#anyway i thought that the thing was triggered by moving the last treasure

[gamebunny-advance]

Pikmin 4 Trivia #1

(Spoilers for a Mid-Game Boss Ahead)

If you never trigger the Waterwraith in earlier sublevels of the Engulfed Castle, and first encounter it on the final level, then Collin will not suggest that you run, and will instead be sure that you have a way to beat it.

Video under the cut.

[freak-accident419]

Make Me

Joosh Futturman (J-Futz) x GN!Reader

Summary: You come by Joosh’s house a year since you’ve broken up with him, after realizing you left your box of important belongings there. Seeing each other again after a long time sparked not only bitterness and resumed arguments, but also unresolved tension.

WC: 3.7k

Content: 18+ Smut, MDNI, gender neutral reader, no specific genitals mentioned (vague penetration), more plot than porn (you can tell I do that a lot.. i’m a storyteller, what do you expect?), takes place during S01E12 “Prelude to an Apocalypse”—you may have to watch this episode especially to understand the ending, hate/angry/rough sex, sort of fluff by the end, a bit silly and unserious sometimes because Joosh/J-Futz is such an unserious concept :3

(A/n: I love bad boy Josh (Joosh). Anyways, I’d like to share something that maybe you might appreciate—I’d like to think that in Season 3, nut-face Josh also brings this timeline version of you to Haven, to save you from how shitty Joosh treated you, so yeah.)

-

“Fucking shit, where is it?” You muttered to yourself, digging out your closet, drawers, and under your bed. But you couldn’t find it anywhere.

You had a small, antique box full of things that meant a lot to you: polaroids, souvenirs, trinkets, and old letters. You only just remembered about it now, because while you were speaking to a lifelong friend, they brought up the matching friendship bracelet that you kept ever since grade school. And while it was old and would barely even fit you, it was treasure to you—it meant so much to you.

That led you to remember all the other important and nostalgic things you’ve kept in that memory box. But you couldn’t find the actual box itself.

Which then made you realize sourly…

That if it wasn’t at your place…

Then it was at your ex’s.

It was a messy break up. Terrible, rushed, and chaotic. So much so, that you forgot to even take the significant box with you as you finally moved out of his house.

You groaned in frustration. It wasn’t even that important or worth it to retrieve, right? If you forgot about it for a year, it shouldn’t be that important.

However, it was filled with memories… Ancient baby photos of yourself, your parents, friends, then friendship bracelets, rings, gifts, handwritten letters. And what if your ex finds it? Who knows what he would do with all your personal stuff?

So, you decided. You needed to get it back. Even if it meant seeing your ex-boyfriend again:

Joosh Futturman.

***

“You’ve got a lot of nerve showing up here.” Joosh spat as you stood on his front porch.

“Oh, save it, Joosh,” you say dismissively. He looked just about the same as you left him; a cocky and pissed off expression on his face, the small gold earring on his right ear, and the shitty, pretentious fashion choices. “I just left something important here. I forgot all about it because I was in a rush to leave. I don’t know how I forgot it after all these months, just… fuck, let me go get it and this’ll be the last time you’ll ever see me again.”

He glared at you for a while, observing you. This was the first time he’s seen you ever since you (rightfully) broke up with him. And you haven’t changed one bit.

He hated how no matter how much he believed he despised you, he still thought you were beautiful.

He shook his head to avoid that thought. “For the last fucking time, it’s J-Futz,” he corrected bitterly, which you would roll your eyes at. When you were still together, you were his exception. He hated whenever people called him Joosh instead of J-Futz because it triggered bad memories within him, but the way you said it was always like pure honey, no matter how ridiculous of a name it was. You two were aware that this exception wouldn’t apply anymore now that you’re broken up, but you continue to call him his real name out of spite.

After a brief moment of silence, Joosh decided to accept your proposal. “Fine, just… make it quick.”

It was definitely the moment you walked in that you knew: it was on. You hoped this encounter wouldn’t end with a messy argument again, but you already felt the tension in the atmosphere.

You still knew the house pretty well. You waltzed in, walking up the staircase to Joosh’s room, and kneeled by the bed, finally rummaging under it for your missing box. It took a while, since he ended up having a lot of junk under his bed, yet he acted so blamelessly impatient. “What’s taking so long?” He finally asked in irritation.

You scoffed, continuing to push other objects away. “Oh, fuck off. You’re the one who made this harder by putting all of your goddamn junk just stuffed under your bed.”

“Oh, please. I could easily get this all organized and cleaned up in less than an hour by any one of those guys who work for me,” he brazenly claimed, with an arrogant hinge of pride.

“You think that’s something you should be proud of?” You sneer, continuing to look through the mess. “Yeah, right, well, if anything, it’s just proving to me more how much of a careless, incompetent, lazy, man child of an asshole you are.”

“‘Lazy’? ‘Careless’? ‘Incompetent’? Are you hearing yourself, Y/n?” He scowled. “I am one of the most successful people on the planet. There is a reason why I’m rich and famous and admired. I am an entrepreneur, a CEO, an e-gaming sensation. And on top of that, I have a net worth of over six million euros.” You scoffed. You weren’t impressed or intimidated by any of this. “Take that for incompetent.”

You were just about fed up with this absurdly egotistical, selfish bastard. You popped your head out from under the bed and stood up, walking towards him until you were right in front of him. You wanted to wipe that stupid smirk off his stupid face. “You know what? No. You’re just a self-obsessed asshole. You think that everyone admires you, but actually, everyone hates you. You—Your old ‘friends’ work for you and are obligated to please you because at the end of the day, you control their pay checks. They don’t actually like you. No one would. You’re a pathetic man, Joosh. All you’ve ever done was use and hurt people.”

There was an aggravated expression on his face, insinuating that you got to him—that your words got to him.

“Do you really think that I care about any of that? None of that shit matters to me as long as I’m wealthy and successful. My life is fucking awesome, and it’s even better now that I don’t have a nagging bitch being all up on my ass all the time.”

What he said barely affected you, but you wanted to add on anyways. “You know, I cannot fucking believe I fell in love with you,” you said, trying to hide any underlying sadness with your anger. “You used to be so good. You know that? But then you got greedy because money and fame just blinded you, and now you became a fucking asshole. For—For fuck’s sake, you put your parents into a shitty senior home after declaring them mentally incompetent through a court order!”

“Goddammit, Y/n, you’re the one who broke up with me!” He snarled. “Do you know how much shit the press gave me for that?”

You roll your eyes. How could he only care about his status still? “Of course you only care about your public image—”

“Okay, fuck, it hurt me too, okay? You hurt me. When you broke up with me, I had the worst damn weeks of my life.”

“Oh, yeah? That’s real funny,” you scoff at his illogicality. “Are you that fucking dense? I broke up with you because you changed! You had a little breakthrough in e-gaming, and then the hangers-on rushed in, and then fame and money—including your Uncle Barry’s money—started to corrupt you. You’re—you’re seriously trying to be the victim here? Do you know how many times you fucked up in our relationship after that?” Your blood boiled as you continued. “I—You’re insufferable! I seriously don’t know how I spent—” You corrected yourself, “I wasted three years with you.”

“Yeah? You took years out of my life too, Y/n. You know what, actually, just go get your shit so you can leave, and shut the fuck up,” he replied sternly.

“Actually, no, I don’t think I will. In fact, I should just remind you how you are the most egotistical, selfish, most narcissistic asshole on the goddamn planet! You are fucking incorrigible!” You exclaim, your voice coarse.

“I said shut up,” he huffs, stepping towards you threateningly.

“And I hate how much you believe that your money and fame is everything—is your fucking shitty solution for everything.”

“Y/n, stop that before you might say something you’ll regret.”

“Well, you know what, Joosh? You can have all the money in the world, and all the goddamn sponsors and magazine covers and press conferences, and shit, mass productions of your shitty energy drink, but… You’re gonna die alone.”

“Fucking shut up!”

“Yeah? Why don’t you fucking make me!” You retort.

Joosh suddenly pressed his lips on yours roughly, grabbing at the back of your neck to bring you in closer. You gasped the second he did this in surprise, but immediately kissed him back, feeling his tongue run against yours.

While he proceeded to make out with you, he walked forward until he pushed you down on his bed, barely giving the two of you any time to breathe before he presses his lips to yours once more.

“You never know when to fucking shut up, do you?” He grumbles lowly in your lips, placing a firm hand on your hip.

You pant heavily. “Yeah, then how about you stop giving me more reasons to complain about you, asshole?” You retort, moving your lips with his roughly, tongues fiercely mashing against each other.

From the moment you appeared at his doorstep, there was a sort of aggravating tension, which you would then realize was sexual, fueled solely by anger and resentment. It’s been more than a year since you’ve last seen him, more than a year since you two even had sex. You didn’t know what drove you to reciprocate his actions once he kissed you, or rather, you didn’t want to admit it.

Joosh threw off his jacket, then lifted his shirt off of his body, reminding you of what used to be one of your favorite things about him: his left nipple piercing.

Coming out of your trance, you mimic his actions, slightly lifting your back off the mattress so that you could remove your own shirt. You two finally discarded all your clothing in a rush until you were both completely naked against each other.

Joosh’s hand went on your side, then trailed down to your ass, then to the back of your thigh as he began to leave harsh kisses and bites on your neck, making you breathe faster.

“I fucking hate you,” he said piercingly in between kisses.

You chuckle sarcastically. “See, that’s the worst part of it all: you don’t even mean that.”

You knew your ex-boyfriend well enough to know that it would take more than a breakup and a couple of insults to get him to fully hate you. Especially while he barely detested you, regardless of everything.

He moved his head from your neck to face you. “Fine, what, you wanna know the truth? I hate that I still fucking love you.” He scowled, which caught you off guard. He placed his thumb on your bottom lip. “Open.”

You sucked his fingers off once they penetrated your mouth, sensually running your tongue along his digits. You didn’t expect him to say that now, that he still loved you, but you weren’t surprised either. The two of you had a very complicated relationship. Knowing him before his fame impacted the connection you two had; simply put, you knew him well. And you knew him well enough to be able to tell if he still loved you, which he did. You two knew each other well enough to still love each other.

After a while, he finally took his fingers out of your mouth, essentially using your saliva as a lubricant as he rubbed at your entrance vigorously, getting a soft, pleasured gasp out of you.

“A-and what, you think I don’t as well?” You huffed in response. You couldn’t lie to yourself either—you still loved him too. “I loathe it.”

Joosh sneered as he spit in his hand, pumping his cock, letting out a few, quiet grunts. “I hate that you came here today.”

”And I hate that I had always been desperate for your sad, below-average co—“ You let out a sharp inhale as you felt his entire length slide into you resistlessly.

“Yeah, but you take it anyway, don’t you?” he replied arrogantly with utmost vulgarity, beginning to move lustfully inside you.

“You’re such a fucking asshole,” you say, however, immediately becoming distracted from all the sensational feelings. You gulped a moan, glaring into his dark eyes. “Fuck, don’t even think that this means anything. I’m practically using you,” you grumble.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he replied.

Joosh had his hands gripping your hips as he thrusted into you, already at a quick pace, practically jerking his hips into yours with low grunts and huffs of breath. His cock deliciously stretched and caressed your walls at an artful rhythm.

Your eyes nearly rolled to the back of your head in pleasure, making you look up at the wall decor behind you, in which big, light up letters spelt out ‘SIN’. You let out quiet moans each time he pounded deeply into you, instinctively wrapping your legs around him to bring him even closer. His grip moved onto your thighs to support your legs, getting at an even better angle as his fingers dug into your skin. “Fuck… I really hate how you’re the only person in this world that knows exactly w-where and how to make me feel good,” you mutter as you look back at him.

The lewd, wet sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, alongside heavy breaths and moans beginning to increase. “And I hate that even after everything, I still want you. That I could get anyone I want with my status, but they’ll never be as good as you…” He let out a dark chuckle. “Look at you, so fucking needy for me…”

He pulled out, resulting in a whine escaping your lips, until he aggressively flipped you over on your stomach, making you take it from the back. His head is beside yours on the pillow as he let out soft moans, moving quickly into you, hitting all the right spots. It was like he remembered every little thing that kept you pleasured. You actually wouldn’t be surprised if he genuinely did.

The thing is, Joosh had always been a sweetheart. He was kind, considerate, and generous, all traits taught to him by his sweet parents. It wasn’t until after the fame where he began to rot.

Hell, you two used to make love. Then after, it was all quickies and straight up fucking.

So you couldn’t understand how or why he still loved you, but you know he does.

You moaned louder, feeling his fingertips digging into the skin of your hips as he pulled you towards him with every rough thrust.

“I hate that no matter how much of an asshole and jerk you’ve been, I’m still willing to forgive you,” you mutter.

Joosh moved his head to press a chaste kiss to your cheek, and then attacked your neck with even rougher kisses as he continued to move inside you. He kept confusing you with his brief moments of tenderness. “And I hate that we both know that you deserve better.”

You panted heavily as half of your face was pressed against the pillow. “Yeah, but you don’t even fucking try to work on yourself, knowing this fact.”

His hips stuttered as he felt himself getting closer to the edge. “You know me. I can’t change.”

You let out a soft gasp as you felt a sharp, deep thrust from him. “You can’t or you won’t?”

You hear his moans become more desperate and high pitched, his pace becoming inconsistent. His cock slid seamlessly inside you, bringing the two of you to become more vocal. While he let one of his hands remain on your hip, he moved his other one to grip the bed frame tightly, fucking into you even deeper.

“O-oh, f-fuck!” You whimper intensely as he continues to mercilessly pound into you, spilling out all the anger he felt from seeing you today, in which your presence reminded him of how messy the breakup was. Your whines became louder as he ruthlessly gripped your hip and pulled onto the bed frame to easily push you against his dick with each thrust.

“You talk about me being selfish and self-seeking all the time, as if you aren’t taking all of my fucking dick for your own pleasure,” he grumbles. You didn’t have a witty comeback for that—you were far too focused on how good you felt. Which sort of implied he was right, in some way.

Joosh let out louder grunts and slight moans, which was unsynchronized with the obscene, raucous sounds of lewd plaps of his consistent penetration. Plap, plap, plap, it would turn the both of you on even more.

“You’re just as pathetic as I am, Y/n,” he said coldly.

You felt so close to your climax, and as his thrusts became more stuttered, you could tell Joosh was as well.

“Fuck you, Joosh.”

He violently pushed into you deeply as your lips parted for a loud, torrid moan to escape your mouth, fingernails digging into the thick sheets as you came hard around his cock. Not even another thrust after, your ex-boyfriend came, making sure his dick was deeply and fully into you once his semen precipitously spilled inside of your body through exuberant spurts. His voice was high pitched and desperate, and you could swear you heard your name leave his lips in a small whisper.

He pulled out of you afterwards, rolling off your body as he breathed heavily, resting on his side as he faced the edge of the bed.

You turned to lay on your side, only to see his back facing you.

The atmosphere wasn’t tense, but it wasn’t calm either. It was sort of awkward in a way. You two were still exes after all. An entire minute has passed, of silence and heavy panting, the two of you catching your breaths from all that energy you just released. Most of the words that were exchanged earlier weren’t exactly true. It was moreso getting out all your anger and bitterness of the past, so that you could have a civil, compassionate talk later about your feelings and the state of the relationship.

Soon enough, you scooted towards him, then placed a deliberate, gentle kiss on his shoulder. Your fingertips began to mindlessly trace his back tattoo, which spelled out ‘J Futz’. He seemed to appreciate it, your touch.

Your finger traced over the ‘F’ on his back. “I want to make this work,” you murmured.

“I know,” you heard him say shamefully as your fingertip caressed along the lines of ink.

“But I don’t want you to change for me. I want you to change for yourself.”

He turned around to face you, soft, brown eyes meeting yours. It was like a part of his old self was still in there.

“I’m sorry… For everything,” he finally says.

“Me too.”

***

Joosh was in the shower while you were in the kitchen, eating a small snack, back to being fully clothed. You stared at your keepsake box that you finally found, which was now sitting on the dining table in front of you—he even helped you find it actually, while even criticizing his own lack of organization.

You two agreed to take things slow, followed by you encouraging him to make some reparations, probably starting with his parents first. Ultimately, he was going to work on himself—not just for you and the people he loved, but for himself, as you said.

You took a bite out of your snack, and then slightly flinched as you saw Joosh in the corner of your eye.

“Oh, wow. That was fast,” you observed. When he said he was going to take a quick shower, you didn’t know he was that literal about it. Especially since he sort of sucked at keeping his word.

What you didn’t know, however, was that Joosh was still in the shower, as you initially expected. The man in front of you would be Josh, basically your ex, but from another timeline. Ever since he was recruited by soldiers Tiger and Wolf of 2162, they were consistently fucking with the past through time travel, and the trio’s interferences only just created new realities, such as yours.

When Josh came back to 2017 after the 80s, he discovered that he was popular, that he was a rich celebrity, loved amongst everyone. However, it nearly broke his heart once he heard from Tracy and Paul that you dumped him—or, well, Joosh—the past year. The thing was, that no matter how many times he tampered with the timeline (for example, Lamar Price’s Blapple and the disappearance of Ray), you still remained his partner when he would come back to the present. So now, knowing that he allegedly screwed things up with you in this reality, then on top of that, finding out his parents despise him, he began to become disappointed by what he thought was going to be a great life for him.

He was confused, seeing you eat at the kitchen table, clearly unbothered by him. “Y/n?” His voice was higher pitched, reminding you of your Joosh before he was corrupted.

“Um, yeah?” You asked. “Did you even take a shower? Now I’m confused.” You look at his ear. “And you took off your earring.”

“Oh, um, yeah, and no, not yet, I—” Josh was very much confused. Didn’t his friends tell him how the two of you broke up? Were they wrong?

“You don’t look too hot,” you say, grabbing your box and walking over to him. “Thank you, Joosh. For, um… for finally listening to and understanding me. I know we’re both not perfect, but… I just… I’m glad we were able to… to talk this out.”

You look down at your box and then at him, who had an absentminded look on his face that you didn’t recognize. “I have to go now. Let’s talk more tomorrow, okay?” You press a soft kiss to Josh’s cheek, then made your way out the door.

What in the hell just happened?

Josh was befuddled, but also sort of relieved. Maybe he would be able to patch things up with you. He wasn’t sure how he was going to fix things with his parents after that encounter with his dad. Actually, he was still stressed out about that. Your idea for him to take a shower didn’t seem like such a bad idea.

That is, until he was met with this reality’s version of himself in the bathroom.

[spectator-moon]

4 and 38 for the writing thing? Aka telepathy/mind meld between two vers of the same character? I only care that It's Grian really you can decide which 2 Grians and everything else.

Hi! Sorry it took me so long, I was super busy!

Anyways, because this went a WEIRD direction, trigger warnings!

Vaguely suicidal thoughts, depiction of injury, dead character, body horror kind of(?)

To help you read it, try seeing it as sort of a call and response piece

Cast the line.

Reel it in.

Not Mending.

Cast the line.

"Welcome, to 3rd life."

Reel it in.

"I'm your ally until I lose my first life."

Not mending.

"Scar, I'm sorry! I'm so sorry."

There are people nearby. He thinks. He won't turn around. He should. He shouldn't. Will he ever? He can't. He will. Cast the line. He hopes somebody saves him. He hopes everybody leaves him.

Scar would forgive him. He hopes. He doesn't know. But he had forgiven Scar ("please, let me stay."), so maybe. Red blood on white sand, their monopoly. His monopoly. It hurts, to think in me and I's, when one is used to us and we.

There is somebody there. It is not the ocean. There is somebody there. It isn't Scar.

He thinks the ocean would be more pleasant, and easier to listen to. He thinks he's going crazy.

He knows he already was. It makes no difference. Ocean, man, it makes no difference. A voice is a voice. A voice is a saviour. He wants out. Out of this game, out of this life.

He sits, he thinks, on a dock. The water laps at his feet and occasionally splashes his wings. He holds the fishing rod in his calloused hands and huffs through his beard. He hears the ocean, laughing. He wants to dive in.

He sits in the sand. The grains sift into his clothes and between his feathers, where his wings are latched to his back. He clutches at cold, dead hands and sobs onto blood on the sands. He hears the last, broken laugh of Scar. He wants to claw his way out.

He is addiction. He is regret. He is not whole. He is a broken piece, talking to its reflections in desperatation.

"Where do I go now? What do I do?" He says, and he thinks he hears "Nowhere. I belong here."

He wishes he was dead. He knows he wants to live. He wishes anyways. It is so cold, here on the dock. The sun kills him, he thinks in the sand.

He is becoming more than he is. This is the truth. This is a lie. He is still stuck, reaching for something just out of his grasp. He is still stuck in something much larger. He still cannot escape. But now there is too much of him. Too much of him to fill the space.

Nothing has changed. Everything has changed. The sun burns through his skin and the cactus sting his feet. He cannot breathe. He cannot see. He thinks he's drowning. He reaches out. There isn't any ground beneath him anymore. He thinks he falls.

He surfaces. His wings repell the water smoothly, flapping to keep him afloat. He coughs, and sobs, and he still cannot breathe. The shore. The ocean. He splashes towards the shore. The sand gets between his wings, and he thinks they should not be black.

As he presses into the sand, he thinks he hears people. Far away. They mean nothing. He cannot breathe. Choking on the water in his throat.

Cast the line. Try to breathe. Choke.

Reel it in. Voices, too far. He cannot breathe.

Not mending. He sees black. Good. Let him leave let him free. He wants out. He cannot breathe.

His hands shake too much to cast the line. He tries again anyways. He cannot move his arm. His claws dig into his skin, drawing blood and ripping fabric. His nose still bleeds slowly, and he treasures it because it was from Scar. He thinks the ocean is moving closer to him.

Good. Let it. Let him die. Let him drown. Let him be dead on the sands. He doesn't want to be here anymore. Not without him. The ocean doesn't care, but he asks it for a final favour.

He shakes. He cannot breathe. He cannot see. He is dying. He cannot even think now.

He lays in the sand. This is where he should be.

---

"- Grian?!!! Grian, you need to wake up."

He cannot breathe. He feels trapped. The ocean never trapped him. He relied on it. He loved it. He loved him. He couldn't breathe. He feels dizzy.

He feels a cold hand on him. He hopes it is not a corpse. He blinks.

Above him is a woman. Her eyes gleam green in the cold lantern light, and it casts dark shadows onto her blue clothes, staining them black. She pinches her eyebrows, but smiles, and she has sharp teeth. He knows her, he thinks. But she didn't see him on the sands. She did not watch.

She must see something, because she frowns and puts a cold hand on his forehead. He shivers. She is not a corpse, he tells himself. He hopes.

She makes a concerned sound, and pulls up a wristband on her arm. A communicator. A sign of death. He shies away from it. She does not see. The light casts her face in manmade brightness, stark and unyielding, like bright lights on world borders.

She mutters to herself. He recognises her, he thinks. She made power lines, and a shop with a giant angler fish for a front. She preened his wings once.

He does not know her. She was not the firebright zombie that burned hot. She did not kill him. She did not fight him. She did not clip his wings. He does not know her.

She finishes, puts her stark light away, and says something in a voice that he swears he recognizes, a melody he has heard before.

"Grian, are you okay? Can you breathe?"

He swears then, that he feels something bubble up inside of him. Something homely. But he is not home. He belongs to the sands that he will stain with himself.

Instead, he chokes out "Who... Are you?" And watches as her face falls into full fledged fear.

"Oh, no, this is bad. This is so bad. Grian, I'm Gem. You don't remember me?" She leans it, and he realises that the lantern is not a lantern at all. It is a light attached to the woman. Gem.

"Yes." The answer isn't his. But it belongs to him.

She furrows her brows, and he thinks he's about to die.

"Do you remember what happened?" She says, kneeling beside him. He realizes he's on a bed, in a small room. He can see water outside the window. The ocean. His saviour. The sand. His gravestone.

He shakes his head and bites back a noise when it aches to move. Gem asks him "Is it okay if I call X over?"

He nods. Time passes. The sky fades, the water dulls, and he waits. Eventually, a door he did not see before opens. A man in armour walks through. He wears a visor. Gem greets him. "Hey, X, do you know what's up with Grian?"

The man nods. X pulls out a screen and appears to sort through something. "Yeah, I think it's a different universe. I don't know where from, through. I have something that might work. I can attach the code back to the server it came from. But he needs to tell us what happened there."

The woman walks over to him. "Can you tell us what you remember?"

He sits up shakily. "Yes."

They sit back and wait.

"It was...death. But first life. There were 14 of us. And it was me and Scar." And at this, he heard a gasp. "And we claimed the desert. And- and then they attacked. And we blew everything up. And we died. Only three times each. And at the end, it was just me and him. And he had gotten me killed. But I LOVED him. And the spectators- they wanted a fight. So, we fought. And I won. And then, there was red sand under me. And I had to hold his cold, dead hand. The one that gave me flowers. And then I was drowning. And I fell."

He looked up and saw the woman gently crying. The man beside her spoke gently. "So, the code attached itself to Grian because...they share a mental state. Um. Yeah, Grian's not been doing well for a while, probably. Uh. Give me a second."

And then an ocean broke on his head. And Grian stared at his friends, and he tried to be hopeful.

"We need to properly talk."

[nerves-nebula]

yaya I completely get having those few memories of adults who were kind and everything like those moments stick with you. It's kinda sad in like, knowing that these treasured memories are other people's normal, ya know? but usually it's great knowing that at least there were those moments of kindness.

I almost had the chance to feel like what it's like to get a new parent so to speak when I temporarily moved in with my adoptive aunt, but idk i guess our trauma trigger each other so she ended up sucking too lmao. I'm kinda over it now but damn it makes me wonder how some people are allowed to be like that without anyone doing anything. I'm now considered a devil child by her and other family members because of her so that's fun haha

I have one memory of being in the early middle of grade 10 and meeting a friend after they finished robotics (I wish we had been able to stay friends -_-) and my friend was stressed about homework or something but we ended up hugging. And that moment stays in my head rent free because that was the first time I actually felt 100% safe, like idk it sounds really cheesy but it felt like it lasted forever and I still think about that moment when I'm feeling down. I've never felt like that before or since.

Not exactly what you were talking about but that's the one I remember the most (tbf though some of my trauma realized itself into a fear of adults so my entire childhood (especially when I was younger) I thought all adults would kill you if you didn't follow their orders so like there's that lmao)

anyways I'm glad you at least have some people in you're life, that's really good! Even if there's gross history, as long as you're in healthy comfortable relations with them now that's what matters

funny thing, i didnt think my parents/adults necessarily WOULD kill me but I was always acutely aware that they COULD kill me, if they so desired. sometimes i would have breakdowns cuz i was afraid an adult would kill me or hurt me if I didnt do what they said, but I also was thought that maybe they were just trying to get me to do what they said because it'd make me EASIER to kill/torture/etc. Like how supposedly strangers will ask you to come with them in order to get you to a secluded place.

and yeah for a few years there my relationship with my siblings was pretty rough, but it turns out if you set solid boundaries then the people who are worth it will listen and stick around. So thats actually really cool hah.

sucks about your aunt, though. like, a lot. I had issues with a few of my aunts too, I think one of them called CPS on us but not because she gave a shit about our well being. Which is probably one of the worst things a person can do imo.

That's always how it was, they hate my mom, which made me defensive about her, because they'd treat her really bad and i didnt know why. TO BE FAIR though just because you don't like someone doesn't mean you should do shitty things to them, so, I'm not letting them off the hook just because my mom actually does suck. They are still unrepentant assholes, just like my mom but a different flavor.

anyway sorry for my ranting, I hope your extended family does not know peace :)

[hwangism143]

battleground (preview)

synopsis: you hated your co-president, kim seungmin. but, it's your last year of high school and prom planning is up to the two of you. you just expect getting work done and leaving school. what you don't expect however, is kim seungmin looking after you (considering you never do) and you coaxing him into being your prom date.

pairing: non-idol!seungmin x fem!reader

genre: academic rival to lovers, crack, fluff, high school au, angst if you squint

warnings: swearing, mentions of eating, mentions of fatigue and fainting, sickness and overworking, slight themes of stalking, panic attack but not mentioned as such (more to be added to the main fic)

word count (preview): 666 words

release date: june (date to be announced!)

a/n: @starlostseungmin @starseungs this is the most y'all will get for a while now +_+

send in an ask or reply below to be added to the fic taglist!

preview down below.

You and Seungmin settled into the small bean bag pods which were propped up against the empty library walls. He scrolled through his phone with utmost concentration as you did the same, tapping away at your laptop keys.

"We'll have to sit with Lily for planning the budget," Seungmin broke the silence while referring to the committee treasurer, "But she has texted me the overall amount we have in the trust."

Seungmin opened the message and angled his phone towards you, eliciting a gasp from your mouth.

"That is an insane amount. Do you know what this means? We truly can make this Park Academy's best prom yet!" you excitedly began listing off the non-existent limits to which the money could spent.

"You forgot something," Seungmin added, stunning you to silence. What could have you forgotten about prom which Seungmin could have remembered.

The stoic expression on his face, however, told you it was nothing good.

"We need to show extreme constraint while using the money and be strict on the group," Seungmin huffed.

You blew in anger, "The entire point of having an extensive budget is to let loose! God, you're like the Grinch of prom or something."

"Please sweetheart," he snorted, "I'm far better looking than him. Even you can't deny that."

And as infuriating Seungmin seemed to you, he was correct. Seungmin was drop dead gorgeous. In fact, you would be lying if you said that you didn't find him a teensy bit attractive.

Not that he would ever obtain that information.

Seungmin went back to work, looking for banquet halls and hotels open to being the venue for prom. You observed him carefully, trying to figure the psychology behind why he hated prom. Then, you realized that to to succeed in your mission, you didn't have too.

The Grinch fell in love with Christmas too...

"I have made an executive decision," you announced to no one but Seungmin in particular.

He looked up, an expression of boredom and confusion coating his features.

"How exactly, darling, did you take an executive decision without consulting half of the executive. I thought you were smart enough to know how decision making takes place," a smug smile adorned him.

You rolled your eyes at him, "I will make you like prom."

Seungmin scoffed, "As if. You know what, Y/N? I bet you can't."

You sighed in fake defeat, cheering inside. One thing about having an academic rival was predicting their moves to the point where you knew how to trap them. It was like a game of chess, where Seungmin thought he had the upper hand, but you were one move away from checkmate.

You understood what made Seungmin tick, what ignited passion in him and what triggered him. You knew how to get a rise out of him and get him to calm down. More terrifyingly so, you knew that he knew the same.

You likened it to years of animosity, denying the fact that you both maybe were alike.

"I mean, considering our role in the entire organization of prom, we'll be stuck together all night anyways," you lamented in disappointment, "Truthfully speaking, I honestly did expect you to decline my invitation to formally attend prom with me as my de facto date."

"Although I wasn't planning on calling you that," you included for good measure.

You decided to deviate from telling him the real reason why you wanted to take him to prom. Out of everyone in this school, Seungmin was the last person left whose good books you didn't have so much as a footnote in.

You knew that this little social experiment of yours to leave school with everyone singing praises about you was highly selfish, but you needed this to feel worthy of graduating. You needed this to feel worthy of being a part of a social communities.

You could practically see the anger teeming from Seungmin at proving you right. "Fine," he spit out, "I'll be your date."

Checkmate.

current permanent taglist (reply to be added):

@linoalwaysknows @moon0fthenight @hyulino @palindrome969

@squishybinnieee @lastgreatamericandynasty1 @stayinlimbo @farfromsugafanfic

@hongshuaknow @cookiesandcreammy

battleground taglist (reply to be added):

@starseungs @starlostseungmin @moon0fthenight @brainrotahahaha

@booksndpoetry @yoontaethings @vnamps @renjuneoo @queen-in-the-shadows

@reignessance @lilifiedeans @vegetablesarefuntables

[lambourngb]

Day 2: AU get me out of here - places to go when canon is complicated

It’s Day 2 for @roswellnewmexicocreate, time to celebrate those stories that I turn to when I can’t deal with canon, or when I don’t have the emotional energy to untangle all the emotions I have for what’s going on in canon. Alternative universes, the safe harbor for us. Below are a mix of rewrites of canon, remixes of canon, or out right not even set in Roswell- to fill every type distance you want from canon- from near to far.

and the howl of the desert carries me home by @christchex​/ @michaels-blackhat​ (4,334) Alex runs into the desert to escape from his father with his guitar clutched to his chest. He plans to spend one last night playing before his father destroys it. Instead, he meets a cute boy with flowers in his curly hair and a lizard on his shoulder. He exchanges a song for a smile.

why i like it: I love everything about this story. Michael is totally a disney princess, and what a lovely way to save him from foster homes, but have him run away to the desert and use his alien powers to build his own little protective world. Looping in Nora’s plant powers like that, giving Michael a little animal friend, I love it all, but the show stealer is Alex Manes, playing music to coax the mystery boy out. It’s just incredibly soft.

***

Heartbeat series by @adiwriting ​ (133,000 - in progress) During the lost decade, Alex gets Michael pregnant and Michael doesn't see or hear from him again for the next four and a half years. When Alex comes back to town, he discovers he has a daughter with Michael and they all have to figure out how to be a family.

why i like it: it has it all, installments with angst, installments with fluff, I can find whatever mood I am in by just pouring over this incredible series. I really don’t even like mpreg, but in RNM, with aliens it seems a little more probable to me and bless Britt, she goes light on the details but heavy on the kid aspect of it. I absolutely love Alex in this story, he’s richly characterized as a man who is trying hard while wandering unfamiliar territory like aliens, like being a dad, like being Michael’s boyfriend, and he doesn’t always get it right, but he’s loved regardless.

***

tonight we are young @skinsharpenedteeth (8,137) Alex and Michael ditch the Evans' New Years Eve party to find their own fun and Alex gets his New Years kiss...(the underage tag is because they're both 17 in this.)

why i like it: I’m a sucker for teen!Malex, especially stories that take place before the shed. I love this little AU where Alex is thinking about making a move, but hasn’t yet. They are both adorable nervous babies, this feels very much how a softer teen!Malex first time would go. Perfectly characterized here, you can just feel the hopeful vibes they have at 17. I like to believe nothing bad ever happens to them again.

***

you shift on a gear (it’s been a long year) by @backinmybodymp3 (28, 362) “Good morning,” Michael says. “What the hell did you do?” Alex asks, exasperated. (or: There were times, in some of the lower moments of the past however-many-days it’s been, where Michael had thought about what it might’ve been like to share this time loop with someone. He never imagined— well, he never imagined it’d be Alex.)

why i like it: I love time-loop stories! And this is just superb. The friendship dynamics of everyone involved, the Liz/Max wedding, Michael being a good brother, Michael trying so hard to keep this bullshit from dragging Alex in and then Alex being his usual reckless self when it comes to Michael, I absolutely dig this canon-divergent au. you can feel how much the author cares about everyone on the show in this story, and they really nail the Malex dynamic. This story came along just as season 3 did and it’s a true antidote to the malex drought on screen.

***

the library by @arielana (9,657)  Alex had stopped too far away to hear exactly what they were saying, but their voices did carry over to where he was standing. The guy’s drawl had a melody to it that was vaguely familiar, but much deeper than the voice it reminded Alex of. God, that and the hair really brought some memories back.  Just as Alex told himself to stop secretly staring like a creep and walk over there, he turned slightly so that Alex got a glimpse of the side of his face.  Fuck!  Fuck, fuck, fuck! Twelve years ago Alex left Roswell to join the Air Force, nursing a broken heart and promising to never return. When work brings him back to New Mexico he runs into someone he’d been sure he’d never see again.

why i like it: the first kiss in the UFO emporium was groundbreaking, but I have to admit, I love stories that explore the almost-happened, where Malex reconnect as adults without the shadow of Jesse’s attack. I love how sharp Alex is in this story, he has all these walls as an adult built from that first rejection, but then he’s so completely unprepared to reconnect with Michael again. The clownery in this story by both of them is perfect! I also totally love Forrest as a gay best friend for Alex, trying to wingman Alex, that cracked me up.

***

stellar light based life by @jocarthage (30,651) It’s not a memory if it’s something you see every day. It’s a trigger and it’s not one Alex wants to ever let go of.Alex saw Michael disappear into a blinding blue light, soft 17-year-old body pulled back into some kind of impossible vortex -- one hand, outstretched.

why i like it: another submission from 2020 RNM Big Bang, this story just wrecked me. I can’t even really put into words about how it hooked me and basically lives in my head now to the point I often mumble the first line to myself. Anyway, this AU takes a right turn at the shed attack, and goes full force scifi and tragic separation, I love it. In so many ways it reshapes Alex’s life but the core of who he is never changes, there’s so many great science geekery details about Michael’s planet and the astronaut journey that Alex takes, plus SANDERS... anyway, this is a fandom classic for me.

***

Crossed Wires by @beautifulcheat, @ladynox (15,351) Michael's been kicked off more than one Starfleet posting. So when he learned he was reassigned to the USS Roswell, he decided that he would keep his head down and behave. This decision is immediately thwarted when he meets her hot Vulcan captain.This might be the first time Michael got kicked off a posting for flirting with a captain.

why i like it: Star Trek AU? I’m pretty easy. Seeing elements of Kirk and Spock’s tragic backstory blended into genius mechanic Michael Guerin and ice prince Alex Manes was amazing. I love how it’s serving with his family that brings Michael to the Enterprise, his bond with Max and Isobel was chef’s kiss good. The blend of Michael’s powers and Alex’s biology - I loved the balance even if it came with its own misunderstandings, but hey, this time it was cultural! lol

***

I’m still here by @vague-shadows @pippsmcgee  (35,928) Treasure Planet AU in which Michael is the gifted young delinquent who found a treasure map, and Alex is a space pirate pawn in his Father's obsession with riches and legacy.

why i like it: I’ve never seen Treasure Planet, but I didn’t need to thoroughly enjoy this AU. This was the perfect mix of angst and sci-fi adventure, where the authors managed to make the shed even more horrifying. Jesse Manes is the absolute worst in this story, the levels of obsession he goes to find a treasure, and then Michael on his own collision course - the ability to write tense action is a gift, and it’s on display in this story. Cyborg!Alex took up a place in my heart and still lives there, where he only gets the nicest things.

If you like any of these recs, please leave a comment on the story or a kudo- a  ‘this was awesome’ is enough to propel an author into the stratosphere with happiness, so don’t worry about coming up with a unique, never before shared insight- sometimes a keyboard smash and emoji makes all  the difference!

[tomtenadia]

Remember us - part 4

Hello lovelies,

It’s Thursday evening and I have some angst coming your way :)

Please enjoy part 4 of Remember Us

CW: mention of depression and miscarriage

--------

Rowan had the week from hell. Rehab had been relentless and Dorian had taken him to the gym everyday, but at least now he could say that he was able to walk the length of the walking bars and back. In the last couple of days Dorian had pushed for him to start using crutches, insinuating to the fact that the doctor was thinking about discharging him.

On top of the pain from rehab he was still punishing himself for what had happened with Aelin. Every morning he woke up and the first thing he did was to look at his phone for a reply from her, but nothing ever came.

The doctors think they might discharge me in a few days. Dorian is making me a pro at using crutches.

Maybe a good news might cheer her up.

He tried to watch tv but lost interest very quickly so he went back to his phone. He had been reading the whole thread of messaged between him and Aelin and discovered some interesting tidbits. They bickered a lot but from the text messages it looked as if they would always make up in the end. He also found some texts that made him blush wildly. But what was always present was love. That he knew was real.

He was absorbed in the texts that he did not notice the woman who had entered his room.

She was blonde, the same golden shade that Aelin had.

“Hi Rowan,” she greeted him walking fully into the room “I brought you your favourite biscuits. Hospital food is atrocious.”

The stranger placed the box on the nightstand “orange oatmeal cookies.”

He looked at her puzzled.

“I am Evalin. I am Aelin’s mum and your mother in-law.”

Rowan straightened his back, wanting to make a good impression, realising a moment later that the woman knew him already.

She took a seat on the chair near his bed “how are you doing?”

He had good vibes from the woman and he was impressed just how much her daughter resembled her “Adjusting…discovering new things that are not actually new.”

Evalin patted his knee “are any memories coming back?”

“I had a couple. All related to moments with Aelin.” He paused, sighed and gathered the courage to ask about Aelin. He hadn’t her from Aelin in a week “How is she doing? I haven’t heard from her in a week.”

Evalin hesitated “she is not well. She had been off from work the whole week.”

Rowan worried. Without realising it he felt a pang of fear rise in him “is it the pregnancy?”

Evalin nodded “partly. She has been very stressed this last month which has been hard on her and the baby.”

He threw his head backwards and leaned into the pillow “and it doesn’t help that I pile on with my stupidity.”

“She told me what happened.” The woman said quietly and he had a feeling that all of a sudden she had lost all of her respect for him “It must be scary to be in your position right now.” she admitted “I can see that you were just trying to protect my daughter, because the heart is a treacherous thing and I don’t think Aelin would survive loosing you completely and again.” The woman’s eyes were on him now “As a mother who loves her daughter and her grandchildren deeply and accepted you like a son… all I am asking is to give it a try.” She took his hand in hers “I know I am asking a lot of you, but you two used to hate each other and look where you got in the end.”

“What if I am not anymore the man she loves? I am scared that something might have broken in me and I don’t want to hurt her or the kids.”

Evalin squeezed his hand “listen to your heart, what does it tell you?”

“Try.” He whispered and he knew it was true “if I tell you something will you promise you will not think of me as crazy?”

Evalin shook her head.

“When I saw her the first time, I could not recognise her, but my body somehow did. I felt a tug… as if something pulled me to her. I don’t know how to explain it. There was a sense of familiarity.” He explained, thinking he sounded like a complete lunatic, but Evalin smiled deeply at him.

“I think it was your soul recognising its other half.” And she chuckled “my husband used to tell me I was an hopeless romantic.”

“I dreamed our wedding day, the day both kids were born and some other moments with her have come back.”

“And how do they make you feel?”

“There is always love. I am sure Aelin and I had our bad days but the memories coming back so far are all happy.” He told the woman.

“Then treasure those feelings.”

They stood in silence for a moment then Rowan spoke again “can I ask you something?”

Evalin nodded.

“Aelin mentioned that before having Thomas and Freyja we had problems and lost as well. How bad was it?”

He wasn’t sure if he should talk about it but he wanted, needed to know. He needed to know more about his relationship with Aelin and Evalin seemed very keen to indulge him.

“You started trying after you got married. You were both obsessed about having a big family so you started straight away. But it took Aelin a year to get pregnant.” She told him and he could see the heartbreak in the woman “you lost the first baby in the first trimester. But the second one happened during her fifth month. She woke up one night bleeding heavily and you lost your baby girl. It destroyed you both.”

Evalin paused, giving him time to absorb the facts “Aelin was heartbroken and you were just the same. And your marriage suffered quite badly, but slowly you both found your way back together. Thomas arrived a year later.”

Rowan listened and he felt a stab of pain in his heart. How did they survive such pain?

“You both went through something more horrific, and I am positive you will survive this too. You have to.” The woman stood and placed her bag back on her shoulder “next time you see Aelin, talk to her. Tell her about your fears. Let her in Rowan, she is your wife.”

She was about to leave when she stopped and pulled something from her bag. It was a piece of paper “Thomas did this for you.”

Rowan took the paper and saw it was a messy drawing of his family. The four of them were all there “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

Evalin smiled and left the room, leaving Rowan on his own.

He thought about his options and realised that he had none. They were his family and in that moment they were all he knew. He had no idea if he had any friends close enough who would take him in. And who would do that anyway? He was a burden. But Aelin had offered him a home. A family. And eventually love. Maybe Evalin was right, maybe with time and patience he could learn to love her again. He just hoped he was not too late.

*

Aelin woke up from her afternoon nap and found her mother playing with Thomas. Freyja was napping as well on the sofa, her soft toy close to her chest, her blanket wrapped around her and a pacifier in her mouth. She looked serene.

Thomas was building something with lego. His father was obsessed with the colourful bricks and he had bought huge quantities and they would sit and build for hours.

“What are you building, Tom?”

“Our house.”

She ruffled his blonde hair and went to sit opposite her mother.

“How are you doing?”

Aelin sighed “the nausea stopped, but I still feel exhausted.”

“You should go back to bed.”

Aelin shook her head “If I keep sleeping I will not be able to do so tonight.”

Evalin took a sip of her tea “I went to see Rowan this morning.”

Aelin froze. She had retyped and deleted the reply to him countless times now. She had wanted to tell him she was scared too. Tell him that she knew it was hard for him and that she was ready to stay at his side and help him. They would find their way back. They always did even during the darkest moments of their marriage when she pushed him away because she thought the pain was only hers, Rowan had fought to be back at her side. Together they rose from the abysm and their bond grew even stronger.

“How is he doing?”

“Your husband needs you at his side. He is lost, and confused.”

“He told me to move on. He told he might not want to be my husband anymore.” She snapped, her heart aching.

“Have you considered that he might have said that to protect you? He is afraid you will not love the man that will come out of this ordeal. He thinks that by leaving him he will protect this family.”

Aelin sobbed, her face in her hands “I miss him so much.” Her sobs grew in intensity.

Thomas noticed his mother cry and walked to her and gave Aelin a hug “don’t cry, mum.”

“I am fine, Tom. Go back playing with lego.” She kissed his blonde hair and sent him back on the carpet.

“I know you are the doctor,” started Evalin caressing her sleeping granddaughter’s silver hair “but I did some reading and it seems like sensorial stimulation might help trigger the memories.”

Aelin nodded “He has his phone back with all the photos and the texts.” She took a deep breath “he texted me saying that the doctor might discharge him in a few days and I don’t know what to do.”

Evalin gave her a dashing smile “you are taking your husband back to this home where he belongs.”

Aelin felt fear at the idea “have you thought how the kids will feel at seeing their dad that way? I can’t put them through that.”

Her mother placed a hand on her knee in comfort “have you thought about the fact that being surrounded by a familiar environment might be best way to help him?”

She had not. All she had been thinking since that text had been her children. She wanted him back. There was no doubt about it. But she had to protect them. She was an adult and could endure the pain. They could not. They had no idea what was happening.

“You could explain to Thomas what happened and ask him to help you to get his dad back.”

Her boy, her wonderful boy, she could not do that to him. Her hands shook in fear.

“Aelin, he needs his family. All of us.”

She stood abruptly “he should go and stay with friends. Lorcan perhaps.”

Evalin stood as well and joined her “He and Elide have a baby who is only a few months old, they will not take him in. And they cannot help. He needs us. He needs all of this.” Her arms extended to indicate the house around them.

“He might not want this.” Aelin snarled “he made it quite clear.”

Evalin loved her daughter but she had inherited her father’s stubbornness. But if Aelin was stubborn, she was on another level “Aelin, you are going back to work tomorrow. You march in your husband’s room and tell him that he is coming home. Where he belongs. And don’t fight me on this.”

Aelin knew her mother had her best interest at heart. She was the one who had dragged her out of the abysm she had thrown herself into after they lost their daughter. After she had pushed Rowan away, Evalin had been at her side. Helping through the pain of the loss, fighting her depression with her. Slowly she had made her realise that Rowan was hurting too. That the pain was his as well and that he could be the one pulling her out completely. In the end they had helped each other.

To whatever end.

It was their pact, their promise.

An oath that went deeper than a I love you.

It was a thread that bound their souls together.

To whatever end.

[queenmuzz]

So, anyways, I saw something @liulyam had posted for Spardaverse a while back I DON'T KNOW HOW I MISSED THEIR WONDERFUL ART FORGIVE ME! Anyways, I saw specifically THIS piece of art, and it sent the brain juices into overdrive....

So, the same thing plays out everyday. Nero gets off the school bus and runs in, backpack flying, and tells his uncle excitedly about his day at school, before racing up the stairs to tell his dad the same thing, in the same adorably animated manner. Unfortunately, Vergil doesn’t respond the same way as Dante, sitting still, not even acknowledging that the boy is talking to him. Initially, Nero doesn’t mind, understanding his recently rescued father has been through a lot, and needs time and patience to recover. But as the months pass by, Dante notices that his nephew doesn’t run up the front steps as eagerly, his descriptions of school become shorter, paler. And most worryingly of all, Nero spends less and less time with Vergil, preferring to peek his head in the man’s room, sigh, and slowly make his way to his own room, closing the door sullenly.

“What’s going on Nero?” Dante takes the plunge and asks him one day, before the boy trudges up the stairs. “You haven’t been that rambunctious ball of energy lately.”

Nero kicks the worn hardwood floor. “It’s dad… I know you told me I need to be patient,” his face scrunches up at the word, it’s a thing he’s never been able to truly do. He’s definitely a Sparda boy. “But he just keeps ignoring me. He won’t talk, won’t even look at me. It’s like I don’t even exist! Maybe...maybe he doesn’t want me to exist-”

“Hey now!” Dante needs to nip this train of thought in the bud. He knows first hand where it can lead to. Had he not found Nero nearly nine years ago, while wandering the world, drinking up every bar’s entire inventory in a vain attempt to fill a void in his chest, who knows where he would have ended up? “Your dad...well, even without the stuff he’s been through, he was never much of a talker. Always preferred to have his actions speak for him.” “But that’s the thing, Uncle Dante!” Nero blurts out, close to tears. “He DOESN’T DO ANYTHING!!! He doesn’t care!” And with that, Nero bolts up the stairs, past Vergil’s room, not even checking up on him, and slams his bedroom door with such force, Eva’s portrait wobbles on the desk and tips over. Dante sighs, sets his mom back up, and slowly makes his way up the stairs. Not to Nero’s room; Dante knows better than to provoke that tiger cub when he’s in an ornery mood. It’s time to talk to his dad.

Vergil, or what’s left of him, is sitting in an oversized chair, the only one that fits his giant frame, facing the window, the only one in the place with a view. If he’s heard the ruckus (and Dante knows he has), he makes no indication that it affects him.

“Verg,” he calls out, “I know it's been rough, I know I piled on a lot of shit on you, the whole thing about having a kid and everything these past nine years. I’m not expecting you to just snap back to normal, and start insulting me like in the good old days, but…” Dante’s not good at this sort of thing. He’d rather Royal Guard his emotional turmoil. It used to be with alcohol, but now it’s with a cheery smile. “The kid needs a sign that you’re still there, you’re still fighting. I know you are, hell, you’re the one that helped me take down that bastard Mundus on Mallet Island. But that’s the thing, Nero’s only heard things that you’ve done, not seen them. You need to show him yourself, otherwise…” Vergil makes no motion, and even Dante, stubborn as he is, knows it’s fruitless to continue much more, “you’re gonna lose him too.” And then Dante heads back downstairs, to see if he can whip up a snack to bribe his nephew to come out of his lair. Strange, he swears he hears the rustle of fabric from Vergil’s room, as if his brother had just moved.

--

Nero sits at Dante’s desk, working on his math homework. It’s his least favourite thing, fractions. Uncle Dante is a whiz at them, and usually would be able to help him, but he’s gone out on an ‘Really quick, won’t be more than a half hour’ errand run. It’s been nearly two hours, and the only other adult here is his dad… so Nero is practically by himself.

Suddenly, the hairs on the back of Nero’s neck prick up, and he hears scrabbling at the front door. He’s still not allowed to go out with Uncle Dante or Auntie Lady on their hunts, but he knows what a demon feels like, especially when there are a lot of them. ESPECIALLY when they’re really powerful Instinctively, he grabs a chair, and wedges it underneath the door knob, and looks around in a panic. He’s never had to deal with a demon attack by himself before. He remembers his uncle has a case of weapons that he was told to NEVER touch beside the jukebox, but Nero figures that he can say sorry to his uncle later. He smashes the lock with a billiard ball, and yanks open the lid. He’s disappointed. He thought there would be a treasure trove of swords and guns, but all there are two swords, one red and one blue. But he doesn’t have much of a choice, and the whine of protesting wood ends with a thunderous CRASH, and demons pour through. “FIND THE HERETIC GOD SLAYER!” One says, before turning in Nero’s direction. Without much warning, it shrieks as it launches at him with razor sharp obsidian claws.

Nero might be little, but his uncle has trained him well. Whipping the two blades around, they connect the monster’s waist in a pincer move, and like a pair of scissors, bisect it in a shower of blood and ash. Nero swears he hears a voice (or is it two voices?) approvingly say, “Impressive!” but doesn’t have a chance to savour his very first demon kill as another demon comes at him, knocking him over. The reddish gold blade clatters away on the floor, way out of reach, not that it matters. Nero’s pinned to the ground by a skeletal foot, as the demon lifts a blade to impale him. He squeezes his eyes shut, preparing for the end.

The final blow never comes. Instead, he hears shriek, and the pressure on his chest instantly subsides. He opens his eyes, to see it stagger back, its decapitated head clattering to the floor. Its brethren likewise are either dead or dying, their high pitched screams shattering the glass in the jukebox.

Nero’s first thought is that his Uncle has finally come home, Dante’s come to save me! But what’s odd is that there’s no sound of Dante’s beloved Ebony and Ivory. And last he checked, his uncle never was able to shoot out blue ghostly blades that now impale most of the horde. But it doesn’t matter, because his uncle is here to save the day! That is, until he yelps as he’s quickly, but not roughly picked up and held as whoever holds him spirits him out of the building, the blue blade still clutched in his hand. Nero begins to panic, but hears a voice, almost like a croak, as if the vocal cords had been in disuse for years…

Nero

And even though the voice is harsh sounding, it's one of the most comforting things Nero’s ever heard.

--

Of course that half hour errand run would turn out to be three hours. But when he was promised a free pizza for clearing out that demon nest on the West side, Dante couldn’t say no. Besides, he’d pick up some freshly baked chocolate chip cookies on the way home as a way of apologising to Nero. The kid might be cross with him, but he’d forgive him the moment he smelled those chewy biscuits. Dante might even let him have more than half of the package.

So when he gets home to find his front door smashed open, his office trashed, and worst of all his jukebox shattered-wait no, worst of all, his nephew missing, all thoughts of pizza and cookies vanish from his mind as he rushes in, guns drawn. There’s no sign of life, but the black splatters of demonic ichor painting the walls shows that some real bad mojo went down here. The strangest thing though, is Agni, a weapon Dante was definitely sure he had under lock and key, laying there on the ground, alone.

“Alright, time to spill your guts” he yanks the blade up so that he’s at eye level with the pommel, “What the hell happened here?” Agni makes the same response as Vergil. Which means silence.

“I swear to…” he pulls out ivory, and presses the muzzle into the (more troubled than usual looking face), “You’re gonna tell me what went down, or we’re gonna see how many bullets I can jam into your ugly mug.” “You told us to remain silent.” He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, consider that rule temporarily relaxed.” “There was an attack.” Agni starts, its distorted voice unusually agitated, “The little one fought with great valour, but eventually even he was overwhelmed.” Dante’s blood goes cold. “But then a great bulk of a demon came out and slaughtered the attacking filth, and spirited the boy away, alongwith my brother.”

“Rudra’s still with Nero?” That’s odd, if they were trying to capture the kid, they’d disarm him first.

“Yes, they are not far, I think they’ve stopped moving.”

“Alright,” Dante makes his way out of the disfigured wood, “let’s go find the kid and your bro...and if he’s alright, maybe I’ll reconsider giving back your talking privileges.” “Oh, that would be wonderful, will you allow us to leave the dark box? It’s been so long since we’ve fought, we crave batt- ”

“I said IF, and I won’t guarantee anything if you keep jabbering on and on.”

--

Angi directs the demon hunter to a dark secluded alleyway, a few blocks from Devil May Cry. One hand on its hilt ready for attack, the other fingering the trigger of Ivory, he cautiously makes his way past the recently overturned garbage cans, to a shadow alcove, where a shadow crouches. Beside it is Rudra, glowing faintly, it’s turquoise blue light providing enough illumination for Dante to make out what has happened. There’s Nero, peacefully slumbering away, apparently unharmed, not even his shirt is torn. And holding him gently, stroking his downy white hair with a giant hand...is Vergil… And for once, even though he is still staring straight ahead, there’s a different look on his face, a sense of contentment.

Huh Dante thinks to himself as he holsters the weapons, I was right, actions DO speak louder than words.

[wiypt-writes]

Murder, He Wrote

Part 3 Co-Written with @southerngracela​

Summary: It’s Thanksgiving, but when you’re being held hostage by Hugh Ransom Drysdale there’s really not a lot to be thankful for, is there?

Warnings: Bad language words. MATURE (NSFW 18+) NON-CON situation, kidnap, violence. DO NOT READ IF ANY OF THOSE TRIGGER… READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!!

Pairing: DARK! Ransom Drysdale x Reader

A/N:  So this is Part 2 to our submission for @Jtargaryen18 ‘s Haunted House 2020  Challenge. Once again READ THE WARNINGS!!!! This is a DARK Series… don’t @ us if you can’t follow simple instructions and end up with butt-hurt. And if you’re under 18…get off my blog.

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and by writing it does NOT mean I agree with or condone the acts contained within. This fiction is classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any characters in this series bar reader and any other OCs that may or may not be mentioned. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer.

Murder, He Wrote Masterlist // Main Masterlist.

Part 2

You could feel the chill of the outside seeping into your space, your bones, through the vented window following your shower. The way it crept in made you realize just how far along through fall you were, maybe it was even approaching the onset of the holiday weather. Either way, a storm seemed to be outside. At least it felt like it. Once dried, you found yourself wrapping up tighter in the thick cardigan you’d chosen before you dried your hair, and allowed yourself a quick squirt of perfume before settled into the reading chair in the corner of your room, your journal on your lap.

The little, leather bound book had been in your handbag which had been given back to you earlier that morning as the latest reward for behaving and as you ran your hand over the deep brown cover, you couldn’t help the air of excitement you felt at having been given your treasured little note book, despite the dreary sky you could see from the porthole above your chair.

It had actually surprised you that Drysdale had kept it and not disposed of it the same way he had your phone and your car. But for whatever reason, he’d held onto it, and for that you were grateful. Grateful that you had something of your own from before this imprisonment to anchor too. You’d expected him to want some kind of favour in return but he hadn’t demanded any sort of sexual gratification, simply informed you he would be out most of the morning and would be back mid to late afternoon. As soon as he had gone you had eagerly tipped the contents of your bag onto the bed, almost crying at the sight of your half empty bottle of Coco-Mademoiselle, the Mac Lip-gloss, NYX Eyebrow pencil, Mont Blanc fountain pen, a full tube of mints and your treasured journal. With teary eyes you’d put everything away in its new place, apart from the book and pen before padding into the bathroom for a shower, deliberately sorting yourself out for the day. All you could think of was taking the time so you could savour the moment when you could hopefully make some sense of the jumble in your head by spilling it onto a page.

You opened the cover and flicked to your last entry, the morning of Halloween. A rambling rant about Mick-The-Prick filled the page and you paused, tears in your eyes, as you’d give anything to be stood in his office thinking about ingenious ways to kill him and get away with it. Ironic, really considering that was exactly what your captor had done; committed murder and gotten away with it.

You went to jot the date down in the corner of the page and realised that actually, you didn’t have a clue what it was. Down here, night bled into day, day bled into night…and soon it all bled into weeks. However, given the fact your cycle had been and gone a week ago you figured that it was maybe four weeks since Halloween. Of course, you could ask Hugh, but the less you had to ask him the better as far as you were concerned. You hate the fact that he had this hold on you, that you had to ask for and ‘earn’ things by being ‘good’. And whilst it made you sick to your stomach, you’d fast learnt it was easier to comply than rebel. The night he had left you tangled in your sweater had hurt. It had taken you a good twenty minutes to muster the strength to work your way out and drag yourself into a bath, your body shaking with the trauma, sobs wracking your frame. Your body ached for days, your mind in a post-traumatic cloud of despair. And whilst it hadn’t broken you per-say, it had certainly made you realise exactly what the bastard was capable of, and you had no intention of finding out just how much further he was willing to go.

So, in summary, it had taken Ransom Drysdale two days to break you into compliance.

You’d become passive, so to speak. You gave into his whims, let him use you as he saw fit, did as he told… for the most part anyway. There had been a few other incidents post the sweater one where you’d forgotten yourself and protested, fought a little and he’d gone hard on you, but nothing like that second night. Your passive behaviour was mistaken by him for compliance, and as such you had earned a number of rewards. The bistro table where you took your meals, a book or two which just so happened to be by his grandfather, a gesture you weren't sure was him purging or pressing an agenda onto you. And more recently and most preciously, your bag. But, the strange thing was, that whilst he wanted you to give into him physically, he seemed to enjoy the fact that you were in no way, shape or form compliant to him in others. You openly sassed him, bit back, called him out and he actively encouraged it. He’d started spending a little more time with you in the mornings and afternoons, not just visiting you to toy with you or fuck, but to engage in these little tete-a-tete’s, and the sickest, most perverted thing about it was that you were almost glad. The loneliness was crippling, and you craved company. Even if it was his.  

All things considered, you’d rather ask him for as little as possible so instead, you flicked to the front of the book and crossed off the days on the small calendar inside the cover. Deciding that the date it led you to was as accurate as it was going to get, you turned back, jotted it down in the top right of your page and stared at the blank lines, looking to sort your thoughts for your next entry.

The saying used to go, what's in a name, however as I sit here thinking back on the last few weeks I wonder now what's in a day. My days consist of imprisonment. Held by a captor I have met once before. He's smart, almost too smart. Displaying forms of abuse and aggressive behaviors any FBI analyst would love to dive deep into. But that's not my job, no, my job is to please and satisfy him. Answer to his whims of gratification at any call of the day. I have nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. But if I behave, he lets few things get by. I miss home, my bed, my life. I miss Mick, which is saying a lot all things considered. I don't know still what he wants from me, other than the obvious sexual gratification with little to no room for anything else. I'm a toy, a means to an itch. I don't know how long exactly I've been here, I can only guess it's been about a month. Nor do I know how long I'll have to stay. The answers are blurred like my vision, marred by tears and the low light inside. I haven't seen outside since the day he took me. I haven't been anywhere outside this room. I can see from the small porthole window above this stupidly soft leather chair the season has changed. It feels like deep fall, and as a storm comes outside, what little sky I see is bleak and dark, clouds covering the bluest of skies, angry and ready to open up, raining down water to wash away the sins of the day. I wish I could do the same. 

Before you realized, time had obviously passed, for the sound of the door bolts unlocking had you guessing it was late afternoon or early evening. A glance up at the porthole behind you confirmed as much. The sky was dark and rain had been beating on the window for a little while. 

In came Drysdale, hair a bit wet, a strand slightly out of place, wool pants and maroon sweater. He carried a plate of food in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. He looked irked, like he'd wasted time on something, a look you were now able to decipher after weeks of seeing it. 

"Happy Thanksgiving," he said, setting the plate down on the bistro table with its two accompanying chairs, waiting for you to join him. 

Instead of biting back, you simply whispered, "it’s Thanksgiving?" You checked the inside cover of your journal and see the date again. You were a day off and it now dawned on you. It was the fourth Thursday of the month and indeed, Thanksgiving. You glanced back up at Ransom and a deep sadness washed over you. Closing your journal and setting it on the table by your chair, you stood, moving towards him and the plate of food. You took a seat and looked down at the plate, full of the holiday dish basics; turkey, gravy, mashed potatoes, stuffing, diced not candied yams and roasted green beans. It was gourmet and nothing near what he'd been serving you or managing to try. "Thank you," you said softly, rolling your fork through the potatoes. You take a bite but it's about as bland and tasteless as your despair. 

"I brought it back from the country club, I met my father there," he looked under your gaze again, as if willing your eyes to his. "Do you not like it?" 

Finally, your gaze met those cold cerulean orbs, setting your fork down and you took a drink of water, "No, it's fine." Then you picked up your fork again and took another bite, this time of the turkey and gravy. You didn't have it in you for an argument or it's physical ramifications. 

"Are you not hungry?" Ransom pressed. 

"I guess not as much as I thought," you repled further poking at your food, your voice cracking a little as you try to keep your composure. The sting of the holiday has you broken, far more than you'd expected. Normally, today you'd be helping your mother in the kitchen, settling the final touches on the side dishes and listening to your father tell your uncle about some a-typical dad joke he'd heard. Your sister would be giddy over the wine while her boyfriend of the month received death glares from said uncle and your father. 

Ransom outwardly sighed and you wait for what you were trying to avoid. "Are you alright?" 

The question threw you off guard completely and you struggled to hide the shock from your expression. He never cared about your feelings before. Maybe he thought you were coming down with something. You braced yourself to answer honestly. There was no point in lying, he'd see through it. 

"I'm fine, I'm not sick if that's what you're thinking," you answered, a deep restraint on your tone to keep yourself in check. "I hadn't realized what day it was. I didn't know it was Thanksgiving." You swallowed the lump in your throat and blinked hard. "My mom, my sister and I, we used to all help make dinner as a family. My dad and uncle would talk a bunch of shit around the fireplace while shooting death glares at my sister's flavor of the month."

He looked at you like he was confused. You scoff, "Of course you wouldn't understand."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He squint his eyes, biting the inside of his cheek. His body language completely changed as he leaned forward on his forearms, popping one shoulder up higher than the other. 

"Nothing," you backed down immediately. 

"Tell me," he pressed. 

God, he was relentless. You pushed your plate forward and leaned on your own elbows. You looked at him with a raised brow, "am I going to be in trouble if you don't like what I have to say?" 

"Depends," he popped a shoulder smugly. 

You matched his expression and his demeanour falters just a fraction. You saw it, but you didn't hold back. "Then I'd rather keep it to myself. That's what you want isnt it? Me to comply, be obedient? Frankly, I'm not in the mood." 

He failed to hide his smirk and you noticed that too, "Sweetheart." It wasn't laced with teasing, rather his pet name for you on his tongue held a cautious venom. 

"You hate your family. You know nothing about love and what it takes to give love. Hell, I don't doubt that for a minute you've ever felt loved. It's all an act. Self-preservation even. I don't know you or your family outside of the hours of research I did and the mere forty five minutes I listened to you drone on about your 'predicament'. But, the cold hearted truth of it is, you don't know how to love." You watched him run his tongue along his teeth as he continued to glare at you, but you weren't finished. "And that's what family is, it's what they do. They love, they are the embodiment of love at its deepest root. Maybe, just maybe somewhere along your life, your parents loved you, but judging by the Thrombey-Drysdale standards, none of you know what love is outside your selfish tithings and flashy cars. It got lost along the way, more than likely long before you ever were born."

"Wow," he raised his brows and clicked his tongue against his teeth, "That's good, that's really good."

You're fear receptors suddenly spiked as recognizable flash of anger in his eyes flashed through his irises. But there was something else there that you couldn't put your finger on it. Your breathing quickly up-ticked as you felt your palms begin to sweat.

He inhaled a deep, almost centering breath, "that perfume in your bag, I like it."

As if he'd grown a second head, you blinked hard refocusing on him. Had you heard him right? You'd just broken a rule, laid out an unspeakable truth for him and now in a blink he's, God forbid, complimenting your scent? Who the fuck was this guy? Was he on meds? Because he should be or he should at least probably share. It might make life here more bearable. "What?" 

"The perfume from your bag, you're wearing it. It smells good," he lamented. 

Alright, now the 'of sound mind' argument might be worth something because he sure as shit wasn't now. You swallowed and picked up your fork, taking a bite of the cold food just to buy yourself some time as you tried to process the scene before you. You had no remark to make. Confusing jumbled any thought of a coherent word you could utter. 

"Maybe if I'm out, I can pick you up a new bottle. I noticed you were near empty," Ransom offered. 

This was starting to make your stomach turn. If he'd gone through your bag, because why wouldn't he at this point, smelled your perfume, had he read your journal? You made a mental note to go back through and see if there was anything he'd read that he had used against you thus far or could use to corner you in the future. You looked around the room, waiting to see if you were being Punk'd. Just who the fuck is this guy? Without your expression giving too much of your confusion away, you nod at him in reply. "Thank you, I'd like that."

"Hmph," he paused, a dramatic effect he seemed to know that your heart rate up in anxiety. "Well, then why are you looking at me like I have two heads, Y/N?" 

Tread lightly, you thought to yourself. He didn't call you by your first name often, in fact, the last time he had, you were very much smarting back and it resulted in a forceful situation that left you raw and sore for a few days. It was always 'Sweetheart'. 

He baited you, you knew it, but you couldn't back out now. So you sighed, "I know I'm not supposed to ask questions, but, I don't even know who you are right now. Do you? One minute you're giving me food and being gentle, the next you're allowing my opinion, and now you're ready to flip this table. That's as close as two heads as it gets." 

"Careful, Sweetheart," he now glared at you. There it was, you were in for it. The approach of choice, you weren't sure of, but he was done. You'd learned the different tones in his voice by now, the cues he gave. You were definitely in trouble. You dropped your eyes to your plate. The food stone cold and no longer even appealing in its slightest measure, a wave of nausea washing over you. You further pushed your plate away, "I don't think I'm hungry anymore."

His broad frame rose from the chair, "you weren't to begin with," his left hand reaching for the plate and holds it in his hand, "Third drawer down in the armoire. Pick something, I'll be back."

You watched him leave, the familiar click of the door shutting and snap of the lock sounded around the small apartment and you exhaled loudly, your head dropping into your hands. This wasn’t the first time he’d requested that you ‘dress for the occasion’ so to speak. With a deep breath you stood up and crossed the room, opening the drawer of requirements, seeking out a negligee for him to no doubt remove. Your fingers roamed over the fabrics and selection. La Perla, Agent Provocateur, Carine Gilson, Coco de Mer and Fleur of England were just a handful of the expensive, high-end brands that filled the space. Your fingers smoothed over a black macrame and tule underwired long line bra and the matching thong that was folded neatly under it. Plucking it from the drawer, you headed for the bathroom. You slipped out of your casual tee, duster cardigan and leggings, the bra and panties you'd had on. You sighed as you took a good look at yourself in your naked form. 

While you hadn't lost a ton of weight over the last month, you could tell you'd grown thinner. You weren't gaunt but your lack of a daily Dunkin' Donuts macchiato had seemed to thin you out. Your captor made sure you were fed, but you didn't always eat. The plump of your cheeks had receded and your little pooch brought on by happy carbs was sucked into your frame. There were a few bruises still seen, near green, an indication of their final healing stage. The pock mark from a hickey he'd given you still a bit scaby as he'd broken the skin just barely. This was your life now and it made what few bites of Thanksgiving dinner in your stomach nearly lurch forward back up your throat.

You swallowed it down, pulling the long line bra straps up your arms and clasping it behind your back. Your legs slipped into the thong panties and you pulled the material up your freshly smooth legs. Your shaky fingers plucked at the hair tie that fastened the end of your brain closed, nails raking through your hair to loosen your tendrils. He always wanted your hair loose. You looked at yourself in the mirror, you were ready. 

***** Ransom tossed the un-eaten food into the garbage and dumped the plate into the sink to be dealt with later. Turning so that his lower back was leaning on the edge of the kitchen counter he ran a hand over his clean shaven jaw, his mind ticking over the events of the day so far. A pain-in-the-ass Thanksgiving meal with his father had been made bearable by the fact he knew he was coming back to her, and because he hadn’t wanted to be a complete monster he’d made the effort of bringing her a nice dinner back too. But she’d hardly touched any of it.

And what disturbed him most about it, was the fact that instead of wanting to punish her for being an ungrateful bitch, he instead felt a deep rooted sense of concern. She’d lost weight, her face was pale, her hip bones more pronounced, and frankly the last thing he wanted was her passing out on him. Whilst he wanted her compliant, necrophilia really wasn’t his bag.

He had thought by giving her back the bag she’d had on her the night he took her he might have seen a lift in her spirits so to speak, a little gratitude, but instead she’d been meek and reserved until he’d coaxed that familiar sass out of her. And even then she’d been reticent.

It should have pleased him that she was learning her place and becoming more subservient. But if he was being honest with himself, he almost missed her fighting and arguing back. It had been exciting in a way, and he had thought it would have taken longer than it had to break her so to speak. Maybe he had overestimated exactly what a fighter she was, maybe she wasn’t the right muse for his writing after all. Because, let’s face it, writing a tale about a woman who was captured and broken into submission within two days, merely becoming a puppet for her captor’s whims was hardly going to win him any accolades was it? He needed more, needed something that he could spin a good story from. He knew now that when he went back down to her he had to try a different tact so to speak, he needed to coax her mind into reacting not merely her body.

Because if he couldn’t do that, there was no point in keeping her.

He allowed her half an hour or so before he headed back down the stairs and found her sat on the bed, dressed in one of the sets he’d purchased, her hair loose round her face and shoulders the way he liked. She jumped to her feet and he had to actively supress the groan that was rolling in his throat as his eyes scanned her up and down, and he didn’t miss the slight bruises that dotted her skin in various places where he’d marked her as his own. She’d long since stopped trying to cover herself up. Instead she stood stock still, her eyes focussed on the floor.

With long strides he walked into the room and stopped in front of her, tipping her chin up with his finger so she was looking at him, her eyes wide with trepidation and he gave a smirk as he reached up, brushing her hair off the side of her face and neck, dropping his head as he did so.

“You smell so good, Sweetheart.” He inhaled against her pulse point, lips pressing into her there. He felt the gasp of her breath, the way her skin pricked with chill bumps. He smirked to himself, he’s found her spot. And he filed that away, committing it to memory. 

“I like this…” he practically purred as he toyed with the straps to the bra, a long, thick middle finger outlining the strap against her skin, lips following pursuit.

“You should, you chose it.”

He chuckled, ignoring the snark behind her words. “Like I chose you, huh?”

Like I chose you.

His words echoed around your head, reminding you exactly why you were in this fucking situation. Because he had decided you would be. He wanted you, and just like with everything else in his life that Hugh Ransom Drysdale wanted, he simply took. But what worried you the most about all this was whether or not you would be discarded the same way he no doubt discarded the other possessions he lost interest in.

You took a deep, steadying breath as his hands moved from the straps of your bra, long fingers moving to caress the back of your neck, but there was no grabbing, no force. He was being positively gentle.

And it scared the crap out of you.

“Are you afraid of me?” He asked, his breath hot and wet in your ear as you trembled under the further graze of his fingers against the macramé of your set. 

“You know I am," you swallowed nervously. You weren't new to this, this wasn't your first time, but the way he was being soft, a stark character change to his a-typical stance with you was what had you crawling in fear in the inside. Was it a game? Was it some sort of ploy? Was this his idea of foreplay now before he turned it up and went hard enough to bruise but not hard enough to make you cry?

A flat palm ran down your abdomen, already taught in fear. But not before a thumb grazed along the underside of your breast. Agonizingly slow, his hand, still splayed over you, dips into your matching macrame panties, dipping into your wet folds, thumb lightly pressing against your clit. 

“You’re so wet, considering you’re scared.”

You didn't answer, just swallowed hard, the lump stuck in your throat as it fought against a little whimper. 

His mouth once more latched onto your neck, the kisses gentle as opposed to the bruising ones you had become accustomed to. The fingers in your folds matched his slow nature, teasing you in such a way that when you closed your eyes and focussed your mind elsewhere, you could almost believe you were somewhere with a man you’d given permission to touch you in such away. But when his lips moved to your jawline and you took a deep breath, the heady scent of his cologne hit your senses and your eyes flew open as you were reminded just whose lips and hands were violating you in such away.

You swallowed as Ransom pulled away, his hand gently grasping your chin once more as he issued a simple instruction.

“Strip for me, sweetheart.”

You took a deep breath, swallowing down the bile that had once more risen up your throat as he sat down on the edge of the bed, his legs bent, hands resting on his knees as he watched you the way a lion watched its prey. You undid the clasp on your bra, your eyes remaining locked on his as you slid the straps down your shoulders and dropped the garment to the floor. Your captor took a deep breath, his eyes flicking down your body as you moved to shed the bottom half, wondering what on earth had been the point of wearing it in the first place. But even as you asked yourself that, you already knew the answer. It was a bout power, another way for him to remind you just who you belonged to now. How he could strip you bare in more way than one without even lifting a finger.

But lift a finger he did, curling it in mid-air as he beckoned you towards him. You took careful steps over the floor until you were stood in between his legs. His large hands smoothed up the outside of your thighs, before he pulled you towards him, his nose brushing the skin of your abdomen as he took  a deep breath, fingers curling round your thighs.

And then, in a flash he stood, taking you with him, and before you could so much as utter a squeak or noise of surprise he had you naked, laying across the bed, the sheets cold against your skin, a contrast to the heat emanating from the body against yours. The look in his lust blown eyes was overwhelming. You didn't know what you were in for but as his body, still clothed in the frayed maroon sweater and wool slacks sunk into the mattress between your legs, you felt a chill course through your veins, your skin, again, pricking in bumps all over. His hands, with their thick fingers, trailed long lines up and down your thighs, Ransom's full lips kissing at your sensitive inner skin, a nip or two here and there as he went from your knee, upward. 

He could smell your arousal, see it glistening as it dripped from your core. "Someone's ready," he quipped. He watched you swallow hard, a literal lump in your throat bobbing the skin. Your eyes never left him. "No cumming until I tell you. Do you understand?" When you didn't answer immediately, he swiped his tongue over your wet lips, tasting the honey your body gave him, your back arching away from sheets. "Do you understand?" 

And there it was, your punishment finally arriving from your little moment before over dinner. As you still had your wits about you, you uttered a single word response, in the hope that the more submissive you were, the more accepting you were of your chastisement, the less hard on you he was going to be.

"Yes." 

His mouth expertly devoured every inch of you, from your inner and outer pussy lips to the depths of your walls, tongue fucking you like you he was starving, the lavish holiday meal he'd partaken in not filling enough. His thumb pressed against your engorged nub, causing you to writhe but a firm arm over your abdomen kept you in place. The same thick fingers that traced lines up your thighs, two were now buried deep inside you, his tongue working away any juices that seeped out. As he gave you a third, stretching you more, you felt your walls start to tighten, that burning coil in your belly flare and your hands gripped the sheets tighter. 

Ransom could clearly feel you flutter against his fingers as he stopped his assault and looked up at you.

"What did I say?" 

Your chest heaved, your stomach taught and you fought to obey. When you managed to calm yourself, he began again, almost from square one, slowly, tantalizingly slow. 

The action was torture and you were desperately willing yourself to remain grounded as again your body fought to ride over the edge building inside you. When his mouth was over you completely, tongue deep, thumb pressing again into your clit, you felt the urge to cum. But he pulled away, slowly, his thumb stopping the pressure, his tongue slowly dragging out of you. 

"I said no. This is your punishment for your smart mouth over dinner."

"Please, I need to, I'll... I'll make it worth your while, please just let me." Your voice sounded alien as you spoke, the words leaving your mouth in the desperate hope he’d take pity on you but to no avail. Your attempts at bartering served only to frustrate him, anger him even and he Ransom backed away, roughly pulling you to the edge of the bed before stripping out of his sweater and undershirt, the undeniable outline of his hard cock along his thigh strained against his wool slacks. 

Harsh in his grip, he repositioned himself between your legs, your thighs across his shoulders, ass dangling above the floor as a heavy arm kept you still. His flat tongue, hot and full of your sex was eating away at you while his final throws of resolve ate away at him.

“I’m done playing fucking games.” he growled against your aching cunt “I should have gagged you, stuffed my cock deep into the back of your throat, something, anything to shut you up.”

You barely had time to register his words before once more you were flat out against the mattress, trying to regain your breath and calm yourself down when he backed away, tore open his flies and smirked down at you.

"Oh no, Sweetheart, we're not done yet."  He kneeled beside you, his chest heaving, hair completely out of place, anger and wait, was that pain, flickering in his eyes as he stuffed you with a hard thrust of his length. "Now you’re gonna cum on this dick."

He thrusted hard and within a few slams of his hips against yours, he allowed you the release you were begging for, "that's right, Princess, cum on my cock." 

You wept at the feeling finally freeing you, cries of pleasure spilling from your lips as you squeezed around him. Your chest heaving against his, skin to skin. The fabric of his wool pants hot and itchy against your inner thighs. He was still thrusting but now it had slowed to a roll, slow and calculated. Your muddled mind was buzzing and rapidly trying to sort out if he'd cum inside you or if he wasn't finished. His features were softer, but still filled with purpose and his lips latched onto a naked breast causing your body to react, tingles and flames licking at your core again. His eyes looked up at yours as he caged you in, still buried deep inside you, hips rolling. 

"I said we weren't done," he rasped. His thrusts and rolls, the two very different tactics mixing now, made the swell of his cock inside you abhorrently pleasurable. Try as you might, it was impossible to feel otherwise. 

And Ransom was finding it equally as hard to hold on. His weight was evenly distributed over her, his cock swelling inside her heat. It took all he had not to blow his load the first time he made her cum, hearing the sinful sounds of her orgasm that felt like a volcanic eruption around his hard shaft. But now he could feel her again, tiny little pulses around his already overtly sensitive dick. He was sure his precum was leaking out, wanting to paint the way for the rest of him to follow. He rolled and thrust as his lips nipped at her neck. She moaned loudly, her body exuding lust. He could feel her shake beneath him and to his delight and surprise her eyes were no longer screwed shut and turned away. Instead they were locked on his. The moment those deep hued orbs met his, he felt a hitch in his breath and tightness in his chest that travelled through his belly and into his cock, causing the thick member to throb inside her. Tiny, soft hands gripped at his biceps, her touch a fiery scald against his skin, almost as if it were frost bite. Her touch equally shocking as her stare and he gave a roll of his hips to hide what he felt. A deep, satiated roll of his hips that sent her over the edge. 

"Hugh!" She came around him, harder than her first, crying out his given name. It snapped him from his moment of revelation, driving him insanely frustrated at the word leaving her lips. He slammed into her as she rode out her orgasm, chasing his own. 

You felt the dismissal of his body as he violently pulled free from your walls, spewing his hot seed over your abdomen, drops claiming your tits too. He nearly collapsed, his dick in hand, the other holding himself up against the mattress between your legs. 

He left you there, dirty, degraded and shut the door with a barked instruction for you to clean yourself up. You no longer cried in front of him, either before, during or after. There was no point. He didn’t care about how you felt, but the thing he DID seem to care about was the fact that you still refused to call him Ransom. 

It was the one thing you held on to, the only thing that gave you an inch of control in this entire fucked up situation. You hadn’t missed the look on his face when you’d cried out 'Hugh' in the throes of your last orgasm. Before that moment there had been a softness in his eyes, one that had unnerved you no end, along with something that had looked suspiciously like hope. But when his given name had tumbled involuntarily from your mouth and not the one he preferred that softness had turned to contempt and you didn't miss the undercurrent of disappointment either.

And seeing that, knowing that it pissed him off and dare you say it, upset him so much was your single, albeit feeble, act of rebellion that served as a desperate boost to your ever waning inner strength. *****

Ransom laid in his large, plush bed, hands behind his head as the silk sheets pooled at his waist as morning was in full swing outside. His thoughts strayed to his girl in the basement and he took a deep breath, shifting slightly as he remembered the way her fingers had felt as they’d curled around his biceps, her touch firey but cold. That had been the first time she’d touched him when she wasn’t trying to push him away, it had been involuntary, he knew that, a reaction to the way she’d been feeling, the way he had made her feel. 

A twitch resounded deep in his belly....the way he made her feel.

He realised now that he’d been going about this the entirely wrong way. The force had been necessary to make her comply at first, but last night she hadn’t just complied she’d participated, just what he had wanted all along. And all after he’d shown her a little leeway, brought her dinner, entertained her talk. He understood now that he needed to play a different card from his hand. She responded better to conversation, talking. Ransom hated fucking talking, he was more cerebral, calculating. Conversation means connecting, and connecting was something he wasn’t particularly interested in normally. He needed to lead, to be in charge, but it was clearly what she knew and thrived on, so he had to swallow his apprehension down to play the long game, to get what he wanted. 

Now he understood that, it was going to be so fucking easy. All he had to do was to seemingly show her compassion, a little give so he could take so to speak. He rolled his head, cracking his neck as he remembered what she said about cooking with her mom so he decided that after her stellar performance last night, today she’d earned a bigger reward than a book or some journal. He was going to show her what she could have if she just gave in and admitted what he knew she truly wanted. A large house, a garden, a pool, a hot tub, silk sheets, a large bed, and a man to fuck her every way to heaven and back. He could give her everything that any woman could possibly desire, and then some.

With a twitch of a smirk across his lips, Ransom pulled his naked frame out of bed and slipped into joggers, a soft waffle knit thermal long sleeve pulled over his tousled hair. He felt like company for breakfast and he knew exactly to invite up. 

His bare feet padded with purpose over the plush carpet of his room, down the stairs and onto the first floor, over the hard wood and marble tile of the halls and entry, down the plush carpeted spiral staircase down to the basement.

He reached the door and gently turned the locks, quietly pushing the door open as he turned the knob. It opened quietly and his eyes fell upon the empty bed. He frowned slightly, wondering where she was. Then his eyes found her, sitting curled up with her eyes cast upward, that little tease of a porthole window in her focus. She'd turned her chair around so she could see it more clearly, the throw blanket he'd tossed at her the week before was wrapped around her body. He didn't know the time, but it wasn't early nor was it afternoon. Not that it mattered, neither had anywhere else to be.

"Good morning," he said lowly. He watched as her eyes slowly moved away from the only bit of outside world she'd seen for weeks now.

"Morning," she replied quietly, her eyes locking onto his. "I err, I was just..." she trailed off. "Actually, I don't know what I was doing to be honest."

He stalked up to the chair, kneeling in front her. His hand reached up and cupped her cheek, his thumb running over her cheek bone. "You were such a good girl last night. Took me so well, teased me with that little number you had on. I've thought about you all morning."

Ransom watched her throat bob as she swallowed before licking her lips and biting the inside corner of her lip. Such an innocent gesture that had him half hard straight away.

"I want to give you something. But you have to be good, or it goes away," he started. "Can you be good, Sweetheart?"

She nodded, slightly. "Okay," he smirked. "Now, fix the chair and come up to make us breakfast."

Ransom stood back, allowing you some space to accommodate his request. You slipped the throw blanket from your shoulders and left it in the chair as you rearranged the piece back to its normal state. You met him at the doorway. You didn't miss the way his eyes moved over you, the way they lit up in a way at as he looked at the silken material covering your body. The dark teal silk and lace cami set was just one of a handful of options he'd provided for you. All the same, different colors, all in your size. 

You hesitated for a second, not sure if this was another one of his little games but he simply met your eyes with his own and nodded up the stairs. With tentative, shaky steps you climbed them, sensing him close behind you as for the first time in weeks you left your prison.  You felt anxious, highly on edge and nervous. What was awaiting you? There was the sickening feeling in your stomach of excitement too, you hadn’t seen the outside since Halloween. You paused at the top of the stairs in the hall. The kitchen was directly across from you, the entry to your right. The door to the basement clicked shut and you felt Ransom’s firm chest behind your back as his form invaded your space. He dragged a finger down your arm causing the strap of your top to fall away, placing a soft kiss on your shoulder.

"Straight ahead, Sweetheart."

“Okay,” you whispered before you slowly made your way through to the large, airy kitchen. You stood looking around, taking in the fancy appliances before you turned back to Ransom. "Did you have something in mind?”

"Well..." Ransom leaned in the doorway, watching you as you stood in the middle of the tiled floor "Yesterday wasn't the first time you said you enjoyed to cook so I thought you might like to." His eyes flicked once more down your frame and back up again before he nodded his head towards the rear of the room. “Anything you need is in the pantry and fridge.”

“And I can make anything I want?” You blinked, not quite able to believe what he was allowing you to do. It was fucked up that you were even considering this as a reward but, you’d take it. Boy would you take it, anything to grasp some sense of normality in this day-by-day hell you were living.

“Sure.” Ransom popped a shoulder again and you took a deep breath before you turned and headed to the sink to wash your hands before sorting out your menu and you froze. The outside landscape had stopped you cold. From what you could see of the back garden the property was secluded, not over looked. A lawn extended a fair distance back from the rear of the house, a neat decking area stood to the right which sported a hot tub and a little further down there looked to be a pool of some kind which was covered over for the season. Trees hung over the bottom of the garden lining the high wooden fence, what few leaves they still sported were shades of crimson, gold and brown and the river traced it’s banks as it curved around the side and back of the house, the sun shining off the surface, giving it the impression it was made of sapphires. It was breathtakingly beautiful and you felt your heart shatter, your eyes well and you couldn't help but hold back the urge to weep as your chest contracted painfully. You were so close to the outside, separated only by a pane of glass, yet it had never felt further away.

His voice broke you from your despair and you swallowed back the sob that choked your throat as you flicked your attention to the left, Ransom's reflection drawing closer towards you as he crossed the terracotta tiled floor.

"Everything alright?"

You cleared your throat and gave a quick shake of your head, "Fine."

Again you felt him in your space. His presence consuming. “You sure?”

Sure? No you weren’t sure. Because none of this was fine, in fact it was as far from fine as it could possibly get. In that moment you wanted nothing more than to spin round and hammer your fists into any part of his body you could hit but you knew that it wouldn't get you anywhere, bar back in the basement likely shackled naked to the bed so you instead turned slowly to find yourself caged in by his broad frame so close to yours. You cast your eyes downward, uncomfortable at his searching stare, "Yeah, I’m sure.”

Your tongue flicked nervously over your lips as you continued to avoid his gaze before you cleared your throat “How do you like your eggs? Or would you prefer an omelette? Pancakes even?" The urge to move away from him pulled you away from your idea of a menu. Brunch basics were flooding your brain and you rattled off a few nervously. He may have said you could make whatever you wanted, but right now, you had no clue. Seeing a different space, the outside world and breathing new air had rattled you.

“You choose.” Ransom spoke softly, his hand reaching up to brush your hair off your face before he tipped your chin up so your eyes met his. He looked at you, and you swallowed as for the first time there was something unreadable on his face. His eyes were looking at you in a way they’d never looked at you before, with a softness you’d never have anticipated he could possess.

"Waffles." You suddenly blurted out, desperate to escape his gaze "I err, do you have a waffle iron?”

“No.” He deadpanned.

"Oh," you swallowed "Erm, then in that case French toast...maybe? Is that ok?"

“Sounds delicious.” He said, his hand dropping from your face, “Sure it’ll taste almost as good as you.”

“Great. How about with fresh Chantilly cream and berries if you have them?” You asked, completely ignoring his blatant back handed compliment and you started familiarizing yourself with the space as you glanced around.

“Like I said, whatever you want, Sweetheart.” He shrugged, and with that he stepped back to allow you to move away.

Ransom watched her move around the luxurious kitchen, looking through the pantry and cabinet near the stove taking out cinnamon and vanilla, plucking items like bread, butter, eggs, berries and cream from the fridge. Searching drawers for utensils and measuring cups and spoons. Finding a pan and bowl from a bottom cabinet. Measuring sugar from the glass jar on the counter. He hoped the ingredients were still fresh, he wasn't exactly sure how long they'd been stored. She moved like she belonged there, he thought to himself. So sexy looking in her nightwear, bare feet on the tile, her ass and breasts moving underneath the silk as she stretched and worked. 

"Coffee?" He offered, as he moved from one side to the other. He made sure his exquisite espresso machine was ready as it sat in all its glory on its own portion of the counter like a batista station inside Starbucks. 

He didn't miss the way she watched him move around her, preparing the coffee and grabbing the orange juice from the fridge. He reached over her shoulder, his body brushing against hers as he opened the cupboard where he kept the glasses and mugs. He peered down at her, giving a twitch to the corner of his mouth. A smirk indeed. He noted the way her eyes followed him as he poured the juice, like he was going to poison her or something. 

"It's just juice, Sweetheart," he said nonchalantly and put the juice back in the fridge. He set the breakfast table for them and took a seat in his place, a now hot cup of coffee in his hand, hers sitting on the counter next to her. 

It wasn’t long before she had finished and brought the plates to the table, sitting down timidly in the seat to his right as he gestured to it, stopping her dead as she was about to make her way around to the opposite side.

It was quiet, the only sounds heard for a while were the click and scrape of forks and knives cutting away at the plates of food. Ransom wouldn't admit it out loud, but this was the best French toast he'd ever had in his life. Something about it, the way it was not soggy, but perfectly moist, the edges just crispy. The way the cream made for no syrup and the sweet berries added the final element. He watched her pick at the food for a moment or two as he glanced over at her and saw a small bit of Chantilly in the corner of her mouth.

A long arm reached across the table and automatically she flinched a little, as if she was going to pull away but one firm stare stopped her in her tracks. His thick thumb padded away the white, sweet cream and he brought the same thumb to his lips, sucking the cream away. He lifted his brows in a teasing manner and twitched up his lips, "Delicious. Like I said, almost as good as you, Sweetheart."

"Thanks, I think," she paused. 

"Trust me, I know."

The comment seemingly threw her off her meal and it didn't get past Ransom. She had started picking at it, moving it around the plate like she had done with her dinner the night before. He, on the other hand, was near finished. 

"Are you still not hungry?" He inquired. 

She shook her head, "I just made my portion too big. I overestimated my appetite, I guess."

"Huh," he placated her reply. He knew she was lying but he let it slide, realizing that seeing a new space, the window to the outside was overwhelming. So, he thought he'd sweeten the deal. "I thought maybe you'd like to see the house," he offered, watching as her big eyes locked onto his and she took a deep breath.

"That sounds nice, thank you."

"Good, after breakfast then." He nodded affirmingly, as if it were drying ink in his mind. He picked up his coffee and finished it off, his plate already clear. 

She stood from the table, collecting his plate with her own and headed for the sink. He turned in his chair, stalking her, watching her every move. The way she pitched over the sink, bending her frame over the dishwasher to load it as she cleaned up the kitchen. 

With each bend and snap of her hips, he felt his mouth water more. Her little silk cami riding up as she moved, her breasts falling in and out of a fuller view. When she tucked a stray hair behind her ear, he was on her. He moved behind her, his hands grabbed her hips as she spun around completely startled giving a gasp and a quick yelp. 

"Easy, Sweetheart," he chuckled as she looked at him, her eyes wide.

"Sorry... you, err...you startled me." She whispered as he moved his hands so they gripped at the side of the kitchen counter on either side of her, caging her in with his body.

"Some women would like that," he quipped, arching an eyebrow a little and watched as she swallowed hard and cast her eyes downward. Moving one hand slowly up her arm, over her shoulder and around her neck, he tipped her head back up so those large, Bambi eyes locked onto his.

His hand adjusted, gripping her chin softly as he moved closer still, dipping his head he pressed a firm kiss to her lips. He felt her go rigid, her chest spiking as she drew in a sharp breath, her body shaking slightly in his hold. "Stop fighting it..." he whispered against her mouth before he kissed her again. This time, his tongue traced the line of her upper lip, the feel of it soft and soothing.

You felt his tongue line your lip and you couldn't hold the whimper of fear that passed through you. He’d never kissed you before, not on the mouth anyway. You felt him deepen his kiss, his big hand cupping your face, pulling you into it more. Your mind went elsewhere, imagining anyone but him kissing you like this. You couldn't deny it, this intimate moment, completely lost on both of you for different reasons, felt good and he was good at it. He was damn good at it in fact, and that alone made you want to vomit your breakfast into his throat. At that, you jerked back, panting a little, feeling your lips swollen from the way he'd sucked your bottom one between his, pulling at it just the right way. You hated the feeling between your legs that it had evoked, your body betraying you just like it always did.

In an attempt to stave off the conflicting emotions spiking within you, you focussed on his face, the face you hated and to your surprise he looked dazed. The usual stoic expression that clouded his features had been replaced with something akin to surprise but no sooner had you noticed it, it was gone.

"Clean up and I'll meet you in the study." He told you, his voice a deep almost pained whisper. 

"But I don't..." you started but were quickly cut off. 

"You're a smart girl, figure it out," he smirked and slipped away. 

You were tempted to follow, just so you'd see where he was going but you knew not to defy a command. The feeling of unease seemed to disappear as you slumped your shoulders and instead defeat filled your frame. A trembling hand came to your lips as jittery fingertips touched your swollen skin. Your bottom lip quivered like a ripple in a river and you quickly covered your mouth, turning on a dime as your French toast littered the sink. If the water hadn't been running already, Ransom would no doubt have heard you retching. You rinsed your mouth out to attempt at hiding that vomit taste from your tongue and quickly finished your task of cleaning up the kitchen, salty tears dripping from your chin, mixing with the soapy water. 

When you could stall no longer, you sighed and headed out into the large hallway, taking a quick look around. It was light, airy, the grand staircase swept in and curved round to the next floor and your eyes lingered on the heavy wooden door just beyond it. You hesitated, and then with a dejected sigh realised there was no point even trying to escape. Even if it was unlocked, which you doubted, the threat to your family was just too much for you to risk. Instead, you decided to head down the corridor to your right and found yourself in a large open plan living room of sorts. It was decorated in clean whites and crisp greys with a huge feature stone open fireplace and sported a bar at the back. A brown leather sofa and two matching arm chairs were strategically placed around an expensive looking coffee table but you didn’t bother to look at the rest, this wasn’t the room you needed so you turned back on yourself, walked back into the hall and took the turning to your left.

This time you found yourself walking into what you could only assume was his study-come-den of sorts. It was huge, and once again sported a sofa pushed up against the wall, looking out over the spectacular view of not only the garden but the river too. But that wasn’t what caught your attention, nor was it the walnut desk and laptop that sat upon it. It was the floor to ceiling bookshelf behind it. Your mouth dropped open as you made your way towards it but then you stopped, biting your lip. Were you supposed to be looking at them? But, he had said to meet you in here. And left you to find your own way.  Surely, if he didn’t want you looking around he wouldn’t have left you to it.

Throwing caution to the wind you strode forward, your pace hurried this time and your eyes quickly scanned across some of the books. You couldn’t help but feel shocked. Whilst there was a huge collection of his Grandfather’s books, and a number of other crime novels of types, it was the colourful spines to your right that made your chest heave in delight. The entire Harry Potter collection. With a shaky hand you reached for The Philosopher’s Stone, noting the British version of the title, and opened the front page giving another gasp as you read the publishing details.

This was a first edition.  And from the date you also knew it would be one that contained the misprint errors. And as such, would be worth a small fortune.

“See something you like?” that familiar voice hit your ears and you gave a little shriek, jumping around, clutching the book to your chest to avoid dropping it.

“I’m sorry.” You hastily began to apologise “I was just…erm…”

“It’s ok.” He assured you, crossing towards you. Once more he encroached into your personal space and you felt the blades of your shoulders press into the shelf behind you. “Harry Potter fan?”

“Yeah.” You nodded, “Didn’t think they’d be your type of thing.

“They’re not really.” He shrugged “I’m a collector. Everything on the shelves, well they’re all first or limited editions, so worth a lot.”

“Figures.” You mumbled, turning round and slotting the book back into the space it had come from. As you did you felt him push up behind you, his hands on your hips, the unmistakable feel of his hard on dug into the lower part of your back and you fought to stop yourself shuddering. He was after pay-back for allowing you to leave your prison.

“Did you like the house?” he asked, brushing your hair off your neck.

“Yes.” You answered politely, your voice catching a little as he placed a kiss to the crook of your shoulder.

“You know, it could all be yours sweetheart if you just stopped fighting what you know you want” His kisses continued up your neck as his words whirled around your brain and you were back to where you had been in the kitchen. It felt good. And that disgusted you.

“Did you enjoy making breakfast?” he whispered, his lips by your ear.

“Yeah.” You nodded, your voice barely there.

“Show me how much.” His teeth nipped at your lobe, his hips grinding forward and you swallowed and closed your eyes. You knew what he wanted but as you turned to face him you had an idea. One which would save you being fucked no doubt over the desk or on the hard looking couch.

With a lick of your lips you looked at him and sank slowly to your knees, taking his sweats with you. His hard cock sprang free, slapping his lower abs and you reached out, grasping it in your hand.

“Fuck, yeah baby…” Ransom hissed as you moved your head forwards and took him in your mouth.

You pulled out all the moves, you took him as deep as you could, gagging a little as he wasn’t a small man. You kept your hand firmly on the base of his cock, you hollowed your lips, you swirled your tongue around his shaft and he let out a little groan his hand fisting in your hair as his hips bucked forwards.

“Jesus, I knew your mouth was smart but…” he panted, looking down at you. You raised your eyes to look at his as he bit his lip, his entire face contorted in pleasure…

Pleasure that was ruined by the sound of the doorbell.

 “What the fuck…” Ransom growled out, un-fisting his hand from her hair. “Who the fuck is that?”

He glanced down at her and she looked up at him, wide eyed. She was a mess, swollen lips, wet chin and dressed in nothing but her skimpy tank and shorts. With a frustrated growl, Ransom pulled his dick out of her mouth and grabbed his phone from the table to check the doorbell camera. His face blanched as he saw who it was.

“I don’t fucking believe it…” he mumbled, as she looked up at him.

“Who is it?” She asked, wiping her face, “I’m not exactly dressed for visitors, Hugh.”

Ransom might have been pre-occupied with the familiar face staring at him from his phone, but he still picked up on that 'Hugh' and he glared down at her. “No shit, and because we have a visitor, I'm gonna let that one slide. Get up.” She rose to her feet, blinking a little as he pulled off the thermal he was wearing and tossed it to her. “Put that on. No one gets to see you in silk but me.”

She blinked as she caught it, confusion spreading across her face. “Don’t you just want me to go-“

In a flash, he grabbed her chin between his thumb and finger and she winced, “If I wanted you downstairs I’d have said. So put the damn shirt on, and when he starts asking questions just remember what I said I could do to your family and friends.”

In complete complacency, he watched her slip his thermal over her head, her fingers barely peeking through the sleeves to fix her dishevelled hair. The material hit her mid-thigh and his eyes brows gave a flicker of approval before he walked to the entry and opened the door. "What do you want?"

"Pleasure to see you too, Mr. Drysdale..." that infuriating Southern drawl hit Ransom's ears with all the finesse of a cheese-grater. Benoit Blanc, without so much as a gesture of request, pushed past Ransom as he strode inside, stopping in the tiled entry, looking around.

"Do you have a warrant?" The man of the house snipped in his usual spiteful tone.

Blanc still didn’t reply, and Ransom rolled his eyes following him as he wandered down the hallway, stopping at the open door to the study. "Well, if it isn't the lady of the hour."

Ransom stood behind Blanc, an infuriatingly warning glare sent his girl's way. He noted the way she was sitting on the couch, her legs tucked underneath her, lips still swollen, cheeks flushed, hair tousled. She looked like a sex kitten, and maybe that was the idea. He warned her to sell it after all…

"Excuse me?” Y/N looked up at the two men in the doorway. 

Blanc stepped inside the room, taking a seat on the edge of the same couch where she sat. "I've been looking for you, young lady. A lot of people are looking for you, you know Miss Y/L/N.”

“I errr…” she swallowed a little as she slowly got to her feet, her hands pulling the hem of the thermal down before she folded her arms across her chest, not in a defiant manner, but almost as if she was hugging herself “Did someone send you or…”

“No, nothing like that. You see, I heard you'd gone missing, and I knew you had a work connection to Mr. Drysdale, that, shall we say didn't go quite as planned. So when things started adding up, I thought to ask the man himself."

“Well, congratulations, this is one mystery you actually solved correctly, Sherlock. As you can see she’s here and she’s fine, and we were in the middle of something, so if you don’t mind….” Ransom folded his arms, his eyes moving from hers to Blanc, who was irritatingly completely ignoring him, his gaze focussed intently on the woman who stood in front of him.

Ransom could see him take her in fully, now seeing the situation he may have just walked in on. She looked dishevelled and was missing crucial parts of her clothing, but she had no tears in her eyes, no markings looking to be of abuse or out of the ordinary. None that were visible anyway. Blanc’s gaze then dragged over to Ransom who was bare foot in joggers and still half aroused, which he did nothing to hide as he folded his arms over his naked chest.

Ransom held Blanc’s gaze, his chin jutting out defiantly, the detective only looking away when the lady of the hour spoke, her voice quiet, as she gave a small nod. "He’s right, I’m fine."

"Then why not tell your family where you are?”

“I err…” Y/N’s right hand gripped he cuff of the sweater sleeve tightly, “I just, well, I…”

Ransom could see that she was losing it and he knew he had to intervene. He walked over to her and placed an arm around her, kissing the top of her head lightly, "It's alright, Sweetheart. I know how he can be frustrating. We're doing nothing wrong."

With that he turned his gaze to the man in front of him, not even trying to hide the sneer of contempt that was crossing his face “I have neither the time nor the crayons to explain this to you Blanc.”

“Well, maybe Miss Y/L/N has some crayons hidden up her sleeve so to speak.” Blanc smiled innocently and Ransom felt the anger floor his system.

“You’re starting to really piss me off.” he snarled, “You barge into my home, without so much of an explanation…” his rant was stopped dead as Y/N placed her hand on his chest, palm splaying over his bare skin. Ransom swallowed at the touch of her fingers against his skin, firey hot just as they had been last night when they curled around his arms.

"Hey," she spoke and he looked down to see her giving him a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes but one that should be enough to convince the dumbass detective who was watching them. "It's okay." She then turned to Blanc as he held his hand up, palm open, speaking to Ransom.

“I’m not trying to be frustrating Mr. Drysdale, I'm merely enquiring after Miss Y/L/N’s wellbeing."

"I'm not here under duress if that's what you're thinking.” She spoke, clearing her throat. “Hu… Ra, we have had to keep our relationship private,” she stumbled on the right identity, settling for 'we'. Clearing her throat again and settling her nerves, she continued, "Mr. Blanc, as you well know, I'm reporter and his background has been less than stellar as of late. It no doubt would not look good for either of us if it had come to light. My reputation as a journalist would have been in tatters.”

“Well, lies and deception certainly go hand in hand when it comes to Mr. Drysdale...”

Ransom rolled his eyes dramatically “Change the record, Blanc. The static is a little loud.”

Blanc completely ignored him, his attention still on her. “So you caused all this worry, because of some…” he waved his hand in front of him, gesturing between the pair of them. 

Ransom’s arm curled round her even tighter, his fingers pressing into her hip and he felt her stiffen a little before she relaxed into his side and gave a small nod.

"Like I said, it wouldn’t have gone down well with my family, or my career.”

“Ahh, yes, your job, which you quit.” Blanc looked at her. “Yes, I spoke to your boss.” He answered her unasked question. “Why would you be so worried for your reputation as a journalist, if you’re not actually a journalist anymore?”

At that she took a deep breath “I quit the paper because my boss is an asshole. His antics on Halloween were a step too far. But that doesn’t mean I have no intentions of working ever again. I'm currently taking a long overdue sabbatical.”

Blanc studied her again, almost as if he was weighing something up and she once more began to fidget and Ransom decided he’d had enough.

"Okay, I’m done being polite,” Ransom moved his arm from around his girl and stepped towards Blanc, placing himself directly between the detective and the woman. “You've interrupted out little post brunch love affair and I’m horny, so…do you need help finding the door, or can your super sleuth skills figure the way back out of it on their own?”

“Miss Y/L/N?” Blanc spoke, his eyes locked onto Ransom’s. Ransom felt the nerve in his jaw twitch, the fact that Blanc wasn’t scared of him irritated him no end.

There was a pause and then her voice came clearly from behind him as she spoke, “If you'd be so kind as to not tell my family where I am, I'd appreciate it. I prefer this time without their unwanted opinion.”  Her voice was steady, measured almost. “You can tell them that you've found me, alive and well."

Blanc knew he wasn't welcome, he had proof of life and no reason to suspect foul play. He stood, his long wool coat falling into place around him. "Well, then I guess my work is done." He brushed passed Ransom and gave a quick quip, "I'm warning you...." 

"What was that?" His girl wondered. She'd heard him. 

"Have a nice day," Blanc nodded curtly “I’ll see myself out.”  

You watched the back of the detective as he left the large living room, Ransom following him to the doorway where he stood, arms folded, watching. The sound of Blanc’s feet on the tiles of the hallway grew fainter and fainter until eventually they stopped completely.  The latch of the door sounded and you fell to the closest thing you could sit on. Your while body shook with a chill that crept into your bones but not from the cold. No, you were sick to your stomach in fear and worry. The bile of deceit rose to your throat and had you not already spewed up your breakfast it would have most likely decorated the carpet of the study.  Instead, you swallowed down the sour bile as Drysdale approached you and you glanced up at him, blinking whilst he studied you for a second, his face passive. As you held his gaze, something akin to amusement flashed in his cold blue eyes and a twisted smirk spread across his face.

“Your acting skills certainly improved there along the way, at the end you were almost award worthy.” He drawled, his hands falling to his hips. “Even Meryl Streep would be jealous.”

"Fuck you," your voice quivered.

He arched an eyebrow, an amused expression on his features “Already played that game Sweetheart, and carry on back-chatting me and you’ll be back in the basement.”

"Wh... What?"

"You pulled through in the end there. It was a rough start, but you convinced Colonel Sanders that you were here on your own."

“Colonel Sanders?” You blinked, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Blanc. CSI KFC.” He replied. You were none the wiser as to what he was going on about and it must have shown on your face as he simply rolled his eyes. "Never mind...the point is, sweetheart, I'm in a good mood. And seeing as you behaved...”

"What?" Your voice was quiet, meek.

"If you shut that pretty little mouth for longer than a second, I'll explain." His tone was measured but you didn’t miss the underlying threat.

“Sorry.” Your eyes fell to the floor, your left hand worrying at your right.

“Eyes on me.” He barked and your head whipped up automatically and he smirked at you as you took a deep breath. “As I was saying, seeing as you were such a good girl, I thought I’d reward you, let you stay up here with me for the day.”

The notion shocked you. Your mouth went dry and you couldn't make sense of it. But then, the more you thought about it, the more his audacity irked you. He’d imprisoned you, used you, abused you…and now he was implying that staying in his company was a fucking reward.

“Wow, thanks…” you blurted before you could stop yourself, sarcasm lacing your tone. As soon as the words had slipped from your mouth you felt panic flood your system as he stepped towards you and reached out, his right hand curling around your throat.

"Don’t push me sweetheart.” His voice was low as his fingers squeezed the column of your neck, a reminder of how easily he could simply end it all whenever he chose. 

And just like that the softness that he had displayed with you earlier that morning was gone, and the shutters were back up. You swallowed hard, feeling the strain of your throat against his touch, his eyes now dark and full of that familiar angry lust and desire that chilled you from head to toe. Blanc had riled him, gotten underneath his skin, that was easy to see while your mouthy comments fuelled that ire. And as such, he needed an escape, an outlet.

And he was going to get it from you.

“Now on your knees and finish what you started."

**** Part 4

[katnissmellarkkk]

General #7

Hiiii! Okay, well I bet you thought I forgot about this! Or, more than likely, you forgot you even requested this back in Decemeber. But never fear, my child. I remembered and have been thinking of this fic and what to write for months. 

And so I’m so sorry, I’m a total perfectionist and I started and discared like 3 ideas for this before deciding on this oneshot sooo if this sucks, I’m at least comforted by the fact that I accomplished something in writing this itself? That sentence made zero sense but... I’m tired 🤷🏼���♀️😅.

Prompt : General # 7 :

“Is that blood?” 

“Yes but that doesn’t matter right now, what does matter is-” 

“You are literally bleeding.”

Anyways, thank you for the prompt and here we go! 

Whispers Of Light

I don't know exactly how I got roped into this. How exactly Delly Cartwright, Peeta's best friend—and alright, my friend now too—managed to convince me to help her and Leevy and about three dozen other members of the community with sorting boxes.

Sorting boxes. Organizing contents. Decorating with "found treasures".

The type of activities Prim loved doing with our mother. The type of activities I refused to do after my father died, to punish my mother for her depression.

The type of activities I now kick myself for walking out on, that I'll never be able to take back. I'll never be able to get those moments back with my sister. I'll never know what those hours between her and our mother entailed, because I chose to exclude myself, just so I could hold onto my petty anger for something that was out of all our control.

Maybe that's why I agreed to help Delly and the others with sorting through boxes upon boxes of debrief, of the items that scarcely survived Twelve's bombing almost two years ago. Maybe I only agreed out of guilt, both for never doing this type of endeavor with my sister and for being the direct cause of the bombing itself.

But whatever my reasons were, I agreed to help nonetheless, and I always follow through my promises. If there was one part of me forged in the war, if only one minor aspect of me was amplified in the smoke and haze and blood of revolution, it was the importance of keeping your promises, against all odds.

The dire consequences of a broken promise has long lasting aftereffects, beyond anything either Haymitch or I wish to dwell on.

"Katniss!" Delly calls, holding up an old, half-ripped paper book that is completely void of a front cover. "Look! I think this book is from the old Apothecary Shop!"

I squint at the dusty, decimated item, not entirely convinced. "I don't think so?" I murmur, unable to even decipher the words on the now melted, conjoined pages. "I'm pretty sure my mother kept the only apothecary book in her family?"

Kanon Bagley turns to inspect the battered item in his girlfriend's hands as well. "I don't think this is a medicinal plant book, Dells," he says sheepishly, a small smirk playing on his lips.

She gives him an incredulous look. "What do you mean medicinal?"

I peer up at him too, not comprehending his meaning any more than Delly. "What kind of plants do you think are in here?" I ask, taking the nearly destroyed object myself and flipping through the worn pages again, seeing odd herbs that neither of my parents ever mentioned or had on hand. "These don't look like the poisonous ones my father told me about?"

Kanon bites back a laugh now and I can't help feeling a little perturbed. As kind and soft-spoken as he usually is, I'm foreign to the feeling of him laughing at me. "What?" Delly snaps at him before I even can.

He still chuckles though, in spite of both our nasty glares. "You guys, it's a book of plants that'll get you high."

It takes a full minute for the meaning to dawn on me. Long enough that Leevy and a couple guys I used to go to school with come over to inspect the book as well. Long enough that they confirm Kanon's assessment just as I realize we're talking about plants that'll make you feel akin to how the morphling made me feel while confined for I killing Coin.

While everyone else snickers—and Delly full on chortles—I pass the book back to Kanon, sliding out of the crowd and moving towards a brand new box of savaged items.

It's not that the mention of plant-based drugs is a trigger for me. It's not something I ever truly gave any thought to before, to be honest. My father likely knew of them but it's not like he was about to bestow that kind of knowledge on his eleven-year-old and my mother perhaps felt it was inappropriate to mention.

No, it wasn't the subject in itself that hit a sore spot for me. But like so many times before, it's where the subject led my mind. It's where the topic took me back to.

Snow's Execution Day. The day I chose to kill President Coin instead. Being thrown back into my old tribute room. Getting high on the morphling.

Trying to forget all that I'd lost. Trying to forget my little sister becoming a human torch before my very eyes. My district engulfed in flames. The ambiguous loss of my best friend.

The connection between me and Peeta that I believed then would be permanently severed. That I believed then to be irreparable.

I suppose I believed then I was irreparable too.

And I miss Peeta suddenly, even more than I already did. Because he always knows what to say when my thoughts turn dark, when I'm suddenly triggered out of the happy, every day events and suctioned backwards to a war torn bird with her wings clipped.

But he's not here to talk me down or scare away the ghosts haunting my mind. He's not here to comfort me or even shoot me a supportive glance. No, he's at his very busy business today.

Peeta's bakery—the Mellark Bakery—has only proven to withstand the test of time these past few months. Since someone accidentally burned down the place, with nothing more than a croissant and a fancy Capitol toaster, the rebuilt bakery has been nothing but a success.

And also extremely time-consuming, I grumble internally, as I begin to pull out stuffed toys that once belonged to dead children.

"If any of those are still intact, we can donate them to the community home," Leaf John says as he opens the box across from me.

"And what exactly are we supposed to be use as decorations from these boxes?" I murmur, peering into another cardboard container, full of half-charred papers and cloths.

The general idea of today, as Delly had pitched it to me last week, was to help the community of Twelve finally sort through these boxes, donate what we could to those in need and decorate the new Justice Building with the leftover contents inside.

Somehow though I can't imagine pinning up terrible drawings of plants that'll inebriate you or headless teddy bears is going to bode well with the district.

Delly rolls her eyes in my direction—a whole new kind of response that I never thought I'd be receiving from the girl who skipped through the town square until she was fourteen years old—before nodding towards boxes on top of the ladder. "We're decorating the Justice Building with the surviving photos from those boxes, Katniss."

"Oh." Then why am I sorting these grimy, dirt-covered playthings? Why didn't anyone give me more clear instructions on today?

And why has it taken almost two years for Twelve to get a group of people together to organize the surviving items from the bombing?

I have no idea how Peeta's managed to get two bakeries built in the time it's taken for thirty-eight of us to come to the Justice Building and look through fifty cardboard boxes. And if I'm being honest, I have no idea why I'm even still here helping. I'm clearly not contributing much to the event. There's definitely more than enough volunteers without me.

And, of course, I could be at the bakery right now. Without a doubt, I'd be of more service there than I am here, digging through dusty knickknacks. I could be helping Peeta and Thom and the other part-time employees, exerting more knowledge and authority than I have here.

After all, Peeta did say the bakery was partially mine. In his mind, at least.

The ulterior motive of getting small, fleeting moments with my boyfriend, of basking in the feeling of safety with him beside me, of the occasional stolen kiss or hand squeeze when no one is looking, runs through the back of my mind.

And sways my decision immensely.

I open my mouth to tell Delly and the others that I'm about to head out, that they clearly have it covered here and I'm just in the way, when at the worst possible second, Leevy kindly murmurs, "Katniss, do you mind starting on the box on the ladder? Seeing if any of the pictures are in decent enough shape?"

I hesitate for a long moment, realizing immediately my predicament. It'd be rude to leave right after someone just essentially assigned me a task. I did agree to be here today, to help out with this tedious project. Leaving right now would only come off as rude and inconsiderate.

This is the reason I never did enjoy group assignments in school. The longer I'm here, the more I'm rediscovering this fact about myself. The division of the workload, the bore of the standing around, not knowing if you're doing the right or wrong thing, the lack of total control.

But I still nod after waiting a beat too long and agree with the nicest flare in my tone I can manage.

I'll go through the one box at the top of the ladder and then subtly make my exit afterwards. The image I unintentionally conjured up of Peeta and the bakery is still pulling at me, making me anxious to get back to him, to see him again even though we were together only three hours ago.

Since we officially became a couple a few months back—though Haymitch scoffs at that notion, claiming we've been together since Peeta first started sleeping over in my bed—I've found myself growing far more clingy to him than I ever could have anticipated. I hate when he leaves for the bakery in the mornings now, even as I still revel in the solace I find inside the woods. I look forward to his return home every night. More than even look forward to it, I'm usually at the bakery around the closing hours, helping him clean and inventory, asking him when he's coming home. Maybe looking somewhat unconsciously flirtatious as I say it.

I grab the box sitting on the ladder's top stair and pull it open, easily maintaining my balance one rung down, the same way I maintain my balance on a tree branch while hunting.

Inside pours out a plethora of photographs, mostly of Twelve's now past citizens. Near the top of the pile I see images of Greasy Sae's daughter, Dolly. The mother of her granddaughter. The daughter who died of croup a few years before the war.

Those photos must belong to Sae, I realize. Which means more of her items are probably scattered throughout the boxes here. And despite the fact that I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that she'll tell me not of be impractical, that if she's made it two years without these things she doesn't need them now, I still make a mental note to return her lost items. If nothing else, I make a mental promise to give back to her the photos of her daughter.

I know better than anyone what kind of comfort photographs of the deceased can provide.

As if in line with my thoughts, as if I alone manifested it somehow, the next image that catches my eye is one I entirely do not anticipate.

It's a shiny photo, on the kind of glossy paper my family could never afford. In the image is a blonde man with broad shoulders and a tall build. Wrapped in his embrace stands a petite girl, with long blonde curls and mascara accentuating her already long lashes. The couple both have eyes that match the color of the sky and are dressed up in some of the nicest clothes in all of Twelve. A white dress with lace. A gray suit with a black vest. The pretty girl wears jewelry and lipstick and there's a familiar glint in the male's eyes and I find myself mesmerized.

And I can't pretend I don't see my boyfriend in both of their faces. I can't pretend Peeta isn't the spitting image of both his parents.

He has his mother's smile, I realize with startling assurance. I never saw the witch smile personally, at any point in my life so I suppose I wouldn't know where he got his charming, sweet grin from.

The mannerism looks so out of place on his mother. The kind smile Peeta has, the one that could light up a blackened sky, doesn't bode with the woman in the picture, even on her wedding day. The charming smile doesn't fit with what I know of the woman's character. With what little about her Peeta chooses to share.

But I'm even more surprised to find how much Peeta has come to resemble his father. How much Peeta has grown to favor the now deceased man.

The last time I saw the baker—the original baker, that is. Haidon Mellark—before the Quarter Quell, I resented the fact that Peeta wasn't as tall or as broad as his father. I privately believed if he'd inherited those traits, he'd be even more likely to win the games again and I could worry about him less.

Peeta was always taller than me and was always remarkably strong, after working in the bakery since childhood. But his father was a whole different level. Haidon Mellark, I'd forgotten until now, had a body that could only rival my own father's.

And as it turns out, Peeta did inherit Haidon's physicality. He just also happened to be a late bloomer. Like his mother, I imagine, staring at her tiny frame in the picture.

The change in Peeta's form occurred so gradually I barely even noticed until a couple months ago, when I woke up with my head against his heart and abruptly realized just how broad he had become. Until I couldn't even reach to kiss his jaw on my tip toe. Until he started laughing at me and had to lift me up in order to properly embrace the way I like.

"Katniss?" I hear Delly beckon, trying to bring me back to reality. Trying and failing, that is. I hear her but only in a vague, distant sense. My mind is still stuck on the image in my grasp. Still stuck on the novelty that I managed to find a remembrance for the boy who still at times questions if his memory is full of lies.

"I still cry about my family and somedays I can't even remember their faces."

I never even considered the possibility of finding a token of Peeta's departed family here. It never occurred to me, the potential finds in this box at my fingertips, that I could take home to my boyfriend. I never imagined finding him something to hold onto when the inevitable dark day came again like a storm cloud, full of thunder.

I'm so entranced what this could mean for Peeta, so lost in my own little world, that I'm barely even hanging onto the ladder. I'm definitely not as steady as I should be, standing near the top rung.

And I'm definitely not steady enough to hang on when Delly gives it a rough shake, trying to catch my attention.

/

The boxes break my fall. Sort of. Kanon and Leaf John had taken the liberty of placing the empty cardboard, already looked through and emptied, beneath the ladder.

Falling headfirst into a large, void box is better than falling plainly onto the filthy, concrete tile floor. But not ideal. Not as helpful as falling into a box of surviving clothes or toys would have been.

Delly apologized profusely for shaking the ladder. She'd even begun to cry when she noticed the blood seeping from my forehead.

Thankfully Kanon was there, as I didn't have the energy to console her much. I don't even know how I managed to cut my head at all, but it stung a fair amount and it provided me the excuse I wanted minutes prior, to escape the group project and head for the bakery.

Even after the fall, my mind still was cemented on the newfound treasure. My first instinct was still to show this memento to Peeta as soon as possible.

Kanon though, like a good friend, insisted on walking me home, despite my many protests that it was unnecessary, that I was just fine, that I could walk home blind if I had to. He insisted, foiling my intention to walk directly to the bakery and not wait for Peeta's return home, which still remained hours away.

Kanon was surprisingly stubborn when he felt strongly about something and I chose to relent, to give in and allow him to accompany me back to what used to be Victor's Village—where he now resided with Delly, inside Peeta's old home—without much fight.

Fighting for your independence and autonomy doesn't exactly present you as rational when there's a bloody gash in your forehead.

"Doesn't that hurt?" Kanon asks as we make out way up my porch.

I look up, maybe a little startled, from Mr. and Mrs. Mellark's wedding photo. "My head?"

"Yeah," he says carefully, looking at the blood like it's a mutt in an arena.

I shrug, doing my best not to indicate how dizzy I actually feel. Either from the fall or the blood still dripping out despite my attempt to plug the wound up with old cotton rags someone sorted into the trash box. "I've had worse."

He chuckles, a little sardonically. "Yeah, so have I."

I thank him for walking me home—for it was as inconvenient as it was sweet—and close the door slowly behind me, before leaning my ear against the wooden frame, waiting. Waiting for him to climb the steps down from my porch and make his way back to the Justice Building. Waiting for him to be far enough out of sight that I can sneak back out without him also trying to accompany me to the bakery.

It's not that I don't appreciate Kanon and Delly and all of my other friends' concerns. It's the fact that I wish to bestow a likely loaded item upon my boyfriend and I really don't need an audience to do it.

It's not the easiest feat, to slyly time it so Kanon won't hear me opening and shutting my front door again. And it's probably not my smartest plan, to walk alone along the rocky cobblestones and the uneven concrete, with a less than level head and body.

But I make it to the back door of the bakery still, just as I knew I would. It takes three times as long, but I make it there nonetheless.

Still clutching the photograph of his parents between my fingers too. Still with the same primary focus on my mind. To give him a token of remembrance, a token of the imperfect family he lost so tragically, that he still greatly missed, even when he can't say their names. Even when he can't conjure up their faces.

"You don't remember your family?"

"Sometimes I do... I'm not so sure other days. My memory isn't exactly top notch, if you know what I mean."

I push open the heavy-weighted back door, using all the energy my body can muster up. To my relief, Thom is already in the back room, sweeping flour off the floor.

"Hi, boss," he greets slyly as I walk in, barely glancing up at me. I shoot him an over-the-top eye roll, though I can't help smirking myself at the stupid nickname, when he beckons Peeta. "Hey, your girl is here!" He yells loudly. Too loudly to be packed with customers at the counter.

I take that to mean the daily rush has come and gone. Which would be very convenient, as it means I can present Peeta with my finding that much faster, without having to worry about his business—or our business, as he teasingly calls it—being held up.

I hear the sound of my boyfriend's quiet laughter from the front. The sound that I akin to my father's singing or my sister's squeal of delight. The last sound still alive that can make my heart do a flip.

But it dies out the second he peaks his blonde head into the back room. The moment his baby blues, the same color as both his parents', meet my silver ones and then trail upwards.

Almost as if remembering the gash in my head, I reach to my forehead, to ensure the makeshift cloth bandage is still in place.

"Katniss?" Peeta says, his eyes looking far more nervous than I anticipated. Which I can only take to mean the red liquid has seeped through the plain fabric. "Is that blood?"

I don't want him to focus too heavily on that fact though. Like I told Kanon, I've had much worse injuries in my life. Me and Peeta both have.

Just look at his prosthetic leg.

"Yes," I reply easily, before moving closer to him, pushing the glossy photograph towards him. "But that doesn't matter right now. What does matter is-"

"You are literally bleeding."

I sigh, feeling slightly perturbed now. "Peeta, look," I insist, thrusting the image of his parents towards him, waiting for it to take anchor.

And it does. It takes a beat longer than I expect, but it happens nonetheless. I watch silently as the image captives him, as the shiny photograph takes him back to a time when this exact location was the only home he'd ever known and this business was run by the two people inside the picture.

He touches the photo, as if to test it's realism, before looking up at me in disbelief. "Where did you find this?"

"The Justice Building today. Inside the boxes, with all the things lost in the bombing."

There's a long pause as Peeta process this. The silence makes me antsy, finding myself abruptly uncertain of what could be going through his mind.

Finally, he whispers softly, "I never thought I'd see this picture again."

And the awed, tender smile that spreads across his face swiftly encompasses me in its warmth.

And I suddenly don't even feel the gash in my head anymore.

/

Read The Rest On AO3

[lord-of-christmas-lights]

I could post regular Narnia headcanons...

Or I could post the continuation of this post and go into depth about how Eustace and Caspian are affected by deity Narnia. Welcome back to Inhuman Narnia 101 and it turned out just as long as the first one so buckle up.

Check out this post by @dorianviolet for another awesome version of Inhuman AU Caspian

Warnings for slight body horror mentions including blood magic stuff, slight religious themes and theological discussion towards the end.

Before anything: This AU directly contradicts canon a lot. I don't care, that's why it's called an AU. Some of it is deliberate, some of it is accidental. I haven't read the books in a number of years, so this is all based on the movies and general information I've picked up from fanfic and tumblr. Discussion on this post is welcomed, criticism and arguments are not. Thank you.

First off, here is the link to an exploration of Dragoning, the Eustace-centric fic I wrote about this. I refer to it repeatedly in this post so if you want the full thing, there it is.

Second, let's get into this. So in my last post, I talked a lot about Narnia, her general existence in this AU, and her motivations as a character. She wants the people in her world to be a part of her, and no one else. Some of this is a conscious choice, and some of it isn't. Eustace's changes throughout his time in VOTDT are definitely not purposeful. It was his greed that drove him to the treasure, it was his own "curse" in becoming a dragon. That was not Narnia reaching out to him and purposefully trying to mold him to her world. As such, he takes on more of an observing role.

Eustace doesn't ever actually directly address his cousins on the subject of their inhumanity, in this fic or in any other I write. He simply sees it, notes it happening, and moves on. Even in the sections in my fics where the subject of inhumanity in general is brought up between Eustace and one of his cousins, it's always about Caspian, the greater Narnian world, or himself.

"Eustace asks why, and Lucy answers. Narnia changes people, she says. It happens to everyone, but the closer you are to her Heart, the greater it is. I don't know where Dragons are. Perhaps closer than we realized. It's exhilarating, isn't it? Aslan will return us to normal though, at the end of our journey." - AEOD

I don't know why, but I don't like the idea of Eustace trying to directly address the Pevensie brand of inhumanity. That line above takes place after his UnDragoning, after the way he sees things has changed, and I see it as him asking what exactly has changed, you know, why are Dragons different than boys?

That brings me to how Eustace himself changes. Now, if he hadn't gone and turned into a Dragon, I imagine Narnia wouldn't have taken much note of him. He's a random human, stuck-up, not at all in line for ruling her lands, and just kind of exists without much else going on. She still would have affected him a little, as she does to all humans in her world but it would have been almost entirely spiritual with no physical changes. And then we got the greatest fuck around and find out scene ever. He becomes a Dragon.

I love dragons, always have, I have a very deep spiritual connection to these creatures, and as such, I have gone all out on worldbuilding for Narnian Dragons. Again, the quote from AEOD, "...the closer you are to her Heart, the greater it is. I don't know where Dragons are. Perhaps closer than we realized." In the Inhuman AU, Dragons were the first creatures Narnia (the deity) and Aslan made when they created Narnia (the world). They just really liked the dragon shape from other worlds and thought, "Hey wouldn't it be cool if our world was populated by these big fire-breathing lizards?" Now I don't actually remember how often Dragons are mentioned and/or featured in the books so I'm going with my idea that Dragons are a somewhat rare but not extinct species. They have to be created through magical means, often through physical transformation of people or objects, though there are a few known cases of natural-born Narnian Dragons. Eustace's creation was the curse on the treasure, though I don't see his Dragoning as a curse itself. As in, the curse isn't in the being a Dragon, it's in how the Dragon was created. So, Eustace experiences this accidental change into a creature that's closer to Narnia's Heart than pretty much any other being in Narnia. They were her first creations, forged from the fire in the Stars, and they are the closest to her magic. And that gets her attention.

Now, if you went and read AEOD, you'll have noticed that one of Eustace's biggest changes (aside from the obvious physical ones) is his vision. This is just a natural thing for Dragons, they are far more in tune with magic and the earth and everything than everyone else, but Narnia's special interest in him definitely amplifies the hell out of his magic sense.

"The people here say dragons see the oddest of things, and he has to assume it's a hallucination....He refuses to give into its whims, reminds himself it's just his imagination. Until Reepicheep comments on it." - AEOD. Following this quote, Reepicheep mentions to Lucy that her inhumanity is returning faster than Edmund's and Eustace has a total panic attack at the idea that what he's seeing is real. He sees what everyone else does, Lucy's stained fingers and Edmund's ability to manipulate words, but he also notices stuff no one else does like the stars in Edmund's throat and the echoes that follow Lucy's words. This is further cemented after his UnDragoning, where the extra stuff he perceived has vanished. Now the general idea in this AU is that the closer to Narnia's Heart you are, the more you know and perceive. Everyone can see some of the more obvious inhuman aspects of the Pevensies, but there are things that only Dragons, druids, Stars, and some other magic folk really close to Narnia's Heart see. I'm not going to get into an exact chart of what certain characters can and cannot see because that can change over time and such and I'd rather leave it mostly up to personal interpretation on what other characters do and do not perceive about the Pevensies and other such inhuman characters.

(Side note—I had to pause in the writing of this post here to go to my second meeting for an autism assessment and I think if I just showed the doctor my notes app and the inhuman/dark fantasy narnia tag on my blog, I'd get the diagnosis instantly lol) So anyways, Narnia senses Eustace becoming a Dragon and is like "Ooohoo what's this?" and starts sort of digging into him in the same way she does to her Kings and Queens. This triggers his already enhanced perception of Narnia (the world) to get even stronger, and this is when he starts seeing stuff like people's souls, Caspian's second heart (more on that soon), and looking at Lucy/Edmund/Lilliandil becomes almost painful because Narnia's magic is so bright in them. Aslan then UnDragons him, which Narnia really doesn't like btw, and Eustace is back to being a fairly average human.

This is where stuff established in AEOD ends.

Now I have so many ideas and half finished fanfics written out in my notes app about Eustace, UnDragoning, and inhumanity and it would be impossible to cover them all here, so I'm just going to go with the highlights. One of my favorite ones is the idea that after Eustace's UnDragoning, he still feels very connected to being a dragon. He's had this taste of pure inhumanity, and something like that doesn't just leave a person. There's a fic I read once long before I was fully invested in this fandom about Eustace and draconity that I will never stop thinking about and was actually the reason I started considering Eustace and Narnian Dragons in this AU. One of the really important things to note is that once a Dragon is created, they can never be uncreated. They can be UnDragoned, where their physical form is returned to whatever it was before their Dragoning (a rock, a talisman, a faun, etc) but their soul has changed on a fundamental level to that of a Dragon. Now for Eustace in my Inhuman AU, this manifests spiritually as a deep longing to return to being a Dragon. Physically, he experiences fun side effects like increased heat tolerance, nails that grow faster than normal, and because Narnia likes to meddle, a single ridge of scales along his spine. In some versions of my drafts, he stays at the end of VOTDT and experiences a slow Dragoning because Narnia's influence on him is that strong, other versions he stays but never quite returns to the Dragon he was before, and in yet other versions, he returns to England and loses that connection enough that physically, he will never be a Dragon again. As I said, Narnia is fascinated by him, she's never really had a human Dragon before, but he is still just a random guy who happens to be related to the Pevensies and as such, she doesn't invest as much time or magic into his inhumanity.

So that's Eustace. This is already such a long post but I promised to talk about both him and Caspian so here we go.

Now, in my last post I talked a bit about how Narnia (the deity) affects the other humans in Narnia (the world) to an extent, but it's nowhere near the amount she does to her Kings and Queens, and also this diminishes more and more the farther you get from Narnia (the country). Telmar is fairly close to Narnia (the country) but as we see in PC, a lot of Narnia's magic and spirit has been diminished by the time Caspian is born. Up until the awakening of the land during the battle, Caspian is essentially 100% human. However, this changes very quickly.

It's hard to pinpoint the exact moment Caspian becomes a King of Narnia. Is it when he refuses to kill Miraz? Is it when Aslan tells him he's one? Is it during his actual coronation? Yes, yes, and yes. I try not to pin it down to an exact moment. By the end of PC though, he's definitely noticing some changes in himself. I have an unpublished part 2 to an exploration of Inhumanity (my only other actually posted fic on this stuff) that I swear I will clean up and get posted soon that goes into further detail on the changes he's noticing at the end of AEOI. Some of the big ones include a second golden heart, seeing some of the life magic in the world around him, and a golden glow on his palms. He also slowly develops the ability to heal, though it's not always consistent. Magic takes practice, lots and lots of practice. In pt 2, the glow on his palms has gotten so bright and also spread around his head like a halo, and Lucy shows him how to conceal it so he's not impossible to look at, but because of Magic™ there's still a dusting of golden powdery stuff across his skin. His blood turns golden because Ben Barnes + golden blood is such pretty imagery, and like the others, it gets sucked down and absorbed into Narnia's Heart when he bleeds in battle. Also when I say he's got a second heart I mean he's got a second fucking heart. Ribcage shift and all. (His appearance doesn't actually change, it's more like a pocket dimension thing going on inside him, but he sure as hell can feel it happening). Having Narnia as a patron goddess just means you have to put up with a second puberty sometimes lol.

Anyways, there's a line in AEOI that I feel explains this stuff really well. "He cannot truly protect the land without becoming a part of it himself." Narnia changes her Kings and Queens because she wants them to be a part of her. Aslan doesn't really see these changes as necessary (in canon, a world without deity Narnia, they don't happen), and if the storyline we pick is the one that's the constant cycle of humanity and inhumanity, it's sort of a push and pull between them. Aslan wants the Pevensies, and by proxy anyone else who rules Narnia or experiences these changes, to keep their humanity, to stay as they were Created by him. Narnia, however, wants them to be as much a part of her as she is of them. It's very clear in both the books and the movies that Narnia (the world) is where these characters belong. In the end, they all come home to her (yes, Susan too because fuck Mr. Clive Staples Lewis). Caspian being anything less than fully inhuman is something she cannot handle. She is constantly having to recreate the Pevensies, reestablish her hold on them, only to have them return to England and become mostly human again. Caspian cannot be taken away from her, he is in this world by birth and she is going to do everything she can to shape him into the ruler he needs to be.

Once again, I would like to state that Aslan and Narnia are not opposing sides of good and evil. Gods cannot be defined by human standards, and to think either Narnia or Aslan completely in the right or wrong in this AU would be, well, an interesting standpoint, but really not the one I'm going for here. I'm not going to say it's a misinterpretation, I am very open to hearing people's thoughts on this AU, and everyone's going to see things differently. Just, please reread what I've written about them before you start making that argument.

Anyways, that wraps this post up because I have spent the better part of the past 6 hours writing this. I spent way more time on Eustace than I intended but it's just so fascinating to think about inhumanity from his perspective considering he's the only one in canon that actually was (briefly) inhuman. Again, if you got this far, congratulations! If you use any of my ideas mentioned here, please tag me, I am so starved for inhuman Narnia content lol.

[ex-vengeancedemon]

WIP Wednesday

Snippet from my BtVS The Mummy (1999) WIP! Had a weird dream about this and so of course had to start writing it. Probably my weirdest Buffy fic to date lol.

This was not how Buffy wanted to be spending her night, locked away at the museum after hours with no one but her Watcher and his books for company. Well, him and the many, many corpses that the museum seemed to love so much. Thankfully, these corpses were all extremely old and at no risk of waking up as vampires. That didn’t stop her from being creeped out by the Egyptian Antiquities portion of the museum. She wondered what Willow was up to. Probably having fun with her witchy friends. Lucky.

“I was saying,” Giles went on, “that the Watcher’s Council has received some disturbing reports of late.”

“Oh no!” She feigned a gasp, her hand flying to her mouth. “Are they failing their mathematics exams?”

Giles moved to remove his glasses again and Buffy tensed. Then he stopped and shook his head instead, seemingly willing to overlook her latest bout of sarcasm.

“No,” he replied, frowning at her. He set a small metal box down in front of her, intricately decorated with the surface long since faded. “There was an expedition. One that never should have happened.”

“That sounds positively thrilling,” she replied distractedly, eyeing the strange patterns of the little box that looked so familiar to those of the hieroglyphs she was forced to see every day. “What’s in the box?”

Giles let out another long sigh, seemingly sensing her lack of focus on the matter at hand. “A map.” He pressed the side of the box, compressing a concealed trigger, and the lid popped open in the shape of a six-pointed star. Inside was a piece of frail parchment, rolled up into a tight scroll. “The problem is, no one can decipher the damn thing.”

“Mr. Giles!” she gasped. “Language!”

The glasses polishing was repeated and she made a mental note to bite her tongue the next time she felt like making a snarky remark. Her Watcher would surely punish her with homework if she didn’t. She suppressed a shudder at the thought.

After replacing his glasses, he said, “We were only recently made aware of this expedition by chance.” He massaged his forehead as if trying to hold off a migraine. “And you wouldn’t believe how. Alexander… acquired the box on his latest trip to Cairo.”

“I’m sure you’re not telling me that my brother, Xander, was the one who tipped off the all-knowing Watcher’s Council about the latest world-ending threat,” she scathed. She paused for a moment, letting her expression of contempt fade. “Is it world-ending?” The last words inflected upward in hope that he would deny it.

“I’m afraid it’s entirely possible, although a bit unclear,” he replied. “That,” he pointed to the box, “is a map to the ancient Egyptian city of Hamunaptra, roughly translated to City of the Dead. Where the earliest pharaohs were said to have hidden the wealth of Egypt. It was largely thought to be a myth… that is, before now.”

“Sounds ominous,” she replied with a frown. “And a little treasure-hunty.”

“Yes, well.” He cleared his throat. “Since even our most renowned linguists, cartographers, and historians are unable to make sense of the map, we must rely on eye-witness accounts.”

“Eye-witness accounts?” Buffy asked, raising an eyebrow at him. “The members of this expedition that was never supposed to happen?”

“Dead,” Giles replied flatly. “Most of them anyway. But Alexander recovered the box from one of the members of the party and you’ll both be on the next flight to Cairo to fetch him.”

Buffy stood abruptly from her seat. “Whoa, whoa, slow down there, Giles. You’re sending me and Xander to Cairo to hunt down a random guy to show us the location of a city that may or may not exist in the middle of the desert?”

“I’m here!” Willow called from the doorway, arms overflowing with bags.

Willow was dressed in a pair of loose khaki trousers and a long-sleeved white cotton blouse. All set to go on safari, sun hat and all. Buffy had a sneaking suspicion her Watcher had been keeping secrets from her.

“Don’t worry, Buffy, I packed your stuff too!” Willow stated brightly as a suitcase fell from her arms.

Xander appeared behind her with more bags, nearly running into her back since he could barely see over the top of his load. “Gee Will!” he yelped, skirting the fallen bag and dumping his cargo to the ground beside it. “Are we late?”

Buffy turned to Giles with her hands on her hips. “Giles, what is this?”

“Your entourage,” Giles sighed. “Xander is the only one who recognizes the man he stole the map from-”

“Hey!” Xander protested. “It wasn’t stealing! I just found it near him!”

“- and Willow insisted. I don’t think it’s a terrible idea to have a witch accompany you. We aren’t entirely sure what you’ll be facing in this lost city.”

Willow nodded eagerly. “I’ve packed a bunch of spell books and herbs we might need. Although, I’m not big on the whole surviving in the desert thing.”

“I’m sure your guide will help with that and Alexander is semi-competent,” Giles answered.

“Hey!” Xander whined again. “I’ve been to lots of digs!”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “This isn’t exactly a dig, Xander. I’m guessing it’s more demon-filled fun.” She turned to Giles. “Why was I the last to know about this?”

“Because I knew you’d complain the most,” he replied. “Now, off you go. Wouldn’t want you to miss your flight.”

[torilovestowrite]

Dabi x Reader - 18

[Reader is a college freshmen so her age is 18-19. This song is based on 18 by Anarobor.

Trigger warning: Implied sex, suggestive content, daddy issues, addiction and substance abuse, toxic relationship, neglecting parents, age difference]

“So if you wanna piss off your parents,

Date me to scare them,

Show them you’re all grown up”

It was 12 am again. Just like your usual night, this time consisted smoking weed while getting yourself drunk with your mother’s leftover liquor. They don’t care anyways, you thought.

As you were closing both of your eyes while smoking, your pupils were dilated— again, you felt like flying— everything felt colorful. Unlike your life, which you usually describe as ‘lifeless’ and ‘boring’.

Your mother, who seemed like a normal strict office woman during the day, was an alcoholic who neglected and scolded you for every life decisions you make. Your dad... well, he was never in the picture. When you were younger, your dad ran away from you and your mother— which resulted to her drowning herself in alcohol almost everyday.

Everyday, your mother would blame your father’s gambling addiction— which was the reason why he left for an old and rich woman in the first place; a sugar mommy— someone to sponsor his foolish habit. You’ve always hated him for what he did. He left you just so he could gamble for his whole fucking life? You swore that you’ll never be like any of them— and that you will be a successful woman no matter what happens.

But it was hard; especially if the only thing that you wanted to do is to forget everything that happened in your life.

As you were taking the last sip of your liquor, your phone began to ring for notifications. You smiled as you saw your boyfriend’s name ‘Dabi’.

“If long hair and tattoos are what attract you,

Baby then you’re in luck”

Well... Dabi. Your lips began to turn into smile as you stare at his figure beside you. His hair was disheveled. He wasn’t wearing anything for top and his boxers hung low— which gave your eyes some access towards his v-line, tracing a finger on his body.

It’s now 3 am and 2 hours since Dabi arrived. Of course, he would sneak in through your window. That’s how it usually is. He would come over to ‘get some rest’ from his villain work, which means a lot of cuddling with you. And of course, this cuddling usually ends with a bang— I mean, sex.

You met him in the bar while you were sneaking out with some friends few days before high school graduation. You were already 18 that time and you thought that you should try to sneak out some time— to ‘have a life’, as what normal people would say. Well, your first impression of him was... terrible. He smelled like ashes with strong male perfume— which tickled your nose a lot. Until he made the first move, buying you a drink and talking to you. Eventually, you guys would exchange numbers.

When Dabi first knew about your age, he was hesitating to make a move on you. But of course, you assured him— flirted with him nonstop, hanged out with him, until he finally decided to let you slide in— agreeing to date you, to be his actual girlfriend. You were legal after all, and what you want, you will do everything to get it.

You first knew about him being a villain when you were a month into the relationship. But you never cared— he likes you, right? He’s yours and vice versa. He would never do anything to harm you.

You began to caress his burnt cheeks, planting a soft kiss on his lips as he fell asleep. You wanted to treasure this moment, because who knows if this is the last moment for the both of you, right? You want to be with him.

You lay beside him, falling asleep while hugging his skinny yet toned figure.

“And I know it’s just a phase

You’re not in love with me

You wanna piss off your parents, baby”

As you fell asleep, Dabi’s eyes slowly fluttered open. He saw the marks on your body— and was reminded of how he made you his woman. His girl— no, you were more than a lover to him. You were his loyal baby. And every time he sees you, he would feel these flames— which were stronger than his’ and his father’s.

Dabi knew the consequences of dating you. Actually, he was never planning to be emotionally invested in the relationship in the first place. He just wanted to... test the waters. During the relationship, he felt power. He felt how dependent you were towards him. Dabi loved that— as he felt a different kind of power; something that his father did not make him feel.

He was in love, yet that was never in his plan. He sighed at this thought.

Pulling your body closer to his’, Dabi stared at your sleeping face. You looked so innocent— so beautiful; some traits that never saw himself as. Ethereal, that’s what you were to him. The more you spent time together, the more emotionally invested he became. You were the pure blazing flame in his lungs that got into him and now, you can’t just be removed. You became a part of him.

But he knows, deep inside. You were never in love with him. You never looked at his way the same way he did as you. You only dated him just so you could feel powerful. So that you could rebel against your parents. You dated him to make your parents see what kind of a child they raised for neglecting you.

“...It’s alright.” Dabi held your hand tighter as you squeezed his hand back during your sleep. “I’ll always choose to be with you, y/n.”

“Piss off your parents,

That’s alright with me.”

GENERAL MASTERLIST

[what-is-your-plan-today]

Murder, He Wrote

Part 3 Co-Written with @southerngracela​

Summary: It’s Thanksgiving, but when you’re being held hostage by Hugh Ransom Drysdale there’s really not a lot to be thankful for, is there?

Warnings: Bad language words. MATURE (NSFW 18+) NON-CON situation, kidnap, violence. DO NOT READ IF ANY OF THOSE TRIGGER… READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!!

Pairing: DARK! Ransom Drysdale x Reader

A/N:  So this is Part 2 to our submission for @jtargaryen18​ ‘s Haunted House 2020  Challenge. Once again READ THE WARNINGS!!!! This is a DARK Series… don’t @ us if you can’t follow simple instructions and end up with butt-hurt. And if you’re under 18…get off my blog.

Series Masterlist. 

You could feel the chill of the outside seeping into your space, your bones, through the vented window following your shower. The way it crept in made you realize just how far along through fall you were, maybe it was even approaching the onset of the holiday weather. Either way, a storm seemed to be outside. At least it felt like it. Once dried, you found yourself wrapping up tighter in the thick cardigan you’d chosen before you dried your hair, and allowed yourself a quick squirt of perfume before settled into the reading chair in the corner of your room, your journal on your lap.

The little, leather bound book had been in your handbag which had been given back to you earlier that morning as the latest reward for behaving and as you ran your hand over the deep brown cover, you couldn’t help the air of excitement you felt at having been given your treasured little note book, despite the dreary sky you could see from the porthole above your chair.

It had actually surprised you that Drysdale had kept it and not disposed of it the same way he had your phone and your car. But for whatever reason, he’d held onto it, and for that you were grateful. Grateful that you had something of your own from before this imprisonment to anchor too. You’d expected him to want some kind of favour in return but he hadn’t demanded any sort of sexual gratification, simply informed you he would be out most of the morning and would be back mid to late afternoon. As soon as he had gone you had eagerly tipped the contents of your bag onto the bed, almost crying at the sight of your half empty bottle of Coco-Mademoiselle, the Mac Lip-gloss, NYX Eyebrow pencil, Mont Blanc fountain pen, a full tube of mints and your treasured journal. With teary eyes you’d put everything away in its new place, apart from the book and pen before padding into the bathroom for a shower, deliberately sorting yourself out for the day. All you could think of was taking the time so you could savour the moment when you could hopefully make some sense of the jumble in your head by spilling it onto a page.

You opened the cover and flicked to your last entry, the morning of Halloween. A rambling rant about Mick-The-Prick filled the page and you paused, tears in your eyes, as you’d give anything to be stood in his office thinking about ingenious ways to kill him and get away with it. Ironic, really considering that was exactly what your captor had done; committed murder and gotten away with it.

You went to jot the date down in the corner of the page and realised that actually, you didn’t have a clue what it was. Down here, night bled into day, day bled into night…and soon it all bled into weeks. However, given the fact your cycle had been and gone a week ago you figured that it was maybe four weeks since Halloween. Of course, you could ask Hugh, but the less you had to ask him the better as far as you were concerned. You hate the fact that he had this hold on you, that you had to ask for and ‘earn’ things by being ‘good’. And whilst it made you sick to your stomach, you’d fast learnt it was easier to comply than rebel. The night he had left you tangled in your sweater had hurt. It had taken you a good twenty minutes to muster the strength to work your way out and drag yourself into a bath, your body shaking with the trauma, sobs wracking your frame. Your body ached for days, your mind in a post-traumatic cloud of despair. And whilst it hadn’t broken you per-say, it had certainly made you realise exactly what the bastard was capable of, and you had no intention of finding out just how much further he was willing to go.

So, in summary, it had taken Ransom Drysdale two days to break you into compliance.

You’d become passive, so to speak. You gave into his whims, let him use you as he saw fit, did as he told… for the most part anyway. There had been a few other incidents post the sweater one where you’d forgotten yourself and protested, fought a little and he’d gone hard on you, but nothing like that second night. Your passive behaviour was mistaken by him for compliance, and as such you had earned a number of rewards. The bistro table where you took your meals, a book or two which just so happened to be by his grandfather, a gesture you weren't sure was him purging or pressing an agenda onto you. And more recently and most preciously, your bag. But, the strange thing was, that whilst he wanted you to give into him physically, he seemed to enjoy the fact that you were in no way, shape or form compliant to him in others. You openly sassed him, bit back, called him out and he actively encouraged it. He’d started spending a little more time with you in the mornings and afternoons, not just visiting you to toy with you or fuck, but to engage in these little tete-a-tete’s, and the sickest, most perverted thing about it was that you were almost glad. The loneliness was crippling, and you craved company. Even if it was his.  

All things considered, you’d rather ask him for as little as possible so instead, you flicked to the front of the book and crossed off the days on the small calendar inside the cover. Deciding that the date it led you to was as accurate as it was going to get, you turned back, jotted it down in the top right of your page and stared at the blank lines, looking to sort your thoughts for your next entry.

The saying used to go, what's in a name, however as I sit here thinking back on the last few weeks I wonder now what's in a day. My days consist of imprisonment. Held by a captor I have met once before. He's smart, almost too smart. Displaying forms of abuse and aggressive behaviors any FBI analyst would love to dive deep into. But that's not my job, no, my job is to please and satisfy him. Answer to his whims of gratification at any call of the day. I have nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. But if I behave, he lets few things get by. I miss home, my bed, my life. I miss Mick, which is saying a lot all things considered. I don't know still what he wants from me, other than the obvious sexual gratification with little to no room for anything else. I'm a toy, a means to an itch. I don't know how long exactly I've been here, I can only guess it's been about a month. Nor do I know how long I'll have to stay. The answers are blurred like my vision, marred by tears and the low light inside. I haven't seen outside since the day he took me. I haven't been anywhere outside this room. I can see from the small porthole window above this stupidly soft leather chair the season has changed. It feels like deep fall, and as a storm comes outside, what little sky I see is bleak and dark, clouds covering the bluest of skies, angry and ready to open up, raining down water to wash away the sins of the day. I wish I could do the same. 

Before you realized, time had obviously passed, for the sound of the door bolts unlocking had you guessing it was late afternoon or early evening. A glance up at the porthole behind you confirmed as much. The sky was dark and rain had been beating on the window for a little while. 

In came Drysdale, hair a bit wet, a strand slightly out of place, wool pants and maroon sweater. He carried a plate of food in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. He looked irked, like he'd wasted time on something, a look you were now able to decipher after weeks of seeing it. 

"Happy Thanksgiving," he said, setting the plate down on the bistro table with its two accompanying chairs, waiting for you to join him. 

Instead of biting back, you simply whispered, "it’s Thanksgiving?" You checked the inside cover of your journal and see the date again. You were a day off and it now dawned on you. It was the fourth Thursday of the month and indeed, Thanksgiving. You glanced back up at Ransom and a deep sadness washed over you. Closing your journal and setting it on the table by your chair, you stood, moving towards him and the plate of food. You took a seat and looked down at the plate, full of the holiday dish basics; turkey, gravy, mashed potatoes, stuffing, diced not candied yams and roasted green beans. It was gourmet and nothing near what he'd been serving you or managing to try. "Thank you," you said softly, rolling your fork through the potatoes. You take a bite but it's about as bland and tasteless as your despair. 

"I brought it back from the country club, I met my father there," he looked under your gaze again, as if willing your eyes to his. "Do you not like it?" 

Finally, your gaze met those cold cerulean orbs, setting your fork down and you took a drink of water, "No, it's fine." Then you picked up your fork again and took another bite, this time of the turkey and gravy. You didn't have it in you for an argument or it's physical ramifications. 

"Are you not hungry?" Ransom pressed. 

"I guess not as much as I thought," you repled further poking at your food, your voice cracking a little as you try to keep your composure. The sting of the holiday has you broken, far more than you'd expected. Normally, today you'd be helping your mother in the kitchen, settling the final touches on the side dishes and listening to your father tell your uncle about some a-typical dad joke he'd heard. Your sister would be giddy over the wine while her boyfriend of the month received death glares from said uncle and your father. 

Ransom outwardly sighed and you wait for what you were trying to avoid. "Are you alright?" 

The question threw you off guard completely and you struggled to hide the shock from your expression. He never cared about your feelings before. Maybe he thought you were coming down with something. You braced yourself to answer honestly. There was no point in lying, he'd see through it. 

"I'm fine, I'm not sick if that's what you're thinking," you answered, a deep restraint on your tone to keep yourself in check. "I hadn't realized what day it was. I didn't know it was Thanksgiving." You swallowed the lump in your throat and blinked hard. "My mom, my sister and I, we used to all help make dinner as a family. My dad and uncle would talk a bunch of shit around the fireplace while shooting death glares at my sister's flavor of the month."

He looked at you like he was confused. You scoff, "Of course you wouldn't understand."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He squint his eyes, biting the inside of his cheek. His body language completely changed as he leaned forward on his forearms, popping one shoulder up higher than the other. 

"Nothing," you backed down immediately. 

"Tell me," he pressed. 

God, he was relentless. You pushed your plate forward and leaned on your own elbows. You looked at him with a raised brow, "am I going to be in trouble if you don't like what I have to say?" 

"Depends," he popped a shoulder smugly. 

You matched his expression and his demeanour falters just a fraction. You saw it, but you didn't hold back. "Then I'd rather keep it to myself. That's what you want isnt it? Me to comply, be obedient? Frankly, I'm not in the mood." 

He failed to hide his smirk and you noticed that too, "Sweetheart." It wasn't laced with teasing, rather his pet name for you on his tongue held a cautious venom. 

"You hate your family. You know nothing about love and what it takes to give love. Hell, I don't doubt that for a minute you've ever felt loved. It's all an act. Self-preservation even. I don't know you or your family outside of the hours of research I did and the mere forty five minutes I listened to you drone on about your 'predicament'. But, the cold hearted truth of it is, you don't know how to love." You watched him run his tongue along his teeth as he continued to glare at you, but you weren't finished. "And that's what family is, it's what they do. They love, they are the embodiment of love at its deepest root. Maybe, just maybe somewhere along your life, your parents loved you, but judging by the Thrombey-Drysdale standards, none of you know what love is outside your selfish tithings and flashy cars. It got lost along the way, more than likely long before you ever were born."

"Wow," he raised his brows and clicked his tongue against his teeth, "That's good, that's really good."

You're fear receptors suddenly spiked as recognizable flash of anger in his eyes flashed through his irises. But there was something else there that you couldn't put your finger on it. Your breathing quickly up-ticked as you felt your palms begin to sweat.

He inhaled a deep, almost centering breath, "that perfume in your bag, I like it."

As if he'd grown a second head, you blinked hard refocusing on him. Had you heard him right? You'd just broken a rule, laid out an unspeakable truth for him and now in a blink he's, God forbid, complimenting your scent? Who the fuck was this guy? Was he on meds? Because he should be or he should at least probably share. It might make life here more bearable. "What?" 

"The perfume from your bag, you're wearing it. It smells good," he lamented. 

Alright, now the 'of sound mind' argument might be worth something because he sure as shit wasn't now. You swallowed and picked up your fork, taking a bite of the cold food just to buy yourself some time as you tried to process the scene before you. You had no remark to make. Confusing jumbled any thought of a coherent word you could utter. 

"Maybe if I'm out, I can pick you up a new bottle. I noticed you were near empty," Ransom offered. 

This was starting to make your stomach turn. If he'd gone through your bag, because why wouldn't he at this point, smelled your perfume, had he read your journal? You made a mental note to go back through and see if there was anything he'd read that he had used against you thus far or could use to corner you in the future. You looked around the room, waiting to see if you were being Punk'd. Just who the fuck is this guy? Without your expression giving too much of your confusion away, you nod at him in reply. "Thank you, I'd like that."

"Hmph," he paused, a dramatic effect he seemed to know that your heart rate up in anxiety. "Well, then why are you looking at me like I have two heads, Y/N?" 

Tread lightly, you thought to yourself. He didn't call you by your first name often, in fact, the last time he had, you were very much smarting back and it resulted in a forceful situation that left you raw and sore for a few days. It was always 'Sweetheart'. 

He baited you, you knew it, but you couldn't back out now. So you sighed, "I know I'm not supposed to ask questions, but, I don't even know who you are right now. Do you? One minute you're giving me food and being gentle, the next you're allowing my opinion, and now you're ready to flip this table. That's as close as two heads as it gets." 

"Careful, Sweetheart," he now glared at you. There it was, you were in for it. The approach of choice, you weren't sure of, but he was done. You'd learned the different tones in his voice by now, the cues he gave. You were definitely in trouble. You dropped your eyes to your plate. The food stone cold and no longer even appealing in its slightest measure, a wave of nausea washing over you. You further pushed your plate away, "I don't think I'm hungry anymore."

His broad frame rose from the chair, "you weren't to begin with," his left hand reaching for the plate and holds it in his hand, "Third drawer down in the armoire. Pick something, I'll be back."

You watched him leave, the familiar click of the door shutting and snap of the lock sounded around the small apartment and you exhaled loudly, your head dropping into your hands. This wasn’t the first time he’d requested that you ‘dress for the occasion’ so to speak. With a deep breath you stood up and crossed the room, opening the drawer of requirements, seeking out a negligee for him to no doubt remove. Your fingers roamed over the fabrics and selection. La Perla, Agent Provocateur, Carine Gilson, Coco de Mer and Fleur of England were just a handful of the expensive, high-end brands that filled the space. Your fingers smoothed over a black macrame and tule underwired long line bra and the matching thong that was folded neatly under it. Plucking it from the drawer, you headed for the bathroom. You slipped out of your casual tee, duster cardigan and leggings, the bra and panties you'd had on. You sighed as you took a good look at yourself in your naked form. 

While you hadn't lost a ton of weight over the last month, you could tell you'd grown thinner. You weren't gaunt but your lack of a daily Dunkin' Donuts macchiato had seemed to thin you out. Your captor made sure you were fed, but you didn't always eat. The plump of your cheeks had receded and your little pooch brought on by happy carbs was sucked into your frame. There were a few bruises still seen, near green, an indication of their final healing stage. The pock mark from a hickey he'd given you still a bit scaby as he'd broken the skin just barely. This was your life now and it made what few bites of Thanksgiving dinner in your stomach nearly lurch forward back up your throat.

You swallowed it down, pulling the long line bra straps up your arms and clasping it behind your back. Your legs slipped into the thong panties and you pulled the material up your freshly smooth legs. Your shaky fingers plucked at the hair tie that fastened the end of your brain closed, nails raking through your hair to loosen your tendrils. He always wanted your hair loose. You looked at yourself in the mirror, you were ready. 

***** Ransom tossed the un-eaten food into the garbage and dumped the plate into the sink to be dealt with later. Turning so that his lower back was leaning on the edge of the kitchen counter he ran a hand over his clean shaven jaw, his mind ticking over the events of the day so far. A pain-in-the-ass Thanksgiving meal with his father had been made bearable by the fact he knew he was coming back to her, and because he hadn’t wanted to be a complete monster he’d made the effort of bringing her a nice dinner back too. But she’d hardly touched any of it.

And what disturbed him most about it, was the fact that instead of wanting to punish her for being an ungrateful bitch, he instead felt a deep rooted sense of concern. She’d lost weight, her face was pale, her hip bones more pronounced, and frankly the last thing he wanted was her passing out on him. Whilst he wanted her compliant, necrophilia really wasn’t his bag.

He had thought by giving her back the bag she’d had on her the night he took her he might have seen a lift in her spirits so to speak, a little gratitude, but instead she’d been meek and reserved until he’d coaxed that familiar sass out of her. And even then she’d been reticent.

It should have pleased him that she was learning her place and becoming more subservient. But if he was being honest with himself, he almost missed her fighting and arguing back. It had been exciting in a way, and he had thought it would have taken longer than it had to break her so to speak. Maybe he had overestimated exactly what a fighter she was, maybe she wasn’t the right muse for his writing after all. Because, let’s face it, writing a tale about a woman who was captured and broken into submission within two days, merely becoming a puppet for her captor’s whims was hardly going to win him any accolades was it? He needed more, needed something that he could spin a good story from. He knew now that when he went back down to her he had to try a different tact so to speak, he needed to coax her mind into reacting not merely her body.

Because if he couldn’t do that, there was no point in keeping her.

He allowed her half an hour or so before he headed back down the stairs and found her sat on the bed, dressed in one of the sets he’d purchased, her hair loose round her face and shoulders the way he liked. She jumped to her feet and he had to actively supress the groan that was rolling in his throat as his eyes scanned her up and down, and he didn’t miss the slight bruises that dotted her skin in various places where he’d marked her as his own. She’d long since stopped trying to cover herself up. Instead she stood stock still, her eyes focussed on the floor.

With long strides he walked into the room and stopped in front of her, tipping her chin up with his finger so she was looking at him, her eyes wide with trepidation and he gave a smirk as he reached up, brushing her hair off the side of her face and neck, dropping his head as he did so.

“You smell so good, Sweetheart.” He inhaled against her pulse point, lips pressing into her there. He felt the gasp of her breath, the way her skin pricked with chill bumps. He smirked to himself, he’s found her spot. And he filed that away, committing it to memory. 

“I like this…” he practically purred as he toyed with the straps to the bra, a long, thick middle finger outlining the strap against her skin, lips following pursuit.

“You should, you chose it.”

He chuckled, ignoring the snark behind her words. “Like I chose you, huh?”

Like I chose you.

His words echoed around your head, reminding you exactly why you were in this fucking situation. Because he had decided you would be. He wanted you, and just like with everything else in his life that Hugh Ransom Drysdale wanted, he simply took. But what worried you the most about all this was whether or not you would be discarded the same way he no doubt discarded the other possessions he lost interest in.

You took a deep, steadying breath as his hands moved from the straps of your bra, long fingers moving to caress the back of your neck, but there was no grabbing, no force. He was being positively gentle.

And it scared the crap out of you.

“Are you afraid of me?” He asked, his breath hot and wet in your ear as you trembled under the further graze of his fingers against the macramé of your set. 

“You know I am," you swallowed nervously. You weren't new to this, this wasn't your first time, but the way he was being soft, a stark character change to his a-typical stance with you was what had you crawling in fear in the inside. Was it a game? Was it some sort of ploy? Was this his idea of foreplay now before he turned it up and went hard enough to bruise but not hard enough to make you cry?

A flat palm ran down your abdomen, already taught in fear. But not before a thumb grazed along the underside of your breast. Agonizingly slow, his hand, still splayed over you, dips into your matching macrame panties, dipping into your wet folds, thumb lightly pressing against your clit. 

“You’re so wet, considering you’re scared.”

You didn't answer, just swallowed hard, the lump stuck in your throat as it fought against a little whimper. 

His mouth once more latched onto your neck, the kisses gentle as opposed to the bruising ones you had become accustomed to. The fingers in your folds matched his slow nature, teasing you in such a way that when you closed your eyes and focussed your mind elsewhere, you could almost believe you were somewhere with a man you’d given permission to touch you in such away. But when his lips moved to your jawline and you took a deep breath, the heady scent of his cologne hit your senses and your eyes flew open as you were reminded just whose lips and hands were violating you in such away.

You swallowed as Ransom pulled away, his hand gently grasping your chin once more as he issued a simple instruction.

“Strip for me, sweetheart.”

You took a deep breath, swallowing down the bile that had once more risen up your throat as he sat down on the edge of the bed, his legs bent, hands resting on his knees as he watched you the way a lion watched its prey. You undid the clasp on your bra, your eyes remaining locked on his as you slid the straps down your shoulders and dropped the garment to the floor. Your captor took a deep breath, his eyes flicking down your body as you moved to shed the bottom half, wondering what on earth had been the point of wearing it in the first place. But even as you asked yourself that, you already knew the answer. It was a bout power, another way for him to remind you just who you belonged to now. How he could strip you bare in more way than one without even lifting a finger.

But lift a finger he did, curling it in mid-air as he beckoned you towards him. You took careful steps over the floor until you were stood in between his legs. His large hands smoothed up the outside of your thighs, before he pulled you towards him, his nose brushing the skin of your abdomen as he took  a deep breath, fingers curling round your thighs.

And then, in a flash he stood, taking you with him, and before you could so much as utter a squeak or noise of surprise he had you naked, laying across the bed, the sheets cold against your skin, a contrast to the heat emanating from the body against yours. The look in his lust blown eyes was overwhelming. You didn't know what you were in for but as his body, still clothed in the frayed maroon sweater and wool slacks sunk into the mattress between your legs, you felt a chill course through your veins, your skin, again, pricking in bumps all over. His hands, with their thick fingers, trailed long lines up and down your thighs, Ransom's full lips kissing at your sensitive inner skin, a nip or two here and there as he went from your knee, upward. 

He could smell your arousal, see it glistening as it dripped from your core. "Someone's ready," he quipped. He watched you swallow hard, a literal lump in your throat bobbing the skin. Your eyes never left him. "No cumming until I tell you. Do you understand?" When you didn't answer immediately, he swiped his tongue over your wet lips, tasting the honey your body gave him, your back arching away from sheets. "Do you understand?" 

And there it was, your punishment finally arriving from your little moment before over dinner. As you still had your wits about you, you uttered a single word response, in the hope that the more submissive you were, the more accepting you were of your chastisement, the less hard on you he was going to be.

"Yes." 

His mouth expertly devoured every inch of you, from your inner and outer pussy lips to the depths of your walls, tongue fucking you like you he was starving, the lavish holiday meal he'd partaken in not filling enough. His thumb pressed against your engorged nub, causing you to writhe but a firm arm over your abdomen kept you in place. The same thick fingers that traced lines up your thighs, two were now buried deep inside you, his tongue working away any juices that seeped out. As he gave you a third, stretching you more, you felt your walls start to tighten, that burning coil in your belly flare and your hands gripped the sheets tighter. 

Ransom could clearly feel you flutter against his fingers as he stopped his assault and looked up at you.

"What did I say?" 

Your chest heaved, your stomach taught and you fought to obey. When you managed to calm yourself, he began again, almost from square one, slowly, tantalizingly slow. 

The action was torture and you were desperately willing yourself to remain grounded as again your body fought to ride over the edge building inside you. When his mouth was over you completely, tongue deep, thumb pressing again into your clit, you felt the urge to cum. But he pulled away, slowly, his thumb stopping the pressure, his tongue slowly dragging out of you. 

"I said no. This is your punishment for your smart mouth over dinner."

"Please, I need to, I'll... I'll make it worth your while, please just let me." Your voice sounded alien as you spoke, the words leaving your mouth in the desperate hope he’d take pity on you but to no avail. Your attempts at bartering served only to frustrate him, anger him even and he Ransom backed away, roughly pulling you to the edge of the bed before stripping out of his sweater and undershirt, the undeniable outline of his hard cock along his thigh strained against his wool slacks. 

Harsh in his grip, he repositioned himself between your legs, your thighs across his shoulders, ass dangling above the floor as a heavy arm kept you still. His flat tongue, hot and full of your sex was eating away at you while his final throws of resolve ate away at him.

“I’m done playing fucking games.” he growled against your aching cunt “I should have gagged you, stuffed my cock deep into the back of your throat, something, anything to shut you up.”

You barely had time to register his words before once more you were flat out against the mattress, trying to regain your breath and calm yourself down when he backed away, tore open his flies and smirked down at you.

"Oh no, Sweetheart, we're not done yet."  He kneeled beside you, his chest heaving, hair completely out of place, anger and wait, was that pain, flickering in his eyes as he stuffed you with a hard thrust of his length. "Now you’re gonna cum on this dick."

He thrusted hard and within a few slams of his hips against yours, he allowed you the release you were begging for, "that's right, Princess, cum on my cock." 

You wept at the feeling finally freeing you, cries of pleasure spilling from your lips as you squeezed around him. Your chest heaving against his, skin to skin. The fabric of his wool pants hot and itchy against your inner thighs. He was still thrusting but now it had slowed to a roll, slow and calculated. Your muddled mind was buzzing and rapidly trying to sort out if he'd cum inside you or if he wasn't finished. His features were softer, but still filled with purpose and his lips latched onto a naked breast causing your body to react, tingles and flames licking at your core again. His eyes looked up at yours as he caged you in, still buried deep inside you, hips rolling. 

"I said we weren't done," he rasped. His thrusts and rolls, the two very different tactics mixing now, made the swell of his cock inside you abhorrently pleasurable. Try as you might, it was impossible to feel otherwise. 

And Ransom was finding it equally as hard to hold on. His weight was evenly distributed over her, his cock swelling inside her heat. It took all he had not to blow his load the first time he made her cum, hearing the sinful sounds of her orgasm that felt like a volcanic eruption around his hard shaft. But now he could feel her again, tiny little pulses around his already overtly sensitive dick. He was sure his precum was leaking out, wanting to paint the way for the rest of him to follow. He rolled and thrust as his lips nipped at her neck. She moaned loudly, her body exuding lust. He could feel her shake beneath him and to his delight and surprise her eyes were no longer screwed shut and turned away. Instead they were locked on his. The moment those deep hued orbs met his, he felt a hitch in his breath and tightness in his chest that travelled through his belly and into his cock, causing the thick member to throb inside her. Tiny, soft hands gripped at his biceps, her touch a fiery scald against his skin, almost as if it were frost bite. Her touch equally shocking as her stare and he gave a roll of his hips to hide what he felt. A deep, satiated roll of his hips that sent her over the edge. 

"Hugh!" She came around him, harder than her first, crying out his given name. It snapped him from his moment of revelation, driving him insanely frustrated at the word leaving her lips. He slammed into her as she rode out her orgasm, chasing his own. 

You felt the dismissal of his body as he violently pulled free from your walls, spewing his hot seed over your abdomen, drops claiming your tits too. He nearly collapsed, his dick in hand, the other holding himself up against the mattress between your legs. 

He left you there, dirty, degraded and shut the door with a barked instruction for you to clean yourself up. You no longer cried in front of him, either before, during or after. There was no point. He didn’t care about how you felt, but the thing he DID seem to care about was the fact that you still refused to call him Ransom. 

It was the one thing you held on to, the only thing that gave you an inch of control in this entire fucked up situation. You hadn’t missed the look on his face when you’d cried out 'Hugh' in the throes of your last orgasm. Before that moment there had been a softness in his eyes, one that had unnerved you no end, along with something that had looked suspiciously like hope. But when his given name had tumbled involuntarily from your mouth and not the one he preferred that softness had turned to contempt and you didn't miss the undercurrent of disappointment either.

And seeing that, knowing that it pissed him off and dare you say it, upset him so much was your single, albeit feeble, act of rebellion that served as a desperate boost to your ever waning inner strength. *****

Ransom laid in his large, plush bed, hands behind his head as the silk sheets pooled at his waist as morning was in full swing outside. His thoughts strayed to his girl in the basement and he took a deep breath, shifting slightly as he remembered the way her fingers had felt as they’d curled around his biceps, her touch firey but cold. That had been the first time she’d touched him when she wasn’t trying to push him away, it had been involuntary, he knew that, a reaction to the way she’d been feeling, the way he had made her feel. 

A twitch resounded deep in his belly....the way he made her feel.

He realised now that he’d been going about this the entirely wrong way. The force had been necessary to make her comply at first, but last night she hadn’t just complied she’d participated, just what he had wanted all along. And all after he’d shown her a little leeway, brought her dinner, entertained her talk. He understood now that he needed to play a different card from his hand. She responded better to conversation, talking. Ransom hated fucking talking, he was more cerebral, calculating. Conversation means connecting, and connecting was something he wasn’t particularly interested in normally. He needed to lead, to be in charge, but it was clearly what she knew and thrived on, so he had to swallow his apprehension down to play the long game, to get what he wanted. 

Now he understood that, it was going to be so fucking easy. All he had to do was to seemingly show her compassion, a little give so he could take so to speak. He rolled his head, cracking his neck as he remembered what she said about cooking with her mom so he decided that after her stellar performance last night, today she’d earned a bigger reward than a book or some journal. He was going to show her what she could have if she just gave in and admitted what he knew she truly wanted. A large house, a garden, a pool, a hot tub, silk sheets, a large bed, and a man to fuck her every way to heaven and back. He could give her everything that any woman could possibly desire, and then some.

With a twitch of a smirk across his lips, Ransom pulled his naked frame out of bed and slipped into joggers, a soft waffle knit thermal long sleeve pulled over his tousled hair. He felt like company for breakfast and he knew exactly to invite up. 

His bare feet padded with purpose over the plush carpet of his room, down the stairs and onto the first floor, over the hard wood and marble tile of the halls and entry, down the plush carpeted spiral staircase down to the basement.

He reached the door and gently turned the locks, quietly pushing the door open as he turned the knob. It opened quietly and his eyes fell upon the empty bed. He frowned slightly, wondering where she was. Then his eyes found her, sitting curled up with her eyes cast upward, that little tease of a porthole window in her focus. She'd turned her chair around so she could see it more clearly, the throw blanket he'd tossed at her the week before was wrapped around her body. He didn't know the time, but it wasn't early nor was it afternoon. Not that it mattered, neither had anywhere else to be.

"Good morning," he said lowly. He watched as her eyes slowly moved away from the only bit of outside world she'd seen for weeks now.

"Morning," she replied quietly, her eyes locking onto his. "I err, I was just..." she trailed off. "Actually, I don't know what I was doing to be honest."

He stalked up to the chair, kneeling in front her. His hand reached up and cupped her cheek, his thumb running over her cheek bone. "You were such a good girl last night. Took me so well, teased me with that little number you had on. I've thought about you all morning."

Ransom watched her throat bob as she swallowed before licking her lips and biting the inside corner of her lip. Such an innocent gesture that had him half hard straight away.

"I want to give you something. But you have to be good, or it goes away," he started. "Can you be good, Sweetheart?"

She nodded, slightly. "Okay," he smirked. "Now, fix the chair and come up to make us breakfast."

Ransom stood back, allowing you some space to accommodate his request. You slipped the throw blanket from your shoulders and left it in the chair as you rearranged the piece back to its normal state. You met him at the doorway. You didn't miss the way his eyes moved over you, the way they lit up in a way at as he looked at the silken material covering your body. The dark teal silk and lace cami set was just one of a handful of options he'd provided for you. All the same, different colors, all in your size. 

You hesitated for a second, not sure if this was another one of his little games but he simply met your eyes with his own and nodded up the stairs. With tentative, shaky steps you climbed them, sensing him close behind you as for the first time in weeks you left your prison.  You felt anxious, highly on edge and nervous. What was awaiting you? There was the sickening feeling in your stomach of excitement too, you hadn’t seen the outside since Halloween. You paused at the top of the stairs in the hall. The kitchen was directly across from you, the entry to your right. The door to the basement clicked shut and you felt Ransom’s firm chest behind your back as his form invaded your space. He dragged a finger down your arm causing the strap of your top to fall away, placing a soft kiss on your shoulder.

"Straight ahead, Sweetheart."

“Okay,” you whispered before you slowly made your way through to the large, airy kitchen. You stood looking around, taking in the fancy appliances before you turned back to Ransom. "Did you have something in mind?”

"Well..." Ransom leaned in the doorway, watching you as you stood in the middle of the tiled floor "Yesterday wasn't the first time you said you enjoyed to cook so I thought you might like to." His eyes flicked once more down your frame and back up again before he nodded his head towards the rear of the room. “Anything you need is in the pantry and fridge.”

“And I can make anything I want?” You blinked, not quite able to believe what he was allowing you to do. It was fucked up that you were even considering this as a reward but, you’d take it. Boy would you take it, anything to grasp some sense of normality in this day-by-day hell you were living.

“Sure.” Ransom popped a shoulder again and you took a deep breath before you turned and headed to the sink to wash your hands before sorting out your menu and you froze. The outside landscape had stopped you cold. From what you could see of the back garden the property was secluded, not over looked. A lawn extended a fair distance back from the rear of the house, a neat decking area stood to the right which sported a hot tub and a little further down there looked to be a pool of some kind which was covered over for the season. Trees hung over the bottom of the garden lining the high wooden fence, what few leaves they still sported were shades of crimson, gold and brown and the river traced it’s banks as it curved around the side and back of the house, the sun shining off the surface, giving it the impression it was made of sapphires. It was breathtakingly beautiful and you felt your heart shatter, your eyes well and you couldn't help but hold back the urge to weep as your chest contracted painfully. You were so close to the outside, separated only by a pane of glass, yet it had never felt further away.

His voice broke you from your despair and you swallowed back the sob that choked your throat as you flicked your attention to the left, Ransom's reflection drawing closer towards you as he crossed the terracotta tiled floor.

"Everything alright?"

You cleared your throat and gave a quick shake of your head, "Fine."

Again you felt him in your space. His presence consuming. “You sure?”

Sure? No you weren’t sure. Because none of this was fine, in fact it was as far from fine as it could possibly get. In that moment you wanted nothing more than to spin round and hammer your fists into any part of his body you could hit but you knew that it wouldn't get you anywhere, bar back in the basement likely shackled naked to the bed so you instead turned slowly to find yourself caged in by his broad frame so close to yours. You cast your eyes downward, uncomfortable at his searching stare, "Yeah, I’m sure.”

Your tongue flicked nervously over your lips as you continued to avoid his gaze before you cleared your throat “How do you like your eggs? Or would you prefer an omelette? Pancakes even?" The urge to move away from him pulled you away from your idea of a menu. Brunch basics were flooding your brain and you rattled off a few nervously. He may have said you could make whatever you wanted, but right now, you had no clue. Seeing a different space, the outside world and breathing new air had rattled you.

“You choose.” Ransom spoke softly, his hand reaching up to brush your hair off your face before he tipped your chin up so your eyes met his. He looked at you, and you swallowed as for the first time there was something unreadable on his face. His eyes were looking at you in a way they’d never looked at you before, with a softness you’d never have anticipated he could possess.

"Waffles." You suddenly blurted out, desperate to escape his gaze "I err, do you have a waffle iron?”

“No.” He deadpanned.

"Oh," you swallowed "Erm, then in that case French toast...maybe? Is that ok?"

“Sounds delicious.” He said, his hand dropping from your face, “Sure it’ll taste almost as good as you.”

“Great. How about with fresh Chantilly cream and berries if you have them?” You asked, completely ignoring his blatant back handed compliment and you started familiarizing yourself with the space as you glanced around.

“Like I said, whatever you want, Sweetheart.” He shrugged, and with that he stepped back to allow you to move away.

Ransom watched her move around the luxurious kitchen, looking through the pantry and cabinet near the stove taking out cinnamon and vanilla, plucking items like bread, butter, eggs, berries and cream from the fridge. Searching drawers for utensils and measuring cups and spoons. Finding a pan and bowl from a bottom cabinet. Measuring sugar from the glass jar on the counter. He hoped the ingredients were still fresh, he wasn't exactly sure how long they'd been stored. She moved like she belonged there, he thought to himself. So sexy looking in her nightwear, bare feet on the tile, her ass and breasts moving underneath the silk as she stretched and worked. 

"Coffee?" He offered, as he moved from one side to the other. He made sure his exquisite espresso machine was ready as it sat in all its glory on its own portion of the counter like a batista station inside Starbucks. 

He didn't miss the way she watched him move around her, preparing the coffee and grabbing the orange juice from the fridge. He reached over her shoulder, his body brushing against hers as he opened the cupboard where he kept the glasses and mugs. He peered down at her, giving a twitch to the corner of his mouth. A smirk indeed. He noted the way her eyes followed him as he poured the juice, like he was going to poison her or something. 

"It's just juice, Sweetheart," he said nonchalantly and put the juice back in the fridge. He set the breakfast table for them and took a seat in his place, a now hot cup of coffee in his hand, hers sitting on the counter next to her. 

It wasn’t long before she had finished and brought the plates to the table, sitting down timidly in the seat to his right as he gestured to it, stopping her dead as she was about to make her way around to the opposite side.

It was quiet, the only sounds heard for a while were the click and scrape of forks and knives cutting away at the plates of food. Ransom wouldn't admit it out loud, but this was the best French toast he'd ever had in his life. Something about it, the way it was not soggy, but perfectly moist, the edges just crispy. The way the cream made for no syrup and the sweet berries added the final element. He watched her pick at the food for a moment or two as he glanced over at her and saw a small bit of Chantilly in the corner of her mouth.

A long arm reached across the table and automatically she flinched a little, as if she was going to pull away but one firm stare stopped her in her tracks. His thick thumb padded away the white, sweet cream and he brought the same thumb to his lips, sucking the cream away. He lifted his brows in a teasing manner and twitched up his lips, "Delicious. Like I said, almost as good as you, Sweetheart."

"Thanks, I think," she paused. 

"Trust me, I know."

The comment seemingly threw her off her meal and it didn't get past Ransom. She had started picking at it, moving it around the plate like she had done with her dinner the night before. He, on the other hand, was near finished. 

"Are you still not hungry?" He inquired. 

She shook her head, "I just made my portion too big. I overestimated my appetite, I guess."

"Huh," he placated her reply. He knew she was lying but he let it slide, realizing that seeing a new space, the window to the outside was overwhelming. So, he thought he'd sweeten the deal. "I thought maybe you'd like to see the house," he offered, watching as her big eyes locked onto his and she took a deep breath.

"That sounds nice, thank you."

"Good, after breakfast then." He nodded affirmingly, as if it were drying ink in his mind. He picked up his coffee and finished it off, his plate already clear. 

She stood from the table, collecting his plate with her own and headed for the sink. He turned in his chair, stalking her, watching her every move. The way she pitched over the sink, bending her frame over the dishwasher to load it as she cleaned up the kitchen. 

With each bend and snap of her hips, he felt his mouth water more. Her little silk cami riding up as she moved, her breasts falling in and out of a fuller view. When she tucked a stray hair behind her ear, he was on her. He moved behind her, his hands grabbed her hips as she spun around completely startled giving a gasp and a quick yelp. 

"Easy, Sweetheart," he chuckled as she looked at him, her eyes wide.

"Sorry... you, err...you startled me." She whispered as he moved his hands so they gripped at the side of the kitchen counter on either side of her, caging her in with his body.

"Some women would like that," he quipped, arching an eyebrow a little and watched as she swallowed hard and cast her eyes downward. Moving one hand slowly up her arm, over her shoulder and around her neck, he tipped her head back up so those large, Bambi eyes locked onto his.

His hand adjusted, gripping her chin softly as he moved closer still, dipping his head he pressed a firm kiss to her lips. He felt her go rigid, her chest spiking as she drew in a sharp breath, her body shaking slightly in his hold. "Stop fighting it..." he whispered against her mouth before he kissed her again. This time, his tongue traced the line of her upper lip, the feel of it soft and soothing.

You felt his tongue line your lip and you couldn't hold the whimper of fear that passed through you. He’d never kissed you before, not on the mouth anyway. You felt him deepen his kiss, his big hand cupping your face, pulling you into it more. Your mind went elsewhere, imagining anyone but him kissing you like this. You couldn't deny it, this intimate moment, completely lost on both of you for different reasons, felt good and he was good at it. He was damn good at it in fact, and that alone made you want to vomit your breakfast into his throat. At that, you jerked back, panting a little, feeling your lips swollen from the way he'd sucked your bottom one between his, pulling at it just the right way. You hated the feeling between your legs that it had evoked, your body betraying you just like it always did.

In an attempt to stave off the conflicting emotions spiking within you, you focussed on his face, the face you hated and to your surprise he looked dazed. The usual stoic expression that clouded his features had been replaced with something akin to surprise but no sooner had you noticed it, it was gone.

"Clean up and I'll meet you in the study." He told you, his voice a deep almost pained whisper. 

"But I don't..." you started but were quickly cut off. 

"You're a smart girl, figure it out," he smirked and slipped away. 

You were tempted to follow, just so you'd see where he was going but you knew not to defy a command. The feeling of unease seemed to disappear as you slumped your shoulders and instead defeat filled your frame. A trembling hand came to your lips as jittery fingertips touched your swollen skin. Your bottom lip quivered like a ripple in a river and you quickly covered your mouth, turning on a dime as your French toast littered the sink. If the water hadn't been running already, Ransom would no doubt have heard you retching. You rinsed your mouth out to attempt at hiding that vomit taste from your tongue and quickly finished your task of cleaning up the kitchen, salty tears dripping from your chin, mixing with the soapy water. 

When you could stall no longer, you sighed and headed out into the large hallway, taking a quick look around. It was light, airy, the grand staircase swept in and curved round to the next floor and your eyes lingered on the heavy wooden door just beyond it. You hesitated, and then with a dejected sigh realised there was no point even trying to escape. Even if it was unlocked, which you doubted, the threat to your family was just too much for you to risk. Instead, you decided to head down the corridor to your right and found yourself in a large open plan living room of sorts. It was decorated in clean whites and crisp greys with a huge feature stone open fireplace and sported a bar at the back. A brown leather sofa and two matching arm chairs were strategically placed around an expensive looking coffee table but you didn’t bother to look at the rest, this wasn’t the room you needed so you turned back on yourself, walked back into the hall and took the turning to your left.

This time you found yourself walking into what you could only assume was his study-come-den of sorts. It was huge, and once again sported a sofa pushed up against the wall, looking out over the spectacular view of not only the garden but the river too. But that wasn’t what caught your attention, nor was it the walnut desk and laptop that sat upon it. It was the floor to ceiling bookshelf behind it. Your mouth dropped open as you made your way towards it but then you stopped, biting your lip. Were you supposed to be looking at them? But, he had said to meet you in here. And left you to find your own way.  Surely, if he didn’t want you looking around he wouldn’t have left you to it.

Throwing caution to the wind you strode forward, your pace hurried this time and your eyes quickly scanned across some of the books. You couldn’t help but feel shocked. Whilst there was a huge collection of his Grandfather’s books, and a number of other crime novels of types, it was the colourful spines to your right that made your chest heave in delight. The entire Harry Potter collection. With a shaky hand you reached for The Philosopher’s Stone, noting the British version of the title, and opened the front page giving another gasp as you read the publishing details.

This was a first edition.  And from the date you also knew it would be one that contained the misprint errors. And as such, would be worth a small fortune.

“See something you like?” that familiar voice hit your ears and you gave a little shriek, jumping around, clutching the book to your chest to avoid dropping it.

“I’m sorry.” You hastily began to apologise “I was just…erm…”

“It’s ok.” He assured you, crossing towards you. Once more he encroached into your personal space and you felt the blades of your shoulders press into the shelf behind you. “Harry Potter fan?”

“Yeah.” You nodded, “Didn’t think they’d be your type of thing.

“They’re not really.” He shrugged “I’m a collector. Everything on the shelves, well they’re all first or limited editions, so worth a lot.”

“Figures.” You mumbled, turning round and slotting the book back into the space it had come from. As you did you felt him push up behind you, his hands on your hips, the unmistakable feel of his hard on dug into the lower part of your back and you fought to stop yourself shuddering. He was after pay-back for allowing you to leave your prison.

“Did you like the house?” he asked, brushing your hair off your neck.

“Yes.” You answered politely, your voice catching a little as he placed a kiss to the crook of your shoulder.

“You know, it could all be yours sweetheart if you just stopped fighting what you know you want” His kisses continued up your neck as his words whirled around your brain and you were back to where you had been in the kitchen. It felt good. And that disgusted you.

“Did you enjoy making breakfast?” he whispered, his lips by your ear.

“Yeah.” You nodded, your voice barely there.

“Show me how much.” His teeth nipped at your lobe, his hips grinding forward and you swallowed and closed your eyes. You knew what he wanted but as you turned to face him you had an idea. One which would save you being fucked no doubt over the desk or on the hard looking couch.

With a lick of your lips you looked at him and sank slowly to your knees, taking his sweats with you. His hard cock sprang free, slapping his lower abs and you reached out, grasping it in your hand.

“Fuck, yeah baby…” Ransom hissed as you moved your head forwards and took him in your mouth.

You pulled out all the moves, you took him as deep as you could, gagging a little as he wasn’t a small man. You kept your hand firmly on the base of his cock, you hollowed your lips, you swirled your tongue around his shaft and he let out a little groan his hand fisting in your hair as his hips bucked forwards.

“Jesus, I knew your mouth was smart but…” he panted, looking down at you. You raised your eyes to look at his as he bit his lip, his entire face contorted in pleasure…

Pleasure that was ruined by the sound of the doorbell.

 “What the fuck…” Ransom growled out, un-fisting his hand from her hair. “Who the fuck is that?”

He glanced down at her and she looked up at him, wide eyed. She was a mess, swollen lips, wet chin and dressed in nothing but her skimpy tank and shorts. With a frustrated growl, Ransom pulled his dick out of her mouth and grabbed his phone from the table to check the doorbell camera. His face blanched as he saw who it was.

“I don’t fucking believe it…” he mumbled, as she looked up at him.

“Who is it?” She asked, wiping her face, “I’m not exactly dressed for visitors, Hugh.”

Ransom might have been pre-occupied with the familiar face staring at him from his phone, but he still picked up on that 'Hugh' and he glared down at her. “No shit, and because we have a visitor, I'm gonna let that one slide. Get up.” She rose to her feet, blinking a little as he pulled off the thermal he was wearing and tossed it to her. “Put that on. No one gets to see you in silk but me.”

She blinked as she caught it, confusion spreading across her face. “Don’t you just want me to go-“

In a flash, he grabbed her chin between his thumb and finger and she winced, “If I wanted you downstairs I’d have said. So put the damn shirt on, and when he starts asking questions just remember what I said I could do to your family and friends.”

In complete complacency, he watched her slip his thermal over her head, her fingers barely peeking through the sleeves to fix her dishevelled hair. The material hit her mid-thigh and his eyes brows gave a flicker of approval before he walked to the entry and opened the door. "What do you want?"

"Pleasure to see you too, Mr. Drysdale..." that infuriating Southern drawl hit Ransom's ears with all the finesse of a cheese-grater. Benoit Blanc, without so much as a gesture of request, pushed past Ransom as he strode inside, stopping in the tiled entry, looking around.

"Do you have a warrant?" The man of the house snipped in his usual spiteful tone.

Blanc still didn’t reply, and Ransom rolled his eyes following him as he wandered down the hallway, stopping at the open door to the study. "Well, if it isn't the lady of the hour."

Ransom stood behind Blanc, an infuriatingly warning glare sent his girl's way. He noted the way she was sitting on the couch, her legs tucked underneath her, lips still swollen, cheeks flushed, hair tousled. She looked like a sex kitten, and maybe that was the idea. He warned her to sell it after all…

"Excuse me?” Y/N looked up at the two men in the doorway. 

Blanc stepped inside the room, taking a seat on the edge of the same couch where she sat. "I've been looking for you, young lady. A lot of people are looking for you, you know Miss Y/L/N.”

“I errr…” she swallowed a little as she slowly got to her feet, her hands pulling the hem of the thermal down before she folded her arms across her chest, not in a defiant manner, but almost as if she was hugging herself “Did someone send you or…”

“No, nothing like that. You see, I heard you'd gone missing, and I knew you had a work connection to Mr. Drysdale, that, shall we say didn't go quite as planned. So when things started adding up, I thought to ask the man himself."

“Well, congratulations, this is one mystery you actually solved correctly, Sherlock. As you can see she’s here and she’s fine, and we were in the middle of something, so if you don’t mind….” Ransom folded his arms, his eyes moving from hers to Blanc, who was irritatingly completely ignoring him, his gaze focussed intently on the woman who stood in front of him.

Ransom could see him take her in fully, now seeing the situation he may have just walked in on. She looked dishevelled and was missing crucial parts of her clothing, but she had no tears in her eyes, no markings looking to be of abuse or out of the ordinary. None that were visible anyway. Blanc’s gaze then dragged over to Ransom who was bare foot in joggers and still half aroused, which he did nothing to hide as he folded his arms over his naked chest.

Ransom held Blanc’s gaze, his chin jutting out defiantly, the detective only looking away when the lady of the hour spoke, her voice quiet, as she gave a small nod. "He’s right, I’m fine."

"Then why not tell your family where you are?”

“I err…” Y/N’s right hand gripped he cuff of the sweater sleeve tightly, “I just, well, I…”

Ransom could see that she was losing it and he knew he had to intervene. He walked over to her and placed an arm around her, kissing the top of her head lightly, "It's alright, Sweetheart. I know how he can be frustrating. We're doing nothing wrong."

With that he turned his gaze to the man in front of him, not even trying to hide the sneer of contempt that was crossing his face “I have neither the time nor the crayons to explain this to you Blanc.”

“Well, maybe Miss Y/L/N has some crayons hidden up her sleeve so to speak.” Blanc smiled innocently and Ransom felt the anger floor his system.

“You’re starting to really piss me off.” he snarled, “You barge into my home, without so much of an explanation…” his rant was stopped dead as Y/N placed her hand on his chest, palm splaying over his bare skin. Ransom swallowed at the touch of her fingers against his skin, firey hot just as they had been last night when they curled around his arms.

"Hey," she spoke and he looked down to see her giving him a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes but one that should be enough to convince the dumbass detective who was watching them. "It's okay." She then turned to Blanc as he held his hand up, palm open, speaking to Ransom.

“I’m not trying to be frustrating Mr. Drysdale, I'm merely enquiring after Miss Y/L/N’s wellbeing."

"I'm not here under duress if that's what you're thinking.” She spoke, clearing her throat. “Hu… Ra, we have had to keep our relationship private,” she stumbled on the right identity, settling for 'we'. Clearing her throat again and settling her nerves, she continued, "Mr. Blanc, as you well know, I'm reporter and his background has been less than stellar as of late. It no doubt would not look good for either of us if it had come to light. My reputation as a journalist would have been in tatters.”

“Well, lies and deception certainly go hand in hand when it comes to Mr. Drysdale...”

Ransom rolled his eyes dramatically “Change the record, Blanc. The static is a little loud.”

Blanc completely ignored him, his attention still on her. “So you caused all this worry, because of some…” he waved his hand in front of him, gesturing between the pair of them. 

Ransom’s arm curled round her even tighter, his fingers pressing into her hip and he felt her stiffen a little before she relaxed into his side and gave a small nod.

"Like I said, it wouldn’t have gone down well with my family, or my career.”

“Ahh, yes, your job, which you quit.” Blanc looked at her. “Yes, I spoke to your boss.” He answered her unasked question. “Why would you be so worried for your reputation as a journalist, if you’re not actually a journalist anymore?”

At that she took a deep breath “I quit the paper because my boss is an asshole. His antics on Halloween were a step too far. But that doesn’t mean I have no intentions of working ever again. I'm currently taking a long overdue sabbatical.”

Blanc studied her again, almost as if he was weighing something up and she once more began to fidget and Ransom decided he’d had enough.

"Okay, I’m done being polite,” Ransom moved his arm from around his girl and stepped towards Blanc, placing himself directly between the detective and the woman. “You've interrupted out little post brunch love affair and I’m horny, so…do you need help finding the door, or can your super sleuth skills figure the way back out of it on their own?”

“Miss Y/L/N?” Blanc spoke, his eyes locked onto Ransom’s. Ransom felt the nerve in his jaw twitch, the fact that Blanc wasn’t scared of him irritated him no end.

There was a pause and then her voice came clearly from behind him as she spoke, “If you'd be so kind as to not tell my family where I am, I'd appreciate it. I prefer this time without their unwanted opinion.”  Her voice was steady, measured almost. “You can tell them that you've found me, alive and well."

Blanc knew he wasn't welcome, he had proof of life and no reason to suspect foul play. He stood, his long wool coat falling into place around him. "Well, then I guess my work is done." He brushed passed Ransom and gave a quick quip, "I'm warning you...." 

"What was that?" His girl wondered. She'd heard him. 

"Have a nice day," Blanc nodded curtly “I’ll see myself out.”  

You watched the back of the detective as he left the large living room, Ransom following him to the doorway where he stood, arms folded, watching. The sound of Blanc’s feet on the tiles of the hallway grew fainter and fainter until eventually they stopped completely.  The latch of the door sounded and you fell to the closest thing you could sit on. Your while body shook with a chill that crept into your bones but not from the cold. No, you were sick to your stomach in fear and worry. The bile of deceit rose to your throat and had you not already spewed up your breakfast it would have most likely decorated the carpet of the study.  Instead, you swallowed down the sour bile as Drysdale approached you and you glanced up at him, blinking whilst he studied you for a second, his face passive. As you held his gaze, something akin to amusement flashed in his cold blue eyes and a twisted smirk spread across his face.

“Your acting skills certainly improved there along the way, at the end you were almost award worthy.” He drawled, his hands falling to his hips. “Even Meryl Streep would be jealous.”

"Fuck you," your voice quivered.

He arched an eyebrow, an amused expression on his features “Already played that game Sweetheart, and carry on back-chatting me and you’ll be back in the basement.”

"Wh... What?"

"You pulled through in the end there. It was a rough start, but you convinced Colonel Sanders that you were here on your own."

“Colonel Sanders?” You blinked, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Blanc. CSI KFC.” He replied. You were none the wiser as to what he was going on about and it must have shown on your face as he simply rolled his eyes. "Never mind...the point is, sweetheart, I'm in a good mood. And seeing as you behaved...”

"What?" Your voice was quiet, meek.

"If you shut that pretty little mouth for longer than a second, I'll explain." His tone was measured but you didn’t miss the underlying threat.

“Sorry.” Your eyes fell to the floor, your left hand worrying at your right.

“Eyes on me.” He barked and your head whipped up automatically and he smirked at you as you took a deep breath. “As I was saying, seeing as you were such a good girl, I thought I’d reward you, let you stay up here with me for the day.”

The notion shocked you. Your mouth went dry and you couldn't make sense of it. But then, the more you thought about it, the more his audacity irked you. He’d imprisoned you, used you, abused you…and now he was implying that staying in his company was a fucking reward.

“Wow, thanks…” you blurted before you could stop yourself, sarcasm lacing your tone. As soon as the words had slipped from your mouth you felt panic flood your system as he stepped towards you and reached out, his right hand curling around your throat.

"Don’t push me sweetheart.” His voice was low as his fingers squeezed the column of your neck, a reminder of how easily he could simply end it all whenever he chose. 

And just like that the softness that he had displayed with you earlier that morning was gone, and the shutters were back up. You swallowed hard, feeling the strain of your throat against his touch, his eyes now dark and full of that familiar angry lust and desire that chilled you from head to toe. Blanc had riled him, gotten underneath his skin, that was easy to see while your mouthy comments fuelled that ire. And as such, he needed an escape, an outlet.

And he was going to get it from you.

“Now on your knees and finish what you started."

[retroknightx]

hypmic headcanons

since nobody on my instagram appreciates me, i’m going to put them here, and it’ll be like a master post i can add onto that way anyway (which is convenient for me, because i keep adding on… yeah, it’s bad lmao. my notes document can only take so much) all of it will be under the line so you guys don’t just have a big ass post clogging your feed! to whoever my 4 followers are

starting with fling posse…

---

Ramuda Amemura

He’s trans.

He has a superiority complex to hide his inferiority complex.

He also likely has a little bot of a god complex… Just a tiny bit… Not to the point it’d endanger his life, but to the point he can never admit he’s wrong (I suppose this can also count as the superiority complex).

He also has a little bit of a schoolboy crush on Dice… that has lasted far longer than he’d ever like to admit – not that he’d ever admit it in the first place – and he gets jealous over Dice.

He started his whole thing with girls, whatever it is, as a power trip, which also explains why he likes to cause so much chaos.

Since he used to smoke, he started candy as a way to stop smoking and it slowly replaced his smoking habit (as I have yet to see him smoke otherwise, but keep in mind I’m not far into the manga and mostly I’m going off the ARB story).

---

Gentaro Yumeno

All writers are perfectionists (I’d know as one).

He’s probably very particular about the details and doesn’t like doing things without a plan.

He’s the lyric write for Fling Posse’s raps and does not enjoy making up lyrics on the spot; however he can if he must – This is also why he carries the book everywhere.

I honest to god don’t feel like he’s of this world and whatever his actual form is (irony in his rap name?), it scared Ramuda enough to create Fling Posse, so here they are.

---

now for the dice ones… it’s gonna be long!

---

Dice Arisugawa

He is, unfortunately, very oblivious to romantic approaches – especially from close friends such as his division members, for he’s been with them for so long that he can never imagine them falling in love with him.

He has abandonment issues/a fear of abandonment because his mother left him.

Speaking of his mother, Dice likely knows how to do “noble” things because he was raised by a politician; i.e. how to play piano and stuff like that.

Adding on top of that, I feel like Dice has an accumulation of many different skills from being all over the place – He learned how to do card tricks by watching others, and he probably learned bird calls from spending time with Rio.

He undoubtedly has ADHD (as a person with ADHD myself, you cannot tell me I am wrong)!

He’s well aware that’s he a leech, but he can’t stop himself because the addiction is stronger and he feels terrible about it; it’s why he often begs instead of anything else that would fit his character more.

He’s a very talkative person and often rambles to get his thoughts organized.

He doesn’t like being put into awkward situations or forced into silence because he is used the buzz of a casino and a busy city.

Relating to the ADHD canon, Dice puts his life on line not only for the thrill of it, but to keep his mind off of thoughts, and it’s also why he gambles; so he can focus on one thing.

He is numb to change because he’s a gambler.

He is very good at adapting to a new environment.

He doesn’t like being looked down up and that’s why he started gambling; to prove that he’s worth something.

He uses humor to cope if he can’t get his mind off of things with the thrill of gambling.

---

Extras (Fling Posse all together)

Dice has weird limbs, so clothing fits him weird, and Ramuda started making clothes for them because of that.

Ramuda chased after Dice after he stole his signature parka and the Fling Posse star was embroidered on later by Ramuda after the formation of Fling Posse.

Ramuda likely pulls whatever strings he has access to to make life easier for his division members (not that it stops them from getting into trouble, that is).

Gentaro spends a lot of time away when writing and likely forgets he’s even alive during those periods, so his division members make sure he’s still taking care of himself when he gets like that.

They all piss each other off, but in a platonic love kind of way.

---

moving onto matenrou! my favorite division <3

---

Jakurai Jingui

Oh, my poor man’s so tired. He just needs a long break and a spa day; speaking of this, he likely doesn’t ask for help often – it’s the messiah complex he undoubtedly has.

His hair is too long for him to be taking care of it himself, and it definitely looks in fantastic condition, so he definitely takes good care of it – I just don’t think he takes care of it himself; I think he enlists the help of his division members (as I headcanon that Matenrou is in a poly relationship).

Jakurai’s matureness can sometimes get in the way of other things, such as emotional moments, and he can come off as cold or distant when he doesn’t mean to come off that way.

Unlike the other divisions, Jakurai wanted to really separate from his past, and that’s why he named his division Matenrou instead of reusing something from the past. He also probably doesn’t like talking about the past.

His hair is naturally silver, but the lighter shades that are nearly white underneath was caused by stress.

He gets cold quickly, which is why he always keeps the lab coat on, and it’s also why he wears a turtleneck.

Jakurai does live in the same apartment as Doppo and Hifumi, but he’s always so busy that he often can’t get there, so he ends up sleeping at the hospital; he also has a separate apartment of his own that’s closer to the hospital if he has free time, but he’s not off work/off work but still on call.

---

Doppo Kannonzaka

Man, the first thing I thought when I saw him was that he has a choking kink. Enough said. He also likely has a praise kink.

If he didn’t have social anxiety and wasn’t so busy, he’d also probably be going over to Rio’s camp a lot. I think it’s because he’s so overworked that he doesn’t care about what’s in the food; as long as he gets it.

He’s probably passed out from exhaustion more than once and just got used to it.

Despite all his problems, he definitely wants to be known and he wants his name out there; he wants to be just like the other two and he definitely looks up to them already, but he aspires to be them.

He is so thankful for his divison members and he’s glad that they accepted him.

---

Hifumi Izanami

Hifumi is a classic case of “fake it till you make it”; I really don’t know how he became one of the most popular hosts in Shinjuku, but it’s definitely about the fake confidence and the jacket is a comfort object for him that allows him to have that confidence.

He cooks all the time for his division members and he uses the catches from fish all the time, too. He even brings the lunches to their works for them.

---

Extras

Since Hifumi’s always out so late, the others make sure he has everything he needs for whenever he wakes up and sometimes they wait for him.

They’re all in a poly relationship and I refuse to believe anything else; I mean, have you seen those “my room” dialouge in ARB? Fruity.

They probably all love to cuddle whenever they get the chance because they can’t do it often.

They definitely set up one day of the month for all of them to just be together.

---

buster bros time!

---

Ichiro Yamada

This may just be the Ichiro simp in me, but I think he has a very nice tummy that’d be nice to lay on; like a soft one if that makes any sense to anybody other than me.

He’s a very friendly person and if you’re close friends with him, he’s definitely loyal; he’d be willing to drop anything to help you kind of loyal, like he is to his brothers – all that, except the willing to die part.

I think he gets flustered easily and doesn’t know how to respond to compliments. That’s also probably the Ichiro simp in me.

Although he has to stop his brothers from ripping out each other’s throats all the time, he’s very proud of them and of their achievements, no matter what they are. He’s willing to praise them even for the tiniest things to make up for his absence in their lives.

He probably has a terrible sleeping schedule, but he could probably operate on pretty much anything. Two hours of sleep? That’s not an issue for him; he’s used to it.

He’s likely a cheapskate when it comes to himself, but when it comes to his brothers, he spares no expense if he can.

---

Saburo Yamada

He has a superiority complex. I mean, just look at how he acts with Jiro – that’s enough proof right there.

He got into hacking and all of that computer stuff because it was interesting to him; he’s probably pursuing a career in it, considering just how good he is at it. I feel like he’d make a good white hat hacker that tests your website security, like Alma in Va-11 Hall-A.

Call him a library, because he holds grudges for years.

I think he just likes picking arguments because he think it’s funny and there’s nothing better to do when you’re stuck with your brothers (as somebody with a sibling myself, I can attest to that).

---

Jiro Yamada

Anger issues. Yep, that’s it. That’s the headcanon.

Man probably goes dumpster diving to see what kind of treasures he can find; his room is probably full of that kind of junk.

He probably has greasy hair. It doesn’t matter how much he cleans it, it’s just greasy (as somebody with the same issue, go clean your pillows Jiro).

---

Extras

Ichiro has to hold Jiro back from just punching Saburo all the time.

God, somebody save Ichiro from his siblings; with how much they bicker, he probably has taken so much ibuprofen to stop headaches in his life that he should be considered dead from an overdose.

Despite being assholes to each other, they all help each other out – Saburo helps Jiro with his work, Jiro helps Saburo with whatever he can’t do, and Ichiro takes care of the rest. It’s the only thing keeping their bond together.

---

mad trigger crew, my beloved.

---

Rio Mason Busujima

Rio’s very stoic and that often doesn’t break, so it’s very rare to see a smile on his face. He has different smiles for different things too – there’s the business one; one so he doesn’t look as intimidating, and the actual genuine smile that’s very rare to see, but it happens when somebody appreciates his food.

Rio’s not good at understanding emotions and it takes him awhile to process emotions; he goes quiet in these moments and it can be confusing for those who don’t know him, but once he’s thought everything out, he’s very smart about responding.

He’ll never fully adjust to a life outside of the navy and military.

Opposite to Dice, he finds the buzz of a city to be too distracting for his thoughts and he enjoys his solitude, but he doesn’t mind company at all.

Due to how his unit was broken up, he refuses to abide by H law and keeps his gun on him. Even Rio can be spiteful. However, he mostly uses it for hunting, which is why he’s so far out in the forest.

He definitely has a lot of scars and that’s why he often wears his fatigues; he doesn’t wana come off as off-putting. His cards without the jacket did him so dirty. Of course he’d have scars from fighting in World War 3.

He can come up with strategies on the spot and is a very quick-thinker when it comes to combat.

Despite how ruthless he is when it comes to rap battles and being an ex-navy, he’s actually a very gentle soul.

I feel like he’s asexual, but homoromantic.

---

Samatoki Aohitsugi

He only uses the bad guy persona as a way to be left alone, but he’s actually a very kind person.

Despite being a yakuza, he actually abides to the H law and it’s probably only because of Nemu (however, this is only based off of the anime, so I can’t say for certain, but I haven’t seen anything in the manga disproving otherwise yet).

I just feel like he eats a lot throughout the day. I can’t explain this one, but he has the vibes.

He also knows how to cook quite well himself, and he does it for his division members sometimes.

---

Jyuto Iruma

He’s very cocky because he knows he can get away with things; I mean, he’s the authorties, why wouldn’t he get cocky about what he can do? However, it’s somewhat annoying to Samatoki.

If he wasn’t a gay bastard, Samtoki and Rio probably would’ve been arrested long ago. Thankfully for them, he is a gay bastard.

He likes looking good no matter what; it helps his confidence, so he dresses up to go out anywhere.

His glasses are probably just reading glasses.

He likes spending money on expensive things.

---

Extras

Samatoki and Jyuto are in a relationship. They’re so fruity that I’m sure I don’t have to explain this one.

Samatoki doesn’t approve of Rio dating Dice at all and it’s only because of Jyuto that Dice is still alive.

Rio is pretty much their marriage counselor; he has to constantly deal with them bickering, so of course he is. He’s pretty much the adopted child to save their marriage.

---

Ships

Riodice

Samajyu

Poly Matenrou

---

i will likely make a separate post for the ship headcanons because this will be much longer, but i think this covers all of them anyway, so here you go. enjoy.

[harryspet]

obedience | bucky barnes

[Warnings] dark bucky barnes x named oc, murder, and violence, non/dubcon oral and vaginal, outdoor sex, kidnapping, p/e/t play elements, bad google translate, implied agegap, mater/pet, lots of buildup, Stockholm syndrome(?)

A/N: I’ve been writing a bunch of Peter and Harry and kind of wanted to take a little break! This pretty much post endgame bucky. Sorry for any story inaccuracies! TRIGGER CONTENT AHEAD SO READ AT YOUR OWN RISK

In which Bucky kills her family of former Hydra members before taking her home as his pet.

Like, reblog and let me know what you think!

word count: 4.4k

Sam wanted him to let things go. Move on and focus on something else, he said. Sam thought it would be impossible to find any of them since it had been years since they were active members. The snap had given them a big enough distraction to escape. Bucky didn’t think it was fair that they could just disappear, change their names, and get to live another day after the destruction they had caused. 

Accept, they couldn’t stay hidden for long. It took months but Bucky finally tracked the small family to Manhattan. The German immigrants thought they could hide within the millions of citizens in the New York borough. They made several mistakes though only because they couldn’t get rid of the luxury they were used to. The daughter had a driver and bodyguard that took her to and from her private school. 

Bucky had cyberstalked her through her Instagram. The eighteen-year-old Senior posted a lot under the alias, Mina, that her parents had most likely given her. The Vogt family had turned into the Bradford’s of Manhattan’s elite class. The daughter didn’t go anywhere without her bodyguard, at least, that’s what her parents thought. Bucky noticed how she snuck out on Friday’s at the same time every week. 

How reckless could she be? Her parents are on the most wanted list in eight different countries. Teenage love was the only answer. Bucky saw the boy she met up with, a poor rockstar type, that gave her that rush of dopamine she desperately needed. 

Poor little rich girl.

Bucky purposely bumped into her while the couple was waiting for the subway, “Watch where you’re going, dude,” The boy spoke in a thick Queens accent. Her purse dropped and, because Bucky was dressed like a respectable man of society, the girl let him pick it up and hand it back to her. Their eyes met for a long moment and Bucky thought for a moment she was lost in his blue eyes. 

“Sorry about that, you two have a goodnight,” Bucky faked a smile as he walked away, tucking the girl’s apartment key into his coat. 

“Old creep, he was definitely checking you out,” Bucky heard as he walked away, a stoic look of determination on his face. 

+

Mina woke up frightened. She panted, looking around in the dark for the monster that was in her nightmare. Those striking blue eyes looked into the depths of her soul. Brandon had said the man was checking her out but he didn’t see what she saw. Hate. That man didn’t even know her and yet he hated her. 

Looking out the window across the room, Mina could clearly see the lights of the Manhattan Bridge. When they first moved here, her mother promised she would have an even better view than the master bedroom. They were still trying to get her to not be so upset about the move. Mina pulled back the fabric of her heavy duvet and decided she’d go downstairs to get some water. Her bare feet padded across the white carpet and she opened the doors that led into the hallway. 

As she walked down the hall, someone appeared around the corner, “What are you doing up so late, Miss Mina?” The maid asked, her hands full of towels that she was carrying to the linen closet. 

The maid looked over her, sweaty with tangled hair, clad in her polka-dotted robe and nightgown, “Just getting some water. I had a bad dream.”

The maid held out her hand, urging her to stop, “I can bring you some warm milk and cookies, you should go back to your room,” Something changed in the older woman’s eyes. If Mina wasn’t so tired, she might’ve thought the maid was warning her.

 “It’s okay,” Mina insisted, stepping forward, “You work too much-”

Before Mina could even step forward, the maid collapsed on her side. Blood splattered against the wall and Mina thought she saw pieces of her brain. A bullet had come from down the hall Mina was about to turn on to. Mina covered her mouth, backing away, as the man from the subway stepped around the corner. 

No mask. He didn’t plan on letting her leave alive.

Mina hurried backward, towards her room, but the man took off after her. As her fingers curled around the door handle, she felt metal wrap around her upper arm. She screamed loud, a piercing scream even louder than the gunshot, as she struggled against him. 

The man didn’t speak, just pressed the long tipped gun against the side of her head, “P-Please, please, don’t kill me,” She stuttered out, shutting her eyes shut tight, “Please!”

“Scream one more time and I’ll kill you,” The man jerked her away from the door. The man pulled her back towards the maid’s dead body and down the hall, he came from. Mina’s knees were so weak that she was struggling to walk beside him. She let out a whimper as she was forced to step over the maid’s body. 

“W-Why are you doing this?”

It couldn’t be because of the rude thing Brandon said, right? This was too insane for that. 

He had killed someone. Killed. 

The man dragged her into the room she knew as her father’s office. And despite the man’s order, Mina screamed again. Her mother was bleeding from her abdomen, laying flat on the old rug in front of his desk. The man let go of her arm and Mina ran to her. 

He killed her mother. 

As Mina touched her mother, she realized there was no life left in her. 

Her father was still alive, just bent over and handcuffed to his coffee table, “sie ist tot,” She heard her father say, his thick German accent coming through, “She’s dead. Thank the Winter Soldier for that.”

Mina looked up at the man standing over them, her face covered in tears, “Papa?” Her lips trembling, “W-What’s happening?”

Her father didn’t answer as he looked down, talking to himself, “Mashina. Belyy. Doroga. Svecha. Nebo …” He was spouting off random words in Russian and her anger and frustration only grew. 

The man stepped forward, slamming her father’s head into the table, “I’m not your puppet anymore, Vogt,” Her father laughed, blood dripping down his face. 

“I like your new haircut, Winter Soldier,” Her father teased which only resulted in a punch across the face, “It suits you.” 

“Papa!” She shouted to him, wanting him to stop antagonizing. His wife was dead and his daughter was at gunpoint yet he was teasing the man?  “Please stop hurting him!”

The man finally looked at her, “Your daughter is beautiful, Frank. Is that what you get when you make them in labs?”

Frank? That was not her father’s name. 

“What is it that you want? Money? Being Captain America’s best friend not pay much?”

+

Bucky tried not to show any emotion but becoming Bucky instead of Winter Soldier had its problems. He was still getting used to showing emotion. 

“I want you dead. For every single death that you cause. For the years of my life that you stole.”

Frank shook his head, “Don’t give me the bad guy/good guy spiel. Name your price, Barnes.”

Bucky scowled, tucking away his gun, “What if I said I wanted your daughter?” The girl's eyes widened, still holding onto her dead mother. 

“Papa?” Her father didn’t answer.

“I know what you think, Barnes, but I am not monster,” Frank spoke calmly. Too calmly, “I can give you my contacts, other members who escaped.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes at the man, “Give me an example, a name, and I’ll decide if it’s worth it.”

“... Viktor Vanzin,” Bucky grinned, pulling out his pocket knife. 

“You’re lying,” Bucky had killed that man himself. That meant Frank was truly out of the loop, “I want your daughter. A life for a life.”

“She’s innocent,” Frank continued. 

“So was I,” Bucky countered, waiting for a response. 

“Okay, Barnes. Life for a life,” As Frank finally nodded yes, Bucky thought the girl might faint. She went completely still, her heart completely broken. Bucky almost felt bad but he was really doing her a favor. 

“You evil fucking bastard,” Bucky cursed, moving behind the man and wrapping his arm around the man’s neck. Frank struggled as Bucky drove the knife several times into his stomach. He wanted him to slowly bleed out, to suffer. The man slumped back over the table, coughing up blood. 

He spoke his last words to her, “I-I’m s-sorry, schatz.”

Treasure.

She fainted. 

+

Mina awoke on a thin mattress in a cold room. She reached to clutch her robe but only found her thin, blue nightgown. She wrapped her arms around herself, the sound of her heart pounding flooding her ears, before quickly sitting up. She regretted it instantly, gaining a headache quickly. 

She looked around and found now windows. The walls were a boring beige and there were absolutely no decorations. Only one wooden chair in the corner. Bucky heard the commotion and walked into the room a few moments later. He found her standing, pacing around the locked room.

He expected her to be angry, to shout at him, but instead, he watched eyes well up with tears. He much rather she is angry then have to watch her cry, “Why didn’t you kill me?”

“You want to be in the afterlife with those evil people?”

“I-I’m evil too, remember?” She choked on her sobs. She remembered how her father was willing to give her over to this man in a trade for his life. She remembered how he died anyways and she was taken by this man too. 

“I haven’t decided that.”

“I know they must’ve done something bad to you but they … t-they were my parents,” She struggled to speak, “They loved me. Doesn’t that show some kind of humanity?”

Bucky leaned back against the door,  fingers brushing through his beard as he thought, “You truly don’t know who they really were?” She was silent, “They were top scientists for Hydra. They’re responsible for thousands of deaths and you … they lied to you.”

She shook her head, “No, they work in finances. They could never do that.”

“I think your father showed you his true colors in his final moments. If that doesn’t convince you then I don’t know what will.”

“Why didn’t you kill me?”

Bucky leaned forward, “So, even in death, they can look at you from the other side and feel no peace.”

“Please … please just kill me.”

“Where’s the fun in that, my little treasure?”

+

Mina hated her parents. 

She loved them because they were her parents and hated them because they were the reason this happened to her. She would never see them again, never see Manhattan or Brandon ever again. 

When Bucky walked into the small room later that day, he had a black box as well as a tray of food. Mina held her knees to her chest, staring at the wall, “Leave me alone.”

Bucky sighed, “I think you’re gonna need your strength,” Out of the corner of her eyes she could see his shirt was short-sleeved, his metal arm fully exposed. He set down the tray by her sad excuse of a bed. 

He waited but she didn’t move. Bucky gently placed down the box before moving towards her. She flinched away from him but he grabbed her leg, pulling her flat on her back, “No, don’t! Please don’t!” His metal arm wrapped around her throat and with a swift movement, he ripped off her nightgown. She was weeping again as he did the same with her bra and panties. She grabbed at his arm which was completely useless. 

When he was done, Bucky stood up, watching as she scrambled to cover up with her arms, “You’re sick!” 

Bucky tossed the remnant to the side, “Good girls get to wear clothes. Eat and I’ll think about getting you some clothes. I’m in control here, I won’t put up with your tantrums,” Mina stared at him and Bucky was relieved that she was scowling at him instead of crying, “Eat.”

Mina flinched at the sound of his voice but moved forward. It was heated up canned soup and a plastic cup of water. She was glad that he splurged on her. Sitting on her knees, she covered her breast with one hand and moved the plastic spoon with her other hand. 

It was lukewarm and not that appetizing but she ate most of it. Bucky had pulled the wooden chair closer and taken a seat, “C-Can I have clothes now?” Her face was completely red and, now, she found it hard to even look at him. 

“I’ll think about it in a few days,” Bucky answered simply, and, as it were even possible, her face fell even more, “Considering your reaction, it seems like a good punishment.”

“Why do you want to punish me?” Mina asked, her voice timid. Was not taking her from her family enough?

“Oh, doll,” Bucky’s face softened as he leaned forward in the chair, “I don’t want to punish you but you won’t be obedient otherwise.”

To Bucky, she was a prize. A product of all that he had done and all that he had overcome to get to this point. He had survived her parents and now he owned their lives as well as their daughters. He’d spit on their graves by making her loyal and obedient to him. 

“If I promise to behave, can I have some clothes?” Bucky grinned, thinking she was smarter than she looked. 

Bucky’s eyes went to the black box and he swiftly picked it up, “I have something else for you to wear. A temporary one until you graduate.”

“Graduate?”

“I’m thinking of calling it Bucky’s Reformatory School for Troubled Little Girls,” She couldn’t tell if he was joking but he seemed very proud of the name he came up with. He opened the box, pulling out a plain black collar with a single silver loop, “Crawl over here, pet. Let me put it on you.”

“Mr. Barnes, please-”

“Call me Master.”

+ 

It took Mina two months to even earn a pair of panties. And the panties he chose for her were skimpy, to say the least. 

Mina was used to being naked now and she was almost used to Bucky. He insisted on complete order in his house. They woke up at the same time every day, ate breakfast, Bucky went off probably to murder people and came back in the afternoon to torture her.

That morning, she sat at his feet, eating her breakfast from a plate on the floor. Apparently, she wasn’t allowed the luxury of eating at the table or even sleeping in an actual bed. It was her job to make the food, the way he taught her, and she wasn’t even allowed to enjoy it. 

She wasn’t sure exactly where this rustic house was and Bucky didn’t care to answer questions like that. It wasn’t like anywhere she had lived when she was growing up. Though it wasn’t the biggest it was quite homey and somewhere she probably would’ve liked if she weren’t stuck here. The place had a big porch and there were trees surrounding most of the property except for a pond she noticed one time. 

Bucky was going through his computer, looking at codes Mina couldn’t understand. It probably had something to do with whatever mission he had to go on today. 

Mina itched at her collar, a reminder that she was not yet perfect to Bucky. 

“Mina,” She looked up quickly. Every time she heard him say her name she hoped he’d say something along the lines of giving her freedom. It made her think about what would happen if she was free. Where would she even go? She didn’t have any more family and she’d be surprised if Brandon hadn’t forgotten all about her, “Dishes.”

She gave him a solemn look, standing up with her plate in her hand. She grabbed his too and she felt his eyes over her body. He seemed to resist his urges well. Mina knew he desired to touch her and it would be a matter of time before he violated her that way. 

She walked the dirty dishes over to the sink, still feeling his eyes on her as he sat at the kitchen table, “Do you want to do something fun today, pet?”

“What do you mean, Master?”

She heard his chair creak as he rose from his seat, “We’ll go into town. We’re in dire need of groceries.”

Bucky watched her carefully, wanting to see her reaction. This was all another test, of course, to see if he could trust her out in public. 

She turned her head and Mina almost smiled for the first time in a long time. He moved behind her and Mina focused back on the dishes, “Yes, yes, that would be very nice.” He smacked her hard on her bottom and Mina winced, “I mean yes, Master.”

She felt his body heat on her skin as she turned off the water, setting the dishes into a drying rack. As she turned around, Bucky grabbed her by her neck. Luckily for her, it wasn’t the metal one, “You’d be very grateful to me, right?”

Mina nodded as best as she could, forced to look into his eyes, “What would you do to thank me?”

Mina hesitated but not for long as she felt his hand tighten, “Whatever you want, Master.”

Bucky smirked, “Hmm, and if I wanted your lips around my cock? What would you say?”

He loved this, watching her squirm. She actually thought about it and she wasn’t strong enough to defy this. Throughout this whole process, she thought she’d be stronger than this. All she knew is she’d do anything to escape this house,  “I … I-If that’s what you wanted, Master.”

The accomplished look on his face told her enough, “Let’s get dressed then.”

+

The drive from the house in Bucky’s truck was shorter than she expected. That told her that she wasn't as far away from civilization as she originally thought. She watched all the road signs but she still couldn’t quite tell where she was. It looked to be maybe that they were in the South by the type of trees. 

It seemed to be a very small town with one main street and a few more buildings. 

She was wearing a pair of regular jeans that were a little too big for her and a black hoodie that only partially hid the collar. It was another reminder that she was not a regular person anymore. Perhaps she never was.

Bucky grabbed her hand as they walked into the practically empty Piggly Wiggly. He grabbed a cart with his other hand, greeting one of the old ladies behind the cash register. 

She was not to talk to anyone unless they addressed her and Bucky would kill anyone that she tried to ask for help. Violently, he made sure to add. 

She tried her best to enjoy what little freedom she had but her mind kept wandering back to what she had “promised” Bucky she’d do in return for this outing. 

“Can we get something to eat?” She blurted out, before whispering, “Master.”

Bucky thought for a moment, pointing out the brand of Milk he wanted, waiting for her to fetch it for him. 

“Want to spend even more time in my company?” She scowled on the inside but nodded anyway. 

Bucky chose a diner on the edge of town and they seemed to get stares from everyone inside as they walked in and chose their booth. Bucky looked around as if he wasn't used to being in places like this either. 

Bucky asked her what she wanted so he could order her, avoiding as much human contact as possible, “ … and a chocolate milkshake.”

“That might cost you extra later, Mina,” Her lips pressed down into a thin line. 

“Whatever you wish, Bucky,” It was brave, saying that when he couldn’t reprimand her. Bucky smirked, knowing what she was doing. 

Bucky proceeded to order for them, including the milkshake she wanted, “Can I use the bathroom?”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, “Do you think I was born yesterday?” Quite the opposite, she thought. 

Mina slouched back in her seat. It was only recently that she looked at him and actually thought he was attractive. Maybe they would’ve worked together if he weren’t so cruel. 

“Maybe if I pee my pants, someone will notice and-”

“Mina,” He practically growled her name, “Don’t ruin this opportunity I’m giving you.”

As the waitress approached with their food, Mina slowly slid the knife on the table into her lap and then the pocket of her sweatshirt. Bucky actually smiled at the waitress and she seemed to swoon. 

Mina enjoyed her milkshake and the two sat quietly for most of the meal. Bucky watched as she devoured her food and felt a little bit better about rewarding her. It had been a long two months but she was coming along a few more months, and she wouldn’t have a single thought that didn’t involve making Bucky happy. 

He grabbed her hand as they both went up to pay the check, “You two are a lovely couple,” Mina didn’t even react and the woman only smiled awkwardly, “Have a good night.”

“What do you say?”

“Thank you, Master.”

Bucky could sense the tension between the two of them growing as they got into his car. As they traveled down the dirt road, a feeling swept over both of them. A feeling of knowing and worry. Bucky put the car in park, sighing, “You’re clever but not clever enough, Mina.”

Mina froze, “Give me the knife. I won’t ask again.” Bucky’s words were sharp, demanding. 

Mina reached into her pocket and gripped the knife. As quickly as she could and with as much force as she could muster, she shoved into him. It only entered a few centimeters into the right of his chest but the motion stunned him. Mina opened her door and jumped out. 

It was one last valiant effort at her freedom. Bucky’s chest rumbled with anger as he opened his own door, causing it to almost fall off its hinges. He chased her as she ran into the treeline. Bucky was unnaturally fast and she was only a few seconds ahead of him. 

She didn’t even make it thirty feet before a metal arm wrapped around her waist and through her small body over his shoulder. She fought with the last of the strength she had as he brought her back over to the truck. 

“You have no one,” he threw her body down, pinning her against the front side of the truck, “No one except for me. Do you understand that?”

She nodded, trying to ease his wrath. He was bleeding, she could see it seeping through the plaid of his shirt, “No one else who’s going to give a shit about whether you live or die.”

“I’m sorry,” She whimpered but it wasn’t enough. 

By her shoulder, he forced her down to the ground. She didn’t move as he began to undo his jeans. She closed her eyes but Bucky roughly grabbed her chin, “Look at me!” She did as his erection sprang from his underwear. It pressed against her closed lips, “Open.”

Whatever gentleness he was previously going to give her was gone. He shoved his erection inside her mouth, instantly making her gag with how deep it went.  

He groaned as he moved inside her with animalistic lust. Saliva dripped down her chin and her eyes filled with tears from the lack of oxygen. He even pinched her nose shut to torture her further.

She’d grab onto his thighs for some sort of balance and he’d simply push away her hands, using her mouth like a barbarian. 

Bucky didn’t want to finish in her mouth, he hadn’t waited this long for that. He pulled her up from her position on her knees only to pull the jacket over her head. Luckily, there was no one around to see what was happening in his driveway. 

He turned her around swiftly before easily yanking down her pants and panties as well, He pressed her front into the hood of the car, positioning himself at her entrance. Mina’s body had betrayed her and Bucky could feel her wetness. 

“You’d enjoy this more if you weren’t so stubborn, pet.”

He entered her slowly and Mina cried out, the pressure incredibly intense. 

Bucky held her waist, dragging her body back onto him and then pushing it forward as he moved in and out. He grunted, noting how tight she was around him. It felt like they were perfectly matched together. 

Bucky sped up his pace, his hand reaching around to rub her sensitive bulb. She flinched from the touch but he could tell it was from the sudden pleasure. She was tightening around him and he could tell she was already coming. Bucky made a note about how sensitive she was. 

The first orgasm ripped through her, completing shattering her world in the process. How could she be turned on by this? Maybe what she felt had been wrong all along. She tried to hold in her moans but that proved futile quickly. 

Bucky wasn’t done with her yet, turning her back around to face him and lifting her leg so he could slide into her again. She looked tired from the first one, tears still staining her face. Bucky held her neck in his metal hand as he slammed into her a few more times. He finished inside her with his lips on hers. As he came, he removed his hand and he felt Mina return his kiss. They moved well together, his tongues brushing hers as it became sloppier. 

Mina was crying still, not because of the gagging but because she realized what Bucky said was true.

“I’m the only one you have,” He spoke, starting to kiss her chin and then her neck. She nodded vigorously in agreement. 

“I know, I-I know,” Her eyes didn’t leave his. 

Bucky pulled away, looking her over, loving how perfect she was, “Let’s get you in the bath, doll.”

+

Hope you enjoy this! I have another Sebastian fic called plaything and a bunch of dark Peter stuff. I’m currently trying to write a Bucky/Steve/Peter related Walking Dead AU so hopefully my idea for that works out lol.