#yandere ransom drysdale
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A one shot or a complete story I wish to do later.
Ransom Drysdale x Cousin Reader (Former Afghan Citizen)
You avoided Ransom after snitching to your Grandfather, Harlan Thrombey about what you cousin did to you.
Ransom indirectly raped you. Threatened you to sleep with him. One day, you bursted into tears and out of anger, Harlan disowned his favorite grandchild.
Now, Harlan died and gave his fortune to Marta Cabrera. With no one to protect you... Ransom said he wants you back.
Willingly...
"You ruined my life." Your tears pricked your eyes.
Ransom watched you with an unreadable expression.
"I know. And I am sorry. I have seen other guys look at you."
He walked towards you but you tried to leave. He gently grabbed your wrist.
"I love you."
You squirmed to break free.
Then you felt something solid placed in the palm of your hand.
A book?
Your eyes blinked in confusion.
Ransom commanded you to open the book to the first page.
It was dedicated to you.
#knives out#ransom drysdale#chris evans#chris evans x reader#ransom drysdale x reader#yandere ransom Drysdale#yandere#yandere x reader
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Yandere Ransom Drysdale headcanoes-Rich Obsession
Ransom Drysdale yandere headcanoes by Yanderemcu
*Ransom is dominant
*Ransom is a rich,possessive and obsessive yandere
*Ransom is 90% a yandere
*Ransoms love language is gifts
*Ransom uses darling,love and beautiful as his pet names
He is very rich
*Lots of gifts
*Servants are the help
*Very dominant and controlling
*POSSESSIVE
*Ransom is very cuddly with his sweaters
*He is not very comforting at all
*Wants a kid
*Ransom waits 5 years before proposing
*SERVANTS - "THE HELP"
*Ransom is straight
*Ransom likes the idea of an expensive dinner date as his dream date
*Ransoms favorite spot to kiss you is your face
*RICH PERFECT LIFE
*Ransom uses spanking as his punishment
*Very quick and brutal killer
Ransom Drysdale-" Your so mine love."
#yandere#yandere boy#yandere x reader#yandere x y/n#yandere x you#yandereransomdrysdale#ransom drysdale#ransom drysdale x reader#ransom drysdale x you#knives out
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Masterlist
I don’t give permission for anyone to post any of my writings anywhere. This is the only place my writing will be found
Kinktober 2023
Agent Carter Masterlist
Agents Of Shield
Avengers Masterlist
Criminal Minds Masterlist
FNAF Masterlist
Heathers(1988) Masterlist
House MD Masterlist
Hunger Games Masterlist
Knives Out Masterlist
Scream Masterlist
#fanfiction#masterlist#heathers (1988)#J.D#james dean#avengers#tony stark#steve rogers#bruce banner#bucky barnes#natasha romanoff#clint barton#kate bishop#thor odinson#loki odinson#valkyrie#wanda maximoff#pietro maximoff#peggy carter#howard stark#grant ward#jemma simmons#melinda may#leo fitz#daisy johnson#phil coulson#ransom drysdale#marta cabrera#Yandere
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The fic:
You're y/n (Marta's character), the late Harlan Thrombey's nurse and friend. When you and the two detectives have almost gotten Ransom, you set up a trap to try and get him to incriminate himself.
But he doesn't take the bait. Instead, he storms out. He manages to destroy all incriminating evidence there is against him within the next 24 hours. Then he returns and kidnaps you.
He takes you out on his boat and holds you captive there until you calm down and start realizing that there's no way out of this but his way. You can't swim, and he knows this, and promises that he'll throw you overboard if you don't cooperate.
He sails the two of you to some scenic foreign country, where he forces you to marry him so he can get his hands on the Thrombey fortune.
He also forces you to sign a pre-nup that says you don't get anything in a divorce, and that any children produced from the marriage would also stay with him.
He decides that the two of you will live in Harlan's mansion and have kids and you'll be happy and say thank you, goddammit.
So what do you have on me? Nothing. What, attempted murder? I get arson for the building, and a few other charges. With a good lawyer, which I have, I’ll be out in no time. And then you’ll see just how much hell I can wreak on your life, you vicious little bitch.
Chris Evans as Hugh Ransom Drysdale
KNIVES OUT (2019) dir. Rian Johnson
#ransom drysdale#ransom drysdale x reader#fanfiction#fic ideas#imagines#adoptables#plot bunny#free to a good home#knives out#chris evans#dark!fic#dark ransom drysdale#non con#yandere#hate to less hate#forced marriage#kidnapping#bad guy wins
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fic recs
just a little assortment of my favorite works to keep track of them and also show love to the respective writers.
note - a majority, if not all, of the following works contain dark content that some could find triggering. tread carefully.
divider by @firefly-graphics
toxic affection - @love-toxin
warnings: harassment, bullying, some violence, forced relationship
pairing: yandere!bakugou x reader
literally unashamed to say that BNHA fanfiction is what brought me to Tumblr
but this was one of the first I found and it's epic
what's your escape - @gotnofucks
warnings: obsession, possessive behavior, non-con
pairing: dark!sherlock holmes x reader
the man is disastrously down bad for the poor reader
she was so witty and clever but in the end, he got what he wanted in the most satisfying way
infatuation - @darkficsyouneveraskedfor - masterlist
warnings: mentions of stalking, obsession, non-con
pairing: dark!clark kent x reader
poor girl didn't have a clue or a chance in the world to escape this man
sidenote: I can't add Roo to the recs without mentioning just how talented she is. She was the first proper introduction to dark fics in the Marvel fandom and I've been hooked ever since. The amount of detail and dedication that goes into her work is noticeable and she's a talent that deserves recognition. It's one thing to make me like a fic or two of my favorite Marvel men but another to have me thirst over shit I didn't think I'd like.
naughty ransom holiday tales - @jtargaryen18
warnings: kidnapping, non-con, dub-con
pairing: dark!ransom drysdale x reader
guilty pleasure series
hate to love ransom but I can't help it
what the king has - @sincerelythedarkside
warnings: dub-con, character death
pairing: soft!dark steve rogers x reader
royal au
love me a good jealous steve
plot twist shocked the shit outta me
smut was out of this fucking world
love bites - @cherienymphe - masterlist
warnings: character death, jealousy, non-con
pairing: dark!steve rogers x reader, peter parker x reader
modern vampire au (what's not to love there)
this actually made me cry like a bitch
ongoing series
sidenote: Seeing as Cherie will be on this list many times, I have to say it's difficult not to add every piece of work on this list because while some writers have a magnum opus, everything she writes is a work of art. Her range and the backstory she puts in her characters make each story feel like a movie I just can't get enough of. Will forever love her writing.
kryptonite - @cherienymphe
warnings: non-con, obsession
pairing: dark!bruce wayne x reader
the build-up and tension gave me actual chills
trailer park babydoll - @mypoisonedvine
warnings: dub-con, infidelity, age gap
pairing: wayne munson x reader
guilty pleasure fic
absolute filthy smut
wrath of the dragon - @straywords
warnings: non-con, chasing
pairing: dark!daemon targaryen x reader
yet another down bad man
overdue - @darkficsyouneveraskedfor
warnings: creepy curtis, non-con, obsessive behavior
pairing: dark!curtis everett x reader
there's little to nothing i love more than a good ole broody man with attachment issues
anxious - @syntheticavenger
warnings: stalking, kidnapping
pairing: dark!peter parker x reader
tasm peter
cutest in a way lol little fic
the dream that got away - @dotieeee
there's not nearly enough dark fics ft my fave peter so I love this one
warnings: dub-con, non-con, manipulation, controlling behavior, obsession
pairing: dark!morpheus x oc!mera
probably the first dark fic about morpheus
each chapter was a masterpiece
and i still haven't seen the show lol
thanks for the invite - @syntheticavenger
warnings: non-con, bitchy friend behavior, implied drugging (i think), oral (f receiving), slight bondage
pairing: dark!lloyd hansen x reader
a funny little unhinged lloyd fic
rsvp - @syntheticavenger
warnings: dub-con, hide and seek, exasperated bodyguard, exhibitionism (a bit)
sequel to the fic listed above
lloyd is still unhinged and reader is still suffering
#fic rec#dark fic#dark!clark kent#dark!peter parker#dark!steve rogers#dark!lloyd hansen#dark!morpheus#dark!curtis everett#dark!sherlock holmes#dark!daemon targaryen#dark!bruce wayne#dark!bakugou#dark!ransom drysdale#x reader
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There was this yandere ransom Drysdale x reader fanfic. Called Naughty Ransom Holidays.
This chapter where the author made ransom give a necklace to the reader. He ordered her to wear it. Yes, to show how he loves her and wants her close to her heart. But mostly her chest ... Haha. He got turned on when he was pounding her. The necklace would be between her perky breasts. And since Quaritch wondered if reader chan would wear his human dog tag, would he want her to wear it? If so, will be notice her necklace when he makes love to her? I am curious. From your infatuation series
I’m not sure— since Recom quaritch is a ‘ different ‘ person than the original Miles Quaritch. I think he would be a bit smug if they still did have his human dog tag. Because in his mind he’s like “ she’s been thinking of me all these years “
But than he starts accepting that he’s not human— he’s na’vi. He’s a different person, so he’ll start feeling conflicted and at one point might even view the dog tags with hatred.
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master-list | slashers & thrillers
(key...) gender neutral--1 | they/them--2 | he/him--3 | romantic--4 | platonic--5 | familial--6 | enemies--7 | fluff--8 | angst--9 | smut--10 | horror--11 | gore--12 | yandere--13 | imagine--14 | headcanons--15
SCREAM:
ghost face (general)...|
coming soon...
sydney prescott...|
coming soon...
tatum riley...|
coming soon...
randy meeks...|
coming soon...
dwight “dewey” riley...|
coming soon...
gale weathers...|
coming soon...
cotton weary...|
coming soon...
stu macher...|
coming soon...
kirby reed...|
coming soon...
jill roberts...|
coming soon...
sam carpenter...|
coming soon...
tara carpenter...|
coming soon...
mandy meeks-martin...|
coming soon...
chad meeks-martin...|
coming soon...
anika kayoko...|
coming soon...
BEHIND THE MASK:
leslie vernon...|
coming soon...
THE STRANGERS:
masked man...|
coming soon...
dollface...|
coming soon...
pin-up...|
coming soon...
FRIDAY THE 13TH:
jason voorhees...|
coming soon...
WOULD YOU RATHER:
HANNIBAL:
hannibal lector...|
coming soon...
THE BOY:
brahms heelshire...|
coming soon...
greta evans...|
coming soon...
malcolm...|
coming soon...
TRAGEDY GIRLS:
HELLFEST:
the other...|
coming soon...
KNIVES OUT:
benoit blanc...|
coming soon...
marta cabrera...|
coming soon...
hugh ransom drysdale...|
coming soon...
helen brand...|
coming soon...
miles bron...|
coming soon...
lionel toussaint...|
coming soon...
whiskey...|
coming soon...
peg...|
coming soon...
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Hook Line and Sinker [Yandere Ransom Drysdale x Reader]
Title: Hook Line and Sinker [Yandere Ransom Drysdale x Reader]
Synopsis: You’ve broken up with Ransom Drysdale, and you mean it this time. But the freedom that comes with the breakup leads to a series of unexpected coincidences that leave you wondering: was it worth the price?
Word Count: 8955
notes: yandere, mentions of physical abuse, financial abuse, comfort sweaters
Nothing lasts forever. Not even relationships--and certainly not love. What might start off as an intense, passionate relationship can (and did, in your case) eventually fizzle; things that you were willing to overlook when you were absolutely besotted would wear down with time, and eventually they became too much to ignore.
That’s what you tell yourself, what you remind yourself, in the moment after you tell him:
“It’s over, Ransom. We���re done. I’m leaving.”
It couldn’t last forever. Not with his inability to stay sober, not with his tendency to cheat on you with meaningless flings that somehow hurt more than any steamy single-minded affair. Not with his flare-ups of controlling tendencies that left you in tears on the bathroom floor as he asked you to please stop dressing like a slut in front of his family, is that too hard to ask?
You’d asked him to change. He swore he would; he never did. You forgave him, more than once, more times than you could count. But enough was enough. Maybe he thought you were too weak to leave him, especially three years into your relationship, when your lives were becoming so integrated, pushing you towards a potential permanent future. It was a future that left you feeling numb and anxious. Stuck in a marriage with someone who wanted to stay with you but treated you horribly, all the same. And that wasn’t even getting into the family dynamics that left your head spinning.
He stares at you now, and his mouth opens just a little bit in what you know is going to be a barrage of questions, insults, maybe even threats spurred on by your words. But instead he closes his mouth and shakes his head, letting out a soft, bitter chuckle.
“Well, damn. This sucks.” You can see the indent of his tongue in his cheek before he clicks and shrugs. “Guess that’s it then. Need help packing your shit or what?”
His response is so blasé that you’re genuinely shocked and, you must admit, a little hurt. He didn’t even ask for a second chance or beg you to stay or argue with you about your terrible timing because our-vacation-to-Hawaii-is-coming-up. So it’s your turn to look surprised, and you shake your head.
“No, I… already took care of it. It’s at a storage locker.” You didn’t have family left, and your close friends had pulled away from you one by one once you stayed with Ransom time and time again--so you’d had to pay movers to help you pack and transport everything to storage over the weekend, while Ransom was away and you were free to make a clean breakup.
He nods, sticks his hand inside his jacket pockets. He’s looking around the room, avoiding direct eye contact in a clear show of his discomfort. It’s weird seeing Ransom like this--the normally self-assured, cocky Ransom, looking for any excuse not to look at you.
“So… see ya around?” His tone is sincere, if still confused. The idea of you leaving must have really never crossed his mind. The look on his face when he finally faces you again appears genuinely puzzled.
He sticks out his hand and it feels almost comical for things to end this way, particularly considering the nights you’d spent imagining some big blow up, some big fight with Ransom screaming and you firing off the many reasons why it had to end no matter what he said.
But it didn’t go the way you expected at all. It was calm. Easy. A clean break-up.
So you shake his hand and grab your purse and the small roller-suitcase and give a half-hearted wave as you walk out the door; the taxi you’d hired to pick you up is waiting, car running, meter going. You would be staying at a hotel for two weeks, which would hopefully be enough time to find a semi-decent apartment; your credit score had improved so much since Ransom added you to his cards, to a shared checking account, and it wouldn’t be too difficult to get approved.
A new life, one where you could focus on yourself for once, was just around the corner.
**
"I'm sorry, miss, but it's definitely not the reader. The card is declined."
You've had this nightmare before. No, you've lived this nightmare before--years ago when your credit was shit and you ran up your cards and had to face the music in a publicly humiliating display with the longest checkout line you'd ever seen behind you. Only that was years ago, in a little grocery store, and since getting together with Ransom you never had to worry about problems like this. You never had to worry about the shame of not having enough, not being enough.
But this? This was happening now. In an upscale hotel. With your nice purse (a Christmas present) and designer clothes (casual, comfortable) and your cheeks flushed undeniably warm.
The hotel clerk has a tight, sympathetic smile on her face. A coworker who walks behind her glances at you, judging, and you just know he's going to head into some break room and tell everyone but yet another piece of discarded army candy with a declined credit card. You wish you'd kept your sunglasses on.
"Did it, um, say why? I don't--" you plaster a smile on your face, hating the way this all feels familiar, like a part of your past coming back to haunt you. "I don't understand, the card is good."
The clerk's smile flickers, just a bit.
"It says there's a fraud alert on this card. Perhaps you'd better call the company. Or would you like me to call them?"
Fucking. Ransom.
"Oh, oh no, don’t worry about it. I’ll call them myself. I'm so sorry about this." You turn away from the clerk as quickly as possible and step away from the counter, away from the person waiting behind you who will surely have no trouble with their card, away from the clerks giving you a passive side-eye. You lean against a cool cement pillar in the lobby and you know what you have to do.
You have to call Ransom.
You haven't deleted his number yet--you'd planned on calling him today or tomorrow to figure out how to split up your shared finances--so it's easy enough to find the number. It's not so easy to tap his contact, but you have to, so you force yourself to do it and stare at his photo as the call rings. And rings. And rings. “Hello?” Your breath catches but in an instant, when the message continues, you feel stupid. It’s his voicemail. Fuck.
You text him, instead. Emergency. Call right away. And of course: He leaves you on read. Fuck.
You call him again. And again. He picks up on the sixth call, but your heart is racing too hard and sweat is beading down your forehead and it takes you a moment to confirm that the "Hello?" wasn't part of the voicemail message this time. Fuck.
"Um. Hey," you say, keeping your voice as un-royally-pissed-off as possible, because if he did put in a fraud alert then you don't want to risk any additional asshole moves. "So there's something wrong with the card? The one that ends in 8921? The hotel said there was a fraud alert and--"
"Did you really think I'm going to keep paying for your shit if we're over?"
His voice is quick, biting--exactly what you'd expected from him earlier. Somehow it stings even harsher over the phone, where you feel more helpless, unable to avoid his words.
"I thought..." you wet your lips, trying to maintain your cool. "Look, my name is on them, so I thought send you my part of the payments until I can get cards in my own name."
He chuckles, low and short. "Yeah? What, you want to create a payment schedule or something?"
You fight back the annoyance in your tone. You hate having to be the bigger person, but your finances--your life--is on the line. "Yeah, actually, that'd be perfect. It wouldn't be for long. You know I'll pay them on time, I'm not looking to screw you over."
"You're going too pay me on time? For all the stuff you've bought, the stuff I’ve bought for you, this hotel room and god knows what else? How are you going to afford all that?"
He knows you recently earned a promotion at your work. He knows this, because you were so excited about it, and his half-assed congratulations over lukewarm leftovers left you feeling bitter and sad and useless. So you can't help it when bitterness seeps into your voice with your answer. "You know I just got a promotion."
"Did you?" It's said in such a casual tone that it gives you pause, but a moment later he simply hangs up on you.
Fucking. Ransom.
You shove your phone back into your purse, and the clerks at the counter are staring at you. Sweat has trickled down your back and your shirt sticks to your skin ever-so-slightly as you pull away from the pillar and approach the counter, awkward smile and cheeks hot.
"There is an issue with the card, they're working on it, so I’ll just call for a new reservation when it's fixed. I'm so sorry for the mix up!" Your voice is so peppy and high-pitched and fake and you feel like you’re back at your old job, feet aching with falling apart shoes, forced to deal with people returning old toasters laden with crumbs, calming they’d “just bought it the day before and it didn’t work.”
"Of course," the clerk says, and you know this is hotel clerk code for "You're a shitty liar."
You roll your suitcase out of the lobby with tears in your eyes and you shove your sunglasses on as soon as you've cleared the building. You feel exhausted, drained--so you use what little energy you have left to start googling for cheap motels.
**
The room smells musty. You pin the plastic sheet you’d snagged at a dollar store over the comforter and pray it will be enough to protect you from whatever is on the likely unwashed fabric. The TV is broken, there’s no WIFi, and there’s a few suspicious stains on the floor that make you wonder if this hotel has ever been featured in a porno, true crime show, or both.
But it’s all you could afford with the cash in your wallet. You only had enough cash on hand for 2 nights at a ragtag hotel that offers nightly and hourly rates. You didn’t dare use your debit card or any credit cards with Ransom’s name or information on them.
You just need some sleep. A good night’s sleep to feel renewed and ready to tackle retaking your life, bit by bit. In the morning, you need to go to the bank and withdraw your money from the joint bank account. Then you can reopen an account in your name, get a new debit card, and apply for a few credit cards afterwards.
Sure, it would have been nicer to do this without Ransom being an asshole. But deep down, you suspected he wouldn’t let you have a clean, lets-still-be-friends type of break. Not after all the times he’d pressured you into staying, manipulating you with words and gifts and promises, promises. Promises that were worth shit.
The sheet crinkles underneath you as you scroll through your messages. You’d texted a few formerly close friends about the breakup earlier, hoping that they’d maybe want to reconnect. So far, you’d been left on read, blocked, and received only one response: “New number, who is this?”
So much for that. Not that you can blame them. There are only so many times they can rush over for a late night intervention in which you tell them every horrible thing Ransom does (he’s controlling, he doesn’t want me to meet with friends without permission, he tells me what I can and can’t wear, he cheats, he lies, he pushed me--)--before they get tired of you returning to him, again and again and again.
The only one who’d been texting you recently--okay, for the past year--had been Ransom. Mostly dick pics. And demands for you to send him something back, which you always did after a while, because you didn’t want to deal annoyed texts or voice messages accusing you of clearly cheating on him or hating him because why else wouldn’t you be willing to send him so much as a sexy selfie to your boyfriend?
But in between those, there were conversations. Sometimes sweet ones, sometimes thoughtful ones that always made you remember why you fell hard for him in the first place. Late night conversations from when he was off on trips. You try not to wonder if he was fucking someone on each of these trips, if while you were sending him a late night ramble about a TV show and he was humoring you with jokes and quips, he was actually snuggled up with someone else. Laying in bed, naked, laughing at your dumb ass waiting at home.
The not-so-sweet conversations were ones that you had screenshotted and sent to your friends more than once, before they pulled themselves away. Texts asking where you were. Asking who you ate lunch with, and whether or not you were fucking them. Asking why your new office was connected to a certain co-worker’s, and how many blowjobs you had to give to get said new office because you didn’t tell him about the new office until after you were moved in, so you were clearly hiding him. Asking you to send him outfit pics so he could approve them or make you change if they were too slutty or not slutty enough or if you were only clearly wearing that halter dress to try to get with the bartender.
Yet your mind had always returned to the nice Ransom, the Ransom who made you laugh and squeezed you hard when had a shitty day of work and let you bury your face in his sweater as you snuggled on the couch. Maybe that’s why it took so long to leave. You were waiting for him to stop being Ransom and start being the fantasy of Ransom you’d conjured in your head.
Your eyes feel heavy so you plug in your phone, turn the sound off, and lay down on the uncomfortable plastic sheet that crinkled over the pillows. It feels strange to lay on a lumpy mattress covered in plastic, after years of custom-made beds and memory foam pillows and all the other luxuries that Ransom was able to provide.
You try not to think about it too much. While you won’t exactly be indulging in all the luxuries you had with Ransom, but your job pays you well, and you won’t ever have to go back to living hand-to-mouth like you did before. You won’t have to worry about late bills and debt collectors and landlords who come late at night and demand inspections while you’re in your pajamas.
You have work in the morning. You have to get to the bank in the morning. Your thoughts are still buzzing with anxiety as you fall into an uneasy slumber.
**
“I’m sorry, but the account has been closed.”
You feel years of customer service training cracking underneath your skin. You can’t freak out. If you freak out, they won’t feel inclined to go the extra mile. You know this, from firsthand experience.
So you take a shaky breath. “Um, this just--it isn’t possible. It’s a joint account. I’m on the account. There was money in there, you can check--”
“I’m sorry, but the funds were transferred and account has been closed by the other account holder. There’s nothing I can do. I suggest contacting the other party in the account.”
You swallow and nod and walk away, this time having been smart enough to keep your sunglasses on to hide your humiliated expression. Why didn’t you insist on having your own account? Ransom said it was better to keep it joint, so you could just buy stuff whenever you wanted. You’d agreed because it was so generous, something you’d never thought possible at the time, when you were used to having to pay overdraft fees and cringing whenever you checked your balance.
Your fingers tremble as you bring up his contact on your phone. You tap. No answer.
You don’t have time to call him two, three, ten times--you have to get to work. So you steady your nerves. You breathe in, you breathe out. You get in your car and plug your phone in and decide to contact your lawyer. Fuck--your lawyer was Ransom's lawyer. But the anxiety eases when you remember that you’d paid him a retainer fee months ago, and Ransom couldn’t do anything about that. You could at least get a basic consult out of the retainer.
The call ringing sounds muffled through your car’s speaker but it isn’t long before someone answers, and you’re transferred to the lawyer Ransom insisted you have--gotta have a lawyer when you have money, babe--and that you hadn’t spoken to in ages.
“Hi,” you say, voice artificially bright, “this is--”
You don’t get a chance to finish.
“I know who this is.” The lawyer sounds tired, and his tone is curt and clipped. “I’m sorry. I’m no longer able to provide you with any legal counsel.”
You almost miss a red light and regret calling the office while you were driving.
“Is this about the debit card? Because I paid the retainer months ago--”
“The retainer has been refunded into the connected checking account.”
Your voice looses its artificial cheeriness and you stumble over your words in frustration. “That’s--it’s--it was a joint account, which is why I called, Ransom drained it and took everything. Isn’t there something we can do, because that was my money too and--”
“I am no longer able to provide you with legal counsel.”
You want to cry. You hate crying, as an adult. It makes you feel weak. Especially on the phone.
“I don’t understand. Why was the retainer refunded? Did--did someone call you?”
He clears his throat into the phone. “I am no longer able to provide you with legal counsel. Goodbye.”
He hangs up. Your hands shake.
You pull into the parking lot of your work and park the car and as soon as you do, you hunch yourself over the steering wheel and simply shake in frustration.
You have no bank account. Ransom drained it. You have no credit cards. Ransom blocked them. You couldn’t even talk to a lawyer, because--shock--Ransom made sure you couldn’t. Everything was in Ransom’s name. He insisted on adding you to his accounts, closing out your own paltry ones; insisted that he pay off your credit card debt, and making you close those, too, instead adding you to his cards. It was all to help you out, he said, at the time.
Wasn’t it? He was shockingly not judgmental about the state of your finances, and while you’d put up some protest, you didn’t exactly argue with him when he suggested wiping your debts clean and getting your credit back up. And considering that he wasn’t immune to needing a bail-out now and then (late night calls to his grandfather, snarky comments at his parent’s dinner table, come to mind) maybe he could sympathize with being in over your head. Even if your issues were rooted in poverty and shitty jobs and his were rooted in a total lack of financial discipline and, as you’d later found out, a drug addiction.
Still. He helped you before. He would help you now, once he realized how serious it was. For now he was just--reacting like an asshole, acting childish and ridiculous. He was an asshole. You know this. You’ve known this. You need to call him and meet with him and make him realize how ridiculous he’s being, and he’ll sigh and snark but he’ll agree to stop acting like such an ass.
But first you have to work. Life goes on. Even without Ransom--even with Ransom, screwing you over out of pettiness.
The air conditioning in the lobby is on blast, and the familiar smell of clean furniture and floor cleaner from the late-night cleaning crew is surprisingly comforting. Here, you can forget about Ransom--forget about the cards and the lawyer and the fact that your life has been upended in mere hours. If only until your lunch break, at least.
Anthony is working the front desk and you give him a a soft, if strained smile. There’s something in the smile that he gives you in return that reminds you of the hotel clerk. Sympathetic and judgmental.
Ah. You probably look like--well, less than your best, you realize. You did pack some toiletries in your suitcase but the water in the motel had streaks of brown and you didn’t shower, opting instead to rinse your face with what was left of a water bottle you’d bought earlier and layering on more deodorant to make up for the lack of a proper scrub. You probably looked a bit tired, haggard, not unlike some of the employees who got stuck with big clients the night before their paperwork was due.
Still. Nothing that freshening up in your private bathroom--thank god for the new office--can’t help. So you hit the button on the elevator and take deep breaths as you ride up, intent on working as productively as possible. The doors open and you navigate the familiar maze of open-plan desks for the lower-tier workers, desks surrounded by half-walls that always kept you staring straight ahead, lest you accidentally glance over and see a co-worker picking their nose.
Yet as you weave in-and-out of the familiar rows, heading towards the back of the room where the real offices, the ones with full walls and doors and privacy glass lay, you can’t help but feel that something is… off.
No one calls out to greet you, though that can be easily attributed to the jealousy over your promotion. You’d been working there for far less than most of the lower level workers--Ransom got you the job, with his connections and a hefty revision of your resume and, you assume, some personal phone calls--and you’d already been promoted to senior management. That wasn’t technically Ransom’s work, though. That was all your own effort, your own blood, sweat, tears and intense devotion to each project that came your way. Sure, the connections he helped you make, the dinner parties, all that helped--but if it weren’t for your skills, the connections wouldn’t have made a difference. Right?
Still, whatever bitterness existed in the people hunch in open-air cubicles, the receptionists always greeted you. But today they caught your eye then awkwardly glanced down, or pretended to be looking for something in their drawers. It was odd. Did you look that bad? That out of sorts?
You shake off the heavy feeling in your stomach and for once, you shut the door to your office instead of keeping it open for passers-by or people needing approval for this-and-that. It feels good to lean against the solid wood door and take a breath, a deep one, invigorating and calming.
A quick trip to the bathroom has you staring at yourself from all angles. You don’t look that bad, you reason. Just tired. But who wouldn’t be, sleeping on a plastic sheet in the shittiest motel in the area? You take a quick sniff under your arms but even that reveals nothing much but a faint hint of sweat and powdery deodorant.
There’s a firm knock at your office door and you glance at the mirror for a final once over before opening it up. It’s your boss. Did you have a meeting? You try to do a mental scan of something you’ve missed, but nothing comes to mind.
“Hi,” you say, wavering with uncertainty at the threshold. Should you invite him in? “What can I do for you? We didn’t have a meeting, did we?” You let yourself chuckle, dry and quick. “I’m sorry, I’m a bit scattered this morning.”
Your boss doesn’t return your chuckle, which immediately raises the hairs on the back of your neck. Something was wrong. Shit--you were working on a major project for a seriously important client. The type of client that could genuinely make or break a company, if you got on their bad side. You press your lips together and make a silent vow to keep it serious.
“I’d like to keep this conversation private.” His tone is low and serious and you invite him in without a second thought, shutting the thick door behind you, trying to ignore the way everyone was shooting glances as it closed. Fuck, fuck, fuck, your thoughts race--no wonder everyone was giving you the stink eye. Something was wrong with the client, and you were the one making primary contact with them.
Your boss takes a seat on the leather sofa pushed up against the wall and you immediately set yourself down behind your desk.
He sighs. Short. Frustrated. Annoyed.
“We have to let you go.”
The words don’t register.
“Go where?”
It’s only after you say it that you realize what he said, what it meant, and you feel like a colossal moron in every respect.
“It’s not working out,” he continues, staring at your desk and not at your face. “Since you’ve only been in this position for a month, you don’t quality for senior severance. The best we can do is to pay you what you’ve earned this week.”
Your mouth is so dry that you don’t know if you can talk. Your hand fumbles on your desk for a water bottle you’d left overnight, and that’s when you see it--the photo frame. You keep a photo of yourself and Ransom, cuddled together for a selfie, on your desk. The photo was lying on your desk, frameless, ripped in half--leaving only your vacantly smiling face staring up at you.
Ransom was here.
“Did he put you up to this?” You whisper. “Did Ransom tell you to fire me?”
You know he won’t answer. But you stare at him so fervently that he can’t help but look up at you, and you see it all in his eyes, in the subtle, embarrassed expression of his face.
You can imagine Ransom strolling in--maybe he called first--and settling in for a private audience with your boss in his office. He’d probably pull the chair up to the desk and put his feet on it, just to be an ass. Then he’d bring up… you. And why you had to be let go. Did he give a reason, did he tell your boss why a respected employee who he once secured a position for, who shot up the ranks through intense effort and work, needed to be fired? Did he even need to give a reason?
“This is absolute bullshit,” you say, finally, voice dry and hoarse and bitter. You want to say you’ll be contacting a lawyer. That this won’t stand. But you know--and he knows--that there’s nothing you can do.
Your boss stands, slow, and sighs again. “I’m sorry it had to end this way. Pack up your things as quickly as possible.”
He leaves, and you keep your eyes trained on the ripped photograph to avoid seeing the expressions of the people in the doorway before your boss mercifully shuts the door.
It takes all of your effort not to cry.
You don’t have much effort left.
**
Your things consisted of a handful of personal items, little touches you’d brought in to make your office feel more like “you.” A nice picture print. A pastel afghan to drape over the couch. A stapler with a floral design. You have the strong urge to dump them in a trash can, but that’s quickly quelled by the realization that you can’t afford to buy new things, or any things, at this point.
You don’t care if wearing your sunglasses as you power walk to the elevators makes you look stupid. You know someone, somewhere in this office is filming you and probably captioning it with something stupid to post to their Reels or TikTok, and it just makes you leave faster. A few people murmur comments your way, sympathetic in tone, but you’re not really listening. None of their platitudes matter, because Ransom was here, in your workplace, in your office, and he stole the thing you were most proud of from under your feet.
To his credit, when you reach the bottom floor, Anthony practically fumbles out from behind his desk and holds the door open for you. He mouths a “Sorry” and he probably is, but he’s probably used to dealing with rich assholes like Ransom who get what they want, when they want it; even when what they want is to fire a good employee on demand for very personal reasons.
The sun is beating down hard, even for the morning, and the stress of your situation makes you blast the air conditioning as soon as you get in the car. God, the car--how are you going to afford the payments? You wish you could call your mom. You wish your friends--are they even your friends, anymore?--would call you back.
You grab your phone from your purse and stare at the black screen. Maybe you should call the friend who didn’t block you. She would answer, if you called, because she knew you didn’t make calls unless it was serious. She might not rush to your side, but maybe she can offer you a place to stay, a couch, some advice. A kind word would do, right now, with how much anxiety and frustration has been packed into the last 12 hours.
But when you unlock your screen, your gut sinks. Five missed calls. From the storage company. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
You tap their number and bring the phone to your ear and pretend that your hands aren’t shaking.
The man who answers is the same one you talked to on the phone before, when setting up your move. “Hello, Move’nSecure Storage Company. This is Steve speaking. How many I help you?”
“Hi Steve!” You hate how chipper you sound. “I actually just got a few missed calls from you guys, I’m sorry, I was in the office and--”
“Oh.” His voice is surprisingly flat, suddenly flat, losing its customer service inflection in an instant before picking it back up. “Yes. We’ve been trying to reach you. For confirmation, the storage locker your purchased is A443, correct?”
You fumble in your purse for the receipt and confirm the little numbers printed neatly on the paper. “Yes, A443. Is everything okay?”
“No, it’s not.” You’re grateful that you didn’t have much for breakfast because you know it would be clawing its way back up at this point. “The card you gave us for the storage fee was declined.”
The debit card. You’d paid in cash for the move, and paid for 1 month of storage with the card. The card that was now useless, connected to an empty and closed bank account.
“Is there another card you can give us?”
“No, but...” You say, because no, there is not. There is not a card. There is not a job. There is nothing. “But if you could just hold my stuff, I’ll be there in less than a hour to get it.”
“We don’t hold items,” Steve tells you, a rehearsed banality to his tone. “Your items are currently outside the unit.”
You instinctively want to yell at Steve but, fuck fuck fuck, you’ve been there, behind the counter, dealing with people who couldn’t pay for shit and then had the nerve to get upset with you. “All of it?” You ask, your voice cracking slightly.
“Yes.”
You hang up, and toss your phone onto the passenger seat. The quicker you get there, the less chance that something will get broken or stolen or who knows what else.
The trip to the storage unit seems to take forever, and when you arrive you don’t even take a second to lock your car doors. Instead you sprint inside, startling Steve--looking at his phone, then at you, then at the sign plastered up on the wall leading to the storage locker floors. He points. Row A, separated into 100s, 200s, 300s, and--your number--400s.
You don’t remember if you say ‘thank you,’ because you’re speed-walking down the hallway and following the signs and it isn’t long before you see it: a storage locker with tons of stuff piled up, dumped, outside the now-empty unit where it was supposed to be safe and sound. Waiting for you to get an apartment and pick it back up and rearrange it into your new life, your new “you.”
The problem is immediate: You can’t fit all this in your car. You don’t know anyone who could take the stuff for you. You mind reels for options and the only thing you can come up with is ferrying your belongings to and from the hotel. You can pay for a few more days once you cash your partial paycheck. After that… you don’t know.
Pawn your things? Yeah. That might work. You can get enough cash by pawning most of your stuff, the good stuff. Enough money to get you into a shitty apartment with leaks and a bad landlord. Then you can a job that barely pays rent and you’ll be right back where you started, before you met Ransom. Before you thought leaking ceilings and $20 paychecks after taxes were a thing of the past.
You ignore the humiliation that makes your stomach curl as you take your things out to the car, handful by handful. Steve doesn’t bother holding the door open for you. You mention that you’re going to be back on your way out, and he offers a non-committal hum.
At least when you get to the hotel, the owner sees you fumbling with boxes and offers to help you out. It takes less time with two hands to get everything in the room, and once it’s locked up you head back out to the storage units.
You keep your sunglasses on for the second trip into the storage unit, even though you don’t know Steve or care what he thinks. He doesn’t look up when you walk in and it’s just as well, since you’re only heading back to the A-400s and don’t need his non-existent help.
But the sight that greets you when you round the corner to your unpaid-for storage locker makes your blood run cold.
Your stuff is gone. All of it.
You rush back to the desk, where Steve does look up, startled by your urgency.
“My stuff,” you spit out, “My stuff is gone! Someone took it!”
Steve shrugs. “Sorry.” He points to a sign behind him: “We are not responsible for the loss of items inside or outside storage lockers.”
“Are you fucking kidding?” You can’t the anger in your voice this time. “You just watched someone walk off with my stuff and didn’t say anything?”
Steve raises his eyebrows. “If it was that important, you shouldn’t have left it here. Or you should have given us another card.”
You feel like throwing your hands up but you just clench your fist and storm out the door, huffing as you reach your car. The anger melts into the sense of loss, the realization that you only have a few meager items that you’d managed to collect; you picked the lightest stuff, first. And in retrospect it was things that didn’t matter much at all. Clothes. Hair supplies. Makeup. You should have grabbed the box with your USB sticks, your memory cards, your photo albums; your personal mementos and sentimental shit. Instead you grabbed the box with your shampoo.
At least the clothes might get something in a pawnshop. The makeup, too, on Facebook or Depop or Instagram. But it wouldn’t be enough to put you up in an apartment. You’ll have to live in your car. Until they repossess it for lack of payment.
You don’t have your bank account, your credit cards, your job, a place to stay, or your personal possessions. And soon, you won’t have your car.
You have no friends. No boyfriend. No family.
All you have $20 left in your wallet and well, fuck it. You grab some McDonalds on the way home because, fuck it, and eat all the fries before you make it to the motel. The thought of eating in your dirty room makes your stomach turn and you decide to eat everything else you bought, the burger and the shake and the chicken nuggets too, tossing the wrappers on the floor. It feels like deja vu--getting cheap fast food to make you feel full, tossing trash on the floor of the passenger seat, all bringing back the way you used to when you’d grab something from the dollar menu on your way to work at the call center.
You almost wish you could stay at this hotel, brown water and all. The owner is decently nice. He smiles at you when you enter and doesn’t bring up that you didn’t come back with more boxes, like you said you would.
You’re surprised at how grateful you feel for the dingy hotel room now that you won’t be able to stay here more than another day. Now that the alternative is sleeping in your car, then sleeping on the street, if you were lucky.
Your phone feels heavy when you set it on the table and stare at the home screen. Another photo of you and Ransom stares back up at you. You haven’t had time to change it up yet. He’s grinning. You’re smiling. It’s a good photo. You try to place it in your memory, try to remember what beach that was, but your trips blur together and you can’t.
Should you call him? If it was just the cards, just him being petty over credit and finances, it was one thing. You could try to placate him with returning gifts, just asking him to give you what you put in from your own paychecks. But making you lose your job? It was too far, too fucking far. And there was no going back from that. Fuck, someone was probably moving into your office as you sat in this dimly lit room mourning the loss of your entire life.
For a brief, very fleeting moment, you consider calling Harlan. You weren’t exceptionally close, but he seemed to like you well enough. He’d even asked you once, puling you aside at a tension-filled family party, if Ransom treated you right, told you to tell him if he ever got to be too much. Harlan felt like Ransom’s keeper--in more ways than one. You could never tell Harlan about the shouts or the occasional bruises from when Ransom really, really lost his temper--it’s not like you could prove them, anyway, as Ransom made sure to keep you away from his family when he lost control like that. No need for excuses about running into doors when he made sure you looked your best at family functions.
But the thought of breaking the uneasy stasis that Ransom had with the most significant member of his family made you want to vomit. There would be no coming back from that, and you knew better than to cross any line involving the great Harlan Thrombey.
You could call your friend--ex-friend? The one who didn’t block you or forget your number. You should. No, you will. Because what else do you have to lose.
But before you can bring up her number, you get a text--Ransom. It’s a photo and your curiosity gets the better of you as you click the notification.
“What the fuck?”
He’s sent you a photo of his car, trunk open. It’s filled with boxes, odds-and-ends. It’s filled with your stuff.
You text him: What??
He texts back: Hey. I’m in front of the hotel. Come out? Bring your suitcase. :P
It’s your stuff. It’s his car. He’s here. All reason is thrown aside as you grab your suitcase and purse and rush down the hallway, ignoring the owner’s confused response from behind his desk as you push open the front doors and look around the parking lot.
His car is parked to the side, not in front of the hotel’s glass double doors. He’s standing outside his car, leaning against it. He takes off his sunglasses and tucks them in his pocket when he sees you approaching, face confused and fuming all at once.
“What the fuck, Ransom, what the fuck is your problem--”
“Hey, hey,” he says, hands up in defense, “You’re not even going to thank me for picking up your stuff?”
You feel suddenly, impossibly rooted to the spot.
“What do you--what? You took my stuff?”
He shrugs. “C’mon, did you really think I’d just leave your stuff in some shitty storage unit? Someone would’ve taken it if I didn’t get there first.”
You swallow. “Why?” You ask, because Ransom never does anything for no reason. Or so you’ve learned.
His expression loses a bit of its cocky casualness. He tilts his head a bit, looking at you as if you’ve asked a particularly offensive question.
“Why do you think?”
To lord it over you? To make you think your stuff was gone and make you worried, sick, crazy?
“I don’t know,” is what you settle for in the end. “I really, really don’t. You--” You lick your lips, and try to calm down, calm the pitter-patter of your heart, and think before you speak. “You’ve done some pretty messed up stuff today. My job?” The last question comes out soft and pained, and you know your eyes are starting to tear up.
“Hey.” His voice is soft and placating and it makes your stomach flip as he approaches you, standing there on the sidewalk with your purse and suitcase. “Hey, c’mon. Don’t cry on me.”
You know this Ransom. The Ransom that holds you and pets your hair and offers to get Thai food delivered even though he doesn’t like it just to make you happy.
He puts his hand on your shoulder and you jerk it away. “Don’t.” That Ransom is a fantasy. Or an incomplete version, the version that pretends he doesn’t lie and cheat and hurt you in more ways than one. “Don’t you fucking dare, especially not after what you pulled today. My job? My job, Ransom? You’re a--a fucking asshole.”
He puts his hands up again, defensive, and takes a step back. But he doesn’t return to his car, and stays just a few steps in front of you.
“Look. Call me an asshole. Sure, fine, I can admit that. But do you know what else I am?”
He waits a beat, waits for you to look at him, before he continues. “I’m a realist. I like facts. And the fact is? You aren’t much without me. No job, no credit cards, no bank account. Without me, you’re just some broke chick scrambling to get an apartment in the shittiest part of town, working a dead-end job that don’t pay shit. With me though…. “
He leaves the words unfinished, but you know what he means. Flashes of your life, cocktails and smart business outfits and dinners at restaurants you didn’t even dream about attending before you met him. Phone calls with shakers in the industry and social media requests from people you’d never dream you’d meet. Connections that meant something, a career path, dinner parties with people who could offer tangible benefits to your career and your life.
It wasn’t that he spoiled you. He wasn’t a sugar daddy. You weren’t getting gifts for blowjobs. It was that his presence in your life boosted you, socially, financially, mentally, physically, in every which way possible.
His presence got you a job that you loved, which meant you weren’t burnt out when you came home, which meant that you had the time and energy to spend hours catching up on books or redecorating the house or watching movies. Good money meant you could order in whenever you felt like it, meant you didn’t have to worry if you burned dinner because you could just buy new steaks or order-in or go out, last minute, and still get a great table. It meant you had all the clothes you wanted, stylish and personally tailored; it meant you had easy access to a gym and exercise equipment and an indoor pool to keep you healthy. It meant you had a life that provided comfort in every way possible.
Being with Ransom Drysdale was like… like a little shot of privilege directly into your arm.
Privilege that he took away just as easily as he gave it. Just as easily as you took it. Just as easily as you took it and eagerly ignored the dark side underneath. Or maybe you didn’t ignore it. Maybe you liked it, maybe it reminded you of who you were underneath the designer clothes and expensive dinners.
Maybe you wanted to fix him, like he fixed you? He wasn’t totally bad, after all, he did make sure no one took your belongings. Maybe it was your presence that gave him the idea for that touch of sympathy, maybe with Ransom change was slow and muddled, not picture-perfect sweeping changes like the kind in movies.
“So?” Ransom’s voice cuts through your thoughts. “Are you going to come home or,” he waves his hands around dismissively, at the hotel, at you.
You feel very, very less-than right now. You look awful, your hair mussy and your makeup mostly melted off with sweat and sun. You probably smell more than you normally do, thanks to the lack of a shower. Your muscles, sore from the motel bed, ache for the large spa bathtub that Ransom had installed in the master bathroom just for you, stocked with bubbles and salts and overpriced bath bombs that were $10 a pop.
But your muscles had hurt before, when he pushed you against the dresser.
You have nothing, and no one. Except Ransom. Ransom who didn’t judge you when you instinctively saved plastic bottles and boxes, but merely nudged you towards recycling and took you out to splurge on a reusable water bottle and proper storage containers the next day. Ransom who asked you what sort of job you wanted, really wanted, and made it happen for you. Ransom who shrugged and wiped away your credit card debt without making you feel like shit.
Ransom who didn’t let you leave the house if your wrists were sporting fingerprint shaped bruises. Ransom who argued with you about talking to men, even men at work. Ransom who held you tight at night and said he never wanted to let you go, and wouldn’t you just make a fine-ass addition his crazy family. Ransom who took care of you, now that you had no one else.
“What do you want me to do?” The words feel slow, sluggish. Like they wanted to stick to the roof of your mouth and it took everything in you to get them out.
His voice turns low and serious as he stares at you with an characteristic expression. “Well, the first thing is to get down on your knees…”
You feel your eyes practically bugging out.
“What the fuck, Ransom?”
He laughs. He always did have a nice laugh.
“I’m just messing with you, Jesus. Take a chi-I-il pill. Just grab your purse and come sit your sweet ass in the front seat. Let’s go get some burgers, I’m starving.”
Your legs feel like jelly when you take that first step, and the sound of your roller suitcase as you pull it along seems louder than ever. Ransom pops the truck and you just manage to fit it inside with the handle closed, jamming it in between some boxes at an odd angle. The handle of the passenger side is familiar, warm from the sun.
You open the door and practically shove yourself into the seat, closing the door as fast as possible. You can’t do more than glance at him as humiliation and anxiety and just the smallest bit of relief washes over you. It’s been less than 24 hours since you broke up, and here you are--again.
He’s staring at you quietly, his expression difficult to place. He looks relieved. He looks annoyed. He looks like he wants to kiss you. He looks like he wants to slap you. Maybe he wants to do it all at once and can’t decide which to pick.
Instead, he puts his hand on your thigh. Gives it a squeeze. Hard, bordering on painful. He’s staring straight ahead, at the worn-out sign on the hotel’s front door, one hand gripping the flesh of your thigh. He looks good in profile. “Don’t ever try to pull something like that again. I mean it. I really mean it.”
You turn, glance out the window, familiar tears at the edge of your eyes.
“I won’t,” you whisper, dreaming of the tub and bubbles and how good a warm soak will feel on your back, on your thighs, on your soul.
“Good girl,” he says, patting your thigh firmly. He plucks his sunglasses out of pocket and puts them on in a smooth motion. The car starts smoothly, its fine-tuned and expensive engine a familiar sound, and your hands feel robotic as you pull the seatbelt over your chest and click it tight.
“Let’s get dinner and get home. You have some unpacking to do.”
#ransom drysdale x reader#yandere ransom drysdale#ransom drysdale#knives out#yandere x reader#afterwitch writes
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Damn. He got everything he wanted, huh? Poor reader. Trapped with this gaslighting selfish man. At least she gets to be trapped in a penthouse? Silver linings? 😅😂 Loved this series and this finale! So good ☺️
Nocturnal - Three
Words: 2.6K
Warnings: 18+ ONLY. Language, bribery, dub-con sex that turns into forced breeding, mentions of pregnancy, breeding kink, Linda Drysdale.
Notes: The final chapter is here!
Nocturnal Series Masterlist
Summary | You knew Ransom Drysdale was no good even after you broke up with him. You just didn’t know how far he’d go to show you.
Ransom watches you take the pill that is left out, downing the glass of water before you wash it and dry it, lifting on your tip toes to place it in the cabinet while he admires the hem of the dress lifting over your thighs. It’s to make sure that your one-night stand stays that way, Ransom telling you he doesn’t want to take any chances.
But each day, he reminds you of your lowered debt, getting glimpses of you out of the corner of his eye as you work. You’ve always been such a diligent worker, thorough with your cleaning and inspections while he idly flips through a magazine. It feels good to have you back in the house, the familiarity of knowing your way around this house a comfort to him while you crouch down to pull out more cleaning supplies.
Once the downstairs is pristine, he sees you hesitate, placing the bucket back under the sink.
“R-Ransom? I’m finished,” you call out, not realizing he’s behind you, clearing his throat as you jump.
“It looks good,” Ransom purrs, caging you against the island counter as you swallow hard, looking at the ground, inhaling the faint scent of his cologne that you had bought him last Christmas. “You’ve always did do a great job at cleaning up after yourself when you lived here. But you aren’t done yet.”
“What? But,” you pause, looking around the kitchen. “I cleaned everything. The kitchen, I rearranged everything under the sink, I polished all the silver you had and I swept and mopped. I finished the living room and the den.”
“Mm, I know. So you’re only half finished. There’s still the upstairs, remember?” Ransom lifts your head up, making you look into his blue eyes. “Or did you forget?”
“Upstairs?” you blink owlishly, Ransom nodding his head.
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I can't remember if I've sent one back so here is another.
Yandere!Ransom leaving increasingly expensive (maybe very sexually explicit) gifts in your small apartment, until one day you come home and your key no longer works in the lock. A note on the door tells you to go back outside and you'll find your secret admire ready to care of you forever.
Pairing: Yandere!Ransom Drysdale x Latina!Reader
Word Count: 191
Warnings: daddy!kink, implied kidnapping, secret admirer
DO NOT COPY MY WORK OR INTERACT IF YOU’RE A MINOR ! SUPPORT MY WORK WITH A REBLOG AND YOUR COMMENT ATTATCHED IF YOU ENJOYED IT ! NO AGE IN BIO MEANS IF YOU LIKE/INTERACT YOU’RE BLOCKED! NO POSTS? BLOCKED! IF YOU’RE A MINOR? BLOCKED!!!!
Y/n didn't think much of it at first, the boxes of packages at the door were one or two a week. However, as time flew by it began to pile up. Amazon delivering multiple packages at once, or even Adam & Eve boxes appearing at her door.
She never had owned so much stuff before, from sex toys to even expensive lace she couldn't afford. There was a note on this last package though, to wear it tonight and although Y/N ought to call the cops, the woman figures it's harmless, maybe.
So when she went to work minus that lace, it seemed fine. Though once home, the key didn't fit the lock, the woman thinking that somehow this admirer knew. It's impossible really, how could they? Looking up, Y/N finds a note taped on the aging wood.
With a huff, she yanked it off and opened the folded paper to see scribbled handwriting.
Look behind you.
And when she did, a figure dressed in designer meets her worried gaze. " You clearly didn't follow my directions, guess Daddy has to do the big things for his dumb baby."
HOW CAN I CONTRIBUTE TO THESE WORKS?
Providing feedback is the best way to support this series and the writer, as content creators we are struggling to get our work out there and produce what we love for our own enjoyment and for others. By commenting, you help us pump out fics such as these and continue writing. So please, leave comments with your reblogs. Don’t just like and forget about the fic.
#yas answers an ask !!#yas loves sloth !!#It's Yas & Sloth being Yandere Whores !!#Yandere!Ransom Drysdale x Latina!Reader#Ransom Drysdale x F!Reader#Ransom Drysdale x Latina!Reader#ransom drysdale angst#angst#kidnapping
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Love is thicker than blood prologue
Yandere! Ransom Drysdale x Cousin Reader
Ransom hated you due to the special bond you shared with your grandfather, Harlan. But, you were wrong. Your cousin actually wanted YOUR attention instead.
Harlan Thrombey suspected his eldest grandson bullying you due to jealousy of being his favorite. He brushed it off. Now, Harlan blames himself for allowing this to happen and not protecting you from your rape...
Ransom hated you because he thought you were trying to kiss Harlan's ass to get a huge chunk of the will. He decided to put you in your place.
#yandere#chris evans#chris evans x reader#chris evans imagine#ransom drysdale#knives out#ransom drydale x you#ransom Drysdale x reader#yandere x reader#love
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Yandere Random Drysdale Morning and Night Routine
Morning Routine:
I wake up to Ransom laying next to me.
Ransom was awake before me. Watching me.
"Good morning hunny." Ransom said. "Good morning." I said.
We got up and went downstairs to the kitchen.
The help was doing their chores. They already had our breakfast ready on the table.
Ransom is so rude and mean to the help which makes me feel bad.
We sat down at the table and started eating.
After breakfast we watched tv together.
Then we took a shower together.
Night Routine:
We had an eventful day hanging out together.
The help had made us dinner and left it on the table for us.
Ransom and I went over to the table.
We sat down and started eating.
After we were done eating we watched tv together.
Then we went up to bed.
We laid down together and fell asleep.
#yandere#yandere marvel#yandere mcu#yandere boy#marvel#mcu#yandere x reader#yandere x y/n#yandereransomdrysdale#ransom drysdale#ransom drysdale x reader#ransom drysdale x you
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Request- Open
Below the cut is information on how to request as well as my masterlist.
I give no permission for anyone to repost any of my works on anything. This is the only place my fics will be
Masterlist
Fandoms-
Agent Carter
Agents of shield
Avengers
Criminal Minds
Five Night at Freddy’s
Heathers(1988)
House MD
Hunger Games
Knives out
🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐
Characters I Write For-
Knives Out
Ransom Drysdale
Marta Cabrera
Agents of shield
Phill Coulson
Daisy Johnson
Leo Fitz
Jemma Simmons
Grant Ward
Al MacKenzie
Melinda May
Avengers
Tony Stark
Steve Rogers
Clint Barton
Natasha Romanoff
Bruce banner
Wanda Maximoff
Pietro Macimoff
Kate Bishop
Thor
Bucky Barnes
Vision
James Rhodes
Shuri
Valkyrie
Loki
Scott Lang
Agent Carter
Peggy Carter
Howard Stark
Criminal Minds
Spencer Reid
Aaron Hotchner
Penelope Garcia
Derek Morgan
Jennifer Jareau
Emily Prentiss
David Rossi
Heathers(1989)
J.D(Jason Dean)
Veronica Sawyer
Heather Chandler
Heather Duke
Heather McNamara
House MD(I’m on season five so this is subject to chance)
Gregory House
James Wilson
Lisa Cuddy
Eric Forman
Robert Chase
Hunger Games
Finnick Odair
Johanna Mason
Haymitch Abernathy
Katniss Everdeen
Peeta Mellark
Scream
Billy Loomis
Stu Macher
Dewey Riley
Randy Meeks
Sam Carpenter
Tara Carpenter(only after high school)
Mandy Meeks-Martin(only after high school)
Chad Meeks-Martin(only after high school)
Five Nights at Freddy’s
William Afton(both movie and game)
Michael Afton
Michael Schmidt(movie)
Vanessa(movie)
🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐
Situations I’ll Write-
Angst
Fluff
Smut
Yandere
Age regression
Parental
Omegavers
Plus size situations
Fem!reader
Masc!reader
Nonbinary reader
#masterlist#request#avengers#knifes out#heathers (1988)#agents of s.h.i.e.l.d.#agent carter#house md#hunger games#five nights at freddy’s#criminal minds
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꒰ °FANDOMS I WRITE°꒱
Fandom/s:: FNAF: Security Breach, DSMP (except Technoblade), Knives Out, TUA and the MCU (Cast and Characters)
Current character/fandom I'm writing more:: Lucifer Morningstar
꒰ °CHARACTER/S I WRITE°꒱
character/s:: Adrian Chase, Darcy Lewis, Maria Hill, Harley Quinn, Agatha Harkness, Maddy Perez, Rue Bennet, Frank Castle, Jessica Jones, Doctor Otto Octavius, Lucifer Morningstar, Aurora Morningstar, James Wesley (we love him here), Jason Todd, Damian Wayne, Bruce Wayne (preferably battison)
꒰ °AU'S I WRITE°꒱
Any !! As long as it isn't too gorey or dark, due to me being uncomfy with such things
[Reminder:: I won’t write people who are uncomfy with x reader's as a whole since why would you??]
#thund3r writing related stuff#tua x reader#tua x you#tua incorrect quotes#tua season 3#knives out x reader#ransom drysdale x reader#james wesley x reader#otto octavius x reader#otto x reader#fnaf security breach x reader#fnaf x reader#fnaf x reader insert#yandere fnaf#yandere fnaf x reader#fnaf#fnaf 2#fnaf fandom#security breach#fnafsb#dsmp x male reader#dsmp x male reader smut#dsmp x reader#dsmp x reader angst#dsmp x you#yandere dsmp#dream smp#mcu x child reader#mcu x y/n#marvel mcu
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Omg that ending has me dead! Who knew a drabble could make me feel so much! Wonderful work!
Yandere!Andy Barber and Yandere!Ransom Drysdale couldn't stop fighting over who gets you, but when you think it would be over and they'd leave you alone, you've come to find that you're gonna be the newest addition to their little family as the house pet, or their bunny to stuff their cocks with
Okay, so not exactly this, but I've done my best.
Warnings: double trouble, fem!reader, kidnapping, bickering like a fucked up married couple
You sat in the back of this random car, something fancy, waiting for the two men in front to speak. The car stood out in the parking lot of your work, yet when they'd grabbed you and pushed you into the backseat, you couldn't remember if it was old or new, what the make or model was, you couldn't even remember if had a license plate.
"I did all the work, she's fucking mine."
"Like fuck you did all this by yourself, this is my fucking car."
"Well, I fucking grabbed her."
"No, you can't do this to me again."
"You could unlock the doors," you mumbled, panic and fear twisting into some kind of mania.
Both of them turned to look at you, a hard set in their jaws and blue eyes shining with something sinister. Your lips sealed shut, curling under your teeth until it hurt.
The one with the beard looked at the clean shaven one, then at you, then back at his partner in this crime.
"She's got two holes, we might as well just share her."
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Kinktober 2022 Masterlist
We’re back with some more smutty, kinky, and dark fun for the month of October. These one shots are not from any existing AU. These will get very dark so read ALL warnings before hand. My blog is an 18+ ONLY space. All minors and hate will be blocked. This is fiction, have fun. This year I’m introducing a few more characters instead of just Chris and Sebastian characters...
Ablutophilia with Chris Beck Breath Play with Ari Levinson Candaulism with Nick Vaughan Dacryphilia with Mike Weiss Ejaculating Toy with Chase Collins Forced Voyeurism with Nick Fowler Grooming with Napoleon Solo Hate Sex with Ransom Drysdale Innocence Kink with Frank Adler Jealousy with William ‘Ironhead’ Miller Key Party with Andy Barber Lactation Kink with Jake Jensen Mutual Masturbation with Mickey Henry Non-Con with Jax Teller Objectification with Lance Tucker Possessive Behavior with Angel Reyes Quirt with Steve Kemp Ravishment Fantasy with Jefferson Somnophilia with Steve Rogers & Bucky Barnes Tea Bagging with Dean Winchester & Soldier Boy Uteromania with Justin Capshaw Vampire Gloves with Sam Winchester Water Play with Captain Syverson Xenophilia with Tyler Rake Yandere with August Walker Zipper Dinner with Lloyd Hansen Electrostimulation with Mr. Freezy Harpaxophilia with Curtis Everett Housewife Kink with Clark Kent Kidnapping with Walter Marshall Coercion with Carter Baizen & Bryce Langley
#kinktober 2022#kinktober#dark!fic#smutty fanfiction#chris beck#mike weiss#nick vaughan#ari levinson#chase collins#nick fowler#napoleon solo#ransom drysdale#frank adler#william miller#andy barber#jake jensen#mickey henry#jax teller#lance tucker#angel reyes#steve kemp#jefferson#steve rogers#bucky barnes#dean winchester#soldier boy#justin capshaw#sam winchester#captain syverson#tyler rake
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