better when his shoulders relaxed. "How did you even know where to find me?"

"You rushed off before dinner started and you mentioned that you liked this place," he replied, like it was obvious. "We were supposed to be celebrating. We didn't get all dressed up for nothing," he teased, gesturing to himself and drawing your attention to his large body as you smiled a little.

Over the last few years, you got used to seeing different looks from him. Jeans and shirts tight enough to see the muscles underneath, sweatpants that hung low enough to let the imagination wander, swim trunks when you went on vacation, and even the occasional suit. He opted for a dark blue suit tonight that matched his eyes, but skipped the tie. It wasn't a look many could pull off and he did it with ease.

You blinked and shook your head, trying not to pay attention to how good he looked. Just because you were upset didn't mean you had a right to check him out. It was wrong to be attracted to him and you refused to acknowledge it. Mainly because he was one of your dad's best friends and one of your best friend's dads.

No, she's not my best friend. Not anymore.

“We even kind of match,” he smiled to himself.

You glanced down at your short, sleeveless dress. It wasn’t revealing or flashy, but you felt beautiful in it. The shade of blue was close to his suit. Part of you felt silly for dressing up for a simple dinner.

"I guess we do," you said softly, looking at your glass again.

“Surprised the boys aren’t lining up for a chance with you,” he said.

You snorted, thankful you didn’t take a sip of your wine. You would’ve spit it out. “The boys have never lined up for me, but it’s okay. I’m used to it.”

Boys usually talked to you to get closer to Beth.

“Their loss,” Bucky said sincerely as he held up a couple of fingers for the bartender.

“And we have nothing to celebrate,” you said, not wanting to dwell on your sad dating history.

"Bullshit," he said, ordering two shots of whiskey and setting some money on the counter once the bartender came over. "You got a job at Stark Industries. I'm proud of you."

Your cheeks heated at the praise. "Thank you," you said, sparing him a glance when he passed you a glass. "I already have a drink.”

“And I said it isn’t strong enough,” he hesitated as he picked up his own. “Beth said you weren’t much of a drinker. Not even on your 21st birthday. You were a good girl, weren’t you?”

You were conflicted as you listened. Did Bucky mean for that to be an innuendo? You chose to focus on Beth instead, and how angry you felt. How many nights did you hold her hair back while she puked?

“You're right. We should celebrate."

Bucky gave you a worried look as you picked up your drink.

Your cheeks ached from your wide smile. "To my dad and your daughter fucking each other. Cheers!"

You might as well address the elephant in the room since he wouldn't.

He frowned when you downed the shot, the burn spreading from the back of your throat to your chest. You half expected him to see a clench in his jaw or an embarrassed blush in his cheeks, but he merely threw his drink back and slammed the glass down when he finished. "You sure you don't want to do another toast? I don't think the entire bar heard you."

"Oh, I wouldn't want to make a scene. I did that already, remember?"

You hadn't seen Beth in months since you graduated. Neither of you landed dream jobs right away, but you did find temporary work to help cover the rent for your new place. You wanted to be independent and your dad supported you. But your friend hadn’t even seen your place.

Any time you reached out to meet up, she made an excuse why she couldn't join you or bailed at the last minute if she agreed. At first, you didn't take any offense. You figured she met a guy. She got like that sometimes over boys, but she had never gone that long without hanging out with you.

Maybe she had outgrown you after college.

Your dad sensed that you missed Beth and assured you that you'd see her soon. He planned a special dinner to celebrate you getting a job at Stark Industries. Beth promised she wouldn't miss it. You thought it was strange how easily she accepted your dad's invitation, but you discovered quickly that she wasn't there for you in the first place.

"Sweetie," your dad began as he slipped an arm around Beth's waist. "We have something we want to talk to you about. Beth and I are, well, we're seeing each other. Now I know that may be difficult to hear, especially since I haven't seen anyone serious since your mother, but…"

Your dad used to describe you as amicable and well-behaved when someone asked him about his daughter. No matter what life threw your way, you did your best to be friendly and stay out of trouble. It could have been before your mother was always kind and you did your best to follow in her footsteps. It often meant putting the needs of others before your own, but it never bothered you.

Until tonight.

Until you saw the ring on Beth's finger.

Beth, the girl who flashed boys from her sorority house window and blew off studying. The same girl who cried with you on the anniversary of your mom's death. She was going to marry your dad.

A slow moving storm began to swirl in your mind. You managed to hear your dad say that they began seeing each other the night of graduation and promised it wasn't sooner. It explained why Beth had blown you off all that time. They were trying to figure out how to tell you, but all they did was lie.

Outrage was a foreign feeling to you and you didn't know how to channel it. Were you supposed to scream? Cry? All you knew was that it clawed at your insides until it broke free.

Whatever you yelled was enough to make your dad step back in shock and Beth grab your arm to drag you outside. The porch light illuminated her enough to see the anger etched on her face. You didn't even recognize her.

"What the fuck? You've been fucking my dad?!" you yelled, snatching your arm back from her.

"Yeah, I'm fucking your dad!" she yelled back.

"How did this even happen?!" you demanded to know, immediately regretting asking a second later.

"After your graduation dinner, we were drinking and I said I always thought he was hot and-"

"God, stop!" you shrieked, covering your ears until her mouth stopped moving. "So, you two have been sneaking around behind my back and lying to me for months?!"

"We had to because we knew you'd lose your shit! I knew you wouldn’t be mature about this!"

You trembled as you took a step back. You weren't used to yelling or being yelled at. There were times that you and Beth bickered, but it was nothing like this.

And, of course, you'd lose your shit. What did she honestly expect? Was she the real reason your dad began to take better care of himself over the years?

"Why?" You asked almost timidly, a contrast to how you shouted moments ago. "I don't want to sound cliché, but you can have anyone you want. Why him?"

"Because I want him," she said unapologetically.

Beth, in the time you knew her, was never afraid to go after what or who she wanted. She also went all in with guys. She didn't believe in doing it half-ass. But your dad was far from her type, the opposite of the fuckboys she typically dated.

"My dad isn't one of those stupid boys who does lines of coke off your ass. He's a good man."

"I know he's a good man. That's why I'm marrying him," she snapped, holding up her hand for you to see the ring again. It was beautiful. If you had to guess, it was also expensive. "We just want your support."

You wondered what it would be like at times to have a stepmom. Whenever you envisioned it, your best friend never came to mind. Your dad had to be going through a midlife crisis. God, what would your mom say if she was alive? What did Bucky have to say?

"You're half his age!" you argued, the anger starting to surface again as you stepped forward and smacked her hand away. "What do you two possibly have in common?"

"A lot, actually," she said, clutching her hand against her chest. "You never had a problem with your dad and I hanging out in all the years we've been friends. And you wouldn't give a shit about his age if this was any other guy."

"But this isn't just any guy! This is my dad!" you argued, pleading with her to understand as your vision blurred. Didn’t she realize how awkward it was? What if they ended things? "And you're my best friend."

Beth bit her lip at the sight of your tears. "Your dad and I care about each other, okay? We deserve to be happy. And I care about you, too, but I'm not letting him go. I refuse to be like you."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" you demanded when you watched the sympathy leave her eyes.

When backed into a corner, Beth lashed out like an animal. Anyone who got too close got hurt. Unlucky for you, you knew you were about to be on the receiving end of her wrath.

"You spent all four years of college studying and being nice instead of living. You only had fun when I made it happen. You hardly dated. You're lucky you even got laid at all," she said, digging into your insecurities. It was tough for guys to look at you when Beth stood beside you. It made you wonder how long she felt this way about you. "Deep down, you’re just a fucking coward. Unlike you, I have the balls to go after what I want, so that's what I did. You should find a pair and do the same."

Your hand connected with Beth's cheek before you could stop yourself. Like a scene out of a movie, your dad opened the door in time for him to witness the slap. But it wasn't his hand that gripped your shoulder to pull you away.

It was Bucky’s.

Your hand stung as Beth dissolved into tears in your dad's arms. He looked disappointed in you and said as much as you tried to say something. You waited for Bucky to snap at you for hitting his daughter, but he stayed eerily silent as he looked at your hand.

Did he hate you now?

"I'm sorry," you whispered, pulling away before he could say a word.

You ducked inside long enough to grab your purse and take off before any of them could stop you. It was a coward's way out. Maybe Beth was right about you, after all.

"You didn't cause a scene," Bucky said, ordering you both another drink. "That being said, I didn't hear most of the argument, but I did see you hit Beth."

You winced a little and rubbed your palm against your thigh. It was the first time you ever hit someone. "I'm sorry for slapping her."

"Don't be. She deserved it," he said under his breath.

You didn't expect him to say that.

"Your dad is worried, you know," he said, surprising you again. "Said you aren't answering his calls."

"No, I'm not. I don't know what to say to him," you admitted, finally taking out your phone to glance at it. You had missed calls and texts from your dad and Beth, but you refused to listen to the voicemails or look at the messages. "I don't get it."

"What do you not get?" He asked curiously when you finally took your drink.

"Them," you said, allowing the alcohol to burn your throat again. "I don't get them together. Beth isn't. Well, she's not…"

"Your mother?" he guessed.

You looked in your lap with a sigh.

"No, she isn't, but maybe that isn't a bad thing. She won't try to be your mom. Just a partner to your dad," he said. Was your dad someone who could ground her? Was she someone who could make him feel younger? "They're consenting adults. And your dad is lonely. Has been for years."

It sounded like he was trying to placate you, but something in his voice kept you from calling him out. You knew your dad was lonely. Beth said something similar about Bucky.

"I think Beth is bringing him out of his shell," Bucky gently added.

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve hardly seen them in months,” you mumbled.

“They should’ve made time for you,” he said, putting his hand over yours. You didn’t dwell on how nice his touch felt since he pulled away just as quickly. “I should have, too. I’ve missed seeing you around the place.”

It wasn’t his job to make time for you.

“You’ve missed me?” you questioned, warmth spreading in your face as he smiled. It was nice to hear that. “I’ve missed you, too.”

“Though I have a feeling you won't want to stop by as much now to see me.”

"If I don't, it has nothing to do with you," you said.

"Sure," he smiled a little.

You examined him with a critical eye, trying to decipher what was going on in his head. Wouldn't it be awkward for him, too? Where was his anger at the situation? Was he hiding it?

"Why are you not upset? She's your daughter."

He gave you a wistful smile and had his drink. A drop of liquid stayed on his lip and you were tempted to wipe it away. Or lick it away. You couldn't act on those urges, especially after the way you went off on Beth. It would be hypocritical.

"Just because I’m not letting it show doesn’t mean I’m not upset. Truth is, I can’t control what Beth does. She stopped listening to me a long time ago. And if I tried to force her to let Dave go, it would make her want him more," he explained, his jaw twitching. "I had a few choice words for him since he kept it from you."

"Wait," you swung in your chair and almost landed in his lap. His hands gripped your arms to steady you, but he didn't let go. "Because he kept it from me? Not you?"

Bucky gave you a single nod, making your heart crack.

"So you knew?" you asked, sadness bubbling up this time instead of anger.

"I did. I’m sorry."

Why would they tell Bucky and not you? Did they expect him to be more mature? Was he the lesser of the two evils or worse?

“How long have you known?” you asked, moving off the stool with his help. “Why didn’t you say anything to me?”

“I’ve only known about their relationship for a couple of weeks,” he answered, trying to stop you when you put your phone in your bag. No wonder he wasn’t as upset. He had time to process the news. “Look, it wasn’t my place. You had enough on your mind with job interviews and I was-”

“You were what? Trying to protect me?”

“In a way, yeah,” he said, making you take a step back when he stood up. “I know how my daughter can be, but I didn’t expect them to pick your celebration dinner to tell you.”

“Tonight wasn’t about me,” you said with a bitter laugh. “It was never meant to be about me.”

Age gap and weirdness aside, you didn't want to say out loud that you felt pushed out. Your dad and Beth would be wrapped up in each other from now on. They already were. How would Beth be able to talk to you about romantic issues when those very issues involved your dad? Would your father make time for you? What if they decided to have a kid?

Were you wrong for thinking of yourself instead of being happy for them?

“Come here,” he whispered, embracing you in a comforting hug.

You were close to bursting into tears, shutting your eyes to keep them at bay. What were you supposed to do with the emotions you were feeling? And why did it feel so good to be in his arms?

“I don’t want to be mad at him,” you whispered.

“You won’t be mad at him forever. He’s your father,” he said, leaning in close so his lips brushed your ear. “But he isn’t your daddy, is he?”

Your eyes slowly opened at his words.

“You want me to be your daddy?”

You nearly stumbled back, your eyes wide as you looked at him. There was no playfulness in his gaze. Nothing to give away that it was a joke. You heard him wrong or imagined that because there was no way he would ask you that. Maybe those couple of shots got to you quicker than you thought.

“What did you say?” you asked.

“You heard what I said,” he said evenly.

You laughed as you backed away more. It had to be a joke and you weren’t in the mood for games. So why wasn’t he laughing with you?

“Whatever that was, I-I can’t process this right now. I need air. I need to go home.”

“You’ve been drinking,” Bucky pointed out as you began to walk to the side door. “I can take you. Let me take care of you.

“You’ve been drinking, too,” you said over your shoulder. “I’ll call a cab.”

“Wait!”

You pushed the door open and welcomed the cool air as you walked down the alley. It didn’t bother you since the alcohol warmed you a bit. It was dark, except for the glow of the neon lights. The perfect cover to hide your oncoming tears.

You turned around when you heard footsteps behind you, but didn’t speak when you saw Bucky a few feet away. What would you say to him? It was difficult to think with him watching you, the air thick with tension. The longer his gaze lingered on you, the harder it was to breathe. If he noticed your hand shaking when you wiped at your eyes, he didn't point it out.

Such a gentleman.

"You're not going home until you talk to me," he said, taking another step toward you.

"You can't keep me out here all night. There. I spoke to you."

"That isn't what I meant and you know it. You're pissed about everything, I get it, but don't act like I'm the bad guy here."

"You're not the good guy either," you snapped, pointing back at the bar. “What the hell was that in there? Asking to be my daddy?”

“You know how relieved Dave was that I didn’t beat the shit out of him over Beth? Or that I didn’t push him away as a friend? You know why I didn’t?” he asked, avoiding your question. “Because I’d be a fucking hypocrite.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’ve wanted you since I walked into your dorm room your freshman year.”

The air rushed out of your lungs. A man who is practically sex on legs wanted you. Someone off limits and you could never have.

“Beth never wanted a stepmom and the women I dated didn’t want a bratty daughter. I almost gave up on dating and then I saw you. You were right in front of me and I couldn’t have you because you were half my age and living with my daughter,” he explained.

You thought back over the years, searching for signs in the memories that he wanted you. The late, quiet nights together. His interests in your studies. How he used to joke with your dad that the reason you didn’t date much was because the boys weren’t good enough for you.

“Been almost five years and I can’t stop thinking about you. I’ve tried to be good. What’s stopping us now?”

“I. That’s not. We.” Why couldn’t you form a coherent sentence? “You’re a good man and a good looking man, but you’re Beth’s dad.”

Bucky’s bitter laugh chilled you more than the cool air.

“So, you’re going to pretend that you don’t want me? That you haven’t wanted me all these years and I’ve just imagined the looks and want between us?” he demanded, every bit the confident man you grew used to seeing. “Say you don’t want me and we’ll forget this whole thing.”

You couldn’t say that.

“Say I do want you,” you said carefully. “We just can’t.”

You backed up when he strode forward and wrapped his hand around your wrist. The touch was gentler than you expected as he turned and backed you against the wall, your bag unceremoniously falling to the ground. You were forced to look at him when he gripped your chin, pressing his body closer to yours. His eyes flickered between your gaze and trembling mouth and you wondered if he heard how fast your heart pounded.

Were his eyes always such a dark shade of blue or did you ignore the lust hidden beneath the surface?

"Why can’t we, hmm?" he asked, firmly keeping your head in place when you tried to avert your gaze. "Is it because you’re scared? You don’t have to be.”

You were scared as hell. Bucky is a man. Experienced.

"Aren't you tired of being good? I know I am."

You thought back to Beth’s previous words. How she had the balls to go after what she wanted and you needed to do the same. What better time to start than now?

You pressed your lips against his and it didn’t take him long for his tongue to slip in, tasting the whiskey as he devoured you. He moaned when your hands moved down his torso, allowing you to divulge in the thing you both denied yourselves. Some twisted part of you mourned what you could’ve had for months had you simply stopped being a good girl.

Were you truly good to begin with?

The line of his hard cock pressed against you as he rocked his hips and kissed down your neck. “This isn’t how I pictured it, but I can’t fucking wait.”

“How did you picture it?” you whimpered, rolling your hips back against his.

“I’d rather show you later,” he whispered, lightly biting down. It wasn’t hard enough to break the skin, but enough that pain and pleasure lingered. “You have no idea what I’m going to do to you.”

He moved away enough to push your dress up around your hips, shocking you when he tore your panties off. Tucking the ruined fabric into his pants pocket, he slipped his hand back between your thighs. His fingers were cool against your slick folds and you shamelessly writhed, needing everything he was willing to give you.

“Did you touch yourself at night wishing I’d show up and fuck your pretty pussy until you cried for me? Hmm?” He said, kissing you again as you whined. The light scratch of his beard made you shiver as he nipped your bottom lip. “Tell me you want my cock.”

Your head spun at his demand. You weren’t a virgin, but the guys you had been with before weren’t big on dirty talk. Unless they talked about how amazing their cocks were.

They weren’t.

“I want your cock,” you whined against his lips, desperate for him.

You wanted him to fill you up until you were sore, aching, and forgot why you were so upset in the first place.

“I’ll give it to you,” he promised.

Your fingers twisted in his shirt when he slid his fingers into your wet slit. You couldn’t recall a time in your life you felt this hot and slick. And feeling one finger push inside, you were sure this was nothing more than an erotic, dirty dream.

“Fuck, you’re tight. And you’re gonna let me fuck you against this wall, aren’t you?” he asked as you nodded. “Dirty girl. My dirty girl now.”

His finger twisted as he added another and you nearly smacked your head against the wall, but his other hand came up to soften the blow. “Bucky,” you gasped.

“I don’t know if you really want my cock,” he teased, moving his long fingers deep. “Might need to hear it one more time.”

As if you weren’t practically riding the thick digits at this point and moaning in the dark alleyway, he really needed to hear you say it again? The squelching sound of your pussy wasn’t loud enough? But your body liked his teasing. Loved his demands.

“Please, I need your cock. Please, Bucky. Please.” you begged, almost sobbing when he took his fingers out.

“But you said we can't do this. Isn't that what you said?” he asked.

When you opened your mouth to answer, he pushed his wet fingers inside.

“Taste yourself and try to say you don't want me. I dare you,” he whispered, wiping some of the bittersweet juices on your tongue. His fingers slipped free as you gaped at him, watching as he licked the remainder with a groan. “Even sweeter than I imagined.”

The sound of him unbuckling his belt snapped you out of your stupor. “Bucky, I’m-”

“On the pill and clean. I know,” he cut you off as he took his cock out and stroked himself. “I need to fill you up, pretty girl. Need to make you mine, the way I should’ve a long time ago.”

You struggled to keep yourself upright as he guided himself between your legs, holding your hip steady when he pushed the head in. You weren’t nearly stretched enough to take him, but your greedy pussy didn’t care as he slipped in inch by inch. You moaned as he kept pushing until he was fully sheathed inside you. You had never felt so full and likely never would again.

“Fuck,” he groaned, pressing his forehead against yours as your walls pulsed around him.

In the dark place in the back of your mind you kept locked away, you wondered how he looked and sounded when he was pleased. If he gasped when he came or if his eyes rolled back. You were going to find out though, weren’t you?

You cried out when he thrust, one hand moving up to grip his hair. The quick, hard motions felt as desperate as you did inside. You didn’t care if it was fast or dirty. You were tired of being clean. This wasn’t tender or making love. It wasn’t soft touches and kisses to your breasts or slowly building you up.

It was Bucky Barnes fucking you against an alley wall.

“Fuck, are you always this wet or is it just for me?” he asked in awe, pulling one of your legs around his hip to shove his cock in deeper. “Do I have to chase anyone else off?”

You didn’t hear the words as you cried out. It felt so good to be taken like this. The rage, hurt, confusion, all of it molded into ecstasy. You never wanted it to end.

A light smack to your thigh pulled you back to the present.

“Tell. Me. You’re. Mine.” The gravel in his voice grew with each punctuated thrust.

“I’m yours,” you moaned, helpless to the onslaught and uncaring of the implication in the moment.

Your response encouraged him to move faster, kissing you deeply with a groan. His thrusts became almost punishing, like he had to feel you let go so he could come. It wouldn’t take much more with your orgasm building the way it was. You’d be surprised if his cock wasn’t coated in your wetness once you came.

“I-I’m gonna…” you trailed off.

“I know, pretty girl,” he grunted, gripping your chin again. “Be good and come for Daddy.”

Your body seized up before you exploded with pleasure. You struggled to hold yourself up as you trembled with bliss, your vision going white from the intensity. It was so much at once and you thought you might sob from how good it felt.

“Good girl. My good fucking girl,” he encouraged as he fucked you through it, the obscene sounds drowning out your whimpers. He tipped over the edge after a few more thrusts, coating your wet walls. “Fuck, take it.”

He managed to hold you up as he finished, panting as his head fell back. Your grip on his jacket loosened as the reality of the situation sank in, like a bucket of cold water being washed over you. Why did pleasure have to be short lived?

You fucked Bucky. You let Bucky fuck you. How could you cross that line? Just because Beth and your dad had done so, why did you think you could?

God, what were you going to tell them? That you were the biggest hypocrite alive? That you were no better than they were?

What goes around, comes around.

“Hey,” he whispered when he lifted his head, both of you still breathing heavily. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

“It’s not okay,” you whispered as he pulled out of you, your mixed release dripping down your thighs. You covered your face as he fixed your dress and himself. “Oh, my god.”

You flinched and dropped your hands when he pulled you away from the wall. His expression was unreadable as he shrugged his jacket off and slipped it over your shoulders. “It’s okay,” he said again.

“W-We can’t do that again,” you whispered as he bent down to retrieve your bag.

"Why not?" he asked, picking up some of the contents that fell out before he stood up.

"Because we can't," you said with no strength behind your words.

“We’re doing this again. You can’t avoid me or this,” he said, pointing between the two of you.

“Your daughter is marrying my dad. This whole thing is fucked up and-”

“And I said I'm tired of being good. I’m fucking tired of denying myself the chance to be happy,” he said firmly as he got in your face. “So are you. I know it."

You pulled the jacket tighter around you, not backing away as he stared at you. Did you shake from the sudden cold, your orgasm, or from the thought that he wasn’t about to let you go?

His gaze softened before he kissed your forehead. “Let’s get a cab and I’ll take you home. We can talk about it once you’ve rested.”

You let him take your hand, your feet moving on their own accord to follow him to the end of the alley. “I can get home on my own.”

You needed to be alone so you could figure out what to do about everything.

“You said you’re mine, didn’t you?” he said, smiling when you stopped. “And what kind of Daddy would I be if I didn’t take care of you?”

Would love to explore more of this new pairing. 😏 Love and thanks for reading! 💙

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[infernal-fire]

Just The Benefits (1/2)

Pairings: dark!Steve x you

Warnings: smut, slight overstimulation, dark!Steve, dark!Nomad!Steve

Later in the series: noncon, breeding kink, slight degradation kink, slight praise kink, mentioned dark!Tony, dark!Bucky

Please do not interact with this blog if you are under 18. Your media consumption is your responsibility. 

Summary: Y/N wanted the benefits and nothing more. That was the agreement… right? Steve decides it’s not enough.

Word Count: 1600

A/N: This is my first ever fic! I’m really hoping you’ll enjoy this but I also appreciate all feedback <3 I’m planning a second instalment for the fic, which will be longer than this one. I’m out here pretending like someone is going to read this. 

Nomad!Steve is the most attractive Steve and you can talk to a wall if you disagree. 

(This GIF does not belong to me)

It was convenient. The idea of no strings attached was that it was always supposed to be easy and mutually beneficial. You were enjoying the life of an Avenger and there’s no need to add anything to the mix. 

That’s how you found yourself under Steve’s mercy every week. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t feel anything for him but right now, all you could think about was making sure you didn’t tap out from his girth. 

You were bent over his king-size bed, stuffed full of his cock. He cooed praises into your ears and took on a languid pace. He pressed your head down with one arm, wiping your tears on the sheets, wrapping the other around your waist. His cock was moving in and out of you like a piston, making a squelching noise that your loud moaning drowned out. 

Keep reading

[infernal-fire]

preying on you tonight part 3

part iii - eat you alive

Pairing: dark alpha!Steve Rogers x naive omega!Reader

Warnings: smut, dark themes, a/b/o themes, daddy!kink, noncon, dubcon, extreme dumbification, bullying, breeding kink, size difference, humiliation, extreme emotional manipulation and gaslighting, anal, use of toys, choking, minors do not interact!

Summary: Steve’s manipulations continue, but will you be able to see through them? 

Part 1 & Part 2

(A/N | another warning that this chapter contains extreme gaslighting and manipulation. read at your own risk.)

Shaking. You can’t seem to stop shaking. It’s how you wake up, with dread in your heart and the throbbing of Steve’s mark on your neck matching the searing pain between your legs. The bed’s empty, but it doesn’t matter. Despite him not being here, all you can smell, taste, feel… is Steve. Almost like your heart is beating solely for him.

And then there’s the mark on the side of your neck. Big, jagged and barely sealed.

Steve’s mark.

Keep reading

[infernal-fire]

Hii I don’t know if you’re taking any requests but I was wondering could you do a dubcon stucky fic or something like reader took medication or something of that nature and dark stucky uses the readers loopy ness as a way to sleep with her like their very soft towards reader but now their playing into their own desires ( can it also please include degrade and praise please 🙃) I love your writing btw

okay so i really tried but im just getting out of my writing slump so im a litttllee bit rusty.

Warnings: noncon/dubcon, mention of drugs (just anaesthesia), unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), a bit of degradation, some praise kink, abuse of authority?? 

Wc: 850

Stay Under

“Hey doc, how long is she gonna be loopy for?”

“Typically, the recovery period is about one hour, but the anaesthesiologist estimated about double the time for it to wear off. She had a combination of other meds,” your surgeon nonchalantly called over his shoulder as he left the room.

Bucky considered the information before picking you up from the chair. In your trance, you could barely tell who was who. It was quite obvious though - long, dark brown hair was shrouding your field of vision, confirming your belief of the person being Bucky.

“Tie your hair back Buck, she can’t see.”

That had to be Steve. There was a rough, smoky timbre weaved in his voice, one that was easily recognizable to anyone who worked with him. 

“You guys didn’t have to... Uhm...,” you trailed off, losing your train of thought.

“Pick you up? We know,” Bucky finished your sentence for you and passed you over to Steve. You unceremoniously flopped into his arms, head accidentally knocking on his chest. 

“But we want to,” Steve winked. He picked you up, cradling your frame bridal style. When you tried to protest, he shushed you and reminded you that your legs are barely working.

Being a new Avenger had its ups and its downs; Recently, Tony had designed you your very own suit. A very notable ‘up’. 

As for the ‘down’, you had to have sensors inserted into your arms for some of the tech to work. Stark elected to puncture sensors into himself with a makeshift device when he was experimenting with the Iron Man suit. You, however, weren’t very tolerable to pain and elected to have them surgically implanted. 

As far as your incomprehensive knowledge of anaesthetics went, you were pretty sure regional or local anaesthetic would do the trick. Too naive to actually confirm this with Tony, you simply agreed with your Captain and Sargeant when they demanded asked your surgeon to put you under. 

So here you are, being carried to what you had assumed was your room.

“I just wanna sleep,” you mumbled, now nestling your head into Steve’s chest. Someone cooed, (or maybe both of them did), as the door opened. You were placed on the bed where you quickly rolled to your side, beginning to doze off. 

Most of your body was numb, but you did realize that your surgical gown had come off because your nipples pebbled upon the exposure to air. Fingers danced across your skin, rubbing and lightly pinching the buds. You couldn’t feel much, because if you did, you would know that Steve was tugging on them quite roughly. Between your legs, you felt something wet and soft poke around your folds, which finally woke you up.

Groaning, you pick up your head, only to see Bucky lapping away at your entrance like a man starved. You moaned, now able to tune in more to the sensations bestowed upon you, because you registered that it was happening.

“What?” you whined.

“Shh, you’re doing so good,” Steve assured, nibbling on your earlobe. He turned your head to the side where his lips moved against your own. You felt extremely exposed, your legs spread open, on your back. 

Suddenly, the most powerful feeling of numbness washed over like electricity. Though you initially didn’t understand what it was, it wasn’t hard to tell that you had come when Bucky stood up, wiping his mouth. 

“Look at her, all fucked out,” Bucky chuckled.

“Bet she wouldn’t even need drugs to be our little cockslut.” You yelped as the blunt head of a cock rubbed your slick slit.

“She would’ve opened her legs if you showed her a cock. Little whore,” Bucky finished as Steve breached your pussy. 

Bucky pinched your mouth and you opened your jaw to alleviate the pain. 

“I don’t…” you began to complain before Bucky’s cock plunged into your channel.

You gurgled and tried to push his pelvis away, but someone grabbed your hands, pinning them beside you. The soldiers began moving in tandem, Steve pushing in when Bucky pulled out. Steve didn’t have to fuck your deep or hard to touch your cervix - you felt him jammed up in there without even trying. 

“Such a good fucking girl, taking two cocks at once,” Bucky sighed. 

“Letting use her body like a little fuckdoll. That’s what you are, right baby? A fucking fuckdoll.”

Steve grasped your throat, not choking you, but just enough for you to feel it. 

“Damn Buck, I can feel your cock in there.”

“No way,” Bucky laughed, “Let me try.” He placed his hands on your lower abdomen. 

“I feel you fucking her nice and deep Stevie.”

With that, they continued to use you, your state providing no opportunity to stop the treatment. They didn’t fuck you violently; they must have known to some extent that you would have split in half if they decided to use their full force. 

And by the time the effects of your anaesthesia wears off, you’ll be too gone to say anything anyway.

Masterlist

Tag list:  @oneoftheprettynerds @partiesandblurrypolaroids @hitmewithyourbest-shot @inlovewiththefictionalcharacters @bval-1 @quxxnxfhxll @sunflowerbunny2 @captainslittlegirl @sohoseb @iviesinmymind @jeremyrennerfanxxxx123 @old-enough-to-know-better73

Other tags: @mcudarklibrary

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[infernal-fire]

Arachnophobia

Warnings: sexy times, a bittt of dubcon (only if you really squint), some spitting, arachnophobia

Wc: 1.3k

Summary: A surprise visitor interrupts your sexy times, but that doesn’t stop Bucky.

a/n: i bet you won’t even be able to tell i’m deathly scared of spiders by the end of this fic ;)

Bucky’s room was always clean. 

On an average day, it looked like no one lived there.

In fact, the only way you knew he used his room was because of the one pillow and lightweight blanket that had its conspicuous presence tucked away beside the little couch. 

The room’s occupant opened the door and easily spotted you in the otherwise empty room. He bore into your panty-clad form perched on the edge of his bed and leaned into the doorframe, amused. 

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Bucky jeered.

“I’m… apologizing.”

Keep reading

[infernal-fire]

this fic deserves more attention.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧ ˚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐦 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐞˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

pairing ☽˚⁀➷｡ dark!ari levinson x fem!reader

summary ☽˚⁀➷｡ do you really want someone to come save you?

word count ☽˚⁀➷｡ 2,858

warnings ☽˚⁀➷｡THIS IS A DARK FIC. politician father, kidnapper!ari, being held captive, mentions of previously harming yourself, rude ari, cutting yourself with glass shards purposely, eating ice cream, occasional tender ari moments, the word raped appears, choking, nonconsensual kiss, rough sex, nails scratching, falling in love witch your kidnapper, sleepy cute ari

authors note ☽˚⁀➷｡ PLEASE REBLOG MY TAGLIST IS ENDING ON JULY 10TH PLEASE FOLLOW @dulceslibrary AND TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS TO BE NOTIFIED WHEN I POST,, after el persuaded me to write it, i finally did it, here u go bby @bucksfucks 18+ ONLY,, feedback is appreciated @afriendlyblackhottie

꘎♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡꘎

He watches you bathe every night, Your alone-time is limited now ever since you had cut yourself badly. You hoped it would be enough to take you to the hospital, that he would freak out, but you were wrong.

He stands against the counter with his arms crossed and his eyes

He stands against the counter with his arms crossed and his eyes hooded. The steam from the tub mists the bathroom and his black clothes are imposing in the fog. Someone else would assume he is aloof, disinterested. Maybe even bored.

But you know he absorbs every move you make. You could tease him. Play with your nipples. Take the soap and make it disappear under the frothy water, and let him only imagine what you're doing with it. Make him as uncomfortable as he makes you.

You’ve done it before but he didn't even blink. Still you know, just know, it affects him.

You must be taking too long tonight. His nostrils are flared, eyes narrowed, and his sigh heavy.

"I think you're clean enough for now," he says, tossing you a towel.

You’re not prepared and half of it falls into the water. His expression is unrepentant.

"Let's go."

He leads the way back into your bedroom. Or your cell, as you think of it. Your captor may have procured a comfortable bed with luxurious sheets and a bookcase filled with any novel you’d care to read, but you don't fool yourself. You make the best of what you’ve got, but you refuse to be lulled into complacency.

Sometimes you still give him a fight. You kick him in the shin, or stab him with a pen. An elbow to the gut is always fun. Nothing ends up affecting him, however, and you only end up losing privileges.

You have been held hostage for about a month now--give or take a few weeks. Dad is an important politician; your kidnappers want to send a message. And it doesn't hurt that Dad is loaded and that they keep funneling money from him, making false promises they'll drop you off somewhere.

You don't know how long they'll keep you. You don't ask anymore.

You do know that the man you deal with all the time doesn't work alone. You hear other voices coming from where you’re hidden, but you've never seen anyone else.

Just him.

In the beginning you valued that, remembering crime shows you’d seen before. It is a good sign if criminals don't want you to see them; that means they have intentions of releasing you. Of course your main captor reveals his face to you every day for memorization.

"Put your clothes on," he orders.

You've daydreamed long enough.

My hands scurry to pull your panties up, toss your gown on. Thankfully he's left you the comb--one of the few luxuries you have left.

He stomps into the bathroom, collecting any and all dangerous items you could possibly use to harm yourself. When he comes back out, he stops for a moment to watch you untangle the knots from your hair. This tension crackles between you. It's nothing new.

You reflect on how sick you are. You get excited just by his eyes on your body. When he traces your curves with those stone-cold blue eyes, waves of arousal liquify you. You crave him almost as much as you despise him. That's disgusting to you, that you can look at this man who keeps you from your family and from your life and feel anything but hatred. When he touches you, every cell in your body hums with electricity. Catching his scent on clothes you’re occasionally given and the change of bedsheets he brings every week is sometimes the highlight of your day. It's pathetic.

Part of it may be that you've never quite felt as alive as you do now. Your days are dangerous and somehow unpredictable, even though you end up doing the same thing for a week. You never know what mood he'll be in, if he'll even look at you.

He must be as horrified as you are. Very rarely do your bodies make accidental contact. He doesn't spend an excess of time with you. He's stopped indulging you with chocolate every now and then, or an extra blanket when the chill from the cracks in the walls is too much. You think it's all a way of reminding himself you’re not a guest.

Who is this man? You can never figure it out. He seems so gentle, even if he's tall and strong. He's patient when you take forever to complete simple tasks he must oversee. Yet you sense that powerful brutality lurking beneath his benign facade; a brutality you instinctively know you must evade.

"How much longer do I have to be here?" You ask tonight. Thinking about all of this has renewed your fear. It terrifies you that you don't have as much interest in fleeing from this bedroom anymore.

He starts, almost as if he's surprised by the question. "Until you're no longer needed."

"How much have you made off of me by now? A hundred grand? Two?"

He gives nothing away, but you'd bet it's even more than that.

"It's time for bed." He waits until you’re in bed and under the covers before he flips the lights off.

Before you can say goodnight with sarcasm, he's locked you in. How macabre this little pantomime of yours is--he all but tucks you into bed, his little prisoner.

And you can't deny that you play it all over and over again in your mind until morning.

You lose privacy privileges again a few days later. You smashed the mirror in the bathroom and cut a wrist with a shard.

You're not suicidal, but you do have a masochistic streak, it would seem.

You tell yourself it's to annoy him, to damage the goods so that when he finally uses you up and returns you to your father, Dad can see the physical toll.

Secretly you just want to see what he'll do.

In the initial minutes, he's rough with you. He catalogues the immense flow of blood flowing from your wrist, the puddle at your feet, the paleness of your face.

"Shit. What did you do?"

He tugs you out of the bathroom. You’re shaking by the time he pushes you down on the bed.

"Stay," he orders, as if you could go anywhere else.

He leaves the room only to return a minute later with a first-aid kit. That he has such a thing at all strikes you so bizarre that you can't repress a laugh.

You receive a glare. "You really need stitches."

He treats you. It stings terribly, but it's what you deserve. Or so he keeps telling you.

You lay out to rest and he vanishes. The pain is exquisite and you don't quite sleep, drifting in and out.

In the middle of the night he creeps in, obviously assuming you’re asleep. His cool hand touches your forehead. If he's looking for a fever, he doesn't find one. You wonder if you’re hallucinating when you feel him push back your hair in something that almost feels like tenderness.

Then you feel him poking around your wound. You’re not sure how he can make anything out in the blanket of darkness surrounding us.

He must be satisfied, however, because he leaves immediately after.

Only then do you find yourself tearing up.

It's strange, but no one has taken care of you before. No one until your captor.

One day he brought you ice cream. You’re not sure why, but you happily take the spoon and dig in. He sits on your bed, watching you with a severity you don't understand.

Then he clears his throat. "You are going home soon. Three days at the most."

The ice cream slides down your throat too quickly. A rush of cold flows to your head and it aches.

"Three days?"

This is good news. Why am I panicking?

He runs a hand over his face. "Yes. I'll release you someplace remote. It will be up to you how you get home." His body is tight. "You will tell your father how well we treated you. I would hate to have to come visit you and make my point."

"Do you really think me telling my father you brought me some ice cream is going to prevent the cops from trying to get you?" You snort. "They probably won't even wait a minute before trailing you."

He shakes his head and you realize all too late what you've said. I make a terrible victim.

"We have our money. I'll be far, far away before you even make it to civilization."

Damn it. The thought makes you sad. Fucking Patty Hearst.

Perhaps he reads the melancholy in your face because a sardonic grin drapes itself across his face. "Sad?"

"Who else will lurk around when I take a bath?" You try, but your tone is off.

You might never be able to take a bath again if you can't feel the weight of his impenetrable stare.

He shrugs. "Pay someone to do it."

He's so cavalier that you wonder for a moment if you've imagined this whole attraction. He stands, apparently preparing to leave, and you give up pretending. You take three huge steps toward him, tossing the ice cream on the floor in a dramatic fashion. A brief thought flits through your brain that this is so Lifetime, but you’re right in front of him now and there's no time for amusement. You drag yourself up his body so that you’re up on the tips of your toes. Your noses meet and our breath mingles. It would be so easy to kiss him right now.

"I would regret it very much if I didn't at least tell you that, as crazy as it is, I want you to fuck me."

His inhale is sharp and disbelieving. "What?"

"It's crazy, I know. You dragged me out of my apartment and put me in a room that's smaller than my bathroom." Your heart is beating so furiously that he must feel it. "You've always been delicate with me, though. I know you'd never hurt me. And there's just something about--"

But he cuts you off with a hand to your throat. "What are you playing at? You're a breath away from being free and you tempt me like this?"

"I'm screwed up," You grind out. You can't help reveling in the tickling sensation of his rough fingers around your sensitive neck.

He scans your face. "You really are," he says in a kind of wondering way.

Then he lets you go and takes a step back. "I have no intentions of fucking you."

"But you want to."

Again he looks astounded. His gaze travels up and down your body as if he's never seen you before.

"You're crazy." He shakes his head. "I'm not going anywhere near you. All I need is for you to tell your father I raped you."

"But I’m willing" You can't even believe the words falling out of your mouth. "And you'll be far, far away, remember?"

"Enough." He's pissed. He turns his back on you and makes for the door. "I'll be back with your dinner later."

Something flares in you and you want to engulf him in the flames, too. You’re frustrated, and not just sexually. He took a month from you. He's stolen from your father. He's scarred you for life.

And you want him inside you and it's all so fucked up that you’re crying.

It's too much to bear that in roughly 72 hours you’ll be back to your plain life where the most exciting thing that happens is when your boyfriend comes too soon. Dad will ask what you’re doing with your life, and Mom will feign disappointment in you because that's just what mothers do.

You pull at his arm frantically and he turns to look at you with reluctance.

"What the fuck are you doing?" He tries to tear himself away but you won't let him.

You catch his lips with yours somehow. It's awkward and your teeth click together, but you know you have him now by the way his body tightens up.

His lips are softer than you thought they'd be. And it's harder to kiss him than you hoped since he's so freaking tall.

It takes a few minutes for him to relax. His arms wrap around you and he takes over your kiss. You won't stand for that, however, and quickly reach for his cock to get him off-balance.

It works; he's clearly staggered. His mouth unlocks from your so that he can moan. His eyes are focused on you, watching you, watching him lose control. He's hard and large, just as you fantasized.

Before you can get too comfortable basking in your fascination, he half-lifts you and throws you onto the bed. Your stomach jumps and the reality of the situation finally settles in your chest. You’re inflamed with wild wantonness and you’re barely breathing. Never, ever have you experienced something like this.

He makes quick work of his pants. The sound of his zipper slipping down is more than enough to get you wet. Wetter.

He doesn't bother pulling off his shirt. His body falls upon your, and his hungry hands bunch up your gown until your breasts are bared in the cool air. His mouth latches on to one nipple and then the next with an almost frightening urgency.

The hardness of his cock against your thigh is something you won't ever be able to forget. You are desperate to taste him but you know neither of you have the patience.

Your thoughts are confirmed when he pushes your panties to the side and stuffs two fingers inside you. Everything is slick and easy. You pant into his face before forcing a kiss onto him, unable to be without his taste for long. Another finger slips in and you cry out.

Then his fingers are gone and his meaty cock is thrusting against your pussy, thrusting against your clit.

You’re begging nonsensically at this point. He smiles down at you; it's obvious he enjoys the sensation of his dripping cock slipping against your own wetness.

And then he's pushing in and out. It's rough and vicious. Like a barbarian, he bites your breast and pulls your hips closer to him by a violent grip of your ass. He wants to make you lose your mind as much as you want the same for him. This is fucking, primitive and fierce, and you never want to do it any other way again.

He pounds your pussy until you’re shrieking and raising your hips back against him. The urge to come is sudden and you quickly lose any tenuous grip of control you had.

Your body shudders. Muscles tighten and release. Your cunt grips him like a wet fist, sucking him in with the incredible force of your orgasm.

He curses and fucks you harder. You're a mess of screams and sweaty flesh against flesh.

Then you feel him grow bigger and harder inside of you. His cock inflates with cum until it spills over and into you. He grunts with every pulse. Your nails are so ingrained in his back that you wonder if you’ve permanently scarred him.

As fast as you come together, you pull apart. He collapses beside you. Your body is still hungry and thrumming for more contact. You want him inside again, his pelvis rubbing against your clit.

Your head turns on your pillow so you can face him. As if this is commonplace for you, your hand reflexively reaches out to stroke his stomach.

"I want more," You whisper.

His eyes slide to you in disbelief.

"I want to stay with you."

His laugh is dry and humorless. "You're a lunatic. You can't."

You’re insistent. "I can."

You tell him all about your life. The words spill out of you unbidden and uncontrolled. He listens to every word and gives himself away when he reaches out to you.

After a while you tell him about how you can stay with him. How you will. How you don't care what's sane or insane anymore, that he's ruined you and he has to deal with the consequences.

He's stopped answering you. You look back at him and find him asleep. How vulnerable he looks when he gives himself a break.

Your fingers trail through his hair, over his forehead, down the slope of his perfectly pointed nose, across those soft lips and through his neat beard. You give him an impulsive kiss and he murmurs in his sleep.

When his eyes are shut, you’re the captor and he belongs to you.

"What's your name?" You wonder aloud, running your hands over his chest.

His snore is my only response. You'll ask him again in the morning. You want to know him so badly that you’re sick with curiosity.

And then you fall asleep, confined by his body.

[infernal-fire]

𝒃𝒊𝒈 𝒃𝒂𝒅 𝒘𝒐𝒍𝒇.

summary. | His claws are shining bright in the dark as he’s lifting up your little red skirt. Unlike the others, he won’t leave you in the dirt.

warnings. | NON/DUBCON, dark themes, drugging (sex pollen), obsession, stalking, chasing, manipulation, possessiveness, kidnapping, mention of drug use, mild age gap, smut, Daddy kink, fingering, pussy slapping, humiliation, praise, pet names, rough sex, vaginal sex, virginity loss, corruption kink, innocence kink, dirty talk, mild manhandling, creampie kink, size kink (ransom’s cock is so big), heavy dumbification, implied, cumplay/eating, orgasm denial, overstimulation, and more. DARK FIC, 18+, MINORS DNI!

word count. | 13.3k.

pairings. | Dark!Best Friend!Ransom Drysdale x Innocent!Best Friend!Reader, Male OC x Reader (brief).

author’s note. | please enjoy and don’t forget to reblog! if you take ANYTHING from my fics and you don’t ask for permission, you will be blocked and reported. i’m also going to be gifting my most special baby @barnesjamcs this fic for her bday (early). my baby, i don’t have enough words to describe my love for you. thank you so fucking much for everything! i love you so much! playlist.

Your heeled boots click on the floor, and your new coat fans out behind you—but it’s not outrageous. In your hands isn’t much; your phone, your purse, and the ticket that got you into this overtly-prestigious building. It’s worse than the gallery you toured last, but the art that hangs on the walls makes up for your distaste.

The steps you take are mild, but they’re quick enough to bring you to him. When you walk, you feel elegant. In your mind, you pretend you’re one of the most important people in this damned place. On the speakers is a classical piece that you might just Shazam and bring back to the Hot 100 charts when you tell your boss to play it at the library.

But you can swear that you’ve heard this number in a movie before.

Promises and vows are things that are just blasphemous to break. You like to believe that an angel falls from heaven every time someone goes against their words. And when he asked what happens when one fulfills their oaths, you had no answer to give him. Good behaviour is rarely rewarded, and bad behaviour is always dealt with.

So, as you swore to do, you come whenever he calls.

“Did you know that you can ask your Uber driver to hit the gas? It’s simple, really, just open your mouth and drop a ‘please,’” Ransom intones from behind you, and you halt your movements. Your dreams break like hardened caramel on top of a dark brown plate. Under it is a smear of dark chocolate, and you since then have not wondered why rich people are so wolfish. Ransom is no exception.

“No, I can’t, Ransom! It’s rude, and it’s dangerous,” you whisper-shout to him, and you cast your eyes to the woman standing next to him. He’s got a type, and it’s not you, apparently. “You know what’s really rude and dangerous? You not showing up fast enough,” he counters, and he walks around you. Ransom places you under a microscope, and he examines you thoroughly.

You’re not suddenly self-conscious, but it just seems to worsen when he’s around. He picks up on it, and he knows you too well, even with a glance of his eyes. He’s the needle, and you’re the battered vinyl that’s a bit warped and scratched—but he’s spent too much money on you to just throw you out.

“How is that dangerous?” you question, and you shove your phone into the white pocket of your coat, letting it accompany your headphones and gloves. They’re fingerless because the Amazon pictures are so deceiving—and you’re so foolish. “A hurt and lonely Ransom is a dangerous Ransom,” he teases before wrapping his arms around your waist.

When Ransom’s fingers brush against the sensitive parts of your body, you wonder how those ballerinas do it with their counterparts. When they’re spun around and tossed with ease, do they get the butterflies? Or when you’re being held and guided oh so gently, do they get all shy as you do?

His pointy chin rests on your shoulder, and you know he must be uncomfortably hunched over right now. He stands at a height you can’t seem to remember, but you can recall that he’s well over six feet.

“Vanilla?” your friend questions after he places his nose on the fabric that shields you from the cold winds. You nod your head, and you hold back from naming the notes that you’ve got memorized.

Vanilla, whipped cream, caramel, chocolate, benzoin, sweetness, and musk.

“Hugh, honey?” his date calls, and she walks over to where the two of you stand. You’ve been through this before. It’s a rinse and repeat routine, one that you want to say you’re tired of, but you have to admit, you love helping Ransom out. “Princeton. From New York. Econ major,” Ransom tells you, and you realize that she’s just another girl to him.

You give her your name before she can even place her manicured nails on his chest—red, a diamond, and almond-shaped. Like any other artist, you stretch one of your colour-covered hands out to greet her. Some days it’s paint—most days, it’s pen ink, and on rare occasions, it’s the dryness of erasers.

Her name is something you’ll always remember because you’re you—these moments are unforgettable. But he’s him; he never cares to remember past the ruined night. You can’t hate him for his habits, and you won’t make him change them.

“Is this your friend?” she asks Ransom, and he shakes his head. Instead of your stomach dropping the first time he did this, you grin wildly. “This is my best friend,” he enunciates, and you nod your head. She doesn’t care enough about your friendship with Ransom to ask questions, but he gives her answers nonetheless.

“We met a while ago when she was an intern at my grandfather’s company, and we’ve been best buds since,” he hums, gazing at you dreamily. You give him the same look, except your eyes are filled with wonderment. “Well, I think we should get back to our date, Hugh,” she laughs, and she doesn’t think this thought. No, she’s telling him that he needs to leave you or else she’ll go.

You wait for the brutality to strike—for the punch to hit her across the face and leave her too bruised for simple selfies during the golden hour. And it comes, except this time, you’re the victim.

“Of course, honey,” he tells her, and he’s leaving your side before your smile can even drop. Maybe this is your karma; have you ever done a bad thing? Memories of stealing fake flowers from a store when you were younger come back. Flashes of gossiping about a friend—who made you feel worse than she should’ve—fill your eyes. No, no, no, you’re not a bad person! Ransom says that, and he’s always right.

But what the fuck?

The pet name is more bitter than it sounds. He’s not even dating this woman! This is the first time he’s even met her.

“Bunny,” Ransom coos, and you look down to the ground. You’re more hurt than you were the time he jumped from a corner, and you tripped and fell. He held you tightly afterwards, and you haven’t seen the group of trust fund babies who laughed at you ever again. “There’s this surrealism exhibit right over there, okay? Go look at some pieces,” he orders, and before you can even whine, he turns around and grabs his date’s arm.

On your feet, you spin. You don’t even know where this surrealism exhibit is, but you leave the abstractionism display either way. Did you say something that upset him? Is he playing a twisted game with you? Or is Ransom fucking Drysdale really trying to settle down now?

The thought is unbelievable, and you’re just seconds away from calling Marta and letting her know every single detail of the past few minutes.

When the serif font in a bold variant fills your view, you know you can’t come up with an excuse for Ransom to not find you. Saying that you got lost isn’t exactly the smartest thing, not when this place is designed for you to find your way. The arrows aren’t exactly dismissable, but you are.

You’ve seen all these damn paintings before, and you’ve studied them, too. Even if it was done in your spare time, you know more about “The Persistence of Memory” than Ransom’s date. You call her honey, and so does he.

It’s predictable, a bit too predictable. Nobody dabbles in this medium anymore. You’ll only ever see minimalism these days—and it’s so heartbreaking for you, personally. Artists never let their fans see inside their minds despite their envied genius.

René Magritte’s “Les Amants” stares back at you, and it sets the tone for the other five paintings in this small room. Nobody else is in here but you, and you’re okay with that. Cameras aren’t allowed, and you find that rule to be utterly useless as you hear a couple asking an elderly woman to press on the round button, not the crescent one.

“Is he your favourite?” someone from behind you asks, and you whip your body to face them. You should face the music, too, y’know. “Not quite, but this piece has a special place in my heart. What about you, sir?” you question the man who’s more dressed up than you are. His all-black outfit and shining watch must mean something, right?

“‘The tomb of the wrestlers’ is nice,” he solemnly tells you, and you nod your head. “Is surrealism your favourite?” he then follows up, and you nod your head. “Yeah, even though it’s not as loved as it should be,” you chuckle, and he copies your exact action. His is more hearty, though, and yours is meant to add humour. “I think the same. Though my colleagues believe otherwise, so that’s why this exhibit is shoved to the back,” he sadly tells you.

Ah, so his simple yet fancy outfit does mean something.

“You work here? That’s so cool. Maybe one day you’ll convince them that you’re right.” And one day, you’ll convince Ransom that just because he doesn’t like something doesn’t mean it’s dumb. Does he think you’re dumb? “I hope so…” he drifts off, staring at another piece of art, and you take it as a sign that this book has been closed and you should move on.

Suddenly, though, he gives you his name. It’s nice, though less indelible than Ransom’s date herself. And yes, as expected, your best friend will remember it for a while. You tell him yours, and he repeats it in such a way that makes you uneasy. No, no, he doesn’t put you off, but you haven’t heard your name from someone else’s lips in oh so long. “Bunny” is what your Thrombey-Drysdale-born friend refers to you as, while others just say “you” when you’re addressed.

You’re sure they don’t know your name, even though you’ve told them it numerous times.

“It’s pretty. Might come up with a terrible nickname for it, though,” Benjamin tells you, and you laugh. You do it because you can’t help it, not because you have a responsibility. “I wish I could come up with a nickname for you, but your name is already short,” you hum, and you notice that he’s stepped closer to you. When was the last time someone who isn’t Ransom or a family member has been this close to you?

“Well, I think someone like you with creativity can do something,” he whispers near your ear, and you stare at the painting to his right. The Harlequin’s Carnival, Joan Miró. Much like what the few Redditors believe, you realize that Joan Miró has reached into your mind and taken a look at it with a magnifying glass. He’s taken account of your flaws, your inner monologue, your perfections, and so much of you.

On the canvas is simply what he’s managed to observe.

“What do you mean, Benny?” you question, and there it is. Your genius, your brilliance. His name may now be one letter off from the pet name Ransom’s given you, but the moniker works nonetheless. “See? That’s it. And I mean that I can tell you’re very creative; it’s just a feeling,” he explains, and you nod your head. “Sorry, I say weird things,” Benjamin mumbles under his breath, and you quickly tut.

“No! It’s not weird. Please don’t apologize. I think it’s pretty cool how you can tell. You’re basically psychic,” you joke, and he cracks a smile. “I guess I am. Do I need to show you my crystal ball for authenticity purposes?” he joshes, and his words immediately remind you of your beloved friend. Ransom must already be gone with his date because by now, shouldn’t he be pestering you with his dealer on the phone?

You’ve never engaged in his illicit activities, but you don’t humiliate him for doing it.

“Or would taking you back to my place be too much, too soon?” Benjamin suddenly questions in a soothing baritone. Your eyebrows shoot up as far as your muscles allow them to go. The saliva in your mouth makes you choke for a split second, and you have no words for the man you only met a few seconds ago.  “I… Uhm…” You’re utterly speechless, more than the first time you saw Ransom in his birthday suit.

“We should go on a date first, right? Sorry. It’s not often that I see a girl as lovely as you. Do you like coffee? I know this great place; Gracenote. Have you heard of it? Wait, no! We should go to this showcase next week. Yes! It’s expressionism, which is very popular here, but you’ll love it. I promise.”

Benjamin rambles, and his face is pinched with pink. He’s seconds away from resembling the woman’s dress in Les Amants. You stare at that painting once more, wishing you could purchase a print, but you know you can’t. What will you say to people who ask you about it? You’ll give them a sad story of suicide, marriage, and the skirts that Magritte was attached to. Did he really have to share the meaning? You believe that artists don’t owe anyone anything.

Well, except for Banksy and his “crimes.”

You can always lie because, unlike Marta, you can get away with it quite well. Sometimes, a little too well. Misery finds misery, and liars find liars. Your brilliance is shared with Ransom, but he was born with it filled and leaking from that silver spoon (the Thrombey-Drysdales can’t seem to rip it out of his mouth).

You could tell them that it’s about two people who are blindly in love but do not know the other well enough; they’ve got an idea of themselves that they are in love with. It hits close to home because you’re doing it with Ransom.

Okay, yes, this story is predictable. But it’s okay! You’ll get your happy ending either way—the main characters always do. Except for the hopelessly-in-love-best friend who always sits on the sidelines.

“When’s the, uh, the showcase? I’ll have to check my calendar,” you say to him, but your words are untruthful. You’re free for the upcoming week and a few days afterwards, and you have no plans unless Ransom decides to force you out of the room in his home that you spend most of your time in. “Thursday night,” Benjamin squeaks out, and he shoves his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. His tone carries hope.

“Yeah, I can do Thursday, Benny.”

You take your tea with a small spoonful of honey, and you’re not upset at the memory that resurfaces. Now, you can hear those ex-peers and much older cousins of yours saying something along the lines of “you’ve matured.” As much as that thought pleases you, it’s not true. You’re just focusing on a good thing that just happened to bless you that night.

The trees outside your home resemble that of the french toast sticks you’ve just made. And so does Ransom’s nose. You make a motion with your finger that he knows so damn well, and he pulls out a handkerchief that Donna gifted him a while back, sometime during Christmas. With a smirk, you watch him wipe his nostrils with the red cloth, one that you can remember first seeing a few years ago.

Walt and the rest of the family had immediately yelled at Ransom when they saw him unwrap the gift. They scolded Donna, albeit jokingly, and told her that he’d never keep the cloth. Now, two years later, he still walks around with it and mocks his family for thinking of him in such a rude manner.

That day was a blur from all the eggnog Fran had given you. Ransom thoroughly enjoyed having to throw you over his shoulders to get you home, though.

“Thanks, bunny,” he smiles, and he drops down into the loveseat that’s across from you. It’s not rare to experience kindness from Ransom. Not when you’re you. But for others, they might as well wait until hell freezes over and Satan catches frostbite. (You said that in front of Walt once, and he immediately tried to find a way to insult Ransom with it).

“No syrup? Really?” he scoffs as he breaks apart the second fluffiest stick out of the pile you have stacked up. The firstmost is left for you. “It’s too early for syrup, Ransom! And plus, there’s sugar on them!” you defend, and he chuckles. “Whatever, bunny. You’re energetic today. What’s going on?” your best friend questions, and you grow shy.

“Promise you won’t get mad, Ransom?” you coax, and the question itself worries Ransom. “Why would I get mad, bunny?” he forces out through gritted teeth, already alight with a flame that only you can put out. “I’m goin’ on a date!” you exclaim, and you place your almost-finished cup of tea on the table in front of you.

There’s a pregnant pause.

“A what now?” he quizzes, immediately standing up from his seat. If this were a soap opera, someone would be fainting right about now. “A date, Ransom! Ugh, you know! I don’t wanna have to explain it,” you sheepishly tell him, stretching your hands out as you walk near your friend. At first, he jerks away and turns to look out the window, which makes you pout.

But when Ransom sees your jutted-out lip, he caves and allows you to engulf him in a hug. You dig your now-manicured nails (covered in clear, sparkly nail polish) into the knitted holes of his sweater, and you stare him in the eyes. Though they’re squinted and a bit red, you manage to hold his gaze and notice the darkness in them. The colour of a sky before the rain is what you end up looking into, not his usual brighter colour.

“Don’t scare this one off, Ransom. Please? I’m the only one in my family without a boyfriend! I’ve never even had a boyfriend. Just give him a chance, Ransom. For me—for your bunny,” you whisper slowly, and he can smell the sugar and chamomile on your tongue. When he inhales sharply, he catches the odd smell of honey and nearly grimaces. He hates it, but he doesn’t have a problem with you using it.

Your middle name might as well be ‘exception’ since that’s what you mostly are for Ransom.

It takes everything in Ransom’s body to not lean forward and capture you in a searing kiss. It would be your first, and it’d be absolutely divine. The kind that romance freaks fawn over yet the type that the critics hate on. He’d eat you up, teeth and all. Your dearest friend would never hurt you, but he’d love to see your lips with a red line that he caused.

Is your blood as sweet as you are? It’s fantastical to wonder this, but he knows your saccharine being is something that none of those country club daughters can compare to. …Is that where he met that woman? He can’t recall the small details, only remembering how upset you looked when one of the older men leered at you. At the golf course the next day, Ransom swung his club at something that didn’t fly among the hole-filled grassy hills.

His white collared polo shirt still has blue blood stained on it.

“Fine, bunny. You know I’m just looking out for you, right? There are so many bad guys out there who don’t deserve you,” Ransom lowly speaks after letting out a deep sigh. You nod your head, bringing your fingers up to the neckline of his sweater. It’s a grey colour, one that you match with your shirt. He wears it on purpose because you’ve stolen it from him before. He can swear that your lotion’s scent is still laced in the fibres.

“I know, Ransom. But I’m a big girl. I can handle myself,” you reassure him, and he nearly scoffs.

You’re not a big girl; you’re his little bunny! Who do you think you are saying these kinds of things? You can’t do what he’s been doing for you for the past few years of your relationship. Do you know how many people he’s had to hurt for you? How about how much he loves you? Hm? Do you know that he loves you more than anyone ever will?

“...And Benny is so sweet, I think you’ll like him!” you tell Ransom, interrupting his brutal train of thought. It moves at hundreds of miles per hour, faster than anything you can fathom. You’ve given that guy a nickname? The rich man holds back a vulgar word, knowing you don’t appreciate it when he curses. “Really?” he questions in utter disbelief, and you quickly nod your head.

“Maybe one day you guys can meet! Oh, we can go on a double date!” you propose, sticking your index finger up in affirmation of your seemingly brilliant idea. “Bunny, what are you talking about?” Ransom questions with a smile on his face, knowing that it’ll soothe the blow he’s about to give you. “Me, Benny, that girl you were with last week, and you!” you explain brightly.

Ransom chuckles, and it’s just like those times he’d sit by his Great Nana and laugh at his fighting family. Like for her, he’s got a soft spot with your name etched on it. His neat handwriting has been perfected for the sake of seeing his last name attached to yours. Ransom wishes for you to be a Drysdale, not being able to stand the mere idea of having to be near the Thrombey’s.

“Bunny, I’m not with that lady. It was just a date that didn’t end well,” Ransom tells you, and your mouth forms an ‘o’ in understanding. “Oh, ’M sorry about that Ransom!” you express, and he presses a kiss on your forehead. He keeps his pink lips on your warm skin, not wanting to pull away and desiring to do more than just this. “S’okay, bunny. I can still accompany you,” he whispers against your face.

You laugh while shaking your head, and as sweet as that sound usually is, it displeases your best friend.

Purple glows are what light up the room—if that’s what you can call it. You can barely make out faces and bodies unless they’re wearing some sort of diamonds on them. Most people here are, except for you. You once had your ears pierced, but your job rendered those pieces of jewellery useless. When you quit, you never had the time to re-puncture your lobes.

Ransom has pestered you about it for a while now, and you smile at the memory of him saying he’s willing to go to Claire’s to get the job done. Ransom fucking Drysdale in Claire’s, what a sight that would be.

“I know a few people here, but I’m not leaving you, okay? I can tell you’re a bit uneasy,” Benjamin suddenly states, turning around. His hand is clasped with yours, and you nearly bump into his chest at his abrupt halt. You nod your head before squeaking out a meek thanks, and he smiles down at you. Sweet, sweet Benny.

“Let’s get a drink!” he shouts when the music starts to grow far too loud for your taste. You can feel each beat in your body, shaking your bones slightly. “Okay, but nothing too strong, please,” you request, wanting to fully remember this night. Benjamin laughs and nods his head, and he leads you to the bar.

With each step you take, you’re forced to say, “excuse me.” Everyone cuts you a nasty glare, but you just look down and ignore them as best you can. It’s an environment you could never get used to, but a place that Ransom could quite possibly live and breathe in. As long as he has a lifetime supply of Biscoff cookies. Oh, and you by his side.

Benjamin exchanges a few words with the bartender, who pours different coloured liquids into glasses. When your date stops talking, the moustached-man nods his head and turns around to prepare whatever drinks Benjamin has asked him for. You’re a bit nervous, and you cope with it by tapping your foot against the shiny floors. The black marble tiles look as though they’ve been laced with gold, its streaks resembling veins.

“Hey, do you mind sitting at that table? If it’s gone, we might be standing for the entire night,” Benjamin chuckles, but you know he’s not kidding. In the blink of an eye, you’re gone. Your hand is merely a phantom for your date, and you now sit at the round black table while you patiently wait for Benjamin.

You look around the filled-up room for the art he’s promised, and the only piece you can find is a Van Gogh collage on a woman’s dress. The sight makes you smile, and you realize that you haven’t exactly dressed for the occasion. Your red dress is simple, unlike the clothing that other people wear. It ends slightly above your knees, has cap sleeves, and has a high neckline that almost resembles a turtleneck.

Like most of your outfits, it pairs with one of Ransom’s sweaters. His mother once called you ‘thing 2,’ and Ransom was dubbed ‘thing 1’. For Halloween, he got custom onesies, and you drove to her firm to embarrass him.

“Here you go, doll!” Benjamin exclaims, and he snaps you out of your reverie. The pet name is foreign; you’ve only ever known being called “bunny.” You’re not sure how to feel about it, but it’s odd. On queue, the song changes to a more upbeat tone that might just seem out of place in one of Hollywood’s latest thriller films.

Your drink is fruity and a bright, opaque orange colour. You can dare and say he’s bought you overpriced orange juice, but when you take a smell of it, you can taste the bubbly champagne. “A mimosa?” you question with a smile on your face, shocked that a place like this would even serve one of your guilty pleasures. Benjamin nods his head, and you take note of the bottle of beer that sits in front of him.

Pabst Blue Ribbon—a drink that might receive a punch or two from Ransom if it were a real person.

Or, as he likes to put it, it’s Walt in liquid form. Absolutely disgusting and annoying and just a whole bunch of other rude (yet true) words that you cannot recall.

“Everything else is just… awful. Unless you had something in mind! I’m sorry, I’ll get you something else,” he nervously rambles, and you giggle.

“Benny, it’s perfect. I love mimosas. Thank you for this,” you say to him, reaching over to grab his hand. He smiles at you charmingly, and he rubs his thumb over your skin. You look up at him in awe, and you maintain eye contact. It’s an action you struggle with when it comes to most people. But with Benjamin and Ransom, it is simply so divine. You’ve read a novel like this before—wait, no, it was a movie.

It was something fictional, that’s for sure.

The two lovers of the media piece—the main characters—shared this exact moment. They leaned in for their kiss, just like what you’re now doing with Benjamin. Your eyes flutter shut, and a few seconds after, so do his. Your heads are tilted to the side, and you’re both careful to not leave this place with a bloody nose or swollen facial features.

It’s so damn perfect because you can swear the music has slowed down, and like the author or narrator always describes, it feels like you and your date are the only people in the room.

But then comes the rude awakening. Someone brushes past your table roughly, and they murmur out a pathetic apology. Your purse falls to the ground, and Benjamin pulls away from your face. “Shit,” he curses, trying to grab for your bag. But it’s too far for him to reach, so you simply do it yourself.

You hang onto the back of your chair as you comfortably shift your body, hooking the handle with one of your fingers and slowly pulling it back to you. You whip back to your original position, and you try to put yourself back together.

“Sorry about that,” Benjamin sheepishly expresses, scratching the back of his neck. His face is scribbled with awkwardness, and you’re almost the same. “S’fine,” you mumble out, placing your bag in your lap to avoid another mishap. “You should try your drink! Let me know what you think. If it’s good, y’know—that’s what I meant,” he stumbles out, and before he can say anything else, you’re taking a long sip from your glass.

It’s just like a prom’s fruit punch on your tongue, except with richer bubbles and a sort of complexity to it. You’re not sure how to feel about it at first, but when you continue to sip on it, you realize that you love it. Not to the point where you’ll order another, though. “So…?” Benjamin questions, bringing the brown bottle to his lips. Almost begrudgingly pulling the straw out of your mouth, you smile.

“It’s really good, Benny. Thank you so much,” you whisper loud enough for him to hear, feeling a pair of eyes on you. It must be from a jealous somebody, envying you for being on a date with such a perfect man. Who wouldn’t? Benjamin is flawless. “Heh, I’m glad,” he shyly admits, and you both continue to sip on your beverages until someone decides to say something.

You stir your drink with your black straw despite it already being mixed well. It’s a nervous tick, one that you use to make you look busy to avoid sitting in a painful silence. Ransom knows this so well—he knows every bit about you.

He even knows just how trusting and naive you can be. It’s sickeningly sweet to him, an aspect of you that he wants to say should go untouched by he can’t. You’re begging to be ruined by him, whether you realize that or not. Soft lips dragged between your teeth, puppy dog eyes reserved just for Ransom, and your sweet voice just humming delightfully in his ear. He wants to keep you all to himself, far away from the worst parts of life.

Though, he won’t keep you safe from himself. He’ll hunt you down and ruin you, knowing that you'll never be able to stop him.

In the darkness of the club, he stands solemnly. Women have come up to him and asked for all kinds of sexual favours and returns, but he’s rejected them all brutally. It’s something he’s been doing for a while now, ever since he's met you. The thought of being with someone who isn’t his bunny makes him sick with both disgust and remorse.

But when someone who had no interest in sleeping with him comes up to him, he can’t resist them. Especially when they've got an offer that’s just oh so enticing.

The strange man waves a small vial of clear liquid in front of Ransom’s face, negotiating a low price of $65, mere pocket change for the Drysdale. He’s never thrown cash and something so quick in his life. He gets anything he wants and even gets things he doesn’t ask for. He wasn’t just born into a wealthy family; he was born into the universe’s luck.

The near-kiss is something he can’t stand to think about, but he has to thank it. You’re easily distracted—pulled away by anyone who demands even the slightest bit of your attention. When Benjamin has you captured with his eyes like a net, Ransom–the predator—swoops in. He first lays down the interruption, pushing someone gently so that their flying hands hit your purse.

Ransom sinks his claws into his prey when you and your lousy date both look away, letting him perform his virtuous act so that the audience can curse him for being a fool. …No, they’re not throwing tomatoes… They’re cheering and clapping and even shedding a stupid tear or two. It’s the part they’ve been waiting for, the one where the best friend finally gets the girl.

He sits in his car, the one you love so dearly. Whenever he offers to pick you up from wherever you are, you always ask if he’s going to take the Beemer. Sometimes, he lies and leaves it for a surprise. Other times, however, he makes you grovel and beg him even though the key is already in the ignition.

It’s the perfect angle because he’s just so damn smart. Ransom’s years at Columbia have certainly paid off, despite what his parents may believe. He’s able to look at you through the large window that you and your date sit next to, despite the few lingering and wild bodies that frame the scene. Your best friend fidgets with his ring, occasionally pulling it off and putting it back on.

Underneath Ransom’s sweater is his well-built abdomen, and beneath all that muscle and seemingly perfect skin is his stomach. It doesn’t exactly hurt, but he isn’t really sitting still right now. You once ran your fingers very lightly along the back of his neck, and he nearly fell with how high he jumped. You questioned, what’s wrong, Ransom? And it was then when he told you that you’ve managed to find his sole ticklish spot.

On the occasion when he’s quite bothersome, you run your fingers along that area in a similar manner. Right now, it feels as though your hands are in his body and doing the exact same thing over and over again. You’ve encaptured him everywhere—body, mind, and soul.

Almost, just almost, in contrast, you’re writhing in uncomfortableness too. A cramp claims you and squeezes tightly at your tummy, one that is different from the many kinds you’ve felt. You slouch down just a bit in your chair, but not enough for your date to think rudely about you. When you clasp your hands together, you realize that they’re hot and sweaty. And no matter how many times you rub them on your dress, the dampness never leaves.

You’ve heard of this kind of thing before. From your mother, who was informed by your aunt, who your cousin had confided in the week after the Fourth of July. Nothing bad really happened, excluding the sick feeling she had for a few days and the neverending exhaustion. She never told you anything beyond that, but you know she called a friend, one that she trusts very dearly, and begged for their help.

And it’s what you decide to do.

“S’cuse me,” you mumble, grabbing your bag and abruptly standing up. As Benjamin—ostensibly charming Benny—stares at you with worry, you warily look at your drink. There’s a drop of juice left at the button, and you can feel dizziness consuming you almost entirely.

When you push your way through rich art majors and others alike, you still keep your manners. Such a sweet little thing you are. You try your best to find an exit, but it’s as if you’re trapped in—as if this is some elaborate plan. Before you can even go into a panicked frenzy, your phone lights up.

It’s a stupid notification that you’d usually get upset over, but you’re now thanking it for being a reminder. You make quick work in calling your dearest friend, the one you should’ve listened to earlier today.

He picks up on the third ring, even though he could answer at any time, and you’d still be oblivious to what he’s done. You’re a smart one, but you can be so fucking dumb sometimes. No, most times.

“Hey, bunny! How’s the date?” Ransom cheers, even though he doesn’t give a fuck about your stupid date. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He says the same thing about anything he doesn’t like, which is almost everything. “R- Ransom? I need your help, p- please,” you break down into sobs that make his heart clench.

“What’s wrong, bunny? What happened?” he questions, and he purposely starts up his car as loud as he can. The engine is loud, but he knows it’ll bring you comfort. “I- I think he put somethin’ in my drink. I feel so weird, Ransom. …Am I gonna die?” you whimper to him, and he soothingly shushes you.

“Nothing’s gonna hurt you, okay?. I’m on my way,” Ransom says, and he’s already turned his Beemer off. “T- Thank you, thank you so much, Ransom,” you tell him, and he smiles even though you can’t see him. He can see you, though. “I should’ve listened to you. “M so sorry,” you sniffle, and you suddenly feel a wave of euphoria crashing in your body.

The gasp you let out is so lewd, and it goes straight to Ransom’s cock. He’s already hard because you just have that effect on him, even though you don’t realize that. “What happened, bunny? C’mon, talk to me. You’re making me worried,” he urges, desperate to hear you say something scandalous. Oh, Ransom, my pussy is so wet… And it’s so sensitive.

But you, so pure and untried, have no idea what’s happening.

“S’weird, Ransom. Please hurry,” you plead, leaning against a wall. Your hips remain jutted out, and so does your bottom lip. Heat fills your body, and you’re covered in a thin yet slowly building sheen of sweat. It’s only February, and you can remember the windshield warning in the weather app. Why are you so hot right now?

The back of your hand wipes at your forehead, dabbing it lightly and checking to see if you’ve suddenly developed a fever. You don’t exactly feel ill… You just feel odd. It’s like a feeling you find yourself having at least once or twice a week (that you chalk up to being nothing despite your soaking panties), but it’s coming in tenfold. Your breaths are laboured, and your chest rises and falls as if you’ve just run a marathon.

“Bunny? Oh my God, c’mere,” Ransom’s voice softly says, breaking your scared and confused daze. You throw your body at him immediately, wrapping your arms around him as if you haven’t seen your friend in years. “Oh, Ransom,” you sob, and his hands move to your waist. His touch is like electricity, and you nearly squeal when you feel his palms against your body.

Right near Ransom’s ear, you let out a shaky sigh. The caress he gives you goes straight to your core, and you can feel your button throbbing. “Let’s go, okay? Just hold onto me,” he ushers before gently dragging you out of the club. In contrast to your friend’s steps, yours are short and wobbly. You have barely any balance in your heels. One hand of his goes to your waist so that he can keep you steady.

It’s not like you’re dizzy anymore. No, ever since Ransom arrived and pressed himself close to you, you’ve felt a bit better. Except the sopping wetness in your core hasn’t ceased, and you don’t know what to do. But you can trust Ransom! He’s your best friend; he’d never judge you. He loves you so dearly, and that’s why he’s helping you out. You just need to be honest with the one man who’s only ever been kind to you.

When he opens up the car door, you squeeze his shoulders. He’s so strong and so big. You’re sure he can hurt anyone, but he’d never hurt you. “R- Ransom,” you mumble as he buckles your seatbelt for you. He makes sure it’s not too tight yet not too loose, and he looks down at you with raised eyebrows. It’s your queue to speak, but you find yourself speechless.

Your eyes rake his flawless face. Each part of him has been perfected by the angels themselves. No wonder he indulges in so many naughty things! You can remember the day you caught him with another woman in bed, and you never bothered asking for her name. He called her baby, and he told her to fuck off as soon as you shut the door with a slam. You hate slamming doors.

Some whining about sucking something for him so that he can finish off another thing was followed up, but you were too embarrassed to stick around and listen.

“Talk to me, bunny,” he urges, waiting for you to cry out in fear. Your gaze falls to his plump lips. They remind you of the petals of some flowers. Maybe roses. Linda doesn’t like roses, so she tells the gardener to never consider planting them. Linda also doesn’t like her only son, but you do.

Wait, you do? You do! Why wouldn’t you? He’s Ransom fucking Drysdale, and he’s only kind to you.

“Wanna…” you trail off before placing your hands on each of his thighs. He’s so well-built, so well-sculptured. “What’s wrong?” he questions once more, leaning further down to you. You keep your eyes trained on his lips, and they’re so kissable. You don’t even know how to lock yours with his, but the idea is so damn nice. “Kiss me?” you request, and you wait for him to slam the door in your face.

It doesn’t happen. No, instead, he swears, and the lewd word should make you slap him on the arm (playfully), but it doesn’t. It gives you hope. “We gotta get you home, bunny,” Ransom whispers, and before he can close the door, you pout at him. “But I want a kiss! Please? Like the ones you give all those girls,” you reason, and you squeeze his thighs.

“When we go home, okay? I’ll give you all the kisses at home, bunny,” he promises, and he smiles when you pull away from him and clap your hands in rejoice.

The drive is so long it almost hurts. In the darkness and down the streets, you only see the lights that are blurred from the speed. It’s not high, but it’s teetering towards the limit. But there’s no one else on the roads, and Ransom likes to live on the edge.

The entire way, you have your legs parted. You’ve begged him to roll the window down, but he won’t allow it. He says something about it being too dangerous and knowing that you’ll want to do something rebellious. Usually, you just stick your out of the open glass until you’re tired.

“You need to listen to me, bunny. When I tell you something isn’t right, it isn’t right,” Ransom tells you, and you want to roll your eyes. “Are you listening to me?” he questions, and he sounds just like his grandfather. You hum as you look out the window and try to ignore your aching body’s cries for some time of help. “Bunny?” Ransom calls once more, and you hum again.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you,” he growls suddenly, grabbing your face with his hand. The coolness of his ring is pleasant, but his skin against yours is so much better. Your friend holds your chin, and the car comes to a halt. In a pathetic attempt, you try to look out the windshield to know where he’s taken you. But you can see the familiar trees and the extremely large house in your peripheral view.

“You need to listen to me, bunny. You don’t know the things I know,” he warns, and you dumbly nod your head. Your blinks are slow, and there’s just something about Ransom’s demanding tone that just makes you feel so tender in your core. If your lips weren’t squished right now, you’d be biting them until they ache. “Okay, Ransom,” you squeak out when he raises his eyebrow.

“Good girl,” he whispers delightfully, and you let out a whine. “Ransom—feels so tingly!” you whimper out once he pulls his hand away from your face. His eyebrows furrow, and you squeeze your thighs together, sighing when you feel a moment of mitigation.

“What feels tingly, bunny?” Ransom inquires, and he involuntarily places his hand on your upper thigh.

“R- Right there!” you squeak out, both nervous and on edge for entirely different reasons. “Oh… Poor bunny. I think I know what that fucker did. There’s this popular drug—it’s pretty new, I think. Anyways, it makes you feel some things, and it makes you really sensitive. That’s what’s happening to you, right?” Ransom questions as he moves his palm up and down your leg.

It’s so hard to think straight with him so close to you and something enchanting in your system. You wish you could say it’s not very pleasant, but it’s absolutely divine.

Everything Ransom says goes unlistened, and you squeeze your eyes shut. “I’ll take you inside, bunny,” he eventually says, stepping out of the car and closing the door behind him. The few seconds without him are painful, and you find yourself needing him near you so badly.

Ransom opens your door, and he scoops you up in his arms with ease. The action is so simple and mundane, yet it makes you nuzzle your face against his grey sweater.

“Shit, I can smell that sweet little pussy,” Ransom grumbles, and you look up at him. “Hm?” you hum, and he simply ignores you. His house is a home for you as you’ve spent most days in a year here. Despite your neverending whines, he still hasn’t put any curtains up. It’s one of his few flaws—that’s what you tell yourself. Ransom has almost no imperfections, and he could do no wrong.

“Just stay here, okay?” he orders as he lays you onto his off-white couch. When he pulls his hands away from your body, you immediately try to stand up. “No, no, no, bunny. Stay put,” Ransom demands, and you shake your head. “Don’t leave me, please,” you beg, holding onto Ransom’s sleeve. He sighs before placing his hands on his hips.

He stands just like a worried father, and usually, you’d tease him over it. “I won’t leave, bunny. But I need to get you some help. I’m gonna go call Marta. I don’t know if you’re safe or not.” Ransom’s words are heavy and more serious than he’s ever been. Yet, you still keep pulling him towards you. “Hey, I’ll give you those kisses you wanted,” he proposes, and even though he drives a hard bargain, you just won’t let him go.

You want to get some help, yes, but Ransom is all you need right now. In your eyes, he’s the remedy that’ll fix your issue.

“But Ransom! I need you with me,” you reason, plopping onto the couch and yanking at him as hard as you can. He, all muscle and strength, does not move. “Why, bunny? I’m right here! I’m gonna make it all better. I just need to call Marta,” Ransom tells you as he goes to peel your hands off of him. His index and middle finger expertly remove your weak grip. God, you’ve seen those digits be directed at so many people so many times.

He moves further from you with his arms leaving you as well. You’re worried that if you don’t feel the even featherlight touch of his breath, you might go insane. You believe that to wake up tomorrow morning without regret in your mind, you need Ransom. Swallowing thickly, you try your best to find words and articulated sentences in your blurry mind.

All that comes up, though, is the urge to shed your clothes as if they’re some sort of obnoxious second-skin.

You shoot up and rush after Ransom, calling out his name as you watch him pick up the landline. It’s got a coiled wire and looks like something from an Old Hollywood movie. Ransom had bought it when you expressed your love for those kinds of phones, and he lets you play with it until the clicking pisses him off.

“You’re gonna be okay, bunny. I promise. Just gonna get you some help,” Ransom grunts out, dialling the friendly nurse’s number. You’re stubborn on the occasion, but it’s never been this bad. Is it the gracious vial that’s blessing him right now? Ransom’s karma never catches him because he believes he’s never done a bad thing in his life. Sometimes, he just has to do what he needs to do.

“No, Ransom! I need you!” you suddenly screech out, balling up your sweaty hands by your side.

With the press of a button, Ransom deletes the call he was about to make.

“I- I feel all weird and tingly and sweaty, and whenever you touch me, it gets better, Ransom! Can’t you just take care of me? Please, Ransom, please help me,” you continue, and Ransom fights back the utmost tempting smirk. He hangs up the phone with a click, and he begins to move closer to you. Your friend resembles an animal—one that’s finally managed to have his prey near him. It’s just a few steps away from him.

Despite the almost horridness of the way he moves, you have a smile on your face. “Oh, bunny. It tingles down in your little pussy so much, doesn’t it? Yeah, I can fix that! I know you don’t have any idea what to do. You’re just really scared. It’s probably whatever your date gave you. Maybe it also makes things worse, y’know? …Did you kiss him, bunny?”

You nod along with his words, grasping at them with shaky hands but not catching everything. When his final question hits you, you shake your head. Ransom smiles, satisfied with your answer in so many similar ways. “Good girl. I’m the only one who should be touching you. See what happens when you let other guys near you? They hurt you. I’d never hurt you like they do.” he hums.

Ransom looks down at your hands, and he notices they’re shaking.

“Aw, bunny. Are you scared? Is Daddy being scary? I’m sorry. I was just trying my best to help!”

You teeter between confirming and denying his suspicions, and he frowns. It’s not faux at all—it’s completely genuine.

He must really be worried for you…

“I’ll help you out, bunny. Don’t worry! But I Googled something, and it’s kind of mandatory with your… situation,” he solemnly informs you, grabbing your shoulders. You quickly melt in his touch and try to lean into him, and he clicks his tongue in a disapproving manner. “After, bunny—don’t be so greedy. I know it won’t make any sense, but you have to do it, okay?” Ransom tells you, and you’re nodding before he can even finish speaking.

Maybe it’s because he’s so greedy, or perhaps it’s because he likes to push his luck. Ransom lives on the edge like that—his foot on the gas with hundreds of cars coming at him from different directions. It’s like a game to him—he loves fooling around. And he can’t help but do the same with you.

“Just… Run around the place, okay? Sounds so fucking stupid, but it’ll help you, bunny,” he sighs while he explains, and you’re all ready to dart as far as your feet will take you. Like he said, it’ll help you—he’ll help you. Just listen to his every word. “I- I’ll do it, Ransom! I’ll do anything for you,” you promise to your friend, and he dims the lights.

The ache behind your eyes suddenly disappears and turns into a satisfying dullness. You’ve been so caught up with your desperateness that you haven’t even noticed the other parts of your body that have been crying out for different reasons. Your pussy weeps even more than them, though, and it’s impossible to ignore. “I’m gonna catch you, okay?” Ransom tells you, and you nod your head.

Even though you’re ditzy, you still make the smart decision of dashing before he urges you once more.

You hop up the two stairs that separate the kitchen from the living room. The cold tile against your feet makes you sigh in relief, but you don’t stop to relish it. You move around the island with the sleek sink in the center. Ransom is hot on your heels, proving to you that his occasional jogs and overly-expensive treadmill haven’t gone to waste.

“Gotta move faster, bunny. Imagine if that bad man had come after you? Hm? That stupid Brandon,” Ransom questions, and he’s glad that you don’t correct him. You’ve finally put your best friend first—something you should’ve done so long ago. He doesn’t hold it against you, but it does hurt his feelings just a tad bit. How could you harm your best friend like that?

You try your hardest to figure out some sort of plan, but it’s as if Ransom lives in your mind. When you move to your left, he’s already done the same. And when you move to the right, he’s there before you. You make the motion to move to the left suddenly, but when he moves in that direction, you run in the opposite. Ransom’s fingers barely touch you as you move back into the living room.

“Clever girl,” the slightly older man praises, and it goes straight to your core. You’re in a similar situation once again, except the thing that keeps you and Ransom apart is a couch. He could easily reach over and grab you, but he loves to play with his food. He’s been scolded for it too many times, but his behaviour never changes.

You try to repeat the same method, not once shy from it. As you try to execute your plan, you feel a strong arm wrap around your waist. “Just not clever enough,” Ransom whispers against your ear, his body pressed against yours. You let out a giggle that ends in a lewd gasp, feeling something hard on your ass. “I tried my best…” you whisper, turning around in his hold. But Ransom lifts you up with ease, and he carries you someplace.

Gently, you’re placed onto the carpeted ground next to his glass coffee table. It’s been pushed to the side, and you realize that Ransom has done it for you. He does so much for you… Your friend steps away from your writhing body for a few seconds, and the change of sight makes you smile. On his wall and above his fireplace is Les Amants—except with a twist.

The two lovers are quite different from their original forms. The woman resembles you, whereas the man looks like Ransom. Your faces are uncovered, and Ransom is pressing a passionate kiss to your cheek.

The painting makes you giggle, and Ransom smiles at your reaction. He places a pillow underneath your body before blocking your view again. “I knew you’d like it, bunny. Daddy does all that for you because he loves you,” Ransom whispers, and you simply nod your head. “Love you too, Ransom,” you mumble before fisting at his grey sweater.

“Of course you do,” he exhales, parting your legs and pushing them upwards. Once your knees touch your torso, Ransom closes your legs. His left hand holds your limbs at your knees, and his right hand travels to your soaked panties. “But you’ll never love me as much as I love you, bunny—no one will,” he tells you as he grabs at the ruined fabric.

It’s sticky with your arousal, and as he pulls at the fabric to rip it, he watches as a few strings of slick stretch from your cunt. You’re leaking with creaminess, dripping all the way down to your ass.

“You’re soaked, bunny… And you smell so fucking good,” Ransom groans, basking in your tangy yet sweet scent. It’s so addictive, and he just wants to eat you up. The urge to take your swollen little nub of nerves and suck in it until you see stars is quite strong. But he decides to hold off for now because his hard cock is straining against his pants, and it almost hurts.

“‘S that bad, Ransom?” you nervously ask, trying to look at him from your position. He abruptly hovers above you, smiling in reassurance and realization. “Not at all, bunny! It’s completely normal…” Ransom nervously trails off, and you pick up on his unease. “What’s wrong?’ you question, scared out of your mind.

“It’s just… You’re more wet than usual, bunny. Nothing I can’t fix, but it’ll probably take all night—maybe until tomorrow morning.”

“‘M not worried, Ransom. I know you can help me,” you tell him, reassuring both yourself and your best friend.

He stares down at you, his face suddenly all serious. Ransom’s lips are parted, and his index finger trails along your inner thigh until he’s touching your aching flesh. He watches as you bite your lip from the feeling, and he continues to move his finger through your wet folds. Bliss passes through your body at his touch, and it increases once he presses down on your clit.

Your back arches and you’re letting out breathy moans. “Do you like that, bunny? Daddy’s making you feel all better now,” Ransom hums before bringing his digit down to your drooling hole. You’re clenching around nothing but air, and the sight of your tiny hole makes Ransom groan. A rush of blood flows down to his cock as he thinks about how tight your pussy will feel around his cock.

His large cock and your small pussy prove that you were made for him and only him.

Pathetically, you nod your head at a rapid pace. Ransom chuckles, and he slowly breaches your pussy with his finger. His digit is coated in your copious amount of arousal, and it gushes out even more once he’s one-knuckle deep inside of you. “R- Ransom,” you stutter, but he quickly shushes you. The feeling of his thick finger inside of you is so foreign, but you get used to it once a few seconds pass.

“No, no. You gotta call me Daddy, bunny. Otherwise, I won’t help you,” Ransom warns, and you mumble out an apology.

“Daddy,” you whisper, and he smiles in delight. “Good girl. You’re my good girl, right, bunny? My good little girl,” Ransom hums, and he pulls his finger out of your pussy. A small ring of whiteness surrounds his finger. Ransom’s mouth waters at the sight, but he fights off his urges again. That drenched digit returns to your clit with the motive to torture you.

He slowly rubs your pearl in tight circles, and he watches as your pussy contracts from the pleasure. “O- Oh, feels so good,” you slur, bucking your hips up on your body’s own accord. As you try to chase after something, Ransom pulls his hand away for a brief second. Before you can even beg him to continue to work whatever magic he’s got at his fingertips, stinging in the most delicious way ever.

There’s a split second of friction on your clit, and neither you nor Ransom can tell if you’re moaning from the pain or the pleasure. The line between the two has blurred.

Your legs jerk to close, but Ransom doesn’t let that happen. He keeps them parted as he strikes you once more, revelling in the way you yelp the title he now wears. “Daddy!” you cry out, and your tone is a mix of need and hurt. Maybe even fear, and that makes Ransom blush wildly. Your pussy is sopping wet, and it hurts to have him not touch you.

“P- Please, feels so good,” you babble like a baby, and Ransom chuckles. “You like that, bunny? Do you like it when Daddy slaps your little pussy? You’re so desperate for it; you’re just taking anything I’m giving you.’ He shakes his head as he speaks, and he ends his sentences with light smacks to your clit. Your jaw is slacked, and every time his fingers make contact with your swollen cunt, you try to grind against his touch.

“Daddy…” you whine, and you can feel creaminess leaking down to your puckered hole. Your pussy aches for things you can’t do, but Ransom can. A bitter yet sweet scent wafts in the air—a mixture of what’s running down your intimate areas and the sweat on your skin. It’s addicting and very familiar. The only difference is that it’s so much more potent than the usual times it’s on the tip of your nose.

“Say it; tell Daddy what you like,” Ransom demands, and he pulls his hand away from your pussy. His slick-stained fingers are mesmerizing, and he works them against his leather belt. Through some difficulty, he

manages to push his boxers and pants down to his knees, and he leans over you once again. You’re wordless, as expected.

“I… I, uhm, I like it when you hurt me, Daddy—especially down there,” you mumble out, and you can’t fight the smile on your face when Ransom groans loudly.

“Fuck, bunny. Such a good girl,” he praises, and his hand returns to your pussy. He taps your creamy cunt with the tip of his middle finger, and your choked gasp turns into a loud moan when he pushes into you. It happens with ease, and the same small amount of simplicity is what he uses to find that sweet spot of yours. It’s spongy and makes you see stars when he curls his mildly chubby yet incredibly long finger.

“Oh my…” you breathe out, and Ransom’s other hand spreads your legs. He’s seen you in this position before—except the circumstances were different. You were watching him try on suits, and you laid down on his sofa in the oddest way ever. That’s you, though. You put comfort over manners, and you don’t give a damn unless you’re in public. Through your parted knees, you watched Ransom undress.

Your tight pussy clamps down on your saviour’s digit, and you feel your mildly coherent thoughts fall away. Nothingness fills your mind—Ransom knows this. “Aw, bunny. Are you already all stupid? I mean, you certainly aren’t the brightest. But I’ve only got a finger in this tiny pussy, and look at yourself—you’re a fucking goner,” he chuckles, and you helplessly whimper from his words.

“Just my little airhead, hm?”

Another digit is pushed into your sloppy pussy, but this time, it’s a bit of a struggle. Ransom scissors his ring and middle fingers inside your cunt, stretching you open as best as he can. Is it wrong of him to want it to hurt? You’re so damn pretty when you’re in pain and all teary-eyed for him. “Daddy,” you hiss as he opens your hole up for his cock a little more.

The two tips meet at your sweet spot, and before you know it, Ransom is slowly fucking his fingers in and out of you. A moan rips through you as your legs jolt with pleasure. Ransom’s hand is covered in your cream, but he doesn’t mind it at all. “Look at you, bunny. You’re soaking my fingers, and you can barely take them. Daddy’s gonna have to force his cock in there,” he says, watching as his skin glistens.

Mindlessly, you nod. Ransom is aware that you have no damn idea of what he’s talking about, and that just turns him on even more. He starts to pick up the pace, and his palm rubs against your clit. Your pathetic noises only grow louder, and they egg Ransom on. ‘Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,” you prattle as your eyes roll back into your head.

“Oh, are you gonna come already, bunny? Are you gonna come with Daddy’s finger in your little pussy—in my little pussy?” Ransom questions and you just affirm his words with your pants.

A searing pressure cuts through your abdomen, and you feel so damn full with Ransom’s fingers inside of you. A sort of light sensation grabs your body—one that you’ve never felt before. The wet sounds of your pussy go straight to Ransom’s cock, and he just loves the way you’re leaking.

“Think that asshole could make you feel so good, bunny? Fuck no. Only Daddy gets to make you feel good,” he grumbles, and he starts to slow his fingers down once he recognizes the rapid rise and fall of your chest. He laughs as you begin to whine and call his title, but he ignores your pleas to not stop.

Ransom roughly pulls his fingers out of your pussy with a sounding pop, and the amount of your breathy yet garbled words is growing. He wipes his digits on your thigh, and he squeezes the sensitive inner flesh of it. Your cunt throbs even more, and Ransom watches as it rapidly clenches around nothing. Your legs shift as you writhe, but he keeps them parted.

“D- Daddy, p- please. It felt so good, it made the bad feeling go away!” you explain to him, and Ransom can swear that your voice is on the edge of breaking. “Oh, I know, bunny—but Daddy has a better way to fix it. Just listen to me, okay? Daddy knows best.” His words are reassuring, and you thank him like the good girl you are.

“Ran- Ransom, need you, please. Want somethin’,” you tell him, still trying to recover from the intense ticklish feeling between your legs. In a flash, he’s above you for the nth time. One of his strong hands is next to your head, and it holds him up, whereas the other holds your legs in their rightful position. Open for him and him only.

“It’s ‘Daddy,’ bunny. Tell Daddy what you need,” he demands, and you tilt your heads upwards. “Kiss, please,” you pant, and he smiles gently. Before you know it, his lips are locked with yours. This kiss is fervent and passionate, and it hurts. Ransom’s sharp pearly whites dig into your bottom lip, making you cry out in pain. He swallows your noise, though, and he shoves his tongue in your mouth.

Ransom was your first kiss, and he’s trained you oh so well for moments exactly like this. With him and only him.

His wet muscle explores the inside of your mouth, and Ransom can’t help but let his mind wander. You’d look absolutely divine while choking on his fat cock. Spit splattering on your skin and your nails digging into his thighs—your saviour is audibly groaning and nearly rutting against your cunt from the thought. He’d make you swallow, then he’d paint your face.

The sheet over the woman; son amant.

When the only Thrombey-Drysdale born of the family pulls away, you’re trying to catch your breath. But he quickly punches the air out of your lungs when he slaps the fat tip of his cock against your clit. You jolt, but he doesn’t let you escape from him. You only belong in his arms with his cock stuffed in your cunt.

Beads of pre-cum roll drip onto your pussy, mixing with your wetness. “Daddy’s cock is so big, bunny. I don’t think you can take it—but I’ll make you. Yeah, you’re gonna take my fucking cock like the good girl you are,” Ransom speaks lowly, and he sits back up. He’s on his knees, and he has the perfect position to fuck you in. He wants it deep and hard, and he always gets what he wants.

Ransom drags his cock down to your hole, and he covers it entirely. His cock is huge in length and width. He knows that it will hurt you, but that doesn’t matter. He’s helping you out, and he’s giving you something that you don’t know you need.

You glance up at Ransom while you strain your neck slightly. It’s one of many feelings you have right now, but it’s nothing in comparison to the tingling in your core. Your head is still spinning from the kiss, and your lips are raw due to his roughness.

His thick cock is coated in your creaminess, and his veins throb with want. He’s a raging red shade all over, and his member is nearly purple. Ransom prods his bulbous head at your drooling hole, and he loves the way you shiver from his action.

“I haven’t even fucked you yet, and look, you’re all teary-eyed and braindead. No thoughts, huh? S’okay, Daddy’ll do all the thinking for you.”

Ransom’s words distract you briefly, which doesn’t entirely surprise him. But the fact that you can mildly understand what he’s saying through your foggy haze has his smile faltering a bit. Amid his diversion, Ransom pushes the fat head of his cock into your cunt. He breaches into you roughly and stretches you open widely.

Your jaw slacks in a silent scream that isn’t quite silent. Your gasps are choked, and you’re whimpering from the pain and pleasure of his cock. “Oh, I know, bunny. Daddy’s just too big for your tiny little hole,” he coos, but his sympathy turns into annoyance when you try to reach down and push him. His hand leaves your legs, and they stay parted. Your obedience comes with such ease that it makes him kick himself for not acting on his love for you.

“No, stop that. Stay still for Daddy, bunny. I don’t wanna have to get all mean on you…”

His warning is something you don’t take lightly, and before Ransom knows it, you’re sputtering out an apology.

“‘M sorry, Daddy! It hurts… Please don’t be mad,” you babble, and he grins. ‘It’s okay, bunny. Just let Daddy do what he needs to do.”

As soon as he’s done speaking, Ransom fully sheathes his cock inside of you. It’s almost as if his fingers did nothing except lure you to the edge. He waits to hear you cry out in pain, but you simply bite down on your lip until the skin breaks and crimson starts to drip. When you release your pout, you let out a moan that no pornstar can rival. It goes straight to his cock and motivates Ransom to really let go and help his little bunny.

His heavy balls are snug against your sticky ass, and his cock nudges against your sweet spot. You can barely breathe properly, but you don’t care. “Feels so good, daddy,” you mumble out pathetically. “I know, bunny. This little fuckhole is just gripping Daddy’s cock. You love my cock, don’t you? Yeah, you do,” he groans, and he waits for you to answer.

But you’re so fucked out, so damn stupid. You don’t even realize he’s asking you a question. It’s a miracle you’ve made it in life without your best friend.

“Did Daddy’s dick fuck the manners out of you, bunny? When I ask you something, you always answer. I said, you love my cock, don’t you?” he spits through gritted teeth, and you’re quickly nodding. “Yeah, you do. My good little slut. So desperate to get fucked but can barely handle it.”

You nod again, and suddenly he’s pulling out of you. Before you can even weep your miserable cries, Ransom pushes back into you and begins to use your cunt like it’s a fleshlight.

He fucks into your channel relentlessly, skin slapping against skin while strings of your cream stretch from his member to your pussy. You’re stretched past your limit, leaking so much that whenever he slides in and out of you, there’s a loud squelching sound that nearly mutes your moans.

“Yeah, take it, bunny. Take Daddy’s cock like the good girl you are,” Ransom grumbles, holding onto your hips as leverage. You’re mewling his title and nodding continuously, and he just knows that he’s fucked every thought of yours out of your mind. He bets that you don’t even know your name at this point.

“Fuck– You’re drooling,” he notes in practical disbelief. Saliva trickles past the side of your mouth and onto your cheek. You don’t even realize it until he’s pointed it out. But even then, you don’t care. You simply focus on the pressure in your stomach that’s building up again and the way Ransom’s cock drives in and out of you. His thrusts are brutal and quick, almost as if he’s working at an inhumane pace.

“You’re fucking drooling… God, you can barely handle my fat cock. I’m turning you into a silly little mess, bunny. You’re so cute when you’re thinking with nothing but this creamy pussy.”

Ransom ruts into you like a starved animal—like the big bad wolf he is. Each thrust forces a choked-out moan that seems to prolong until the next one interrupts. “Daddy– Feels weird,” you call out, and he smirks. A fire that is a vibrant blue lights itself inside your tummy and in your pussy. It builds up quickly—especially when Ransom’s cock pounds against your sweet spot.

“I know, bunny. I don’t care, though. You just gotta take Daddy’s cock and beg him to let you come,” he tells you, and you squeeze your eyes shut. “D- Dunno how,” you mumble out, and Ransom smirks. “I would tell you to use your brain, but it’s empty, bunny. I know it is. You’re just thinking about my cock like the fucking slut you are. It’s okay, Daddy’ll teach you. All you have to say is Can I come, Daddy?.”

His instructions are simple, but it takes a few seconds for you to comprehend them.

“Oh– C– Can I come, Daddy? P- Pretty please?” you beg, and your high is just a few seconds away. “Good girl, good fucking girl,” Ransom praises, and he stills his thrusts with his cock deep inside your guts. He grinds into you, his patch of growing-pubic hair rubbing against your clit. It sends you over the edge, and you’re panting his name in a loud cry.

Your eyes squeeze shut as your pussy clamps around Ransom’s dick. Your cream coats him and leaves him shining even more, especially at the base. There’s a ring of white stickiness there, and it’s all from your pussy. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!” you squeal out, toes curling and legs shaking. Ransom begins to fuck you with that same vigour before, not willing to wait for you to ride out your orgasm. He wants to make you come again and again, until sobbing and on the verge of passing out.

Even then, he won’t stop.

Your heart patters at a hectic pace, and your legs tremble with the aftershocks of your powerful orgasm. The amount of writhing your body does isn’t enough to get Ransom to go easy on your pussy. His pounding is relentless despite the even tighter grip you have on his cock.

He shushes your cries, but his sounds don’t work. How can they? Your body is alight with pleasure, and the look on your face is a silent beg for more. “Look at you, trying to run away from Daddy even though this cunt is crying for me, bunny,” Ransom chuckles, and he grips your hips even tighter. “It’s pathetic, but you’re lucky Daddy loves pathetic little girls like you,” he husks, and the moan you let out is bound to strain your vocal cords.

“Aw, are you gonna come again? Already? You’re so sensitive, bunny. Daddy’s gonna have so much fun with you.”

His fun entails so many things that he knows you’re going to enjoy, whether you’re blissed out of your mind or completely level-headed.

The extremely thin and delicate rubber band in your stomach starts to bend and twist at a rapid pace. It’s quicker than Ransom’s thrusts that you find yourself loving. You love every aspect of him, the good and the bad. “‘M gonna come, Daddy. It feels so good,” you slur, and there’s a faint smile on your face. Ransom mimics it, but his is so much wider and almost villainous. But he’s your hero; he could do no wrong.

“I know, bunny. Daddy just makes you feel so good. C’mon, cream all over my cock like the good girl you are. Do it,” he demands, and because your body simply belongs to him (as do you), you come undone on his command. Your back arches off the carpet, and your tits are pushed forward. Ransom is tempted to take your hardened peaks into his mouth and suck on them, but he’s too enraptured by the look on your face and the sight of your pussy to do so.

His throbbing cock fucks you through your second orgasm of the night, and definitely not the last. There’s a tinge of blood on it, and it only makes him harder. The feeling of him growing thicker inside of you is marvellous, but it takes you by surprise. You gasp loudly as your nails dig into the first layer of your skin. You’re sobbing, but your eyes are missing the tears.

“Fuck, you’re so pretty when you’re coming on my cock, bunny,” Ransom swears, and he notices the puddle of creaminess at the base of his cock. The reddish-brown colour blends so well with your cum that Ransom just knows you’re meant to be like this, impaled and squirming beneath him. Your cum drips down to his heavy balls that slam against your ass every time he fucks back into you.

Darkness nearly fills your vision as your climax hits you harder than ever. Your two orgasms are blended together, and the pleasure doesn’t seem to have an end. Your walls flutter around your saviour’s thick girth, and they’re just begging him to fill you up. “Daddy…” you whisper, and you notice his thrusts are growing to be more sloppy and short. Ransom uses your pussy like you’re his favourite toy or perhaps even his right fist. He tosses his head back and ignores the way you’re telling him that it’s too much. You don’t know what you’re talking about—Ransom knows what’s best. You shouldn’t be questioning anything he’s doing, especially not when he’s doing the kind thing of helping you out.

“Daddy’s gonna come, bunny. I’m gonna fill up this pussy ‘til you're leaking with my cum for days,” Ransom grunts, and the thought of your panties being stained with his seed sends him tumbling towards his climax. With a guttural moan, he slams into you and makes you yelp. “Fuck, bunny,” he groans deeply, his voice more baritone than it usually is.

As his balls clench, ropes of cum spill inside of your cunt and paint your insides. He’s fantasized about this the day he saw you for the very first time. His big figure slumps over you just a tad bit, but he still holds himself up with his incredible strength. He’s never come this hard before—that’s the effect you have on him. You let out a whimper as you feel Ransom’s cum flood your inner walls.

“Daddy,” you mewl, tired out of your mind yet still aching for more. As promised, he’s helped you out. How could you ever thank him? You certainly don’t have enough money to satisfy him, but you do have that honey pot between your legs and your mere presence to do the fulfilling for you. Anything he wants, anything he needs, you’ll give to him. And vice versa.

“Good girl—such a good girl for letting Daddy use your pussy,” he praises, and you preen.

Almost begrudgingly, Ransom slowly drags his large girth out of your freshly-ruined pussy. You cry out loudly and call his title before saying his name. He ignores you, though, and simply focuses on your messy cunt. As his cum begins to trickle out of you, Ransom watches as your pussy gapes from the stretch of his fat cock. You’re soaked in milky fluids, and the sight has his tongue darting out and swiping along his bottom lip.

“Look at that leaky little cunt. Cream-filled, huh? Think Daddy can have his cake and eat it, too?”

[infernal-fire]

𝒃𝒊𝒈 𝒃𝒂𝒅 𝒘𝒐𝒍𝒇.

summary. | His claws are shining bright in the dark as he’s lifting up your little red skirt. Unlike the others, he won’t leave you in the dirt.

warnings. | NON/DUBCON, dark themes, drugging (sex pollen), obsession, stalking, chasing, manipulation, possessiveness, kidnapping, mention of drug use, mild age gap, smut, Daddy kink, fingering, pussy slapping, humiliation, praise, pet names, rough sex, vaginal sex, virginity loss, corruption kink, innocence kink, dirty talk, mild manhandling, creampie kink, size kink (ransom’s cock is so big), heavy dumbification, implied, cumplay/eating, orgasm denial, overstimulation, and more. DARK FIC, 18+, MINORS DNI!

word count. | 13.3k.

pairings. | Dark!Best Friend!Ransom Drysdale x Innocent!Best Friend!Reader, Male OC x Reader (brief).

author’s note. | please enjoy and don’t forget to reblog! if you take ANYTHING from my fics and you don’t ask for permission, you will be blocked and reported. i’m also going to be gifting my most special baby @barnesjamcs this fic for her bday (early). my baby, i don’t have enough words to describe my love for you. thank you so fucking much for everything! i love you so much! playlist.

Your heeled boots click on the floor, and your new coat fans out behind you—but it’s not outrageous. In your hands isn’t much; your phone, your purse, and the ticket that got you into this overtly-prestigious building. It’s worse than the gallery you toured last, but the art that hangs on the walls makes up for your distaste.

The steps you take are mild, but they’re quick enough to bring you to him. When you walk, you feel elegant. In your mind, you pretend you’re one of the most important people in this damned place. On the speakers is a classical piece that you might just Shazam and bring back to the Hot 100 charts when you tell your boss to play it at the library.

But you can swear that you’ve heard this number in a movie before.

Promises and vows are things that are just blasphemous to break. You like to believe that an angel falls from heaven every time someone goes against their words. And when he asked what happens when one fulfills their oaths, you had no answer to give him. Good behaviour is rarely rewarded, and bad behaviour is always dealt with.

So, as you swore to do, you come whenever he calls.

“Did you know that you can ask your Uber driver to hit the gas? It’s simple, really, just open your mouth and drop a ‘please,’” Ransom intones from behind you, and you halt your movements. Your dreams break like hardened caramel on top of a dark brown plate. Under it is a smear of dark chocolate, and you since then have not wondered why rich people are so wolfish. Ransom is no exception.

“No, I can’t, Ransom! It’s rude, and it’s dangerous,” you whisper-shout to him, and you cast your eyes to the woman standing next to him. He’s got a type, and it’s not you, apparently. “You know what’s really rude and dangerous? You not showing up fast enough,” he counters, and he walks around you. Ransom places you under a microscope, and he examines you thoroughly.

You’re not suddenly self-conscious, but it just seems to worsen when he’s around. He picks up on it, and he knows you too well, even with a glance of his eyes. He’s the needle, and you’re the battered vinyl that’s a bit warped and scratched—but he’s spent too much money on you to just throw you out.

“How is that dangerous?” you question, and you shove your phone into the white pocket of your coat, letting it accompany your headphones and gloves. They’re fingerless because the Amazon pictures are so deceiving—and you’re so foolish. “A hurt and lonely Ransom is a dangerous Ransom,” he teases before wrapping his arms around your waist.

When Ransom’s fingers brush against the sensitive parts of your body, you wonder how those ballerinas do it with their counterparts. When they’re spun around and tossed with ease, do they get the butterflies? Or when you’re being held and guided oh so gently, do they get all shy as you do?

His pointy chin rests on your shoulder, and you know he must be uncomfortably hunched over right now. He stands at a height you can’t seem to remember, but you can recall that he’s well over six feet.

“Vanilla?” your friend questions after he places his nose on the fabric that shields you from the cold winds. You nod your head, and you hold back from naming the notes that you’ve got memorized.

Vanilla, whipped cream, caramel, chocolate, benzoin, sweetness, and musk.

“Hugh, honey?” his date calls, and she walks over to where the two of you stand. You’ve been through this before. It’s a rinse and repeat routine, one that you want to say you’re tired of, but you have to admit, you love helping Ransom out. “Princeton. From New York. Econ major,” Ransom tells you, and you realize that she’s just another girl to him.

You give her your name before she can even place her manicured nails on his chest—red, a diamond, and almond-shaped. Like any other artist, you stretch one of your colour-covered hands out to greet her. Some days it’s paint—most days, it’s pen ink, and on rare occasions, it’s the dryness of erasers.

Her name is something you’ll always remember because you’re you—these moments are unforgettable. But he’s him; he never cares to remember past the ruined night. You can’t hate him for his habits, and you won’t make him change them.

“Is this your friend?” she asks Ransom, and he shakes his head. Instead of your stomach dropping the first time he did this, you grin wildly. “This is my best friend,” he enunciates, and you nod your head. She doesn’t care enough about your friendship with Ransom to ask questions, but he gives her answers nonetheless.

“We met a while ago when she was an intern at my grandfather’s company, and we’ve been best buds since,” he hums, gazing at you dreamily. You give him the same look, except your eyes are filled with wonderment. “Well, I think we should get back to our date, Hugh,” she laughs, and she doesn’t think this thought. No, she’s telling him that he needs to leave you or else she’ll go.

You wait for the brutality to strike—for the punch to hit her across the face and leave her too bruised for simple selfies during the golden hour. And it comes, except this time, you’re the victim.

“Of course, honey,” he tells her, and he’s leaving your side before your smile can even drop. Maybe this is your karma; have you ever done a bad thing? Memories of stealing fake flowers from a store when you were younger come back. Flashes of gossiping about a friend—who made you feel worse than she should’ve—fill your eyes. No, no, no, you’re not a bad person! Ransom says that, and he’s always right.

But what the fuck?

The pet name is more bitter than it sounds. He’s not even dating this woman! This is the first time he’s even met her.

“Bunny,” Ransom coos, and you look down to the ground. You’re more hurt than you were the time he jumped from a corner, and you tripped and fell. He held you tightly afterwards, and you haven’t seen the group of trust fund babies who laughed at you ever again. “There’s this surrealism exhibit right over there, okay? Go look at some pieces,” he orders, and before you can even whine, he turns around and grabs his date’s arm.

On your feet, you spin. You don’t even know where this surrealism exhibit is, but you leave the abstractionism display either way. Did you say something that upset him? Is he playing a twisted game with you? Or is Ransom fucking Drysdale really trying to settle down now?

The thought is unbelievable, and you’re just seconds away from calling Marta and letting her know every single detail of the past few minutes.

When the serif font in a bold variant fills your view, you know you can’t come up with an excuse for Ransom to not find you. Saying that you got lost isn’t exactly the smartest thing, not when this place is designed for you to find your way. The arrows aren’t exactly dismissable, but you are.

You’ve seen all these damn paintings before, and you’ve studied them, too. Even if it was done in your spare time, you know more about “The Persistence of Memory” than Ransom’s date. You call her honey, and so does he.

It’s predictable, a bit too predictable. Nobody dabbles in this medium anymore. You’ll only ever see minimalism these days—and it’s so heartbreaking for you, personally. Artists never let their fans see inside their minds despite their envied genius.

René Magritte’s “Les Amants” stares back at you, and it sets the tone for the other five paintings in this small room. Nobody else is in here but you, and you’re okay with that. Cameras aren’t allowed, and you find that rule to be utterly useless as you hear a couple asking an elderly woman to press on the round button, not the crescent one.

“Is he your favourite?” someone from behind you asks, and you whip your body to face them. You should face the music, too, y’know. “Not quite, but this piece has a special place in my heart. What about you, sir?” you question the man who’s more dressed up than you are. His all-black outfit and shining watch must mean something, right?

“‘The tomb of the wrestlers’ is nice,” he solemnly tells you, and you nod your head. “Is surrealism your favourite?” he then follows up, and you nod your head. “Yeah, even though it’s not as loved as it should be,” you chuckle, and he copies your exact action. His is more hearty, though, and yours is meant to add humour. “I think the same. Though my colleagues believe otherwise, so that’s why this exhibit is shoved to the back,” he sadly tells you.

Ah, so his simple yet fancy outfit does mean something.

“You work here? That’s so cool. Maybe one day you’ll convince them that you’re right.” And one day, you’ll convince Ransom that just because he doesn’t like something doesn’t mean it’s dumb. Does he think you’re dumb? “I hope so…” he drifts off, staring at another piece of art, and you take it as a sign that this book has been closed and you should move on.

Suddenly, though, he gives you his name. It’s nice, though less indelible than Ransom’s date herself. And yes, as expected, your best friend will remember it for a while. You tell him yours, and he repeats it in such a way that makes you uneasy. No, no, he doesn’t put you off, but you haven’t heard your name from someone else’s lips in oh so long. “Bunny” is what your Thrombey-Drysdale-born friend refers to you as, while others just say “you” when you’re addressed.

You’re sure they don’t know your name, even though you’ve told them it numerous times.

“It’s pretty. Might come up with a terrible nickname for it, though,” Benjamin tells you, and you laugh. You do it because you can’t help it, not because you have a responsibility. “I wish I could come up with a nickname for you, but your name is already short,” you hum, and you notice that he’s stepped closer to you. When was the last time someone who isn’t Ransom or a family member has been this close to you?

“Well, I think someone like you with creativity can do something,” he whispers near your ear, and you stare at the painting to his right. The Harlequin’s Carnival, Joan Miró. Much like what the few Redditors believe, you realize that Joan Miró has reached into your mind and taken a look at it with a magnifying glass. He’s taken account of your flaws, your inner monologue, your perfections, and so much of you.

On the canvas is simply what he’s managed to observe.

“What do you mean, Benny?” you question, and there it is. Your genius, your brilliance. His name may now be one letter off from the pet name Ransom’s given you, but the moniker works nonetheless. “See? That’s it. And I mean that I can tell you’re very creative; it’s just a feeling,” he explains, and you nod your head. “Sorry, I say weird things,” Benjamin mumbles under his breath, and you quickly tut.

“No! It’s not weird. Please don’t apologize. I think it’s pretty cool how you can tell. You’re basically psychic,” you joke, and he cracks a smile. “I guess I am. Do I need to show you my crystal ball for authenticity purposes?” he joshes, and his words immediately remind you of your beloved friend. Ransom must already be gone with his date because by now, shouldn’t he be pestering you with his dealer on the phone?

You’ve never engaged in his illicit activities, but you don’t humiliate him for doing it.

“Or would taking you back to my place be too much, too soon?” Benjamin suddenly questions in a soothing baritone. Your eyebrows shoot up as far as your muscles allow them to go. The saliva in your mouth makes you choke for a split second, and you have no words for the man you only met a few seconds ago.  “I… Uhm…” You’re utterly speechless, more than the first time you saw Ransom in his birthday suit.

“We should go on a date first, right? Sorry. It’s not often that I see a girl as lovely as you. Do you like coffee? I know this great place; Gracenote. Have you heard of it? Wait, no! We should go to this showcase next week. Yes! It’s expressionism, which is very popular here, but you’ll love it. I promise.”

Benjamin rambles, and his face is pinched with pink. He’s seconds away from resembling the woman’s dress in Les Amants. You stare at that painting once more, wishing you could purchase a print, but you know you can’t. What will you say to people who ask you about it? You’ll give them a sad story of suicide, marriage, and the skirts that Magritte was attached to. Did he really have to share the meaning? You believe that artists don’t owe anyone anything.

Well, except for Banksy and his “crimes.”

You can always lie because, unlike Marta, you can get away with it quite well. Sometimes, a little too well. Misery finds misery, and liars find liars. Your brilliance is shared with Ransom, but he was born with it filled and leaking from that silver spoon (the Thrombey-Drysdales can’t seem to rip it out of his mouth).

You could tell them that it’s about two people who are blindly in love but do not know the other well enough; they’ve got an idea of themselves that they are in love with. It hits close to home because you’re doing it with Ransom.

Okay, yes, this story is predictable. But it’s okay! You’ll get your happy ending either way—the main characters always do. Except for the hopelessly-in-love-best friend who always sits on the sidelines.

“When’s the, uh, the showcase? I’ll have to check my calendar,” you say to him, but your words are untruthful. You’re free for the upcoming week and a few days afterwards, and you have no plans unless Ransom decides to force you out of the room in his home that you spend most of your time in. “Thursday night,” Benjamin squeaks out, and he shoves his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. His tone carries hope.

“Yeah, I can do Thursday, Benny.”

You take your tea with a small spoonful of honey, and you’re not upset at the memory that resurfaces. Now, you can hear those ex-peers and much older cousins of yours saying something along the lines of “you’ve matured.” As much as that thought pleases you, it’s not true. You’re just focusing on a good thing that just happened to bless you that night.

The trees outside your home resemble that of the french toast sticks you’ve just made. And so does Ransom’s nose. You make a motion with your finger that he knows so damn well, and he pulls out a handkerchief that Donna gifted him a while back, sometime during Christmas. With a smirk, you watch him wipe his nostrils with the red cloth, one that you can remember first seeing a few years ago.

Walt and the rest of the family had immediately yelled at Ransom when they saw him unwrap the gift. They scolded Donna, albeit jokingly, and told her that he’d never keep the cloth. Now, two years later, he still walks around with it and mocks his family for thinking of him in such a rude manner.

That day was a blur from all the eggnog Fran had given you. Ransom thoroughly enjoyed having to throw you over his shoulders to get you home, though.

“Thanks, bunny,” he smiles, and he drops down into the loveseat that’s across from you. It’s not rare to experience kindness from Ransom. Not when you’re you. But for others, they might as well wait until hell freezes over and Satan catches frostbite. (You said that in front of Walt once, and he immediately tried to find a way to insult Ransom with it).

“No syrup? Really?” he scoffs as he breaks apart the second fluffiest stick out of the pile you have stacked up. The firstmost is left for you. “It’s too early for syrup, Ransom! And plus, there’s sugar on them!” you defend, and he chuckles. “Whatever, bunny. You’re energetic today. What’s going on?” your best friend questions, and you grow shy.

“Promise you won’t get mad, Ransom?” you coax, and the question itself worries Ransom. “Why would I get mad, bunny?” he forces out through gritted teeth, already alight with a flame that only you can put out. “I’m goin’ on a date!” you exclaim, and you place your almost-finished cup of tea on the table in front of you.

There’s a pregnant pause.

“A what now?” he quizzes, immediately standing up from his seat. If this were a soap opera, someone would be fainting right about now. “A date, Ransom! Ugh, you know! I don’t wanna have to explain it,” you sheepishly tell him, stretching your hands out as you walk near your friend. At first, he jerks away and turns to look out the window, which makes you pout.

But when Ransom sees your jutted-out lip, he caves and allows you to engulf him in a hug. You dig your now-manicured nails (covered in clear, sparkly nail polish) into the knitted holes of his sweater, and you stare him in the eyes. Though they’re squinted and a bit red, you manage to hold his gaze and notice the darkness in them. The colour of a sky before the rain is what you end up looking into, not his usual brighter colour.

“Don’t scare this one off, Ransom. Please? I’m the only one in my family without a boyfriend! I’ve never even had a boyfriend. Just give him a chance, Ransom. For me—for your bunny,” you whisper slowly, and he can smell the sugar and chamomile on your tongue. When he inhales sharply, he catches the odd smell of honey and nearly grimaces. He hates it, but he doesn’t have a problem with you using it.

Your middle name might as well be ‘exception’ since that’s what you mostly are for Ransom.

It takes everything in Ransom’s body to not lean forward and capture you in a searing kiss. It would be your first, and it’d be absolutely divine. The kind that romance freaks fawn over yet the type that the critics hate on. He’d eat you up, teeth and all. Your dearest friend would never hurt you, but he’d love to see your lips with a red line that he caused.

Is your blood as sweet as you are? It’s fantastical to wonder this, but he knows your saccharine being is something that none of those country club daughters can compare to. …Is that where he met that woman? He can’t recall the small details, only remembering how upset you looked when one of the older men leered at you. At the golf course the next day, Ransom swung his club at something that didn’t fly among the hole-filled grassy hills.

His white collared polo shirt still has blue blood stained on it.

“Fine, bunny. You know I’m just looking out for you, right? There are so many bad guys out there who don’t deserve you,” Ransom lowly speaks after letting out a deep sigh. You nod your head, bringing your fingers up to the neckline of his sweater. It’s a grey colour, one that you match with your shirt. He wears it on purpose because you’ve stolen it from him before. He can swear that your lotion’s scent is still laced in the fibres.

“I know, Ransom. But I’m a big girl. I can handle myself,” you reassure him, and he nearly scoffs.

You’re not a big girl; you’re his little bunny! Who do you think you are saying these kinds of things? You can’t do what he’s been doing for you for the past few years of your relationship. Do you know how many people he’s had to hurt for you? How about how much he loves you? Hm? Do you know that he loves you more than anyone ever will?

“...And Benny is so sweet, I think you’ll like him!” you tell Ransom, interrupting his brutal train of thought. It moves at hundreds of miles per hour, faster than anything you can fathom. You’ve given that guy a nickname? The rich man holds back a vulgar word, knowing you don’t appreciate it when he curses. “Really?” he questions in utter disbelief, and you quickly nod your head.

“Maybe one day you guys can meet! Oh, we can go on a double date!” you propose, sticking your index finger up in affirmation of your seemingly brilliant idea. “Bunny, what are you talking about?” Ransom questions with a smile on his face, knowing that it’ll soothe the blow he’s about to give you. “Me, Benny, that girl you were with last week, and you!” you explain brightly.

Ransom chuckles, and it’s just like those times he’d sit by his Great Nana and laugh at his fighting family. Like for her, he’s got a soft spot with your name etched on it. His neat handwriting has been perfected for the sake of seeing his last name attached to yours. Ransom wishes for you to be a Drysdale, not being able to stand the mere idea of having to be near the Thrombey’s.

“Bunny, I’m not with that lady. It was just a date that didn’t end well,” Ransom tells you, and your mouth forms an ‘o’ in understanding. “Oh, ’M sorry about that Ransom!” you express, and he presses a kiss on your forehead. He keeps his pink lips on your warm skin, not wanting to pull away and desiring to do more than just this. “S’okay, bunny. I can still accompany you,” he whispers against your face.

You laugh while shaking your head, and as sweet as that sound usually is, it displeases your best friend.

Purple glows are what light up the room—if that’s what you can call it. You can barely make out faces and bodies unless they’re wearing some sort of diamonds on them. Most people here are, except for you. You once had your ears pierced, but your job rendered those pieces of jewellery useless. When you quit, you never had the time to re-puncture your lobes.

Ransom has pestered you about it for a while now, and you smile at the memory of him saying he’s willing to go to Claire’s to get the job done. Ransom fucking Drysdale in Claire’s, what a sight that would be.

“I know a few people here, but I’m not leaving you, okay? I can tell you’re a bit uneasy,” Benjamin suddenly states, turning around. His hand is clasped with yours, and you nearly bump into his chest at his abrupt halt. You nod your head before squeaking out a meek thanks, and he smiles down at you. Sweet, sweet Benny.

“Let’s get a drink!” he shouts when the music starts to grow far too loud for your taste. You can feel each beat in your body, shaking your bones slightly. “Okay, but nothing too strong, please,” you request, wanting to fully remember this night. Benjamin laughs and nods his head, and he leads you to the bar.

With each step you take, you’re forced to say, “excuse me.” Everyone cuts you a nasty glare, but you just look down and ignore them as best you can. It’s an environment you could never get used to, but a place that Ransom could quite possibly live and breathe in. As long as he has a lifetime supply of Biscoff cookies. Oh, and you by his side.

Benjamin exchanges a few words with the bartender, who pours different coloured liquids into glasses. When your date stops talking, the moustached-man nods his head and turns around to prepare whatever drinks Benjamin has asked him for. You’re a bit nervous, and you cope with it by tapping your foot against the shiny floors. The black marble tiles look as though they’ve been laced with gold, its streaks resembling veins.

“Hey, do you mind sitting at that table? If it’s gone, we might be standing for the entire night,” Benjamin chuckles, but you know he’s not kidding. In the blink of an eye, you’re gone. Your hand is merely a phantom for your date, and you now sit at the round black table while you patiently wait for Benjamin.

You look around the filled-up room for the art he’s promised, and the only piece you can find is a Van Gogh collage on a woman’s dress. The sight makes you smile, and you realize that you haven’t exactly dressed for the occasion. Your red dress is simple, unlike the clothing that other people wear. It ends slightly above your knees, has cap sleeves, and has a high neckline that almost resembles a turtleneck.

Like most of your outfits, it pairs with one of Ransom’s sweaters. His mother once called you ‘thing 2,’ and Ransom was dubbed ‘thing 1’. For Halloween, he got custom onesies, and you drove to her firm to embarrass him.

“Here you go, doll!” Benjamin exclaims, and he snaps you out of your reverie. The pet name is foreign; you’ve only ever known being called “bunny.” You’re not sure how to feel about it, but it’s odd. On queue, the song changes to a more upbeat tone that might just seem out of place in one of Hollywood’s latest thriller films.

Your drink is fruity and a bright, opaque orange colour. You can dare and say he’s bought you overpriced orange juice, but when you take a smell of it, you can taste the bubbly champagne. “A mimosa?” you question with a smile on your face, shocked that a place like this would even serve one of your guilty pleasures. Benjamin nods his head, and you take note of the bottle of beer that sits in front of him.

Pabst Blue Ribbon—a drink that might receive a punch or two from Ransom if it were a real person.

Or, as he likes to put it, it’s Walt in liquid form. Absolutely disgusting and annoying and just a whole bunch of other rude (yet true) words that you cannot recall.

“Everything else is just… awful. Unless you had something in mind! I’m sorry, I’ll get you something else,” he nervously rambles, and you giggle.

“Benny, it’s perfect. I love mimosas. Thank you for this,” you say to him, reaching over to grab his hand. He smiles at you charmingly, and he rubs his thumb over your skin. You look up at him in awe, and you maintain eye contact. It’s an action you struggle with when it comes to most people. But with Benjamin and Ransom, it is simply so divine. You’ve read a novel like this before—wait, no, it was a movie.

It was something fictional, that’s for sure.

The two lovers of the media piece—the main characters—shared this exact moment. They leaned in for their kiss, just like what you’re now doing with Benjamin. Your eyes flutter shut, and a few seconds after, so do his. Your heads are tilted to the side, and you’re both careful to not leave this place with a bloody nose or swollen facial features.

It’s so damn perfect because you can swear the music has slowed down, and like the author or narrator always describes, it feels like you and your date are the only people in the room.

But then comes the rude awakening. Someone brushes past your table roughly, and they murmur out a pathetic apology. Your purse falls to the ground, and Benjamin pulls away from your face. “Shit,” he curses, trying to grab for your bag. But it’s too far for him to reach, so you simply do it yourself.

You hang onto the back of your chair as you comfortably shift your body, hooking the handle with one of your fingers and slowly pulling it back to you. You whip back to your original position, and you try to put yourself back together.

“Sorry about that,” Benjamin sheepishly expresses, scratching the back of his neck. His face is scribbled with awkwardness, and you’re almost the same. “S’fine,” you mumble out, placing your bag in your lap to avoid another mishap. “You should try your drink! Let me know what you think. If it’s good, y’know—that’s what I meant,” he stumbles out, and before he can say anything else, you’re taking a long sip from your glass.

It’s just like a prom’s fruit punch on your tongue, except with richer bubbles and a sort of complexity to it. You’re not sure how to feel about it at first, but when you continue to sip on it, you realize that you love it. Not to the point where you’ll order another, though. “So…?” Benjamin questions, bringing the brown bottle to his lips. Almost begrudgingly pulling the straw out of your mouth, you smile.

“It’s really good, Benny. Thank you so much,” you whisper loud enough for him to hear, feeling a pair of eyes on you. It must be from a jealous somebody, envying you for being on a date with such a perfect man. Who wouldn’t? Benjamin is flawless. “Heh, I’m glad,” he shyly admits, and you both continue to sip on your beverages until someone decides to say something.

You stir your drink with your black straw despite it already being mixed well. It’s a nervous tick, one that you use to make you look busy to avoid sitting in a painful silence. Ransom knows this so well—he knows every bit about you.

He even knows just how trusting and naive you can be. It’s sickeningly sweet to him, an aspect of you that he wants to say should go untouched by he can’t. You’re begging to be ruined by him, whether you realize that or not. Soft lips dragged between your teeth, puppy dog eyes reserved just for Ransom, and your sweet voice just humming delightfully in his ear. He wants to keep you all to himself, far away from the worst parts of life.

Though, he won’t keep you safe from himself. He’ll hunt you down and ruin you, knowing that you'll never be able to stop him.

In the darkness of the club, he stands solemnly. Women have come up to him and asked for all kinds of sexual favours and returns, but he’s rejected them all brutally. It’s something he’s been doing for a while now, ever since he's met you. The thought of being with someone who isn’t his bunny makes him sick with both disgust and remorse.

But when someone who had no interest in sleeping with him comes up to him, he can’t resist them. Especially when they've got an offer that’s just oh so enticing.

The strange man waves a small vial of clear liquid in front of Ransom’s face, negotiating a low price of $65, mere pocket change for the Drysdale. He’s never thrown cash and something so quick in his life. He gets anything he wants and even gets things he doesn’t ask for. He wasn’t just born into a wealthy family; he was born into the universe’s luck.

The near-kiss is something he can’t stand to think about, but he has to thank it. You’re easily distracted—pulled away by anyone who demands even the slightest bit of your attention. When Benjamin has you captured with his eyes like a net, Ransom–the predator—swoops in. He first lays down the interruption, pushing someone gently so that their flying hands hit your purse.

Ransom sinks his claws into his prey when you and your lousy date both look away, letting him perform his virtuous act so that the audience can curse him for being a fool. …No, they’re not throwing tomatoes… They’re cheering and clapping and even shedding a stupid tear or two. It’s the part they’ve been waiting for, the one where the best friend finally gets the girl.

He sits in his car, the one you love so dearly. Whenever he offers to pick you up from wherever you are, you always ask if he’s going to take the Beemer. Sometimes, he lies and leaves it for a surprise. Other times, however, he makes you grovel and beg him even though the key is already in the ignition.

It’s the perfect angle because he’s just so damn smart. Ransom’s years at Columbia have certainly paid off, despite what his parents may believe. He’s able to look at you through the large window that you and your date sit next to, despite the few lingering and wild bodies that frame the scene. Your best friend fidgets with his ring, occasionally pulling it off and putting it back on.

Underneath Ransom’s sweater is his well-built abdomen, and beneath all that muscle and seemingly perfect skin is his stomach. It doesn’t exactly hurt, but he isn’t really sitting still right now. You once ran your fingers very lightly along the back of his neck, and he nearly fell with how high he jumped. You questioned, what’s wrong, Ransom? And it was then when he told you that you’ve managed to find his sole ticklish spot.

On the occasion when he’s quite bothersome, you run your fingers along that area in a similar manner. Right now, it feels as though your hands are in his body and doing the exact same thing over and over again. You’ve encaptured him everywhere—body, mind, and soul.

Almost, just almost, in contrast, you’re writhing in uncomfortableness too. A cramp claims you and squeezes tightly at your tummy, one that is different from the many kinds you’ve felt. You slouch down just a bit in your chair, but not enough for your date to think rudely about you. When you clasp your hands together, you realize that they’re hot and sweaty. And no matter how many times you rub them on your dress, the dampness never leaves.

You’ve heard of this kind of thing before. From your mother, who was informed by your aunt, who your cousin had confided in the week after the Fourth of July. Nothing bad really happened, excluding the sick feeling she had for a few days and the neverending exhaustion. She never told you anything beyond that, but you know she called a friend, one that she trusts very dearly, and begged for their help.

And it’s what you decide to do.

“S’cuse me,” you mumble, grabbing your bag and abruptly standing up. As Benjamin—ostensibly charming Benny—stares at you with worry, you warily look at your drink. There’s a drop of juice left at the button, and you can feel dizziness consuming you almost entirely.

When you push your way through rich art majors and others alike, you still keep your manners. Such a sweet little thing you are. You try your best to find an exit, but it’s as if you’re trapped in—as if this is some elaborate plan. Before you can even go into a panicked frenzy, your phone lights up.

It’s a stupid notification that you’d usually get upset over, but you’re now thanking it for being a reminder. You make quick work in calling your dearest friend, the one you should’ve listened to earlier today.

He picks up on the third ring, even though he could answer at any time, and you’d still be oblivious to what he’s done. You’re a smart one, but you can be so fucking dumb sometimes. No, most times.

“Hey, bunny! How’s the date?” Ransom cheers, even though he doesn’t give a fuck about your stupid date. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He says the same thing about anything he doesn’t like, which is almost everything. “R- Ransom? I need your help, p- please,” you break down into sobs that make his heart clench.

“What’s wrong, bunny? What happened?” he questions, and he purposely starts up his car as loud as he can. The engine is loud, but he knows it’ll bring you comfort. “I- I think he put somethin’ in my drink. I feel so weird, Ransom. …Am I gonna die?” you whimper to him, and he soothingly shushes you.

“Nothing’s gonna hurt you, okay?. I’m on my way,” Ransom says, and he’s already turned his Beemer off. “T- Thank you, thank you so much, Ransom,” you tell him, and he smiles even though you can’t see him. He can see you, though. “I should’ve listened to you. “M so sorry,” you sniffle, and you suddenly feel a wave of euphoria crashing in your body.

The gasp you let out is so lewd, and it goes straight to Ransom’s cock. He’s already hard because you just have that effect on him, even though you don’t realize that. “What happened, bunny? C’mon, talk to me. You’re making me worried,” he urges, desperate to hear you say something scandalous. Oh, Ransom, my pussy is so wet… And it’s so sensitive.

But you, so pure and untried, have no idea what’s happening.

“S’weird, Ransom. Please hurry,” you plead, leaning against a wall. Your hips remain jutted out, and so does your bottom lip. Heat fills your body, and you’re covered in a thin yet slowly building sheen of sweat. It’s only February, and you can remember the windshield warning in the weather app. Why are you so hot right now?

The back of your hand wipes at your forehead, dabbing it lightly and checking to see if you’ve suddenly developed a fever. You don’t exactly feel ill… You just feel odd. It’s like a feeling you find yourself having at least once or twice a week (that you chalk up to being nothing despite your soaking panties), but it’s coming in tenfold. Your breaths are laboured, and your chest rises and falls as if you’ve just run a marathon.

“Bunny? Oh my God, c’mere,” Ransom’s voice softly says, breaking your scared and confused daze. You throw your body at him immediately, wrapping your arms around him as if you haven’t seen your friend in years. “Oh, Ransom,” you sob, and his hands move to your waist. His touch is like electricity, and you nearly squeal when you feel his palms against your body.

Right near Ransom’s ear, you let out a shaky sigh. The caress he gives you goes straight to your core, and you can feel your button throbbing. “Let’s go, okay? Just hold onto me,” he ushers before gently dragging you out of the club. In contrast to your friend’s steps, yours are short and wobbly. You have barely any balance in your heels. One hand of his goes to your waist so that he can keep you steady.

It’s not like you’re dizzy anymore. No, ever since Ransom arrived and pressed himself close to you, you’ve felt a bit better. Except the sopping wetness in your core hasn’t ceased, and you don’t know what to do. But you can trust Ransom! He’s your best friend; he’d never judge you. He loves you so dearly, and that’s why he’s helping you out. You just need to be honest with the one man who’s only ever been kind to you.

When he opens up the car door, you squeeze his shoulders. He’s so strong and so big. You’re sure he can hurt anyone, but he’d never hurt you. “R- Ransom,” you mumble as he buckles your seatbelt for you. He makes sure it’s not too tight yet not too loose, and he looks down at you with raised eyebrows. It’s your queue to speak, but you find yourself speechless.

Your eyes rake his flawless face. Each part of him has been perfected by the angels themselves. No wonder he indulges in so many naughty things! You can remember the day you caught him with another woman in bed, and you never bothered asking for her name. He called her baby, and he told her to fuck off as soon as you shut the door with a slam. You hate slamming doors.

Some whining about sucking something for him so that he can finish off another thing was followed up, but you were too embarrassed to stick around and listen.

“Talk to me, bunny,” he urges, waiting for you to cry out in fear. Your gaze falls to his plump lips. They remind you of the petals of some flowers. Maybe roses. Linda doesn’t like roses, so she tells the gardener to never consider planting them. Linda also doesn’t like her only son, but you do.

Wait, you do? You do! Why wouldn’t you? He’s Ransom fucking Drysdale, and he’s only kind to you.

“Wanna…” you trail off before placing your hands on each of his thighs. He’s so well-built, so well-sculptured. “What’s wrong?” he questions once more, leaning further down to you. You keep your eyes trained on his lips, and they’re so kissable. You don’t even know how to lock yours with his, but the idea is so damn nice. “Kiss me?” you request, and you wait for him to slam the door in your face.

It doesn’t happen. No, instead, he swears, and the lewd word should make you slap him on the arm (playfully), but it doesn’t. It gives you hope. “We gotta get you home, bunny,” Ransom whispers, and before he can close the door, you pout at him. “But I want a kiss! Please? Like the ones you give all those girls,” you reason, and you squeeze his thighs.

“When we go home, okay? I’ll give you all the kisses at home, bunny,” he promises, and he smiles when you pull away from him and clap your hands in rejoice.

The drive is so long it almost hurts. In the darkness and down the streets, you only see the lights that are blurred from the speed. It’s not high, but it’s teetering towards the limit. But there’s no one else on the roads, and Ransom likes to live on the edge.

The entire way, you have your legs parted. You’ve begged him to roll the window down, but he won’t allow it. He says something about it being too dangerous and knowing that you’ll want to do something rebellious. Usually, you just stick your out of the open glass until you’re tired.

“You need to listen to me, bunny. When I tell you something isn’t right, it isn’t right,” Ransom tells you, and you want to roll your eyes. “Are you listening to me?” he questions, and he sounds just like his grandfather. You hum as you look out the window and try to ignore your aching body’s cries for some time of help. “Bunny?” Ransom calls once more, and you hum again.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you,” he growls suddenly, grabbing your face with his hand. The coolness of his ring is pleasant, but his skin against yours is so much better. Your friend holds your chin, and the car comes to a halt. In a pathetic attempt, you try to look out the windshield to know where he’s taken you. But you can see the familiar trees and the extremely large house in your peripheral view.

“You need to listen to me, bunny. You don’t know the things I know,” he warns, and you dumbly nod your head. Your blinks are slow, and there’s just something about Ransom’s demanding tone that just makes you feel so tender in your core. If your lips weren’t squished right now, you’d be biting them until they ache. “Okay, Ransom,” you squeak out when he raises his eyebrow.

“Good girl,” he whispers delightfully, and you let out a whine. “Ransom��feels so tingly!” you whimper out once he pulls his hand away from your face. His eyebrows furrow, and you squeeze your thighs together, sighing when you feel a moment of mitigation.

“What feels tingly, bunny?” Ransom inquires, and he involuntarily places his hand on your upper thigh.

“R- Right there!” you squeak out, both nervous and on edge for entirely different reasons. “Oh… Poor bunny. I think I know what that fucker did. There’s this popular drug—it’s pretty new, I think. Anyways, it makes you feel some things, and it makes you really sensitive. That’s what’s happening to you, right?” Ransom questions as he moves his palm up and down your leg.

It’s so hard to think straight with him so close to you and something enchanting in your system. You wish you could say it’s not very pleasant, but it’s absolutely divine.

Everything Ransom says goes unlistened, and you squeeze your eyes shut. “I’ll take you inside, bunny,” he eventually says, stepping out of the car and closing the door behind him. The few seconds without him are painful, and you find yourself needing him near you so badly.

Ransom opens your door, and he scoops you up in his arms with ease. The action is so simple and mundane, yet it makes you nuzzle your face against his grey sweater.

“Shit, I can smell that sweet little pussy,” Ransom grumbles, and you look up at him. “Hm?” you hum, and he simply ignores you. His house is a home for you as you’ve spent most days in a year here. Despite your neverending whines, he still hasn’t put any curtains up. It’s one of his few flaws—that’s what you tell yourself. Ransom has almost no imperfections, and he could do no wrong.

“Just stay here, okay?” he orders as he lays you onto his off-white couch. When he pulls his hands away from your body, you immediately try to stand up. “No, no, no, bunny. Stay put,” Ransom demands, and you shake your head. “Don’t leave me, please,” you beg, holding onto Ransom’s sleeve. He sighs before placing his hands on his hips.

He stands just like a worried father, and usually, you’d tease him over it. “I won’t leave, bunny. But I need to get you some help. I’m gonna go call Marta. I don’t know if you’re safe or not.” Ransom’s words are heavy and more serious than he’s ever been. Yet, you still keep pulling him towards you. “Hey, I’ll give you those kisses you wanted,” he proposes, and even though he drives a hard bargain, you just won’t let him go.

You want to get some help, yes, but Ransom is all you need right now. In your eyes, he’s the remedy that’ll fix your issue.

“But Ransom! I need you with me,” you reason, plopping onto the couch and yanking at him as hard as you can. He, all muscle and strength, does not move. “Why, bunny? I’m right here! I’m gonna make it all better. I just need to call Marta,” Ransom tells you as he goes to peel your hands off of him. His index and middle finger expertly remove your weak grip. God, you’ve seen those digits be directed at so many people so many times.

He moves further from you with his arms leaving you as well. You’re worried that if you don’t feel the even featherlight touch of his breath, you might go insane. You believe that to wake up tomorrow morning without regret in your mind, you need Ransom. Swallowing thickly, you try your best to find words and articulated sentences in your blurry mind.

All that comes up, though, is the urge to shed your clothes as if they’re some sort of obnoxious second-skin.

You shoot up and rush after Ransom, calling out his name as you watch him pick up the landline. It’s got a coiled wire and looks like something from an Old Hollywood movie. Ransom had bought it when you expressed your love for those kinds of phones, and he lets you play with it until the clicking pisses him off.

“You’re gonna be okay, bunny. I promise. Just gonna get you some help,” Ransom grunts out, dialling the friendly nurse’s number. You’re stubborn on the occasion, but it’s never been this bad. Is it the gracious vial that’s blessing him right now? Ransom’s karma never catches him because he believes he’s never done a bad thing in his life. Sometimes, he just has to do what he needs to do.

“No, Ransom! I need you!” you suddenly screech out, balling up your sweaty hands by your side.

With the press of a button, Ransom deletes the call he was about to make.

“I- I feel all weird and tingly and sweaty, and whenever you touch me, it gets better, Ransom! Can’t you just take care of me? Please, Ransom, please help me,” you continue, and Ransom fights back the utmost tempting smirk. He hangs up the phone with a click, and he begins to move closer to you. Your friend resembles an animal—one that’s finally managed to have his prey near him. It’s just a few steps away from him.

Despite the almost horridness of the way he moves, you have a smile on your face. “Oh, bunny. It tingles down in your little pussy so much, doesn’t it? Yeah, I can fix that! I know you don’t have any idea what to do. You’re just really scared. It’s probably whatever your date gave you. Maybe it also makes things worse, y’know? …Did you kiss him, bunny?”

You nod along with his words, grasping at them with shaky hands but not catching everything. When his final question hits you, you shake your head. Ransom smiles, satisfied with your answer in so many similar ways. “Good girl. I’m the only one who should be touching you. See what happens when you let other guys near you? They hurt you. I’d never hurt you like they do.” he hums.

Ransom looks down at your hands, and he notices they’re shaking.

“Aw, bunny. Are you scared? Is Daddy being scary? I’m sorry. I was just trying my best to help!”

You teeter between confirming and denying his suspicions, and he frowns. It’s not faux at all—it’s completely genuine.

He must really be worried for you…

“I’ll help you out, bunny. Don’t worry! But I Googled something, and it’s kind of mandatory with your… situation,” he solemnly informs you, grabbing your shoulders. You quickly melt in his touch and try to lean into him, and he clicks his tongue in a disapproving manner. “After, bunny—don’t be so greedy. I know it won’t make any sense, but you have to do it, okay?” Ransom tells you, and you’re nodding before he can even finish speaking.

Maybe it’s because he’s so greedy, or perhaps it’s because he likes to push his luck. Ransom lives on the edge like that—his foot on the gas with hundreds of cars coming at him from different directions. It’s like a game to him—he loves fooling around. And he can’t help but do the same with you.

“Just… Run around the place, okay? Sounds so fucking stupid, but it’ll help you, bunny,” he sighs while he explains, and you’re all ready to dart as far as your feet will take you. Like he said, it’ll help you—he’ll help you. Just listen to his every word. “I- I’ll do it, Ransom! I’ll do anything for you,” you promise to your friend, and he dims the lights.

The ache behind your eyes suddenly disappears and turns into a satisfying dullness. You’ve been so caught up with your desperateness that you haven’t even noticed the other parts of your body that have been crying out for different reasons. Your pussy weeps even more than them, though, and it’s impossible to ignore. “I’m gonna catch you, okay?” Ransom tells you, and you nod your head.

Even though you’re ditzy, you still make the smart decision of dashing before he urges you once more.

You hop up the two stairs that separate the kitchen from the living room. The cold tile against your feet makes you sigh in relief, but you don’t stop to relish it. You move around the island with the sleek sink in the center. Ransom is hot on your heels, proving to you that his occasional jogs and overly-expensive treadmill haven’t gone to waste.

“Gotta move faster, bunny. Imagine if that bad man had come after you? Hm? That stupid Brandon,” Ransom questions, and he’s glad that you don’t correct him. You’ve finally put your best friend first—something you should’ve done so long ago. He doesn’t hold it against you, but it does hurt his feelings just a tad bit. How could you harm your best friend like that?

You try your hardest to figure out some sort of plan, but it’s as if Ransom lives in your mind. When you move to your left, he’s already done the same. And when you move to the right, he’s there before you. You make the motion to move to the left suddenly, but when he moves in that direction, you run in the opposite. Ransom’s fingers barely touch you as you move back into the living room.

“Clever girl,” the slightly older man praises, and it goes straight to your core. You’re in a similar situation once again, except the thing that keeps you and Ransom apart is a couch. He could easily reach over and grab you, but he loves to play with his food. He’s been scolded for it too many times, but his behaviour never changes.

You try to repeat the same method, not once shy from it. As you try to execute your plan, you feel a strong arm wrap around your waist. “Just not clever enough,” Ransom whispers against your ear, his body pressed against yours. You let out a giggle that ends in a lewd gasp, feeling something hard on your ass. “I tried my best…” you whisper, turning around in his hold. But Ransom lifts you up with ease, and he carries you someplace.

Gently, you’re placed onto the carpeted ground next to his glass coffee table. It’s been pushed to the side, and you realize that Ransom has done it for you. He does so much for you… Your friend steps away from your writhing body for a few seconds, and the change of sight makes you smile. On his wall and above his fireplace is Les Amants—except with a twist.

The two lovers are quite different from their original forms. The woman resembles you, whereas the man looks like Ransom. Your faces are uncovered, and Ransom is pressing a passionate kiss to your cheek.

The painting makes you giggle, and Ransom smiles at your reaction. He places a pillow underneath your body before blocking your view again. “I knew you’d like it, bunny. Daddy does all that for you because he loves you,” Ransom whispers, and you simply nod your head. “Love you too, Ransom,” you mumble before fisting at his grey sweater.

“Of course you do,” he exhales, parting your legs and pushing them upwards. Once your knees touch your torso, Ransom closes your legs. His left hand holds your limbs at your knees, and his right hand travels to your soaked panties. “But you’ll never love me as much as I love you, bunny—no one will,” he tells you as he grabs at the ruined fabric.

It’s sticky with your arousal, and as he pulls at the fabric to rip it, he watches as a few strings of slick stretch from your cunt. You’re leaking with creaminess, dripping all the way down to your ass.

“You’re soaked, bunny… And you smell so fucking good,” Ransom groans, basking in your tangy yet sweet scent. It’s so addictive, and he just wants to eat you up. The urge to take your swollen little nub of nerves and suck in it until you see stars is quite strong. But he decides to hold off for now because his hard cock is straining against his pants, and it almost hurts.

“‘S that bad, Ransom?” you nervously ask, trying to look at him from your position. He abruptly hovers above you, smiling in reassurance and realization. “Not at all, bunny! It’s completely normal…” Ransom nervously trails off, and you pick up on his unease. “What’s wrong?’ you question, scared out of your mind.

“It’s just… You’re more wet than usual, bunny. Nothing I can’t fix, but it’ll probably take all night—maybe until tomorrow morning.”

“‘M not worried, Ransom. I know you can help me,” you tell him, reassuring both yourself and your best friend.

He stares down at you, his face suddenly all serious. Ransom’s lips are parted, and his index finger trails along your inner thigh until he’s touching your aching flesh. He watches as you bite your lip from the feeling, and he continues to move his finger through your wet folds. Bliss passes through your body at his touch, and it increases once he presses down on your clit.

Your back arches and you’re letting out breathy moans. “Do you like that, bunny? Daddy’s making you feel all better now,” Ransom hums before bringing his digit down to your drooling hole. You’re clenching around nothing but air, and the sight of your tiny hole makes Ransom groan. A rush of blood flows down to his cock as he thinks about how tight your pussy will feel around his cock.

His large cock and your small pussy prove that you were made for him and only him.

Pathetically, you nod your head at a rapid pace. Ransom chuckles, and he slowly breaches your pussy with his finger. His digit is coated in your copious amount of arousal, and it gushes out even more once he’s one-knuckle deep inside of you. “R- Ransom,” you stutter, but he quickly shushes you. The feeling of his thick finger inside of you is so foreign, but you get used to it once a few seconds pass.

“No, no. You gotta call me Daddy, bunny. Otherwise, I won’t help you,” Ransom warns, and you mumble out an apology.

“Daddy,” you whisper, and he smiles in delight. “Good girl. You’re my good girl, right, bunny? My good little girl,” Ransom hums, and he pulls his finger out of your pussy. A small ring of whiteness surrounds his finger. Ransom’s mouth waters at the sight, but he fights off his urges again. That drenched digit returns to your clit with the motive to torture you.

He slowly rubs your pearl in tight circles, and he watches as your pussy contracts from the pleasure. “O- Oh, feels so good,” you slur, bucking your hips up on your body’s own accord. As you try to chase after something, Ransom pulls his hand away for a brief second. Before you can even beg him to continue to work whatever magic he’s got at his fingertips, stinging in the most delicious way ever.

There’s a split second of friction on your clit, and neither you nor Ransom can tell if you’re moaning from the pain or the pleasure. The line between the two has blurred.

Your legs jerk to close, but Ransom doesn’t let that happen. He keeps them parted as he strikes you once more, revelling in the way you yelp the title he now wears. “Daddy!” you cry out, and your tone is a mix of need and hurt. Maybe even fear, and that makes Ransom blush wildly. Your pussy is sopping wet, and it hurts to have him not touch you.

“P- Please, feels so good,” you babble like a baby, and Ransom chuckles. “You like that, bunny? Do you like it when Daddy slaps your little pussy? You’re so desperate for it; you’re just taking anything I’m giving you.’ He shakes his head as he speaks, and he ends his sentences with light smacks to your clit. Your jaw is slacked, and every time his fingers make contact with your swollen cunt, you try to grind against his touch.

“Daddy…” you whine, and you can feel creaminess leaking down to your puckered hole. Your pussy aches for things you can’t do, but Ransom can. A bitter yet sweet scent wafts in the air—a mixture of what’s running down your intimate areas and the sweat on your skin. It’s addicting and very familiar. The only difference is that it’s so much more potent than the usual times it’s on the tip of your nose.

“Say it; tell Daddy what you like,” Ransom demands, and he pulls his hand away from your pussy. His slick-stained fingers are mesmerizing, and he works them against his leather belt. Through some difficulty, he

manages to push his boxers and pants down to his knees, and he leans over you once again. You’re wordless, as expected.

“I… I, uhm, I like it when you hurt me, Daddy—especially down there,” you mumble out, and you can’t fight the smile on your face when Ransom groans loudly.

“Fuck, bunny. Such a good girl,” he praises, and his hand returns to your pussy. He taps your creamy cunt with the tip of his middle finger, and your choked gasp turns into a loud moan when he pushes into you. It happens with ease, and the same small amount of simplicity is what he uses to find that sweet spot of yours. It’s spongy and makes you see stars when he curls his mildly chubby yet incredibly long finger.

“Oh my…” you breathe out, and Ransom’s other hand spreads your legs. He’s seen you in this position before—except the circumstances were different. You were watching him try on suits, and you laid down on his sofa in the oddest way ever. That’s you, though. You put comfort over manners, and you don’t give a damn unless you’re in public. Through your parted knees, you watched Ransom undress.

Your tight pussy clamps down on your saviour’s digit, and you feel your mildly coherent thoughts fall away. Nothingness fills your mind—Ransom knows this. “Aw, bunny. Are you already all stupid? I mean, you certainly aren’t the brightest. But I’ve only got a finger in this tiny pussy, and look at yourself—you’re a fucking goner,” he chuckles, and you helplessly whimper from his words.

“Just my little airhead, hm?”

Another digit is pushed into your sloppy pussy, but this time, it’s a bit of a struggle. Ransom scissors his ring and middle fingers inside your cunt, stretching you open as best as he can. Is it wrong of him to want it to hurt? You’re so damn pretty when you’re in pain and all teary-eyed for him. “Daddy,” you hiss as he opens your hole up for his cock a little more.

The two tips meet at your sweet spot, and before you know it, Ransom is slowly fucking his fingers in and out of you. A moan rips through you as your legs jolt with pleasure. Ransom’s hand is covered in your cream, but he doesn’t mind it at all. “Look at you, bunny. You’re soaking my fingers, and you can barely take them. Daddy’s gonna have to force his cock in there,” he says, watching as his skin glistens.

Mindlessly, you nod. Ransom is aware that you have no damn idea of what he’s talking about, and that just turns him on even more. He starts to pick up the pace, and his palm rubs against your clit. Your pathetic noises only grow louder, and they egg Ransom on. ‘Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,” you prattle as your eyes roll back into your head.

“Oh, are you gonna come already, bunny? Are you gonna come with Daddy’s finger in your little pussy—in my little pussy?” Ransom questions and you just affirm his words with your pants.

A searing pressure cuts through your abdomen, and you feel so damn full with Ransom’s fingers inside of you. A sort of light sensation grabs your body—one that you’ve never felt before. The wet sounds of your pussy go straight to Ransom’s cock, and he just loves the way you’re leaking.

“Think that asshole could make you feel so good, bunny? Fuck no. Only Daddy gets to make you feel good,” he grumbles, and he starts to slow his fingers down once he recognizes the rapid rise and fall of your chest. He laughs as you begin to whine and call his title, but he ignores your pleas to not stop.

Ransom roughly pulls his fingers out of your pussy with a sounding pop, and the amount of your breathy yet garbled words is growing. He wipes his digits on your thigh, and he squeezes the sensitive inner flesh of it. Your cunt throbs even more, and Ransom watches as it rapidly clenches around nothing. Your legs shift as you writhe, but he keeps them parted.

“D- Daddy, p- please. It felt so good, it made the bad feeling go away!” you explain to him, and Ransom can swear that your voice is on the edge of breaking. “Oh, I know, bunny—but Daddy has a better way to fix it. Just listen to me, okay? Daddy knows best.” His words are reassuring, and you thank him like the good girl you are.

“Ran- Ransom, need you, please. Want somethin’,” you tell him, still trying to recover from the intense ticklish feeling between your legs. In a flash, he’s above you for the nth time. One of his strong hands is next to your head, and it holds him up, whereas the other holds your legs in their rightful position. Open for him and him only.

“It’s ‘Daddy,’ bunny. Tell Daddy what you need,” he demands, and you tilt your heads upwards. “Kiss, please,” you pant, and he smiles gently. Before you know it, his lips are locked with yours. This kiss is fervent and passionate, and it hurts. Ransom’s sharp pearly whites dig into your bottom lip, making you cry out in pain. He swallows your noise, though, and he shoves his tongue in your mouth.

Ransom was your first kiss, and he’s trained you oh so well for moments exactly like this. With him and only him.

His wet muscle explores the inside of your mouth, and Ransom can’t help but let his mind wander. You’d look absolutely divine while choking on his fat cock. Spit splattering on your skin and your nails digging into his thighs—your saviour is audibly groaning and nearly rutting against your cunt from the thought. He’d make you swallow, then he’d paint your face.

The sheet over the woman; son amant.

When the only Thrombey-Drysdale born of the family pulls away, you’re trying to catch your breath. But he quickly punches the air out of your lungs when he slaps the fat tip of his cock against your clit. You jolt, but he doesn’t let you escape from him. You only belong in his arms with his cock stuffed in your cunt.

Beads of pre-cum roll drip onto your pussy, mixing with your wetness. “Daddy’s cock is so big, bunny. I don’t think you can take it—but I’ll make you. Yeah, you’re gonna take my fucking cock like the good girl you are,” Ransom speaks lowly, and he sits back up. He’s on his knees, and he has the perfect position to fuck you in. He wants it deep and hard, and he always gets what he wants.

Ransom drags his cock down to your hole, and he covers it entirely. His cock is huge in length and width. He knows that it will hurt you, but that doesn’t matter. He’s helping you out, and he’s giving you something that you don’t know you need.

You glance up at Ransom while you strain your neck slightly. It’s one of many feelings you have right now, but it’s nothing in comparison to the tingling in your core. Your head is still spinning from the kiss, and your lips are raw due to his roughness.

His thick cock is coated in your creaminess, and his veins throb with want. He’s a raging red shade all over, and his member is nearly purple. Ransom prods his bulbous head at your drooling hole, and he loves the way you shiver from his action.

“I haven’t even fucked you yet, and look, you’re all teary-eyed and braindead. No thoughts, huh? S’okay, Daddy’ll do all the thinking for you.”

Ransom’s words distract you briefly, which doesn’t entirely surprise him. But the fact that you can mildly understand what he’s saying through your foggy haze has his smile faltering a bit. Amid his diversion, Ransom pushes the fat head of his cock into your cunt. He breaches into you roughly and stretches you open widely.

Your jaw slacks in a silent scream that isn’t quite silent. Your gasps are choked, and you’re whimpering from the pain and pleasure of his cock. “Oh, I know, bunny. Daddy’s just too big for your tiny little hole,” he coos, but his sympathy turns into annoyance when you try to reach down and push him. His hand leaves your legs, and they stay parted. Your obedience comes with such ease that it makes him kick himself for not acting on his love for you.

“No, stop that. Stay still for Daddy, bunny. I don’t wanna have to get all mean on you…”

His warning is something you don’t take lightly, and before Ransom knows it, you’re sputtering out an apology.

“‘M sorry, Daddy! It hurts… Please don’t be mad,” you babble, and he grins. ‘It’s okay, bunny. Just let Daddy do what he needs to do.”

As soon as he’s done speaking, Ransom fully sheathes his cock inside of you. It’s almost as if his fingers did nothing except lure you to the edge. He waits to hear you cry out in pain, but you simply bite down on your lip until the skin breaks and crimson starts to drip. When you release your pout, you let out a moan that no pornstar can rival. It goes straight to his cock and motivates Ransom to really let go and help his little bunny.

His heavy balls are snug against your sticky ass, and his cock nudges against your sweet spot. You can barely breathe properly, but you don’t care. “Feels so good, daddy,” you mumble out pathetically. “I know, bunny. This little fuckhole is just gripping Daddy’s cock. You love my cock, don’t you? Yeah, you do,” he groans, and he waits for you to answer.

But you’re so fucked out, so damn stupid. You don’t even realize he’s asking you a question. It’s a miracle you’ve made it in life without your best friend.

“Did Daddy’s dick fuck the manners out of you, bunny? When I ask you something, you always answer. I said, you love my cock, don’t you?” he spits through gritted teeth, and you’re quickly nodding. “Yeah, you do. My good little slut. So desperate to get fucked but can barely handle it.”

You nod again, and suddenly he’s pulling out of you. Before you can even weep your miserable cries, Ransom pushes back into you and begins to use your cunt like it’s a fleshlight.

He fucks into your channel relentlessly, skin slapping against skin while strings of your cream stretch from his member to your pussy. You’re stretched past your limit, leaking so much that whenever he slides in and out of you, there’s a loud squelching sound that nearly mutes your moans.

“Yeah, take it, bunny. Take Daddy’s cock like the good girl you are,” Ransom grumbles, holding onto your hips as leverage. You’re mewling his title and nodding continuously, and he just knows that he’s fucked every thought of yours out of your mind. He bets that you don’t even know your name at this point.

“Fuck– You’re drooling,” he notes in practical disbelief. Saliva trickles past the side of your mouth and onto your cheek. You don’t even realize it until he’s pointed it out. But even then, you don’t care. You simply focus on the pressure in your stomach that’s building up again and the way Ransom’s cock drives in and out of you. His thrusts are brutal and quick, almost as if he’s working at an inhumane pace.

“You’re fucking drooling… God, you can barely handle my fat cock. I’m turning you into a silly little mess, bunny. You’re so cute when you’re thinking with nothing but this creamy pussy.”

Ransom ruts into you like a starved animal—like the big bad wolf he is. Each thrust forces a choked-out moan that seems to prolong until the next one interrupts. “Daddy– Feels weird,” you call out, and he smirks. A fire that is a vibrant blue lights itself inside your tummy and in your pussy. It builds up quickly—especially when Ransom’s cock pounds against your sweet spot.

“I know, bunny. I don’t care, though. You just gotta take Daddy’s cock and beg him to let you come,” he tells you, and you squeeze your eyes shut. “D- Dunno how,” you mumble out, and Ransom smirks. “I would tell you to use your brain, but it’s empty, bunny. I know it is. You’re just thinking about my cock like the fucking slut you are. It’s okay, Daddy’ll teach you. All you have to say is Can I come, Daddy?.”

His instructions are simple, but it takes a few seconds for you to comprehend them.

“Oh– C– Can I come, Daddy? P- Pretty please?” you beg, and your high is just a few seconds away. “Good girl, good fucking girl,” Ransom praises, and he stills his thrusts with his cock deep inside your guts. He grinds into you, his patch of growing-pubic hair rubbing against your clit. It sends you over the edge, and you’re panting his name in a loud cry.

Your eyes squeeze shut as your pussy clamps around Ransom’s dick. Your cream coats him and leaves him shining even more, especially at the base. There’s a ring of white stickiness there, and it’s all from your pussy. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!” you squeal out, toes curling and legs shaking. Ransom begins to fuck you with that same vigour before, not willing to wait for you to ride out your orgasm. He wants to make you come again and again, until sobbing and on the verge of passing out.

Even then, he won’t stop.

Your heart patters at a hectic pace, and your legs tremble with the aftershocks of your powerful orgasm. The amount of writhing your body does isn’t enough to get Ransom to go easy on your pussy. His pounding is relentless despite the even tighter grip you have on his cock.

He shushes your cries, but his sounds don’t work. How can they? Your body is alight with pleasure, and the look on your face is a silent beg for more. “Look at you, trying to run away from Daddy even though this cunt is crying for me, bunny,” Ransom chuckles, and he grips your hips even tighter. “It’s pathetic, but you’re lucky Daddy loves pathetic little girls like you,” he husks, and the moan you let out is bound to strain your vocal cords.

“Aw, are you gonna come again? Already? You’re so sensitive, bunny. Daddy’s gonna have so much fun with you.”

His fun entails so many things that he knows you’re going to enjoy, whether you’re blissed out of your mind or completely level-headed.

The extremely thin and delicate rubber band in your stomach starts to bend and twist at a rapid pace. It’s quicker than Ransom’s thrusts that you find yourself loving. You love every aspect of him, the good and the bad. “‘M gonna come, Daddy. It feels so good,” you slur, and there’s a faint smile on your face. Ransom mimics it, but his is so much wider and almost villainous. But he’s your hero; he could do no wrong.

“I know, bunny. Daddy just makes you feel so good. C’mon, cream all over my cock like the good girl you are. Do it,” he demands, and because your body simply belongs to him (as do you), you come undone on his command. Your back arches off the carpet, and your tits are pushed forward. Ransom is tempted to take your hardened peaks into his mouth and suck on them, but he’s too enraptured by the look on your face and the sight of your pussy to do so.

His throbbing cock fucks you through your second orgasm of the night, and definitely not the last. There’s a tinge of blood on it, and it only makes him harder. The feeling of him growing thicker inside of you is marvellous, but it takes you by surprise. You gasp loudly as your nails dig into the first layer of your skin. You’re sobbing, but your eyes are missing the tears.

“Fuck, you’re so pretty when you’re coming on my cock, bunny,” Ransom swears, and he notices the puddle of creaminess at the base of his cock. The reddish-brown colour blends so well with your cum that Ransom just knows you’re meant to be like this, impaled and squirming beneath him. Your cum drips down to his heavy balls that slam against your ass every time he fucks back into you.

Darkness nearly fills your vision as your climax hits you harder than ever. Your two orgasms are blended together, and the pleasure doesn’t seem to have an end. Your walls flutter around your saviour’s thick girth, and they’re just begging him to fill you up. “Daddy…” you whisper, and you notice his thrusts are growing to be more sloppy and short. Ransom uses your pussy like you’re his favourite toy or perhaps even his right fist. He tosses his head back and ignores the way you’re telling him that it’s too much. You don’t know what you’re talking about—Ransom knows what’s best. You shouldn’t be questioning anything he’s doing, especially not when he’s doing the kind thing of helping you out.

“Daddy’s gonna come, bunny. I’m gonna fill up this pussy ‘til you're leaking with my cum for days,” Ransom grunts, and the thought of your panties being stained with his seed sends him tumbling towards his climax. With a guttural moan, he slams into you and makes you yelp. “Fuck, bunny,” he groans deeply, his voice more baritone than it usually is.

As his balls clench, ropes of cum spill inside of your cunt and paint your insides. He’s fantasized about this the day he saw you for the very first time. His big figure slumps over you just a tad bit, but he still holds himself up with his incredible strength. He’s never come this hard before—that’s the effect you have on him. You let out a whimper as you feel Ransom’s cum flood your inner walls.

“Daddy,” you mewl, tired out of your mind yet still aching for more. As promised, he’s helped you out. How could you ever thank him? You certainly don’t have enough money to satisfy him, but you do have that honey pot between your legs and your mere presence to do the fulfilling for you. Anything he wants, anything he needs, you’ll give to him. And vice versa.

“Good girl—such a good girl for letting Daddy use your pussy,” he praises, and you preen.

Almost begrudgingly, Ransom slowly drags his large girth out of your freshly-ruined pussy. You cry out loudly and call his title before saying his name. He ignores you, though, and simply focuses on your messy cunt. As his cum begins to trickle out of you, Ransom watches as your pussy gapes from the stretch of his fat cock. You’re soaked in milky fluids, and the sight has his tongue darting out and swiping along his bottom lip.

“Look at that leaky little cunt. Cream-filled, huh? Think Daddy can have his cake and eat it, too?”

[infernal-fire]

TAU (1/2)

Summary: Steve Rogers traps you inside his mansion. Your only means of escape? The naïve A.I., Bucky, that is designed to kill you if you ever step out of line. 

Pairings: Dark!CEO!Steve x reader, A.I!Bucky x reader, Bucky x reader

This is part of a series of works (not interconnected). I highly suggest you read the description of the series master list to better understand the premise of this story. 

Warnings: swearing, kidnapping, mention of sedative, technical Lima syndrome, psychological abuse, violence, blood, character deaths, injuries, mention of depression, suicide & poverty

The chair was on the brink of collapsing, yet Martha folded her arms and leaned back into it anyway. You internally grimaced, waiting for her to fall flat on her ass or give you the bad news. It had to be bad news. You had done this enough times to know that she periodically bounced her right leg only when there was bad news. These days, that was often. 

You huffed once, loud enough for her to hear, hoping to hint that you were hanging by the threads of your patience. She took the hint, finally throwing open the drawer in front of you with excessive force. Pens rolled and a notebook slid towards her amid the force. Again, another piece of furniture that was ready to give in. For someone as stingy as her, you aren’t surprised that it hasn’t been replaced - just wondering why she’s treating it like it won’t disintegrate any second now. 

Martha’s plump fingers slapped a couple of bills onto the table, her seedy eyes challenging you to pluck them from under her hand. You wrestled the bills out of from under her palm and diligently counted them, only to shake your head defeatedly. 

“That’s it?” you snarled.

“Steal better shit next time,” she replied, shrugging. 

You slowly sighed and pinched the bridge of your nose, refusing to open your eyes and face her.

“I really need the money.” 

Keep reading

[infernal-fire]

suburban dream

summary: how do you wake up from a nightmare? is it a nightmare if you’ve been asleep the whole time?

major warnings: noncon/dubcon smut, stalking, mention of pregnancy, some cum play (check the prompts for indications of other warnings)

a/n: this is for @iraot​’s 1.1k writing challenge. BIG congrats on 1.1k (i cannot explain how glad i am that others get to read your amazing work) and another BIG thank you for hosting this challenge.

Here are the results of my wheel spins:

Kink wheel: daddy kink, somnophilia, breeding kink Character wheel: Jake Jensen Situation wheel: Neighbours AU

You let out a breath of relief as you dropped the last brown box into the corner of the room. How you managed to own this much stuff, you’d never know. Glanced around the living room, it was difficult to decide where to begin. After much contemplation, you huffed and picked up the pizza catalogue, deciding to call it a day. 

It was unbearable to leave the house in the mess that it was. On the other hand, your right hip wailed in agony every time you bent down. Lacking the much-needed support of friends or family, you had no option but to suck it up and unpack… but that can wait till tomorrow. 

Fishing out just the necessities for the night, you climbed up the stairs and headed into the master bedroom. Massive house for one person, you noted. You did insist that an apartment would suffice but Tony was a stickler for rules.

All Stark employees have to be residents of a Stark-Jensen neighbourhood. 

Before getting the job, you weren’t even aware that “Stark-Jensen” neighbourhoods were a thing; it was a term coined by the tech company itself, referring to neighbourhoods that are protected by Stark-Jensen technology. The crime rate in these neighbourhoods are always startlingly low, the odd criminal or two being from inside the community itself. All things considered, how could you say no to free housing? 

Keep reading

[infernal-fire]

my god. the way you write the reader. so much layers and depth to their personality - it all goes out the window the minute theyre in bed.

its so. fkn. hot.

cruel world.

summary. | It’s a cruel, cruel world—but he doesn’t care. He has you, and you’ll always have him.

warnings. | DUBCON, dark themes, stalking, obsession, grooming, manipulation, yandere themes, physical assault (not towards r), angst, grief, divorce, mild mentions of anxiety + pain + throwing up, smut, innocence kink, unprotected vaginal sex, overstimulation, dacryphilia, virginity loss, Daddy kink, mild control kink, praise kink, dumbification, degradation/humiliation, age gap, size kink (andy’s cock is so big), lack of prep, finger sucking, creampie kink, and more. 18+ MINORS DNI!

word count. | 12.4k

pairings. | Dark/Yandere!Andy Barber x Inexperienced!Naive!Reader.

author’s note. | this is a personal fic, based off my life. please enjoy and don’t forget to reblog! if you take ANYTHING from my fics (and i’ll know, trust me) and you don’t give credit or ask for permission, you will be blocked, reported, and i’ll let others know. playlist for cruel world.

Jacob doesn’t beg for the Christmas tree to stay up a few weeks more like he used to. He doesn’t complain about the lack of snow or the terrible cold that burns his nose and cheeks red. The tradition is broken, and even if it was always bound to, nobody was ready for it to happen.

A particular sixteen-year-old can no longer experience holiday joy because he can’t even look at his father in the eyes and wish him a Merry fucking Christmas (‘ya filthy animal’ was always a necessary follow-up).

The hospital is dull—worse than any other part of this gloomy city. Even with a few cheap decorations that were haphazardly put up by the night-shift nurses, it’s still so sad. Flickering lights are begging to be changed, but everyone is either too busy mourning or saving lives to even bother. Andy is glad Jacob doesn’t have to see this sad place—he is so very glad.

Jacob has been spared the look in one way, and Laurie has it almost the same. Almost. She still stays in Massachusetts, but not with her original family, made up of one lying lawyer, one upset child, and one apologetic woman. They’re all scorned, but she has to be bitter as poison through and through. Andy’s drunken words are brutal, but he believes they tell the truth.

He’s painted her out to be the villain because he isn’t great at self-portraits.

When it’s May and a certain parental holiday creeps up, she is discharged. Not even a week afterwards, Andy hands her the divorce papers, and she gladly signs them. It’s the nail on the coffin of their marriage, and now it’s finally ready to be buried. Andy has the house and his Audi, along with everything else his money has bought. Laurie has her clothes (not the ones he gifted her, though), her Land Rover, as well as some personal paintings.

Laurie’s mother rang his phone and called him a selfish, vile man—among many profanities and false promises of harm.

It wasn’t bitter to see her walk out of his home and hope he’d call her name and kiss her passionately. It was healing, though Andy has never been one to bother bandaging his wounds. Once the damage is done, it’s done. There’s no going back; there’s only before and after.

Christmases aren’t the same, and neither are New Years’ or any other celebratory holiday. But Andy still decorates and hangs the mistletoe. He still counts down and sips on an alcoholic beverage before chugging it. And he still tries his best to put the pieces back together, with or without his son.

Though it’s hard in this cruel, cruel world, he now has you forever.

“Happy New Year, Mr. Barber!” the shopkeeper shouts as Andy pushes the door. The bell at the top swings, and the sound reminds him to purchase a nicer windchime for his entrance. “You too, George,” he calls back, and the door swings shut behind him. Though it’s well past the beginning of the new year, Andy doesn’t care. He’ll take any amount of kindness he’ll get, but he will never accept pity.

The brown paper wraps the book all too well. It’s better than anything he can do, and the lawyer finds himself smiling in remembrance of his terrible gift-wrapping techniques. His son would mock him, and so would his ex-wife. He misses them, but he knows that there’s no point in dwelling in the past. There never was any point to anything.

Inside the brown paper is a copy of a self-help book.

He hates them; he fucking loathes those dumb books. Why should one search for answers in a book written by trust fund babies who think they either found God or the loves of their lives? The cover is an obnoxious neon yellow, and the font is both black and purple. On it, though, is a flower. Andy doesn’t know the name of this beautiful plant, but he wants to. Andy wants plenty of things—he needs plenty of things.

And what you need is a little slice of heaven that’ll last you the rest of your life.

You sniffle on your little bench, trying to breathe through your sobs. You call it yours even though it doesn’t have your name etched onto the shiny wood. It’s yours because you always go to it, and it’s always waiting for you with no one else there. It’s yours, even though you can’t have it.

Those tears have been dying to fall since the beginning of time, and you’ve finally let them have their way. The nimble fingers at the ends of your palms are cold, despite your gigantic wool gloves that shield them from the frosty air of Newton, Massachusetts. It doesn’t snow anymore in Newton, not like it used to before. Everything is melted and wet. Grey snow is mixed with dirt, and you can’t help but turn your nose at the unpleasant sight.

It’s so sad, but nothing is more miserable than you.

You try to calm yourself down, but it’s hard. You don’t like those breathing exercises, and right now, you simply cannot name five things you can see, feel, smell, or whatever the fuck it is. You’ve never appreciated those solutions because you know you’re not the issue that needs to be fixed—it’s them. But you know you’re not okay, and you know you haven’t been for a while.

Crying in public has always been your thing, just like how being cruel is your coworkers’ thing. It doesn’t embarrass you as much as it used to, not since you’ve moved to Newton. Not quite a big city, but there were big promises here for you. You hope they’re still there and are simply just hibernating until the cold weather stops biting so harshly.

“Excuse me, Miss?” a deep voice calls, and you jump in your seat. Your heart—the one that is simply too big for yourself—is beating wildly. This is the last thing you need. You quickly wipe the tears on your face, and you dab your eyes with your scarf. “Y- Yes?” you question, turning to look where it came from. You hide a grimace, regretting not clearing your voice before you speak.

“Are you okay?” he asks, and the question alone has you on the verge once more. You force a smile even though the muscles in your face are pulling downwards to form a frown. “Oh… I’m sorry. I saw you were crying and I got worried. Are you hurt?” he inquires. Yes, yes, yes, you are hurt so fucking badly. You shake your head and try to press your lips together, but it doesn’t happen.

He sits himself down next to you, and you immediately move away from him. “I’m not going to do anything bad. Did something happen?” the older man presses, and you hesitate in giving your answer. He stares at you, waiting for you to say something—anything. But you remain quiet, and Andy holds back a deep, resounding sigh. “Okay… Well, you don’t have to tell me about that, but why don’t you tell me something good about your day?” he offers.

The idea is enticing, and so you think hard. Your perfectly toasted bagel this morning, the lack of traffic on the way to class, your cute panda socks. “Uhm… I think maybe my bagel, or my socks! Oh, and when I went to work today, there was barely any traffic,” you whisper to him as loud as you can. He nods and smiles at you, and you turn your head slightly to look at him.

Your eyes meet his, and you find yourself to be breathless. It’s worse than the time you thought you could handle a marathon, but the only difference is that now, you’re not suffering from a cramp. He’s beautiful, the kind of man you’d only find written in novels or played as in movies. Yet here he is, right in front of you. “Yeah, I noticed that too!” he exclaims, and you tilt your head to the side.

“That traffic this morning was nonexistent. I thought that we were experiencing some form of an apocalypse,” he jokes, and his words send you thinking. Could you survive the end of the world? You’ve got this terrible, terrible trait in which you think you can do anything. It’s as if you’ve always got luck on your side, but only in your mind.

You laugh, but it’s cut short and layered with sugar so that you can sound as sweet as possible for this cavity-inducing man. “Ah, thanks. I try, but I know guys who are ten times the comedian I’ll ever be,” he chuckles. But he’s a liar because he doesn’t know any guys (plural, note that); he only knows one guy who is just a boy. A poor, hurt boy.

“I, uhm, I think you’d work well with a stand-up show. Netflix hires anyone these days,” you tell him with a smile on your face. For once, it’s genuine. Teeth and lips and a little bit of gum, nothing fake. “I’ll be sure to send my resumé. Think they’ll accept men as old as me?” he questions, and your smile drops just a bit. “You’re not that old,” you laugh, thinking that he’s just messing with you.

Oh, how precious.

Andy’s heart jumps, and he finds himself so eager to break the truth to you. “I’m in my late forties, sweetie,” he admits, and you shake your head. The worldly lawyer follows your gaze as you look to the floor in shyness. He leans closer, and you turn back to look at him. He doesn’t miss the way your gaze falters again, and his chest puffs in pride.

He knows you’re mesmerized, and he is, too. “Oh, oh wow. I never would’ve guessed…” you shyly tell him, and you’re suddenly intimidated by him. Older is better; you remember reading in numerous Twitter threads back when you were eager to date and find the love of your life. You still are, but it just isn’t the same anymore. “I take it you’re quite young?” Andy questions, but he already knows the answer.

You nod your head, and you give him your years. He’s noticed your tears have dried up, but they’ve left a sticky surface behind on your skin. “I’m Andy, by the way. Are you new here?” he inquires, and his hand stretches out to yours. You’ve never given a handshake that’s actually been decent before, but you still slot your palm against his as best as you can.

Andy leads—you know he always will. Headstrong is what he seems to be, forever giving orders and rarely ever taking them. He gently moves both of your hands up and down for around two seconds while you give him your name. He repeats it, and his smirk is slanted. “Pretty. Just like you,” he whispers, and his words take a while to sink in. Once the weight of them hits you, you’re a flattered mess.

“T- Thank you, Andy. Thank you very, very much,” you tell him, and you know that’ll be something you’ll be thinking about for years on end. Albeit he’s a stranger, there’s nothing better than kindness coming from somebody like him. “You asked me if I’m new here?” you ask, even though you can swear you heard the question come from him. You can never be too careful these days, though.

“Yeah. I moved here in August. Staying for work,” you explain to him. As soon as you’re done speaking, you regret ever saying anything to him. He didn’t ask for the details or the particulars; why can’t you shut up for once? “Really? That’s nice! Do you like it here so far?” Andy asks, and he moves closer to you just a bit. Your brown coat more than covers his thigh.

You nod your head and press your lips together in a line. You love the city, but you can’t escape your unhappiness. Will it follow you to the ends of the earth? To the moon and back? You don’t know, and you don’t want to know. “You sure? Those tears from before seemed to say otherwise,” Andy softly interrogates, and it’s different from those times he’s sat across others when building a case.

A case he’s bound to win.

He looks you in the eyes, and all he sees is innocence. It’s almost the kind you’d only see in the accused at the stand in a courtroom, begging for freedom and trying to plead their claims. Almost. Yours is the kind that begs to be bruised and beaten up—the kind that Andy wants to smother and diminish its brightness. It’s so wrong to think, but it’s so right to feel.

“Oh, that’s actually something about where I’m from!” you try your hardest to exclaim, hoping your wannabe-loudness will scare away your tears. But not everything is frightened by high volumes and voices—not everything is like you. “Though, I don’t think I should tell you, A- Andy,” you start, and it’s so odd to just casually call this man by his first name. It’s not just that he’s a stranger, but he’s so… great.

You’re not friends. He must be treated with respect. “Why not?” he asks, and you can hear that New England accent ever so slightly. It’s not obnoxious or aggressive with the way it claims his words. “Well, I don’t know you, and you’re so kind, and I just- I don’t want to dump all my problems on you,” you express worryingly, and your fiddle with your fingers in your lap.

Andy sighs, and unlike the people you know more personally, it isn’t out of frustration or anything harsh. He says your name, and once again, it’s so different from how other people say it. His voice is gentle, and it carries love. “What if we became friends, then? You can tell me every little thing, I’ll never mind,” he offers, and you so badly want to lurch into a garbage can.

Claws that could possibly belong to any animal scratch at your stomach, and a nervous-stricken pain takes you over. When was the last time someone asked to be your friend? Possibly before your transfer, but it wasn’t outright and blunt. They had asked for your social media handles, and gratefully, you handed them over. It’s been months since you last spoke.

“You okay? You look a little spooked,” Andy questions, and his hand itches to rest itself against your forehead. His mouth has the urge to let out a hiss at the temperature of your skin before cooing a sweet ‘poor thing.’ “Y- Yeah, just surprised, that’s all. I’d love to be friends, Mr. Andy,” you admit shyly, and he lets out that small chuckle of his again. “Cute. I’ve got to go soon, but how about you give me your number? I’ll take extra good care of it,” he jokes.

“Really?”

“Really.”

You’ve met a stranger, and he’s so fucking kind. You speak to him more than you do your worried mother, who’s always texting you and asking whether you’re okay or not. You always lie to her and tell her you are. But with him—God, with him, you’re more honest than anyone in a confessional booth. You spill your guts out, and you let the words run as much as they can with the wolves.

This stranger is your dearest and quite possibly your only friend.

Good morning! Happy Wednesday :)

The message is the third-most thing you see when you wake up. The first is the ceiling, and the second is the ‘snooze’ button on your alarm. You’re smiling so brightly as happiness injects itself into your veins and flows straight to your swelling, ever-full heart.

Good morning, Andy! :) Happy Wednesday, or, well, Hump Day as you called it once.

He doesn’t forget the embarrassing time you terribly misspelt the name of your hometown, and he never lets you forget either. It’s all fair game.

Ah, yes. Hump Day it is. How are you, darling? Did you sleep well?

Ah, yes, knowledgable is he. Andy’s got your entire life etched like a tattoo in his mind. He knows you so well, better than you or anyone else ever will. His care never ceases to make your day, whether it’s the most simple question or a subtle reminder of something you’re bound to forget.

The notification comes up, and it’s the reminder for your presentation at work.

I’m okay, slept okay. I have my presentation today, and my stomach hurts :(

Andy prefers the little emoticons over the colourful emojis. You’re fine with anything he’s fine with. He’s fine with anything you desire and aren’t sure if you should be fine with. The mention of your stomach aching is something he knows all too well. It’s nothing a Tylenol or an Advil or an Aleve can fix; he knows this. And it isn’t something a sip of water or SunnyD or ginger ale can solve either.

Open your door!

He suddenly sends his message, and it’s so ominous, even when he knocks and calls your name. These damn walls sure are thin, aren't they?

You rush out of bed, and it’s truly a few steps because you can’t afford anything nice yet. Will you ever? The thought is nagging and often haunts you, but you throw a stick past its shoulder to keep it occupied. It goes and chases, but it always comes back. “Darlin’?” he calls out once more, and that fucking name is always going to make you yearn for something you want to be worthy of.

“Andy!” you exclaim as your door swings open. “You took forever to open up the door, darlin’. We’ve gotta work on that, okay?” Andy tells you, and you eagerly nod your head. Whatever he wants, whatever he needs, whatever he says—you’ll do whatever. “Sorry, Andy! I- I just didn’t understand at first,” you sheepishly explain to him, and he steps inside your home.

It’s not humble; it’s shameful. You’re an organized mess, one that Andy is keen on cleaning up. “Sorry, should’ve remembered you just woke up. You said your tummy’s hurtin’, so I got you this,” he mentions, reaching into the white plastic bag you barely noticed. You do your best to fix your shirt so that it’s not slipping halfway down your arm.

“Y- Yeah, what is that?” you question, looking at his hand. He holds something you’ve never seen before, and it seems like a rubber ball. It’s the kind you’d throw for your pet, or maybe even bounce around with your second-youngest cousin. “Stress ball. Put it in your pocket, and you can distract yourself with it during your presentation,” Andy explains, and his blue-grey eyes scan the room.

Oh, if only your landlord would take such a good look at your leaking pipe. “Where do you keep your clothes, honey bun?” he questions, and he hands you the toy. You immediately start to play with it, and you slowly breathe through your nose to try and make the pain leave for once. It never does. “Uhm, right here,” you point at the closet that is blocked by your mattress.

He raises his eyebrow, and you climb onto the large cushion. “See?” you tell him, pulling the doors apart until they fold up. Your numerous sweaters, t-shirts and dresses are showcased just for him, and he joins you on the bed. “Darlin’, this is no way to live,” he sighs in frustration, and you knit your eyebrows together in worry. You know he’s right, but the last thing you want is for him to look down upon you.

“How about you go brush your teeth while I choose your clothes? It’s pretty cold outside, but I know you want to avoid your puffy coat. Don’t worry,” he reassures, and his hand waves you away. You giggle and immediately head into your bathroom, placing your new favourite item on the countertop. “Good girl,” he praises in a low tone, and you almost miss it. Almost.

It’s so sweet—he’s so sweet. The way he drives you to and from wherever you need to be, making sure you get there on time without freezing your fingers off from the bitter Newton winter. Andy tells you, not so jokingly, to wait until it’s the known month of rain. When April rolls around, there isn’t a day where the skies aren’t gloomy, apparently. And you take his word for it, why wouldn’t you?

It’s so laughable—you’re so laughable. Andy chuckles as he watches you shove the remaining piece of your bagel in your already full mouth, even though your shift doesn’t start until the next forty-something minutes. Just like you, he prefers to be early for everything. “Careful there,” Andy warns, and he drives slower than ever. “Are you going to go over your cards?” he questions, and the harmless words are a bitter reminder.

“Uh-huh,” you say, struggling to chew all of your food. Usually, you’d just take a small cup of coffee and down that when you want to look especially busy in front of a group of people around your age. Anything to avoid snake eyes. “You wanna try them with me, darlin’?” he asks as he searches for a place to park. “Please?” you plead, and your hands dip into the deep pockets of the jacket Andy had chosen for you.

Underneath it is a knitted sweater, and you’ve got on jeans that brace your legs from the harsh winds for once. And if that doesn’t help, he’s got Advil and heating pads in the glove compartment. “You’re just doing it in front of a small group, right?” he recalls, and you nod. You’ve got too many damn things in your pockets and not enough things in your head.

“Take your hand out,” Andy demands, and he doesn’t even wait for you to listen. One of his big, strong palms wrap around your wrist, and he reaches into the left pouch of your coat. “Skip the introduction, start with the body,” he urges, and he shuffles through the small pieces of cardstock until he lands on the one with the most written on it. “O- Okay,” you reach out for the paper, and Andy hesitantly hands it to you.

Handwriting that belongs to the older lawyer is all you see as you stare at the card, and it’s not foreign. He writes your cue cards for you because you don’t know what information should and shouldn’t be fitted into those small blue lines. It’s okay, darlin’, he tells you. I’m here, and I’ll show you everything you need to know. And that he does.

“Andy, I can’t do it,” you suddenly wail, though no tears are leaking from your doe eyes. “Shh, no, don’t worry,” he reassures, and you finally notice that his Audi has long been parked. Andy’s hand—that damn hand of his that has helped you so much—unbuckles your seatbelt. He’s fed you with those hands so well, so much, you could never dream of biting them.

You’re pulled into his lap, an action that you find yourself longing for the late nights when you’ve got nobody except for those bad thoughts and a dumb movie on your screen.

You rest your head against his shoulder, and your legs curl into his lap. “Don’t say things like that, darlin’. Please. You’re going to do the absolute best. Everyone is going to be blown away,” Andy tells you, and he forces his words into your mind. Or do they force themselves?

“I read it last night, remember? You did better than any of my coworkers ever will.”

“Really?”

“Really, darlin’.”

The way you rush out of the building, squeezing the purple ball until the slime in it is close to leaking out, and mutter things under your breath is too worrying. Andy knows something has gone wrong, and that thought has him clenching his fist tightly. Did someone say something to you? Did the presentation go well? His mind runs wild with so many situations, but he doesn’t think to jump out of his car and hug you tightly.

He can’t. So he waits until you pull your phone out and call him and beg him to come and save his damsel in distress before it’s too late. And he always rides in on his black horse, covered in shining armour.

It doesn’t take long for your pretty face, along with your pet name and favourite heart emoji, to show up on his screen. Andy waits a few seconds, breathing out shakily, before answering. To fit the role he’s now playing, he looks around as if he’s waiting for people to clear from his path. “Hey, darlin’. Is everything okay?” he questions, and he listens for your answer.

All he hears is the wind blowing and the crossing guard guiding a gaggle of geese, and he watches the scene unfold. You’re staring at those birds, and you’re thinking of something, but he needs you to know that you don’t have to do any thinking, darlin’. Let him do everything. “Darlin’? Are you there?” he calls out, but he already knows the answer.

Andy is so tempted to get out of his car and run up to you, but that wouldn’t be okay.

“Yeah, I’m here, Andy,” you say, but you’re still distant. Your voice is distant. He smoothes down his shirt and holds back a curse word as you rush through the road, crossing and making your way to the parking lot. “Can you please pick me up?” you politely request, and you continue to squish the toy. “Of course, darlin’. Is everything okay?” Andy questions. You let out a small, breathy laugh.

“Yeah,” you tell him, and he’s not sure whether you’re lying or not. You’re not sure either.

“Really, darlin’?”

“Really.”

It’s another day in the pathetic hospital, and Andy replaces the flowers in Jacob’s vase. He throws out the lavender and places lilies in the glass. The doctors are losing hope, whether they want to tell him that or not. They’re loud, though, and this end of the infirmary is tranquil. Almost as much as you are.

Your responses are no more than a few words, and you don’t call him as much as you used to. When he tells you he’s coming over, you tell him you’re not home. And when he asks where are you, you respond only a few hours later, saying, oh, I didn’t get this message, sorry. You’re shutting him out, but he’s already got his foot in the door before you can slide the deadbolt.

Andy doesn’t stay long in the room. It’s too upsetting for him, and he knows he doesn’t have enough whiskey to wash away the image of Jacob lying on that bed. He leaves most often just a few hours after he arrives. There’s a routine he’s got for these days.

Drive to the hospital, sign in, change the flowers, sit for a bit, sign out, leave the hospital, have a drink.

But now that he’s got you in his cruel world, he’s changed his routine.

Drive to the hospital, sign in, think about the way your first name would look next to his last name, change the flowers, remember to water the blossoms he planted for you, sit for a bit, think about you, leave the hospital, have a drink, fix your problems—fix you.

“Mr. Barber, are you leaving already?” the nurse at the front desk asks as he signs his name for the second time in an hour. “Yes, got a busy day ahead of me,” he tells her in a promising tone. “You know, if you need any support, there’s a group meeting that takes place twice a week. I could sign you up for it,” she offers, and she takes the clipboard from him. “No, thank you, I’ve already got my own thing going,” he solemnly tells her.

“Really? Pray tell,” the nurse hums, and Andy smiles brightly. “Maybe another day,” he hums, and before she can say anything else, he walks out of the hospital.

It doesn’t take long for him to figure you out. You’re like those paintings Laurie would show him constantly. The backstory and meanings seem complex at first, but once you get a good understanding of them, it’s quite simple. Maybe it’s that, or perhaps it’s just his lawyer skills that lately have been rising to the surface despite his prior feelings of wanting to bury them away.

You’ve got these specific habits whenever a certain thing happens. If you’re uncomfortable, you keep a smile on your face, and you’re afraid to drop it. If you’re nervous, you bounce your legs and shake one of your feet. Oh, and if someone upsets you, you keep to yourself for a while.

Andy can’t let that happen, though. He pulls out of the parking lot and taps on his phone a few times. He contacts you again, and he knows you see his calls and messages. This time is different from the rest because he doesn’t want you to pick up. It’s the cherry on top of his perfect plan. “Good girl,” he praises once his lock screen comes up. You’re fast asleep in that picture, unknowingly cuddled up to Andy’s bare chest.

The skilled lawyer turns off his phone and smiles once he spots a coworker of yours standing on the sidewalk. There’s nobody else there, nor are there any cars. It’s idle—absolutely perfect. Andy parks right in front of him. The thirty-something-year-old has got shit for brains, and Andy wonders how the hell he’s gotten promotions before you. “Are you Anthony?” the man questions, stepping up to Andy’s car.

“Yeah,” he nods his head. “I gotta open the door; it’s got some issues. Sorry,” Andy tells him, and the man begrudgingly nods his head. Andy steps out of his side of the car, and in his hand is a crowbar. “Hey, man, do you mind if I smoke in your car?” Before the dumbass can even let out a scream, Andy wacks him in the head with the crowbar.

Blood spatters, and his body falls to the ground with a thud. On his now-broken phone screen is a porno someone has uploaded on Twitter. Fucking creep, Andy thinks to himself before even realizing what he’s done.

“Fuck. Look at what you made me do, man. What did you have to go and hurt my darlin’?”

You’re guilt-stricken and exhausted. All you want to do is dance around with Andy like always, but now you’re staring at your almost-dead phone and wondering whether he’d accept your call-back or not. He would, wouldn’t he? Andy always takes you back and keeps you for who you are. He cares for you, helps you, saves you—he does so much for you.

He calls the shots on your entire life, and you know that without him, you’d be back home and searching for a job that doesn’t fulfill your greatest potential. You’re so grateful for Andrew, and you’re so ashamed that you haven’t shown it to him well enough. You’re not good with your words, and while he understands that quite well, you still feel bad.

You bite your worries to scare them away for a split second as you press on his latest missed call. “Pick up…?” you whisper, and you hug the teddy bear he bought you a while back. It’s got one of his ties around its neck, and Andy had given the stuffie the name ‘Stephen.’ When you asked why he told you not to worry your pretty little mind. And because he knows best, you listened to him.

“H- Hello? Darlin’?” Andy answers, and you let out a shaky sigh. “Andy? I’m sorry I was so distant. I’m so so so sorry,” you whisper to him as if you’re in a room with a thousand important people. “Don’t be sorry, darlin’. I know how you get sometimes. It’s okay,” he pants, and you can hear the wind blowing in the background. “Are you busy? Did I bother you? Oh, God, I did, didn’t I?” you question, and you start to pace back and forth without realizing it. Andy shushes you, and the wind grows louder.

If it weren’t for his complaining calls and emails to your superintendent, the tree that stood right in front of your window would already be banging against the glass.

“Shh, no, darlin’, you didn’t bother me. I was hoping you’d call me. How’ve you been?” he questions, and Andy can’t lie. There’s a smile on his face, even as he sets up the crime scene. There are no cameras on this corner of town, so nobody can catch him. Nobody can touch him, not God, not the law. He sets the crowbar in the alleyway and smears blood on the concrete. At the end of the alleyway, he empties the cash from the wallet and dumps the rest on the ground.

It’s a daylight mugging gone wrong, and justice brought to light. Justice for you.

“I- I’m okay… How are you, Andy? Did you go visit him?” you question, and Andy wonders why your tone is so odd. “I’m great, darlin’. Especially now that you’ve called me. I did. Actually, I just left,” he tells you, and he gets into his car as swiftly yet quietly as possible. You laugh, and it’s the prettiest sound Andy has ever heard in his painful life.

“Back to work?” you inquire, and there’s a glimmer of hope in your voice. Andy can hear it, and he presses down on the gas pedal a little more. He inches closer to the speed limit than he usually would, but he doesn’t care. His darling needs him, whether you want to admit it or not. “No, darlin’. Back to you,” he hums delightfully, and he can already sense your beaming behind the screen.

“I’m on the road, but I’ll be there soon. Okay, darlin’?” Andy bids, and a goodbye rests on the tip of his tongue. Even though he’s mere minutes away from your home, he doesn’t want to end the call. “Bye, Andy!” you cheer, and the beeping of his phone snaps him out of his blissful reverie. It’s one in which he’s saving you from every little thing—one in which it is simply your reality.

The apprehensiveness in your tone makes him want to keep you by his side all the time so that you’ll never have to be unsure about anything. You’ll never have to worry about anything.

When Andy gets out of the car, he seeks you like a moth to a flame. He’s wiped his hands clean of blood, and his dirty jacket is buried underneath the driver’s seat. He knows you love it, and he knows you’ll be a bit upset when you don’t see it, but unlike his crimes, he can undo your hurt. The old lady who often cuts him the side-eye (and you as well) holds the door open for the man, but he doesn’t say thank you.

Those who are not kind to you do not deserve kindness from him.

Crows the size of heads try their best to fly around in your stomach. You’ve got the jitters, and they almost hurt. You’ve never felt this way about Andy before, and you’ve noticed that this nervous feeling comes around whenever you think about him. All those nice things he’s done for you make you wonder if he’s human. Surely there’s no way someone is as sweet as he is.

“Darlin’?” your friend calls from the other side of your door. It’s paper-thin, and you can hear the way he’s panting heavily. Did Andy take the stairs? Oh, the thought has you filled with guilt, which only angers those black birds inside your tummy. You’re quick to let him into your home, and you can see that his face is coloured with a slight hue of pink.

You grab the closest bottle of water, the one that you took out this morning to drink from. It’s unopened, and the strong man cracks it open without a worry. “Did you take the stairs?” you question, and you pinch the sleeve of his dark dress shirt. Your grip—despite its weakness—guides Andy towards your bed. He sits on it as he nods his head, but he’s got a smile on his face. “Why not? Don’t worry, darlin’,” Andy reassures, and he tightens the cap of the bottle until it’s almost as good as new.

You know you’ll have to ask for his assistance to open it once more. You always do.

“Is everything okay, darlin’? You had me so worried,’ Andy expresses, and he pulls you into his lap. It’s not weird because he’s done this so much. Out of habit, you rest your head against his shoulder. “Yeah, everything’s okay!” you tell him, and it’s a half-truth. Everything is great, honestly, but there are three things that just won’t leave you alone. Even if you leave the door open or crack the window, they still won’t go.

You have to show Andy your gratefulness, you feel funny things whenever you think about him, and this extra layer of clothing is so irritable.

“Are you sure, darlin’? You sounded a bit off the last time we spoke on the phone. Remember? When you were outside, and you called me while I was a work?” he questions. You furrow your eyebrows before letting out a small laugh. “How did you know I was outside?” you ask, and Andy gulps thickly. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck… “I- Heard the wind and the cars!” he explains, and you nod your head in understanding.

“The presentation went well. I mean, obviously, I stuttered, but I did great!” you exclaim to him, and he smiles down at you. Andy’s heart soars higher than those crows ever will. Seeing you so happy makes him feel the same. “Aw, I’m so proud of you, darlin’! I knew you’d do amazing because you’re amazing. How about we go out for ice cream? Are the places still open in January?” he wonders out loud, and you rub your cheek against the fabric of Andy’s shirt.

“No, silly! I- I was thinking of something else, actually…” you shyly whisper, and Andy raises one of his eyebrows. You move your head away from his body, and in a rare moment, you lock eyes with him. Is it a bad idea? Was the article wrong? You can remember staying up the past few nights doing research that has nothing to do with your work but everything to do with your feelings for Andy.

Numerous tabs were open, all with raunchy titles and images alike. Each subheading had you gazing everywhere except for your screen. You’ve watched more indecorous videos before, but something about those words with the thought of Andy in your mind made them so much more scandalous than they already were. Your search phrase was the least inappropriate, though.

How to show gratitude to someone you have feelings for and he has feelings for you too but you’re not sure?

It was protracted, and there were more spelling mistakes than hoped, but it got you the answers you needed. Buy fancy lingerie, seduce him, give him anything he desires—show him love in other means because while words are great, bouncing up and down his hard cock is much better. And because you’ve got nothing else other than a paragraph of ‘thank you’s and the repetition of ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

“What were you thinking of, darlin’? I’ll get you anything you want, don’t worry,”  Andy reassures, and he doesn’t know what you think. He’s not scared of you telling him you don’t need him anymore because he knows you could never do that. You’re too dependant on him, and you love him too much. And even if that did, in fact, happen, he’s got some sweet sentences up his sleeves that nobody could silence.

“Uhm… I Googled it, a- and it came up, but I don’t want to make it weird!” you explain, and Andy’s face is twisted in confusion. You sigh heavily before standing up and fiddling with the end of your hoodie. You’ve got the heat turned up to the point where the frost on the windows might as well melt. The only things keeping you from revealing your surprise are your nervousness and the clothing that hides your lace teddy.

“Darlin’, please tell me what’s wrong,” Andy pleas, and his hands rest on your thighs. He’s never done this—not in that manner, anyway. It’s different because he’s got those palms and fingers under your teddy and his skin flush against yours, and fuck, he’s so close to touching that sacred area. You look down at quite possibly the most angel-like man—no—the most God-like man.

Suddenly, a burst of confidence fills you up, and you yank the sweater over your head. You throw it to the side, and like the woman in the photo of the 2013 article, you straddle his lap as best as you can. “Th- The writers all said that if I want to show gratitude without my dumb words, I should do this. Thank you for everything, Andy,” you breathlessly tell him, and your lawyer friend stares at you in shock.

Andy knew he scored the greatest jackpot that not even millions of dollars could get him when he first met you. But now, God, he wonders if he’s ever done anything wrong in his life. Shouldn’t karma find him by now? Shouldn’t he be repenting for his sins? A wicked smile cracks on his face; he really is a good man, isn’t he? He’s never done anything wrong. He only does good out of the kindness of his heart and his habits. And at this moment, he’s finally getting the proper ‘thank you’ he deserves.

“Oh, darlin’,” he whispers under his breath, and he takes in your immensely gorgeous form. Dressed down in a simple blue teddy that he recognized from one of your favourite clothing stores, you are absolutely divine. “I- Oh, I fucked up,” you whimper loud enough for him to hear, and you’re seconds away from bursting into a panicked apology and buckets of tears.

Before you can even wail, Andy pulls you down and locks his lips with yours. You let out a squeak of surprise and try to kiss him back as best you can. His hands come up to your face, and he holds your hands in his palms. He lays down on your bed, and the sudden drop as you gasping. He takes advantage of the opportunity and pushes his tongue into your mouth. Your chapstick is flavourless, and he makes a mental note to get you something sweet.

Andy’s wet muscle glides against your front teeth, and you can feel a bit of drool leaking from the corners of your mouth. Wet sounds fill the air, and you realize he wants this so badly. But do you? Yes… you do? You want to make him happy, don’t you? So do this, show him your gratitude and show him all of your love; don’t even let him doubt you for a second. You cannot hurt the man who cares for you.

Your nose bumps into his, and he turns your head just a bit so that it doesn’t happen again. Your lips glide against each other with each of Andy’s movements, and your heart beats wildly. The smaller kisses in this much larger one are passionate and filled with a motive that you can’t get to the bottom of. Your hands don’t touch his body; they brace you against the bed. You don’t know what to do.

Suddenly, Andy pulls away, and he looks up at you. You’re hesitant to meet his gaze, but when he tilts your head downwards, you listen to him. “Fuck, here I was trying to hold myself back, and here you are, jumpin’ my bones and lookin’ at me with those ‘fuck me’ eyes,” Andy growls, and his words have you apprehensive. “A- Andy?” you question, and his features soften.

“You said you wanted to show me gratitude, right, darlin’? You want to show Daddy how thankful you are for him, don’t you?” he asks, and you nod your head almost immediately—almost. It feels wrong, but it isn’t. Andy doesn’t wait for any other word from you, and he flips you over. You now lay underneath his large body, and in contrast to your reluctance a few moments ago, you remain in eye contact with him.

It’s only until his words have fully penetrated your hazy mind do you realize what he just said. You don’t even have time to react or ask him any panicked questions because he latches his mouth onto your neck. It’s almost as if he’s explored you before with the way he knows your body so well. Andy immediately attacks your sweet spot, one that you forbid anything to touch because it elicits such a wild reaction from you. So improper, so dirty.

His lips suck on your skin, and his teeth nip at that exact spot. His tongue then laves over the teased area, and you’re letting out gasps that you cannot hold back. Underneath Andy’s big, strong body, you have undoubtedly ogled from time to time, you writhe. The ticklish and tender feeling at your neck is too much, and Andy recognizes that. “Poor thing, can’t even handle a hickey,” he tsks, and you frown at his words.

“But it’s okay, it’ll be good, darlin’. I like you all sensitive. It makes me so fuckin’ hard,”’ Andy confesses, and a choked whimper leaves your mouth at his words. Andy, sweet, sweet Andy… You adore dear Andy, who has done everything for you. You’re glad he’s being selfish for once. Your gaze falls to his lips, and they’re so moist and pink, it drives you crazy.

Tilting your head up, you silently beg for a kiss that is soft and gentle. Andy brushes his nose against yours for a brief moment before shaking his head. He smirks down at you, and you assume it’s similar to the way he looks at those defence attorneys whenever he goes to court. He leans down and keeps his lips locked with yours while his hands make moves.

The skirt of your teddy is teased by his fingers—you’re teased by Andy’s fingers. The tips dance on your thighs, and you’ve never felt anything like this before. Your body is a stack of well-placed matches, and he’s lit you on fire with the last pump of his lighter. The flame starts out big, and it grows even larger. Andy enjoys watching you become speechless with his feather-light touches.

He pulls away from your mouth as he slowly pushes your skirt up. The bunched-up fabric stops right underneath your breasts, and the rest of your skin is exposed, all for him. You’ve got on lace panties that slightly match your dress. They’re a shade darker all around, but especially near your slit. Andy wishes to bully you just a bit and ask if the darkness is just how the undergarment was made, but the last thing he needs is you shying away from him.

You’re undeniably wet, possibly more than you’ve ever been (not counting the time where he held you close to his body and told you to listen to him). Andy steps off of your body and motions for you to move further up your bed until you’re touching those white walls. He doesn’t care if they can’t stop the sounds he’s going to pull from you because you don’t have neighbours anymore.

He’s given them such good housing prices across from town, and he’s made sure to ruin the already-poor quality of the apartments so that nobody can move in.

“This is how you wanted to thank me, darlin’? Spreading your legs to pay me back for all my love… Shit, you’re such a dirty little girl. I leave you for what, a week? And you do this? Don’t be surprised if I hurt you, baby. I just can’t hold back anymore,” Andy admits softly, and even though your stomach warns you of possible pain, you bite your lip. “Y- You can do whatever… I just want you to be happy!” you tell him.

Andy smiles down at you, and his touch leaves you. He makes quick work in removing his clothes until you’re marvelling at his body and he’s left in his black boxers. You always knew he had some muscle on his, but god, seeing him in almost-full glory is breathtaking. Sculpted by the Gods themselves, he might as well be fawned over by art majors of any kind.

The lawyer—once upon a time loving husband—pulls down his boxers at an achingly leisured pace. He’s got a trimmed patch of pubic hair at his base, and it’s enough to tangle your fingers in. It’s perfect; the carpets match the drapes. He’s perfect. The raging colour of Andy’s cock is revealed to you, and you nearly choke on air at his size.

He’s long and incredibly thick—better than those pornstars who were too much like themselves and not enough like him for you to enjoy their performances. You’re not sure if you can fit him anywhere because you’ve always struggled with your own pleasures. Your jaw slacks in awe of Andy, and it takes everything in him to not shove his cock into your welcoming mouth.

But he can’t. Not yet, at least.

“I’ll make it fit, darlin’. Don’t worry, Daddy solves everything, remember?” Andy reassures, and you nervously nod your head. Yeah, Daddy fixes everything. Daddy also ruins things, and you just happen to be the first he wants to destroy in a while. It’s not his fault! You were just begging for his help, and you even soaked it up, just like how you soak up his praise. “Good girl,” he husks, and he parts your legs as much as he desires.

Even though he’s pushing the limits of your muscles, you don’t complain or tell him to stop. You’re alight with excitement as Andy smirks down at you. “Good fucking girl,” the older man praises once more, and you smile brightly. It’s as if everything he says and does makes you dizzy with affection. It’s hard to give it back, though, so you let him take it from you.

“I can’t wait to buy you even more pretty things like this… ‘M gonna rip each one of them off of ya,” Andy chuckles, and even though this is your favourite teddy, you don’t mind the thought of him destroying it. True to his word, Andy’s hands pull the blue fabric in separate directions. The cheap cloth has turned to two shreds on your skin, and he only brushes them off your torso and legs.

The only thing hiding you from him now is your underwear, and he quickly rids of it, too. “Prettiest little thing…” Andy marvels, and your legs have remained spread due to your hands that hold them back. It’s the only amount of work he’s let you do so far, and you wonder when he’s going to ask for more. When is he going to take more? Wetness pools from your hole, and you have the wildest urge to rub your thighs together.

But in your compromising position, you can’t. Andy looks down at your pussy again, and the sight of your cunt glistening with slick has blood rushing down to his already hard cock. “Fuck, all that’s for me, yeah?” Andy questions, even though he already knows the answer. “Oh, your pussy is so small, darlin’. I’ll have to get really rough with you to even fit it in just a little,” he tells you, and you swallow in fear.

Just how rough does he mean?

“I mean, I could prep’ you, but…” His words have a break that is filled with a sigh. “I- I’ll make it good, baby—God, I’ll make it so fucking good I’ll have you crying, and you won’t even know why you’re crying. Either ‘cause of the way Daddy’s hurting you or the way he’s making you feel good.”

His words are… something. They send a slight hot sensation to your sopping core, and you feel as though anything he says or does makes you happy. Andy grabs the base of his cock, and he slaps it against your clit. “Andy!” you squeal, and a jolt of pleasure fills your body. “Daddy,” he intones, and his fat cock rests against your pussy. You’re so sensitive, and the sheer realization of your position has you whimpering.

Maybe it’s the fact that you’ve never been this intimate with someone, or perhaps it’s your love for Andy that makes it so intense.

“D- Daddy,” you repeat after him, and you’re filled with butterflies when he smiles down at you. “Good girl,” your only friend praises, and you bask in it as if it’s the first time you’ve ever felt the sun on your skin. You’re a good girl; you’re his good girl. Andy lifts the weight of his cock off of your core, and he slaps the head of it on your pearl a few times more.

Each slap makes you moan in such a pathetic manner. “Daddy!” you wail as the last hit makes your legs twitch and involuntarily close. Andy is having none of that, though.  “Keep those legs open, darlin’. Don’t disappoint your Daddy,” Andy warns, and a few seconds pass until you finally collect yourself. You keep your legs parted, and you wonder if you’ll be able to handle any more from him.

The older man—as intelligent as always—is one thought ahead of you. He doesn’t care if you think you can’t handle it. He’ll make you take it. Andy drags his cock through your wet folds, subtly grinding against you just to see that glint in your eyes whenever he makes you feel oh so blissed out. “Daddy…” you whine to him, feeling his velvety flesh throb against your pussy.

“Fuck…” he moans, and the feeling of you on his cock is better than anything he’s ever imagined. Better than all those times he’s fantasized about you while you’d innocently undress in front of him. He moves his hips backwards until the head of his cock nudges against your drooling hole. “‘M gonna be the first, last, and only person to touch this pussy—right, darlin’? This isn’t your pussy anymore, it’s mine,” Andy grunts, and he can feel you get even more drenched from his obscene words.

You nod your head, and he has the urge to spew such degrading things over your behaviour. In his mind, he thinks about how much of a whore he’s turned you to already, and he hasn’t even fucked you yet. But Andy bites his tongue because he knows your gentle self will be hurt. He’s only got a little more to go until you’re truly looking at him like he’s hung the moon, even if he’s calling you all sorts of vulgarities. Slutty little baby…

Pre-cum mixes with your juices, and you can already feel the sheer largeness of Andy’s cock. “P- Please, Daddy,” you plead when you notice that he’s holding back from pushing into you. “All for you… Do whatever you want,” you pant, reminding him that you’re here to make him happy. Andy’s frown that wasn’t cleverly hidden quickly turns into a giddy smile, one that’s just so infectious.

You return his grin, but it disappears as soon as he begins to stretch you open with his cock. Your mouth falls open, and you squeeze your eyes shut. The head of Andy’s cock is only halfway into your cunt, and you already feel dizzy. Is it from pain, or is it from pleasure? “It’s too big…” you whisper to Andy, but he ignores your words. He doesn't mean to do it on purpose; it’s just that the sight of your pussy gripping onto his fat cock is so enchanting.

Andy continues to push into your pussy, despite your hesitance. You want this, you need this—you want him, you need him. It’s a mantra that both of you repeat in your heads, and the voice belongs to the once-again Assistant District Attorney. The entirety of his tip is sheathed into your pussy—his pussy. “Fuckin’ shit, darlin’,” he grunts, absolutely adoring the way your wet walls hold onto his cock.

When he exhales a sigh, your cunt lets out a squelching sound from just how wet you are. Sharply, you inhale at the pain in your core. You’re seconds away from begging Andy to take away the hurt like he always does, but suddenly, the fingers to his left hand are trailing up to your chin. It’s not odd; he’s done it before. But it was when he took you out for ice cream after your boss teased you with a possible promotion—you’re just a tad bit careless when eating delicacies.

Two digits are pushed into your mouth, and they remind you of the popsicles you love to buy during the summer heat. They press down on your tongue, and you can feel your saliva beginning to pool. “Suck on my fingers, darlin’,” Andy orders, and you obey his commands. You do your best to treat his fingers with as much skill as you can muster. “Good girl, such a good girl,” Andy grunts, and he shifts his gaze back to your pussy.

As he busies you with his digits, he snaps his hips forward until his balls are snug against your ass, and his cock is entirely inside of you. The skin of his spit-covered fingers soaks up your groans and whimpers of pain, and he further pushes them into your wet cavern until you’re gagging. “Oh, baby… Fuck, your pussy was made for Daddy’s cock,” Andy whispers, and his words make you clench around him.

That burning pain subsides, but it’s such a slow transformation from discomfort to pleasure. You’re so full—you’ve never felt anything like this. You eventually let out a soft moan around his slick fingers, and Andy chuckles. “But it’s not your pussy, darlin’,” he tells you, and you furrow your eyebrows in confusion. “S’is my pussy—Daddy’s pussy,” he slurs, and he slowly drags his hips backwards. It’s almost painful with the way you’re gripping him, and so he brings his other hand to your nub.

When Andy touches your clit, you swear you can see fireworks exploding right in front of your eyes. The friction and heat his touch brings—and god, the fucking euphoria of it all has you dizzy. Andy’s massive cock stretches you out, and the feeling primarily burns. It’s not the kind of warmth that you’d appreciate during the cold—it’s the kind that hurts, but you can’t get enough of it.

Andy slowly pushes back into you, and he gets you used to his member. Practically every crevice of your pussy has been filled up by his cock; in short, you’re stuffed to the brim. The tip that’s been raging and leaking now presses against a spot you’ve never touched before. “O- Oh,” you garble around his fingers, and the flesh beneath your lips is soaked with spit.

“Messy little thing… Can’t do anything right without Daddy by your side, hm?” Andy teases, and you’re not sure why, but his mocking words only make you giddier. “Yeah, can’t even take Daddy’s cock without tearin’ up. S’okay, darlin’. Let Daddy do all the work. Just be my good girl.’ Andy speaks down at you, not to you. He could say his words are falling on deaf ears, but your rambles suggest otherwise.

“Uh-huh, ‘m a good girl, Daddy! I’m good, I’m so good,” you tell him, and even though you can barely understand yourself, Andy nods his head. “Daddy’s good girl, letting Daddy take what belongs to him,” the lawyer husks, and he finally musters up the intrepidity to fuck you. It’s not that he’s scared to accept your gracious gift; he’s more worried he hasn’t savoured it well enough.

Andy drags his cock out of your cunt, and his flesh shines with slickness. He knows by the time he’s done with you for today, he’ll see a bit of blood and a whole lot of cum. You’re empty, and the feeling is odd. You’re seconds away from begging for his cock—even though you’re not sure how. But as if Andy truly knows everything about you, he pushes back into you roughly.

It’s almost too rough, too brutal. He splits you open, and you find yourself digging your nails into your skin. You slobber on Andy’s digits, and you let out a pornographic moan. His cock hits that spot of yours as soon as he fills you to the hilt once more. Your cunt grips him like a vice, and he calls your name under a breathy groan. He snaps his hips back and forth, but it’s not at a rapid pace.

He fucks you slowly and harshly, almost as if he’s punctuating your every noise with his thrusts. Your toes curl, and your body shakes with each clap of his skin on yours. It’s a breathtaking feeling, one that is almost overwhelming yet just enough for you. Those innocent, doe eyes of yours squeeze shut as electricity runs up your spine. Andy’s full balls slap against your ass, swollen and desperate to be taken care of.

Maybe he’ll speed things up a bit, the lawyer thinks to himself through his cloud of focus. He contemplates the idea of teaching you just how you can make him feel good.

The way Andy thrusts into you is almost animalistic, and you fear for your body ahead of time. The ache will be brutal tomorrow, but it’ll be worth it. You’re doing a good thing for a great man. He deserves this and even more.

Andy pulls his fingers out of your mouth, and he brings his drenched digits to your clit. He doesn’t apply that delicious friction he knows you’ll be craving, though. Instead, he just lightly touches you while roughly fucking you.

“I- It fit, Daddy,” you whisper in awe, and he chuckles. The older man brings his face down to yours, and he brushes his nose against your own. You give a smile at the sweet gesture, and in a contrasting, unrewarding manner, he stops his thrusting. You let out a sound of shock and offence, desperate for the pleasure to resume its blossoming in your body.

“Of course it did, darlin’. You were made just for my cock. Why wouldn’t it fit?” Andy mockingly questions, though you don’t see his rudeness.

“I- It’s so big, Daddy,” you say through a laugh that just makes you sound even more pathetic. “And Daddy made it fit in your tiny pussy, baby,” he counters with a grin on his face. You writhe beneath him, and unconsciously, you grind down on Andy’s cock. As he swears from the feeling, you toss your head back and whimper out a few pathetic ‘please, Daddy’s until he finally snaps.

Newton’s best assistant district attorney (not just your words) places his right knee right beneath your perched up-left leg. He remains hovering above you, and his eyes are locked with yours. The tip of Andy’s cock is the only thing inside you as he thrusts out of him. Then, he pushes back into you, and he starts to fuck you with that rough pace once more.

The pad of his thumb slides against his cock and collects some of your slick. Andy switches his fingers and places his thumb on your clit, and he begins to rub on your pearl of nerves as he fucks you into oblivion. His cock slides in and out of you—almost with ease, but your tightness and his largeness make it a bit more difficult. You let out a wail of pleasure, and your face is pinched from just how good he’s making you feel.

“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!” you cry out, and Andy just knows your moans are now his favourite thing to listen to.

“Dirty, dirty, dumb girl. Letting me come into your life and ruin your cunt…” he mutters under his breath, and his new angle not only makes you weak. As he repeatedly hits your sweet spot with the fat tip of his cock, you tighten up around him, and Andy’s trying his best to not let his darkest desires take over. “Wearing that piece of fabric an’ thinkin’ I wouldn’t wreck you. So naive… S’okay, darlin’, Daddy’ll do all the thinking for you like always,” he slurs, and his words aid in the building of pressure in your abdomen.

Searing flames like at your insides—right above your pussy. In your mind, you’re thinking about begging him for rounds two, three, four, and five, even though you have yet to finish the first one.

You clamp down on Andy’s cock as he spears into you relentlessly, and when he nudges your sweet spot numerous times in a row while playing with your clit so skillfully, you know you’re done for.

With a loud wail of his title, you come undone for the first time at his doing—on his fat cock. Your hole spasms around him, and you writhe away from the older man, nearly running away from himself and the pleasure he’s given to you. “Good girl, such a good girl for Daddy. Coming all over my cock- fuck,” he praises, and he basks in your loud moans and harsh gasps that just don’t seem to come to a halt, much like his thrusts.

Andy fucks you through your overwhelming orgasm. You’re so sure you’ve never felt anything so good and powerful at the same time. It almost washes away all your doubts, just like he always does. It’s truly dizzying. You can feel everything; the mattress, his skin, the veins of his cock throbbing inside of you—everything.

“I’m a good girl. ‘M so good, Daddy,” you babble against his face, and he can smell the peppermint mouthwash and saliva emanating off your tongue. “Yeah, you are. Such a good girl. But you’re also a dumb girl, okay? Daddy’s dumb little baby,” Andy tells you, and he knows from the way you’re panting and frowning that you’re telling yourself that you’re done for the day.

No, no. You don’t get to call the shots. He does, remember? Daddy knows best—Andy knows best.

“S’too much, Daddy!” you cry out, and your dominant hand leaves your leg and splays itself against his stomach. You’re trying to tell him to stop; why? You’re not letting him take what he deserves. You’re being selfish. Stop it. “Shh, no, no, it’s okay! It’s not too much, baby. Just take it, okay? Take Daddy’s cock like the good girl you are,” Andy assures, and you nod your head although you’re already nearing another climax.

Andy’s cock spears into you, and that intensity mixes with the friction your clit is receiving. You can barely handle either, and you feel as though you’re seconds away from falling into a starry night’s abyss. “C’mon, be Daddy’d good girl and come around my cock again. Do it, keep coming, slut,” he spits, and on his command, you soak his cock with your cum once again.

“N- No, no, Daddy…” you whine out, and even though he graciously slows down his pace, he still keeps that brutality. Andy presses on your pearl even harder, and when he hits a specific nerve, you jerk away from him. “No, no. Don’t run away from my cock, darlin’. You’re okay, don’t worry. Daddy’s got you,” Andy promises, and even though his words soothe your battered soul, the tears still start to sting your eyes.

You blink them away, and you try your hardest to repeat your chant in your mind. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry… The lawyer presses up against your g-spot and holds his cock there, letting you become dizzy and conquered by the insane amount of pleasure Andy’s causing. He’s fucked you dumb—you’re a goner. The tears begin to flow, and your first loud sob leaves as a choked moan.

“Oh… Darlin’, are you cryin’ because a’ me?” Andy questions and he turns his movements into gentler ones. Andy’s sudden kindness makes you smile, despite the orgasm that’s ripping through you. You don’t answer him, not able to find your words.

“You are, aren’t you?” he asks once more, and you still don’t answer.

Suddenly, he’s pounding your cunt mercilessly, and a quiet scream involuntarily fills the room, along with the smell of sex. “Fuck, yeah. Keep cryin’. Cry for Daddy. Makes me so damn hard,” Andy growls, and he can feel the way you’re gripping him. He knows he won’t last any longer, but does that really matter? He’s going to take you over and over again until he’s the one telling you to stop, and you’re the one begging him to keep going.

The hand that had wandered moves up to your face, and you try to wipe away your tears despite the annoying jerking that your body does. “Don’t wipe your tears, darlin’. You’re so pretty when you cry,” Andy cooes. You obediently listen to him and whimper out a small thanks, following it up with a stutter of his title in a seeking manner.

“What’s wrong, darlin’? Huh? Is Daddy fuckin’ you too damn good?” he jokes, and before you can tell him that you’re nearing another release, your head snaps back. Your back arches off your lame bed, and your jaw slacks open. Heat builds up inside of you, especially at your apex. Darkness fills your vision as your eyes snap shut.

Andy can tell you’re seconds away from coming—and so is he. His balls tighten up, and his thrusts are sloppier than they usually are. He moans almost as pathetically as you do, except his sounds are deeper and quieter. “My pretty, sweet, darlin’... Such a good little girl. So good that you’ll let Daddy come in you, right?” Andy husks, and absentmindedly, you nod.

You smile at him with your eyes closed and your cunt gripping his cock like a fist. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!”

“My dumb girl, so good for me. Givin’ me everythin’ I deserve. I’m going to fuck you over an’ over again. And you’re just going to take it, won’t you? Yeah, you will. You’re my good girl,” Andy rambles right above you, and he swallows your battle cry in a kiss that you can’t reciprocate. Your legs try to snap shut, but Andy’s body keeps them parted.

Your poor, abused pussy spasms around Andy’s cock, making wet sounds that the older man is bound the savour. A ring of creamy cum surrounds his trimmed base, and a droplet of your cum leaks down to his heavy balls. You choke his thick cock with your tightness, and Andy wonders how he hasn’t pounced on you before this moment. “Yeah, fuckin’ cream all over Daddy’s fat cock. That’s what a good slut does; opens her legs, pleases me, and comes for Daddy.”

Every single thing happens with fervour and desire. His words, no less. Andy’s cock aches for release, one that isn’t at his hands and under a freezing cold shower. He stops kissing you and looks down to where your both connected. White strings of stickiness connect from his cock to your hot flesh. With his every slam, the ropes shift and turn into new ones. You’re a mess in all aspects.

“Fuckin’ creamy pussy ‘s gonna be the death a’ me,” Andy mutters.

The heavy shaft that drives in and out of your pussy stretches you almost past your limits. You’re ruined for all men, except for him. You don’t even need other men. You only need him.

“Daddy’s gonna come, darlin’. I’m gonna fill you up so good. You’re going to be leaking with my come for the rest of the fuckin’ week. Ya hear me? This pretty pussy is only gonna know me and my cum—nothin’ else,” Andy groans under his breath, and he pulls his hand away from your tender nub. “Uh-huh, uh-huh. P- Please, Daddy,” you beg, and Andy’s sure you have no idea what you’re talking about or what he’s saying.

Fucked dumb is what he’s done to you.

“Baby, baby, baby—fuck,” he groans in an uncharacteristically low tone. It sounds as though there’s a darker version of him coming to life. But this is your Andy! Your sweet, lovely Andy. He’s an angel and nothing worse.

Your friend breaches into your pussy for a final time (of this first round), and he stills his skillful hips. That swollen, weeping tip of his cock shoots out ropes of hot cum. His heavy balls tighten up and empty themselves out inside of you. He fills you up until you’re legitimately leaking with his cum—he’s fulfilled his promise. “Yes… Just like that…” Andy mutters mindlessly. He looks down to see his cum pushing past the fullness of his cock, yet still remaining where he’s impaled you.

“Daddy,” you whimper, and your hands search for purchase on his body. “Shh… Hold still for Daddy,” he shushes, and you begrudgingly yet obediently listen to him. The feeling of his seed coating your walls is unfamiliar, but you have to admit that you adore it. “Good girl,” he praises, and he slumps down onto your body. “O- Oh, uhm…” you stutter, trying to remember what some of the articles suggested you should say.

“T- Thank you, Daddy,” you shyly whisper. Your words cause him to flip you over. Andy’s cock slips out of your pussy, but he quickly pushes it back in before you can even register what’s happened. “W- What, Andy… What are you doing?” you innocently question, tilting your head to the side as you look down at him. He smiles up and you, and his grin makes your heart melt.

“Good girls don’t ask questions like that, darlin’. Don’t you wanna be good for me? Be good for your Daddy?”

You nod your head, but you’re still confused. No, no, you’re not just confused. You’re scared.

“Daddy’s right here, baby. There’s no need to be afraid. I’ll make it fit; you just have to work for it,” Andu reassures—something he’s always doing with you.

“Really, Daddy?”

“Really, darlin’.”

[infernal-fire]

Hey, can I request a soft dark bucky or Steve as a family man. Like some domestic fluff with kids and/or a pregnant reader? Have a nice day regardless and stay hydrated!🌸

you have good taste m’lady. i really hope this is up to par with your expectations!

warnings: implied kidnapping, soft dark buck, Stockholm syndrome, pregnancy feels, some angst but some good fluff for balance :)

wc: 1k

Just Wondering

Subconsciously, you groggily stuck out your left hand, only to be met with a cold, empty space. With a low sigh and lazy stretch, you moaned in annoyance and slid out of the bed. This belly, now an extension of you, has been preventing you from sleeping on your stomach, effectively inhibiting a good night’s sleep. To top it off, Bucky has been repeatedly called away to last-minute missions. You wished so badly for him to come home soon - not necessarily because you wanted his presence, but because you craved McDonald’s fries. 

Yet, with the monotonous brushing of your teeth, your mind secretly wondered whether you actually craved his person. 5 months into your pregnancy and you had been able to fend him off more easily, blaming the baby hormones as an excuse to get out of sex. It had not been that easy when you were first plucked from your life; Bucky would have you however and whenever he wanted. 

The first time you had morning sickness, the pivot in his behaviour had you wondering if this were the same man. 

Present time, you considered changing out of the large nightgown but decided against it when you remembered you would have to do it without your husband’s help. 

As you waddled down to the kitchen and made your way to the kettle, something in the corner of your eye piqued your attention. You cautiously stalked to the slip of paper that was haphazardly pinned to the fridge with a little button magnet.

I will be back tomorrow. Could you prepare a nice dinner, my love? I would love to spend some time together. It’s been too long x

There was no signature, but you absentmindedly traced where it would be. During those early days of courting, he would leave notes and messages in unsuspecting places. It would frighten you, and although that wasn’t his intention, it foreshadowed the behaviour that eventually removed your choice to say no. 

His signature used to brew dread and bubble panic. Now, you could recognize that the note no longer brought up fear within you. 

No, it wasn’t the lack of a signature. In fact, you had an epiphany, realizing that the note itself was actually comforting.

A sharp exhale escaped you as the note was crumpled and thrown into the nearest trashcan. 

“The audacity,” you muttered under your breath and went about your day. 

The house was spacious, your existence in it not taking up much of the expanse. It was a reflection of yourself - all this space in your mind, yet you were all alone most of the time. Bucky was there, but through no fault of his own, he was pulling back and giving you space. 

You sighed for the umpteenth time since waking up, now regretting every instance you pushed him away when he tried to hold, cuddle or kiss you. 

As you went about your day, you scolded the thoughts that pondered how he was doing and whether he was safe. Then, while you were halfheartedly reading a book, your hormonal brain entertained the possibility of Bucky’s death. 

You knew that he could die during any mission. It could be a simple recon, but this life wasn’t a safe one, the scars littering his body a testimony to this fact. 

You should hate him. You shouldn’t care if he died. Hell, you should be figuring out how to get out of here. Instead, you slumped into the reclining chair and crumpled into a ball, falling asleep from the tiredness that came with crying. 

Your brain was awake before you, nose picking up on an extravagant smell that evaded the ability to think. Not thinking much of how the aroma came to be, you wafted to the source: the kitchen. There, facing away from you was the broad breadth of Bucky’s shoulders. You noted the way his muscles rippled through the tight black shirt, which you were sure he wore to tempt you.

“You gonna stand there or come give me a kiss, dollface?” 

You pouted, crossing your arms and turning your head, only to catch a glimpse of yourself in the silver of the fridge. Your eyes were puffy, hair a mess, swollen and generally unattractive. 

He did this to me. 

You marched over to him and pounded your fists to his back repeatedly; though it would feel like nothing more than a pat to him, he turned around, taken aback. 

“You did this to me, you did this, you did this you bastard,” you sobbed, now resuming your assault on his chest. 

Bucky reached behind him and clicked the stove off before pulling your form into himself. 

“Hey,” he cooed, “What did I do, baby?” 

You sniffled, now crushed between his arm and his chest. 

“You made me all swollen and ugly, and- and, I can’t even sleep on my stomach.”

Bucky let out a low chuckle and rested his on top of your yours.

“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you,” you chanted.

“I know sweetheart. I’m sorry.”

His dialogue paused your rambling. The way he said I know as a response to I hate you did not sit well with you. The hurt in his voice was so evident, and though you had heard it before, you never bothered to care. On the other hand, you spent the whole day not-so-secretly wishing for him to come back. 

So what was true?

“I don’t mean that,” you meekly responded. 

“You didn’t mean what?” 

“I love you, Buck. I missed you so much.”

The super-soldier grasped your shoulder and pulled you off of him, only to look you straight in the eyes.

“Come again?” he asked, unable to believe what he heard.

“Don’t make me say it again. I’m glad you came back early, that’s it.”

Bucky gulped as a stray tear tainted his cheek. You took the opportunity to nestle back into the crook of his neck. 

“I love you so much,” he whispered. 

“Not the ruin the moment, but I’m very hungry.” 

As if on cue, your stomach grumbled and the pair of you laughed in unison.

Masterlist

Tag list:  @oneoftheprettynerds @partiesandblurrypolaroids @hitmewithyourbest-shot @inlovewiththefictionalcharacters @bval-1 @quxxnxfhxll @sunflowerbunny2 @captainslittlegirl @sohoseb @iviesinmymind @jeremyrennerfanxxxx123 @old-enough-to-know-better73

Other tags: @mcudarklibrary @saiyanprincessswanie @angrybirdcr

You can shoot me a message or fill out the form in my bio to be added to my tag list!

[infernal-fire]

youre so so kind! it makes me so happy to know that you like my content❤️🤧

Masterlist

Please do not interact with this blog if you are under the age of 18. Your media consumption is your own responsibility; It is illegal for minors to indulge in my work.

Some stories include dark themes and smut. I do not condone all the actions of the characters I write.

You may not copy, reproduce, distribute, publish, display, perform, modify, create derivative works, transmit, or in any way exploit my content, nor may you distribute any part of this content over any network. I do not claim ownership over any of the characters in my content.

I appreciate reblogs (so much) and love hearing what you think about my stories!

Keep reading

[infernal-fire]

Hey, can I request a soft dark bucky or Steve as a family man. Like some domestic fluff with kids and/or a pregnant reader? Have a nice day regardless and stay hydrated!🌸

you have good taste m’lady. i really hope this is up to par with your expectations!

warnings: implied kidnapping, soft dark buck, Stockholm syndrome, pregnancy feels, some angst but some good fluff for balance :)

wc: 1k

Just Wondering

Subconsciously, you groggily stuck out your left hand, only to be met with a cold, empty space. With a low sigh and lazy stretch, you moaned in annoyance and slid out of the bed. This belly, now an extension of you, has been preventing you from sleeping on your stomach, effectively inhibiting a good night’s sleep. To top it off, Bucky has been repeatedly called away to last-minute missions. You wished so badly for him to come home soon - not necessarily because you wanted his presence, but because you craved McDonald’s fries. 

Yet, with the monotonous brushing of your teeth, your mind secretly wondered whether you actually craved his person. 5 months into your pregnancy and you had been able to fend him off more easily, blaming the baby hormones as an excuse to get out of sex. It had not been that easy when you were first plucked from your life; Bucky would have you however and whenever he wanted. 

The first time you had morning sickness, the pivot in his behaviour had you wondering if this were the same man. 

Present time, you considered changing out of the large nightgown but decided against it when you remembered you would have to do it without your husband’s help. 

As you waddled down to the kitchen and made your way to the kettle, something in the corner of your eye piqued your attention. You cautiously stalked to the slip of paper that was haphazardly pinned to the fridge with a little button magnet.

I will be back tomorrow. Could you prepare a nice dinner, my love? I would love to spend some time together. It’s been too long x

There was no signature, but you absentmindedly traced where it would be. During those early days of courting, he would leave notes and messages in unsuspecting places. It would frighten you, and although that wasn’t his intention, it foreshadowed the behaviour that eventually removed your choice to say no. 

His signature used to brew dread and bubble panic. Now, you could recognize that the note no longer brought up fear within you. 

No, it wasn’t the lack of a signature. In fact, you had an epiphany, realizing that the note itself was actually comforting.

A sharp exhale escaped you as the note was crumpled and thrown into the nearest trashcan. 

“The audacity,” you muttered under your breath and went about your day. 

The house was spacious, your existence in it not taking up much of the expanse. It was a reflection of yourself - all this space in your mind, yet you were all alone most of the time. Bucky was there, but through no fault of his own, he was pulling back and giving you space. 

You sighed for the umpteenth time since waking up, now regretting every instance you pushed him away when he tried to hold, cuddle or kiss you. 

As you went about your day, you scolded the thoughts that pondered how he was doing and whether he was safe. Then, while you were halfheartedly reading a book, your hormonal brain entertained the possibility of Bucky’s death. 

You knew that he could die during any mission. It could be a simple recon, but this life wasn’t a safe one, the scars littering his body a testimony to this fact. 

You should hate him. You shouldn’t care if he died. Hell, you should be figuring out how to get out of here. Instead, you slumped into the reclining chair and crumpled into a ball, falling asleep from the tiredness that came with crying. 

Your brain was awake before you, nose picking up on an extravagant smell that evaded the ability to think. Not thinking much of how the aroma came to be, you wafted to the source: the kitchen. There, facing away from you was the broad breadth of Bucky’s shoulders. You noted the way his muscles rippled through the tight black shirt, which you were sure he wore to tempt you.

“You gonna stand there or come give me a kiss, dollface?” 

You pouted, crossing your arms and turning your head, only to catch a glimpse of yourself in the silver of the fridge. Your eyes were puffy, hair a mess, swollen and generally unattractive. 

He did this to me. 

You marched over to him and pounded your fists to his back repeatedly; though it would feel like nothing more than a pat to him, he turned around, taken aback. 

“You did this to me, you did this, you did this you bastard,” you sobbed, now resuming your assault on his chest. 

Bucky reached behind him and clicked the stove off before pulling your form into himself. 

“Hey,” he cooed, “What did I do, baby?” 

You sniffled, now crushed between his arm and his chest. 

“You made me all swollen and ugly, and- and, I can’t even sleep on my stomach.”

Bucky let out a low chuckle and rested his on top of your yours.

“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you,” you chanted.

“I know sweetheart. I’m sorry.”

His dialogue paused your rambling. The way he said I know as a response to I hate you did not sit well with you. The hurt in his voice was so evident, and though you had heard it before, you never bothered to care. On the other hand, you spent the whole day not-so-secretly wishing for him to come back. 

So what was true?

“I don’t mean that,” you meekly responded. 

“You didn’t mean what?” 

“I love you, Buck. I missed you so much.”

The super-soldier grasped your shoulder and pulled you off of him, only to look you straight in the eyes.

“Come again?” he asked, unable to believe what he heard.

“Don’t make me say it again. I’m glad you came back early, that’s it.”

Bucky gulped as a stray tear tainted his cheek. You took the opportunity to nestle back into the crook of his neck. 

“I love you so much,” he whispered. 

“Not the ruin the moment, but I’m very hungry.” 

As if on cue, your stomach grumbled and the pair of you laughed in unison.

Masterlist

Tag list:  @oneoftheprettynerds @partiesandblurrypolaroids @hitmewithyourbest-shot @inlovewiththefictionalcharacters @bval-1 @quxxnxfhxll @sunflowerbunny2 @captainslittlegirl @sohoseb @iviesinmymind @jeremyrennerfanxxxx123 @old-enough-to-know-better73

Other tags: @mcudarklibrary @saiyanprincessswanie @angrybirdcr

You can shoot me a message or fill out the form in my bio to be added to my tag list!

[infernal-fire]

suburban dream

summary: how do you wake up from a nightmare? is it a nightmare if you’ve been asleep the whole time?

major warnings: noncon/dubcon smut, stalking, mention of pregnancy, some cum play (check the prompts for indications of other warnings)

a/n: this is for @iraot​’s 1.1k writing challenge. BIG congrats on 1.1k (i cannot explain how glad i am that others get to read your amazing work) and another BIG thank you for hosting this challenge.

Here are the results of my wheel spins:

Kink wheel: daddy kink, somnophilia, breeding kink Character wheel: Jake Jensen Situation wheel: Neighbours AU

You let out a breath of relief as you dropped the last brown box into the corner of the room. How you managed to own this much stuff, you’d never know. Glanced around the living room, it was difficult to decide where to begin. After much contemplation, you huffed and picked up the pizza catalogue, deciding to call it a day. 

It was unbearable to leave the house in the mess that it was. On the other hand, your right hip wailed in agony every time you bent down. Lacking the much-needed support of friends or family, you had no option but to suck it up and unpack… but that can wait till tomorrow. 

Fishing out just the necessities for the night, you climbed up the stairs and headed into the master bedroom. Massive house for one person, you noted. You did insist that an apartment would suffice but Tony was a stickler for rules.

All Stark employees have to be residents of a Stark-Jensen neighbourhood. 

Before getting the job, you weren’t even aware that “Stark-Jensen” neighbourhoods were a thing; it was a term coined by the tech company itself, referring to neighbourhoods that are protected by Stark-Jensen technology. The crime rate in these neighbourhoods are always startlingly low, the odd criminal or two being from inside the community itself. All things considered, how could you say no to free housing? 

Keep reading

[infernal-fire]

Hiccup (½)

Summary: Steve Rogers knew that kidnapping the Chief of Police’s daughter from her wedding would be no easy task; what he didn’t expect was your willingness to go with him. 

Pairings: Mob!Boss!Steve Rogers x fem!reader

Major story warnings: unprotected sex, kidnapping, guns, violence, blood, major character deaths, angst Chapter warnings: kidnapping, soft mob boss feels, angst, guns and mention of torture

Word count: ~4000

This is part of the Movie Fic Masterlist - take a quick peek at its description to better understand the premise of this story!

You squinted at the dark green shade of polish your mom had picked out. Your fingers nipped at each other in hopes of chipping at the polish, but you knew it was pointless - they were acrylics, for god’s sake. It was yet another reminder that you had no say in what was about to happen. 

Your dad was smart. He knew you would try to escape on your way to the venue. After all, the Chief of Police’s daughter had to have some grit. 

“Are you even getting paid to do this?”

One of the officers scratched his neck, but both of them maintained their gaze straight ahead. 

“I’m gonna assume you don’t get paid enough to do this.” You shifted between their imposing shoulders, hoping to somehow find solitude in the lack of personal space. 

“Your dad is a good boss. We’d do anything he asked of us.” 

You elected to ignore his response, figuring that nothing you say will help your case.

 Even if you managed to slip out, you were surrounded by many people, celebrating and marching like the occasion was a parade around the lineup of vehicles. You know your parents must’ve paid a fortune to block off the road, but even this was a bit much.  

Abruptly, you lurched forward a bit as the limo came to a full stop.

Your attention focused on the commotion in front of you. Someone was engaging in what you could only assume was a drunken tussle. 

“Wait here, miss. We’ll be back.”

You smirked at that, knowing that no matter how much they wanted to play bodyguard, they have to attend to the problem at hand. At the end of the day, they are police officers. And these idiots just created the perfect diversion for you to run away.

You counted ten seconds after they exited the car and slid to the left end of the seat. Reaching for the door handle, you almost fell out of the vehicle as the door flew open on its own accord. 

A pair of large hands caught your shoulders as you teetered on the seat. 

“Come with me and don’t make a sound.”

You look up at the man with widened eyes. You cocked your head to the right as you sat up straight, looking at him in awe. 

Goddamn, he is a man. A real man, unlike the one you were going to marry in thirty minutes. 

“Don’t make me drag you.” He offered you his hand, expectantly waiting for you to take it. 

“Oh, you won’t have to,” you giggled. The stoic demeanour of the man cracked into surprise before morphing into amusement. 

You couldn’t help but notice how he didn’t budge by a single inch when you tugged yourself up. This was a dream come true - you couldn’t have planned an escape better yourself. The man pulled you into his chest and shielded you from wandering eyes and weaved out of the crowd. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say that he had just rescued you. 

Keep reading

[infernal-fire]

Hiccup (½)

Summary: Steve Rogers knew that kidnapping the Chief of Police’s daughter from her wedding would be no easy task; what he didn’t expect was your willingness to go with him. 

Pairings: Mob!Boss!Steve Rogers x fem!reader

Major story warnings: unprotected sex, kidnapping, guns, violence, blood, major character deaths, angst Chapter warnings: kidnapping, soft mob boss feels, angst, guns and mention of torture

Word count: ~4000

This is part of the Movie Fic Masterlist - take a quick peek at its description to better understand the premise of this story!

You squinted at the dark green shade of polish your mom had picked out. Your fingers nipped at each other in hopes of chipping at the polish, but you knew it was pointless - they were acrylics, for god’s sake. It was yet another reminder that you had no say in what was about to happen. 

Your dad was smart. He knew you would try to escape on your way to the venue. After all, the Chief of Police’s daughter had to have some grit. 

“Are you even getting paid to do this?”

One of the officers scratched his neck, but both of them maintained their gaze straight ahead. 

“I’m gonna assume you don’t get paid enough to do this.” You shifted between their imposing shoulders, hoping to somehow find solitude in the lack of personal space. 

“Your dad is a good boss. We’d do anything he asked of us.” 

You elected to ignore his response, figuring that nothing you say will help your case.

 Even if you managed to slip out, you were surrounded by many people, celebrating and marching like the occasion was a parade around the lineup of vehicles. You know your parents must’ve paid a fortune to block off the road, but even this was a bit much.  

Abruptly, you lurched forward a bit as the limo came to a full stop.

Your attention focused on the commotion in front of you. Someone was engaging in what you could only assume was a drunken tussle. 

“Wait here, miss. We’ll be back.”

You smirked at that, knowing that no matter how much they wanted to play bodyguard, they have to attend to the problem at hand. At the end of the day, they are police officers. And these idiots just created the perfect diversion for you to run away.

You counted ten seconds after they exited the car and slid to the left end of the seat. Reaching for the door handle, you almost fell out of the vehicle as the door flew open on its own accord. 

A pair of large hands caught your shoulders as you teetered on the seat. 

“Come with me and don’t make a sound.”

You look up at the man with widened eyes. You cocked your head to the right as you sat up straight, looking at him in awe. 

Goddamn, he is a man. A real man, unlike the one you were going to marry in thirty minutes. 

“Don’t make me drag you.” He offered you his hand, expectantly waiting for you to take it. 

“Oh, you won’t have to,” you giggled. The stoic demeanour of the man cracked into surprise before morphing into amusement. 

You couldn’t help but notice how he didn’t budge by a single inch when you tugged yourself up. This was a dream come true - you couldn’t have planned an escape better yourself. The man pulled you into his chest and shielded you from wandering eyes and weaved out of the crowd. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say that he had just rescued you. 

Keep reading