#Tumbler Real Estate

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https://youtu.be/mghWZ-guwD4?si=f9BT3F3TqKlvLtvA

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[certifiedrealestatespecialist]

Learning Never Stops as Life Keep Teaching us || Realty Coffee Talk ||

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Nik misunderstands Soap's call sign. Ends up in a little heart to heart with Gaz.

CW: none.

They're back at base after a particularly gnarly jaunt through the arse end of the world. Ghost has his arm in a sling, Soap's battered, Price has an ice pack against his lower back, and Gaz has a black eye and lost a molar after taking a rifle butt to the jaw during a scuffle. Nik's sitting rosey for the most part; his bird has a few extra bullet holes but he'd soon patch those up.

They end up in the hanger after medical has finished with them, too exhausted even to drag their arses to bed. They pass around a bottle of Ghost's bourbon, while Nik and Price share a cigar. They're sitting in companionable silence, reflecting on how close they'd come to a six foot and a half wooden box planted in the only bit of real estate they'd ever be able to afford on an army salary, and then...

"Nik," Soap says as he swirls the bourbon around in its bottle, "s'yer call sign, aye? Not yer birth name."

"Da," Nik replies, offering nothing more as he exhales a cloud of smoke and passes the cigar over his shoulder to Price. They're sitting back to back, because it lets Price keep the ice pack in place without holding it, no other reason.

Soap relinquishes the bottle into Gaz's custody and sniffs, leaning back on his palms, legs thrown across at the ankle. "Where's it come from?"

"It is from Nikolai Krasnov. He was a hero fighter pilot in the Second World War. Four hundred sorties, one hundred aerial battles and forty-one enemies shot down," Nik considers the tumbler of vodka in front of him; he doesn't drink bourbon because it gives him heartburn, "also Nikolai Gastello, Nikolai Gusarov... All awarded highest honours. It is a name with, what do you say, a pedigree."

"That's pretty cool, N--" Gaz starts, but Soap scoffs, taking the bourbon back.

"Mate, n'aw, that's proper old man that is. Yer half way t' watchin' the History Channel on a recliner."

Nik raises an eyebrow. "Is better than all of you."

"Oh aye?"

"Da. Price is Bravo-Six because he is boring," Nik says, and Price nods solemnly, clearly a little banjaxed on a combination of the vodka Nik is sharing with him and the bourbon that crosses his path every now and then. Nik gestures at Ghost. "He is Ghost, which is like a James Bond novel villain, no?" Ghost's eyes flicker, "Gaz is new... He gets a pass--"

"Cheers, Nik."

"--you are welcome sergeant, and you," Nik points two fingers at Soap, "you are Soap because you are the lieutenant's bottom."

Soap sprays bourbon through his nose, Gaz barks a laugh and then creases over in stitches, and Price chokes on the lungful of cigar smoke he's halfway through. Ghost pinches his nose through his mask.

"Fuckin' hell, Nik, I can't--I can't breathe!" Gaz rolls onto his back, arms clasped over his abdomen.

Soap blusters. "Oh aye, feckin hilarious. How'd ye figure that one out then?"

"When your diet is as bad as yours, there is a need to--"

"Nik! Tha's not--I mean, me and him, how'd'ye get that in yer heid?"

Nik glances between Soap and Ghost like they're pulling one over on him. "The flirting over the radio, you are always together, you are grumpy when apart, you--Captain, you--"

Price blows a puff of smoke towards the roof of the hanger and passes the remains of the cigar over his shoulder. "Nope, nah," he flaps a hand, hiccups, and rolls onto his front like he's about to low-crawl his way out. "You're on your own 'ere, mate, urgh, fuck... Need a slash... then bed."

"Coward," Nik huffs.

"Yep." Price stumbles to his feet, nearly nuts the tail of the helicopter they're sitting near, and hobbles away with a quiet groan, leaving Nik to face down a red-eared Soap and a stoic Ghost; Gaz is cackling into the bottle of bourbon.

"Nah, he's right, time to call it a night. We're up at 0600 for a debrief," Ghost says finally.

Nik frowns. "Lieutenant, I am sorry if I have offended. I have clearly misread the situation, and--"

"Soap got his call sign because he's good at cleaning house; he's quick, accurate," Ghost rolls to his feet with remarkable grace considering his injury and the volume of bourbon currently in his bloodstream, "besides, I would bottom. I have impeccable gut health."

Soap barks a laugh. "Eh, good one, L.T.." Ghost looks at him; it's a lingering, rather hungry gaze that stretches a little beyond their usual homoerotic banter, but he says nothing and turns before Soap can fully digest it. Soap's smile vanishes into wide-eyed bewilderment, and he stumbles to his feet, calling after Ghost with one outstretched hand. "Oi, sir... Ye... Sir, for real? Was that a--? L.T., wait up. Sir!"

Gaz and Nik watch them leave, and once Ghost's plentiful arse and Soap's flailing self are out of sight, Gaz grins. "Hollow points, RVs and relationships, best fixer in the biz. Well played."

Nik grins back and they clink their bottles together. "It was too good an opportunity."

"Excellent form, mate. Is there anythin' you can't fix?"

Nik hums as he swigs his vodka, glancing towards the door that Price had vanished through moments prior. Gaz sighs. "Oh yeah, how's it going with the captain? You taken him on a date yet?"

"Is it that obvious?"

"Mate, mate, being between you two when it's just us three on ops is cringe. Not quite as bad as them," Gaz juts his chin after Ghost and Soap, "but fuck me, I could puke."

"I am sorry."

"Don't be. You're an open book. Captain Oblivious needs to open his eyes. Could shoot a gnat's bollocks off at a thousand metres but he misses you chasing his tail like a puppy. It's insane."

Nik huffs. "I have asked Laswell for advice."

"Oh yeah? I bet she loved that."

"She has said he has a phrase... What is it, 'you should not shit where you eat'," Nik says sadly.

"Oof, yeah, that sounds like Price," Gaz pats Nik on the back of the shoulder, "so, what? Calling off the mission?"

"Nyet, never. I am Russian; the pining and heartbreak, it is all part of the romance. But I will only take a happy ending, no tragedy. Price will be mine."

Gaz laughs. "Fair," he raises his bottle in a toast, "to romance and happy endings."

Nik meets Gaz's bottle. "Of all kinds, my brother." He wriggles his eyebrows and Gaz cracks up cackling again.

[gildedworld]

Francesca Moreno

Overview

Name: Francesca Moreno

Current Alias : Gloria

Nickname (s):

Birthday:

Gender : Female

Sexuality : Heterosexual

Citizenship: Nationality

Species : Homo Mutatis

Affiliation: X-Men

Base of Operations: Leopold Estate

APPEARANCE & PHYSICALITY

Ethnicity: Italian

Accent : Long Island

Hair : shinny chocolate brown hair with subtle warm-toned gold highlights. Her hair is naturally straight and runs down her back, ending right above her waist. She does hate her hair though and desperately wishes that it was the "good wavy" - the effortless 'beach girly' waves.

Eyes : chocolate brown eyes

Body : Francssca is average in terms of height and is slim. Body-wise, she is athletic and lean, something she's extremely proud of and has well defined abs that she attributes to pilates and yoga.

Style : Francesca lives in Lululemon. Her style is basically athleisure - specifically matching legging and sports bra sets, with "belt bags" (they're fanny packs, let's be real), ponytail running hats, and Addidas sneakers. She has seemingly endless color coordinated sets with matching Yeti travel mugs - literally every single color combination under the sun. Occasionally, she'll switch it up for a tennis dress or a skot instead of leggings.

Unusual features: none

Faceclaim : Maddison Beer

PERSONALITY

Francesca is an airhead. She's vain, self-obsessed, and conceited. She's the kind of person who truly does believe that everyone in the room is looking, talking, and thinking about her at all times. Then again, why wouldn't they- she's Francesca after all. She truly believes that the sun revolves around her and suffers heavily from Main Character Syndrome. She can't stand having others in the spotlight as opposed to her and focuses her attention and energy in maintaining her spotlight through building her "brand" across social media platforms. After all, she is an influencer and influences must influence!

Despite this, Francesca is actually quite intelligent believe it or not, when her mind is not occupied with getting the latest athleisure wear and yeti tumbler drops, she actually does have moments of insights that tend to baffle the people around her. A fairly good judge of character, she knows how to read people and, of course, manupilate them to further her agendas.

Although it doesn't seem like it, Francesca does have a strong sense of morality and justice and isn't afraid to speak her mind and stand up for those who can't. That's why she's an X-Men, duh.

POWERS & ABILITIES

Francesca is a telepath and can read and influence the minds of those around her. In terms of power, she's probably your average telepath - with the ability to read and influence the minds of those closest to her.

RELATIONSHIPS

Family

Faith Moreno - mother

David Moreno - father

Francesca is very close to her parents, as italian-American kids usually are. She's the light of their lives, the apple of their eyes.

Extended Family

Francesca has a large extended family, most of whom live in Long Island in towns close to her own. Although large, they are very close-knit and meet up often. Francesca's father being the oldest son, is the family patriarch - that means that dinners and holiday celebrations usually take place Francesca's house with her mom cooking (it's usually lasagna or some sort of pasta)

Friends

Significant Others

Alex Mastronadi

Alex really was Francesca's longest and most significant relationship. She'd always had a crush on Alex. But prior to Rosaria's disappearance, she'd never seriously considered Alex at all because it was obvious to anyone with eyes that they were seriously dating. But after moving to Canada, Francesca started getting closer to Alex. It started out with Alex overhearing a call with her mom and remarking that Francesca's mother reminded him of his own in terms of temperament. They eventually got closer and started dating. But even when they were dating, there always was a distance with Alex - she could never get close enough to him. And it really didn't help that everyone around them knew Rosaria and knew that if she were to be here, Alex would still be with her without a question.

Rosaria Huntington

Francesca always hated Rosaria - she was everything Francesca was not. Her parents were rich and always showered Rosaria and her friends (Francesca included) with lavish gifts and presents that Francesca would have never dreamed of. And everyone seemed to like Rosaria too. She was naturally charismatic, and like Francesca, Rosaria too was a telepath - only significantly stronger. The worst part was that she genuinely was nice to everyone, including Francesca.

After the invasion and Rosaria's disappearance, things seemed to get worse - people either treated her as a diety and grieved her loss or villified her and blamed her for the invasion. The worst was that even though she was gone, everyone was still constantly talking about her. Francesca always felt that with time, things would change. And for most people, it did. But that did not include Alex . His obsessed with finding her soon transformed into years of deep-seated grief, resentment, and anger.

Francesca always knew that Alex loved Rosaria. But she had hoped that he'd get over her one day, too. Even though she wasn't physically present and was possibly dead, Francesca always felt as if she was an outsider - that Alex was in a relationship with Rosaria and Francesca was the one looking in. And that just makes Francesca resent Rosaria even more. Normally, girls would have to compete with ex-girlfriends or ex-wives. Francesca, however, was competing with a ghost.

HISTORY

Francesca grew up in Long Island in a large blue-collar Italian-American family. Her father owned a construction company, and her mother was a teacher at a local middle school. Francesca was their only child, and as a result of this, she was the apple of their eye - the child who could do nothing wrong.

Up till the age of 15, she lived in Long Island - she attended school , was a cheerleader, and actively worked towards building up her social media platform among her peers and community. She was known for her practical makeup tips and would go around offering free makeovers to those in need - the less fortune who had unfortunately not been blessed with style, unlike her.

At the age of 15, her telepathy began to manifest - she noticed it first when she seemingly was able to read her teacher and peers' minds during a test and got the highest test scores. Naturally, it made the teachers suspicious who attempted to find evidence of cheating but never could. When they asked her, she quite openly told them that she heard her peers think.

Her guidance counselor recommended Francesca as a candidate to the Xavier Academy - the next day, Francesca was tested, and it was identified that she was a telepath, having the X-Gene mutation present.

Francesca was quite upset to leave her friends and family at first but ultimately recognized that it was the right thing to do. Her true motivations, of course, were quite simple - cute boys.

At first, Francesca hated the Academy - not only did she actually have to study for once, but she also had to do stuff like training, which she hated. On top of that, all the cute boys she expected were either in a relationship or just plain boring.

The good news, though, was that she had the perfect settings to take beautiful pictures and videos for her platforms . Also, mutant teens with cool powers made for great content.

This soon changed with the invasion, of course. Several of her peers were either killed, disappeared , or were captured by the government. And to make matters worse, the Academy was destroyed, half her clothes were ruined, she was missing an entire case of limited edition Yeti tumblers, and she seemingly had to pack whatever she had left and move to rural Canada. Plus she had to sleep on the ground with bugs.

And the worst thing was that she was not allowed internet in the new estate in Canada and constantly had to find work arounds to get access to internet, which Francesca was sure was some sort of violation of a basic human right. But thankfully, Starbucks existed - she could get her Frappuccinos and internet too!

OTHER

Francesca LOVES lululemon and athleisure

She loves mocha Frappuccinos and loves cake pop

She hates vanilla as it's a basic flavor - chocolate all the way

Francesca loves salads and you won't find her without her Yeti - hydration, hydration, hydration

She has over a million followers across her platforms and is a lifestyle influencer known for her clean-girl aesthetic and healthy lifestyle

She is vegan and can not survive without oatmilk.

She has a secret internet extender through which she is able to connect to the internet and post across her platforms, buy her lululemon and yeti tumblers, and livestream her yoga and pilates classes

Her favorite holiday is Christmas, apart from her birthday, of course.

[chanelfunnell]

mail

A) anon, yes , Letang is looking and playing ok for so sad news in his life. I am glad for him. Crosby is up for careful polishing as a priceless lazy treasure to move anything else than his ice hockey stick.

B) anon, two days ago my find with Zegras lip synch Taylor Swift hit the roof. Once upon time I mentioned Tazer and Crosby's Cray troll Ashley who trashed me for my opinion and she bullies all wags. No serious sport fan. So 3 Tumblers followed he and blocked me. Fine. Don't steal from my blog certain photos of Tazer usually or Kaner. That's all what they do, gfs of Toews, Kane. I like Blackhawks, Pens, here and there hockey and Matthews and so. I have found more to watch and so what teens swoon from, certainly Hughes brothers and Zegras.. Copycats coping with being carbon. Copies

Trevor Zegras on Snekjin who's just ardent Tazer's fan and so Cray Ashley's chum. Ashley joined my Tumble under different account, about Crosby. You know passive aggressive troll who follows no other way round and thinks that known woman or wags watch her. Snekjin never reblogs never. She steals your photo or an idea.. At least Toews sticks with Toews and spends whale of time making Tazer's gifts.

C) yeah anon, beside empty ruins in Detroit it's a mess in Michigan and all over the country. The biggest US debt so far. More to come with uni loans plans by Biden in similar mode like 0 for house purchases by other Cray liberal Livvie (no real Democrat) Clinton and more real estate bs herehttps://www.reuters.com/markets/us/us-rents-surge-leaving-behind-generation-younger-workers-2022-09-21/

Greedy in all aspects from food costs to any costs incredible to pay 1500 bucks for a shed in rural Idaho or to see once ok townhouse in Washington D c into 8 studio apartments . Don't start with walking zombies in crazy crowds at sidewalks and inept cops in SF or Portland lol. I read that Australia is facing shortage of housing and huge costs but don't be shocked if Kiwi PM is gone bcs she ordered to lock them and pay so huge bills. Wait for scattered Europe.

D) anon, yes my popularity has increased but a lot of bots as followers so far

[fastlanerealtors]

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[weloverealestate]

How to Find More Real Estate Clients

Finding real estate clients can be difficult, but there are many ways to find them. From networking to online marketing, there are several ways that you can attract new customers and increase your business. These tips will help you get started in the right direction.

1. Network within your sphere of friends sounding out that you are into a business of real estate and looking for clients.

This is an effective method to build your reputation and establish yourself as an expert in the local market. It will also ensure that you are constantly acquiring leads.

2. Link up with successful brokers to find potential clients who can become referral sources for you.

This may be difficult to do at first, but it can be very rewarding. Once you have made connections, try to reach out to them and ask for their contact information so that you can start contacting them on a regular basis.

3. Don’t be afraid to take the plunge and build a website or online presence for your real estate business.

This will not only make you more accessible to prospective clients, but it will also allow them to get to know your personality and style. It is a good idea to use a branded website that reflects your personal style and brand.

4. Create a blog and video content that offers advice on homeownership, improvement tips, and other useful information for homebuyers or sellers in your area.

These types of posts will not only give you a chance to build your reputation and expand your audience, but they will also show your potential clients that you are a professional who is dedicated to helping them find their dream home.

5. Send out emails to your mailing list on a regular basis.

Email marketing is an excellent way to stay in touch with your existing and prospective clients. Depending on the size of your list, you can create different kinds of newsletters that will be relevant to their needs.

6. Ask for testimonials from your clients on Google My Business and other review sites like Zillow.

These reviews are a great way to gain the trust of potential clients, which is crucial for the success of any real estate business.

7. Keep your client base happy with a variety of real estate services and add-ons to your list.

This will make your clients feel valued and will make them more likely to continue using your services in the future.

8. Consider creating branded swag and closing gifts for your clients to help them spread the word about your business.

These swag ideas include branded pens, coffee tumblers and other high-use items that your clients can carry around in public as free advertising for you.

9. Incentivize your current and former clients to refer you to their friends, family, or coworkers by offering a discount or bonus when they do so.

10. Incorporate these ideas into your business plan and make them a part of your overall strategy to generate more real estate clients.

[abhinandangroupjaipur]

[zafiro-imperial]

[legacyhomesrealestate]

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[on-a-lucky-tide]

Lambert’s stuck in a rut. His life’s going nowhere and his dreams never seem to leave the A1 architectural drawings he carries around in his rucksack. He has Aiden’s bar, his respectably placed outer London apartment and his Japanese Peace Lily. That is… until he meets a tall, silent bar tender with shoulders like the Qinghai-Tibetan plateau and eyes like twin suns.

CW: mutism, war injuries, Lambert running his mouth. Set up of a longer work which has never seen the light of day, but I like the opening a lot.

Lambert had been visiting the same shitty, rundown bar since graduating. Three years bachelors, two years postgrad, twelve months running after a middle-aged racist with a caffeine addiction—internship—and then five years of… this. No one prepared you for the heady heights of listless adulthood; that odd grey area between being a cutting edge, aspiring young whippersnapper and a washed out, lonely old man with seven cats. Lambert was staring down the barrel of thirty simultaneously wondering where the fuck his life was sprinting off to and what the fuck he had even done with it to begin with.

Every night he pulled a late one at the office labouring over his distant dream of sustainable, affordable housing for the working class that wasn’t a lifeless block of concrete. You know, the kind that drew inspiration from the hallowed corridors of nineteenth century Newgate prison. The kind of place that leeched the life and happiness from every one of its occupants until they were as grey and empty as their home. Someone’s community was meant to be at their heart, something that defined them. Like the roots of a tree—you know, the person being the… tree. Look, he was never so good at conceptualising his vision in words. He’d sooner draw you a fucking picture. Which is where we were fucking at right now.

Lambert had become an architect on the back of a dream he’d had sitting on a swing set in the condemned children’s playground at the very centre of his council estate. Half the kids he’d known had given up because life was grey, drugs were easy, so what’s the fucking point, right? If only they were faced with more than the grey—

That dream had driven him through his studies like a man possessed—by a demon comprising of an unhealthy amount of Monster and a stubborn, spiteful drive to succeed—followed by that tedious twelve months as a gopher, but now he was here… or there, or whatever spatial demonstrative you wanted to fucking use, he didn’t know what to do. The dream had shuddered to a halt. Red tape, politics. The kind of thing that stood fast in the face of an outsider. Because he would always be an outsider. Something—something—attitude problem.

The same thoughts gathered like a storm cloud over his head as he trudged down the steps to Aiden’s. Both the name of the place and the owner, because Aiden straddled the line between new money glam and old east end rust in a way that was both tackey and unique. He managed to pull it off somehow. Lambert threw himself down in his usual stool, dumping his satchel full of drawings at unceremoniously at his feet, and thumped his forehead on the bar. “Usual, Sal.”

Sal wasn’t his real name. His real name was Derek. But everyone called him Sal because of the time he’d stepped in for the chef, cooked the Friday night chicken curry and given everyone salmonella. Environmental health nearly had a fucking field day but, much like many of Aiden’s licensing and business woes, the matter had cleared up mysteriously overnight.

The glass tumbler settled gently on a place mat in front of Lambert’s head. He heard the pop of the cork and the slosh of expensive whiskey—he’d worked his nuts off for his salary, so he could drink it away if he wanted to, thank you very fucking much—and then nothing. No greeting. No, “‘ello mate, what’s the story?”

Lambert lifted his head to rip on Sal and ask if someone had half-inched his tongue out his ugly mug, only to almost fall from his stool in shock. The man standing before him wasn’t Sal. Nothing like him in fact. Easily clear of six feet with a few inches to spare, a scruffy mop of dark hair and a face like someone had tried to pry out his teeth with a claw hammer. There was a gap in his lip, twisted scars all the way up the side of his face to his eye and ear. Angry, red. “Jesus fucking Christ,” Lambert said, mouth running away with his thoughts before he could marshal them.

The barman didn’t even flinch. His fingers tapped on the side of the bottle, hazel eyes dropping to the fifth he’d just poured, and Lambert realised he was waiting for some kind of acknowledgement that the drink was satisfactory. Lambert tore his eyes away and tried to bury the squirming, uncomfortable feeling that came with making an absolute cunt of yourself in front of someone new. “Yeah, cheers. Uh… add it to my... tab, uh—” Lambert glanced up and caught sight of a name badge, “—Eskel.”

There was another badge next to it. Light blue, with dark letters printed in Arial font. ‘I can’t speak, but I’m a good listener’. Lambert stared at it for a moment, fingers tapping on cool glass. “Can’t speak, huh? That because of—” Lambert gestured at his own face and Eskel nodded, “—right, bummer.” Eskel nodded again, but Lambert could swear he was being laughed at. Those hazel eyes glittered with something, and it wasn’t unshed tears at being so cruelly gawped at. Well, that was a fucking relief. “Yeah, I guess bummer is the understatement of the century.”

Eskel tilted his head and ducked his chin, with a quirk of the eyebrow.

“So, if you know my drink order, you know I have mac and cheese, with crispy bacon bits, and a side of onion rings.”

Another nod. Lambert squinted.

“You know, I’ll… uh—is Aiden out back? Fucker owes me a pony from the last—”

Lambert didn’t get through his excuse before he was sliding from the stool and hot footing it around the rope barrier to the back room. The corridor leading to Aiden’s office always smelled of industrial strength disinfectant and drunken regrets, and Lambert rubbed at his nose as he pushed through the door.

“Please, come in, not like I’m up to my bollocks in paperwork,” Aiden murmured, ensconced behind a teetering pile of brown folders and a box-shaped computer monitor from the early noughties. He was in his late-thirties, with wisps of grey hinting in his neatly groomed beard. Sharp green eyes left the lines of neat print on off-white paper for barely a second to acknowledge Lambert’s presence. “Shit week?”

“About a six on the shit-o-meter,” Lambert replied, gaze sliding sideways as the pinball machine to his left squealed and trilled. Gaetan, short, with a clean-shaven head, docs and a cut-off denim jacket, grumbled irritably as he missed out on beating Lambert’s high score. “Alright?” he asked and received a grunt in return. Gaetan was just shy of twenty years Aiden’s junior and oozed ‘younger brother complex’ from his every pore.

“Six isn’t bad.” Aiden sighed and threw his pen onto the table. “So, what’s the rub? Bacon not crispy enough?”

“What happened to Sal?”

“He finally bought that ticket to Marbella. Him and the missus flew out last night on the red eye.”

“That selfish prick,” Lambert growled. “Not even a by your fucking leave.”

Aiden shrugged and tapped morosely at his keyboard. Most of Aiden’s employees were itinerant in some way; students looking for a quick buck at the weekend, job-hoppers still searching for their calling and lazy schmucks looking for an easy ride only to realise that bar work was hard going. But Sal had been a permanent fixture for the last ten years, always dreaming about a ticket to the sun, and then wasting his pay packet on the horses or weekend jollies to France for cheap box wine.

Lambert rubbed at his beard. “The new guy. He for real?”

“Eskel?”

“Yeah.” Lambert yanked a rickety old chair over from the wall and sat on it backwards, arms folded beneath his chin. “Looks like one of Emhyr’s goons used him as a scratching post. ‘I can’t speak but I’m a good listener’?”

“He’s former forces. Not sure which. He’s… uh, part of that new government initiative. Veterans’ Strategy Action Plan.”

“Thought that was meant to put them in prisons and healthcare and shit?” It wasn’t unusual for Aiden to get involved in charity cases. Despite his feeble attempts at cultivating a fearsome reputation, he was a soft touch with a heart of gold. There wasn’t an AA programme, drug rehabilitation scheme, ex-con reform schtick or fresh start for young offenders’ initiative that he wasn’t involved in. Something about giving back to the community, or doing right by his dad, or something. Everyone had their dreams.

“Eskel’s… uh, he’s got some shit goin’ on in his head, you know. What he went through was hard. He’s happy to do some security on Saturday nights, knows how to pour a good Godfather, so he’s a decent gamble.”

“Shit going on in his head?”

Aiden narrowed his eyes and slumped back in his chair. “You know that’s confidential, and I’ve already told you too much. Fuck off and eat your dinner, I’ve got shit to do. I’ll join you for a quick one before you leave.”

Lambert rolled his eyes and left the office, pausing only long enough to bid farewell Gaetan and receive another grunt in reply. By the time he returned to the bar, Eskel was placing his mac and cheese on a neat place mat next to his whiskey. Lambert paused at the corner, taking a moment to admire the line of Eskel’s waistcoat around his muscular frame. Not too shabby. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad having some new eye candy around the place. Eye candy that didn’t talk back. Winner-winner-chicken-dinner.

“He was busy,” Lambert informed Eskel as he sat down at the bar. Eskel afforded him another nod, with a quirked brow, and then turned back to wiping down the pint glass in his hands. Lambert picked up his fork and focused on wolfing down his dinner as quickly as humanly possible. He watched Eskel work discreetly, looking up only when Eskel’s back was turned or his focus elsewhere. Lambert watched his forearms flex as he restocked the fridge with bottled cider, the fold of his shirt collar beneath the rugged line of his jaw with its light peppering of dark stubble. It was because Lambert hadn’t been laid in—

He began to run the numbers and it was just so fucking depressing he stopped—

—which was why he was hyper focused. New slab of man meat. Yeah. It had absolutely nothing to do with the meandering thoughts set a-wanderin’ by Aiden’s vague comments. What was the ‘something going on’ in Eskel’s head? What did his voice sound like? What had happened to his face? What did he like to do at the weekend, and did it involve lube—?

It was too awkward. Every time Lambert opened his mouth to talk, he knew he’d get that same calm look, perhaps the eyebrow, and in the end, he said nothing.

Aiden appeared an hour later—for Lambert, it had been an hour of pretending to play Candy Crush on his phone while watching Eskel go about his duties—and they shared a beer, a few giggles, and then Lambert headed home to his empty apartment to water his Japanese Peace Lily. No, it wasn’t a fucking euphemism. Vesemir said he couldn’t be trusted with another living thing. Not even a goldfish. He couldn’t even cook (although Lambert argued that those two things definitely didn’t fucking correlate, and boiling pasta definitely counted as cooking). He laid in bed that night and stared at the ceiling, thinking about Eskel and his quiet, calm eyes.

[willwrite4mora]

Diluc x Reader: Date with a Hero

"And he saved a group of adventurers from a horde of hilichurls last night! He's just so amazing!" you were gushing about your crush, the Darknight Hero, again. "And so mysterious," you said, drifting off into your own daydreams.

You were sitting at a table in the tavern near the bar with your colleagues Amber and Kaeya. Amber rolled her eyes in annoyance, having heard you talk about the Darknight Hero a million times already. Kaeya only smirked and let you continue rambling on.

"I wonder if he's single," you mindlessly gushed.

Kaeya started laughing. "Oh, he might be. I know someone who knows him."

You perked up. "You do?" you asked in disbelief.

"Oh yeah, Diluc knows the guy. Right, Diluc?" he turned around in his chair to look straight at Diluc who was cleaning glasses before being interrupted. He jolted in shock, not expecting to be called out like this. He glared at Kaeya as soon as he got over his initial shock.

"Wow, I knew Diluc had many connections, but I didn't know he did to this extend!" you exclaimed in surprise. Diluc just stayed silent, still glaring at Kaeya.

Kaeya just laughed again. "He sure does! I bet he could set you up on a date!" he said and continued his laughter.

Diluc's cheeks hot red. He tried so hard to stay calm, but Kaeya was trying to test his limits again. He was sure Kaeya knew about his crush on you, and this was just his stupid little way to make a fool out of him.

But you looked just too happy to resist. "Would you really do that for me?" you asked hopefully. He tried to hide his blush from you by hiding the lower half of his face behind a hand. He stayed quiet and looked away.

When you got no answer, you felt your heart sink. "Oh, I see," you said, disappointed. "I don't think the Darknight Hero would like me like that anyway. I have nothing to offer..."

Diluc's heart broke hearing you talk about yourself like that. He quickly tried to regain his composure. "I could set you up," he blurted out.

Your smile returned. "Really? Thank you so much!" you said.

Kaeya was laughing again, but Diluc decided to ignore him. "I'll prepare a luxurious dinner for the two of you at my winery. How about tomorrow night?" he asked.

"Yes!" you answered full of enthusiasm. "I'll be there at six!"

Diluc nodded. "I'll send the message," and with that he continued his work behind the counter. You continued enthusiastically conversing with Amber about your upcoming date while Kaeya couldn't seem to catch his breath laughing.

The following day at six, you were knocking on the front door of Diluc's mansion. It was a huge place, perfect for a romantic dinner. You had dressed up nicely for your date and you had done your hair and makeup as well.

A few seconds later, Diluc opened the door. "Ah, Y/N, please come in. The Darknight Hero hasn't arrived yet, but he let me know he'll be here soon," he said. He stepped out of the way for you to walk inside. Then, he closed the door behind you.

He led you into a large dining room with a large table of which only two seats at one end were set up. A candelabra with three burning candles stood in the middle between the two plates. Diluc pulled out a chair for you, directing you to sit down. He pushed the chair back as you placed yourself on it.

"Dinner will be served soon. Just a little patience," he said, before walking out of the room.

It was quite. You sat in silence and only heard the clock tick and your own heart hammer. You were so nervous to meet the amazing hero of Mondstadt. After a few minutes, you heard footsteps in the hallway near the dining room. Your heartbeat sped up.

The door opened and you looked up to see a mysterious man with an owl mask on. He really came. You were at a loss for words, only able to mutter out, "Darknight Hero..."

He looked into your eyes at the mention of his name. His flaming red hair was pulled back into a high ponytail and his clothes were black. That was probably to increase his stealth in the night, but damn, did it also simply just look good on him.

"Yes, I am the Darknight Hero," he stated simply before taking a seat on the chair opposite of you. He spoke with a familiar voice, but you just shrugged off the feeling.

"So Diluc does know you personally! He never ceases to amaze me," you were thinking out loud. "I can't believe he got a real mysterious hero to go on a date with me."

He chuckled and you blushed at the wonderful sound. "I wouldn't want to miss this opportunity for the world. Fine dining with a girl as pretty as you is a rare opportunity," he charmed.

You swooned. He was such a smooth talker, sweeping you off your feet with just a few words.

A few maids stepped in with plates filled with different different dishes and set them down on the table between you. One of the maids brought in a tumbler of water and another one brought out a bottle of grape juice, filling the Darknight Hero's wine glass with it.

Once the maids stepped out of the room, you asked, "do you like grape juice more than wine?"

"I certainly do," he answered. "In fact, it's one of my favorite drinks."

You were thinking to yourself. "What a coincidence. I think that's Diluc's favorite as well."

"I-is that so?" he stuttered. He tried to avoid your eyes as he was speaking. "That certainly is a strange coincidence."

"It sure is," you said, before getting some food from the buffet the maids provided onto your plate. The Darknight Hero sighed in relief as you apparently didn't press the issue any further.

During your dinner, you two were talking about Mondstadt affairs and the like. After a few more bites, you were starting to crave some wine. You gulped down your food and said, "I think I know a wine that would go really well with these dishes. I think I'll go ask Diluc if we could get a bottle."

You got up from your seat and the Darknight Hero quickly got up as well. "Y-you don't have to ask!" he said with panic in his voice.

You were confused. "Nonsense. I can't just raid his cellar without permission," you tried to argue. "I'll go to his office and just ask. It will only take a second." You got up and quickly made your way out of the dining room, then up the stairs. Once you were outside Diluc's office, you knocked on the door.

And you waited a good few minutes without an answer. You could hear some noise behind the door, but you didn't know what was happening. "Diluc?" you asked concerned.

Seconds later, Diluc opened the door. He looked a bit disheveled. There was a small branch stuck in his hair. You felt a cold breeze come in through the open window. "Hello, Y/N. How can I help you?" he simply asked.

You stared at him for a second. "Since when do you wear your hair in a high ponytail?" you asked. You didn't think you've ever seen him with his hair up like this.

Diluc starteled, feeling his head for where he wore his ponytail. It was indeed high up. He cursed quietly, then straightened his posture again. "I sometimes do when I'm doing paperwork," he quickly said.

"Oh, alright then," you said. "I was wondering if we could get a bottle of wine from your cellar. I know one that would be great with our dinner. If you don't mind, that is."

He nodded. "Of course. Follow me." The two of you took off to the wine cellar.

Once inside, Diluc lit a candle. "Which one?" he asked.

You told him which bottle you wanted and he took it out of a large rack for you, handing it over into your hands. "Thank you so much!" you thanked him enthusiastically. "Now back to my date!" You turned around and ran up the stairs, back to the dining room.

The Darknight Hero wasn't there anymore, though. Your heart sank. Did he bail on you? He wouldn't, would he? You thought you were getting along with him just fine. You sat down on your chair, feeling defeated.

Then, through the open dining room window, in came your date. He also had a twig stuck in his hair. His mask was on a bit crooked and he was missing one glove. You were happy to see him, though, and got up from your spot in order to help him in. Not that a strong hero like him needed your help.

"Oh my! What happened?" you asked. "Did someone attack and did you have to leave?" You sounded so worried.

The Darknight Hero hastily shook his head no. "Please, don't worry. I uuuh... I just wanted to... see if the weather was nice enough for a walk," he improvised.

"A walk?" you questioned. Then you smiled at him. "What a romantic idea!" You clapped your hands together before turning around. "I'll go tell Diluc we'll be off. He's probably still in the wine cellar," you said, before turning around and making your way out of the room.

The Darknight Hero groaned loudly, but you kept going. Once in the cellar, you couldn't find Diluc anywhere. The candle was still burning. You decided to put it out before making your way back up. Once out the door of the cellar, you saw Diluc standing in the hallway, seemingly out of breath.

You ran up to him. "There you are, Diluc!" you exclaimed as you got closer. His hair was still in the high ponytail and the twig was also still stuck. He had no gloves or jacket on. You wondered where those went. Anyway, you continued to inform him, "the Darknight Hero and I will be taking a walk around the estate. I just wanted to inform you before leaving the mansion."

Diluc huffed loudly. "That... is alright..." he could barely speak between pants.

Then you noticed something that stuck to his shirt. You came closer and stepped to his side, taking a good look. Once you saw what it was, you plucked it off.

Diluc was confused at first, then saw what you were holding. It was the mask of the Darknight Hero. He just stared at you wide eyed, not sure what to say or how to get himself out of this mess.

You looked up at him and held up the mask for him to see. "Care to explain?" you asked accusingly.

He gulped. "Well..." he started, but he really didn't know what else to tell you but the truth. He took a deep breath before finally saying, "I guess you could say I've been leading a double life of sorts." He looked away guiltily, scratching with one hand behind his head.

"So you're saying that you've been the Darknight Hero all along?" you asked.

"Yeah..." he admitted.

There was a short silence between the two of you before he continued.

"I know I shouldn't have abused my position as the Darknight Hero like this, but I've liked you for a while now," he said, cheeks getting red from embarrassment. "I know whenever you were talking about the Darknight Hero, your compliments weren't for me, though they indirectly felt that way. I felt happy that you liked me back, even though it was a different version of me... I hope you aren't too angry with me."

"I cant believe the Darknight Hero likes me back!" you squealed.

Diluc was confused for a second. "You're not mad at me?"

"Oh, I'm very mad, but also very happy," you said with a smile on your face.

Diluc smiled in return. "Then how can I make it up to you?"

"Continue our date," you demanded. "But this time as Diluc."

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[curiousconch]

I hope I'm not late for this

73 for gabe and alex?

Almost all stories are them in love

How about this be their first or one of their fights you know

Thank you

Oh! This was difficult!

I hardly thought about them fighting, but you're right, everything should be in balance. So, here's an attempt at that. Sorry it took me weeks to figure this one out.

For requests, check this.

Ficlet below the cut. Prompt will be in bold.

Silent Ricci Night

This wasn't how Alex imagined this day ended.

One minute, they were celebrating her win, next thing she knows she gets the silent treatment.

The supposed great night was getting spoiled by Gabe's sulking.

And the fact that he was being so vague about the reason was keeping Alex on her toes.

Deciding to leave him be, she instead drifted her attention to the familiar faces at the bar. This was her first major win since becoming junior partner, and it was a big deal.

She had just shut down a greedy real estate mogul with a slam dunk class action suit, the families forcefully evicted being compensated along the way.

The same case where she first met Tyler, whose unabashed grin was beaming at her at the moment.

She sighed and leaned over the bar beside him.

"Thought we'd be celebrating, why the long face?" the hunky fireman had wittily said.

Alex traced her finger at the rim of her scotch filled tumbler, shaking her head.

"Guess the clouds over my head spoils the mood, huh?" she chuckled.

They engaged in an easy conversation, having stayed friends after all. Did they ever cross the line again? Alex and Tyler knew better to not mess with how platonic they have become, especially upon how their respective romantic relationships advanced.

Abruptly, Alex felt a dark presence behind her that stifled a concerned look from Tyler.

She already knew who it was by Tyler's nervous expression.

"I'm going ahead," Gabe said as she turned to face him.

A nod was her only reply, to which Gabe's lips pursed and brow raised.

Perhaps she was more tired than she let herself on.

"Bye bye, you won't be missed," Alex said with a dismissive flick of her hand.

Tyler's mouth flew open.

There was an electric feeling in the air, one that anytime could combust and wreck everything along in its path.

Gabe broke the silence with a stoic look in his eyes. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

Alex let out a sigh and followed him outside. Once the cold New York night air touched their skin, Gabe shattered the seal that was forbidding them to fight.

"Explain yourself," he muttered, clenched fists at his sides.

Alex brushed her hair with her fingers. "You need to be clearer than that."

"You really don't know?"

"Of course not! You've been sulking the whole night when this was supposed to be your idea."

Gabe scoffed. "It was my idea until you brought that fireman along."

Alex raised her head to level with him. Did he just...?

"You're fucking jealous?" she accused, her eyes narrowed.

He averted his gaze away in an attempt to avoid the obvious truth.

"Damn, Ricci, I am offended."

Gabe snapped his head to look at her.

"Why would you be? I didn't invite a former lover to your victory party," he managed to say, clearly struggling to hold back the rage brewing in him.

"I am fucking offended because you clearly don't trust me enough," she replied.

Somehow, Alex's blunt words managed to wound his resolve.

"I'm going back in," she turned her heel towards the entrance of the bar. "I'm not going to apologize for my friendships, nor will I tolerate your outdated views."

She gripped the doorknob and with a serious look, she titled her head to look over her shoulder at him.

"But should you need a reminder to knock some sense to that stubborn head of yours, you are the one I'm spending my night with, not him."

Alex then went inside.

It may have taken a little while to absorb her words, but Gabe eventually got the message. He followed her back to the bar, with his usual charismatic self.

And just like she said, she spent that night in his penthouse. And so many nights after that.

Tag list: @adiehardfan @pixelnathayes @starryjieun @latinagiraffe @sarcastic01lily  @spookycolorpeanut @ophrookie @suitfer @thegreentwin @mkatschoicesblog @made-of-roses @lillijill @kachrisberry @weaving-in-words @peonierose @wanderingamongthewildflowers

[msfeatherfreckles]

This is taking up so much real estate in my brain, right next to that cursed mixtape, and now it's in your brain too!

Day 19: Pour One Out for this thing by @winchester-reload.

The pattern on the tumblers were sooo finicky, I had to break out the nail art brushes. 😅 Still messed up a little with the shapes, and brilliant me realized so late in the game that a micron pen would have sufficed for the tiny, tiny, tiny lines, but we went with the rigger brush instead.

Also, tape peeling. Because it's just so oddly satisfying...

[trillian-anders]

the assistant

pairing: ransom drysdale x reader

warnings: violence, angst, fluff, smut && SPOILERS

word count: 6.8k

description: part 1 of 5. CONTAINS MAJOR SPOILERS, PLEASE DO NOT READ IF YOU HAVE NOT WATCHED THE FILM. you’ve been working for the thrombeys for four years now, the last three years of your service being a glorified babysitter to the most annoying, self-absorbed, dickhead hugh ransom drysdale.

You wanted to smack that dumb smirk off his stupid dumb face. 

Hugh Ransom Drysdale. The bane of your fucking existence. Standing there with that stupid fucking smirk on his face, he fucking loved this. Watching as you cleaned up his mess. A crying girl on his doorstep and you, his assistant (aka babysitter), trying to calm her down enough to get her to leave his house. This dumb contemporary floor to ceiling windowed, minimalist, empty souled house. The girl had been picked up at a bar last night. Charmed by his handsome face, the money he was careless to spend, the way he spoke to you like you were the most beautiful thing in the world. 

It was a fucking joke. A trick. You’ve seen it a million times and you’d be willing you bet that you’d see it a million more. 

The door blocked her view of him, your clear view of him from the side, sipping on a mug of coffee in his hands and fucking smirking. 

“He won't even see me?” You hated when they cried. Like each of them had this idea that they’d go home with Ransom Drysdale and fuck him so good that he’d tie them to his bed and never let them leave or something. 

You sighed heavily before replying, “Mr. Drysdale has business to attend to, he’s unavailable at the moment, but I can leave him a message if you’d like?” You did this maybe five or six times a week. In the early morning hours, after his sexual escapade and some rest, Ransom would wake early and leave for the gym. In that time you were supposed to ‘take out the trash’ as he described it. This morning, the girl left dazed and confused in the fog taking an uber back to her home, but returning an hour later trying to plead her case. It was giving you a migraine. 

The girl stepped back from the porch, shoes crunching against the gravel as she searched the windows for his face. “FUCK YOU RANSOM.” She shouted, flipping the bird into the air. The man hiding to your right, choked on his coffee in laughter as you watched the girl get back into her car and disappear from sight. 

“What's on the agenda today Ransom,” You shut the door quietly, turning to face him, “Because if I have to do that again tomorrow I’ll quit.” He scoffed in indignation. 

“You’re not gonna quit,” He drained the rest of his mug, “You can’t even leave the house long as you got that.” He gestured towards your leg. Sitting firmly on your right ankle was a house arrest bracelet. One meant for him, but carefully bribed into being put on your own leg. The stupid son of a bitch got away with murder, after the death of his late Grandfather’s housekeeper by his own hand and the attempted murder of the girl that got the entire Thrombey fortune, he stayed the lucky son of a bitch he had been his entire life. 

Evidence was mishandled, not enough proof. That whole, ‘beyond reasonable doubt’ thing. The rich asshole got fucking house arrest and court mandated therapy. Even after there were three fucking witnesses to him attempting to murder Marta Cabrera. 

Money oiled the gears of the justice system, letting the trust fund baby slip through without consequence. That’s where you come in. 

You worked for the Thrombey’s before. As a tutor to Meg when she began to fail her english class. For whatever reason, Lynda and Richard Drysdale liked you, assigned you a new task. Their sweet baby boy Hugh, called Ransom by everyone but the Help. You’ve worked for Ransom for three years now. The first year before the death of his Grandfather and Thrombey patriarch, and now two years after his death and wouldn’t you know it. Hugh Ransom Drysdale wrote a fucking bestseller. 

Everyone wanted an insight into this family. Harlan Thrombey always said there was so much of him in Ransom. He wasn’t lying. 

Ransom wrote the first of what you knew would be many new Thrombey family murder mystery novels. And he was reaping in the cash. He was two months away from his next big release. Something you’re sure would fly off the shelves just as quickly as the first. 

“Don’t worry,” He said, “I’ve got a deadline to meet.” His coffee mug abandoned by the front door for you to clean up, he left you to officially start your day. He retreated into the study he created for himself to crank out the last four chapters he needed for his book, maybe. 

Due to circumstances beyond your control, you were the one placed on house arrest. As long as no one was notified that Ransom left the perimeter of the house you were being paid well, and you being paid well meant your younger sister gets taken care of. You were able to send her money every month to help with the fact that she was staying with an estranged aunt. It hadn’t been easy once your mother died, but the Thrombey’s lighten the load so to say. 

That’s why you were washing Ransom’s sheets that reeked of sex, picking up and disposing of torn panties and tossing used condoms the fucking dick couldn’t be bothered enough to toss two more feet into the trash can in his on-suite. You’d invested in rubber gloves. 

On days that Ransom had to meet with his probation officer he would wear a dummy bracelet. It got him by and soon the fucker would be over and done with house arrest all together. You’d be able to move back home then. Hopefully. 

“Ransom, you ever gonna eat today?” You knocked on the open door of his study, bringing his attention from his computer to you, who held a bowl of pasta in your one hand. He sighed, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his eyes. There were multicolored post-its surrounding his computer. Your mind made the connection with how similar it was to his Grandfather’s own workspace. You gently placed the bowl on his desk, turning to pour him a tumbler of whiskey from the small bar in the corner of the room. 

“I don’t know how the old bastard ever cranked out two books a year,” His neck cracked. “How is that even possible?” He took a large bite of the pasta, squinting at the screen. His eyes quickly shifted to yours, watching you set down the glass of whiskey in front of him. He grabbed your wrist. “Stay.” It was an order. “Sit.” You took your place in a chair across from him. 

“Harlan wrote every day,” You told him, “You write whenever you’re not off sticking your dick into anything that breathes.” He laughed at that. 

“Not everything that breathes,” He typed a few more words into the word document, “I haven’t fucked you yet.” Your core pulsed, he said yet. 

Audibly you scoffed, “I would never willingly fuck you Ransom.” You pulled your legs up onto the chair to make yourself comfortable. He smirked at that, eyes not leaving the computer screen. 

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” That stupid smirk. You hated that fucking smirk. So condescending. 

When you first met Ransom you were probably very much like the girls that you now pry out of his bed at 8 am. You had been tutoring Meg at the family home, sitting at the kitchen table going over Othello when he sauntered in, digging through the cabinets for snacks. You could feel Meg tense up next to you and that’s when he turned. He was so fucking pretty. Blue eyes, well kept hair, cashmere sweater, those broad fucking shoulders, and on his face, stretching that full bottom lip you wanted to tug between your teeth, was a smirk. 

That pulsing throb between your thighs soon was quickly forgotten as he opened his mouth and began to speak, “How’s it going Meg, trouble reading? Or do they not teach you how to read when you’re a liberal? Lord knows you guys never fucking understand anything anyway.” Meg snapped back at him, but you were stunned. You could tell he said that on purpose, knowing it would make her go off on the tangent he was now, finding a sick pleasure in it. That was the first time you’d seen the smirk. You’d lost count of how many times you’ve seen it since then. 

“I really hate you Ransom.” You sighed, sinking further into your chair. He had almost finished off the bowl of pasta by now, whiskey long since emptied. He thinks it’s funny, you hating him because he responds looking you in your eyes, maintaining his smirk, 

“I know you do baby.” He liked to do that. Call you pet names. Once he had even pretended you were his wife when you accidentally walked in on him and a girl he had been balls deep in, bent over the back of the couch. He fucking LOVED that one. The girl had cried, embarrassed, apologizing as she picked her bra up from the floor and slunk out the front door behind you. That was a while ago. Pre-Murder. You should have seen it then. How insane he actually was. 

Ransom was incredibly smart and was a quick thinker. It was part of the reason that he had gotten away with murder in the first place. You knew that. It showed in his novel. He would have you read chapters, give him your opinion, before writing and rewriting. Showing you again. He’d ask you if you could figure out who was the murderer, a sinister glint in his eyes, arms crossed, standing above you waiting. He could only be satisfied if you didn’t have a clue. 

It was a gift, you supposed, the ease in which he wrote to make every character a possible suspect in completely new and incredible scenarios. He had three books in various states of completion that he was chipping away at, the one he was currently working on seemingly better than the previous published. 

His Mother, the one who gave him the silver spoon and cursed him for having it his whole life, was suddenly proud of him. His Father, now divorced from his Mother, would come by weekly asking for money. Ransom loved that too. His Dad got nothing due to the prenup, leaving him penniless. The cushy job he had at Lynda’s real estate empire was gone, and now Dad was working at local agency scraping by on low commission. Last week his Father came to the door while Ransom was writing and muscled his way not too kindly past you into the house. 

“Ransom!” He called, finding his way into his son’s study. You quietly shut the door, returning to folding laundry. The door shut tightly behind him and sounds had been muffled. It’s only when their voices went from calm to a screaming match did the door wretch open and Ransom followed his Dad out, both red faced. 

“We’ve given you everything in your fucking life and you can’t even give one iota back.” Ransom opened the front door, gesturing to the porch. 

“Get the fuck out, and don’t come back.” His voice stern and commanding.

“Fuck you Ransom.” With that he was gone. The silence that had settled over the house was thick, Ransom’s hand still resting against the closed door before he took a breath and, without taking a glance in your direction, returned to his study. Closing the door. 

The echo of that argument sat in the house for the rest of the day, Ransom leaving soon after to find a body to lose himself in. If the murder trial did anything, it made Ransom into a bad boy and girls fucking loved it. He wasn’t, technically, guilty after all. 

You attempted to clear the bowl in front of him, but was stopped by his hand. His eyes never left the screen as he brought your hand to his lips, placing a kiss in your palm, before dragging your arm to his other shoulder, hugging himself with it awkwardly until you gave in and wrapped your other arm around him, holding him tightly for a moment. 

He was soft sometimes. His Mom never held him when he was a kid. He was left alone a lot while she was building her empire. Babysitters never stayed long, nannies came and went. Sometimes you truly felt bad for him, other times you remember that he was a dick and that he loved to play tricks and torment anyone and everyone that was supposed to take care of him, including you. The only difference was you weren’t able to leave. 

He let you go soon after that, letting you clean up the mess from dinner and stoke the fire place warming the house that always seemed too cold. As you stood by the fire, arms wrapped around yourself you could feel him behind you, coming to wrap his arms around your waist, leaning his head on your shoulder as you stared into the flames. There was a moment or two of silence as you both stood there. 

If this were any other situation, if Ransom loved you, if this was someone who loved you, if this someone cared enough to care about the things you care about, this would be kind of romantic. But it’s Ransom, and he didn’t care about anyone but himself, he definitely didn’t care about you, and he one hundred percent didn’t care about anything you care about. “I’m going out.” 

His arms left your waist and his chest left your back leaving you cold. “For fucks sake Ransom, I don’t feel like throwing out a girl tomorrow morning.” You turned to watch him throwing his coat on. He smirked. He fucking smirked. 

“I’ll give you a break and throw her out myself then.” And he was gone. 

Hours later you’re woken by the sound of Ransom coming home, sure enough he wasn’t alone. Soft giggles and a bang, he’s shoved her against the wall beside your room. There were muffled groans as you assumed she found her knees right there in the hallway. He got off on this shit, you knew. Often stopping somewhere outside your door to start his sexual escapades. Knowing you were mere feet away, like some half-assed exhibitionism. It wasn’t long after that the girl squealed and there was more muffled talking before they moved to his bedroom. To which you shared a wall. 

Your bedroom, before you were a live-in, housed a bunch of items you believed graced a teen boy’s bedroom walls at one point. And still, shoved in the corner, were playboy model cardboard cutouts, “They’re vintage, mint condition, and worth a lot.” Sure, Ransom, sure they are. Arcade games, framed patriots jerseys, a lacrosse set from his high school days. You were shoved in the middle of it all, a single bed shoved against the wall surrounded by what once was a room full of teenage boy memorabilia. A shrine to his youth. 

The headboard soon came knocking and hope for sleep was lost. The girl’s moans escalating to shrieks. Either he was as good as he says, or these girls really care about his ego. Either could be true when there’s more than one comma in your bank account. 

The kitchen was much quieter. A steady rocking still came from upstairs, but thankfully it was muffled by the floor. As you made a cup of tea you figured you would see if he had printed off a new chapter ready for you to read. You hope he wouldn’t have gone out without finishing it anyway. 

You were not sure why you cared to be honest. You had this love/hate for Ransom. He was an annoying prick who did something really fucking horrible, but he also made it very clear to everyone involved that you had nothing to do with it. There was a scary moment there, after his arrest, when you were brought to the station for interrogation. You hadn’t known he had even gotten up to any of these crimes. He kept you completely in the dark and he was sure to let his arresting officers know that. You hadn’t even seen him since the night Harlan died when he left the party stranding you at the estate. 

Money does crazy things to people. The threat of his steady income leaving was enough to push him to do something crazy. He was lucky enough that the recorded confession magically was erased. He was lucky for dirty cops. He was lucky that even though his mother despised his lifestyle she didn’t want him to go to prison. He was so lucky. Now with his first novel sitting highly on the bestseller list, he seemed even more lucky than he did before. 

His study was on the opposite side of the house from his bedroom, muffling the sounds enough for you to flip through the packet left on top of his keyboard. Three chapters away from completion you were following the detective through paces where things felt more confusing than ever, the clues were unclear and there was not much to go on, but the tension between the eldest son of the victim and his ex-wife were mounting and it was hard to believe that maybe this guy had nothing to do with it despite what was described as an ‘air-tight’ alibi. You read through the chapter twice, scribbling your thoughts in red pen along the margins. 

“What do you think?” You jumped in your chair, looking up to see Ransom in the doorway. 

“You scared the shit out of me,” Your hand still clutching your chest. He had a glass of water in his hand, chest bare, solid navy pajama pants slung low on his hips. His chest hair always got you, just a little bit. He tugged his bottom lip between his teeth and pushed off the door jam to walk into the room, taking a seat in the chair you occupied hours ago. “It’s good,” you cleared your throat, “I’m not sure how much longer I can wait for you to finish to be honest.” He chuckled softly. 

“Let me see.” You handed him the packet and his eyes scanned the margins, reading your comments. They were mostly reactions, that’s what he liked. He wanted to know how you reacted to everything he put in front of you, did you like the romance, the tension, the lust he was trying to write between the ex-husband and wife? Or was it too distracting from the plot? Is the detective too unbelievable? He’s a character for sure. Can you figure out whodunnit yet?

“What are you doing out of bed?” You asked, spinning the chair side to side, waiting for him to put the packet down. 

“I told you I was going to kick her out.” He took another sip from his water. You scoffed, 

“And you couldn’t start doing this sooner?” A smile stretched his lips,

“I like how much it bothers you.” 

“It’s annoying,” you said, “Worst way to start my day.” He laughed. 

“That’s the only reason?” He asked, throwing the packet back on the desk, leaning back in his chair. Smirking. 

“You’re such an asshole, you know that?” You pushed back from the desk, moving to exit the room. He quickly grabbed your wrist, tugging you over to his side where he looked up at you, 

“If you wanna take their place, just let me know.” Your other hand came up to smack him on his shoulder, causing him to laugh as he released you, letting you take your exit. 

“Dick.” 

You found him the next morning at his desk, looking as though he had very little sleep. “Babe could you get me some coffee?” You yawned in the doorway, 

“Sure.” It didn’t take long before you were setting the cup in front of him. “Your therapist is coming by at one.” He nodded, not looking up from his computer. “I’ll come get you when it’s time for you to get ready.” 

He was focused. You weren’t sure where this focus came from. It was every once in a while that he would find this stroke of inspiration and write for a whole day straight. Hopefully he will be finished his book before schedule and be able to get ahead for the next one. 

Soon he was washed, dressed, and ready for the one person he dreads the most. He hated therapy sessions. There were only ten more he needed to do before the court mandate was over. Ten more weeks until you were able to get this lovely ankle bracelet off when you would hopefully be able to go back to the routine you had with him before. Where you’d sleep in your own shitty apartment and show up to work a 9 to 9 five days a week. 

After sessions he was always moody, quiet, and tended to need his favorite single malt restocked the next day. Not exactly in line with how he should be tending to whatever revelation the therapist has been streamlining him to, but that wasn’t any of your business. You could say though that during the last 42 weeks of sessions this refractory period was shortening to less and less time, maybe tonight you won't be peeling him off the floor of the study and dragging him up to his room drunk off his ass. 

While in the session you were trying not to listen in on, you were sunk heavily on the living room couch, drinking coffee and reading the latest chapter he had slapped into your hands before entering back into his study. The book was so close to being finished, the last two chapters leading you to the big reveal and aftermath. The climax was steady taking hold and you were more sure than ever that the eldest son had something to do with it. You didn’t know what he did, but it was something. 

He looked mad enough to kill as the Doctor left. Slamming the door, barely missing the Doctor’s jacket sleeve as he made his hasty retreat. Ransom stood seething for a moment by the front door, a chill running down your spine. He had murdered someone before, something you try to forget seeing as you are forced to spend so much time with him. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. It felt like an hour before he moved. 

“I’m going out.” The words spoken sternly as he stomped his way up the stairs like a petulant child, returning moments later, cleaned up, eyes blank, before grabbing his coat and slamming the door loud enough to make you jump. 

Aside from Ransom’s Mother never being around and aside from his Father’s string of extramarital affairs and aside from his Grandfather’s need to push him in every direction but close, you wish you could say that Ransom had a good childhood. But he didn’t. When he was little the kids picked on him for being rich, and when he was bigger they only became friends with him because he was rich. He was such a bully. At least, that’s what his Mother told you once drunk off chardonnay at his birthday dinner last year. 

Disappointment. 

That was a clear sentiment for the small family get together, and by small family get together you meant the dinner you cooked and Ransom looking like he’d rather be in prison than listen to his parents bicker over his Father’s new (Not so new seeing as he’d been caught kissing her by a PI before Harlan’s death) girlfriend. She was smart enough not to come. 

This night was looking a lot like that one. Ransom, after his parents left and you began to tidy up, began to scream at you. 

“What gave you the fucking right you dumb bitch?” He was spitting, face red as you cleared the dishes. “You’re only here for the money. The fucking money. How much is she paying you huh?” The bottle of expensive whiskey he had been drinking throughout the night was in his hand, swinging it around and taking pulls straight from the bottle. “Not enough obviously because you would have let me fuck you a long time ago.” 

Your face flushed red as your own anger began to rise. He continued, “Never, ever, fucking again will you allow my parents in this house, do you understand me?” His unoccupied hand grabbed your arm tight enough to bruise, turning you to face him. His eyes wild and unfocused. “I said do you understand me?” You not so gently wretched your arm from his. 

“Don’t touch me.” He always fucking did this. Blamed you for things you had no control over. Lynda approached you about a dinner for Ransom’s birthday. It was her name in your paystubs. You can’t say no. 

“How dare you-” He began, but was cut short.

“No Ransom. No.” Like scolding a fucking dog who put his paws on the table. You threw the bowl you currently had in your hands into the sink, turning to fully face him. “I am only here for the money and I am only here because your Mother pays me a lot to be here.” His jaw clenched. “But I’m also here because I’m the only fucking person who even remotely cares about your ungrateful prissy spoiled ass and if it wasn’t for me you’d be sitting in this fucking glass house, alone, with only your own self-righteous attitude to keep you company. So don’t you ever touch me like that again. Do you understand?” 

He loudly clunked the bottle onto the kitchen island, stumbling in your direction as you backed yourself into the sink. His trial had just concluded two weeks ago, Fran’s murder fresh on your mind and you wondered if you just made a terrible mistake. Over the course of this rant, the alcohol was sinking into his bloodstream, it turned his anger into a crippling depression. One that resulted in his hands softly grasping your shoulders, and tugging you into his body. His face found your neck and slowly started to grow damp with what you realized were his tears. 

Your heart broke a bit, too much empathy, even for this asshole. Your arms came to wrap around his shoulders, letting him cry it out. 

That was the first and only time you saw Ransom cry over anything. If he hadn’t been as drunk as he was you knew that moment would never have happened. The sweet little moment that made your heart ache was quickly gone the next morning when Ransom made you coffee and thought it would be hilarious that after you thanked him for being so sweet he joked that he poisoned it. You could still recall the cackles of laughter as you spit your coffee into the sink. 

That was the day he began writing his first novel. 

He came home alone tonight which was strange. And far earlier than normal. You usually were in bed, or holed up in his study by the time he arrived him after a night out. Staying out of his way as he drug a bubbly hopeful girl up to his bed to satisfy his own needs for the night. He found you tonight, sitting outside, watching Netflix on your tablet by the firepit you had decided to light, a hot cup of tea sitting on the end table next to you. Cozy and wrapped in a blanket. 

You could feel his eyes on you from the doorway. You tapped the screen, pausing your show and turned to look at him. His hair was slightly mussed, face flushed, and socked toes curling from the chill. He was looking at you strangely. 

“You’re home early.” You placed the tablet down on the end table, turning to face him. He nodded, crossing his arms and leaning against the door jam. 

“I just needed a drive.” There was a soft smile on his face, well that’s new. 

“Is everything okay?” He never tells you anything, but the sentiment matters. He looked to his feet, nodding. 

“I’m probably going to try to stay up and finish the book tonight.” He shifted himself back into the house, your voice calling out to him, 

“Come sit out here for a bit. It’s calming, just take a break from thinking for a minute.” He sighed and looked at you again, debating something in his head. 

“I need to be alone.” You tried anyway. He disappeared from sight. And that was that. 

The next day Ransom began acting even more strangely. The book was finished, the last two chapters handed wordlessly to you as he left for the gym on what you’re assuming was no sleep. That wasn’t the strange part. The strange part was when he returned three hours later bearing a box of donuts from your favorite bakery and two lattes, on his face was a smile. 

“What did you do?” You accused, “Did you poison this?” You gestured towards the latte he placed in your hand. 

“No.” He laughed, sliding the box of donuts to you. You stared at him skeptically before taking a sip. Tastes normal. 

“Are you sick?” Your wrist coming to lay across his forehead, temperature feels fine. 

“No.” He laughed again, pulling your wrist from his forehead and kissing your palm before opening the box of donuts, pulling a cinnamon sugar donut to his lips. “You just told me the other day how you missed these and I figured since I passed the shop on the way back it wouldn’t hurt to go pick some up.” It was suspicious. You continued to look at him skeptically. He sighed, placing the donut on the counter, grabbing the latte from your hand he took a large sip of it. “I didn’t fucking poison you Y/N.” 

Okay.

Okay. You examined the box of donuts, pulling out the bear claw that was begging to be eaten. Still warm. You moaned in delight as soon as the warm pastry hit your taste buds. You really had missed these. Opening your eyes, you saw Ransom staring blankly at you before his eyes shifted to the packet by your side. 

“All finished?” You swallowed and nodded, sliding the packet marked with red over to him and as he began to study your notes you tried to think about what could have possibly gotten him in such a good mood. The Doctor’s visit was odd enough. Yes he was angry when the Doctor left, but then just a drive? Not a blackout drunk, bringing two girls home to pleasure himself with and accidentally falling into a line or two of coke night, but a drive? 

Maybe therapy had been working? Maybe he had a breakthrough? He finished the novel. The eldest son had something to do with it, his airtight alibi just that, a cover for the crime having been committed at a different time than the coroner’s estimated time frame due to him freezing the body and allowing it to thaw in the house. 

You had asked Harlan how he came up with such incredible stories once. He said they just popped into his head fully formed, his brain moving faster than his fingers. He kept a little notebook with good ideas and would simmer in them as long as it took for a stroke of inspiration. The rest was just typing. 

He smirked at some of your comments, ‘what a fucking joke’ you wrote next to the eldest son’s monologue about being passed over, his whining, annoying, self centered crying about how life wasn’t fair. 

“What’s the smirk for?” You asked, removing the lid of your latte and dipping part of the bear claw in it. 

“The lack of sympathy for Greg.” You scoffed and rolled your eyes. 

“He’s a fucking loser.” Ransom’s eyes met yours, “I bet you see a lot of yourself in him.” That made him laugh. 

“What? You don’t like spoiled rich men?” He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms in front of his chest. You rolled your eyes, taking another sip from the milky sweet latte you didn’t know would feel like your life’s blood right now. 

“I think you know the answer to that.” 

“I think you find me endearing.” Ransom smirked. Your neck flushed. 

“I find you annoying,” You admitted. “I only put up with you because of my paycheck.” He licked his lips.

“Sure,” He closed the packet, pushing it aside to take another bite of the donut, cinnamon sugar dusting his lips. “You put up with me because you’re secretly in love with me, but you know that I would never get with The Help.” This made you laugh. 

“If you want me to be the Help I’ll gladly call you Hugh if it means you leave me alone.” He placed his paper cup on the counter, circling around to you. 

“I like when you call me Hugh.” His hands came to rest on your upper arms, grinning. 

“You’re disgusting.” He laughed at the clear displeasure on your face, spinning your stool around to him, and you leaned back, creating some distance as he came to stand between your legs. 

“You don’t mean that do you baby?” His fingers toying with the ends of your hair. You could feel your nipples harden in excitement, body betraying you. A wet growing between your legs. 

“Ransom what are you doing?” You said in exasperation. You weren’t blind. Ransom was gorgeous. You’d maybe, possibly, gotten off to the thought of him once or twice or maybe more than that in the four years you’ve known him. But he was also a scumbag who fucks and then throws girls out hours later. His moods were hot and cold. He had major Mommy issues and he’s not technically guilty of murder, but he’s a fucking murderer. But also… he’s been going to therapy and after that fight on his birthday last year he’s never laid a hand on you in anger again, there’s been some arguments sure, but he’s mostly nice to you. Caring even. 

“Why don’t you love me Y/N?” His voice almost came out as a whine. He was playing with you. 

“Ransom stop.” You pushed him away gently. He was fucking smirking. 

“Usually there’s a ‘don’t’ in front of that.” Cocky bastard. 

“You’re the worst person I know. And I hate that fucking smirk.” You picked at your now cold bear claw, trying to turn from him. 

“Why don’t you wipe it off my face then?” Your eyes met his and you glared. 

“What’s gotten into you today? Maybe you should go out early. Find some girl to satisfy whatever you’re going through right now.” His hands met your hips, spinning your stool back around to face him. 

“What if I want you to satisfy whatever I’m going through right now.” His groin fit right up against your core and you could feel his throbbing heat between your legs. Fuck. 

“Don’t make this mistake Ransom.” You placed one hand gently on his chest, attempting (but not really) to push him back. His forehead coming to rest against yours. “You don’t want this.”

“This is the only thing I’ve ever really wanted.” His breath mingled with yours, sweet, cinnamon and coffee. 

“You’re not thinking straight.” His lips brushed against yours, tongue coming out to wet his lips, his eyes locked with yours. Why weren’t you pushing him away? Your breath hitched as his tongue accidentally grazed your bottom lip. 

“The only clarity I’ve ever had in my life has been when I’m with you.”

His lips pressed heavily against yours, pushing you back against your bedroom door as his hand came to tangle in your hair. He was all consuming, body hot and heavy against yours. Your core was thrumming with want, moisture pooling in the crotch of your yoga pants. His hips were rolling into yours and you could feel the hard length of him against your belly. His lips quickly moved across your jaw to your neck and you could hear yourself moaning softly as he licked, sucked, and nibbled on the sensitive skin below your ear. Your hands clenching the soft material of the t-shirt by his hips, dipping your fingers slowly into the waistband of his shorts. 

His lips parted from your neck, hand tilting your head back so he could look into your eyes before taking your mouth once more. His mouth moved down this time to the tops of your breasts, hands leaving to shift the thick wool cardigan off your shoulders and onto the floor before dropping the straps of your camisole and exposing them to the air, nipples already pebbled in excitement. 

You hadn’t dated in a while, unable to because of your paid house arrest and before that the way Ransom had worked you to the bone picking up after him. And the touch from someone else always felt better than your own. His hands felt huge on you, protecting. 

Your head met the door as he enveloped your right nipple in his mouth, rolling the sensitive bud on his tongue until he felt the left neglected, and switched, beginning to toy with your right nipple between his finger tips. Moans and heavy breaths were the only sounds in the hallway as Ransom made his way down your body, slipping your yoga pants and panties off your hips as he found his knees before you. 

“Ransom-” 

“Shhhhh,” He pressed his lips against your naval, working his way to your trembling core. His hand lifted your right thigh, draping it over his shoulder as his eyes focused in on your, what you knew must be soaking, wet pussy. His eyes met yours from his knees, your legs trembling with anticipation, eyes locked as his pink tongue came to meet your pussy for the first time, a shuddering breath being released from you urged him on further. 

His thick fingers spread your lips open, exposing your clit to his gentle assault. A building pleasure in your core as his tongue began to skillfully work, pulling moans from your mouth. How was he so good at this? Experimenting with different strokes, different pressure, finding what you like. 

“Just like that, oh my god.” He rolled his tongue against your clit, eyes finding yours once more, keeping pace. You could see the corner of his mouth pull up in a smirk as he began to work you up to climax. “You’re such a fucking asshole, I hate that fucking smirk.” Head hitting back against the door as he used his fingers to tease your opening. “Oh my god.” Your hips bucked against his face, causing him to use the arm currently wrapped around your thigh to splay open on your abdomen, holding your hips still. The wet noises and soft grunts from the man between your thighs only caused you to grow closer to your release. 

“You taste so fucking good baby,” moaned between your thighs. 

“Don’t fucking stop.” You scolded. So close. So fucking close. He obeyed, continuing his assault on your dripping pussy, fingers entering your tight channel to stroke against your sensitive walls. He buried his face further into your pussy, nose coming to rest in the soft curls there as he watched you come undone. Your moans escalating in volume as you felt your body tighten with pleasure, hips begging to buck against his face as he rode you through it. He continued to lick and suck on your clit until your hands found his head, pushing him away, legs shaking as you dropped against the door, knees coming to rest around his body. 

That fucking smirk, “How was that?” He asked, face glistening with your cum. 

“Fuck you Ransom.” And he fucking laughed the bastard. What a fucking dick. He brought his face back to yours, gently claiming your lips. The tang of your pussy ever present as you felt him consume you. Your heart was still racing as he picked you up from the floor, bringing you into his bedroom and ever so gently laying you down on the sheets you had just changed two hours ago. 

His eyes were shifting between yours, a strange expression on his face. 

“You can’t kick me out tomorrow Ransom,” Your breathing was heavy as he began to work at your neck, his hands going to remove his gym shorts. “I can’t leave.” He pressed his lips back to yours as you felt him rub the tip of his dick against your clit, your body shaking with over-stimulation. It felt so intimate. Before, his eyes on yours as he brought you over with his tongue and now as he slowly enters you, stretching your walls with his thick cock, eyes not breaking contact he sighs,

“I think you’re the only person I’ve ever loved.”