#it’s not really Rebels and it’s certainly not a satisfying finale to most of the season

[inquisitor-apologist]

Have we, as a fandom, progressed to the point that we can realize that Twilight of the Apprentice, while a good episode, is not a particularly great Rebels episode and is certainly the least functional finale in the entirety of Rebels?

[numericalbridge]

As someone who also used to have Raine as one of their favorites I really feel like most of their dynamics with characters that aren't Eda got unexplored, like for how little there's of it Darius was one of the best cases, Raine relationship with The BATTs never gets brought up again past ER, they practically never interact with Lilith and their scenes with Luz & King are almost none. Like I love Raine, but I always held onto hope that they were going to be explored beyond Raeda and I was kind of disappointed in that regard.

And as you said, the possesion plot would feel like it had more meaning if Belos & Raine have some sort of interaction before that, because before S3 you're not even given reason to think Belos knew their name beyond "well he gotta know what the Coven Heads are called right?", and being Raine a rebel it feels like a waste to not have Belos at least acknowledge the rebellion in a meaningful way.

They're still a good character with great characterization but it's clear where the writers priorities lied and I wish it wasn't so obvious.

(Although in regards to their dynamic with Darius and he indulging them in a lots of ways I always hc it as Darius coming to see them as a friend and Raine eventually matching up, even if canon doesn't give me much to work with. But your commentary now gave me the idea of Raine not quite matching that up and having complicated feelings over it even if I don't think Darius would mind and is certainly a concept.

In any case what little the writers put there gives foot to an interesting dynamic both in canon and post-canon and I wish they realized).

Sorry it took me ages to reply, but i wanted to rewatch Oh, Titan first.

But yes, i agree. The fandom has a strong reaction when someone talks about the way Raine barely got to interact with anyone but Eda, but compared to Darius - he has less screentime but still has meaningful relationships or hinted relationships with resolutions with Hunter, Eber, Raine and Alador and a backstory with his mentor that all are at least partially shown through his PoV... Raine who is supposed to be more important has... Darius (briefly), Luz (and their most important scene is about Eda) and Terra (with barely any resolution/focus on Raine's feelings), but not even a background reunion with the Batts, no real interactions with King, no personal rivalry with Belos until the final episode. And them constantly losing their agency without satisfying resolution (well, at least for me the resolution wasn't worth all that happening to them, but some people think it was good) doesn't help.

I think Raine and Darius are definitley positioned as equals and equally friendly/annoying to each other in Oh, Titan, but it is just sad it never got continued even for a backgound scene of them interacting in a montage. And tbh when i rewatched their scene it was still awesome, but i also always half-suspected it was made just to make the episode's ending more wholesome and there was no futher thought to their relationship and so it is retconnable, and it frustrates me, lol.

[stargazingthenightaway]

See Something You Like? Part 4

Pairing: Rebels Rex x Reader

Word Count: 6.1K

Warning: NSFW 18+ Sexual tension, yearning, dirty thoughts, praise kink, size kink, fingering, oral (female receiving) Dom!Rex, slight predator/prey vibes

A/N:  What do you do when you’re in the middle of a heat wave and don’t want to go outside? Write smut! Turing up the heat dial. Let me know if you would like to be added to the tag list.  

The sound of his footsteps fade away down the hall, his steady gait giving no indication that he’d left you a wound-up mess in the practice booth. If anything, that was the walk of a man who had every assurance he could wring out every moan, whimper and scream out of you, all with just a touch of his hand. The certainty that he’d be knuckle deep inside you again after finding you waiting for him back in your quarters, and you’d be waiting because you’re his good girl.

You listen until you hear the faint hiss of the entryway open and close before you slide down to the floor, legs finally giving out. You sit unceremoniously on the ground, legs spread to the sides and struggling to calm your breathing. Your heart could jumpstart an X-wing it was beating so fast. 

Did that really happen? You think to yourself. Did Rex really just do that?

The ache in your folds tell you it very much did. Thinking about his thick fingers sends a pulse in your core, reminding you how empty you feel, and how much better it was when Rex was filling you up. Your thighs clench together to ease the sensation, wanting to get to the safety of your quarters before someone else finds you in this compromising position. Imagine explaining that to the higher ups. The stern face of General Draven is enough to put your arousal on the back burner, for now. 

When your breath is steady enough you stand up and while you very much enjoyed how skillful Rex was, walking around in damp panties was very much not something you want to do for the rest of the day. 

Reaching over, you shut off the simulation, targets moving back to their spots by the wall, and make your over to get your blaster, placing it in your holster before leaving, legs slightly wobbling the short distance. They get better as you walk down the main hallway to the entryway, but every so often there is a tremor that causes your steps to falter.

There is no way that you are in any state to finish your reports, not that you’d want to right now, so you head back to your quarters. It was maddening how easily Rex could walk away when you knew you’d struggle just to walk out of the practice booth, never mind the winding hallways that you had to navigate to get to your quarters. Each time your panties rub against your folds keeps you hovering between anticipation and frustration, and you want to scream. Anticipation because you know Rex will come back and make sure you’re satisfied, frustration because you have to wait. The force must have been on your side for once since you don’t meet anyone on your slow walk back to your room. 

When you open the door you look at your quarters and wince just a little bit. While you could confidently say you were not the messiest person on base, you wouldn’t call yourself the neatest either. You’d like to say your room looked lived in. Yesterday’s uniform was hanging on the back of your desk chair, boots kicked haphazardly by the entrance, reports stacked on any available surface and various knick-knacks clustered on shelves, tokens from missions or gifts from friends. While it certainly made the room homey, it’s not the setting you’d like for a sexscapade with a certain rebel captain. 

You busy yourself around the room, filing reports away or neatening up the stacks on your desk, putting your boots on the shoe shelf by the door and tossing your dirty uniform in the laundry hamper. Once that’s done you give everything a quick once-over with an old shirt. All in all, clean up is over faster than you’d thought it be, but then again, your quarters aren’t that big to begin with. 

Now that you’re done, you’re not quite sure what to do with yourself. What’s the standard procedure for waiting to get dicked down by the one you’ve been fantasizing about. It wasn’t like a manual came with your rebel registration packet. You sit down on the bed only to stand right back up. Right, your panties. 

Peeling off your rumpled clothes, you toss those into the hamper before getting a clean pair of underwear, tossing a loose shirt on over top your bra. You don’t bother with a new set of pants, the shirt being long enough to give you some modesty if someone came by. 

Well, that took all of thirty seconds you think sourly. 

Flopping back on the bed, you stare at the ceiling. Twiddling your thumbs doesn’t seem very productive, but your mind is too buzzy to focus on reports. You wiggle up your bed so that your head on resting on your pillow. You wonder how long Rex’s meeting is going to take, if he’s feeling as antsy as you. Is he thinking about how you sounded underneath him, how easily his fingers slipped inside you? Or is he wondering how he’d take you when he gets back, if he’ll bend you over the desk, or have you suck his cock before getting you on all fours, mounting you from behind? Would he call you his good girl after filling you up with his cum?

You squirm and rub your legs together, feeling the heat start to build back up, getting you all tingly and eager for his touch. Your hand sneaks down your front, picturing Rex’s hand in your mind, how it felt, how warm it was. Just as you reach the band of your panties you hesitate. This wouldn’t be disobeying him you think to yourself. He didn't say anything about fantasizing, only that you weren’t allowed to touch to get yourself off. Deciding a little touch would’t hurt, your hand dips down beneath your panties, tracing your slit over the thin fabric. You close your eyes and picture Rex sliding between your legs, you spread them a little wider, imagining he’s there with you. Back n’ forth, you finger follows the same path, changing up the pressure every so often. 

“Look at you mesh’la” Rex coos, “So eager for me you can’t help but touch yourself. 

Moving your panties to the side you move two fingers along your folds, feeling the slick that has started to collect at your opening. You gather some and bring it up to your clit, rubbing gentle circles over it. 

“That’s it, nice and slow. No need to rush” he says, sitting back to watch, hand stroking his length. “Show me what you want.”

“I want you” You moan as you start to rub faster, your other hand playing with your nipple through your shirt “I want you so bad.”

Rex spreads your legs wider, putting you fully on display “Show me where you want me” he commands.

Your fingers leave your clit and dip into your opening once “I want you here,” you turn pleading eyes up to him, “please, help me. Need your touch.”

He smirks “Well then, convince me to help.”

“Reeeex” you whine, speeding up your thrusts, fingers plunging into your heat. The coil of pleasure builds, you’re so close - 

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

You rip you hand from between your legs and roll to the side, squeezing your legs together. That was more than just touching! You whimper, your pussy flutters around nothing, denied cumming yet again. You’re lucky your comm went off when it did, or else you would not have obeyed Rex’s order. Pulling it over, you find that it’s silent, no blinking light indicating a call. Then what-

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

Chest heaving you sit up, realizing the sound is coming from outside your door. Scrambling up, you nearly trip in your haste to open the door, momentarily forgetting about your flushed state. You hand slaps down on the entryway button and there he is.

“Rex!” You exclaim, face breaking out into a smile “What kept you?”

Rex stands with his fist poised to knock again before he moves it back to his side, taking you in. Hair mussed, chest straining against your shirt, face flushed and the most beautiful smile on your face. All for him. He knows he wasn’t gone that long to warrant such a welcome, but he wasn’t going to complain. With any luck, seeing you like this would become a permanent fixture of his day. 

He wants to see you sleepy eyed in the morning, snuggled close before work calls you both away, watch you blaze with determination as you outline decrypted enemy intel, share secret touches that are just for him alone. But most of all, that you keep this smile just for him, when he comes back to you. It lights up some forgotten part of him that says you’re home.

Rex is stunned for a moment, by the power that is you, before coming back to the present. “It almost sounds like you missed me, mesh’la” he says with a grin before leaning into your space “and you got all dressed up.” He rubs the hem of your shirt between his fingers. “Answering the door like this could give a man ideas.”

“Naughty ones I hope,” you say as you loop your fingers through Rex’s belt, tugging him inside your room, “someone did promise to take care of me when he was finished his meeting.” You smile coyly up at him, “Sound familiar?”

“Maybe” he says, punching the lock once the door has shut behind him. Don’t need any interruptions he thinks. “I might need a reminder though.”

“I think that can be arranged, Sir” you say before you’re tug him flush against you, his hands settling on your hips. Rising on your tiptoes, you slot your mouth over his, linking your hands behind his neck, pulling him closer. There’s no rush for fear of being discovered, so you take your time, savouring the feeling of your lips moving against his, slow and languid, reacquainting themselves after being apart. 

Rex groans low in his throat, hands kneading your sides, letting you take the lead for this kiss. As you press yourself even closer, he feels your fingers brush against the side of his beard, cradling his face between your palms, when he feels something confusing. 

He pulls away slightly, ignoring your little mewl “Cyar’ika, why is your hand wet?”

You look at him in confusion “Wet, what do you mean w-” You freeze up as your fantasy barrels to the front of your mind, your very hands on fantasy. In your haste to get to the door you had forgotten to wipe off the evidence of your arousal. Taking a breath, you relax your body. You got this. 

“I was washing my hands before you arrived and was drying them when you knocked on the door.”

Rex raises an eyebrow before slowing pulling your hand away from his neck and bringing it in-between the two of you. He looks at it for a moment before commenting. “Drying?” He sounds skeptical “and only two are still wet?” 

You give him your best innocent look “I was eager to get to the door.”

Rex hums in thought before giving you a stern glance “So your wet fingers wouldn’t have anything to do with the sounds I heard through your door?” He wraps his other arm around your waist, keeping you nice and snug against him, locked in his embrace.

“How you were moaning my name like a loth cat in heat?” Your guilty look says it all. “Cyar’ika” he tsks.

You look away, embarrassed to have been caught with your hand in the proverbial cookie jar. “You said I wasn’t allowed to get off” you mumble to his shirt.

“What was that? You’ll need to speak up cyar’ika” Rex lets go of you hand and brings his underneath your chin, lifting your face up. You look over his shoulder, not ready to look into his eyes and see the disappointment there. He gives you chin a gentle shake “Eyes over here, I won’t ask again.”

While his tone is gentle, you just know that there will be consequences if you don’t listen, so you shyly meet his gaze and find faint amusement there. 

Rex gives you a quick kiss “There’s my good girl. See what happens when you listen?” He smoothes the hair back away from your face and you’re spurred on to hear him call you good girl again.

“You said I wasn’t allowed to touch to get myself off” you huff “technically I wasn’t disobeying you.” 

He moves a lock of hair behind you ear. "And if I hadn’t knocked on the door, would you have been able to stop yourself from cumming?” Rex leans his head next to yours, his mouth trailing up to you ear. “Would you have been able to stop yourself from finding completion with fingers that weren’t mine?”

You can’t find the words, so you just shake your head.

That seems to be the answer he's looking for, as he starts to kiss his way down your neck. “Oh mesh’la, while you might not have disobeyed me, you were well on your way to doing so.” He feels you grab the fabric of his shirt, steadying yourself. “There must be some sort of punishment for you.”

The way he said that sends shivers run down your spine. “And what type of punishment were you thinking of?” You ask, tilting your head, exposing more of your neck. 

“Nothing terrible, but something I know we’ll both enjoy.” He suddenly picks you up, listening to your little eep as your legs wrap around his waist. “Plenty of time to figure it out later, Right now,” he grins as he walks towards your bed “I want to hear you moaning my name again mesh’la.”

You bounce a little as you’re dropped on the bed, and your hurry to take your shirt off. You stop when you hear the “Not so fast” from Rex. Confused you look up at him.

His palm caresses the side of your face, “I’ve waited so long to see you like this mesh’la, eager and ready for me, let me unwrap my present.” 

Your eyes widen before you get a mischievous twinkle in them. Lying back, you place your arms above your head, and enjoy the way that Rex’s breath hitches. “I wouldn’t dream of denying you Sir” you purr “by all means, unwrap away.”

Rex is over you in a heartbeat, legs straddling yours, hands by your head. “Such a brat” he growls before kissing you. While he may have let you lead the earlier kiss, he makes sure that you know he’s in control this time, and he wants to take every gasp and moan you can give him. Rex is fierce in his domination, sucking on your tongue before pushing his own into your mouth. He’s pleased that you give your all as well, kissing him back just as fierce, arching up into his touch and sighing out your eagerness for more.

He starts tugging your shirt up, fingers grazing over your breasts before giving them a squeeze, swallowing down your heady moan. You sit up, breaking the kiss momentarily so he can whip off your shirt before his mouth is back on yours, hungry for more. Rex traces the lace of your bra before reaching around your back to find the clasp.

You use his shoulders as leverage, wrapping your arms around him so you can arch up, undulating your body along his. You can feel how hard he is through his pants. Maker he’s huge! You think to yourself as you writhe against him, looking for more friction.

Rex grunts before bracing one arm on the bed, the other holding you closer to him so he can grind down, letting your feel just how eager he is for you while still kissing you.  

Easing you back onto the bed he kisses down your neck again, hearing you gasp and moan as he sucks bruises onto your skin, each mark his own brand claiming you as his. Rex feels as you tilt your head, offering up more skin as his canvas, his to decorate however he wished. He stops at the spot just before your neck meets your shoulder and bites down, your Ah! music to his ears. He nibbles and sucks, worrying the skin between his teeth, causing the skin to bloom a darker colour.

When he sits back to look at his handiwork he’s satisfied with what he sees. While his mark could be hidden by a high collar, if it were to move just the slightest bit, anyone could see that you were taken. Rex takes you in, eyes flutter and panting hard. He can feel himself twitch in his pants. Fuck you’re gorgeous. He watches as you run one of your hands up his arm, turning to nuzzle his palm when he moves some wayward hair from your face. All the while you’re still smiling at him, soft and happy. If this was to be Rex’s last day alive, this is the image he would think of before he goes marching forward.

Before he forgets he’s meant to be making you scream his name, Rex looks down and smirks. Easing a finger underneath the band of your panties he stretches the fabric before letting it go, hearing your yelp.

“As delightful as these are, they need to go” he commands and starts to shimmy your underwear down your legs. You wiggle your hips up to try help him and Rex moves off your legs to pull your panties off the rest of the way. Tossing them somewhere over his shoulder he rearranges your legs so that they are on either side of his hips and looks at your glistening folds, a victor come to claim his spoils.

His voice is reverent when he speaks “You don’t know how hard it was to walk away from you earlier on.”

You pout up at him “Sure looked pretty easy to me. You weren’t walking like a newborn fathier.” 

He chuckles, “No, but you also didn’t have this to maneuver out of sight.” He rubs himself through his pants, bringing your eyes down to his movements “Try walking when you have a tent in your front.”

You snort at the picture that makes and Rex grins down at you, seeing your pout turn into a smile. “The good news this time mesh’la, is that there are no more interruptions.” He watches your hopeful gaze “That means, I get to have you all to myself, however I want.” Rex runs his hands up your thighs, feeling you shiver beneath his touch ‘and right now, what I want is to taste you.” He moves back, just far enough so that he can lie down on his front, placing your thighs over his shoulders.

“But I though you wanted me to come on your fingers” you whine before it turns into a  yelp, scowling at Rex. “You pinched me!” You accuse him.

“And I’ll do it again if you keep behaving like a brat” he looks up at you from between your thighs and you catch your breath at the sight. “The bet did say anything, and I’ve decided to change my mind on where I want you to cum.” He uses his thumbs to spread your folds, watching you clench in anticipation “I want you to cum on my tongue.”

“Re-aaah!” Whatever you were going to say gets cut off in a high moan as Rex licks a broad stripe up your slit before sucking on your clit. You tried to wrap your legs around his head but his hands have anchored themselves on your thighs, keeping them spread apart, keeping you open for him to taste. 

He flutters his tongue over your pearl before nibbling around it, taking in your reactions, what motions you like best, what gets you to moan the loudest, what gets you screaming his name. A harsh suck causes you to arch your back, grinding your head into the pillow. Rex circles an arm around your hips to keep them from flying up. He can feel you grinding back as he licks up your folds, gathering the slick that’s pooled there. 

“Rex, please!” You sob as you writhe in his grasp “Please let me cum!” 

“Not yet mesh’la” he hums, the vibrations making your twitch and moan “I’m not done tasting you yet.”

Rex continues to lap at your cream before inserting one finger, slowly pumping it in, mouth moving back up to your clit. Your whole body starts to shake, beads of sweat forming on your skin. It’s still not enough to get you over the edge and you cry out.

“Please Sir! Please, I need more!” You coherent enough to remember that good girls ask nicely. “Please Sir, could you put another finger in my pussy, I need you to fill me up. Pleasepleaseplease.” You can feel his smug smile against your folds.

“Since you asked so nicely, I can give my good girl what she wants.” He hums before adding a second finger, feeling you clench around him. Whimpering, you feel him stretching you out, pumping in and out of your pussy, keeping you on the edge of your orgasm. It’s so frustrating because you can feel it, it’s right there! It's like Rex knows and is purposely making you wait. You try to solve the problem yourself.

“I need more, need you to go faster.” You cry as you try to grind up against his hand, looking for more friction to ease the ache.

“Patience mesh’la, I’ll get you there, all in good time.” Rex says as he continues his maddeningly slow pace.

A high whine leaves your throat “But I want it now! The war will be over by the time you get me off!” You know you shouldn’t be taunting him, not when his fingers are knuckle deep inside you, stringing out the pleasure, but some part wants to see how far you can push him before he loses control. “Perhaps if you’re too tired that pilot can take over, let you catch your breath.”

He goes completely still, his digits ceasing their ministrations. Rex pulls them out, the slick sound loud in the otherwise quiet room, even you’re holding your breath at your daring.

Rex is just staring at you, face blank and you can hear the warning klaxons go off in your head. You fucked up. You fucked up and he’s going to see this was a mistake. He’ll leave and that’ll be it. Sitting up, you open your mouth to try and apologize when he shakes his head, gaze stern. You feel tears prick at the corners of your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall. 

Finally, Rex starts to speak "It seems that my little brat is back, demanding things again.” He shakes his head “This won’t do.”

You hiccup in relief “So you’re not going to leave?”

His face softens for a moment. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily cyar’ika” he says before giving you his Captain look. “No, I’ve decided on your punishment ner aikiyc ad’ika. Hands up by the wall.” 

You hasten to obey, putting your wrists together above your head. You watch as Rex moves away, keeping the whimper behind your teeth.

He doesn’t say anything as he starts to undress, taking his time placing his armour by your chair and folding each item of clothing as it’s taken off, prolonging the wait. Rubbing your legs together, you watch him undress, each part of him revealed to your wanting gaze. He doesn’t give you a chance to really look as he takes something out of his belt and moves back at your side. You look at what’s in his hands and can’t help but gasp. 

Binders. Magnetized binders. Imagining yourself, bound to his mercy, sends a rush of dark desire through you. While you’ve only thought about what it would be like to be restrained, you never brought it up in your past relationships. The only excitement they seemed to enjoy was changing up positions. It seems Rex will give you want you secretly want. 

Rex can see how intent you are on the binders, biting your lip and oh, you like his idea. That is something to explore another day. Maybe if you do well with the binders, he can experiment and see how you’d look all wrapped in ribbon, blue ribbon. He can already picture you bound up, wearing his colours. Putting that thought away for now, Rex needs your attention on what he’s going to say, so he leans over you so that your eyes are on him, and only him. 

“Since you can’t seem to wait for what I give you, you get to wear these.” He dangles the binders before moving them back to the side. “Do you know about the light system”

You nod eagerly, “Yes Sir.”

He smirks, “Good, one tap for green, two for yellow and three for stop. Do you understand?

You tap your hand against the headboard.

“Good girl.” He starts to remove his gloves when he pauses, thinking. He looks back up at you with a smirk on his face and you know he has another idea.

He finishes taking off his gloves “Since you like to run your mouth, I think I need to keep it busy.” He takes his thumb and rubs it over your mouth. You open your mouth and suck on the digit, tasting the salt from his skin.

Rex growls “So needy for something to suck on. I’d give you my cock but you haven’t earned it yet.” You whine around his thumb, looking at him from under your lashes. “ I was going to tell you you’re not allowed to make a sound, or I’ll stop whatever I’m doing, but we both know you’re not going to listen.” He pulls his thumb from your mouth and you flush. “No, we need a bit more practice with that.”

Rex holds up a balled-up glove “Will you be my good girl and use this as a gag?”

Quickly you nod, already opening up your mouth so he can place the fabric there. He chuckles at your eagerness. Once that’s done he gets to work on the binders, placing them around your wrists before magnetizing them. 

“All good? Not too tight?” He asks.

You tap once on the wall and light up with the smile he gives you. One smile from Rex makes Naboo seem like a dump, he’s that beautiful. 

He presses his forehead against yours, breathing deeply. “Remember mesh’la, if you need to stop, for any reason, three taps. No toughing it out to please me.”

He waits to hear your tap before he grins, settling between your thighs again. “Now where was I?” He muses “Ah yes, right here.” He shoves his face in your pussy, going straight for your centre, licking right into your heat. Your shriek is muffled by the glove and while he’s disappointed he can’t hear you call his name, knowing that you’re not holding back your sounds is a pleasure all in itself. 

Rex works his tongue deep into your core, licking and slurping up your arousal, the lewd noises mixing with your whimpers. “You taste so good mesh’la, like fucking sweet cream” he growls, the vibrations making you squirm in his grasp. He wraps his arms around your thighs, pulling you closer and feels your body shake with pleasure. Widening your stance, Rex props your legs on his shoulders, nose bumping your clit as he continues licking up your folds. He wasn’t joking when he said wasn’t a small man, but like a good girl, you’re making it work. 

He lets you grind your hips against his face, working to get more friction to bring you closer to the edge. A squeeze to each of your thighs causes another gush of slick to rush out that Rex is eager to lap up. Stars there’s so much! He can feel it coating his beard, there’s so much. Your legs are pushing against his back, trying to bring him closer and he can feel your toes curl when he nips your folds. He soothes the skin with a long lick, listening to you cry out though the gag. 

Rex pulls away for a moment, moving to his knees and he can see you straining again the binders, wanting to touch but unable to. He drags his fingers down the inside of one thigh, feeling you jump and twitch as he hits your sensitive spots. “You’re doing so well cyare” he coos as he grips each of your thighs, slowly pressing them closer to your chest, “Such a good girl.” 

He watches you moan as your pussy clenches around nothing, while slick drips down onto the bed below. Rex drags his finger through your mess before rubbing your clit, seeing your eyes roll back in your head, a long whine escaping your throat. “Naughty thing, you like it when I call you good girl.” You nod eagerly as he chuckles darkly. Moving his hand back to your leg he nuzzles your thigh before kissing his way down. “Your legs are a little bare mesh’la” he says when he gets to one of your sensitive spots “I think they need a little decoration” and nips hard enough to bruise. Your moan is long and loud, and it spurs Rex on. He makes sure to thoroughly leave as many love bites as possible, taking his time to make sure his creations last. Rex wants you to remember him when he’s not with you, each time you get dressed, when you move, that he’s the one who made you writhe in pleasure, and that he'll give you new ones when these fade away. If you ask nicely. 

Your cries fail to make him move any faster, and once he’s done with one leg he moves to the other, marking it up with his brand. You’re a quivering mess by the time he makes it to your core, slipping a finger inside and you moan as you feel another rush of slick help to ease his way in. Rex curses under his breath, curling his finger just right, making your hips jerk up. “Haar’chak! I bet you’d take all of me if I fucked you right now” he inserts another finger and you cry out, listening to the squelching sound as he thrusts his fingers in at a relentless pace. “Would you like that mesh’la? Stuff you so full of my cock, ruin you for anyone else?”

You nod frantically, feeling the coil in your belly pull tight, your pussy clenching around his fingers inside of you. 

Rex adds a third finger and Maker you can feel him stretching your walls, making you feel full, but wanting so much more. His hand is soaked in you arousal, and you would be embarrassed by how much there is, but you’re beyond caring. He suddenly leans forward and sucks your clit into his mouth and you howl through the gag, just a little bit more-

Rex pulls back at the last minute, slowing his movements to a mere crawl and you cry out your frustration, hips grinding back to get some stimulation, but he stops that as soon as it begins. He rubs soothing circles in the crease of your thigh “That’s it mesh’la, just ride this out, I got you.”

Again! He denied you again! You try to roll onto your side, to ease the ache, but Rex prevents you, keeping you spread out. Shooting a glare his way, you whine as you feel your orgasm start to fade, turning into a slow simmer.

He keeps his fingers moving, just barely, making sure to remind you of their presence, and that your pleasure is literally at his fingertips. “This is the last part of your punishment cyare” he says and watches as you narrow your eyes at him, pouting even through the gag. You are too cute he chuckles to himself, feeling a smirk makes its way onto his face “Don’t worry cyar’ika, you’ll get to cum, but only when I say you can.” Rex watches the emotions play out on your face as he starts moving his hand again, seeing the tears gather in your eyes and your chest rising and falling with your panting breaths. Yes, he might want to keep this vision of you for a while.

Rex does this for ages, building you up, watching your body tremble under his touch before easing off. Again and again until you’ve lost track of everything except the touch of him. You whimper as he pumps his fingers slowly, finding the part of you that makes you see stars, and just grazes over it. Again, and again. No pressing against it, no rubbing it, just a light touch. Letting your orgasm build up and stay on the edge. When you start to feel like you’ll finally fall, Rex eases off, pulling his hand away completely this time.

Your head is buzzy from this last denial, so you don’t notice when Rex pulls away, your legs flopping down without him to hold them up. When you see he’s not there, you immediately look around, trying to find him. When you do you can’t help but stare.

“Something you like, mesh’la?”

You would have answered except that your mouth is still stuffed with Rex’s glove, and you realized it was the one he used to get you off the first time, however long ago that was. The tang of you lingers on the fabric and some desperate part of you hopes that it won’t fade away, that there will always be some part of you with Rex when he’s away on missions. You whimper around your gag, pulling uselessly at the binders around your wrists as your eyes rake over his form, taking in the sight before you and oh, what a sight he is. 

Rex stands at the end of the bed, all smug and relaxed, as if he hadn’t just been on his knees eating you out, denying you yet another orgasm. With a smirk, he casually stretches an arm behind his head, putting himself on display He watches your face as your eyes greedily take him all in, lingering on his thick waist.

You loved it when you sparred and you wound up sitting on his waist, feeling him spread you out as his hands held you in place. Judging by how his cock twitches you know Rex is thinking the same thing as you, how you must have looked to him, and it makes you squirm in place. Swallowing hard, you drag your gaze to what you need most right now.

While Rex may seem relaxed, his cock looks as hard as beskar. Thick and full, it practically touches his belly, demanding your attention. There's a pearl of pre-cum at the head of his cock that slides down his shaft, before dripping onto his balls. You preen a little, knowing that’s the effect you have on him. You squirm, the sight of his dick makes your mouth water, wanting a taste for yourself, but you know that you’ll have to wait until Rex has finished punishing you. 

A slick sheen of sweat covers your body, with smaller droplets pooling between your breasts, evidence of how thorough Rex has been in his ministrations of keeping you just on the edge of your orgasm. It’s been a sweet torment, being denied your release, but stars you thrive on his attention. He’s been hyper focused on what makes you moan, what touch gets you rocking against his face, memorizing you little tells that you’re about to cum. Only he can get you worked up like this, ready for the fall, and what bliss it will be when that happens.

Rex kneels back on the bed, slowly making his way up your body, leaving kisses and nips along the way, keeping your attention on him. By the time he is level with your face you’re back to being a quivering mess, needy whines filling the air. 

“Easy mesh’la” Rex says as he cups your face “you’re being such a good girl, you’ll get to cum soon.”

You nuzzle his hand as you put on your best tooka eyes, hoping it will sway him.

He tsks “Remember our bet cyar’ika. You said if I win I get to do anything I want to you, however I want.” As he’s saying this his hand slowly wraps around your throat, applying the tiniest bit of pressure, testing your reaction. Your pulse jumps and judging by the feral grin Rex gives you he felt it too.

Rex leans in closer to whisper in your ear “I won mesh’la. That means you’re mine and I’m nowhere near finished with you."

To be continued

Ner aikiyc ad’ika - My desperate little one (very rough translation)

Haar’chak! - Damn it!

Tag list @samrubio @justanotherstarwarswhore @bvcketfvcker @grumpymuffinmama @justanothersadperson93 @fat-zygerrian @deewithani @idolized-sea-salt

[gaiuswrites]

Thread the Needle | Yoga!Din

Pairing: Modern!Din x Yoga Instructor!Reader

Rating: Explicit (minors, goodbye)

Word count: 3.5k~

Warnings/tags: Yoga!Din (yes, he gets his own warning), hurt/comfort, language, smut, good ol' fashioned cunnilingus, piv

Notes: ✨ HI FRIENDS ✨ Yoga!Din rides again. This idea has been stewing (pun intended, you'll get it later) in my dumb brain for a while now and I've finally decided to write it. Technically, this takes place a little farther into the future (perhaps when the pair is more of an item, and less of a fuckbuddy fling, but thorough plot? We don’t know her). Anyways, enjoy! Cheers x

He doesn’t mean to be dramatic, but it’s the most agonizing sixty minutes of his goddamn life.

He’s seated on his mat, legs folded into a fucking pretzel—lotus pose, a calm voice inside his head corrects—and he’s steaming.

She isn’t here.

He is—Din, for all his faults, showed the fuck up to class but she didn’t, and in her place there’s some smelly old bat, this woman’s wrinkly ass – sits bones – plunked down at the front of the studio— occupying her spot, where she should be.

His eyes stalk the movements of this other woman as she putters around the studio—the godawful stench of something earthy wafting behind her— and it looks wrong. It feels wrong; like a violation somehow—of the space.

Of their space.

“The light in me recognizes the light in you,” they all utter in unison like a fucking hippie cult, and he books it out of there, swiping his mat up with an aggressive slap and rolling it under his arm.

“Hey,” he calls out, pacing towards the front desk. The receptionist— Riley? Kylie? Din can never remember—glances up from her phone, bright eyed.

Poor thing.

“Who the fuck is that?” He jabs his thumb over his shoulder towards the studio, the gaggle of ladies trickling out of it already gossiping and clucking away. Din doesn’t mean to sound accusatory; he doesn’t mean to be this intense. It’s not this girl’s fault, he knows that— but she’s in proximity and she’s shit out of luck.

“M’sorry?” she sputters, blinking up at him.

Breathe, that same voice coos—he can feel the tickle of it behind his ear.

“Our usual Wednesday instructor,” Din begins again, clipped. “Where is she?”

“Oh," she shrugs, "she called in sick.”

With a furrowed brow he pitches forward, craning over the desk. “Is she okay?”

The girl— Miley? —all but flinches back from him, a quizzical expression wormed onto her. “Uhm, yeah she has the flu—nasty one, too, but she’ll probably be back by ne-"

Din doesn’t linger long enough for her to finish. He’s wheeled around, striding from the building, the tinny chime of the bell ringing out as the door creaks closed behind him. The women exchange waggling glances in his wake, tittering in mouthwatering delight—more juicy fodder for their post-yoga soiree.

///

He doesn’t remember driving there. He made a quick stop to the grocery store— their grocery store, now— to pick up what he needed and before he knows it, he’s at her front door, bringing his fist down upon it in hard raps.

He hears movement—can sense it there, can practically imagine it: her lithe body tip toeing over— no, she’s got the flu, maybe it’s more of a shuffle—and peeking through the peephole. There’s a weighty pause and then—

The slow, dubious clicks of unbolting locks, the turning of a handle, the yawn of the wood as it opens.

Her voice is made small with disbelief and exhaustion. “Din?”

“Can I come in?”

She cracks the door ajar, standing in the frame of it now, a thick blue comforter slung over an arm, and she can’t quite mask the stupefied look etched onto her face.

He’s never done this. She’s never done this. He’s been to her place twice—three times, if he counts them fucking in the car in her driveway—and he’s certainly never showed up unannounced.

“Uhm, I-”

“Great.”

Din pushes past her, plastic bag swinging heavy at his side.

“W-What?”

She’s left gaping, mouth and eyes opened incredulously, ogling the way he struts through her entryway, before finally having the wherewithal to close the door. “Hey, what are you-”

“You need to keep your fluids up,” he says roughly—as if it’s obvious—making a beeline towards the kitchen.

She follows after him, bunching the throw snuggly around her shoulders. “Din,” she utters feebly, “I really don’t think you should be here right now.”

He doesn’t respond.

“Please, I don’t wanna get you sick."

He thunks the bag onto the granite countertop, producing two cans.

She doesn’t know why she bothers, it’s not like he’s listening to her anyways. If she’s learned anything about Din Djarin, it’s that he’s nothing if not stubborn—impossibly immovable. He’s tossed his jacket off, slinging it over the island, a determined glint in his eye as he prowls around the kitchen, opening cupboards at random.

“Seriously, I don’t want you catching this. I feel like shit… Oh my god, I look like shit,” she groans in realization, burying her head in the blanket, hermitting herself away.

“You look fine,” he replies gruffly, delving through the drawers in search of a can opener.

Frumpy sweats and a baggy t-shirt with some faded logo on it that’s absolutely hanging off her. Hair tossed up and sloppy, coiled into a loose bun, errant pieces rebelling every which way. A little pale, maybe. Tired eyes. Messy.

Beautiful, he meant. She looks fucking irritatingly beautiful.

Din continues to rifle through her cabinets and he exhales in frustration, “Jesus, where do you keep your pans?”

“Bottom right,” she points begrudgingly.

He grunts, finding one big enough and sets it down on the stove.

She can’t stop fussing over him; making comments here and there, asking if he wants anything, needs anything—water, kombucha, tea, a beer, a snack—if she can help in any way possible—and it nearly sends him over the damn edge.

“Would you quit it and just let me take care of you?” he grits out, and her mouth clamps shut with a pop.

She’s quiet after that, picking anxiously at a thread poking out from the blanket she wears like a shawl—observing as he empties the cans into a large pot, lights the gas stove, and brings it to a boil. She gives him space, stationing herself by the kitchen table, leaning a hip into one of the four chairs there.

Honestly she does try to keep to herself; she tries to accept what Din is doing for her, but she can’t help it. As soon as she sees him ladling the soup into one of her favorite cups—it looks so tiny in his grasp— and bringing it over to her like a goddamn patron saint, she breaks.

“You really didn’t have to do all this.”

“Yeah well, you need to get healthy so you can take your class back from that fucking fossil.”

“Din,” she admonishes.

“Baby,” he gives her a pointed look and she gnaws at the inside of her cheek, a blush blotting her clavicle. “She fucking smells. Now sit your pretty little ass down-”

“But-”

He presses a hand to her shoulder, forcing her to sink into the chair with a soft oomf, and places the bowl in front of her. “Don’t fight me on this. Drink the fucking soup.”

She huffs, glancing down, and then back up to Din.

“Progresso?”

He grunts.

She blows at the steam rising from the hot liquid. “Chicken noodle?”

Din crosses his arms over his chest and plops back onto the island.

“Classic,” she praises, mumbling into it.

She loathes to admit it, but the first sip tastes like heaven. It soothes her raw vocal chords, worn hoarse from nights of coughing, and seeps deep to warm her cold bones.

Din remains mute through the whole affair, staring owlishly as she spoons it down, slurp for slurp, until he’s satisfied she’s finished. When she does, she arches an eye brow at him— mouth pressing into a thin line. Happy now?

He tips his head and pads over to her.

“Wait, no you don’t have to-" He swipes it from the table, the spoon clanking against the ceramic rim. Din moves to the sink and she groans.

“Just leave it,” she whines, but he ignores her—stubborn stubborn stubborn— he’s already got soap on the sponge and the water running. Again, she huffs and rises to her feet, hem of the blanket trailing behind her.

“Thank you,” she gives in a hushed tone.

It’s so strange— being taken care of in her own place. She doesn’t know what to do, where to go. It’s ill-fitting, foreign, and she can only hover there, buzzing like a pesky insect beside him.

He’s wiping the dish off with a towel when he chances a peek back at her, practically stuttering when he does.

She’s swaddled in that fucking quilt, awkward and impossibly sincere and precious just standing there—watching him play house in her home. A brush of color has sprung up on her cheeks—more light in her eyes, too—and Din, try as he might, can’t pry himself off her.

She’s sick—she’s sick and gorgeous and he wants her. He wants her to feel better, he wants to fuck her, he wants to hold her. He’s overcome with it.

He swallows.

Fuck.

He abandons the bowl and rag in the drying rack and turns to her, her eyes widening, glassy and bloodshot, as he tucks a stray hair behind her ear— knuckles trailing down her jaw.

“Din…”

Her tongue skips over her lip—mocking him—damp and full and begging to be taken by his own, and her breath catches as he drags a thumb across that plump flesh, enrapt with the way her mouth parts so effortlessly for him—so fucking supple. Din’s gut twists and his blood thickens in his veins—the air between them rippling with something velvet and carnal.

He takes a step towards her. Her throat bobs.

“You’re gonna get sick,” she pouts in protest, rutting her palm into his chest, but there’s no fight in it. The blanket slips from her shoulders, hitting the ground with a dulled splat.

“Din,” she tries again, “I don’t want you to-"

He leans in, cradling her cheek, murmurs fanning over her face. “I’ll risk it.”

And he dissolves the gap, sealing her mouth with his in a tender kiss. It’s almost chaste at first, how they rove tentative and unhurried over each other—an innocent exploration— all until his tongue darts out to touch along her lip and she whimpers into him, letting Din dip into the dark cavern of her mouth. She tastes warm, like comfort and broth and rainy days, and he sighs as she brings her hands up to weave into his hair.

Neither of them fight for dominance like this—their tangle of soft sounds is perfectly balanced— Hatha; effort and ease, breath and body. He pushes, she relents—she surges forward, Din bends. They dance like this, slow as tar, until she catches his bottom lip between her teeth and tugs.

It’s like a switch has been flipped.

He seethes, inhaling sharply as his hands slide possessive and greedy down her body, grabbing fistfuls of her waist hidden under all the oversized layers, and crushing her into him. She’s making these airy noises, panting and urgent and fuck if it doesn’t tear him apart—viscerally, from the inside out.

Din walks her backwards, step for choreographed step, foxtrotting until she bumps into the kitchen table. He breaks away from the kiss to reach past her, frantically pushing away the unopened mail and receipts and loose change, the jingling of her keys cutting through the wanton quiet as they clang onto the tile, and he hitches her up to sit there with one fell swoop.

“I wanna make you feel good,” he husks, inbetween the bites he’s searing onto her neck. “Please, just lie back for me sweet girl.”

“Din, I-“

He silences her with a nibble to her ear, coaxing a breathy yelp out of her. “Lie back, baby.”

It doesn’t take much convincing after that. She acquiesces, Din’s wide palm splayed on her breasts, guiding her to recline back onto the table. He makes speedy work of her sweatpants, yanking them down her legs and flinging them off to land in a crumpled heap.

He sinks to his knees, pulling the cradle of her hips to the edge of the table before parting her thighs. The gloss of her cunt, wet and glistening for him, makes his hardening cock jump up to his stomach, and she twitches as soon as the cool air brushes against her.

“Fuck me,” he groans, whispering into her heat like he’s pained, like the sight alone is torturing him—like it’s slowly but surely ending his fucking life.

Din breathes her in with a sigh, that summer fruit tang— the scent of her aching and pulsing for him— and he starts tracing up and down her inner thigh with his tongue and teeth, nibbling along the path there until he’s at her apex. He’s dimpling her pliant skin with his calloused fingertips, strong hands wrapped under her knees, keeping them splayed as he kisses along her outer lips, nipping at her hip bones, teasing everywhere but where she needs him most.

It’s devastating—debilitating—and she’s shaking now. Every muscle, every fiber of her, convulsing with anticipation—with the promise of being dissected, of being torn apart and stitched back together again. She’s already got a hand covering her mouth, muffling the sobs he’s drawing out as he toys with her— playing her like a fucking fiddle.

Din’s eyes flit up to find her like this, brow pinched tight and cries stifled, and he chuckles— he fucking laughs— heady and ambered into her legs.

“You doin’ alright up there, teach?”

“F-Fuck you,” she hisses out with a weak whine.

God, she’s fucking perfect.

“You need something, sweetheart?” He smirks— she can feel the shape of it against her thigh, the way his stubble grates along her skin— and she can only mewl, speechless. Pathetic.

“Yeah, I know what you need...” Din hums, before finally - finally - taking mercy on her.

With one single drag, he tongues a broad stripe up her slit.

The noise that rips through her sounds like she’s being strangled— it gets caught in her throat like a trapped animal in hot car— a desperate little thing clawing to get out. Her nails scrape against the wood, leaving nicks in the chestnut lacquer. Immediately, she cants up to him, searching for his mouth hungrily and Din all but obliges as he clasps onto her hips, keeping her still while he fucks into her.

He’s carving her out— hollowing her; burying himself in her folds, nosing against her mound. He laps her up in kitten licks, delving the muscle of his tongue in and out of her, leaving her weak and gasping. Din laves up and down and side to side in clever little swivels, before he reaches her clit and sucks.

Her fist shoots from her mouth to grip his wavy locks, grinding shamelessly against his face.

“O-Oh my god, Din - fuck - Din. Oh fuck oh fuck-"

He loves it when she gets like this; that serene and tranquil exterior— the one that can quell a studio full of strangers into a haze with only the sound of her voice, that voice he can’t get out of his fucking head, the one that got them into this mess in the first place— shattered, mutilated beyond recognition and all she has left is her need— her wild, unbridled need.

Her need for his tongue, for his fingers, for his dick. Din Din Din, she only wants him— only needs him.

He slips a finger into her, easing past his knuckle in one movement, and her chin tips back, crown of her head digging into the table, hair mussing against the wood grain.

Her nipples have pebbled through her shirt, her pretty feet arched and contorted, and she’s heaving - writhing - like this above him.

He adds another digit, pumping in and out, the squelch of her pussy sounding lewd and obscene and fucking divine as he grazes her clit with his teeth, pulling at it.

“Fuck-” she rasps, legs quivering on their own accord— instinct and reflex demanding she tremble— and Din moans into her sex, feeling her walls constrict around his fingers, and he curls them up as he thrusts, hitting against that spongy patch insider her that makes her vision go white.

“Din, I- I’m—"

She can’t manage the rest. Instead of words, she cries— high pitched and wounded, as if she’s barely making it out alive. Her legs clamp around his head, bracing him there, and she cums— she loses it for him— her slick coating his nose, his lips, the hair speckled around his chin. She soaks him, and it leaves Din rocking his hips and humping the fucking air— as randy as a teenager, ravenous for anything, even if it’s just the friction of his pants drawn tight around his erection.

He takes her through her orgasm, lapping at her softly until she’s warbling—a slew of nonsense babbling out of her— and he leans back on his heels to admire his work, eyes singeing into her cunt made puffy and swollen pink, fluttering at the loss of him.

He plants one final kiss to the cleft of her pussy before shifting his weight back up to his feet, slotting himself between her.

Fuck, he isn’t as young as he once was— he feels his age in the ache of his knees. All the yoga in the world can’t erase his scar tissue, can’t undo time.

But he thinks maybe—if he’ll let himself—that she makes him feel younger. Lighter.

He squeezes her calf and begins to move away when she whimpers, bolting upright to palm greedily at the bulge pressing painfully against its constraint, her fingers fidgeting with his zipper and Din— in an uncharacteristic show of strength and self restraint— gingerly clasps onto her wrists, holding her still.

“Hey,” he murmurs, and her eyes snap up to meet his. “This isn’t about me.”

“No, but-”

“You don’t- we don’t have to-"

“Din,” she pants, grabbing onto the waist of his jeans and pressing her center into him, smearing herself along the denim there, her pearled clit catching on the rough fabric. Her eyes have gone jet-black with desire, obsidian lust burning through them. “Din, fuck me. Please fuck me, plea-“

Shit.

He’s never moved so fast in his goddamn life, unbuttoning his jeans in a flash, untucking himself— throbbing, leaking already—from his briefs. He gives himself two rough jerks, his blunt tip prodding at her entrance, before pushing into her with a gasp.

Fuck, she’s warm— not just warm, she’s hot. She’s molten, and she’s milking him for all he’s worth, gripping around him, fucking strangling his cock with how wet she is—how tight. God, she’s a fucking dream—a nightmare too, undoubtedly.

“Fuck baby - shit - you’re—hnng-” He groans—can’t even form a real sentence—all of his blood has rushed out of his brain and straight to the juncture where their bodies meet.

His eyes flutter deliriously at the feeling of her stretching around him like this and for a passing, fleeting moment, he considers the fact that he should be gentle with her— that she’s not feeling well, that she’s probably sore with body chills and God knows what else and that she should rest—

But once her knees are split apart and legs spread long— so fucking flexible, fuck she’s killing him— his well-met concern all but abandons him.

He fucks her hard— so hard she falls back, that unforgiving surface bruising into her spine. He probably hurts her a little—just how he likes, just how she loves.

Din plows into her, digging into the meat of her thighs, slamming into the pussy that takes him so fucking well, the pussy that feels like it’s made for him— like she’s made for him— and the table shudders with each roll of his hips, scraping it inch by inch along the tile, knocking against the chairs with loud, clattering bangs.

“W-Wait— wait wait wait-“ she pants, hands scampering up to his arms.

He slows his thrusts until he’s stilled inside of her, worry creasing around his eyes. “W-What? Are you okay—what’s wrong?”

“T-The table," she whines, “it’s from fucking IKEA. I built this piece of shit myself— there’s no way it’s gonna stay standing with you fucking me into it like this.”

Din barks out a laugh, throaty and genuine, and for the second time today, he comes to the conclusion that she’s perfect.

“Bedroom?” she nods down the hall.

“Bedroom,” he growls before scooping her up, lifting her off the table, her legs scrambling to hook around his waist, forearms bracing around the broad plain of his shoulders.

“Din!” she squeals in surprise, “I can walk, you know.”

“Shut up,” he grumbles, giving her a bounce and a light slap to her ass. “You’re sick.”

///

“Onions,” he mutters, leaden eyelids nestled shut.

He didn’t mean to stay over this long—well past sunset, later than he’s ever allowed himself—but how could he be expected to leave? After she came on his cock - twice - and he had filled her up until his cum was gushing from her, extricating himself out of this exact position of woven, spent limbs and sweat stained sheets sounded criminal.

“What?” She cranes groggily up at him.

“The sub. She smelled like onions. And patchouli.”

“Hey,” she tuts in mock offense, “Brenda is nice.”

“Good for Brenda. Doesn’t make her smell any better.”

“God, you are so rude,” she laughs, shaking her head as she nuzzles into Din’s side, lips curving into a sleepy grin against his chest—right above the aching thump of his caged heart.

Taglist (I apologize if I missed anyone!):

@radiowallet @pedros-mustache @djarinsbeskar @chasingdreamers @greatcircle79 @iamskyereads @imnotinlove-thisisnotyoursong @fan-of-encouragement @read-and-rec @helmet-comes-off @keeper0fthestars @hellabaybee @ourmotherofyearning @krissology

[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

[kaizokuou-ni-naru]

The Voyage So Far: Alabasta (Part Two)

east blue (1 | 2) || alabasta (1 | 2) || skypiea || water 7 || enies lobby || thriller bark || paramount war (1 | 2) || fishman island || punk hazard || dressrosa (1 | 2) || whole cake island || wano (1 | 2)

crocodile is one of my favorite villains in one piece for a number of reasons, and one of them is because he’s such a threat, the first real one faced in the grand line and one of the toughest in all of paradise. the villains from the arcs before this, like wapol or the agents from little garden, could barely even land a hit on luffy in actual combat. so crocodile is introduced here as an absolute force of nature, a complete contrast to recent villains and a very tangible threat. 

it’s an impression he very much lives up to later in the arc by crushing luffy not once but twice, which only makes luffy’s ultimate hard-won triumph feel all the better. luffy closes a huge gap over the course of alabasta in order to be able to beat crocodile, and giving us a sense of just how strong he is from the very start gives luffy clawing his way up to that level a lot more weight. 

the successive reveals of luffy’s family never fail to absolutely delight me, because in any other series they would almost certainly feel contrived, but knowing luffy, it is absolutely unsurprising he just never happened to mention his relatives. nobody asked! luffy’s unique brand of honesty is one of my favorite character quirks, because he’s very straightforward and in fact can’t lie for shit, but his priorities are so completely off the wall that he winds up omitting highly relevant information completely by accident. 

ace’s scene in alabasta really does impress me. oda’s said in an sbs that he knew ace’s fate from his introduction, which i find absolutely unsurprising given the intricacy of his story planning. that means he needed ace’s introduction to make him both likable and memorable enough in the space of just a couple chapters that the audience would be engaged when he became the focus of the story a couple hundred chapters on despite barely appearing at all in the intervening time, and he really succeeded. 

kohza is one of my favorite minor characters in the whole series, and i think he’s a big part of why alabasta’s civil war plotline works so well and feels so real. nobody on either side of the war actually wants to fight, but everyone has been driven to such desperation that they feel they have no other choice in order to save their country; and kohza exemplifies that. he's a good person who loves his country a lot, and who genuinely likes and cares about the royal family and vivi especially, and the only option he can see to save alabasta is terrible, but there’s nothing else he can do. 

it’s just fun for me to think about the fact that if crocodile was literally anything other than a very skilled logia, vivi would have ended the whole entire arc right here. 

i really like civil war storylines when they’re well-done, and i think alabasta is one of the best ones i’ve seen in media. most of it is down to what i mentioned earlier, about how nobody on either side actually wants to fight but feels like they have no choice but to. nobody here is actually in the wrong except for crocodile, and so until crocodile is defeated, nothing can be fixed- which is what luffy, of all people, is the one to realize. 

sanji’s mr. prince gambit is probably my single favorite part of alabasta, and i think one of the reasons i like it so much is because he basically beats crocodile at his own game. crocodile is terrifying in battle, but before anything else he’s a manipulator. he’s always working from the shadows, always deceiving people doing what he wants, and sanji manages to turn the tables on him and do the exact same back to him, twice. 

also sanji looks great in glasses

smoker and tashigi both get kind of unfortunately sidelined after this saga, but they’re both really great characters in alabasta. (tashigi especially; i’ll get to her later.) much like the rebel army, they’re good people trying to do the right thing in the tangled mess of tension and politics and resentment that is alabasta- and when that means working with pirates, they’ll buckle down and do it, despite how much it might contradict their worldviews. 

i love when events align in one piece so that people who don’t particularly like the strawhats wind up working with them for some common goal (as seen most prominently in impel down), and smoker and tashigi in alabasta are the first and still one of the best examples of that. 

the entirety of luffy versus crocodile round one is so well done. we’re a hundred and fifty chapters in, and although luffy has struggled in fights before now and then, we get the sense he hasn’t ever really been pushed to the brink, and he’s certainly never lost.

and then he does, completely and absolutely, without ever even landing a hit on his opponent, and it hits like a punch. 

oda seems to be a fan of characters just barely missing each other- the similar panel of robin and olvia running past each other from robin’s flashback comes to mind.

i’ve always liked that of all the strawhats, it’s usopp who gets the first “luffy is going to be king of the pirates” moment. they’ve all said it by the current chapters in wano (with the sole exception of robin, i believe), but usopp said it first, and that feels significant to me. he’s always been the one who feels the least secure in his place on the crew, but even so, he has so much faith in luffy. 

nami’s fight with miss doublefinger is pretty silly in places and i think it gets frequently (understandably, it must be said) overshadowed by zoro’s fight with mr. 1 directly afterwards, but i really like it nonetheless. it’s nami’s first real solo fight in the whole series, and once she finds her feet she kicks ass, and i really like that. it feels like a very satisfying development for her, to stand up and risk her life in direct combat for vivi’s sake. 

we’re now almost a thousand chapters in and its my firm belief that zoro versus mr. 1 is still one of the best fights in the entire series. i definitely think it’s probably zoro’s best fight- only his match with kaku compares. the narrative build over the course of the fight, from zoro struggling just to match mr. 1 (and getting shredded to pieces in the process) to cutting him down in one final stroke, is incredibly cool and satisfying to watch. it feels like a very tangible step forward for zoro in terms of ability, like a massive obstacle has been surmounted and, as he himself says, he’s now stronger for it. 

its also very cool that this is, i believe, the first appearance of what is probably observation haki, though it isn’t named or recognized as such. i’m always endlessly impressed by all the little moments of internal consistency that oda manages to sprinkle into his story. 

there’s barely any dialogue on these entire two pages, from crocodile dropping vivi to luffy and pell swooping in- the story is briefly told entirely through visuals- and i love that. it gives the impression of a single tense, frozen moment as vivi falls, which is then broken in spectacular fashion when luffy catches her. 

i really, really like the progression that runs through all three of luffy’s fights with crocodile. the gap between them goes from being impossible, with luffy unable to even land a hit and crocodile basically toying with him; to surmountable but still huge, with luffy able to land some hits but still outclassed; to finally putting them on basically even ground. and every inch of that growth on luffy’s part is hard-fought and hard-won and well-deserved. 

crocodile’s confidence in his abilities isn’t misplaced- he genuinely is that powerful. but if there’s anything we know about luffy by now, it’s that he doesn’t ever give up. it’s very fun to watch crocodile’s dismissiveness turn into disbelief turn into rage and frustration when luffy just won’t die. 

luffy is, additionally, pretty clearly a better brawler than crocodile (which makes sense, crocodile is clearly used to devastating long-range attacks with his powers while luffy grew up fighting giant wildlife with his bare hands), which means that by the time of their last fight, where they’re just whaling on each other in the catacombs and crocodile is starting to get sloppy and desperate and lose control, if anything it’s luffy who has the upper hand. 

zoro and sanji’s dynamic is always a favorite of mine, and one of the things i like best about them is how perfectly in sync they always manage to be when it comes to things that actually matter, despite fighting like cats and dogs pretty much every other time. i’ll never understand people who think they genuinely aren’t friends. 

tashigi is really good in alabasta, okay. she essentially has her own entire character growth arc. she goes from her stance in loguetown, where she isn’t even tolerant of (fully legal!) bounty hunters, to here, where she’s forced to confront that the world isn’t nearly as black and white as she’s always believed it to be, that sometimes pirates are good and allies of the government are bad, and ultimately makes the right choice to help the strawhats even though it clearly pains and frustrates her that she can’t do anything more herself. 

i’ll be forever mad that her only really significant appearance after this in punk hazard didn’t really live up to what her character deserved. 

i really like how the countdown sequence is done. the tension is ratcheting up and up and up as the clock ticks down in the final seconds, panels cutting all over the city to show all the different characters, everyone who’s caught up in this conflict and everyone who’ll die if the cannon fires-

and then the clock hits zero, and we get this panel that’s just... quiet, after all the madness, as we see how vivi stopped the detonation. i think oda is very good at setting up his pages so they have a flow to them, so no matter how quickly you actually read sometimes things feel like they’re going very fast and all happening at once and then it slows down and gives the reader a chance to breathe, if only to speed up again later. i think oda is really good at pacing in general, really, both on a micro level like this and on a larger scale. 

luffy’s greatest strength isn’t really his strength. he’s strong, absolutely, but that’s not really why he wins the fights he shouldn’t win. he wins because he just doesn’t fucking stay down. his fight with katakuri is probably the best example of this, because katakuri has him beat in pretty much every category except sheer endurance, and there as here, it’s that endurance that winds up getting luffy the win in the end. 

i do love that it’s the rain that ends the war. not the explosion and pell’s sacrifice, not vivi’s pleading, not even luffy kicking crocodile into the stratosphere, but the rain, the thing alabasta’s been missing for too long, the thing crocodile stole, the only thing all these people are fighting over. 

it’s crocodile’s symbolic defeat- at the same moment his power is broken by luffy, the stranglehold of dehydration he’s been using to foment war and rebellion is all at once gone, and he’s left with nothing at all, and alabasta can finally find peace and start to heal again. 

i always love the little moments that show, usually without words, just how much the strawhats love each other, and all of them unanimously waiting until vivi is out of sight to collapse so that she won’t worry, won’t see how ragged they ran themselves for their sake, is definitely one of them. 

i adore vivi’s sendoff, because while its sad she has to go, the certainty that someday they’ll meet again and that even if not they’ll always be crew manages to make this scene endlessly hopeful instead (which, i think, is also a good summary of one piece’s tone as a whole, at least in its more serious moments). luffy never says goodbye, after all, and nobody ever really leaves the strawhat pirates. 

i’m really looking forward to vivi’s re-entry to the story. i really, really want to see her reunion with the strawhats. 

hey look, it’s the panel my profile picture is from! 

the mystery surrounding robin and her past is built up in little ways long before enies lobby, from her harsh reaction when confronted with by tashigi to her aversion to being called by her given name to this flashback, of her talking to cobra about her dream. of them, the latter is my favorite, because i think it’s probably the most sincere she is until enies lobby- which makes sense, given she thinks she’s about to die. 

like many things about robin in alabasta, this gets cast in a new light by her backstory. if she dies here, so too does the entire legacy of ohara- but she’s so beaten down and hopeless that she really doesn’t see any light ahead to strive for. there’s no hope left, for her, and the whole world against her. 

and then there’s luffy, who creates hope everywhere he goes, who makes her live anyways. 

this is a hell of a spread to hook us very effectively right into the sky island saga. it’s a perfect reminder of just how much we still don’t know about all the endless mysteries of the grand line, and just how many adventures are still yet to be had.

[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."

[apotaeose]

The King’s Serpent

Pairing ↠ daechwita king!Yoongi x mercenary!reader

Genre ↠ angst, light smut, tiny bit of fluff 

Word Count ↠ 1.6K

Summary ↠ The ruthless king intends to use his most valuable weapon to consolidate his place on the throne by putting an end to its biggest threat — his twin brother.

Warnings ↠ implications of sex, and like death sentence lmao

A/N ↠ I just had to write something inspired by Daechwita hehe Min Yoongi really is the boss huh? I’m not sure if this will turn into a series or something like that yet. Hope you enjoy it, though! xo 

The king tosses his unsheathed sword on the mattress, his body following next with a soft thud. Turning on his back and surrounded by darkness with only the dim moonlight filtering through the windows of his large bedroom, he’s deep in thought, going over the events of earlier that day. One of his most trusted spies, Jung Hoseok, finally found the location of his long lost twin brother. He can’t help but to smile in triumph. As always, he managed to have the upper hand in the end. The blonde monarch can almost picture the shocking look on his ministers faces. All their jaws dropping entirely upon discovering the sudden death of that village mutt they plan to use as pawn to overthrow him. 

He’s done so much for this kingdom, fought so many wars and won all of them at such a young age, brought in so many riches, yet all they seemed to care is for his unorthodox — but effective —  way of dealing with those who dare defy him. He’s a king in his might, after all. Doing whatever he pleases shouldn’t concern anyone but himself. Who those stupid councillors think they are?

Suddenly, he’s pulled back to the present by an all too familiar sensation. It’s like a mild itch in the brain. He feels like— no, he knows he’s being watched. And exactly by who. 

“I’ve been expecting you,” he says calmly, rising to a sitting position, “It is not polite to keep your king on the wait.”

His gaze is pinned to your figure as you step away from the dark corner next to his window — now open —  and let the moon reveal yourself to him. Dressed in male black robes, you remove your mask and tilt your head to the side, staring at him in slight amusement. 

“Forgive me, my king,” your voice drips with honey, not sounding apologetic at all. “I’ve been busy… with matters related to you, of course.”

He hums, eyes narrowing in disapproval at your words. Normally, he’d slit the throat of anyone who dared to lie so blatantly to his face like that. However, he’s quite used to your attitude, and for some reason, you’re the only one allowed to speak with him in such a way. Till certain extents, of course. Since, he has other priorities at the moment, he can take the time to discipline you later. 

Right now, he’s a king in need to speak with his kingdom’s most skilled assassin. 

“I have a mission for you.” He’s on his feet now, hands joined together on his back. Halting steps only once he stands very close, you can see that he has his attention fixed on the hilt of the sword strapped to your back. Face unreadable as usual. Every now and then, he does that. You know he’s curious about the nature of your fine blade, since it’s a rare one, but never voices any questions about it. Not that you’re interested in telling him about it either.

“Yes, my king?”

“I need you to kill my brother.” His eyes drift back to yours, and if you weren’t… well, you, certainly you’d flinch from the icy fire swirling in his obsidian irises and how he casually just ordered the death of another person. Not a regular one, though. A member of his family that’s been missing for decades. His twin brother. Who’s caused him absolutely no harm. Actually, they’ve never even met since the day they were separated at birth.

But that was all you knew. Almost everybody knows that the circumstances of their birth were highly complicated. Rebels took over the palace when the queen at the same time brought her sons into the world in her chambers. All they know is that, amidst all that ruckus, the queen died and one of her sons was taken away. The king turned into a bitter man and raised his remaining son with the wrath of a dozen tigers. A few years ago, he perished, and his cruel heir, who stands before you now, took over his place.

No one knew anything about the other. At least, not until now.

“Oh, so you’ve found him?” Despite your question, you’re not really surprised. Everything the king wants, he gets. It was just a matter of time. What bewildered you was his choice not to task you with such an important mission this time. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“You know I don’t trust you,” He states as a matter-of-fact, reaching to place a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The scar that adorns one of his eyes, a vertical line that goes from above his eyebrow to the middle of his cheek, seems to glitter in the moonlight like the piece of golden jewelry dangling from his ears. You’re briefly hypnotized by it before regaining composure, adjusting your back.

“After everything I’ve done for you?” You pout in feigned hurt, and he smirks.

“You mean, after everything you’ve done for my gold,” He stresses the last two words with an arch of his brow, “We both know your loyalty lies with whoever pays you the highest. Which I, for one, do not judge, if it’s what you’re wondering…”

He brushes your lower lip with his thumb, tracing it along your jaw and descending down your hairline in gentle caresses. Leaning into you, he nibbles your earlobe and pulls at it with his teeth in a way he knows that makes you shiver. “But if you ever so much as think of betraying me,” He continues in a whisper, hand halting its movements before abruptly wrapping around your neck, cutting off your air supply, “I won’t hesitate to have your head severed from your body and hung high for everyone to see.”

Stepping back with a satisfied look on his face, you gasp as soon as he releases your neck and rub at it in order to soothe the burn left by his grip. You stare at him with eyebrows knitted in annoyance but he doesn’t seem to care less. The abrupt change of his demeanor disturbs you more than the threat itself. He’s not the type of man to be messed with. That much is clear. A tiger seemingly calm and controlled in the surface still is a dangerous predator in its core. 

But if the king is a tiger, you are a serpent. 

Cunning and cautious, you know just when to strike. Which is why he also knows not to underestimate you — and also what attracts him the most about you. Sure you are physically stunning, but he’s been with plenty of other dazzling women before, including his queen. However, they all eventually bored him to death. Even though, he denies it to himself, he loves being challenged by a woman. There was something about your sassy behavior and love for danger that lured him in. Perhaps even something that reminded him of himself. The desire for power and willingness to do anything to achieve it. 

“That wasn’t necessary, my king,” you do your best to conceal the anger in your tone, but you know there was an edge to it he surely caught. You absolutely hate being threatened — specially by a man — which is something he knows very well and uses to personal advantage. While others usually show fear, you look as if you’re ready to pounce on him. Oddly, rather than irritated, that makes him highly aroused. “You know I’ll never betray you.”

“For your sake, let’s hope you’re right.” He’s close to you once more, being unable not to touch you every time you’re in his presence. The king licks his lips and begins trailing open mouthed kisses on the column of your throat, one hand at the back of your neck while the other encircles your waist. With a tilt of your head back to give him more access, you close your eyes and melt into his touch. His mouth on you feels undeniably good. But more than that, the power you know you hold on him — whether he’s aware or not — is what truly makes you buzz with excitement. 

“How do you want me to do it?” He pauses to look back at you, pupils blown wide with lust. You’re pretty much sure yours mirror his own. Pondering over your question for a bit, he realises you’re talking about the assassination of his brother, and shrugs.

“However you see fit. Just make sure not to draw too much attention. Sneak into his place and poison him, or slit his throat while he sleeps. I don’t care. Just do it as fast as possible. I couldn’t find him before because he grew up in the outskirts of the city, but now he’s back. It’ll be easy for you to find him.” You nod in understanding and he picks up from where he left, this time attacking your mouth in a hungry kiss that you immediately respond to with same intensity. “Enough with that talk. We can discuss the details later. I need you for something else now.”

You laugh at his impatience and he doesn’t appreciate it one bit, biting hard on your lip enough to draw blood as retaliation. A wince is your response but he’s already pulling your sword out of your shoulders and dropping it to the floor so he can lift your body and do the same to you on his bed. With his body finally covering yours, he starts to get rid of both your clothes and his, desperate to relieve himself and hear your moans echo through his royal chambers as he pounds into you throughout the whole night until you leave before the first rays of sunshine illuminate the palace.

[johaerys-writes]

Dorian Pavus/Trevelyan

A World With You, Chapter 40: Some Rest For The Wicked

Everyone needs some rest from time to time, and these two most of all. Smut, fluff, banter galore, and just a little bit of plot :)

Read on AO3! Or read from the beginning

Tristan flopped on the bed with a sigh, kicking off his boots. The mattress was hard and lumpy, and there were hardly any feathers left in the pillows, but at least the sheets were clean, with only a faint smell of must. He stretched his arms and yawned, arching his back.

“Maker, I could sleep like a log.” He cracked one eye open to glance at Dorian, who was sitting on the armchair close to the hearth. “What are you reading there?”

Dorian looked up from his book, the firelight dancing in his eyes. His hair, still damp from his bath, was combed neatly back in glossy black waves, and his shirt looked freshly pressed, despite having been in his travelling bag for days. In the short time Tristan had taken to wash in the small and drafty room that served as the bathhouse of the inn, Dorian had lit up the fire in the hearth, brushed down his cloak and his leather overcoat, rearranged his clothes and his various tins and vials, poured himself a glass of wine, and was now reading one of the many books he had brought with him.

“Treatises on Time Magic, by Agrippina Evander. Excellent theories, very insightful, not very practical when it comes to the application.” He let the book fall closed, taking a sip of his wine. “How was your bath?”

“If you can call an old wine barrel a tub, and forget that bathwater is supposed to be warm instead of uncomfortably lukewarm, then it was fine, I suppose,” Tristan huffed, rolling his eyes. “At least you can heat up the water you’re in; I have to endure the tepidity.”

“Maker, what a terrible tragedy,” Dorian drawled, swirling the wine in his cup. “It really is ghastly. I don’t know how you put up with it. A martyr, I say.” He grinned behind the rim of his goblet when Tristan shot him a rueful glance. “I do hope you didn’t encounter any more unsavoury rebel types along the way.”

“No,” Tristan hummed as he arched in another deep, satisfying stretch. “Most of them have gone to sleep already, I believe. Those that haven’t are probably in Bull’s room as we speak. Apparently, two of them had some very specific questions about his horns.”

“Ugh. Someone will be bragging about this tomorrow, I wager,” Dorian scoffed.

Tristan laughed. “He never misses an opportunity, does he?” He rolled to his side, propping himself up on his elbow. “What about you? Got any questions for me?” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Dorian gave him an amused, if mildly bored look. “About your horns?”

“No, not my— wait. Is ‘horns’ another word for…” He lifted his brows again, even more suggestively, his lips curling in a smirk. “Because if it is: yes, please.”

Dorian let out a sound that was between a laugh and a groan as he sipped on his wine. “When you put it so eloquently, how could I ever refuse?”

Tristan grinned. “Why don’t you come over here, then?” He patted the mattress beside him.

“Soon. But first: this.” Dorian rolled out a matte leather sheet he had taken to carrying everywhere with him on the table, the black squares on it stark against the natural taupe colour of the leather. Then, he fished out a pouch filled with the smooth, black and red stones that served as pawns and set it next to the makeshift board.

“I’m in no mood for games,” Tristan murmured as he sank deeper into his pillow. He held out his hand, smiling invitingly. “Come to bed.”

“And so I will. After we play at least a few rounds of Calculi.”

Tristan sighed. He didn’t like that game; apparently it had been played in Tevinter for more than a thousand years, and was supposed to be even more challenging than chess. The rules had been relatively easy to understand, but the execution had left him befuddled on more than one occasion. Playing it late at night gave him headaches that had nothing to do with the Anchor, and made him grumpy and irritable, but Dorian insisted they play every night before he went to sleep.

Alongside the Fade-place of dreams that Solas had created, and the draught he was giving him to drink every day, the elf had suggested Tristan try to focus his mind and control his emotions, and through that he would be able to control the Anchor as well. Solas had tried to teach him how to meditate during the first couple days of their trip, but a few sessions was all it had taken for them both to abandon the notion. Tristan had never been able to sit still for more than a few minutes; staying silent and immovable for even an hour seemed to be a physical impossibility.

That was where Dorian had come in, saying he had a method that was even better than meditation, and had been taught in Circles in Tevinter for generations. And that was how Tristan had come to learn how to play Calculi.

“But I’m tired,” Tristan protested. “This game is boring.”

“Because you’re always losing?” Dorian asked sweetly, his smile widening when Tristan frowned at him. “Whether you like it or not is entirely irrelevant. I told you, you simply have to practice.”

He huffed as he got on his feet and dragged himself to the armchair opposite Dorian’s. He plopped down on it, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Which are mine, the red or the black?”

“The black.”

“You always take the red, and you always go first. That is why I always lose.”

“No,” Dorian countered, “you lose because you don’t concentrate, amatus. If you want to win, you need to take this seriously. The mysteries of the game will unfold themselves to you in due course.”

“I am taking it seriously. I always give everything I do my full attention. Speaking of…” He leaned forward still with a sly smirk, his fingers trailing up Dorian’s knee under the table. “There’s something else that demands my attention right now.”

A light slap on the back of his hand stayed its course. “Is there? I’m sure I’d love to hear all about it. After we play a few rounds.” His eyes twinkled with amusement when Tristan sat back in his chair with a pout, then he started setting the pawns on the board. “There. All set. I do expect you to win at least once tonight.”

With a huff, Tristan stretched his arms over his head and cracked his neck. “I expect to win more than once, if you must know.”

He waited for Dorian to make his move, then made his own. His black pawns were surely, but steadily, getting devoured by Dorian’s as time passed, so much so that it seemed to Tristan that his own pawns were just flecks of black in a sea of red.

Soon, they were caught in a stalemate. Tristan was cornered and surrounded, clinging to his territory by the skin of his teeth- still, he held on. That, at least, he could say for himself. He took in a deep breath as he straightened, concentrating as hard as he could. A black pawn was lying just at the edge of the circle that Dorian’s red pawns had made around him. That was when an idea finally sprung in his mind.

“What happens if I move it here?” he asked, pointing at the squares behind Dorian’s pawns. It was a risky move, and if that pawn was taken, he would instantly lose. “Will it work?”

Dorian glanced up at him through his thick eyelashes, interest flashing in their silver-gold depths. He idly swirled the wine in his goblet before he took a sip. “You can certainly try.”

Tristan gingerly picked up the black, polished stone and placed it in Dorian’s territory. In one fell swoop, Dorian snatched it away with one of his own, declaring himself the victor.

“Hey! You said I could try it!”

“I did. And you lost.” He chuckled contentedly as he collected the pawns and set them aside, gathering them in neat stacks. “It was a bold move. I’ll give you that.”

Tristan clicked his tongue and sat back in his chair, resting his cheek upon his fist. Dorian flashed him an amused grin.

“Oh, come now, don’t pout. Let’s play another one. I might let you win this time.”

Tristan frowned, staring into the fire. “I’m not playing. I told you, I don’t like this game.”

“My, such a sore loser,” Dorian sighed as he set the pawns on the board regardless. He topped up his glass with some more wine, then crossed one leg over the other as he settled back on his armchair. “You can have the red ones this time, if you’d like.”

Tristan’s only response was a quiet harrumph. He leaned across the table and picked up Dorian’s glass, bringing it up to his lips. “I don’t want you doing me any favours.”

“No? Alright then, the black ones are yours.” The narrowed-eyed glare that Tristan shot him made Dorian laugh even more. When Tristan returned his glass back to its place, Dorian caught his hand. He brushed his thumb over his knuckles, his smile growing soft and tender. “My dear, I tease you too much, I know.”

“You do,” Tristan said, still pouting, but his annoyance promptly eased away by the warmth of Dorian’s touch. Before he knew it, his fingers had threaded through Dorian’s, his fingertips brushing over his many golden rings. “You like it when I lose.”

“I like it when I win.” Dorian brought Tristan’s hand up to his lips and pressed a kiss to his knuckles, his gaze never leaving his. “How about… we make the next game a little more interesting?”

There was a gleam in Dorian’s eyes now, that stirred Tristan’s interest. “In what way?”

“Let’s see…” Dorian tilted his head to the side, eyes narrowed in thought. The light of the fire painted the side of his face amber, bronzing his honey-gold skin. “Every time one of us loses, he has to take off one item of clothing.”

“Strip- Calculi?” Tristan said, an amused smile curling the edges of his lips. He had once been unbeatable at strip-Wicked Grace, and he was sure he would be able to win the next round once he’d set his mind to it. He had been this close the previous time…

He took another sip of wine from Dorian’s glass, then set it carefully on the table with a smug grin. “The game is on, my friend.” ~

Approximately one hour and seven games of Calculi later, Tristan was wearing nothing but his smallclothes, while Dorian had only lost his boots and his brightly coloured silk scarf. A swath of golden brown skin peeked through the opening of his shirt, glistening in the firelight.

“You said something about winning me out of my clothes, amatus?” Dorian hummed, his amusement only growing when Tristan rolled his eyes. “Never challenge a Tevinter, isn’t that how the saying goes?”

“No. You just made that up.” Tristan crossed his arms before his chest and shot him a disgruntled look. Really, if anyone was even more stubborn and competitive than himself, then that was Dorian. “I’ve changed my mind. I don't just dislike this game- I hate it.”

Dorian laughed under his breath. His silver gaze glided from Tristan's chest down to his neck, swept along his arms. There was already a dark look in his eyes when they moved further down, past his stomach, then rested at his navel. And there, they stayed. And stayed.

Just when Tristan’s cheeks were starting to feel warm, Dorian’s eyes snapped up to his own. “How about one more round?” he purred, voice smooth like silk, soft like fur. “There’s still one last article of clothing for me to win off you.”

Read the rest on AO3!

[contre-qui]

Book 15 of 2021: A Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes

A Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes: A Hunger Games Novel by Suzanne Collins

(audiobook, read by Santino Fontana, 16:16; YA, science fiction, dystopian)//(ebook, 517 pages; YA, science fiction, dystopian)

“The show’s not over until the mockingjay sings,” she said.

“The mockingjay?” He laughed. “Really, I think you’re just making these things up.”

“Not that one. A mockingjay’s a bona fide bird,” she assured him.

“And it sings in your show?” he asked.

“Not my show, sweetheart. Yours. The Capitol’s anyway.”

A Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes is a prequel to The Hunger Games Trilogy, and I was a little skeptical going into it. Why wait so long? What more is there really left to say? Are you trying to backtrack and add in all these details to excuse Hunger Games characters or retroactively change the contents of your own books? But it was actually really solid! Collins is a really talented writer, I was just worried about the necessity of the information we'd be receiving in this prequel. No worries, though, because it was actually really interesting and did provide a lot of context without excusing  or even justifying certain characters' later behaviors in the main trilogy. It didn't feel like a cash grab at all, which I was very excited about.

This prequel follows Coriolanus Snow (a.k.a. the future President Snow) as a student in his late teens. The 10th Hunger Games is about to commence, and the Head Gamemaker wants to try out something new: a mentorship program. Twenty-four top students from the Capitol Academy, including Snow, are chosen to mentor each of this year's tributes. More changes to the games are made as the Gamemaker takes the students' advice and opinions, and this is where we start to see the Hunger Games as we know them from the main trilogy begin to take shape. This is high-stakes for Snow, however, because a win for his tribute could secure him a scholarship to the University - something he could never afford on his own. His family is struggling, about to lose their lavish apartment, and Snow decides he'll do whatever it takes to win. He comes face-to-face with the reality of being a tribute just ten years after the end of the rebellion. Opinions towards the tributes are not positive. They are seen as symbolic representations of the rebels who killed Capitol families and bombed Capitol buildings. Snow has held these beliefs for years too, but now he begins to develop feelings for his tribute. His attempts to secure her place as the Victor take him down questionable moral paths and force him to reevaluate what he is or is not willing to do to save his family.

I know some critics questioned the choice of Snow as a protagonist for this book, but I thought it was interesting and added a lot of context to his decisions and reactions in the later books. As a teenager, he obviously doesn't have all of the cold-heartedness that he did when we saw him sixty-four years later, but there are a lot of things that clue the reader in to what he will later become. This is his origin story, in a way. While it does paint him as somewhat sympathetic because we learn his motivations, the contents of this book certainly don't excuse his later actions or attempt to glorify them. Personally, I love a flawed protagonist, and the moral gray area that was covered here made for an interesting read. Snow was a surprisingly reliable narrator - he was able to look at his actions objectively and understand that, while potentially justified, they weren't the morally correct thing to do. I thought his justifications made for interesting reading, however. I would say that this book is not as emotionally compelling as the main trilogy, but it's definitely very interesting and adds a lot of world-building and context for lots of different things that come up in the main trilogy. While I liked it, I think this book would be most interesting to fans of the main trilogy, and I wouldn't necessarily recommend it to people who haven't read/enjoyed those books. I will say that reading the prequel made me want to reread the main series, which is probably an indicator that Collins did something right. I enjoyed this more from a contextualization and background perspective than I did from a story perspective, but it was a gripping enough story that I wasn't bored. I was kept pretty well on the edge of my seat for a lot of it, and I didn't notice the length at all. There were some places where I thought it was going to be cheesy or feel like Collins was trying to hard to reference The Hunger Games, but generally those moments resolved in a satisfying way, and even when they were a little cheesy they still provided context for Snow's actions and reactions later in his life.

Trigger warnings for discussions of war and death, character death, injury/illness, medical/hospital scenes, bombings, snakes/snake bites, violence, weapons, guns, and hanging.

My final opinion: If you're a fan of the main trilogy, you'll probably enjoy this. If not, this isn't the way to get into it.

[aegor-bamfsteel]

I had this fic idea where: Calla, Haegon, their mother and youngest siblings didn't escape and they were taken as hostages in the Red Keep. Calla kind of ends up "playing the game" and trying to forge a better life for her mom and siblings while trying to overcome her trauma of losing her brothers and dead, her anxiety over Daemon II not being around and not having any contact with him and Haegon most likely going to the faith. And she also has survivors guilt. Basically this is a "Calla plays the game while trying to survive" (this includes her glaring at BR and lowkey planning his death, finding Matarys endearing because he's actually fairly nice and so is his brother/dad, she also looks like her mom. OH AND SHE DYES HER HAIR QUITE OFTEN)

Basically my question was: how much would have changed if Calla, Haegon and their mom and younger siblings didn't get to escape?

That’s a really interesting, elaborate fic idea, dearxstorm! If you end up writing it, make sure to link me and I’ll write a comment! Calla has the potential to be an interesting character, and your characterization of her in the prompt sort of lines up with my own (having the Sweetness hiding Steel personality); I like the idea of a psychological story of her dealing with the loss of her family while trapped in a court that hates her at best. I also like your headcanon that she dyes her hair, because it’s a physical identification with her mother’s people; all too often, in asoiaf as in other works of fantasy, the heroes of noble families identify more with their father’s house at the expense of their mother’s (the young Starks identify more with their father’s house to a lesser degree than the others, but even the young Greyjoys are krakens rather than Harlaws, the young Martells don’t consider themselves half-Norvosi, forget about Aegon V + siblings identifying themselves as something other than the blood of the dragon), and it’s the villains that tend to include parts of their mother’s heritage (the Baratheons of king’s landing include a lion in their sigil, the Greens from the Dance of Dragons owed their initial success to their Hightower mother). In addition, Essosi women are almost to a woman treated horribly in Westeros; divorced (Mellario, Larra), exiled (Rohanne), or tortured and killed (Mysaria, Tyanna, Serala, Serenei), so it’s great you decided to single out Rohanne’s Essosi influence on her children as something neutral to positive.

As for your question about what would happen if Calla+family didn’t manage to escape, I asked warsofasoiaf about it years ago; his response that Bl00draven would’ve had them all killed, while certainly in-character (his consistent character trait is harming boys to accomplish his goals), isn’t particularly satisfying for writing a fanfic with these characters. We see Da3ron II took lands and hostages from those who knelt; Lord Bracken’s son died during the Great Spring Sickness, perhaps as a hostage in King’s Landing; Eustace Osgrey’s daughter and only heir Alysanne was sent to the Silent Sisters at age 7, while Standfast went from a prominent lordly house to one of landed knights. Daemon’s lands and titles were likely under attainder, being of fairly recent creation. In Westeros, killing (mostly male heirs) or sending to the Faith (more likely female heirs) the child rivals to one’s lordly power seems to be the norm (most infamously Aegon and Rhaenys Targaryen on Tywin’s orders, but also Cerelle Lannister by her uncle Gerold, Rohanne and Cerelle Tarbeck were sent to the Silent Sisters and Rohanne’s young son was likely murdered during the Reyne Rebellion, the extermination of Houses Darklyn and Hollard bar one after the Defiance of Duskendale). So I tried to look at examples from medieval history to see if I could save the younger Blackfyre boys:

As much grief as I give GRRM for not being historically accurate while claiming he’s true to life, the gendered fate of young male and female rivals who were captured seems to pass muster: with boys usually being killed or “disappeared” (Arthur of Brittany was imprisoned then murdered by his uncle King John of England, the Princes in the Tower mysteriously vanished with the prime suspect as their uncle Richard III) and girls either imprisoned (Arthur’s sister Eleanor was imprisoned for 44 years until her death by her uncle John and cousin Henry), forced into a convent (Gwenllian Princess of Wales by Edward I, Joanna la Beltraneja was given a choice between this or marrying her infant cousin Juan by his mother Isabella of Castile), or married to steal their lands/unite claims (Arthur’s mother Constance was betrothed to his father from age 5 after her brother was forcibly disinherited from the duchy of Brittany, and I’m still not sure what happened to him; Eleanor de Montfort was eventually married to Llewellyn of Wales after she was captured and imprisoned by the English). 

I think the best hope for the Blackfyre boys is for them be rescued and taken to Tyrosh (although Bl00draven would probably try to separate them to prevent all of them taken at once). 

A longer-term option is for Rohanne’s relatives in Tyrosh to try to negotiate their release, probably with a solemn oath never to return to Westeros (happened with the Charles VII’s cousin Charles Duke of Orleans who spent 25 years in various English prisons after his capture by the English at Agincourt until his old rivals the Burgundians negotiated his release; Amaury de Montfort, despite having taken holy vows, was captured along with his sister Eleanor and only by swearing never to return to England and the Pope plus Llewellyn intervening was he released).

Failing that, maybe Baelor Breakspear could try to go ‘the Dontos Hollard route’, asking for clemency out of the boys’ age/birth, and sending them to King’s Landing as squires, and probably make sure they don’t return to their old lands. I doubt they’d be allowed to wed, but I suppose Rohanne could petition for a restoration of Daemon’s old lands to House Blackfyre (as Anne Scott managed to save her lands from her husband Duke James’ attainder after the Monmouth rebellion, and her two surviving sons by him were able to marry and inherit and were loyal to the crown), and they could be wed into a loyal Red house of Da3ron’s choosing; it’d be her grandchildren inheriting these lands (Elizabeth I imprisoned her cousin Katherine Grey for the rest of her life for secretly marrying and had her separated from her two sons, but they were allowed to marry and her grandson became the next Duke of Somerset, despite his family reputation). Not Daemon II if he’s been captured with the others, but possibly Aenys. I’m not saying this is a likely scenario considering the characterization of Bl00draven and the actions of Da3ron II to the other children of rebels, but it’s a kinder solution that maybe Baelor might come up with.

I don’t imagine that these boys will be sent to the Faith, but rather the Night’s Watch seems to be the place for defeated rebels/men sentenced to death; so in all likelihood at least the elder ones could be sent to the Night’s Watch once they’re old enough. Westeros as well as medieval history has shown how easy it could be to take someone from a convent/monastery and use them to take their lands/incite a rebellion (Robar abducting Rhaella from the Faith; Marie of Boulogne was abducted from her convent by Matthew of Alsace to forcibly marry him to steal her lands), plus these vows can be undone (at least in medieval Italy, where sometimes cardinals had to leave the Church to get married to continue their family line; it’s implied in the sentences of Lucinda and Priscella that septas can break their vows) so I think at least the elder ones would not be allowed.

The Blackfyre girls have a higher chance of not being murdered. The worst case-scenario that I could unfortunately see happening is sending them to the Silent Sisters along with poor Alysanne Osgrey, which seems to happen to the most dangerous of noblewomen (rebel queen Marla Sunderland, sasser-of-kings Maris Baratheon, Ellyn Reyne’s daughters Rohanne and Cerelle), all potential heiresses for another rebellion (not likely with so many brothers, but if they manage to escape and another uprising coalesces around them who knows). Another option would be to the Faith to be septas, which happened to more minor noblewomen men wanted out of the way (Rhaella and Megette’s daughters for their “inconvenient birth”, Lucinda Penrose and Priscella Hogg for their roles in the plot to kill Daenaera). 

A particularly painful scenario would be confining them in the Maidenvault until/if a new king decides to release them as their grandmother Daena was. Considering that the next king is Aerys, I doubt they would be released (like Eleanor of Brittany) or marry

It seems not uncommon in Westeros for an ambitious man to marry an heiress of the previous ruler to become suo jure lord of her lands (Tyrek Lannister’s marriage to the infant Lady Ermesande Hayford, Dickon Tarly’s marriage to Eleanor Mooton, Lancel’s marriage to Amerei Frey to steal Darry, and most famously Orys Baratheon’s forcible marriage to Argella Durrandon). The problem with doing this in regards to the Blackfyre girls is that considering their father’s lands are probably under attainder, they don’t have lands to inherit, much less a dowry. Of course, Rohanne could try to petition for a creation of new lands, possibly in exchange for giving up their claim to the throne (Princess Renee of France gave up her claim to the duchy of Brittany in exchange for being made duchess of Chartres by King Francis I, so she could finally be allowed to marry). Another idea would be to send them abroad for matches to Essosi cities the Reds have ties to, such as Lys and Pentos. In a happy scenario, the Blackfyre girls were allowed to marry with permission; to show that Da3ron is serious about healing the realm, he or Baelor could betrothe Calla and Matarys (not expected to inherit the throne; your prompt said they were getting along!). What happens after his death in the Great Spring Sickness is anyone’s guess.

In the edgy scenario, the girls marry without permission, possibly to a Velaryon descendant of Baela’s (just going by my theory of at least some Velaryons as Blackfyre supporters); it seems in medieval England that some potential female claimants to the crown did marry secretly to men with more distant claims (Lady Katherine Grey as mentioned before, but also Lady Arabella Stuart two generations later, to Grey’s own grandson), thus frustrating the desires of their monarchs to marry them abroad. Sometimes they were able to escape their captors and raise their children in exile, eventually allowed to return to their home country; the most famous of these was Margaret Beaufort and her son Henry, who later won the English throne by right of conquest with weak dynastic claim.

A lot of these scenarios ignore the canonical cruelty of Bl00draven and the vindictiveness of Da3ron with regards to the Blackfyres and their supporters; I don’t imagine that they would show mercy to the defeated rebels, and warsofasoiaf’s scenario that they would all be secretly murdered is definitely a possibility. They also ignore Rohanne’s characterization (such that it is) of a take-charge noblewoman who was in my opinion unquestionably a pro-Blackfyre rebel that used her money and influence in Tyrosh to provide a home for the exiles and orchestrated their escape (the idea that Aegor Rivers helped Rohanne escape to her own country seems to diminish her achievements); I don’t think she would be asking the Targaryens for any favors, considering in canon she knew them well enough that she preferred to flee than surrender to the House that gave Bl00draven high office. Barring the “Bl00draven kills them all” scenario, I don’t think she would be executed due to her sex and that she’s from foreign nobility (especially if her male relative was still Archon), but we have no idea if the Faith is an option for her (did she convert? Considering the characterization of GRRM’s other Essosi women as holding to their homeland’s traditions, I doubt it); it’s likely to me she would be separated from her children, who would be governed by Red supporters (maybe if Rhaena is still alive, she could coach the girls?), an emotionally hard punishment for her (considering all of her canonical actions involve her children, it seems she loved them very much). It’s possible she might be sent back to Tyrosh as a gesture of goodwill to her family, after some years of confinement; or she could be sent to a remote location, like Cassandra Baratheon upon a forced marriage to Walter Brownhill.

tl;dr If the Blackfyres and Rohanne aren’t going to be murdered after being captured: the boys would likely go to the Night’s Watch once old enough, or imprisoned in the Red Keep and married under ideal conditions; the girls might go to the Faith, imprisoned in the Maidenvault, married off to non-Tyroshi Essosi, or secretly married; Rohanne would likely be briefly imprisoned, separated from her children, and either sent to the remote countryside or Tyrosh. What happens to them depends on how merciful the Reds are feeling, and how much of a risk they deem them to be. Just expect that if someone leads a rebellion in their name, for the boys to die. 

[justanother-unluckysoul]

Working My Way Back To You 10/11

Killian gets captured. When Emma finally rescues him, he’s traumatized and nearly broken from the torture he endured. Thankfully Emma is close at hand to help him through it.

Heavy on the hurt/comfort, with some whump because I couldn't help myself lol

A/N: Some fluffy comfort for the prompts “hugs” and “kisses.” Short and (hopefully) sweet! We are almost at the end of this story, just a quick epilogue to go. I can’t believe it! Thank you, all my lovely readers, for giving my little story so much support! Epilogue will be up early next week. It’s all finished so there’s no point in making you wait a whole week for it.

Warnings for this chapter: brief and vague mention of rape (though i’m sure if you’re still reading this story you don’t mind that)

Unbetad as always so mistakes are all mine.

Tagging @cocohook38 as requested.

Read this chapter on AO3

Working My Way Back To You

Hugs + Kisses

After their wonderful time together in the forest, the complete bliss and contentment Killian felt while cuddling with Emma under the blankets lingers for some time. He makes the most of his rediscovered confidence with her at night, making love until they are both exhausted and sated (and gods he missed this; the feel of her around him, the expression on her face when he begins to thrust into her, and the way she can take him apart and put him back together so easily, leaving him worn out and absolutely satisfied). And Killian assumes – he hopes – that his mind has finally given up on tormenting him with the memories of his torture. Perhaps he’s even cured of that PTSD thing. He’s certainly less jumpy now, less prone to startling and he hasn’t had a nightmare in a while. His broken hand has healed – Stacy’s not-so-gentle methods have helped return the strength to it, so Killian is able to spend some more time on the Jolly Roger with Henry, properly preparing the ship for a much-needed day out on the water.

“A family outing?” Emma asks with a smile.

Killian’s heart soars and his stomach does a strange sort of flip at her casual use of the word family in this context. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it.

“Aye, we’ll take her out far enough that it’s just us and the sea,” he says.

Henry is practically bouncing up and down in excitement as they make their plans. It’s been too long since they’ve done this. Emma checks the weather forecast and they schedule a sailing day. Killian tries to conceal the fact that he’s just as excited about it as Henry is, but the way Emma’s smirking at him in that way makes him think he’s not doing a good job of doing so. So he gives up on hiding it at all. It doesn’t matter anyway, because they both already know how much he loves sailing his ship. There’s just something about being on the water that is both exhilarating and calming. And to be out there with Emma and Henry? Even better.

-\-

A few nights before their planned outing, Killian’s nightmares return. And it’s as bad as ever. He’s not sure what triggered it, but it’s nasty combination of what was and what could have been, and he’s vaguely aware that he’s dreaming but he can’t seem to wake up. He tries to call out to Emma so she can help him. The words stick in his throat. He can’t move. His captor has Pan’s face, which seems wrong because Killian knows this setting isn’t Neverland, but he doesn’t have time to contemplate that because Pan is grinning evilly and pushing him back against the wall, and Killian knows what will happen next.

“This isn’t real,” Killian tells himself, desperately trying to wake up. His voice trembles and breaks.

“Are you sure about that, Killian?” asks Pan, his childlike voice sickeningly sweet in Killian’s ear, too close, too much, “Does this not feel real to you?”

Killian’s breath catches in barely concealed dread, gooseflesh breaking out across his skin at Pan’s unwanted touch. And it does feel real, terribly so, and Killian wants to fight, wants to resist, wants to wake the hell up, but his limbs stubbornly ignore his commands. He squeezes his eyes closed tight instead and braces himself for what’s coming, but then Pan is Rumpelstiltskin, and Killian’s on the Jolly Roger, lashed to the mast with ropes that are squeezing the breath from his lungs. The crocodile cackles at him, holding Killian’s heart in his hand.

“No,” Killian whispers, “Please.”

“Reduced to begging so soon, Captain? I thought you were stronger than that.” His hand tightens around Killian’s heart, the agony of it blacking out everything but the crocodile’s next taunt. “But it seems you are a coward after all.”

When the pain in his chest abates Killian finds himself back in the cellar, bent over a table, trying to support himself on his elbows because his hook is gone and his hand is broken and everything hurts and his captors are laughing and he can barely keep his feet from the rough thrusts of the man behind him. Tears roll down Killian’s cheeks but that’s wrong, he didn’t cry, he wouldn’t…

Killian, wake up.

The fingers on his skin feel different suddenly, skittering light and gentle across his forehead and dragging a little heavier across his chest and now that is real. Movement returns to his frozen limbs in a rush. And then he’s falling, and the landing is hard, rattling his bones, and he’s nearly choking on his own breaths in his panic as his stomach strongly suggests it might like to purge itself. He’s shaking violently, his skin crawling, and it’s so bloody dark he can’t orient himself.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m- Damn it. Killian, are you okay?” Emma.

At least he assumes it’s Emma, and not another trick of his mind. He is awake now, right? Emma switches on the light while Killian’s swallowing against the nausea between his ragged gasps, knees pulled up to his chest and his arms wrapped around himself, rocking slowly back and forth, trying to calm down – the way his body is trembling, he doubts he has the strength to get to the bathroom in time if his gut really rebels. The sudden brightness burns his eyes but he doesn’t dare close them lest he find himself back in the dreamscape.

“Hey, it’s okay, Killian, you’re safe,” Emma says, and she slowly kneels on the bedroom floor in front of him and doesn’t touch him, “I’m right here.”

“S-swan.” He meant sorry, but her name is apparently the only word he’s capable of saying right now.

He forces himself to reach out and lay his hand on her arm, just to reassure himself that he’s actually awake. That she’s really here. That he’s not alone.

“I’m here,” she repeats, “Let me help you, Killian.”

She always moves slowly when he’s like this, waits for his permission to touch, always careful not to startle him and scared she’ll make things worse. But Killian’s teeth chatter when he tries to speak, so he clenches his jaw and nods instead. With careful, deliberate movements Emma shuffles closer and lifts her hands to his cheeks. His face is wet. It seems he had been crying in the real world too.

“That’s it. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

She wipes the tears away gently as Killian sniffles and swallows and tries to pull himself together.

“Do we need to move to the bathroom?” she asks softly, knowing him so well.

But thankfully, the rolling of his stomach has begun to settle, and he’s quite certain he will not actually vomit. Not this time. He shakes his head, shifts his legs to a more comfortable position away from his chest and runs his unsteady hand through his hair.

“M-my apologies,” he mumbles, embarrassed by his reaction, “I’m…” He swallows hard. “I didn’t…”

Gathering the correct words and ordering them out of his mouth is a challenge, and he decides to give up on it for the moment. Bloody hell, he is pathetic. It’s been a while since his nightmares were this intense. At least this time it seems he’ll be able to find calm before his panicking turns into an actual attack, his breaths already starting to slow down as Emma moves closer to hug him.

“Shhh. You have nothing to apologize for.”

“I w-woke you,” Killian points out.

He’s clinging onto Emma now, curled close against her with his head on her shoulder, and even with how ashamed he feels for this blatant show of weakness, he can’t bring himself to let go. She’s rubbing his back soothingly, cradling his head against her, her embrace comforting him, pushing away the remnants of his dream.

“Yeah, you did,” she says softly, “But it’s okay, I don’t mind. I just wish I’d woken up sooner, really. I tried to wake you up, but I guess I was a bit late. That was a bad one, huh?”

There is no point in lying to her.

“Aye.”

He takes a deep, shuddering breath. His heart is still beating too fast, his throat dry from his gasping.

“Do you want some water?” Emma asks, as if she can hear his thoughts, “I can just… magic a glass up here. We won’t have to move.”

“That would b-be nice.”

Emma moves one hand off him to use her magic and momentarily she’s holding a glass of water, which she carefully passes to Killian. His hand trembles a little, but he’s able to bring it to his lips and quench his thirst without spilling any.

“Feeling better?”

Killian nods.

“Thank you, love. But perhaps…” He winces at the thought but presses on anyway. “Perhaps I should sleep on the couch for a while. So I don’t disturb your rest again.”

“Absolutely not,” Emma says, a bit severely, though still hushed so she doesn’t wake Henry who is sleeping in his room just down the hall, “I’m not letting you deal with these nightmares on your own.”

Killian pretends he’s not relieved about that.

“Now, let’s get back into bed, okay?”

“Okay.”

They untangle from each other and climb back into the bed, where Killian immediately pulls Emma close again to keep his anxiety at bay. The light is still on, and that helps too. He hopes Emma won’t turn it off yet.

“You okay?” she murmurs, settling with her head on his shoulder and her hand over his heart.

“I just…” Killian sighs deeply, his frustration coming to the forefront now that he’s less frightened. “I hate this. I hate that I can’t… I can’t move past it. It’s been months, Emma.”

He doesn’t know why it affected him so much – Archie said it’s likely a culmination of the burden of unresolved trauma he’s been through in the past, this most recent simply one too much for his mind to handle. And that’s also why his nightmares often included such old events along with the new. Pan and Rumpelstiltskin featured tonight, but sometimes Hades makes an appearance, mutilating him with his own hook and threatening to drop him in that accursed river.

“You are doing better though. This is the first time you’ve had a nightmare in a while. And the flashbacks aren’t happening very often anymore either, are they?”

“No, they’re not. But it’s not good enough,” Killian says bitterly, and the disgust he feels for his continued cowardice is so strong it could drown him. I’m not good enough.

He should be the one protecting Emma, comforting her, not the other way around all the bloody time. He’s so tired of it. He can feel himself retreating, if not physically then at least in his mind, the terrible weight of not good enough pulling him down, down, down…

“Hey, stop it.” Emma props herself on her elbow so she can plant the softest of kisses on the furrow between his brows, pulling him back to himself and to her. “You’re healing. It’s a process.”

His hand may be healed now, only the scars remaining that will fade even further with time, but at times like this Killian fears his mind may be beyond repair, despite the assurances from both Emma and from Archie that he’s healing. But Emma continues to pull him out of his morbid thoughts, kissing the scar on his cheek next.

“I never want you to think you aren’t good enough, Killian,” because of course she heard the true meaning behind his words, and there’s a feather-light kiss for a faint line of scarring on his shoulder, his eyes fluttering shut and his lips parting on a quiet gasp, “You’ve been through…” Emma’s lips find another old injury. “…so much. You just need some time.”

Killian thinks this would probably be arousing if it wasn’t so soothing. He can feel how much love she has for him – she’s pouring it into every touch, every word, every press of her lips. Perhaps she’s using a little of her magic to do it, or perhaps it’s simply because he’s still fragile from his nightmare, but the sensation is powerful and wonderful, his very nerves seeming to hum happily under his skin in response.

“Emma.” It’s little more than a helpless whimper. Desperate. Though for what, he can’t be certain. It’s not that he wants her to stop. “What are you doing to me?”

“Loving you,” Emma says, in a voice that means he has no choice but to lie back and take it, “Now sshh, I’m not finished.” She curls her fingers gently but firmly around his bicep, anchoring him in place.

She’s slowly kissing a path across the scars on his body between sentences, the knots and lines and hollows that map out a lifetime of surviving, too many lifetimes really. Her tender affections feel like they’re filling a void inside his soul with warmth and love and it’s almost too much to handle. All he can do is keep his eyes closed and wrap his arm around Emma’s waist as she continues.

“You take all the time you need to heal, and I’ll be with you all the way,” she takes his left arm in her gentle hand, and he knows where she’s going next, “However long this takes. However many bad days, or nights, that you have. You just need to…” Her lips brush against his sensitive inner wrist, just beside the ugly and numb scar tissue that covers the blunted end of it. “…to let me help you. I love you, Killian. Please, don’t pull away from me.”

“I won’t,” his voice breaks, and if she doesn’t stop smothering him with all this kindness soon, he’s going to start crying. Again. “I promise I won’t. Emma, I…”

She moves and takes his right hand from around her waist and softly kisses the scars on his fingers and across the back of his hand, and there’s a feeling of all the broken pieces of him being drawn together, sharp edges smoothed over by Emma’s love and it’s too much. A tear slips from under Killian’s lashes and his breath shudders, his heightened emotions too intense to be contained any longer.

“I love you,” he breathes, looking up to see Emma’s own eyes glassy with tears as well.

“I know.” She smiles down at him, raw and open and honest as her thumb brushes the tear from his face. “And I mean what I said. I’m with you, Killian.”

Her next and final kiss is granted to his lips, and she takes her time there, her palm resting against his cheek while his fingers tangle in her hair, allowing him to reciprocate before she settles down into his arms again, and Killian wants to stay in this moment forever. Comfortable and safe, basking in the wonderful feeling of being so wholly loved. How does his Swan always know what he needs?

“What have I done to deserve you, Emma?” he asks once he’s regained control of his emotions.

“What have I done to deserve you?” she counters.

He smiles, and lets the silence stretch on, his limbs feeling heavy and his thoughts turning sluggish as sleep pulls him away. It almost claims him, his eyes closed and his breathing even, when the light he could still just barely see behind closed lids suddenly goes out and he startles, eyes flying open as he pulls himself back to reality with a jolt. He’d turned over onto his side in his almost-sleep, and now Emma’s pressed against his back with her arm around his torso, squeezing a little tighter to combat his flinch. She’s switched the light off, he realizes, plunging the room back into darkness.

“Sorry, I thought you’d gone back to sleep,” she whispers, “Is it too dark?” She doesn’t wait for his response. “Hang on a second, I’ve got an idea.”

She moves her hand, a casual flick of her wrist in a way that Killian recognizes – so at ease with using magic these days – and the curtains glide open, letting the nearly full moon cast its light into the room. The tension flows out of him almost instantly, coaxed away by pleasant memories of nights aboard the Jolly Roger with the bright moon shining through the windows of his quarters.

“Better?”

“Aye, that’s perfect. Thank you.”

He can’t find the words to convey just how thankful he is for her, for everything she does for him. He hopes she knows. She probably does. She’s quite perceptive, he thinks with a smile. He closes his eyes again and sleep finds him quickly. When he dreams again, it’s of the sea, and of Emma, and of the moon shining down upon the deck of the Jolly Roger where they’re lying entwined in peaceful respite.

[themelodicenigma]

FF7R Localization

Wow. This is getting ridiculous. All the people screaming at Square Enix NA for the localization/translations of FFVII Remake—you really should stop and think about what perspective you have at this moment. I understand though, really, and I’ll express why further down, but seeing the rationalization at the heart of these criticisms is making it difficult to not be frustrated at the fandom’s behavior.

A lot of you are really showing you haven’t spent the time understanding the localization/translation process that takes place within the company. Not to mention, that you refuse to listen to what the people who are officially involved with the game are telling you. This process in question directly involves the localization team internally in Tokyo at Square Enix Japan. A process that is accomplished alongside the developers and staff directly involved with the project in Japan. The recording sessions where people are physically location-wise isn’t one unified place, nor might be those who are outsourced to be a part of the process, but communication and involvement is retained through this process across the world. There are a myriad of paratext that describe this process that Square Enix has done for many different projects—Kitase talked about this for FFXIII, Nomura talked about it for KH3, and now Ben Sabin talks about it in multiple interviews for FFVIIR (here and here, go nuts). Ultimania interviews also typically cover it as well, the Asako Suga (Supervising Dialogue Editor for most KH games) interview in the KH3 Ultimania is a very good one as well. Honeywood, who was responsible for beginning the steps to a better localization process after the OG FFVII, left the company with a good foundation here for what they do and how it’s achieved.

Differences based on the team, circumstances, and even those outsourced to assist should be considered for every project SE does, but the overall approach to localization/translation is done about the same way. Has been for years now, with the changeup being in what is affected by the goal of either closer or simultaneous releases between the different languages, especially ENG and JPN. It’s a joint effort and everyone is on the same side—if you have a complaint about how something was handled in the game, this isn’t the sole responsibility and accountability of one person or one division of the company. The localization team are still people who work on the game, the final product we receive, directly and deserve more recognition than being treated like outsiders to, what could be considered, the primary developers.

But, that’s even if the issues at hand are actually issues to begin with.

It’s absolutely okay if you don’t like the way a localization turned out, that’s totally fair to not be satisfied. If a fan’s mindset behind translation/localization is to get the same experience of that of the original language, then I can’t blame you for such a goal—if anything I feel the same way, and objectively that’s a good goal to have. Additionally, it’s also fair to even have a preference between any of them, and I definitely encourage learning and understanding whatever the primary language is for a game.

However, I would implore you to also understand that this goal, through the effort and agreement of those creating the game, can be met in different ways, and analogous to that, a translation can be expressed in a multitude of ways within a context. There is an allowance of flexibility to capture the context in whatever way they see fit—and if it has a different approach or wording than the original, that does not make it “wrong” or a “mistranslation”. This type of thinking is very limited in how translation/localization works, especially for a creative project, and it fails to acknowledge the multitude of ways in which something can be said, and how contextual elements can influence the expression that can be made. There’s a difference between being wrong on a translation level by the book and being wrong contextually. It certainly can happen both ways, but often, fans will complain of things that aren’t contextually “wrong” to a consequential degree and that were intended to be the way it was in the target language.

I mean jeez, it’s all too typical that to a fan who has engaged in heated, and probably nonsensical, debate of LTD shit for 20 years would want to look at the differences through the lens of this offense. I’ve seen the same shit before in other fandoms and it’s stupidly petty.

Was it written for Olette to say “What a romantic story!” because the localization team are “Sokai” shippers? Or, is it because they saw the opportunity to add a more direct connotation to Olette’s response to Kairi telling her about Sora? You know, the person she literally has romantic storytelling with?

And for the hot topic, was Aerith’s lines in the train graveyard of claiming Cloud as her bodyguard there to preserve some apparent self-indulgent need to be “Clerith fans”? Or, was it done to express that light part of Aerith’s character in this situation where both other people are clearly much more tense? With a line of dialogue that characteristically match what she is physically doing?

“Context” is multiple and broad in meaning. The context of the circumstance and the responses by either characters did not change in either the JPN and ENG version, but there was however a different approach to their lines that emphasized a certain connotation that already fits other elements of the context of the scene. It really isn’t an issue objectively or false in nature, and there’s no means in which you can say it’s not intended to be what it is when the people with the authority of working directly on the project collaborated with the very same people you’re saying it goes against. It’s made, finalized, and meant to be what it is by decision.

C’mon, if you’re actually comprehending the multitude of resources that describe the localization process SE as a whole does for their games, knowing this is done with cooperation with the developers and those who can even fluently speak ENG and JPN who are on the development team [e.g. Yasue for KH3]—how can you truly have the audacity to say that something isn’t intended for how it was written in the target language? Really. Now there are certainly mistakes and contradictions that can be pointed out that actually DO change context and affect the understanding of the game’s world—FFXIII being the example for lore concepts—but people going line by line and pointing out the most inconsequential differences, things that don’t actually change the context of the scene or contradict all pertaining elements/persons involved....

Wow. Let’s talk about the actual mistakes that matter for understanding the story and not a line of dialogue that hits your personal nerve regarding shipping.

Wanting the game’s localization/translation to be as close to the original language [specifically, the primary language of those creating it] isn’t a problem, but the behavior and rational I’m seeing that treats this process by the lens of the LTD definitely is. Not to mention, the lack of understanding that the above goal can be met on a contextual level that has every right to be additive in whatever way the official team who produce these games see fit in the chosen language. The FFVII fandom really needs to stop treating everything as some conspiracy and mal-intent to give a false version of a game that everyone’s, including the development staff, efforts have been put into. This commentary that SE NA are the ones to blame, that there is even blame deserved to be had, and that the translation approached wasn’t intended by all parties involved in the process—how about we wait until someone from the development team somehow reveals that the localization managers rebelled against everything they worked on together and the end result was different than expected.

Otherwise, @-ing at Square Enix NA about how their creative team has an “LTD agenda” and are “Clerith-biased” is not going to be a good look for you in their eyes.

[writefightandflightclub]

Rebelle of the ball

Poe x fem reader (mainly so the pun worked, sorry gender-neutral readers!)

Author’s note: this my very loose riff on a traditional princess story- particularly that “princess moment” when a guy sees his girl all dressed up walking down a staircase and falls hard / realises his existing feelings. Reader’s POV is that if Poe doesn’t fall for her tonight, in this dress, then it’s never going to happen, is it? This fic is written from Poe’s POV which was a different kinda challenge altogether. Also, I didn’t agonise over this one so sorry if it’s no good. Let me know how I did, k?

Summary: You and Poe have to go on an undercover mission to a diplomat’s ball at Canto Bight casino to gather intel for the Resistance. While you pose as an esteemed Princess, will Poe turn out to be your Prince Charming?

Warnings: Language, canon-typical violence, mild sex references. 

GIF by @vivienvalentino

Poe is nervous and pacing. He’s read and reread the briefing package sent to him by the ops team. He’s gotten dressed in his black and gold suit. He’s checked his slicked-back hair in the mirror more than he would usually care to. Now he’s waiting on you. And he’s not a particularly patient man.

He raps on the door to your adjoining suite one more time. “What now?!” you hiss through the door, and he sucks air through his teeth. He’s sure you sound even more angry than last time he checked-in with you.

“Are you sure you don’t want a hand, Princess?”

“Fuck off, Prince Charming.” you shout through the door. Charming, indeed.

You’ve been in there at least two hours, bedecking yourself in some form of complicated finery for the evening. A delegation of Resistance members had managed to do some stellar work off-planet, securing a sponsor for the mission. Which -essentially- meant that you had both been hooked up with outfits grotesque and gaudy enough to fit in at tonight’s delegate’s ball in Canto Bight; the casino and playground of the rich and powerful. Only the finest and most elaborate costuming would do to convince guests that you truly were an esteemed Princess of Pavia-9, as you claimed to be. And only then could you get the intel on arms drops you so badly needed to intercept the shipments and topple the Order’s plans.

A fresh wave of nausea hits Poe when he thinks about what you’re about to do. Sure, the pretentious assholes who frequented Canto Bight weren’t battle-hardened like you. But they were abundant enough in number, and had pleny of hired muscle around for things to go royally wrong if they caught on to the fact you were an imposter. No, Poe isn’t a patient man at all. He doesn’t like waiting on you because it allows him plenty of time to plan ahead; “planning ahead”, in his book, is also known as an extended opportunity to ruminate on all the ways things can go wrong. Characteristically, he’d much rather just get out there and wing it. To worry is to suffer twice, and all that.

When you eventually emerge from your suite your expressjon and your body language are impartial, neutral. But you twirl gently, and ask “well?”

Poe looks you up and down and back up again. A gold, elaborate sculpture of a crown adorns your head. Your hair is folded in intricate petals. Your face is caked in so much make-up you barely look like yourself. Your body is enrobed in an ostentatious jewel blue dress and cape, complete with flamboyant shoulder decorations and arm cuffs.

“You look...” he can see you holding your breath, awaiting his reaction, but this is all he has. “You look ridiculous.”

Despite your best attempt at bravado you are visibly upset. “I’m not supposed to look ridiculous, I’m supposed to look good.”

“No, you’re supposed to look rich, trust me, there’s a difference.”

Poe considers reminding you not to take it personally. That you are beautiful. But it’s not relevant for the mission and it’s probably not the kinda thought that -as your Commander- he should be entertaining anyway.

His eyes flick back over you again. “Can you run in those shoes?” he asks, genuinely concerned looking at the height of them.

“Poe. Do I look like a Princess?”

“Don’t go getting ideas below your station.” he smiles at you gently, trying to mask the nerves which prod insistently at his chest, not allowing him to forget the risks. You look like a Princess, for sure. He just thinks that Princess is a bit of a step down for you. Although he does know one Princess who turned out to be pretty badass, most he’d encountered were detached and self-absorbed, outsourcing the true cost of their lifestyle to those who stood to suffer most. 

“Poe!” you yell, scowling now. He concedes that you need some actual reassurance rather than his loose platitudes.

“They’ll buy it. 100%. I promise.” Then he adds, “Do you have your blaster? Communicator?” You nod and flash him your thigh, showing where it’s strapped. He tries not to visibly react to the flash of skin but there’s something he finds very hot about the holster tightened around your leg.

“Good. Now. How do I look?”. He straightens his tie and opens his palms to you, presenting himself.

You look him up and down. “You’re doing a great job of looking like a rich asshole.” He had to figure there’d be no way you’d compliment him after his own reation. But, he can tell by the flare of your nostrils -and the areas of him that your eyes travel to- that you like what you see. He prays you do a better job of hiding your emotions when you’re in front of the crowd.

On that note, he clasps your hands in his, conscious of his clammy grip, and looks deeply into your eyes.”Are you ready to do this?” He searches for any hesitation and finds only a determined resolve.

Poe offers his next words measuredly, carefully, recapping the plan.“You know the mark. Let him come to you. Find out what we need, find me, and we get out. Provided the bribes have worked, the real Princess will be delayed at the checkpoint for 35 minutes. That’s all we’ve got and then we need to move.”

“This’ll be fun.” You smile; a wild, improvident look in your eyes. Poe figures the adrenaline must be kicking-in and overriding some of your nerves and better judgement. Fine then, you’ll both just wing it.

He’s certainly done enough worrying about this. He sincerely hopes that will mean he has saved you the trouble of having to suffer.

***

These people, this place; it’s all grotesque. If this is luxury, Poe has already had an excess of the excess.

Everything is obsence. The thought of these people getting rich by dealing arms, wreaking havoc on innocent people - all to catwalk their garish outfits and passively agressively outbrag one-another at champagne mixers - makes his blood boil. But, he must refrain from blasting anyone just yet.

Poe is posing as a middling member of the Galactic Senate from a planet with plausible ties to the old imperials. Nothing risky enough that anyone should question him too insistently. So, he mingles amongst the throng of the crowd, rubbing shoulders with tasteless, vulgar individuals and trying to keep his fists and weapons to himself. Groups of men stop him, with faux interest, seemingly only to boast about pointless items within their possession as if they mattered, and then to dismissively describe arms deals which contributed to massacres as though the lives taken were of zero consequence. The only thing preventing Poe from blasting half of these assholes is the satisfying thought that you’re about to dupe them and they have no kriffing idea. It makes a delicious smile spread over his face, which these over-indulged narcissists mistake for tacit approval, of course.

Finally, the announcement sounds out informing the room that the arrival of the Princess of Pavia-9 is imminent. The guests, noticeably abuzz, seem intrigued to finally catch a glimpse of the famously beautiful, ruthless, and reculsive monarch-in-waiting. The throng move to congregate at the bottom of the central staircase, ready to watch you make your entrance. Poe joins the thick of the crowd, taking a position off to the side, flanked by obtrusive flower displays, imposing gilded statues, and gaudy champagne towers. The orchestral music is paused, and, as everyone awaits your appearance, you could hear a droid-bolt drop.

Poe’s heart is in his mouth, a slight taste of bile as he readies himself for your moment of truth. His legs are shaking a little with nerves now, a sheen of sweat developing on his brow. You really are surrounded by people who would not hesitate to kill you, or worse. Then, he sees you appear at the opening of the stairs, the jewel blue of your dress in stark contrast to the gold staircase.

Well, you’ve made it this far, at least. Hopefully you can pull-off being a Princess for half an hour more. Poe looks nervously around to see if the crowd are buying it. Well, he never should have doubted you.

The crowd is enraptured, looking at you in awe. There is an audible ripple of excitement and nervous energy which spreads across the room as they receive their first glimpse of you, and the ripple of bows which follow feels like more than a simple act of obeying custom; it feels like they are bowing because you inspire them to. Because your presence commands it. You move deliberately, confidently, gracefully down the staircase.

A woman to Poe’s side whispers to her companion “She’s breathtaking.” Poe’s face can’t help but spread into a grin. Not even because they’re buying-it (although that is an untold relief). Not even because of the compliment. More so, because everyone here in awe of you is missing the point entirely. Maybe they like that ridiculous outfit, the power and status you appear to convey, your body in that form-fitting dress -which, ok, now that���s he’s looking he admits you carry off well. But no, Poe looks at you and he knows the secret. He knows you’re majestic because of the way you just bravely, cooly, commandingly walked into a room full of your enemies and still owned it, not giving off a hint of nerves. He knows you’re majestic because you were prepared to risk yourself not for your own gain or status; you did so for the good of the Resistance. For all that, you are more beautiful than any self-regarding poser in this room. You’re fucking baller.

You make it down the staircase without a stumble and the orchestra start-up again. Poe sees you begin to track through the crowd, people simutaneoulsy flocking to be close to you and shrinking back from your steely and arresting presence. He knows your mark will soon beeline for you. The transaction is well-rehearsed and Poe is confident in what you can do. All being well, you will rendezvous with him in the hallway by the service exit in 15 minutes.

Itching to whisk you out of there, perhaps overly keen not to lose sight of you in the crowd, Poe lingers a little too long in just the wrong spot. Edging close enough to the periphery of the party to arouse suspicion.

“Excuse me. Can I assist you?” It’s one of the security officers the casino has assigned to protect the Princess, now that’s you. He sidles over, chest puffed out, towering over Poe.

“No, thank you.”

“Can I see your credentials?” 

Poe flashes his best, affronted-rich-person face, but subterfuge really isn’t his strongpoint. He’s just the getaway pilot. “How dare you...” he begins.

From the corner of his eye, he sees you notice him and the brewing confrontation. He sees you subtly -via a thread of greetings and kisses to your hand- trying to weave through the crowd and reduce the distance between you both, in case of the need for a quick exit. He throws you a somehwat helpless, sidelong glance.

And then, it gets worse. Poe guesses that the real Princess’ ship has made its way through the checkpoint early, as the guard’s communicator crackles to life, a panicked voice raising a very valid concern about how the Princess could possibly already be there. That will, emphatically, be your cue to leave then.

“Oh, shit.”

Poe whistles loudly, his pinkies in his mouth, and yells indiscrimately into the crowd. “Let’s roll, Princess!”

You are close enough that he hears you exclaim, “oh fuck”, before push-kicking another guard right into the orchestra, and he hears them landing in a dischord of groans and reverberating strings. He sees a flash of jewel blue as hands grab at your robe, which you abandon, throwing it over the head of one of your pursuers. This buys you an extra split second to slip away as you elbow your way through the crowd of -thankfully- sufficiently confused delegates. The crowd are startled enough that the path of the other guards remains blocked, a few beelining and jostling through towards you from all corners of the room, sending people and drinks and champagne towers toppling.

Poe uses the distraction to land a respectable hook to the chin of the security officer who had decided to accost him and you skid to a halt in front of him, in time to follow his hook up with a solid elbow to the guard’s face.

And then, to him; “We royally fucked up, what can I say?”

He makes a mental note to tell you how fucking badass you are, but that can wait.

“It’s just a slight hiccup, Princess. You ready to run?”

You lift the hem of your dress to reveal your old, worn flight boots in place of the heels you’d donned earlier.

Poe beams in delight “You changed your shoes,”

You grin back “I changed my shoes.”

Poe guides you urgently out of the service exit with a hand on your back and you head out first. You both know where you’re running, having scoped out the speeders earlier in the evening. You can’t let the security forces get there before you. You both leg it, running and half-sliding down the steep hilside until your lungs burn and your legs shake, your blasters now drawn. You haven’t made it far enough by the time blaster shots begin to lick at your heels.Thankfully the ground has begun to flatten out a little or with their higher vantage point -and your disadvantage point- you’d be done for.

Thinking quickly, Poe crouches and takes a position behind a crumbling bit of wall. He needs you away from their line of fire, now. “Get to the speeders, I’ll stay here and pick a few off.” You don’t even hesitate to leave him there to be all heroic, which he chooses to believe is a sign you trust his judgement. Trusting you also, to come back for him, Poe focusses at the task at hand, dropping a few of the security team as they make their way down the hill. He notes with vexation that crafts have taken to the skies already, searchlights combing through the long grasses.

Distracted by the whirr of one such craft as it comes unnervingly close overhead, he doesn’t spot one of the pursuers until they have already cleared the brow of the nearest hill, looking equally shocked to find Poe crouched behind the makeshift cover as they plant their feet and recover from their jump.

The split seond needed before recognition hits is the only reason Poe hasn’t been blasted yet. It’s also the reason neither of them see or hear you approach on the looted speeder, given the additional cover of the noisy craft overhead. At least, Poe’s adversary doesn’t notice you until it’s far too late. You steer the landbike towards him, your golden headdress now being yielded in one fist, like a goddess riding into battle, as you straddle the vehicle. You sock the guard in the back of the head with your crown, the momentum of your strike knocking him out cold. You toss the now useless adornment to the floor and it rolls down to land at Poe’s feet. The guard too wavers and then drops to his knees in what feels like slow motion, rolling down the hill limply.

“That’s it. Bow down to your Princess, you fucker.”

See. Fucking baller.

Poe is almost inspired to fall to his knees too.

He looks up at you from the lower ground. You have a split in your dress up to your thigh, leaving your oh so practical flight boots and blaster holster on show. Your hair is a mess and a cut seethes on your lip. This is it. This is the moment the force of his feelings for you hits him. It’s like a sucker punch. He relates a little too heavily to the guard you’ve just KO’d.

“Can you stop gawping and get the fuck on, Poe!”

Your command rips him back to reality and he clambers over to the speeder, throwing his leg over and shuffling close to you, hands circling around your waist.

Now it’s just a small matter of making it down to the secluded cove where the ship is hidden and he can finally make himself a bit more useful.

“Don’t let go!” you shout above the throttle of the engine as the vehicle accelerates with a jolt.

No, he certainly doesn’t plan on it.

***

You make it back to the ship, tumbling through the doors with a flood of relieved laughter.

“See, I told you that would be fun,” you grin deliciously.

Poe vaults into the pilot’s seat and fiddles with various nozzles, levers, and dials, flying manually until he’s sure it’s safe enough to jump into hyperdrive. He ditches the Cantonican ships with ease - he’s one helluva piot after all- and you settle into the chair next to him to jump straight on comms.

“General. One slight hiccup, but we did it. Listen, the shipment is on Malomir, they have an outpost there amongst some old salt mines. It’s the centre for their whole distribution and it’s weak at the top peak where the two ridges meet- that’s where there was a cave in of the main shaft a couple of decade ago. I’m patching coordinates through now, but hit it hard and fast, there’s no way that they can move anything much out of there before we can strike. We light it up that whole thing is going to blow. Let’s take them down!”

“Copy that, Major, Commander. We’ll move now. Well done.” Poe can hear the smile in Leia’s voice through the comms, can hear celebration in the background of the briefing rom.

“Thank you, General, copy that.”

After that, Poe breathes out a big sigh of relief, of elation. This victory could save a lot of lives and really slow the Order as well as a lot of warmongers down. Pleasingly, it would also hit them where they understood too- their wallets. But, there’s also another layer of joy mixed in. You are safe. A significant victory.

Poe jumps the ship into hyperdrive which allows you to sit back for a moment. You handled it, this mission, but it can’t have been a breeze. You’re good at hiding the truth (and extracting it too)- it’s part of your skillset, but Poe knows you well enough to see through your cool exterior, or at least he likes to think so. You are quiet as you take a moment to look out at the blue and white light slipping by, letting your muscles untense. He let’s you have it, uninterrupted. Poe regards you ardently, the light casting an ethereal glow over your features, and over the contours of your body. In that jewel blue gown, it’s almost as if you are made of starlight. He smiles softly to himself as he realises how disappointed that crowd back at Canto Bight are gonna be when they get their “real” Princess. Surely nothing could compare to you.

When you turn back, you see that Poe has spun around in his chair, legs spread and hands clasped behind his head.

He’s still looking at you. Still gawping, he realises, but he suddenly doesn’t care if you know it.

“What?” you ask bashfully, recognising the blatant admiration on his face.

“Now you look good.” 

“I do? Not ridiculous?”

He smiles. He’s going to be paying for that comment for a long time, isn’t he? “Yeah, like you usually do. Badass, gorgeous, fucking majestic.” His voice is soft, genuine. He scopes your reaction to the compliment, but you don’t seem to bristle. That’s good, because he has a lot more where that came from.

“Well,” you venture, “if I’m being honest you look pretty good in that suit.”

“I know, I saw you looking.” There’s a beat. “I’d look better out of it.”

“I’ll bet, you goof.”

Again, he’s pleased to see that you don’t seem entirely averse to the suggestion. In fact, you come to sit on the arm of his chair, that gorgeous split extending up your thigh again.

“Seriously though, I didn’t mean to offend you earlier. Those people in there, they’re ugly. No matter how they dress it up. But you, you’re ...” His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, and with you so close he can barely get his words out anymore. Maybe he’s a little distracted.

“Uh-huh. I get it, Poe.” Your lips quirk up at the corners. “But are you also liking this dress a little more now?” You might have noticed the way his eyes are sweeping approvingly over your body, his words becoming less and less coherent.

“Oh yeah, it’s working for me a lot more out of context.”

“Good to know, Prince Charming.” you say with a gratified smile as you straddle him on the chair, thighs spread, lips hovering close to him. “Now how about we make-out and then go blow some stuff up on Malomir?”

“Anything you say, Princess. I’ve seen what happens to your disloyal subjects and I don’t want to suffer the same fate.”

Poe might be about to have his best day ever, he thinks.

You pulled off being a Princess for the night, but you are most definitely his Queen- he hopes, for a long time.

[mckinlily]

For the ask game and the Stars from Me:

9: Were there any alternate versions of this fic?

Stars From Me was one of the rare fics that actually had a pretty set structure from the beginning. I was going for the 5+1 things though the +1 turned out to get pretty long haha...

So the main structure of the fic stayed the same from the beginning (though when I started, I thought it was going to be a SHORT fic. AHAHAHAHAHA. HA.), though I did find myself expanding or changing details along the way. Keith's upset at Lance joining was something I didn't plan, it just happened when Lance showed up. Hunk's chapter was probably the hardest to figure out. At one point I had him doing maintenance on Shiro's arm for his part, but in the end I found the arc that made it to the final version worked better.

When I first started outlining/writing this story, I mostly just liked the space old west aesthetic and I wanted to the team-as-family trope canon refused to give us. But as I started writing, I found the story becoming more and more about family and relationships, grief and forgiveness, healing and trauma. Most the basic outline stayed the same, but the emotions and feelings behind the characters grew deeper and I found them saying and reacting in ways that I hadn't expected but just rang true.

That was one of the magical things about Stars From Me for me: just how real the emotions felt as I was writing them. I couldn't have planned it when I was outlining, but the end result was really neat and something I was really proud of.

Oh! I'd almost forgotten this, but probably the biggest change came from the epilogue. There was a time when I debated whether to introduce the Voltron Lions, but pretty early I decided to stick with just the Lion House. There was a long time when I was thinking of ending with Shiro and the rest of the Voltron team actually becoming space pirates/rebels. I do like that idea, but ultimately, Stars From Me is a story about family and personal healing. That ending just didn't fit as the ending. Who knows, maybe sometime after Stars From Me, then team does become pirates stealing from the Galra. It certainly is would be in character for them! But Stars From Me ended where it needed to, and I'm satisfied with it.

[365days365movies]

January 15, 2021: Casino Royale (2006) (Part 1)

So...we meet again, Bond. What’ve you been doing for the past few years?

...What. Not who, James, WHAT. Jeez.

Whatever. BrosBond had 3 movies after GoldenEye, and they were...not great, from what I’ve heard. Remember, I wasn’t as big of a fan of GoldenEye as many critics and fans were; so, I can’t imagine what I’d think of the latter three. Maybe one day, but not today!

Today, I’m focusing my sights on the revitalization of the brand. See, in 2002, Die Another Day came out, and that movie was apparently crazy. TOO crazy. So crazy, in fact, that audiences and critics accused it of losing the plot, and the production studio in charge (Eon Productions) had a yearning to change direction. And their inspiration came from...a surprising place.

See, Joel Schumacher’s campy, over-the-top Batman films were basically wiped out by Christopher Nolan’s 2005 reinvention of the character in Batman Begins. Which is, in my opinion, a highly underrated classic, Seriously. And in 2005, this film was absolutely a smash-hit. Batman was cool again, which a lot of people never thought would happen in film. Eon saw this, and thought...how can we apply that to Bond?

Out with Brosnan...in with Craig.

The first of the new, darker, reinvented Bond films is planned for release in 2006, starring Daniel Craig as the suave, sophisticated spy. And the director of the film was selected to be...Martin Campbell? From GoldenEye? The guy who kinda sorta started the modern over-the-top Bond? Really? I mean, OK. The writers this time are different...except for one. I didn’t talk about the writers last time because I don’t like putting people on blast if I don’t gotta. This time...maybe. We’ll see.

If this Casino Royale is basically Bond Begins, I’m definitely interested. Maybe this’ll revitalize that Bond-love from the Connery days. Let’s find out! We’re also gonna look at the Bond checklist again!

Gadgets: better have more cool gadgets than GoldenEye, I swear...

Bond Girl: GoldenEye’s Natalya wasn’t bad, to be honest; let’s see who his Inevitable Love Interest is this time.

Villain: Alec Trevelyan had so much potential. I need my dastardly villain, let’s do this. Oh, and let’s throw the henchman in here, too. Xenia Onatopp was...a lot...but she was a memorable henchman, at least.

Music: Of course. GoldenEye’s theme was good, and we’ll see how 2006 does.

OK, movie time. SPOILERS AHEAD!!!

Recap

We start at an office building in Prague, where a man makes his way up to his office. Waiting there for him is, of course, James Bond (Daniel Craig). The man is Dryden, section chief at the British Embassy in Prague, whom M has accused of selling secrets, a big no-no. But Bond...isn’t a double-0 agent. Huh. You got me interested.

Apparently, agents get the two zeroes once they’ve killed two people on file. James hadn’t killed anyone...until recently. Which is when we get this.

OH SHIT

This is an absolutely BRUTAL fight. It’s not choreographed flashily, it’s not pretty...it’s rough. It’s intense. And it’s...oh my God, wow. Made me feel it. And what’s astonishing is that it’s SO short.

On learning this, Dryden tells him not to worry, the second one is...

...YOU GOT ME. I’M IN FOR THE FUCKIN’ RIDE

HOW??? How is it that in 3 minutes of screentime, I’m already more satisfied by Craig’s Bond than I was for the ENTIRETY of GoldenEye? That is masterfully done, right off the bat. WOW. We even get a smooth-as-silk segue into the classic bullet turret sequence, and that takes us right into the song and opening credits. And...wow.

Here’s the thing about Bond openings, as I mentioned last time: they were all directed by one guy up until GoldenEye, and were basically all silhouetted women with themes and scenes from the movie projected around them. The Brosnan movies followed suit, always having silhouetted women in one way or another. Die Another Day used CGI women and...a really bad Madonna song. It was...it is NOT GOOD, guys. Look it up, it’s the most 2002 thing I’ve ever heard.

But here’s the fin bit about Casino Royale. This is the first Bond movie opening with no women in it. Yeah. It’s the first one. And the song is Chris Cornell’s You Know My Name, and it’s good! Not sure it’s going in my soundtrack, though.

Finally, the opening credits sequence itself: it’s once again Daniel Kleinman doing it, and it’s actually inspired by the first James Bond book Casino Royale, which had already had a TV special and unofficial Bond movie made from it! The cover had a playing card motif, and the opening carries over that motif creatively. I really dig it, if I’m honest! Definitely a welcome break from the 44 years of Bond films preceding it.

Uganda! And we meet the villain of this film: Le Chiffre (Mads Mikkelsen). And GODDAMN if that isn’t a Bond villain! He’s a banker, making a deal with a rebel leader, Steven Obanno (Isaach de Bankole), via their liason Mr. White (Jesper Christiensen). Setting up an attack by supplying Obanno with money, he sells his stocks of a company called Skyfleet, knowing that they’re about to fail.

Meanwhile, a ferret’s fighting an Asian species of cobra. In Madagascar. My zoology senses are EXPLODING, OH my God. So much wrong there. Anyway, there’s a bombmaker in the crowd watching the fight. He’s being tailed by Bond and another agent, Carter, who tips off the guy by being a bad spy. Bond chases him to a construction yard. What now, James?

Awesome. Why is this awesome when I said that the tank was dumb? Because at least it makes sense for a bulldozer to go haywire in a construction yard, just sayin’. Plus, this dude clearly isn’t the best, as he fires on construction workers and cops.

Eventually, this chase sequence brings us to the top of a crane, where this exchange happens.

I, uh...I love this movie already. That’s goddamn great.

The chase scene as a whole is also fantastic, as it continues off the bridge and into an abandoned building, then escalates into the streets, brings in law enforcement, and eventually ends with Bond at an embassy, facing down both the military and the bomb maker. He kills the guy, shoots some gas tanks, grabs the bomb, and then gets the hell out of there.

...Y’know what, that was fucking amazing, but he also almost certainly caused an international incident there. And I should be annoyed about that, but guess what! It makes sense! This is an inexperienced Bond, one who’s JUST been promoted to 00 status as 007, as the prologue explained. So, y’know what? I’m into it!

Cut to a yacht, like you do in a Martin Campbell Bond film. There, we have our villain, Le Chiffre, playing a card game. Also, he weeps blood. Yeah. HE WEEPS BLOOD.

OK, if that isn’t some Bond villain shit, I don’t know WHAT is. He’s also asthmatic, because I love it. I love it so much. He’s a mathematically-brilliant asthmatic that weeps blood. More, please. 

He’s also a person aware of what Bond did at the embassy, as it’s already become an international incident! Thank you for showing consequences, movie! Damn! I love it! This has two additional consequences. One, Le Chiffre notes that the code “Ellipsis” used by the bomber may be soon to expire, indicating a connection between the two. And the second consequence? M’s pissed.

M! DAME JUDI DENCH! One of my favorite things about GoldenEye was bringing in Judi Dench as M, and she made it through the reboot! And she’s still as entertaining as she was before, calling Bond out for his stupidity, and explaining that she misses the Cold War.

In her apartment, M does her normal exposition schtick, and her interactions with Bond are fantastic here. She’s understandably angry at him, and gives him what for, but she’s also clearly impressed that he FIGURED OUT WHERE SHE LIVES, as well as her REAL NAME. Shows her opinion of Bond and aspects of Bond’s character in a single, masterful stroke. 

Well. Goddamn. Done.

The Bahamas! Bond’s here to find Alex Dimitrios (Simon Abkarian), a Greek businessman who’s believed to have a connection with Le Chiffre himself. And, as James Bond is wont to do, he finds him at a party, playing cards. And here’s where the reinvention of Bond comes full circle.

See, Bond’s doing all the typical Bond things, yeah. But there are some differences present here, as well as some neat nuances. Bond isn’t wearing the suit, first of all. He actually hasn’t worn a suit the whole movie, which makes perfect sense for a spy. Suits aren’t exactly the least conspicuous thing in the world; bound to get you noticed if you don’t want to be.

And then, there’s the girl. This is Solange Dimitrios (Catherina Murino), the wife of Alex who was treated BADLY by him at the party. That gives her a reason to take Bond’s offer for a ride to his place, outside of just his raw animalistic charm that he seems to have in some of these movies. Look at that, already more chemistry than he had with Natalya in GoldenEye.

And yes, this results in her cheating on Alex. Is her cheating justified from a moral standpoint? No, of course it isn’t. And of course, this leads to the typical Bond-handsome-sex-GOOD sequence, but again, some nuance here! First of all, he doesn’t win her over with corny clever lines, like what we saw in GoldenEye multiple ties. Second, this is actually all an attempt to get some infomation from her about her husband. Bond might be enjoying it, but his womanizing here actually has a purpose. And that’s rare!

That’s further punctuated by the fact that he STRAIGHT UP LEAVES BEFORE ANYTHING HAPPENS. Yeah, she tells him that Alex just made his way to Miami, and he leaves! Dick move, yeah, but it makes sense! James isn’t here for pleasure, he’s here for work!

He follows Alex to a Bodies at Work exhibit (you know, the preserved and skinned cadavers put into poses that used to tour around the USA? I saw it in Times Square at the end of its popularity. A little ghoulish, maybe, but I think it’s pretty cool), where the two of them get in a very tense close-up knife fight in public.

Alex is dead, but not before passing off a package to someone else at the exhibition. Bond tails the guy to Miami International Airport, where the largest airplane in the world is set to be unveiled. Using the code sent to the bombers, Bond gets into the back, and goes to intercept the disguised bomber who’s set to blow up the SkyChonk (I mean it, that giant airplane is THICCC).

Time for another cool chase sequence! Some luggage is destroyed, along with a bus, the cops join in on the chase, an airplane is prevented from landing (making someone on that plane probably very upset), and Bond somehow manages to prevent the plane from blowing up. And it’s by the SKIN of his teeth, lemme tell you. Also, he blows up a dude with his own flashlight bomb.

Nice. Somehow, Bond isn’t arrested, and makes his way back to the Bahamas. And it looks like Solange isn’t the Bond girl after all. Because she was thought to be the information leak (which she was, to an extent), she was tortured to death. Whoof.

M’s in the Bahamas now, and the exposition continues. She’s done with Bond’s bullshit, and she plants a tracker under his skin. She explains that with the big boi plane destroyed, somebody stood a lot to gain financially from the stock crash to come. Except that the plane wasn’t destroyed, and that person lost $100 million by “betting the wrong way.”

That person, of course, was Le Chiffre, a manthematical genius and chess prodigy, who plays poker for fun, and plays the stock market with his clients’ money. Bond’s the best poker player in MI6 (a good addition that we already saw foreshadowed earlier! See what I mean?), and she’s sending him to a high stakes poker game that Le Chiffre’s looking to regain his money from. 

Bond FINALLY dons his suit, and gets on a train in Montenegro, where he meets...

Vesper Lynd (Eva Green). THERE’S our Bond girl! Although, there’s a reference to Miss Moneypenny in their introduction, which is interesting. But Vesper is an agent for the British Treasury, supplying the money for the buy-in for the tournament. And their conversation on the train...wow. Now THIS is chemistry, seriously.

Vesper’s a great character, and she gives Bond NO quarter. She reads his character, and calls him out very accurately. They also explain why both Bond and Vesper are good at poker: it’s all about reading people. I’m genuinely impressed by how this movie is put together, and how well-thought out Bond is as a character. And this is the dimension I love to see in a Bond girl as well!

GODDAMN, I am in love with this movie. More coming in Part 2!