#oh god 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵��💫 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sweetlilbambi-old · 3 years ago

Text

SAB OH MY GOD!!!! 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

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

HE’S SO SKDHSJAKAK !!! 😵💫😵💫 such a condescending little shit i love him!!!

this is amazing sab!!!! everything that everyone could ever ask for and more!!!!!! the way u always pull out masterpiece after masterpiece is insane, pls never stop!!!

I HAVE SO MUCH TO SAY BUT NOTHING AT THE SAME TIME,,, CATCH ME SPAMMING UR INBOX!! 😵‍💫 legitimately one of the best reads i’ve ever read oh my GODD, i just KNOWWW my favorites will only get filled up w more of ur fics!!!! THIS IS SO AMAZING AHHHHH 💗💖💘💝

𝒃𝒊𝒈 𝒃𝒂𝒅 𝒘𝒐𝒍𝒇.

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

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

word count. | 13.3k.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But what the fuck?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, except for Banksy and his “crimes.”

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, I can do Thursday, Benny.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s a pregnant pause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was something fictional, that’s for sure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it’s what you decide to do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He must really be worried for you…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just my little airhead, hm?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sheet over the woman; son amant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even then, he won’t stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#bambi’s fic recs #he is the big bad wolf and i love him #will welcome him w open legs #the way u write ransom is so😵‍💫>>#literally no words #reader turning dumb over ransom’s cock>>>#cuz me too #ransom <3

3K notes · View notes